Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The 23rd reset.

Or was it the 24th? The number didn’t matter anymore. They blurred together—silent echoes of things you couldn’t remember but still felt in your bones. Flashes of motion. Fragments of sound. A heartbeat caught in rewind, but slower, heavier, quieter with each turn of the wheel.

Reset.

Reset.

Reset.

The word itself feels alien, splintering across your mind like shattered glass.

You don’t even know what “reset” means. Maybe you did once-no lets not fool a mind which is already on the verge of collapsing. You don't know. Not really. You don’t remember why you’re here, or how you got here. You just are. And in the spaces where memories should be, there’s only static.

Then—

Something cold brushed against your cheek.

When your eyes finally flicker open, it isn’t the dim ceiling of your hotel room you find. It’s stars—scattered, fractured, and so close they might as well be etched into your skin. The ground beneath you is no ground at all. Just empty space, cold and endless, stretching far beyond the edges of your vision.

You try to move.

The pain doesn’t register until the second attempt, a shivering scream of agony clawing up your spine. The cold touch shifts against your cheek—no longer comforting, but pointed, unyielding.

You turn your head, breath catching.

And you see it.

Blue Bone.

Cold like steel slicing through skin, like frostbite taking hold in marrow.

It had burst through you like lightning, ripping through your chest in a jagged arc. Your ribs crack, sharp edges splintering inward, and your lungs falter as though they’ve forgotten how to draw air. Blood wells up in your throat, thick and metallic, spilling over your lips as you gasp and gurgle. The agony doesn’t just sit in your core—it consumes you, radiating outward until every nerve feels alight with fire and ice.

You claw at the source, desperate, fingers scrabbling for the spear lodged in your chest. It’s smooth and white—bone—and it thrums with power as if alive. Your hands slip, slick with blood, as your vision swims.

Someone’s holding your wrist.

No. Not someone. Not anymore.

A skeletal hand—grip firm, unshaking, as if to say don’t bother.

“Don’t move,” a voice murmurs, low and steady. There’s no malice there, no rage. Just the hollow finality of  this voice resigned to the inevitable.

The tears in your eyes blur, and you look up, blood shot, burst veins pulse in time with the stars above, some fade into streaks of light, smudged by the growing dark. Your lips part, though you don’t know what you’re trying to say—whether it’s a plea, a question, or just the half-formed gasp of air slipping too fast from your collapsed lungs.

Your mind spins.

What-

The hand releases your wrist, its absence colder than the chill of death creeping up your spine.

No. Please.

And then the bone twists.

A wet, sickening crunch follows, accompanied by a burst of heat that sears through your chest, rattling every breath from your throat. Your heart stutters, the rhythm broken, a beat. 

The voice hums again, softer now. Regretful. “Please, just stop coming back.”

The last thing you realize, blinking, that wetness that pools on your cheek. Gasping. Realizing. 

The voice is crying. 

Wait. 

You’ve been here before.
You’ll be here again.
And when it ends—if it ever does—

"✋︎❼︎❍︎ ⬧︎□︎❒︎❒︎⍓︎📬︎"

Your Heart Has Stopped. 

The first rays of dawn streamed through the blinds of your modest home, casting pale streaks of light across the cluttered floor. You groaned, rolling over to silence the shrill beeping of your alarm clock. It had been a hand-me-down from your mother, a relic from the '90s with a crack running through its plastic casing. It still worked, though—just like the rest of your life. Functional, if a little worse for wear. 

Your apartment smelled faintly of overwatered soil and yesterday’s takeout. Ferns lined the windowsill, their leaves drooping slightly despite your best efforts to keep them thriving. Your favorite one, nicknamed "Stumpy," had been with you for years, surviving countless close calls with neglect. You reached out to touch its pot as if to apologize.

Neck feeling tight from sleep, a headache knitting between your brows you let the faucet run, sipping at some water as your medicine hit the back of your throat. Probably the way I was laying you guised.

Your coffee machine sputtered indignantly when you turned it on, groaning under the weight of its years. While it worked its magic, you shuffled into the bathroom, catching a glimpse of yourself in the mirror. Your hair was a mess, your eyes slightly puffy from yet another night of too little sleep. You sighed, brushing your teeth with mechanical efficiency.

Work bag sat by the door, bulging with folders and papers you’d meant to review last night but hadn’t gotten around to. One of them, stamped with a bright red "CONFIDENTIAL," caught your eye again. You’d picked it up just before clocking out yesterday, handed to you by none other than Meredith Habberdash, the office’s reigning gossip queen and unofficial HR department spy. Her words echoed in your mind: "Big assignment, they said. You’re their first pick darlin."

You didn’t feel like anyone’s "first pick" for anything. Social work wasn’t exactly glamorous, and your caseload had been steadily growing heavier for months. But you loved it. Helping people navigate their struggles gave you a sense of purpose, even if it came at the cost of your own peace of mind.

As the coffee brewed, you grabbed a quick breakfast—a bruised apple and a granola bar—and checked your phone. A text from her lit up the screen:

Meredith: Don’t forget to bring your big girl pants today. Mount Ebott rumors are flying. Bet your "special assignment" is related. Also, Friday happy hour?

You frowned, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. Mount Ebott had been popping up in the news lately, though the details were always vague. Strange seismic activity, unexplained power surges, whispers of something big happening out there. It was the kind of thing you’d normally dismiss as tabloid fodder, but the frequency of the reports was hard to ignore. Still, you weren’t sure how any of that would involve you.

 Happy hour sounds good. As for the news…no clue. Probably some boring bureaucratic nonsense.

Her reply came instantly:

Meredith: Uh-huh. Keep telling yourself that. See you at the office.

You sighed and slipped your phone into your pocket. Meredith loved a good conspiracy theory, and you weren’t in the mood to indulge her this early in the morning.

There’s something about office buildings—how they can hum with life and still feel absolutely lifeless at the same time. Maybe it’s the flickering fluorescent lights or the stained beige carpet that’s seen more coffee spills than pay raises. Maybe it’s the outdated posters pinned to the break room corkboard, the ones with inspirational quotes about teamwork that everyone ignores.

Or maybe it’s just this place.

You walked up the stairs to the floor your job's slot office was at, using you key fob on the wall sensor, letting it snap back on the lanyard as you pushed open the glass door. Phones rang. A copier jammed. Someone muttered a curse under their breath before slapping the side of one of the problem printers like that would fix it.

Social workers moved through the hallways like surgeons in an overcrowded ER—focused, efficient, carrying paperwork like it was someone’s lifeline. Because, in a way, it was. The stakes weren’t life or death, not exactly, but they were close enough. A misplaced file, a missed call, a late response to an urgent case? It could be the difference between help arriving now or help arriving too late.

And in the middle of it all, perched on the breakroom counter like she belonged there, was Meredith.

"Morning, sunshine!"

She was nursing a coffee mug the size of her ego—this one emblazoned with the words I’m Not Gossiping, I’m Networking. Her auburn curls were swept into an effortlessly messy bun, and her blouse and pencil skirt combo was the perfect mix of I am an authority figure and I might also convince you to do something illegal for fun.

You grunted in response, barely sparing her a glance as you made a beeline for the coffee pot.

Meredith slid off the counter, landing with a practiced ease

“You look like shit,” she added, eyeing you over the rim of her coffee. The lipstick stain was a perfect 'O' on the cups rim, your eyes flicker up to hers.

“Good. That’s the look I was going for.”

Straight to the coffee pot. You needed another. The smell was bitter, promising more disappointment than energy, but you weren’t here for the taste. The machine sputtered as you poured, and for a moment, you just stood there, hands wrapped around one of the cups you pulled from the dishwasher below, letting the warmth seep into your fingers.

“Big day ahead,” Meredith mused, changing the subject.

“Every day’s a big day,” you muttered.

“No, no, this one’s different.” She lowered her voice, leaning in. “Word is, the higher-ups have been in a frenzy all week. You’re lucky to have been out of the loop.” A pause. Then, with a sly grin: “Until now.”

You took a slow sip of coffee. It was scalding, but at least that meant you were awake. Unlike the drive over. “Yeah, lucky me.”

Behind you, someone nearly collided with the doorframe.

“Oh, for God’s sake—”

Carla, one of the case managers, stood there juggling a binder, two overstuffed file folders, and a half-eaten bagel clenched between her teeth. She looked exactly how you felt. Meredith caught the door before it could swing back into her.

“You good, Care Bear?” Meredith smirked.

Carla made an indignant noise around her bagel, then spit it into her palm. “Do I look good?”

No. She looked like she’d been at her desk since dawn, drowning in casework and caffeine.

“Morning meeting?” you asked.

“Morning disaster.” She shook her head, folders teetering in her grasp. “Henderson’s trying to push through another last-minute placement without proper approval, Marquez’s got a family threatening to sue again, and someone from central office is supposed to be ‘observing’ today, which basically means we all get to perform for the bureaucratic peanut gallery.”

She sighed, adjusting the precarious stack in her arms.

“Also, HR sent another email about ‘workplace morale,’ so congratulations, I think we’re getting donuts.”

Meredith gasped. “Donuts and government-mandated emotional validation? Holy shit it’s for Christmas.”

Carla snorted. “Yeah, if Christmas was funded by the lowest bidder.”

Mer belly laughs. She’s using her dramatic voice. “Look I don’t get shit from Saint Nick himself, so if these corpo big wigs get us a box of the big D I’m gonna scream”

Before you could ask or do anything else, a voice called for you from down the hall, something about a conference room reservation. 

Meredith raised a brow. “Oof. That was fast.”

You sighed, setting your coffee down. “Tell my story.”

“I will, but I’ll make you sound way more interesting than you actually are.”

As you turned to leave, Carla called after you: “If this is about Mount Ebott, you better fill me in after.”

”I’ll tell him you said Merry Chrimbo”

She snorts at that.

With how fidgety your boss looked right now this better be about the Mount Ebott rabbit hole.

Because this man does not do fidgety.

Across from you sat Mr. Langston, your department supervisor. A tall, wiry person with thinning hair, a perpetual frown, & rubbing at his temple like he’d already decided this was going to be a headache. He wasn’t the kind of man who liked headaches—just the kind who got stuck with them. His glasses sat low on his nose, one bad sigh away from falling right off.

"You’ve been selected for a very… unique opportunity," he breathed, voice even, hands folding neatly over the desk like he was reading to present a performance review and not whatever this was.

You glanced at the folder, then back at him. "Unique how?"

Langston exhaled through his nose.

"I don’t know much," he admitted, rubbing a hand over his face. "And before you say anything, yes, I know how that sounds. My job is to manage, not to ask questions. All I know is that the higher-ups—my higher-ups—got a call from their higher-ups. The company lawyers had a field day with whatever this is, and when the dust settled, the verdict was unanimous: we couldn’t say no."

Your stomach twisted.

"You don’t know what it is, but you can’t say no to it?"

"Welcome to corporate America," Langston muttered dryly.

He leaned forward slightly, elbows on the table, expression unreadable behind the glare of his glasses. "What I do know is that it involves Mount Ebbott. And before you ask—no, I don’t know what the hell is going on up there either. I wasn’t given details, just a directive: pick someone from my department, someone discreet, and send them to gather findings. They didn’t want to send their own. Not yet."

Oh.

Oh, shit.

Because Meredith and half the HR department totally called it when she said something big was happening, and for once, she wasn’t just spinning conspiracy theories between bites of her lunch.

And now, here you were. Sitting in a too-bright office, staring at a folder that might actually confirm every whispered rumor, every grainy leaked image.

You really should of watched the clips more and not skipped them. Today's like one of the biggiest pop quizzes that you didn't really study for. 

Mer would have been perfect for this. 

"Why me?" you asked, voice careful, controlled.

Langston sighed. "Look, this isn’t personal. I didn’t pick you because of your numbers, or your efficiency, or whatever else makes you an exceptional employee. I picked you because you’re unassuming."

You blinked.

"Excuse me?"

He waved a hand, impatient. "You’re not flashy. You don’t have a reputation. You’re not splattered all over People’s Magazine with the whole mess going on with the mayor. You’re just… there. You do your job, you don’t cause problems, and—most importantly—you don’t have reporters sniffing around your personal life looking for the next scandal."

Right. That.

The mayor was in deep. Every news outlet was having a feeding frenzy over the Upset, and everyone even remotely involved with city administration was getting dragged into it. The last thing the company needed was another headline, another name for the public to obsess over.

They needed someone invisible. Someone who could be dropped into a classified situation without causing ripples.

Someone like you.

Langston gestured toward the folder. "Read it. Take the night. Let me know your answer by morning."

You hesitated.

The folder sat there, silent, waiting.

"Is this a choice?" you asked, and the words felt heavy.

Langston met your eyes.

"As much as anything ever is."

The next sunrise found you clutching the folder in your lap. You’d been avoiding it, from where you originally threw it on the kitchen counter, to it stashed under the foot of your bed to the coffee table- you snatched it up and all but stared at the damn thing.  Normally, documents like these are straightforward—victim impact statements, someone’s long and tragic battle with addiction, that one client who definitely didn’t make their therapy appointment last week but insisted on still having a session over the phone...you know, the usual mess you sort through while mentally filing away your last shred of patience. But those somethings were not plastered in red tape and confidential smeared all over it.

Normally, you get a little heads-up. A call, an email—anything that tells you what you’re about to dive into. But nooo, in office suspicions followed by the worst don't ask don't tell spheal in history. Not even a hint outside the what if's and upfront reveal from your boss that thinks you're the wallflower of the office. Grand that. 

So there you sat, on your equally threadbare couch (which was a surprise given that you swore you’d bought it on some kind of adulting high from Target, but no, that was years ago), staring at the half-eaten ramen cup you hadn’t touched in...oh, God, when was the last time you ate? Stress nomming was an Olympic sport, and right now, you were a gold medalist. You added hot sauce, your mug of tea (a.k.a. liquid courage) balanced precariously on the armrest beside you. Yeah, you were definitely trying to calm the impending panic with comfort food.

Meanwhile, Stumpy—leaned toward you as if he, too, wanted a sneak peek at your impending doom. Or, you know, was just thirsty as usual. You checked his soil meter (because you weren’t a monster), and nope, he was fine. Don’t let the fern guilt trip you, you reminded yourself.

Focus.

Alright, you whispered to no one in particular, opening the folder with the solemnity of someone preparing to face the DMV. “Let’s see what’s so ‘sensitive.’”

The first few pages were what you expected: the usual red tape. Legal jargon, confidentiality clauses, the obligatory "if you leak this we will ruin your life" disclaimer. You skimmed through it, eyes darting until you found the section labeled: Population Background.

Now, this was where it got interesting—well, in a "this is gonna be a shit show" sort of way.

The text? Heavily redacted. You know, the kind of redacted where it looks like someone with rage issues had access to a black marker. Entire paragraphs were blotted out, leaving only bits and pieces of useful information.

Origin: Mount Ebott region. Undisclosed location.
Arrival Method: Classified.
Current Status: Temporary accommodations pending integration.

You frowned, leaning back. “That’s...uh, cryptic as hell.” You scratched your head, trying to piece this together. You couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity. ’This mountain shit is like a live ant hill someone kicked- and they wanted you to go there. You were so lost, on what this could be. Could’ve been an alien. Could be the presidents daughter in a kidnapping. Could’ve been literally anything and you’d probably be equally confused.

Hell, maybe this was one of those days where you would’ve been better off just rolling back under the covers.

“Alright, alright, let’s get to the meat of this,” Time to do what you did best: overthink and make assumptions until the truth hit you like a freight train.

The next section was a bit more-

Huh.

"The Ambassador believes this course of action will benefit our people."
"Ask The Ambassador. We won’t proceed without their consent."
"The Ambassador requests clarification on this policy. They are concerned about its long-term impact."

The word "Ambassador" popped up repeatedly, always in the context of guiding decisions or approving actions. You squinted at the small, italicized note beneath one of the records:

"The Ambassador is a child, non-verbal, communicates via sign language. All decisions are deferred to them by unanimous consent of their people."

Your head snapped up from the page. "Wait. A kid?"

The idea threw you. Children weren’t diplomats. They weren’t political leaders or decision-makers. And yet, these people seemed to treat this child like their cornerstone, refusing to make a move without them. It made your face scrunch up. 

Your gaze drifted back to the page. There was no photograph, no name, no further context. Just a note that interpreters within the imagrints temporary compound were very. Adamant. About being with this child when they talked. There’s more notes about a few staffed brought in. Lines are annoying blanked out, something about the staffs removal. 

"Why?" you muttered, tapping the page with your finger. "Why would an entire group rely on a child for something this big?" Are they a huge figurehead’s heir or something? Thinking to a few grouos that may- Oh shit. Your feet were suddenly very interesting as you took a breath between your feet, the ideas flooding through that there might be a possibility that these refugees may have worrying customs. 

That’s okay, a conversation could be had, this worrying-not so informative-for-your average everyday social worker can understand thank you. Not right now at least, the things you do know are kids, and what’s got you suspiciously curious is how this kid is fairing, outside of everything else that appears to not be going on up at that mountain. 

instead you focused on what you did know.  flipping to the financial section of the packet inside, eager for anything more concrete. That’s when you saw the add-on at the bottom of the contract.

The numbers made your breath hitch.

Okay. That’s more than a couple of Cup Noodles worth. 

A stipend. A commission for the duration of the assignment. Wages so generous you felt the weight of your credit card debt—and the countless sleepless nights worrying about it—start to lift just by looking at them. You quickly flipped back to the payment terms.

The packet promised more than you made in six months. Combined with the recent relief of finally paying off your medical bills, it was the kind of financial reprieve you desperately needed.

You gnawed at your bottom lip, torn between caution and temptation. You didn’t know enough about this "unique opportunity" to feel good about saying yes. But you also knew what saying no meant: another month scraping by, another missed chance to get ahead.

Your fingers traced over the edge of the folder, your mind racing. Something about this assignment didn’t sit right, but the allure of stability—and that enormous paycheck—made it hard to ignore.

The notes about Mount Ebott loomed in your mind. Seismic activity, classified locations, a child ambassador who couldn’t speak but somehow held the reins of a whole population. And yet…

What’s the worst that could happen?

You glanced at the stack of unpaid bills sitting on the kitchen counter, then down at your hands-

Chapter Text

"Crazy, ain’t it? Used to be a coffee shop right there. Best damn pastries in the city," the driver said, nodding toward a spot now covered by a concrete barricade and a heavily armed soldier who looked like he hadn't blinked since birth.

"Now it’s all this." 

You follow it up with your own slow blink at the man.

This?

This being the checkpoint, the sandbags, the floodlights that were all to bright for it being midday and the sudden presence of camouflage-clad personnel on what was, apparently, a civilian street. If this was what passed for normal now, you were going to need a lot more direction than a 2 hour car ride listening to your spotify playlist and whole lot of nothing from everyone else.

Your driver leaned over the seat, voice dropping. "Have your ID ready." He pulled his own out, flashing it with the confidence of a man who'd done this before. You fumbled for yours, which was buried somewhere between a protein bar wrapper and the sinking feeling that this trip was about to go way off the rails.

Brain. Stop it with the melodrama, we work with enough of that. Bad Juju rigging, lumpy mind matter-

Break pads squeal as slush comes off the tire, wheeling over a rather large speedbump. Your hold on your travel mug tightened. 

The van rolled forward at a crawl, tires crunching over the light dusting of snow that had settled on the road. Up ahead, the soldier at the checkpoint stood like a statue, barely moving aside from the slow rise and fall of his breath. His uniform was crisp despite the weather, his expression locked somewhere between mildly disinterested and one wrong move and I’ll personally yeet you into the sun.

The driver barely slowed as he rolled down his window, flashing both your handed IDs without ceremony.

"Passenger’s clear for basic entry," he stated like he was reading off a menu, handing over your ID first, then his. "They’ll be issued staff credentials next week, so for now, they stick to civilian access. Blockades run from 12th down to 6th, with restricted access past 8th—military personnel traffic only. No loitering, no unscheduled entry past designated checkpoints, and U.S. Marine Corps has full jurisdiction over the area."

You turned to stare at him. The Marines?

The soldier barely glanced at you before handing your IDs back. "Understood. Proceed."

That was it. No questions. No pat-downs. Just yes, hello, welcome to our totally normal and not-at-all concerning military-occupied civilian district, please enjoy your stay.

The driver pulled through, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel like this was just another Tuesday.

"You’re telling me," You started slowly, "that a hotel—which, mind you, has no visible name on file—exists under the mountain that is, for all intents and purposes, under military control?"

The driver snorted. "Oh, buddy, you don’t even know the half of it."

Oh, good. Because you were already compiling a list of questions, and What the actual hell is going on? was currently sitting at number one.

Crunch goes a rock as the van rolls over a speed bump, then another as it slugs closer to its destination, you gathered up your luggage from the backseat, bunded up your sweater and go for your seatbelt. 

The van rumbled to a stop, and the driver shut off the engine before finally looking at you again. "Alright," he said, like he was sending you off to school or something. His big burly arm leaning on the back of the front passenger seat as his blue eyes met yours. "You check in there." He nodded toward the enormous double doors, guarded by yet another pair of security officers who looked thrilled to be standing outside in the cold.

You stared. "There are no signs."

"There are signs inside," he said, nodding once at you, climbing out of his leather seat to walk alongside yours, you slide out, easy footing on the icy sidewalk. He pats your shoulder.

The door closed behind you with an ominous finality.

This was fine. Totally fine. Just a little hush-hush, high-security, mysterious hotel with military presence business trip.

The hotel stood at the end of a pristine boulevard, its facade gleaming beneath the blanket of snow on its canopies over each window. Outside furniture tied up and or tied down near a fence, craning your neck to look. The architecture was something out of another time—ornate, stately, untouched by decay or the years. Back home, even the Hilton by the beach couldn’t compare to this. There was no sign to mark its name, no flashing marquee, nothing to announce its presence. 

Odd. What in the world.

The stonework along the lower walls was smooth, unmarred, the kind of craftsmanship that spoke of old money and careful preservation. As you walked closer, you could make out intricate carvings along the edges, filigree twisting around the grand entryway in a language long forgotten or perhaps intentionally cryptic. The windows stretched high, polished to an unsettling perfection, reflecting the glow of the streetlamps without a single smudge or imperfection.

Across the street, people moved with a quiet purpose—no one lingered, no one loitered. A pair of women in business attire passed by, their conversation hushed but purposeful, their eyes flicking toward the hotel before snapping forward again. A man in a long coat stood near the corner, cigarette pinched between his fingers, exhaling smoke as his gaze lingered a second too long before he, too, moved on.

Down the road, a military convoy loomed, its vehicles sleek and imposing, their matte exteriors absorbing more light than they reflected. Barricades sectioned off certain streets, redirecting traffic with an almost surgical efficiency. There was no chaos, no honking horns or impatient drivers. Just order. Strict, precise, absolute.

No seriously, what in the fucking world?

It made you feel uneasy, like an old, nagging feeling you couldn't quite place. But there was no time to dwell. The officers at the hotel’s entrance were already eyeing you, noting the badge clipped to your coat and the subtle shift in your posture. One of them, a tall woman with dark sunglasses perched on the bridge of her nose, stepped forward as you approached.

"Have you been briefed?" she asked, her tone flat and professional, her gaze scanning you with a practiced precision.

You nodded, though internally, you were still piecing together the fragments of information you'd been handed. "Briefed...yes. At least, as much as I could be I suppose." You tried to keep your voice steady, though the uncertainty of the entire situation clung to you like a second skin.

Vague this, nothing much that, but hey you get a paid commission with a room to boot?

heh.

A very odd, red taped job staycation can still be made a vacation.

"Right." She gave a short nod, then gestured for you to proceed. "You won’t be meeting the immigrants just yet. Not until everything's in place." She hesitated, eyeing you again, as if testing your reaction. "You'll see folks like us about the grounds. They’re all heavily guarded. Please keep to the stairs there, Room 2B" Her gaze flicked toward the guards standing by the door, two men who looked like they'd been stationed here for far too long. Her hand fishing inside her uniform pocket for what looked like a satchel, inside she flipped between three cards, picking one out and handing the door key to you.

That was the second time you felt this. She knew more about you, who you are and reason for you coming here then you did. What the hell? That blows massive chunks but- alongside your unease you couldn’t help feel the creeping sense of foreboding rear it’s ugly head, the strange air of secrecy tightening its grip around this place. There was something about this entire operation that didn’t sit right.

Well duh. Neither did reading over some higher up job on the packet they gave you, making it some sort of “fill the blanks messed up Mad Libs addition” 

Have fun! 

Right. Make it a vacation. Make the best of this. Whatever this is.

Thanking the woman, you reached out, the cold- no not cold? Warm door handle-

The moment you stepped inside, the cold from the street melted away, replaced by a warmth that seeped into your skin, easing the stiffness in your fingers. The transition was almost jarring—one second, you were trudging through the bitter air, boots damp with slush, and the next, you were standing in a space so grand it made your stomach twist.

The lobby was stunning. Breathtaking, really. The first thing that caught your eye was the massive chandelier hanging from the ceiling, a cascade of shimmering crystal that seemed almost too heavy to remain suspended. It bathed the room in a golden glow, reflecting off polished marble floors that looked so pristine you hesitated to take another step, afraid of leaving even a trace of dirt behind.

The walls, lined with sleek, towering panels of stone and glass, stretched high above you, amplifying the sheer scale of the space. Floor-to-ceiling windows allowed the evening light to filter in, casting long shadows that danced across plush seating arrangements. Soft, luxurious-looking sofas curved around low, elegant tables, each one adorned with subtle decorative accents—fresh poinsettias, golden trinkets, and small, flickering candles that only added to the air of quiet opulence.

It was the kind of place where people with power—real power—gathered. The type of place where voices were kept low and business was conducted with a quiet confidence, where the wealth wasn’t just in the furnishings but in the very air itself. And you? You felt like an intruder. What the fuck.

Your boots were still speckled with melted snow, your clothes practical and unremarkable compared to the finely tailored coats and pressed suits of the few others lingering in the lobby. A concierge gave you a glance—not unkind, but assessing.

You swallowed, adjusting your grip on your bag, suddenly hyper-aware of every step you took. The click of your heel against the marble echoed too loudly in your ears as you made your way toward the check-in desk, trying to ignore the nagging feeling that, at any moment, someone might come up and ask what the hell you were doing in a place like this.

An attendant behind the desk checked off something on the clipboard in front of her, she made a few motions with her arms as the guards locked the door. She affirmed with your arrival time, social security questions and a signature. “Okay, keycard, good- please keep your belongings locked in your room.” You glanced down at the folder that you held tight underneath your arm, then back up to her,

"What happens next?"

She hesitated before replying, her voice so soft you almost missed it. "You'll be briefed soon, there’s a few scheduled meetings today that’ll be held before some of us are leaving for the holidays.” Oh so they get an actual vacation- no brain hush you decided to take this commission on. You agreed-

“And after New Years, you should be brought in for more questioning, baseline about how it’s fairing for you. Going to be upfront-“The woman breathed, her hand is gentle as she pushes her bangs out of her eyes, “they will be assessing you, asking questions after what you see firsthand. Be honest l, truthful, work with who you meet, but- Just...keep your head down."

Before you could ask more, the sound of the elevator doors pinging drew your attention. The security guard gave you a pointed look. "Just to be sure, your room’s on the second floor. Please do not stray. The elevators are for staff only. You'll need to take the stairs."

With one last glance at the hotel’s lovely lit lobby, you headed toward the stairwell, the sound of your footsteps echoing off the polished flooring.

You glance down at your key card—2-B—before shuffling through the pristine hallway, your boots sinking slightly into the thick, probably-too-expensive carpet. Finding the door, you swipe the card with the grace of someone who has done this a thousand times before, only for the lock to blink an angry red at you. You try again. And again. The machine beeps in protest, and for a brief moment, you consider just shouldering your way inside like a dramatic action hero. Open, damn you.

Finally, on the fourth try (and after whispering a few choice words under your breath), the lock gives in, and you step inside—only to stop dead in your tracks.

Oh. Oh, this was not what you expected.

For a place you were only supposed to be staying in temporarily, this room looked like someone had designed it with the express purpose of making you feel like absolute garbage about your own living situation. The beds—because there were two—weren’t just beds; they were statement pieces. Plush, oversized, and draped in crisp white sheets with a thread count so high you felt like you needed a tax bracket upgrade just to touch them. A velvety, deep brown headboard stretched dramatically across the wall, tufted in that effortlessly rich way that whispered, Money.

The floor-to-ceiling drapery—not just curtains, but drapery—was made of some heavy, expensive fabric that pooled onto the ground like it had nowhere better to be. Probably silk. Or something fancier, like handwoven unicorn hair. It framed a massive window that overlooked the courtyard, where nature had taken over in a way that was both picturesque and a little foreboding, like something out of a moody detective novel.

And then there was the television. Not just a TV—a cinematic experience. This thing could double as a drive-in movie theater screen. You could probably see your own pores if you put on a nature documentary. It was mounted against a polished wood-paneled wall, which just screamed "I was installed by someone who drives a car that costs more than your annual salary."

A seating area sat off to the side—because, of course, there was a seating area. A glass coffee table sat between a pair of sleek, low-profile armchairs upholstered in a fabric so soft you were afraid to look at it too long, lest you damage it with your mere existence. Someone had even taken the time to carefully arrange art books on the table, the kind no one actually reads but leaves open to a random page to make guests think they’re intellectuals.

You drop your bag by the door, scanning the room with an almost suspicious squint.

“Alright. Who did I sell my soul to for this?”

You shrug off your sweater, feeling the static crackle as it clings to you for dear life before you toss it onto one of the overly posh armchairs. Kicking off your boots by the door, you cross the room, sinking slightly into the pthat same plush carpet outside.

Reaching the window, you grab the heavy drapery—seriously, it’s like yanking a velvet theater curtain at some grand opera house—and part it with a dramatic flourish, fully expecting the view to be just as lavish as the room.

And—yeah, it delivers.

Four floors below, the courtyard is an actual masterpiece. A pristine, snow-blanketed gazebo sits right in the center like something straight out of a holiday movie, its wooden beams wrapped in twinkling fairy lights. The surrounding flower beds are dormant for the season, their skeletal remains poking through the frost in a way that still manages to look artistic. Off to the side, there’s a volleyball court, which feels like an odd choice for a place this high-end, but sure—rich people probably play expensive volleyball. The cobblestone paths wind elegantly through the space, leading to a damn water feature. Of course, there’s a water feature. A multi-tiered fountain, frozen in the cold, looking like the world’s fanciest ice sculpture.

You lean closer, your breath fogging up the glass as you take it all in. This place is insane. You wipe at the condensation with your sleeve, about to turn away, when—

Oh.

Oh.

What.

Your gaze shifts to the far right of the courtyard, where the well-manicured elegance suddenly... stops. And in its place?

Barbed wire.

A blockade.

Military duffel bags are stacked haphazardly near the treeline, and a group of actual armed guards stand near what looks like a heavily reinforced entryway to... something. Something you can’t see.

You stare, blinking. Then lean even closer, nose nearly pressed to the glass now, trying to process the sheer whiplash of this scene.

Expensive five-star hotel? Check.

Beautiful courtyard straight out of a high-budget romance film? Check.

Government-sanctioned military presence with barbed wire and heavily armed men standing watch over a mystery area like they’re guarding a secret alien lab?

Sure. Why not.

Your breath fogs up the glass again, and this time, you don’t bother wiping it away.

“Yeah, that seems about right.”

You turn to anxiously flop down onto one of the beds (because why not) when the whirring of the door's locks had you snap you out of it. Who the fuck- how did they get it on the first try? Before you could even call out, “Come in,” the door swung open just enough for someone to lean in, like they already knew they belonged there. And wow—what an entrance.

The woman didn’t just enter the room—she barged in like a storm with boots.

The door swung open like it owed her money, and in marched a whirlwind wrapped in flannel and chaos. Nearly 5’10”, not counting the beat-to-hell combat boots stomping out every ounce of hesitation in the floorboards. Black cargo pants hung low on her hips, weighed down by mystery items and probably a knife or five. A cropped tank clung to her frame beneath an open flannel shirt, sleeves rolled up to mid-forearm where tattoos ran wild.

Her left arm? A flock of crows in full flight, like her thoughts refused to sit still. Her right? Jagged, unfamiliar script etched down to her wrist like a curse someone dared to write in ink. Her nails? Pointed, black, silver tips glinting.

And in her hand—of course—was a chunky, scratched-up camcorder.

“Okay, just pretend it’s not here,” she said, flipping the viewfinder out and pointing it dead at you like this was some kind of supernatural reality show. “Name, if possible rank, purpose, vibes—whatever you got. Be natural. Unless your natural sucks. In that case, lie convincingly.”

You blinked.

“I—uh—yeah, hi? I’m—” You stumbled through your own name like it was a tongue-twister. “What... is this?”

She made a little pshhh noise, adjusting the cam like she actually knew how to use it. “I’m documenting this integration thing. You know— history in the making, yada yada. The books’ll get written either way, but honestly? My attention span’s dogshit. I figure there’s people out there like me who’d rather watch what went down than read some dry-ass government PDF.”

She said that completely casually while taking a knee to get a “cool low angle shot” of you, grinning through it like she hadn’t just short-circuited your brain.

“I—wait, I’m just—uh—” You gestured at yourself, flustered. “I didn’t know I was being filmed?”

“You’re fine. You’re cute awkward. That reads well on cam.”

She straightened up and stuck her hand out like this was all completely normal. “Name’s Cole. Government types call me Colette, but unless you’re filing paperwork or yelling at me in a meeting room, don’t.”

You shook it, still trying to make sense of her energy. It was chaotic, but not overwhelming—magnetic. 

“So…” you tried, nerves buzzing but voice steadier, “You’re… interviewing everyone?”

“Nah,” she giggled, slinging the camcorder onto her shoulder like some war doc filmmaker. “Just the ones who look like they might have a story worth telling.”

Her dark-lined eyes flicked to yours. The smirk came back.

“And you, newbie? You got that look.”

Whatever that meant. But gods help you—you wanted to live up to it.

You straightened a little, cleared your throat, and nodded.

She pauses—mid-rant, mid-thought, mid-whatever—and does that thing people do when they remember something at the last second, like a dog hearing a can opener. Her eyes go wide. She bolts up, crosses the room in record time, and leans down by the door to hoist up what looks like... boxes?

No. Offering boxes. The scent hits first, and it does not ask permission. Vinegar. Spices. Warm, soupy, slightly-leaked-into-the-bag deliciousness. Your stomach makes a noise like it’s auditioning for a horror film. You try to play it cool, but the fact remains: you are absolutely about to fall in love with whoever invented takeout.

“Didn’t expect anyone to show up this early,” Cole mutters, which is hilarious considering it’s nearly dinner and you've been traveling all day. She tosses herself into a chair. “Figured you’d need food after that long ass ride. They served this at lunch—real banger stuff, actually. Gotta give it to this place, they don’t skimp. Probably 'cause half of us would riot if they did.”

She’s already halfway to the door again before you can respond, now dragging in luggage like some kind of chaotic bellhop.

You blink. “Wait—are you... moving in here?”

“Huh?” she says, like you're the weirdo. “Yeah. Obviously. I moved rooms.”

Your mouth opens. Closes. You sit on the bed like a dignified, confused hermit crab. "Thanks?" you offer, watching as she starts peeling open the Styrofoam boxes. 

"I was told I’d mostly be doing paperwork," you add, cautiously poking at your food with a plastic fork. “I for one didn’t think I’d meet anyone this fast.”

Cole snorts. It’s loud. Like, you’re in a room with paper-thin walls, please respect the drywall kind of loud. “Yeah, well, get used to that. This place is basically a small town with forced therapy sessions and stocked snack machines. Make a routine, stick to it, talk to people—unless they’re the weird ones. Then just fake a cough and walk off.”

Her voice softens, just slightly, like she’s remembering something that doesn’t taste as good as the rice in her mouth. “The quiet’ll eat you if you let it.”

You're honestly just trying to keep up. She opens her second box like it’s a treasure chest. “So…” you hazard, chewing slowly. “You’ve been here a while?”

Cole nods. Not dramatically. Not dramatically at first. “Longer than I thought I would be,” she says with a mouthful. “Which is saying something. I originally told my handler I’d be here for, like, two weeks max. That was 8 months ago. Now they’re calling me a ‘core asset.’” She does air quotes and an eye roll at the same time, which should be physically impossible. “Whatever that means.”

Then she stabs a dumpling.

“I hate the word immigrant,” she adds. “What does that even mean? They’re just people. Doesn’t matter where you’re from—everyone still complains about taxes and chews too loud.”

You chew, slightly quieter. She’s got a point.

You look around the room again, like maybe it’ll suddenly explain itself. “You’re not weirded out by the guarded hotel shit?”

Cole shrugs like this is Tuesday. “Nope. Kinda expected it. People from the town get nosy. Some reporter tried to scale the back fence last month and got chased by a guard with something to prove.” She slurps some noodles with zero decorum. “The security’s not about locking us in. It’s about keeping them out.”

You’re about to ask them who, but then her tone shifts. She glances at the door. Checks the corners of the room with a practiced glance. Leans in.

Something in your lizard brain perks up. The lights don’t flicker or anything cliché like that—but if they had, it would’ve felt appropriate.

"Alright,” she says, all business now, “listen up."

And suddenly you're in a spy thriller with rice on your lap.

"The people you're here to work with? Not who you think they are.”

Oh no. Oh no, she’s crazy.

You raise an eyebrow. Cole doesn’t flinch. She stabs her dumplings again like she’s trying to drive the point home with soy sauce.

“I know what your file says,” she continues, “and I know what mine did say. ‘Language specialists, immigrant intake, observation blah blah blah.’ But none of that means jack.”

She pauses for effect. You half expect her to stand up and start drawing red string diagrams on the walls. Instead she just stares you down, gets really close. 

“They’re not immigrants,” she says.

Your eyes narrow. “What... are they, then?”

She drops her fork with a clack, leans forward, and says with the gravitas of someone revealing the final twist:
“They’re monsters.”

You choke.

“Not like Monster’s Inc coming out of your closet.” She pauses, “well one species does kinda look like Mike Wasowski….but that’s not the point,” she corrects herself, now deadly serious. “I mean, scary ass monsters. Claws, teeth, too many elbows. You ever see a guy turn inside-out? I have.”

“Okay,” you say slowly, wiping your mouth and trying keep your face from deadpanning. “So you’re telling me this hotel is full of the real deal.”

“Yes! Thank you!” she points at you like you're the first person in months to pass her pop quiz.

“Finally, someone who gets it. Underground dwellers. Ancient species. Some of them predate human civilization, some of them might be cousins to dinosaurs—I dunno, it’s hard to get a straight answer when your attempts at translating with some of them are hit and miss.”

You stare. She’s not joking. Or if she is, she’s committed.

“They’ve been here longer than us,” she says. “We just paved over their holes, threw up some cities, called ourselves ‘modern.’ Meanwhile, they’re still under there, living their weird little mole-man lives. Occasionally one surfaces and gives a kid a heart attack or shows up on a blurry trail cam. Guess who gets called in when they finally get the chance to walk topside for good?”

You?

Apparently you get called in.

“So,” she says, crossing her arms and smirking like a smug gremlin. “You still think this is just a paperwork gig?”

You look down at your food. You look back at her. You open your mouth, then close it again. You have so many questions.

Cole, of course, pops a dumpling in her mouth like this is all perfectly normal. “Welcome to the deep end, nerd.”

You blinked. Twice. Then you just stared at her, unsure whether she was joking or if you’d accidentally stepped into the weirdest conversation of your life. But the serious look in her eyes made it clear that this wasn’t some prank. You felt an actual chill run down your spine. Monsters. Real monsters.

Cole must’ve noticed the hesitation on your face because she gave you that knowing look again, like she was used to people reacting this way. "I know it sounds insane," she muttered, running a hand through her hair. Then. Another Idea hits her.

She smacks her cheek.

The hand snakes out for the camcorder, her tongue peeking out over her lip piercing as she rewinds the tape, scooting forward before she turned the camera's screen to you.  

You half-expected her to start narrating first, but no—she was way too hyped for that. There was a gleam in her eye, the exact kind you’d expect from someone who drinks five espressos before bed.

"Alright," Cole grinned at you, pulling the camera back just a little, “You’re in for a treat. Let me show you what I’ve been filming. I’ve been documenting my one-on-one sessions with the residents here. Don’t worry, we're not gonna be recording anyone yet until you get comfy with the idea—just getting warmed up."

She winked dramatically, clearly proud of herself with this. You weren't sure if that made you feel better or worse.

She hit a button, and suddenly, the screen flickered to life.

🎞️ REEL 1: Froggit – “Local Criminal or Motivational Speaker?”

The camcorder flickered to life, showing a squat green frog-like creature nervously perched on a beanbag chair two sizes too small. It was vibrating. Constantly.

“So, Froggit,” Cole said, off-camera. “Tell us a little about your strengths.”

Froggit croaked and blinked slowly. “Ribbit. I offer consistent affirmations. Ribbit. You’re doing great. I believe in you. Ribbit.”

Cole paused. “Wait. Are those... tears?”

“Ribbit,” Froggit sniffled. “I just care so much.”

The video ended with Cole awkwardly handing Froggit a tissue and whispering, “Okay but we’re not hugging right now.”

🎞️ REEL 2: Vegitoid – “Fresh Produce, Fresher Attitude”

A vegetable - no quite literally - what looks like a sentient carrot with big googly eyes hopped up into the interview chair. Its limbs were made of roots, and Cole shows her notes. The camera refocuses as she pops it in front of the lense, her pointed nails slapping at the paper: don't be alarmed if you start smelling cilantro.

Her throat clears as she vanishes from frame. 

“Vegitoid. Resume says you’re passionate about ‘serving healthy fear.’ What does that mean?”

“Eat your GREENS,” Vegitoid screeched.

Cole's hold on the camera flinched as a head of lettuce exploded in the background like a smoke bomb. It's unalarming after a second.

Because all Vegitoid did was toss it on the ground.

And the monster was making explosion noises from its mouth.

A second passed.

Cole's form leans forward, her arms crossed on her desk as she pressed the silence. 

“Okay, but are you going to bite kids to get them to do it?"

Vegitoid paused.

“Do you bite vegetables?”

The tape ended with Cole saying, “I’m putting you down as a maybe,” and writing ABSOLUTELY NO SCHOOLS - OR LUNCHROOMS in all uppercase.

🎞️ REEL 3: Jerry – “Who Let Him In???”

Cole hit play. Then hit pause. Then stared at the camera.

“I swear on Asgore’s beard, I did not schedule this guy.”

The footage resumed anyway.

Jerry, the most awkward-looking monster imaginable—long nose, hunched back, weak mustache (???)—shuffled into frame. He was carrying a USB stick labeled “Funniest Memes Vol. 83.”

“Heyyyy, so, I thought I’d drop by,” Jerry said, adjusting his imaginary fedora. “I can be, like, moral support? I have Discord mod experience. And I—”

“No,” Cole said flatly, off-camera. “You weren’t invited.”

“But I brought snacks,” Jerry wheezed, producing a lukewarm energy drink and two generic-brand cheese sticks.

Cole threw a shoe. “LEAVE.”

The reel cut out with Jerry muttering something about “gatekeeping,” and Cole throwing a second shoe.

🎞️ REEL 4 : Doggo - “He Can’t See, But He Can Judge”

A tall, muscular dog monster sat perfectly still on the couch, sunglasses on, stick in his lap. Cole whispered from behind the camera.

Cole: “So this is Doggo. He’s, uh, incredibly perceptive, but only when things move.”

The Doggo didn’t move. His ears twitched.

Cole: “...Anyway, what’s your desired surface occupation?”

Doggo sniffed. “Security guard. Or knife juggler. Whichever’s less regulated.”

Cole's sigh is audible “Oh my god.”

Suddenly he whipped out three steak knives and juggled them flawlessly—despite the fact he never opened his eyes.

Doggo: “I sensed motion.”

Cut to Cole frantically backing up, muttering, “This is fine. This is great. No one’s died yet.”

She cut the feed before she leaned back, crossing her arms, her eyes growing distant.

"I’ve spent the last several months getting to know them. Yeah, they look different—some of them really different—but they’re just people like us, you know? Some are tall, some are small, some have eyes that glow in the dark or scales instead of skin. There’s even MORE dogs. That also talk. Little guys. Big good boys. Love being petted." She grinned at the memory, a faraway look in her eyes. "Best boys actually" 

You sat there, absorbing the insanity of what she’d just dropped on you. Creatures underground, different species, and talking dogs.

Okay that's cool as fuck.

Your brain was working overtime to process it all, but a part of you felt like you didn’t want to ask any more questions.

What if this rabbit hole was deeper than you were ready to go?

You finally opened your mouth, but your voice came out quieter than you intended.

"So, what exactly are we supposed to do about all this?"

Cole looked at you, a faint smirk tugging at her lips. "Same thing we’ve been doing—being ourselves. And if you’re lucky, you might even learn something

The taller woman continued, clearing her throat and tone softer, like she was trying to reassure you—though she was clearly doing a terrible job at it.

"There are all kinds of them. Some speak in dialects you won’t even recognize. Others have their own body language, like, really expressive hand gestures that you’ll probably butcher the first couple times." She paused for that dramatic effect again, eyes narrowing.

"Some have wings, some have multiple arms, and some? Some can change shape. Basically, if you can think of it, they probably have it."

You stared at her, trying not to let the panic leak out through your ears. 

She shot you a look, like she was giving you a test you hadn’t studied for, but it was clear her point wasn’t about passing or failing—it was about making sure you didn’t screw up the basics.

"Some of them are gonna be tougher to talk to than others," Cole added, her voice turning.

"They’ve been through a lot—imprisonment, isolation, oppression. Some are still adjusting, and hey, who can blame them? So, be patient. Be kind."

And there it was—the moment where everything you thought you understood about this place flipped upside down and then got buried under a pile of existential dread. Nothing in your file said anything about all this and you now understood why. 

This is not going to help observing at all. 

You tried to keep it cool, but your stomach did this weird flip-flop thing. You opened your mouth to say something, but... nope. Nothing came out. That would’ve been awkward.

"And... you’ve just been talking to them? This whole time, even outside work hours?" you managed to squeak out, your jaw still on the floor.

"Yeah, duh. What else am I supposed to do? Just stand there, letting them think we're all terrified?" Cole's tone sharpened a little, but there was no anger behind it—just that kind of determination you’d only get from someone who had been here too long to care about small stuff.

You’ve heard that defensive tone plenty of times.

"It’s a lot to wrap your head around, I know. They’re not what you expected, but I’m telling you, these monsters—they’re different. More complex. More human than we give them credit for. Some are even more compassionate than the people who walk through here every day."

You couldn’t help but stare at her, your brain still trying to catch up. But, she sounded sure, and the ones she showed in the clips. They seemed.

Normal. They were just like... different?  

You were in the middle of this weird goldfish mouth open moment, figuring out what to say when Cole just casually got up and started unpacking her stuff like she was in a completely different mood than you.

The room was starting to feel less like a expensive piece of work that you dared not to disturb and more lived in. 

Books, snacks, photos—oh, and a few plants, because why not add “one of the spokes persons of a weird underground monster saga” to your notes has a bit of greenery, right?

You just stared, wondering how long it would take you to stop feeling like you were in an episode of a very niche reality show.

"You'll learn a lot by talking to them," Cole continued, "Don’t try to figure it all out at once. It’ll make sense as you go. Just take it slow."

You gave a tiny nod, feeling like you were trying to drink from a fire hose of crazy. How slow? Was there an instruction manual for this job that wasn't blacked out with sharpie?

Cole smiled reassuringly, then glanced over at the door, the unlocking sound gave you just enough time to peek around as a guard entered.

His boots made a overly-polished sound that echoed in the silence. He was wearing a black uniform, his posture stiff and official. You half expected him to burst out with a completely unnecessary "YOU’RE LATE" just for the drama of it.

"Meeting in the dining hall later tonight," the guard said in a clipped voice. "Everyone is expected to be present."

Cole waved him off with the kind of casualness that could probably get you sent to jail if you tried it in most other places. "Thanks, but we're good for now," she replied, sounding almost like she'd been through way too many of these. "We’ve got time. The group session’s in a few hours, right?"

The guard nodded, his expression softening just the tiniest bit, he laughs before he left. You watched him go, and you were almost impressed by how casual Cole was about all of this.

Once he left, Cole flopped back onto the bed like a cat claiming territory—legs sprawled, arms behind her head, that shit-eating grin firmly in place. The springs groaned beneath her, and she whipped out her phone.

Her thumbs flew across the screen in a blur, with each tap meows came from the speaker.

A little snort-laugh bubbled up from her chest.

You tried to be cool. Really. But subtlety was not your strong suit. You leaned a little too far over, pretending to stretch. “Nice soundboard,” you mused, eyeing her screen with the finesse of a raccoon stealing chips. “Texting someone hilarious?”

Smooth. 

Cole didn’t even blink. “Yeah sorta,” she murmured, distracted, still typing with laser focus. Then she froze, read a reply, and absolutely cackled . Her phone flopped onto her chest, and she flung her head back.

“Oh, you wouldn’t believe it actually,” she revealed, a huge grin crosses her face. 

Your eyebrows raised. “Try me.”

Cole pauses for a dramatic beat - Then, with a completely casual tone, she dropped the bomb. “The Monster Queen.”

You froze, blinking a couple of times to make sure you heard that right. “They have a Queen?” you repeated, still trying to wrap your brain around this. “And you—you—have her number?”

Cole nodded like it was no big deal. “Yep! Met her a few weeks ago. Cool chick. Really sweet and chill... well, for being a queen, that is. She’s got a whole thing going on, you know? You’d be surprised how normal she is once you get to know her.”

You were officially staring at her like she’d just told you she was secretly the President. Monster Queen?

These monsters have a monarchy. And now you were wondering how she met this person. Did they just bump into each other, was she assigned to her at some point? Would you have to? Or did Cole randomly slide into her DMs?

Before you could even process that, Cole seemed to notice your slack-jawed expression and couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yep, that’s her. Oh, and you should know something—her room’s right below this one, if I remember right.”

Cue the sound of your brain short-circuiting. Wait—what?

You were pretty sure your jaw just hit the floor. "Her... room’s below us?!" you sputtered, because that was the most important piece of information you’d heard in the last five minutes. Scratch that—hour.

No, ever. News flash of the century: Their Monster Queen was below you. You couldn’t even process that.

This is a lot.

Your brain was just like, "Okay, that’s it. I have to lie down now."

Chapter Text

If there was ever a time for an award-winning pep talk, it was now. And yet, your mental prep had amounted to exactly three words: Don’t. Freak. Out. Spoiler alert:

"I am absolutely freaking out."

“Breathe,” Colette whispered beside you, giving your arm a quick squeeze. Her steady presence was grounding, even as her wide-eyed expression mirrored your own.

Right. Breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. You could do this. Remember Mrs. Thompson’s cat-hoarding phase? Or that guy who claimed his house was haunted by his ex-wife’s bad juju? You’re a pro. This is just… another kind of weird. Sure, it’s weirder than usual, but weird is basically your brand. 

Still.

Nothing could’ve prepared you for this.

The dining hall was buzzing with conversation, exuding a grand, old-world charm. Air about you, being warm, thick with the scents of rich food and aged wood, alive with the gentle hum of voices that formed a melody rather than a cacophony.

Ornate columns stretched upward, their carved capitals adorned with intricate flourishes that caught the soft glow of the chandeliers. Above, the ceiling arched gracefully, lined with arched stained-glass windows that filtered the daylight into a golden haze of the afternoon spilling into the evening, casting subtle patterns across the polished wooden floors. Chandeliers above, a cascading display of crystal and brass, shimmered overhead, their light reflecting off the surfaces of tables set with fine glassware and flickering candlelight.

The furniture was plush, a mix of rich emerald and cream upholstery that invited patrons to linger. Wooden dividers, topped with lush greenery, created intimate pockets within the expansive space. Large curtains framed the windows, their edges stuffed with what looked like rolled-up bedsheets, probably to keep out the cold drafts.

You really started to wonder what this place, was used for before all of this-

Right. The Monsters. Actual, living, breathing monsters.

Despite the literal folder with half-revealed details tucked under your arm, you were not prepared for this. Not even a little. You’d expected something—maybe some tall people with horns, or folks with fangs and tails. But this? This was next-level stuff.

A hulking, shaggy figure turned toward you, their glowing yellow eyes catching the candlelight. Their fur bristled as they leaned over a table, massive clawed hands gripping a bowl of what looked suspiciously like stew. Your brain short-circuited.

Is that a werewolf? No. Werewolf-adjacent? Fur-covered cryptid? Whatever it is, it has TEETH, and you’re not sure they’re vegetarian.

“Holy—” you started to mutter, but Colette nudged you hard, cutting you off.

You quickly diverted your gaze, trying to look professional instead of like someone about to freak out at their first Comic-Con. Play it cool, you told yourself. They can probably smell fear.

The variety in the room was staggering. To your left, a floating figure made entirely of golden light was chatting animatedly with someone who resembled a humanoid alligator, their scales glistening in the soft glow. To your right, a towering being with a crystalline head gestured to a plate piled high with glittering, rock-like food. Were those… gems? Were they eating gems?

Near the center of the room, a small group of childlike monsters sat at a low table, their forms a patchwork of whimsical features—one had floppy rabbit ears and a tail, another sported insect-like wings that twitched excitedly as they spoke.

You were equal parts fascinated and overwhelmed.

“Welcome to What the Heck Is That? starring you,” you thought to yourself, already wishing for a commercial break.

The shaggy monster (werewolf) before with glowing eyes suddenly barked out a laugh, loud and booming, and you nearly jumped out of your skin. Colette stifled a giggle.

“You good?” she murmured, her expression half-sympathetic, half-amused.

“Define ‘good,’” you shot back, though your voice wavered.

Colette gave you a reassuring smile, patting your arm. “It’s a lot, I know. But they’re just people. Or, uh… you know. Close enough.”

She wasn’t wrong. Beneath the fur, scales, and glowing appendages, the monsters were… normal-ish. They laughed, argued, and shared food like any group of humans would. The realization helped calm your racing heart.

You thought back to some of your toughest cases—helping families navigate impossible circumstances, soothing scared kids, rebuilding fractured lives. If you could handle all that, you could handle this. Probably.

You took a deep breath and squared your shoulders, forcing a smile. “Okay,” you muttered under your breath. “Game face on.”

Colette chuckled. “That’s the spirit. Now, try not to stare too much at the werewolf guy, yeah? I think he noticed.”

Your gaze darted back to the hulking, fur-covered creature, who was still watching you with a bemused expression. He raised one clawed hand in a slow wave, and you froze. Slowley you waved back, and the other seemed pleased by your reaction as it lumbered by with a plate piled high with food. 

Okay, self, let’s regroup. You’re in a room full of actual monsters. This is fine. Totally fine. Just another day at work. Except instead of dodging passive-aggressive emails from Karen in HR, you’re avoiding eye contact with a fur-covered cryptid gnawing on something suspiciously bone-shaped. Yeah. Definitely fine.

“Breathe,” Colette reminded, pulling you toward an empty table. She yanked out a chair with the kind of casual nonchalance that made you wonder if she even noticed the literal ghost arguing with a rock you’d passed five seconds ago.

You grabbed your chair like it might decide to run away if you didn’t anchor it down. She nodded toward the buffet table in the back.

“Go grab some plates and help me pass these out,” she said with a shrug, like she hadn’t just handed you the equivalent of a social landmine.

“I’m sorry, what?” You blinked at her, gripping the back of the chair for dear life.

She gave you that classic smirk, the one that said she was very much enjoying your impending meltdown. “You heard me. Plates. Food. Helping. Don’t overthink it.”

“Colette, these are monsters. What if I accidentally offend someone? Like, what if I hand them the wrong plate and they decide I’m dinner instead?”

“They’re immigrants, not murders,” she replied, shoving a plate into your hands. “Be polite. Smile. And maybe don’t say that last part out loud.”

You glanced at the buffet table, hesitating. The food looked… normal? It even smelled pretty good—rice, roasted vegetables, some kind of meat. No eyeball soup. No roasted tentacles. Small mercies.

Still, as you made your way over to the serving table, your brain refused to shut up. Okay, but what if this meat isn’t, like, regular meat? What if it’s mystery meat? What if it’s people meat? Stop it. That’s rude. Stop being rude, brain.

The monsters watched curiously as you approached, their eyes—or eye-adjacent features—tracking your movements. One, a lanky creature with scruffy fur and big, round eyes, accepted a plate with a shy wave before burying its face in the food like it hadn’t eaten in a week. Another, a towering figure with leathery green skin, muttered something that might’ve been “thanks,” but honestly sounded more like a growl.

You tried to smile. It probably came out more like a grimace, but hey, points for effort.

Colette glides past you, arms stacked with plates like a human Jenga tower, and casually jerks her chin toward something behind you.

“Oh, that’s Pap, by the way,” she says under her breath, her tone breezy, like she’s pointing out a slightly weird coworker at the office holiday party. She glances back at the source with a smile—half amused, half Oh boy, here we go. “He’s wonderful.”

You follow her gaze, already bracing yourself because nothing has been remotely normal so far.

And then you see him.

A skeleton. A literal, actual skeleton, standing near the entrance with the confidence of someone who has never been told “no” in their life. His bones are pristine—like, “just got buffed and polished at the Bone Spa” pristine—and he’s rocking a red scarf with the drama of a superhero’s cape. His hands are planted on his bony hips in a stance so exaggerated, it feels like he’s waiting for a wind machine to complete the look.

Your first thought: Am I hallucinating? Is there gas in here?

You don't get to the second one. 

Because that skeleton just started speaking. 

“HEY, EVERYBODY!” the skeleton bellows, his voice so loud it feels like it’s vibrating through your ribcage. (Or, in his case, past his ribcage.) “WELCOME TO THE MOST EXCITING MEAL OF YOUR LIVES!”

You blink. Twice.

He throws his arms wide, as though expecting the crowd to erupt into cheers. “I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS! AND THE SERVING STAFF HERE ARE SUCH WONDERFUL CHEFS, THEY HAVE ALMOST OUTDONE MY EXPERTISE!”

He points dramatically at absolutely no one. His eye sockets somehow gleam with enthusiasm, and you can’t tell if he’s about to burst into song or challenge someone to a cook-off.

Your mouth is hanging open at this point. You’re not even embarrassed about it.

Before you can properly process what’s happening, Papyrus starts striding toward you, his limbs moving with much purpose. His voice, somehow even louder, booms again:

“I SEE A NEW FACE!” He stops in front of you and throws his arms wide like he’s welcoming a long-lost friend. “FRIEND COLE, DID YOU BRING ALONG A FELLOW ENTHUSIAST OF THE FINER THINGS IN LIFE! HOW WONDERFUL!”

You’re frozen. Like, physically incapable of movement. Your brain is screaming, What is happening? What is my life?

"They're the new Social Worker, Pap."

Papyrus doesn’t seem to notice your internal struggle—or, more likely, doesn’t care. He’s too busy delivering what feels like the opening monologue of a one-man Broadway show. He is beaming at Colette then, oh- that energy is right in front of you now. “OH WOWEEE- THE NAME’S PAPYRUS! AND YOU, MY FRIEND, ARE ABOUT TO BE INTRODUCED TO THE TRUE ART OF DINING!”

He pauses dramatically, one hand on his chin, Then, with an almost offended gasp, he looks around the room.

“WHAT? NO APPLAUSE?” he demands, his voice full of betrayal. “HOW COULD THIS HAPPEN? AM I NOT ENOUGH FOR YOU, AUDIENCE?”

You glance at Colette in a silent help me plea. She just grins, biting back laughter as she busies herself arranging plates.

Meanwhile, Papyrus is undeterred. He sweeps his arm toward the dining tables with a flourish. “BEHOLD! THE FEAST! FOR YOUR DINING PLEASURE, WE HAVE RICE! VEGETABLES! MEATS! AND—THE PIÈCE DE RÉSISTANCE—SOUP!”

It takes everything in you not to snort. He says “soup” like it’s the crown jewel of the culinary world, like Gordon Ramsay himself would weep over it.

As he gestures grandly, you try to collect yourself. He’s so... earnest. The dramatic gestures, the booming voice, the way he carries himself like a king addressing his loyal subjects—it’s ridiculous, but it’s also kind of... endearing? 

Papyrus spins back to you, his grin somehow wider than before. “NOW, TELL ME, FRIEND! WHERE SHALL YOU SIT? NEAR THE FOOD, WHERE YOUR TASTE BUDS WILL DANCE WITH JOY? OR BY THE WINDOW, SO YOU MAY GAZE INTO THE NIGHT SKY AND PONDER LIFE’S DEEPEST QUESTIONS—LIKE THE MANY VARIETIES OF PASTA!”

You blink at him, utterly overwhelmed.

“W-Well…” you manage to stammer, but he’s already turned away, flopping into a nearby chair.

“I WILL WAIT HERE, WITH BAITED BREATH,” he declares, resting his bony chin. “CHOOSE WISELY, NEW FRIEND, FOR YOUR CHOICE WILL DETERMINE YOUR DESTINY!”

You look back at Colette, your expression a mix of panic and disbelief. She chuckles, clearly enjoying your struggle.

“You’ll get used to him,” she says with a shrug. “He’s harmless. All show, but honestly? Kind of the best.”

You glance back at Papyrus, who is now passionately explaining soup to a very confused table of monsters.

The best? you think. He’s certainly... something.

And for the first time since you walked in, you feel your lips twitch into a smile. 

Before you can decide on your seat, Papyrus jumps to his feet again, dramatically sweeping his arm toward the long tables. “COME NOW, MY FRIEND! LET’S EMBRACE THE ART OF DINING & FIGURE THIS PUZZLE OUT TOGETHER!” He walks toward the buffet, eyes scanning the food with exaggerated interest. “IT’S A GOOD THING I KNOW THE SECRET INGREDIENTS TO A PERFECT MEAL! AND YOU, MY FRIEND, WILL LEARN FROM THE MASTER HIMSELF.”

You follow hesitantly, trying to wrap your mind around this odd encounter. You picked out some veggies, spooning some meats onto your plate and a cup of something yummy before going to sit back down, Papyrus excitedly begins to explain the “fine nuances” of each dish, his voice rising.

Despite your initial skepticism, you can’t help but feel...

And look—no one’s buying it. Okay, fine, maybe you're entertained. Sure, it’s absurd, all of this is, but deep down... it’s kinda endearing. There's something about how desperately he craves attention that tugs at your heartstrings. Like, I get you, Papyrus. We’re all just trying to be seen, right?

Meanwhile, the clatter of forks and plates surrounds you as the other monsters settle in, which... let’s be real, is a surreal experience. No one was going to eat you, for gods sake you waved at one earlier. How much politer could someone be. This is the weirdest dinner party ever.

Papyrus, still on his epic quest to educate you about the culinary wonders of the underworld (or soon to be surface world now?), finally sits next to you with the grace of a dramatic theater prodigy. Like, does this guy have a private soundtrack that plays wherever he goes? You half-expect a round of applause at any moment.

And then he does it. He brings out the child-sized booster seat. 

Before you can react, Papyrus’ voice booms across the room, causing every monster to look over in a synchronized movement as if on cue. “Ah! Our most precious friend! Frisk, my dear pal!” Papyrus declares, his arms dramatically outstretched like he’s welcoming royalty. No joke, going back to if this were a play, everyone would be on their feet.

You blink, trying to process. The child—Frisk, apparently—walks in, and you’re hit with a moment of sheer confusion. They’re small. Like, tiny. They could pass for a kindergartner... but their eyes? They’ve got the gaze—the kind that screams “I’ve seen things, man.” It’s the kind of look that makes you feel like a clueless tourist in a foreign country.

Papyrus, meanwhile, is on cloud nine, making a big show of picking up the small child and spinning them into a big hug, like for a moment they are not the literal poster child for an entire populace of monster folk

You’re still reeling. How is this child not only one of the few charge of monster/human peace but killing it at it? How is this the Ambassador? You glance over at Cole, who looks at you with the kind of expression you can only describe as "I told you this would be weird, but you're still shocked."

“You good?” she asks, half-smiling like she just saw a car crash she couldn’t look away from. “Still trying to wrap your brain around this?”

Yeah. You are.

Frisk, is being picked up by your new skeleton guide, arms outstretched as he places them down, now seated in the booster, calmly meets your eyes, and you swear they see you. Like, really see you. There’s a quiet power in their presence, despite how small they are. No pressure, though. Just... the fate of two worlds in the hands of someone who probably still needs a nap.

Finally, you clear your throat. “So, uh... Cole? Does the Ambassador ever... talk? I mean, not out loud, obviously, but...”

Cole looks up from her phone, her brow raising just a little. “They do. Frisk’s just... shy around strangers. Give it a minute.”

And before you can even process what just happened, Papyrus oh goodness, erupts in all his glory. "AH! FEAR NOT, HUMAN! THE GREAT PAPYRUS SHALL ASSIST IN THIS MOST HEROIC OF CONVERSATIONS!" he booms, gesturing dramatically.

Frisk’s eyes flick up at the sound of Papyrus' voice. They don’t seem bothered—actually, it almost looks like they’re... amused? Are they smiling? You can’t tell, but it’s hard not to feel drawn in by their calm. Frisk puts their spoon down—and their small hands begin to move, fingers poised to sign.

And now, the reality hits: you don’t know sign language. Great. Fantastic. You try not to panic.

Before you can scramble for any possible way to communicate, Cole slides her chair closer to Frisk, her phone still in hand, and says, “Relax. I’ve got you.” She watches Frisk's hands as they move, her eyes flicking between Frisk’s fingers and the expression on their face. She starts translating, her tone steady.

“They’re saying... they fell into the Underground when they were really little. Like... toddler little.” Cole pauses, frowning a little. “Geez, I knew it was young, but that young? No wonder they’re so mature.”

Frisk continues, their hands moving more confidently now, each sign smooth, even if there’s a hesitation—like they’re deciding how much to share, how deep to go. You hold your breath.

“They say it was scary at first. The monsters seemed really big back then. They didn’t understand what was going on. But, uh...” Cole trails off. Her voice softens, as if she’s being careful with her words. “They also say the monsters were kind. Even when they didn’t have to be. They didn’t hurt them, even when they made mistakes.”

You’re staring at Frisk now, captivated by their hands. You don’t understand a word of it, but there’s a weight to their movements, a rawness that tugs at something in your chest. This child, who should be running around playing with toys or watching cartoons, is telling you a story that’s older than they are. You feel like you’ve just been given a glimpse into a world no child should ever have to experience.

Frisk hesitates, their hands faltering slightly, and you can see the emotion in their eyes. Cole watches carefully, her brow furrowing. She translates, her voice now almost a whisper.

“They’re saying it wasn’t always easy. There were... fights. Tough moments.”

Your heart sinks. Frisk’s tiny frame seems to carry the weight of more than just their years. The thought of a little child enduring all of that, trying to make sense of the world they’ve been thrown into, twists something deep inside you.

“Were they... alone?” you ask, the question slipping out before you can stop it. You’re not sure if you want the answer, but it’s out there now.

Cole glances at Frisk, who begins to sign again, their movements slower now. The room goes quiet, and you hold your breath as she watches them, her eyes widening slightly. “A year,” she says, her voice small, barely above a whisper. “They were down there for a whole year. They made friends. They helped break The Barrier.”

A year. One year. For a child so small. It’s almost too much to comprehend. A mix of awe and sorrow settles over you. How? How did they survive? And why? Why did a child have to endure all of that?

Frisk looks back up at you then, their gaze steady, almost searching. Their hands move again, and Cole translates one last time.

“They’re saying they’re okay now. They’re glad to be here. They’re here to help. Mom's here too.” She smirks, glancing at you. “Also... they think you’re about to cry. And, honestly? They think that’s funny.”

You blink, the sudden lightness in the air catching you off guard. Frisk’s lips curl into a tiny, almost mischievous smile, and despite yourself, you laugh.

“Well... they’re not wrong,” you admit, wiping away the tear you didn’t even realize had slipped down your cheek. “But, uh... thank you. For sharing. That couldn’t have been easy.”

Frisk nods, their smile softening, and you feel an overwhelming sense of gratitude for them. For the strength they’ve shown. For the kindness they’ve kept in their heart despite it all.

And then, just like that, Papyrus leaps to his feet, breaking the silence with his usual over-the-top energy. “YES! THE GREAT PAPYRUS DEMANDS A CELEBRATION! LET US HAVE DESSERT!” It’s like watching a cartoon come to life, and for a brief moment, you almost forget that this is real. Frisk is giggling silently, their shoulders shaking, and you can’t help but smile too. How does this kid, after everything they’ve been through, still find joy it something as simple as-

Pap's is smiling, launching into an exaggerated list of dessert options (he’s talking about pie with the same level of passion as if he were talking about world domination), you glance to Cole, her head in her own palm, her tatted elbow resting on the table as she listens, and the small child who practically beams at their friends explanation. 

That's why. They seem so Happy.

Click. The moment shifts.

The heavy dining hall doors creak open with all the foreboding of a bad omen. People look up, conversations trail off, and there’s an immediate dip in the room’s energy. Foots steps across the tile, clicking heels- A trio of humans, the kind who look like they’ve been bred to carry clipboards and kill dreams. Two men and one woman, all dressed in those crisp, perfectly pressed suits that scream, "We deal with bureaucracy and probably never smile.” They march in, looking like they just stepped out of a scene from The Matrix, and all you can think is, Please don’t make eye contact with me.

Cole leans back in her chair, her face going from “chill, I’m good” to “let’s get ready for some real talk.” She tucks her phone away. “Ah. The suits are here,” she mutters.

You glance at her, wide-eyed. “Who are they?”

“Government reps,” she says, her voice low. “Here to ‘assess the situation above us.’” She makes air quotes with her fingers, clearly unimpressed. “Translation: they’re here to make sure the monsters stay in line.”

And that right there is the moment the air changes. It’s subtle, but you can feel it. The monsters in the room stiffen just a little. Even Papyrus, who was mid-flourish, seems to sense the shift. He waves enthusiastically at the newcomers, totally oblivious to the tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. “WELCOME, HUMANS! THE GREAT PAPYRUS IS DELIGHTED TO SEE YOU! PERHAPS YOU’D LIKE TO TRY SOME OF THE DELICIOUS FOODS WE HAVE PREPARED?”

The woman in the lead doesn’t even acknowledge him. She’s got that perfectly indifferent, we’re not here for this look on her face, eyes scanning the room with cold precision. You get the distinct feeling that if she could, she’d swipe everyone’s “funny bone” right out of the room.

Frisk, sitting beside you, starts to fidget. They glance over at Cole, then at the government reps, their small hands moving in sharp, deliberate signs. You blink, watching, then lean in a little to catch Cole’s translation. Her voice is barely a whisper. “They’re saying to stay calm. The officials always act like this. They think it’s all about control.”

Control. That word hangs in the air and lands like a lead balloon. You can’t shake the feeling that the stakes just got a whole lot higher.

The shorter man of the group steps forward, clearing his throat with all the authority of someone who has definitely practiced his speech in front of a mirror. “Good evening,” he says, his voice clipped and precise. “Thank you all for attending this meeting. We’ll be discussing the ongoing efforts to integrate monster and human societies, as well as addressing any concerns that may have arisen over the past month.”

You watch him scan the room. His eyes linger on you for just a second too long, and it’s enough to make you shift uncomfortably in your seat. You almost want to look away, but you can’t. Not when that look is so full of we’re here to oversee your every move.

The taller man, looking a bit more nervous, steps up next, fumbling with his clipboard like it’s a lifeline. “Uh, we’d also like to hear from some of you. About your experiences. If you’re willing to share, that is.”

And then, the woman steps up to the podium. Her voice—cold, calculated—freezes the room. “This meeting is not just about sharing stories. It’s about accountability. We need to ensure that the arrangements made during the peace talks are being upheld. That includes the monsters adhering to their designated zones and humans refraining from unwarranted hostility. Cooperation is essential.”

Suddenly, the air is thick with tension. Monsters exchange uneasy glances, shifting in their seats. Papyrus, who was all “let’s party” a second ago, now looks... less sure of himself. Even Frisk, who’s calm seems to shrink back, their hands tightly clasped in their lap. 

Cole leans forward, giving the government reps a once-over like she’s sizing up her opponents in a game of chess. “Designated zones, huh? Nice way of saying you’re keeping them segregated.”

The woman’s eyes snap to Cole across the few tables in front of you with a look that could freeze fire. “It’s a matter of safety. For both sides.”

“Sure it is,” Cole mutters, but she doesn’t push further. She’s clearly not here for this “safety” excuse.

You’re starting to get a feel for how these meetings go—at least, you think you are. The whole thing’s a strange cocktail, like if someone threw a government conference into a blender with a circus and forgot to hit "blend."

You sit back, feeling the subtle shift in the atmosphere. The meeting has taken a turn into officialdom, and suddenly, your new comfy, cozy dinner in a room full of quirky monsters feels... weirdly like a science experiment. You’re just waiting for one of the humans to pull out a clipboard and start taking notes on your emotional responses. Oh wait—they already are.

But oh, it gets worse. You didn’t think it could, but here we are. The woman in the sharp suit—let’s call her Lady Pants, because her legs look like they’re a permanent part of the Pentagon—paces the room with a purposeful stride. The microphone is her weapon, and she’s not afraid to use it.

“I know,” she begins, voice crisp and smooth, “that some of you may be feeling cooped up here. It's understandable. The accommodations are... temporary at best.” She gives a quick glance around the room, but it’s obvious she’s not really seeing the monsters. “However, we’ve arranged something to give you all a taste of what life is like up here. Some of you will be escorted in bulletproof vans on supervised tours of the countryside. You can experience the world outside these walls, get a feel for how things work up here.”

Bulletproof vans? Are you in a spy thriller now? You glance around at the room—monsters are exchanging wary looks, and a few of them shrink back into their seats. The word “supervised” hangs in the air like a cold breeze, and you feel the chill creeping up your spine.

She continues, seemingly oblivious to the unease she’s stirring, as she taps a few notes into her clipboard. “A sign-out slip will be available before the weekend. Please make sure all requests are submitted on time.” The way she says it—like it’s a privilege—makes your skin crawl.

“As part of these tours,” she continues, her voice steady, “we’ll also be closely monitoring monster/human relations.” She glances down at her clipboard like it’s some kind of lifeline. “We’ve had a few... activists,” she hesitates slightly, as if unsure how to phrase it without sounding too offensive, “take it upon themselves to... well, sleep in the camps.”

Did she just say camps? You try to swallow that one, but it doesn’t go down easy. There’s a long, heavy pause as she stares out at the room, scanning faces like she’s looking for something she’s already decided she won’t find. “While we appreciate their dedication to the cause,” she continues, “I must stress that there will be no copulation or sexual relations with the other species, under any circumstance.”

A dead silence follows that declaration. No one moves. No one breathes. You could swear you can hear the collective blink of a hundred sets of eyes. 

The monsters look horrified, utterly baffled. Some of them shift uncomfortably in their seats, trying to figure out if they’re allowed to look at each other now. You’re sure one of them—what was it? A frosty, octopus-like creature—actually just crossed its arms in an attempt to hide behind its tentacles. Meanwhile, Papyrus—bless his bones—stands frozen, his jaw hanging wide open like he’s just been told the spaghetti shipment has been cancelled for the entire year. The confusion on his face is palpable. “OH, WELL, OF COURSE HUMANS ARE OUR FRIENDS, MISS LADY PANTS.... WHAT IS THIS... RELATIONS THAT YOU MENTION?”

You see Cole’s hand shoot out like a lightning strike, grabbing the back of his shirt and yanking him back into his seat. “Shut up, Papyrus,” she mutters under her breath. The words are harsh, but you can tell she’s trying to keep him from diving headfirst into yet another awkward situation. Too late, though. The damage is done.

You shoot Cole a grateful glance, but your brain’s still stuck on the apparent ongoing copulation issue. You mean... what?

Frisk, still next to you, signs something quickly. Their hands moving with the precision of someone trying to speak a language that’s far beyond their years. You catch the slight hesitation, the way their fingers curl tightly for a moment as if they’re working through something heavy. Cole catches the movement too, and leans in to translate. “They’re saying it feels like... like they’re being treated like animals.”

The words hit you like a ton of bricks. You can’t imagine what it’s like to be a child, stuck in a situation where you’re caught between two worlds, constantly being poked and prodded by people who don’t see you. You glance over at Frisk, their small form slumped slightly, hands still moving as they continue their message. There’s a quiet strength in them, an unspoken resilience. They’re not afraid of humans—they’re afraid of being misunderstood.

The woman in the suit doesn’t seem to notice the emotional tension building. She’s still pacing, clipboard in hand. “We expect cooperation from everyone. No one wants this to escalate. So, if you want to take part in the tours, sign-out slips will be distributed tomorrow. If not, you’ll be staying here. You’ll be safe here. But the surface world needs to know you’re willing to play by the rules.” She adds that last part almost like an afterthought, but you can feel the weight of it. “The rules are non-negotiable.”

A ripple runs through the room, a subtle unease settling like dust on everything. Papyrus fidgets, his usual bravado faltering slightly. Frisk’s hands still, the ghost of a sad smile playing across their face as they sign one last message.

Cole watches for a moment, her usual sarcastic edge softened by the seriousness of the moment. She translates again. “They’re saying they don’t want them to be treated like a science experiment anymore. They just want monsters to be seen again.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Everyone feels it—the need to be heard, the desperate hope that this strange world will make room for them, for the monsters, for the humans, for everyone. But all you can hear now is the clack of a clipboard, the rustle of papers, the cold weight of a world that’s far from ready to listen yet.

Finally, the woman with the microphone clears her throat and says, “I believe that concludes today’s meeting. If you have any concerns or questions, we’ll be here to answer them. Otherwise, remember—the sign-out sheets going to be in my office.”

As she leaves, the room feels like it’s still holding its breath, trying to make sense of everything. But just as the tension threatens to snap, Papyrus claps his hands together, his voice suddenly louder, breaking the quiet with his usual enthusiasm.

“WELL! THAT WAS... PRODUCTIVE, WASN’T IT? PERHAPS WE SHOULD CELEBRATE OUR SUCCESSFUL MEETING WITH MORE YUMMY FOOD!”

Oh pap....

Somehow, in that moment, the absurdity of it all comes rushing back. Papyrus—Papyrus, the giant skeleton with absolutely no filter—manages to make bulletproof vans and no-copulation rules sound like some ridiculous celebration. A part of you wants to laugh, to break the tension, but another part of you feels... weary.

You look around the room—monsters and humans alike, all with their own struggles, their own stories—and you realize something: this isn’t over. This is just the beginning.

And the truth of it hits you like a ton of bricks: no matter what rules they try to enforce, no matter how many sign-out slips they hand out, nothing is going to be as simple as they want it to be. The world may be trying to force a narrative, but some stories can’t be contained by rules. And this one?

This one is just beginning to unfold.

Chapter Text

“SEE?” Papyrus said, clapping his bony hands together. “EVERYONE HERE IS FRIENDLY! WELL, MOSTLY. BUT THAT’S WHY I’VE INSTALLED MY FLAWLESS SECURITY MEASURES!”

“Flawlesss,” Cole repeated, Annunciating the word in a slow show of matching his energy. He nodded in time with her as she did so, very eager this one is indeed.. “Right. Show her, then.”

Papyrus’ eye sockets seemed to light up. “OF COURSE! OBSERVE!” He dashed ahead to a doorway and began fiddling with something on the ground. A moment later, a small, brightly colored sign popped up, reading: "BEWARE: SLIPPERY FLOORS!"

“THIS WARNING SIGN IS STRATEGICALLY PLACED TO ENSURE SAFETY!” Papyrus declared proudly. “NO ONE SHALL FALL UNDER MY WATCHFUL EYE!”

Cole sighed. “Papyrus, that’s just… hon that’s a wet floor sign.”

“PLEASE DO NOT DEMEAN THIS PLASTIC STANDS CRUCIAL ROLE HERE!” he countered. 

You couldn’t help but smile, despite the absurdity of it all. Papyrus’ enthusiasm was infectious, even if it was a bit over the top.

As you continued, the atmosphere began to shift. Some monsters lingered around corners, shuffled amongst others in chatter, their eyes following the group with quiet suspicion. Noticing one—a hulking, reptilian figure hunched against a wall—grumbling under their breath. Another, a smaller, rabbit-like monster, darted out of sight as soon as they made eye contact.

“Not everyone’s thrilled about the arrangement,” Cole admitted. “Some of them… they’ve been through a lot. Humans haven’t exactly given them a warm welcome topside.”

“BUT THAT IS WHY WE MUST SHOW YOU OUR BEST!” Papyrus said, his voice tinged with determination. “I WILL PERSONALLY ENSURE THAT HUMAN-MONSTER RELATIONS FLOURISH!”

“Sure you will, bud,” Cole said with a smirk. “Oh, this is the courtyard. Loads happens here.”

She led them through a set of double doors that opened onto an enclosed outdoor space. The ground was overgrown with patches of grass and weeds, crisp winter air nipping at your cheeks but there was a certain charm to it. A few monsters were scattered around, some lounging on benches, others tending to makeshift gardens.

“It’s… peaceful,” The whisper that left you was soft, taking it all in.

As you spoke your skeletal guide bounded forward, his arms out,

"HOLD IT HUMAN," Papyrus declared, gesturing to a patch of untouched snow, "IS MY PATENTED SPAGHETTI SNARE! IF ANY INTRUDERS WERE TO ENTER, THEY'D BE ENTANGLED IN MY WEB OF NOODLES AND SHAME!"

Cole rolled her eyes but grinned, nudging your arm. "Don’t worry; there’s no actual spaghetti. Last time he tried that, the local crows had a feast, and we had to clean up for days. Just a big ol rope that we've labeled." She pointed to the snares line that was loosely tied and bound around some tree's warning signs around it 'Trip Hazard, watch your feet.'

You chuckled, though your gaze drifted to the horizon where the hotel grounds gave way to the fenced-off areas where the monsters were staying against the mountain side. It wasn’t just guarded; it was isolated. The tall fences, patrolling guards, and makeshift floodlights gave it a foreboding air, and you couldn’t help but notice how some monsters walking by glanced nervously toward the humans stationed around.

"Not everyone’s thrilled about the humans being here," Cole spoke, noticing your lingering stare.

"I can’t blame them," you breathed. "This place feels… restrictive."

Papyrus interjected, arms dramatically spread. "DO NOT WORRY, DEAR HUMAN! WITH MY PUZZLES AND TACTICAL GENIUS, I ENSURE THAT EVERYONE IS SAFE AND HAPPY!"

Cole smirked. "Sure you do, Paps."

Before you could respond, your attention was drawn to the courtyard ahead. Two tall, white-furred anthropomorphic dogs—a couple, by the looks of it—were seated on a bench. They were dressed casually in sweaters and scarves, their tails occasionally wagging in tandem as they spoke in hushed tones. Standing in front of them was a smaller monster: 

The creature's appearance was striking. His face resembled a snowflake, with feathers arranged in sharp symmetry, and his belly had a faint, scaly texture. His beak-like mouth opened and closed as he gestured animatedly, his voice carrying in the cold air.

"I’m not going back!" He snapped, his breath visible as a cloud of frost. "You can’t just suggest I leave because I’m not… I’m not good enough to sit in some stupid meeting!"

One of the dogs—the larger of the two—responded in a calm, measured tone. "It’s not about being good enough, Snowy. It’s about being ready. You’ve been struggling with… controlling your emotions."

The other dog chimed in, her voice gentle. "We just want what’s best for you. You’ve been under so much stress since we came topside. Maybe some time back at the castle—"

Here’s the thing about getting hit with a temper tantrum—sometimes, it comes with actual ice spears.

"NO!" Snowdrake’s voice cracked through the courtyard, and suddenly, winter wasn’t just coming—it was launching a full-scale attack. A blast of frigid wind nearly took your face off, and the air felt like it had been punched out of your lungs. His wings snapped open, gleaming like carved ice, his breath swirling in the cold.

"I’m not running away!" His voice wavered, raw and burning, despite the frost that clung to every word. "My parents didn’t get to live their lives just so I could… I could… hide!"

And then he roared.

Not a dramatic, movie-style dragon roar, but the real kind—the kind that made the air itself vibrate in your chest, the kind that said, Hey, you? Yeah, you. You’re about to have a really bad day.

You barely had time to think before the ground erupted.

Shards of ice—razor-sharp, definitely-pointy, probably-going-to-kill-you shards—shot up around him like an explosion in an evil snow globe. Instinct screamed at you to move, but the thing about ice? It’s slippery as hell.

Your foot hit a slick patch, and suddenly, you were an extra in a cartoon. Arms flailing, balance gone, the whole dramatic slow-motion fall—except this was real life, and real life didn’t come with a pause button. The world spun, your stomach plummeted, and all you could think was:

Oh. So this is how I die. Killed by a pissed-off ice dragon, because my reaction speed is garbage.

Except—

Boom.

Something slammed into your back. Hard.

Your whole body jolted upright, whirled around and that the impact stealing your breath before you even realized you weren’t kissing the ice. A hand—cold, firm, bone?—snagged under your arms like a safety net you hadn’t known was there.

The air smelled like sulfur. Warm, smoky—wrong against the biting cold.

And then, a voice. Low, lazy. Like someone who just woke up and wasn’t particularly impressed with being here.

"Woah there, kid."

Oh. Oh no.

You blinked, reeled, and—oh, holy shit.

There was another skeleton, this one was now holding you.

Your head that had been nestled in the saviors jacket furs leaned back as far as you could. Your body undeniably close and pressing into him as you felt him breath. A thumb-no thumb bone rubs your upper arm as the other hand slides down to help adjust your own clothes down. His grip on your waist was effortless, like you weighed nothing, and yet somehow, he was the only thing keeping you from hitting the ground.

And his eyes—well.

At first, he wasn’t looking at you. He was glancing past, expression an almost bored grin. "Hey Snow" The skeleton said, with a deep, lazy drawl.  "Looks like you’re on thin ice." But then he actually saw you—really saw you—

And his whole face shifted.

His grin faltered. His sockets narrowed.

And his right iris—dark and deep and something else entirely—flared with a flicker of purple light, sharp and again wrong in a way that sent something sharp through your ribs. Not fear. Not exactly.

Something worse.

Recognition.

✋︎⧫︎🕯︎⬧︎ ✡︎□︎◆︎

What.

What did he sa—?

"Sans," a sharp, authoritative voice cut through your brain fog like a scalpel.

You peered over the shorter's shoulder, still reeling, still held, just in time to see—the much taller, much louder skeleton—rushing toward you, hands flailing like a windmill in a hurricane.

"EXCELLENT TIMING, BROTHER!" Papyrus declared, "BUT LET US FOCUS ON THE TASK AT HAND—ENSURING OUR HUMAN FRIEND REMAINS UNMAIMED!"

Right. Because that was absolutely your priority right now. Not the fact that your near-death experience had been interrupted by whatever the hell Sans just said in that cryptic, static-garbled whatever-that-was.

Speaking of.

You glanced back at him—Sans, because yeah, sure, that’s what we’re calling him now—and he was still holding onto you, still steadying you, but his grip had loosened. Like he wasn’t sure if he should be touching you at all. His expression? Pure, grade-A indifference. Except…not.

His right socket still held that flickering pinprick of purple, the eerie glow dimming like a sunset before it blinked out completely.

And just like that—click—he was normal? Well. As normal as a hoodie-wearing, reaction times actual on point unlike yours could be.

Papyrus, oblivious to whatever the hell just happened, was still lecturing. "SANS! MUST YOU SERIOUSLY—"

"Don’t worry, bro," Sans cut in smoothly, finally letting go of you like he hadn’t just been gripping you like a lifeline. "I’ve got it handled."

Handled. Handled? Yeah, sure, buddy. Full body Handled.

You, meanwhile, were just standing there, brain still buffering. Because this entire situation? Ridiculous. One second, you were about to be a frozen corpse, the next, you were getting casually manhandled by a skeleton who just… glitched? Spoke in ITALICS?

You almost laughed—because what else were you supposed to do? Scream? Cry? Nope, humor was the only thing keeping you upright at this point.

Sans’s grip on reality (and apparently, you) had fully returned by now, and he finally looked at you again. Really looked. His eye lights flickered downward for a brief second, like he was checking—reminding himself—that yeah, maybe he should actually confirm you weren’t dead.

"You good?" His voice had dipped, quieter, like he almost cared.

Your mouth worked before your brain did. "I think so?"

Which was a lie. Because you had so many questions.

And then, of course, Papyrus—god bless him—was already fussing over you, hands waving dramatically. "DEAR HUMAN, YOU MUST BE CAREFUL! ICE IS A DANGEROUS FOE, BUT FEAR NOT! WITH THE GREAT PAPYRUS AND MY LESSER BUT STILL ADEQUATE BROTHER HERE, YOU ARE IN SAFE HANDS!"

You shot a glance at Sans, who only shrugged and gave you a look that somehow screamed, Don’t ask. You couldn’t help it. You felt your lips twitch into a grin.

“Thanks, bro,” Sans replied, his tone laced with amusement. “But maybe save the praise for later. Looks like Snowey’s havin’ a rough time.”

Snowdrake looked utterly defeated, his tail drooping as he whispered, “I didn’t mean to hurt anyone.”

The taller dog monster stepped forward, placing a paw on Snowdrake’s shoulder. “We know. But this is why we’re worried. These feelings—you need to work through them, or they’ll keep hurting you.”

The shorter dog sighed, nudging the taller one gently. “And maybe the underground isn’t the answer. But you have to be ready before you come to these meetings. It’s not about them; it’s about you.”

You found your voice, still a bit shaky but earnest. “Snowdrake... they’re right. I know it’s hard, but it’s not weakness to step back and take care of yourself. Your parents would want you to be okay.”

The small drake hesitated, his icy gaze meeting yours for the first time. Something in your tone seemed to reach him, and he nodded slowly. “I... I’ll think about it.”

“Good,” Sans said, his grin softening. He gave Snowdrake a lazy thumbs-up. “Thinkin’s a good start, kid. Just don’t overdo it. Wouldn’t wanna brain freeze yourself.”

The tension broke as Papyrus groaned loudly. “SANS! THIS IS HARDLY THE TIME FOR TERRIBLE PUNS!”

“Disagree,” Sans quipped, finally standing and brushing snow off his hoodie. He turned to you, his gaze lingering a moment longer than expected. “You sure you’re good? You were lookin’ kinda pale there for a second.”

“I’m fine,” you insisted, though your heart was still pounding. “Thanks to you.”

Sans gave a small shrug, his grin widening. “Eh, don’t mention it. Just doin’ my civic duty, y’know?”

Papyrus, still brimming with concern, clapped a hand on your shoulder. “COME, HUMAN! WE MUST MAKE SURE YOU ARE IN TOP CONDITION! AND THEN WE CAN—WAIT, WHAT WERE WE DOING BEFORE THIS?”

Cole approached, arms crossed but her expression amused. “Giving a tour, remember?”

“Oh, RIGHT!” Papyrus declared, puffing out his chest. “THEN WE SHALL CONTINUE—AFTER ENSURING OUR FRIEND HERE IS COMPLETELY SAFE AND ICE-FREE!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, the absurdity of the situation mingling with the warmth of the monsters around you. As Snowdrake was led away by the dog couple, you found yourself glancing back at Sans. He was watching you, his grin as unreadable as ever, but there was something-

The short haired woman elbowed you lightly. “Come on, newbie. You survived an ice attack; the least you can do is finish the tour.”

"COLE, AS THE RESIDENT EXERCISE GURU AND HEROIC MONSTER, I PROPOSE WE IMPLEMENT A WEEKLY TRAINING SCHEDULE FOR EVERYONE HERE! HUMANS, MONSTERS—NO ONE SHALL ESCAPE THE GLORIOUS GRASP OF FITNESS!" Papyrus declared, striking a triumphant pose like he’d just conquered Mount Everest.

Cole gave him a long, incredulous look, one eyebrow hiking up so high it might’ve needed a passport. “A training schedule? Papyrus, I can barely manage to eat breakfast most days without tripping over my own feet. But, sure. Let’s hear it. What’s the master plan?”

Papyrus adjusted his scarf with the flair of a Broadway star about to deliver a show-stopping monologue. “WE BEGIN WITH A TWO-HOUR MORNING WORKOUT! STRETCHES! AEROBICS! AND—MY FAVORITE—PUZZLE OBSTACLE COURSES!”

“Two hours?” you muttered, shooting Cole a please tell me he’s kidding look.

“And puzzles?” Cole deadpanned. “How exactly do puzzles count as exercise?”

Trailing behind, Sans let out a snort, his hands buried in his hoodie pockets. “Hey, don’t knock it. Two hours of puzzles? That’s a mental triathlon. Hydrate or die-drate.”

Papyrus spun on his heel, pointing dramatically at his brother. “DO NOT MOCK THE POWER OF PUZZLES, SANS! PERHAPS IF YOU ATTENDED ONE TRAINING SESSION, YOU WOULD UNDERSTAND THE GLORY OF DEDICATION AND HARD WORK!”

Sans shrugged, his grin wide enough to rival the Cheshire Cat’s. “Hard work? Nah, not my thing. I’m dedicated to a little thing called ‘takin’ it easy.’ Ever heard of it?”

You snorted despite yourself, hiding it behind a cough. The sibling banter was better than half the sitcoms you’d binged in one sitting.

Cole pinched the bridge of her nose, exhaling like a mother dealing with two overenthusiastic kids in a candy store. “Alright, Pap, how about we save the obstacle courses for another day and stick to the tour? Where to next?”

Papyrus immediately perked up, his voice booming with enthusiasm. “TO THE LIBRARY! A HAVEN OF KNOWLEDGE AND INSPIRATION! FOLLOW ME, FRIENDS!” 

Library? In a hotel?

As Papyrus marched ahead, Cole leaned in closer to you, muttering under her breath, “He’s one of the few that started this part of the hotel up, changed it to a little nook for those that want to get away for a bit. Physically and mentally." A beat. "Always trying to keep everyone busy. Honestly? I think it’s his way of coping.”

You nodded, her words sinking in. “Yeah, makes sense. Staying busy keeps you from overthinking.”

Cole hummed in agreement, her gaze thoughtful. “Not a bad approach. Just wish he didn’t think obstacle courses were the solution to world peace.”

Behind you, Sans was unusually quiet, which instantly made you suspicious. Cole noticed too, shooting him a glance. “You good back there, bonehead?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, I’m good,” Sans said, coughing awkwardly as he scratched the back of his skull. “Just... enjoyin’ the view.”

You blinked, and for a split second, his gaze darted to you before he looked away, shoving his hands even deeper into his hoodie pockets.

Oh.

Cole raised an eyebrow, her smirk growing like she’d just discovered a juicy secret. “Really? Must be a pretty nice view.”

Sans coughed again, waving her off with a half-hearted shrug. “Hey, can’t help it if the company’s... lively.”

O H.

Your cheeks warmed, and you desperately hoped the dim lighting hid it. Meanwhile, Cole was having way too much fun at Sans’ expense. “Lively, huh? Guess you’re getting attached to our guest pretty quick.”

Papyrus, oblivious to the chaos unfolding behind him, called out from farther down the hall. “HURRY UP, YOU SLOWPOKES! THE LIBRARY AWAITS! LET US DIVE INTO THE GLORIOUS WORLD OF LITERATURE!”

Cole shook her head, clearly enjoying herself as she motioned for you to follow. “Come on, let’s catch up before Pap starts reciting sonnets or something.”

You glanced at Sans, who gave you a lopsided grin that somehow felt a little softer this time. “Don’t worry,” he said, his tone playful. “I’ll keep an eye socket out for you.”

Without missing a beat, you shot back, “Thanks. I’ll try to stay ahead of the curve next time ice is hurtling at me.”

Sans froze for a split second, his sockets widening before the grin returned—broader, brighter, and with a flicker of something that looked suspiciously like admiration. “Heh, nice one, kid. Guess I better bone up on my game.”

Oh, okay? 

You smirked, not missing a beat. “Better do it fast, Sans, or you’ll be lagging behind the spine-line.”

Sans all but giggled, his voice echoing through the quiet hallway as he doubled over. “Oh man—spine-line! That’s a back-breaking pun right there!”

“So,” Sans continued regaining himself, his grin already teasing, “what do skeletons say before they start eating?”

You raised an eyebrow, pretending to think hard. “Hmm. ‘Bone appétit’?”

He hasn’t moved yet, arms crossing as he looked at you. Before wagging a boned finger, “Hey, you’re not supposed to know that one! What, you got a ribcage full of puns stashed away somewhere?”

“Oh, don’t worry,” you said, biting back a grin. “I’ve been waiting to use those spare ribs.”

Sans let out a bark of laughter, clutching his sides. “Okay, okay, you win this round, pun champ. But don’t get too comfortable. I’ve got a skele-ton of material up my sleeve.”

“Good,” you shot back. “I’d hate for this to get bone-dry.”

Sans visibly lit up, his grin somehow even wider than before. You swore his cheekbones were glowing. “Heh. You’re somethin’ else, you know that?”

“What can I say?” you replied with a mock shrug. “I aim to a-bone and amaze.”

Cole groaned loudly from up ahead, clearly overhearing the escalating pun battle. “Alright, that’s it. Cut it out before I spontaneously combust from secondhand embarrassment.”

Papyrus, marching just a few steps ahead of Cole, turned around and declared, “COMBUSTION?! DO NOT WORRY, COLE! I SHALL FETCH A FIRE EXTINGUISHER IMMEDIATELY!”

“Papyrus, that’s not—ugh, never mind.” Cole waved him off, her patience clearly wearing thin. “Let’s just get to the library before these two start a full-on comedy club.”

As you and Sans finally caught up, you could feel Cole’s eyes boring into the two of you. “I can’t believe this is happening. Sans, I didn’t know you had it in you to find someone who could keep up with your nonsense.”

Sans scratched the back of his head, his grin a little softer now. “Yeah, well, what can I say? They’re pretty pun-derful company.”

When the group reached the library, Papyrus swung open the door with all the pomp and flair of a game show host revealing the grand prize. “BEHOLD! THE LIBRARY! A PLACE OF ENDLESS KNOWLEDGE AND ENRICHMENT! LET US BASK IN ITS GLORY!”

Cole turned to you and Sans when he opened the door, her smirk firmly in place. “Alright, pun masters, you’re officially on a break. I’m putting a moratorium on bad jokes for the next ten minutes.”

“Ten minutes?” Sans quipped, finally regaining his composure. “You’re asking for a miracle, boss.”

Cole gave him a flat look, her patience clearly hanging by a thread. “Do you want me to extend it to fifteen?”

Sans raised his hands in surrender, his grin as cheeky as ever. “Alright, alright, you win. No more jokes.” He glanced at you, his eyes twinkling mischievously. “For now.”

You couldn’t resist one last zinger, muttering under your breath just loud enough for Sans to hear, “Guess I’ll have to shelve the rest of my puns.”

If a skeleton could flush, if that’s what that glowing is, as he’s biting back a laugh as Cole groaned in defeat. “You two are impossible.”

If the both of you were that.

Then what you saw next:

The library was a marvel, its vast shelves stretching toward the high vaulted ceiling. Dim, magical lights floated lazily above, casting a soft glow on the aged wood and rows of books. Monsters of all shapes and sizes moved quietly between the shelves, their voices hushed in respect for the space. Some casting magic to ensure the lights stayed, dancing about them. 

Papyrus immediately launched into an over-the-top explanation of the book's monsters have started bringing topside, gesturing dramatically to a section of books written by human authors. Some of the protestors doing, donating their own literature, magazines, Non-fiction high school text books to well read, bent back spines of the fantasy verity.  Cole listened with a mix of indulgence and exasperation, but your attention kept drifting to Sans, who lingered near the entrance.

He leaned casually against a nearby shelf, his grin soft but steady. For all his laid-back posture, his gaze—those faint, glowing pinpricks in his sockets—was fixed on you.

You hesitated for a moment before crossing the room to him. “Hey,” you started, trying to sound casual but failing at hiding your curiosity. “Something wrong?”

Sans straightened slightly, rubbing the back of his skull in a motion so human it almost threw you. “Nah,” he said, his voice an easy drawl. “Just thinkin’. This whole setup’s kinda wild, huh? Monsters and humans kickin’ back together, browsin’ the same library. Feels... surreal.”

“Yeah,” you agreed, glancing around at the scene. “Like something out of a weird dream. Or maybe a really niche indie movie.”

He chuckled at that, his grin widening. “Yeah, but at least the cast’s solid. And you’re not too shabby yourself. Even with all the... excitement earlier.”

Your chest tightened slightly at the mention of it. The ice dragon’s (Snowy's?) outburst, the shards flying toward you—you’d tried not to dwell on it, but it hadn’t left your mind. You took a breath, lowering your voice.

“Sans... about earlier. You came out of nowhere. How did you even know what was happening? I didn’t see you—didn’t even realize you were there until you grabbed me.”

His grin faltered, just for a second, replaced by something quieter, more serious. “Let’s just say I’ve got a knack for bein’ in the right place at the right time.”

You tilted your head, unconvinced. “That’s a pretty convenient knack.”

He looked away, his sockets flickering faintly as if weighing his next words. “Call it... intuition. Saw somethin’ that didn’t sit right, figured I should walk the halls. Good thing I did, huh?”

You nodded, your stomach twisting slightly at the memory. “Good thing,” you echoed. “Because I was not ready for... any of that.”

His gaze shifted back to you, softening as he let out a low laugh. “Yeah, kinda figured. First fight, huh?”

You groaned, leaning against the same shelf. “Not even a fight—more like me flailing while someone else does the hard part. I’d make a terrible action movie protagonist.”

That drew a genuine laugh from him, rich and warm. “Hey, don’t sell yourself short. Flailin’ can be a solid strategy. Keeps the enemy guessin’.”

You laughed with him this time, the tension easing just a bit. “Thanks for saving me, Sans. For real.”

He scratched the back of his skull again, his grin turning almost shy. “Heh. No problem, pal. Just... stay on your toes next time, alright? Don’t wanna have to keep playin’ hero.”

You smirked, arching a brow. “You don’t? Pretty sure you enjoyed it. Gave you another excuse to make jokes.”

That flush simmered, underneath his cheekbones, across his navel, the glow in his sockets brightening. “Maybe,” he admitted, shoving his hands back in his hoodie pockets. “But don’t tell anyone. Gotta keep my rep as the lazy guy intact.”

Chapter Text

The mattress beneath you was firm, unfamiliar, but at least it wasn’t the creaky old twin bed back home that complained every time you so much as breathed. The soft hum of the hotel’s heater filled the room, its warmth cutting through the faint chill of the late evening. You lay sprawled on the bed, the soft glow of your phone casting shadows across your face as you typed out a quick message to Meredith

Hey, I’m swamped with work this week. Gonna have to miss drinks Friday. - i'll make it up to you!

You stared at the message, thumb hovering over the "send" button. The idea of missing your weekly Happy Hour felt… off. It was one of the few constants in your life, a place to decompress, laugh about terrible bosses, and pretend—for just a few hours—that adulthood hadn’t sucked the life out of you. But now? The idea of explaining this to Brynne made your stomach twist.

The phone buzzed almost immediately. Of course, Meredith never left you hanging.

Swamped with work? Or swamped with something more interesting? 👀 You’ve been suspiciously off the grid since you left this mornin'

You groaned, rolling onto your back and staring at the ceiling. Suspiciously off the grid wasn’t far off, but how could you say, “Oh, sorry, I’m holed up in a guarded hotel working with monsters without sounding like you’d lost your mind? You opted for:

Work, Mer. The "Top Secret Job" has me ahead of the news updates, in the thick of it. You can take any of the food that's in my fridge! you typed back quickly, hoping humor would deflect her curiosity.

The dots indicating her reply blinked almost immediately.

Fine, but you owe me a tequila shot next week. Or two. I need deets. Don’t forget who your therapist is, babe.

You snorted softly, a pang of affection tugging at your chest. She always knew how to make you smile, even when she was being nosy.

Setting the phone on your chest, you let out a long breath. The day’s events churned in your mind like a storm you couldn’t settle. Snowy’s outburst, Sans' strange demeanor, and the mounting responsibility of your new role all weighed heavy on you. It felt impossible to reconcile the life you’d had just a week ago with the one you were living now.

The sound of water running in the bathroom filtered through the quiet. Cole was singing again, something upbeat and horribly off-key, her voice carrying easily over the sound of the shower. A smile tugged at the corner of your lips despite everything. She was a grounding presence—steady, confident, and somehow able to make this whole situation feel slightly less surreal.

“Don’t laugh at my talent!” her voice rang out suddenly, startling you.

“I didn’t say anything!” you laughed, your grin widening.

“But you’re thinking it!” she shot back, a teasing lilt in her tone.

You shook your head, letting the tension in your chest loosen slightly. It was moments like these that reminded you that you weren’t entirely alone in this chaos.

The water shut off, and a few minutes later, Cole emerged from the bathroom in an oversized t-shirt and plaid pajama pants, towel-drying her hair. Her face was flushed from the heat, and she looked relaxed, even as she caught sight of you staring off into space.

“Okay, what’s with the brooding?” she asked, tossing the towel onto the back of a chair. “You look like you’re about to narrate a noir film.”

You rolled your eyes. “Just… thinking. About today. About everything.”

Cole sat on the edge of her bed, giving you a long, appraising look. “Understatement of the century?”

“Yeah,” you admitted softly. “I mean, I’m supposed to be a resource for monsters trying to integrate into the human world. Help them figure out their skills, their trades, and how they fit in. But I’m still figuring out where I fit in.”

Cole hummed thoughtfully, leaning back on her palms. “You’ll get there. Besides, you’re good at this stuff—organizing, listening, not panicking when someone throws ice at your head.”

You laughed despite yourself, shaking your head. “Barely. If Sans hadn’t stepped in…”

“Sans is a good guy,” Cole said, her tone light but her gaze curious. “Weird, but good. You know he doesn’t just save people at random, right?”

That comment made you pause, your stomach flipping slightly. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Just saying. He’s got a knack for showing up when it matters. Anyway,” she said, abruptly changing the subject, she plops down onto her bed, fishing out a controller for the mounted tv, flicking through channels, you follow the cable names as she taps her thumb bad against the buttons before settling on-

"Finding Nemo?! Oh shit dawg its at the shark part perfect timing!" 

Her feet find the foot of the bed as your roommate settles under the covers, sharing her enthusiasm you hunker down, fixating on the screen.

"That is why I show you, that is why you are here!" Edna Mode's eyes widened before Mrs. Incredible, whirling on there toes to the console, spinning their cigarettes' holder onto the buttons in a sequence. Head heavy you leaned into your palm, arm numb for laying in this position too long. Cole had passed out hours ago, snoring softly in the other bed, her arm dangling off the edge like she’d fought sleep and lost spectacularly. Hair mussed 

Meanwhile, you were wide awake. 

Midnight ticked past, and despite exhaustion tugging at your edges, sleep refused to take you. You muted the movie, frustrated with your restlessness, and slid out of bed. Padding over to the mini-fridge for a bottle of water, you paused. Sitting here, stewing, wouldn’t help. Maybe some aimless wandering would. Trekking back to your bed you fished for the phone lost somewhere under the covers, slapping the bed a good bit as you felt around for it in the darkness, flipping it open; Greeting you was a series of Reminders for this weeks grocery trip, a list of TV shows to actually start watching, you had even highlighted "Make time for this." You yawned, using the light to shuffle across the space, fetching a hoodie before you slipped out of the room. 

The hotel was eerily quiet at this hour. You stuck to the less-frequented corridors, the ones you hadn’t had much of a chance to explore yet. All except for the soft hum of ventilation. The building’s age showed in the scuffed wallpaper and creaky floorboards, but it carried a certain charm that came alive in the silence.

You shuffled along in your pajamas, occasionally glancing at the scattered decorations, when you turned a corner and nearly screamed.

Hanging upside-down from the beams in one corridor were several bat-like monsters, their wings wrapped snugly around themselves like blankets. Their chittering snores echoed softly, and one of them twitched, adjusting its position. You clasped a hand over your mouth to stifle the laugh bubbling up—monsters or not, they were oddly adorable like this.

You cocked your head, squinted to get a better look.

Their forms were fascinating. Large, sleek bodies covered in varying shades of dark fur, with two sets of wings folded neatly against them—one smaller pair perched atop their shoulders, the other extending further down their backs. A faint luminescence clung to the tips of their wings, glowing softly like embers in the dim light.

You couldn’t help but marvel at how peacefully they slept, upside down, claws hooked into the rafters above. One of them twitched, a quiet chitter escaping its mouth before settling back into stillness. You tiptoed through, careful not to disturb them, though your slippers scuffed against the floor with every step.

Quiet, quick you passed underneath them, their coo's soft as their two sets of wings shifted in your wake, their slumber not disturbed. 

Walking aimlessly you found a set of bathrooms both unoccupied and occupied as you tiptoed past a red switched "Closed" sign as what looked like a tentacle having monster slept within, its tendrils curling out the bottom, sleeping, snoring in your wake as you tip toed over them.

Eventually, you made your way to- okay yeah this place is seriously high class - an indoor fucking pool. The air here was warmer, humid, and smelled faintly of chlorine. The pool’s surface gleamed from the soft lights down below, reflecting rippling patterns across the walls. The water was impossibly still, save for the occasional bubble breaking its surface. You rubbed your arms at the sudden temperature change and goose flesh prickled under the fabric, rubbing them away. You stood on tiptoes and saw a closed off sauna off near the other entrance and you whistled. 

Gathering yourself closer to the pools edge you toed off your slippers, hiking up your pajama bottoms, before crouching down. You took the moment to breath, taking in your reflection that rippled with every exhale. Before sliding your leg down into the water, up to your calf. Despite this places condition the water itself was warm, soft against your skin. The soft hum of the idle jets filled the room, punctuated only by the gentle lapping of water against the tiled edges. You swung your legs absently over the edge, letting the cool water swirl around your calves as the faint glow from the underwater lights bathed everything in a surreal, blue haze. Midnight swims in an eerily quiet hotel at this hours weren’t exactly on your bucket list, but insomnia had a way of making anything seem like a decent idea.

"Careful," Someone drawled, low and teasing. "Wouldn’t want ya takin’ a unexpected dip n' there. Place is slippery."

The culprit, a certain short skeleton sauntered into view, the faint shimmer of the pool lights reflecting in his perpetually smug grin. He let the double doors close behind him with a quiet click and shrugged. “Saw ya skulkin’ around, figured I’d check in. Midnight’s prime babysittin’ hours, after all.”

“Babysitting?” You raised a brow, still catching your breath. “Please, I think I’d trust the pool floaties more than you.”

“Maybe if I wait long enough, you’ll supply the soundtrack with your snoring.”

Sans chuckled. “Hey now, my snoring’s a highly sought-after ASMR experience.”

“More like white noise.”

“Damn, hitting me with the cold ones tonight,” he said with mock offense. “But I’ll let it slide since I’m the one who’s clearly carryin’ this comedy duo.” He leaned forward slightly, his grin almost conspiratorial. “But seriously, you’re lucky I showed up. If you fell asleep here, you’d end up with pruney toes and no one to battle my puns.”

“Oh no, the horror,” you said with exaggerated dread. “Sans, I don’t think I could live without your expertly crafted wordplay.”

He winked. “You get it. But fair warning—this show’s free, and refunds are nonexistent.”

You laughed, the sound echoing softly in the empty room. Sans’s grin widened like he’d just won a prize, his eyes faintly glimmering.

Then, in a quieter voice, “Your brother... he’s pretty great, you know.”

Sans tilted his head, his grin softening slightly. “Yeah. Paps’ somethin’ else, ain’t he? Big heart, bigger dreams... and a lotta spaghetti. That's gonna be a good change up here, lots of types to try.”

You laughed. “He was really sweet earlier, making sure Frisk was okay. I can tell he cares about everyone.”

“Yeah,” Sans voice was low, leaning back on his legs. “He does. More than most folks realize. Paps’ got this thing where he sees the best in everyone, even when he probably shouldn’t.”

There was a faint, wistful edge to his tone, and you couldn’t help but glance at him, curious. Before you could ask more, Sans straightened up and stretched.

“Welp,” he said, popping his vertebrae in a way that made you wince, “I better get goin’. Don’t wanna overstay my welcome.”

“Already? Wait just a second-” you asked, frowning.

“Yeup, gonna go make some rounds, see about- check on some things." He tapped, your head once, spinning around with a single motion before he lazily trekked over to the door. You turned yourself and shook out your feet, rolling down your damp pant legs as you slid your own slippers back on. "Now hear me mr. Skeleton-oh-fun. You didn't overstay nothing, so lets get that off our bones before you set off." You crossed your arms, his disappearing act may have something to do with earlier today, maybe he was embarrassed. 

His hand on the door handle stilled.

"Let's not rib each other too much, kid." 

You breathed. 

His tone had changed, his back is to you, despite his relaxed form he's defensive now. Why?

"Everything about this seems like a open bone-e-fied mess and I want to see around the place too if I'm to work here. The scull of the matter is that I want you to be the one to show it to me." You huffed.

A beat.

Two-

Sans dropped his arm, his head turned to sidelong you, eye light shimmering, that purple again. 

Dark park, dim, but enough to encapsulate his cheek bone, the eye ridge, the hallow of the nasal cavity-

"That skeleton of yers has a lot of guts," A pause. The monster turned his body body turned back to you, his arms in his pockets, his grin thin, tight against his face,

"what is it exactly yer wantin' to see?"

You exhailed.

"All of it."

His smile brimmed, teeth widening as the skeleton shook his head at that, running his hands over his face with a chuckle, regarding you, 

The eyelights are back to a shimmering white, steady, focused.

“Okay, fine you got me lulled in, kid. Come on, since we're both up lets waddle our way down there."

You blinked at him, confused. Now? Why not- “What? Real-now?"

“Of course, with that funny declaration i'm sure you can shoulder it."

You giggled, your head tucking into the crook of your arm. 

Sans shoulders raised in a huffed laugh, a finger under his nose, rubbing at it sheepishly. He motioned for you to come over, and though you hesitated for a moment, curiosity got the better of you. You pulled your jacket tighter around your shoulders and padded after him, the sound of your slippers echoing softly into the quiet carpeted halls outside. He stretched to open the door for you as you squeezed past him.

Sans didn’t say much as he led you through the hotel. You passed through corridors, some decorated with faded art that seemed almost too fancy for the building’s otherwise practical design. The lighting grew dimmer as you reached the back of the hotel, the hum of the storm outside growing louder.

Eventually, Sans stopped by a door that led outside. He pushed it open, holding it for you, and you stepped into the cold night air. The jacket you chose wasn’t nearly enough to block the chill, and you instinctively folded your arms tight against yourself.

Sans was at your side, a head shorter than you he was close with his words. “Tuck your hands in. Trust me, you’ll be warmer that way.”

You followed his advice, letting the pockets swallow your hands. The air had a bite to it as he led you across the courtyard, heads tucked down under the walkway overhang as this short cut lead to the main lobby. He ushered you in, rubbing your arms, breathing out, you turned to stare at him, "Could  we have just gone around, that was not worth the-" 

Sans laid a hand on your shoulder turning your attention to a couple of arm chairs across the space, in the lobby, beyond the flood lights behind here, as you walked closer. Sans parted the large curtains, tieing them back-

What lay before you was a scene you’d seen earlier in the day but hadn’t had the chance to fully take in: the makeshift camps sprawled out behind the hotel.

Rows of tents were scattered across the muddy ground, their fabric straining against the wind. Chain-link fences had been hastily erected around the perimeter, some reinforced with wooden beams and sheets of metal. Armored guards patrolled the area, their breath visible in the cold air as they stomped through the mud with heavy boots. The glow of heat lamps cast flickering shadows across the camp, the orange light barely cutting through the gloom of the storm.

It wasn’t just monsters in the camp. You could see humans too, some huddled together near the heat lamps, others sitting on crates or makeshift benches. Their faces were hard to read from this distance, but their postures spoke volumes—your breath fogged up the glass.

“Not exactly a five-star setup, huh?” Sans said, his tone unusually even.

You glanced at him. He wasn’t smiling this time, his gaze fixed on the camp outside.

“It's awful, looks. Rough.” you admitted, your voice soft.

“Yeah,” he muttered, shoving his hands deeper into his hoodie pockets. “Rough’s one way to put it. Cruel’s another.”

The words hung heavy in the air, and you weren’t sure how to respond.

Sans gestured for you to follow him, and you walked along the rows of windows, peeking out the curtains. He was close, following after your wake, as your attention drifted to a group of monsters near the edge of the camp. Huddled together—one with fur damp with melted snow, the other with jagged scales glinting faintly—seemed to be arguing, their gestures sharp and heated. A smaller monster, possibly a child, sat nearby, staring into the glow of a heat lamp with wide, exhausted eyes.

“You see this?” Sans said, motioning toward the tents. “This ain’t just humans stickin’ it to monsters. Monsters’ve been just as bad to each other out here. Fights break out every other day. Mostly Pappy talks em down, reminds them of their purpose. Had to step in myself a couple times to keep things from gettin’ ugly.”

His voice was calm, but there was an edge to it that you hadn’t heard before.

“What kind of fights?” 

Sans sighed, his breath visible in the cold night air. “Territorial stuff. Food, space, old grudges. You name it. Some of these guys... they don’t wanna go back underground. Can’t say I blame ’em, but it’s not like there’s much for ’em up here either.”

You frowned, watching as a monster with large, feathered wings adjusted a tarp over one of the tents. “And the humans?”

“They’re scared,” Sans said simply. “Scared of us, scared of each other, scared of what the world’s turnin’ into. Fear makes people do stupid things. Monsters too.”

The storm winds picked up, rattling the fences and sending loose tarps flapping wildly. You could see some of the tents struggling to stay upright, the people inside working quickly to secure them.

“Snowdrake’s outburst earlier,” you said, your voice barely audible over the wind. “Was that... normal?”

Sans turned to you, his eye lights flickering faintly. “For him? Yeah. For this place? Definitely. Everyone’s got their breaking point. Snowey's just hit his a little harder than most.”

You nodded, your mind racing as you took in the scene. The camp wasn’t just a temporary shelter—it was something that needed to change. For the better, it had to, they deserved it, he deserved-

Sans gestured for you to follow him again, Taking the lead as the skeleton brought you over to the check in counter, some log books, a cup full of pens, he opened one and showed it to you, sliding it across the counter, catching it with the pads of your fingers.

Names, ages- dates - not official it looks like. You think It might be a personal log, maybe one of the guards here.

“The hotel’s full,” Sans affirmed after a while. “No more rooms, no more beds. This is all that’s left for a lotta folks.”

You glanced at him, noting the tired look in his eye sockets. “How do you deal with it? Seeing all this, breaking up fights, keeping everything together?”

Sans chuckled softly, the sound more bitter than amused. “You don’t. Not really. You just... keep goin’. ’Cause if you stop, even for a second, it all falls apart.”

For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The hum of the storm filled the silence, and you found yourself oddly comforted by Sans’ presence. Despite everything, he seemed steady, grounded—a small piece of stability in a world that felt like it was crumbling.

“You’re a good guy, Sans,” 

He glanced at you, his grin returning, though it was softer this time. “Don’t go spreadin that around kid, the more and more you catch on about me the more i'll start to worry."

You laughed. 

A real one this time.

The warmth of the hotel lobby lingered in your skin as you and Sans started the trek back to your room. The halls were quieter now, the soft hum of the building's heating system the only sound aside from your footsteps. Sans ambled along at his usual unhurried pace, hands tucked under your arm pits while you tried to shake off the lingering weight of what you’d seen outside.

“Not exactly a bedtime story out there,” you muttered, glancing at him.

Sans shrugged. “Yeah, well, didn’t wanna sugarcoat it. But, hey, think of it as... a depressing field trip. Fun, huh?” His grin widened just slightly.

You rolled your eyes. “Super fun. Next time, let’s bring snacks and matching t-shirts.”

Sans snorted, a soft chuckle escaping him. “You got it, pal. I’ll print the shirts—‘I survived Sans’ late-night misery tour, and all I got was this lousy existential crisis.’”

That actually made you laugh, a genuine sound that echoed lightly in the corridor. It felt good, shaking off some of the tension from earlier. “You should work on a stand-up routine,” you teased. “Ever think about hitting open mic nights?”

“Eh, I’d just bomb,” a twinkle of amusement in his eye socket. “Skeleton humor’s a niche market. Tough crowd, no bones about it.”

“Why do I encourage you?”

“Dunno,” Sans replied with a shrug. “Oh speaking of... what do you call a skeleton who tells bedtime stories?”

You rolled your eyes, already bracing yourself. “What?”

“A tale-asman.”

You groaned. “That’s... terrible. That’s so bad it almost hurts.”

Sans chuckled, the soft sound echoing in the empty hallway. “Eh, I’m just warmin’ up. You’re lucky I left the really bad ones back at the pool.”

You shook your head, a faint smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. “You’re incorrigible.”

“Fancy word,” he teased. “You lookin’ to impress me or somethin’?”

You snorted. “Hardly. If I wanted to impress you, I’d—”

“—admit you like me,” he interrupted.

You sputtered, your brain short-circuiting for a solid five seconds. “I—what? I—no! That’s not—what—why would—”

Sans laughed, his grin widening. “Relax, kid. Just testin’ the waters. Your reaction kinda says it all, though.”

You smacked his arm, your face burning. “It does not! You’re just—ugh!”

He shrugged, looking unbothered. “Hey, denial’s a river, right? Not my business if you wanna take a swim.”

You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he said, his voice light, “you’re still walkin’ with me. Makes you wonder, huh?”

You shot him a glare, but the teasing glint in his eye made it impossible to stay annoyed. You sighed, lowering your hands. “Fine. What about you, huh? Do you mess with everyone like this, or am I just special?”

Sans didn’t answer right away. Instead, he slowed his pace slightly, his gaze flickering over you as if he were taking you in for the first time. His usual smirk faltered for a moment, replaced by something... softer.

“Maybe you’re just special,”

That caught you off guard. Before you could press him, though, his grin returned, and he cleared his throat. “Anyway,” he contnued, his tone deliberately casual, “I need your phone.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Your phone,” he repeated, holding out his hand. “Gimme.”

“Why?”

“Because," as if that explained anything. When you didn’t move, he added, “What, you don’t trust me? C’mon, we’re practically besties now.”

“Besties? We’ve known each other for, like, half a day.”

“And yet,” his grin widening, “here we are, sharin’ midnight strolls and riveting conversations- If that ain’t friendship, I don’t know what is.”

You rolled your eyes but dug your phone out of your pocket anyway. “Fine. But if you snoop through my phot—”

“Relax,” he said, taking it from you. “I’m just gonna put my number in. Y’know, in case you ever wanna reach out, send a meme, talk about existential dread at an ungodly hour. Us insomniacs gotta stick together, yeah?”

“Yeah, sounds like a good plan to me,” you smiled, taking your phone back. “But, hey.. you didn’t even ask for my name. Kind of gotta do that to solidify us as friends.”

Sans froze, his grin faltering for a split second before he recovered. “Your name, huh? Yeah... I guess that is kinda important. So... what’s it?”

You told him, watching as he repeated it under his breath. His sockets widened slightly, and for the first time since you’d met him, he seemed genuinely startled. He stammered something unintelligible before quickly clearing his throat.

“Well, uh... good to know,” he said, his grin forced but still present. “Thanks for that.”

Before you could press him further, he gestured toward your door. “Anyway, we’re here. Better get some beauty sleep before your roommate wakes up and thinks I’m tryin’ to steal you away all night or somethin’.”

You raised an eyebrow, the corners of your lips twitching in mild amusement. “You’ve already done that.”

Sans chuckled, a low sound that carried more weight than his usual airy banter. “Touché.”

There was a beat of silence before he added, almost as if it had slipped out unbidden, “Uh... thanks. For... y’know. Hangin’ out.”

The words hung in the air like a stray snowflake, delicate and unexpected. He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly, his grin faltering for just a second before he lifted a hand in a quick, clumsy wave. His retreat was swift, but not hurried—a strange contrast, as if he didn’t want to leave but didn’t trust himself to stay.

“Goodnight,” he said over his shoulder, the usual edge of sarcasm stripped from his voice. It was softer now, more grounded. “Get some rest.”

You stood frozen, watching as he walked away. The soft shuffle of his steps faded into the distance, leaving the air feeling oddly still. Something gnawed at you, a faint prickle of unease threading through the quiet. His behavior... It didn’t fit. Not entirely. It was like there was a piece missing—something unspoken that you weren’t meant to see.

You’d been trained to notice things, to pick up on the subtle shifts in body language, the tone behind words, the micro expressions that flashed and vanished in an instant. It was part of the job, part of who you were now. You weren’t supposed to assume—you knew that. But you also couldn’t shake the feeling that something about Sans was... off.

Not in a dangerous way, not in the way your training warned you to watch for when working with clients or kids. No, this was different. Subtle. Like an itch at the back of your mind that wouldn’t go away.

Sans was always quick with a joke, quick with a grin that stretched just a little too wide to feel entirely real. He leaned back on his heel like he didn’t have a care in the world, his hands stuffed into his pockets, at ease, a false bravado. But there was something beneath the surface, something buried under his laid-back demeanor.

You weren’t sure if it was his silences—those sudden gaps in conversation where his grin would falter for just a fraction of a second before snapping back into place. Or maybe it was the way his eye lights dimmed when he thought you weren’t looking. He was good at hiding it, whatever it was. But you could feel it.

And here you were, doing exactly what you always told yourself not to do: assuming. Making judgments based on gut feelings and half-seen glimpses of something you didn’t fully understand. It wasn’t fair to him. You weren’t his caseworker; you weren’t his therapist. You weren’t even sure if what you were feeling was real or just... projection.

Pushing the thought aside, you turned and slipped back into your room, careful not to make a sound. Colette’s steady breathing filled the dim space, the sound soothing yet oddly grounding. You exhaled softly, closing the door behind you with a muted click.

But as you lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, the feeling persisted, twisting into something sharper. The shadows seemed to stretch and pull in the corners of the room, your thoughts growing heavier with each passing second. It wasn’t until the puzzle pieces started to align that realization struck—

You sat up, the blankets pooling around your waist as your gaze darted to the door. The confusion that had lingered earlier now came to the front of your mind. The weight of the realization was that of a curious, anxious laugh.

You go to your notes, your own observations in your email. You lay back down facing the door, sandwiching your arms over on your pillow as you jotted down,

Sans wasn’t just quirky. He wasn’t just clever-

You hadn’t unlocked the screen for him.

Chapter Text

You really loved this job. Its going on Thursday, weeks almost over. Gosh its been going by quite quickly. Sure, it wasn’t always sunshine and rainbows, but there was something satisfying about helping people (or monsters) work through their problems. It reminded you of solving your own issues—or at least trying to. What was the logical next step after helping kids through tough divorces? Apparently, coaching a rabbit-like monster on expanding his ice cream business. Perks of the job, right?

This blue furred, red nosed, wearing a comical yellow shirt literally hopped in for his appointment. His floppy ears twitched with nervous energy, but his grin was infectious as he handed you a handwritten business plan—complete with ice cream cone doodles in the margins.

“You’re in for a treat,” he greeted with a wink.

Cole, perched at her desk and nursing a fresh mug of coffee, gave you a sidelong glance. “A treat? More like a freezer burn waiting to happen. It's December.”

“Hey now,” the Vendor replied, his voice light and teasing. “Nice Cream isn’t just a summer fling—it’s a year-round love affair.”

You bit back a laugh, already feeling the energy shift in the room. “So,” you began, flipping through his plan, “homemade Nice Cream, affordable prices… but hard to sell in the cold underground, right?”

He nodded, his tail wagging slightly. “Exactly. That’s why I’m thinking big. Downtown beachside in the summer—ice cream cones in every hand, sprinkles on everything!”

Cole raised an eyebrow, skeptical. “And how do you plan to compete with the humans already selling ice cream? You’re entering a saturated market, bunny boy.”

“Charm,” his response was quick, his grin widening. “And samples. Lots of samples.”

You shot Cole a look, and she shrugged, hiding a smirk behind her mug. “Well, let’s get someone from Planning on a call,” she smiled, pulling up her laptop. “Maybe they’re feeling festive.”

As Cole hammered out an email, you and the Vendor stepped out into the hall for a moment. The vending machine by the wall hummed faintly, its glowing buttons a beacon for your snack-deprived brain.

“Hold on,”  Fumbling for a dollar out of your wallet you leaned down. The machine promptly ate it without delivering your coveted bag of chips.

“Oh, come on,” you groaned, smacking the side of the machine.

“Step aside,” the Vendor declared, his ears perking up with determination. With a swift kick, he dislodged your snack, sending it tumbling into the slot below.

“You’ve got some moves,”

“Comes with the territory,” he replied, puffing out his chest. “You think surviving the underground was easy? I once outran three Froggits to get a prime vending spot.”

As he recounted his tales of entrepreneurial derring-do, you couldn’t help but be drawn in. The way he spoke about his dream—how Frisk had inspired him to think bigger, to bring joy to more people—it was more than just business talk. It was passion, pure and simple.

Back in the office, Cole had already set up the call. “You two done bonding over snack rescue?” she asked, glancing up with mock impatience.

“Absolutely,” you said, tossing her a soda from the vending machine. “Consider it strategizing.”

She snorted, catching it. “Strategizing, huh? That what you call yelling at inanimate objects?”

You flushed, but before you could retort, the Vendor interjected. “Hey, it’s all part of the charm. A little personal touch, right?”

Cole rolled her eyes but didn’t argue as the three of you joined the video call.

The Vendor’s enthusiasm practically radiated through the screen. He pitched his vision to the hireups with the same energy he’d brought into the office, even pulling a pint of Nice Cream out of nowhere for an impromptu show-and-tell. By the end of the meeting, the officials were smiling, promising to follow up if he brought samples and the same passion in person to them next time.

After the call ended, the Vendor turned to you, his eyes shimmering with gratitude. He extended a paw for a handshake—a firm, unwavering grip that carried far more emotion than you expected.

“Thank you,” he whispered, voice soft.

You returned his gaze with an encouraging smile. “You’ve got this. Keep pushing.”

As he left, tail wagging with excitement, you turned to Cole and paused, blinking at her desk. Sticky notes were plastered across every visible surface—hastily scribbled reminders mixed with cryptic doodles.

You plucked one particularly bold sketch—a cartoonish middle finger—and raised an eyebrow at her.

“What?” she said, deadpan. “That one’s for the Ice Cap guy who wouldn’t stop mansplaining snow.”

You snorted. “It’s art,” you admitted, tearing the note in half.

“Damn right,” Cole muttered, but there was a spark of satisfaction in her eyes as she leaned back in her chair.

The door had barely clicked shut behind Aaron the Merhorse when Cole groaned, flopping back onto her desk like a melodramatic stage actor meeting their untimely demise.

“He went over the card three times,” Her voice muffled as her hands smushed against her face.

You perked up, watching her spiral. “One of the ones you doodled for new folks?”

“Yes! He’s out there flexing his biceps, saying ‘cute card, gnarly dudette,’ like a discount surfer! The nerve.” She sat up abruptly, grabbing her notepad and dramatically flipping through the pages. “That was easily an older kid’s take on a monster drawing. Did you see the shading I did on the fur?”

“To be fair,” you smirked, “he did say it was fridge-worthy.”

“Fridge-worthy,” she repeated flatly, tossing her pencil at the wall. It bounced off with a sad little clatter. “What am I, five? I was going for emotional resonance, not elementary school masterpiece.”

“Honestly,” you offered, propping your chin on your hand, “he’s probably just jealous he can’t draw anything that isn’t his own reflection.”

Cole snorted, finally cracking a grin. “You’re not wrong. I bet his idea of art is a mirror with gold trim.”

You both dissolved into laughter, the earlier chaos of the day temporarily forgotten. Cole swung her legs lazily as she perched on the edge of her desk, sipping from her chipped mug.

The lull in activity gave you a moment to breathe, but your brain refused to stay quiet. You grabbed a sticky note and doodled a tiny rendition of Aaron flexing in front of a mirror, complete with sparkles around his bulging biceps.

Cole leaned over and snorted. “Perfect. Frame it. Call it ‘Modern Narcissus.’”

“Or just stick it to the vending machine as a warning to future flexers.”

“Now you’re thinking like a true rebel.”

As you bantered, the faint sputter of the ancient coffee machine in the corner of their makeshift office room gave way to silence. The moment hung in the air, cozy and calm, until—

Knock, knock, knock.

Another visitor. You both froze, exchanging a glance.

“I swear, if it’s another monster with an attitude” Cole muttered, “I’m calling it early and we are starting fresh tomorrow,”

“Let’s hope it’s someone who appreciates your artistic genius this time,” you teased, standing to answer the door.

As the door creaked open, you found yourself face-to-face with a diminutive monster covered in silvery fur, clutching a basket of… were those socks?

“Hi,” they greeted, their voice high and a little shaky. “I, um, heard you help with, uh, resumes?”

Behind you, Cole immediately perked up. “Socks and a resume? Now this I gotta see.”

You stepped aside to let the newcomer in, shooting Cole a look over your shoulder. 

The little monster shuffled inside, setting their basket on the desk. “I make custom socks,” they explained, their fluffy ears twitching nervously. “Warm ones, fancy ones… even socks with pockets.”

“Socks with pockets?” Cole beamed, leaning forward, her interest visibly piqued. “Now that’s innovation.”

“Thank you!” the monster squeaked, their face lighting up.

You grinned, already feeling the day take a turn for the intriguing. “Alright,” you affirmed, grabbing a pen and notebook. “Let’s see what we can do to make these socks the talk of the town.”

Cole, ever the skeptic, tilted her head. “Think they can fit butter in it, possibly to use in combat?”

The little monster blinked, confused, but you laughed, shaking your head. “Ignore her. She’s just jealous she didn’t think of sock pockets first."

You had just closed your browser, after waiting for it to load for almost 3 solid minutes. It was lunch time anyways. Seeing as Colette was doing the same, yo-

“HELLO, HARDWORKING HUMANS!” Papyrus’s voice filled the room like a trumpet blast, his skeletal frame practically glowing with enthusiasm. He strode in confidently, wearing a casual outfit that somehow managed to look, "oh that's pretty rad Pap" From Cole—an oversized red hoodie with Almight from the anime My Hero Academia sporting a mighty thumbs up, paired with sweatpants that had illegible writing down one leg. You twisted your head to get a better read-nope nothing. The letters have long since peeled off. Oh, you noticed. He's wearing training weights, and a sweatband.

“Papyrus, please tell me you’re not here to recruit us for your gym cult,” Cole deadpanned, setting her coffee mug down with exaggerated care.

“CULT?! HAH! GYM CULTURE, PERHAPS!” Papyrus puffed out his chest, his hoodie shifting like a superhero cape in his mind. “I CAME TO REMIND YOU THAT YOU MISSED THIS MORNING’S TWO-HOUR TRAINING SESSION!”

"Not us buddy, we could come by sometime and watch?" The brunette suggested.

“HUMAN FRIEND," He's pointing at you now, "GREATNESS WAITS FOR NO ONE!” Papyrus turned his head dramatically, the angle of his cheekbones catching the dim office light. “I EVEN HAD A CUSTOM ROUTINE FOR YOU BOTH. IT INVOLVED DODGING SIMULATED SNOWBALLS WHILE RECITING AFFIRMATIONS!”

“Simulated snowballs?” you echoed.

Papyrus beamed, his teeth positively gleaming. “A TRIUMPH OF ENGINEERING! I ATTACHED MARSHMALLOWS TO SPRINGS. VERY ACCURATE TO REAL BATTLE CONDITIONS.”

You breathed, "You are being, so very serious about this, pap. I'm so sorry."

“Serious?” Papyrus gasped, scandalized. “OF COURSE I WAS SERIOUS! YOUR REACTION TIME YESTERDAY WAS ABYSMAL! BUT-" He lowered his gloved hand, "I accept your apology."

The memory of Snowdrake’s sudden emotional meltdown yesterday—complete with a flurry of accidental ice spikes—flashed through your mind. You hadn’t been injured, Save for Sans, which Papyrus apparently took as a personal affront to your reflexes.

Before you could protest, he continued. “FEAR NOT, MY FRAGILE HUMAN FRIEND! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, AM HERE TO WHIP YOU INTO SHAPE!”

Cole bit back a laugh, muttering, “Whipping might be a little extreme.”

Papyrus ignored her. “WE WILL SOON BEGIN WITH—”

A second figure shuffled in through the door, interrupting Papyrus’s grand announcement. Sans, in his usual hoodie and slippers combo, gave a lazy wave, his eye sockets half-lidded with sleep.

“yo,” he greeted, his voice a slow drawl. “sorry i’m late. someone decided it was leg day at six a.m. and dragged me outta bed.”

“I DID NO SUCH THING!” Papyrus huffed, crossing his arms. “YOU REQUIRED MOTIVATION!”

“sure,” Sans deadpanned, leaning against the wall. “if ‘motivation’ means yelling ‘GET UP, LAZYBONES!’ in my ear for twenty minutes.”

Cole snorted, biting her lip to hide her grin. “Sounds effective.”

Sans shrugged. “it worked. i’m here, aren’t i?”

Papyrus turned back to you, clearly determined to refocus. “NOW, AS I WAS SAYING—YOUR REACTION TIME! WE MUST WORK ON IT! MY SESSION THIS MORNING WAS EXQUISITE. I PERFORMED NO LESS THAN FIFTY JUMPING JACKS, THIRTY PUSH-UPS, AND—”

“—a whole lotta yelling,” Sans interjected.

“IT WAS MOTIVATIONAL SHOUTING!” Papyrus corrected, his head nodding once as he gestured.

“uh-huh. sure.” Sans yawned and shuffled over to Cole’s desk, plucking a sticky note off it to inspect.

Sensing an opportunity to redirect Papyrus’s enthusiasm, you raised a hand. “Uh, Paps? Don’t you think we’d need some energy to handle such a rigorous workout?”

Papyrus paused, the gears visibly turning in his mind.

“YOU MAKE A FAIR POINT,” he admitted, rubbing his nonexistent chin. “NUTRITION IS ESSENTIAL FOR PEAK PERFORMANCE!”

Sans nodded sagely. “smart thinking, bro. gotta fuel up before you whip us into shape.”

Papyrus’s eye sockets lit up. “OF COURSE! BRILLIANT! WE SHALL PARTAKE IN A POWERFUL FEAST BEFORE BEGINNING OUR TRAINING REGIMEN!”

“or, you know,” Sans added, “just grab a couple burgers and call it a day.”

Cole rolled her eyes, finally breaking her silence. “Can we at least finish this sock pitch before you two turn this office into a gym? I gotta send these reports up.”

“OF COURSE!” Papyrus declared. “I SHALL RETURN WITH LUNCH. BUT BE WARNED—WHEN I RETURN, THE TRAINING BEGINS!”

With that, he spun on his heel and marched out. Sans lingered, shooting you a knowing grin.

“better stretch,” he teased, ambling out after his brother. “paps takes his gym sessions real seriously.”

As the door clicked shut behind them, you and Cole exchanged a glance.

“I give us twenty minutes before he starts making us jog laps around the hotel,” she snorted

“Twenty’s generous,” 

It wasn’t long before Papyrus returned, the door swinging open dramatically once again, arms laden with premade burgers wrapped in foil, condiment packets, and several bags of fries and salad containers.

“I HAVE PROCURED SUSTENANCE!” Papyrus declared, his head peaking out from the bags, “AND LET ME SAY, THE GUARDS WERE MOST IMPRESSED WITH MY CULINARY INSIGHT. PERHAPS I SHALL GRACE THEIR KITCHEN WITH MY PRESENCE MORE OFTEN! SEE TO IT THAT MY SKILLS CAN IMPROVE EVERY MEAL”

“You mean supervise the kitchen,” Sans quipped as he strolled in behind him, a bottle of ketchup in hand.

“this one’s mine,” Before plopping into the nearest chair.

Cole eyed the bottle with a mix of awe and resignation. “You’re going to drink that, aren’t you?”

“only if i get thirsty,” He shoots back, unscrewing the cap and pouring a generous dollop onto his burger.

Papyrus waved his hand dismissively. “SUPERVISION IS AN ART FORM, BROTHER, AND I AM A MASTER!” He declares, opting for chair after setting down the tower of burgers, ketchup packets littering your desk. Then the process of unpacking the bags with the enthusiasm of a game show host, distributing fries and salads. “NOW, HUMANS,” he declared, gesturing dramatically,

“IT IS TIME TO REPLENISH OUR STRENGTH!”

Before anyone could dig in, the door creaked open again, and in walked Frisk. They carried a small lunch sack, the kind with cartoon characters on it, drawn on, oh thats down right adorable and waved they at everyone with a bright smile.

“Frisk!” you greeted. “How’d you know we were in here?”

They raised a single finger, a moment, setting their lunch on the table before glancing at you and Cole. They began signing rapidly, their hands moving with practiced ease.

Cole, mid-chew, took a second to swallow. “They said they knew we’d be here because Sans texted them.”

You turned to Sans, who was already on his own mid-bite burger of eating.

“what? figured they’d want in on the fun.” He shrugged and lazily gestured toward Frisk’s phone, which they held up to show a series of texts.

“Wait—hold on,” you stopped, leaning closer. “Frisk has a smartphone?”

“SHOCKING, ISN’T IT?” Papyrus chimed in, looking proud for no reason. “THEY ARE QUITE ADEPT WITH TECHNOLOGY FOR SOMEONE OF THEIR SIZE!”

Frisk raised an eyebrow but didn’t dignify that with a response, instead setting their lunch sack on the desk and sitting cross-legged in the nearest chair.

Cole smirked. “You thought they couldn’t use a phone? They’re smarter than most people in this building.”

“Fair point,” you admitted, grabbing another fry.

It was then Papyrus gasped, pointing dramatically at you. “I HAVE AN IDEA! HUMAN! YOU SHOULD JOIN OUR GROUP CHAT!”

Your brows shot up. “You have a group chat?”

“OF COURSE!” Papyrus said, fishing his phone out of his tracksuit pocket. “IT IS WHERE WE SHARE IMPORTANT INFORMATION… AND ALSO MEMES.”

Sans chuckled. “mostly memes.”

He shuffled out his own phone, thumb tapping against the screen. Yours buzzed almost immediately, and you opened the app to see the chaos unfolding in real time.

“MISC. MISFITS 🧡✨

Papyrus puffed out his chest. “I NAMED IT MYSELF!”

“Yeah, I could tell, its very catchy, me like,” you muttered with a smirk, eyes darting back to the chat as you chewed, oh this- the general absurdity of what you saw was enough to make you snort 

CoolSkeleton95: “REMEMBER, FRIENDS, PASTA IS JUST WET BREAD IN A FUN SHAPE!!!”
BoneDaddy: “if you put it like that, it sounds unappetizing.”
CoolSkeleton95: “I WILL NOT STAND FOR THIS SLANDER, SANS.”

LabratWithWifi: (Attached a pixelated gif of a rotating fish)
“This is what happens when Undyne tries to update her operating system on her pc. It took 4 hours, 2 blue screens, and one mild temper tantrum.”

BeserkerBabe: “TEMPER TANTRUM?? THAT WAS A BATTLE CRY!”
LabratWithWifi: “You punched the router hon.”
BeserkerBabe: “I SOLVED THE PROBLEM, DIDN’T I???”

A string of emojis and gifs flooded the chat after that exchange, but it was SmolMVP who caught your attention.

SmolMVP: “When folks ask what the skeletons in my closet be like:”
(Attached was a grainy photo of Sans sitting on a couch, balancing three ketchup bottles on his head while napping.)

You couldn’t hold back a laugh, shaking your head as you glanced at Sans. “This you?” you asked, pointing at the screen.

Sans leaned over lazily, squinting at the image. “heh. didn’t know frisk took that.”

But as you scrolled further back, the tone shifted slightly. You frowned at a string of messages from a few weeks ago.

Mother_Of_Underlings: “It’s upsetting to hear what happened today. Those guards had no right to treat anyone that way.”
CoolSkeleton95: “THEIR BEHAVIOR WAS UNACCEPTABLE. I AM GLAD THEY WERE REMOVED FROM DUTY.”
BoneDaddy: “yeah. real jerks. glad they’re gone. but it sucks that it had to get that bad.”
LabratWithWifi: “It’s scary to think about. I hope this doesn’t happen again.”
BeserkerBabe: “IF IT DOES, I’LL HANDLE IT PERSONALLY.”

You stopped chewing, your eyebrows knitting together. “Wait, what’s this about the guards?”

Sans set his ketchup bottle down with a quiet thud, his usual smirk a thin line. “yeah. a few weeks back, a couple of ‘em got booted. turns out, -no ones shocked- they weren’t exactly monster-friendly.”

Cole leaned back, crossing her arms. “Not just ‘not monster-friendly.’ They were straight-up racists. Making snide remarks, going out of their way to be difficult, and even sabotaging supplies. I don’t know how they kept it up for so long without getting caught.”

Sans nodded. “guess their bosses finally caught wind when folks started complainin’. took ‘em long enough, but they got rid of the worst ones.”

Papyrus, who had been uncharacteristically quiet, spoke up with a rare solemnity. “IT WAS… HARD ON MANY OF US. BUT WE ARE STRONG. WE WILL NOT LET SUCH CRUELTY WIN.”

“Still,” Cole said, her voice tinged with frustration, “the damage they caused was real. A few monsters left the hotel altogether because of it.”

Frisk signed something, their face calm but resolute. Cole translated, her voice softening. “Frisk says things are better now. That we’re making progress.”

Papyrus visibly brightened. “INDEED! AND WE WILL CONTINUE TO BUILD A BETTER FUTURE FOR MONSTERS AND HUMANS ALIKE!”

Sans chuckled, his grin returning. “pap’s got the right idea. can’t fix everything overnight, but we’re on the right track.”

Feeling a mixture of anger and determination, you nodded, vowing to do your part to help rebuild the trust and hope that had been shaken. As if sensing the weight of the moment, the group chat buzzed with another meme from the looks of it.

Mother_Of_Underlings: “Remember: A kind word can brighten even the darkest day!” [Attached is a wholesome goat meme with the caption, “Be Kind, or Else.”]

You couldn’t help but snort. “Okay, this one in particular's user name is too good. ‘Mother_Of_Underlings’? Really?”

Papyrus beamed. “ISN’T IT GREAT? SHE IS TRULY AN INSPIRATION TO US ALL!”

You paused mid-scroll, blinking at him. Wait a second.

Cole, catching the sudden tension in your posture, raised an eyebrow. “Uh-oh. What’s that face? What’s going on in that overthinking brain of yours?”

You turned to her, eyes wide. “Cole. Is… is this the queen? Is ‘Mother_Of_Underlings’ the one you've been texting?!"

Cole smirked, biting back a laugh. “Yep the very one. That’s Toriel.  Oh, and apparently, meme lord extraordinaire.”

Your jaw dropped. “I’m in a group chat with the queen?! And you all just—justher casually posting memes and pretending thats normal”

Sans, who had been leaning against the wall with his usual nonchalance, glanced up at you. “yeah, tori’s cool like that. real down-to-earth.”

And then, as if on cue, he sent a reply to her latest message:

BoneDaddy: “theres no bleating around the bush with that one.”

Mother_Of_Underlings: (Attached a waving gif of Minnie mouse wearing a crown) “It’s a pleasure to meet you, dear. Welcome to the group!”

Chapter Text

The air in the makeshift office smelled faintly of old coffee and paper, with a hint of something metallic wafting from the ancient heater they lugged from where ever in the corner. The last rays of sunlight filtered through the window blinds, casting long shadows across the desks.

Colette let out a dramatic groan as she stretched in her chair, her arms arching back in a way that would make a chiropractor cringe. “If I sit here for another second, I’ll fuse to this chair. They’ll have to rename me Office Furniture.”

You chuckled, stacking a messy pile of client files into a moderately less messy pile. “Office Furniture might be a good name for you. Sturdy, dependable—”

“Unappreciated, overworked, and on the verge of collapse back in a normal job?” she interrupted, raising an eyebrow.

“Exactly,” you deadpanned, pulling a small laugh from her.

You turned toward the coffee pot, which was valiantly sputtering out the last remnants of its overworked life. It had been brewing since morning, and the sludgy remnants at the bottom were better suited for motor oil than human consumption. “Should we put it out of its misery?”

Cole waved a hand dismissively. “Nah, i'll let the glass cool off a bit before rinsing  it out. For the thing itself, if we turn it off, it might not turn back on tomorrow.”

You gave the machine a dubious look but decided to let it live another day.

As the office door clicked shut behind you, Cole gave an exaggerated stretch, her arms reaching for the ceiling, wiggling her fingers. “Ah, freedom! Sweet, precious freedom,” she sighed dramatically.

You chuckled, juggling the stack of folders in your arms as the two of you made your way down the dimly lit hotel hallway. The warm, slightly musty scent of old carpet mixed with faint traces of lavender cleaner. The hum of distant conversation and the occasional clatter of dishes drifted through the halls, the remnants of the monsters’ day winding down.

Cole glanced sideways at you, a rare softness in her expression. “You know, I gotta hand it to you. You handled today like a pro.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Really? Felt like I was mostly winging it.”

“That’s what pros do,” she shot back, a small smirk tugging at her lips. “No, but seriously. The docket I got about you before you came here? Bare-bones. It didn’t give me much to go on except your job title and some vague accolades. I didn’t know what to expect. But watching you mediate today? The way you balanced that rabbit guy’s excitement with realistic steps—and calmed down Aaron when he was one flex away from tearing the chair in half? That takes skill.”

You felt your cheeks heat up, and you tried to play it cool. “It’s nothing, really. Just part of the job description.”

Cole rolled her eyes. “Don’t downplay it. Satiating a bunch of monsters with wildly different temperaments and goals isn’t exactly easy, nothing like what you've done before. Trust me, you’re gonna do well here. Probably make me look bad in the process.”

You laughed, shifting the folders in your arms. “I doubt that. If anything, you’re the one making me look bad. You’re like a human Swiss Army knife—sarcastic, resourceful, and terrifyingly efficient.”

She snorted. “Flattery will get you nowhere. But keep talking; I like hearing good things about myself.”

The two of you continued down the hallway, the worn carpet muffling your footsteps. The walls were decorated with faded pictures of Mount Ebott, old-timey postcards, and a framed portrait of the hotel’s original owners.

Your shared room wasn’t far, and as you approached, Cole pointed at the folders in your arms. “You gonna spend all night sorting those, or are you actually going to let yourself unwind after your first day”

“Depends,” you teased, unlocking the door.

“How long do you think we have before Pap comes to fetch us for the stretches we so narrowly dodged."

With your combined efforts, Sans, Colette and you managed to stove off his efforts of rigorous exercise midshift, his attention steering to get Frisk back to their class. His reaction was so down right priceless and you glanced down as your phone had buzzed,

1New message

"He'll be back. Trust. Get those sneakers on."

You had looked up as Frisk was carried off, the ambassador seemed pretty proud of themselves. The kid was picked up by there stomach in pap's under arm, one hand holding their phone the other a thumbs up. Sporting a big grin. And now- 

"Not long, Frisk has been sending me meme's of Olympic sprinters in 10x speed, the little shit should be studying." 

Cole snickered, already typing a reply to them, while you headed to the bathroom to change.

You flicked on the light, and as you started brushing your teeth, your phone buzzed in your own pocket. Curious, you spat out the toothpaste and grabbed it.

"So, u getting ready for pap’s grand exercise plan? heard it involves lots of “vigorous arm flailing.” real revolutionary stuff."

You snorted, Sans.  

" If I don’t make it, tell my story. Also, what do you know about “vigorous arm flailing” anyway? I haven’t seen you lift a finger all day."

The reply came instantly.

"that’s bc i’m conserving my energy. gotta be ready for life’s big moments. like the perfect pun opportunity or a nap."

Laughing, you set your phone down to rinse your face. The bathroom mirror fogged slightly from the warm water as you washed off the day’s stress. Another buzz caught your attention, and you reached for the phone with a damp hand.

" also, for the record, pap said he’d bring more food. so at least you’ll be flailing then by the end of the night have a full stomach. gotta keep those bones strong."

You smirked, typing back.

"Guess I should be thanking you for the heads-up. Or is this just you trying to make sure I survive so you can keep roasting me?"

" what can i say? i’m a skeleton of many talents. but yeah, gotta keep yah alive. ur puns are a solid 6/10. with time, maybe you’ll reach my level."

Rolling your eyes, you set your phone down and finished brushing your teeth. The playful banter eased some of the tension from the day, and you found yourself smiling as you dried your face.

Your phone buzzed again just as you were about to leave the bathroom.

 "btw, we're out in the courtyard. wear something stretchy. see ya out here pal."

Shaking your head, you stepped back into the room where Cole was still sprawled on her bed, now laughing at another meme Frisk had sent. “Sans says Pappy’s bringing food to the courtyard.”

“Ah, bribery,” Cole affirmed, her voice muffled by the beanie she held between her teeth, grabbing a hoodie from her suitcase. “Guess I can’t complain too much.”

“Ready to get flailed on?” you asked with mock solemnity as you grabbed your sneakers.

She smirked. “Not in the slightest. But at least we’ll die fed.”

Chapter Text

Chapter Text

The hum of the electric lights above mixed with the low rumble of the storm outside. Snow pelted against the large windows of the hotel lobby, the wind howling like an angry ghost with a serious grudge against the world. Outside, the storm had turned the night into a swirling vortex of white, while inside, things were decidedly more... toasty. The heaters were blasting, the air thick with warmth, and the lobby buzzed with the soft chatter of monsters in various states of relaxation.

Alphys adjusted her glasses, her lenses fogging up from the heat, and peered outside at the blizzard with a slight frown. "You know," she began, her voice a little shaky but full of her usual, unshakable enthusiasm, "the storms here at the base of Mount Ebott are way denser than what you'd find farther out. It's something to do with the air currents funneling through the valley... really fascinating, if you think about it! Almost like nature made this place to keep secrets."

You glanced over at her, folding up a bingo card and dropping it into the box, and couldn’t help but think, Yeah, or nature’s trying to keep us from leaving. But you gave her a small, reassuring smile. "Yeah, I’ve noticed that. Feels like there's always snow on the horizon when I look out."

Alphys nodded quickly, her claws tapping against a stray bingo chip as she clutched the table. "Exactly! And that’s why the guards have such a hard time with their patrols. Visibility drops to zero when it picks up like this." She gestured toward the window where the snow swirled, blurring the outline of the makeshift camp outside. "With the hotel packed like this, I can't blame them for staying inside."

You nodded, shoving your folded mess of fabric into a neat pile. “Honestly, I don’t blame them. If I had to patrol that, I’d just lie down in the snow and accept my new life as an ice sculpture.”

“Ah, yes!” a voice boomed suddenly behind you, nearly sending you into cardiac arrest. You spun around to find Papyrus standing there, hands on his hips and his striped sweater bunched around his middle. He looked both heroic and like he’d lost a bet with a Christmas catalog. “THE PATROLS ARE INDEED HEROIC. BUT DO NOT FEAR, FOR I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, SHALL—SHHHHHHH!”

The volume of his voice plummeted mid-sentence as he slapped his hands over his nonexistent mouth. His head whipped around, and he dropped to a crouch so fast you thought he might've pulled something.

“Uh…” You blinked at him. “You okay there, big guy?”

Papyrus threw a finger to his mouth, shushing you again with an intensity that suggested your speaking volume was an octave high. His eyes darted around the room, scanning.

“What’s going on?” you whispered, leaning closer out of some weird instinct to match his sudden paranoia.

“IT’S TEMMIE,” Papyrus hissed, his voice a stage whisper that was somehow still too loud. “I HAVE LOST SIGHT OF THEM”

At that exact moment, a faint squeaking sound came from beneath one of the pillows. Papyrus froze, his eyes widening with dramatic realization. He tiptoed forward (well, as much as a seven-foot-tall skeleton in bright red boots can tiptoe) and carefully lifted the top pillow. Sure enough, there was Temmie, snoozing peacefully in a little fluffy ball, as if they didn’t just cause their babysitter to have a full-on espionage moment.

Papyrus gasped like a proud parent. “BEHOLD! THE MYSTERY IS SOLVED! I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, HAVE ONCE AGAIN PROVEN MY SUPERIOR DETECTIVE SKILLS!” He scooped Temmie up with the gentleness of someone cradling a tiny, fragile baby, his chest puffing out.

Meanwhile, you were fighting the urge to laugh out loud because this whole thing was so much. Who else but Papyrus could turn finding a sleepy creature under a pillow into an Oscar-worthy drama? You couldn’t help but grin as you watched him fuss over Temmie, cradling them like he was holding a precious treasure.

“They must have gotten quite the workout cheering for me!” Papyrus declared proudly, lowering his voice to a reverent hush so as not to wake Temmie. “BUT FEAR NOT, LITTLE ONE. I SHALL FIND YOU THE SOFTEST AND COZIEST NAP SPOT IN THE LAND!”

You snorted, biting your lip to keep from laughing outright. “Yeah, I’m sure all that cheering really took it out of them.”

From across the room, Sans chimed in with his usual lazy drawl, holding up the leftover candy bowl like it was the Stanley Cup. “Best helper right here,” he said, popping a piece of candy into his mouth and grinning with absolutely zero shame.

“Best helper from under their nesting spot in couchtopia, Tem right there is the sole ruler of nap times." You pointed at the creature, as they ragdolled in the larger skeletons hold, oblivious to its new hights and now topic of this conversation. Sans, for his credit, raised his eye ridges, his body leaning to look past you to the couch in question, the blankets nabbed and pillows dragged under it. He scoffed, head shaking,

“Couchtopia,” Sans echoed, his smirk widening. “Now there’s a phrase I never thought I’d hear. What’s next? Throw pillow monarchy?”

“Drapery democracy,” you shot back.

“Blanket oligarchy,” 

“Carpet communism.”

Temmie stirred in Papyrus’s arms, letting out a soft, happy squeak that melted your heart a little. Papyrus beamed down at them, adjusting his scarf like a doting nanny. It was honestly kind of sweet how much he cared, even if his theatrics were a lot sometimes.

Watching him, you felt a tiny pang of envy. It must be nice to be so... unshakably Papyrus. He didn’t seem to have the same gnawing doubts or overwhelming to-do lists that haunted you. He was just unapologetically himself, always throwing his whole heart into whatever he was doing—Tomorrow was Friday. The realization hit you like a slow trickle of cold water, and your thoughts immediately went to your boss, Mr. Langston. You’d have to call him, give him some kind of update. He’d want something to work off of, something reassuring. He hated it when you sounded like you were dodging questions, and you weren’t sure how you were supposed to explain any of this without outright lying.

You sighed, leaning on the back of a chair. “I’ve got to call my boss tomorrow,” you admitted aloud, more to yourself than anyone else. The looming thought weighed on you like a wet blanket. “He’s the type who needs concrete answers, you know? Facts, evidence, no room for ambiguity. And I don’t even know how I’m supposed to explain all... this.” You gestured vaguely at the room, which felt like the embodiment of organized chaos.

Cole, who had been putting the pillows back, looked up with a thoughtful frown. “Can’t you just... tell him the truth? I mean, maybe not the whole truth—leave out the fur and fangs part—but you could focus on the humanitarian aspect. You’re helping displaced people, building bridges between communities. That’s not a lie.”

Sans snorted, popping another piece of candy into his mouth. “Yeah, for now, just skip the part where half those ‘displaced people’ can use magic or have extra sets of wings.”

Alphys perked up at that, her tail flicking nervously. “I-I think Cole’s idea is actually a good one! If you frame it right, he might not even think to ask about... the specifics.”

“Or human,” Papyrus interjected, still cradling the sleeping Temmie, his voice softening, “you could simply tell this boss of yours that you are participating in the most noble cause of all! Assisting my brother and I, obviously."

You chuckled, shaking your head. “Yeah, I’m sure that’ll go over well. ‘Hey, boss, I’m working with skeletons bro bros and placing monster peeps into the humanitarian work force and we don't know how the government even feels about this yet. No big deal.’”

The group chuckled softly, even Alphys, who seemed to be loosening up as the night wore on.

Outside, the storm raged, the snow piling higher against the edges of the makeshift camps there. The tents looked fragile under the battering winds, their outlines illuminated by the faint glow of heat lamps scattered around the area. You found your gaze drifting toward them, the sight a stark reminder of how precarious the balance here really was.

The weight of it all settled in your chest—a mix of responsibility, fear, and a quiet determination you couldn’t quite name.

Papyrus straightened to his full height, cradling the peacefully snoozing Temmie like some kind of heroic skeleton shepherd. “I SHALL RETURN THEM TO THEIR FAMILY!” he declared with all the conviction of someone announcing they were about to embark on an epic quest. His voice softened—well, as soft as Papyrus got. “THE TEMMIES MUST BE REUNITED IN THEIR SECRET SLEEPING SPOT.”

That caught your attention. “Secret sleeping spot?” you echoed, raising an eyebrow.

Papyrus nodded sagely, lowering his voice as if he were sharing classified intel. “YES! I DISCOVERED IT ONCE, BY ACCIDENT, WHILE ON A VERY IMPORTANT QUEST TO FIND A STRAY SOCK.”

“Wait,” you interrupted, trying to process this. “Temmies have a... secret lair? In the hotel?”

“INDEED! THEY SLEEP IN A PLACE OF GREAT SECURITY AND SOFTNESS.” He glanced at you meaningfully, as though those vague descriptors were supposed to clear things up.

Cole’s eyes lit up like she’d just found the Holy Grail. “I knew they had a hideout!” she exclaimed, smacking a fist into her palm. “I’ve been searching all over the hotel for them, but for such simple creatures, they’re crafty as heck. They probably could’ve outsmarted me, even if I had a map!”

“Oh, they definitely would’ve,” Sans quipped from his candy-eating post. He tossed another piece into his mouth and grinned. “Temmies aren’t just crafty—they’re motivated. They’ve got one goal: snacks. And they’ll outplay anyone to get ‘em.”

Cole threw her hands in the air, ignoring Sans. “So where is it? Where do the Temmies go at night?”

Papyrus puffed out his chest, clearly relishing the chance to show off his insider knowledge. “THEY NEST IN THE STORAGE CLOSET NEXT TO THE BROOMS!”

You blinked, tilting your head. “Wait, you’re telling me a bunch of tiny, hyperactive dog-cat-things have a fully decked-out sleepover suite in the storage closet?”

Papyrus nodded solemnly. “CORRECT. IT IS A PLACE OF GREAT JOY AND MANY, MANY PILLOWS.”

“...And no one thought to tell me this sooner?” Cole muttered, rubbing her temple. “Unbelievable. Here I was, running around like a maniac, when they were just chilling in the pillow fort like the world’s smallest masterminds.”

“Well, now you know,” you said with a shrug. “And hey, maybe we can organize some kind of search party next time. Or lure them out with snacks.”

Papyrus looked positively delighted by the idea. “PERHAPS WE CAN CREATE AN OFFICIAL TEMMIE PATROL! COMPLETE WITH MATCHING UNIFORMS!”

Sans snickered. “Yeah, nothing says ‘patrol’ like a bunch of Temmies trying to steal candy out of your pockets.”

Papyrus ignored his brother’s sass, adjusting the small creature in his arms like he was holding a royal heir. “I SHALL DELIVER THIS TEMMIE TO THEIR FAMILY AND THEN RETURN TO OUR ROOM, FOR THE GREAT PAPYRUS HAS A RESPONSIBILITY TO—”

“Hey, wait,” Cole interrupted, her eyes narrowing thoughtfully. “Before you go, could you help me with something? There are some monsters and activists outside, and I’ve been trying to convince them to come inside out of the snow. I mean, I know they’re passionate about their cause, but frostbite’s not a good look on anyone.”

Papyrus beamed. “OF COURSE! THE GREAT PAPYRUS SHALL USE HIS CHARISMATIC PERSUASION TO BRING THEM TO WARMTH AND SAFETY!”

Colette gave him an approving nod, and the two strode off with determined purpose, Papyrus already launching into an impromptu speech about installing heaters and teamwork before the doors even closed behind them.

You couldn’t help but grin as you plopped the remaining pillows onto the couch. “Ten bucks says they come back with twice as many people as they’re expecting. Pap’s speeches are weirdly effective.”

Sans leaned lazily against the desk, grinning. “He’s got a way of warmin’ folks up. Both figuratively and literally. Guess it’s hard to say no to a guy who sparkles with that much enthusiasm.”

The lizard woman snickered softly from where she stood, fiddling with her own pillow before she promptly put it down. She looked like she had something on her mind but wasn’t quite sure how to bring it up.

“Everything okay there, Alphys?” you asked, flopping onto one of the newly fortified couch cushions.

“So, um,” she started, fiddling with her sweater pocket, “I was thinking. Tomorrow, after your clients come and go, maybe you could help me... with some Christmas stuff we talked about?” Her voice rose a bit at the end, almost like a question. “I-I mean, the lobby’s nice, but it could use some of that holiday cheer, you know? Maybe we could even reach out to the higher-ups about ordering some decorations or supplies if we need to.”

You all but beamed, “Are we talking tasteful snowflakes or full-blown Santa explosion?”

“Yeah, uh, was thinking somewhere in the middle for both  monster folk and humans,” Alphys said with a small laugh. “T-tasteful Santa explosion? If that’s a thing?”

Sans, who had been slouched against the wall with his hands in his hoodie pocket, chuckled. “ What a band name.”

You snorted. “Their hit single is ‘Deck the Halls with Detonations.’”

“Followed by the soulful ballad, ‘Silent Night (Not Anymore).’” Sans added, winking.

Alphys’s face went tomato red as she laughed softly, hiding behind her clipboard. “You two are terrible,” she mumbled, though there was no mistaking the smile pulling at her lips.

“Hey, you invited us into your holiday brainstorming session,” you teased. “You knew what you were signing up for.”

“Fair point,” Alphys snorted, shaking her head. “Anyway, um, there’s also the trip,  I signed up for it this weekend. We’re supposed to go out to the countryside—y-you know, if the weather clears up. It’s mostly sightseeing, maybe a farmer’s market stop. I wasn’t sure if I’d go, b-but if you and Sans—and maybe Papyrus and Colette—want to come, I could probably get you all a spot in the van.”

Sans tilted his head, his grin widening. “Can’t say no to that. Fresh air, open skies... and Pappy in a confined van for hours. What could go wrong?”

“Plenty,” you quipped, smirking. “But hey, I’m in. Sounds like fun.”

Sans shot you a knowing look. “You sure you’re ready for Pap’s ‘Are We There Yet?’ speedrun? It’s a record-breaking performance.”

You rolled your eyes, grinning. “I’ll take my chances.”

Alphys chuckled nervously, adjusting her glasses as she glanced between the two of you. “W-well, I’ll let the organizer know tomorrow, and, uh, I’ll save you both some spots. I think it’ll be nice... you know, to get out of here for a bit.”

“Can’t argue with that,” Sans said, stretching his arms above his head. “Long as there’s a good place to nap, I’m good.”

You laughed and shook your head, leaning back against the pillows. “You’re gonna nap through the whole trip, aren’t you?”

“Pal, you say that like it’s not the plan,” Sans said with a wink, earning another laugh from Alphys.

For a moment, the three of you stood there in companionable silence. The soft hum of the lobby’s heater filled the air, blending with the muffled sounds of snow falling from the windowcill. Alphys shifted slightly, her nervous energy bubbling up again as she fiddled with the hem of her sweater.

“Hey,” she blurted, her voice quiet but sincere. “I, um... I just wanted to say thanks. For being here. I mean, you’ve only just started, but... you’re helping a lot of monster folks. It—it really means a lot.”

You blinked, taken aback by her earnest tone. “I haven’t really done anything yet,” you whispered with a sheepish smile, rubbing the back of your neck. “I’ve just been talking with them.”

“That’s exactly it,” Alphys said quickly, her face slightly flushed. “You’re talking to us. Listening. That... doesn’t happen as often as it should, and it makes a big difference. So, um, yeah. Thanks.”

The weight of her words settled over you, warm and reassuring. You gave her a small smile, nodding. “Well, thanks for saying that. I’m just glad I can help, even in a small way.”

Alphys’s expression softened, and she offered a shy smile before glancing toward the stairs. “I should probably head to my room. It’s been a long day, and tomorrow’s going to be even busier.”

“Yeah, you better get some rest,” agreeing, waving her off. “Can’t have you running on fumes when we’re planning this shin dig.”

Her laugh was quiet but genuine, and she gave you and Sans a little wave as she headed toward the stairs. “Good night, you two.”

“Night, Alphy,” Sans called after, giving her a lazy salute.

“Sleep well,” you added, watching as she disappeared down the stairwell.

“heh yeah,” he breathed, glancing at you from the corner of his socket. “snowdin’s version of the holidays was... somethin’ else. lots of snow, obviously, for the eternal snowfall an all. the whole town decked out in lights. everyone’d pitch in, even if their idea of decoratin’ was tossin’ a random sock on a tree sometimes, mostly me tho.”

You laughed. “Sounds like a real winter wonderland.”

Sans smirked. “oh, it was. nothin’ like seein’ a sentry post covered in tinsel or watchin’ a lesser dog try to bury a candy cane. and the caroling? trust me, you haven’t lived until you’ve heard a monster singin’ with three mouths at once.”

“That place sounds... kind of amazing,” you admitted, bumping his shoulder lightly with your own.

The hallway stretched on, quiet except for your footsteps, until he suddenly stopped and turned to you, his grin sharper now, teasing.

“it was,” he said, his voice softer now, almost nostalgic. “and maybe... if you’re lucky, i’ll show ya more of it sometime.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Lucky, huh? What do I have to do to earn that?”

Sans stopped suddenly, turning to face you with his hands still tucked into his pockets. His grin remained, but his gaze held yours with an intensity that sent a shiver down your spine. There was a blue dusting across his cheeks again. 

“Wait,” he continued, leaning slightly toward you, “how do ya feel about another little ‘field trip?’” There was something in his expression that had your eyes widened, his own pin lights searching yours,

You blinked. “What? Where too, and how much trouble are we gonna get into?.”

His grin widened, almost conspiratorial.

Sans chuckled, the low sound rolling through the quiet hall. “depends. how much trouble are yah lookin for?” His voice dipped suggestively, and the look in his sockets sent a flicker of warmth rushing to your cheeks.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you shot back, crossing your arms with mock suspicion. “You’re the one dragging me off to who-knows-where in the middle of the night. Should I be worried?”

“nah,” his grin widening. “you’re safe with me. promise. besides, if i was plannin’ anything sneaky, i’d have done it already.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t suppress a small laugh. “Comforting. Truly.”

Before you could respond, he motioned toward a shadowy corner of the hallway. The air around you seemed to hum faintly, the space ahead bending in a way that wasn’t quite natural.

“ready?” he asked, holding out a hand.

You hesitated for a moment before placing your hand in his. The warmth of his touch was suprising, smooth bone against skin, as your fingers laced through his own just before the world seemed to shift. With a playful tug, he led you forward, and the hotel-

Your breath left your chest.

The hallway disappeared.

And. 

So did you. 

Chapter Text

You had blinked out in an instant. One second, you were standing in the hotel hallway, the faint warmth of its firelight brushing your skin, the distant hum of conversation muffling the storm outside. Then, in a heartbeat, it was gone.

The air shifted violently—sharp and biting against your face, but somehow weightless. A rush of cold seemed to sweep in, curling around your body, pulling you through something you couldn’t see. You went to open-

“don’t open your eyes,” Sans murmured softly, his voice calm but with an undercurrent of something serious. His grip didn’t falter, and you clung to him, your free hand gripping the sleeve of his hoodie.

The space seemed alive around you, not just a space but a sensation. It wrapped itself in a tight coil, brushing past your skin like static, seeping into your senses. The smell hit you next—a sharp, chaotic mix of things you couldn’t place: damp earth, burning ozone, something ancient and metallic that lingered at the back of your throat. It made your nose sting, your lungs tighten, and your heart pound in a way that felt both unnatural and thrilling.

Your hair stood on end, every nerve alight as if the void itself were curious about you, brushing against you like an unseen tide. The sensation made your stomach churn, but Sans’s hand never let go.

Just as you stepped into the nothing,

It was something again.

The air shifted sharply, the biting cold giving way to something softer but still crisp. Your boots landed on snow with a faint crunch, the ground solid beneath you once more. Sans’s hand remained firmly around yours, and you felt his other arm steady you at your waist as though he’d expected the abruptness to leave you unsteady.

“we’re here,” his voice maintaining that level of quiet.

You opened your eyes hesitantly, blinking as the new scene unfurled. Snow blanketed the ground in every direction, its pristine surface glittering faintly under the soft, blueish glow of light filtering from nowhere and everywhere. Towering pines stretched into the darkness above, their frost-laden branches swaying faintly despite the air’s stillness. Massive canyon walls loomed around you, framing the scene in towering shadows that seemed to cradle the forest in their embrace.

What.

Sans’s arm lingered at your waist, steadying you as you found your footing. You could feel his hand warm even through the thick layers of your clothes, and for a moment, you almost forgot the jarring drop you’d just taken.

“Holy shit, Sans, you could’ve warned me about the landing,” you snapped, brushing your hair out of your face, feeling the bite of the cold as your breath curled into faint plumes in the crisp air.

“Eh,” he shrugged nonchalantly, his tone light but with the faintest trace of mischief. “Thought a little excitement’d wake ya up. Besides, I gotcha, didn’t I?”

You eased your grip on his sleeve, but his hand stayed firmly at your side, almost like a quiet reassurance you hadn’t realized you needed. “Yeah,” you muttered, feeling the tension in your shoulders begin to drain. “You sure got me.”

For a long moment, Sans didn’t say anything. Instead, his gaze lingered on your face—his eye sockets narrowing just a touch, and it wasn’t the usual playful or lazy expression you were getting used to. There was something else there, something unreadable, like he was looking at something more than just you.

He didn’t speak, but you noticed his gaze flicker down to the ground, then back to your face—this time, slower, almost deliberate. You didn’t know why it felt like the air had thickened, or why your chest suddenly felt tight. You blinked, confused, before following his line of sight.

You didn’t know why he was looking at you like that.

It was only a split second, but in that pause, something in the way he held himself shifted. His grin didn’t falter, but it was quieter, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. He cleared his throat. The moment passed as quickly as it came, but you couldn’t help but feel the lingering weight of it.

Sans motioned to the forest with a tilt of his head, his arm brushing against yours, but this time, there was a faint hesitation in his movement.

“Snowdin’s just over that way,” His voice was lower. “Figured I’d show ya the outskirts first. Quiet out here... kinda nice, huh?”

You nodded, still not entirely sure what had just happened. But you smiled, distracted by the vast quiet of the snow-covered landscape that stretched out before you. It was beautiful, peaceful in a way you hadn’t expected.

Taking a step forward, you were caught by the shimmer of your own awe, the way the snow sparkled under the low-hanging sky.

For a split second, you noticed Sans’s eye lights flicker again, were those stars? but this time it was almost as if he was looking at something through you. His cheeks dusted blue again, his eye sockets, relaxing, as if he was seeing something that you couldn’t, and before you could process it, he quickly shifted his attention to the snowy path ahead.

“What ever the hell you just did, you normally don't do, do you?” you asked, glancing at him.

The skeleton's  widening slightly, though his gaze remained on the trees ahead. “nah. shortcuts ain’t exactly a group activity. but you... you’re different.”

Different?

We can work with that.

Sans let out a soft sigh, stepping away from you the crunch of his boots breaking the quiet. He turned, his expression faintly lit by the soft glow of the cavern, and stretched his arms wide, his stance relaxed but purposeful.

“so,” he began, his voice low and even, yet carrying the weight of something profound, “welcome to the underground.”

Your gaze followed the motion of his arms as they extended outward, drawing your attention to the sheer vastness of the space around you. The cavern stretched on endlessly, its towering walls lined with jagged outcroppings of stone. Above, the ceiling was impossibly high, shrouded in shadow but dotted with faint, flickering points of light—glow bugs, their soft luminescence twinkling like distant stars. They moved in slow, lazy patterns, their faint glows creating shifting constellations in the darkness.

“see those up there?” Sans nodded toward the glimbering specs above you, far off, his grin softening into something more reflective. “they’re called lumibugs. always thought they were kinda neat, like stars got stuck underground with the rest of us.”

You hugged your arms around yourself, your fingers brushing against the fabric of your sweater as you took it all in. The snow underfoot seemed untouched, pristine and glittering faintly in the glow of the lumibugs above. The air here was crisp but not biting, carrying the faint, earthy smell of stone and moss.

“Pretty,” you admitted, your breath visible as it curled into the chill air. “But is this cause I mentioned how you took me through the courtyard last night? Shit, Sans could’ve at least warned me to dress for the weather.”

The skeleton let out a ‘pffff’ and waved you off before tucking his hands into his pockets. Spinning on a slippered heel, he turned his back to you. “c’mon, this ain’t so bad. besides, you’re the one who said ya did ask me if I ‘missed it’.” He tilted his head, his grin widening just slightly. “just figured i’d take ya literally.”

You snorted, shaking your head as you rubbed your hands together for warmth. “Right, because freezing my butt off is exactly what I had in mind when I said that. But glad to be the reason we hop skipped and jumped here.”

“hey, don’t be like that,” he replied, his tone light but teasing. “this is prime snowdin weather. crisp air, fresh snow, stars that don’t burn out... what more could ya want?”

“Maybe a bonfire,” you shot back, flashing him a smirk.

Sans chuckled, the sound low and warm despite the cold around you. He stepped closer, his shoulders slouched in that familiar, easygoing way as he nodded toward the forest ahead.

“guess i could make it up to ya,” he supposed, his tone almost conspiratorial.

Without a word, he pulled his jacket off and walked over to you. The soft fabric of it settled in his hands, its deep blue hue almost too warm for the frigid air. “Here,” A breath, “Put it on. You’ll die without it apparently.”

You hesitated, glancing at the jacket in his hands, the weight of the gesture almost too much to process. Sans seems like he wasn’t the type to offer comfort easily, yet here he was, standing before you with his jacket outstretched like a silent promise.

With a nod, and a rightful moment of sticking your tongue out at him, you held your arms out, and Sans carefully draped the jacket over your shoulders, his fingers brushing against your skin with a softness that was almost... unnatural. The warmth of his body lingered in the fabric, a stark contrast to the icy air.

He made sure it was settled properly, tugging the sleeves down, as if afraid to be too rough. Stepping back, he crossed his bone arms across his chest, a blue oversized tshirt, broad shoulders, a much wider rib cage now that you can see him. As he did, his voice slipped into that quiet, almost hypnotic cadence you hadn’t heard in a while.

“Y’know... when we first got outta the Barrier, it was a mess.” His tone was low, measured— like he was testing it out on his tongue. “Frisk... they stood up against everything to get us out. All the pressure, all the heat. Put up with our shit, broke down our trust issues, snapped us back to what mattered. They got to finally know us, and we got to know them. But. It was the world, ya know? The humans. They weren’t exactly thrilled about us comin’ back.”

You could feel the weight of his words, the heaviness in the air thickening as Sans spoke. His voice wrapped around you like a velvet ribbon, slow and deliberate, unhurried in a way that made every syllable land with weight.

“Frisk- fuck—they didn’t care. They did what they had to, what they promised to do. I guess... that’s what makes them different, huh?” Sans paused, his hands lingering on the jacket’s collar as he adjusted it just once more, his fingertips brushing against your skin. “Frisk doesn’t back down. Not for anyone.”

There was something in his eyes, something dark behind the faint blue shimmer, something that made your stomach churn with understanding. He wasn’t talking about Frisk alone. He was talking about himself, too. The way he had walked with them, step by step, through the thick of it all. The quiet battles, the silent promises. You could see it in the way his gaze softened and hardened in equal measure, the delicate pull of his posture, as if he were recalling the weight of old memories with a quiet reverence.

And then, just as slowly as he had started, Sans finished adjusting the jacket, straightening it against your body. His hands fell away, but his gaze lingered just a moment longer, as if weighing the unspoken between you.

“Better?” he asked, his grin returning, but this time it didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like something deeper, more intimate, bringing you here was more than a ‘hop skip and a jump’ you figured. 

Instead, you offered him a nod, pulling the jacket tighter around your shoulders, feeling the warmth seep through you like a lifeline.

“Yeah,” you said softly. “Much better. Thanks, Sans.”

He tilted his head, his grin widening slightly, but it wasn’t the usual sharpness you’d come to expect. There was something in it now, something almost... tender. Like a quiet promise, sealed in the softest of gestures.

And as he stepped back, his movements slow, deliberate as always, you could almost hear the echo of Frisk’s promise in the air between you. The ones they’d said in the heat of battle, under the weight of a thousand impossible choices: “I’ll do whatever it takes.”

Chapter Text

You didn’t know when you had fallen asleep.

One moment, you were listening to Sans’s voice—a lazy, gravelly rhythm that seemed to drift like smoke through the warm, cluttered cabin.

The next, you were aware of fleeting impressions: strong, careful hands gathering you up, the faint scrape of bone against fabric.

He held you like you weighed nothing, like it was second nature, and you vaguely remembered thinking that you should say something, do something—but the heaviness of sleep had already swallowed you whole.

There was a shortcut somewhere in the process. You didn’t recall much of it, only fractured glimpses: the sharp scent of sulfur clinging to the air, the surreal blur of passing through thick, warm fluid, the patterns bright against your closed eyelids, in a way that made your stomach dip and twist.

You thought of his grin—the way it always seemed effortless and yet carried a weight you couldn’t quite decipher—and felt a pang of disappointment you had no right to feel.

You weren’t supposed to be this drawn to someone, not like this.

Not so quickly.

This was supposed to be a job.

Not grab what you can only assume is feelings, especially for someone of another species, someone who—if you were being honest—you barely knew.

Yet here you were, clinging to the warmth of a memory as if it meant something more.

It wasn’t his fault, you thought.

It never was.

You’ve always been like this, haven’t you? All too ready to let someone into your heart, to pour yourself into them with reckless abandon.

It’s the curse of empathy, or maybe the price of it: this need to connect, to fill the spaces where your own loneliness seeps through the cracks. You’ve done it with clients before—gotten too close, let their stories carve out pieces of you until you weren’t sure where they ended and you began.

You’ve done it with friends, with projects, with strangers who smiled at you a little too kindly.

You give too much, expect too much, and every time it falls apart, you tell yourself you’ll be better. Stronger. Smarter. And yet here you are, sprawled in your hotel room, clutching at the fragile edges of something you can’t name, already imagining the shape of it breaking.

The light hits you first.

It slices through the expensive curtains, bouncing off the snow-covered ground outside and flooding the room in a sharp, unforgiving brightness. You groan, pulling the blanket over your head to block it out, but there’s no escaping the flood of memory now.

He’d carried you.

All the way back.

You remember the way he cradled you—careful, almost reverent, as if holding something fragile. The thought makes your stomach twist in knots, your face heating beneath the covers.

He must’ve known how it would affect you.

Or maybe he didn’t.

Maybe it was just who he was: Sans, the ever-lazy, ever-unbothered skeleton who always seemed to have one foot in that void metaphorically and the other barely touching the ground.

But then you think of the way he spoke of Toriel, and something else takes root.

Why were you thinking back to every interaction you could recall. Its only been 5 days.—how his tone softened whenever her name came up, the quiet warmth beneath his words. You hadn’t pressed, but you didn’t have to. He talked about her like she was the sun and he was standing in its orbit, basking in its light even as he kept his distance.

A one-sided crush, he’d called it.

You doubted that. There was something in the way he lingered on the thought, something more than admiration.

And yet, here you were, carrying your own stupid feelings like a badge of dishonor. You’d assumed too much, read too far into the way he looked at you, the way he stayed close, the way he spoke to you like you mattered.

You wanted to believe it was more than kindness.

You wanted to believe you mattered.

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to shove the thoughts away, but they keep rushing back, unrelenting. It wasn’t his fault. You were here for others issues, not your own right now. 

The sound of the bathroom door creaking open breaks through your haze. Colette is moving around now, the soft pad of her footsteps muffled by the carpet as she hums absently to herself. You try to focus on that, on the mundane normalcy of it.

But even as you pull the blanket tighter around you, shielding yourself from the light and the memories clawing at your mind, you can’t escape the truth: you’re too easy to know, too quick to please, and far too eager to hope.

Something hits you before your thoughts can spiral any further—a scent, faint but distinct, as your nose peeks past the blanket. It smells clean, sharp, like soap and jasmine. Colette’s voice follows, her casual teasing tone slicing through the quiet.

“Where did you go last night?” she asks, tossing another damp towel at your face. It lands with a wet flop, cold and startling against your skin. You peel it away, meeting her gaze as she leans in the bathroom doorway, arms crossed, her hair wrapped up in a turban of its own towel.

“I went out for a bit. Walked around,” you say, forcing a smile that feels just convincing enough to pass. She doesn’t look convinced, though.

“You didn’t come back before I went to sleep. What’d you get up to, huh? Secret rendezvous?” She winks, and her grin stretches wide, teasing, but warm. It’s the kind of teasing that should feel lighthearted but digs just a little too deep, needling you in ways you know she doesn’t mean to.

You chuckle softly, deflecting, trying to keep that thin, fragile layer of okayness intact. “Yeah, sure. Big date with some mysterious stranger.”

She laughs, but she doesn’t stop watching you as you drag yourself out of bed, your legs feeling heavy, your movements stiff. You grab some clothes from your duffle bag—nothing special, just something clean—and head for the bathroom. You need the hot water, the steam, something to drown out the thoughts still clawing at your mind.

Colette follows you. Of course she does.

She’s relentless that way—like an eager dog with a scent, sniffing out every crack in your armor. Before you can close the door, she ushers you inside, her bare feet padding against the tile as she grabs the lid of the toilet and sits down, completely at ease.

“Go on,” she says, gesturing toward the shower. “I can sit here and talk. You don’t get to brush me off that easy.”

You sigh but don’t argue. It’s Colette—there’s no point.  Her towel hangs loose around her, slipping just enough at the shoulder to show a line of sun-freckled skin. The woman opened up a jar of balm, scooping a glob of it up on her nails and over her tattoo's, the smell is heavenly. 

You, on the other hand, feel every inch of exposure as you undress. You keep your back to her, trying to hold on to some semblance of privacy as you peel off your shirt, unfurl your hair, and toss it all into a corner.

The cool air brushes against your skin, and your face burns—not from her presence, but from the absurdity of it all. She’s sitting there, staring at you like this is the most normal thing in the world, and you’re supposed to act like it is too.

The water rushes as you turn on the shower, steam curling up almost immediately. You step in, grateful for the curtain that shields you, even if it’s sheer enough to cast a hazy silhouette.

“Snowdin,” Colette says suddenly, and her voice has changed. It’s sharp now, louder, cutting through the rush of water. “He took you there, didn’t he?”

You freeze, hands in your hair, shampoo dripping down your wrists. Damn her you just got that bottle open.

“What?” you ask, trying to buy yourself time, but it’s useless.

“Sans,” she continues, her words almost accusatory. “You went down there, didn’t you? The Underground? He took you to Snowdin.”

She doesn’t wait for an answer. Her excitement builds, tumbling over itself in a rapid-fire rush of questions. “I knew it. I just knew it. Do you realize how insane that is? The monsters haven’t let anyone down there yet—not the suits, not the lab coats, nobody. But you? Of course you. Go on, gotta tell me everything. Right now.”

You hear the creak of the toilet lid and turn just in time to see her head poking through the bathroom curtain.

“Cole!” you yelp, your voice high, flustered, trying to shove the curtain closed again.

“What?” she says, grinning unapologetically. “I’m not gonna peek. I just wanna know!”

Your face feels like it’s on fire now, your hands fumbling to cover yourself even though the curtain does most of the job. You can’t believe her—no, actually, you can. This is exactly the kind of thing she’d do. She’s entirely shameless, utterly unbothered by boundaries most people wouldn’t dare cross.

But it’s more than that. It’s her presence, her persistence, the way she tears through your defenses like they were never there to begin with. It’s surreal, disarming, and maybe a little comforting—if only because it reminds you of the walls you keep putting up, the ones she keeps pulling down.

You lean your forehead against the tile, letting the hot water run over you, and sigh. “Fine,” you mutter. “just- give me a minute."

You step out of the shower, steam curling around you in thick waves. The hotel bathroom is small, but the mirror still manages to catch your reflection—flushed from the heat, hair damp, eyes a little tired. Colette is right there, waiting, as if she never left. Her back is next to the lightswitch, a tooth brush between her teeth.

Cole swishes for a sec, spitting into the sink, leaning across the counter for very new things that she had placed out while you were washing. 

She hands you a bottle of lotion first, then a few small jars of powders and perfumes she brought with her. “Here, use this one. It smells like vanilla and honey. Pairs well with how sweet you get about things.”

You roll your eyes but take it anyway, squeezing some onto your hands as she shifts toward the bathroom door. She gives you the illusion of privacy, but she’s still talking, still listening, still there.

“So, Snowdin,” she prompts, facing away from you, “What’s it like?”

You rub the lotion into your skin, taking a moment to answer. “It’s… quiet. Cold, obviously, but not in a bad way. There are Christmas lights on most of the houses. The snow’s thick but soft. There’s this frozen pond where a pile of living snowmen just… exist, like it’s completely normal. And Sans’s house—his and Papyrus’s—it’s this big log cabin with a mailbox almost buried in snow. He just wiped it off like it was routine.”

Colette hums, intrigued but patient. “Sounds kind of homey.”

“It was.” You say it before you can stop yourself, before you can add a disclaimer, not that it matters.

And of course, she catches onto that, her voice sharpening with curiosity. “And him?”

You sigh.

You should’ve known this was coming. You pull a towel over your shoulders, staring at the tiled floor like it holds an escape route.

“What about him?”

“Oh, please,” she scoffs. “You’re acting weird about bone boy. I can hear it. When did that start? Did you tell him yet?”

“No,” you cut her off, maybe too quickly. You rub your arms, the lotion sinking into your skin, feeling too much like a barrier you didn’t put up soon enough. “He’s not interested.”

The goth woman doesn’t miss a beat. “It’s Toriel, isn’t it?”

Her words hit like a slap made of inevitability.

You stiffen. It shouldn’t bother you this much—shouldn’t, shouldn’t, shouldn’t—but it does.

She assumed. Just like you did.

You exhale, slow and steady, and force yourself to keep your voice light. “She’s important to him.”

“Mm.” Colette doesn’t push, but she doesn’t back down, either. “And that’s what you’re telling yourself?”

You shake your head, pressing your fingers against your temples. “It doesn’t matter, Colette.”

“I think it does,” she says, quieter this time, the teasing edge softening into something more careful. “I think you let it matter, even if you don’t want to.”

You hear Colette moving before she says anything, stepping toward the closet where you haphazardly unpacked yesterday. You’re still toweling off, hair dripping onto your shoulders, when she calls out, “What do you wanna wear?”

You sigh, half-expecting her to pick something ridiculous. “I don't care, anything.”

“EHH wrong answer girlie,” she shoots back immediately. “Come on, at least be cute about it.”

You roll your eyes, but start listing things off anyway. “Fine. The black turtleneck. That pleated skirt. The fleece tights.”

“Good, good. What about accessories?” You can hear her shuffling through hangers and drawers now, her enthusiasm almost contagious.

“The red cardigan.”

“Oh, I like that. It’s giving ‘soft but cozy vibes, beat off those emotions,’” she teases, throwing the pieces onto the bed. “Any jewelry?”

“The crystal pendant.”

She whistles, looking down at the design. “Girl this is gorgeous, why have you had this beauty tucked away?”

You don’t answer, but she doesn’t need you to. When you step out of the bathroom, still toweling your hair, you find her sitting cross-legged on the bed, her hands in her lap pressing down her towel over herself, your outfit neatly laid out.

She’s watching you with an expression that isn’t teasing anymore—it’s softer, like she’s weighing what she wants to say next.

And then, instead of giving you grief, she says, “I get it, you know.”

You pause mid-motion, rubbing your hair dry. “What?”

“The whole… liking someone, letting it get ahead of you, and then realizing there was never a chance,” she says. “I really get it.”

You sit down on the edge of the bed, waiting. 

She leans back on her palms, staring at the ceiling. “I was in love with my best friend for five years,” she starts, her voice slipping into something distant.

“Everybody in our small town thought we were already together, like it was just a given we’d get married someday. And honestly? I believed them. We went on ‘dates,’ took trips together—I mean, everything pointed to us being a couple, except for the part where we actually made it official.”

She huffs a short laugh. “But we were raised in very religious households, so the fact that we weren’t having sex? Didn’t even faze me. I just thought, y’know, we were waiting. It made sense.”

You nod slowly, watching her expression shift—not sad, exactly, but reflective, like she’s peeling back something that’s been buried for a while.

“And then,” she says, exhaling hard, “we were packing for college one day, just sitting on my bed, smoking, passing a roach back and forth. And out of nowhere, he just—he just says it. ‘I’m not heterosexual.’”

Your heart clenches for her.

“I was the first person he ever came out to,” she continues, voice quieter now. “And I was honored, you know? That he trusted me that much. But at the same time, I was just… reeling. Like, five years of loving him, five years of thinking we were a given, and there was never a chance. Never even the possibility of it.”

She shakes her head, offering you a wry smile. “So, yeah. I get it. And I get how stupidly hard it is to stop loving someone in that way and just love them.”

“Did you ever?”

She tilts her head, considering. “Yeah,” she says finally. “But it took a while. I had to mourn it first, y’know? Like, I let myself be sad, let myself feel all of it. But then, one day, I just… I didn’t feel that ache anymore. And he’s still in my life, still one of my favorite people. It’s just different now.”

You swallow, nodding, but your chest feels heavy.

Colette studies you, then nudges your knee with her foot. “You don’t have to rush to feel better, but don’t let this ruin you, either.”

You pull the turtleneck over your head, the fabric clinging just enough to be comforting. The skirt follows, the fleece tights smoothing out against your legs as you adjust the waistband.

The woman before you rises to her feet, crossing the room and as you fixed the hem of your sleeves she casually drops her towel and starts rifling through her bag.

You avert your gaze—not because she expects you to, but because Colette is so ridiculously comfortable in her skin. Not even remotely shy about nudity it seems with how this morning has gone, not worried about who sees her bare back, her scars, the inked lines tracing down her spine. The lack of shame is almost admirable.

You study them for a moment. 

Still, you focus on finishing your own outfit, pulling on the leg warmers while she mutters to herself, debating what to wear.

“Something warm,” she muses. “But not, like, ugly warm.”

You hear the rustle of fabric, then a decisive hum. When you glance up, she’s pulling on a fitted, long-sleeve crop top in deep charcoal, the sleeves a little too long for her arms.

She pairs it with high-waisted black jeans, slightly ripped at the knees, and an oversized hoodie she leaves unzipped. The creak of the bed returns as Cole plops down on the covers.

As you sit down beside her, she holds out a handful of rings—delicate silver bands, chunkier black pieces, even one with an intricate serpent design coiling around itself.  “Try some,” she says, spreading them across her palm.

You pick one up, rolling it between your fingers before slipping it onto your index finger. It’s a little loose, so you try another, a thinner silver band that fits snugly on your ring finger.

“Not bad,” Colette muses, watching as you test a few more. “You a silver or gold person?”

You tilt your hand, considering. “I think I like both.”

“Good answer,” she grins, stretching out her fingers to show off her own mismatched collection. “Commitment to just one is boring.”

You smirk, watching the way the light catches on the different metals. A moment passes, warm and quiet, before you glance at her sideways. “How did you know?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Know what?”

You give her a look.

She snorts. “Oh, that. I’ve had a hunch. You get this look when he's in the room—it’s different than when you talk to clients. A little softer, a little more invested.” She leans in slightly, smirking. “And then there’s the whole way you talked about him. Like you were trying so hard to be casual, but every time you said his name, it was like you were testing the weight of it in your mouth.”

You groan, covering your face with your hands. “I wasn’t that obvious.”

“Oh, you so were.” She laughs, nudging your shoulder. “Not to mention, you keep bringing him up. ‘Sans said this, Sans did that.’ Babe, you’re not subtle.”

You shoot her a flat stare, but there’s no heat behind it. She just hums knowingly, stretching her legs out and crossing them at the ankles.

After a beat, she picks up another ring, turning it between her fingers. “You ever get your nails done?”

You blink at the sudden topic change. “Not really.”

She nods, like she expected that. “I do. Helps get my mind off shit. Feels nice, too, just sittin’ there, letting someone else make you look good.” She smirks, wiggling her fingers. “I’ve got a bunch of press-ons if you ever wanna try. Let you pick a set later if you want.”

You arch an eyebrow. “What, let me guess—every set is black?”

The grin that spreads across her face is almost cat like, “Black and variations of black.”

“What does that even mean?”

She starts counting on her fingers. “Matte black, glossy black, coffin tips, almond, metallic, black with a hint of deep red—”

You shake your head, laughing. “Alright, alright, I get it.”

A shrug from her, leaning back on her hands. “Point is, sometimes you just gotta do little things to make yourself feel good. Even if it’s dumb, even if it doesn’t change anything—it helps.”

You nod slowly, letting that settle. It’s nice, this—just sitting here, trying on rings, talking about nothing and everything at the same time. The weight in your chest doesn’t feel quite as heavy anymore.

Colette bumps her knee against yours. “You ready to go?”

There's a breath. Practiced, even and letting it out slowly. “Yeah.”

She nods, standing up and stretching. “Alright then, heartbreak queen. Let’s get this show on the road.”

The scent of cinnamon-scented lobby candles clings to the air as you and Colette descend the hotel stairs, your boots echoing lightly against the worn wooden steps. The banister is cool beneath your fingers, dusted with a fine layer of frost from where someone had likely come in from the cold and absently rested their gloves there.

You both step into the main hall, and immediately, the murmur of voices catches your attention. You both follow it down to your work hall, peeking around the corner your eyes widen.

A line has already formed outside your makeshift office, a scattered cluster of monsters waiting with hunched shoulders and shifting feet, their breath fogging in the crisp air. The realization dawns quickly—word must have spread, and now, there’s a last-minute rush of those hoping to be seen before your trip tonight.

Colette exhales a dramatic sigh beside you, rolling her shoulders back like she’s psyching herself up for a battle. "Well, looks like we’re popular."

Your gaze flickers past the queue, landing on the guards near the entrance to one of the side doors, their uniforms slightly more relaxed than usual. The last rotation for the weekend is underway, meaning some of them will be heading home for the holiday. A few nod in your direction as they prepare to leave, and you make a mental note of who remains on duty.

Stepping back, you take a deep breath readying yourself-

Just as you and Colette are about to weave past the waiting monsters and slip into your office, a voice calls out over the low murmur of conversation.

“Oi. You two want something warm or what?”

You turn, catching sight of a coffee cart that definitely wasn’t there a minute ago. The wheels are slightly askew, like it’s been dragged in from the dining hall in a hurry.

Steam curls from the open spout of a metal dispenser, carrying the sharp scent of bitter coffee and something vaguely nutty.

Behind the cart stands a lanky, feline-faced monster, his fur a dull, tired shade of beige. He squints at you both through half-lidded, unimpressed eyes, his ears barely twitching as he lifts a stack of flimsy paper cups.

Colette, never one to turn down free coffee, strides forward without hesitation. “Bless your heart,” she says, leaning an elbow on the cart’s edge. “I was just thinking about how I needed to caffeinate before throwing myself into the masses.”

The cat monster snorts, unscrewing the cap on the dispenser and letting dark liquid trickle into a cup. “Yeah, well. You’d think working hospitality would make me hate people, but turns out, I never liked them to begin with.”

He hands her the cup without so much as a glance, then shifts his tired gaze to you. “You?”

You nod, watching as he pours another drink with the same sluggish efficiency, like he’s been doing this all morning and is already over it. The exhaustion clings to him like a second skin—his fur is a little ruffled, his sweater slightly stretched at the sleeves, as if he’s been tugging at them out of habit.

“Long morning?” you ask as you take the cup, the warmth bleeding into your fingers.

He lets out a low, humorless chuckle. “Try long life.”

Colette snickers, blowing over the rim of her coffee before taking a careful sip. “You, uh… got a name?”

The cat monster flicks his tail once, slow and deliberate. “Nope.”

She lifts a brow, glancing at you. You just shrug. Fair enough.

“So,” she presses, taking another sip. “You here out of the kindness of your heart, or is this part of your job?”

“Kindness?” He lets out a wheezy, almost-laugh, shaking his head. “Kid, I work food service. I got no kindness left.”

He waves a hand vaguely toward the waiting line. “Boss figured people would want something warm while standing around, so here I am. And since you two look like you’re about to throw yourselves into hell, I figured I’d be nice and give you a head start.”

You hum, tasting your drink—it’s strong, slightly burnt, but not bad.

“Well, appreciate the head start,” you say, lifting the cup in a small toast.

He grumbles something under his breath, already turning away to restack some Styrofoam cups. You and Colette exchange a look, waving him a goodbye, then going to weave past the waiting monsters, you slow your steps, taking a moment to acknowledge them. They’re all different shapes, different sizes—each one a story, a life, bundled up in scarves and coats against the chill of the hall.

At the front of the line stands a tall, willowy monster with skin like translucent jelly, their form shifting slightly as they adjust their coat.

Beside them, a much shorter, rounder fern like monster leans against their arm, looking up at you both with bright, expectant eyes? No- stalks. Don't stare. 

“Oh, don’t mind us,” the shorter one chirps. “We’re just hoping to catch you before your trip. Didn’t think we’d have to race half the town to get in line first!”

Colette smirk saving you, tilting her coffee cup toward them. “Yeah, you guys got here early, huh?”

The jelly-like monster chuckles, their voice gentle. “Of course. Heard ya'll are closing up shop for a few days to get settled during the holidays, wanted to come by and see what the fuss was about."

You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, a warm, creaky voice pipes up from further back in the line.

“Dear, is it true you’re heading out on the van trip this evening?”

You turn to see an elderly, moth-like monster wrapped in a knitted shawl, her antennae twitching as she peers at you with large, glassy eyes. Her fur is speckled with age, her many hands tucked into the folds of her garment for warmth.

“That’s the plan,” you tell her.

She nods, satisfied. “Then I won’t keep you long. I only brought you something for the road.” One of her smaller hands emerges, holding out a small bundle wrapped in cloth. “A few extra mittens, you humans have such soft skin, and need to keep warm out there.”

Your chest tightens at the gesture. “Oh, ma’am, you didn’t have to—”

“Pssh. Nonsense.” She waves one of her hands dismissively. “You’ll take it, and if they are not to your liking please keep them passed to another and that’s that.”

You grin, accepting the bundle with a small bow of your head. “Thank you. Really.”

Behind her, another voice chimes in—a heavily pregnant reptilian monster, her wide tail curled around her feet as she shifts uncomfortably. “Okay, not to be rude, but if we’re doing gifts, does anyone have a spare lower back? Mine is killing me.”

The moth monster clicks her mandibles sympathetically. Colette whistles low. “Whew, you look about ready to pop.”

The expecting mother sighs dramatically, rubbing at her belly. “If only. These eggs are making me wait. Figures.”

A laugh leaves you, then glance toward the back of the line where some monsters are shifting on their feet, growing antsy from waiting. An idea sparks, and before you and Colette move on, you raise your voice just enough to carry across the hall.

“Hey, by the way, there’s fresh coffee right over there. If anyone’s cold, I’d go grab a cup while you wait. The guy working the cart is super friendly.”

Biting your lip, you peek over toward the grumpy cat man, watching as his ears flick at your words. His tail bristles slightly, and his head lifts just enough to give you a deadpan glare that could probably curdle milk.

You beam at him.

His expression does not change. If anything, he looks even more pissed off.

Colette, already seeing where this is going, slaps a hand over her mouth to keep from laughing as a few monsters at the back of the line start hesitantly shuffling toward the cart. The cat monster straightens, narrowing his eyes as if he’s about to argue, but by then, it’s too late. He’s got customers. He did say his boss wanted him to go around.

You wink at him, turning heel.

As you push open the door to your office, expecting the usual quiet, you’re instead met with a flurry of color—garlands of tinsel haphazardly strung across the ceiling, paper birds taped to the walls in uneven rows, and candy canes cut from paper plates, their marker-drawn stripes slightly smudged.

And then—movement.

Perched precariously atop the head of a small, yellow, ridiculously long sleeved monster boy, Frisk’s eyes go wide as you step inside.

There’s a single frozen beat of realization.

Then, in a panicked attempt to turn around, the monster kid lets out a startled "Oh crap—!" before immediately toppling over.

Frisk, unprepared for the sudden loss of balance, lets out a silent gasp as they pitch forward, arms flailing. The two hit the ground in a heap of oversized sweater fabric and tangled limbs, a puff of stray tinsel bursting into the air around them like a misplaced holiday explosion.

Colette snorts beside you.

You barely manage to drop your bag before rushing forward. "Oh, jeez—are you guys okay?"

Colette is right behind you, crouching down to help untangle the mess. Frisk sits up first, rubbing their head, while the little monster kid wriggles in an effort to get back on their feet.

"That was not my fault," the kid declares, despite very obviously being the one who fell first.

Frisk, dusting themselves off, gives them a pointed look.

The monster kid groans dramatically before blinking up at you and Colette. "Uh—hi! I’m MK!" They puff up slightly, despite being flat on their back. "I was totally just, uh… doing a surprise acrobatic trick! Y'know, to go with the other surprises. Hah."

Colette raises an eyebrow. "Right. And did the floor request to be part of the act?"

MK huffs but doesn't deny it. You reach out, offering them a hand before realizing—oh. No arms. Shit- You quickly pivot, instead steadying them as they awkwardly roll forward onto their feet.

"Thanks!" MK chirps, bouncing a little once upright again. "And, uh—surprise! We decorated your office!"

Frisk, standing beside them, nods enthusiastically and gestures. MK translates with barely contained excitement. "Frisk’s idea! We wanted to make it all nice before you guys got here!"

You blink, taking in the space properly now.

Garlands drape clumsily across the bookshelves, a little uneven but clearly placed with care. Paper snowflakes, each one cut with different, tiny imperfections, flutter lightly from where they’ve been taped across the ceiling. A pile of unopened Amazon boxes sits just inside the door—ones you and Colette must’ve stepped right over, the tape peeled back on some to reveal rolls of tinsel, more lights, and a stray bag of plastic ornaments.

MK notices your gaze and beams. "Oh! Those are the ones Alphys had the higher-ups order! They overnighted them so we could get everything done before the weekend!"

Oh.

Oh, that’s sweet.

There’s warmth in your chest, something small and unexpected, curling soft beneath your ribs.

"Get to know Frisk more." Sans had said last night.

The warmth fizzles, if only for a breath. A fleeting ache that tries to settle in your bones—but you don’t let it. Instead, you refocus, smoothing the hurt into something softer, something quieter. You smile at the two kids standing before you, their eyes bright with expectation.

Colette hums, crossing her arms as she surveys the room. "So, what, you guys decorating the whole hotel next?"

MK grins, eyes alight with mischief. "Heck yeah! Just gotta make sure we don’t fall off anything first."

Frisk elbows them, shaking their head with a knowing little smirk.

You exhale, shaking your head, but there’s no real reprimand in it. Just the tug of a smile, gentle and easy. The morning had started heavy, weighed down by too many thoughts, too many tangled feelings.

But here, in this small, over-decorated office, with these two kids who just wanted to bring a little light into the space—

It does feels lighter.

Like something worth holding onto.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.

Chapter Text

There’s cold, and then there’s ‘why did I come here’ cold.

The kind of cold that gnaws its way into your coat no matter how many layers you put on. The kind of cold that creeps into the seams of your boots and bites at your fingers when you fumble with your scarf. There’s no snow today, just the kind of sharp, bitter wind that feels personal, like nature itself is asking, Why did you even leave the building?

And honestly? Great question.

Colette walks beside you, shoulders hunched against the wind, the last coffee of the day she swore, clutched between her gloved hands. Her boots crunch against the pavement as you both approach the roundabout in front of the hotel, where the van is already idling, exhaust curling into the early morning air. There’s movement near the entrance—monsters gathering inside behind shrouded windows, luggage being loaded, last-minute plans being checked off. The guards waving them out. 

And then, there’s the reminder.

Across the street, past the open sidewalk where normalcy still stubbornly exists—commuters with their heads down ushered forward by military stationed men, bundled-up figures rushing into shops to escape the wind—there’s a line of DO NOT CROSS tape, fluorescent yellow and impossible to ignore. The barriers are still up. A quiet, physical divide between here and there. Between them and us.

When had that become the mindset there bud?

You tear your eyes away from it.

Alphys finds you before you and Colette even make it to the van. She’s hunched over a clipboard, shuffling through pages with practiced efficiency, her bags strapped across her shoulder, already halfway in travel mode. But it’s her outfit that actually makes you pause.

Alphys looks good.

She’s wrapped in a thick cream-colored cardigan that almost swallows her, the sleeves pushed up just enough to reveal a mustard-yellow turtleneck underneath. A deep maroon scarf is tucked neatly around her neck, and her arched clawed heels are bunded at the ankles in leg warmers, cute fluffy— But it’s her hands that catch your attention most.

Her dewclaws are painted. A soft, dusty red.

It’s such a small thing, but something about it makes you want to smile.

“Morning,” Alphys mutters, flipping a page and checking something off before looking up at you and Colette. “You guys packed?”

“Emotionally? No,” Colette deadpans. “Physically? Barely.”

You gesture vaguely to your bag, which—while stuffed with enough layers to survive the inevitable subzero temperatures portion of today’s adventure—feels woefully unprepared for whatever is actually about to happen.

Alphys smile is sheepish, rubbing her temple with the end of her pen. “It’s just a weekend trip, you’ll live promise.”

“No promises,” Colette says, before tipping her head toward Alphys with an approving nod. “By the way, you’re killing it with that fit, doc.”

Alphys blinks, caught off guard, before looking down at herself like she forgot she had a body. “Oh. Uh. Thanks?” A pause. “Undyne picked it out when we facetimed.”

“That explains why you look like you belong in a cozy autumn fashion ad,” you say, grinning.

Alphys makes a flustered noise, ears twitching as she quickly turns her attention back to the clipboard, muttering something about checking the van’s inventory. But there’s the smallest, tiniest flicker of a smile before she does.

Colette nudges you. “Alright, who all’s coming on this possibly disaster trip?”

Alphys, back to business mode, skims the list. “Let’s see… You two, obviously. Papyrus is—well, he’s already packed in this one with snacks, so, yeah. Frisk and MK are coming, but they’re riding in the other van. There’s some of the guard rotation, a few other monsters who signed up last minute…”

She pauses for some reason. Her eyes skim the page and flicker up to you. 

And you already know.

“…Sans,” you finish for her.

Alphys clears her throat, checking something off again. “Sans.”

Colette's frown is stretching beyond the rim of her coffee cup. 

You don’t react. You refuse to react.

Your fingers tighten slightly around the strap of your bag, and you breathe in the freezing air, letting it settle in your chest. You had that whole conversation with Sans last night. Or, well. Something close enough to one. And now, you’re going to be in a van together. All day. Great.

What a reminder. 

“Well,” Colette says, clapping her hands together. “This just got way more interesting.”

The van is already running, heat blasting through the vents in a steady hum. It’s one of those large passenger ones, the kind meant for long road trips or church outings or… whatever this is going to be.  Someone said ruins trip?

Papyrus, bless him, is treating this like a tactical mission. He’s positioned himself at the back of the van on the floor, supervising the luggage and making sure every single bag is arranged for maximum space efficiency. Which would be great—except that his version of efficiency involves questioning the integrity of everyone else’s packing skills.

“WHO PACKS A BAG LIKE THIS?” he exclaims, holding up a duffel that looks, admittedly, like a disaster. Theres towels poking out, a few untucked shirts, a toothbrush-“THIS IS AN ABOMINATION! A MONSTROSITY OF LUGGAGE!”

Oh- its-

“That’s mine,” Colette deadpans.

Papyrus immediately shifts tactics. “OH! WELL, THEN IT’S A VERY CHARMING MONSTROSITY!”

Colette grins. “Nice save, dude.”

Alphys, meanwhile, is doing what Alphys does best—hovering between responsible and deeply stressed. Standing outside the passenger door in the front, one hand on the handle and the other going through her phone. She’s triple-checking the checklist she swore she was not going to obsess over, but here she is, ticking boxes and muttering to herself as she paces.

“First aid kit, extra blankets, water bottles…” Her eyes flick up from the clipboard. “Wait, did someone grab the emergency snacks?”

Papyrus’ head jerks up so fast you swear you hear his vertebrae rattle. “I VOLUNTEERED FOR SNACK DUTY, ALPHYS!”

She sighs in relief. “Oh. Good.”

He gestures to the tote bag sitting by his feet, stuffed to the brim. “WE HAVE FRUIT SNACKS, PRETZELS, GRANOLA BARS, SEVERAL VARIETIES OF CHIPS, AND—” He lowers his voice like he’s revealing state secrets. “—CAPRI SUNS.”

“Oh my god,” you murmur, staring at him. “You’re a hero.”

Papyrus puffs out his chest. “A ROAD TRIP REQUIRES THE FINEST OF NOURISHMENTS.”

Alphys slides in after, closing the front door, still balancing her clipboard against her knee. 

You climb in last, settling in beside Colette, rolling your shoulders under your coat.

Papyrus immediately starts offering snacks. Alphys waves him off, her claws tapping against her phone screen, mumbling something about headcounts.

Colette, watching her, rests an elbow on the seat and says, casual as anything, “So. You ready for this?”

Alphys blinks. “Huh?”

“This whole nature thing,” Colette clarifies, pulling off her gloves. “It’s kind of a commitment. The great outdoors. Fresh air. Possible Hiking. Communing with squirrels.”

Alphys snorts. “Oh. Uh. Yeah, I mean—I go out with Undyne sometimes.” A pause. “Not that I, um. Keep up with Undyne.”

“Few do I hear.”

Alphys huffs a quiet laugh and glances down, adjusting her scarf.

Colette, satisfied, leans back against the seat. It’s a small thing—just a moment, just kindness—but you can see the way Alphys relaxes slightly, the tension in her shoulders easing.

Outside, the wind still howls, and more monsters pile into the other van, you could hear them chattering, settling in. You lean over and watch as the back row fills up, someone starts arguing about aux cord privileges, and MK, wait MK?! Unexpectedly, made his entrance in the most chaotic way possible. One second, he was getting into the other van. You were watching as he was hoisted up around the middle. He had wiggled out of the guards grasp and all but scrambled across the roundabout.  The next, his head popped up through the gap between the front seats of yours like a jack-in-the-box, legs flailing for purchase. He had nearly launched himself straight into your lap, eyes wide with the manic energy of someone who absolutely did not think this through.

"Whoops—! Hold on—!" He flailed, almost taking your bag down with him. You gaped for a second before lunging forward, half-strangled by your seatbelt as you grabbed his hoodie and yanked him into balance.

Behind him, Frisk moves with far more grace, a practiced quiet that contrasts MK’s goggle covered eyes, misting up with his heavy breaths. They slip into the van as if they’d been part of the group all along, their expression relaxed. Before anyone can question it, they sign something quick and fluid to Colette, whose eyes flicker with amusement before she turns to translate for you.

“They want to lead the charge apparently,” she relays with a small smirk, tilting her head as Frisk takes their opportunity to scramble forward—directly into your lap.

The weight of them is sudden, warm, but not unwelcome, their own hoodie slightly chilled from the outside air. You huff in surprise, but before you can protest, Frisk is already settling in, tucking themselves in like this was their rightful spot.

MK, meanwhile, is still recovering from his near-wipeout, but his energy never falters. With a grand, exaggerated sigh of relief, he flings himself backward into the open floor beside Papyrus, who instinctively catches him and bundles the small toddler between his crisscrossed legs. 

“Okay, okay, I made it,” MK announces, lifting his head just enough to flash a grin at the rest of you. “Now let’s do this! We’re totally the cool van, right?”

That's so right. 

And then.

The last one in.

Sans steps into the van like he didn’t just keep everyone waiting.

He’s in a extra large grey jacket, sweat pants and his slippers replaced for sneakers, expression unreadable. A little slouched, a little tired, like maybe he just rolled out of bed.

(He probably did.)

He stops for a second, just inside the van, foot halfway in, letting his gaze flicker across the interior.

His eyes settle on you. They widen.

It’s brief. A fraction of a second. But something about it makes your pulse stutter, makes your fingers twitch against Frisks side,

“Had to check on somethin’,” Sans says, finally, as if that explains his lateness. As if that explains anything.

Papyrus, entirely unfazed, huff, his face peeking between the backseats, his chin on one of the arm rests, “BROTHER! YOU HAVE SINGLE-HANDEDLY DELAYED OUR DEPARTURE.”

Sans shrugs. “Nah. Pretty sure it was more of a group effort.”

Papyrus crosses his arms over MK, unconvinced.

Then, without missing a step, without even giving you a second to process, he leans in. Just slightly. Just enough. Close enough that his voice comes low, quiet, just for you.

"y’know," he murmurs, like it’s an afterthought, like he’s not setting your nerves on fire, "if you wanted me next to ya that bad, you coulda just asked."

Your throat goes dry.

The nerve—

No. The audacity.

Your head turns, just enough to meet his gaze, and—yeah. He’s got that look. That half-lidded, knowing look that lingers just a second too long, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. Like he’s enjoying this.

Like last night didn’t even happen.

Like he didn’t sit with you, alone, in his house, in a world unfurling under your own, and tell you, quiet and honest, about her. About Toriel. About how much he—

No. Not now.

And yet, here he is, back to this, back to you. Back to flirting like nothing’s changed, like he doesn’t realize he’s pulling you apart at the seams.

Fucking jerk.

Frisk shifts slightly in your lap, and for the first time, something in Sans softens. Just a fraction. The way a father might look at their own kid, something old and worn and gentle. He checks on them, careful, like this is familiar ground. Like he’s been here before. And maybe, in a way, he has.

Colette, sitting on your other side, is too aware of the moment. You don’t have to look to know she’s already making a face, one that says she’s about to say something. You jab her knee before she can, a silent plea to just let it go.

She does. Barely.

And then—salvation.

The engine hums. The van rumbles to life.

And just like that, you’re on the road.

And just like that, you’re trapped in here.

With him.

There’s a thing that happens when you’re in close quarters with someone you’re not supposed to be thinking about.

Your brain becomes a traitor.

A desperate, grasping, backstabbing little thing, scrambling for anything, anything to latch onto that isn’t them.

Which is why you’re hyper-focused on the game of Magic: The Gathering happening right now as Sans taps away on his phone, it's side ways and he has it propped up so you can watch-not watch as you called it. 

You barely know the rules. But you know enough to know that Sans has absolutely been hustling the poor opponent on the other side of the screen.

He’s got at least nineteen tokens on the table. That is too many. There is no reason for there to be that many. The other player—a newbie apparently, their chatlog is long since shown signs of distress—

“eh.” Sans lazily flicks another card down, his grin all teeth. “kinda do.”

EZGoing: “You have one swamp.” 

BoneDaddy: “and, uh. nineteen zombies, pal.”

The other player does not make a move, its been their turn for 10 minutes almost. 

EZGoing:“…I hate this game.”

“nah, you just hate losin’,” Sans says aloud, smug, and the other player plays another land before the turn passes back to Sans. He laughs.

You are not going to laugh with him.

You are not going to let your brain wander.

You are not going to let yourself focus on how close he is, how his knee keeps almost knocking against yours whenever the van hits a bump, how the warmth of his body is a subtle thing, not quite touching but there.

Nope.

You are calm.

You are collected.

You are ignoring him.

And then the radio crackles on.

“Alright, listen up,” comes the voice of the guard in the front seat, a big guy named Slate who somehow looks like he's a straight up lumberjack. He's got a beanie on, a massive beard, his jacket is stuffed into a pair of overalls. “Convoy’s are an hour out. National park, no skiing—too dangerous. Reserved a ski lodge for the night, though.”

Papyrus gasps dramatically. “A LODGE?”

“A ski lodge,” Alphys corrects, smiling, she's turned to look at you all. 

Papyrus nods, entirely serious. “PERFECT. I SHALL THRIVE IN SUCH CONDITIONS.”

Alphys does not look convinced.

“You’ll all get a chance to visit the Ruins, too,” Slate continues, not missing a beat. “There’s a historical tour. You’ll learn about the area, about the, uh… incident.”

He says it with just enough gravity to make the mood shift.

Because yeah. Everyone knows what happened at Mount Ebott.

Everyone knows why the barrier was there.

Everyone knows why, now, it’s gone.

Frisk's little body curls further in on themselves.

For a moment, the van feels a little heavier.

Papyrus, ever the mood-lifter, claps his hands together. “HISTORICAL TOURS! KNOWLEDGE! THIS IS SHAPING UP TO BE QUITE THE EXPERIENCE.”

The rookie, still recovering from the Magic game, groans.

Colette leans toward you, murmuring, “God, I hope they let us drink in this place.”

Alphys huffs a laugh. “Legally, uh. P-probably not.”

“Tragic,” Colette sighs.

The van rumbles forward, rolling down the long stretch of road leading out of the city.

Outside, the streets blur past—gray and muted, a winter cold that sinks into the bones. No snow today, but the sky hangs low, heavy with the promise of it.

You glance outside. Passing by townhouses built into the mountain side, waterways under some bridges, a few public eating areas and the public being generally more-the farther you get away from the hotel-

The world on the other side almost looks normal.

A couple passes by, bundled in scarves, talking softly to each other. A kid runs ahead, their breath puffing white in the air.

For a second, it’s like nothing ever happened.

For a second, it’s like the past doesn’t sit heavy over this place, like the weight of history doesn’t press into every corner of it.

Bleeding out from the underground like a perforated wound, one that the very king and queen of their kind is trying to stitch close and salvage across the country. 

You exhale, turning back toward the van’s interior, toward the heat, the chatter, the now.

And—

Oh.

Sans is watching you.

You freeze, caught.

There’s something unreadable in his expression. Something quiet, something thoughtful. Something that knows you.

Your stomach turns.

You shift, looking away, staring very intently at literally anything else.

It’s fine.

It’s all fine.

Because this is a job. This is a mission. You are going to a national park to chaperone a group of monsters through the wilderness and not think about how the guy sitting next to you has managed to wreck your entire sense of self just by being kind.

You breathe.

One hour.

You can do this.

Right?

The van rattles to a stop, and the world outside shifts from long stretches of a winding highway to towering trees and crisp, cold air.

Inside, it’s warm, the heat still humming from the vents, the weight of the trip settling into everyone’s bones. The conversation has dwindled, heavy with drowsiness and the slow, creeping pull of exhaustion.

Frisk has fallen asleep against you.

Small, warm, their tiny hands curled into the fabric of your jacket.

You don’t remember when it happened—only that, at some point, their weight pressed against your side, head tucking against your ribs like they trusted you to be something steady. Something solid.

You hoist them up gently, adjusting their little frame so they don’t slip.

It’s an easy thing, a simple movement, and yet—

“here,” Sans says, low and even, holding out his arms.

You freeze for half a second.

You don’t know why.

You shouldn’t.

But there’s something about the way he does it—something careful, something quiet.

Like it’s nothing.

Like it’s everything.

Why.

You should say no. You should hold onto them just a little longer, should keep that warmth curled against you instead of shifting it into his arms.

But you don’t.

You hand them over.

And Sans cradles them like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Like they are the only thing in the world.

Like he’s done it a thousand times before, and will do it a thousand times more.

You swallow, looking away.

Beside you, Papyrus is climbing out of the back seat, MK tucked securely in his hold. The little monster is out cold, snoring softly against Papyrus’s scarf. A bubble of drool on their nose.

“ALAS!” Papyrus declares, stepping down from the van with purpose. “I HAVE SUCCESSFULLY EXTRACTED MY CHARGE MUCH LIKE THE TEMMIE! THE JOURNEY WAS LONG AND ARDUOUS, BUT I ENDURED, AS ALWAYS.”

MK shifts, mumbling something incoherent in their sleep.

Papyrus beams, looking incredibly pleased with himself.

You don’t have time to dwell on it, though—because as soon as your feet hit the frozen ground outside, Colette is there.

And she is looking at you like she knows something.

Which is never good.

She grabs your wrist, all but yanking you to the side, just out of earshot from the others.

“You’re not hanging with him.”

“What—”

“I saw it.” She folds her arms, staring you down. “He had no right to look at you like that. Not after what he told you.”

You know exactly what she’s talking about.

And you hate that she’s right.

“He didn’t—”

“He did.” Her voice is firm, her expression even firmer. “And I’m not letting you spiral over it. He made his choice, remember?”

You do.

You hate that you do.

But Colette—she’s always been the one to say the things you won’t. She’s trying to be the one to drag you out of your own head, to make you see things clearly.

And right now?

She’s making damn sure you don’t drown. 

“Come on,” she says, tugging you toward the lodge. “We’re getting inside, we’re warming up, and we are not thinking about him.”

You swallow.

Nod.

And follow.

—

The lodge is massive.

Rustic, warm, the kind of place that looks like it belongs on a postcard. Stone walls, high ceilings, the crackle of a fireplace already burning in the center of the room.

There are bunk assignments waiting, names scrawled on a clipboard near the entrance. Alphy's has her own tucked under her armpit and its eager to look over theirs-

Colette immediately grabs it.

You lean over her shoulder, scanning the list—

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me.”

You find your name.

Right underneath Sans’s.

You are sharing a room.

Colette makes a strangled noise in the back of her throat.

“No,” she mutters. “Absolutely not.”

“Cole.”

“I will kill someone.”

“Colette.”

She takes a deep breath. Lets it out.

Then she scribbles out your name and puts it next to hers instead.

“There,” she says, victorious. “Fixed it.”

You don’t fight her on it.

Not because you agree—(you do)—but because you don’t trust yourself not to let him get to you.

Not after the ride.

Not after the weight of Frisk in his arms, the way he looked down at them, soft and tired and his.

Not after the way he keeps acting like nothing happened.

So you don’t argue.

Instead you gather up your bags again and go with Alphy's and Cole to a free couch. Papyrus is there with MK tucked against his chest, his expression is calm and gently rocking the monster.

Slate, the guard who drove you all here, stands near the entrance still, speaking in low tones with a woman in a heavy parka. Her uniform is crisp, the embroidered patch on her sleeve marked with Mt. Ebott National Park.

She’s tall, sturdy, with dark brown skin and thick curls that peek out from beneath her beanie. The kind of person who looks like she knows exactly where she is at all times. She has the stance of someone who walks forests like they belong to her, and in a way—you suspect they do.

The lodge hums with quiet conversations as she clears her throat, lifting her voice so it carries across the room.

“Alright, everyone, settle in,” she says. “I’m Ranger Addison, but just Addie is fine. I’ll be your point of contact while you’re here, and I want to go over a few things before we move into the evening.”

There’s a shifting of bodies as the group circles closer, rearranging themselves in the varying couches, spots on the floor and armchairs, the fire crackling in the center of the space, throwing flickering light against the walls.

“The Ruins,” she continues, “are one of the oldest recorded historical sites in the country. They’ve been part of the Ebott landscape for centuries, and no one knows exactly who built them, only that they predate modern settlements by thousands of years.”

You glance around, a certain bone head is glaringly missing from the crowd. So is Cole- fuck. She had just been at your side, her bags are and she is very much not. 

Instead. 

There is Frisk. Sleepy eyed, looking down at their feet and leaning heaving against a couch.

They’re still.

Not fidgeting. Not shifting in place.

Just standing there, their hands curled into the hem of their sweater. Your mouth parts as you search the sea of varying shapes and sizes of monsters for Sans, because that seems like the only correct response. No where. 

Addie goes on. 

“The strange thing,” she says, “is that most of the structure remains intact. You’ll see for yourselves if you decide to visit tonight, but the stone is largely unweathered. There are carvings—old inscriptions, though no one has ever been able to fully translate them.”

A low murmur of interest ripples through the group.

“There have been stories,” Addie continues, her lips quirking. “Tales passed down from locals, myths,  strange sounds at night. But,” she shrugs, “we don’t put much stock in ghost stories.”

“GHOST STORIES ARE HARDLY RELEVANT WHEN THERE IS SCIENCE TO CONSIDER!” Papyrus announces. “I, FOR ONE, WOULD LIKE TO DEBUNK ANY FALSEHOODS ABOUT THE RUINS!”

Addie chuckles. “We like that kind of enthusiasm.”

Slate steps forward then, hands on his hips. “We’ll be taking a headcount,” he says. “Those who want to see the Ruins tonight can go, but there’s no pressure. The sky’s gonna be clear, so if you’d rather stay and enjoy the stars from the lodge, that’s fine too.”

There’s a low hum of agreement, the group already dividing into the yes and no camps.

Frisk, however—

They still haven’t moved.

Haven’t said a word.

But their shoulders are stiff, their jaw tight.

And when Addie turns to them, her boots crossing the wooden floor, expression warm and open, and says, “And you must be Frisk,”

They smile.

Bright. Polite.

But it doesn’t reach their eyes.

It doesn’t reach their eyes.

Something is wrong.

And for the first time since stepping off that van—

You aren’t thinking about Sans.

You’re thinking about Frisk.

And why they clearly don’t want to be here.

You don’t grab Frisk’s hand, but you guide them—your fingers just ghosting over their shoulder, enough to let them know you’re there. The room hums with voices, the soft murmur of the group debating between staying in or going out into the cold, but none of it registers.

Frisk isn’t signing.

And you don’t like that.

“C’mon, sweetie,” you murmur, tilting your head toward the other side of the lobby. “Let’s warm up before unpacking, yeah?”

They nod, barely. No enthusiasm, just a small shift of their chin. They follow you without resistance.

You take their small hand in yours and guide them across the lobby, past the scattered groups of monsters and guards, toward the corner where a long table is set up. The air is thick with the scent of chocolate and cinnamon, of marshmallows and peppermint shavings.

It’s a nice spread—several carafes of steaming hot cocoa, bowls of whipped cream, tiny candy canes, and all the sugar a kid could want. Someone even thought to add a pot of coffee for the more exhausted-looking chaperones.

And standing there, inspecting the marshmallow options like it’s a life-or-death decision, is Alphys.

She’s still wrapped in her coat, her bags piled at her feet, and you catch a flash of that lovely red on her claws as she fusses with a spoon.

“Oh, uh—hey,” she says when she notices you both. “I was just, um, debating if it’s too much to add caramel and marshmallows. But, uh, y-you know, when in doubt, just go for it, right?”

You smirk, nudging Frisk toward the table. “That’s the spirit, Doc.”

Frisk reaches for one of the mugs, and you busy yourself helping them ladle hot chocolate while Alphys watches, swirling her spoon in her own drink.

“This place,” she says after a moment, “it’s kinda special. You know, not just historically.”

You glance at her, stirring sugar into your own cocoa. “Oh?”

She nods, her glasses sliding down her snout before she pushes them back up. “When we came topside, Toriel was holding Frisk when we came down that cliff side, found a trail that led to this lodge." A breath. "This was the first contact p-place for us with people, some of these monsters had a rougher first meeting when they were taken s-straight from the Barrier to the Hotel by military trucks. ”

Your hands still.

You don’t need to turn to Frisk to know what she means.

But you do anyway.

And—

Oh.

Their fingers are curled into your sleeve.

White-knuckled.

Their other hand shakes slightly as they stir their cocoa, slow and methodical, like if they focus hard enough, they can keep whatever’s clawing at their insides from showing on their face.

But you can see it.

It’s in the stiffness of their shoulders, the way their lower lip is pressed tight between their teeth.

You don’t need to be a social worker to tell—

This is really, really not a good place for them.

Chapter Text

There’s a funny thing about memories.

We like to think of them as perfect little movies. Crisp and clear. But the truth is, memories are more like paintings. And not the pretty kind—the messy kind. Smudged lines, colors bleeding into each other. You can step back and get the big picture, sure, but up close? It’s just-

Bad

That’s the thing about the past. It’s never quite as neat as we want it to be.

A breath.

Now.

What you hold on to—what’s real—is Frisk’s little fingers curled tight in yours. The way their grip grounds you, even as your mind keeps slipping, slipping—

Why do you feel that way?

Alphys is beside you, arms shoved into her coat pockets, claws tucked away. She’s trying to disappear into herself, shoulders hunched against the wind. Her glasses fog up every few minutes, and she keeps swiping at them with a sleeve.

Ahead, Addy’s voice floats back, calm and practiced, smoothing over the sharp edges of the monsters’ fears. The national park is closed, just for them. No cameras, no gawking strangers. Just the mountains, the snow, and a path winding into the mist.

Frisk hasn’t let go since you stepped outside. Their grip pulses, fingers twitching against yours, like they’re afraid you’ll slip away if they don’t hold tight enough.

You do too. 

The lodge stood at the base of the ridge, nestled against the thick treeline like it had been there forever. Its dark wooden beams were aged but sturdy, the sloped roof still carrying a patchy layer of melting snow. A string of old lanterns hung along the porch, casting a warm, flickering glow against the deepening blue of twilight. The windows, wide and fogged from the heat inside, framed the cozy interior where Papyrus could be seen moving about still, fussing over MK as he tucked them in on one of the lobby couches. Some monster children had huddled about before they crossed the thresh hold to leave, listening to the skeleton as he shooed the three of you off for the nature walk.

The air was crisp, carrying the sharp scent of pine and damp earth, with just a hint of lingering woodsmoke curling from the chimney. The mountain loomed behind the lodge, its towering silhouette cutting into the sky, a quiet, ancient presence against the stars just beginning to peek through. But just enough, the light pollution beyond blanketing the sky's hue shift. 

As the group gathered near the worn wooden steps, Addy stood with her hands on her hips, looking up at the ridge ahead. "Y’know," she started, voice softer than usual, "I wish you all could’ve seen it back then. When you first got out."

She glanced toward the mountain, her expression distant. "Before the storms hit, before they blocked off half the trails. Mount Ebott used to be the place for hikers and explorers, but even before that—" she tilted her head, thoughtful—"it was always a little mysterious. Legends, weird disappearances… People were superstitious about it for years. Some thought it was cursed. Others said it was just bad luck to come up here alone."

She exhaled, glancing at the group with a half-smile. "Turns out, it was way more interesting than that."

The wind picked up, rustling the trees, sending a chill through the clearing. The trail ahead was steep but familiar, the path winding through the dark forest toward the lookout. The sky stretched vast and endless above them, nothing like the closed-in world they’d once known.

"Alright," Addy clapped her hands together. "Who’s ready to see this place from way up there?"

Alphys walked beside you, her claws fiddling with the sleeves of her oversized coat. Every so often, she huffed, adjusting her glasses as they slid down her snout. "Ugh—th-this altitude is k-kinda messing with my lungs," she muttered, breath puffing white in the air. "I mean, I-I’m fine! It’s just—science says oxygen thins at higher elevations, a-and I don’t exactly have the most athletic build, s-so—"

Frisk, walking just ahead, turned back and signed something quickly.

Alphys sighed. "Yeah, yeah, ‘just breathe slow and steady.’ I know." She shot Frisk a playfully exasperated look, but it softened just as quickly.

You weren’t sure what to say, so you just kept walking, listening to the muffled sound of your group’s footsteps, the occasional crack of ice, the distant hoot of an owl somewhere deep in the trees. The stillness of the mountain was different from the Underground—not silent, not oppressive, but vast, open. Free.

Frisk dropped back beside you, offering a small smile before glancing up toward the ridge. They pointed ahead, signing again.

Almost there.

You nodded, adjusting your footing on a particularly slick patch of ice. "Good, because I think my toes are starting to go on strike."

Alphys snorted. "Same. I d-did not evolve for extreme hiking."

Despite the cold, despite the climb, there was something… peaceful about it. A shared understanding, a quiet camaraderie. The lodge was far below now, its warm glow distant but steady, while above, the mountain stretched endlessly into the night.

Alphys huffs, ducking her snout into the folds of her coat. “F-Fun fact,” she mutters. “I hate the cold.”

You blink, caught off guard. “You’ve mentioned.” You try for a smile, let it slip into your voice. “Still surprised, though. It only snows up here once a year, at best. I thought—” You trail off, your words curling into mist between you. “I thought Snowdin's... always cold?”

Her head dips, shoulders curling inward. She’s not looking at you—no, her eyes are on the ground, on Frisk’s boots stomping little patterns in the slush. “Y-Yeah, well, I stayed in my lab. Warmer there. Didn’t… didn’t really like strayin’ too much.”

You don’t know what to say to that.

The path narrows, and Frisk pulls you closer, their small frame wedged between you and Alphys. Their hands are surprisingly cold, so you rub there knuckles. 

“Alphys…” Your voice is soft, careful, like testing ice to see if it’ll hold. “You didn’t have to come out here. If the checklist is what you're worried abou-”

"Thats not it."

She cuts you off, a beat. A few moments of shared silence listening to the idle chatter ahead as you walked. Her breath fogs the air, and when she finally speaks, her voice is small. “Sans said I needed to. Said… the levels could manage themselves.” She sniffs, claws clenching around the edges of her sleeves. “He promised.”

The wind lashes through the trees, and it feels like a warning.

You almost laugh, but the sound catches, turns sour.

You should’ve stayed inside.

You don’t say it. But maybe you should. Maybe you wish you had.

The clearing unfurled before them, a pocket of quiet in the wild sprawl of the world. The cliffside stretched out, cradled by iron railings, where the winding road snaked along the edge of the mountain. Beyond it, the valley sprawled like a tapestry, every seam and stitch visible from this height. The city lay miles away, a mosaic of lights just beginning to glow, threads of amber and white stitching through the dusk. Roads cut through the valley below, slender veins of civilization against the wild, untamed sprawl of Mount Ebott. The mountain stood watchful, its peak a dark crown against the sky, the last streaks of sunlight carving lavender into the horizon.

But it was the forest that captured them. Pines stretched skyward, their limbs heavy with frost, needles whispering secrets to the wind. Snow capped their crowns, softening the world with a hush. The air held a bite, a crispness that stung the nose and left breath hanging in delicate clouds. The sky, smeared with lavender and steel, promised the onset of evening, where the horizon would bruise into deeper shades of blue.

The monsters huddled near the edge, their breaths misting the air. They moved with a cautious awe, like each step might wake the world from a dream. A youngling with scales like burnished copper runs a claw along the frosted metal, leaving a clear line behind. Another, with wings folded tight against its back, stares wide-eyed at the stretch of sky, a soft trill escaping its throat. To the taller figures draped in coats and scarves, claws wrapped around steaming thermoses. They whispered to one another, voices lost in the expanse, some braver souls lifting their phones to snap photos of the vista, others just… staring. Drinking it in.

Slate lingered at Addy's side, his steps light on the frost-crusted ground, hands tucked into his pockets as he stared off over the woodlands canopy. Addy herself stood still, her silhouette sharp against the setting sky. Her breath fogged as she spoke, each word a puff of warmth in the cold.

“I know you’ve been kept inside for too long.” Her voice was steady, but not unkind. It threaded through the cold, weaving warmth where it touched. “That wasn’t fair to you. None of this has been.”

Frisk’s fingers are still tangled in yours, small and clammy, their grip tight. They hold onto Alphys too, their other hand knotted with her claws. Alphys doesn’t speak. Her golden eyes are wide, reflecting the stretch of the valley, the smear of lavender from the clouds. She looks like she’s seeing the world for the first time—and maybe she is. Outside of the hotel, outside of The Underground, the Lab(?).

A breath.

Addy gestured, sweeping her arm wide. “This,” she said, “this is what you came up for.” Her voice dipped, softer, the edge of a confession. “Not just the hotel. Not conferences, not sterile walls and curated truths. Not what you've been told to keep you sated, to keep you still.”

Her hand dropped, but the vision lingered—the world she offered, the world that lay before them. The woods, tangled and ancient, whispered of wild things. Of freedom. Snowflakes danced in the breeze, catching in fur and feathers, in the woven threads of scarves and the edges of coats.

“This,” she repeated, “is what you’ll be helping the next monsters come up to transition to. A world as real as the earth under your feet, as cold as the wind on your skin.” Her breath shivered in the air, a silver thread. “Not something you see in a water logged fairy tale. Not just behind the glass.”

A monster with a scaled face leaned forward, their breath fogging the air. “It’s real,” they murmured, and the words rippled through the group, spreading like warmth. “We’re really here.”

The truth of it settled into the bones, mingled with the cold, with the ache of the long climb, the sting of the open air. This wasn’t a dream. The landscape wasn’t just a painting on a wall. The snow crunched beneath them, real and raw and unforgiving. And yet—there was beauty in that bite, in the way the world didn’t apologize for its sharpness.

Another creature with claws curled into the snow as they knelt down, testing the weight of it, the way it crumbled under pressure. Another drew in a lungful of air, their breath hitching on the scent of pine and earth and the ghost of woodsmoke. "It's just like home, its-"

"More." Slate finished, nodding, crouching beside the male, brushing some of the slush away, his gnarly knuckles wrapping at the dirt revealing a small curled fern, the monster children in the group gasp, smiling at the sight as the man continued, "more for you to see, more for you to claim, to live in yourselves. As will the monsters yet to come topside." He stands to his full height, as you crain your neck to see that his silver gaze is shimmering down at the group gathered here. He wipes his cheek as he steps back next to Addison. 

A low murmur rose among the monsters, soft and uncertain. Words tumbled out, delicate as snowflakes.

“I didn’t think…” The monster with giant, gorgeous wings trailed off, their voice caught in the brittle air. “I didn’t think it would be so… open.”

“It’s beautiful. There's no caves that meet the treeline, its just endless,” whispered the one with scales, their long tail curling over the snow. “I thought nothing could be this big.”

Addison let them speak, her hands deep in her coat pockets, shoulders still squared. Her breath hung in soft puffs as she watched them take it in. “The next group is set to arrive tomorrow,” she spoke, her voice a thread through the quiet. “King Asgore made sure of it. He’s granted human guards access to the barrier—to see that everyone makes it to the lodge checkpoint safely.”

The monsters turned to her, and something shifted. Hope, raw and fragile.

“Snowy’s parents will be with them, won’t they?” Alphys asked, her voice quivering at the edges. She adjusted her glasses, the metal of the frames biting into her palms. “He’s been waiting so long…”

A ripple of emotion broke through the group. The monster with wings pressed a trembling hand to their mouth, a sob wrapped in feathers. Another—broad and bristled—dropped to their knees in the snow, hands buried in the frost as if they might hold on to this moment, might press the cold into their skin as proof.

“Oh, gods,” someone breathed. “We’re really going to see them again.”

Tears blurred the edges of the world, the white of the snow against the ink-dark pines. A muffled cry, a hand against a shoulder, the gentle sway of bodies leaning into one another. The air thickened with it, with the ache and the relief, the silent mourning for what had been lost and the fear of what might still be taken away.

But not everyone was with them.

Frisk’s hand slipped from your grasp, their small fingers leaving the chill of absence behind. They stood apart, eyes fixed on Mount Ebott, the quiet monolith that watched over them all. Their gaze was distant, not lost but pulled—like a thread caught in the wind, unraveling toward something unseen.

You moved to their side, the crunch of snow beneath your boots muffled against the chorus of muffled sobs and gentle reassurances. The wind whistled through the trees, low and mournful.

“Frisk?”

They didn’t answer. Their eyes were glassy, reflecting the twilight, the sky pulled tight over the world like a shroud.

Addison’s voice called out, gentle but firm. “Let’s head back to the lodge. It’ll be warmer there. We can visit the ruins in the morning, once the light is better.”

The group stirred, monsters lifting their heads, brushing ice from fur and scales, the cold settling into bones. They moved slowly, a patchwork of silhouettes against the snow.

You lingered.

Frisk didn’t move. Their breath came slow, measured, too quiet for a child. The mountain loomed above, its slopes lost in shadow, the crags sharp as teeth.

“What is it?” you asked, the words fragile, a crystalline thing balanced on your tongue.

For a moment, they didn’t respond.

Hadn’t shifted even when Alphys offered a gentle tug toward the others. Now, as the last of the monsters disappeared around the bend, you crouched beside them, the cold seeping through your clothes, your breath mingling with the frost.

"Hey," you murmured. "You alright?"

Frisk’s eyes finally moved, dragging down from the mountain to meet yours. Their expression was unreadable, a mask that only accentuated how young they were, how fragile. Slowly, they released your hand, lifting their own to sign—but the motions were unfamiliar, the shapes of the words lost on you.

Your heart thudded, a slow, thick beat. "Frisk, I… I don’t understand."

Their face fell, a crack in porcelain, and their hands stilled. Whatever they had tried to say slipped away, lost to the cold and the distance between you.

You reached out, hesitating only a moment before placing your hand on their shoulder. "You can try again," you offered. "Or… or we can just sit here for a bit. That’s okay too."

Alphys’s arms enfolded Frisk in a hug so full, all-encompassing, it seemed to swallow the little human whole. The lizard-like monster’s glasses slipped slightly, fogged from the cold and her own warmth, but she didn’t adjust them. Frisk nestled into her, their small knuckles curling against her jacket, clinging like a lifeline.

Her claws, careful and soft, stroked through Frisk’s hair as she whispered, her breath clouding in the crisp air.. “What is it, kiddo?”

Frisk’s fingers moved, hesitant but deliberate, brushing against Alphys’s scales. She watched them intently, her eyes soft, and then nodded. “They want to walk a bit longer,” she translated, and the words came out steady, certain. Frisk’s lips tugged into a small, hopeful smile, and they reached again, to try again, for your hand as well, fingers brushing against yours, pulling you along.

They wait as each of you rise again, helping by brushing off your knee's and smiling up at you both.

Alphys pulled out her phone, tapping a quick message on the screen face. “Letting Cole know we’re staying out a bit longer,” she murmured, her thumb swiping over the screen. “Frisk wants to see something. Shouldn’t be too far if they remember right.”

The three of you drifted up the hill, your boots crunching through the thin layer of snow that had settled on the gravel. The winding road curved with the mountainside, the guardrail a thin, cold line between you and the steep drop into the valley below. Frisk’s arms spread wide as they walked, fingers brushing the air, as if trying to hold the sky itself in their small hands.

Alphys watched them, her breath clouding around her face. “You know,” she said, her voice barely more than a murmur, “we’re right above the Underground.”

You turned to her, the weight of her words a quiet pressure against your chest.

“All this time,” she continued, her amber eyes fixed on the mountainside, “right under claw, under toe. Right below humans.” She shook her head, a slow, disbelieving motion. “And they wanted to keep it a secret. They learned about the barrier—they knew—and they didn’t say anything.”

The bitterness in her voice was an old wound, scar tissue built over centuries of quiet suffering. She dug her hands into her coat pockets, her claws curling into fists, and the weight of it—of everything she couldn’t say—hung between you.

Frisk was already a few steps ahead, their small boots leaving uneven prints in the snow. The child turned back, their eyes wide and bright, and they smiled—a quiet, patient thing—and waved for you both to follow.

And so you did.

The air thinned as you climbed higher, each breath sharp and clean, the kind of cold that cut into your lungs and left you raw. The mountain loomed above, dark and ancient, its peak swallowed by low-hanging clouds. The trees were skeletal, their branches heavy with frost, and the path narrowed, the guardrail rusted and bent.

Frisk led the way, their small form a shadow against the pale landscape. The silence stretched, broken only by the crunch of snow, the whisper of wind through stone.

“It’s strange,” Alphys continued, “to think of all the history under our feet. The lives. The families. Monsters who were born and died without ever seeing this.” She gestured to the horizon. “To know that all they had were stories, echoes of the world above, and nothing else.”

You didn’t answer. There wasn’t an answer for that—not one that wouldn’t feel hollow, not one that wouldn’t sting.

Frisk’s hands dropped to their sides, and they turned, their expression caught between wonder and something softer, something like peace. “It’s just up here,” they signed, their motions small, deliberate. They waited until you nodded, until Alphys took a breath and let it out slow, and then they continued forward, their steps light, deliberate.

The snow crunched beneath your boots, a soft rhythm beneath Alphys’s steady, murmuring voice. Frisk led the way, small hands still entwined with yours, their grip warm despite the chill in the air. The road curved gently along the mountainside, the metal guard rail a thin thread between you and the yawning drop to the valley below. The sky had fallen into twilight, the lavender bleeding into deeper shades of blue, a bruise blooming over the horizon.

"Geographically, this makes sense," Alphys said, half to herself. She held her phone in one hand, her thumb scrolling through the group chat, waiting for Colette's reply- "The barrier wasn’t far from here. The lodge—it's built near the hot springs, yeah, but that heat’s from natural vents, like Snowdin’s fire district. And, uh, the springs here... They’re not as intense as Hotland, but it’s the same idea. Geothermal."

Her words wound around you, a soft thread connecting the present to the past. You could almost see it—the snow-covered rooftops of Snowdin below, the cobblestone streets, the way the frost clung to the eaves of houses. You imagined the echo of laughter, of doors creaking open, of life beneath the ice.

"And Waterfall," Alphys continued, her breath misting in the air. "There’s a reservoir down the valley, right? The endless cascade, the way the water hums. It’s... It’s as if everything down there is mirrored up here. As above, so below."

Her voice dipped, a soft catch in her throat. She was piecing it together, the threads weaving into a tapestry that felt almost sacred. The realization settled over her, a weight that dragged her shoulders down.

"If the human ruins are above here..." She trailed off, her eyes wide, glasses fogging. "Then the monster ruins—the old city—should be below. We’re walking the same ground, just... on the other side of the veil."

You nodded, a slow, careful motion. You’d noticed it too, the thickening of the tree roots along the path, the way they wound through the snow like veins. They were old, ancient, their bark silvered with frost, their twists and knots a language all their own. The forest had grown denser, the trees huddled close, their limbs skeletal and black against the snow.

Frisk tugged you off the main road, their steps quick but deliberate. The thicket swallowed you whole, the branches scraping at your coat, the snow dragging at your feet. You moved through the brush, your breath loud in your ears, the silence of the forest an aching thing.

Alphys gasped, a soft, sharp sound. You glanced over, saw the clipboard tucked under her arm, the crumpled edge of Addy’s notes. She hadn’t meant to bring the group here, not yet. The ruins were on the itinerary, yes, but tomorrow she said, when the light was better, when everyone was prepared.

But Frisk had wanted to come now. They had led you here, to this place where the air tasted of stone and ice, where the snow lay heavy and undisturbed.

To the heart of their fear.

"The hole you fell into The Underground," you whispered.

It stood before you, crumbling and old, a well of ancient stone and moss. The cobblestones were half-buried in the snow, their edges worn smooth by centuries of wind and water. The well’s mouth yawned open, dark and endless, its rim crumbling, stones scattered like loose teeth. Through those teeth the roots stretched, brown, thick, spiraling into the darkness. 

Frisk turned to you, their eyes wet, their cheeks red with the cold. Tears trembled on their lashes, caught in the dying light. They opened their mouth, but no sound came, their lips trembling, their breath a shuddering mist.

Then.

Your knees hit the frozen earth before you even realized you were moving. The cold bit through fabric and flesh, but it didn’t matter—nothing mattered except the way Frisk finally collapsed into you, their small body trembling as if the weight of their grief had finally become too much to bear.

You caught them, wrapping your arms around them, pulling them in like a tide swallowing the shore. They clung to you, tiny fingers fisting into your coat, their breath coming in sharp, hitched sobs against your shoulder. You could feel their heartbeat, wild and uneven, drumming against your own chest.

You didn’t say anything at first. What words could possibly hold the enormity of this moment? So instead, you rocked them, slow and steady, the way a mother might soothe a child woken by a nightmare. You pressed your cheek to the top of their head, their hair damp with the heat of their sorrow, and you breathed with them—deep, deliberate inhales, like maybe if you held on tight enough, you could anchor them here, keep them from unraveling completely.

Alphys knelt beside you, her own breath shaky as she reached out, smoothing a trembling hand over Frisk’s back. Her glasses had fogged, but she didn’t push them up. Didn’t move, didn’t speak. Just stayed. Just bore witness.

"They…" Alphys' voice broke, and she swallowed hard before trying again. "They just needed to see it."

Frisk shifted in your grasp, their sobs quieter now, but their hold on you remained ironclad. They pulled back just enough to sign something, their hands shaking so badly the motions were stilted, fragmented.

Alphys' gaze flickered between Frisk’s hands and their tear-streaked face. Her own face crumpled, and she exhaled slowly before translating, her voice barely more than a whisper.

""They needed to... to have this moment. Before everyone else. Before it became... something bigger than them again." She hesitated, her throat bobbing as she swallowed down the emotion threatening to overtake her. "If they could stand here, in this place, and not run… then maybe they could be more than the story everyone keeps writing for them."

Your throat burned, the air suddenly too thick, too heavy. You cradled the back of Frisk’s head, pressing a kiss into their hair like a benediction, like a promise.

"You already are," you murmured, voice hoarse. "You already are, sweetheart."

Frisk sniffled, their grip finally loosening, though they didn’t let go entirely. They reached for your hand, small fingers curling around yours with a quiet kind of trust, one that spoke of battles fought in silence, of wounds no one else could see.

Alphys cleared her throat, wiping at her eyes with the sleeve of her coat. "They said if they could face this," she said softly.

Your Phone rings.

✌︎❒︎♏︎ ⍓︎□︎◆︎ ❒︎♏︎♋︎●︎●︎⍓︎ ♑︎□︎♓︎■︎♑︎ ⧫︎□︎ ♎︎□︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ♋︎♑︎♋︎♓︎■︎📪︎ ♑︎♓︎❒︎●︎✍︎

"They could face anything." You breath. Their face burrowing in the hollow of you neck, as you pull your phone out of your sweater pocket. Holding it down at your side, Alphy's on the other rubbing circles on Frisks back.

The caller ID Reads:

 Mr. Langston

 

Chapter Text

“The funny thing about pretending not to care is… sometimes, you forget you’re pretending. You start to buy into your own bit. Sucker yourself into believing that maybe, just maybe, the jokes are enough to keep the walls up. That if you just laugh loud enough, no one’ll hear the cracks.”

“Sans.”

He didn’t look up. Not at first. He was mid-squeeze on a room-temp ketchup packet, watching the red ooze slick against his conjured tongue. Salty. Tangy. Pure serotonin-in-a-sleeve. Not exactly gourmet to some, but it shut his brain up for a few seconds. Good enough.

“Sans.”

Colette’s voice was inching up the ladder of pissed-off, wobbling somewhere between ‘I’m gonna murder you’ and ‘I’m gonna murder you, but like, emotionally.’

He didn’t rush. Just let the last dregs of ketchup slide down, then flicked the empty packet toward the trash can without looking. It bounced off the rim. Missed.

“damn,” he muttered, finally dragging his gaze up. One socket half-lidded. “hey. didn’t hear ya come in.”

“You’re a liar.”

“nah,” he said, sinking deeper into the old leather chair like it might swallow him. “i’m honest. just... on a time delay.”

Her glare had teeth, like she’d been waiting to slam a courtroom binder on the desk and tear his bones apart. Her knit beanie was pulled low, her jacket sleeves shoved up, arms folded like she was keeping herself from throwing a punch or a truthbomb. Maybe both.

“You’ve been holed up in here for, what, thirty minutes? With nothing but a chair, your own balled up emotions and processed tomato syrup?”

Sans gave a small shrug. “ketchup’s got lycopene. it’s basically a vitamin.” He glanced toward the space heater this room had—cold, fake, the kind that looked cozy but did absolutely nothing. “besides. it’s quiet. place’s got good acoustics for dramatic sulking.”

She squinted at him, one brow twitching. “You are impossible.”

“been told worse.”

"Sans."

He shrugged, eyes drifting lazily to the snow-dusted window, the world just pale enough to blur the edges of everything. In here, the quiet held them both for a beat. And Sans, for all his usual smirking detachment, didn’t fill the silence this time.

So Colette did instead.

Sans in his choice of silence opened up another ketchup, working his fingers over it as he split the packet down the middle,

"All that chummy energy with the new social worker," she continued, leaning against the edge of the table. “Funny how that happened. All jokes and shrugging shoulders until you dragged her off to Snowdin. What changed bud?"

Sans didn’t look up. Just kept slurping the last of his ketchup packet like it owed him money. The little squelch at the end sounded loud in the quiet.

She caught it. Of course she did. Her gaze sharpened.

"Yeah. That reaction? Wouldn’t’ve gotten past me even if my new roommate hadn’t started opening up."

He stayed quiet.

"You don’t get close to people, Sans. Not you. Papyrus? Yeah. He’s sunshine and volume. But you?"

A beat. A shrug from her.

“You sleep twelve hours a day, rot the other twelve, and disappear from rooms mid-conversation like you were never there. So what happened? Get lonely enough to trip over your own boundaries?”

Sans gave a slow shrug. One shoulder, lazy as ever. Pulled his coat a little tighter, like the draft in the room finally caught up with him.

“dunno,” he muttered. “guess i slipped.”

He sounded like he didn’t care. Like it wasn’t worth the breath. But the pause that followed was just a second too long.

That got her to pause. The tension in her arms dropped by a thread.

He sighed. Sat back. Eyes still on the floor.

“been paranoid,” he started, his voice lazy.  “'s been... gnawin’ at me. every word, every look. every dumb thing i said since the day we met her.”

A bitter little half-chuckle.

“guess my gut knew somethin’ before i did. shoulda listened.”

The silence stretched again. Not soft — just... stalled. Like the conversation was waiting to decide where it was going.

Then—

“God, you’re exhausting,” she muttered. But there wasn’t any fight in it. Just this tired edge. Bruised and worn.

But the heat had drained from her voice. Something scorched and old. Her boots crossed the tiled floor, slow clicks across the space before she sank against a wall. Her head resting back and eyelashes fluttered closed.

Sans let the words sit there between them. He didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Just watched the snow etch its soft threat across the windowpane.

And maybe that was what cracked the moment open.

Because next thing he knew, he was back there.

Back to when he first met Cole.

Sans had shown up with Undyne to drop off some paperwork.

Real boring stuff—monster reintegration, guard rotation shifts, community cooking sign-ups. (Okay, that last one was his idea. Tori insisted folks needed more pie.)

He was halfway through a lazy loop around the front lobby when the shouting started.

“You think I don’t know what you meant by that? Say it again. I dare you.”

A short figure with windblown hair and combat boots stood nose-to-chest with one of the perimeter guards. The human soldier—tall, broad, and very white-knuckle about everything—looked about two seconds from pulling rank or pulling teeth.

“Your monster buddies have their own floor. We’re just trying to make sure everyone else feels safe.”

“Ohhh no no no, try that again,” the girl growled. “The implication there was that my new clients aren’t safe. That they're something to be afraid of. Say it. Come on. Look me in the eye and say it like you mean it.”

“Ma’am, I don’t think you understand—”

CRACK.

She socked him right in the mouth.

It wasn’t even a particularly elegant punch. It was messy. A little wild. But it had passion.

The soldier staggered back, blood already dripping from his lip.

“Don’t worry,” the girl snarled, shaking out her knuckles. “Now you match the red line you just crossed.”

Sans, from across the lobby, blinked slowly. “...damn.”

Undyne leaned in beside him, grinning so hard her scales crinkled. “Okay, she’s hired.”

“was she... even applyin’?”

“Nope. She's just here for the week.”

Didn’t matter.

"Gonna see if she wants to stay."

That punch led to paperwork, which led to hearings, which led to four reassigned guards and one seriously uncomfortable ethics seminar for the higher-ups. Apparently, she’d requested it. Requested a PowerPoint about institutional prejudice.

Her name was Colette. No last name. No frills.

Just a walking flame with sharp elbows and a moral compass like a spiked mace.

And Sans? Sans remembered standing next to her two days later, waiting for monsters to come down the stairs, she had shook hands with one-

She had a fresh bandage on her knuckles.

He had a big ketchup stain on his hoodie.

She looked over at him, brows furrowed. “You one of the quiet ones who judges, or the quiet ones who listens?”

He took a sip of his drink. “depends on how loud the other person is.”

She looked like she wanted to punch him next—but then she snorted. “Good. I’m loud enough for both of us.”

He hated that the mess hall had always been too bright before. 
The first few months felt more like interrogation than settling in. 

One of those overhead fluorescents buzzed faintly as the crowd simmered with tension, voices rising and falling like an incoming storm. A mix of humans and monsters filled the room—some at the long communal tables, some standing against the walls. The bulletin board behind them still had flyers for next week’s “Joint Gardening Day,” the ink faded and corners curled.

Colette stood near the front,  jacket half-zipped and fists stuffed in her pockets. She let the arguing build first. Let it stretch, coil, loop around itself. And then—

“I’ll say it again,” a guard named Rasmussen muttered from the other side of the table, puffing up like a puffed-out goose. “It’s not about segregation. It’s about comfort. Safety. You can’t blame folks for wanting to feel like they belong.”

“Ohhh that’s rich,” Colette bit out, every syllable sharp.

“You do belong. The whole damn world belongs to you. You’ve got streets and schools and city blocks lined up for miles. You’ve got familiarity in every crack of pavement. And when monsters get one—one—floor in a hotel, you suddenly feel left out?”

“She’s right,” A small added gently, from a step behind her. The deer creatures tone was calm, but her gaze was flint. “We were invited here in good faith. That should not require the erasure of our presence.”

“But some of the humans have been vocal about—”

“Of course they have!” Colette exploded, hands flaring out. “That’s how integration works! It’s messy! It’s loud! It rubs people the wrong way! That’s the point! You’re supposed to work through it, not run from it. Not go back to your own corners and pretend it’s progress.”

Across the room, Sans sat slouched in a chair with a cup of something questionably red in his hand. He hadn’t said a word the whole time. His sockets flicked toward Colette briefly, then back down to his cup.

Someone muttered, “Why do we even bother arguing? She’s just an intern.”

Colette’s knuckles whitened on her own arm. But she didn’t snap—not this time.

“...Intern, huh?” she echoed flatly. “Fishie intern in a room full of sharks, right? That’s what you’re thinking?”

She didn’t give them the satisfaction of seeing her shake, but her jaw clenched so hard it popped.

“This isn’t a zoo,” Colette continued, rather coldly, arms crossed as she leaned against the far wall. “It’s not a ‘welcome center’ where humans keep monsters behind glass and wave from a safe distance. It was meant to be shared space. Real integration. Joint activities. Movie nights. Group therapy. Gods forbid anyone actually talk to each other, right?”

She shook her head, lips curled as she pushed herself off of that wall.

“But sure. Let’s go ahead and toss in a curfew. Random checks. Keep them guessing. Remind them their ‘welcome’ comes with a leash.”

The silence that followed was taut and thin. Like if you breathed wrong, it might snap.

Then, from the back of the room—without shifting his slouch or even looking up from his seat—Sans spoke, voice flat.

“yeah, and maybe we slap a big ol’ star on their doors while we’re at it. really sell the message.”

It landed like a stone through glass.

One of the younger guards shifted, eyes darting. Another scoffed sharply, jaw clenched.

Rasmussen stepped forward, eyes locked on Sans. “Excuse me?”

Sans didn’t blink. Didn’t even glance up.

“just finishin’ the thought,” he continued, tone still bone-dry. “figured i’d save ya the time. and the press statement.”

The tension rippled, sharp and sudden.

Colette let out a low whistle, grinning like a wolf. “Damn, that’s good,” she muttered.

Rasmussen bristled. “You think this is funny?”

“nah,” Sans replied, finally flicking his gaze toward him. “just tired. and real used to folks usin’ ‘caution’ like it’s a get-out-of-morality-free card.”

Colette stepped in again, voice crisp.

“You’re not being careful. You’re being a coward. And you want someone else to suffer so you can sleep easier.”

She folded her arms tighter, eyes glinting.

“Don’t dress it up like nobility. This is fear, plain and simple. And the monsters aren’t the ones you’re afraid of.”

His hotel room door slammed open without warning.

Sans didn’t flinch. He just barely glanced up from the couch, where he’d been horizontal for the last hour, half-watching a cooking show in complete silence. Something about pickling.

Papyrus, bless him, had vanished into the bathroom twenty minutes ago with an armful of bath bombs and a Bluetooth speaker blasting and its now singing something muffled. Again. Something about pickling. 

So it was just him. And now—her.

“got a key, or did you pick the lock?”

Colette stepped inside, hair a messy halo around her face, tank top tied at the side, and knuckles red from not punching anything.. She was carrying a bottle of wine and two mismatched mugs — clearly liberated from somewhere they didn’t belong.

“Shut it,” she muttered, dropping the mugs onto the table with a clatter before flopping into the chair across from him. “Cheers to being a glorified intern fish in a tank full of sharks.”

Sans blinked slowly, catching the cork she popped with one hand like it was no big deal. “progress.”

Colette snorted, pouring a generous splash into the mugs, as if they could never run dry. “Yeah, well. Heard someone’s figured out I signed off on the extra housing outside. Tents, heaters—whatever it takes to keep the cold off. Winters up here? Brutal.”

She took a long pull from her mug and set it down with a sigh. “It’s already cramped in here, and apparently it was the painting sessions, karaoke nights, those stupid movie screenings in the library that did it. We crossed that invisible line between ‘intern’ and ‘uppity little monster sympathizer.’”

Sans let out a low, breathy chuckle, barely moving. “sounds like you’re ruffling some feathers.”

“I’m not allowed to solve problems with my fists anymore.” Cole swallowed, “A meeting here, a written paperwork there and a few points on my record and two steps away from gettin’ sacked for not putting up with racist bullshit-“

She clenched her jaw, then dug into her jacket and pulled out a handheld recorder. “So, guess what?”

Sans raised a browbone. “frisk’s?”

“Yeah. They said I could borrow it.” Her grin turned feral before continuing, 

“So if you’ve got any more of those anti-racism mic drops? Go ahead and say ‘em again. Into this.”

He chuckled—soft and raspy.

“man. you’re real loud for someone so shor-“

“Say that into the mic, skeleton.”

He leaned forward, teeth brushing the mic like a radio DJ, voice all hush and gravel:

“segregation’s a bad look, chief.”

She threw her head back and cackled.

The sun was already burning holes in the sky by the time Sans trailed after Undyne, his hands shoved deep into his hoodie pockets.

The pavement still clung to last night's warmth, radiating up through his slippers, grounding him in the weird quiet of it all.

Undyne was hauling two massive duffels like they weighed nothing. One on each shoulder. Royal blue and battered—Asgore’s. One with stitched flowers, the strap reinforced with red thread—Toriel’s. She adjusted both with a grunt.

Papyrus and Alphys were behind her, hunched together over a ipad, double-checking a list Alphys had made in color-coded bullet points.

Papyrus had added exclamation marks to every single item.

“TOILETRIES FOR GOAT DAD—CHECK!”
“TEA SET FOR THE QUEEN—CHECK!”|

A beat

"TORIEL NEEDS HER LEMON HONEY DROPS OR HER THROAT GETS ALL—YOU KNOW—‘BLEGHY!’ THAT’S A MEDICAL TERM! RIGHT, DR. ALPHYS?!”

“Uh, yeah, yeah, I checked three times—uhh, bleghy definitely sounds clinical—”

“Got their chargers?!” Papyrus continued over his shoulder, holding the ipad now between two fingers that seemed comically small in his big skeletal hands.

“Yes, yes, we packed the chargers,” Alphys answered, tail flicking behind her like a signal flag. “And the travel documents, and the clothes, and the—oh crap, did we ever get those allergy meds?”

Undyne shifted a bag to one arm and reached into her coat. “Boom. Already packed ‘em. Try to keep up, Science Queen.”

Alphys flushed and scribbled furiously. Pap beamed at both of them.

Sans, trailing behind, hung back near the glass doors of the building. Eyeing the onlookers from inside, all heads peeking over each other to wish them good bye, some guards standing watch. He wasn’t even fully in the sunlight—just loitering in the shadow line like a piece of background noise. His hoodie was zipped up, hands deep in his pockets, one slipper tapping the floor in restless rhythm. Instead he walked forward a few paces before sitting down, toeing a few dead leaves with his foot. Anxious. 

He should have said goodbye.

He meant to.

But the envoy had left earlier than scheduled, Toriel and Asgore ducking into a cramped office already mid-conference call with their overseas benefactor. Probably someone rich, human, probably full of big promises and smaller print.

She hadn’t seen him before she went in that first van. The bags were next. The vehicle would leave soon.

So he stood there, back to the wall, scrolling through his DMs with Tori. A little too fast. A little too hard on the scroll wheel, like maybe he could make time stutter backward.

One meme, two memes—
That dumb one of the cat in the tiny kitchen cooking tempura with even tinier cookware she’d responded to with six heart emojis.

The one with the goat plush in a teacup that he said reminded him of her.
A blurry selfie of him with Pap in the background, captioned: "ur fav skeletons send their regards >:]"

He hovered over the text box. Typed:

BoneDaddy: gonna miss ya, tori. hope they’re not too uptight over there.

Deleted 

BoneDaddy: saw to it that yah got extra sweaters in your pack. and maybe don’t mention fire magic right away lol.

Deleted 

“She’s got this,” he muttered to himself, like saying it out loud might hammer it in.

“she’s gonna be fine. it’s just a... diplomatic thing. no big deal.”

His thumb lingered over the keyboard.

“Washington’s a pretty place.”

He glanced up, startled, Colette laughed at him as she flopped down onto the curb, her oversized sweater bunched around her elbows. It had a cracked print of Sally from that Nightmare before Christmas movie they'd watched on Halloween, on the front with faded pumpkins and peeling around the art.

Her black leggings had a rip in the knee. Her beat-up sneakers bore smug little Kuromi faces—a favorite, she'd told Papyrus once. She’d promised to show him the show soon. 

Sans blinked, glancing sideways.

She didn’t look at him when she spoke next, voice still flippant. “Should ask Tori to send you pictures if she gets any. Y’know. Trees. Monuments. The big ol’ white obelisk thing that looks like a stabbing hazard.”

He didn’t answer.

“C’mon,” she added after a beat. “It’d give her an excuse to bug you while she’s gone. Otherwise you’re just gonna keep hovering over your phone like a ghost who regrets texting.”

“was gonna haunt the signal towers next.”

She snorted. “Don’t tempt me. I’ll record you doing it. Upload it as proof ghosts are real, monetize it, and finally afford a chair that doesn’t creak every time I sit in it.”

That almost earned a smile from him.

Colette rocked back on her heels. “Hey. Look. You’re worried. I get it. I do. But this trip’s not gonna be what breaks her, alright? If anything, it’s the dipshits who think a human-monster cultural envoy means ‘pretend to care until they leave the room.’”

He glanced at her then. Really looked.

She shrugged. “I’m not good at the soft stuff, okay? But she’s gonna be alright. You’re gonna be alright. Just... let yourself believe it for five seconds. Or fake it, if that’s easier.”

Papyrus suddenly called out:

“SAAAAAAAAAAAANS! I HAVE CONFIRMED THAT TORIEL’S FAVORITE THERMOS IS SAFELY PACKED WITH HER CINNAMON-CHAMOMILE BLEND! PLEASE TELL HER I REMEMBERED!”

Sans gave a little wave. “will do, bro.”

Alphys, nearly tripping over her own feet, muttered, “We’re supposed to be wheels up in ten—honey, I—wait, did you triple-check the seal on Asgore’s medication? I don’t want a repeat of the Chicago Incident.”

Undyne cracked her knuckles. “It’s fine. I taped it shut with duck tape If he opens it wrong, the whole thing goes off like a glitter bomb. Should be fun.”

Colette grinned, standing up again and dusting off her sweater. “Guess I better go help before Undyne decides federal agents count as acceptable collateral damage.”

She lingered, just a second.  “Tell Tori to send you pictures. Okay?”

Cole patted him on the shoulder.

He gave a slow nod. “yeah. okay.”

As she jogged back to the car, Sans looked down at his phone. The DM was still open.

He hovered over the send button. Finally, he typed:

BoneDaddy: kick some diplomatic butt. get me a postcard, goat lady. <3

Sent.

Now?
Colette was still watching him.

Sans blinked the memory away like a dream he wasn’t quite done with.

She leaned back, dragging her palms down her face like she could peel off the frustration with skin. “I don't mean it,” she said hoarsely. “Not all of it. I’m pissed and—”

“you’re right,” Sans cut in, quietly. “not about all of it. but yeah. i got too close. i let my guard down.” His sockets closed for a beat. “not just with her. with everyone.”

She looked at him then. Really looked. And for the first time, past the baggy hoodie and slouching posture, past the lazy quips and half-lidded stares, she saw the cracks. Not new ones either.

These had been there.

Long time. Hidden in plain sight.

Then—

bzzz. bzzz. bzzz.

The vibration on the table cut through the lull like a scalpel—sharp. Precise. Inevitable.

Sans didn’t need to look.

Caller ID: Mother_of_Underlings

But when he picked up the phone and thumbed speaker, the voice that answered wasn’t hers.

“Sans.” A voice, low and heavy. Warm as old embers. Familiar as the quiet after mourning.

Colette blinked, confused by the tone.

Sans sat up, slow and careful, ketchup packets slipping off his chest.

“...Asgore?”

A long silence. One beat. Then another.

“...Talk to me.” Sans’s voice dropped. Careful, now.

Colette leaned forward, alarm threading through her brow. “Sans, what’s going on?”

He didn’t answer her—just tapped the screen and cleared his throat.

“You're on speaker, sir.”

Another pause.

Then the monster on the otherline sighed—deep and weary. The kind that came from the ribs.

“Ah tried not to lose my temper in the meetin’ room,” he said, gently. “Truly, I did. Told myself: patience first. Temper later. But…”

Papers shuffled on the other end. A distant, almost embarrassed throat clear.

“I asked ‘em. Calm as can be. Why they’d sent another social worker out to the hotel when the last report came back cleaner than a temple floor. No incidents. No signs o’ trouble. Just months of steady, quiet progress. Colette’s been doin’ right by morale.”

“And?” Sans asked, tight.

“Ah was wonderin’ the same. Especially after your text to Undyne. So I… looked.”

 A slow breath.

“Turns out, someone filed a request.”

Colette straightened. “What kind of request?”

Sans didn’t speak.

He stared at the floor like it had answers he’d rather not say out loud.

“To re-evaluate Frisk’s wellbein’,” Asgore said softly.

“To determine if they’re still emotionally capable of actin’ as a neutral party for the integration effort... or if they oughta be placed in the human foster system.”

Colette’s mouth parted, stunned. “You’re telling me they’re looking into Frisk-“

“That’s what the draft recommends.”
Asgore’s voice dimmed to something quiet and ashamed.

“Claims of prolonged trauma. There’s a lot they have written ‘er. That this life… this responsibility... it’s costin’ them more than it should.”

The line was quiet for a beat.

“We only just caught wind ‘cause Undyne flagged a discrepancy in the logs. The request itself? It was filed three weeks ago. Someone’s been feeding them updates.”

Colette went still.

Her eyes darted to Sans, but he still wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“I was in that meetin’ today,” Asgore said, slow as a storm rollin’ in. “And I told them: displaced trust is no foundation for a future. Not ours. Not anyone’s.”

There was a beep.

And the screen lit up.

There he was.

Asgore Dreemurr, the last king of monsters, slouched in a seat too small for his grief. His hair, still gold flecked with greying spots, was tied back into a clean bun, but a few curls had slipped loose. A pair of reading glasses sat on the end of his snout, a golden chain dangling down and around his neck.

His horns gleamed, buffed clean for diplomacy. He wore a tailored jacket in stormy blue—something formal, soft at the edges. A crisp undershirt peeked out, sleeves rolled up, revealing strong arms and thick wrists that had once split shields like bark.

A pair of reading glasses perched low on his snout. His eyes were red-rimmed, but not from crying. Probably allergies again. Or maybe not.

Colette’s voice came out flat. “Who filed the report?”

Sans let out a long breath, like he’d been holding it since the moment the phone buzzed.

His gaze finally lifted—slow and tired—and met hers.

“started diggin’ after our friend mentioned the job she used to do,” he drawled, voice tight with something that wasn’t quite anger, but sat close to it. “somethin’ didn’t sit right. second worker comin’ outta nowhere? and that packet you got—”

“Bare bones, yeah,” Colette murmured, guilt creeping into her voice. “Didn’t think much of it. I’m still new. My own onboarding was barely more than a paragraph.”

Sans gave a tired shrug, a humorless breath of air that almost resembled a chuckle. “and that’s what tipped me off. somethin’ about it was just… too neat. asked undyne to run a sweep on the guest registry. Goes back a lot longer than the day we met her.”

He paused.

Colette’s world spun. She looked to Sans, but he wouldn’t meet her eyes.

“Oh,” Her breath catching. “Oh my god. The check in's. Her boss—”

Sans nodded, humorless. “yeah. not about monster integration. not really. that call with Langston today? she’s signin’ off on the final evaluation.”

Colette reeled. “You mean... she’s been reporting on Frisk this whole time? That’s why you—”

“that’s why i pushed her away,” Sans finished.  “i found out earlier. undyne and asgore helped me confirm it. she’s been feedin’ them updates. about frisk. about us.”

“She said she didn’t know what she was going to tell him the other night,” Colette whispered, her voice shaking with anger now.

“She told us that. That she wasn’t sure what she believed yet.”

He looked at her then, eyes sharp and hollow.

“yeah. turns out she meant it,” he muttered. “’cause it ain’t what she believed that mattered. it’s what they wanted her to say. ”

On the screen, Asgore leaned forward. His thick hands were folded in front of him, knuckles pale with pressure.

His voice, when it came, was low and careful—velvety-soft, like worn flannel over barbed wire.

“Sans, son… like I said- tried my best to keep my tone steady, but I ain’t gonna lie to ya—I nearly lost it earlier.” He sighed, slow and ragged.

“When I asked why they’d send someone new when the last report had nothin’ but praise… they gave me an answer I don’t much care to repeat.”

Sans didn’t say anything, but his bones were drawn taut, shoulders rising ever so slightly.

Asgore kept going, his Southern cadence softening further, like he was speaking to a hurt child. “They’re callin’ it a ‘necessary reassessment.’ Claimin’ Frisk may not be emotionally fit to act as a neutral figure anymore. That maybe… maybe it’s time they were placed in a foster home.”

Colette’s knees nearly buckled.

Affirming what none of them had said out loud:

“They’re going to take Frisk away?”

Asgore shifted in his seat on the screen, eyes flicking toward something out of frame. His voice was low, roughened by exhaustion.

“They’re talkin’ about it,” he cleared his throat, raising a paper just high enough that the both of them could see the edges of it, and it was a tick packet.

“Not outright. But they’re callin’ it ‘developmental irregularity' due to prolonged exposure to anomalous cultural structures.’”

He turns a page, leaning forward and squinting through his glasses with tired eyes, “Claiming there's evidence of trauma-related regression. Inconsistent emotional responses. Dependency issues. Words like attachment distortion.”

There was a pause.

“they have it written down that frisk’s broken,” Sans muttered from where he sat, half-slouched, arms crossed, that gaze of his still fixed on nothing.

Asgore didn’t deny it.

“They’re framing it clinical,” he agreed.

“Tryin’ to keep it clean. But what they’re really saying is they want custody. Want to ‘transition’ them into a monitored environment. Somethin’ more—” he trailed off. “—appropriate.”

“heh.”

Sans gave a slow blink. “gotta love that word. real tidy way of sayin’ ‘rip ‘em outta the only home they’ve known.’”

Colette’s voice was a brittle thread.

“Is this because she got close? That is got personal?”

Sans didn’t answer at first. Just scratched lazily behind his neck,

“It’s always personal,”  Flat. Final.

Asgore didn’t argue. He just looked down at something offscreen, and for a long moment, he was quiet.

“assumin' she got close,” Sans muttered. “then that was the problem. started carin’. that’s when they tightened the leash.”

Colette's voice cracked, furious. “Then why not be honest?! Why get close at all? Why play it like this?”

Sans was still staring past her, eyes shadowed.

“guess she couldn’t lie to herself yet,” he said. “but she could lie to us.”

The silence hung too long, too thick.

Asgore sighed again, softer now. “The meetin’s scheduled. Papers are movin’ fast. Faster than I expected. And the moment she signs off…”

He didn’t need to finish.

On the screen, Asgore looked every bit the king Sans remembered from the Ruins—older now, hollower, beard trimmed but hands trembling. His crown wasn't visible, but his burden sure was.

“I’ll fight it, I promise you,” he added, his hands going to his temple as he spoke.

“Frisk’s… they’re mine too, far as I’m concerned. I may not have earned that right, not after what I—” He swallowed hard. “But I love that child. I’ll do every damn thing I can.”

The connection crackled as the wind picked up outside.

Colette stepped back from the screen like it had bitten her.

“We can do something, right?” she asked, voice raw. “There’s gotta be some way to stop this.”

Sans finally stood, the movement stiff.

“then we don’t wait,”

“But she lied,” Colette whispered. “She lied to all of us. To Frisk.”

“i know.”

“She said she cared.”

“i know .”

The small fridge buzzed in the silence. The clock ticked like a metronome no one could dance to. Even the wind outside had gone still, as if the world itself was holding its breath.

Asgore rubbed at his temple, eyes closed behind the low frames of his glasses. “We’ll get ahead of it,” he murmured. “But it’s gonna take some… careful treadin’. This ain’t a war, but someone sure wants it to feel like one.”

Sans leaned an elbow on the table, his other hand tapping absently near a forgotten ketchup packet. His sockets had softened, just a little, voice quiet.

“yeah. i get it.”

A beat.

“you’ll talk to Tori?”

Asgore nodded, slow.

“Mm. Yeah. After supper, I reckon.” He blinked, distracted by movement off-screen — probably another file dropped onto the pile beside him. He waved someone off, a click of a door, then Asgore's attention was back on him. Tone softening as he continued.

“Gotta let her settle a bit first. She’s the kind that needs to hear things right. Or else she’ll start barkin.”

Sans let out a faint snort.

“heh. sounds like someone else i know.”

That earned the ghost of a smile from the old king — just a twitch at the corner of his mouth, but real.

“We’ll call you both later. You, me, and Tori. Once the dust calms down a little. Have a couple glasses of wine, talk things over disaster reports.”

“‘sure,” Sans confirmed, standing up slow. “you know I’m always down for a good panic party.”

Asgore chuckled — warm, rough, pulled from somewhere deep in the chest.

“Damn right.”

Sans moved to end the call, thumb hovering just above the edge of the screen.

“hey.”

He paused. Looked back.

Asgore’s eyes had gentled — his voice dropped low, almost a murmur:

“Mind your temper, son.”

The words landed like a soft hand on the shoulder. Not a warning. A reminder. One that came from a boss monster who’d lost too much to his own fire.

“I know you,” Asgore went on. “And I know how easy it is to bite when they push. Might even feel righteous. Might be righteous. But… don’t let ‘em drag you outta yourself.”

He leaned back, the old chair creaking under him.

“I been learnin’ to keep mine quiet. Still ain’t good at it. But it keeps the bridge from burnin’ all the way down. That matters more than winnin’ the moment.”

Sans was quiet. Still.

Then — a flicker of a grin.

“you gettin’ all mentory on me again?”

Asgore smiled. Something about it was tired. But steady.

“someone’s got to.”

Another pause. The silence was soft now. Settled.

“…thanks, old man,” Sans whispered. And it came out quiet.

Real.

Asgore’s voice was rough, but filled with something tender he’d never name.

“anytime.”

Click.

The call ended, leaving the room unnaturally quiet.

The hum of the radiator, the faint ticking of a wall clock—they all pressed in, louder somehow in the silence that followed.

Sans let out a slow breath through his nose. Wordlessly, he rolled his shoulders and stood, the legs of the wooden chair creaking faintly beneath him. A few crumpled ketchup packets sat on the arm of the lounge chair.

He scooped them into one hand, shuffling toward the small trash bin near the corner. Tossed them in with a soft plap.

Then he turned for the hallway, hoodie pulled tighter around his neck, the weight of something unspoken hanging just behind his steps.

Colette fell into stride beside him.

The ski lodge’s halls were narrow, carved out of thick timber and lined with old sconces. Soft rugs muffled their footsteps, but the creak of aged floorboards still found its way between the quiet. On the walls, faded photographs of ski teams and black-and-white hikers stared out at them from crooked frames. A stuffed snowshoe hare sat on a high shelf, glass eyes catching the hallway light.

The scent of pine cleaner and old cedar hung in the air. Somewhere nearby, a floorboard groaned under someone else’s weight—then quieted.

From the front, the distant creak of the lodge’s entry doors reached them, followed by a rising swell of voices. The kind that came with returning guests—clumps of boots, wind-chilled chatter, scarves being unwound.

They rounded the corner and spotted Papyrus near the lounge, a little cluster of monster children gathered around him in rapt attention. He crouched carefully, balancing a cup of juice in one hand while animatedly describing the tale of Three Bears and One Very Suspicious Porridge Bowl.

"—AND THEN, THE MEDIUM BEAR DECLARED, 'WHO'S BEEN SITTING IN MY CHAIR—AND LEFT GLITTER ON EVERYTHING?!'"

The children burst into delighted laughter. One Lizardkin toddler clapped sticky hands together.

“Hey, Paps,” Colette called, eyes scanning the room beyond. A mix of monsters and humans were filing in—shaking off snow, hanging up coats, kicking boots dry against the mats. A few more kids peeled off toward the couches, some showing off souvenirs, others still tending to their own.

Papyrus’s grin widened as he looked up.

“COLETTE! BROTHER! I—” He paused, eyes flicking to their dry clothes and snowless shoes. “Oh. YOU DIDN’T GO OUT WITH THE OTHERS?”

Sans gave a short shrug. “Stayed behind. Felt like doin’ a little less adventuring and a little more loafin’ today.”

Papyrus frowned thoughtfully, gaze drifting to the coat racks and back again.

“THAT MEANS THE OTHERS MUST STILL BE OUT... I DIDN’T SEE FRISK, ALPHYS, OR—”

The sentence drifted unfinished.

The air shifted.

Sans had stopped mid-step. Not slouched, not smiling. Just still.

Papyrus noticed immediately. His posture straightened, voice dropping a notch, just enough to slip past the children’s notice.

“Sans?”

He rose slowly, carefully setting the juice cup down and giving the Lizardkin toddler a gentle pat before walking over. His tone softened, concern plain.

“You okay?”

Then—

A faint voice carried in from the front desk, just enough to reach them.

“Looks like a few stayed up at the Lookout,” Addison said, her voice distracted as she read off a clipboard. “River Person, couple of humans... Frisk, the scientist, and their friend. Sounds like they’re planning to stay up there a while longer.”

A monster near the door chuckled. “I’ll head up in a bit, check on 'em.”

The floor seemed to drop beneath them.

Sans didn’t say a word.

His expression didn’t twist, but his eye sockets darkened—emptied.

And Papyrus, sharp in a way few gave him credit for, stepped forward instinctively.

“Sans—”

Too late.

They barely saw the flash of purple from san's gaze before the skeleton crossed the room, the front door closing in his fast wake.

"Shit!" Colette swore under her breath, bolting after him without hesitation.

Behind them, Papyrus gently handed the other toddler to a startled teenager, his tone suddenly low, serious. "Watch them please, their parents are in their rooms."

The snow outside blustered in quiet flurries, wind curling around the lanterns by the door. Colette leapt onto the steps, boots crunching into the frost-covered wood.

"Sans!" she shouted into the darkness. “Wait!”

But the snow didn’t answer.

Only footprints.

Deep. Fast.

And then—nothing.

The trail cut off mid-step, the snow around it undisturbed. As if he’d never been there at all.

Colette stood at the edge, breathing hard, eyes searching the dark woods beyond.

Empty.

Still.

The wind howled through the trees.

“Holy shit,” she whispered, pressing the heel of her hand against her brow, then raking it back through her hair. “No, no, no…”

Behind her, the door creaked.

Papyrus stepped out into the snow. No words this time. No exaggerated gestures. Just silence.

Colette’s phone buzzed in her coat pocket.

She pulled it out with stiff fingers.

LabRatwithWifi: we're going to the well. the old one. the one where frisk fell.

Another message.

LabRatwithWifi: we’re almost there. signal might cut out.

Her breath caught in her throat. Her eyes widened.

The Well.

Her thumb hovered over the screen.

Then—without a word—she clicked the phone closed.

And didn’t say a thing.

The air was shifting.

A storm was here. 

And Sans had gone to meet it.

Chapter Text

“They say the moment before everything goes wrong is quiet. Not the kind that follows a storm — but the kind that comes before. Still. Suspended. The kind of quiet that settles in your lungs and holds there. The kind that feels… chosen.”

“Frisk looked at me today. Not with fear. Not exactly. But there was something in their eyes. Something old. Something that didn’t belong in a child’s face. Like they’d remembered something that hadn’t happened yet.”

“Langston’s voice is still stuck in my skull. Like static. Like a stain. I keep replaying the last thing he said to me, trying to find the fault line — the part where I could’ve changed course.”

“But the truth is… I still think I was right.”

(A pause.)

“…And that’s what scares me most.”

You blink.
Frisk’s arms are locked tight around your middle, small and too warm against the cold settling into your bones. Snow collects in their hair, clings to your coat sleeves, rests on your lashes. They don’t look up.

They haven’t signed a single thing since you held them. Shaking. 

But they haven’t needed to.

You hold them anyway. Steady. Protective. But the tension in their body won’t go away — something in them is still coiled tight, still waiting for the worst.

Alphys stands nearby, her shoulders drawn in like she’s trying to disappear into herself. Her claws twitch at her sides, open-close, open-close. She glances at you, then at your coat pocket. She doesn’t say anything — doesn’t need to.

Even buried under wool and silence, you feel it:
Bzzzt.
Bzzzt.
Bzzzt.

Relentless. Like a pulse that won’t die.

The phone’s been buzzing for the past twenty minutes. And you've kept silencing it. 
You know who it is.
You knew before the first vibration.

You don’t want to look.
You already know.

But your hand moves anyway, like it doesn’t belong to you.

Langston.
Incoming Call. [9 Missed Calls]
Friday, 8:34 PM.

He told you he’d call before the end of the workday.
It’s long past that.

And yet, here he is — persistent as ever, a quiet threat humming beneath a name on your screen.

Langston.

Your thumb hovers over the phone, the cold seeping through your gloves as if it could soak into your bones and hollow you out.

“You said you trusted me.”

“You said I was a clean slate. Unassuming.”

“The kind of person no one would suspect.”

 You didn’t say it like a compliment.

You feel the familiar twist in your gut — not guilt, not yet — just the echo of it, like a shadow waiting to become real.

Frisk burrows closer, small hands gripping fistfuls of your coat, their breath stuttering against your ribs. You feel them press in tighter, as if they could anchor you to this moment — to them — and maybe they can. Maybe they have.

But they’re silent.
They’re always silent.
Except when they’re not.

They haven’t signed anything since it happened — not since the walls fell and the lies crumbled and their world cracked in half — but you can feel the questions churning inside them. You can feel them watching the shift in your expression, the tension coiling behind your eyes, the way your jaw sets as the phone buzzes again.

They can feel the change in you.
Even if they don’t understand it.

They want to help.
But they don’t know how.
And the truth is — neither do you.

Because that part of you, the part Langston helped shape — sculpted and molded and sharpened like a knife — it’s still there. Still watching. Still ready.

You’ve done this before. Countless times.

You’ve walked into homes with soft smiles and softer voices, eyes wide, heart open. You’ve gained their trust. Gently. Carefully. You’ve built bridges, coaxed open wounds, guided families to share things they never meant to speak aloud. You’ve collected their truths like evidence and turned them into reports, clean and clinical, for someone else to judge.

For years now, you’ve made a life out of this — crafting the illusion of warmth, of trust. Walking into broken homes and smiling like you belonged there. Getting just close enough for people to open up. Spill their truths.
You’ve held crying parents, laughed with foster siblings.

All under the guise of help.

And most days, you believed it.

Most days those cases really did help a child be removed from an abusive mother, a new family that loved them. 

Most days, it didn’t hurt.

But this time…

This time it does.

Because this time, the folder they handed you wasn’t just a name and a list of warnings. It wasn’t some red flag case waiting to be confirmed. This time, the assignment was clear: Help us better understand the immigrants intentions, observe the child, document instability, gather anything that could be used in court to prove removal was the only safe option.

And the lie you were meant to tell — the one you’ve told before, too many times — was simple:

Because again. 
It wasn’t a messy case with too many variables.
It was an instruction.

A simple one.

Gather anything that can be used in court to justify removal.

And the lie you were meant to tell — the one you’ve whispered into enough reports to know the cadence by heart — truly it was simple:

They are not safe here. They are not safe with Immigrant's-

No. 

Monsters.

They were people too. 

You didn’t question it.

Not at first. The word still held weight, but so much has changed in just a week — it still carried the implication of danger, of otherness. Of something that needed oversight. Regulation. Walls.

But then you met them.

And slowly, the narrative began to fall apart.

You saw Frisk — not as a case number, not as a vulnerable dependent, but as a child. A quiet one. Watchful. With hurt in their bones, yes, but not from here. Not from them.
You heard how they ahd moved through the Underground’s ramshackle world like someone walking through a tapestry — woven into it. The memories they sewed into the story, their story, not some tabloid about a child saved from a broken home- no they made their own way. 
They were known. Missed. Loved.
So deeply, and by so many.

You watched the monsters and realized they didn’t raise children the way humans did. They didn’t divide responsibility by blood or name.
They co-parented. No bloodline required. No obligation.
Just love. Constant, tangled, imperfect love.

You saw little spiderlings crawl to the human child, carrying pastries on their backs, up the arm and into Frisk’s hands one morning when they thought no one was looking — “mama said 'a snack before lunch today',” the little spider children laughed, “and one for anyone else with a sweet tooth.”
You watched a pair of guards — humans, not even stationed here anymore — toss a worn soccer ball between themselves and a gaggle of monster kids in the hotel parking lot. When one of the toddlers tripped, a tall bug-eyed sentry scooped them up and checked their knees like a fussy uncle.

You’d seen that guard that first brought you in hoist a kid — again - not even her own species — onto her shoulders during a snowball fight, yelling “sniper advantage!” while Papyrus pretended to die dramatically in the snow.

You’d seen two elderly monsters knitting on a bench near the hotel lobby fireplace, watching children come and go like they were all their grandkids, ready with scarves and advice and stern little candies from deep coat pockets.

You saw Sans.
God.
You saw Sans — fractured, tired, trying — the way he talked about-
No not just Frisk, 
He watched them all.

These weren’t broken people.
They weren’t dangerous.
They weren’t hiding a threat.

They were raising each other. All of them. Monster, human, in-between. Like it wasn’t weird. Like it was obvious.

Frisk wasn’t lost.
Frisk wasn’t broken.
Frisk wasn’t waiting for someone to save them.

Frisk already had a family.

It wasn’t one guardian.
It was all of them.
The Denizens had taken this child in, completely, without needing to be told.
Like they were their own.

And maybe that was the most dangerous thing of all.

Because what do you say to a system that works, when you’ve been trained your whole life to believe it shouldn’t?

And now, they’re clutching you like you might disappear. Like you might say something that sends everything crashing down again.

And maybe… maybe they’re right.
Maybe you were never meant to stay.
Maybe you were never supposed to see this.

Because if you see it — really see it — you might have to ask yourself the one question Langston didn’t want you asking:

What if the monsters were never the danger?

What if it’s the people who sent you?

You slide your arms down slowly, hands trembling as you ease Frisk’s grip from your waist. Not prying. Not pushing. Just peeling away. Gently. Like undoing the final seam in a freying shirt, pulling at that thread, never ending until it inevitably does. 

 Then kneeling, eye level with them, heart twisting in your throat.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper. And you mean it — god, you mean it. “I need to take this.”

The look in their eyes nearly undoes you. But they let go.

Frisk doesn’t move. Their arms cross, fingers going under the other, watching you with a lost expression, their face contorting, tear streaked, and shivering. As they eye you once, twice, then to your ringing phone-

Alphys watches you like she wants to step in, like she wants to offer a lifeline you won’t take. 

You smile at her. 

You step away.

The cold settlings in. 

Out into the pale clearing, your boots crunching through the packed snow. The trees around here are skeletal and quiet, their branches bare, reaching like bones into the gray. You don't go far — just out of earshot.

The freezing air sinks into your cartigan like it means to stay. Your breath fogs the air in front of you, curling like smoke. You press the screen.

Call answered.

Silence.

And then:

Then the stance you've molded to, straightening your spine, setting your jaw, relaxing your arms

You press the phone to your ear, the sound of Langston’s voice cutting through the cold air like a blade.

“Finally,” his voice isn’t as measured as it was before. There’s an edge to it now, strained, like someone trying to hold in a shout. "Was wondering when you'd pick up."

You swallow hard. "I— I’m sorry. I just— it’s been a long day." Unassuming. 

“Is that so?” His voice drips with barely-contained annoyance. "I suppose that's what I get for assuming you'd be the kind of person to keep your word, huh?"

His words hit harder than you expect. Ouch. They sting, because you’ve been dodging him all day — you knew this call was coming, and you knew the anger would come with it. But still, hearing it feels like an accusation. This is not the same boss you sat across from in that meeting room. 

Langston’s silence is like a wall against you. He’s waiting for you to say something. Anything.

But you're not sure what to say.

"How's the—" He clears his throat, the sound harsh and forced. "How's the observation going? Frisk still— adjusting?"

There’s that word again. It makes your chest tighten.

You try to keep your voice steady. "They’re adjusting. Yes."

Langston hums in the phone, and you can hear the unmistakable sound of him shifting in his chair, his frustration palpable even from miles away. “I see. I’ve been keeping track of your reports. It’s been a week. You didn’t mention anything about any… incidents.”

His words are like knives. You know what he’s getting at, even if he won’t outright say it.

“It’s… not been a standard case,” you say, a little too quickly, hoping the words will smooth things over. “A little more complicated than I expected. But it’s under control.”

There’s a long pause.

Then, as if it’s a burden he can’t hold back anymore, Langston spits out his next words like they’re toxic.

“The folder I sent with you—” He pauses, dragging the words out. “—Did you even look at it? Or did you think you could get away with that glossing over it?”

You flinch. You didn’t look at it the way you were supposed to. The file was almost entirely redacted, except for key pieces of information.

Frisk’s name. Their age. Known instability.
Potential danger to the community if left with immigrants, they inspire, their words mean something-

You thought it would be easy — just another job, another child to observe, another story to fabricate. Just another folder full of text, half of it blacked out.

But now, with Langston’s voice crackling in your ear, you realize how much you’ve let your own feelings cloud your judgment.

“I… I’ve been following it to the letter, or the best I can interpret,” you murmur, your throat thick. “It’s just— Frisk, they’ve—”

“They’ve what?” Langston interrupts, his tone rising with frustration. “What exactly have they done, huh? What’s the progress on the instability you’re supposed to be tracking? The emotional distress? Or do you mean the connections you’ve been fostering instead?”

He’s cornering you. You can hear it. His words are deliberate, calculated. He knows what you’ve been doing, knows what’s been happening between you and Frisk — but he won’t say it outright. He’s trying to make you admit it.

“I’m just doing my job,” you whisper, but the words sound hollow.

“Your job?” Langston laughs, but it’s empty, like he’s there watching you unravel. “Your job isn’t to make them comfortable. Your job isn’t to get attached. We had an agreement, remember? You promised to follow through. We’re not running a daycare here. These people—” he growls the word, “—these immigrents, they’re a threat. Do I need to remind you of that?”

His voice dips into a low, simmering fury now. You can practically hear the tension in the air. It’s thick, stifling, and suddenly, the distance between you both feels like miles.

“I did what you wanted. I followed the protocols. Frisk is fine here. They’re not a threat.”

You don’t even realize you’ve said it aloud until the words hang in the air like a confession.

Langston’s voice turns colder, sharper, the bite of disbelief hardening his tone.

“Are you really going to tell me that, after everything? You’re going to stand there and tell me you’ve seen no evidence of a potential risk here? That’s your professional opinion?” He scoffs, but the noise isn’t humor. It’s venom. “Because from where I’m sitting, your sudden attachment to the child’s wellbeing looks an awful lot like someone who forgot what they were hired to do.”

“I didn’t forget—” You bite your lip, the sting of the words slicing through you. “But Langston, they have a family. They’re safe here. I’ve seen it—”

“Enough,” he snaps. “Enough. I don’t care what you’ve seen. I care about results. You’re not in this to make friends, you’re here to gather intel.”

A dry laugh escapes you, though it sounds broken even to your own ears.

Then. 

You look over, the phone away from your ear as Langston is speaking.

The wind around you has started to pick up again. 

 Frisk is standing by the well, their arms wrapped tightly around themselves, but their gaze is unwavering as they stare at you. They heard everything. You can see it in their eyes — that brief flash of fear, like the briefest tremor through still water, before it settles back into something familiar. Something understanding.

Alphys stands a few feet away, looking at you, then at Frisk, her expression full of confusion.

She hasn’t said anything yet, but you can see the questions in her eyes. The way she’s walked over and holding Frisk again, her clawed hands gripping tight, the muscles in her arms taut.

Standing taller than usual, her posture stronger than you’ve ever seen it, she doesn’t look like the same timid scientist who always seems so small next to everyone else.

Frisk goes to step closer to you, and it’s like everything has been set into motion:

They know. They know what’s been happening. And you’re left standing here, the phone pressed to your ear, wondering how much longer you can keep lying.

Langston’s voice still echoes through the line, muffled, like he's far away — somewhere distant, somewhere you can’t reach anymore. But it's not the voice you hear now.

It’s Frisk’s soft breath, steadying, like the quiet rhythm of a heartbeat.

“Frisk—” you start, but your voice falters.

They’re here, with you.

They’re with Alphys. With Sans. With Papyrus. With monsters who’ve opened their arms to them. The world you were about to tear apart is still whole, still beating in the background.

And you can’t break it.

For a second, for a grind into your scull second, you think you should have walked away. Taken this call out of earshot. But something kept your feet planted — a quiet, desperate instinct that maybe, just maybe, this was the moment you needed to stand still.

Langston doesn’t notice the silence on your end at first. He keeps talking, voice sharp and low, like he's already sentencing you.

“I’ll remind you,” he says, “that folder wasn’t just words. It was a directive. That child is the key to everything going to hell in our laps, and if you think this mess with the mayor is something, you wait.”

Your hand tightens around the phone.

“They are not a weapon,” you whisper.

Langston scoffs. “You said you were with them right now? Is that where you are? Because if so, I hope you’re enjoying your last day in the field.”

You inhale, slow and steady. No waver. No break.

“Yes,” you say.

There’s a silence.

“I’m with them,” you repeat, louder now, the truth rising in your throat like a storm breaking free. “We're at The Well. They're fine. They’re with people who love them. Who stood up for them when the world didn’t.”

Your eyes lift just as Alphys steps closer, arms wrapped tightly around Frisk, like a shield. Her eyes are wide behind her glasses, blinking in slow realization. Her breath catches. She’s heard everything.

Her voice trembles when she says your name. Quiet. Confused. She’s clutching Frisk close, but standing taller than you’ve ever seen her stand before.

Langston’s voice hardens to something furious and bitter.

“Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?”

You do. Gods, you do.

“You’ve just thrown away your career. You’ve just made yourself the face of this scandal. When the story breaks — and it will break — your name is going to be front and center. Not mine. Not the agency’s. Yours.”

You can’t look at Alphys. You can’t look at Frisk.

“I can bury you,” Langston growls. “You’ll never work in the field again. You’ll be lucky if they let you teach an ethics class at some gutter college.”

Your fingers are numb.

He’s still talking. Threats, insults, blame like oil pouring over your skin.

“And when this blows up — when public opinion turns — the headlines won’t be about the mayor’s corruption. They’ll be about you. About the agent who let a kid slip through the cracks. Who got too close to the immigrants failed attempts at coming in. You did this. This is your fault—"

You press the red button.

The line goes dead.

Silence swallows the world around you.

The wind has picked up, loud, biting at your ears; Langston’s absence it feels unbearable. Too full. Too loud. The air is whipping about, the sky is not clear anymore, shrouding the purple and blues of the setting sun, breathing life to the night brought think clouds, fast as they came by. You hold your arms to yourself now. Your teeth chatter, the cardigan overlapping itself, as you looked at Frisk, not breaking away, keeping your balance. 

They look so small. So still.

You take a tentative step toward them.

“Frisk,” you whisper, voice cracked and raw. “I—I didn’t mean to hurt you.”

But they shrink back.

Alphys jerks slightly, pulling them closer with a protective, almost primal motion. Her red talons tremble as they grip the back of Frisk’s coat. Her round glasses are lopsided, fogged from breath and the cold. Her mouth opens—closes—then opens again.

“Don’t,” she rasps. “Don’t come any closer.”

Your heart caves. “Please. Just let me explain. I thought—”

Crunch.

You stop.

That sound didn’t come from you.

Crunch. Crack.

Not footsteps.

Behind you, something shifts. The well — the one that stood so long it had been forgotten — is groaning. The old moss-covered stone, rimmed in frost, is splitting — fractures crawling like veins through its worn body.

As if something underneath is pushing.

Then comes the sound:

Wet, fibrous, tearing.

Something splits — not stone, not wood, but roots. Something meaty and stringy and old.

Snow erupts in clumps as a vine breaches the surface.

You step back, instinct overriding thought.

But it’s not a vine. Not really.

It’s too thick. Wider than your thigh. And it’s… breathing.
Its skin ripples as it unfurls. Rough bark peeled back like torn flesh, revealing muscle-like strands, twitching and glistening with something black, oily, and steaming against the snow.

Frisk makes a muted sound.

A scream without voice — jaw wide, mouth trembling, eyes wide with recognition.

Alphys turns.

And she goes pale.

“No,” she whispers. “No, no no no—”

Another vine punches through the snow. Then another. Six. Seven. The ground is boiling with them, slow and writhing like a nest of starving serpents.

One slams into the earth beside your foot. The impact sends a shock up your legs. You stumble.

They’re moving toward you.

“I—I don’t understand,” you stammer, backing away. “I don’t—what is this—”

Frisk struggles. Claws at Alphys’s jacket. Desperate. Pointing. Mouthing one word.

“FLOWEY.”

The name carves through your skull like a hot knife.

More vines burst from the well. From the cracks in the earth. From beneath the stones. You can smell the rot now — sweet and sharp, coppery. Like fresh cut grass, like  They writhe around each other, twisting, jittering, pulling against gravity like they’re not of this world.

You don’t hear the one that gets you.

A tendril wraps around your ankle and tightens instantly — wet and solid, lined with hooked thorns like barbed wire.

It yanks.

The scream the reaches your parted lips-gets cut off. 

Your foot leaves the ground, and your body follows violently — your back slams down into the ice-crusted earth.

Then it drags you.

You’re pulled backward at impossible speed. The ground tears — frozen stones rake across your spine, scraping skin to ribbons, peeling layers away in raw trails. Your shirt is dragged up and bunched under your armpits, exposing bare flesh to the cruel, grinding cold.

The pressure builds—
One of your knees slams sideways against a boulder with a sickening crunch.
The dislocation is immediate. Your leg flails unnaturally.

Your scream comes out silent — a gurgle. The air’s already been punched from your lungs.

You twist, trying to grab at the dirt, the snow, anything, but your fingernails only catch gravel and blood. You leave streaks behind you — red and raw. One of your nails rips off entirely.

Another vine lashes forward — this one wraps around your torso, pulling tighter with every second. Your ribs grind. Then snap. You feel it — the jagged shift of bone against lung.

You cough — and blood pours out of your mouth, warm and thick.

It’s in your throat, your nose, your eyes.

Alphys is screaming your name.

Frisk is reaching — mouthing “no” over and over as their tears stream down their cheeks.

But you can’t stop. You’re already at the lip of the well.

Your head hits the edge on the way down — sharp, explosive white behind your eyes. Your body folds unnaturally as you’re pulled in.

The vines follow you.

Wrapping.

Squeezing.

Dragging.

You fall into pure black.

Sans should’ve said something.
Should’ve left with a joke — a quick, “Don’t worry, bro, I’ll be back.”
But he didn’t.

There was no time.

He felt it like a tight string snapping inside his chest — pulling hard, invisible, sticky like molasses running backward. He’d been standing in the doorframe of the lodge, watching the city lights flicker through the treeline miles below, when that pull hit again. His chest tightened, a slow, sick tug that turned his stomach cold.

He knew he had to go. Knew he was already too late.

Sans stepped off the porch and took the shortcut.

The cold didn’t bother him — he’d felt worse. But this wind was different. It was sharp and angry, the kind that whispered through bare branches and set the trees to trembling like they were bracing for a storm. It clawed at his coat, trying to shove him back, and the forest around him wasn’t quiet like back in Snowdin. It was a howl—branches scraping, brittle needles snapping, the raw sound of winter’s edge.

He reached the lookout, just past the last weathered trail signs nailed to trees, the ski lodge lights now little more than faint glimmers behind him. His boots crunched through fresh snow, untouched by deer or bird or any careless traveler for hours.

He was alone.
Or at least, he should have been.

Sans tilted his head, scanning the shadowed trees. No SOULs glowed in the dark. No flickers of color shimmered between trunks like they did underground. No familiar pulses of life. Just cold, empty silence.

Even the kid — even you — were little more than shadows here. Fleeting glimmers that melted into the dark.

Why? Sans didn’t know. He had his ideas. Theories that made his bones ache. But none were easy to hold on to.

His own glow was still there — faint but steady. Somehow brighter than usual tonight, a soft, almost buzzing warmth under his ribs, tugging like a compass needle. He’d done what he could: tied a thread of himself to the kid, a little flicker of magic — like bookmarking a moving platform in Hotland so Frisk didn’t fall in the lava.

A failsafe.

And that failsafe was screaming now.

He trudged forward, slow and steady. The forest here didn’t take kindly to shortcuts — not with the fading barrier still hanging like a ghost, with magic twisting the air itself months after it should’ve vanished. But if he could get just a little closer — if he could feel that pull sharper — maybe he could find a way to open the path without collapsing the whole hillside.

He could feel it deep in his bones now — a sharp, high-pitched whine, like metal bending, like time itself fraying at the edges.

Sans hated this part.
Hated what it meant.

Not again.
Please, not again.

The wind cut left. The trees opened. The old well was just ahead, half-sunk in drifted snow, stone walls black with old lichen and water damage. A smell hit his nasal cavity like rot and ozone and something burned.

And suddenly —

His magic surged.

Frisk

That was it. That was where the thread led.

That was where he could shortcut.

Just for a second. Just enough.

He reached out with one gloved hand, dragging a crack of purple light into the air like unzipping the world.

“Hang on, kid,” he muttered, stepping forward into the break in space.

“I’m comin’.”

He didn’t look at the space in between.

Shortcutting was always like that—there was no “between,” not really. No sky. No ground. No time. Just the cold absence of anything but direction, a gap in logic wide enough to swallow him whole if he paused to think about it too long. So he didn’t. Not this time.

He stepped into the static, the dark seam in the world, and walked out high in the woods, snow flurries dragging across his coat like claws. The wind screamed around him as he stumbled forward, boot catching on a frost-ripped branch.

The well.

It was near. The pull in his chest—the aching thread of his own magic, strung taut—was still there, tugging him forward like a beacon. The cold didn’t bite so much now. He didn’t feel it. Not with how hard his magic buzzed under the bone, how frantic it flared every time his thoughts skidded back to them. Frisk. Alphys. You.

He pushed through the woods, ignoring the burn in his knees, the sharp breath he didn’t have scraping up his throat. A trail sign blurred past on his left. The old trailhead came into view. And—

The clearing.

He stopped dead.

The snow was churned. Not just stepped through—violated. Gored. Spiked roots of something dark and half-dead had erupted from the ground around the old well like ribs cracking through a carcass. The ground bore rips where it had been dragged open. Claw marks. No—vines.

He stepped forward slowly. The air was wrong. Still. Blood speckled the snow in slashes, droplets arcing like thrown paint—something had been dragged. Long furrows carved through the frost led back to the mouth of the well, the stones around it cracked and darkened with something thick.

And there—by the broken edge of rock—

A scrap of fabric.

His knees gave just enough to make him stumble as he crouched, skeletal fingers reaching out, brushing it up into the air. It was torn, almost beyond recognition, but he knew it. The color. The thread pattern. A trace of your scent, still clinging beneath blood and earth.

He stared down into the well, eye sockets wide. Empty. The black maw of it stared back, old and too quiet.

“no,” he whispered.

A crunch behind him made him whip around.

Alphys.

She stood on the edge of the tree line, tail wrapped in a tight curl around her leg. Her lab coat was torn at the sleeve, flecked with dirt and ice, and her eyes were huge—glassy with unshed tears, her mouth half-open as she whispered urgently into her phone.

Behind her, Frisk.

Frisk. Alive.

Sans staggered forward as Alphys’s voice cracked. She’d seen him now—her face folding into something broken and relieved all at once. She dropped the phone. Just dropped it into the snow. Her claws trembled as she reached out—

And Frisk ran.

They collapsed into Sans's arms, legs giving out beneath them, breath ragged but no sound escaping their throat. 

“kid—” he rasped, gripping them tight, heart cracking with the force of it. “hey. hey. i gotcha. you're okay. you're okay.”

But Frisk was shaking their head over and over. Hands flying up, signing desperately against his neck, wildly- He pulled their little fingers back—

:F L O W E Y:

Sans's breath caught.

Frisk repeated it. Again. Again. The motion so violent their shoulders trembled with the effort.

“no. no, that ain't—he gon- he shou- he should be sleeping still kiddo—”

And yet.

The signs didn't stop. Their hands spelled the name like a curse. Like a scream that couldn’t be heard. Until their hands gave out, and their body pressed into his ribs, still trembling.

Alphys approached slowly, her steps hesitant.

“I—I didn’t see where she went,” she stammered, voice breaking. “He—he took her, Sans. He dragged her into the well. There were—there were vines. Everywhere. I didn’t—oh god, I didn’t see it coming—”

Sans steeled himself. 

A beat. 

Maybe two. 

Frisk shook.

Small hands balled in the worn fabric of Sans’s hoodie, fists buried deep against his ribs, face hidden. Their entire body convulsed in pulses like their nerves didn’t know how to calm down. Not after that.

Sans held them tighter.

He didn’t ask questions yet.

Didn’t try to explain. Didn’t joke. He just let them exist in the shelter of his arms, one hand protectively cupped around the back of their head. It was too much, too soon, and he felt like screaming, but Frisk needed a wall right now, not a damn crack in the dam.

Behind them, Alphys was pacing in tight, shattered circles. Her glasses were crooked, and her tail was a nervous whip behind her legs. She bent down to grab her dropped phone so tightly it cracked. “C–Colette, pick up, pick up, pick up—”

Nothing.

Again.

“…shit.” Her voice broke. “Shit.”

Sans looked over. She met his gaze—her own full of guilt, teeth catching her lip.

He walked over, still holding Frisk against his side. 

“hey. thanks,” he said, voice rough, like the words were dragging through gravel in his throat.

She blinked. “F-For what? I—I didn’t do anything, I couldn’t even sto—”

Sans wrapped his free arm around her, pulled her in, tight. Alphys stiffened, then caved into it, shoulders slumping like they’d finally let themselves feel the cold. She let out a choked sob. Clawed hands pressed into his back.

They stood like that for just a second.

Then the phone lit up in her claw again. Papyrus. She pulled away and answered immediately, stepping back toward the trees, her voice taut and sharp.

Sans crouched to his knees.

Frisk pulled back enough to see his face, fingers trembling.

:She stood up for me.:

The signs were slow, careful. :She— she snapped back at him. About me. About all of us.:

Sans’s face twitched.

:She got angry. For me. She— she said I was with my family.:

Their hands wavered. :Said monsters mattered. She told him off. For good. She hung up on him— and I thought it was over.:

They looked down. Their palms rubbed nervously together, before spelling the name again into their other palm, one letter at a time.

:F L O W E Y.:

He flinched. Just slightly.

Frisk blinked fast.

:He came out of the well. From under it. I didn’t know— I swear I didn’t know he was here— I never would’ve let her— I wouldn’t have come— if I’d known— I would never—:

“shhh.”

Sans caught their hands mid-sign.

Pressed them between his, thumbs brushing away the drying tears frozen to their cheeks.

“i know.”

Frisk’s lips trembled. They mouthed something they couldn’t say out loud. 

‘I was so scared.’

He nodded.

“Listen to me, kid,” Sans murmured low, voice barely louder than the wind sifting through the bare branches. “I’m gonna bring her back.”

Frisk’s eyes, wide and trembling, shimmered in the fading light—hope tangled with fear, like fragile icicles ready to shatter.

“Promise,” Sans added, voice steady but soft, the kind of quiet you only use when you mean it.

Without hesitation, Frisk lunged forward, pressing themselves against Sans’s broad frame. Their arms trembled, clutching tight, muffling a silent sob. The cold air was heavy, yet here, wrapped in this moment, it somehow warmed the space between them.

Behind them, Alphys’s voice drifted in urgent whispers, the sharp crackle of panic threading through her words. She was talking to Pap, could hear his voice as she then interrupted his brother,  “Dragged... into the well...” The phrases cut like shards beneath the brittle trees, raw and unfiltered. No sugarcoating.

No pretty lies.

Sans appreciated that.

Lying had never done anyone any favors.

Especially now.

He let Frisk slowly pull away, eyes flicking down to their shaking fingers before standing, steadying himself.

The well loomed ahead—a dark wound carved into the frozen earth, the cracked rim stained deep with dried blood. It seeped into the seams of stone like ink spilling over aged parchment, a silent testament to past violence and present danger.

Sans stepped forward without hesitation. His gloved skeletal hand settled on the cold edge, fingers curling lightly around the rough stone.

For a moment, he glanced back—Frisk’s fingers fluttered in a brief, desperate wave:

:Please. Be careful.:

Sans’s grin twitched—not with his usual lazy smirk, no pun ready to slide off his tongue.

This was different.

Quiet. Honest. 

“heh. you know me.”

Then the grin faded completely.

“i don’t leave anyone behind.”

The snow crunched beneath his feet as he shifted, eyes narrowing on the spiral abyss yawning below—the black maw that seemed to suck in the cold light, the hope, the past.

And without another word, Sans jumped.

You wake up and immediately know something is wrong.

There is no startle. No gasp. Just... knowledge. A cold, quiet wrongness.

One of your eyes stares at stone — up, maybe. The other rolls downward, sideways, where red smears across the floor in strokes like finger paint. There’s a sound like chewing in your ears. You think it might be your heartbeat. You think it might be bone.

Your spine isn’t sitting right.
You can’t feel your left arm.
Your right leg — grinds. That’s the word. When you twitch your toes, something grinds.

The stone beneath you is warm. Wet. It sticks to your side like syrup.
Your blood. Yours.

You're tangled in vines.

They aren't around you. They're in you. Through the muscle. Anchored in bone. You shift, just slightly, and something in your leg grinds like glass. A scraping, marrow-deep pop. The pain is instant. Cold. Your ribs catch. Your breathing staggers.

Your head tilts the wrong way when you inhale.

You try to cough. Something burbles. Not spit. Not quite blood. It tastes like iron and something green.
You blink, and the darkness blinks back.

There’s a voice.

Gentle.
Calm.
Static through petals that land on your face, the one eye staring up at a pinprick of light somewhere above you. 

“You were supposed to be good.
You were supposed to be safe.
You were supposed to try again.”

It’s not angry.
It sounds like someone talking to a dying animal. Or a child who doesn’t know better.

You don’t recognize the voice. You don’t even recognize your own limbs.

There’s too much of you, and not enough. The pressure around your joints is unbearable — wet vine, sap-slick, threading itself in and out like sewing thread. Every pulse of your heart is another root digging deeper.

You try to scream.
Only your fingers twitch. Only one. The other’s crushed.

The voice continues, louder now. Closer.

“I’ve been here for a long time.
They left me here.
So I stayed. I grew.”

You blink again and see movement.
Not a creature. Not exactly.
Just a corner of something. A shape.

An eye, round and wet and almost goat like, the pupil is sideways, except it's too flat. Too wide. No eyelid. Just muscle flexing.
It slides away behind a curtain of vines before you can understand what you saw.

Next, a fang. White. Carved from ivory or bone. Wedged in a mouth you can’t see, but it smiles. 

✡︎□︎◆︎ 🙵■︎□︎⬥︎ ⧫︎♒︎♋︎⧫︎ ⬧︎❍︎♓︎●︎♏︎📬︎
It’s the same one you saw in the Flower Bed. Long ago.
The smile before Frisk cried.
Why do you know this?

“The Ruins were empty. Hollow.
So I made them full again.”

You feel your ribs shift — not from inside, but outside.
Pressure builds along your sternum, and then something cracks. A single vine presses gently, insistently, until bone yields with a muffled crunch.
Your lungs twitch. Not enough air.
Your breath sounds like water in a cup that’s tipping over.

You’re not really here.
You’re in Sans’s arms.
He’s warm. He’s talking to you.
His voice is far away, underwater.

You see Frisk’s face — tears running down their cheeks, their hands moving in frantic shapes. You don’t know what they’re saying. You never did.
But they’re afraid.

Your brain jumps.
You see Meredith’s gloves, stained in tea and sugar. She's laughing about something. 
Colette’s tongue sticking out at you. 
Papyrus’s too-loud laugh.
Alphys blushed face hiding behind her hands. 
Your mother’s hand on your forehead, checking your fever.
The smell of lavender.

Then — back.
Reality.
You’re being dragged.

Far, too far, Your tears dried up a bit ago
You don't register the pain in your back, to be honest, you don't think you feel it anymore. 

Your arm give out a while back as you've been dragged through these dark, winding turns. Not like a branch — like rotted fruit. The sound it makes isn’t a snap. It’s a wet squelch.

“They'll come back when the flowers bloom in spring.”

You think, this has happened before.
Not like this Not exactly.
But pain. This pain.
That same feeling, the one under your teeth, like chewing tinfoil. The memory of something breaking. You didn’t scream then, either. You never screamed.

There are flowers blooming in your stomach.
You feel them. Roots curling around your spine.
Your body is soil.
Flesh becomes mulch.

“You smiled. You smiled. You smiled.”

The voice is breaking now.
It loops. It stutters. Like it can’t decide what it wants to be. Like it remembers different versions of itself.

You see its full form, once.

Just once.

Not all at once — your brain won’t let you.
A vine like a spinal cord.
Another eye, pupil-less, blinking in the stone.
Mouths. Multiple. Some crying. Some singing. Some silent.
Its body is made of you. Of them. Of everyone it’s ever loved and hated.

You’re being fed to it.

To him. 

❄︎□︎ ✌︎⬧︎❒︎♓︎♏︎●︎🕯︎⬧︎ ❍︎♏︎❍︎□︎❒︎⍓︎📬︎

The flowers are growing.
The Ruins are coming alive again.

And just before you lose consciousness again —

You hear a voice behind the static.

Not Flowey’s. Not the thing’s.

Sans.

Calling your name.

But it's too late.

You're already blooming.

Sans hadn’t let himself panic on the surface.

He couldn’t. Not while Frisk was safe. Not yet. Not with everything unfurling to fast. Even when he felt the weight of something wrong pressing down on him, he kept it together — he had to. He needed to.

But now?

Sans doesn’t think anymore. He’s on autopilot, the magic humming through his bones, alive in the air like a heartbeat. His body ache with the weight of the 3rd shortcut — the teleportation that tears through him like it always has, but this time, it’s not as simple. This time, the place is resisting him.

No, not the first time he has been here several times before, but it’s the first time it feels wrong. Too tight. The stone feels colder than usual, and the walls loom in on him, like they know he’s coming — like they’re waiting for him.

There’s something else in the air now, something different, something that pulls at his SOUL. His magic crackles around him, glowing faintly as it lights the darkness, and the shadows seem to shift in response. As if they’re alive. The ground cracks beneath his feet, splitting with a strange energy that makes his ribs rattle.

The vines.

His spine aches as his magic cuts through the thick, curling tendrils. But this isn’t the same fight as before. This is different. The vines aren’t just the Ruins’ pulse anymore. They know him, know his magic, know his fear. He feels the tension in his body rise with every step.

The memory of them claws at the edges of his mind — of the way the vines had held Frisk, had strangled them, had tried to suffocate them. He swallows hard, pushing the thoughts back, not giving in to the panic that’s threatening to rise. His hand twitches around the glowing magic, the familiar pull of his body, calming himself, his SOULS vibrating with urgency, but also... something more.

It’s the vines. It’s the shadows. It’s the darkness that clings to the edges of his vision. This isn’t the calm, quiet part of underground he used to know. This is an oppressive darkness, and the air smells of dust and decay, like the Ruins are mourning something.

And that weight, the one pressing down on his chest, doesn’t let up.

He has to get to you. His feet crack the stone with every step as he reaches the floor, the wilting flowers around him, his legs protesting as if they’re already too tired for this. As if his feet, his arms, his pelvis, his collarbone, his everything remembers what happened — the way it felt when the vines had taken someone ahold of his own body before.

His heart beats harder, faster. A pulse of dread spreads through him. He doesn’t even realize the tremor in his magic, how it’s getting shakier, until he hears the sound of a vine scraping against the stone beneath him, scraping at his feet.

And then the real pain hits him.

He hears it — the faintest echo, like the sound of whispers across him. You. Your name, the echo of something familiar. But it doesn’t make sense. The vines twitch around his ankles, reacting to him, pressing tighter against his legs. They too remember him. The vines... they remember everything that’s happened before.

I can’t lose you, not like this.

His heart stutters in his chest. He takes a breath, but it feels too shallow, too tight. The air is closing in again.

He jumps up, steading himself as he runs across the trunk like vines, hopping out of reach of a few that swiped at him, taking to one of the long stretches of crumbling wall. Purple bricks greet him as he passes, over the flora, following the vines, his trails. A path. Something. 

Sans steps slow. He doesn’t want to admit it, but… he’s following the flowers. White petals crushed underfoot, trailing through the crumbling halls like a breadcrumb trail — and he hates how his chest tightens every time he sees them. Hates how fast he starts walking when they disappear for too long.

The blood trail — yours — dried out a while ago. Smears along the stone, nothing fresh. 

His breath hitches in the quiet. Then he curses himself.

get it together, bonehead. you’ve been in worse spots.

But he hasn’t. 

The shadows drip off the old bricks. He thinks he remembers when this place had firelight — warmth. Now the torches are dead, eaten by ivy and time. And the deeper he goes, the more twisted the roots get. Crawling through broken floors. Burying doors. Reaching for him when they think he’s not watching.

And still, he remembers what you said on the couch. Back at his home.

"You should talk to her, tell her what you feel."

That memory stings. Its been a few days. Just a damn week. And he had shoved it aside — your voice, your stance, the way you didn’t flinch when he all but said he wasn't interested. The half assed friendzone.

How he’d pushed you away, told himself you were a threat. You had offered advice with Tori.

Hell- was someone that's supposed to be  'a threat' you called someone smiling and helping like that?

That was easier.

That was safer than facing the truth.

You weren’t dangerous. Not really.

You were... familiar.

so why the hell did i run?

He stops. Hand pressed to a crumbling doorway. He remembers this part of the Ruins — vaguely. The chapel. Dusty old pews for monsters who’d stopped praying centuries ago. The walls here echo in ways that don’t make sense.

His magic flickers. He doesn’t move.

He sees your face again — that first moment. That goddamn look you gave him. Like you knew something he didn’t. Like you remembered him.

It had set him off.

He wasn’t ready for that.

He had something to prove — to himself, to everyone. That he was still sharp, still right to be paranoid. That nothing got past him.

So he turned it into a test. A game. Pushed you, needled you, watched you.

Needed you. 

Hurt you.

He breathes in sharp. Magic buzzing so hard around him it flickers against the wall like a pulse. He doesn’t realize his hands are shaking until the glow falters.

frisk was fine. until you showed up.

His jaw clenches.

Except… that’s not right. Frisk wasn’t fine. Not really. They smiled. They laughed. They stayed strong. But they were hurting. And he saw it. He saw it, and he did nothing.

Instead, he turned it on you.

He made you the problem. Because it was easier. Because it meant he didn’t have to think about the wrongness scratching at his skull — that creeping feeling something was off, like memories were dripping through the cracks.

Like he’d seen your eyes before in a different life.

He’d make a joke about that, usually. Something dumb. “Guess even the walls are giving me the cold shoulder.” But the sound of his own voice right now might crack him in half. So he doesn’t.

His steps echo soft across the moss-lined stone. Dust rises in little puffs under his boots. Not dust-dust, thank god — just the old kind. Dirt. Time. Decay.

Nothing final.

Yet.

He drags a hand down his skull and shuts his sockets.

“…what the hell is wrong with me.”

It’s not the first time he’s asked. It probably won’t be the last. He talks to himself. Always has. Words are easier in the dark when they don’t talk back.

But this time the silence presses in close. Tight around his ribs.

You’re not here. That’s what’s wrong.

He should’ve said something. Should’ve asked why you stepped in the way. Why you defended monsters you barely knew. Why you looked at him like you saw something worth saving.

Instead?

He ghosted.

Like always.

“chickenshit,” he mutters. The word drops like a stone.

You gave him chances — handed him kindness like you didn’t even know it was a currency he stopped carrying years ago. And he fumbled it. Faked indifference. Called it caution.

Watched you walk into danger like it was nothing.

Because he was afraid.

Not of you.

Of what you meant.

His bones ache. Like his magic’s too close to the surface, twitching with static. That strange buzzing’s back in his skull, behind the thoughts he won’t look at too close.

what if it’s another

Nothing.

The word doesn’t come. It never does. Not since he decided not to remember.

Just static.

Like tuning a radio and hitting a dead channel full of ghosts.

It’s always like this.

Like forgetting on purpose.

Or maybe not even that—maybe the forgetting does him on purpose.

Like something in him decided: no more.

Can’t hold it.

Can’t name it.

But you… you scratch at the edges of something deeper.

Like déjà vu with teeth.

A dream he keeps waking up from too late.

Or worse: a promise he already broke.

How crazy does that sound?

He shakes his head, the glow in his socket flickering low.

“nah. can’t go there.”

Not now. Not when he hasn’t found you yet.

He presses deeper into the Ruins. The halls twist tighter the further down he goes. Vines crawl over the old walls — not fresh, but still growing. Stone broken in places like someone forced their way through.

You?

He hopes so.

The air gets thicker. Mustier. Like something sacred and forgotten lives here. But that shouldnt be-

Eventually, he stumbles into an atrium. High ceiling. Cracked dome overhead, draped in ivy. Statues of old monster kings crumbling at the edges. Dust clings to every surface.

No footprints, but—

He pauses.

There.

A thread of cloth, snagged on a jagged piece of stone.

Caught in a tear. Still fluttering slightly from the cold draft behind him.

He steps forward slow. Kneels.

Fingers trembling — weird, he didn’t know they could do that — he pinches it free.

Still warm.

Still smells faintly like you.

He lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding, and it shudders on the way out. His shoulders slump.

You were just here.

You have to be.

He never said what he meant to.

Never asked what you remembered.

Never said sorry.

Never told you how scared he was that someone like you could undo everything — not by being bad.

But by being right.

He doesn't remember deciding to run.

One minute he’s staring at the shred of your clothing clinging to stone like a grave offering, and the next — he’s gone.

The magic lurches through him, shortcuts screaming with instability, phasing through root and ruin, stone bleeding violet behind him, his bones aching with every snap of his magic bending space.

He's not even sure where he's going.

He just feels it.

Something is pulling him — sharp and cold and wrong.

Then—

What?

W H A T.

Far ahead, past a tangle of thorns that ripple with sentience, past cracked pillars and stone that used to be part of her house — Toriel’s — back when this place still had breath and sanctuary. Just outside the broken front arch where the door once stood, beyond where even light had given up…

There it is. A realization that had his shoulders shaking, confusion lacing his brows.

Your SOUL.

Flickering.

But, he squints in his descent, something about your SOUL looks off, a pulsing familiar purple. Sans is confused. 

Not just with pain — no, this was different. He could feel it. It pulsed like it knew he was coming. Like it was holding on for him. Violet-pink, translucent gold, the edges cracking like ice under pressure. Flickering like a dying star.

He skids to a stop, nearly falling forward.

His breath catches.

Just like before. 

The first time he saw it — just a few nights back, when he had shortcut you both below the surface to Snowdin, it was to test something. He hadn’t told you that part. Just said it was another fieldtrip.

But that was bullshit.

The real reason?

He couldn’t see your SOUL aboveground.

Sans realized in the past couple months something was off with surface magic. Too filtered.

But once you stepped below?

He remembered the exact second it appeared.

And it shook him.

He had seen good SOULS. Tori’s was… gods. The kind of light you wanted to bask in forever.

But yours?

Yours was—

Beautiful.

Not in a soft, poetic, flower-field kind of way.

No.

Your SOUL burned, your colors vibrant. A wildfire in a glass cage. Righteousness, pain, fierce belief, and love twisted up in a brilliant, bruised flame. And no lies. Not a trace. He knew SOULs — read them like sheet music — and yours was singing the whole damn truth.

It terrified him.

Because you were a stranger.

And he had already started—

No. No, he hadn’t.

Because when you asked why he brought you there, when you smiled at him in the snow beneath the quiet pine trees of Snowdin, he deflected. Said he was in love with Toriel. Said it with a grin and a wink and that tired, empty shrug that meant don’t ask for more.

And you had smiled.

Like you understood.

Gods.

He had tested you.

And you passed.

He had thought about texting her — Tori — afterwards. Asked her if she thought he should talk to you. But he deleted it. He wrote it again-deleted. She had her own weight to carry. He didn't want to add his cracked heart to the pile.

And now-

Your SOUL is crying out in vertexing colors, swirling, swimming of oranges, blues, muted reds, alarming cyans, green swimming against the pink, they are calling out, the loudest are the - 

He breaks into a run.

The vines coil up like claws, but he dodges them, magic snapping into his fingers, portals sputtering open and closed behind him. Shortcutting. His bones ache. His skull throbs. 

Sans see's it. His eyes frantically searching. 

Where. Where. WHERE.

Where once rose-tinged light filtered softly through vine-split stone arches, now only the choking scent of rot and scorched determination lingered—of remains. Dust clung to every surface, once-silent corridors now echoing with a low, wet shlck, the dragging limbs of something that was never supposed to be reborn.

The garden had died a long time ago, but now it was being rewritten, rewritten wrong.

There—beneath the hanging remnants of a broken corridor, bloodied vines twisted like intestines between shattered columns, crawling across the ancient tile in nervous spasms. They pulsed as if with a heartbeat, forming grotesque knots of floral sinew and slick, fibrous growth. A single, hooved leg jutted from a body that twitched violently with every breath. What was once Flowey now twisted through a hideous resurrection, one eye bulbous and weeping, the other empty and sagging beneath the weight of a malformed skull crowned in curling, bladed horns like withered branches. The face was almost familiar—almost—like someone’s broken memory of a goat-shaped god, seen through a blood-smeared mirror and sewn back together by hands that didn’t know gentleness.

It didn’t crawl—it dragged itself upright, forelimbs warped and split into fractal vines, flowering open in bursts of teeth, bone, and petals that screamed soundlessly as they bloomed. Its back arched like something halfway through evolution, as if the very concept of “body” had been abandoned, and in its place, chaos had tried to rebuild itself by smell alone. This creature, pulls a fractured arm to its face, slow, drooling-

His thoughts slam to a halt. His senses freeze when he see's you finally.

The relief, that he can make that. 

The light gets stronger.

He flings across the rubble, it'll only take him a second. 

Your SOUL pulses again.

...

And then it screams.

He stumbles as the pulse turns violent — a shockwave of crimson and gold that blinds him for half a second.

Then—

Something breaks.

A wet, horrible snap.

His sockets go wide.

The jaws come down.

He sees it happen.

Gnarled and jagged and wrong — that maw made of vines and teeth, snapping closed around your middle, and your body — your body — bends in half with a sickening crunch as the thing that was Flowey bites down and rips.

The blood is everywhere.

Your spine gives. Your legs collapse, flopping like broken limbs in the mud. There’s red down your thighs, your ribs—your ribs—god, he can see them, cracked open like birdcage wires as your SOUL flares and sparks like it’s trying to get out, trying to run.

But it can’t.

You're still alive.

He sees it — that flicker.

You're still conscious.

still in there.

The creature lifts you up in its writhing jaws, chewing. Sinew pulls taut. Your entrails hang in loose, wet ropes down the monster’s gullet, slapping against the ground like paint on stone. It collapses on all fours, vines falling from its back, dust caking its muscles, it leans on a crumbling pillar before it stops chewing. Crazed eyes focus, shakily.

Flowey was going to step forward. 

And standing in its path—Sans.

There was no time to start thinking again. 

Because.

The creature lunged.

Like a thrown corpse, it arced forward with unnatural speed, mouth splitting open down the middle as jagged, bone-white petals erupted from its back like a crown of spears. Vines shot out around it, shattering the nearby archway and sending chunks of sandstone flying. Sans ducked low, teleporting just as a cluster of tendrils sank into the stone where he’d stood, the ground bubbling up like it was rejecting the contact.

He reappeared between two toppled columns—breath short, limbs stiff, no room for error—and already the thing was upon him again, crawling sideways along the ceiling like a spider. Its joints cracked backwards, dripping with sludgy chlorophyll, body spasming as if it was being puppeted by its own rage.

A bone tore through the earth—Sans had summoned it blind, instinctive—and it struck the creature dead center, sending it flailing to the floor with a sickening crunch that echoed through the hall like thunder. But it didn’t scream.

It giggled.

A flower’s giggle. A child’s giggle. Warped and wet.

It turned its head—no, it turned the whole upper half of its body, twisting with a shriek of its own sinew and vine, and leapt toward him again.

Sans threw himself into another shortcut—shorter distance this time, reappearing behind a broken fountain—and immediately sent a volley of sharpened bones arcing forward in a spiral pattern, trying to herd the creature into the collapsed eastern hallway. He didn’t need a win. He needed an edge.

Flowey caught three bones mid-air—its vines snapping closed like bear traps—while the fourth impaled the side of its chest, causing a flash of phosphorescent blood to hit the wall and hiss like acid. But it didn’t slow down. If anything, it howled forward, crawling through the onslaught like pain was just another form of hunger.

The moment it entered the hallway, Sans dropped it.

The roof caved in as soon as his hands flicked upward, bones erupting in jagged lines from both sides of the corridor to snap the arch into itself—stone and dirt and decay falling like a coffin lid, burying the abomination under tons of weight.

Sans staggered backward, ribs heaving. Sweat clinging to the edge of his skull. The fountain behind him had stopped dripping—no more water left. Just the clink of bones settling into dust and silence again returning to the air.

Until it moved.

A tremor.
A breath.

Crk-CRK-CRRRKKK.

The stones heaved outward, flung in every direction by a monstrous limb bursting free, vines writhing with blind fury. Then another. Then the head.

Not even broken.

Laughing.

It launched forward again, and this time it split apart mid-air—its torso unzipping down the center to reveal a mass of snapping mouths, hoarse sobs and screams erupting from somewhere inside the nest of its own body. Has he been absorbing the Denizens here-

Sans hit the ground, slid under it, and kicked off a shattered tile to launch himself toward a tangle of exposed roots near the back wall. He summoned a line of bones above his head—not to attack, but to use as a platform—and vaulted up, higher, into the rafters.

The creature slammed into the wall below, vines following in all directions. One lashed around Sans’s ankle, nearly pulling him down, but a summoned femur severed it in a single crack of blue light.

From above, Sans saw the battlefield as a whole.

The bones of the Ruins.

And bones of something far worse.

Flowey is rearing.

On him again.

From up high- The ground splits. Violet bones like spears rocket from the floor as sans moves his hand, skewering vines, exploding into blossom as they make contact. His eye burns white-hot surrounded by blinding yellow, the other igniting a feral violet flame as he screams through clenched teeth, bones cracking, portals rippling open around him like a vortex.

And he fires

1 HP

Sans isn’t built for this.

He’s good at the quiet stuff. The side lines. He’s good at standing just out of view, letting the others play hero, keeping the balance, making sure they don’t screw it up. But this? This thing, this feeling in his chest, the weight in his ribs like something cracked and wrong?

This? This is different.

This is him.

Fighting alone.

He’s done it before. He’s stood by while others fought. He’s made jokes in the background. Put on the mask of nonchalance, the easy grin, the wink. It’s fine. It’s fine. He’s good at it. Really good.

But the real truth?

The one buried deep under all the gags and the lazy slouch?

The weight of the bones in his hands, the weight of his magic humming through his body, the air — everything is heavier when it’s just him. When there’s no one else to lean on.

He’s terrified of what he’ll be when he walks out of here. 

When he can’t save anyone.

It gnaws at him.

The empty house. The loneliness.

No Frisk running around, no Papyrus talking about spaghetti or asking for puzzles to be solved. No Toriel. No family.

He won’t say it. He won’t say it out loud, because then it’s real. But damn it, he knows.

He can’t do this alone. He can’t.

He was terrified.

Gods is he terrified. 

Always had been.

Terrified of failing Papyrus. Of failing Frisk. 

He’d told himself he didn’t care anymore.

That was a lie.

He always cared.

Every shortcut. Every observation. Every late-night patrol with Papyrus. Every dumb snow pun. Every time he walked Tori to her own room at the hotel, talking behind the door, like they did back then. Every time he didn’t say what he should’ve.

He cared.

He cared so much it hurt.

And now?

Now you were dying in front of him.

The last shred of your SOUL flickering into nothing — not because of some god, not some noble cause, not even because of the humans or the old war — but because something forgotten had been gnawing at the foundation they’d built in the dark.

Flowey.

Whatever the hell he was now.

It wasn’t just vines and teeth anymore. It was hungry. It was older. A mass of memories made real. It had been waiting down here, evolving, festering in the cracks of a peace no one wanted to look too closely at.

The Monster-Human Integration had moved on, it has been going well for the most part.

One of his spears slammed into the side of the beast’s swollen eye with a wet crunch. A scream tore loose from the creature’s throat — not a flower’s scream anymore, but something deeper, twisted.

Something that remembered being a boy.

The world should’ve moved on.

But Flowey hadn’t.

Neither had this.

With every shortcut Sans took — popping back underground like he was flipping the porch light on at an old house — the thing had been watching. Waiting. Rooting deeper.

And he—

He should’ve known.

“The old fart was right,” he muttered between breaths, ducking low as a wall of serrated vines screamed overhead, tearing through the stone behind him. “Can't build a future on lies son…”

Asgore's own words died in his throat as he skidded across the dust-caked floor, knees crunching into gravel. Bone magic cracked from his hands — spears of glowing white rising from beneath the creature, impaling writhing tendrils, severing one, two—

And yet—

What do you do when the skeletons in your closet come out with teeth?

What do you say when the world above has no words for this kind of horror?

“It’s not supposed to be like this,” he mutters, too low to hear. He slides on his knees as vines slash past where he was, rows and rows of white fragmented around him, through Floweys tendrils. 

He grips his magic tighter.

His bones glow — violent and bright. His pupils burn, one gold, one violet. The air twists, pressure warping. The monster, whatever Flowey is now, snarls in delight, the sinew of your corpse still between its teeth like a trophy.

He’s going to kill it.

He has to.

If he can’t save anyone—

He’ll burn it all down.

"you better make peace with whatever gods are left," he whispers through his teeth.

He readies his stance.

A dozen glowing bones ripple into the air behind him, like a halo of vengeance.

The light of his eyes reflect off the blood-slick stone, off the mangled ruin of what was once your chest, off the sharp gleam of the monster’s fangs.

He launches everything.

Every last ounce of magic.

And it hurts.

His body trembles.

One HP.

Every teleport scrapes something from the inside of his SOUL.

Every dodge frays him like a wire too tightly wound.

He’s bleeding magic.

His hoodie is torn.

His fingers are numb.

But he fights.

Because if he doesn’t—

Who else will?

The room is an explosion of light, of searing violet and burnt gold, of screaming vines, of shrieking petals, of blood and dust and long-buried lies.

He jumps between realities with split-second decisions, bone platforms forming beneath his feet, vanishing as fast as they appear. He’s moving before he even thinks, body honed through loops and loops and loops of death.

But Flowey’s not slowing down.

He’s thriving.

The air stinks of sulfur and memory.

Every time Sans hits him, he hears a name.

“Frisk—!”

A crash.

“Frisk—!”

Another.

“PLEASE!!”

He realizes, in a quiet place in his brain that hasn’t shut down yet:

Flowey isn’t screaming at him.

He’s screaming at you

But you’re not here.

Not anymore.

You’re gone.

The monster is just howling at the dark, begging 

The beast cries out again, raw and cracked:

“FRISK—!! COME BACK!! FRISK PLEASE—I’LL BE GOOD—JUST RESET—!!”

It screams voice overlapping—too many throats trying to speak at once.

It’s not an attack anymore.

It’s a child begging their sibling to come home.

The magic building in Sans’s fingers flickers.

A beat of stillness punches the breath from his lungs.

Because he knows that sound.

He’s made it himself.

Too many times.

Begging, pleading—at first for his brother. Then for Toriel. Then for anyone.

And always—

Always—

No one answered.

He’s out of magic.

Out of time.

But he steps forward anyway, something between a stagger and a death wish, bones cracking into place behind him like loaded guns. They flare around his spine—twelve, thirteen, fourteen—a blazing arc of vengeance screaming for release.

He lifts his hand.

He aims.

The Gaster Blasters are shrieking with the heat of a sun he doesn’t have left in him.

His eyes burn.

The depths of his pupils are pinpricks, sweat beading against his brow. 

His body is done.

His SOUL is paper.

But still—

Still—

He fights.

Until—

He blinks.

And it’s all gone.

No sound.

No heat.

No fight.

Just—

Black.

Total black.

Even the feeling of his own body vanishes. His breath. His heartbeat—if he ever had one.

The magic gutters out of his fingers like a candle snuffed. 

The cold bleeds out of his bones.

He stumbles forward, blinking against the dark.

“…wh—”

Then—

A soft, mechanical click.

👌︎❒︎♏︎♋︎⧫︎♒︎📪︎ ⬧︎□︎■︎📬︎ ✋︎⧫︎🕯︎⬧︎ ♋︎●︎❒︎♓︎♑︎♒︎⧫︎ ■︎□︎⬥︎📬︎

A corrupted whisper.

A glitch in the soul.

The void stutters.

And then—

The screen appears.

A box of orange light.

Soft.

Unfeeling.

Familiar.

How many times has he been here.
Will he STILL be here after the dust settles.
All their hard work-

🕈︎♏︎ ♌︎□︎⧫︎♒︎ 🙵■︎□︎⬥︎ ♒︎□︎⬥︎ ⧫︎♒︎♓︎⬧︎ ♏︎■︎♎︎♏︎♎︎ ♌︎♏︎♐︎□︎❒︎♏︎📬︎ 

Your Heart Has Stopped. 

❄︎❒︎⍓︎ ✌︎♑︎♋︎♓︎■︎✍︎

The word lingers, echoing in the hollow space between moments.

Cold.

Waiting.

It seeps into the cracks of everything around him.

It reflects in the damp gleam of Sans’s hollow eye sockets, flickering in the orange glow that spills the across him. His torn hoodie, scattered in dust that might’ve been you.

Sans’s breath comes shallow, ragged, each inhale a sharp stab of pain that radiates through his battered frame. This place creeps at the edges of his vision—dark, suffocating, a weight pressing against his skull.

He blinks, and for a moment, flickers of memory surface—like distant static on a broken radio.

Faces, places, voices. Flashes of this word barely grasped, shadows that slip away the moment he tries to hold them.

He’s been here before. That's right. 

He’s fought before. And yet, he can’t quite remember how many times.

The silence tightens around him until it shatters with a harsh, relentless sound—the word again.

RESET

It pulses in front of him, a ghostly screen bleeding into the ruins, cold and unyielding.

Sans’s gaze locks on it.

There’s no recognition. No acceptance.

Just an aching emptiness, as if the word itself rips something raw inside him.

He lets the silence stretch—a beat, a breath, a fragile moment suspended in time.

But instead—

Sans screams.

Not a witty line.

Not a joke.

No final pun.

Just.

Screaming.

Chapter Text

“You always looked tired, y’know that?”
The words crackle through the void, like static from a broken radio, distorted and out of sync. They’re not real—they can’t be. Not here. Not now.

But the voice is familiar. Too familiar. He swears he’s heard it before, in moments that feel so close, yet so far.
“Like you’ve been carrying something too big for too long. I kept hoping, if I held your hand, maybe you’d let me carry some of it.”

Sans doesn’t blink. His eyes, darkened and heavy, focus on what’s in front of him:

Himself.
But not really. Not exactly.

There’s a glitch— flicker —and the image distorts, pixelating like the last fragments of a broken dream. His reflection is warped, hazy. His jacket is frayed, his bones just a little too sharp, his sockets dark and unseeing, like holes that can never fill.

And you.

You are there too, floating in and out of focus beside him. A flicker of color, then gone. Your face—he can almost see it. Almost feel it. But the edges blur, overlap, flicker back to static.

His fingers twitch at his sides. He remembers something , but it’s always just on the other side of his reach. A warmth, a presence, but no name.

Why can’t he see you?
Why can’t he touch you?

The cold, empty void around him feels like a mirror, and he’s the only thing reflected in it.

But you...
You are there.
Dirt beneath your nails, eyes tired, like you’ve been awake too long. You’re holding him—or he’s holding you, cradling your face as if he’s trying to keep you from fading out of existence, as if he could somehow make this real.

Your features waver and vanish again, leaving only that buzzing sensation at the back of his skull. A memory he can’t place, but knows is there. Knows he should remember.

His fingers tremble as they hover near the spot where your face had been, but then it glitches, vanishing like a shadow slipping through his fingers.

“It’s okay,” the voice murmurs, but it’s quieter now, almost drowned out by the static that clings to everything.
“Even if you forget, I won’t.”

But he can’t forget. He can-
Wait.
But he DID
And maybe. Just maybe.

That was the problem

There is no light when Sans wakes.

No light, no sound—just the hollow hum of emptiness stretching out like an endless, painful breath. A void so vast it knows the shape of everything he’s lost. The kind of silence that settles deep in his bones, quiet enough to make him wonder if he’s still alive.

He doesn’t move. He sits, cross-legged, in a place that has no floor, no sky. His body feels weightless and heavy all at once. His jacket hangs loosely from one shoulder, as if it’s forgotten where it belongs. Blood stains his fingers—not his. Not anymore.

His bones aren’t broken. They should be.
He remembers the crack of them, the tearing of his magic, splitting down the lines of his ribs.
He remembers Omega Flowey— that thing —towering over him, screaming, laughing, what that child had become, what he did.
He remembers you.
But no.
He doesn’t.
He can’t.
Not anymore.

That part is locked somewhere deep, buried behind walls too thick to tear down. And maybe that’s just as well. It hurts too much to keep.

The only light in the void:

It hovers in front of him, glowing faintly in molten orange, like a candle flame, only colder, harder. It radiates light but gives off no warmth, no comfort. It pulses, steady and relentless, but he doesn’t look at it. Doesn’t need to. He knows it well by now, knows the way it lingers like a bad habit, something that’s been with him for far too long. He’s seen it more times than he’d care to count. If he even could.

He looks past it.
Not at it. Just past it.

There’s no point in screaming anymore. He already did. Maybe it was minutes ago. Maybe hours. His throat still aches. Still burns, even though it can’t. He feels it, that raw tightness, but it’s a distant thing now. His molars are tense in his jaw, grinding like he’s holding something back. His eyes strain with the effort to stay open, like they could close at any moment and never open again.

He’s so tired.

Tired of being pulled backward, over and over, like some cruel puppet. Tired of remembering bits of something only to forget them in pieces. Tired of feeling his magic ache—not from exhaustion, but from the weight of a name he can't remember. The way his soul trembles, like it’s reaching for something that might not even exist anymore.

It’s suffocating. The grief feels like it’s congealed inside of him, thick and heavy, pressing against his chest with the weight of something too large to carry. It feels like tar—sticky, impossible to move through.

“Press. It.”

The voice feels like a distant echo. He can’t place it. Maybe it was his own voice, maybe someone else’s. It doesn’t matter. It never matters. It’s already fading.

Sans doesn’t move. The RESET button flickers in his peripheral vision, glowing brighter with each passing moment, but he doesn’t acknowledge it. He doesn’t have to. How could he ever have pushed this aside, how could he- It’s etched into his retina by now, like a brand.

It’s just the button.
its just everything.

The world shifts, just a little. A subtle change. A pressure at the base of his skull, like something’s trying to get through. Magic warps, pulses in a way it shouldn’t, like it’s trying to crack his bones from the inside out.

There’s something else. He doesn’t know what it is—can’t see it, not yet. But it’s there, somewhere in the periphery of his senses. A faint buzz. A pulse. Not RESET.  Just… something .

It vanishes as quickly as it came, like a glitch in the world around him. The pressure in his head fades. He blinks, unsure if he’s just imagined it, or if it really happened. But he’s still sitting. Still breathing. Still bleeding nothing.

Still alone.

 Taunting him. Waiting for him to give in.

And the weight in his chest that maybe this was all for nothing. Maybe it always was.

Because this— this —just is .
Minutes. Hours. Eternities pressed flat against each other like pages in a book gone mold-soft from too much time left open in the rain. There is no sun here. No sky to mark time. No ticking, no breath. Just the soundlessness , the crushing silence so vast it folds in on itself.

The RESET button hums gently a few feet above his head now. Not loud. Not threatening. Just there . Always there. Always waiting. An inevitable if he messed up, or if someone else chose to, that feeling of pause. That tug of everything before nothing.

Its glow trickles down across his skull, orange and constant, catching on the dip of his eye sockets, the curve of his hunched back. 

He focuses instead on his hands. They rest limp in his lap, still stained with a red that no longer belongs to anyone. Too clean to be real blood. Too stubborn to be gone. His thumb traces the curve of a cracked phalange, as if he might find some anchor there. Some proof that he’s still someone . Still here.

The void stretches around him like the underside of the world. Too black to be darkness. Too quiet to be peace. It smells like nothing. It tastes like never again .

His eyes sting. They’ve been open too long. But closing them feels worse. There’s something in the dark when he blinks—a shape, a whisper, a hand just out of sight.

Go on.

It starts soft. Gentle.

A voice. Garbled. Broken like a corrupted audio file, skipping across syllables in all the wrong ways. It oozes familiarity, slips inside his skull like a forgotten tune.

You always do, don’t you? That’s why you’re still here.

The voice curls behind him, hovering just past his shoulder, not quite touching, not quite gone. It leans close, too close, and he can feel the warmth of breath that doesn’t exist. See the shadow of a hand in his peripheral vision, just out of reach.

The button hums louder.

He doesn’t move.

He's unsure.

His throat is too raw to speak. If he could, he’d laugh. The dry kind. The kind that cracks ribs on the way out. Because after everything—after the fight, the fire, the scream of magic grinding against the very laws of reality— this is worse.

This silence. This choice.

The void is trying to make it easy. Trying to make it clean. Reset. Pretend none of it happened. Scrub the blood off the floor and set the pieces back where they were. Wind the music box back to the beginning.

It would be so simple.

He could feel you again. If he pressed it. Maybe not you-you , but close enough. A shape with your voice. Your eyes, half-right. A mask of you, smiling like it meant something.

But he knows better now.

You can’t love a version of someone. You can’t remember someone if you overwrite them.

His fingers curl in his lap, slow and deliberate. The weight of his own bones is too much. His spine is a string pulled taut, his jaw locked with the effort of not shaking.

The voice shifts. Lowers.

You’re being difficult. Again.

It’s not angry, not really. It’s disappointed. Like a parent correcting a child who won’t eat. Like a hand moving to push the RESET for him.

But he’s already gone through that, hasn’t he? The fight. The screaming. The moment his shortcuts cracked apart mid-jump, magic bleeding out like liquid static. The way it felt when his body stopped moving and kept moving anyway. The way he died.

That should’ve broken him.

But this… this stillness… this invitation ...

This is worse.

So he stares at his hands. He stares through them. 

His eyes burn. The edges of his vision are smudged. Raw. He wants to close them. Just for a second.

But he can’t . Because if he does, he might see you again. And if he sees you like that—wrong, broken, borrowed from a version of you that’s already dead—

He won’t come back.

The void presses harder. Thick as pressure at the bottom of a sea that doesn’t exist.

The voice speaks again. Not with words this time. With impulse .

A nudge. Gentle, eager. A feeling that bleeds into his bones: Why suffer? Just undo it.

And—

he almost does.

His fingers twitch.

His gaze flickers.

The hum of the RESET button grows brighter.

But—

“no.”

It’s not loud. Not even a whisper. Just a breath. Just a word spoken like it cost him something to say.

The void stills.

The voice snarls—not with sound, but with the shriek of wrongness. Static boiling at the edges of thought.

And then, silence.

“just not yet, give-give me minute will yah.”

Sans doesn’t move.

He wants to fall asleep. He wants to forget. He wants anything but this—

But he stays.

Because there was a reason he chose to forget RESETS.

Because remembering only ever led back here anyways.

And still—

So instead he just breaths.

Holding on to that, the feeling instead of what he’s seeing, and folds his head into his arms, resting them on his shaking knees. 

A flicker.

Warmth.

Not in this place, not in the void. Somewhere else—cut into his mind like a crease in old cloth, folded and unfolded too many times.

A fire.

Not magic. Not ruin. Just fire. An orange that's soft and safe . It plays across worn wood grain, casting shadows that dance slow and familiar on the walls. There's a laugh, low and warm. A hand curls around his, gentle, grounding. Something sweet on the air. Something that smells like—

Gone.

It's gone.

Another flicker, harder this time.

A scream. Cold wind. The snap of magic. The sting of blood that wasn’t supposed to be there. He’s running here. His hand stretches out, he see’s himself—

Too slow.

There’s no hand to take. No one left to reach.

Another.

These memories start filtering in. 

Sans see’s himself yelling. His throat raw, cracked open against the sky like a prayer thrown into an empty cathedral in the old ruins. Screaming at nothing, to no one. Screaming at you . But not this you. Not this fragment . The you that meant something. The you that was .

He doesn't remember you—

But he feels you.

And that's the worst part.

That’s the part that breaks him.

Not all at once.

No more screams. No sobs.

Just a quiet sort of failure, like the last breath of a candle no one was watching.

He exhales.

His spine gives. Shoulders slump. The weight of nothing finally crushes through. He folds forward, face in his hands, sockets wide and dry and aching. No tears. He can’t even cry —and, shit he really wishes he could. 

His jacket slides off the rest of the way. His magic pulses once, weak and colorless, before reaching out past him, past everything, out into the void.

And the RESET button keeps humming.

You are somewhere else.

No—

Everywhere else.

No—nowhere.

There’s no weight to your body, no edges, no clear shape. But beneath your hands—something soft presses back. Down feathers? A plush, warm duvet, maybe.

Above you, the ceiling refuses to settle. It shimmers and shifts: sky, then cracked plaster, then a spattering of cold stars, then a yawning void. A patchwork of half-remembered places stitched awkwardly together—an old hotel lamp humming low, a frost-covered flowerbed fading in the early dawn, a bed still warm with someone else’s breath.

Your head throbs.

That dull ache that lingers after dreams overstay their welcome—like the inside of your skull is quietly cracking open, polite but relentless.

You try to sit up.

Gravity does not cooperate.

Shit.

The world wobbles sideways, then slides like a loose painting on the wall, rearranging itself into something unrecognizable.

Where are you?

Where were you?

A scent slips through the haze—cinnamon, warm and sharp, like an ember glowing in the cold.

Your eyes burn as they try to focus.

But the room won’t hold still.

Kitchen. Living room. Hotel. Forest. Graveyard. Bedroom. His. Yours. Neither. All.

Your hands rise trembling to your face—only they aren’t quite your hands. At the edges, they shimmer and shift, as if you’re only half-there, only half-real.

And then—

You feel him.

Not here, not close, but just beyond the fragile veil of names, places, and time.

Your chest clenches, folding inward as if something invisible tugs at your ribs—hooked, pulling, again and again—until your soul aches with a memory older than you can name, before the world cracked open and spilled its pieces.

There is a pain, deep and primal.

Like a bottle breaking silently at the bottom of an endless sea.

A pain without sound, but one that echoes endlessly inside you.

Then a voice calls your name—soft, distant, tender—

It cracks through the silence.

A shape leans over you.

You cannot see her clearly.

You cannot hold her in your mind—every time you try, her features slip away.

But her hands—her hands you feel, warm and trembling, furred and gentle—cradle your face like a whispered prayer.

And then—

Lips.

Soft. Familiar. Not urgent or desperate.

A kiss like the first breeze after winter, a slow awakening from a nightmare you never fully remember.

A kiss so real your eyes flutter open again.

And oh, how you strain to see her.

“Wake up, dearest,” she says. Her voice brushes against your lips as she pulls back. You feel her smile before you hear it. “Sorry… I burned the eggs. Sans is fixing them for me.”

She laughs against your mouth , like you said something clever, cause you did. Just not hearing your own voice. That bleating, hiccupped laugh of hers that always makes your cheeks warm and your chest ache. That laugh that sounds like home.

She’s helping you sit up. Her arms around you.

The room flickers again—

And she's gone.

Gone.

The smell. The warmth. Her.

You reach—empty.

Who?

Where?

There’s no breakfast. There’s no garden. There’s no her.

Just darkness

You feel it building in your chest.

Not fear. Not confusion.

Desperation.

Desperation like a scream that never finds your tongue. Like drowning in a place that has no water. Like loving someone who’s forgotten your face.

You do the only thing you can do:

You hold onto her hands. The kiss. The cinnamon.

You hold onto the moment like it’s the last stitch in the world before it unravels.

And you pull.

Not your body.

Your being.

You pull with everything that remembers. Everything that refuses to forget. Everything that aches to reach across the stars and touch the thread between you.

You pull—

—and somewhere, in the dark, beyond the hum, beyond the death and silence and break—

His head lifts.

Just barely.

His spine a bowed branch, his sockets wide.

What-

There’s something pulling.

Just a whisper at first—a soft tension in his magic, so light it might’ve been imagined. But it isn’t. It tugs again, insistent, delicate, unbearably gentle for something so unyielding. It isn’t pain. It’s something worse.

Hope.

Sans winces. He hasn’t felt that in—

No.

Doesn’t

matter.

He’s tired.

So tired . 

The void stretches around him like a yawning mouth, a world with no horizon. Soundless. Sightless. Still.

Except for the screen.

That awful, flickering screen that follows behind him as he finally got up, stood for who knows how long, and started walking. RESET. RESET. RESET. Orange light pulses through it in time with his steps, matching his heartbeat—a heartbeat that shouldn't be there anymore.

Reminding himself not to look at it.

He can’t.

Because something else is there now. Something threaded into the fabric of his magic, into the exhausted fibers of what still clings to his soul like lichen to a dying tree.

It pulls again.

And so, with legs that barely feel like they belong to him, with one slipper missing and the other grinding against glass that isn’t there, he follows it.

It’s not direction, not really. The void doesn’t have that. But he knows where it’s leading because he feels it, like a rope around his chest gently urging him forward.

His eye glows faintly—purple, then flickering gold. The gold starts faint, barely a shimmer. But it spreads. It grows . With each faltering step, with every inch forward, it devours the orange. Drowns it. Replaces it.

And then— that voice.

Fractured. Distant. Not quite heard so much as absorbed , like an idea worming into the center of his head and whispering there. The sound of something broken remembering how to speak. A wind made of equations and regrets.

His mind corrects the symbols as they filter in, autocorrection, correcting his mistakes.

"Are you sure?"
That voice asks, like something spilled from the throat of something dying. Parched. Broken. At his ears, whispering across his chest.

"Do you think it’ll go differently this time?”

Sans stops walking. Just for a second.

He doesn’t know that voice. Not really. But it wraps around something deep. Deeper than the soul. Something he’s forgotten. Something that forgot him first .

The voice clicks like a typewriter out of ink, then shifts. Fractures again. A new sentence forming beneath the first like code trying to stabilize.

"Don’t fight it, boy."

And suddenly there’s the faintest flash in the RESET screen that has slowed to a stop. 

Purple.

Not the bright, clean purple of magic.

No, something softer. A fabric. A shawl. A room. A person.

Gone.

He chokes on a breath that isn’t real. The void doesn't have air. But his ribs still try . 

Another footstep. He stumbles. Knees scrape invisible ground. The void does not cushion.

But that thread— that golden thread —keeps pulling, winding through his ribs, through his soul, through all the places in him that are still left . And he follows it because he has to , because it’s real , because it’s the only thing here that hurts less than forgetting.

The screen shudders behind him—RESET—orange lightning flaring like stormfire. He feels it pulse like a warning. A final chance. A threat masked as mercy.

But the golden thread curls tighter around his soul, and it drowns the orange out .

He doesn’t know where he’s going.

He doesn’t know who the voice is, or what this feeling threading through his ribs is supposed to mean.

But he walks.

On dead legs.

Magic lighting up at the edges now—gold, bright, alive.

Because someone called him.

Because someone pulled.

Because someone still remembers .

And as the RESET screen screams static into the dark behind him, curling inward, collapsing, giving up

 He does not look back

Sans’ breath catches, something in him breaking into a tremble as he stands there—alone in the cold expanse of the void. His magic hums beneath his clothing, pulling him along, bright and sharp against the oppressive dark.

It’s that tug again—the one that began as a whisper, a flicker, now pulling harder, deeper, more insistently than before.

His head aches.

But it’s different this time. It's no longer just the aching burn of exhaustion. No, this feels... wrong . It’s like his magic is going somewhere it wasn’t supposed to, twisting in ways he doesn't understand. It feels familiar, like something he's done before, but this isn’t his work. He didn't link anything to anyone—especially not like this. Where is it going. 

The tug grows stronger, and something inside of him flips—a sudden recognition, an impossible one.

He stops.

His sockets widen as the realization crashes through him, shattering the fragile thread of confusion and grief.

Before him— floating , spinning in the air—his magic curls toward a shape. But it’s not a shape at all. It’s... your SOUL . No, not exactly— a swirling fragments of it. 

He reaches, instinctively, reaching for something that shouldn’t be there, but the tether pulls taut, and his magic tightens around it, making his vision blur.

Then the vortex of purple and gold dances before his eyes. The colors are blinding, loud against the dull gray of his own muted magic. The purple spirals like an open wound—alive, restless, desperate—while the gold twines tighter, as if wrapping itself around your soul, pulling you closer. Like it's guiding him to you , to this tether, to this impossible bridge between souls.

No. He never did this. He didn’t. He couldn’t have. He didn’t link a failsafe to you . This wasn't supposed to happen.

But here it is. Clear as day.

His magic, his tether, his soul... all reaching for you , responding to the pull of your soul as if they were one.

He stumbles back, chest tight, the weight of this realization hitting harder than a thousand punches. His heart stutters, slow and sick, beneath the swell of emotions clawing at him— that grief rising.

His knees hit the cold, unforgiving ground. He doesn’t register the fall, doesn’t feel the sting of the impact against his bones. His eyes stay locked on the SOUL before him.

His magic crackles, shaking violently through him. Hands—clumsy, trembling—stretch out toward the flickering fragments of you . And for the briefest of moments, everything is still.

Then, his fingers brush the edge of that flickering gold.

The tether reacts.

It pulls him in.

And like that—a rope pulling him to the brink of the unknown—he reaches.

He pulls.

The tug of his own magic, the warmth of that golden tether, swells around him, cradling him, cradling you —cradling this piece of you like it’s a part of him. It’s all tangled up now, his magic, your SOUL, his SOUL —twisting into something impossible.

He collapses further, his body heavy, his heart heavier, the pressure of it all too much to bear. His fingers press harder, as if pulling at something that could fall apart in his hands. His breath is jagged, shaky, a sound that feels too loud in the silence.

“I… I can’t…” The words falter in his throat, lost in the weight of his own grief. The tether between them burns with his panic, but he doesn’t let go.

He can't.
Not now.

He holds tight.

A part of him wants to break.

To shatter it all.

But another part, the part that recognizes something older than time itself, wraps around the tether, pulling it closer. Holding it close. Holding you —this small piece of you—like it’s his last lifeline, like it's his only lifeline.

The purple and gold swirl around them, a chaotic dance of magic and SOUL, and for the first time in what feels like forever, Sans doesn't feel quite so alone.

He gathers you to him—quietly, cautiously—like he’s afraid to break the fragile thing he’s holding, but he can’t stop.

He.

Won't.

Wait.

Won't what again?

Sans' feet were planted firmly in the dirt, but it felt like the ground was shifting beneath him. The air was thick with something, with change , something he couldn’t quite place but felt it crawling up the back of his neck. The barrier—thats right - the barrier—had just broken. He could still hear the distant echo of the magical hum it left behind, vibrating in the air.

He stood beside her, and for the first time, he could not see her clearly. Not like before. She was only a presence, a silhouette against the flood of bright light. His hand found hers without thinking, fingers twining, clinging. Even now, in this moment, he needed her to anchor him—because everything else felt as if it was slipping away, fading into something more distant than he'd ever thought possible.

Frisk had beenin Toriel's arms, small, fragile, too young for all of this. Their face was buried against Toriel’s neck, their tiny hands clutching desperately, as if they understood the significance of what was happening.

Sans couldn’t remember the exact moment Frisk had fallen unconscious, but he could feel them—he could feel that strange, still weight of them against Toriel.

It reminded him, for just a flicker, that this world had never been made for those children.

Not really.

It had been forged in the darkness, in the ruin. And now, it was unraveling.

He couldn’t explain why his heart felt heavier when Toriel brushed Frisk’s bangs back, soft and maternal, the simple, quiet act of comfort. It was the weight of everything, all at once. The crushing reality of what they had fought for, and what was now slipping away in the wake of the broken barrier.

The light shimmered above them, and somewhere in the distance, he thought he heard his brother’s voice—a faint, distorted thing.

Was it Papyrus?

He wasn’t sure.

It was muddled, far away, buried under the hum of something deeper. The very fabric of the Underground was dissolving, spilling out, falling apart.

The Souls.

The magic—the power that had once kept everything together—was fading, becoming little more than a memory, turning into the dust of forgotten promises.

The glowing orbs, each one a childs SOUL, flickered out, one by one, disappearing into the vast expanse of the sky. Sans could feel it, the quiet drain of their presence as they lifted away from the earth, vanishing into the horizon.

But it was that purple—the purple —that lingered.

It flashed there, in the breaking of the barrier, somewhere between the last breath of the Underground and the first of the surface. It was the same color he’d seen in the depths, the same strange violet tinge that seemed to taint the edges of his vision.

Huh. 

Toriel didn’t see. She walked on through it, her steps determined, pulling Frisk with her. She called his name, her voice soft, coaxing, almost distant as she urged him forward. She wanted to leave.

To move on. To walk into the light and breathe in air, she had been giggling. 

But he lingered, even as the warmth of the surface pulled at him. His feet felt heavy, but his hands were light, entwined with hers. He couldn’t see her face clearly, but he could feel her warmth, her steadiness.

She was the only thing keeping him from being swallowed whole by the darkness that followed.

He had pressed on, had walked through the barrier, past the fading magic and the world that had once been his home. But something tugged . Something wasn’t quite right. It was like the universe itself was bending, flickering, and in the moment just before his foot crossed that final threshold, it felt like he might break apart, like the fabric of everything was being rewoven.

He had shook his head back then, but the feeling didn’t leave. That purple… what was it?

He couldn't put words to it. He wasn’t sure he wanted to. The tug was still there—somewhere far beneath the surface, but it was so faint, so distant. Like a whisper in the wind.

But he felt it.

And so, he kept moving.

That purple light.

That tug.

And for a moment, he wondered if it had ever been there at all.

Now?

This back and forth, to then, to whatever, where ever this is?

He doesn’t realize he’s crying.
Not at first. Not until the warmth trails down a cheekbone long since dulled by time, dulled by failure, dulled by loss.

Too many resets.

Too many names, blurred at the edges.

Too many endings stacked like bones in the corners of his memory.

Grief had become the only constant—a weight that no longer pressed, but simply was.

A second skin.

A quiet rot.

Even his magic had stopped sparking. It tasted like ash now, like the end of something long since extinguished.

But here— here —in this nowhere-place, this threadbare space between endings and before beginnings, he is on his knees.
And he is holding something.

Something impossibly vital.
Something achingly real.

You.

No.
Not just you.

A fragment of his own SOUL, curled around yours.

Like ivy twining around the bones of a forgotten cathedral—golden, fraying at the edges, woven through the steady thrum of your being.

Too intricate to be accidental.

Too precise to be chance.

A connection ancient and aching and utterly wrong in how right it feels.

“why,” he breathes.

Not a question.
It isn’t meant to be answered.
It is sound shaped from grief, torn from the hollow of his chest.

And the magic—his magic— knows you.
Before his mind can name you, before memory returns, before any logic dares to intercede.

It curls inward around you, protective.
The way arms would cradle a child, a lover, the promise he couldn’t keep.
The bond pulses like a heartbeat, louder than it should be.

Gold and violet.
Spiraling.

Orbiting.
Like twin stars caught in collapse.

His soul had always buzzed with white noise—like static, like a television with no signal.
But this—
This is something else.

This is symphony.
Discordant.

Ancient.

Alive.

He blinks through the shimmer. The void is thick here, heavy like deep water, dragging at his limbs. And there— there —he sees it.

The failsafe.

Not Frisk’s.

Not one of the familiar, rigid anchors he had placed in timelines to keep himself from unraveling.
Not the brittle threads that helped him remember who he had to protect.

No.
This one is older.

Yours.

A failsafe that was never meant to trigger—unless everything else had broken first .
And it had.

Somewhere, in the ruin of time, in a run that fell apart before it ever began, he had made a choice.
He had chosen you.

Not to save you.
Not even to protect you.

But to remember you.
Because the world kept ending.
Because every name got washed away.
And because something in him—

Some impossible, defiant piece of him—refused to let you go.

He leans down, forehead resting against the tether where his magic touches yours, and it nearly breaks him.
Because it feels like home.
And still—
Still, he can’t feel you.

There’s a wall.
A silence.
A fracture.

Not the void.
Not your soul.

It’s him.

“me,” he whispers, and this time, it is a question.

The failsafe shudders.
Not in rejection—but in recognition.

His magic pulls back for just a moment, just long enough to see .
And there it is—
A lock.
A seal.

A part of himself, shuttered and shaking and terrified .

He hadn’t just forged the bond.
He had buried it.

Stuffed it into the deepest corner of his soul, wrapped in layers of denial and silence and scar tissue.
Not because he didn’t care.
But because he couldn’t stand to feel it fail.

Couldn’t watch another connection break.
Couldn’t feel another light snuffed out by the dark.
Couldn’t lose you.
Not again.

So he sealed it.
Sealed you.
And forgot.

Or—tried to.

But now—
Now your soul is reaching for him again.

Thread by thread, your tether strains toward his, pulling through layers of magic older than memory. Calling out with the slow, exhausted ache of someone who’s been waiting far too long.

You are calling him back.

And this time—
He hears you.

He hears you like a drowning man hears the sky breaking above the waves.
Like a ghost hears the echo of its own name.
Like something lost, truly lost, hears the footstep of its mirror in the dark.

Not from memory.
Not from thought.

But from the bone-deep knowing that only a soul remembers.

He’s shaking.
Not from fear.
From grief.
From the terrible relief of almost remembering everything.

“s’okay,” he whispers, voice raw, splintered beneath the weight of years. “let go.”

Not to you.
To himself.

To the part of him that still clutches the lock.
Still flinches at hope.
Still stands guard at a tomb he built with his own magic.

“let me have this. just once.”

The failsafe pulses.
Stutters.
Its just a crack, a small one.
but it-
Opens. 

A seal slipping
A body relaxing.
A soul remembering.

And then—
He feels you.

Your presence, your shape, your SOUL brushing his like the echo of his promise.

And with it—

☟︎♏︎⍓︎ ⧫︎♒︎♏︎❒︎♏︎📪︎ ⧫︎□︎□︎🙵 ⍓︎♋︎♒︎ ●︎□︎■︎♑︎ ♏︎■︎□︎◆︎♑︎♒︎📬︎

The one that comes up, for a moment before coiling itself in the corners of his mind.
Always there. Always whispering.

A voice speaking in Winding script, too jumbled to read—until.

When he first saw the winding text again—etched across his vision like static scrawled on a TV screen—

it blinked in and out so fast, he almost chalked it up to going without a nap the past week. 

Almost.

He was stacking hot dogs.

Just another slow night at the hotel. Tray balanced in one hand, new dog in the other. Seventeen was already pushing it, but hey—he wasn’t exactly known for restraint.

Spoiler: eighteen was still fine.

He was halfway to the stairwell, thinking about clocking in for nightshift, maybe grabbing a soda to go with second dinner—

Then the tether surged.

And not in the chill, gentle pulse it usually gave when Frisk sneezed too loud or tripped near a hallway corner. This wasn’t the normal hum of “everything’s fine, keep snacking.”
Nah.

This was sharp.

Wrong.

Like getting shocked by a doorknob, but behind your eyes.

His fingers twitched.

Hot dog tower teetered.

He caught the top one mid-air, ketchup slipped down his sleeve, and he was already spinning—sockets flaring, senses scanning.

First thought? Frisk.

Failsafe lit up—steady. Calm. Down the hall, exactly where they were supposed to be. Unbothered. Breathing.

Second thought? Then what the hell was that.

It wasn’t his fear.
Wasn’t theirs, either.
But it was someone’s.

And it hit like a scream behind his ribs.

He scanned the floor, the walls, the ceiling, the magic. Nothing. Just that weird lingering zap, like something had brushed fingers across his soul and decided it didn’t like what it found.

He told himself it was probably some dumbass human trying to microwave a fork again. Annoying. Not worth the energy. So he walked back to his room. Set the tray down. Grabbed his water bottle. Locked the door.

Told himself if it was really urgent, he’d feel it again.
He didn’t.

But he still shortcut anyway. Out of habit, maybe.
Or maybe something else.

Straight to the courtyard.
He doesn’t remember why.
Not really.

It had just felt... off. Like missing a step on stairs that weren’t there.

And now—now he’s watching it all again.
Like someone queued up the memory on a projector stitched into the back of his skull. Fuzzy. Skipping frames. Real.

He sees himself—tray ditched, snow catching on his shoulders, jacket flapping like it always does when the shortcut spits him out somewhere cold.

And the failsafe is glowing. Bright.

Brighter than it ever had before.

He sees it now. Clear as day.

The moment.

The moment.

Not when he reacted. Not when he thought to care.
But the moment he caught you.

You watch. Or—
You think you are.

It’s hard to tell.

Everything’s wrong, distant—like you’re underwater but not wet, like your senses got unplugged and now you’re on the wrong input channel. You blink—no, not quite blink, but you try to—and your vision flickers, smeared and drifting.

Too small. You feel small.

The shape of fingers above you. Huge. Familiar. Bone.
You try to look up. Can’t turn. Can’t move.

What’s happening?

The world keeps stuttering, like a scratched disc. Touch, smell, sound—it all comes in weird, broken bursts.

Someone’s holding you. You know this.

You don’t know how you know. But you know.

That shape. That warmth, faint even through magic.
The sulfur.

That’s right.

That monster, Snowey was it? Had almost accidently hit you here at the Hotel on your first night. 

You remember barely having time to think before the ground erupted.

Ice shot up like teeth—shards of death, jagged and shining—and instinct shouted MOVE but your body hadn’t listened fast enough. You slipped.

You fell.

You remember the fall. You don’t remember the hit. Just—

Boom.

A slam into your back so jarring it turned your bones to jelly.
You didn’t hit the ground.

A grip. Cold and fast.

Those same bone fingers hooking under your arms.

And then—

The words crash through you like sonar. You feel them more than you hear them.
Like your soul still remembers how it sounded when it had ears.

And his voice—

“Woah there, kid.”

He’s watching himself say it now.
Watching himself—in the memory—as he caught you

And he sees it.

Sees the exact moment he saw you.

The flicker.
That half-second where the grin faltered.
Sockets twitching. A shift so small no one else would’ve caught it.

But now? He feels it.

That eye—his right one—lighting up with something unnatural wrong-colored magic— not wrong. Not random.

It was recognition.

A flash of you.
Of himself
A fragment of memory trying to fight its way up.

Even then, he’d been reaching for it. And now—he’s drowning in it.

Because it wasn’t just reflex.
It wasn’t coincidence.

It was the tether.

It had felt you first.

Even before his brain caught up. Before he knew.

His SOUL had recognized you.

How the lights in the hall had buzzed too loud. How his magic spiked without a source. How his SOUL clenched, like it had just heard something it was never meant to.

He’d brushed it off back then.

Just noise.

Just the usual static of a tired timeline—
A world too threadbare to hold shape anymore.

He told himself it was nothing.
Just a blip.

It had been so long since the last RESET.

So long since anything felt real enough to shake him.

But this wasn’t static.

This was signal.

It was the first time he felt you again.

His SOUL had screamed through failsafe and fracture and everything holding the pieces together:

"THEY’RE HERE. THEY’RE HERE."

And he’d ignored it.

The script of dialogue unwinds.
The symbols unravel.
And words emerge.
And he hears them again

yes. yes. yes.

Hold onto that.
That feeling, when you can’t rely on yourself.
Hold it.

Let it wake you.

Again that Recognition strikes so hard it robs him of breath.

Because it isn’t a stranger.
It never was.

It’s himself.

Some sealed-off shard of his own SOUL, worn raw and circling like a beast in a cage.
Him, talking to him—
The version of himself that remembered you.
The one who never let go.
The one who laid the failsafe like a prayer into the bones of his being.The one that let himself forget.

But you—

You never stopped calling.

Not really.

The sound shudders out of him like a faultline giving way—
a weak, broken thing
barely a breath
barely him.

And still—

He laughs.

Because what else is he supposed to do?

The shake of it ripples down his spine, through his ribs, rattles his shoulders. He curls inward. Tighter. Holding you closer like the tether might vanish again if he loosens his grip.

Bright, then dim. Warm, then not.

A pulse of something that isn’t pain, but echoes it too closely.

He flinches.

Bright.
Then dim.
Then-

The moment your SOUL flickers—really flickers—he breaks again.
Tears spill over the edge of his sockets and drip down the ridge of his skull, trailing along the hollow grooves of his face.

They splash against bone fingers, scatter across trembling knuckles, vanish against the glow now pulsing in his palms.

Those Twin lights.

One soft.
One burning.

He sinks back down with a soundless exhale. His bones creak as his legs fold beneath him. His thighs meet the cold floor—no, not floor. Nothing. The void hums dully beneath him like it’s also holding its breath.

He doesn’t move.
Doesn’t speak.

He only stares.

You’re still here.

Despite everything. 

One SOUL flickers faintly, orange with undertones of pink and glimmers of blue—uncertain colors.

Confused.

As if surprised to still be beating.

Still warm.

Yours.

Kindness.

Determination.

A memory of laughter.

A flash of something stubborn and bright. Even now—dimmed, cracked, bruised—you shine like starlight that refused to go out.

And the other…

His.

Golds and purples.

Deep.

Too deep.

A tired weight that drags at the edges.

Not dull—but dense.

Heavy with every timeline.

Every echo.

Every choice he didn’t make.

It burns hotter.

As if—
As if it’s trying to shield you.

The glow where they touch isn't natural.

It’s jagged. Like a seam pulled too tight. A patch of golden soulstuff latched to yours at the side—desperate, almost feral in the way it hooks in. Not cruel. But protective. Like a barricade made in a single moment of impossible fear. From him. It tried to shield you from himself. It didn't trust him. He didn't either.

His breath shakes.

The tears haven’t stopped. They fall freely now, noiseless but unstoppable, like something inside him has given way completely.

And you—

You’re beautiful.

Even now.

Especially now.

Still burning.

Still stubborn.

Despite everything.

It's Still you.

He presses his thumbs—gentle, reverent—along the ridge where his SOUL touches yours. Tracing the scar of a bond forged in the dark. There’s no memory of making it. Not fully. But the shape is familiar. It feels like something shared.

Like something you both built, quietly, without ever needing to say it aloud.

The tether pulses.

Not a line.
Not a chain.
More like—

Light.

Intertwined. Threaded through the middle of both souls like veins. A soft spiral of color, hues shifting with every breath—his magic mingling with yours. Purposeful.

Alive.

That ache in his chest sharpens.

Not from magic.
Not from damage.
Just—

Grief.
Joy.
Recognition.
Regret.
All of it.

At once.

He thought he'd buried this. Thought he'd shut the door, locked it, and thrown away the key. Thought he’d let you go.

He hadn't.

He never did.

And now—
now that he sees you again like this,
sees what you still are—

He can't stop sobbing.

The black folds of the void ripple—then part.

It’s subtle at first, like paint blooming in water. A hush of color. Faint, then more certain: dull beige, tan woodgrain, then a pop of that awful orange Papyrus swears is “motivational.” He had begged his older brother to ask nicely so that the room could be like his back home. "A home away from home!" Pap's smile was so big when the guards brought them paint buckets.

Those same orange walls form. Corners. A light fixture. Carpet, plush and too clean. A memory folds over itself like a sheet being tucked into place. Another flash— that bright purple again, gone before he can blink.

A heartbeat.

He sits.

A hiccup leaves him, as he stares, tired, muted, across from him is another.

Again, another version of himself

The real one—present, frayed at the edges, sitting on the void’s floor like he’d never moved at all. The two SOULs are cradled in his hands, trembling with some quiet electricity. Yours and his respond to the forming room as though they, too, are watching a memory: curious, cautious. Echoes reacting to echoes.

They glow faintly in the memory-light.

Around him, the space thickened—edges becoming solid, air gaining weight, color bleeding back into form. 

The hotel suite had stopped feeling like a rental a long time ago.

After nine months aboveground, the place had morphed into something else—a strange, comfortable hybrid of two wildly different monsters. It wasn’t a home, not really. But it felt like theirs.

Papyrus’s half of the room was a testament to hard work, discipline, and a strange love of flashy flair.

His bed—his race car bed—was proudly parked along the far wall, fire-engine red and built entirely by hand. He’d begged the hotel guards for one after seeing it in a catalog, only to discover human furniture designers thought race car beds were for children.

Undyne had stepped in with her 'emotional support energy drink' this time being a can of Monster Ultra Black, and soon they were hauling in scrap wood and leftover paint from the refugee camps.

Now, the thing gleamed, complete with wheels that didn’t turn (safety reasons) and bright stickers Papyrus had cut out himself.

The furniture had been rearranged into clean, purposeful geometry: a wide, open clearing in the center of the living room now served as his personal training space-slash-dance floor-slash-salad preparation zone.

Yoga mats and resistance bands hung from cleverly repurposed curtain rods, and motivational sticky notes clung to the walls like colorful barnacles.

A whiteboard leaned against the window sill, covered in scribbled battle tactics, new pasta recipes, and increasingly philosophical “Daily Declarations of Cool.”

Near the TV, a stack of coloring books, puzzle boxes, and retired cereal prizes were arranged with loving precision on a repurposed bookshelf.

His dishware- Plastic plates—scrubbed clean and shimmering in the low light—rested in a bright dish rack set at the top shelf, because for some reason Papyrus did not trust hotel sinks or their dish soap.

The other side of the room was a vortex—Sans’s corner. Organized only in that he knew where things were.

A cratered couch sagged beneath the weight of an aging laptop, several unplugged chargers, and a knitted blanket that might have once been blue. His collection of science notes, half-assembled gadgets, and tangled cords crept like vines across the floor.

Snack wrappers crinkled softly underfoot—evidence of nights spent hunched over strange formulas, or just zoning out to a marathon of corny shows.

The coffee table was a shrine to procrastination: an open comic, a dead phone, and a pizza box with exactly two crusts left, daring someone to admit defeat and throw it away.

This past Sans sat slouched on the edge of the bed—thumb hovering just above his glowing phone screen. Drafts blinked in and out, never sent. His sockets were heavy.

Not tired, exactly.

Just... full.

Suddenly, motion at the door. It was quick to open before closing again.

He leans over to look around and he pulls the two SOULS to the inside of his jacket, and he goes to stand-

Papyrus stepped through him.

Didn’t even notice.

His brother was all motion and volume, waving his red scarf around like a flag.

“AND THEN, WHEN COLE AND OUR NEW SOCIAL WORKER COME DOWNSTAIRS , I SHALL GREET THEM WITH THE TRADITIONAL GUARD HOSPITALITY: A HIGH-INTENSITY INTERACTIVE PUZZLE-WORKOUT BONANZA!”

Across the room, the other Sans—his memory-self—remained in his usual slouch, thumb twitching over his screen. His eyes didn’t lift. Just the slow churn of thought, one half-typed truth at a time.

BoneDaddy69: hey tori. today went okay. i think i made someone laugh. pap’s planning another big ‘welcome to the hotel’ thing again. guess who’s not sweating.

Backspace.

BoneDaddy69: i think i’m messing this up. with them. with you. u are my stardust, I want you to know that. i don’t want to mess this up wit-

Backspace.

BoneDaddy69: *attached a dancing cat video* found this lady, you’re gonna love it.

 

He had tried to call earlier. Straight to voicemail. The reply had come immediately. He know it did.

It always did.

But. 

Mother_of_Underlings:  In a meeting, dearest. I’ll call when I’m free.

He smiled anyway. Because it was her. Because she always answered, even when she couldn’t. In the ways, the many, that he could not.

Instead. Sans remembers kicking his feet at the knickame. His face had started flushing, and hiding it in the pillow. Muffling his groans. 

“—AND THAT’S WHERE THE COURTYARD COMES IN!” Papyrus’s voice cracked through his thoughts like a whip.

“WE SHALL UTILIZE THE OLD STONE TERRACE FOR MAXIMUM SUNSET AESTHETIC! STRING LIGHTS, HYDRATION STATIONS, AND—” He held up a glittering headband like it was a crown. “MATCHING GEAR.”

Sans didn’t look up. His cheek turning, a huff. “you want me to wear shorts again, pap?”

“THEY ARE BREATHABLE, SANS.”

“they’re cold.”

“WARM UP FASTER, THEN. PERHAPS BY PARTICIPATING IN THE EXERCISE.”

Present Sans could see it now—how Papyrus had leaned toward him, eyes alight with pride. “WE MUST ENCOURAGE BONDING THROUGH PUZZLE-ACTIVATED HEART-RATE ELEVATION!”

His younger self blinked, deadpan. “you mean… cardio?”

Papyrus stood taller. “I MEAN, COMPASSION THROUGH SWEAT.”

Another room shift. The memory slides, transitions—

The courtyard.

String lights glowed gold above slick stone. The storm had just passed, and snow around reflected the world upside-down. You hadn’t seen the lights turned on before. They dazzled you.

You wore a soft gray sweatshirt, oversized, sleeves past your fingers. Long socks. Fluffy ones. You were already flushed from laughter, teasing Cole as she adjusted her hoodie. “Better not be too leg-heavy,” she’d warned, eyeing Papyrus’s enthusiastic setup with suspicion.

Papyrus stood tall in the center of it all like the world’s most dramatic gym teacher—orange gym shorts, sparkling “BORN TO BE WILD” tank, water jugs labeled in Sharpie and pure determination.

Sans had been there too. Half-present. Sitting on the side steps with a cup full of ketchup and a head full of thoughts. You had caught him staring. He hadn’t looked away.

“i am,” he’d said when you told him to keep his eyes on the prize. “prize looks pretty great from here.”

And now he’s here.

Still staring.

Still not looking away.

Because the prize is flickering in his hands. Dimmed, but burning. Still burning.

Your SOUL, even now, is trying to keep its shape. Even now, it glows.

The tether isn’t visible, not really. He can tell the difference under the shift of his thumb—strands of feeling, of magic, of something woven between them. It pulses softly. Breathes with you. With him.

It doesn’t feel like something he cast.

It feels like something you both made.

He doesn’t remember when.

He doesn’t want to.

Because now—

Papyrus moves through him again, a specter of the memory, arms flailing as he directs imaginary Froggits and a guard into lunges. His voice rings through the space. “NO SLOUCHING, NEWCOMERS! WE STRETCH OUR LIMITS, AND THEN WE REWARD OURSELVES WITH PIZZA!”

Present Sans doesn’t move. Just sits there. Holding you. Holding them.

The room dims. The memory quiets.

All he’s left with is the warmth of your soul, stubbornly burning through the encroaching darkness. Sans blinks as the colors fade. 

He leans back, settling his shoulders, rounding his back and breathing out low-

It blinks back into being before him—no fanfare, no warning. Just there, like it never left. Like it’s always been. The letters glow, pulsing in a harsh, sickly orange, flickering with that corrupted threadbare code-light that hurts if you look at it too long. A cursor blinks just beneath, waiting.

Sans doesn’t move. He just watches it.

The void is still except for that sign and the sound of breathing that isn’t his, slick and sticky and wrong. Something shifts behind him—no, around him, through him, above and below and inside. The air folds like paper, like meat.

He’s tucked the SOULs beneath his hoodie—yours and the fragment of his own—and now he leans back, arms loose behind him, skull tilted up toward the nonexistent sky. His tears are gone now. Wiped away. He made his decision in silence, and now he’s just waiting for it to notice.

He doesn’t wait long.

It oozes in through seams that don’t exist, threads of code and static winding down like a spider’s silk. It doesn’t take shape so much as it happens, blooming in his peripheral vision like a tumor. The thing doesn’t walk. It doesn’t float. It drips, like it’s leaking from a hole in the narrative.

When it finally speaks, it doesn’t use words at first. Not real ones. Just the soft, broken click of Wingdings, a whisper-curl that winds down his spine like ice water and bad déjà vu. Then it bends. Warps. The glyphs fold, peeling open into meaning:

“you finally get it.”

Sans doesn't look at it. Not directly. He watches the RESET sign instead, squinting a little against its glare. The thing casts light like a radiation spill—sick-orange and wrong. It makes him look like he's being lit from below by a sunset soaked in poison.

The voice coos, wet and smug, a mockery wearing his grin, his voice—but it isn’t him. It’s something older than him, something made of knowing, made of endings.

"you got smarter. that’s the problem."

It’s telling himself the shit he already knew, circling  him like gravity, not walking—just shifting, presence beating down like pressure in his bones.

"you used to chase the good stuff. now you sit there, curled around the fear like it’s your last meal."

Sans lets out a short laugh, bitter and flat. “gonna have to try harder than that, bud.”

The thing hums, a sound like glass warping in a kiln. The RESET sign pulses behind it, lines of what he can only akin to is code starting to drip from the letters.

"everyone’s scared of love, bonebag. you just took longer to figure it out. most monsters? they only learn in their twenties. you had to die a hundred times first."

Sans scoffs. “and here i thought you were gonna say something original.”

"heh. you wish."

A glitch-curl drips over his shoulder, but he still doesn’t look. It makes a tutting noise.

"takes someone real rare to be scared of happiness. that’s power, that’s clarity. you’ve seen the patterns now, right? the decay? the countdown?"

It doesn’t wait for an answer.

"it always ends. best case? best case you die at the same time, holding hands like a love story or somethin. yikes."

The orange glow sharpens, hardens, and now it’s crawling over him, painting long shadows under his eye sockets.

“you think this’ll last?” the thing croons. “think that SOUL you’re hiding will survive another swing of the clock?”

“yep,” Sans replies, cracking his neck lazily. “’cause i’m not swinging it.”

A beat.

"you’re staying."

The thing sounds almost amused now. 

Sans sighs. “not gonna say it again.”

He tucks his hands into his hoodie, palms warm where they cradle the two SOULs. 

The thing leans closer, code melting off its face in loops and curls. He doesnt have to see it, to feel it smile blooms across its not-face, sharp and dripping against his skull.

“happiness is a trap, sans.”

He chuckles, low and hoarse. “then guess i’m settin’ one of my own.”

The RESET sign flares.

The cursor blinks.

The void hummed with an eerie quiet, the kind of stillness that suffocated rather than comforted. Code shimmered and writhed like it had a life of its own, dripping from the twisted reflection that hung before him, growing brighter, pooling around them. The thing—the thing he is choosing to ignore, he could feel it—watched him, waiting, almost… expecting something. Its shape flickered, distorted just out of his line of sight. 

Sans sat unmoved, his posture slouched as always, one hand idly rubbing at the SOULs nestled in his hoodie, the faint glow of them just visible beneath the fabric. He didn’t have to look at the thing to feel the weight of its presence. He didn’t have to acknowledge it. It was all just noise now.

It spoke, but its voice cracked this time—something was different. It was no longer mocking.

No longer angry.

He saw it, just barely, as it sat back on its heels, almost as if it was an act of weary resignation, like it was tired of the same game.

Like it was done.

“so you’re just gonna sit here. forever. ”

Sans didn’t even flinch. His gaze remained half-lidded, distant, as if he couldn’t be bothered by anything, anything at all, not even this.

“yeah,” he muttered, a faint, lazy smile curling on his skull. “thats the plan. not like there’s much of a point in doin’ anything else, huh?”

They both were in a mutual lull, silence, the buzzing of code, the gleam over crimson yellow against his bones. Sans sat up a little straighter, a thought rouse and finalized what he was just about to do. 

"you wanna know what i learned?" He leaned back on a free hand, his palm resting back and his pose relaxed.

“this time, i’m not resetting it. i’m not gonna throw away what i have, just to see if it turns out a little better. i’m not gonna put the people i love through that again. especially not for a what-if.”

The thing froze, flickered, cracked. Its form warped, twisted, as if it had been punched in the gut. For a moment, there was nothing but the sound of static, a hum of energy too tired to do anything else. The void seemed to lean in closer, as if it were waiting for something to break. But Sans didn’t shift. Not an inch. 

 And then, with a sigh that shook the empty air, it spoke again, quieter, almost... softer. 

“what about them?”

The question hung heavy, a weight it had been carrying all along.

“what about frisk, huh? don’t you think they’d want... more?

A flicker.

"better?”

The thing’s form wavered, like it was clutching at the very edges of its existence, its voice smaller, almost fragile. 

"they’d want you to try, to do whatever it takes to fix it all, wouldn’t they?"

Sans bowed his head

"Wouldn’t they?”

The skeleton just let out a breath, the faintest sound of air leaving his ribs. And then, in the quietest, most lazy drawl, he spoke again, like it was the simplest thing in the world. The simplest solution. 

“they’ll be right here with me.” He didn’t point to his chest this time, but the implication was clear. His hand hovered just above his skull, the connection undeniable. “i’m not gonna RESET just to chase after a sliver of happiness that doesn’t last. not for them. not for me. not for you.”

The sharp intake from the other sounded raw, its form warping more violently now, as if it were trying to hold onto something that had already slipped away. The static in the air shifted, louder, more erratic. It wanted to scream. It wanted to push, pull, tear at the seams, but it couldn’t. It had nothing left to say.

"you don’t get it,"

it seems reserved, the sound hollow and raw,

"you’re giving it all up. you have to sacrifice something! it’s the way it has always been"

Sans' laugh, soft and slow, broke through the noise. It wasn’t loud, wasn’t raucous. It was just... there. "i'll pass go bud. i don’t need to sacrifice anything. i’ve already got it. the people i care about... they’re right here. and they’ll be right here with me, even if this place falls apart.”

The thing stilled. 

Sans exhales slowly, biting back a retort.

Instead for first time since the void opened, Sans looked up.

He looked at it.

At himself.

And all he saw… was himself.

The grin on the other’s face had faded, replaced with something else—something terrifying in its beauty.

A silhouette made of memory and mercy and time too long stretched. Code poured like tears from its eyes, flickering gold, fading to orange, and then—

Not just the skeleton. Not just the sockets, or the cracks, or the stupid grin he used to wear like a mask. He saw it all.

The sleepless nights in Snowdin, pretending not to hear the distant crunch of footsteps and the repeat of lost timelines.

The joke that landed wrong. The one that saved someone’s day.

The fear he buried deep—deep enough that even Papyrus never quite saw.

The sound of a laugh from someone he loved. The warmth of a shoulder brushing his.

The guilt.

The rage.

The tiny, trembling hope.

The thing- IT smiled.

Knowing.

The void behind it shimmered. Vibrated like a tuning fork struck too hard.

The glowing orange RESET sign cracked, flickered, then began to invert—each pixel crumbling, then twisting inward. Breaking apart at the seams. Letters folding like dying stars until they blinked out entirely into the ground. 

In their place, something else began to take form.

Not clean. Not perfect. Rough and jagged and slow, as if the void itself wasn’t sure it wanted to allow it.

The word pulsed that violet light, warm and strange. Alive. The same one he’s seen before, just out of sight, out of mind-

It was warm. 

It felt alive.

"you passed."

The other thing didn't sound angry, sad, happy.

It just was.

It finally breathed. 

The light flickered. The void pulsed with it. The thing that had haunted him for so long—this reflection, this truth—tilted its head, looking not at him, but at his arm tucked in his hoodie. The place where he held them all close.

Its voice cracked.

"you are staying put even when you shouldn’t have. holy shit, all the crap you've had to deal with, you're willing to just- chill. despite everything."

"took the words out my mouth, pal."

It was staring—not his expression, but staring again at the arm tucked into his hoodie.

Where he kept them.

Close.

Its voice broke again.

"you loved through it. even when it hurt. especially when it hurt."

It stepped forward. Flickering. Glitching. The echo of a thousand shattered selves in one fragile frame.

Sans didn’t move.

Couldn’t.

Until it collapsed into him.

A hug. No dramatics. No desperation.

Just… contact.

Real. 

And as their forms met, the violet light unfolded. Not loud. Not bright.

But deep.

Warmth, like the first breath after grief.

A light that didn’t erase his pain—but held it. Ached with it.

Spoke to every broken line in his code, every fractured thought:

"you changed it."

The echo’s voice was barely audible now, coded teeth close to his skull. Sincere. Final.

"no resets after this. no do-overs. you broke the loop. changed the story. now you live in what comes next."

A pause.

"you hear me, bonehead? you’ve got to figure it out from here. no scripts. no safety nets. just you… and what you make of it."

It's grin was small against his collarbone. Weak but honest.

"good."

And then—it was gone.

Sans sat frozen. Arms still half-lifted like the hug hadn’t ended yet. Like the moment was still echoing.

Because it was.

He looked up, sockets wide. The kind of wide that held everything. Every timeline. Every memory. Every name he refused to let go of.

Toriel.
Papyrus.
Frisk.
Everyone.

Tears that had welled back up into his sockets slipped down his cheekbones. Silent. Weightless. Gone before they hit the floor.

One hand curled around the SOULs resting in his hoodie.

The other hand… rose.

Slow. Steady. Sure.

Because this RESUME screen gentle slid down to his level. 

And Sans smiled. 

Not a smirk.
Not a mask.
Not the punchline to a joke no one else got.

Just… a real smile.

Quiet.

Honest. Full of everything he still had left.

“…yeah,” he breathed, voice raw like a scraped knee.

“let’s see where this goes.”

Click.

And the light—the real light—took him.

Not to destroy.
Not to reset.

But to begin.

Not from before

From here.

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.”