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“Undyne,” the kid starts one day with a curious hook in their voice. What it means or why they’re choosing to speak now and completely throw off their aim, you aren’t sure.
You recently convinced Alphys to let you buy a stylin’ recurve bow, and you’ve been taking Chara out with you into the woods behind your place for target practice. Personally, you’ll always prefer your spears over this ballistic bullshit, but it seemed like something that the kid would be all over. Which is good, because you suspect that they were starting to get bored of nothing but sparring and piano lessons. “Shoot on exhale, squirt,” you remind, and you catch them making a lopsided frown that you’d have missed if they were on your bad side. “And don’t waste your breath.”
“I believe you are thinking of firearms,” they say, releasing mid-sentence to spite you, the little brat. They whiff, bad, and their arrow flies off into a bush. “Fuck,” they poignantly add under their breath.
“Told ya. It’s the same idea. Anyways, what’s up?” you ask, and they sulkily trudge off to go find their arrow.
They return shortly, flicking a burr off their sleeve. “When do you believe violent action becomes justifiable?” they ask, and you almost laugh aloud, because they sound like they’re reading off the psych exam you had to take when you were promoted to guard captain. You don’t, because— well, that’s just how they talk sometimes, and you sure as hell aren’t going to rip on them for that. You’ll call them a good-for-nothing punk-ass shit-disturber, sure, but then they’ll call you bitch-tits McGee right on back, because it’s all in good fun. The last thing you want to do is damage whatever sort of weird bond they’ve allowed you to build with them.
You scratch your chin, thinking on their question. “Huh,” you say. “Well,” you add. They line up another shot while you ponder, and you pause to take quick note on where their form needs work. “That’s a toughie. Why you asking?”
They release again, this time on exhale, as you told them. The arrow punches through the target (a picture of Mettaton) and deep into the tree. They got him right in the theoretical junk. You smile a proud, toothy little smile to yourself. “I wanted to know what you thought,” they say. “If I asked Mom, she would tell me never. If I asked Dad, he would probably just cry. And Frisk or Azzy…” they trail off, eyes glazing over. They shake their head. “I do not wish to talk about this sort of thing with them. I only want an honest, realistic answer.”
An egotistical sort of feeling stings in your chest. You’re not one to brag, except for when you brag all the time, but hell yeah they’d come to you, and only you for something like this. Because who, really, would know better, aside from say, Gerson, or Asgore, or maybe even Toriel, or a lot of people, to be honest.
“It’s complicated,” you finally tell them, trying to ignore your deep-seated urge to bellow out something like VIOLENCE IS ALWAYS THE ANSWER RIP AND TEAR. Instead, you remember what Asgore once told you, so many years ago. “Aggression should always be a last resort, but you won’t always have the luxury of choice. What’s important is that you prevent harm from coming to as many people as you possibly can. You can worry about the wrongdoer when the innocent are safe.”
It’s hard to notice, but they smirk. “Did you come up with that all by yourself?”
“Pfft,” you scoff, “No. That’s what your old man would have told you. It’s what he told me, anyway. You want my answer? Beat the ever-loving shit out of anyone who even thinks about hurting you or someone you care about, long before they do it. That’s how I’ve lived my whole life.”
They walk over to rip their arrow out of the tree. It takes a few tugs, but they manage to pull it loose. Not that they’d have let you help. “And has it ever steered you wrong?” they ask.
A dry chuckle escapes you. “Of course it has, you can just ask Gerson. Or, hell, you’d know better than anybody…” you shift your weight between your feet. “I nearly murdered Frisk. Just an innocent little kid, and… yeah,” you say, sighing.
“Point is,” you continue, and you turn to face them proper. “It’s complicated. Lotta people think they’ve got what it takes to be judge, jury and executioner. None of them are right, not even me. Just use that nerdy head of yours,” you pause to bop them on the temple. Lightly, of course. And not Undyne™ lightly, actually lightly. “I’m sure you’ll be smart about it.”
They smile. A warm, genuine, and quite frankly, completely adorable one. You resist the urge to give them a noogie. “Thank you, Undyne,” they say.
“Don’t mention it, kid. Now here,” you order, holding out your hand and making a curt ‘gimmie’ motion. “Let me show you how it’s done!”
They hand you the bow and stand politely by your good side where you can see them snickering with every shot that you whiff.
“Shoot on exhale, Undyne,” they tell you.
“Blow it out your ass,” you yell back.
You discover, soon after, that you’re much better at throwing arrows than shooting them.
A few days later, you have them over for backyard sparring. Alphys sits off on the porch, acting as at-a-distance referee.
They’re definitely on their game, today. Usually, their footwork is sloppy, and they take a few glancing blows before they can close any sort of distance. But, today, they’re practically throwing themselves back and forth to dodge every (blunted and almost completely harmless) attack you’re throwing at them.
It doesn’t take them long to get from starting position to right up in your grillspace, but that’s how you like it. You switch from throwing spears to poking spears and sure up your footing. It’s annoying, yes, having to hold yourself back so you don’t accidentally send them flying or punch a hole through their chest, but it’s a worthwhile tradeoff for being allowed to do this at all.
They keep the pressure on, and you’re forced to switch from offense to defense as they wail on you, loose ends of their hand-wraps trailing wildly behind their every swing.
(You crack a toothy grin— you’re never gonna forget how hyped you both were when you were showing them how to tie their own.)
You spot Alphys out of your peripheral, actually sitting on the edge of her seat with starry, focused eyes, and you can’t help but shoot her a smile. Chara takes advantage, using your bent knee as a springboard and jumping up to sock you right in the throat.
“Fu-uuuck!” you choke, making a desperate T shape with both hands. They scramble backward and eye you nervously as you attempt to catch your breath.
“Damn, kid, that fucking hurt,” you wheeze, hand still clutching at your windpipe.
“Sorry,” they mutter, head bowed. “I’m sorry. I got carried away.”
“Nah, don’t be—” you pause to cough, “You think your little noodle-arms could seriously hurt ME? That was a good hit, sure, but you’re giving yourself WAY too much credit!”
You see them grin, but they still won’t look at you.
“U-Undyne?” Alphys peeps at you from the sidelines. “Are you o-okay?”
You give her a thumbs up. She doesn’t look convinced.
“Do you need some water?” she asks, and you nod. “Okay! I’ll be right back,” she says. Bless her.
“Well,” you start after you think you can properly breathe again. “I’m pissed that I have to admit it, but I think you won that round, even if it was by playing dirty.”
Their grin turns back into one hell of an unhappy frown. It’s contagious.
“Hey. Lighten up, would ya? Dirty’s not a bad thing, strictly speaking,” you tell them, and they raise an eyebrow at you. You’re mostly just happy that they’re looking at you again; you hate that ‘drowning in shame’ thing they do whenever they screw up, it reminds you too much of your wife.
“That’s the last thing I would ever expect to hear from you,” they say.
“And what’s THAT supposed to mean, huh?” you demand, hoping that they can tell you’re joking because wow that’d sure put you back at square one if they can’t.
“When Frisk got past you, I half expected you to disembowel yourself right in front of us to preserve your honor. For fuck sakes, you gave us a shield when you were trying to kill us, even when—” they stop, biting their tongue. “You don’t strike me as a pragmatist.”
You grin, self-satisfied. “That’s because I’m not. When I fight, I hold myself to a set of standards, ‘cause nine times out of ten whoever I’m fighting doesn’t have a chance. In YOUR case, I had something to prove,” you say. They smirk, and you just know that they’re thinking of saying something snide. You continue before they get the chance. “Besides that, I pick a lot of fights, and most of them are my own fault. But you? You aren’t someone who starts fights, now are you?”
They look guiltily back at the ground, and an impulse to scream and start dismantling the world around you passes seductively through your soul. “EYES UP HERE!” you half-shout and they snap, startled (damnit), back up to you. “You aren’t. I’ve seen you in action, kid, you don’t start fights. You END them. Someone comes to you with a bone to pick and your first instinct is to crush ‘em dead. Now, that sounds pretty nasty, right? Like you’re some psycho,” you ask rhetorically.
“It is an unflattering way to put it,” they answer regardless, sounding contrite, much to your frustration. “But you are correct. I do not fight, I—”
“EY!” you shout again, notably quieter. “I’m still talking, here! Sure, it SOUNDS that way, but for someone your age and size, fighting for the reasons you do? That’s your best bet. You don’t fight to prove things, or because you’re mad, you fight because it’s life or death. There’s no shame in ending it as fast as you can, then.”
“Oh,” they say flatly. “I see.”
“Good! But in the future, please don’t PUNCH ME IN THE THROAT,” you whine, and they laugh, basking delightedly in your suffering.
Alphys returns, soon after, with a big bottle of water and an ice-pack. You reward her with a big wet smooch while the kid makes barfing noises.
You’re so proud you could punch something, set fire to it and then puke it out. You wouldn’t ever say that out loud, because A) not admitting that you’re proud of anyone at all ever is like your thing, and B) gross. But god damn, Chara has learned so much and it’s all thanks to you and you just want to scream but that’ll startle them and now is NOT the time for that soft, rueful feeling you get whenever you startle them.
You pretty much had to goad them into letting you teach them how to play the piano. They willingly tried it out the one time, of course, because you offered and oh goodness, you can hear them explaining away with a polite, plastic smile, it would simply be rude to decline. But follow-up lessons required you to pick and prod at that lineup of barriers they’ve put between themselves and the world, the kind that just harden when you try to smash them down. At first, they were worried of “doing it wrong”, as if you yourself can even do it right. Then they kept getting frustrated, and wanted to quit, and they socked your grand piano right in the ivories a few times (action which you wholeheartedly joined in on). But, finally, after so much work, you’re more than willing to say that they’ve gotten good at it.
Alphys smiles and hums along to herself from the couch as you sit beside them, watching their fingers effortlessly dance out a beautiful melody. They barely even look like they can keep up with themselves, lulled instead into a half-trance.
They finish, at long last, and glance over at you. “How was that?” they ask.
You give a big fake hum. “I don’t know. You missed a few notes. Your timing was shoddy. I think you need to do another few thousand takes before you’ll be passable.”
They nod and flip the sheet-book back to the start. You bust out laughing.
“CHARA! NO! ARE YOU KIDDING ME?” you scream, putting minimal effort into keeping quiet. “That was fucking AWESOME!”
“Oh,” they quietly say. “Was it? Because I am certain that I did miss a few notes, and—“
“I didn’t notice anything! That was r-really good!” Alphys says from the couch and gives dorky-ass thumbs up.
“What’d I tell ya, punk?” you say, slapping them on the back. They wheeze. “I knew you’d get the hang of it.”
They shrug. “I guess you did.”
An awkward, silent moment passes as your good mood starts to rot. “What’s the matter this time, ya big mopey fuck?” you ask, only half-joking.
“Mind your own, bitch,” they tease back, but they say it in a way that makes it feel token. If they’re unenthusiastic about being able to swear as much as they please without repercussions (a privilege they have only when they’re at your house), something's definitely wrong.
“Like, seriously, though, what’s up? You seem distracted,” you insist. They sigh.
“I.” they start, and then stop. You think if you listened carefully enough you could hear the argument going on inside their head. “I have. Hm.
“Undyne,” they say, having settled on something. “What would you do if you suspect that someone is going to hurt someone you care about, but you can’t prove it, and they haven’t done it yet?”
“I told you, kid. I’d shove their head so far up their own ass that it’d reflect their personality,” you say. They frown.
“Is that what I should do?” they ask, and oh. Oh. Well. You shift on the bench.
“Who’s hurting who, Chara?” you say, placing your hand on their arm. “If this is serious, you should be telling one of us grown-ups and letting it be our problem.”
“Nobody,” they most definitely lie. “This is only hypothetical.”
“Bull. Spill it, punk. Pretty please?” you say. Their frown worsens.
“Fine. Some of the other children at school, maybe,” they say, stressing ‘maybe’ in a way that you don’t like. “They’ve been... let’s say unfriendly towards Frisk, lately. Only insults and other such things, the same pettiness that usually gets thrown my way on a daily basis. But it keeps worsening because Frisk keeps shrugging it off and not doing anything about it. And I have been thinking that maybe they are going to escalate things, and when that happens, I don’t know what to do.”
“H-Have you tried talking to them?” Alphys suggests. You’re willing to bet that Chara subtly rolled their eyes right alongside you.
“I tried diplomacy, yes. They weren’t receptive,” they explain, and you clench your fists. “So when the worst happens, what should I do?”
KICK THEIR ASSES flutters impoetically through your head. “I don’t know, kid,” comes out of your mouth. They need a responsible guiding hand right now, and you really aren’t the person to be giving that, but damnit you’re going to do your best. “Like I told you, just use your head. Talk to your teachers, and your Mom. Keep an eye on Frisk. Keep them safe.”
They nod solemnly. Silence hangs in the air, punctuating an unsaid vow.
Alphys suggests an anime-binge soon after, to clear your minds. You’re not sure how successful it was; the kid looks thoughtful the entire time, and Mew Mew Kissy Cutie isn’t exactly philosophical.
You get a call the next day. When you see that it’s the school, and your heart drops into your stomach. The principle immediately informs you that Chara has been suspended for fighting and that they need you to come pick them up, as Toriel was occupied and Sans didn’t answer the phone. You get in your truck and start the drive down there, unsure of a number of things.
When you get there, you walk straight past the kid, sitting tight-knit and stiff on one of the waiting chairs, fists clutching at their sleeves. They’re muttering something under their breath; you think you hear a few of the more colorful curse words you taught them. You decide not to look at them, and they refuse to look at you
The principal sits you down for a talk about the incident. Three children, all in their grade. Two had to see a doctor, one for a broken arm, another for a bruised rib and a nasal fracture. From what she can surmise, the attack was completely unprovoked. She found it surprising; Chara’s always had a good reputation with the teachers for being non-disruptive and well behaved, albeit abrasive, as she put it. You curtly nod over and over and over again as she runs through her explanations and recommendations; you’re only half listening, trying instead to think of what you’re going to tell them, first of all, and second on how you’re supposed to convince Toriel to let sparring lessons continue after this.
She ends the talk (lecture) telling you something about taking Chara to a mental health professional, as they may have some previously unknown anger or stress issues this and their change of behavior was sudden and worrying that and blah blah blah. You hate her automatically— maybe because she’s human and you still aren’t fond of them, maybe because she just opened a big can of worms right in your face. You at least recognize that she’s being nothing but polite and that she’s only doing her job, but that honestly only makes you angrier.
You step out of the office and Chara quickly transitions from leaning over intently in their seat to trying to disappear inside of it. They’re not bowing their head, this time, but they’re looking past you instead of into your eye. They slowly shrink under your stare.
You cross your arms and put on a blank expression. “What did you do?” you ask.
“They were going to—” they start with barely a whisper, and you cut them off
“What did you do?” you repeat.
They tense for a moment, and you half-expect them to snap at you. They don’t find the courage. “I entered a fight. I assume that you were informed already.”
You nod, slowly, supposing that you’ll just have to accept their unhelpful answer. “And why did you do that?”
“They were picking on Frisk. They had backed them into a corner. I was walking over to put an end to it. One grabbed them from behind, another hit them. I lost control,” they explain with a brittle, crystal-clear tone.
“Where’s Frisk now?” you ask. “Why didn’t the principal tell me about this?”
“I did not want them to be suspended as well due to some zero-tolerance policy. I told them to go to their next class and not tell anyone.”
You nod again. “I see. One last question for you—”
“Undyne. I understand that what I did was wrong,” they cut you off, raising their now shaking voice and finally looking you in the eye. “I understand that you warned me not to act in that way. That I ignored every last piece of your advice. I understand that you are disappointed in me. I do not regret what I did but I do regret that. I fu— I messed up again. I made a mistake.” they stop to blink something out of their eyes. “May we please just go home?”
You stare dumbly. “You didn’t let me finish, I got one more question.
“Didja win?”
They blink once, then twice, then a third time. “What?”
“Didja win the fight?” you repeat.
They shake their head morosely. “I— It wasn’t even a fight. They tried to resist but they don’t get training from someone like you. They didn’t have a chance to defend themselves, and I hurt them. Bad.”
You nod again, summing up everything you’ve heard in your head. It all checks out to you. “I am so goddamn proud of you, Chara,” you say, grinning like a maniac and slapping them on the shoulder. “You did good, kid.”
“I. I do not understand,” they mutter, staring at you like you just got here from another planet, “You told me—”
“I told you to use your head. And you did; your eyeballs saw what was happening, sent it to your brain, and your brain told your body that it was okay to start kicking ass. Seems reasonable to me.”
They don’t entirely look like they’re following you.
“Look, there’s a lot of people who won’t like what you did. Your mom isn’t gonna be happy. Your school’s pissed. Hell, Frisk’ll probably be miffed, too. You’re gonna hear that you should have done this or you should have told that person whatever beforehand. But between you and me, those kids that you beat up? Fuck ‘em. I’m more than glad you taught them some of your good manners. It wasn’t smart, sure— you’re gonna end up in shit so deep you’ll forget what the sun looks like, later, but it was just, and it kept your sibling from getting hurt. That’s what matters.”
They sit silently for a moment, mulling everything over. “Are you really proud of me?” they ask, and you almost laugh.
“I’ve always been proud of you, squirt, but today in particular? Heck yeah,” you say, and they flash an overjoyed, sunshine-bright smile that could have lit up the night sky before they get a hold of themselves.
“I. Um. Thank you. It means a lot to hear you say that,” they say, and you give them another pat on the shoulder.
“Anytime, psycho-breath,” you tell them.
“Eat an ass, blue-tits,” they say back.
You stop for ice-cream on the way back. You figure that a bit of chocolate should help them survive the lecture they’re doomed to receive from their mom. Come to think of it, you’re probably gonna get a lecture, too— maybe something like ‘what have you been telling my child’ and ‘these skills you are teaching them are dangerous and I do not know why I agreed to let you to begin with’. You love Toriel, and Chara loves Toriel (far more than you do), but fuck can she be a buzz kill sometimes. But, whatever. That’s the price of being the cool aunt.