Archive of Our Own ^beta

The first time he sees it, he does a double take. His eyes lazily roam past you, and as he processes what he saw, he turns back. The bright red in contrast to your skin, the color both soul catching yet terrifying. Yet you’ve already pulled a blanket over you and over your clothes, so he isn’t sure if what he saw was really there. Your face is blank, calm in almost a rehearsed way. A way that is supposed to instill doubt in his own mind, that he even saw anything at all..

Sans is not a stranger to seeing things that aren’t there in the corner of his eye, and the paranoia that follows suit. Yet something about this feels odd, different. A thrumming in his soul that whispers that something is really wrong here.

Even so — he doesn’t comment on it, not without certainty on what that was and where it’s from (if it even was at all.) With all his nightmares lately, he can’t even trust himself.

He simply plops down next to you and smiles. You’re invested in some sort of trash TV, the electric voice coming from the flatscreen declaring that they can’t be together with their lover because they are human and monster. He snorts at the dramatics, it isn’t an issue if nobody makes it one. He knows that, because he has you. His human, and he’s your monster.

“y’ know, when I was in the underground, this guy had a bunch of fans. when the barrier finally broke, he metta ton.” He waits for your reaction, your face lighting up as you smile.

“That’s horrible, Idiot.” You say, but your eyes crinkle with that radiant smile of yours and you lightly push him. No matter how exasperated you seem, you glow whenever he’s himself. Just like he glows when he sees you glow. He falls back with a small laugh in response to your gentle shove.

“guess i’m a bit rusty, haven’t been practicing in a bit.” He responds with a shrug, only for you to smile harder.

“You’re awful. That was awful. Not even a tad bit funny. It gave me an anti-laugh.”

“you’re smiling.”

“I am, but I hate it! Dork!”

You shine so brightly. Your soul, though he’s never seen it before, has to be just perfect. He couldn’t imagine one like yours having a single scar, a single blemish, not a single ounce of pain for all the love you give. That’s what he likes most about you — that you’re horrified of the idea of gaining LOVE and that all you seek to give is love.

He finds comfort in your banter, he finds comfort in you, and for a moment everything is okay. Yet he doesn’t forget, he never had the ability to no matter how much he wished it. He needs to figure out what’s wrong with you, he needs to protect you. To take care of you. Though the convoluted man of course chooses to do it the most convoluted way — indirectly.

The second time he sees it, he’s sure that it was real. He didn’t mean to, he swears — he was just looking for something he left in your room and he didn’t know you were home, but then he saw it again. Those angry red lines across your skin, no longer hidden beneath the comfort of your clothing. He pauses, eyes empty, heart empty, and he stares.

You panic, and you quickly pull your clothes to cover you. Your cheeks are filled with red and you sweat a bit as he stares. After a few moments, you clear your throat so he can get the hint. Thankfully, he does and he backs off, not before sparing you one final once over and closing the door.

It closes with a click, and he begins to show his own panic. The world around him shifts, and he’s greeted with the familiar surroundings of his room. It's quiet, it's calm, it's full of pictures of you two together on the walls. He thinks of you, and he thinks of you more.

Sans doesn’t know what to make of it, and he really does try to make something of it. He tries his hardest to make some sort of sense of it, but it just doesn’t. He plops on his lumpy mattress — rarely used nowadays since the two of you started dating — and he just… thinks.

He thinks about you, the deep red coating you, and he wonders just how someone so lovely could get scars like those? Scars that look so purposeful and ooze with intent? He doesn’t quite understand. He tries so incredibly hard to just understand, why are you hurt?

More than that, why are you hiding it from him? He would clean you up, take care of you, that’s what he promised you to do. To always love you, and he really does despise promises, so making one like that is because of the certainty that he’ll keep it. But still, he doesn’t understand.

He worries himself even more. What if you were targeted by anti-monster freaks and were ashamed of it? What if you were hurt trying to protect someone and you were ashamed of it? A thousand things run through his mind, yet none of them are quite right. His thoughts go down a spiral staircase that only have darkness at the bottom.

Not a single thought makes any sense. Nothing makes sense. So he goes to see you again.

The third time he sees them, is after a conversation.

He takes a shortcut into your room, ever-so convenient. As always, he wears his poker face. Never worry and let them see, never be upset and let them see. Especially not you, who needs him to be okay. He looks at the lump that is you on the bed, and he smiles.

“you’re the sleeping champ, aren’t ya? you can even do it with your eyes closed.” He jokes, knowing that you aren’t even asleep. He can tell with the way your chest rises and falls more than a slight up and down. The way that you jumped slightly when you heard his voice. The way that you always peer from under your blanket as soon as you hear him.

“Hey, bonefriend.” You smile, instantly lifting the covers and making room for him. He chuckles that deep chuckle of his. He’d never deny closeness with you, it helps him remember that you’re real. That you’re there, and you’re safe. However, he doesn’t miss how you shuffle to hide that certain spot from him. That spot with the angry lines.

“so, uh…” He begins, yet trails off. He shoots a look to that damned spot, and your face flushes again. You look ashamed, embarrassed, and you curl in on yourself a bit upset. He realizes that this sight is more familiar than he thought, and you’ve been hiding this for a bit.

“So, you’ve um… noticed…?” You mumble, picking at your cuticles while you avoid his gaze. Anywhere but his face, anywhere but him. It makes it all the more clear in his mind that you’re ashamed. You’re guilty, but he can’t understand why you feel that way. You’re hurt, why would you ever feel guilty for your pain?

“look, i’m not trying to make you feel bad or anything.” He says calmly, taking that tender spot, the one you spent so long hiding, and running his phalanges over it. Though he can’t see them, he can feel the small bumps of the healing wounds. “i just… is anyone hurting you? are you okay?”

Your mouth goes into a soft “O” shape, and you seem to realize something. You shake your head back and forth, smiling wistfully at his gentle hand. “Oh, no… nobody is hurting me. It’s not… I’m not being hurt by anyone, it’s not…” The sentence attempts to form but it struggles, tongue tied under this pressure.

He looks at you with eyes that make your heart race. Eyes full of love, worry, care, and willingness. Somehow, those voids with his little lights have so much expression in them. So much emotion, and you tear up. So much emotion directed to you, so much lovely emotion for you, even in this moment where you thought you deserved anything but.

“It… I did it to myself.” You explain. His eyes lights go out briefly, and a wave of anxiety passes through you. Yet, you know it’s because he loves you so you push through. Nobody can fake an expression like that, the one he gazed upon you almost reverently.

“I’ve had depression for a long time, and I felt the urge to hurt,” you continue. “So even though it’s not the best coping mechanism, or one I should use at all, it gives me comfort. Knowing that the pain in my heart is real and I can’t forget it because it’s pressed against my skin too. That… what burdens my heart is relieved when it’s pressed into skin.”

He doesn’t know what to say. He’s always thought you were happy, and for someone who prides himself on being incredibly observant he’s disappointed in himself. Yet he doesn’t linger on that feeling, because that’s already what’s been done. Right now, he knows what to do.

He’s never really been good at all the romantic stuff, too lazy to put in that type of effort, but in the end you’ll always be worth it. He slowly pushes up the clothing that covers the physical manifestation of your pain, and he comes face to face with it. Your scars.

“It’s ugly, isn’t it?” You try to lighten the mood. “Like a horror movie.”

Yet he doesn’t comment. He lightly traces those scars on you and he thinks about everything he’s thought up until now. He hasn’t given you your due credit before, but he’s just now realizing how strong you are. How resilient you are. He realizes your soul is just as damaged as his. It isn’t unblemished, it isn’t scarless, but it’s nonetheless beautiful. You've been hopeless before, but you made it through. These scars mean that you made it through.

“you’re beautiful.” He finally responds, after a minute of staring. “what, did ya really think this would change my opinion of you? no, you’re beautiful.”

Your jaw drops at his words, tears filling your eyes. You begin to get choked up, even though you try to swallow it. “You… you think so?”

He gently presses his teeth upon your scars, so gently like you might fall apart. He knows you are anything but fragile, yet he wants to treat you with the delicacy that the world has failed to. He presses kisses onto every single one, whispering a quiet ‘beautiful’ after each.

Those nasty red scabbing scars that are newer? He called those beautiful. Those completely healed scars that are discolored and stand out against your skin? He thinks those are beautiful too. He finds you beautiful, not because you’re suffering and because he likes you to suffer. He doesn’t like that you’re hurting, but he finds every single inch of you beautiful no matter how hard it is for you to think so.

“you’re beautiful.” He says, and there is such a finality in his words that you can’t even bring yourself to argue or deny that his feelings are the truth. He finds you beautiful.

“I thought you would be mad at me.” You hic between sobs — unable to contain yourself from such a meaningful show of affection. Your heart aches, not because you’re upset but it’s so incredibly full.

“over being in pain? it’s not your fault that this is the only comfort that works.” He says honestly. “but we can work on it. we can find something else that works, because this isn’t good for you.”

In response you nod solemnly, looking at him with so much emotion that you can’t even begin to describe. He gazes back at you, and you start to cry a little more.

“you might not be able to fix it now, or next week, or next month, or even next year, but you don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

“you have me.”