Work Text:
Even though it was a skeleton's hand, with no skin, the hand on Frisk's arm was warm. Shockingly warm, or maybe their skin was just a different kind of cold. Deep, hollow eye sockets with only small, white eyelights to indicate life or direction looked at them from above- not tall for a monster, but tall for Frisk, who was already small for their age.
Frisk could not tell if he was angry. He grinned- a skull, so of course he grinned, but it wasn't only that. He had cheeks that raised with his smile, despite being what looked like hard, smooth bone, and eye-sockets with eyelids that had lowered when he turned his gaze down at them. He stood awfully close to them, too, and when they didn't flinch, he stepped even closer. Close enough that his tummy pressed against them, but they had nowhere to move to with their back against his front door.
Outside, the wind was rough. Trees swayed, violent from the upcoming storm, and dark, yellow-tinted clouds threatened a twister. Frisk felt chilled to the bone, so cold that even the lit wood-burning stove didn't reach them, but somehow his hand felt warm. Like the warmth from it was able to seep through their skin to reach that cold that was different than any they'd felt before. It wasn't on purpose, not even something they knew they were doing when they relaxed into him just a little. His tummy was soft, and warm, too- another surprise, like the way his face could move.
"You make a habit of breakin' and enterin'?" He asked, and although his tone seemed lighthearted, Frisk could hear- could feel a warning there.
They shook their head, no. But offered no further explanation, flanking away from him just to peek at the small window in the kitchen; only trees, sky and brsh outside, to their relief. No camouflaged jackets or red baseball caps. Their pounding heart, and burning lungs melted away the longer they stood in the cabin with the monster.
It was the way he stood so firm, and at least as tall as most men. Looming like a wall, a barrier between the dangers that lay in wait for them outside those cabin walls. Not the storm, which was only one of many that they'd seen, that they'd lived and would live through many more times if they were not one of the unlucky few to be swept away. Or lost under debris.
No- if monsters ate children, like Frisk's mama said they did, then even that fate was better than the one that hunted for them somewhere in those woods. Dangers and fates that they did not know the words for, even if they could say them, and did not choose to think about, in favor of the skeleton in front of them. Pressed against them, squishing them a little bit into the door.
The skeleton narrowed his eye-sockets into slits, surprisingly expressive to the human who did not know that bones could move that way. The pinpricks of lights that made up his pupils looked Frisk down, from messy, unkempt hair, to feet that were missing one bright blue flip-flop. Then back up again, pausing to linger somewhere on one leg, and then on the broken strap of their striped tank-top before landing on their eyes to study their face again.
"You look like you come with trouble," He said it with a sigh. Resigned.
A huff of air that Frisk knew well. The kind that meant, "Fine, I guess we can get a milkshake," when Frisk's pleading eyes met Mama's on payday, or "Fine, if you'll stop with the drama, you don't have to wear a skirt to church." That sigh from the skeleton meant "Fine, you can stay," but the grimace on his face was a wary one that tacked on a "for now." to the end.
Despite the relief that they didn't have to go back outside, their eyes stung with tears. Maybe they were tears of relief, or maybe they just couldn't find their way to pool when Frisk had been running. Or maybe, even, they'd been crying the whole way, but were too afraid of slowing down to notice. They only sniffled once, blinking away tears and wiping them on the heel of one dirty palm. After that, they looked at him again and tried to muster a "thank you" to their tongue. But, as usual, the words stuck in their throat.
The silence that lingered was heavy with his gaze. Probing, trying to piece together the context behind this dirty, breathless human youth that had come flying into his isolated home deep in the woods of Alabama. "Cat got your tongue, kiddo? Or a bear," He laughed, but Frisk thought that he didn't think it was really that funny.
In Reply, Frisk tried again to speak. They tried very hard, but as usual, the words would not come. The silence grew. The weight in the silence grew, and so did the fear that maybe, if they made him angry or irritated, he would make them leave. They swept their eyes across the cabin's interior;
It was small, only a little bigger than a garden shed. With only two small windows opposite each other, and two doors. The one, or out, and an open one on the far wall with tile inside. The bathroom. Besides that, everything else was in the one room. An unfolded pull-out couch, and an old box television on a wooden stand, and a low table in between the two.
The front door, where they stood, was in the kitchen. The kitchen with a wood-burning stove, a sink and one countertop that doubled as a table with two tall chairs. And a big, old wardrobe shoved awkwardly into the last of the space. Besides that, there was just a mess. Clutter of discarded clothes, some dishes and other things strewn around. And besides that there wasn't much of anything, but it was small enough inside that the cabin felt cozy, and lived in.
On the table between the pull-out couch and the television, Frisk found what they were looking for: a pen, and paper, once having been intended for a crossword puzzle, now abandoned. Frisk wondered, worried, that maybe they had been why he'd left it undone. They knew their granny would get so frustrated if someone interrupted one of her puzzles in the Sunday paper. But when they brushed by him to get to the pen, their guilt was absolved when the date on the paper was almost a week old.
Kneeling at the table and wincing from the tender, raw skin of their knee against the wooden floorboards, Frisk picked up the pen and carefully scrawled along the blank edge of the newspaper, F R I S K. Not the only word they knew how to write, but... the only one that would listen when they tried to make their fingers move.
When they stood, holding the paper in hand to show him, they turned only to walk directly into him and bounce backwards- losing their balance and stumbling towards the table. If not for his hands, gripping both of their upper-arms with a surprising firmness steadying them, they'd have fallen.
"Careful." He said, his eyes glowing down at them. "Not sure you can take more bumps an' bruises."
Frisk looked down at themself, at the dirt, grass and bits of outdoors stuck to the skin of their arms and legs, hands and feet. Smeared and caked onto their clothes. Alongside the dirt and grime, there were scrapes and scratches, raw skin and red marks that were turning purple fast. They looked at him, almost accusatory, because he'd snuck up on them, hadn't he! So he should be more careful.
As if he could read their mind, he simply grinned, smug. Then, he turned his attention to the newspaper in their hands. "You got a headline for me?" He asked, and upon reading the 4-letter note he was handed, he looked at Frisk once again. "That you?" He asked, and when they nodded, relieved that he understood, he flipped the newspaper around so they were looking at it themselves. "Well would ya look at that?" He said, tapping their name with one boney finger. "You made the news! Didn't know I was talkin' to a star."
Even though it was a joke that felt too silly, Frisk was startled by the sound of their own voice, laughing. They cut themself short, quick, hugging their arms across their torso, fingernails digging into the skin of their arms as anxiety bloomed in their chest. Their voice felt scratchy and unfamiliar from lack of use. It had been a day and a night, at least, since they'd made a sound.
Staying quiet, and still. To remain unnoticed, as if that could hide them from probing, heavy eyes, and probing, prodding hands and it hadn't even worked. It never did.
"Any chance I could take you home tonight, or were ya plannin' on movin' in?" He asked, but rain, sudden and harsh, began to tap against the kitchen window and beat down on the rooftop. That, and the sharp crack of thunder and flickering of lights inside the cabin seemed to answer his question for them. "...Guess not, huh?"
Frisk would swear that the lights in his eyes dimmed when he said that, but once they blinked their own, he looked just the same as he had before.
"Okay." He seemed to pause, to think, and then took a breath before continuing on. "You promise nobody's gonna come bangin' down my door lookin' for ya?" He asked, and when Frisk's eyes widened, darting to the door with a concern they had not considered before, he let out a long, slow sigh. "Forget I asked." He turned, then, leaving them standing by the table to move to the wardrobe.
It was only when he was gone that Frisk realized how close he'd been standing to them. In his absence, suddenly they could breathe. Even though they felt at lease here, or at least safer than they had felt outside, they hadn't broken the habit of holding their breath when someobody was near. They watched him, curious as he dug through a pile of clothes that sat in a heap behind the wardrobe doors. When he found what he was looking for, he held them up to show Frisk.
"You can stay till the weather clears up." He said it firmly, decidedly, a pair of gym shorts in one and hand a plain t-shirt in the other. "Then I'm takin' you home." Ah- Frisk realized. A change of clothes. But when they reached for them, he raised them up, higher, out of their reach. "You're not stinkin' up my clothes like that- go clean up. Towels are under the sink."
After a moment of hesitation- of nerves and reluctance at the idea of being naked in a house with a stranger, something they knew their mama would call "not proper" if it was a man's house- they nodded, slowly, in agreement. A skeleton might not be a man anyway, they decided, even if he had a man's voice and... although it was rude of them to think so, a man's soft stomach.
The tub in the bathroom was old, heavy and metal and raised up off the floor with four legs, one on each corner. But unlike some they'd seen, at least it had a drain with a pipe, and wasn't a tub like a bucket that they'd have to drag outside after they were done to pour it out. They had seen that kind before, in some of the places Frisk used to stay while Mama worked late, a long time ago.
After checking that the door was shut properly, and that the lock was sturdy and wouldn't budge too easy, Frisk used the toilet and then stopped the drain and ran the water, filling up the tub as hot as they could stand it to be.
It warmed their skin, but the warmth didn't reach their bones that felt colder than ice. They had never felt so cold, and besides the sharp wind, it wasn't even cold outside. Even in the hot water, they shivered, glad that there weren't any windows so they wouldn't have to worry about seeing that red baseball cap just outside the glass. They just did as they were told, using a bar of soap from a pan on the bathtub's edge to scrub their arms, legs, and their body and their hair. Then they drained the water, letting the murky, grassy, dirty water gurgle down the drain, then splashed themselves from head-to-toe with clean water from the tap until it ran clean of bubbles.
Finally done, they stepped out onto the bathmat laid over the tiled floor, took a towel from under the sink to dry their hair-
-and then they saw it. The stack of haphazardly folded clothes on the edge of the sink. Clothes they were sure they had not brought in with them, but when they checked the door, it was still locked. And they would've heard him come in, anyway. So, uneasy, they let it go, toweling off before getting dressed and leaving the bathroom.
Not sure what they had expected, Frisk was relieved to find the skeleton on the couch, mattress folded away, half under a blanket and eating a sandwich in the dark, besides the television. Not paying Frisk any mind. He only glanced away from the television, which was playing something quiet and grown-up sounding, to look them over once, pausing on their knee. Rather than addressing the freshly-forming scab there, he just said, "Hope you like baloney, it's all I've got." He paused. "Well, that, and ketchup."
They felt awkward when they crossed the room, too naked without underwear despite that the clothes hid more of their body than the play-clothes Mama and Uncle Rick would buy for them. They sat down on the opposite end of the couch, only hesitating for a moment and encouraged by the way the skeleton seemed uninterested in them. Then they picked up the plate he'd made and left for them on the table, next to a cold cola that they did not touch, because they were not supposed to have caffeine.
When he did turn to them, a little while later, it was just to say, "Oh, good. You don't stink anymore. I was worried you'd stink up my couch." to which Frisk responded with an affronted, disapproving hum, muffled by bread and baloney and cheese.
Outside, the storm raged. Wind creaked the wood of the cabin, and rain, rapping hard at the roof and window, almost drowned out the television. Lightning flashed outside, casting lights and shadows through the room, followed by thunder that vibrated the floors when it rumbled. But despite the chaos outside, inside, Frisk felt safter than they had in a long, long time. Not just on this camping trip with Uncle Rick, but every since their mama had let him move in after Aunt Raina decided he was no good. He'd wormed his way into their home, and wormed his way into Frisk's life in ways that they refused to think about right now.
The soft, blue glow from the television and the warmth that seemed to come from the monster- so warm, compared to Frisk's frozen bones, despite being only bones himself- helped to melt some of the anxious feelings that came when they couldn't find a distraction.
They stared blankly at the screen, not really seeing whatever boring grown-up movie without any kids in it that he'd been playing. They tried to watch, once they had finished their sandwich, but nothing interesting would happen. It was only talking and talking, and eventually, they couldn't help but look towards that kitchen window again for any signs of red or mixed-up green camouflage that didn't really match the woods at all.
They couldn't help but wonder- worry- if Uncle Rick and his friend were still outside. Were they looking for Frisk? Worried about them, caught in the storm? Somehow, Frisk couldn't picture Rick being worried about them, but maybe worried about what Mama would think if they left Frisk in the woods during a storm like this. It had come on suddenly, going from cloudy to dark clouds and yellow-green skies, and bitter winds just in the time Frisk had been running.
When they'd found the cabin, obscured by the trees, the only thought that came to mind was that it could be a good hiding spot. They didn't even notice the weather until they saw it out the window, pressed back against the door.
But now, it was all they could think about. Would Frisk feel guilty, if something happened to them out there? To the men that had dragged Frisk out camping to show them that skirts and sewing and cooking was better than acting like a boy? Would Frisk feel responsible, for hiding from them? Maybe, they decided, watching the rain pouring down the little window like a waterfall. Maybe a little. They felt more guilt about how relieved they would be, if it was true, though. If Uncle Rick had been sucked up by a tornado, never to be seen again.
"So," The Monster's low, friendly voice pulled their attention from the window. "Frisk, huh?" He asked, and they nodded their head. "What a coincidence!" He grinned, and Frisk recognized the glint in his eye to mean he was about to say something silly, again. "What a coincidence- that's my name too!" Already, they did not believe him, but when he added, "But I pronounce it Sans." they were caught off-guard again by their own voice, giggling at his silly, silly, dumb joke.
Sans the skeleton chuckled, laughing at his own joke too, or maybe at Frisk for laughing at it. Either way, his smile was warmer. Friendly, like his voice. Like his body heat, and like his teasing and his jokes. Frisk didn't understand how it was that people like Uncle Rick, like his hunting buddies and like Frisk's mama and Granny and even the kids at school- before they quit letting Frisk go- said such mean nonsense about monsters. Like how they were dangerous. Demons, if Pastor John was talking about them. That they steal little kids to eat the meat off their bones, that they move to cities and towns and make things harder for regular people.
This monster didn't live in any city, and he ate baloney sandwiches. He was nice to them, and let them stay during a storm. He was just a regular person, maybe even the nicest one Frisk had met besides maybe Aunt Raina.
For a second, Frisk thought they could tell their family, their town about Sans. About how they got it all wrong, how he was nice and helped them get warm and kept them in, safe. But that would mean telling about why Frisk had run off in the first place. It'd mean they'd have to tell the truth, or lie. Last time they had told their mama about Uncle Rick and the things he did that they would not think about right now, they got the belt for fibbing, so they weren't about to do that again.
And the thought of lying about it made them so, so mad. So mad they felt sick, and scared that maybe telling that big of a lie was too much of a sin, like maybe God would not forgive them for it. And even besides that, they didn't think anybody would listen, anyway- not really listen, even if they could get out all the words. It wasn't something Frisk understood the reason why, but they knew the people in their town felt the way they did about monsters about other people, too- people who didn't do anything wrong, as far as Frisk could tell.
Like those men who used to come to church. Who would sit together and leave together and Frisk knew that people didn't like it, could see how the other people at church would watch after them leaving or when the men's backs were turned. Those men were so nice to Frisk, and always saved them a seat when there were meal times, and asked how they were and lied that their dress was so pretty and laughed when Frisk would disagree. Not laughing at Frisk, though, like some adults. It was just different. And then they stopped coming, and Pastor John had a lot of things to say about men who laid together after that, which Frisk was pretty sure meant those two men laid together, even though they didn't know how that was a big deal.
Like when people would drive through the town on their way to someplace else, and they would stop by the store or by the motel on the very edge of town and Frisk would hear people complain. About bumper stickers and haircuts and one time, hair colors, when a girl came through with bright, bright blue hair that Frisk thought was so cool, and the girl smiled at them at the grocery store and seemed so nice, but Frisk could tell that the grown-ups did not like her. And the girl could tell, too- Frisk could see it from how she kept looking behind her when she walked, and how she locked her doors really fast after she got back in her car.
Like the people who lived in a different part of town, down past the part where Frisk was allowed to go by themself, where the houses looked older and the people there usually had different colored skin than the people on the dirt road where Frisk lived. People who all lived in the same little town and went to the same schools, but went to a different church- only one time did Frisk see a family from that part of town come into their own church, when that family was new in town, and then they left after the break in the middle of service when people are supposed to shake hands, and they did not come back again.
They weren't sure what happened, but they knew something must have, because they left in hurry after the handshakes were starting. They wondered if maybe the other church members would not shake their hands, but they looked clean and smelled the same as everybody else with perfumes and colognes, so Frisk could not figure out why that might be. But those people, and those two men and the girl with the blue hair did not seem like mean people at all, and that didn't make a difference. In the end, Frisk thought it might be better that nobody knew that Sans lived out here at all, and decided not to tell them anything at all.
Frisk shivered, shifting on the couch to disguise it as anything else. They weren't sure whether it was from cold, or discomfort from all the memories that had flitted through their mind's eye. Sans noticed anyway, despite their effort to hide it, and suddenly he'd thrown half the blanket across their lap. They peeked at him, where he sat at the opposite end of the couch, head propped up by his hand and elbow on the arm of it. He looked back, lazy, shadows shifting across his skill with the scenes from the television screen.
The blanket was warm, radiating with the heat they'd been feeling from him since they'd barged in... but more bad memories, of ulterior motives at them surfaced in their mind and they studied him. His eyes on them, and his expression: lazy, lazy-lazy, and disinterested, the safest expression that they know how to read. So they scoot in a little closer, and when he only raised an eyebrow-bone, not even moving, they scooted in even closer. Into the inviting warmth, slumping back into the couch as it seeped into their bones and thawed away some of the ice that they couldn't seem to shake.
Mama's voice sounded in Frisk's ears, angry and scolding in her sharpest voice, telling Frisk that sitting with a man they don't know, who isn't family, is not proper. Demanding to know if Frisk has any sense. They could feel the grip on their arm with those shiny nails, clean and polished for church digging into their skin. Feel the pull of the bones in their shoulder as they were yanked up off the couch to whip their behind- like with those two nice men from church that Mama hated, or the older boy from school who would sit with Frisk on the bleachers at the park, and who always wanted them to do cartwheels for him during recess.
They knew it was a sin, but... Frisk did not always think that Mama, Granny and Uncle Rick really did always know best. Sometimes, especially lately, Frisk was not even sure that they knew half of what they were talking about. And if that was true for monsters, it was maybe, probably true for all those other people, too. Who everybody at home would say bad things about, but who were always so nice to Frisk.
Frisk thought that maybe they didn't need to worry about what Mama or Grandma or anybody said when they were not around. Maybe it was the Devil's rebellious spirit spilling over into Frisk's soul like Pastor John said, but they didn't think so and- peering up at him, watching for signs of danger, or displeasure- the scooted in again, until their arms were touching, and leaned their head against his arm just below his shoulder.
He tensed. Frisk could feel that. His expression hardened, tightened, but he didn't chide them or brush them off of him. The lights of his eyes seemed to dim for a moment, and for another Frisk thought they could be gone. But then he blinked, or maybe Frisk did, and they were back to normal and he didn't seem so tense.
He was just so warm and somehow, so soft, too. A skeleton! But Frisk could see plumpness where fabric hid bones, could feel the familiar cushion of flesh where they leaned against him. Too soft to be only bones underneath his clothes, and if they didn't think that he might decide to make them leave after all, they would peek under his shirt to find out. Knowing better, they just looked at him instead, holding his gaze easier than holding the eyes of other people.
Easier than holding the steady, sharp stare of humans, who had eyes that made Frisk's feel like they were buzzing inside. Like an alarm they couldn't turn off, that got worse and worse the longer that they looked. Sans's eyelights were so soft, just like his body.
"What are ya, a cat or somethin'?" He asked it so there must be cats who snuggled up, but Frisk only knew the cats who lived under their neighbor's porch. Who kept on having kittens, and would swipe and hiss if Frisk got too close or tried to pet them, even if they offered them a fish stick as a bribe.
So they just they'd just throw them scraps from dinner, when they got the chane to sneak some away. Frisk hoped those cats were okay in the storm.
In reply to Sans silly question, Frisk tilted their head to bare their teeth, bringing up one hand to curl their fingers into claws- imitating a hiss from that mama cat, but without the sound. He seemed to find that funny, or maybe just silly, because he breathed a laugh out of his nose and kept on watching Frisk.
Dropping the cat act, Frisk relaxed into his warmth and let him thaw the ice of fear, and panic that had settled into their core. That had driven them to flee, to run aimlessly into the trees despite the rules about running off that they would normally obey.
Sans face, after some time, became unreadable, and Frisk bristled. Ready, like a cat, to jump up and dart away, but when he moved it was just to drape the arm they'd been leaning on across the back of the couch, sinking Frisk further into his side till they slid down to where their head was in his lap. Resting on a thigh, which felt soft too, even though they could see his knee bone as proof that there wasn't anything soft to feel!
"Get some sleep, kiddo." He said, finally turning his eyes back to the television screen. "I'll getcha home in the mornin'."
There was a part of Frisk, somewhere deep inside their soul and locked away that they had long outgrown, that wanted to beg him to stay. To cry, to stomp, to plead, to refuse to leave. To wreck anything and everything that it took until he relented and they got their way. A part of them that wished for this cozy, safe, comfortable stillness of Sans the skeleton to last. That wished for his silly jokes and baloney sandwiches and soft, glowing eyelights to be the rest of their life. The thought of home, of Pastor John yelling from the podium about Hell and Sin and the Devil, and of Mama getting onto them for things like getting dirty, and not wearing skirts, and not eating turnip greens- the thought of Uncle Rick and what lies he'd tell if he was not lost to the storm... the threat, anxious and gnawing in their chest, of his leather belt when Mama believed him-
Tears prickled and burned their nose and eyes, so they lowered their face and closed them. They didn't want him to see, to question their tears when they couldn't answer and wouldn't have anyway, even if they could. It was family business, not for nosey neighbors or prying eyes to gossip about, and so Frisk refused to sniffle and refused to cry. And so besides the first two, there were no more tears, and Frisk managed to calm down. It wasn't so bad.
There was Tony at church, who played tag, and milkshakes with Mama on paydays, and Aunt Raina's old television with tapes she let Frisk watch anytime they wandered down the road to her trailer. There was Ears, the stuffed bunny who Frisk had left home, hidden and waiting with a hug for Frisk when they got back. There was drawing, and humming and the radio, and snack cakes and carrots with ranch.
And there was Frisk's brain, where they could think and imagine anything, even if it was a sin or breaking rules and nobody would ever know. Even if it was really awful, like poking out Uncle Ricky's eye, nobody could ever tell or punish them for it and it wasn't even mean because it was only in their head, and nobody got hurt. Just like Aunt Raina said. And plus, there was Aunt Raina.
So, warm, safe and counting their blessings, Frisk fell asleep, dreaming of Skeletons who were very nice and of human men who were not nice at all.