Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

In your not-so-very humble opinion, there is nothing better than comfort food. Practically your entire daily diet is carbs and dairy with the occasional side of meat, chocolate, or sweeter fruits. Chili, ice cream, pizza, meatloaf, cheeseburgers, burritos, mashed potatoes, pie, chocolate, fries, salmon, bacon, grilled cheese sandwiches, chips, eggs, macaroni and cheese – these are your favorite foods. The closest you come to eating vegetables is drizzling meat sauce over them when you’re out of spaghetti noodles or your body guilt-trips you into eating something healthy – and then only reluctantly. Recently, you’ve taken to buying those veggie-and-fruit juice drinks that actually taste sweet and drinkable. Your parents would be proud.

But most days, the lure of good food outweighs your body’s lack of important nutrient intake. And on special nights, like when one of your favorite shows airs a new episode or you decide to watch one of your favorite movies, then you’ll brave the outside world for your utmost, absolute, unconditional favorite food – pasta. You could debate the perfectness of pasta for days, wax poetical to a die-hard Paleo dieter; you’d do anything for pasta, well, except CrossFit. The one (read: one) and only time your parents had tried to include you in their short-lived health craze, they’d taken away your beloved carbs, so you slowly starved yourself rather than eat the tasteless garbage they put on your plate. After a few days, you fainted and had to go to the hospital. They never tried again beyond a few pointed comments or sneaking spinach into your brownies. After that experience with health foods, you’ve always said that the reason diets are called diets was because you die a little bit inside when you’re on them.

But pasta. Literally no words can convey your undying passion for it. Which is why you’re here. Going to the grocery store. Ignoring your paranoid, narcissistic, anxious thoughts of being watched and judged. About to get you some pasta. Because you’ve decided to marathon a TV show and need the mental fortitude that it brings you. Buying pasta. Yep. Nothing much to it.

It’s a chilly night for summer; probably middle-fifties, not that you’re an accurate judge or anything. The automatic doors clank open in front of you, metal hitting brick like they’ve done for years. The sound makes you wince automatically. You’re actually in need of a few groceries, so you grab a cart. A woman – about fortyish, meticulously weighing her cucumbers on the little basket-scale thingy – looks at you incredulously. What you want to say to her is Yeah, lady, I know it’s cold out and I’m wearing shorts and a t-shirt, but I don’t feel cold easily. Who weighs their fruit anyway? Old ladies, I guess. But what you actually do is nod to her and pass by with a faked sunny, “Nice weather tonight, eh?” and let your resting bitch face say the rest. It’s not like you’d really say that to anyone; you’re usually too reserved to start up a conflict. Besides, you grumble and complain often enough that you keep your more rapscallious thoughts in your head. Yep. That’s you. Crotchety old person in your head, self-conscious nutter out loud. You’re like Sophie Hatter; if only a witch would come along and spell you into confidence.

The lady mutters something about cheeky millennials. You decide to ignore her. Thankfully, the store is mostly empty, so you don’t have to worry as much about messing up societal grocery store norms and etiquette. The only other person you run into is an awkward, teenaged employee stacking cans of soup. You and him edge around each other, carefully not maintaining eye contact while offering tight smiles and broken-off excuses. Cringing slightly, you snatch up a few cans of soup and speed-walk away – not speed-walk, you just move with … purpose, yeah, that’s the word. Still bitter about your horrible social skills, you can’t help but think, God, is that how awkward I look? You’re in the Mexican section before you realize that you grabbed the wrong soups, but you can’t go back for them just in case the guy is still there. Ah, the life of a social recluse; it’s such fun.

Before too long, you’re gearing up for the finale of your little adventure – the pasta aisle. This grocery store is your favorite because it has a whole aisle of it, rather than the few sad shelves of other places. You snap up a bunch of spaghetti, fettucine, penne, strozzapreti, rotini, and farfalle to go with the frozen tortellini and ravioli already slowly defrosting in your cart. A good sixty-five percent of your groceries is now pasta, and you sigh happily, because it’ll last you for a month before you’ll have to come back here. And then you get a little frisky¹ with your pasta because you’ve been wanting to try a few recipes.

You’re holding a bag of campanelle and a bag of mallorredus in each hand, weighing the pros and cons of trying to make a casserole versus soup, when you hear two sets of loud voices and heavy footsteps near your location. Freezing, you hope against hope that they don’t come down the pasta aisle, but the universe gleefully crushes your desperation with what feels like a giant middle finger.

It’s two monsters; a surprisingly muscled fish lady and a living skeleton. Your thoughts scatter and refocus on the fact that there are two sentient beings that will most likely interact with you in some way soon, and ohmigosh I hate dealing with people, just be cool and they won’t pity you. And so you stand there, statuesque, and not in a good way either, with sweat pooling in awkward places, helplessly listening to their conversation in lieu of anything else to do as you wait for them to move on.

“GOSH, UNDYNE! I’VE NEVER SEEN SO MUCH SPAGHETTI IN ONE PLACE BEFORE! THIS MEETS ALL OF MY STANDARDS! NO, IT EXCEEDS MY EXPECTATIONS! IT’S ALMOST AS GREAT AS ME! NYOO HOO HOO!” The skeleton cries with the force of his emotions. You can relate. After your parents’ ill-fated diet, you’d cried when you were able to eat carbs again.

“Don’t be intimidated by the pasta, Papyrus. It should be intimidated by YOU! NGAAHHH!!!” She punches the shelving. It rocks backwards, and for a brief moment, you mourn the fall of so much glorious pasta, but she grabs it before your nightmare can pass. Phew.

“I’M NOT UPSET, I’M JUST AMAZED THAT THERE ARE HUMANS OUT THERE THAT CARE ABOUT SPAGHETTI ALMOST AS MUCH AS I DO.” The skeleton visibly brightens. You want to snort. As if anyone could like pasta more than you. It’s simply not possible, not unless it was the person who invented pasta.

The fish lady, who upon closer scrutiny, is actually quite pretty minus the shark-like teeth and the forbidding eyepatch. She’s also much taller than you, much more ripped, and much more intimidating. She stamps her feet on the floor, and you think you see the linoleum crack a little. “Of COURSE there are spaghetti nerds out there! There’s one in this aisle right now!” She points at you.

Aaaand that’s your cue to hightail it out of there. But it’s too late. They advance. You steel yourself for greetings². But then they walk past you. Huh? Oh, the teenager you ran into before is there, now stacking boxes and bags of pasta. He looks up when he hears them approach, blanches, then draws himself up and sneers slightly. Great, he’s a Humanist³. This is sure to end well. You’re tempted to just leave before the drama starts, but something, maybe concern, keeps you there just in case. You rest a hand on one of your utility belt’s pockets, the one with the mace, not the one with the pocket knife, not yet at least. The skeleton smiles guilessly, while the fish lady seems to sense the animosity seething from the pimply, weedy, teenaged kid. From where you stand, about ten feet away, you can see everyone’s face and movements.

“EXCUSE ME, GROCERY STORE HUMAN. DO YOU HAVE A MOMENT TO TALK ABOUT SPAGHETTI WITH THE GREAT PAPYRUS?”⁴ The skeleton looks (far) down hopefully, and you could swear that his eyes did that anime-sparkle thing.

The teenager scoffs, malice puffing him out like a seedy airbed. “Why would I want to talk to a couple of Beneathers like you?”

You inhale sharply. The capital B-word. Ouch. The only insult worse would be ‘Cavern-Dweller’. Humanists started calling the monsters that after monsters got the official term of Under-Americans. Most people just called them monsters because it’s better than implying that another thinking being is below you in species ranking. You can see the muscles shift in the fish lady’s back when she registers the insult and tenses. For a second, you wonder if monsters have muscles; once, you heard that they’re made of straight-up magic and can change their appearance at will, a skill you’ve often wished for.

“BECAUSE TO TALK ABOUT SPAGHETTI WITH A MASTER CHEF SUCH AS MYSELF IS A –”

“Because he asked, dipshit!” The fish lady interrupts with a snarl, eye flashing with light, hair almost bristling into spikes.

The teenager, much like a threatened cat⁵, doesn’t seem to care. “Watch yourselves, Cavies.” And there he goes. Two for two. “If I shout, people come running. And when they get here, they’ll see two monsters ganging up on a poor kid. You know it and I know it. So fuck off and shove these noodles up your Underworld.” Wow … this kid can’t even distinguish bucatini from udon noodles. And they basically told a pasta-lover to stick said pasta where the sun don’t shine (i.e. the monsters’ last home). Geez, what a suicidal kid.

You see comprehension dawn on the skeleton’s face. “THERE IS NO NEED FOR UNKIND WORDS, GROCERY STORE HUMAN. I BELIEVE THAT YOU CAN DO BETTER. JUST BELIEVE IN YOURSELF AND TRY AGAIN. HERE, I’LL START. *AHEM*. WHAT IS YOUR FAVORITE KIND OF SPAGHETTI?” Both you and the teenager are gaping open-mouthed at the totally sincere monster.

The stacker regains his composure before you, and you can see his face contort into an ugly lip-curl. You can tell things are about to go down, so you decide to go down first. The snarl fades into shock when the orange-papered can of tomato sauce gloriously arcs through the air and beans him right on the forehead.

“Whoopsie,” you say innocently. “Butterfingers.”

The teenager, pain centers finally lighting up in his brain, lets out a high, reedy whine. “Owwwwwww. What the fuck, you bitch?”

You move closer so that you can talk without the next aisle hearing anything, and specifically don’t look at the monsters. “Listen up, asshole. I’m a human, too, so if you try to pull any of your specist bullshit with them, I’ll be sure to talk to the cops before you can. ‘Sides, Humanists are losing popularity, right? Do you really think the other people in your Pansy Posse are going to back you up when it could mean losing more public support?” You’re vibrating with a mixture of terrible nerves and heart-thrumming adrenaline, and the hand holding the mace is prepared with an excuse of butt-pinching should need be.

The teenage bravado visibly deflates, but he manages to get out a weak parting shot of “fucking traitor” before shuffling off.

You clear your throat, bravery⁶ gone, and stare at the floor, kinda wishing you had left things alone. It’s quiet for a second, but then you go flying into the shelving when a hand smack between your shoulder blades.

“YEEEAAHHH!!! You showed HIM who’s boss!!! Papyrus, did you see the way that can ricocheted? I wanna buy it as a memento!!” You right yourself awkwardly, nursing a jammed elbow. The fish lady is grinning at you while searching for the sauce; from its trajectory, it could be a few aisles away. You have a pretty good arm, sometimes.

You gulp, withering under imminent social interaction. Yay. “I-It’s nothing, uh –” Your quiet stuttering gets cut off by the much louder monster.

“IT IS A SHAME THAT THE GROCERY STORE HUMAN WAS NOT A SPAGHETTI EXPERT AND LASHED OUT BECAUSE OF IT.” The skeleton bellows. He’s a lot louder when you’re in speaking distance; shouting distance should be where you stand. You kinda wish that you had earplugs, but you know that they would be ineffective against the kind of decibels this guy is shooting off.

“Uh … “ Some elegant, refined wordsmith you are. Not.

“SMALL, ACCIDENT-PRONE HUMAN! I SEE THAT YOU ALSO LOVE SPAGHETTI, PERHAPS ALMOST AS MUCH AS I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS.” He strikes a dramatic pose. You really want to snicker, nearly as much as you want to melt into the floor and become one with the groceries.

“Uh, yeah. That’s, uh, me. Yep. Clumsy pasta-lover. My new catchphrase.” Internally, your organs rearrange themselves in an attempt to kill you off before the awkwardness does. More of a mercy killing – suicide? – than anything else.

Thankfully, the fish lady barges in, noogies the skeleton, and drags him away before you can continue your string of awful comments. You’re not sure she even saw you, but you’re used to that. At least she saved you from your dying conversation, so that’s a plus. Gathering up the rest of your groceries, you realize that you’re late for your show. Great. Just great. See if you try to diffuse interspecies conflict next time.

You bonk your head on the wheel of the shopping cart in rebuke. You really need to stop sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. For a social recluse (not a brown one), you’re far too involved in other people’s business. Maybe you should work on that.

1. Yes, that is totally a reference to a certain character.
2. Yes, that is totally a reference to a certain chara-cter. : )
3. I’ve run into a lot of monster-hate groups, and I’ve never seen one called this, which I was shocked at because the part of humanism relating to humans over divine or supernatural matters really fits the whole monster-human thing. (If someone has already made this connection, I’m sorry, I’m not intentionally stealing your work).
4. Yes, this is a reference to the meme, “Excuse me sir, do you have a moment to talk about our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ?”
5. Yes, this is a reference to the “Knife Cat” meme. I have no life.
6. Color symbolism? Whaaat? Nope, no deeper meaning here with the orange and the bravery. Pay no attention to my thinly-veiled comments …

Chapter Text

Run, run, fasterfaster. The merciless cold drives you forward into the yawning night.

Harsh breaths stutter out, ragged, ruined, raging out from your chest.

Clawed branches catch at your face and arms, stinging, singing; you fruitlessly bat them away. They feel like grasping hands, escape them.

Your foot drops into a rabbit hole and you fall; the dirt tastes bitter and metallic, like tea steeped in blood and tears. Laugh with me.

Scrabbling at the base of a tree, your nails break and bleed. You laugh breathlessly. See, it’s funny.

Snap. Brittle leaves and thin sticks break like dry bones. Someone else is out here, too, dummy.

Green and black blur together as you spin. One two three, one two three. Dance with me.

Even the moon hides behind a veil of clouds. You wish you could hide in the sky, too.

You open your eyes to see your bedroom ceiling. Your mouth tastes like a mix between cough medicine, dust, and something you would scrape off the bottom of your shoe. Another running dream, but this one was in a forest. Last time, you were the protagonist of Temple Run; the artifact was a red toy ball, and you were being chased by a giant white dog¹. And the time before that, you were running up the sides of the Grand Canyon while it flooded. You’ve also dreamed about winning the Olympics in track and field, and about being the stereotypical white girl in a horror movie running away from the psycho ghost killer.

Judging by the sunlight peeking through your heavy curtains, it’s about seven. You sigh. It’s never a good day when you wake up so early on a Saturday. But you’re up for good, so you might as well make some good from your miserable, premature awakening. Doesn’t mean you need to be happy about it, though. You shuffle blearily to the kitchen, wishing you liked slippers because the tiles are cold. The coffee machine takes a minute to wake up. You wish you actually liked the taste of coffee. The machine starts vomiting up brackish, brownish liquid, and you frown at it. You had one job, Keurig, and you failed it². Deciding to forgo coffee today, you dump it down the sink and them run water down the drain, too. You’re tapping your fingers on the kitchen island when you hear a slight scratching on the back door. You roll your eyes and open the door. A small, white dog prances through the door, sits down right in between the cabinets and island, and stares up at you demandingly. It’s the street’s stray that wanders around and mooches off kind-hearted strangers before moving onto the next suckers. Occasionally, the dog invades your home randomly for food and affection before waltzing away.

“Heya, Toboggan³. Been a while. Not since you insisted on going sledding and got a toboggan to the face. Still holding a grudge?” You murmur, a tad wickedly, standing in front of him with arms crossed.

He sniffs imperiously, yaps once, and gets up to tug at your pajama bottoms with needle-sharp teeth. He’s not too gentle, either, so you force his head away, and claws scratch over tiles. You sigh.

“Your royal imperiousness ate the last of his dog food months ago.” You’re not really sure how such a pissy, prissy dog is able to survive without being hand-fed choice selections. You’re not even sure of his gender; in fact, you’d made it one of your goals in life to never personally find out.

Toboggan doesn’t care. His look of stupid human, you have personally offended a vast and powerful being far greater than your puny mind could even fathom cuts real, real deep, right to the bone, in fact. You can sense that he’s not leaving until he feeds, preferably on the souls of the innocent and unborn. You sigh again.

“You’re an absolute asshole, I hope you know. And annoying to boot.”

Toboggan has the gall to wag his tail. But he lets you pat his head before you leave, so you don’t grumble as much as you should have.

*\annoying line break/*

(About an hour later)

The pet shop is one of the few public places you feel semi-comfortable in. You adore dogs. If you weren’t already in a semi-temporary relationship with Toboggan, you’d have another dog. But you’re nothing if not faithful. So you content yourself with envious glances and showering affection on every dog friendly enough to pet.

You walk in through the automatic sliding doors. Thankfully, no one tries to say hello or smile at you. Walking with purpose, you head straight for the dog food, and then stand there stumped. The store added more brands since you were here last. It’s practically two whole aisles where it had been, like, a shelf. Your heart sinks a little, but then you are filled with fond, exasperated grumpiness⁴.

“This dog had better let me cuddle with him. Twice! At least! For what he puts me through.” You grumble, reading each label thoroughly.

You’re halfway through one aisle when someone body-checks you onto the floor. You see yellow stars⁵ for a few seconds, and are ready to simultaneously rip someone a new one and to run away before it happens again or an attempt at talking is made. When you open your eyes, there is a dog standing over you with its face shoved into yours. It whines, licks your face, then pants.

“Ummmm.” You notice that the dog, is in fact standing on two legs instead of four, and is wearing a grey tunic with a black belt – it kinda looks like armor. “Hi?”

It yips, a surprisingly high-pitched sound, and withdraws a little bit so that you can sit up. You’re not quite ready to stand up just yet, so you sit quietly for a while. The dog (monster?) is about four feet tall and looks a little like the dog you committed yourself to. Its whole body is quivering. You reach out a hand for a handshake for lack of any other ideas, and the dog surprises you by shoving its forehead into your palm.

“Um?” Experimentally, you scratch a little. The dog barks quietly – encouragingly, you guess. You’re not sure if this is totally PC or not, but decide to keep petting. The dog stretches out its neck … wait, no, its neck just freaking got longer. You squint, but the dog seems to be alright otherwise. It appreciates your continued affection and expresses this sentiment by wheezing like a foghorn.

After a few minutes, you regretfully lift your hand away. The dog whines, but senses that the time for elongation is over, and so its neck slowly slithers back to where it belongs. It barks fondly at you, and then trots away to meet another dog at the end of the dog food aisle, this one on all fours. That dog is about twice as big as Toboggan, but startlingly similar-looking, and about a third smaller than the dog you just met. They bark for a while, almost like a conversation; you watch them because, duh, dogs.

You hear distant shouts of, “Miner, Major⁶, come on buddies!”. The taller one whines, but runs off. The smaller one makes a funny face at you, and then follows at a sedater pace. You brush what feels like gallons of dog hair from your clothing, but it still covers you. You feel a bit like Cruella de Vil.

You then decide that you are fed up with the dog food and grab a bag of senior kibble and puppy wet food just to annoy Toboggan for making you take part in a monogamous relationship when you could have a dog that grows twenty feet when you pet it. You never said you weren’t spiteful. But then you feel bad and grab a rawhide bone for his little, sharp teeth. Better that than your foot, anyway.

*\annoying line break/*

(Approximately 20 minutes later)

You stand in the middle of the coffee aisle at Target. This is also too much for you. When you’d gotten your last coffee machine, it was a gift from your coworkers because you were quitting. You were never sure if it was a well-meant goodbye present, or if they were only too happy to be rid of your *sparkling* presence. But it had lasted a few good years, but it was time to say goodbye. Maybe this time you could get one that actually made good coffee that wouldn’t offend your tastebuds too much.

The aisle of gleaming chrome and other metallic colors almost makes you see spots, but you face it like you do every challenge; with a chorus of otherworldly ghouls groaning in your head and enough spite to fuel a small child⁷.

You like the look of a white-and-black one, but there’s a dark blue one from a brand you’ve heard good things about. They’re the same price, so you’re having trouble deciding.

“So, like, what are you even doing?” A nasally voice says from behind you. You shriek loudly, half-slipping on the floor.

It’s another monster, but this one is definitely not a dog. It’s rather slimy looking, like the underbelly of a fish combined with frog-skin. The monster is bulbous, with four legs, long arms, and spikes for hair. It’s also wearing a nametag pinned above its nose, saying ‘Jerry’.

You gather yourself and try to make an attempt at politeness even though your heart is beating out an angry jig in your chest. “Um, I’m looking for a new coffee machine. Mine broke.”

It looks at the one you were inspecting, and rolls its eyes. “KA-sigh. Where do you get your ideas from!?! You SUCK at this.”

You feel the stirrings of anger beginning to overthrow the anxiety currently piloting you. “You work here, right? Well, show me what you would buy.”

It grabs your hand, much more clingily than you would like, and you find out that Jerry is indeed slimy and cold. You try not to shudder too much. Jerry leads you around the aisle and stops in front of a bright yellow one that’s much girlier than you’d like and more flimsier than you’d want. It has yellow flowers on the side, and something in you recoils; you’re not sure if it’s your sense of style or your gag reflex.

You try to make your grimace look more like a smile. “Yeah … it really is … something.”

The smugness radiating from Jerry could be used to strip paint; you try to not get your hair singed. “DUH! Who DOESN’T know? It’s obviously, like, the best one in the store.”

Your smile gets even faker, but you keep your voice sweet and naïve. “Yep. It sure is. Hey, mind if you get me one from storage? It’s a superstition of mine.”

Jerry smiles, at least you think it’s a smile, and then waddles off. Before it can get back, you basically ditch Jerry and silently fist pump to yourself. What an unpleasant creature. You leave without buying a coffee machine because you don’t want to risk the Return of Jerry. But you grab a box of caffeinated tea on your way out, though.

*\annoying line break/*

Toboggan is still there when you get home, which is surprising. You don’t know how he does it, but sometimes he’ll appear and disappear in places he shouldn’t be able to. It’s a gift, you guess. You look around the room surreptitiously, but it doesn’t seem like he chewed up, peed on, or otherwise destroyed anything.

“Good doggie. Let me throw you a bone⁸.” You snicker at your own joke as you unwrap the rawhide bone and set it down on the floor. Toboggan looks at you, unimpressed. You shrug.

You also unpack the dog food and mix it in a regular bowl. You don’t have any dog bowls (you’re not that involved with the dog) but you make sure to pick a flatter one so that he can get his tiny nose all the way in. He barks impatiently, and for that, you hold it above his head until he stops. Toboggan and you have a special relationship; you’re both a little asshole-ish and mean, but neither of you really mean it.

While he wolfs down his chow⁹, you make yourself comfortable on the couch and grab your computer. After a few minutes, he drags in the bone – which in hindsight is too large, it’s almost drags on the floor when he grabs an end – and sits down next to the table but not on the rug. You hear oh-so-scary, feral, snarls that couldn’t be out of place from a two-year old as he rips the bone to shreds. About twenty minutes later, he gets up and wanders around, probably checking to see if you’ve cheated on him by getting another dog. He also leaves behind a strange residue where he was laying down – most likely dirt or fur, he’s seriously oily sometimes.

After about half-an-hour, he creeps up on you. He’s about as conspicuous as a toddler wearing iron boots, but he thinks you don’t see him. You go along with this illusion, and don’t react. Satisfied with his mastery of stealth, he jumps up on the couch next to you and curls up so that his back is along your thigh. He’s warm, and he lets you gently pet him. Some days, you could swear he’s a cat. Anyway, it’s been a pretty nice day so far.

But Toboggan still owes you another cuddling session. You can’t let the little bastard think you’ve gotten soft. He would lose all respect for you, and that just can’t happen.

1. I think Reader accidentally deployed the dog …
2. Me like memes. I had one job, and I totally nailed it.
3. You can guess who I’m talking about.
4. Not determination. God, no. Do you really think Reader is the type to be motivated by determination?
5. Well, it is Christmas time, but I don’t think Reader is seeing the Star of Bethlehem. I thought I’d save you the time. Heh. (don’t judge me)
6. Reference to Canis Minor and Canis Major, otherwise known as Greater Dog and Lesser Dog, if this wasn’t already obvious. And, no, I meant to type it as Miner.
7. Make of this what you will.
8. Yes, that is a pun. I couldn’t help myself, and more importantly, Reader couldn’t help themselves.
9. I happen to think I’m very punny. (sorry not sorry)