Archive of Our Own ^beta

Once, ages ago, you'd asked Alphys what exactly it took for monsters to create a child.

“Well… L-love, for one. The parents h-have to have a real bond. And th-then just the intent to create a l-life with each other,” she'd answered.

“‘Create a life’ as in create a baby or as in ‘till death do we part?”

“The l-latter. But ____,” she'd added, giving you an encouraging smile, “You're going to be f-fine.”

“Thanks Al,” you'd sighed, not really believing her, but the conversation had ended there and hadn't been continued any time in the years since. Not for lack of necessity. Just… A lack of motivation. You didn't want to know anything else about pregnancy, hadn't wanted to since you were nineteen.

Now, ten years later, staring down at the white stick in your hand, you're wishing you had. Maybe this was preventable. Maybe if you weren't so forgetful with the specially made pills the monster pharmacy down the street supplied. Maybe if you'd been more careful instead of placing blind faith in your medical condition to stop this from happening.

But maybe wasn't changing that little red plus sign. You draw in a shuddering breath, hold it for as long as you can, then let it go, feeling your eyes stinging with unshed tears. You are not going to cry. There's too much left to do for you to break down now.

Your body moves without you really having to direct it. Alphys’ phone number is pulled up, you're about to start the call, but the glint of light off the gold band on your finger stops you.

Right. You put down your phone and work on keeping your breathing steady. This isn't about just you. Your husband has to know, has the right to be informed before you call your mutual friend.

But Sans… he loves kids. You knew it the first time you saw him solving a puzzle together with Frisk, when his lazy bones were so easily roped into playing hide and seek with the neighborhood kids. Years ago, a full year before you were even married, you'd told him kids were off the table for you. And he'd said he didn't care. He'd looked you in the eye and said he loved you and wasn't letting you get away from him.

You believed him then. Somewhere inside of your soul still does, but it's being beaten out by the stronger part that says your contribution to any marriage has to be the conception and birth of children.

The creak of the front door has you panicking as you look down at the irrefutable evidence on the table. Your first instinct is to hide it, but it's not going to get easier to talk about, is it?

“Hey, I'm home. Where’re you?” Sans calls. The moment of truth.

“I'm in the kitchen,” you reply, proud that your voice only shakes a little.

“Somethin’ wrong?” he says worriedly, stepping into the kitchen. “You don't sound too hot.”

Wordlessly you stop twirling the test in your hand and hold it out for him to see, staring at the table since you can't make yourself look at him. He takes it from you and the kitchen falls silent. You're not even sure that you're still breathing.

A small click as the pregnancy test is laid on the table, then Sans takes your hands into his. “You okay?”

“I- no,” you confess, and that's what breaks the dam.

You're ugly crying, nose plugged up, choked snuffling sobs coming from your throat. Sans has moved to embrace you, one hand stroking your hair while the other rubs circles into your back, reassuring you that it will be okay. You manage to pull yourself together after long enough to have given yourself a headache. You accept the wadded up napkins from Sans, blowing your nose.

“Thanks.”

“No problem. You should go relax hun. Lemme order pizza. Have you called Al yet?”

“Not yet.”

“I'll do it,” he volunteers instantly. “When should I tell her we're coming in?”

“We?”

“D’you not want me there?”

“No, that's not it… Are you sure that you want to? I'm only a month in so it isn't as though it will be a major surgery,” you say, shuddering at the thought.

“If you aren't sayin’ you don't want me there then I'm going. I won't let you do this by yourself, _____. What should I tell Alphys?”

“It's Friday today… Can you see if she's busy tomorrow? I know that's almost impossible but considering everything …”

“‘Course. I dunno if she can do the actual procedure, but she is the only real expert in this kinda stuff. I'll get this done now then,” he says, pulling out his own phone to dial Alphys.

You stand up and walk out to the living room, glad that at least you don't have to add a phone call, which you find incredibly stressful for no apparent reason, to the list of awful things going on today. You turn the television on but you're completely tuned out by the time that Sans walks into the room.

“She can see you tomorrow at four, but she can't do the magic it's going to take to ab- to do the thing,” he says, covering lamely. “She said she can get a friend of hers over for that part since we're sure.”

You just nod, staring at the screen. You don't notice you have one hand over your stomach like you're feeling for any changes until Sans crouches in front of you and takes your hands.

“I'm not psychic hun,” he says gently. “Talk to me?”

“There isn't anything to talk about,” you mumble, looking away.

“Please?”

You make the mistake of looking back at his concerned face, and your stubbornness crumbles. You take a moment to think over your words. “Aren't you disappointed? Isn't this what you've always wanted?”

“A kid? Sure. My spouse being hurt by some stupid idea that families only consist of parents and their biological children? Never. I knew you couldn't bear a child when we got married, hell I knew it when I proposed.”

“But that was before I got pregnant! I didn't even know I could get pregnant…”

“I don't want you to have this kid,” Sans says firmly. “I would argue with you to hell and back if you said that you wanted to keep it. You matter more, you will always matter more.”

“But…”

“I won't lose you, not for this.”

You know he's right. You've known it since the doctor's appointment when you were nineteen and she told you that you wouldn't ever have children. The chance of you getting pregnant was so incredibly slim in the first place, and your body was almost definitely incapable of carrying it to term. In the unfortunate case that it did… the baby would, without a miracle, be stillborn, and without serious divine intervention you'd die in the process.

You know that, but… “It still hurts,” you confess.

“Where?” Sans demands to know, the hands holding yours tightening painfully.

“Not physically,” you quickly reassure him. “I just never thought I'd even get this far, you know? And now I've got this little tiny bunch of cells in me, and it still doesn't make a difference. I still can't have our baby.”

Sans reaches up to wipe away the tears running down your face, cradling your cheek in one hand. “I know. I know how much you want this, but… Is it selfish if I say that I'm glad you're not willing to risk your life for this? I'd rather have you around than have our baby without you, or, more likely, have neither.”

“You say that but aren't you disappointed?” you insist.

“Nope. We’ll have kids one day, _____. A whole house full of them. And yeah, they'll be adopted, but so what? They'll still be our kids, and we'll get to love them, and spoil them, and Pap’ll finally get to be the uncle he's always wanted to be. And more importantly you'll be right here to raise them with me. That's what I care about,” he says, maintaining eye contact, thoroughly sincere.

You sniffle, nodding. “Thank you Sans. I needed to hear that.... I don't know if I'm ready for tomorrow.”

“Me neither,” he confesses. “But I'm gonna be there for you, I promise.”

“Just thinking about aborting our baby feels wrong.”

“Not as wrong as losing you,” Sans insists.

“I know. It's just so sad.”

Sans nods and grips your hands tightly in silent support. You're cried out and tired, but it's still appreciated.

Exhausted from your breakdown you lean forward, resting your forehead against his. “Sorry I'm such an idiot.”

“No need to apologize. I understand,” he reassures you. You believe him.

The rest of the night is spent cuddling on the couch and eating pizza while watching Netflix. And if your hand sometimes drops to feel your unchanged stomach, or you catch yourself thinking wistfully of having a little person growing inside of you, that's okay too.

The next day Alphys confirms what you'd already known, and her gentle, soft spoken friend takes you and your husband into another room, tells you what to expect, and hands you a little white pill. He says that pregnancy isn't some sort of punishment for having sex, and that he's proud that you're putting your health first. The little cluster of cells is nowhere near developed enough to feel pain or have a soul, he reassures you.

You hold Sans’ hand and wash the medication down. That night is a quiet one, and so are the next few. Sans is careful to be home as often as possible as you come to terms with it. Eventually you heal, and you move on.

A year later, you're standing in a hospital maternity wing, the sounds of a woman - a girl really, she's only twenty and she looks so young with her purple streaked hair - in a great deal of pain finally silent. She hadn't wanted either of you inside, a decision you could respect, but it still has you wound tight despite your exhaustion.

You both jolt to attention as the doors to the room open. Out comes an exhausted looking nurse with a tiny blue bundle in his arms. “You're the adoptive parents, right?”

“Yes, we are. Is he…?” you ask, uncertain how to finish the sentence.

“He's perfectly healthy. Would you like to hold him?”

“May I?”

The nurse responds by placing the baby- your baby gently in your arms. He steps back into the room after informing you that a nurse will be out momentarily to fill out his birth certificate.

The tiny human in your arms is wrinkly, red, and absolutely perfect. Sans puts a gentle, uncertain hand on his cheek, running his thumb over the thin skin on his head.

“He's so small,” he marvels.

“I think all babies are about this size,” you respond. “It's so strange to finally hold him… Do you want a turn?”

Sans is uncertain, but once your baby is in his arms he's awestruck. He can't tear his eyes away, rocking softly back and forth. “I take it back, he's perfect.”

“Isn't he?” you ask, happiness thrumming through your soul. “Our little baby boy.”

Sans seems just as happy, smiling softly down at the baby in his arms. “Do you still like Mako as his name?”

“We spent hours searching for font names that didn't sound weird, I am not changing it now,” you say, laughing quietly.

“Good point. Hi Mako, it's nice to meet you. I'm your dad,” Sans says, tasting the word like he can't believe it's real.

“Do you think we can do this?” you ask, holding onto one of Mako’s tiny fingers with two of your own.

“Yeah. We're parents, _____,” Sans says wonderingly.

“We’re parents,” you agree.