Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

A sink sprinkled with water all over.

A pair of mismatched socks scattered across the floor.

And the smell of glue, paint, and nail polish wafting throughout the room.

You've missed this so, so much, you can't bring yourself to tell Frisk to dry up the mess, nor to pick up the socks and play with their watercolours out on the balcony.

They could stain the carpet, leave their art supplies out, and dirty the freshly mopped floor, and you would most likely not pay mind to it.

If you could, you would sit down with them to paint, too.

“Hey, sweetie…” you say, resting a hand on top of their head. “Could you ask that mister if he would like to come in and have something to drink?”

The moment Frisk showed up at your driveway, you forgot everything that's troubled you.

How long you've grieved since they went missing…

How many missed calls you left to your (potentially) ex-husband…

How many times you had to deal with Child Protective Services and the police at your door…

All of it disappeared as promptly as you saw those familiar bangs with their eyes peeking into your home.

“But dad won't let him in.”

You sigh.

The only thing stopping you from celebrating is… him.

Frisk's father and your long-awaited ex.

“...Months,” you hiss through grit teeth, and then, you stop yourself by clutching your face with your hand, grasping as if you want to rip it clean off and replace it for a less bitter expression. “So he's got the guts to do this, right after he–”

“I already know, mom,” Frisk mumbles, cutting you off and pulling their eyes back to the drawing they're making. “Toriel explained what happened before she told me Sans would drive me home.”

As if a wounded puppy, you wince and feel your body turn frail. Your eyes water and itch, and your lip tightens and trembles. It takes great and utter might not to let any tears slip down your cheeks, and one still escapes, despite it all.

“Oh, honey… I'm so sorry,” you force through a voice so faint, the softest wind could blow it away. “I didn't want this to happen.”

Frisk rolls their eyes.

“Dad ditched you since I went missing, he didn't answer any calls, and so you wanna divorce him, right?” They shrug. “That's okay. You tried, didn't you? If I were married, I would do that, too, and…” They huff and change their frown into a glare. “I… doubt he cared that much to begin with, anyways.”

It's as if they've brought down the wrath of the Heavens into your home with that last part.

The door to the living room opens, and Jerry storms in without taking off his shoes or at least wiping the soles on the outdoor rug.

And, compared to Frisk having done that instead, you don't like it.

At.

All.

But Jerry doesn't pay mind to that and walks further into the room, glaring at you before focusing on his current target.

“Frisk,” Jerry shouts, his voice on the edge of being heard by the entire neighbourhood. “First, you show up with a stranger to our house, and then, you try to say I don't love you?”

They don't say anything, only adding fuel to the fire by shrugging.

“Pretty much,” they reply, their face devoid of any proper concern. “You haven't been here since I went missing.” They shut their art supplies box and set the stained paint brushes aside on the palette. “You left mom alone.”

While it's too late, you spare a moment to scold Frisk and warn them about how they're approaching their father…

“Dunno why you bothered showing up now.”

And, as expected, they don't listen.

“I had my reasons not to be here to support her!”

Jerry sounds hurt, yet…

You can't really take him seriously any longer.

Because what proper reason could he have not to help with his own child disappearing? 

You still remember trying your best, working until the very last day you could during your pregnancy.

And that was nine years ago.

So, why couldn't he also be there for a moment like that one – where he could've aided with something as simple as simply being there by your side?

“Jerry…”

You breathe about as deep as the ocean, and your chest weighs heavy enough to make you sit down and hold your forehead afterward, a stinging pain wrapping your brain like cling foil.

With a breath out, you close your eyes and throw yourself back on the couch.

“...Please, leave.”

“The fuck I w–”

“Please.”

You don't have to look to know Jerry's on his way to you, his feet stomping loud and clear against the tiled floor.

“I'm the one who paid for this house, so I get to decide when I want to leave.”

“D- Dad!”

Though, hearing that stutter in Frisk's voice is more than enough to make you open your eyes, stand up, and address an issue you should've dealt with plenty of time ago – maybe even before Frisk went missing, as a gift for when they returned.

Your prayers have been thankfully heard, however, as the first thing you see as you attempt to confront the situation is the man Jerry refused a proper welcome into your home, holding your husband back by standing right in between, separating Frisk and you from him.

“spare yourself the trouble, and don't bring the kid into this.”

While he's occupied himself confronting Jerry, Frisk rushes to you, hugging you like they're afraid they'll go missing again: so tight and so close, you could likely hear their heartbeat, if it were quiet.

Jerry stares down at the skeleton and smiles wide, then laughs as loud as thunder, like he's just witnessed a solid act in a stand-up.

“Wasn’t going to.” He takes a step closer. “Fuck off.”

That does it.

And, surprisingly, Jerry is just as much as aware.

You end the hug and tug Frisk behind you, then tell them to stay put and excuse yourself past Sans.

“What did you say?”

You take steps nearer and nearer, until you have him cornered against a wall and you have to look up to meet his eyes.

“You come back after all this time, and that's all you have to say?” You feel your face contort into a scowl as you, past your better judgement, imitate him and his gestures. “'The fuck I will'? 'Fuck off'? Last time I checked, I didn't marry a boy obsessed with CoD.” You shake your head. “That's… That's it? You're not gonna tell our child, ‘I'm glad you're not dead?’ or even just a 'welcome home'?”

It's not easy, but you grab a hold of yourself before you can get to regret it any further than that.

Then, you blow air between your teeth and tighten your jaw.

And, finally…

Without allowing so much as a word or sound to slip past, you rush to the kitchen and snatch some files from the ‘everything goes’ drawer.

You turn back, pull some papers out, and offer him the documents.

“You know what? I think we're long overdue for this.”

Jerry’s driven off to who knows where, with his one and only task being to have the papers signed and ready to turn in within the next few hours.

Frisk is with Toriel and Papyrus in their room, being comforted by both while you're busy packing up.

“Sans…”

You, meanwhile, sit in the dining room with Sans as company, more documents spread on the table as you try to organize your mind and papers alike.

“You mentioned something about Toriel looking after Frisk like they were her child?”

He nods, helping you categorize each paper into a neat pile whenever you hand one over.

“If so, could I please ask you to…”

Your hand stops on the next paper, fingers brushing against Jerry's signature on the house contract.

“To have her look after them, wh- while I go through with them… the divorce a- and…” You move your hand back and cover your face, unequivocally repelled by the idea of having a mere stranger for a man seeing you cry in your own home. “And while I deal with all the other messes.”

“yeah, no problem,” he says, chuckling. “sure you don't wanna stay at her place while you're at it? she offered that herself the first thing i called her and told her the gist of it.”

You sigh and smile.

“I'd have to politely decline,” you reply, straightening up. “Frisk will do better in a stable home, while we work out a shared custody.”

“so, where’re you gonna stay?”

Again, you laugh, though it's painfully more awkward now.

“Haven't thought that far ahead, I'll admit. Maybe I'll book a cheap hotel for a few days.”

Sans’s grin grows, and you see him look you over before sitting up straighter and excusing himself back into the conversation.

“tell ya what,” he mutters, almost as if it's his good conscience speaking, rather than his free will. “my brother's gonna be out of town for the next few months, and i gotta find a place for rent.”

It's obvious where this is going, so you simply stay quiet and keep eye contact.

“splitting the rent would be the best bet, and you won't have to go looking around at the last minute, and you won't have to search for a hotel or a friend's place to crash at, all of a sudden.”

You can feel your smile grow as he offers you his hand.

“We barely know each other.”

He flares his nostrils.

“no shit.”

His hand draws back into his pocket and returns seconds later with a few pictures he throws out.

“take a look. bedroom's got a bunk bed, a full-sized bed, two drawers, and a nightstand,” he says, later pointing at a few more pictures. “two bathrooms. one outdoors for the guests and a bigger one in the bedroom, but they've both got showers. i can take the one for guests, so we both have more privacy.”

Your eyes narrow and your forehead scrunches up as you get a clearer view of the pictures.

“How much?”

“cheap enough.”

“...Anything I should know about you?”

“i like sleeping ‘til noon whenever i don’t gotta work, and, uh…”

He looks away, and you can almost catch his grin tense at the sides.

“i’m a slob, but i'll try to make less of a mess, since it's a shared bedroom and all.”

Involuntarily, you giggle.

“So… You'll just make a mess everywhere else?”

He throws his head back, points at you, does that ‘click-click’ sound with his teeth, and winks.

“except your bathroom and the kitchen.”

“Alright, then…”

You stare at the pictures again.

“Can I make just one question, and one request?”

“shoot. sure we can work something out quick.”

You take in a loooong breath and let it all go.

“I'm seeing a laundry room over here.” You point at the picture and regain eye contact. “To spare us the trouble, can I wash our clothes, and… Y- You do the dishes?”

He seems like he's just held back a joke by that last part, yet you don't question it.

“and the question?”

Your face immediately warms up as you realize what you have to say aloud.

“How often…”

You groan and melt into your seat, staring at the roof with an urge to shout ‘oh god’.

“How often do you…”

Though he has no eyebrows, it almost appears as if he's furrowing them, when you glance back at him.

“...shower?”

You expect him to laugh and to be declined the shared apartment right after that, but…

Instead, he stays silent, staring at you like he's trying to find your soul.

“enough.”

He looks as smug as he sounds.

“why? do i smell bad right now?”

“No…”

“He's always sleeping!” Frisk said, when they returned home and started talking about all the people they met. “His room's a mess, and… He leaves socks all over the house. I even saw him drink straight from the milk carton one time. And he's always at Grillby's, so he kinda smells like fried food all the time!”

You massage your cheeks, close your eyes, and huff.

“Um…”

And then, you let go of your face and open your eyes.

“Kind of.”

“like what?”

“...Don't make me answer that.”

He wiggles the pictures of the apartment, as if a limited-time contract.

“c’mon.”

And he keeps doing it until you glare at him and mutter a ‘fine’.

“Like…”

You look at him as if to ask whether there's a way you can turn back from this situation.

In response, he shakes his head and broadens his smile, his irises brightening.

“L- Like bacon grease left overnight in the pan.”

He nearly howls with laughter, and the whole table rattles as he slams it, scattering some papers.

“sizzlin’. can i borrow the bathroom for a second?”

You help him clean up, then stand, smile, and gesture for him to follow.

“I'll go search for some clothes that can fit you.”

Chapter Text

Hardly one day later, you've moved just about everything possible into the shared apartment.

Generally speaking, it's a pretty great place for the low price: a fully furnished kitchen, a small but cozy living room, and a big bedroom with the bunk bed and a full bed Sans described to you. There's an intricately tiled bathroom inside, and a… decent bathroom outdoors, the floor being plain cement, the window without a frame, a toilet with a tendency to clog, and the shower with a leak problem. Everything about the place, minus the outdoor bathroom, screams too good to be true, yet it's only the first day.

No doubt, you'll spot more stuff that’ll need fixing and frequent check-ups later on – just as it was for the house Jerry and you took out a loan for when finding out you were pregnant.

“Can I ask you something?” Frisk says, pulling you back to the present.

Your nose catches a familiar scent common to a movie theater, and you look around after replying with a spaced out ‘yes?’, followed by a nod.

Sans is busy making popcorn and melting butter, while Frisk is sitting on the only couch occupying the living room, scooting over as much as possible to leave some space for you.

There are a bunch of papers neatly dispersed across the coffee table, along with a few blue pens and one black.

“I don't get why this takes so long,” Frisk says, pouting and crossing their arms. “You both agreed to do this, so why are you guys still… not divorced?”

“Well…” You smile, set a hand on their frizzy hair, and ruffle it all up. “If Jerry said he wanted you to live with him all the time, you wouldn't agree, would you?”

“Of course not!”

“Then…” Your smile strains at the sides. “There you have your answer.”

“What?” They huff, a scowl slowly shaping itself on their face. “I still don't understand why it'll take so long!”

“Frisk, sweetie,” you hush, lowering your hand to their back. “It's not just… deciding if you'll spend more time with him or with me. There's a lot of other stuff we have to deal with, but…” Your smile lifts again and you make them look at you directly. “Think of the bright side: you'll be staying with Toriel while we work things out!”

“...Only ‘cuz Sans threatened Jerry to let that happen.”

“and it's better than nothin’,” Sans chimes in, chuckling. He sets the buttery popcorn bowl down, far from all the papers, and takes a fistful for himself. “in the meantime, you'll get to visit your mom whenever we can, and you can visit your dad whenever he–”

“First of all,” Frisk shouts, pointing a finger at the skeleton. “I don't want to even think about visiting dad! He had his chances, and he blew them all.” Their eyes narrow as they look more closely at him. “Second of all… What do you mean ‘we’? You're not dating her! Are you saying you won't allow mom to have people over, just ‘cuz you found this place first?”

“it's a shared space, kid,” he replies, his grin turning stiff. “maybe it came out wrong, but if for any reason, i can't have visitors over, then... she can't, either. same thing the other way around.”

“What kind of reasons?”

“Reasons that are none of your business, sweetie,” you step in, deciding this had gone on for long enough. “Remember that time I was too busy preparing stuff for last Thanksgiving, and you couldn't have your friends over? It's like something along those lines.”

You let out a deep breath and rub your temples, taking a quick mental break along the way.

“Just to wrap this up…” You stand up, hold out a backpack in front of Frisk, and grin. “This has all your important stuff. Social security, medical plan, records, and… Some allowance and a few other things Toriel will need while I'm finished sorting everything out. If money runs out or you need anything else, call me, and I'll be there ASAP, okay? Either way…” You hand it over and step back as they jump off the couch and slip it on. “I'll try to check in on you as much as I can, but… D- Do you want Jerry to drive you to–”

They immediately point at Sans again, the latter who straightens right up, another fistful of popcorn in his hand.

He eats it all in one gulp, as if a kid caught taking too many cookies from the plate.

“Toriel said she can drop me off at school, but that she needs someone else to pick me up,” they explain, their tone as sincere as their gaze. “I bet you're going to be cleaning up after him a lot, so the least he can do’s pick me up from school.”

Your mouth drops open, your mind draws a blank, and your eyes zero in on their unabashed face like they're an alien from outer space. You can hardly process the utter audacity presented by a child you've raised to be the complete opposite of what they're showing to you right now. Coming to terms with this situation is about as difficult as snapping out of your shock and finding the right words to say in response.

“Frisk, that's not how you ask for things!” You try not to raise your voice too much, even so. "Apologize, and ask him nicely.”

Before Frisk can force a sorry through grit teeth, Sans has already agreed to picking them up.

“what time?”

“...Two.”

That seems to bring him deep into thought, as he lays his back against the wall next to couch, slumps, and closes his eye sockets.

“can y’take some extracurriculars or anythin’ like that after two?” he asks, opening them. “i can't be there at two, but three's just fine. and then i’ll drop your mom off at work at four, so you'll get to see her for a little while every school day.”

They nod vigorously, as if a toddler answering Dora's questions.

“Anything so that he doesn't have to pick me up.” When you correct them about using a dragged out 'he' rather than ‘dad’, Frisk crosses their arms tighter against their chest and grumbles loud and clear under their breath. “...Couldn't even leave mom the car… e- even though he has a motorcycle and a work van...”

“Frisk.”

“You know it's stupid, mom! What's he gonna do with all three? The shadow clone jutsu, so he can be in three places at once?”

Sans snorts.

Meanwhile, you sigh and frown.

“He put in most of the money, so it's only fair he gets to keep it.”

“And you paid for most of the house... But you still have to wait ‘til a stupid old judge says how much you can take for yourself!”

There's more suppressed laughter coming from Sans.

Whereas, you continue to show a stern face, the Frisk presented to you right now a far more different child from the one you raised.

One look at the clock wraps everything else you have in mind, and you have to draw in a deep breath and find peace of mind before you can say anything else.

“We'll talk more later.” You kiss their cheek and tug at it to wipe the frown off their face. “Do you… want me to send you food sometimes? Maybe dinner?”

“Won't you be too busy?” 

Now's when the going gets tough.

Having worked as a pharmacist since two years before you married, all it took was Frisk disappearing and Jerry following suit weeks later for you to succumb to a wave of depression and stop showing up for work, resulting in a large stain on your resume and having to work at whatever part-time job’s hiring at the moment, just for a few hours a week.

“I…”

You haven't told Frisk anything about that yet and, judging by the clothing and shoes Jerry showed up with yesterday – plus his status on his social media account – he's doing much better financially.

Realistically, Frisk would be better off with him than with you, but…

“I’ll be working night shifts at a supermarket… f- for a little while, and…”

Every word hurts, though you can't back away now.

Ten years.

A promotion almost within your reach.

All of that gone, and all because you couldn't…

“I'll be taking care of the house, to make up for the difference in what we earn. I'll keep things clean and prepare dinner. We sorted our schedules out already, so… I’ll have a little more time, every once in a while.”

Frisk looks at Sans.

And then, they look at you.

They repeat that action again, before saying…

“Okay! So, you'll be like a part-time maid, and work part-time at a supermarket?”

Like a flower on parched earth, you feel yourself droop.

They've pretty much summarized your future for the next couple of months or so.

“Um…”

It's not like you're against a life like that, but…

With a guy you don't know?

“...Y- Yes.”

If you would ever become someone's housewife, be it a man or a woman's, you would've liked it to be the love of your life, and not…

“Welp… Want me to drop you off at Tori's?” Sans asks, swinging the keys in his index finger. “Your mom and I have gotta do some grocery shopping, and we won't be back ‘til late.”

And not him: a stranger rumoured to be a slob, and a man seemingly too easygoing for his own good.

“Can we get doughnuts on the way?”

“if your mom says so.”

“Alright, so…”

Sans rests an elbow on the closed window frame, thick drops of water falling in the background.

“The kid's with Tori, and Jerry's finding his own lawyer for next month.”

He turns the air conditioning down a notch, then places a hand on the wheel.

“i gotta get up for work at seven am, so i wanna be home by seven pm. that gives us four hours to do everything, and one for dinner.”

“You… want me to cook dinner tonight?”

He furrows his brow and tightens his jaw like you've told him a joke of poor taste.

“we're gonna eat out tonight.”

Buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz, buzz-buzz.

There's that sound again – Jerry calling you for the fifth time in one day.

Before you can answer, though, Sans takes the phone from your hands and does it himself.

“whaddya want?”

Despite not being on speakerphone, Jerry can be heard as clear as day through the other line, and he sounds about as annoyed as he did yesterday, when Frisk was being snappy.

“She left some clothes in the closet. I needed the place cleared out since this morning.”

Sans looks at the windshield like it's the cause of his problems.

“wear ‘em yourself, or throw ‘em away.”

“Like she has anything else to wear.”

He sets the call on speakerphone, gives the phone to you, and switches the gear stick from park to drive.

Then, he flicks the signal contrary to the supermarket, and off to the shopping mall.

“she does.”

The detour's slow and serene, and you can catch yourself dozing off with the phone on your lap, despite the topic of conversation.

“psst.”

You feel something poke your shoulder.

“wakey, wakey.”

And then, your cheek.

Slowly, your eyes open on their own, while your mind takes some extra time to process what's happening.

You're still in the front passenger’s seat, although the car's not moving anymore, and Sans is staring at you, a fry in his hand.

Immediately, your brain processes one thing.

“Did you just poke my face with a fry?”

He shrugs.

“what about it?”

“It's greasy, and I have makeup on!”

“not like it matters much, anyway.”

You glare at him.

“What do you mean, it doesn't matter?”

He lowers the mirror to your angle and points at it.

“take a look for yourself. doesn't help that you rubbed your eyes when i woke you up.”

He might be everything else people have told you about him, but he's certainly not a lair.

Your eyeshadow is nowhere to be seen, and your eyeliner and mascara are smudged beyond repair. There's only a thin coat of lipstick left, yet your lips are as dry as the desert itself, and all the effort that went into following a new tutorial seems to have been in vain. Hadn't you been sober throughout the past several hours, you would've believed anyone who would've told you this was the result of you binge-drinking and getting a hangover.

Regardless, you need to do something about it.

Maybe ask Sans to buy you some water at a nearby gas station, so can try to clean up the mess.

Because – of course – of all the days you leave your purse at home, it's the day you'll need it the most.

“maybe, uh, you didn't notice, but you've been crying in your sleep, so, uh…”

He offers you a pack of makeup remover wipes he retrieves from a white paper bag at his side, the logo belonging to a pharmacy you remember working for once.

You take the wipes and set them on your lap.

“hadda hunch someone with more knowledge on the topic could help more, so i called alphys… and she said you needed these, plus some… therapy.”

Sans chuckles, though it sounds forced.

“her words. not mine.”

He then points at the backseats, and you look to where he points to see a greasy brown paper bag, with a more visible logo of a fast-food joint you've never liked all that much.

“there's some extra fries and an apple pie in there, and a soda right here,” he says, later gesturing to the cup holders between you. “figured i could grab somethin' quick before we went on a spree.”

Rather than using the wipes first, you throw yourself over the backseat and swipe the bag like you're a starving racoon.

And then, you scoop a large handful of fries, and they're the tastiest you've ever had.

A few tears leave your eyes, and you look at him with that same face, puffy cheeks and all.

"...Mmph."

Although you're unable to speak with a full mouth, the skeleton winks and grabs the drink with the straw on, taking a few sips.

“you're welcome.”

Chapter Text

You're unsure how things got to this point, but…

You don't regret it all that much.

“If this is the least I can do to make up for all the trouble I caused Frisk, so be it,” Mettaton exclaims, a hand pressed against his chest. “You'll have an outfit for every possible occasion! New Year's? Valentine's? Halloween? The four seasons? National Leg Day? You name it, and I'll help you find it.”

Turns out, when Sans mentioned that he asked Alphys for help, it was beyond simply her saying you needed makeup remover wipes and therapy. Not only did she also send you a few therapists’ numbers through text, but she also set you up with Mettaton’s… not-so-legal boutique. Not-so-legal, as in, he's not exactly allowed to be popping up a business without some thorough procedures first, given that no law has been passed yet in terms of establishing proper monster-owned businesses. The exception so far has been Grillby's, and only because he's chosen to keep his place where it was, the difference being that he’s now open to serve both species. In other words – while there's a very long and ever-growing line of monsters patiently waiting to start their businesses at the Surface – Mettaton has waited for no one's permission. 

His defense? 

His design is distinctly based on a human’s appearance more than a monster’s, and he has higher intelligence compared to any other AI programmed by humans, so those laws don't apply to him – or his… equally shady lawyer states so, at least.

Your reward for keeping your mouth shut?

Pick everything you'll need for the following three months, all for the low price of zero.

And it's not like you were going to say anything about this to anyone in the first place, but Mettaton insisted, and Sans advised you not to push it.

The boutique, in spite of its front being a mock-up of a hole-in-the-wall bar owned by a very kind man who's volunteered to play the part, is pretty cozy past the initial impression.

There's a pair of changing rooms covered by silky gold curtains, and the dark grey armchairs next to them are extremely soft and cushiony. The walls are a subtly lighter shade of grey, and the white and gold floor tiles are so shiny, they almost look like porcelain. Most of the clothes are displayed in hangers, and there's a small fountain in the middle of it all, with Mettaton's energy-saving form at the top, spouting the water warningly close to the edge. Wall decorations are scarce to none, but that appears to be what makes everything else stand out more – especially, the big red button set near to a wall clock, a sign reading ‘EVACUATE ROOM IF LIT’ right below it. The flush-mount lights on the ceiling are also relatively few for how large the boutique is, but that makes it easier on the eyes, overall.

“Alright, beautiful. Let's get this over with! What’s your current line of work?” Mettaton asks, sitting down and patting at the empty seat beside him.

You slowly approach him, looking over your shoulder to see Sans give you a nod. 

“gonna keep watch up front,” he says, pushing the exit open. “shout, if ya need me.”

And then, he's gone.

“Um…” You look at Mettaton now. “I have a uniform for the supermarket I started working at a few weeks ago. Just enough to last the workweek without needing to do too much laundry.”

Mettaton taps the pen against his lips.

“What about housework? You'll be doing most of it, so you'll need comfy clothes to clean more effectively, won't you?”

“I- I guess so?”

Haste and – apparently the fashion equivalent of a pit stop worker – he scribbles several sentences down and drums the pen against the notebook.

“Going out clothes? Like for going to the movies and shopping?”

He looks you up and down, then grimaces.

“Please, say yes.”

“If you can, then… yes.”

“Anything else you have in mind?”

You've finally reached that question, and now, you realize the thought you've had in mind since Jerry called about your clothes a few hours ago is…

Wishful thinking, at best.

Still…

“There’s… one more thing.”

It doesn't hurt to try, right?”

“Yes?” He sounds intrigued, yet his face and body language remain the same. “What is it?”

“Could you…”

You stare at your lap, twiddle your fingers, and chew on the inside of your lip.

Again, you glance over your shoulder and see Sans is still outside, smoking a cigarette and with his back resting against the door.

He's chatting with the barkeeper about something – bits of conversation on whether you're Frisk's mom, and what Sans is doing with you, how loud the man is thankfully giving you the courage to speak, albeit hushed.

“Could you add in an outfit that can, u- um…”

Finally, Mettaton’s expression changes.

It's a honed glare complete with pouted lips.

A looong beat of silence passes, and you can only keep staring at your lap.

“...Well?” He huffs. “Spit it out, darling!”

“I- I was wondering if there's an outfit that can…” You groan and sit up straighter, clenching your knees. “That can make my ex-husband a little…”

It's all for naught, as you sink right back into the fake leather seat.

“... jealous?”

“Sweetie.”

The moment you hear his change in tone, you know you're going to regret this.

“OH MY GOD, OF COURSE!”

You bring a finger to your lips in a shushing motion and point over at Sans and the barkeeper, and Mettaton quickly catches on, lowering his voice.

“From a scale from one to ten?” he asks, smiling as smugly as a humanoid cat would. “Ten being very jealous.”

“Uh…”

You swallow hard – enough to hear it with how quiet your surroundings are – and then, you sigh, closing your eyes.

“Maybe…”

Jerry's comment continues to poke at the carefully built self-esteem you've worked with your therapist for the past five years, so…

“M- Maybe a seven or an eight?”

Mettaton grins wider than a crescent moon.

“Seven point five?”

You smile.

“...Yes!”

His lips straighten as grabs his chin and leans forward, pressing his chest against the notebook.

You observe him, until he sits up straight again, props a leg over the other, and his lips curve upwards, as if the equivalent of when a cartoon character has a lightbulb over their head.

“Consider that done, beauty.”

“Do you… have anything in particular you'd like to eat?” you ask, unsure where or how to walk as the skeleton pushes the shopping cart to aisle number one.

“not really,” he replies, stopping next to the produce bags. “but my brother says i should eat more healthy.”

“Um, well…”

Though you can't exactly help it, you stare at him with as much shame as you would feel if you had done so without a purpose. You pay attention to his physique and how he walks. Then, it's time to look at closer details, like how his bones are a little different from a regular human’s, and how his skull has more flexibility compared to a human skull. Even smaller details come into light as you steal another glance after grabbing a couple of bags, and while he's busy checking out the root vegetables. His shoulders are stiff, his walking pace is a bit strained, and you notice some sweat dripping from the back of his skull to his spine.

“I don't think I can tell that much, but…” He grabs a batch of carrots and looks at you. “Maybe you can get some laboratory tests done, and in the meantime… I can make you food with lots of fruit, veggies, and protein?”

“sounds good to me.” 

First things first, you throw in potatoes, tomatoes, onions, garlic, and pumpkin to accompany the carrots he's picked out, plus some corn on the cob… an entire ball of lettuce, coriander, asparagus, spinach, beetroot, mushrooms, and… peppers of various types.

That should cover it – you think.

“Is all this okay?”

“i trust your judgement more than mine.”

You're ready to continue with the mission, but…

He's stopped moving the cart, while his hands remain on the handle.

“did mettaton make you change before you left?”

“Oh, uh…”

As if having magically appeared a second ago, you stare down at your clothes: a light grey wrap dress reaching below the knees, with a pair of black knee-high boots.

“Yes.”

“didn't get a chance to tell ya sooner, but…” He starts pushing the cart again, and with the space he's leaving next to the produce, you assume he wants you to walk beside him. “you look nice.”

You're not sure what you're supposed to say in this scenario, other than a ‘thank you’.

Because, well, what else are you going to say?

Looking more closely, however…

“Sans?”

“yeah?”

He looks different, too.

But that's not what you're worried about right now.

“It- It's because I fell asleep again, wasn't it?” you ask, frowning. “I'm so, so sorry! I've made you drive us everywhere all day today. It's only fair I drive us h–”

“don't take this the wrong way, but…”

When he makes direct eye contact, it seems as if his resolve melts.

“uh…”

He looks away and keeps pushing the cart, stopping by the fruit section next.

“i can't let you drive my car.” He places a hand on the one you've set on the apples. “it's not that i don't wanna, but that i can't.”

You feel your lips tug into a smile on their own.

“I understand.” Considering you've officially known him for more than twenty-four hours, you decide to risk it. “Did Alphys also tell you to be soft with me? I'm not as much as a crybaby when I'm awake.”

Sans laughs, and then his hand pulls back.

He grabs the bag of apples and sets it with all the other produce.

“maybe.”

Just as you jam-packed the cart with vegetables, you do the same with fruits, and now, you're off to the next section. There's a lot left to go, but you've managed to complete the stuff that takes the longest. Judging by the hour, you'll make it just in time for dinner.

Although, he did mention you'd be eating out, but…

Maybe you can convince him to let you cook, as a way to make up for how much he's had to drive.

“heads up,” Sans calls out, the cart screeching like a train stopped by Superman as it reaches a sudden halt. “follow my lead.”

His voice raises alarm, though not in a loud manner.

In a matter of seconds – before you can fully understand what he means with that – a firm, bony hand presses against your mouth, and another holds your waist, pushing you hard against the rice section of the aisle and bringing you down to your knees, his body leaning over yours like an impromptu, makeshift shield.

It all happens as quickly as a gust, and you're left with nothing but confusion as he draws himself back and lets you go.

There's no one else around the aisle, so you can't try to deduce what he tried to hide you from.

“don’t make any noises, and gimme your phone for a sec,” he says, his voice hushed. “...please.”

While your heart's pounding as much as a kid’s on caffeine and sugar, you do as instructed.

Partly because Frisk told you good things about Sans.

And mostly because… You're not sure whether you want to say no.

“just learned this stuff from alphys, so this’s gonna take a while,” he elaborates, showing you the lock screen. “unlock it for me, and then just go ahead and find what's left on the list – from this aisle only.”

You nod, type in the code, and do as he says once more.

It's strange to simply follow along with what he tells you without questioning his judgment or what's going on, but… If you interpret it as genuine concern for you, or at least on behalf of Frisk for wanting to keep you safe, then you'll follow instructions.

True to his word, roughly twenty minutes pass, and you've long since finished finding everything you need from this aisle: rice, flour, pasta, cereal, and a bunch of other extra stuff you have some ideas for. 

“gimme five more minutes.”

Again, you nod, and now that there's nothing else left to do, you decide it's a good time to check what's inside the purse Mettaton gifted you.

Lipgloss, mascara, eyeliner, foundation, makeup sponges, and a mirror… 

Mints, gum, pepper spray, a pocket knife, and a dog figurine with a ‘definitely not a bomb’ sticker on it…

A cute little pink and purple polkadot bag with some pads of several sizes, tampons, and feminine wipes inside it…

And… protection of another type – something you immediately shove deep inside the purse, pun unintended.

“all done.”

He says that around a few minutes later, yet it feels like ages, what with your mind thinking everyone in the supermarket saw you take out an assortment of sheaths out of your purse.

What helps is that – for some miraculous reason – only one or two people have passed by the aisle, and luckily not when you took that out.

“didn't wanna jump to conclusions, but… here.”

Sans gives you your phone back, and you look at the screen to see a bright red background with a warning that you're being tracked, the owner of the tracker being blatantly named as ‘Hubby’s Phone’.

“sorry if i scared you, and if i hit you too hard, but i couldn't think of anything else. he probably knows you're still here, so let's go ahead and…”

The second you process what all of that means, the pieces fall into place.

How Sans made you walk beside him as he pushed the cart, starting from the first aisle...

And how he made that out-of-the-blue comment about you looking nice, despite having had plenty of other chances to say it before that...

You wonder what would've happened if you hadn't fallen asleep in the car and he'd chosen to comment on your outfit right as you left the boutique and drove off – what other topic he would've used to distract you.

…Or if he would've even ever commented about your new outfit looking nice, to begin with.

The chances that he said that just to keep you hidden from Jerry's sight are far more likely.

“uh, you okay?”

You take back what you said about being a crybaby.

Because the first thing you do as you realize what Jerry did with your phone around two or three years ago and never again – when he’d asked all sweet and puppy-eyed if he could borrow it to search something that one time – is tear up and let it all flow like a waterfall after a heavy rainfall.

“alright, so that's a no.”

Before Sans can say anything else, you grab his shoulders, blink the tears away, and look at him.

“MmMmm… Mettaton’s boutique,” you push out, as hushed as you can. “Wh- What if… What if Jerry knew I was there? What if he decides to check that location? And what if he sees it's not… supposed to be there? Wh- What if he knows everything alre–”

Like the biggest rollercoaster ride of emotions, your meltdown ends (or pauses?) as you hear some abrupt commotion at the other end of the supermarket – most likely close to the deli aisle, if you remember the layout well-enough.

“I KNEW you were still here!”

Though the voice makes you jump, you're thankful it's not Jerry's.

And it's sufficient to cut off your tears, calm down, and accompany Sans to see what's going on at the deli, shopping cart moving at the speed of light.

“This is the FIFTH time I've asked you to leave, and I'm not going to say this nicely anymore,” Undyne shouts, pointing her mop at none other than…

Jerry.

Her teeth are gritted, and her eye is glaring cleavers at him.

“I’m still not done here, y'know,” Jerry retorts, stepping forward. “You'll have to call your boss if you want to give me a good reason to leave!”

More and more things start to make sense.

The fact that there was almost no one around when Sans manhandled you...

And the fact that the aisle kept itself empty, even as you waited for him to find the tracker...

One look at the massive crowd surrounding Undyne and Jerry tells you that everyone's taking a break from grocery shopping to have a live and full, front-seat view of what looks like the beginning of a fistfight between champions.

You wonder how long they've all been here, and how far has Jerry pushed a certain janitor's buttons – sufficient to have a pair of cashiers behind her, as if backup in the case a fight really breaks out.

“Get the hell out, or I'll kick your ass into the next supermarket across the city!”

Jerry continues to step forward.

A brazen grin shows on his face as he kicks her mop bucket over, topping the sundae by faking to stumble over the rack of freshly-baked cupcakes beside him, knocking several batches over.

“I'd love to see you try, fish-face.”

Sans moves the cart a few steps backwards, and he makes eye contact with Undyne before looking at you.

“get in the car. i'll finish the rest.”

Chapter Text

True to his word, Sans arrives at the parking lot almost an hour later, the cart bursting with paper bags and reusable ones.

“Sans…”

One thing that quickly catches your eye is…

“What's that on your cheekbone? Are you hurt?”

There's a smudge of dark red on his face, plus an eye socket not opening up fully.

“a little sore.” He grabs several bags, and you rush to carry twice as many. “nothin’ that some good night's sleep won't fix.”

You should've known asking two questions at once would've made an easy exit from answering the first one, but… Judging by the look on his skull, you don't want to push any buttons. Nor do you want to ask what happened.

At least…

Not right now.

If finding out Jerry's been tracking you – since God knows when – made you cry instead of getting angry…

You don't wish to know how you'll react if Sans tells you in detail how Jerry got kicked out of the supermarket.

“uh…”

Sans scratches the left side of his skull and stares at the floor like he has something on the tip of his tongue.

“did jerry work for the law before?”

Your lips tug down, then pout, and your forehead turns wrinkly; your body betrays you, despite your mind saying it's best not to react.

And though you know he's seen the reaction, you try at a poker face.

“Is there a reason you need to know? I know he was looking for me, but… I don't want him to get hurt.”

“could help us figure out why he placed that tracker on your phone, for one.”

Just how safe is it for you to answer him?

Yes, you might not like Jerry anymore, but it's not like you want to put him in danger!

“...Yes.” Your brow further furrows on its own. “What about it?”

“can you specify what kind? cop? lawyer?”

“N- No, I won't.”

That seems to be the start of a new kind of challenge, and with great timing, to boot.

Just as you're finished putting all the groceries in the trunk, all that's left is to get in the car.

“you won't? not even if i ask nicely?”

…Except, you don't want to anymore.

You slip a hand inside your purse.

“No.”

Sans chuckles.

“fine by me.”

Undyne’s the next person to show up, and – rather than paying mind to what's going on – she opens the front passenger seat and throws herself in like she’s a sack of cement.

Upon closer inspection, she's holding a heat pack, pressing it firmly against a bruise on her arm.

“Why do you want to know that so badly? Can't you explain this a little better?” You glare at him. “I doubt you need that much information for the tracker, and…” Your voice breaks, but you push through it. “...A- And you already took care of that, anyway! Why don't we just leave him alone?”

“i would tell ya everythin’, but…” He snickers. “let’s be honest, doll. would ya trust the word of a guy you've just met, or the word of one you've known for more than a decade?”

You grab the pepper spray just as you’re instructed to move into the backseat of the car, holding it like it's a one-way ticket out of this situation.

Being discreet when slipping it inside your dress pocket is another task on its own, yet with how alert Sans is and how quick he seems in detecting change, you know it's been in vain.

Because he looks right to where your hand slips into.

“It might sound obvious, but–”

He scoffs and steps out of the backseat, as if he's got something better to do with his time.

“fuggedaboudit,” he says, sighing. “i give up, so don't spray me, unless you want me to drive us home half blind. i’ll just look him up.”

You try to stop him from closing the door on you, and that results in you flinching – right as he's about to slam your arm with it.

“love him enough to risk gettin’ your arm caught in a door?” He scoffs. “Thought you wanted to make ‘im jealous.”

You can't bring to words how much you wish you could shut him up.

“Why do you have to know what he does?” you shout, blinking through tears. “J- Just tell me, and I'll see if I can believe you!”

“so he doesn't rat us out,” he states, clicking his teeth. “we let him off easy at the supermarket, thinkin’ he'd go easy on us, too, and look where that got us.”

Sans points at Undyne with her bruised arm.

And then, he gestures at his ruined suit, and at his face.

“he spits blood on my face, clocks me right in the nose cavity, and now… he's nowhere to be seen.”

He steps into the backseats again, closes the door, and locks the car.

“tell me what his past job was. you'll make this easier for everyone.” There's a subtle shift in the intensity of the burn in his eye sockets. “right now, mettaton's the one who's most in trouble, so think about him, and not either one of us.” There's a strain in his tone you can't quite decipher as either sad or angry. “and if that's not enough to convince ya, then…” He trails off to look at Undyne, who simply nods. “alphys found a tracker in frisk’s old phone, too, but… we didn't wanna cause alarm, just in case he'd done it for their safety.”

His expression seems to ease as he stares at you more thoroughly, almost softening altogether.

“please.” He scoots back and sits straight. “you’d be helpin’ out a lotta folks. not just undyne and me.” His irises grow dimmer. “and sorry ‘bout all this. i shoulda gone into it a lil’ smoother.”

Console seeming far from your reach, you break for the fifth time today, and now, it's non-stop.

It's the full thing in all its shameful glory: runny nose, messy tears, and quiet sobbing.

You can't stop it, and attempting to calm yourself down only makes it worse.

“hey.”

You can hardly hear yourself with how loud your mind gets, and you can't see anything in front of you anymore.

“Fri… Frisk said I should believe in you,” you mumble, between fits of calm. “Th- That I should go along with what you tell me to do, a- and that I should trust you know what you're doing all the time, but…”

More and more sobbing accompanies your words, and it's then that you feel a hand on your shoulder.

“I don't trust you like that. I- I can't possibly trust you like that! Not… Not when we've hardly gotten to know each other. And not when I’ve already figured out you know how to check phones for trackers, a- and that y- you… and Undyne w- were…”

Against yourself, you hug him tight.

You take a long breath in and sniffle.

“...hitting him.”

Your chest trembles, and you close your eyes.

“I know he hurt you, too, b- but I still care about him.”

With the silence that falls as you embrace him, you hear Undyne click her tongue and groan.

“I'm sorry, too,” she says, moving the heat pack to the back of her neck. “Should've known having Sans break the news to you was going to be an awful idea.” A hint of laughter escapes her rough voice. “Just didn't think it would be that awful.”

While Undyne’s been dropped off at the nearest bus stop – catching the very last one by sheer luck – and you're parked in front of a diner, you're still two hours behind the schedule Sans planned.

Before letting him step out, you tap his shoulder and offer the tiniest of smiles.

“Can I check you out for a second?” You retrieve a mini first-aid kit from your purse – a little extra you grabbed from the essentials aisle right as you were about to walk off to the last one. “...Your injuries, I mean.”

You figure you'll have enough for a sore socket, given you only used two warm patches for Undyne to place where she'd been hit the hardest.

Maybe monsters are similar to humans, and applying antibiotic ointment and rubbing alcohol will go a long way.

“gimme a sec,” he says, swiping a bottle of water from the cupholders. “i needa take some painkillers first.”

With the silence that's brought with him doing just that, you figure it's time to address the elephant in the room.

“...Jerry was a guard for the mayor's office. Nobody in his line of work could beat him at arm wrestling.”

“makes sense,” Sans replies, his grin broadening from end to end. “shit hurts like hell.”

He moves to the backseat and fixes himself up so that you're both facing each other.

Meanwhile, you prepare everything and spread it over your lap.

“But now, he's interested in a different field of work – similar, but… less physical, he says.”

“yeah?” He closes the wounded eye socket. “guessin’ you're not gonna tell me what it is?”

You roll your eyes and give into a bigger smile. “He hasn't told me, either.”

He barely flinches as you rub some menthol cream across the soreness. 

“Something about him not wanting to jinx it… So he hasn't told anyone what he's working so hard for.”

“not even his wife and kid?”

You take a cotton swab and dip it in alcohol.

“I think there's a reason why he put a tracker on my phone.”

This time, he flinches, though it's pretty clear he's only teasing you, as you're simply cleaning the blood Jerry spit on his cheekbone.

“don't think there's gotta be a reason, unless he'd let ya know about it.”

You sigh.

“I think he thought I was cheating on him.”

You grab his chin and move his skull this way and that, searching for anything else that might need tending to.

“so he tracks where you are at every moment for the next three years?”

“I should have worked on having him believe in me. Maybe by asking for a change in schedule. I had late shifts, and he was jealous of a guy who came in pretty regularly, but because his condition forced him to. He also didn't like it when a female coworker waited for me while I closed up.”

While you're trying your best to stay polite and keep on a neutral expression, it's annoying having him deflect everything you're saying so swiftly.

You finish up by applying some antibiotic and sticking a bandage to the other cheekbone, a light scratch visible from a short distance.

“maybe not everything's your responsibility.”

Saying nothing else, he steps out.

Either the food's made by angels, or you're hungrier than you originally thought.

Not the type to make others wait long, even when it's the first time, you went with what Sans recommended.

And it almost competes with how good your cooking is – keyword being almost, because you're just that proud of your cooking.

It's a hefty breakfast spread: a vegetable omelette, a stack of pancakes, and a side of fresh fruit, plus a milkshake to bring it all down.

“I didn't think it would be this much food!” You look at the pancakes, deciding whether to take these home. “...Do you want my pancakes?”

Sans looks at your plate – specifically, at the used fork almost touching what you've offered.

“Oh! My bad.” You scratch the side of your neck and draw in a breath. “I, um, didn't do it on purpose.”

God, you hate how big the mood shifts have been for the past few hours.

It feels like the more you talk and act, the more you screw up.

“You only ate the omelette, and you put the fruit cup in your purse.” It almost looks like he's raising an eyebrow. “Lost your appetite?”

And God, you hate how this entire situation’s dwindled your self-esteem sessions like they were all for nothing. 

The divorce, first and foremost.

The phone tracker thing.

And also…

Jerry.

Jerry, Jerry, Jerry.

Just, Jerry, y’know?

One quick look down reminds you of all the pudginess that's built up since Frisk went missing, becoming a bitter reminder of what you've given up.

So many years working to shed your pregnancy weight, and it all came back within just a few months.

You're a mess, and you're not sure how anyone would be patient enough to have you as their roommate.

“Kind of,” you reply, after a while of silence.

In short, if Sans hasn't lost his patience yet, and he doesn't during the rest of the week…

You'll take him as a saint.

“But I'll save it for later. The food here's super good!”

It doesn't help that he has the tendency to look at you like you're bare before an x-ray.

“what about the milkshake? it's melting already.”

Looking to where his gaze falls, melting appears to be an understatement.

You don't quite recall how long ago did he clean his plate, nor how long did it take for you to finish the omelette, but…

The milkshake’s one step away from becoming milk soup.

“Oh gosh!”

With that, you swipe it off the table and chug it like a pint of beer, then slam it down and huff.

“Done.”

Sugar and fat be damned, you believe you've cried enough today to burn at least the milkshake off.

…And maybe the apple pie from earlier?

“Should we head home now?”

You look at the time on your phone, seeing it's almost eleven o’clock. 

“You need to rest for tomorrow, don't you? Don't let me hold you back anymore.”

He nods and stands up.

“i’ll go ahead and pay–”

“With my credit card,” you state, handing it over.

“–with your credit card.” He grins wider. “you go ahead and ask the waitress for a takeout box, and…”

He throws the keys on the table.

“turn on the car for me.”

Chapter Text

You wake up with the sun shining right on your face.

The new roof and your new surroundings make you halt, though you quickly remember what happened yesterday, and what's the last thing you did.

After dinner, you got home, stored the pancakes in the fridge, and took a quick shower – only after insisting Sans to use the indoor bathroom first.

Then, he went off to sleep, while you stayed up for an hour more to read through all the papers one more time.

What you don't remember is having fallen asleep in a bed, nor do you remember having taken the biggest one.

Buzz-buzz.

You look toward the noise to see your phone on the nightstand, with a note underneath it.

Buzz-buzz.

Considering it's two in a row, you decide to read the messages first.

BACK TO SCHOOL WITH A NEW FRIEND :D, the first message reads, and it's a picture of Frisk posing in front of the school, with an armless monster child next to them, their head spiked and their skin yellow. They're both wearing their uniforms, and the sun shines brightly behind them. In the background, you see the backs of a few more human and monster children walking into the school.

The second message is another status from Frisk, and another picture, too.

TORIEL SAYS HI!!!

In the new picture, they're posing with Toriel by giving her a side hug. She's smiling as bright as the sun, and she's holding the big portfolio you slipped inside Frisk's backpack, though, on a closed look, it somehow looks far neater and thinner than you remember. One more quick observation to see her lavender suit is just as pristine shows she's simply just that good at organization.

She also told me to tell you that she'll pick me up this week, while you ‘settle your schedule and have a little time for yourself’ she said

And I think so too. So rest… or ELSE >:(

Ttyl mom!!! Love you <3

That's the last message they send, and you respond to them quickly with a bunch of stickers and an ‘I love you, too’ in return.

Wait!

Before you go…

Permission to make an obnoxiously cute album with these pictures? 🥺

Yeah!!! lol

But don't show dad… -.-

I'll send you some more until we're living together again c:

You send one more sticker, close the messaging app, and check on the time to see it's currently only seven fifteen – just fifteen minutes left until the alarm rings. 

Fifteen more minutes of sleep is a tempting thought, although it's better to start getting used to your new responsibilities from today on. 

As the days pass, maybe you'll allow yourself a little freedom, but right now, you want to do your absolute best. Any less of an attempt will make it hard on your conscience and stress alike. You turn the alarm off, set a new one an hour before Sans picks you up for work, and place your phone back on the nightstand. Finally, you jump off the bed, stretch, and drop your shoulders with a breath out. Whatever awaits you, you've cried and mourned long enough, and you're overdue for a better approach to life.

First things first: you have to get through with your new morning routine, and then you'll get down to business with getting the house into shape.

The stew’s boiling.

The laundry's hanging to dry.

And all the surfaces have been dusted and disinfected.

Five hours later, you've finished your morning routine, ate the leftover pancakes for breakfast, and done just about everything that needs to be done for the moment. All that's left is to wait for the stew to finish cooking, and for the clothes to finish drying. Then, all you have to do is store his portion of the meal in the fridge for when he returns, plus hang, fold, and put away the clothes.

Other than that…

It's still only noon thirty.

And work isn't until four more hours.

Sans will drive you there an hour before.

And you're already used to the new job, so you'll get ready in no time.

So, that means…

You really should go about addressing the note left on the nightstand.

Before that, you lock the backdoor leading to the laundry room, and then check the frontdoor for good measure. The stew's boiling, so you lower the intensity of the flames, too. When all that's out of the way, you walk to the bedroom and grab the note.

hey,

found you sleeping on the couch when i woke up for work, so i dumped you in bed and threw in a sheet for the cold. take the full-sized one, while you're at it. not cuz you've got cooties or anything like that, but cuz you look like you need it. i'll take the bunk bed.

as for the top one, it's got a buncha clothes mettaton brought in this morning, so there's that.

he said they were all dry-cleaned, so i tried my best not to wrinkle em up.

cya.

That concludes the note, plus all the doubts you've had in mind since waking up.

You've got a new task to keep yourself occupied, too – besides all the tedious divorce documentation stuff.

Although…

You can't forget one thing about all the messiness of yesterday.

Sans said his work started at seven.

And you got home by one thirty in the morning.

If you take into account how long it took to settle down, he'd fallen asleep at two, which means that–

Buzz-buzz.

You grab your phone again and see a new message, this time from Sans.

forgot to write this down earlier, but…

if anyone knocks, don't open the door.

hadda hunch you're the type to leave all the doors closed, so i think that part's covered.

just don't let anyone in, unless they call you first.

His messages read like he's in a place where he has the time to check if what he's written makes sense, yet not sufficient to send them all at once. Either that, or… that's simply his style of writing messages, however important the topic may be. But if there's something you strongly believe you should listen to right now, it's that gut-feeling that you should only reply to him once. Whether it's because you're still a little mad at him since what happened at the supermarket's parking lot, or because there's just something off about the way he's texting you, or that he's given you such a serious warning so late into living with him… Risking it for the sake of risking isn't the smartest option – and more so, when you consider you'd be pissing off the man you're sharing an apartment with. For the moment being, you decide you'll listen to your gut and think of a reply that can be good enough to, perhaps, not risk the uneasiness you feel currently.

And you do so by sending him a thumbs-up.

The day so far has felt like… a dream, maybe?

Waking up without a rush.

Doing all the household chores without a rush.

And having enough time to sort out what's left to do for the big divorce day – or BDD, as Undyne referred to it before taking the bus last night.

All of it, accomplished so successfully and without as much as a hint of stress.

It feels… strange? Off? Unreal?

You're just not sure how to put it.

But there's no more time to think about that, now that there's the sound of a car being parked in the garage, and of Sans stepping out and unlocking the frontdoor.

“Hey! Um… Welcome back,” you call out, upon seeing him step into the living room. “I'll heat up dinner in a second!”

While Sans takes off his shoes and sets the pair at the corner next the door, you walk back to the kitchen and throw his portion of the stew and a second serving for yourself in a small pot, then set it to low heat.

You return to the living room by the time he's slipped off his tie and coat; and then, you stop by the coffee table with an air of awkwardness – unsure how much distance to maintain and what you should even say, now that he's home.

“Anything I can help you with?” you ask, and now, Frisk calling you a maid doesn't fail to shove its way into your thoughts. “You can keep using the indoor bathroom, while we get the other one fixed.”

“sure, but…” He looks at your apron, and then at your face. “you don't gotta do all this everyday, greetin’ me like i hired you to clean the place and look after me. just cookin’ up two meals and doin’ the laundry is enough help.”

He walks to where you stand and broadens his grin upon seeing you with your hands folded over your lap.  The mittens you're wearing are likely the cause of his amusement, and you can't exactly blame him. It's a pair of cat paws Frisk bought you as a present shortly after they saw you feed a stray cat some food and find it a shelter. They've never failed to pick up on whatever interests you, and they always show it through the gifts they get you for your birthday and Mother's Day. And that attention to your interests has often led to… 

Them gifting to you multiple things of one same theme, quite like the whole collection you have of cat-themed apparel.

“i can handle heatin’ up my dinner after i shower, so you can get ready for work.”

“Oh, well…” 

You're not sure how to tell him you're all set to go work, and that you're heating up some more of the stew for yourself. 

After all – despite the plain pink apron and the mittens – you're already in uniform. But perhaps you don't look all that proper to go to work, and this is his indirect way of saying you need to go get changed. It's not like you ever stood out when it came to fashion, so you can't blame him either if he thinks the new clothes from Mettaton don't look all that good on you. 

“M- Maybe tomorrow? I, um…” You toy with the back of an ear and stare at your feet, lips pouting as you try to fight the reluctance creeping onto your shoulders. “I’m all set to go to work, and I threw in an extra portion for myself in the pot, cuz I ate a little early. A- And so I… I thought we could eat together?”

Way to make yourself look like you can't go a few hours without having something in your mouth.

Perhaps, you should've just said you hadn't had anything to eat yet, even if you're bad at lying.

You hear him snort, and now, you feel worse.

“sure?”

You're uncertain whether the sudden cheekiness of his grin is good or not.

“Is it really okay?” God, you hate how weak your voice comes out. “I mean, you paid for the groceries, and I only paid for dinner last night…”

“it’s fine. ya worry too much.” Sans stares at the apron again. “So, the apron's not for show? You're just keepin’ your work uniform clean?”

Everything the skeleton says and does makes you more and more uncertain about how long you'll be capable of living this type of life.

“Does it… not look like a uniform?” You slip the mittens and the apron off, stare at your clothes, and frown upon realizing that your efforts were for nothing. “Mettaton… told me I would look nice dressed like this. And that it would help with the heat, since my boss’s supermarket is lil' family-owned business, and they don't have an air conditioner yet.”

It's a pair of skinny jean shorts reaching a little above the knees, and a bright red spaghetti strap top with the supermarket's logo knitted on the upper-right side. The bottom of the shirt is tucked underneath the jeans, so it looks kind of body-con. The uniform is complemented by a light coat of makeup and a pair of comfy, dark red sneakers. There's also the small and subtle touch of a pair of cherry earrings, the shade almost the same as the shirt’s.

“you do. just saying that, uh…” 

His gaze averts to the window closest to him.

“when i saw you the first time, it looked like you only had the apron on.”

A brief silence passes, and then…

Your face turns as hot as the stew you excuse yourself to go turn off.

While you fan both of the bowls you pour the steaming meal into – and your equally steaming face – you tell Sans to come over to the table and sit down.

“I'm sorry for jumping to conclusions, but...” You sigh, a frown forming on your face. “I didn't think you meant it like that! I, um, thought you didn't like my uniform, a- and that I should go change.”

You set his bowl down on the table, followed by a plate of garlic bread, a small serving of fruit salad and yogurt on the side, and a caramel pudding you had to attempt making twice today, after realizing you had a bit of time to spare.

You nudge his shoulder as you set the spoon down, and a smug smile quickly replaces your frown.

“...Why did you think I was only wearing that, though?” You grin. “Screw your mind being in the gutter… Your mind must be the gutter!”

He chuckles and takes the spoon, while you sit down across from him.

“it's an honest mistake, if you look at it within my particular context.”

Your smile grows as you grab your own spoon and scoop some of the stew.

“Mhm.” You eat the spoonful. “Yeah? And may I ask what that particular context is?”

“i thought i'd walked straight into a scene from a movie i watched last week.”

Sans is laughing again as he says that, and the hand he slams on the table makes the stew shake a little.

With how amused he seems with his own mind, you simply stay quiet and watch it unfold, finishing your stew little by little.

“alphys was all hyped up, thinking she’d found a new magical girl anime she could obsess over, and then…”

He flares his nose cavity and covers his face, wheezing into his hands.

“she found out it was an adult magical girl anime, and that the eighteen and up warning sticker was covered by a price tag.” He harrumphs, although his awkwardness only lasts so long. “even if, uh… the weird anatomy of the lady protag kinda gave it away.” Saying that, he's chuckling again. “and i laughed so hard, i almost woke up everyone else already asleep, cuz the intro was pretty damn boring, and it was late, too.”

With a deep breath, he wheezes one final time and removes his hands from his face to wipe a tear.

“that was the first thing that popped into my head when i saw ya like that, and oh boy…” His blurry eye sockets squint, and he bursts into a fit of chuckles. “did ya look the part for that protag, waitin’ on me with that clueless face, and greetin’ me back home like i'm your, uh–”

He cuts himself off, staring at you with bright, wide irises.

His grin is as rigid as a block of metal, and there's thick beads of sweat on his forehead.

“ah shit, my bad.”

When he stands up, you do the same and take a step back.

It was a risky topic to begin with, so you're not sure why you're so surprised with the outcome – even moreso, when you played along with him.

“...It's- It's okay.”

Swiftly, you turn around.

“I understood what you meant. You don't have to apologize.”

Without another word exchanged, you rush to the bedroom and lock yourself up in the bathroom, heart feeling like it wants to wriggle its way up to your throat.

Chapter Text

Now that you're thirty minutes early at work, you take this time to really think about how you feel.

Between everything that's happened in the past few days living with Sans, you're unsure what it is that you've been feeling since reading that ‘no to answering doors’ text.

Uneasy?

Anxious?

…Paranoid?

None of those sound right, though a combination of all three sounds like the best fit.

There's just something strange – if not, foreboding – in reading that warning so late into living together.

“Everything okay, mija?” your boss asks immediately upon arriving at work. “I know you're never late… But more than thirty minutes early is a bit much. If I knew you'd be showing up this early, I would've given you my spare key!”

Thank goodness, you've already warmed up to your boss.

Because you can't imagine keeping to yourself for any longer.

You've occupied your mind enough with housekeeping and making further adjustments to your documents before it's time for that big day in court.

“Boss!” Seeing his happy little bearded grin, soft hazel eyes, and hairy brown arms topped off by his messy, curly black hair is like coming across an oasis in the middle of the desert. “Could I… talk to you about something? A lot's happened, and… And I- I was wondering if you could give me some advice.”

His eyes light up, his grin softens, and his skin almost seems to shine under the sun reflected by the large windows.

And he nods, sitting down on the glossy floor, and patting for you to join him at the space on his right.

“Please, sit,” he beckons, and you do as told. “Quick. Before the others show up.”

It could be how he says it, or how unhesitating he is in offering an ear to listen – perhaps both are what tug at your heart and squeeze it like a lemon into clear water.

“Well…” You sigh and bring your knees against your chest, hugging them. “You know how I'm… planning out a divorce, and how I had to move in with someone?”

“The divorce yes, but…” He raises an eyebrow. “You moved in with someone? Is she nice?”

“Um… A- About that…” You cover your face between your knees and tighten your jaw. “I moved in with a man.”

“My point still stands, even if it's an… unorthodox decision.” He chuckles. “Is he nice?”

“Yes? Kind of? We've only known each for, like, three days, but just a while ago, he…”

You lift your face and grab your head, letting out a groan.

It's not what you wanted to talk about, but it's the first thing you thought about.

All you wanted was to busy your mind talking about that ‘no opening doors’ text, and not… that.

“Something weird happened, and now I'm… not too sure what to do about the agreement we made with each other.”

This really isn't what you wanted to talk about with your boss, and yet…

Heart and mind alike refuse to back down – as if you've been cast a spell of truth.

The rest of your body, on the contrary, wants to shrink and disappear into the next year – if not another universe.

“He noticed what he did, so it's not like it was on purpose, but…”

Your face burns so much, it almost feels numb.

“When I waited for him to return home, I was in an apron, getting his dinner ready, a- and…” Your gaze doesn't blur with tears anymore, at least. “And he said I looked like a wife waiting for her husband, though he… He cut himself off before he could completely get to say it.”

Roberto’s moustache lifts as his mouth shifts into a gentle smile. 

His eyebrows knit, and he asks before laying his hand on your back. 

“Is your room separate from his?”

“No, and… And I'm starting to believe this won't work out!”

He rubs circles and tells you to breathe.

“I knew this was going to bring trouble – We… We're two strangers, after all! I- I'm a single mom now, and he's… He's my roommate? It sounds ridiculous, so I don't even know why I'm surprised this happened, or that something worse hasn't happened!”

His hand stops and draws back.

His eyes, on the other hand, soften like he's still trying to console you that way.

“I have a feeling you wouldn't have agreed if you didn't know at least a little about him,” he comments, his smile lifting. “Did Frisk tell you about him?”

You look at the floor and nod.

“Yes, that he's lazy and likes to make jokes, but… That he's also pretty honest and genuine with who he is? As in, he knows how to joke around and goof off, but also not sugarcoat things when he has to say them.”

“Well…”

Roberto sets his hands on his knees and pushes himself off the floor.

“Think about it some more, but keep an eye out.” He offers you a hand. “And if you're unsure… Make some questions for yourself about who he is, how he acts… and whether you can get to trust him. Try to answer them as you get to know him.”

You take his hand, and he pulls you back to your feet with the grace of a ballet dancer.

“One thing that must be said, however, is that you should sleep in separate rooms.”

He lets your hand go.

Not a second later, his gentle expression shifts into a glare. 

His left hand clenches, and he does a gesture with the other, as if he were punching his palm. 

“Because if he so much as lays a finger on you, I will make sure he regrets it.” His forehead gets wrinkly as his anger rises. “...Even if your child states he’s a good person, I’d prefer to see the truth with my own two eyes.” 

He draws in a sharp breath, and you follow him as he goes to flip the sign from closed to open.

“Monsters’ souls are said to be made of love, hope, and compassion, and I have had only pleasant experiences with monster customers, but…” 

He looks at you, determination in his eyes.

“I will judge every single person – human or monster – equally. No tale or book from that Librarby can convince me otherwise.”

Thank goodness, your boss offered to give you a ride back home.

Because the moment you return, you feel like there's an immense, growing weight on your chest, and that breathing is like being underwater.

You don't know what you're going to say when you open the door and see him there.

Hell, you don't even know how you'll look at him.

All you know is, you're an emotional mess.

Buzz-buzz.

Your phone rings as you're trying to open the door, yet you ignore it.

Buzz-buzz.

It's just text messages, anyway – if it's an emergency, you're sure whoever it is can call you.

If not, they can wait a few seconds.

Buzz-buzz.

You take off your shoes and set them next to where Sans left his, then close the door again and walk inside.

Buzz-buzz.

And if all those notifications you're getting is that new app you installed, you'll delete ASAP.

You don't have time for this – not the drama from earlier, and not whoever's spamming you with notifications.

Buzz-buzz.

Enough being enough, you take the phone and check what's up.

There are multiple unread messages and all by the same sender – precisely, the man you least want to think about.

Not Jerry, for once, but Sans.

hey.

i stepped out for the night.

Those are only the first two messages, and eleven others are left.

tell your boss thank you on my part, and that i owe him one.

You're not sure whether you're ready to read the longer messages below a couple more.

i crossed a line. 

that much is clear, but…

instead of just saying sorry, i figured it was better to ask grillby to let me stay the night at his bar

and to explain what i did to the bedroom temporarily.

or do you even want me to explain?

maybe you'll understand what it is, so i won't tell you, but… 

if you don't know, then text me back.

if you do know, then just so we're clear…

it's a temporary fix.

i called a handyman for the permanent fix.

so you can feel safer, living together and stuff.

That's the end of his spam, and only three more messages follow.

again, uh, sorry for creeping you out, and for bringing touchy subjects up.

your cooking was mad good, by the way. every bite made me feel like i was ascending into a different universe.

g’night, and see ya tomorrow.

Detailed as his apology and explanation may be, there's one thing that won't stop bothering you, and that has pretty much nothing to do with the current topic.

So, knowing you won't get any sleep if you don't do something about it, you take a picture of his work shoes and text him about it.

Attachment - 1 image

Are you gonna need these for tomorrow?

oh shit.

yeah, lol

never clicked with me that i left the house with my slippers on.

Should I send them with someone?

nah. go get some sleep.

leave ‘em outside in a box or a bag.

i’ll drive a little early tomorrow to pick ‘em up.

Okay.

Good night.

thanks, buddy 👋

nighty-night.

The bedroom is, frankly speaking, almost a new room altogether.

While the first thing you come across with are the bunk beds, the space is limited to what the beds occupy and the scant distance in-between them and the dresser. A large pair of curtains covers the rest of the bedroom and the door leading to the indoor bathroom. Though he said it was a temporary solution, the way the pole is fixed into each end of the wall shows this likely took Sans more time than he cares to admit. The big grey barrier is thick enough that you can't see a thing past it – despite the light being on. You draw one curtain back to view your side of the bedroom right as you left it, but with a small addition on the sheets.

Then, you walk toward your half of the room and shut the curtains again, just to check how it will look from your point of view on a daily basis.

And what a perspective it is: full-on privacy, compared to the temporary solution you had in mind for yourself shortly after realizing you sleep in a position that directly leads to you staring at the bunk beds.

The window next to the bed seems like a good idea for quick lighting, considering the light switch is on his half of the bedroom. Not only that, but you can leave the door of the bathroom open for some better lighting, along with the lamp on your nightstand. Looking around leads to finding more pros than cons.

And the only con is…

You're aware he did this out of obligation.

You remember how tired you used to be after working a full shift at the pharmacy, and you imagine him from a similar viewpoint. He comes home tired from work to some woman in her thirties who gets flustered easily by the simplest of things. He slips up with a comment and ends up finding a temporary yet elaborate solution to the sudden problem. And then… He has to actually put in the effort to get it done: bolting some screws to the wall, measuring a pole and setting it up, for a pair of thick blackout curtains that likely cost him a hefty sum. All that, while having just recently clocked out – because you can't imagine him to have achieved all that in so little time without having immediately gotten down to business instead of resting a bit before that.

The fact that what you see on the bed is none other than a letter and a gift only strengthens the belief he didn't get any rest after dinner.

Still, you grab the letter, sit down on the edge of the bed and read it, the thought still pricking your mind.

[heya.

so, uh, maybe it wasn't the brightest idea to talk about adult anime with a woman i hardly know.

alphys said she wanted to hunt me down, after she found out what happened, so…

she said this might help make this a lil less tense between us.

cya.]

You open the gift as carefully as you can physically manage, despite there being nobody around to judge you on whether you opened the gift elegantly enough.

It's…

Too corny, all-in-all, but you give props to Alphys for having made him buy this.

It's a planner with all the things you could possibly learn about in a ‘take back your life’ seminar. 

The inside is fully equipped with colourful sticky notes, patterned paper bookmarks, washi tape with forcefully cute designs, shiny motivational stickers, a pen with a silly quote about never giving up engraved on it, and a bunch of tiny rewards for completing each task set for each day. The colour of the already visually busy cover is an annoyingly showy shade of pink and purple, with LOTS of purple, golden, and silver glitter on it, plus a bunch of chibi-style art accompanying the long list of features.

You wonder how he went about buying something like this, and whether he received any odd glances while at checkout, looking the way he does. And more so, considering he could've gone to buy it with his messy work clothes still on: a grey suit, a black tie, and a trilby of a darker shade of grey. Or maybe not, but even then, that would still imply that he bought a gift as adorably tacky as that, while sporting his usual hoodie and basketball shorts combo. Neither of the two looks match with something so over-the-top, but…

The deed is done, and now, you have a huge, dorky planner to use for the next six months or so.

You set it on the nightstand along with the letter and snuggle up in bed, although not before snapping a picture of yourself with the planner and texting him something.

Attachment - 1 image

Thank you!

Chapter Text

The next day, Sans isn't home until very, very late.

And he arrives with multiple issues at once.

A severe case of drunkenness, plus a limp leg, a bloody shirt, and a tense grin. Those are just a few of the issues you see first hand, but getting a little closer reveals more. He's panting like he's ran a few or more hundred miles to get where he is, and his irises are so dim, they're almost gone. He's covered in a thick coat of sweat. One gentle touch to his cheekbone shows he's as cold as ice.

“Wh- What happened?” you ask, and rather than saying anything…

His hands wrap around your shoulders, and he mutters something along the lines of him needing to sit down.

“O- Okay.” You hoist him up as you would do with a child, and walk over to the couch. “Got it. But you need to tell me what's wrong.” You set him down and touch his forehead with the back of your hand. “Please.”

“frankly speakin’...” he says, trailing off as he hiccups and sets an arm over his forehead, covering the light above from his eye sockets. “i shouldn't even be alive right now, so i think i'm doin' just fine.”

“Oh, please don't joke around like that,” you state, sighing. “Y- You're heavily wounded! Tell me where it hurts...” You glare down at him and frown. “Or I'll do it myself.”

“...heh.” That sounds less like a laugh, and more like a wheeze in search of a proper breath. “is that a threat, or a promise?”

You stand straight and set your hands on your waist, as if you were scolding him. Your gaze narrows when staring down, and your frown grows bigger. As much as you would like not to, you're worried, and having him act so nonchalant won't do it.

“You think I'm joking?” you ask, though you won't allow him to answer. “Fine then! Don't say I didn't warn you.”

If Sans truly wants to mess with you – be it while drunk or sober – by all means, you'll let him, but not the way he wants to.

Approximately twenty minutes later, you're back in the living room with a complete first aid kit, a plastic basin filled with clean water and a folded rag hanging on a corner, and a bottle of disinfectant hand soap, plus your hands thoroughly washed and disinfected.

First things first, you tell Sans to sit up straight and to remove his dress shirt. Then, you kneel in front of him and observe his rib cage from bone to bone and from end to end – leaving no detail without checking. The source of the bleeding doesn't appear to be present, so you (...reluctantly) check that one off as his polo having stained itself with another person’s blood. There's peace in knowing it's not his, though… It leaves you with other questions you'll have to tend to later. Finally, you check all the different injuries across his arms, assess the severity, and decide what you'll do with the soreness and the cuts peppered across them.

When that's done, you stare at his legs, analyze the way he keeps his left leg at an awkward angle, and ask him to slip off his pants.

But he says and does nothing, and when you try to lift the pant leg to check his ankle, you hardly can't, his body being uncooperative with how rigid he gets.

“You were limping earlier,” you state, when he hesitates. “I wanted to be a nurse, so it's fine.” Your words seem to be in vain, as he's still too stiff for you to check his injuries properly. At this rate, attempting to move a mountain would be easier than turning his leg at a position where you can see what's wrong. “Either way, and as… As rude as this may sound, you're a skeleton. I doubt I'll see much that'll–”

He cuts you off by unbuckling his belt and bringing his pants down to the floor, though he looks to his right and keeps his gaze on the coffee table.

“i’m still a monster,” Sans retorts, sounding miffed. “don't... don't jus’ compare me to those…” He hiccups and lets out a groan, as if it's the hiccup's fault he's lost his train of thought. On a closer glance, his irises are fuzzy – like your comment has only made him more intoxicated. “...to those plastic ones.” He looks at you while you're busy checking for more bruises, and that makes you furrow your gaze at him. “otherwise, i'll comp…” He complains again when a wave of nausea takes him over, as noted by a burp he covers with his hand, and then a gag. “...compare you with–”

“I'm sorry,” you cut him off, a glare on your face. “I- I'm just trying to make you feel comfortable, alright? You came home bleeding, and I'm worried about you.”

He removes the hand from his mouth to shield his sockets from the brightness of the room – specifically, from the light turned on, as he looks opposite to where it's shining directly to.

And now that he's sitting, it appears to bother him more than it did when he was laying down.

“i doubt you'd care that much.”

You take some salve and rub it across the soreness of his arms and legs. 

Some of the wounds you leave without salve are too deep to be simple sore or scratches, so you finish with the ones that are at surface-level first. Then, when it's time to work with the more serious ones, you notice they're bad enough to be labelled gashes by whatever knife caused that big of a damage to bones. It's no wonder he said what he said about being alive, but that's no excuse not to receive adequate treatment. You set the basin underneath, scrub plenty of soap for several minutes, and wash everything off with a damp rag, leaving every gash as clean as the eye can see. When that's done, you apply a generous amount of antibiotics.

While he tries to hide it, he flinches and takes in sharp breaths at certain points, especially when you rub the treatment persistently against the gashes.

“Why not go to a hospital?” You intentionally disinfect the last cut without a prior warning, being a little harsh when applying the ointment. “They can treat you better than me, can't they? …Or do you want me to call one for you?”

You know he's too drunk for you to be telling him that, and that maybe you shouldn't even be arguing with a drunk and wounded man to begin with, but…

No matter what, you refuse to let anyone tell you that you don't care, because caring too much is what has you like this, in the first place.

“If you're not going to answer, then cut the crap about caring too much, and just let me take care of you like I should.” You make firm and unwavering eye contact as he lifts his gaze away from the suds and dirt left on the basin. “Any objections before I continue?”

Hearing no word in protest, you let out a breath and smile, then carry on with treating his injuries.

You run through the full course: colourful bandages on the cuts, tight wraps on the gashes, and cold patches on the sores you treated. Quickly follows a temporary compression sock for his right ankle – while he gets it properly checked tomorrow morning – and a massage to his shoulders where he'd been rubbing before. You then notice the same eye socket from the night at the supermarket still has trouble staying open, so you give him an ice pack and tell him to leave it there for a few minutes.

All that's left by the time you finish with everything is to check his temperature with the thermometer, and to provide him with oral medicine as needed.

“Can you stand up?” you ask, and he nods, the silence that's kept itself since you told him to shut up feeling… uneasy, to say the least. “I’ll help you get into bed, but I can't carry you if we want the wounds to heal faster.”

Because there's just something completely off about treating a silent patient who won't stop looking at what you're doing to him – simply put, it makes you feel like anything could go wrong at any moment.

“yeah, sure.” His grin finally loses its tension as he lets out a laugh. “think you could get me some clean pants ‘n’ a shirt before that? don't wanna hafta walk all the way there while i’m practically naked.”

You nod and run along to the bedroom, a new mission being set.

Almost two hours later, everything's finally back to normal – or at least, enough that you can rest in bed without as many worries as you had when seeing him show up the way he did.

And Sans, for has to be the third time since he went to bed, has woken up to ask if you're okay.

“didya call your boss?” Sans asks, right as you're about to close the curtains between you.

“First thing I did while you were getting dressed,” you reply, pointing at the bed. “Now go back to sleep. I've got everything handled, alright?”

He nods and does just that.

“g’night, doll.” The bunk bed creaks as he turns over to the side, and a groan leaves his teeth when he adjusts to an angle comfortable for his wounds. “and thanks.”

You smile and close the curtains.

“Good night.”

Following the treatment and having come into contact with someone else's blood, you showered thoroughly upon being finished with the treatment and with that call to your boss. Then and only then – when you made sure you weren't walking around with a health hazard – you grabbed a little snack to eat while serving Sans his dinner in bed, plus a tall and steaming cup of chamomile tea to help him fall asleep without waking every ten minutes. Then, you threw yourself into bed. And now… Subtracting the third distraction caused by Sans waking up, you're doomscrolling the remainder of the night away, drowsiness far gone.

You wanted to ask Sans if you should call his job, tell a few details that won't cause him trouble, and inform the employer that he won't be there tomorrow, but… Sans seems tired enough that you don't want to take away what little, stable sleep the tea has given him, despite how many more times he's woken up since then. And waking him up after you've assured him that you have everything under control feels like that will complicate things more. There's an idea bouncing back and forth in your mind – like a bright red ball you can get from those toy dispensers in the mall for a pair of quarters. The longer you wait to fall asleep, the more it feels like you're wasting precious time that could be used to give his employer a quick and preventative ring to warn about the emergency. Shortly after you brought him to bed, Sans unlocked the phone without bothering that you were right there to see the pin, so… 

All it would take is swiping the phone from his bed, finding the number, and making the call.

Simple as that.

Your moral compass loses some calibration as you stand up and walk along to the curtains. And it goes haywire when you push one to the side and step into his half of the room. Your increasingly rapid heartbeat accompanies the feeling that you've left your morality aside, and your sweaty plans confirm it.

You're not supposed to be doing this.

And you have a hunch Sans doesn't want you calling his job all willy-nilly, but…

One look at him in bed, snoring like he hasn't had a night's rest in years, and cuddling up against a pillow like he's spooning his partner, tugs at that annoying sense of responsibility you've tried to ignore since having realized he still has work tomorrow.

By the time you convince yourself this isn't right, you've already snuck up to him.

And – by the time you convince yourself not to do it – you've unlocked his phone, dialed the number, and hurried off to the living room, heart nearly at your throat.

It's five in the morning, and you still haven't slept a wink.

You really, really shouldn't have done that, and you really, really don't know what you'll say to his face when he realizes he doesn't need to call in sick.

You're unsure when he'll wake up and discover the truth, but you just know this’ll be the end of your agreement.

And what little did that moment last – not a week in, and you already screwed up.

What's more, your paychecks are biweekly, meaning you've yet to have a decent amount of savings to find a stable place to live in for a day or two, while you crawl back to your hometown and ask if they'll let you stay until you figure things out again.

“Shit.”

The first curse is as audible as the ready sound of a microwave at one in the morning, while the rest occupy your mind like a silent prayer. You can't even wallow in your sorrow at the familiar comfort of a soft, spacious couch, with it being severely muddy and bloodied – and with the smell of sweat lingering on it to the point where your nose scrunches up on its own and at the speed of light itself. As a consequence, you're sitting in a dining chair, with your back straight and pressed up against the rickety wooden backrest like you're trying your best not to slouch. You have your hands over the bridge of your nose, and your elbows lay on the table like you're about to have a serious talk with someone. You shake your head and huff all your frustrations off like you're a disappointed parent after seeing their unruly child's grades. All you're missing to complete that classic dramatization is the red report card on the table, along with someone else playing the role of the understanding parent setting a gentle hand on your shoulder, telling you to calm down.

You have nowhere else to go.

The thought hits like a warm and straight shot of liquor.

Your throat burns, and so does your face – almost as if you're allergic, yet you've resolved not to cry anymore than you have for the past few days.

The previous reminder exerts complete control over your mind, and you decide it's best to find some sleep by letting your head rest on the table and allowing your breaths to ease as you repeat that same phrase over and over like a distorted lullaby.

You have nowhere else to go.

No immediate help to call.

And no money, either.

Your eyes close, and you sniffle a little before sighing and letting exhaustion claim you completely.

Nothing at all.

Chapter Text

Something cold presses to your cheek, waking you up.

It takes a while to adjust to where you are, and when you do, you notice what's happening.

Sans has a cup of iced tea pressed up against your face, and there's a plate of breakfast on the table.

“g’mornin',” he says, and you look at the plate he nudges forward: buttered toast, a fried egg, and some roasted tomatoes drizzled with olive oil. “realized after i made a bunch that i didn't know if ya ate meat, so i replaced the bacon for somethin' else.” He then sets the iced tea next to the plate and sits across from you. “and thanks, by the way – for, uh… everythin’ you did last night, and for callin’ my boss. can't express how much of a relief i felt early this mornin’, to see that'd been dealt with already.”

When those words leave his teeth, you freeze up and find it an obligation to pinch your arm, just to check if you're perhaps dreaming this up. 

“Um…”

His plate has a similar portion to yours, but with the addition of a few bacon strips.

“You're not mad?”

“Why would I be?”

He places his elbows on the table and leans in, his grin broadening. “...though i gotta give ya credit. didn't think you'd learn my pin that quickly, and that you'd use it the way you did,” he elaborates, and you feel your cheeks and ears burn. “good thinkin’.”

You look down at your plate and distract yourself by grabbing a piece of toast. 

“Still, I'm sorry. I should've asked.” The first bite feels like heaven, and not just because he used that fancy, expensive-looking butter you saw him add to the cart, but because your stomach thanks you after only eating a teensy amount of yesterday's dinner. “Should we…”

There's that moment of truth, where you'll figure out whether you'll need to pack up today or not.

“Should we end this?”

“end what?”

He's pretty much inhaled his plate by the time you've only finished the toast, and he looks at how you're poking the egg like it's alive.

“...Our rooming together?” You pierce the egg with the fork, cut it in half, and bring that portion to your mouth. “I've caused you a lot of trouble, and I'm sure you… you came back home like that because of Jerry.”

You eat the other half, then pinch a slice of tomato.

“on the contrary.” He unlocks his phone and shows you what looks like a convo between him and an unsaved number. “we worked together on this one.”

Your eyes squint as you read through the conversation, and he makes it easier for you by scrolling down to the rest, while you finish eating.

In summary, it's him and Jerry talking about yesterday, and that Jerry owes him a big one for ‘saving his ass’, as he states so himself in one of the texts.

“turns out, there was another tracker snuck into frisk's new phone, and he figured it out himself. he was on his way to fight the guy, but…”

Despite still being on the topic, something stands out, and you can't risk straying from that particular subject.

“How did he figure it out? The tracker stuff, I mean.” 

You try to search your brain for the schedule you've set up with Toriel in that backpack you gave to Frisk. In a nutshell, it's the weekdays with their goat mama, the weekends with their ‘aunties’ – Undyne and Alphys – and the occasional visit to either parent, based on their respective work schedules. If you recall correctly, then Jerry had some time off yesterday after school to take them where he used to before they went missing.

“he was takin’ frisk out for ice cream, and he had ‘em convinced that he needed to set up a tracker on their new phone, just in case they went missin’ or got into trouble again.” Sans picks up both plates, while you grab the iced tea. “that’s when jerry found there was another phone already trackin’ frisk down… and he called tori to send ‘em back home, while he went lookin’ for the guy.”

The iced tea is too sweet, and you know the excess sugar won't help with your pudginess, yet…

You're thirsty, and you wanted to cry yourself to sleep last night.

A little bit of sugar won't do you any harm, dammit!

“whaddya know, the guy was in the townsquare, hardly a few minutes away from the shop, and jerry found him pretty fast – it was a neighbour from your old place. but the guy had company, and jerry got cornered right into an alleyway.”

The cold of the drink and the sweetness overall soothe your throat and the simmering ache of your stomach.

“How did you find him?”

“i was havin’ some ice cream myself, and i thought i heard someone familiar shoutin’ at someone else, so i stuck my nose in, and when Jerry told me what was goin’ on, i took the risk of believin’ he was tellin’ me the truth. by the time the cops got there, we'd taken care of the guy and his friends, so i’d say it was worth it – ‘cuz we didn't give ‘em a chance to run away, except one guy they're now trackin’ down.”

Sans walks to the refrigerator and opens the freezer door.

“that reminds me…”

He pulls out a pint of ice cream – your favourite flavor, to be precise.

“frisk told me you liked this. they called me this mornin’, sayin’ this could cheer you up.”

You know it's going to be difficult living with him when he immediately notices how you look down at your stomach upon being told there's ice cream.

“doubt you'll turn into a whale if ya eat just a pint, so don't let it go to waste. they bugged me early enough this mornin’ to drive there and get it – before they left with tori.” Sans laughs. “and the shop wasn't open yet, so i hadda convince the owner that i knew frisk, and that they'd asked me to get somethin’ for their momma.”

Still refusing to let a single more tear out, you glare at the table and huff out those emotions.

“Why did they insist on being the Monster Ambassador so readily… knowing it would bring them this much trouble?”

Sans sets the ice cream down on the table, along with a spoon.

“same reason you're puttin’ up with me ‘n jerry ‘n everythin' else, i think.”

“I'm not putting up with you. I'm supposed to help you.”

“we're supposed to help each other.”

He sits down again and lays his back against the chair, staring at you with nothing short of mischief in his irises.

“cut the sentimental stuff ‘n’ eat the ice cream.”

“I’ll save it for later. I'm full already.”

His back straightens, and he leans forward.

There's a change to his grin, as if smug.

“i can tell you're not.”

“How?”

He stands up and stretches, his expression remaining the same even as he slips his hands in his pockets and shrugs.

“guess.”

As if on cue, your stomach rumbles loudly, and you look away as quickly as you hear him chuckle.

“...besides that, it's pretty obvious from that sparkle in your eyes – like you've seen somethin' holy.”

“Oh God, Gina…” You grasp your scalp with both hands and stare down at the Caesar salad, minus the Caesar dressing. “What do I do? I show just a little insecurity, or just a little indecision… And he immediately knows I’m worried about something!”

Several hours later, you're at the local shopping mall, buying what you need while using that spare time to simultaneously catch up with an old friend.

The loudness of the food court drowns out most of the conversation to alert ears, and sitting at the tables by the joints less frequented by crowds adds more privacy with how few people there are nearby.

Gina rolls her eyes and shapes her lips into a smile. 

Refusing to eat anything else after that ice cream, your mouth salivates at the thought of eating the salad in three or four bites.

Most of the time has been spent away in the form of a promise you made to a friend a long, long time ago: go window shopping with her two years later – upon her return to her hometown after building her future with her husband and two children somewhere else. 

Despite it being that long since you last saw each other, it seems like she still sees right through you, with almost little to no effort at all. She doesn't look too happy, regardless of you having fulfilled the promise in as scant time as a month since her return. Knowing her, it's because she's already found the real reason for your troubles, and that you haven't eaten ‘just because’ you haven't had the time. On the contrary, she's pried each piece of information from you like she's an unmatched detective with a spotless streak of solved cases. Not even an hour into shopping, and she'd figured out something’s wrong. Not just from how low-energy you've been throughout, but from how you've rejected having a bite of her pretzel – like you always did back when you were both beginning your college life. 

Simply put – and while you attempted to escape Sans’s scarily accurate attentiveness for that same reason – Gina's treating you like you're an open book.

And not just any old book you have to read to understand.

But a picture book, instead.

“I mean, it serves you right.” Gina giggles when you glare at her. “About time someone else questions how quick you are to put yourself down.” Her smile fades as she huffs, and a more serious expression reaches her eyes. “...Are you really gonna let your worth die that easy? You looked for Frisk all by yourself. Noone offered to help when you needed it the most, and so you shut yourself off from everyone. Not even me. Not even I was there, w- when you needed me the most.” Her face tenses like she's tasted something bitter. “I can assure, dear, your body's not the biggest issue right now.”

Another thing that hasn't changed about her are her looks. Her tanned skin is still as freckled as it always has been, her light-brown hair is still as wavy as you remember it was the last time she layered it with a thick coat of coconut mousse, and her brown eyes are as big and round as they were when she talked to you all excited about the awesome date she had on the weekend. Her makeup might be the one thing that's changed – and only to show she's gotten better at it after many, many times practicing the same style.

One quick comparison with your own looks, and you know you've absolutely failed in keeping your promise with her about not losing your authentic self, no matter what situation might pave itself in front of you.

And you need to let her know that bitter truth.

“I- I'm overweight, Gina,” you retort, glare deepening. “The doctor said I should–”

“Is that the truth, or are you just sayin’ it cuz Jerry asked you how long it would take to shed off the baby weight?” she retorts, scoffing. “You’re never been good at lying, and you've always been so damn dramatic…” A dull, blank look fogs her eyes. “I'm actually surprised you're worrying that much, when you have a guy making you breakfast, and getting you ice cream!”

“It's not that easy!” Almost instantly, you regret having raised your voice. “I- I left everything behind, so I could find Frisk. And… N- Now that there's nothing else I can do… I'm so lost, it feels like I have no purpose anymore.”

A laugh brimming with bitterness escapes you, and a deep exhale deflates your body like a pin against a balloon.

You find yourself glaring at the coffee you don't know why you ordered in the first place.

“A year ago, I used to be a pharmacist with a stable paycheck, proper savings, and a potential future.” You pick at your nails and continue to direct your anger at the drink. “Now, I live from paycheck to paycheck, my schedule is a guessing game sometimes, and… and I'm nothing but a stupid housewife!”

Tears run down your face like a waterfall after a heavy rain, and you blink it all away.

“It hasn't been a week, and… And I already feel so useless, it feels pointless to try!”

“Oh, honey…” Gina stands up and hugs you, and – for more than one reason – you're thankful the mall's food courts are practically empty today. “If you don't like the arrangement, then… Why don't you talk?”

She pulls away from the hug to set her hands on your shoulders, squeezing them as tight as you remember she did many years ago – though, for reasons starkly different from the current one.

And it leads you to wonder whether you've relied on her too much, even for the simplest of things.

…After Jerry asked you out and you had the best ‘first date ever’.

…After you failed a test for a class you strictly needed to pass for the future of your career.

…After you graduated from college with your Bachelor's in Medicine.

…And after you found out Jerry invited his ex over for the holidays, a year after you married.

She's been there in both good and bad, yet…

“I’m so, so sorry, Gina,” you mumble, drinking your coffee for the sake of not seeing it anymore. “I don't deserve you. You've put up with me too much, and it's time we… It's time we end this.”

“Girl,” she states, and you don't have to look up from the empty cup to know she's pouting and crossing her arms. “I am not going to let you break us up – not in a million years. And even if it came to, I refuse to let it be like this.” She calls your name so that you'll look at her. “If I'm still here after we graduated, it's cuz I wanted to, so don't you dare!”

She stands up to clear the table, and when you try to help her, she glares harder.

“You’re going to tell that skeleton dude how you really feel about the agreement. If you can, tell him you can pay him more in exchange for the two of you cleaning the house and cooking for each other…. But don't you dare to force yourself to treat a stranger like he's your husband, just cuz Jerry kicked you out of a house you both paid for.”

Her gaze eases as she returns from throwing the trash away, and further more after she takes a wipe from her purse and cleans her hands with it.

“Tell him not to compare you to characters he's seen in porn, either, cuz that's… weird and nasty as fuck.” Her brow turns all wrinkly as she assesses what she's said. “One thing is thinking about it; the other's actually saying what's on your mind with no goddamn filter.”

She sets her palm on top of your head, forcing you to look up at her.

“Tell him everything I've told you… So that you're not stuck being his maid for however long it takes you to officially divorce Jerry and find a new place to live in with the kiddo.”

A seemingly endless moment of silence passes between you.

And the longer you wait, the harder it is to say the truth about what your agreement is.

“He's… not forcing me to treat him like he's my husband. Welcoming him home, heating up his food, and serving it before getting ready for work, it… It feels like the right thing to do for someone who offered me a hand when I needed it the most.”

She looks at you like you've made infinite contradictions to science in one second.

“Then why are you so worried?!” Her tone is as exasperated as the broad-eyed, mouth agape look on her face. “I thought he was actually forcing you to get you into some weird shit. Not that you were willingly acting like his wife!”

Gina facepalms, then keeps her hand covering her face as she shakes her head.

“So, what you're saying is…”

She breathes too deeply – like she's a vacuum cleaner giving its last breath.

“He never told you to do any of that, but you still did it anyways?”

You look away like a dog throwing a side-eye, then nod and frown.

“...Yes. It just felt like it was necessary.”

Gina crosses her arms and shows her digression through the scowl on her face.

“Yeah, no. Fuck that.”

She looks at your phone, and a light glints in her eyes.

“You're texting him right now, dear. No buts. Tell him you won't make it home tonight.”

Her words come off more as a challenge than a simple nudge forward.

“You're coming with me, ‘til you learn how to set boundaries without struggling again.”

Chapter Text

The next day, Sans arrives home an hour late, but – thankfully – you don't have to work on Fridays.

And even if you did, you'd feel obliged to ask your boss or Gina to come pick you up, because Sans looks too tired to drive anywhere else.

Though not something you thought to be possible, despite him being able to contort his skull similar to a human's by blinking and moving his jaw like a mouth to eat, he sports the darkest eye (socket?) bags, and his irises somehow express his fatigue through their dim and hazy white lights. His steps are incredibly slow and dragged, and his back is hunched. There's the limp of his left leg, and his right doesn't seem all that good, either. One glance at his ever-present grin is more than sufficient to be aware it's there solely because it's his default expression, and not because Sans has anything to be happy about. His breathing sounds low and heavy, and it's a miracle he manages to greet you when you welcome him home.

All ideas you had to talk to him about the boundaries Gina said you should place between you are set aside as you can only focus on one thing, and that's trying to help Sans feel better after whatever made him arrive home an hour late and twice as tired as normal.

So, instead, you run along to the kitchen, heat up dinner, and suggest he waits in the living room while you're done preparing the table – just so he can rest a little on the couch.

Two hours later, Sans has showered, eaten, and rested a bit, it's finally time to do what's on your mind.

And it feels wrong, almost like you're taking advantage of him now that he's watching television and relaxing.

Even so, Gina's rooting for you, as so are Alphys and Mettaton after you exchanged a few texts and told them briefly about the situation.

Not too many details, of course, since it would be too inappropriate and straight up disrespectful to talk about someone, when you're hardly had any good chance at getting to know him properly, but…

Just enough for them to cheer you on.

“Um…”

Either way, you didn't have an intensely therapeutic sleepover with Gina just to let all her advice go to waste, so the least you can do is try your best at following her instructions on being more firm, or ‘assertive’, and less of a pushover.

…Even though you haven't exactly come to terms with how you've been a pushover.

Just that she says you're being one.

“Sans?”

Thank the Heavens, Mettaton shipped an armchair when he learned about the lack of furniture in the living room (and in the house, overall), because you can't imagine having this conversation with the two of you squeezed into that small couch he's currently sitting on.

He showered before sitting down, too – something about you working hard to clean the couch, although you're too embarrassed to admit it didn't take too much effort. The couch has zippers, so all you had to do was grab the covers of the seats and the headrests off, throw all of those covers in the washing machine, then scrub the armrests. Other than adding a ton of baking soda paste where the blood stains were, there wasn't anything else that needed to be done.

“This might sound strange and selfish, since you're the one who rented this place first, but…”

A few words in, and you haven't stuttered or hesitated yet.

…But you're not sure whether that's something worth congratulating.

“I would like it if…”

Why? 

Because you're bound to fail at this part.

“If…”

Sans sits up straighter, and you can feel him staring at you the same way Gina does.

At that, you glare at your lap and look up afterwards, making direct eye contact.

“I would like it if, from now on, you don't see me as a woman, b- but more of a roommate.” It feels like your head is being squeezed by a wrestler's hands. “I know you… apologized for, um, that situation already, but… It's obvious that has partly to do with the fact that this is an unconventional way of living. And i- if you really think about it…”

With how much you're stumbling over your own words, you feel a pause is necessary, and he says nothing as you do that.

“What I mean is…” You sigh. “If you weren't single, it wouldn't have been right for you to be sharing a home with another woman, so this wasn't a good idea right from the beginning.” Your words get more and more tangled up, but you force yourself to push through it. “And while I know it’s me who chooses to welcome you home and serve you dinner, even when you said I simply needed to help with cooking and cleaning, it… It was what made me feel useful.” Another sigh, promptly followed by a trembling hand placed against your temples. “A- And that still isn't right. It's unfair of me to n- not be compared to your wife, if I forcefully act like one… So, I wanted to let you know that, u- um…”

You twiddle your fingers and tug at your sleeves, unsure of what to do with your hands any longer.

“That I won't be doing any of that anymore.” You draw in a breath as shaky as the rest of your body. “It was only for these past few days, and I'm- I'm sorry if it made you feel uncomfortable… Or if you're disappointed in me.”

Silence falls so hard, had this apartment been made of glass, it would've shattered in an instant.

“is that all ya wanted to say?” Sans asks, after you've stayed quiet for a few seconds.

Slowly, you nod.

And silence falls just as hard as the first time.

It carries on for seconds, and those seconds reach a minute, until…

Sans bursts out laughing.

It's full-on belly laughter, except he doesn't have a belly, so it sounds like a toddler hitting recklessly at a xylophone with both their tiny hands.

“damn,” he says, after a while of him cackling like a news reporter in a superhero film about a man with spider powers. “is that all ya wanted to say?” Sans wheezes, then sits up straighter. “i thought i’d screwed up again somehow, and that you were mad at me or somethin', and it turns out…” He flares his nose cavity and broadens his grin as he regains eye contact. “...y’just wanted to tell me you're not gonna wait for me to get back and serve dinner anymore?”

“...Yes.”

You cross your arms and look away, not quite favouring how easily he's summarized your rambles.

“It doesn't upset you?”

“you're not my wife, and even then i think i can do these things myself, so… nope.”

He grabs the lukewarm soda – as noted by all the perspiration surrounding the can – and leans back, then bends a leg over the other and takes a long sip from his drink.

“but if y’wanna make jerry jealous when he comes to visit, be my guest.”

“J- Jerry's coming?!”

His eye sockets squint with nothing short of mirth.

“not since ya left him, i think.”

Immediately, your eyes narrow as you frown at him.

“Sans, I'm being serious,” you state, huffing. “What do you mean, Jerry’s going to visit?”

He chugs what looks like half of the soda, then clears his voice with a harrumph.

“i told him he shoulda waited ‘til you're feelin' less likely to tell ‘im to fuck off, but he says he's got somethin' important he wants to say.”

You loosen up the tension on your face and ease your shoulders all the same.

“When’s he going to be here?”

“next week.”

You really don't want to see him, and you know it's stupid, considering you'll still see him in a month, but…

There's something off about Sans, and he's been that way since he returned home earlier this evening.

His walking is still limp, though it's somehow gotten worse and passed on more noticeably to the other ankle, too. To top it off, he's been acting distant since you both sat down to eat, and he's been sitting on the couch with a bunch of snacks and drinks, drinking a soda or mulching on chips whenever a commercial pops up on the television. At first, it looked like he's tired, now that it's late and a Friday, and that he wanted to watch the news and the basketball game while having something extra to eat, but…

More than tired, he looks tense.

The basketball game ended an hour ago.

And now that it's getting dark out, the television is playing a cheesy telenovela about some identical twin brothers in love with the same woman, something that didn't seem to interest him all that much – based on how he's mixed in some alcohol in between commercial breaks.

And… 

Perhaps, because you interrupted him by wanting to get that particular topic off your chest.

“i, uh…”

He finishes what's left of the soda, then crushes it and throws it into a plastic bag with the logo of a bakery, a bunch of empty wrappers and bottles inside it.

“i had no other choice, ‘cuz of this thing.”

Sans grabs the end of his right pant leg, and upon him lifting it…

You notice just why his limping has gotten worse.

Underneath the pant leg hides an electronic tag wrapped tight around his ankle.

“he says cooperating with him will help me get it off within the next month.”

You look at the ankle monitor with wide eyes.

“Sans…”

It's like seeing a fluorescent beach on the moon, with bright-green cows laying on their backs, moonbathing.

“What the fuck?”

There's no other way to say it, because…

Really, just what led him to wear that?

“How did you get that?”

Sans chuckles, then stands up and lowers his pant leg.

“jerry had an alibi when beatin’ up your neighbour, but i didn't, so when the cops came, they interrogated Jerry, and when he told them what happened, i was called over to the department to give my own story, and…” He gestures at his leg again. “this happened.”

“But didn't Jerry say you helped him?” Your frown deepens as you assess just how tight the monitor is. “Why would they put this on… if Jerry said you helped him?”

“‘cuz i used magic in a situation they didn't consider an emergency.”

He mimics the actions he seemingly did during the fight, while adding some ‘pew-pew’ styled sound effects.

“they had jerry surrounded, so i summoned some bones and went like this, and then when they surrounded me, i went like this.”

Next, he reimagines using telekinesis by grabbing a throw pillow and… throwing it at the coffee table.

“and, finally, when they surrounded both of us, i did this with all six of ‘em.”

Sans takes the empty soda can again and sets it on the coffee table, narrows his eye sockets at it, and flicks it to the floor.

“long story short, i used a lotta magic, and got into a lotta trouble.”

You stand up and clench your hands into fists, an urge overcoming your body.

“When did this happen?” You remind yourself of how he got home an hour later today, and how he looked twice as exhausted. “T- Today?” You step closer to him, hands itching to check his monitor. “Why didn't you tell me? I…” You raise your fists and glare at him. “I could've testified in your favour! I- I could've helped you!”

“if jerry’s word didn't work, i doubt someone who wasn't there would've helped.”

You unclench your hands, cut even more distance off, and hold his shoulders, bringing him closer to you.

“But I could've still tried!”

Your eyes fog up, but you've practiced not crying often times this week that you don't shed a single tear.

“You helped my child and their father, so don't you think I deserve to help you at least a little?”

With a sharp breath in, you get down to your knees and grasp his right pant leg.

“Since you didn't call me or anything… At least, let me do this.”

You lift the pant leg and inspect the ankle monitor.

The tightness is definitely not just visible, but it's also felt in his bones when you notice how much pressure is being placed on his ankle.

“hey, uh…”

He holds your shoulders, and pulls you up with almost no struggle.

“maybe don't do that.” 

Sans cuts you off before you can protest by widening his grin and pulling away from your gaze, a bashful look on his skull.

He then gestures with a nod towards the bedroom. 

“let’s go to the bedroom, and you can check my ankle while we're both sittin’ down.”

It's worse than it looks, and – what's worst of all – you can't do anything about it until tomorrow.

The belt is on so tight and so close to his bones, you'd have to risk the police showing up at your door if you try to remove it through force.

“it can wait ‘til tomorrow,” Sans insists, but you're not all that convinced. “don't call anyone.”

You'd like to go against his word, but…

With how tired he sounds, you can't bring yourself to do it.

“Sans…”

Against his persistence not to, you kneel in front of him again and grab both his hands.

Despite how well-lit his side of the bedroom is, it almost feels like all the rest of your surroundings are hidden in the dark as you can only focus on who's in front of you.

“Can you promise me we'll both go to the police station, first thing in the morning?”

After a moment, he squeezes your hands, and then nods once.

You smile and tug his hands forward, pulling him into a hug.

“Good.”

Expecting solely a quick and simple hug, expectations are promptly shifted as Sans lowers his hands to grasp your waist and hoist you back in bed.

The hug deepens as you both sit in bed, and his head nestles carefully against your neck, pressing tightly against your skin.

“you're warm,” Sans mutters, and now, his voice sounds sleepy. “like a fresh cinnamon bunny.” He inhales, and his breath tickles your skin as he lets it out with a huff. “and ya smell like one, too, but more sugary somehow.”

Muttering the rest of that, he dozes off in your arms, and you're left with a sleeping monster in your hold.

And just as you think he's said everything, he turns a little to the side and brings you closer.

“frisk told me you like using a lotta perfume, so…” He yawns. “maybe… that's why my nose cavity tickles so much.” He breathes in again. “and why it sticks to the whole room and my car, even after spraying cologne.”

Finally, with another breath out, he falls asleep, his chest rising and falling at a slow and steady pace.

Chapter Text

You wake up in a bed that isn't yours, and with your body pressed close against another, arms wrapped loosely around a hard, bony waist.

A quick recall of the last thing you did yesterday drags you back to the present, and you let go to see Sans is still sleeping soundly.

His chest rises and falls at such a slow and steady pace, you would fear he's stopped breathing altogether, if it weren't for the fact you can hear him snoring faintly. The sun is shining right on his face, but he doesn't stir. Rather, he apeears snug. His body looks relaxed, and his skull does, too. It almost seems like his injured ankles are no longer a problem, but one glance at his legs by lifting the bedsheets slightly demonstrates the contrary.

Already, a bruise has formed around the ankle bracelet, and his other ankle has paid the cost of carrying all the weight to make up for the one incapacitated by the pressure. Logically speaking, it would be better to wake him up and rush him to the nearest doctor or police department, but you can't bring yourself to do it. He's too peaceful, and waking him for a problem he isn't even guilty of proposes nothing but disappointment. You know that will ruin whatever moment of calm he could have by waking up on his own and deciding when he will go. Adding some menthol to the growing pain while he's still asleep appears to be the best decision you can make, momentarily.

Or at least, until you're finished preparing everything for the trip: a fully charged phone, some basic aid for Sans’ injuries, and a lunchbox prepared to specifically accomplish your duties as his roommate – making him eat healthier and helping to improve his overall health, as promised.

Then and only then, you'll actually wake him up.

“Alright…”

You stand up, stretch, and grab the first aid kit you left under the bed since treating him the last time he arrived home injured like this.

Then, you kneel in front of the bed and brush the sheets off his legs.

“Just a little bit, and you're good to go.”

Though you're talking to yourself, it helps in a scenario like this one, and much more, when you can't bear the silence and how rowdy your mind gets in response to that calm.

“On the count of three…”

You close your eyes and let a shaky breath collapse the tension in your body like a house of cards being blown by a soft wind.

When you're convinced you won't need any more self-encouragement to proceed, you open your eyes and inch yourself closer – little by little – until you're set over his body, hovering over him as you better assess his injuries now that he's still asleep. Then, you're prompted to move to the next step: grab the almost empty jar of menthol, and scoop what's left in one hand. Sans stirs once and later twice as you apply the layer of menthol on both ankles, though he doesn't wake up, and when you fix the sheets to ensure they're wrapping him completely, his breaths turn quiet as he lets out a sigh.

Finally – with that tediously simple task over with – you put the first aid kit away back under the bed, stand up, and leave the bedroom, closing the door on your way out.

Roughly two hours later, you have everything ready to head out, and all that's left is to check in on Sans.

With you being the only one awake and it being an early Saturday morning, your surroundings are so silent, you could probably hear a mouse squeak. The sun shines about twice as bright as it would on a regular weekday, and you open a few windows across the apartment to let the cold breeze blow past the wire mesh. Weren't you currently tasked with helping Sans loosen up his ankle monitor, you would likely sit on the couch, watch the news, and then work on the little garden you have planned out for the tiny piece of terrain at the back of the apartment. Or you would sit outside with a book and a cup of iced tea. Perhaps all three, if there's enough time.

But responsibilities are responsibilities, and – although you didn't exactly make a promise – you don't want to disappoint him.

“Sans?”

Realizing you didn't knock before opening the door of the bedroom, you attempt to make up for that by staying outside while you wait for an answer.

And in reply, all you hear are quiet snores from the bunk beds.

“S- Sans?”

You sense your face warm up as you… try(?) to wake him up with the loudest yet weakest voice imaginable.

Because – let's be honest – how are you supposed to wake up someone you hardly know, without making that person hate you first thing in the morning?

You can't just… scream?

Nor does it feel right to call his name so… resolutely.

None of the ideas you have in mind seem to click, except… 

Poking his shoulder, maybe.

“Sans.”

To be certain, you try calling his name one final time, and then you slump your shoulders when you notice that isn't working, and that you're talking to yourself again – only without a fruitful outcome.

You walk toward him and get down on one knee, then lean in and poke his shoulder once. Upon receiving no response, you poke his shoulder harder, but… He still doesn't do anything. Rather, he turns to your side and snores louder. So you try it two more times, and both result in failure as equal as the previous two. And so, you try for the fifth and ultimate time, and…

Nothing.

Then comes the worry that something appears to be wrong with him.

Nobody can fall asleep that soundly, and even less remain that way for this long – with reluctant but persistent poking at the shoulder.

Your last resort is staring at him right in his closed eye sockets, because if there's one thing you remember from Frisk growing up, is that when they woke up earlier than you or Jerry…

They'd stare at your soul for who knows how long, until you felt someone was watching you, and you woke up to their happy little gaze and pacifier bigger than their face, doing excited grabby hands at you when they saw you open your eyes.

Doing the same really does feel like you're a kid yourself, but it doesn't last for much as…

Sans opens his eye sockets and bursts awake with a wheeze and a hearty laugh.

And then, he sits up straight and rubs his eye sockets.

“were ya tryna wake me up?” Sans asks, yawning, then widening his grin – likely upon noticing how you're now avoiding his gaze as if you're bound to be scolded for it at any second. “coulda smacked me with a pillow, screamed, or somethin'.”

You get back on your feet, and he stands up as well, though you both keep about as much distance as the curtain behind you and the bunk bed behind him allow you to.

A beat of silence passes, and then, his hands slip into his pockets, and he looks up at you without a trace of reluctance.

“fell asleep in my bed, didn't ya?” he says, and you're not exactly getting where he's coming at with that comment, but…

He doesn't sound as miffed as previous times, at least.

“Yes,” you reply, letting out a breath. “And I'm sorry. I–”

“i’m not askin’ ya to apologize, ‘cuz i'm pretty sure i pulled ya into bed, in the first place.” He cuts you off cleaner than a knife against room temperature butter. “just sayin', cuz i woke up in the middle of the night to see ya shiverin’. and ya didn't have any sheets on, so i, uh… shared mine.” He walks toward the door and sets his hand on the doorknob. “i–”

“A- Aren't you going to use the indoor bathroom?” you ask, making him retreat his hand into his pocket. “Your ankles are still injured, and… It wouldn't do you good if you used a broken bathroom, e- even when there's a nicer one right here.”

He turns around, the same hand now drifting to the back of his neck.

“sorry, but…”

Sans huffs, and – for once – his brow furrows a bit more noticeably, and his grin grows as tight as the string of a tuned guitar.

“alphys already talked to me about this kinda situation, and i kinda want nothin' to do with it. no offense.”

While he appears confident you know what he's talking about, there's still some doubt you can't shake off.

“Is… Is it because I fell asleep with you after what I said?” Your voice sounds borderline desperate, so you clear your throat up and take a step aside, as if to show him you're really sorry about this. “I didn't mean to! I- I don't even remember how it happened. Just that I… I woke up next to you.”

On the contrary, Sans takes a step forward, his steps slow but decisive.

“and i’m not blamin’ you for it, but…” He scratches his neck, stretches it this way and that, and sighs before letting go and slipping it back into his pocket. “you're barely gettin’ through your divorce papers, and i don't want us gettin’ all caught up in a situation that won't do either one of us any good. i’d rather this doesn't repeat itself, and it's best if we use separate bathrooms, if we wanna keep some sense of privacy between each other.”

“Then why didn't you wake me up?” You still sound like you're clinging onto something that isn't there, and yet you still try to push along. “You have every right to be mad at me for–”

“i’m not mad at you, but we should keep a friendly distance from each other from now on.”

Sans walks to the bunk beds and sits down, while you press yourself back against the curtains like you're about to task them with a trust fall. 

“cuz…”

He rubs his temples with one hand, while the other rests on his knee.

Had he been wearing his usual work uniform instead of his casual attire, he'd look like a detective confronting an unsolvable case.

“what if i cross a line without meanin’ to? what if i'd been spoonin’ you like i'd do with a pillow?” He stares at you to chuckle and shake his head as he returns his irises down at the floor. “and… what if we really did share the indoor bathroom, and one day… i happen to see you undressed, by sheer accident? what would ya do? ‘cuz i doubt you'd–”

“I told you yesterday that I didn't want you to see me as a woman, and you said that was fine, so why…” A heavy frown inevitably forms on your lips. “W- Why are you backing away from this now?”

His grin tenses up even more, and you imagine this is the part where the string of the guitar snaps in two.

“i was a fool to think it'd be that easy, when you've treated me in a way i never thought i’d be treated.”

“...How?”

“it'd take bein’ a lifeless statue not to feel somethin' in my soul when ya take care of me the way ya do.”

Before you can say anything, he harrumphs and straightens up.

“and i know that's not your fault. you're only treatin’ me how you'd treat any other guy or lady you're helpin’ out, but… i can't deny i feel somethin' in my soul whenever ya treat me like that, so…”

Sans closes his eye sockets and breathes as if he were about to submerge himself into the deepest ocean.

“until i can figure out how to deal with that, i’d rather keep my distance and not stoke a fire i'm not sure either one of us needs.”

He opens his eye sockets and stands up, then limps his way to the door.

“thanks for everythin', by the way.”

The door opens with a gentle turn, and he takes the first step out.

“and, uh…”

With how silent the morning still is, you can hear him gulp despite having no throat…

But that's probably your imagination.

“maybe we can hang out when we get the monitor thing fixed? i wanna take you somewhere nice – maybe next week?”

He doesn't walk out, so you assume he's waiting for your answer.

And in response, your lips shape into a smile.

“I'd love to.”

Despite everything, you're still here – moving on to the following step in today's tasks.

Confronting the officer responsible for securing Sans' ankle monitor, you feel nothing short of contempt as you're forced to watch by the sidelines while Sans does the rest.

The trip to get here was peaceful enough, and Sans even trusted you with his car, however brief the drive was – hardly fifteen minutes, and with a little traffic in between.

Now, you're pretty much useless, and all you can offer when he returns is the lunch you've packed for the two of you.

Nothing more, nothing less – the bare minimum, as you'd call it.

“Is that your girlfriend?” the officer asks, a notebook being brought out of his pocket.

“i hardly know her,” Sans replies, and almost instantly, the officer bursts into laughter.

“We're not going to bring her into this,” the man elaborates, a smile showing up on his face. “...Do us all a favour, and don't try to fake things that’re obvious. It will save us a bad time. She'll be alright, if that's what you're so worried about.”

“i thought jerry would be here,” Sans states, ignoring those words like they're nothing but a breeze. “can't ya call ‘im?” Sans gestures at his ankle with the pant leg lifted to show the monitor. “i’m not askin' you to take this off. only to loosen it up a little.”

To save yourself the stress of observing what looks like a lost fight by a long mile, you look around you.

Dull, grey walls compose most of your surroundings. A dim light shines through dirty windows, and the black-and-white checkered floor looks like it's seen cleaner days. Two potted plants cover mould stains on the walls, though they're more of an eyesore with how wilted they've gotten. Besides that, the chair you're sitting in is very, very uncomfortable, and you feel your butt will start to complain in the next hour or so if you stay here for much longer. All the other seats available show why: barely cushioned, and with springs visible underneath the cloth. Nothing else could make this place less appealing, except…

The officer smiling your way like he knows you're being more of a bother than anything else.

“hey,” Sans calls, and you almost flinch. “eyes back here, pal.” The man looks like he's been caught doing something he isn't supposed to, while Sans' grin gets as big as both his eye sockets combined. “let's not, uh, drag this out anymore.”

He points with both hands at the monitor, as if reliving the ‘what are those’ meme from many, many years ago.

“you loosen this up, you let us be, and we'll be outta your sight faster than you can say ‘go’.”

There's something about the way the human man won't stop looking at you that keeps you on edge.

And he proves there's a reason as soon as he opens his mouth, saying: “That's Jerry's ex, isn't it?” He chuckles. “I can see why.”

“...buddy.”

Sans sounds ticked, yet he doesn't look like it.

“please, cut that out. just loosen up the monitor and–”

“Whoa there! You’re not raising your voice at me, are you?”

There's a hint of distorted mischief in the man's tone, although it fades quickly.

“I doubt Jerry will like it if he knows you're showing up here, demanding–”

“JIMMY.”

It… sounds like Undyne.

And you're not sure whether you like that or not.

She appears through an entrance that would make Mettaton proud: with the sun shining brightly behind her as she bursts through the door with both hands on her hips and a tight scowl on her face, her eye burning with fury. Her ponytail flies like a flag against the wind, her pose oozes determination, and her uniform is so pristine, she looks like the perfect promotional poster for a security guard. It's as if her presence brings light to the entire room – both literally and figuratively – and all the things you had been judging about this place now seem a little less gloomy.

Were this a movie, you would imagine an epic musical arrangement playing in the background.

Perhaps something with lots of war drums, trumpets, and classic horror suspense effects.

“Jerry told me you'd clock in earlier to stir up some shit, but I didn't think you'd start this early!”

She points a finger at Jimmy, then grunts like she's ready to snap him in two.

“He called me already, so you know what to do,” she states, her gaze drifting briefly towards you, and then landing on Sans. “Loosen up the damn bracelet, and tell the lady you're sorry for being an ass.”

Her scowl transforms into a smug, full-toothed grin as she slips her phone out from her front pocket.

“Unless you want me to show Jerry how you've been badmouthing his ex, then go ahead and try anything against my orders, punk.”

Chapter Text

A week passes by with the rhythm of cooking two meals a day, keeping the apartment clean, and having Sans drive you to work when he returns from his own shift – and with Frisk being there every so often serving as a plus.

Sans has kept his distance, and so have you.

You treat each other as you would treat a neighbour who's kind enough to wave back at you.

But today, you can't stop stressing over the fact you'll see Jerry in a few hours, and that Sans has suggested you act like you did back at the beginning of your living together – to test the waters, and most likely to have a first-seat view of Jerry's reaction towards that.

“...Sans?”

So, with that said, you figure you should ask for his opinion on your state of dress.

His gaze lifts from the newspaper he's reading to glance at you, his irises staring you up and down in a way that would likely not be deemed as appropriate in a context different from this one.

“y’look nice,” he says, and there's a hint of mischief in his tone. “...could probably add in a coat to look more fancy, but it'd be weird to be wearin’ that at home.”

You walk to his side and sit next to him, forcing him to set the newspaper on his lap as you furrow your brow at him.

“What about my makeup? Is it alright?”

“like the finest paintin’. a solid ten.”

You smile and thank him, then stand up and walk off to the armchair, where you take a seat and set your computer down on your lap. 

There's still one small issue you have to take care of, and that's creating a secured file with a digital copy of all the necessary documents you'll be presenting on the Big Divorce Day™. With the past two weeks being too busy for you to have any energy to use your laptop or anything besides working your part-time and tending to the house, now’s undoubtedly the perfect opportunity to get started while you wait for Jerry to show up. And while you do find it tedious to scan and upload picture after picture after picture, it has to be done. You thoroughly refuse to lose something important so easily. And you just as much refuse to let the frequent hecticness of living with Sans stop you from achieving what's on your mind.

Overall, it's a dull and incredibly lengthy process with a pattern you promptly get used to: scan a picture, turn the page, and repeat until you're done with that pile, then onward to the next one.

You continue the task for several piles, until…

Knock-knock.

While your instinct is to stand up, walk to the door, and see who it is before opening it, you recall what Sans said about answering a knock.

Sans picks up on that, as he tells you to stay where you are and goes to check the door himself.

“hey, buddy,” he calls out, upon looking through the peephole. “what did i say about knockin’?”

You then hear Jerry's voice behind the door: soft, shaky, and apologetic.

“My phone died,” Jerry replies, and you assume he takes out his phone to present evidence, as Sans's eye sockets squint for a second. “Can you let me in? Or do I gotta like… prove to you it's me?”

Sans chuckles, then unlocks the door.

And when Jerry steps in, another visitor stumbles right behind him, holding a gun to the back of his head.

“y’know it's obvious someone's holdin’ ya at gunpoint, don't ya?” Sans comments that as if he were talking about the weather, and you can't quite process how nonchalant he is with such a scenario. 

Although…

You can partially understand why.

The new face has a cheap-looking, typical ski mask on like those you see in movies, and his rookiness shows through the fact that – despite having his arms tattooed – he's wearing a sleeveless shirt. And with the tattoos being simple designs all placed close to one another like a poorly planned collage, you memorize the details quickly. There's a venomous snake wrapped around his neck, a trail of thick and spiky vines on his right arm, a strangely arranged trail of roses, daisies, and daffodils on his left arm, and a big but plain heart with the word ‘MOM’ spelled in poorly polished cursive a little higher on his left arm.

“whaddya want?” Sans asks, his gaze locked on the intruder.

When that intruder stops staring at the skeleton to look at you, Sans’s irises turn dim, and you feel a wave of cold shoot across your spine.

“Who's that?” the man asks, though – based on his tone – it's obvious it's a rhetorical question.

As if trapped in a cage with a sleeping lion, you take a step back immediately upon having stood up from the couch.

The intruder presses his gun closer to Jerry's scalp, then breaks eye contact with you and stares back toward Sans again.

“nunya business,” Sans replies, and he's slowly but surely closing the distance between him and the man. “jus’ answer my question,” he adds, scoffing. “whaddya want?”

The man is in a constant shift between looking at you and Sans, until something clicks in his mind, and a big smile stretches across his face – as shown by the way his ski mask moves.

“We want a fair reward for the price you made us pay since you got our boss arrested.”

Sans again glances to your side, and the sensation that something's about to go wrong proves to be more than just that. His grin broadens from end to end, and his gaze changes to one close to malice. Were he not someone you've gotten to know rather… decently (?), you would assume he's gone along with a plan to sell you out and be done with this already.

“you’ve been eyein’ her for a while now,” he comments, snickering. “would she be enough for ya?” 

The man's grip on the gun loosens as he stares at you, looks you up and down, and sneers.

“Throw in a little extra along with her, and I'll consider it.”

“you sure that's good ‘nuff?” Sans asks, the light of his irises turning a shade dimmer as he narrows his eye sockets. “...nothin' else?”

As the man nods, Sans instructs him to put the weapon down first and let go of Jerry next. 

When the man complies and does everything he's told, Jerry collapses hard against the floor, a courtesy of his weak, trembling knees and body as a whole. Sans, in the meantime, takes this chance to close distance and stand in front, creating a makeshift shield between you and the intruder. He keeps you away from the man's gaze and the weapon. But, even then, Sans still isn't finished. He demands for the intruder to get down to his knees and set his arms over his head, and that's when the man refuses.

“What if I don't wanna?” he taunts, glaring at Sans.

“doubt you’d wanna find out,” Sans replies, winking at the man.

“Why?” He doesn't take a hint, and instead spares a look your way with the same intent as before. “This is all a big ruse to make me think you're offerin’ a truce. I bet as soon as I try to lay a hand on her, you’ll get all pissed off and–

He's cut off by Sans yanking his dominant hand and pinching the pinky finger between his index and thumb.

“i’ll what?” the skeleton retorts, seemingly unbothered. “whaddya plan to do with her?” A low laugh leaves his teeth. “whaddya think will piss me off enough for me to do anythin’ to ya?”

“You're smart, aren't you? I don't think I should say anything el–”

Crack.

As the finger bends toward an unnatural angle with a sudden and rough movement, Sans chuckles again, though the difference now is that he seems actively humoured this time.

The man – conversely – erases his derisive smile for a potent scowl as he shouts and hisses in pain, cursing the one responsible for his injury.

“that alright, pal, or should i break another finger for good measure?” Sans pinches the man's ring finger next. “ya know what? maybe you'll do fine without the lady. a cash prize for all the trouble should be more than sufficient, i'd say, with how few of you got arrested.”

With a scoff, the man glares at Sans, while Jerry tries to stand up straight, his wobbly knees proving to be the major obstacle in him getting to help.

“Not like she was worth that much to begin with, either way,” he retorts, his squinted eyes showing he's not yet ready to give up. The rest of his body language appears quite unlike Sans's, who sports a mocking grin as he watches the man hesitate. “She's Jerry's ex, isn't she?” The question is full of pride – as if you being his prize would've been nothing but a punishment for him. “...Hah! Dodged a bullet with that one. I'm sure she's already worn ou–”

Crack.

Upon breaking the man's ring finger, you rush toward Sans and tell him to stop.

“he's askin' for it,” Sans comments, chuckling. “he’s gotta be patient. i'm sure he'll get over it in a few days.”

“I hope she cheats on you as many times as she did with–”

Crack.

Unlike the previous two fingers, where he took his time to pinch each one first, the skeleton breaks the man's middle finger without a warning.

You figure it's about time you seriously intervene in the situation, if you don't want to be a witness and much less an accomplice to a live torture.

“He's going to pass out,” you retort, glaring at Sans. “We should call for help!”

“Already on it, honey,” Jerry chimes in, and – while you really don't want to hear him call you honey anymore – now's not the time to bring any of that stuff up. He has his phone pressed close to his ear, while he uses his free hand to hold the doorknob tight and stay stable, knees still holding him back a considerable amount. “Don't worry about it.”

“A man is being tortured in front of me,” you shout, irritation clear in your voice. “How would I not worry?!”

“Oof,” the weakening man huffs out, and – though it initially seems like he's letting out the pain through that noise – he's smiling with his eyes at Jerry, like he's an old buddy of his. “I’m really beginning to see why you dumped her. I wouldn't want a woman screaming at me, when I'm just trying to help her.”

You ignore his comments as Sans gives you the same first aid kit you've used to treat him with before.

“Can you please help me carry him ouside?” you ask, and Sans simply walks toward the man, looking down at him like he's – frankly put – a pile of dog poop in the middle of the sidewalk. “Even if he's not armed, I’m worried he'll–”

“You should carry me yourself, sweetcheeks,” the man interrupts, and you notice he's now staring straight at you. “The view’s not too bad from he–”

Bam.

He's cut off by a solid punch to the mouth with a set of brass knuckles Sans swings at with.

“that's strike three ‘n’ a half,” Sans states, looking at the time on the wristwatch he reveals by tugging his shirt's sleeve a little higher. “ya lost your chance to get treatment from a nice nurse lady, so now you're gonna hafta deal with me.”

Sans gestures for you to step aside, then gets down on one knee to treat the man's hand.

…While ignoring the fact that the man's mouth is bleeding a rather considerable amount.

“let a single drop touch the floor, and i'll make ya swallow your own blood,” Sans warns, when the man complains through a muffled voice that there's a bad taste building up in his mouth. “sit still, and wait until i’m done with this first.”

The man whimpers as the treatment begins, and one look at the nearly invisible light of Sans's irises denotes he doesn't plan to show mercy in regards to whatever pain his patient might feel during the process.

“maybe think a couple of times before speakin’ next time,” Sans says, grabbing the man's hand and setting it down on his lap without a single ounce of care. Then, he grabs the top of the man's ski mask and tugs it off. “...talkin' from experience.”

Screams and whines fill the living room as Sans treats the wounds he's caused. 

Jerry, meanwhile, has only recently stepped out of the apartment to inform the police about the situation, with a hand holding the lamppost nearby to keep his knees from deceiving him.

“He didn't use magic to stop the guy,” you hear Jerry shout, with how quiet everyone's gotten. “But you're welcome to ask if you're so insistent about it.”

Chapter Text

By the time Sans is finished treating the man's injuries, Jerry has finished reporting the situation over the phone.

And now, Sans holds the man with his arms behind his back and drags him off outside, leading you to set the first aid kit aside, lock the door, and follow along.

“here ya go,” he says, like he's delivering a package. “didya call jimmy?”

Jerry nods at Sans and tells him to let the man go.

Then, he stands in front of the man, sets handcuffs on his wrists, and grabs him by his shoulders, dragging him to stay by his side.

“Stay with her,” Jerry suggests, nodding towards the apartment. “Jimmy should be here in a few, but, uh…” He rubs the left side of his neck and draws in a breath. “Maybe… you guys should talk about this.”

You try to ignore the sudden pang and faint squeeze in your heart when he says that, and you make do for the inability to do anything about it by crossing your arms and avoiding his eyes.

“Thank you,” you say, before walking to the front door. “I'll… see you soon?”

You can feel his gaze on you as you ask that, though you can't bring yourself to look at him.

“Sure,” he replies, and you can almost hear the smile on his face. “See you soon.”

Exactly forty minutes later, you're back outside, at the sound of a car parking in front. 

With Sans refusing to follow Jerry's suggestion about talking to you while Jimmy arrived, you found it best to go inside and make yourself useful by brewing some coffee. Whereas, Sans drove off to the nearest gasoline station, bought a few drinks, and cracked open a can of beer. He asked if you needed anything before he left, yet – apart from that – he's ignored you ever since what Jerry said to him.

As a result, he's chugging beer outside while making small talk with Jerry, though the conversation ends when Jimmy steps out of the car.

Jerry busies himself with apprehending the intruder, while Jimmy walks over to you and Sans.

“Thanks,” Jimmy says, when you offer him a cup of coffee and some store-bought vanilla crackers you asked Sans to buy.

When Jimmy asks if he should give Jerry his coffee, you nod and smile, all while hoping it doesn't show just how grateful you are that you don't need to talk to him anymore, nor make any other form of contact.

Keeping him company while Sans went off to the store was awkward enough already.

“And…” Jimmy sighs. “Sorry about my attitude last week. It won't happen again.”

“Thank you.” Your smile grows at the sides, though a part of you doubts the apology would be as genuine, without Sans or Jerry present. “I hope so.”

“OH GOD, PLEASE. I'M SORRY!”

As the former intruder restlessly begs, screams, and kicks around for mercy when having Jerry shove him into the car, Jerry calls for Jimmy to help wrangle him down. 

When that's taken care of, he speaks to Jimmy in detail about everything that happened.

Unfortunately for you, that means you're left alone with Sans, and – before you know it – you involve yourself in an argument with him regarding how needlessly cruel the punishment to that man was.

“he had jerry at gunpoint,” Sans states, and while there's abundant noise with Jerry and Jimmy dealing with the man in question as he performs a far larger outburst of desperate pleas, screams, and second chances, you tell him to keep it down.

“And you think I'm not angry about that?” you retort, glaring at him. “I- I know he could've killed Jerry, but just think about how what you did could affect you and other people in the long run! Jerry could get in trouble because you defended him like that, and… And you could be sent to–”

“i know the risks,” he says, cutting you off not only with his tone, but by taking a step forward and making you take one back. “and this one was worth it.”

“Even if you're on bad terms with Jerry?” You can feel your forehead wrinkle, and your  lips and face shape into a scowl as you assess the absurdity behind his statement. “He's been mean to you!”

“doesn’t mean i wanna see ‘im dead.” He looks you up and down like he's noticed how much you're holding back. “and based on how ya looked, i’m guessin’ ya don't want that either, so i hadda made sure the guy wouldn't try to do that a second time.”

“Still,” you mumble, avoiding his gaze. “...You shouldn't sacrifice your safety and freedom like this.”

You glance toward the two officers and the man once more being shoved into the car, then make brief eye contact with the blond one of the two – your former husband.

Jerry straightens up like he's been given an order, then softens up his expression to grin and wave at you.

“He thinks so, too, y’know?” You twiddle your fingers and glance toward Sans again. “When he came over after, um… Undyne called him about your ankle monitor being on too tight…”

You know you're walking circles around the point you're trying to make, and yet…

You can't avoid the tendency to do so.

“He texted me something about you being too nice to our child, and that he owes you a lot more than you think for helping with that tracker on Frisk's phone.”

It doesn't feel right to have him take another step forward, but it's not like you can do much about it.

In spite of Gina's best efforts to help you be more assertive, it isn't something you can adhere to so easily.

“What I'm saying is…”

You sigh.

“I don't think Jerry's all that happy with what you did, either. Just as I wouldn’t have wanted for you to break that man's fingers… I'm sure he wouldn't have wanted that, either.”

“yeah?” His question is more of a follow-up to what you've said, more than a challenge or something that requires an answer. “then gimme a good reason why i shouldn't do this anymore, and I'll think about it next time.”

You’re about to respond, though the call of your name and the monster’s makes you look in the direction of that voice: the police car still parked in front of your apartment, now with Jimmy sitting in the driver's seat, drinking the coffee, and the man sitting at the back, looking at his broken fingers with teary eyes. 

You wave goodbye at Jerry as he steps into the vehicle and Jimmy drives off, leaving you with Sans and a new situation to deal with.

Back at the tranquility of the apartment, you only have to do a bit of cleaning up where the whole incident took place: mopping the floor to get rid of muddy footprints and a few specks of blood, and organizing what was left behind in the living room with the interruption.

And when all that's over with, you tell Sans to follow you to the couch and show you his hands.

“...whaddya want?” he asks, when you sit down next to him and take his hands in yours, your thumbs rubbing across his knuckles.

“Wait a moment,” you reply, narrowing your eyes at his fingers. “I want to see if you're hurt anywhere.”

While you know he'd used brass knuckles for the hit, you recall him flinching upon landing the punch, and you assume that has to do with him hiding an injury you're not aware of.

“Hmm…”

Unfortunately (...or fortunately?), you don't notice anything unusual.

His hands are fine, and the rest of him seems to be, too – even the ankle still burdened with a monitor works as well as the one without it.

“Sans,” you call out, deciding it's about time to be thorough with him. “...You know how you mentioned earlier that I needed to give you a good reason not to put yourself at risk?”

“what about it?” he replies, grinning broadly at the sides. “you gonna give me that reason now?”

“Yes.”

While he seems to tense a little at your response, he brushes it off quickly and pushes forward with, “go ahead.”

The first step is easy enough: taking his cheekbone in your hand and leaning down to bring your face closer to his.

“The reason…”

You close your eyes, cut what's left of distance, and plant a gentle kiss to his cheekbone.

“Is right here in front of you.”

You pull away and stare at him, noticing a hint of a blur on his irises, and some tension in his grin.

“I think I feel something too, and…” You huff. “I- I don't want you to hurt yourself, if it means I won't be able to explore this feeling more with you.”

Several hours later, you have one more officer left at your door, and you don't dare to let him in, knowing what he's here for.

So – to not come off as rude – you offer to sit down out in the garden patio, while Sans picks up on what's happening and excuses himself to the kitchen, claiming he'll be back with some drinks.

“I assume you already know what I'm here for, so…” The man chuckles when you sit as straight as a statue, yet you don't budge, your gaze remaining focused on him as you try to search for any attempt at catching you off guard. “Tell me, miss…. Did your roommate use any magic during the confrontation?”

This has to be that man you overheard Jerry talking to about Sans and his magic.

Either that, or he's sent in someone else with the same purpose.

But whoever this man may be, just as he hardly allowed you to check his identity – permitting only a second of a glance at his badge – you will hardly allow him to gain much information from you.

“No,” you state, as quickly as that question comes. “He used physical force when the man wouldn't stop challenging him.”

The officer writes something down on a small notepad he pulls out of his shirt's pocket, then stares at you with a smile. 

“You're aware this incident will lengthen his sentence with the ankle monitor, yes?”

“Yes, but he isn't my husband or anything of the sort, so I don't understand why you're telling me this.”

“Oh, please…”

He scoffs, and then his expression returns to a smile blurred by distance and mistrust.

“Anyone from a mile away can notice what happened here. He assaulted the guy four times without thinking, just because the intruder was making comments about you. I'd say he was more ticked off at that, than at Jerry being held at gunpoint.”

He crosses a leg and leans in, his eyes boring into yours.

“Tell me the truth, and I can make this easier for you,” he says, trailing off with a sigh as a hand falls on his forehead. “Did Sans ever use magic at any point? I doubt he did that much damage without–”

“No,” you cut him off, when you see Sans about to exit the house from the corner of your eye. “...Not unless you count brute strength and brass knuckles as magic.”

“Are you taunting me, ma’am?” The officer sits up straight, frowns, and slips out a walkie-talkie from his belt. “I'd suggest you speak the truth during this one last chance I'm about to give you.” He shakes the device once, as if to emphasize the importance of what he's taken out. “If not… I'll tell my partner waiting in the car to drive you off for a more detailed questionnaire.”

“I'm telling the truth, and only the truth, sir,” you state, raising your voice slightly as a firm look falls on your face. “And you can ask Jerry, if you're unsure.”

“He’s your ex-husband. His testimony would be a biased one.”

It feels like you're speaking to a wall.

And yet…

“Then ask the man who held him at gunpoint.”

You want to keep trying.

“After what that skeleton did to him?” The officer lets a chuckle break the patience in his voice. “His fingers paid a big price. I doubt he'd like to get on that monster's bad side again.”

You sigh, close your eyes, and cross your arms, seeking calm.

“Well, I think you should–”

A pendrive clatters on the table, interrupting you.

“watch the recording, officer,” Sans states, setting some drinks down – near the pendrive. “figured this woulda ended up like this, so i set up a camera in the living room,” he elaborates, sitting beside you. “all ya gotta check is right in there, unless y’wanna  see it straight from the source.”

The officer looks at Sans, at the pendrive, and then at you, and – finally – he glances back to the device and grabs it, slipping it into his pocket.

“I'll be contacting you within the next few days.” He stares at you, and then at Sans, a blank expression in his eyes. “I hope you're ready to welcome me when that time comes.”

Chapter Text

When Sans made it to the Surface, he'd fallen into a “so, what now?” crisis shortly after seeing the Sun and rooming in with Papyrus at a cheap apartment offering their spaces to only monsters. 

And while many of his old drinking buddies felt a similar way, he didn't quite click with their experiences, so much so that he didn't exactly manage to fight that crisis, but…

He simply covered it up, like that haste, surface-level cleaning when an unexpected guest arrives.

He's happy for Toriel, with that new school funding project she's planned out being more than halfway through reaching completion.

He's happy for Papyrus, now that he's found himself a nocturnal schedule at that university offering affordable associates and bachelor's degrees to monsters, at the cost of taking up schedules humans find inconvenient.

He's happy for Alphys and Undyne with how steady their relationship is going, and how they've both managed to open up more and more – especially Alphys, with that incident at the Lab still haunting her.

He's happy for Frisk and how much they've accomplished as the Monster Ambassador already, despite how many challenges they've had to face on the daily.

And he's happy for so many more others, yet…

What has he done for himself?

“If you confirmed he didn't use magic this time, then… Can't you remove his ankle monitor, sir?” Frisk's mom asks, a hint of exasperation in her voice.

Sans snaps out of it and focuses on the here and now.

True to his warning after four days have passed, the officer Sans gave the pendrive to is currently standing at the front doorway, facing his housemate, who's got her hands on her hips, plus a decisive expression in her eyes – like she wants the situation resolved immediately.

He doesn't remember how this happened, in the first place. All Sans knows is that he heard a knock on the door, she asked if she could open it upon seeing who it was behind the door, and he said yes. Next thing he knew, the officer was inside the house with the pendrive in his hand.

It's all happening too fast, and Sans hasn't even processed why his housemate is standing between him and the officer, like she's his shield or a knight in shining armour.

“Need I remind you that the man we arrested had to receive urgent medical care after what that monster did to him?” the officer comments, taking a step forward.

She, on the other hand, doesn't move an inch. Her gaze turns a little glossy, but besides that, her stance is as firm as that of a soldier. She stands in front of the officer with crossed arms, until the noticeable shift in his smile seems to tick her off enough to make her throw her arms up in the air and raise her voice.

“It's not the first time that man did something like this. He was involved in that tracking device on Frisk's phone, and he threatened Jerry with a gun!”

The woman freezes as the officer slips out a pair of handcuffs and balances them on his index finger, smiling the wariest of smiles at her.

“I already stated the recording did not show anything that could get him arrested, but he still caused harm to that man, and consequences are due.” He continues to close off the space between him and Frisk's mom, in a way that seems so deliberately, it almost feels like a trap. “Step down, or I'll have you behind bars for a couple of hours, until you calm down.”

His eyes wander away from the woman and fall on the skeleton, and Sans instantly narrows his eye sockets, as if on instinct.

“what?”

“Do you not care if she's arrested?” the man comments, grinning. “I-”

“believe me, officer,” Sans interrupts, chuckling. “i care enough that i’d say y’can lengthen my sentence with this thing, if that'll make ya happy.”

Sans kicks his leg forward and motions with that action at the ankle bracelet, his irises flickering when he sees the officer lay a hand on his housemate’s shoulder.

“She's raised her voice several times at me,” the officer says, and – now that he's pushed the woman to stand next him – the monster can read his badge and get a better look at his name, unlike how briefly both of these were visible during his first visit.

Lorenzo knows what he's doing, and Sans has picked up on it: pushing his housemate aside, touching her shoulder, and threatening to arrest her.

In response, he refuses to present any more reactions and instead steps forward – taking the woman's hand in his.

“let her off the hook, will ya? she's not gonna bother ya anymore.” His grin stiffens at the corners as the officer steps back in artificial shock. “i’m tellin' ya to make my sentence longer to make up for all this. she was just tryna help me out.”

“I'm afraid it won't be that easy,” Lorenzo states, letting go of her shoulder, and Sans takes that opportunity to pull her close to him, his hand still holding hers. “If you so insist on inconveniencing yourself for her sake, then you must feel something for her, don't you?” 

Sans nods, strengthening his grip on her hand.

“And you must be aware of the new laws?”

“yeah.”

Before Lorenzo can comment anything else, Sans lets go of his housemate's hand and steps forward, his hands hooking onto the belt loops of his pants as he straightens up and raises his head to meet the man's eyes.

“and i've known her for hardly a month, so it's not like i plan on marryin’ her anytime soon.”

“But you are cohabiting with her, I assume? And so quickly, too, even though she still hasn't legally divorced her husband yet?”

“if that's what you're thinkin’, then go ahead and set up cameras everywhere. hell, i'll even move outta here and hand her the keys, if that'll make ya-”

“No!”

The sudden raise in her voice makes both him and the officer glance toward Frisk's mom to see tears in her eyes and a scowl on her lips.

“He's not going anywhere!” She gestures with an open hand at the hallway leading to the bedroom door, her eyebrows knitting closely together as she clenches her jaw. “Just… Just take a look at our rooms, sir, and you'll learn the truth. I know it sounds weird, but he… Sans offered me a place to stay, and while I know it wasn't the best idea to move in with a man I barely know, h- he's…” She trails off, flinching under the officer's sharp stare when he crosses his arms and narrows his eyes at her. “It’s a decision I really don't regret. I cook and wash clothes, and he helps clean. I work part-time at a supermarket, and he works full-time in…”

That's when Sans realizes he really ought to step in, because – throughout the time spent living with her – he's managed to avoid telling her what exactly his job entails.

“Yes?” Lorenzo asks, chuckling. “What does he do for a living?”

But he refuses to let Sans say anything, and he warns of disobeying if he tries to get a word in on the situation.

“You don't know, do you, miss? Not to be so blunt, but I can bet he's even warned you about opening the door if you hear a knock,” he taunts, and it almost seems like she's admitted defeat with how her gaze avoids his. His brown eyes squint like he's been told a joke, and his pale skin turns a faint pink on his cheeks like he's either holding back a laugh, or trying not to let his lack of patience show. Now that he's getting a better view of the man, Sans notices that – if it weren't for Lorenzo's slim physique, his deep black hair styled with a messy quiff, and his clean-shaven face free of scars or signs of ageing – he would appear like a father protecting his daughter from what he suspects to be a delinquent. But he looks more her age, and that makes it feel more like he's pushing at buttons he knows will cause some reactions. “You don't know much about him, and yet you're defending him as if your life depended on it.”

“N- No, I don't know what his job is,” she replies, her voice barely there. “But he's a gentleman. He hasn't once tried to cross a line with me, and he separated our beds. I… I might not know what he does for a living, but…” She takes in a deep but shaky breath. “He works hard every day to help with our shared apartment, so I doubt he's involved in anything malicious. One time, he even–”

She's cut off as Lorenzo hands her a picture packet.

“I believe I've imposed on you long enough, so I'll be sending you a revised document with Sans's extended sentence. One more incident, and he'll be under complete house arrest.”

He stares at Sans, and then at her.

“Look at those pictures carefully, that is…” He crosses his arms again and spares another glance at Sans. “If he lets you. Though with how much you've insisted he's a good person, I expect nothing bad will happen to you, but if not…” He sighs. “Then… Perhaps I'll be here for a missing persons report, rather than to check up on you.”

Lorenzo's face is now devoid of any sympathy or mockery. It's an entirely blank expression, like he's given up on his objective. What little sign of life left is seen by how his eyes soften the slightest bit when hers widen at his comment.

“Nothing bad will happen,” she states, and Sans has to give her props for not letting her voice crack, because her legs and eyes and pretty much all of her body show she's not that sure of what she's just said.

“I'll take your word for it, miss.”

When Lorenzo says his farewells and the door closes, it's like an immediate signal that prompts her to let tears flow.

She steps away until hitting a wall and closes her eyes tightly, then sobs and cowers behind the picture packet, pleading not to be hurt.

“I- I had a feeling you were hiding something from me, but, please…” She sniffles, and her knees give in and make her collapse to the floor. “I tried my best to help you, and I know I only made it worse, but I'm sorry!”

It feels wrong to see her like this, and guilt creeps on his shoulders, yet it's not like he directly caused this situation.

“I- I'm really, really sorry,” she pleads a second time, when he walks to her side.

Seeing her shrink into a corner hits at his soul like an extremely sour candy.

“hey, listen to me for a sec,” he says, trying to ease her in before getting any closer.

Her eyes open, though she still keeps herself in that same corner, setting the picture packet next to her, sniffling, and hugging her knees.

When she looks up, he feels his shoulders turn heavier than before, and meeting her eyes is as difficult as controlling the thumping of his soul.

“Wh- What?” she asks, eyes watery and lips trembling. 

Sans kneels in front of her and takes her chin in his left hand, using the right to hold her waist.

“sit straight first,” he instructs, and he lets her go to pick up the packet she's set aside. “and… take slow and deep breaths.” She wastes no time to follow his instructions, and she grabs the pictures he pulls out. “...now, look at the pictures,” he adds.

Her droopy eyes turn wide as she spreads the pictures on the floor and assesses them all.

It's a varied collection: plenty of him working at the office for Toriel's future school, a couple of him doing some research on monster medicine alternatives with Alphys in her new place, and a concerning amount of him meeting up with some shady-looking people at hole-in-the-wall restaurants and shops.

“i've been suspected of working with, uh, illegal medicine on my time off my regular office job, but…”

He trails off, and she moves her gaze away from the pictures to stare at him.

“...Is it true?” she asks, and he has to look away from her when that bright-eyed expression of hers makes his shoulders an unbearable weight.

“kinda,” he replies, and he's brought back to making eye contact by her hand grazing his cheekbone.

“It's for a good reason, isn't it?” There's a smile on her face. “I have faith it is.”

Her lips are near his teeth, and he closes his eye sockets in expectancy.

But when she kisses his cheekbone, Sans is reminded there's still a long road ahead.

And she stays close to his face when she pulls herself away, and he opens his eye sockets, her eyes staring at his teeth like a taunt.

“If it's true, I…” Her minty breath hits his nose cavity as she sighs. “I want you to kiss me as soon as I'm legally divorced.”

Provoked to the point where his soul isn't the only thing reacting to his touch, he holds her waist again – going lower – and presses her flush against him to hug her and hide his face on her neck.

He plants a purposely rough kiss on her neck, going under her collar and nipping her skin, and licking it better when a little blood comes out.

“will do, buttercup.”

Chapter Text

It's been exactly twenty-three days since you met Sans.

And exactly twenty-two since you started living together.

Your neck still burns with what he did three days ago, and you swear you can still see the bite mark if you squint your eyes and get real close to the mirror.

“ready to go?” he asks, making you break your gaze from your reflection to look at him instead.

“Um…”

There's only one week left until the Big Divorce Day, and you haven't gone out anywhere ever since you broke it off with Jerry and moved to a new place.

“Yes, just… give me five more minutes?” you reply, deciding you really ought to provide yourself a little time for reflection. “I've got a lot on my mind, so I'd like to–”

“it's fine,” he says, cutting you off. “you don't gotta explain. i’ll wait outside.”

He parts the curtain separating your side from his, then steps out of the room and locks the door, the sound of it closing making you sigh.

It's difficult to believe you've formed… some type of relationship with him, despite how little you know him.

Hardly a month, and you're already feeling like you want to kiss him?

You shake your head and press a palm to your forehead, trying to rub the ache away. Your bottom lip trembles as you process everything all at once: Frisk’s return to the Surface, breaking up with Jerry, moving in with a stranger, and falling for said stranger. It's too much too fast, and you can barely imagine yourself a week after today, standing in a courtroom, sharing your reasons for the divorce, and having to succumb to whatever judgment is made.

At the very least, you'll be the primary care parent… Right?

You'll be with Frisk most of the time.

You're… You're sure of it!

Tears smudge the makeup you've worked so hard to turn out well, and you scowl when you realize it would be the third time you've had to reapply it, and that you really shouldn't have agreed to Sans inviting you to eat somewhere, if you can't get it together.

“we can stay here, and i’ll whip us somethin' to eat,” you hear Sans say, and it isn't until you interrupt your own sobs that you notice he's been standing by the opposite side of the door all this time.

…Or that you've cried loud enough to make him check up on you.

“N- No,” you reply, wiping away the mascara all over your cheeks. “I- I just… I need, um, t- ten more minutes?”

He chuckles, though it's not exactly in mockery.

And soon, you hear the door open, and you turn back around hoping to see him, but the curtain blocks you.

“you sure you can promise me that?” he asks, and now, the curtain parts to reveal him. 

He steps into your side of the room and sits down on a corner of the bed, while you huff and walk away from the dresser to sit next to him.

“Yes.” You complete the answer with a nod and a smile. “I’m… trying to process stuff. Haven't had the chance to with everything going on lately.” Your smile lifts at the sides, and you lay your hand on the one he's set on the mattress. “I was wondering if… If maybe I'll have primary custody, or if… Frisk will have to spend most of their time with Jerry. I thought about it too hard, and now… It feels like everything will turn out wrong, like my worst nightmare is right around the corner.”

His fingers intertwine with yours, and you feel that part of your neck burn when Sans makes direct eye contact – like there's nothing else for him to look at.

“sorry about that,” he says, and – while it doesn't come off as an empty apology of any sort – you have the sudden need to ask him why he's apologizing, in the first place. “...i didn't think i'd end up caught in all that mess. woulda refrained from using magic, if i knew it woulda taken that much time outta your hands.”

His irises turn a softer shade of white, and you shudder when his thumb brushes with your hand back and forth, almost as if he's trying to convey his apology further with that action.

“shoulda told tori to take you in, while i worked with all that, so you'd have more time to think about more important stuff.”

You hate how every little thing he says makes you want to be done with the divorce already, just so you can live your daily life alongside him without caring for larger responsibilities, though…

If all works out, and you find another cheap place to live with Frisk…

Wouldn't that mean you wouldn't get to be with him anymore?

“You're not less important,” you state, pulling your hand back. “Sure, you're… You're not my priority out of everything I've got going on right now, but… You're still important, and that house arrest threat worries me more than you think. I want you to be free to use your magic, and I want you to live a normal, happy life, without me getting in your way, and without that ankle monitor keeping you from living your life and doing what you want to do.”

“what if i want you to get in my way?” Sans states, and there's a trace of humour in his voice, coupled with an actually serious tone. “...what if i tell ya i always check on ya, before i head out to work? that there's a part of me that feels like bein’ so close to you’s too damn good to be true, that everythin' i'm feelin' isn't meant for someone like me, and that it'll all be over before i call tell what's goin’ on?”

With how similar this is to a confession, it isn't strange to have him use both of his hands, grabbing onto your hand like it's a big and bright lifesaver and he's a man stranded at sea.

“after your divorce is official, and after the custody’s settled,” he says, and you know that's only the beginning of everything he's going to say. “no matter what happens, stay here with me. if you can't keep primary custody, i’ll help you through it. and if you keep primary custody, i’ll drive us somewhere fancy, and i'll give you the best night of your life.”

Your eyes turn wet again, though for an entirely different reason.

Sans brings his face closer to yours and presses his teeth to your forehead.

“whaddya say, love? could even quit your job and find a full-time one, if ya wanted, and we'd work on the keepin' the apartment tidy together.” He pulls back. “i know you've got plenty of stuff on your mind already, so ya don't gotta answer right away.”

Your chest feels both warm and constricted as you close your eyes and take steady breaths in and out, recalling the technique your old therapist told you to practice when you were going through a complicated moment in your marriage with Jerry.

Finally – when it feels like your thoughts are in one place and your heart's not ready to jump out of your chest anymore – you open your eyes, stare at Sans, and smile.

“Thank you.” You take his hand and kiss his knuckles, seeing the slightest of injuries there. “I'll think about it.”

The very first thing you brought up as you got into his car was a question regarding whether the restaurant he's chosen is a fancy one or not.

“it's a family-owned, snowdin-themed diner,” Sans says, taking a turn to the left and then one to the right after a while of driving straight ahead. “dessert’s their fort, but they also make sandwiches and soups.”

“I- If so…” You don't want to come off as rude, so it takes roughly three more minutes of him driving to finally form a polite response in your mind. “Why are we… dressed like this?” At a red light, you frown and gesture at your long-sleeved, knee-length, lavender body-con dress with a hint of cleavage. “It feels like we're going somewhere more… fancy after this.”

“cuz we are,” he says, and the way his grin broadens makes you believe he's already seen the expression on your face, despite the light having changed to green. “it’s a, uh, secret. but frisk had the tickets ready, and they thought you really needed this, cuz they said you sounded more tired than normal during your last phonecall.”

Sans chuckles when you don't say anything.

He flicks the turn signal to the left and accommodates at a small parking lot with a few trucks, minivans, and only one more car.

“Why?” You grab your head like you're trying to claw a better explanation out of your brain. “I haven't told them about us! Why would they–”

“they know i'm, uh, kinda interested in you already, and when i asked if they were okay with it, they just handed me the tickets and told me jerry had ditched you long enough, and that it would've been easier if you'd left him earlier.”

Now, you cover your face with your hands like you're trying to shield yourself from the embarrassment.

“Remind me to have a talk with them the next time you pick them up from school,” you state, huffing.

The skeleton laughs again as he sets the car in park, then he unbuckles, steps out, and waits until you're done dealing with your crisis to help you down.

“want me to order for the two of us?” he asks, taking your hand. “been here a few times already, and i bet i can recommend you somethin' so tasty, you'll forget about all your troubles with the first bite.”

You hold his hand tight, swallow, and nod, following him into the diner.

Notwithstanding the limited information you found on the online page about this place and what it looked like before it was expanded and moved into the Surface, it seems like a classic, homely-styled diner ripped straight out of a vintage magazine. The walls are painted light grey, tall glass windows show a cozy interior and a lively scenery, and there's a big, flashy, neon red sign with the words ‘DINE-INN’ fixed above a brick-red and pure-white, striped waterfall awning. It's almost as if the exterior has been frozen in time, while stepping inside welcomes a different vibe. Everything about the interior is modern: simple cherry oakwood tables, dark red plastic chairs with wooden legs of the same colour as the tables, and a plain white counter with some dark grey marble glossy with a thin coat of polish at the top. There are paintings of landscapes from the Underground scattered around the walls, with a few knick-knacks and books set atop some shelves.

“Welcome,” a somewhat heavyset, purple bunny woman greets, shaping her mouth into a smile. “Table for two?” She sets some menus on the counter, and – while you at first walk up to her and grab the menus – you pull away and let Sans step in to order for the two of you. “...Great! Your order should be ready in fifteen minutes.” She eyes your dress, and then Sans's suit, and you smile when hers grows at the sides. “Are you two looking for a place to stay after dinner? If you're waiting for the theater to open, it won't be until four more hours, but we have an inn available right behind the diner.” She peeks over her shoulder when a slimmer, pink bunny lady steps out of the door behind the counter, smiling when she makes eye contact with you. “My sister can hook you up with a room, if you're interested!”

You glance at Sans and promptly look back at the two bunny women.

“U- Um…”

Sans takes a step forward and sets his hand on your lower back, pulling you against him.

“how much for a room for two?” he asks, and he glances at you, his grin relaxing and his irises turning the slightest bit brighter. “for two days and two nights.”

The pink bunny nods and walks to the counter, setting a book down.

“Ocean-view?” she suggests, grinning.

“i’ll throw in a tip,” he replies, winking.

She nods again and writes down the information, then points at a heavy-looking pair of luggage on a corner behind the counter, with a large and glittery hot-pink ‘METTATON CORP’ sticker stuck to each. 

“You should have all of your clothes and toiletries inside.” The purple bunny crouches behind the counter and retrieves a set of keys with a ‘reserved’ tag placed on the key ring. “Your room is number 215. Please enjoy your stay!”

Chapter Text

As soon as you bite down on the breakfast sandwich and all the flavours inside the bagel mix up on your tongue, it's just like Sans predicted. 

You forget about where you are, what you're going to do today, and what you need to do the next day.

“How can something so simple taste so good?” you comment, when you've scarfed down half of it in a couple of bites. “Is the bagel homemade, too?”

Sans nods and takes a napkin from the dispenser in the middle of the table.

“just about everythin' that's baked comes directly from the kitchen back there,” he replies, wiping his hands clean. “pretty sure the only store-bought stuff on our table’s the salt ‘n’ pepper.”

You smile, take a sip of the orange juice next to your plate, and finish the rest of the sandwich, then place the wrapper on your tray and keep yourself busy by poking at a crispy, golden hash brown almost the same size as your face.

And then, you look at his plate to see he's ordered the same as you, but there's not much left.

“Wanna share?” you ask, when you've cut one fourth of the hash brown and separated it from the rest. “I'm kinda full already.”

Sans looks at your tray, and then he looks at you. After that, he repeats that exact process a second time, and it starts to feel like he's reading through you again. His irises study you like a scanner, and it isn't until his grin lifts a little at the sides that he gives in and takes what you've offered, setting it down on his tray.

“you know where we're goin' after this? and i’m not talkin’ about the tickets frisk gave us.”

You shake your head no, grab the fork from the plate, and take a piece of the hash brown, eating it almost at the same time he does. When you're done eating, leaving only what’s left of the orange juice, he takes out a white cloth from his suit jacket's side pocket. It looks like a handkerchief, though a little bigger than normal.

“let’s keep it that way,” he states, handing it over.

You set your fork aside, take the cloth, and unfold it in front of you to reveal a blindfold.

“No,” you reply, grinning as you cross your arms. “What makes you think I'm wearing this?”

Sans grabs the coffee on his side and swirls it around with the little wood stick in the cup. 

“suggestin’ i put it on for ya?” His wink is followed by a sip to his drink and the ceramic clanking as he sets it down. “it, uh… it’s nothin’ weird, and it won't be for long,” he elaborates, not an ounce of humour in his voice. “promise.”

Absent-mindedly, you take the orange juice again and bring the straw to your lips.

“Well…” You pull away, sit up straight, and try to look at the monster like he did with you, yet it's difficult to get a clear — or at the very least, proper — read on him. “If that's true…” His irises are unchanged, as is the rest of his body language. “I'll put it on myself.”

“no cheatin’,” he warns, chuckling. “it's only a five-minute drive.”

“With or without traffic?” you press on, grinning. “I'll grow impatient, if it's the former.”

“you won't.” He says it in a way so resolute, it almost leaves no room to push him further, so you sip your drink and say nothing else.

You let out a ‘hmm’, coupled with you looking at him with narrowed eyes, then go back to what you were doing, finishing your drink in a few more sips.

“Do I need to tell Frisk to keep an eye on you?” you taunt, tapping a nail against the glass cup. “You're acting kinda suspicious, y’know?”

“it’s a fancy place for dessert,” Sans explains, as if giving up, but not quite. “can't say much, besides it's owned by muffet — a spider monster lady frisk got to meet one time.” He stands from his seat and fixes up his jacket’s collar before leaving a tip underneath the salt and pepper shakers. “i know i said this place has good dessert, but muffet gave me a limited-time offer and i wanna bring you there with me.” He looks at his wristwatch, and you check your phone to notice only an hour has passed between ordering the food and conversing while you eat. “it’ll take an hour, at most, and she, uh… kinda really wants to meet you now, cuz i asked her if it was okay to bring someone else, and she pressed on and on about who that someone else was, until i said it was someone important.”

You stand up and walk with him back to the exit, blindfold still in your grasp.

“Couldn't you have told her I'm Frisk’s mom?” you tease, winking at him. “Got tongue-tied, thinking about me?”

You expect him to laugh it off and brush it aside like it's any other comment you'd made.

Instead, he admits the truth with a blunt ‘yeah’, then walks along to the car like he didn't just do that.

“sayin’ you're only that didn't sit right with me, so i ended up tellin’ her more about us,” he states, once again subverting expectations by now giving a more detailed answer, compared to his ‘yeah’ from earlier. “i don't just call my friends or any other person i care about they're only this or that. it wouldn't do justice.” he continues without a single moment of hesitance, unlocking the car and opening the door on his side. “it feels incomplete, or like i'm lyin’ to myself.”

You ignore the way your heart skips, how your face warms up, and how your brain wishes it could push your thoughts out of your mind and past your lips.

It's far too soon for this, and you remind yourself of that time and time again.

Until there aren't so many stakes at hand, at least.

“Care to help me tie this up?” you ask, when you've both gotten into the car and buckled in. You wrap the blindfold around your head and bring it down to your eyes after closing them. “And not too tight, please. I don't want my makeup to get messed up.”

You hear him shuffle in his seat and feel him draw close as you give your back to him and wait.

There's the sound of the air conditioner humming and of his quiet breaths as he ties a knot behind your head.

And there's the feeling of his hands brushing with your ears as he makes sure the blindfold stays in place without ruining your makeup.

“all good, buttercup?”

Sans lays a hand on your shoulder, and you take that as a sign to sit straight and say something.

You nod, fix yourself up, and stay silent through the entire ride, keeping in check your mental schedule of all the things you have to do after this impromptu vacation is over, and you're standing behind a podium and in front of a judge, waiting to hear your new future.

Twenty minutes later, you're sitting at a table for two inside a quaint little bakery with lavish decor.

While the outside promised a cute but minimalist scenery with its plain and light purple, wooden walls and a triangle roof painted white, the interior is about as different as it gets. The single similarities you can find are the colours and the spider-theme composed of cobwebs on the corners of the roof and the walls, tiny spiders in the nooks and crannies of the plank flooring the same colour as the roof, and spider eyes plastered over the windows. Besides all that, the furniture almost competes with the elegance of Mettaton’s… illegal(?) boutique.

You figure you should ask Sans about that soon, and whether Mettaton has effectively made his business legal throughout the course of the past few weeks.

Because if he's advertising himself with big METTATON CORP stickers, then…

You assume he's doing alright.

Although the bakery is relatively small, there's enough space for a pair of tables for four, another pair for singles, and three tables for two.

The rest of the space is taken up by the counter and the kitchen closed off with a pin code device next to the door.

“I don't think I can eat this! It looks way too cute,” you comment, when a bunny waitress settles both your orders on the table. “Can I take some pictures first?” You already have a hand on your phone, ready for his answer.

“ya don't gotta ask,” he replies, chuckling. “wanna try mine after you’ve taken a pic?”

The big pane glass windows all around the bakery bathe the pastries in a warm, yellow light, making the pictures appear straight out of a food magazine.

“Would you, really?” A big smile accompanies the sparkly shine of hope in your eyes, until…

You're not exactly sure how to approach this situation without backing yourself into a corner.

He nods in response, though you freeze up and look at the slice of cake like it wants to eat you instead.

There's only one fork on the table, since you've ordered a croissant and a glass of cider, so it feels rude to take the one from his plate. And yet, it also doesn't feel right to stand up, walk away, and ask the clerk at the counter for a spare fork. At this point, you know you're overthinking this, but…

It's difficult not to.

“here ya go,” Sans says, and you snap out of your spiral to see he's holding up the fork, with a large amount of the slice on it.

Overthinking towards how you should approach taking a piece of his dessert is now shifted towards how you should take what he's offering you, because that's just how your mind likes to treat you.

Grabbing the fork from his hands no doubt involves skin to bone contact that will leave a reminder on your skin for hours upon hours to remember, until you've convinced your body it's not a big deal.

And eating it straight up is unthinkable — that would require far too many social points for how many you have left, at this point in your… date with him.

Because what else can you call this?

“Um…”

You look at the cake on the fork like it's your archenemy.

And, finally — when you've convinced yourself that life is too short for overcomplications and that you've denied yourself of way too many good things for the past few years — you lean in and take the bite.

“Oh!”

Angels practically descend from Heaven to play their trumpets, and you see the light of the sunshine directly over you.

Because, it's either that delicious, or you don't remember the last time you've allowed yourself to enjoy something as much as you're allowing this today.

“It's sooo good!”

When you ordered the croissant and the cider instead of the doughnuts and icecream he'd caught you staring at for far longer, Sans had given you the same look he gave you when you offered him some of your hash brown, but he hadn't said or done anything else besides that.

But you do recall him whispering to the waitress about taking something ‘to-go’.

“made a good choice, then,” he says, letting out another laugh. “wanna try it with the ice cream?”

You feel bad for being the first to ruin his perfectly beautiful slice of strawberry shortcake with a cute little frosting spider on top of the strawberry, but resisting a taste of it with the vanilla scoop waiting on a cup is far too big of a temptation not to say yes.

He again scoops some cake with the fork, then mixes it up with a generous amount of ice cream.

“bone appetit,” he says, and that second try is twice as good as the first, the sweetness of the vanilla contrasting nicely with the tartness of the strawberries.

The rest of your time in the bakery is spent just like that: now with you offering him to taste the cider and croissant, even if — judging by the look on his face — he's tried this before already.

But he doesn't comment on a single thing, instead humouring you by eating a piece of the croissant you hold up in your hand, and by taking your hand in his when you bring the cup of cider to his teeth.

Chapter Text

You don't know what you've done in life to deserve all this, but…

Damned if you're not going to savour each good thing that comes after the next.

As it turns out, when you took Frisk along with you to a community event of back-to-back plays for the holidays a few years ago, they had seen you smile, then gush to Jerry over the acting when you returned, and that was their immediate way of knowing that they had something else to insist Jerry about more often.

Whenever a play was announced within a hundred-mile radius from your home, they rushed up to Jerry and asked to go all three of you together.

Now that you're here for the first time in… years since Frisk last convinced Jerry to go together, and now that you're here with only Sans and nobody else, you feel your chest do that little squeeze to try to threaten you to get emotional.

“Sans?”

But you refuse any more sadness.

There's only a week left until most of your problems are settled, and you have all your documents ready.

“yeah?”

You want to focus on the good things only,

And… on the fact that a very tall monster is currently blocking Sans’s view, and that the play is about to start.

“Let's switch seats.”

Sans nods and stands up, then you do the same and take a seat where he previously was.

The monster’s height still surpasses yours by a couple of inches or three, but you're able to pull yourself out of that problem by getting on your knees and standing up straighter. It's an odd and considerably unconventional way to sit for a setting as formal as this one, but it's dark enough that it doesn't matter. What does matter is how your dress bunches up when you sit like this, though Sans wastes no time to flatten out the skirt for you and lay his hand on your knee when he's finished.

And then, to your surprise, Sans taps the monster — a big and buff polar bear dressed up in a dark blue polo and a light grey suit jacket — on the shoulder.

The bear turns around with a raised eyebrow and a confused but no less patient frown, and Sans asks if he's able to switch seats with the short and slim, pink bunny lady sitting next to him — all with the pretence that his girlfriend can't see the stage.

Setting aside the fact he's squeezed your knee when saying the word girlfriend, it's…

A universally simpler solution compared to your own, but to be honest…

You know you'll be overthinking whether you were polite enough with the monster, if you'd chosen to do that yourself. And you know you would shrivel up if the monster said no or looked at you just a little funny. No matter all the advice Gina gave you, it's still difficult to move forward. You can't ask for favours as simply as you once did, if almost every single person who you trusted turned their back on you when Frisk went missing.

And while you're aware you're exaggerating, that this situation is nothing compared to that other one, and that Sans was most likely going to ask the bear if he could move anyway, even before you asked him to switch with you…

You don't want to bother anyone anymore.

“you're welcome, doll,” Sans says, when the situation's been dealt with, you've sat up straight, and you've stared at him for too long.

“You really like testing your luck, don't you?” you tease, grinning at Sans when he looks at you. “Have you, um…” Your smile fights to stay put as you force yourself to ask a question that's been on your mind since Jerry last came to visit. “Have you told Jerry about us?”

“maybe,” he replies, and now, he moves the hand to the one you have on the armrest, interlocking it with his. “what brought the question?”

He's joking — the light tone he uses is enough to assure you of that, but…

You want to answer, to avoid any miscommunication early on.

“You and Jerry seem… close,” you state, smile growing. “And that's surprising, considering he, um… punched you at the supermarket back then, but also…” You hush your voice as a man, the announcer of the show, appears between the red curtains and declares the show's about to begin. “I think that's his way of apologizing, y’know? Like he can't stop thinking about what he did back there, so… Now he's trying his best to get on your good side.”

Sans chuckles and grips your hand tighter, then brings it to his teeth. 

“sayin' that ‘cuz i'm treatin’ ya like this without worryin’, or ‘cuz you're surprised he hasn't tried to kill me yet?”

“Both?” you admit, looking elsewhere when he presses his teeth against the top of your hand. “It doesn't take away from the fact you're being awfully touchy recently.”

Lights turn on at the stage, multiple people start to show through the curtains, and a slow and gradually dramatic instrumental of violin, cello, and piano slowly creeps up on the speakers left and right to where you sit.

Claps and cheers erupt across the dimly-lit room as the actors bow, wave, and smile at the audience, and the announcer declares that a secret guest star will be performing tonight.

“too much?” Sans asks, loosening his grip as he keeps his gaze on yours. “don’t feel forced to say no.”

“More than anything, I think I’m just…” You sigh and smile again. “A little worried someone might find us out, and then use that as a reason against me in court?”

God, it sounds harsh.

And it leaves a sour taste in your tongue, too, because his touches are everything but unwelcomed.

“wanna raincheck the topic for after the play?” he suggests, releasing your hand from his grip.

You blink fast, swallow hard, and sniffle a little as the awfully sentimental instrumental arrangement gets to your heart and soul, and you have to convince your brain now's not the time to compare your life to an ongoing theatrical act.

“Yes, please,” you reply, preparing yourself with a breath in, and one out. “I know it sounds selfish, but…”

You look around and assess how much the risk would be, and — with how everyone's eyes are glued to the introduction and how dark your surroundings remain, minus the stage — you figure you've already risked more than enough at the bakery, and that you can allow yourself more freedom now.

“Could I rest my head on your shoulder?”

You're fortunate the darkness somewhat hides the fact you're teary-eyed, in spite of how much you fought not to.

Or…

So you think, because as soon as he says ‘sure’ and you do as you asked, Sans wipes a tear away and stares at your lips more than your eyes.

The increasing participation of the violin and cello of the arrangement is almost made to match with your emotions, though…

You know better than to humour that thought.

It's childish, and you'd rather Sans doesn't think something's awfully wrong with your head, if you're going to be crying at one point because you have yet to solve your issues, and then giggling at the next when you feel like you're a part of the play.

“Is that my little lark twittering out there?” the main male character — Helmer — says, drawing your attention to the stage.

“Yes, it is!” the main female — Nora — says, and now, you've eased yourself with a breath out.

Nonetheless, your teeth grit and your jaw stiffens as you recall reading that complex script during your time at college, taking theater as an elective when you were almost finished with your degree.

The subject matter is too obvious not to have been a suggestion from Frisk, and you make a mental note to schedule an appointment with someone that can better help them with their situation — once the divorce is settled, and you've the time to find a proper therapist for them and yourself.

Jerry had refused to go to couples’ therapy after your first fallout, so you're not going to try to convince him again.

Much less, since you'll be divorced, and you'll have nothing to do with him anymore.

“As you please, Torvald.”

With the play ongoing and Nora now upset, Helmer walks behind her and presses himself against her.

“My little skylark must not droop her wings,” Helmer says, close to her ear as Nora tries to ignore him by facing the stove in front of her. “What is this! Is my little squirrel out of temper?” He takes out his purse, and she immediately turns around and smiles. “Nora, what do you think I have got here?”

“Money!” she exclaims, giggling as she grabs his purse.

Jerry can do as he pleases.

And you will do the same.

As the theater gets colder and the thin shawl over your shoulders isn't enough to fight it, you grab Sans's arm and cuddle closer when you receive a greenlight by means of his grin widening.

Nora cries out when Helmer tries to check what's in the parcel she's left nearby, the scene moving from the kitchen to the living room.

“No, no! You mustn’t see that until this evening.”

“Very well. But now tell me, you extravagant little person, what would you like for yourself?”

“For myself? Oh, I am sure I don’t want anything.”

Based on the way Sans stares at the stage, you assume he's either seen or heard of this play before, or he's already picked up on the themes of the story, despite how early it still is.

You release a breath and close your eyes for a moment. 

It hurts to know Frisk feels the need to do this, all because you hadn't gained the wit to divorce Jerry before things got worse between you. You look back on how you had to present a thorough analysis of said play before getting to perform as one of the supporting characters, and how you just as thoroughly failed to see past the conflicts of your own situation, no matter how many times your classmates warned you about it. Waiting and hoping things would get better was what made the relationship collapse like a tower built out of cards. You rebuilt that tower too many times to count, and Jerry — if you recall correctly — had only rebuilt it once. You think maybe that's why you're so desperate not to let go of something you really, really, really want now that it's right by your side. It's too good to be true, and you wonder if he knows it, too. 

Helmer wags his finger at Nora.

“Hasn’t Miss Sweet Tooth been breaking rules in town today?”

He closes the space between them.

“No; what makes you think that?”

Now — if you remember this scene correctly — it's really beginning to feel like Frisk had this planned out even before you took out the divorce papers waiting days and months and years in the drawer.

Perhaps…

Ever since the day you locked yourself in your room after Jerry made a comment to his football buddies about ‘letting yourself go’.

You were holed up for hours upon hours upon hours, with your bent legs pressed to your chest as you sat on the floor and kept your back hunched over.

You could hear him laughing, and you believed the television playing a big match between champion footballers was enough to drown out your crying.

But Frisk heard you and knocked on the door, asking if you needed anything.

It was what gave commencement to multiple months of you starving yourself — until you didn't feel gross upon having more than a fistful of food in your stomach, and until you felt a little less guilty about making Frisk worry about you.

“Hasn’t she paid a visit to the confectioner’s?” Helmer taunts, his voice rising with each accusation.

“No, I assure you, Torvald—”

He continues to get closer, forcing Nora to take steps back while he stomps forward.

“Not been nibbling sweets?”

“No, certainly not.”

You wish the seat would swallow you out of this entire situation, but the very best you can do instead is tense your hands around Sans's arms and hope he doesn't try to look at you while this scene plays out.

Because, you truly don't want to show a single more drop of vulnerability — not until you've dated him for some time, at least.

It's just too soon to put anything more at risk.

“Not even taken a bite at a macaroon or two?” Helmer presses on, his voice now muffling the music.

“No, Torvald, I assure you really—”

Nora’s voice shakes as she continues to step back while he carries on forward.

“There, there, of course I was only joking.”

Helmer’s tone drops as suddenly as it softens with those last words.

You spare a glance at your phone to see barely ten minutes have passed, and take in another breath as you mentally prepare yourself for the rest of the play.

Thankfully, putting your game face on allows you to sit through a couple of more minutes without wanting to disappear, or crawl under a seat and hide yourself from society.

And, to further grace upon your newly-obtained sense of calm, a new character steps into the stage — Mrs. Linde, who's played by none other than…

Mettaton Ex.

He's wearing a thick but flowy traveling dress: a lengthy, dark blue outfit reaching below the ankles, with long, slightly puffy sleeves, and cinched at the waist. His hair is dyed blonde and fixed into a neat bun with a haphazard bang tucked at the side to keep both of his eyes visible. His expression looks weary, and he slowly makes his way to a seat Nora offers. With the introduction already passed, his hat — a modest bonnet of a darker blue — and his coat — long, thicker than the dress, and of the same colour as the bonnet — have been taken off. The outfit, although becoming far simpler with the accessories removed for the occasion, is complimented by the posture Mettaton holds when he walks.

The crow cheers loudly at the big reveal, then calms down after a minute and allows the play to continue.

“Now you look like your old self again; it was only the first moment— You are a little paler, Christine, and perhaps a little thinner,” Nora comments, her voice lighter and more cheerful compared to Linde’s timid, fatigued voice.

“And much, much older, Nora,” Linde states.

“Perhaps a little older; very, very little; certainly not much.” Nora's tone shifts to a more serious one. “What a thoughtless creature I am, chattering away like this. My poor, dear Christine, do forgive me.”

“What do you mean, Nora?”

Mettaton's acting, despite having to limit itself to little movement as he remains seated next to Nora, is still as extravagant as the accent he's using, leaving no room for a metallic trace.

Each line is pronounced with care, and his body language is cautiously laid out.

He's sitting straight and facing Nora with a powerful gaze, despite the crinkling of his eyebrows and the downcast pose of his lips.

Nora, on the other hand, performs a simple frown — though it's befitting for the current attitude of her character.

“Poor Christine, you are a widow,” she says, her tone gentle.

Linde sighs.

“Yes; it is three years ago now.”

There's still excitement bouncing across the theater upon having the guest star introduced, yet the announcer reminds everyone to stay calm.

More conversation transpires between Nora and Linde, and now that more than ten minutes have passed…

You look up at Sans, and he seems to feel you're staring at him, because he immediately drifts his irises towards you.

It's difficult to break eye contact, and more so when he seems to notice you've been quietly dealing with the effects of having Frisk provide you with tickets for a play like this one, but...

Fortunately, when the conversation between the two women grows more intense, you look back to the stage, and you sense Sans does the same.

Nora's voice has grown stern, and Linde is trying to calm her down.

“You are just like the others. They all think that I am incapable of anything really serious—"

“Come, come—”

“—that I have gone through nothing in this world of cares.”

The theater turns as silent as a graveyard, and the music is toned down as the center of attention becomes this sudden confrontation.

“But, my dear Nora, you have just told me all your troubles.”

“Pooh!— Those were trifles.” Finally, Nora lowers her voice, and the music lifts. “I have not told you the important thing.”

You feel a bit guilty to have looked away first, so you strengthen your grip on his arm, and lay your head back on his shoulder once again.

Sans responds by resting his head against yours, and you see him close his eye sockets for a split second.

For a moment, as Nora and Linde resume their conversation and you continue to embrace Sans, it feels like you'll be able to manage through the rest of the play, even if…

It also feels like your heart is being drained with every dreadful memory your mind recollects — like a silent horror film, if it weren't for the cacophony of what-ifs and doubts occupying your thoughts.

Chapter Text

As Sans leaves the theater with a gloomy woman holding his hand and dragging her steps, he wonders whether Frisk had known what would happen to her, and if that this was their way of making their mother come to terms with a few things.

Sans had looked up what the play was about on his phone before the big day, but he hadn't expected these results.

And that's what makes him come to terms with a few things himself, like how he doesn't know enough about her, how much baggage she carries, what limits she’ll set if he tries to get too close, and if she has yet to move on from the past and only views him as a rebound.

So — Sans figures — now that the day at court is less than a week away, he should have a quick heart-to-heart with her, if he wants to get anywhere with his own feelings.

“We need to talk.”

The fact that she says it before him and that she uses that timeless line makes his eye sockets turn wide and his irises flicker to the brightness of a mosquito zapper.

He’s stepped out of the theater and reached the car by the time she's said that sentence aloud, though she doesn't let go of his hand.

“I thought I moved on, and… And I did, but…” She squeezes his hand softly, and then, she sighs. “There's still stuff I haven't forgotten or gotten over completely. Stuff that maybe you won't like to deal with.” Finally, she lets go and walks off, standing beside the front passenger door. “Could we talk when we get back to the hotel?”

Sans walks up to the other side and unlocks the car, stepping in and turning it on after she's stepped in.

“sure,” he replies, offering her the handkerchief in his shirt's pocket. “i already told ya we could raincheck, didn't i?” He laughs, hoping to make his words sound less dire. “how’s about i order us some drinks? in case ya wanna get a lil' loose before that.” 

She's silent, but it's not the uncomfortable type, and it's more her waiting for him to say whatever else he has in mind. 

Sans buckles up after she does, then focuses his gaze on the path ahead. 

“and if ya don't wanna drink… that's fine, too. but ya look tense,” he carries on, and he catches a glimpse of a smile in her eyes. “like you're gonna jump off the car if we start talkin' about this here.”

He hopes that's an adequate hint she can begin right now, if she so wants.

Because judging by her body language, she looks as drained as Alphys when she's spent her social battery for the day.

“I won't,” she remarks with a chuckle, and though Sans is currently focused on getting out of the parking lot, he can hear the smile that stays on her face. “But are you sure you wanna hear me trauma-dump when you're busy driving?”

“psh,” he replies, shrugging. “i've had alphys and undyne here, blabberin’ about what mew mew episode’s the best.”

When Sans reaches the first red light, he fixes his irises on (Y/N), who widens her smile.

“hearin’ you out about somethin' that's botherin’ you’s nothin' compared to that.”

He steps on the gas as the light changes, waiting all the while.

“Well…”

The road back to the hotel isn't too far, but the traffic is something else.

If he could, he would rather take a shortcut with his magic and be done with it, but…

Hearing the reluctant lady next to him open up feels more important than saving up a couple of minutes from navigating through the heavy traffic.

“Jerry was…” She hesitates, and he looks at her face at the following stop, seeing narrowed eyes pointed at her lap, and an elbow resting on the door as she holds her head like she's contemplating something. “Or… Jerry is a good father. He never questioned how I was raising Frisk, and… He didn't go against them when they wanted to wear clothes that didn't necessarily go with the norm. They would wear ballet skirts one time, then superhero shirts the other, and he wouldn't say a single thing, other than compliments and pep talks. He encouraged them, and he bought them both boy's and girl's toys whenever he saw they wanted one.”

She draws a sharp breath and lets it out slowly.

Sans takes a detour, parking in front of an abandoned mall close to the hotel.

“The same couldn't be said about… having him as my husband.” When he changes the gear to ‘P’, she looks up from her lap and makes eye contact. “At least… Not until I got pregnant.”

He locks the door and checks the time on his phone, then returns his attention to her.

“It started out small. Him going out more and coming back late. Mostly drunk, only sometimes sober.” She sighs. “I don't think he ever cheated on me or anything so drastic, but… There were times I felt alone, and when I wanted him home with me. For him to seek help with his drinking habits, and go to couple’s therapy with me.” A smile shows through her eyes again, though it's more of a sign that she's thinking back on those memories, rather than one of genuine happiness. “I… waited for him whenever he went out with his friends, and there were times I fell asleep on the couch, hoping the door would open soon.”

Her expression twists, like she's had a taste of something bitter.

“I didn't question why he suddenly grew distant, just how I didn't bother insisting too much when he left the house after Frisk went missing.” Her hands grip her knees and clench them tightly. “I accepted that Jerry wasn't a family man, and that having a child was what… led to the end of our love for each other.”

A laugh slips past her, and her eyebrows fall like she's come to realize something new.

She shakes her head and huffs as if she's having a conversation with her inner self — as if she's remembered an inside joke.

“Of course, I wasn't going to choose a grown man who promised me during our vows that he wanted to start a family, over a child who promised no such thing and didn't ask for this life.”

She lets go of her knees and stares at Sans with a different kind of smile after blinking away her tears.

“Especially not when…” Another sigh wrecks her body like he didn't dodge the speed bump a couple of seconds ago. “Not when Jerry stopped loving not only me as a person, but my body, as well. Because that meant we couldn't even be compatible for sex — the only thing keeping us together, before Frisk was born.”

A police car parks nearby, making it the only other vehicle in an abandoned parking lot.

“I gained a lot of weight during the process, and I was… more tired.” She looks down once more, letting out another sigh that's more of another laugh at herself. “I lost most of it pretty fast, but I wasn't as… toned as I used to be. And I'm all squishy everywhere these days again, ‘cuz...”

She looks away — back to the window.

“I kind of… lost control of myself more, after Frisk went missing.”

Sans unbuckles and leans in over the back she's left turned to him, her eyes kept on the window throughout.

He settles a hand over her shoulder, and the other on her seat to support himself.

“squishy?” he says, and he ever so slowly brings his hand lower and lower — from her shoulder to her arm, and from her arm to her waist. 

She's squishy as promised, and she bats his hand away when he squeezes there.

“Hey, I'm— I'm serious!” Mission an immediate success, she turns to him and glares to bite back actual laughter. “I couldn't learn the first time, and so I had to let myself go not once, but twice.” She joins the hand he keeps on her waist and frowns when he doesn't pull away, her eyes shifting from angered to sorrowful. “I'm telling you all this to warn you of what you're getting yourself into.”

“not followin’ ya there, doll” Sans says, tutting. “gotta be specific and tell me why you're suddenly against this.”

“Don’t act dumb!” she retorts, but it dissolves into another laugh when he squeezes her waist a second time. Her body is apparently more ticklish than what he expected, judging by the utter exasperation in her voice. “It's obvious you know what I mean.” Another squeeze, and another laugh — more of a breathless giggle, now that he's done it a third time. “I can tell by the look on your face!”

Deciding it's about time to claim what he wants out of her, Sans stretches his grin and presses the red button on her seatbelt buckle, unbuckling her.

His hands fall on the skirt of her dress, touching her knees, and she freezes like she's been caught and told to freeze.

“i’ve made it clear what i want before,” he states, lifting the skirt up to her thighs.

She squirms and tries to angle herself away from his touch, yet he stops her with a squeeze to her bare skin.

“tell me what's got ya so worried i won't like what i see if i take this off.”

Sans leans in, while she holds her breath.

He drags his hands higher, past her naked legs and up to her stomach, where he feels the faint marks of a C-section.

“gimme one good reason why i shouldn't wanna fall in love with you.”

His hands move more, almost reaching her breasts, and another hitched breath from her is all that he needs to know he has to stop.

“i’m not sayin' all this ‘cuz i think you're charity work.” He chuckles, yet it's close to a scoff with how rough it comes out. “i’m sayin’ it ‘cuz i’m havin’ a good time, and i want more.”

Knock, knock.

If her shocked face isn't sufficiently telling of where that sound has come from, Sans leans back to sit straight in his seat, making direct eye contact with an officer waiting near the car.

“lemme know when you're ready,” he says to the woman sitting beside him, offering a wary glance at her, before turning back to the officer standing by his door.

Sans lowers the mirror and hangs an arm over the door, sitting up straighter to cast a shield between him and the woman fixing herself up after the whole… confessing his feelings for her situation.

Not that it got too far to make her fully understand his point, but…

Moving on.

“what's up?”

Sans hopes the side-eye he directs at the woman is enough of a sign as to what comes next.

Just as well as he hopes that his palm falling on the gear shift and the tip of his shoe hovering over the gas pedal will also be enough.

“Driver's license,” the officer says, cutting to the chase.

He looks similar to the Lorenzo guy who came up to him a couple of days ago: pale skin, black hair, and toned figure.

And — judging by the similar names: Lorenzo and Enzo — Sans assumes it's his father, or at least a relative.

It's not the first time an officer comes up to him without stating why he's being stopped.

Usually, it's a ticket for parking where he isn't supposed to. Sometimes, it's a speeding ticket. On other times, it's for loitering. But Sans always has his reason to be excused or pardoned at hand, and he always delivers it before he can get that ticket. Having the current officer show up to him like this is nothing new, but what does worry him is…

“Who's the lady next to you?”

…the fact that he's asking questions that aren't meant to be asked for the ticket he hands over, and that the man's gaze lingers far too much on the woman in question.

While she's not exactly a celebrity, and she's more of an infamous lady than a famous one, that still doesn't count as a reason for questioning why he's with her.

Upon the Barrier breaking, there were breaking news all around, covering reports of all sorts on who Frisk's parents are, and it was that what made their mother so easy to find. 

“I'm gonna need you to cooperate if you don't want another ticket,” the officer warns.

Sans ignores him, too occupied with his thoughts.

The second Frisk said they had places to go, Toriel had understood, albeit with tears in her eyes.

And — before she could lead them to a police station — she heard the news of Frisk's return on the radio of the bus she took, and she immediately went searching after seeing another report on her phone and having Frisk describe their mother in detail.

Their mother’s face was all over the news, only seldomly mentioning Jerry, and…

Showing professional pictures of him in his security guard uniform, too different compared with ones sent by sneaky reporters — capturing (Y/N) going about her day-to-day without her noticing she's being documented for the world to see.

“Cat got your tongue?” the officer presses, making Sans turn his attention back towards the present. “Alright then, son. I'll just go ahead and ask her.”

Sans double-checks the locks on the windows and the doors the second the officer walks up the woman's side.

“buckled up?” he asks, and she nods.

She looks at him, and then at the man knocking on her window.

“trust me i won't get us into trouble?”

She returns her gaze to Sans and bites on her lip, nodding again.

“I think so.”

Hearing that, Sans changes gears, steps on the gas, and drives off, leaving the officer in the dust.