Chapter Text
~~~~~~~ ✧ 💚 ✧ ~~~~~~~
“* i’m fine.”
Sans doesn’t sound fine. Face down in your pillow, his assurance is little more than a mash of syllables sent into flattened filling. You have to tempt him with a row of kisses from his temple to where his cheek disappears for him to rotate his skull far enough for you to catch a glimpse of a single, faded light, which is no brighter now than it was two hours ago.
You reward his cooperation with a kiss to the edge of his leveled smile. The corner of it twitches, the light flares for a moment, and then both specks of hope fade back into his ashen features.
Sans… doesn’t look fine, either. Ever since he came shambling out of the King’s chambers he’s been like this.
Quiet.
Withdrawn.
A shell of his former self.
Not even the sight of Undyne sitting next to you or her prying questions sparked anything in him—it was as if the contempt he had for the aquatic warrior had been wiped clean in the wake of whatever transpired inside that room. He refused to tell her anything, nor you, his wrists still and silent where they vanished into the depths of his jacket apart from when he’d grabbed you.
That had been another point of newfound camaraderie between you and her. Both of you were on the outside looking in, all the better a place for you to bury your complex resentment for the violent, rude, and belligerent monster that was standing Captain of the Monster Guard. One shovelful of probing conversation at a time had placed your grudge six feet under the moist soil.
Sans’s audience with Asgore had only lasted a quarter of an hour at most, but in that time, you and Undyne had actually made an astounding amount of progress putting aside your differences. Much more than you expected from someone who’s tried to skewer you within the past month.
As you’re quickly finding out, Captain Undyne—like many other monsters—is a lot more complex than you initially thought.
✦ . ⁺ . ✦
After the door closes behind Sans, swallowing up his slight figure, there’s a long period of time where you stand next to the Guard Captain, looking at anything but her. You are surprised Sans agreed to leave you with her, but you suppose he doesn’t have much choice. You might be past the point of panic, but trust is in low supply, and her conniving methods of drawing Sans from his room to commit him to this meeting don’t sit well with you.
Maybe you’re biased, but a murderous bitch minus the murder is still a bitch.
Every so often, the shape of her brushes past in the corner of your vision, a carved stone statue cloaked in blackened steel—standing at parade rest. She isn’t looking at you either, from what you can see of the tilt of her neck toward the front entrance. Good.
You feel vulnerable in Sans's thin white shirt and your torn jeans, at the fragile mercy of Athena personified, and less than a hundred feet away from the very being that annihilated your town.
Above you, the towering ceiling swallows every minute sound, every worried breath, every anxious gulp, and reflects them back into your ears tenfold. It might as well be reflecting your heart rate, too—it pounds against your chest like a war drum. You’re sweating.
Your fingers won’t stop fidgeting with the hem of Sans’s shirt, very cognizant of how it’s sticking to your lower back, and it all seems like too much. It’s too much. You’re just a regular person. You’ve never even held a full-time job, and somehow you’d gotten the idea that you stood any chance going against a tug-of-war between monster royalty.
How did you ever think you could claim even a sliver of joy or hope when fate itself seems to be out to get—
“Hey, Punk.”
A raspy utterance tears you from your spiraling thoughts, and you find that slitted pupil staring at you from where Undyne has been standing the whole time.
How long has she been staring?
Unintentionally, you straighten up as you give her your attention. You’ve read somewhere that wild animals are less likely to attack if you don’t show fear. The gills on the side of her head flex, and she pulls her shoulders back in response to your posturing, but the face peering down at you is thin-lipped and ambiguous.
“That was pretty brave, what you did back there. Standing up to me like that—I’ve never seen a human with that much orange in ‘em.”
Your glare in progress is ruined by your lifting brow. Whatever you thought was going to come out of Undyne’s mouth, a compliment was not it. She shrugs, an exaggerated motion that comes with a clanking of metal, and huffs out a tense exhale through her teeth.
“Asgore always said I ran a little hot-headed. It’s a bad trait of mine—somethin picks at my scales and I just… go off. If you hadn't stepped in the middle of me and that pipsqueak, I’m sure things woulda turned out much worse. As much as Sans gets under my skin, I don’t really wanna hurt the guy. He’s not… that bad, and his brother would dust me.”
With each word, you feel your guard dropping. If Undyne was just delivering that missive, and doing what she thought was her job, then you can see how Sans played his own part in starting the fight—even if he thought he was doing so in your defense.
“So, why’d ya do it?” she asks. “Stand up for a monster?”
Her question catches you off guard even though it shouldn’t, and it takes you a moment to consider a safe answer. Luckily, your options are delightfully limited, so you shrug.
She nods as if that tells her anything
With a sidelong glance at the front door, which is a ways away and closed, and the throne room doors, which are closed and likely locked, Undyne astonishingly sits down with an ungainly collection of scraping sounds.
“Take a seat, Punk. I won’t tell if you won’t.”
You keep a fair distance from Undyne, but you do sit. She’s right. You have no idea how long Sans is going to be in there, and church floors aren’t designed with long-term comfort in mind. Not that they’re much comfier to sit on, but it’s better than the alternative.
After less than a minute, Undyne readjusts and cracks her neck, shoulders, and back. Another couple of seconds and you hear metallic fingers drumming on marble. You get the idea that Undyne isn’t a very patient person.
“I’m doin’ a shit job at it, but I’m trying to apologize here,” she suddenly spits in your direction, face washed in dark mauve. “I didn’t mean to give you a panic attack earlier… or threaten you at that shop… or chase you out of Alphys’s house and throw spears at you…”
She purses her lips.
“Actually, I did totally mean to do that last one, but I shouldn’t have. I could’ve waited for Alph to explain.”
With each apology she shrinks down into herself, her shoulders hunching self-consciously the longer she talks with no response. Her eye scans you from where she sits.
“You, uh, alright? I’m pourin’ my Soul out to a human here. Give me somethin’! I doubt Smiley has you under a gag order or anything,” she probes.
At the mention of Sans you puff up. You don’t answer her. Her apology is appreciated, but it’s your choice who you want to speak to, and fish-face here isn’t on the list.
At your silence, she scoffs.
“Come on. You can talk, can’t ya?” Finally, you reward her with a wry grin. It’s her turn to widen her stare.
“You… can’t.” Her gills disappear against the side of her head, her face screwed in potent embarrassment. “Well shit, now I just feel like a huge asshole.”
You give her a so-so hand motion, and that small motion is what cracks the ice. It’s you who snickers first, then she joins in—a mix of staccato sounds that fill the entire church entryway.
A scared hand cuts yourself off. You don’t want whatever’s behind that door to hear you. It’s been a while… and Sans still hasn’t come out. Furthermore, you can’t hear anything but silence… shouldn’t you be able to hear talking? Maybe not words, but… anything? Undyne follows your stare, her grin falling.
“They’re soundproofed. Magically.”
Your sigh of relief is visible.
“Asgore might be… different, these days, but that big softy is still in there somewhere, I’m sure of it. That puny shrimp will be fine.” She leans over, and with only a small flinch from you, gives you the weakest punch to the shoulder ever.
It still feels like being grazed by a stone block.
“And hey, if he isn’t, I’m sure I could talk Alphy into taking you in! She’s never been a fan of the idea, but you look like you might like all that nerdy shit, and you’re pretty brave, for a human. I can respect that. I dunno, I’m sure there’s somethin’ around the house you can do, and uh, you can let Alphy talk to you about her human picture books or somethin’. Totally legitimate.”
There’s not a chance in hell that you’ll let that happen, but the… offer… was… surprisingly thoughtful. Maybe…you could…
The corners of your mouth tug up in a weak smile, but from the way Undyne’s shark grin is splitting at the seams, you would think you might’ve offered her a bar of gold. It’s brief—the wrinkled collection of scales under her eyes smooths back over as the leftover expression hangs on her features.
“Can I tell ya somethin’, punk?”
You flick a fist at her dismissively as you nod, getting tired of having nothing to do with your hands when there’s so much to be said. It flies over her head, but the nod must work, and at least you feel like you participated in this ongoing co-species exchange beyond shrugs and glares.
“You’re the first human I’ve ever had a real conversation with.” Her face darkens again. “You get what I mean. Talked to. Without barking threats at em or chasin' em and scaring em silly.”
The look you give her, and the hand sign that goes unappreciated, asks why.
Undyne’s face looks funny, and you realize it’s her attempt at an embarrassed smile. “Tell anyone and I’ll skewer ya, but… I used to really look up to humans. Back Underground. Alphys had all these books, and shows, and I thought… when we got up here, it’d be…”
Her gaze drips to the floor, shoulders settling under a heavy weight.
“I thought it’d be a lot different.” Her eye flashes, defensive without cause. “But I had to trust the King. I’m Captain of the Royal Guard. So many people were looking up to me, so I had to make the right call. If I didn’t… people could’ve been hurt. Or worse. Next to Asgore, I’m still practically a Soulling.”
She runs a gloved hand through her thick ponytail.
“My silly little fantasies weren’t all that important if it meant getting us all out of that hell safe and sound. I was willing to do a lot for that. I was willing to stain my Soul for that.”
The words are barely out of her mouth before she winces.
“That… sounds a lot less of something to be proud of when I say it to you.”
You make the mistake of meeting her eye and any remnant of animosity melts in the guilt she finally lets shine past her prideful exterior.
“I don’t want to doubt Asgore… but all the humans here have been so puny, and weak. I don’t feel like any sort of ‘hero’. I just feel like a big bully."
Before you can say anything else, there’s a loud creak of dry hinges carrying the weight of dread, revealing a sliver of darkness and momentarily, a flash of blue. At the sight of him, Undyne leaps to her feet and springs right back into her straight-backed stance.
When no one follows him out of the throne room, and the door shuts once more with a groan of finality at his back, she cuts a few of her leylines and sags. You’re focused on Sans—how couldn’t you be—but you don’t miss her look of surprise at the monster that came out of Asgore’s throne room, versus the one that went in it. Undyne even asks the question you want to.
“You look like shit, dude. What… what happened in there?”
Sans isn’t smiling at all. You continuously try to catch his eye, but he holds it deftly out of your grasp. He nears you and it takes everything in you not to choke. If Sans’s magic smelled like the trailing minutes before a rainstorm, the metallic, bitter scent that clings to his bones and clothes has the acrid tang of old blood—potent and sickening.
The tips of his fingers brush your palm and freeze, trailing upward to wrap impersonally around your forearm and guide you away from Undyne.
“* nothing,” he mutters in grey monotone. “anything else? or am i free to go?”
Undyne looks like she weighs her words carefully before placing them at his feet. “I’ve uh, been tasked to escort you home.”
You expect his metaphorical hackles to rise, but his shoulders just slump another couple degrees.
“Look,” she interjects. “Not my idea. But come on, man. Today’s been shit enough. Can’t we make something easy?”
You force yourself closer to Sans, a half-step of encouragement. There’s the barest flex of his hand on your arm.
“* ok.”
✦ . ⁺ . ✦
The walk home had been silent. Undyne had led, with Sans trudging behind her and you behind him—the entire group slowed by his sluggish gait. The hand around your arm looked for all intents and purposes like something meant to restrain you, but his bones indented your flesh like you were the only thing keeping him upright.
Papyrus had opened the door with a smile on his face, but it stiffened when he saw his Captain. He had still been in his uniform, his bag slung over his shoulder as if he’d just gotten home. He’d kept Undyne busy as you slipped Sans inside.
You’d gotten to the foot of the stairs before he showed any resistance, claiming in a soft voice that he needed a shower before coming to bed. After making sure the two of you were truly alone, he melted into you and you let him. His skull had been a fleeting weight on your shoulder and his arms a brief pressure around you before he peeled off down the hall and into the room beneath the stairs. Within seconds, the sound of water had filled the hallway.
You’d already been on the verge of sleep more than an hour later when you finally felt the mattress depress at your back and his warm weight press along your spine, the scent of his body wash overpowering all but the barest remnants of what must’ve been the King’s magic.
Sleep had taken him swiftly, but fretfully. For the first time since he started sleeping with you, it was a rough night. Frequently, you were awakened by digging fingers, pained groans, and shifting legs. It persisted all the way through the night until morning… and mid-morning… and even with your gentle attempts at waking him he was still dozing as noon crested the top of the clock in your room and strolled down the train tracks to two.
“* ‘m sorry.”
His face is back in the pillow again. Part of you feels bad for neglecting Papyrus—after all, you never even got to say hello after you got in last night, but you’re scared that if you leave that Sans will shut you out again, like that time after the incident at the Ward.
Your anxiety must bleed through from the pads of your fingertips to his skull that you’re stroking in slow, comforting sweeps, because in the largest show of movement from him in hours, he rolls over onto his side and drags you in—your back against his chest.
“* you don’t gotta worry. i’m fine. that talk yesterday tired me out is all.” The shape of his mouth to your cheek is a reassuring wedge. “* you can stay with me if you want, but i can tell you’re gettin’ antsy in here.”
You want to stay, but he’s right. The smells of breakfast have come and gone, and you think you can smell wafts of whatever Papyrus is making for lunch, perhaps with the hopes the two of you might finally join him. You turn in Sans’s arms and take a deep inhale of the center of his chest, where his smell is the strongest. He laughs tiredly at that, and you never thought you’d appreciate the sound so much.
“* not everyone is built for a life of extreme loafing like i am. go keep paps company, will ya? he’s gotta be worried sick.”
It sounds like a request as much as it does as reassurance of his well-being, so you give him one last nuzzle and untangle yourself from his arms. You point at him and crook your finger.
“* yeah, i’m sure. i think i’ll just take it easy for today, and tomorrow i’ll be right as a ninety-degree angle.”
There’s a hesitation as you crook it again, but you do so adamantly. Four fingers touch sideways to your chin.
~“You’re sure… you don’t want to talk about it?”~
His hand drops from where it’d been idling on your leg. A dismissal, if gentle.
“* nah.”
Lids drooping, it looks like he’s already well on his way back to sleep. You’ll try again later. Maybe the fifth time you ask will be the ticket… and he’ll tell you what sort of conversation could sap the life from his bones like this. Bad news, it must be—but you’re here, at home with the brothers and safe from harm.
So for now, you’ll let it be.
A final kiss to the forehead and you crawl out of bed, tucking the corners of your comforter up under his chin and quietly leaving the room, shutting the door behind you. His breath has already begun to even out and slow as the latch clicks behind you.
You’ll come back later to check on him, but the scent of savory spices beckon you from the first floor, along with the promise of pep-filled conversation, the pleasant company of your mate’s brother, and—if you’re lucky—a taste of the pastries you smelled baking last night when you came home.