Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It started with a sound.

Not a bang. Not a scream. Just… ringing.

High, sharp, persistent. The kind of pitch that bypassed the non-existent ears entirely and settled straight behind the socket—like someone had jammed a tuning fork into his skull and gave it a twist, just to see what’d rattle loose.

It bounced inside his head like static caught in a jar.

Underneath it, layered and faint, something else stirred—clicking, glitching, scraping the edge of sense like a cassette tape that wouldn’t quite rewind. Something in that Wingdings ticked through broken syntax and half-thought code.

A voice.

Familiar.

Mechanical.

Booting up, maybe.

Or trying to.

Sans didn’t know if he was alive.

But the pain was persuasive.

The rubble didn’t exactly offer a warm welcome, either.

First came the taste.

Metallic. Sharp. Magic-heavy.

A blend of ozone and iron, thick on his tongue.

His own magic, probably—still burning, still clinging to the space around him, mixing with something fouler.

Something that didn’t belong.

Second came the feeling.

He was no stranger to injury. 

The first time you catalog pain like this, it breaks you.

The fifth time, you start taking inventory.

His jaw wasn’t sitting right. Not broken clean—fractured. A hairline crack from the hinge to his cheekbone, he felt the heat mostly. His molars throbbed like they’d been jammed upward, and a few teeth felt loose. His good eye leaked from the strain of the other, which pulsed behind the bone there like it had a heartbeat of its own.

He didn’t touch it.

He knew better.

Still, somehow, he was upright. Mostly.

A miracle or a mistake—either way, it was temporary.

The voice came again.

His voice. Not his own. Not exactly.

“get up, sans.”

Calm.

Detached.

The version of him who’d hugged him. Set it in motion. Left a little tripwire in his chest for moments like this, when reality went sideways and the dark closed in.

He wanted to punch that version in the mouth. Maybe leave a note next time: “hey, this is gonna suck. take a Tylenol first.”

But still—he listened.

Because that version was a lot of things—paranoid, obsessive, deeply annoying—but San's was never wrong about this. The having to keep going part.

He huffed.

Yeah.

This is going to suck.

He moved. Groaned. Managed a breath that tasted like gravel.

Tried to push himself upright.

That was a mistake.

The pain answered fast and loud, a flash of static behind his sockets, purple and white and blinding. He collapsed again, face in the dirt, coughing out something that was supposed to be a laugh but broke apart halfway through.

Alright. New plan.

He rolled to his side. And gagged.

“heh, just gonna pop over to Grillb’s he can-.”

He reached for the warp.

Instinct.

His magic coiled back into his body.

Hard.

A new flash of red and blue colors, blistering and mean, surged from his sternum and burned up through his bones like a socket stripped raw. A scream—his, maybe—rattled out of his spine as the spell collapsed inward.

Every inch of him seized.

He curled into the dirt, hissing through clenched teeth.

“…heh,” he croaked eventually, “well arn’t I an overachiever. this is what i get for overdoing it huh?”

The air didn’t laugh with him. Just stirred. Just whispered.

Cracks split the masonry wide, letting in shafts of cold light where vines pushed through, curling like fingers desperate to escape. Chunks of stone littered the floor beside him, Flowey's doing, sharp and uneven, some still warm from the blast. His doing. Smoke curled lazily upward from distant fissures, his attacks. High above, a broken chandelier swayed on its last thread of chain, its shattered glass glittering like tiny souls scattered across the floor.

Dust floated thick, choking. Someone had died here.

Maybe more than a few someone's.

It took a minute to push himself up on his elbow again. Another to get to his knees. Forced his back to arch, sitting up right, groaning through gritted teeth and kept going. He couldn’t stop and let his broken bones settle, to let that pain settle.

Not yet.

Sans reached blindly for a wall, anything and leaned on a beam with a heavy groan. Used it like a crutch.

Legs weren’t listening real well—one of ‘em buckled, maybe fractured.

Probably fractured.

Felt like it was doing an impression of a swizzle stick.

Heh

But he didn’t stop.

Didn’t have time.

"kid?" His voice cracked down the middle. "you still hangin’ in there?"

No answer. 

His breath hitched.

He limped further

Casting out his tethers to check around, an attempt, or if he should even call it that.

It ignored him as Sans’ magic stayed coiled back inside his chest, refusal, painful. 

Still.

He had to find you.

Had to.

You were here.

Somewhere.

He’d felt it.

The FAILSAFE connected to him buzzed somewhere like a wire strung too tight, frayed with every beat of something not quite dead.

A relief to him, apart from the pain, something to work with. 

Silence.

He scanned the wreckage.

And that’s when he saw it.

Not you.

It.

Off in the distance, sagging against its own collapsed pillar, was what remained of Flowey.

He wasn’t monstrous anymore.

He wasn’t anything anymore.

Just a dying amalgam of guts, bark, and wilted forms. Vines like arteries, ribs like roots. Petals charred black. Flesh twisted back on itself in shapes nature never agreed to. That hooved leg stuck out like a broken marionette’s. The skull—if you could call it that now—drooped low, horns curling inward like shriveled branches. Its body still breathed , barely, but every rise and fall dragged ash with it. Wet. Labored. Black dust floated from his withering corps, steam from an open maw-

A glitch breathing in error.

It twitched. Spasmed.

Still trying to evolve, maybe. Or devolve.

He didn’t care.

He looked away.

Eyes caught something else—that familiar glowing. There. By a shattered patch of tiles, half-sunk in the dust.

Soft.

Warm.

You.

Or what was left of you.

Not your body. He couldn’t look.

He’d seen it already.

Ripped in two, torn open like a ragdoll, guts spilled out in a sick, messy mosaic. One eye missing, the other staring blankly into nothing.

Blood pooled beneath twisted limbs, mixing with broken stone and dust.

It was dead.

Unrecognizable.

But your SOUL—that stubborn, flickering light—was still there.

Whole enough to hold.

So he did.

Careful. Reverent.

Hands shaking, he reached down and gathered you up like something sacred.

There, fragile and cracked down the middle, flickering weakly.

And nestled at the edge, like a scar etched into the glow, was his own.

That sliver of violet and gold—the failsafe.

Still connected.

Still humming faintly.

He pressed his thumbs gently against the cracked edge, feeling the pulse beneath his fingers.

Slow.

“hey,” he whispered, crouching low as his knee screamed in protest and his spine popped loudly. “there ya are. not lookin’ great, kid, but… welcome to the club.”

A rasped laugh escaped him as he thumbed the fractured light.

He sank back onto his haunches—ignoring the sharp pain—and pulled you close to his chest like that might steady the flicker. Maybe it did. Maybe it was just his mind playing tricks. Pain blurred the edges of everything.

“i was right—you’ve got guts,” Sans sighed, his voice rough, almost joking. “still got some, under all that glow. y’know… real shiny interior decorating. Interior decorating… of your interior.”

His breath caught—a ragged sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob—then died in his throat.

The ground shifted beneath Sans’s feet.

A slow creak.
Something wet dragging across stone.

He heard it.
He just didn’t look.

“...you…”
The voice crawled out, ragged, like gravel chewing through a throat full of water.

Still, Sans didn’t move.

Didn’t flinch.

Didn’t offer anything close to mercy.

Flowey’s breath rattled in a body that had long since forgotten how to stop. “You… idiot…”

Sans stood—quiet, deliberate.

Your SOUL floated just above his palms now, trembling between his fingers, cradled close.

He stepped forward.

And without a word, without hesitation, stepped over the withered tangle of what was left—roots, rot, the suggestion of limbs that didn’t belong to this world anymore.

He glanced down.

Not at Flowey.

At a broken shape beside him.
A hoof.
A cracked skull.
A branch curled like a child trying to sleep.

“…y’know,” he muttered, voice scraped thin, “if this is the part where i get cursed or monologued at, i’m gonna have to reschedule. runnin’ kinda low on…”
A breath. A wince.
“…tolerance. and bone mass.”

Flowey spasmed at that—violent, almost comedic if it hadn’t been so tragic.

His body convulsed like a marionette on slashed strings, every movement twitching through muscles that shouldn’t have existed. And then—

With a wet, tearing sound, he pitched forward.

Dust exploded around him—thick and gray, the kind that settles after a fire has long since burned itself out. It spiraled in slow motion, as if time had given him one final spotlight.

His face melted.
Not poetically. Not gently.

Like wax too close to a flame, thick rivulets of black, tar-like ooze sliding down warped features that had once worn malice like a crown.

A sound burbled up from deep inside.
A laugh.
High. Sharp. Fractured.

Childish.

“This isn’t fair…”

It cracked mid-sentence, splitting open at the seams.

“This… this isn’t how— I was supposed to see them again.”

A cough. A sob. A plea buried inside a tantrum.

“It was going to be perfect…”

The words weren’t meant for Sans. Maybe for Frisk. Maybe they were meant for the sky, or the past, or whatever cruel gods had let him wither into this.

He laughed again—but it wasn’t joy.
It wasn’t even anger anymore.

Just sound.

Something breaking loose.

It turned to crying halfway through—sharp hiccups.

Dust fell in lazy spirals, clinging to the edges of the ruined hall.

Settling in the quiet.

Wrapping around Flowey like a shroud.

His eyes, swollen and leaking, blinked once.
A twitch.
A last glimmer of a spark trying to stay lit.

And then—
Stillness.

No more breath.

No more sound.

Only the cold.

Sans watched in muted silence, his fingers tightening just slightly around the fragile SOUL, pulsing faintly with the weight of survival. He pulled his hood up, torn, slow.

He had no words.

Only the faintest of sighs, and the stubborn pull of moving forward.

He stepped clean over a part of the mass, reaching for another pillar.

Steadying himself.

Then ahead of him -

A door wasn’t a door anymore—just a splintered archway half-swallowed by debris and soot. Still, something about it felt… yeah.

Cozy.

Warm.

Or had been. 

“don’t mind me,” Sans muttered, voice dry. One corner of his perma-grin twitched into something of an actual smirk that hurt more than it showed. “lettin’ myself in, boss lady. hope you got cocoa.”

He stepped through the wreckage.  Inside, he eyed the pathway down to the tunnels, before stepping over ripped up carpeting and into another room The hearth was long dead, but the soot still clung like a second skin. The place smelled of scorched stone and old herbs, the kind she used to hang from the windowsill he thinks, sprigs of lavender and thyme gone brittle from heat. What had once been a quiet little haven now looked like it’d been caught in the crossfire of Flowey’s tantrum.

Figures.

He leaned against what used to be a kitchen counter. It groaned under his weight. Something crunched beneath his heel—maybe a mug, maybe a picture frame.

He didn’t check.

Didn't really want to know.

Still clutching your SOUL in one hand—warm, good still pulsing—he patted his side with the other, fumbling awkwardly.

“c’mon... c’mon, don’t do this to me now, baby,” he grunted, wincing as a broken finger scraped the inside of his jacket lining.

There.

Got it.

Or half of it.

The phone came out in two mangled pieces—the flip cleanly snapped at the hinge, screen shattered into a mosaic of static and spiderwebbed black.

He just stared. Long beat.

No sound but the whisper of settling ash.

“well,” he croaked, dry. “looks like i’m not callin’ pap yet. probs yell at me anyways, got myself into some load of trouble.”

He let the halves drop. They clattered against tile and cinder, a hollow sound in the burnt quiet.

"my brother's super protective that way yah know, he's have a field day about this."

With a tired grunt, he pushed off the counter and shuffled through the ruins, brushing aside a curtain of ash with a lazy sweep of his hand. The living room wasn’t much better—charred, sagging wood and books littered like confetti. One shelf had collapsed outright, spilling its cargo across the floor.

Snail facts.

Lots of ‘em.

Yeah. No one could doubt that this was definitely her place.

“heh. she’s gonna be real steamed when she sees what they did to her library,” he muttered, toeing a singed copy of Snails: Nature’s Diligent Darlings out of the way.

Then he turned-

Whelp.

The stairs weren’t supposed to be this steep.

Or this long.

Or this mean.

“geez,” Sans muttered, dragging one foot up after the other, heavy on the railing as he went “when did tori install a mountain climb in her house?”

The SOUL sitting close, snuggled up in his palm. Still whole. Still warm.

Still watching.

“don’t look at me like that. you wanna climb these, you get the legs.”

It flickered, and Sans huffed something that might’ve been a laugh if his defence mechanism with laughter wasnt wearing himself out. 

“heh. y'know... you were a lot funnier when you could talk.” His fingers tightened on the rail. “if you can ever talk again.”

The SOUL dimmed. Quiet. Not upset—just... present.

He didn't mean it- ah geeze indeed.

Not like this last step was being, as he huffed, readjusting his pelvis to better accommodate the cracking of well everything,

Dust hung in the air like breath held too long. Flowey hadn’t made it this far—if he even tried. Which meant the ruin here wasn’t his.

It was older.

Sadder.

Quieter.

It looked like Toriel had just stepped out. Like she might walk back in at any moment with a plate of pie and that soft disapproving sigh of hers. Like she hadn’t left to cross a country chasing peace, chasing her child, following after them across The Underground, chasing a future too big to fit inside these walls.

Sans shifted his weight with a grunt, adjusting his aching bones and what remained of his dignity. The fight had cracked something in him. Everything in him, maybe. He couldn’t tell if it was your SOUL humming warm against his chest, or just adrenaline hanging on too long.

“not that i’m complainin’,” he muttered to no one in particular—maybe to you. “but—nah, yeah. i am.”

At the top of the stairs, he leaned heavily against the doorframe, letting himself breathe.

The hallway stretched forward, swallowed in actual dust, the beginnings of spider webs and broken things. Picture frames on the floor, glass scattered like stardust. A lamp crumpled in the corner. A calendar on the wall, ripped halfway off and still clinging to the month of February.

It looked like someone tried to pack up time and dropped the box halfway down the hall.

“heh... guess she really did drop everything to get to them,” His voice was soft as he spoke. Maybe to Frisk. Maybe to you. Maybe to no one.

He moved forward.

Slowly.

One step. Two.

The study was a wreck—door busted in, desk blackened with old fire. 

He didn’t linger, covering his nasal bone. 

Toriel’s room was closed. He didn’t try the handle.

That kind of grief deserved privacy.

But then he saw it.

Frisk’s room.

It looked... untouched.

Like the rest of the world got hit with the apocalypse and this little rectangle just said no thanks .

Same rug, same bed, same dorky lamp shaped like a flower. Stuffed animals were still lined up like they were guarding something important. The dresser was crooked, but holding strong. Posters slightly peeled at the corners, but still stuck.

And the bed.

“aw yeah,” His smile returned, eyeing it like a diner booth after a double shift. “you’re lookin’ mighty nap-shaped.”

He shuffled in and carefully collapsed with all the grace of a folding chair giving up on its career. Hit the mattress flat on his back, arms out like a comedy chalk outline. Your SOUL hovered down after him and settled on his chest, warm and heavy.

"ow," he muttered. "okay. forgot you were a solid."

Your SOUL pulsed.

Almost like a snrk .

Sans blinked.

Then squinted. 

"...did you just laugh?"

You pulsed again.

Definitely amused.

“...can human SOULS  laugh ?” he mumbled, eyebrows knitting. “what, is that a thing now? is that what we’re doin’?”

No answer. Just that lazy little hum. Not quite sound, not quite voice. Just... there.

He stared at the ceiling.

That was new.

That was weird.

That was...

Instead. 

He focused on the fact that the toddler bed was too smaller for him. 

The toddler sized- his brain made him giggle. Hysterics he would akin it to was the thing that he focused on if that little tid bit made him laugh. 

Frisk didn’t mind when he used to sit on the edge reading to them at his place, passing through the doorway only to be dragged by them as they showed him all of their stuffies, they each had names. 
Back then, he'd always joke that they needed to upgrade their mattress situation when they took naps together. "you’re on the surface now, kiddo. time to join the land of orthopedic dreams."

Now?

Now he was curled sideways careful not to roll over on his busted leg.
His femur sure did have a hairline fracture from hit he harder hit he must have taken. He could feel it deep. 

“yeah, yeah,” he muttered, gritting his teeth. “i’ll kiss it better later.”

Oh, and his hand—don’t even look at his hand.

That one finger was still bent wrong, clenching from where he'd tried to catch you.
Refused to uncurl.

The mattress creaks, giving the softest protest under his weight, but he doesn’t move. Not even to fix the other leg that hung off the end, or how his skull digs into the too-fluffy pillow. The only thing he does is keep you tucked close—

His arm's curled in protectively, drawn up toward his chest as he rolled onto his side. 
Your SOUL—faint, cracked, still pulsing—is cupped in the crook of his ribs and shoulder, his jacket bunched up under it so it doesn’t roll away or fall.
and his chin’s resting just above it, a bare inch away. 

He realized after being able to just lay still for abit that it/you fit weird in his hands. Too smooth, too warm. like Holding something made of breath and pressure instead of anything actually solid. 
but you felt that way, pulsed under his fingers, slow and steady, like you/it/him wanted to be held.

"guess this makes me the big spoon, huh," he says, voice dry.

He huffs out something like a laugh.

"lucky you. i’m great at cuddling. real championship-tier."

The SOUL hums.

Gentle.
His chest tightens.

"ugh. don’t laugh. makes it harder to be dramatic."

The glow that came from your SOUL then had him pause anything else he was about to say;
Faint reds and blues painted the wooden planks, his purples and gold bounced off the wardrobe’s hinges, kissed the old poster on the wall.
His bones looked weird through the light—thin, almost delicate, shadows tracing between each phalange.

Sans watched the way your SOUL glowed against them.

Made him feel like a kid again.
Hiding under a blanket with a flashlight, pretending the light could keep the monsters out.

But this time, the monster wasn’t under the bed.

It was the silence.
The stillness.
The part where you weren’t talking anymore.

He swallowed—out of habit, not necessity. Skulls weren’t built for being choked up.

The ceiling blurred in his sockets.

There was a lot he could say.

Too much, really.

He’d liked you.

More than he’d ever said.
Trusted you—not right away.

That would’ve been too easy.
But you chipped at the walls like you knew how they were built.
You saw him.
But things happened to fast. 
TO quick. 

You looked at him like he mattered.

And maybe that’s why it hurt so goddamn much.

“should’ve… done something. anything.”

His voice cracked on the last word.
Dropped quieter.

“but i didn’t. just let it happen. just let you happen.”

He shut his eyes.

“some friend i am.”

It stung.

It stung. Not just because you were gone—
But because he chose not to RESET.

He could’ve. The window was there, wide enough for him to slip through before the worst had time to stick.
But he didn’t.

Maybe he wanted to believe—stupidly, selfishly—that this one would be different.
That the pieces wouldn’t fall in the same old pattern, wouldn’t echo the timelines that always looped back around like no one had ever mattered in the first place.
That maybe, for once, the story wouldn’t end in blood.

He wanted to believe that you’d stay.
That he would.

And now—
Now your corpse is out on the patio, in the kind of heap a butcher might make, strung in two like meat that never meant to be human.
A pile of viscera the world already looks away from.

And he’s here.

Lying in Frisk’s old bed, in Toriel’s old house, in a timeline that’s supposed to be peaceful—
Clutching your old SOUL, what’s left of it, like it might evaporate if he so much as shifts his grip.

The room smells like dust and old flowers.
Everything’s too quiet.

He tells himself he wants to trust this.
Trust the promise.

No more RESETs.

He wants to believe that.

But he’s lived this too many times.

Watched the world end and flicker back his brother waking him up for sentry duty.
Watched people die and get stitched back into their places like puppets on a looping reel.

Knowing about the anomaly—it’s not something you forget.
It’s not something you live with, not really.

It’s like carrying a countdown in your bones,
like having your ribs etched with invisible chalk that’s slowly washing away in rain,
but you don’t know when the last stroke will vanish.
Could be years.
Could be now.

So he stopped planning. Gave up long ago, that not even his broken machine could put a dent in the RESETS.

Stopped hoping.
Started letting everyone else carry the pieces while he played dead at his post.

Because one day, the anomaly would be satisfied.
The game would end.

And somewhere along the line—
somewhere—
he did something that even he doesn’t remember.

He doesn’t know when it happened, or how, or why—

But he tied a piece of his own SOUL to you.
Like a failsafe. A key.
A thread in the code meant to keep something stable, maybe.
Or maybe just one more desperate, quiet gamble in a long line of losing hands.

And now it’s in his hands. Cold.
Buzzing.

Figures.

He doesn’t remember doing it.
Can’t.

Every time he tries to reach back, it fuzzes out—like static crawling over the back of his skull, like a television bleeding gray, like something pressing down on the thought itself—

That voice in his head says,

"stop.
not now.
get some sleep, Sans."

Like he’s a child again, being ushered away from the parts of the story that are too sharp to understand.
Like he’s not already made of nothing but those sharp parts.

So he closes his sockets and lets the ceiling blur.

He still refuses to remember the RESETS.

Because remembering would mean remembering everything.
All the timelines. All the failures.
All the times he let it happen.

And this time—

This time, it was supposed to be different.

The fact that, all he had to do. Was say: NO? Just sit in the void and refuse. All that effort before, all that shed blood, their-his- he just had to do the thing he does best and NOT. 

He sighs.

"...gonna need food," The mumble that leaves him is muffled. "snowdin’s too far on empty stomach and less-than-zero morale.”

So instead he peeks at your SOUL again.

“think Tori left any snack's around?”

Your SOUL flickers dimly.

He grins, tired.

"i’ll take that as a maybe."

Still doesn’t move.

Not yet.

"...five more minutes," A breath. “then i’ll move. promise.”

If he dozes off instead?
Well.
You’re not going anywhere.

Not yet.

Not when someone, somewhere, is still trying.

A single lamp glows in the kitchen window of a condo set deep behind privacy fencing, its light barely visible through the flurry of snowfall that had begun just before dusk. The building is unassuming, tucked against the edge of a half-frozen lake, with long shadows stretching from its corners across a narrow, pine-lined path. Unmarked vehicles lingered discreetly on the road below, cloaked in frost, their engines long cooled

Inside, warmth lives in the smallest details. A woven rug just slightly crooked beneath the kitchen table. A chipped ceramic bowl filled with cloves and orange peel on the counter. A pair of slippers left by the back door. The space is temporary—walls bare save for a single watercolor of a mountain range—but someone has worked hard to make it feel lived in. Cared for.

The kitchen is softly lit. A pot of mashed lentils simmered on the stove, the scent of garlic and tomato thick in the air. Steam clings to the windowpanes. In the far room, muffled voices drift from the living room, half-watched, half-forgotten.

And from behind a wooden spoon, a voice—low, warm, and just slightly weary—sighs into the hush.

"Mm. A little more thyme, I think."

Her breath fogged the lenses of her glasses as she leaned in. She didn’t seem to mind. The apron she adorned  was a bit crooked, tied back that swayed with each turn. Standing on hooved feet, her weight shifting now and then with the rhythm of the stove. Her hands were large, steady, furred in soft ivory.

Behind her, the house murmured in domestic rhythm. The gentle hum of the fridge. A muted television in the other room. The sound of snow outside, softened by distance.

Then—

“Rrgh! These rice corpses are staging a rebellion!”

A sharp splash, the clang of a bowl slipping in the sink.

“Why does rice do this ?” The other person groaned. “It’s like... like it wants to stick to me. I’m not even squeezing that hard!”

A few stubborn grains clung to the webbing between her fingers, refusing to budge no matter how many times she flicked or shook.

“I swear, if I look at this stuff the wrong way it’s gonna multiply. ”

The voice rose in volume and sheer exasperation. It belonged to Undyne who’s hunched over the sink. Her vibrant red curls clung to the right side of her face—wild, frizzy, pulled loose from what might’ve once been a braid from earlier in the day. 

She was wearing pajama pants covered in cartoon characters and a mismatched hoodie. The fabric clung damply to her arms as she pushed up the threadbare sleeves. Again.

“My ancestors didn’t crawl out of the ocean for this, ” she declared.

More low grumbling. 

Behind her, the woman at the stove turned her head, ever so slightly.

Still, she didn’t speak. Not yet.

She only smiled, a small, private thing. 

Undyne, frustrated and wet-sleeved, flopped back from the sink. Her grin—slow to arrive—emerged with reluctant satisfaction. Not like a flash of sharp teeth, but the slow stretch of someone who couldn’t help herself. She watched the taller monster's shoulders shake from across the kitchen.

"Eh old lady, you laughin at me?" 

Now, finally, the woman turned.

“Not laughing,” she covered her snout,  “just... admiring your technique.”

Undyne snorted. “It’s war.”

“It’s rice, dear,” the woman replied, smiling still. “And I suspect it’s winning.”

Said rice clinked faintly in the pot as Undyne removed it from the sink, crossed the small space and set it on the burner. A huff leaving her lips as she shifted the heavy thing onto the stove, her gait uneven—one foot dragging slightly behind the other with a scrape that never quite left her. She didn’t complain. She never did.

But the kitchen mat curled up just enough to catch her heel, and she bared her teeth in irritation.

The taller woman behind her stepped in without a word, gently adjusting the corner of the mat with her hoof, then nudged the burner knob once more with the back of a spoon to adjust the flame.

“A low flame,” The goat woman advised gently, adjusting the dial with the flat of one hoof. “Let it steam, not scorch.”

“I know, I know,” Undyne grumbled, waving a damp webbed hand in surrender. Grains of stubborn rice still clung to her palms. “You think I haven’t been trained in battlefield rations?”

“That’s precisely what concerns me.”

Steam began to curl upward from the pot with lentils in it, curling around the overhead lamp in soft spirals.

Undyne rolled her eye. “Okay, Commander. Next time I’ll serve the enemy a spicy daal and see if diplomacy breaks out.”

A chuckle followed, warm and full, trailing into silence just as the distant click of the front door turning echoed through the kitchen. 

Undyne paused, shoulders straightening.

Outside, the cold had returned in earnest. The kind that bit through wool and lifted drifts across the sidewalk like drifting ghosts. At the end of the pine-lined drive, a matte black SUV had pulled up minutes earlier—no markings either, no lights save for the parking flash—and now the front passenger door was swinging open.

The driver remained inside. A tall, broad-shouldered woman in a puffer coat stepped out first. Her expression was flat, eyes scanning the street with practiced ease. A second figure emerged from the far side, more relaxed in posture, though his gloved hands were already opening the back door before the first guard even gave the nod.

From within the SUV’s darkened interior, a figure unfolded.

Ashore. Tall. Massive, really—almost seven feet even with the slight hunch to avoid brushing the roof. A wool-lined coat hung heavy over his shoulders, the buttons at his collar straining just slightly with the bulk of his frame. Beneath that, the glint of a tie clip caught the porch light—a tidy flash of silver against pressed suit. His horns curved back from a crown of golden hair, half-bound in a tail that brushed down the middle of his back.

And yet, for all his presence, his movements were careful. The van shifted on its wheels as the heavy weight was removed when he stepped down onto the pavement. Gentle. He murmured something to the guards—both of whom relaxed at once—and gave a soft, rumbling chuckle at the younger one’s response. She laughed, too, lightly, holding the door open for him as they crossed the salted walkway, and stepped up to the porch.

Undyne had already moved across the living room, barefoot and quiet.

She opened the door a few inches, enough to see the warm cloud of his breath rise in the porch light.

“Hey, boss man,” she greeted, her voice softened just slightly, her weight braced on one hip.

Asgore’s eyes lifted to hers and warmed immediately.

“Evenin, Captan,” he mused, his tone rich, calm. “Did I miss supper?”

“You’re in luck,” Undyne grinned. “It's almost done.”

He shrugged out of his long coat and leaned inside and hung it hook by the door, pausing only to nod his thanks to the agents shielding him from behind.. One of them—a younger woman with tired eyes—smiled genuinely.

“Rest well, Mr. Dreemurr.”

“You too, miss. And don’t forget your cookies—they’re still in the glove box.”

Undyne rolled her eye and shut the door behind him. “You’re spoiling them.”

“They work hard, busting their tails keepin my behind safe between visits.”

He ducked carefully beneath the doorframe, mindful not to catch his horns. The soft scrape of horn tips against wood was a small concession to his size—

“You’re late. ” Came the gentle, motherly voice from the kitchen, carrying a softness that wrapped around him like a well-worn blanket.

The door clicked shut behind him, sealing off the cold night and the distant hum of the city beyond. The outside world—the scrutiny, the negotiations, the endless paperwork—retreated into silence.

“Traffic,” he answered with a rueful smile, turning to brush a speck of frost from the cuff of his coat. His voice was deep and slow, each word carrying the warm drawl of his Southern drawl. “And, well, there was this last-minute run-in about housing permits... Seems I’m the proud new owner of a stack o’ papers labeled ‘Nonhuman Residential Reassessment.’”

Undyne snorted from the doorway, shaking her head. “Yikes.”

He gave a wry smile, loosening his thick, patterned tie with a careful tug. “And would ya’ll believe it... they come with bullet points.”

“Yikes again,” she muttered, stepping back to let him pass.

The kitchen was quiet for a moment but for the soft clink of plates and the occasional scrape of a fork. Undyne instead moved to the windows, pulling the curtains closed with a practiced, deliberate motion. It was a nightly ritual, one she took seriously—especially now, with the world outside might be unsure of how to look at monsters when they might soon be living among humans.

Hopefully. 

Asgore settled onto the couch, still too small for him but welcoming all the same. He loosened his tie off his neck, the knot sliding free like a sigh of relief. Asgore watched as furred hands setting the table with a calm grace that made the simple act feel like a ceremony—plates aligned, napkins folded just so, the warm glow of the overhead light soft. 

Undyne glanced back over her shoulder with a grin. “You know, you’d think after all these years, you two would’ve figured out how to sit on a couch without taking up the whole thing.”

Asgore chuckled, a deep, rolling sound like gravel tumbling down a hill. “Well now, darlin’, I reckon that couches up ‘er aren't  made for a giant like me. I’m just makin’ the best of what we got.”

There's a hum from the other room. “Maybe next time, we will make sure the place we are given has a bigger couch.”

“Or maybe we get you a recliner, huh?” Undyne teased, her voice light but teasing. “Something with cup holders, too.”

A bleat of laughter.  “And then he’d never leave it.”

“Speak for yourself,” Asgore bubbled, “But I can’t argue with that.”

He went to lean over, reaching for the packet-

Was the moment the kitchen timer chimed.

Asgore was on his feet—quick for a giant his size—his long limbs folding and stretching as he moved.

The goat woman appeared just behind the arch way, setting a warm plate on the small dining table that nestled between the cozy kitchen and the living room. The space was modest, but every corner felt lived in for what they had here.

Soft light spilled from a low-hanging lamp, casting a honeyed glow over the deep, worn cushions of the living room’s small sofa— but he had made it work.

He liked the sofa.

A few books were stacked on the coffee table, their pages marked with notes and well-thumbed corners. Thick curtains, drawn back just enough sometimes, that revealed the shadowed outline of frosted pine trees outside the window.

It was a haven, quiet and safe, held together by small comforts: a handwoven throw tossed over the back of a chair, a low hum of distant city sounds filtered through thick walls, and the faint scent of cinnamon and cloves lingering in the air.

Asgore crossed the space in less than two strides, rubbing his claws together as he slid to the table, reaching over to snag a slice, tearing off a hunk with practiced ease.
“Fanciest bread I done had comin' topside,” he drawled, chewing thoughtfully.

The woman who’d placed the plate offered him a smile.

“I’m glad you like it, Gory.”

The nickname hit them both with an affectionate ease, one that made Asgore chuckle deeply.

“Well, Tori, you always know how to make a fellow feel welcome.”

Toriel—Tori—tilted her head, her eyes sparkling with amusement as she watched him grab another.

“Just don’t eat it all before Undyne’s had a chance to try some.”

The Captain at that scoffed good-naturedly, sliding over into a chair across from him. “Hey hey, watch it old timer, she’s right!”

Asgore chuckled around another bite, voice rumbling low in his chest. “Ain’t my fault it’s so good.” He wiped his claws on a napkin, more out of nerves than mess. “Sides, we got a minute before that daal’s done, don’t we?”

Toriel turned back toward the stovetop, humming gently. “Fifteen, maybe twenty. Long enough to make sure the rice soften properly.”

He nodded slowly. The silence that followed stretched just a little too long.

Asgore glanced at the soft gold of the kitchen lights, the way they danced in her fur, and felt the weight of the phone still in his pocket. Guilt pressed low in his gut.

He pulled it out gently, setting it on the counter beside her. “Meant to say—thank you, for lettin’ me borrow this.”

Toriel turned her head slightly. Her expression was neutral, but the corner of her eye tightened. “Of course.”

“I… went ahead and called Sans,” he added, carefully. “Figured now’s as good a time as any to… talk about some things.”

Toriel’s spoon paused in the pot. Just for a second.

Then she resumed stirring, voice even. “I assume this is about the meeting I did not attend.”

He let out a breath. “Yeah.”

Undyne had gone quiet behind them. Maybe listening. Maybe politely pretending not to.

Asgore rubbed the back of his neck. “Tori, it ain’t what it sounds like. We weren’t hidin’ anything. Just—lookin’ into it first. Tryin’ to understand before we worried anyone.”

Toriel stirred a little more forcefully now, the daal beginning to bubble.

“Anyone?” she echoed. “Or me?”

He stepped a little closer. “We were gonna talk about it. I told Sans we should. Wine, fireplace, the whole bit.” He gave a weak smile. “Didn't pan out yet.”

“I noticed,” she murmured.

The air thickened.

Asgore pressed forward gently, tearing another piece of naan but not eating it.

“It’s about Frisk,” he followed, and her ears twitched. “There’s… been a social worker sent down from the city. Just to assess. Standard stuff, they say. Integration paperwork, human-monster guardianship—new regulations since the housing situation's been put to board.”

He let the silence sit a moment, watching her.

Toriel’s hand stilled again. Her back still to him.

“Frisk is safe,” he added quickly. “Happy. Nothin’s happenin’ tonight, or tomorrow. We’re stayin ahead of it.”

Still, she didn’t look at him.

“They weren’t goin’ to ask me?” she murmured. “About my own child?”

Asgore’s ears lowered. “I think… they assumed it’d go smoother without stirrin’ up dust. Thought maybe if we handled it quiet-like, it’d pass unnoticed.”

Toriel turned finally. Her expression wasn’t angry—but it was wounded. A cold, formal quiet in her tone.

“And what did you think, Gory?”

He sighed, long and low.

“I thought I’d rather hurt your feelin’s than make you afraid before I had to.”

A beat.

Then:

“I’m not afraid,” she lashed. “I’m furious.”

Undyne flinched in the background, suddenly pretending to read something on her phone.

Toriel folded her hands in front of her apron, staring at the bubbling pot.

“I’ve lost too many children, Asgore,” she added quietly. “I won’t lose another just because I was kept in the dark.”

“I know,” he grieved, voice rough. “And I’m sorry.”

Another pause.

Then, a little sharper than before:

“Is Sans the one who’s been avoiding my calls?”

Asgore nodded. “He’ll talk tonight. He said he would.”

Toriel didn’t answer right away. Her eyes shimmered faintly, the steam from the pot catching the light.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper:

“He's all but stopped sending me anything outside memes.”

Asgore didn’t have a reply.

But after a long, aching moment, she returned to the stove, giving the daal another stir. He went to stand, brushing down his shirt with a sigh-

“…Sit down,” she breathes. “You’re not getting out of dinner that easy.”