Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Fly me to the moon, let me play among the stars

Good song , you thought to yourself as the tune wafted quietly through the speakers. Without the bustle of people inside, you could hear the ticking of the clock behind the music. Which, speaking of, currently read 9:51. You let loose a sigh of exhaustion. Nine more minutes .

With it being so close to closing time, you had up and started sweeping around, weaving through all the tables and booths so you were back behind the counter, collecting loose sprinkles of parmesan on the black and white tiles of your floor. However, despite the time, your neon green and red Open! sign stayed fully lit. You had to wait those full nine minutes until you could turn it off. You weren’t even allowed to close your kitchen.

You’d owned a homey pizza joint for just over 3 years at that point. Rustic brown brick walls, a glass barrier between you and the street, and a kitchen that had weathered the storms for decades on decades had become life as you knew it. Visible piping decorated the ceiling, only hidden by the lights that hung underneath them, casting them in shadows. The place didn’t have much to call decor otherwise: a potted plant near the entrance, a few pictures on the walls. Booths lined down the two walls adjacent to your counter, dark oaken tables and seats with muddy red faux leather cushions. The floor of the restaurant was laden with the same style of dark oak tables, but the loose chairs sitting around them were painted white. The paint job was shit, it had to have been done at least ten years ago with the magnitude of chipped paint spotted over each of them, except for the relatively new chair sitting at one of the tables.

But as much as you could give the place shit for being old and rustier than it had any business being, it really wasn’t like there was another option for you, was there? All those unforgiving payments you had to make to keep the place, plus the nasty protection fee that strangled every resident in your poor, helpless town—upgrades just weren’t something that you could afford a second thought on. You had a nice sound system to set the atmosphere, a glowing sign out front, and a couple frames to make it nicer on the eye. You knew better than to complain. Some people could hardly afford their apartments. You were one of the luckier ones.

“Let me see what spring is like on Jupiter and Mars,” you hummed, brushing a pile of crumbs into a dustpan and turning it over into the trashcan next to you. “In other words, hold my–”

Ding ding!

You perked up at the familiar, but currently unwelcome sound. A taunting 9:52 hung on the clock above your head. Eight minutes. Eight minutes and you thought that was enough time for me to make a pizza? What do you think I am, an iron chef?

So you turned to direct your growing frustration to the clueless person that somehow decided now was an appropriate time to walk through your doors—

—and every coherent thought buzzing in your head moments ago vanished faster than you could snap your fingers.

Your narrowed eyes blinked wide in pure shock. Thank anyone above that you kept your fucking mouth shut, not gaping at the new customer like they were some animal in a zoo, how rude would that be. As soon as that awareness popped into your brain, you found the muscle to fix your face, squeezing a smile out of your tired cheeks, which had a newfound energy to them.

“i’m real sorry for the hour, ‘s there any chance yer still open t’ orders?” came from this stranger’s mouth, soaked in a heavy drawl, lower in tone than any human you’d met. Tough yet smooth, like an old barrel-soaked whiskey.

“Sign says I’m open, doesn’t it?” You flashed the newcomer a friendly grin. “What can I do ya for?” As you asked the question, you set the broom down beside you, dusting off your hands before looking back up to the customer in question. 

The monster in question, that is. A great big skeleton monster, standing in your restaurant—the very first monster you’d ever seen. By god, he did not disappoint. He had to be at least 6’6, no– 6’10”, no he might be seven fucking feet tall. Seven feet tall, but wide as an ox. You’d call him proportionate, though you couldn’t deny his midsection was hefty. But the skeleton had you second guessing your use of that word—‘skeleton.’ His anatomy wasn’t quite what you’d seen in any high school biology class. For one, he was big boned. Your skeleton would not be nearly as heavy-set as this guy was—it seemed like his radius and ulna were thick with muscle– or, muscular bone? For two, he was moving, without the use of cartilage, muscle, tendons—you didn’t try to put logic into that. Then there was his skull. The face of the monster. It was no human skull. Nor animal neither. The sculpt of his skull was like it was a face in itself, the bone moving like skin would on a human, which felt starkly different than any skull on earth. Deep, black sockets held hazy red pinpricks, locked right on your face. His skull was rounded in a rough, jagged way. And that smile. That sharp, fat-toothed smile. One single golden tooth stuck out like a sore thumb in that grin. A hefty crack had split the bone just above the shining canine. Did it crack when he put that thing in there? You swallowed the spit sitting in your throat. Or did his old tooth get knocked out?

You swallowed again, dry.

Clad in a slightly wrinkled black button down rolled up to his elbows, dark gray slacks, and thin light suspenders, the monster strolled up to your counter, his smile apologetic. How do those chompers manage to seem sincere? He could rip you apart if he wanted to. You shook that thought as soon as it came—nothing more than a lingering fear from a children’s scary story. This was a living being in front of you. Not some fairy tale monster.

His scuffed black shoes clacked against your flooring, crisp in your quiet shop. 

Fill my heart with song and let me sing forevermore

“yer an angel in these trying times,” he huffed through that smile. “i do hope ‘m not too much of a bother.” You returned his grin, waving your hand around to brush off his comment.

“I’m tellin’ you not to worry about it,” you said. “Now order somethin’ before I change my mind.” His expression eased further at your teasing remark, meanwhile you were trying to get your heart to quit pounding through your ribcage. Your neck craned almost comically to look up to the guy.

“i’ll have the supreme.”

Something about his outfit sunk a pit of unsettled nerves in your belly, like there was something deeply wrong about this guy. Who comes into a hole in the wall pizza place dolled up like that? While it was wrinkled, his shirt looked to be designer. None of the design quality was half-assed. Could have even been tailored with how well it seemed to fit him. 

Who am I kidding, you thought. That guy must have all his clothes tailor-made to fit his proportions. He was pushing the limits of my door frame coming in here.

You thoughtlessly told him the total, still wondering who exactly this guy was. From what you knew, monsters had just arrived up in the center of Ebbot about two years ago. Fell City. It was a little difficult to get to, and you hadn’t properly known of any humans who ventured to the underground metropolis. Beyond the rumors that had been spread for centuries, humans didn’t know much about monsters, so many steered clear of Fell City, even moving out of Ebbot when monsters finally left the underground. After they came up to the surface, you assumed they’d spread out into the neighboring cities of Ebbot soon afterwards. You’d be wrong. It took two years for a single monster to step foot into your town, with the first one being the sizable skeleton at your register. You’d heard a little through the grapevine about Don Mitch’s gang beginning some dialogue with a newer, more diverse gang about some territory exchanges near Ebbot. Maybe you should’ve put two and two together, and realized that “diverse” was just a way to talk about monsters without putting the Don’s business on blast, which would explain the monster’s taste in clothing. If this monster was here to scope out the city for territorial means, he’d soon realize the other cities that neighbored Ebbot would be better to earn in exchange. 

Full offense to your town, it was incredibly rundown. After Don Mitch took control of the area, the infrastructure went to shit. Safety of the citizens plummeted. Truly, it had become a scary area, with the Don’s gang specializing in debt collection of citizens that could not manage to pay off the protection fees locked on the apartments. Horrifying really. They’d come in full swing as you were getting into high school, a little over a decade ago. In that short span, you’d seen the once lively and quaint town you grew up in devolve into dangerous streets, with no more greenery kept up in the public spaces, no more repairs made to the damages scattered around, no more spots for kids to grow up in safely. When the protection fee was first introduced, several people couldn’t scrape together the funds to get the gang off their backs, so they pleaded with them. Just a few more days and I’ll have it! they would say. So Don Mitch had his boys offer to “help those people out.” Gave them the money in a loan to pay off. So they’d get the protection fee, but after a week, that loan payment would go up. And again, another week passed, the loan would go up. By the time the next protection fee was collected, the people were bled dry of anything they had, and once they couldn’t even afford the loan, with nothing scraped up for the next fee, Don Mitch would have them dealt with . In high school, you weren’t sure all that entailed, but by the time you got to college, you were more than familiar. Too many grim sundays, all donned in black. 

There wasn’t a thing anyone could do. Don Mitch had gotten ridiculously wealthy despite the supposed poor state of the town; he had every aspect of politics in his pocket: cops, politicians, education—it didn’t matter, Don Mitch was the not-so-invisible hand in charge of it all. If you talked bad about him, your head would be pitched on a stick. You’d be made an example of. He wasn’t above that kind of policy enforcement. You had seen things that would make an army veteran blush.

The skeleton fished his wallet from his pocket, digging around for a bill until he landed on one, handing it to you wordlessly.

Really, you thought, your eye twitching involuntarily, lips set in a thin line. You popped open your register, fishing out various bills. A fifty dollar bill. Great, let me do a ridiculously unnecessary amount of counting of bills and coins so that you can flaunt that you carry around massive bills in your wallet—

“keep the change.”

Oh, you internal sighed. Now I don’t have to count all that out.

And then you flinched. “Sorry?”

He chuckled, low and dark, “i said t’keep the change.”

You paused, and stared at him for several seconds, just holding the bill with a dumb look on your face.

“Keep… the fifty?” 

“do ya have a hearin’ problem?” he grinned at you, not maliciously. You blinked a few times, finally pulled from your little trance. “yes, keep the fifty.”

You laughed in disbelief, shaking your head. “I’m sorry, I just… I mean, it’s just pizza. Not to talk down on my cooking skills, but… this is a lot of money, for just one pizza. I don’t…” As you continued talking, his expression didn’t change from the knowing, and slightly condescending grin set on his sharp, sharp teeth. Like he knew it was too much to give you. Like he enjoyed you trying to reason with him that your pizza truly wasn’t worth that much. In all honesty, you were so used to the less fortunate folks of your town coming in, trying to tip as much as they could, and you’d try to push their generous bills back, telling them to keep it. Some of them got you to take the extra cash, but when you knew practically everyone, and all their financial situations—you felt guilt weigh heavy down on your bones taking the money that could be used to pay off that filthy gang.

The more you tried to reason with him, the less you felt you wanted to. Is it entertaining to watch me tell you how undeserving I am of your money?

“ya let me in when yer practically closed, an’ i’m very grateful. keep it.” He assured you, and you felt like you weren’t in a place to keep arguing. Fifty dollars was fifty dollars. Even if he was flaunting his wealth, he was being truly kind about it. There were other ways to show off in these kinds of places that don’t involve giving copious amounts of money as tips to working people, wardrobe being one of them. And while his clothing was surely impressive by name, all he had on was that wrinkled button up and slacks. Don Mitch shat in nicer threads that that. 

“Let me tell you, I’m grateful for you right now. I’ll get that started pronto.” You gave him a polite smile, and headed back into your kitchen to start the process.

The pizza didn’t take long to put together, nor to get in the stone oven: your hands moved quickly dressing the dough and dropping a heavy handful of toppings in a slightly more intentional way than you’d been doing all day. Fifty dollars was fifty dollars, and you didn’t wanna make this guy regret such a kind tip. Once it was sitting in that oven, you headed back to the main restaurant, stepping out from behind the counter to approach the entrance. Like clockwork, you double-checked the time hanging on the wall. 10:01. How’s that for a closing time, Jack. You tapped the button on the neon to turn it off for the day.

Besides that, you were mostly done closing up, so you just headed back behind the counter, ignoring the skeleton who was currently scanning the interior of your shop. After a minute or two of standing around, double checking that everything was clear and ready for tomorrow, you turned back to him.

“So,” you began, crossing your arms across your chest and watching as his head moved slowly to catch your eye. You swallowed. “You new in town?” You leaned your weight behind you against the wall, crossing a leg over the other. In response, the skeleton’s grin widened. Does this guy ever not smile?

“am i that obvious?” came that dark and gravelly voice. You smiled at him.

“Nah, I’ve just never had any monsters come in here.”

He nodded his head in understanding. “not many of us moved out of fell.”

You uncrossed your arms, tucking your hands into the pockets of your jeans. So I’ve heard.

“So, what about you then?” You cocked your head at him. “Did you move somewhere near here?” 

He dropped your gaze, tilting his head to the side in consideration. “not… sure yet.” Gangster. Definitely. He’s checking out a few different areas of Mitch’s before making a decision.

“Oh?” you goaded him. “Wouldn’t be too surprised if you didn’t end up here. This isn’t exactly a nice area.” You ended that comment with a wince. He half-scoffed, as if to say ‘you could say that again,’ but then his smile dropped slightly as if he just processed what you said.

“‘wouldn’t be surprised?’” he repeated. “why wouldn’t i move here?” Feeling like you made a wrong step in the conversation, you swallowed before you spoke again.

“I mean, you did drop $50 on a pizza just because you came in close to closing time,” you offered. “Most people that live around here don’t have that kind of money.”

He hummed in understanding, it didn’t ease your nerves. Then, the monster shrugged.

“well, who knows, right? nothing’s set in stone just yet.” Then he winked at you, and you hoped to anyone above that he was just a friendly guy, who winked at strangers to ease tension. You gave a humorless chuckle, and spared a glance at the clock. 10:05. Could time move any slower.

“Right.”

“say, there ain’t much to this place, is there?” he asked, unreadable in the face. He looked curious on the surface, but casual enough to make you wonder if that’s all it was. Genuine curiosity. Genuine curiosity is putting it a little nice. That was a rude thing to say.

Your face betrayed you, despite yourself. Another twitch in your eye, and an unhappy quirk of your smile. 

“Ouch,” you said. “Decor is a little pricey for a restaurant. I don’t exactly have the funds. Plus, it pays the bills with bare walls. Who am I to complain?”

The air was taut. You wanted to shake off your nerves, but you didn’t truly feel like you could. Your unease felt unfounded, he was just a stranger in your place, no more shocking than any other patron you’d had before. Maybe it was the obvious wealth. The golden tooth. The ripping teeth. Maybe it was his sheer size. 

Maybe it was the knowledge that most of media coverage of Fell City was that it truly was a hellscape of its own. War torn for centuries, with violent-familiar citizens to prove it. Shocking rates of reported PTSD from the monsters who arrived at the surface. Forget your city falling to the gangs as of recently—violence was all they knew down there. If what you’d seen on the surface would make an army veteran blush, the trauma of Fell monsters would make an oil company go pale. You didn’t want to imagine what that kind of media coverage entailed for the reality of the underground. 

Either way, you felt rude with your discomfort. He hadn’t done anything to make you uneasy. Nothing he could control, per se. Well, he didn’t have to wear designer. 

“how long have ya lived here?” He folded his hands in front of himself, wearing a face you’d seen dozens of times by mobsters when they would meet together in those dingy bars around town, leering at a beautiful woman singing on stage. It was a face of baiting information. He wanted to get to know you, not just to know you. He probably couldn’t care less about anything you’d say.

“My whole life,” you said. “This used to be my dad’s place. I took over not long ago.” 

His face changed for a split second, and something recognizable flashed across those crimson lights in those dark sockets. Something humane. Something like understanding. But it left as soon as it came. “continuin’ a family legacy, huh?”

“Yeah,” you half-smiled, and shrugged, “you could say that.” 

He cast his eyelights to your counter for a moment, before bringing them back up to your face again, a more information-seeking glow to his eyes now burning in them. 

“been here yer whole life, butcha can’t afford savin’ up for decor?” he asked, and your body hated the way those lights were reading into your eyes. It was like he knew where to look in your irises. Like he could bring the question out of your pupils if he stared hard enough.

“I got bills to pay,” you shrugged. “Those come first. I afforded the frames of some family pictures, I guess.” What the fuck is this guy’s problem? What is so shocking about an undecorated restaurant?

“and would ya say that maybe some of those bills are a little higher than needed?”

You felt like he’d stepped into a conversation you weren’t allowed a say in. Not in the sense that he wouldn’t let you talk, but in the sense that the always-watching-eye of Don Mitch was, well… always watching. Who’s to say this monster isn’t just a new set of eyes to gather intel on any possible dissatisfaction with the Don?

“Uh…”

“how would ya say ya feel about the current, ah… management of the town?” he asked, taking a second to find the words he was missing. “how mightcha feel about a possible change in management? ” You huffed in thought, biting your bottom lip.

How could I word this without it coming back to bite me in the ass. “Uh… I d- I don’t know, man. It’s…” you swallowed, glancing out past the glass that boarded you from outsiders. You bit the skin on the inside of your cheek. If there was a way to back out of the question… 

The skeleton’s sockets squinted ever so slightly, reading you. He must’ve had some practice with it, because his expression hardly faltered, but those eyelights left you feeling undressed.

“huh,” his eyes dropped to your counter, and then he turned his head to look out the glass wall to the street before returning to yours, knowing . “feel like ya can’t talk about it?” 

He’s better at that than I thought. Maybe I… could talk to him. If he’d be the change in management?

“N-Not that. It’s just,” you floundered with no luck. 

It’s not set in stone. He could end up gathering this information and you could still end up in a ditch.

“if yer worried about someone hearing this from me, ya have my word, i ain’t a snitch.” Your lips quirked up at that. Maybe he was someone to trust, but either way, you couldn’t risk explicit dialogue. You sucked in a deep breath, staring into his eyes with intent.

I don’t know if I can trust his word, but… maybe I should.

“The pizzas here, aren’t good.”

His brow bone narrowed in confusion, and those sockets spent a few good seconds staring at you like you had just grown a third head. “weird way of advertisin’, ‘specially after i already bought one.” Even though his words were lighthearted, his eyes were scrutinizing, reading .

You tried again. “The pizzas here haven’t been good in about 12 years. After someone else took over.” His sockets remained confused, but you could see the cogs moving around in his skull, and then they widened.

Okay. Let’s be careful now. 

“There isn’t much decor, and the lights need replacing. It gets real dark at night, and real dangerous in here, if you’re not careful.”

His eyelights moved off your face for a second, deep in thought, before falling back to you. “wouldja say that… other residents feel the same? about yer restaurant?”

“Definitely. Not to mention, pizzas are really expensive now, but the quality has only gotten worse.” 

“and uh… does anyone say anything to you about it?” 

“If they did say anything, about the pizzas, I’d have them banned for life. ” His brow bone raised in understanding. He scratched at his maw with a clawed digit. He has claws.

Now that you noticed, you found yourself staring in fascination at the build of his hand. Nothing like a human skeleton’s hand, that’s for sure, but you’d established that about his anatomy before. His metacarpals were fused together in a bony palm, and his phalanges were thick, just like a human finger would be for a guy of his size. Each digit had a claw sharpened into the end of the phalange.

“i wonder if ya’d be open to possibly discussing the state of your restaurant in a more… private setting.” You sighed somewhat in relief.

“As long as nothing… comes back to haunt me. You know the stakes by now.”

“believe me, i understand,” he assured you. You decided to believe him. How many other choices did you have? Someone comes in here asking questions that have only been asked by police in the past, with any response that wasn’t a fat smile and a satisfied compliment of the gang resulting in an unearthly punishment. No, this was no police-backed shakedown of your obedience. This was too different.

He stood from his chair, taking slow, meaningful strides to your counter. He stopped in front of you, and you were reminded of his intimidating height. And then he extended a big bony hand to you.

“the name’s sans,” he said. “sans the skeleton. butcha can call me red, sweetheart.”

Sweetheart?!

You opted to ignore the pet name, and you couldn’t help but finally take notice of his exposed forearms, decorated with an impressive number of scars. His bones looked sturdy, but stars, the sheer number of seemingly-healed ridges, notches, and gashes across the scruffy ivory made you swallow your nerves for the umpteenth time. You snapped your attention back to his face, gave him a courteous grin, and exchanged your name as you took his hand in yours.

“Now if you’ll excuse me, Red, there is a pizza that I nearly forgot about that needs tending to.”

His voice boomed immediately after you said that, and you full-body flinched at the sudden volume. Laughing, you thought, with a sigh. He’s just laughing.

His jaw had opened fully with his laugh, sharp teeth parting to reveal a glowing tongue sitting in his mouth. Your eyes widened when you noticed the appendage, and you briefly wondered how the fuck a skeleton had a muscle like a tongue. I guess he also has two disembodied lights floating in his eyesockets, and he moves without any muscles or cartilage. Remember, this isn’t a human, nor a human skeleton. The laugh only lasted a moment, but his returning expression was one of kindness. “by all means.”

You gave him a genuine smile in response, and moved to the kitchen to fish out the pizza. 

As you returned to Red, pizza box in your hands, you offered another smile to him. “Thank you for stopping by.”

He grabbed the box with a single hand, effortless. That’s one of my heaviest pizzas. It’s got like everything on it.

“thank ya for this,” he winked at you again. “gimme a call if ya ever want to chat.”

Then you noticed the slip of paper on your counter, which had, in small, slightly messy handwriting, ‘sans’ written on it, accompanied by a phone number.

You looked up as you called out, “Come aga—!” But he was gone.

Your head scanned the restaurant in confusion. The bell didn’t ring on his way out. 

But wafting over the tiles of your open floor was a thin layer of red smoke, soon dispersing into nothing but air.

…

With a quiet pop, Sans found his surroundings to be the familiar entryway of the house he shared with his two brothers. His maw cracked open wide with a yawn, one that had his sockets pricked with tears. He walked through the entry hall to the kitchen, setting the box unceremoniously to the marble island and soon taking a seat at one of the stools to begin his incredibly late dinner.

Being the size that he was, Sans had a substantial diet to maintain his health. Unfortunately, today, he’d been so busy talking with his brothers about further plans on territorial disputes that he’d hardly had the chance for a snack. And if he wasn’t conversing with his older brother (or really, being talked at by him), he was doing some sort of heavy lifting, or he was banished to the lab to work on some new model mechanics. Not often did days come like this, busy from dawn to dusk, overworked in every sense of the word, but they still came alright. If he was being honest, he didn’t think the pizza would do the trick for him, but he felt bad enough bothering the poor restaurant owner so late at night with anything that he couldn’t possibly do that to them.

I’m not cruel, he thought, cracking the pizza box open and letting his shoulders lose their tension when the incredible scent of baked bread, cheese, and a mountain of toppings hit his nasal. But maybe I should’ve asked for another.

With the size of his maw, his first bite took out half of the slice he’d grabbed, and he nearly moaned at the taste. He truly was starving, and in the next second the rest of that slice was gone. 

It’s quiet in here, he noticed. Can’t remember the last meal I had in peace. Reality was cruel though, and immediately after that thought crosses his mind, he heard the door swing open, and two sets of footsteps approach. Sans couldn’t restrain his sockets from dropping in frustration. And I guess I’ll have to keep waiting for that peaceful meal.

“Good to see you’re home,” the eldest said. Despite the supposedly kind words, Sans gathered from his tone alone that the conversation would lead back to work. Again. “I know you’re probably still upset about Grillby’s, but it’s sorted now. Our meeting with Grillby was helpful. He agreed to the terms of a new location on the surface.”

As much as Sans truly wanted to put any work talk to a swift end, he knew much better than to ever interrupt his older brother, no matter how upset or tired he was. So, Sans opted to take another hearty bite from the loaded pizza. 

Wingdings Gaster. The oldest of the three Gaster brothers, and by far, the smartest, scariest, most powerful gangster from the underground, according to Sans. Sans’ metric wasn’t wrong though: even within their own gang, Gaster led the pack in every single aspect that a danger could bring. Despite the magnitude of threat that Gaster imposed, he wasn’t the face of it, but it was clear if you looked into their business any further than the surface level, you’d notice how versatile Wings could be. Most of the time, he kept to the inventions of trade, utilizing his brain. Sometimes, on the rare occasion, Wings was brought out for the meetings, the deals. Grillby’s conversation was an easy one surely, one he’d give to Sans on any normal day, but Sans had put up quite the fight regarding his neglected appetite. The eldest brother often took the more difficult clients, the more difficult conversations, when they arose. His appearance was enough to make any Fell monster, let alone human, tremble. He was taller than Sans, just by inches, but Sans was still much bigger. Wings was just scarier . His eyelights were deep purple, and his eyesockets had mismatching scars: one above his left eyesocket, and another below his right that trailed down to his mouth. Oh, his mouth . The gangster’s eloquent way of speaking contradicted so strikingly to the vessel those words left from, that being the most terror-inducing mouth known to living beings. His teeth, unlike Sans’, were many , and all of them razor-sharp. 

All that aside, Sans believed Wingdings’ magic was the scariest aspect of the monster. Back in the underground, the eldest Gaster had taken years working on his magical ability. The life the Gasters had grown up with was unforgiving in every single aspect, and Wingdings knew if he didn’t change himself to be able to defend his family, no one would. Sans knew he had Wings to thank for his own advances in his abilities: the long, treacherous nights of magic “training” (Sans would tell you it wasn’t training so much as torture), the even longer days of physical capability strengthening. Even with those years of collapsing to the exhausting efforts of battling his brother, Wings stayed consistently ahead of Sans in the magical power department. The work paid off for all of the brothers though, and soon, every single monster in Fell knew about the threat of Wingdings Gaster. If any monster so happened to piss off the oldest Gaster, he’d have them begging the stars above for a sweet mercy of death, saved from the throes of Wingdings’ wrath.

“good t’ hear it—”

“How was getting food?” 

“if yer askin’ if i got t’ talk to anyone in town, the answer’s yes,” Sans was not too much of a fan of Wings’ small talk. He always had a question in mind, but stars, did he want to remain polite. “the pizza shop owner let me know a bit about the area. was hard for ‘em, though. that don has done a number on those residents. i gave ‘em my number, so i’ll look out fer a call if they decide they wanna chat.”

Wings hummed in thought, finally passing through the kitchen with one last final comment as he left to return to his room. “Good work today.”

Sans blinked in faint surprise. Was that praise? From Wings? Must be my fuckin’ birthday. Sans thought before chuckling quietly to himself, interrupted by a startlingly grating voice booming right next to his head.

“WHAT KIND OF PIZZA IS THAT?”

Ah, right—his younger brother. Papyrus, despite being the youngest of the three Gasters, was by far the tallest, standing at a terrifying ten feet tall. Sans was pretty sure Papyrus was the tallest monster from the underground. Beyond that, his eye sockets were much narrower than Sans’s, but he had the same color eyelights: dark red, and his stature was much thinner than either of his brothers—still powerful all the same, and not exactly weak in frame, just lengthy. Papyrus’s face was fear-inducing enough as it was: with teeth much bigger and sharper than Sans’s, and a longer skull as well. Coupled with his looks came his petrifying demeanor and temper. While Sans could stomach the racist comments that often came from human gangs during their meetings, Papyrus was much less tolerable of such treatment. He resorted to brutal methods of violence, because, despite his supposedly lanky build, the skeleton could tear, maim, or beat anyone to nothing but mashed gore with frightening ease. This made him great material as the muscle in the gang, but he was often kept exclusively to that sector of it all, with few exceptions. Not quite as savvy in a lab setting, nor as useful during business meetings. 

Sans’s eyelights rolled back, and he sighed, albeit slightly overdramatic. “supreme.”

“... CAN I HAVE S—”

“no, ya can’t have any. this is my first real meal of the day and i’m fuckin’ exhausted.”

Papyrus folded his arms and stomped his foot, like a child, and then let out an indignant ‘hmph.’

“aren’t there leftovers in the fridge?”

“I ALREADY ATE LEFTOVERS FOR LUNCH! I DON’T WANT THEM AGAIN.” Sans didn’t react to that.

“well fig’er somethin’ out! ya ain’t a baby bones no more.”

Papyrus only turned his head away, but gave no response. Sans ignored him as he left in a bit of a mood, and finished his third slice of pizza. As he reached for his fourth, he hesitated, and after another second, he let out a frustrated sigh, defeated. He grabbed a fourth and fifth slice, then closed the box. Just then he noticed the design on the box, which was a more simplistic but charming brown bear holding his hands up. Sans smiled despite himself, and stood up from the island, stretching out his back as he did. 

He turned to face Papyrus, who was pouting in the living room.

“hey, boss.” Sans called.

Papyrus perked up despite the annoyed look in his eyes over the nickname. 

“‘m not hungry. the rest is on the counter.” And with that, Sans retired to his room. Papyrus didn’t respond, didn’t thank him, but Sans noticed Papyrus’s eyes light up in excitement as he started up the stairs. 

…

Chapter Text

“he didn’t use nothin’ on ya?”

“He was surprisingly civil! I know you an’ I are close, but I wasn’t sure how that’d translate with Wings,” Grillby responded, equally as surprised as Sans when the words left his mouth. Sans breathed a sigh of relief. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little worried when he came in. Your brother is scary as shit, Sans.”

“don’t i know it,” sans grumbled, wincing. “sorry ya had to deal wit’ that.”

Back in the Underground, a certain elemental bartender made a name for himself after being publicly shamed by the King and Queen for the industry he was part of. Of course, with that industry being purely about refining the taste of monster alcohol, many residents in Fell could not understand exactly what made the royals so royally disgusted. Not to fret, because Asgore and Toriel made it known what was so horrifically disturbing about Grillby’s establishment, which was that it could not be enjoyed by children, namely their children. Grillby even argued back at the royals how ridiculous it was that they were ridiculing his bar over such an inane concept, but they wouldn’t budge in their views. Naturally, a place that invoked such a riled reaction from the royals earned Sans’s respect instantly, and he became a regular of the elemental’s unrivaled mustard and company—it didn’t matter how much it pissed Papyrus or Wings off. The bartender in question, Grillby, a monster of heliotrope-purple flames, stood at a height comfortably above six feet, which meant many monsters back in Fell still towered over him. But Grillby was a lot of things, and stupid wasn’t one of them. He knew most of the monsters down there could take him, so he never let the opportunity arise for him to get his ass kicked.

Grillby waved his hand as to brush it off. “Didn’t have to deal with much. He offered full security of my place if I agreed to set up wherever youse guys decided to settle in on the surface, plus compensation for however long that’d take.”

Sans’s head tilted in acknowledgment of the offer. You’d have to be braindead to turn down that kind of thing from Wings. Then Sans pointed a non-accusational finger at Grilllby, as if to point to something he’d said. “speakin’ of, did he mention how long it’d be before yer all set up?”

Grillby made a face, contorted in what Sans would call a wince of sympathy. He shrugged. “Ah, I donno. I mean, how long ya think it’ll be before you've decided on somewhere? And then ya gotta meet with Don Mitch about that, I’d still need to find a place, et cetera, et cetera. It’ll be, at minimum, a few months.”

Sans’s face fell at that. Maybe if all this shit they were doing, all the human-monster relations political business weren’t so fuckin’ tiresome, so exhausting, Sans would be more patient. But as it were, he found himself working harder than he ever really had to before: having the most patience-destroying meetings with human gangs, spending the most headache-inducing nights in the lab with Wings, all the while doing it completely sober. Not that Wings would allow Sans to drink before stepping foot in the lab, nor would he allow him to attend a meeting buzzed, but at the end of those lengthy, legal days, Sans couldn’t even get a good drink to take the edge off. He was hard pressed to find somewhere with good monster alcohol now that Grillby’s was shut down for the time being, and he refused to drink any of the shit humans ingested. The dry and fiery liquors that burned his tongue, the weak piss-flavored beers that made him gag—none of it cut it for the soul-deep (maybe he was getting a little dramatic) need for a hearty mustard.

Grillby cut him out of his lengthy internal monologue of agony over his neglected vice: “I knew the news would be rough on ya. There’s a small stash of mustard that I moved into that fridge youse got for me.”

He might as well have said he ended world hunger with the way Sans reacted, which was a flinch of surprise and some of the most hopeful eye sockets Grillby had ever seen the skeleton give him. “i’ll blow ya after this meetin’ if yer serious.”

“I’m flattered,” he deadpanned. “Better way to repay me is just to get this whole process expedited. I’m not too keen on sharing a living space with your brother.” 

“which one?” Sans grinned.

“Now that ya say it, both of ‘em.” And with that, the elemental clapped him on the shoulder and headed past him. “Good luck in that meeting or whatever.”

“yeah, yeah,” Sans called back, finding the urge to grab one of the mustards from that fridge near impossible to ignore, but he found the strength to anyways.

The dining room of their home was a masterpiece in itself. Beautiful pearly walls decorated with even more beautiful impressionist paintings, golden accents all around, a magnificent oaken table with obnoxiously intricate designs carved into the lip of the wood on the sides, and matching oak chairs that had similar designs carved into them as well. An impressive, but still modest chandelier hung directly center above the table. Surrounding the table sat his two brothers and a small brown-haired child. The latter beamed as he entered, while the formers gave him looks that made him grumble under his breath.

“Hi, Sans,” the child, Frisk, said much too happily. Nonetheless, Sans felt himself smiling at the welcome.

“heya, kiddo.” He took a seat next to them, ruffling their hair as he did, which landed him right next to Wings, at the head of the table, with Papyrus directly across. Sans was a little surprised when he noticed that he wasn’t getting a nasty stink eye from his younger brother for being late, more of a slightly disapproving glare.

Wings began talking in a tight voice. “I’m sure I don’t need to tell you,” but he did so anyway: “you are late.” Sans shrugged in a failing attempt to keep Wings not as high strung as he sounded.

“was jus’ catchin’ up wit’ grill on yer chat wit’ him—”

“Do it after,” Wings cut him off, and Sans shut his maw, “so as to not waste anyone’s time.” Yikes.

“heard.” Wings nodded briefly at the response.

Sans glanced to Frisk, who was so tiny when compared to the massive chair they sat in—their head barely surpassed the top of the table. In one effortless move, Sans picked the kid up and sat them on his thigh, giving them just a bit of extra height. They giggled as he lifted them, and he noogied them gently in response.

“I hope everyone is ready for this discussion, as it will take a while—which reminds me: Frisk, is your homework done?” Wings directed his attention to the kid, giving them a much gentler stare than he’d ever given to his brothers. They shook their head.

“I got done with reading and science, but not math yet.” Sans furrowed his brow bones.

“that’s three classes in a night,” he remarked. “they’re workin’ youse kids too hard.”

Frisk huffed in agreement. “Yeah. We had a couple days for the reading, but my math teacher gave us a sheet front and back. I didn’t pay attention real well in class either so I’m kinda confused. It was really boring.” Sans snickered.

“SURELY THEY CAN DO THE REST DURING THIS CONVERSATION,” Papyrus finally piped in. “IT WON’T TAKE LONG, CONSIDERING THEIR IMPRESSIVE INTELLECT. SANS CAN HELP IF NEED BE.”

“i’ll do what i can, but the way they teach math nowadays is such bullshit—”

“LANGUAGE!”

“sorry frisk, ‘s… not a great way to learn math. that ‘new math’ or whatever the fu- um, or whatever ‘s called. they teach it stupid—don’t tell yer teacher i said that—an’ i never know what they want kids to put on their homework. either way, i’ll teach ya the right way to do it, go ‘head an’ getcher paper fer me.” He dropped them off of his lap and they scurried away to go grab the work.

“Right, while they’re doing that, I need to hear details about anything new in the areas we’ve been looking into.” Wings clicked his pen and hovered it above his notepad, glancing between the two brothers.

“SPRINGSIDE, THE ONE ON THE WATER, HAS A THRIVING RESTAURANT INDUSTRY AND RESIDENTIAL NIGHT LIFE. UNFORTUNATELY, THEIR TOLERANCE OF MONSTERS IS RELATIVELY LOW, AT LEAST IN THE MORE EXPENSIVE PARTS.” Wings scribbled on his notepad as Papyrus spoke, and Sans glanced at the paper. Wings made a habit of writing his notes of any business meeting in a cryptic language only understood by the skeletons at the table, and even that was a slight stretch. Sans could read said language for the most part, same with Papyrus, but neither of them were too fluent in speech. Wings only did it in the case that someone got a hand on his notepad. Without hardly any text on the language’s origin or translations, not a single other SOUL had the capability to understand them.

“Good contender, save for the intolerance,” Wings muttered the second half of that sentence. “And Don Mitch’s presence?”

“HE HAS A SIZABLE PROPERTY IN THE AREA. HE TOLD ME IT RETURNS THE LARGEST PROFIT, AND IT’S THE ONE HE STAYS IN THE MOST OFTEN.”

A moment passed in silence, only filled by the hurried scribbling of more notes.

Another moment passed, but this time, a scutter of footsteps filled the quiet. Sans watched as a tiny head of brown hair ran around the table to get back to his seat. Frisk stared up at him with a piece of paper and a sparkly red pencil in their hands.

Once Sans set them back on his lap, they got to work. Wings asked Papyrus a few more questions about the Springside area, which Sans decidedly ignored. Any useful information would be reiterated by Wings not too long after.

“whatcha learnin’ in class?” he kept his voice down as he asked.

“Fractions,” they replied in a whisper, and showed him their homework. “I don’t know what they mean.” 

“do ya get any fraction of it or do ya want me t’ give ya the lowdown?” They stared at him in confusion. A few seconds of that silence gave Sans his answer.

“we’ll do the lowdown an’ then ya can tell me if that joke was funny,” Sans shifted around a little until he was in a comfortable spot to see the paper. “so, imagine ya take one thing, an’ split it into multiple pieces, like a cake. now, if i cut one cake into eight pieces, how many cakes do i have?”

Frisk glanced at the table for a second. “One?”

“bingo. but how many pieces of cake do i have?”

“Eight.” Their answer came more confident this time.

“there we go,” he praised, and lifted his knuckles to them for a fist bump. “them’s the basics of fractions. now this—the bottom number—is how many pieces you split something into. ‘s called the denominator.”

Sans continued a short explanation for Frisk, asking them questions here and there to gauge their understanding. This became a consistent routine for them whenever Frisk needed help in school. Sans was pretty sure that Frisk had some kind of focusing problem, because whenever he explained it to them, they were able to grasp concepts very quickly, but they regularly came home from school complaining that the lessons were too boring, or that they didn’t listen properly the first time.

Not that Sans was bothered by this tendency. If anything, it was one of the few joys in his life now: getting to bond with the little tyke over stupid schoolwork. After many times of this happening, Frisk made a comment to Sans about how smart he was, knowing the answer to practically every question on these assignments. He’d never say so, but that one compliment from them meant more than any of the diplomas hanging in his office. Screw his PhDs; who needs them when this kid looks at him like he’s hung the stars over knowing grade school mathematics?

“Have you finished?” Wings asked gently to Frisk.

“Just got one more problem, but I can do it,” they replied, voice determined, like always. “Sans explained it really good.”

“REALLY WELL .”

“Really well ,” they corrected themself, and received a proud nod from Papyrus.

“need my input?” Sans focused his attention to his older brother, who nodded.

“Explain in detail how it was when you went to that pizza restaurant the other night,” he said.

“right,” Sans began. “i went t’ a pizza place in atheby. i got there at ten minutes t’ closin’ time. doubt the owner was happy ‘bout that, but they didn’t let me know that. didn’t see any anti-monster signs anywhere. gave the pizza person my number by the end of our little chat—during which, thanks to my incredible charm, i got some very useful intel on mitch’s control of the area—but i could tell they were gettin’ uncomfy discussin’ it in public. they mentioned mitch took over around… maybe ten years ago. somethin’ like that anyway. i remember when i mentioned we might take over, the owner felt way more inclined to spill about him. after he took over, town went to shit, ‘s the gist of it—”

“LANGUAGE, SANS!”

“oh gimme a break, the kid has heard it all before.”

“THANKS TO YOU!”

“that’s jus’ semantics. anyway, where was i… oh yeah, so atheby is real dangerous at night, bad protection fee on the residents, an’ the like. it ain’t a richie place like springside. the town itself was pretty fuckin—” (this earned him an indignant grumble from Papyrus) “—rundown. the owner was not wrong. the lights on the streets hardly worked, buildings looked like as—um, looked awful, and the streets were rough too. if i had a nickel fer every pothole i saw, we could go sleddin’ on a mountain o’ silver.”

Wings spent several moments jotting down the important parts of Sans’s long, uninterrupted train of thought. In that time, Sans turned back to Frisk and bounced his thigh once. “all done?”

“Yeah. Is this right?” They pointed to the last question, and sure enough, they had it right. 

“now that’s what ‘m fuckin’ talkin’ about,” he held his knuckles out and they bumped him, giggling as they did. “certified genius over ‘ere.”

“Rundown area, huh,” Wings mumbled. “It’s a safer bet to go for somewhere a little nicer. It wouldn’t be good to bring monsters up to a town just for them to die.”

“if we got mitch outta there then we could prob’ly get a handle on the crime,” Sans said. “y’know how places like that are. if the don stopped gougin’ people of all they had, bet crime would halve itself.”

Wings hummed in thought. “Even still, it’d take months of work to get the town even barely rehabilitated. This project will take long enough as it is; could we even handle the press on us in a place like that?”

“yer right,” Sans sighed, scritching at his maw with his clawed digits. “i donno, i’m jus’ thinkin’ that the don is gonna be too attached t’ springside to hand it over. what other options do we have?” The logistics always made these meetings so fucking tiresome. Sans had to actively use his brain the whole time when making suggestions—had to consider the press reactions, residential reactions, gang affiliations, timeline difficulties… I’m gettin’ a fuckin’ headache just thinkin’ about it.

“Not many,” Wings responded, and Sans noticed stress marks deepening in the skull of his brother. “Othales is a moderate area, but is much too intolerant to even consider as an option.”

“AND I REFUSE TO GO TO VENAPOLIS. THE RESTAURANTS WERE PITIFUL! NOT A SINGLE ITALIAN STYLE DINER, AND THE PRICES WERE MUCH TOO HIGH FOR THE AWFUL GREASE THEY SOLD IN THEIR ESTABLISHMENTS. MANY MONSTERS WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO AFFORD THE RIDICULOUS COSTS.”

“Yes, Venapolis is much too pricey for our plans,” Wings rubbed his forehead repeatedly, obviously trying to stay sane. “I can’t think of a logical next step.”

“What’s wrong with Atheby again?” Frisk asked, glancing up to Sans.

“too dangerous for monsters, all that crime. won’t look good if we bring up a group of us an’ they end up—uh… in danger.” 

Frisk glanced to the other skeletons before they spoke again. “But I thought you said Mitch was causing all the crime?”

“That’s right,” Wings said. More or less.

“If he left, wouldn’t it be easy to fix? And then, if you fixed a bad area, wouldn’t that make monsters look helpful to publix?”

“Fixing the area would still—”

Wingdings paused mid-sentence, and Sans blinked in surprise, watching as the gears churned in his brother’s head. Wings looked back to Frisk with something of surprise in his eyelights. He didn’t say anything for a few seconds. Instead, he grabbed his pen and hastily started jotting down notes on the pad. Frisk looked up at Sans, who shrugged. 

After a good minute of Papyrus and Sans glancing from each other back to their eldest sibling, Wings spoke up. “I don’t know how I keep forgetting how smart you are, Frisk. It’s a good thing we have you listening in to these meetings.”

Frisk beamed a smile with a missing front tooth, and Sans gave their tiny shoulder a praising nudge.

“If we enter an area with high crime rates and bad infrastructure, and we improve upon it, it would have to be nearly impossible for any press to turn bad. And even if bad press comes up, it won’t be difficult to use it as fuel by debunking it.” Wings finally looked back up to his brothers, eyes blazing with decision . “We just have to make it obvious that having monsters in a city is undeniably a beneficial thing—that means no mistakes while we’re up here. No reckless behavior, no upsetting residents. We have to be very careful. Everything we do will be for the benefit of these residents. Understood?”

Despite talking to both his brothers, Wings stared at Sans.

Sans flinched at the offensive suggestion. “wh- don’t fuckin’ look at me like that!”

“Language,” Frisk giggled. Sans cupped his hands over their ears and they giggled again.

“ i’m the one who has to deal wit’ these god damn meetings—that’s how good i am at bein’ fuckin’ civil!”

“You are also the one who needs to get a handle on his drinking. No late nights getting sloshed at bars.”

Sans scoffed and rolled his eyes, something dark stirring in his stomach at the words. He released the kid’s ears. “ya can’t be serious. i haven’t had a drink in like a month. an’ i already got a handle on it.” You made sure of that, asshole, don’t go forgettin’ those long fuckin’ months on me now.

“You are to remain strictly professional while we work in Atheby, no bars, period.”

Sans’s clenched his fist, and his teeth, in an attempt to stop talking back. With how hard he was clenching, he felt like he was about to shatter a bone. He huffed out a loaded sigh, muttering something along the lines of ‘fuckin bullshit’ as he did. Frisk whispered ‘language’ under their breath, which earned them a nice hair-ruffling.

Seemingly satisfied with Sans’s lack of verbal dissent, Wings turned back to Papyrus, who straightened up as the focus of Wings’s attention. It would look almost comical to a a stranger’s eye: this ten foot sight of pure terror looking nervous around his brother.

“You are not off the hook either,” he warned. “You have made a habit of not controlling your temper.”

“SANS HAS THE SAME PROBLEM—!” Papyrus argued, which almost made Sans up and fight back if it weren’t for Wings interrupting again.

“Have you two regressed back to children?” The sharp tone shut both of them down. Angry Wingdings was not someone either of them wanted to talk to that night. He was losing patience, and it’d only take a few more chips to that already nonexistent patience for him to snap . Sans saw the slight movement of Frisk swallowing. Come on, Wings, don’t scare the kid. “Papyrus, if we are going to be effective in our goal, you need to be ready to take some metaphorical punches from the residents, whether it be bad reactions to plans, or our appearances—doesn’t matter. No blowing up on these people.”

Papyrus only nodded this time, but Sans noticed how tightly his fist was balled up. 

“My plan, thanks to Frisk, is to rehabilitate the area in its entirety. Sans, let me know the minute that restaurant owner calls you back, if they do. I’ll schedule a meeting with Don Mitch—Sans, you’ll be the one to meet with him.”

“‘course i will,” he grumbled. Wings pointedly ignored him. 

“I’ll need to meet with Asgore about this, too.”

Sans perked up at that, eyelights glowing in protest. “ya need ta?”

A stern, thoughtful face stayed on Wings’s features, mulling it over. The answer that left his mouth was almost robotic. “It’s in our best interest to keep things as civil as possible.”

“so we gotta air out all our business to the goat?”

“Making any territorial decisions without making it clear of our intentions might cause conflict. The Dreemurrs are nothing if not irrational.” 

No good arguments popped into Sans’s head at that. He shrugged reluctantly. “yeah, okay.”

“WHEN WILL YOU MEET WITH DON ASGORE?” 

“I’ll… decide that tomorrow, before I call Mitch regarding Sans’s meeting.”

“Is this meeting over?” Frisk asked, clearly bored.

Wings smiled at them, then cocked his head in reluctant agreement. “It’s been a long enough day, and I do think that we made good progress. You were a great help today, bud.” He stood from his chair and patted the kid on the shoulder.

“alright, kiddo, down ya go.” After Sans set them down, he stood up, but the kid stopped him in his tracks before he could take a step, staring up at him with bright eager eyes.

“You could call me a…” they paused, thinking, and they looked back up to him, unsure but determined. “reprical. Recipecal.” Both attempts were definitely not real English words, and Sans waited for them to continue.

“I forgot what it’s called when you flip a fraction,” they muttered.

“a reciprocal?”

“Yeah,” they beamed, those bright eyes shining again. “‘Cause I went from up there—” they pointed up at where Sans had them on his lap— “to down here.”

This pulled a hearty laugh out of the big skeleton, and a made his grin turn to pure adoration. “yer gettin’ funnier by the day.”

“NO! THERE CAN’T BE TWO OF YOU!” Papyrus yelled in loud disapproval. “STOP RUBBING OFF ON THEM WITH YOUR TERRIBLE JOKES!”

“that re fraction makes me think ya didn’t like their joke, boss.” Sans grinned.

“Guess he didn’t get much satis fraction from it,” Frisk giggled. At that, Sans guffawed, holding his gut as he did. 

“that was even better than mine!” 

“Only by a fraction,” they shot off immediately. It caught Sans by surprise again, and had him buckled over, gleaming with pride.

“I CAN’T LIVE IN THIS HOUSE ANYMORE.”

“Papyrus!” they called after him, that adorable little smile still on their face. “Come back! Will you play outside with me?”

Sans pushed his chair back flush to the table, a lingering grin on his teeth as he heard Papyrus succumb to the kid’s insistent pestering about playing catch. He turned to see Wings going upstairs, likely to sleep.

“ya done for the night?”

A tired sigh heaved from the eldest, and, despite his posture sinking with it, he looked more tense as he lost his breath. “I told Frisk that so they wouldn’t feel obligated to listen any longer, but truthfully, I can’t imagine talking any more politics tonight.” Sans hummed in understanding, waiting a second before confessing something.

“yer for real gonna tell asgore the plans?” It sounded a little weaker than Sans wanted, almost desperate now that he could hear the words out loud, but Wings understood him. It made his brother pause on the stairs.

“It’s not like I enjoy it,” he fessed quietly. “I can’t afford dealing with something new upsetting him on top of every single thing with this bureaucratic fucking nonsense. I’d just rather play it safe with him for now.”

“sure sure,” Sans agreed. “but i swear he’s fuckin’ dumb when it comes to these things now. i can’t understand any of his decisions anymore.”

“Me neither,” Wings sighed, eyes steeped in dead exhaustion. There came a quiet clack of Wings’s shoes continuing up the stairs, and Sans knew that meant the conversation was over, so he turned to go join the kid and Papyrus.

…

When I was seventeen

“That’s the last time I bring out macaroni necklaces! I swear—the kids were gluin’ macaroni to themselves! Directly onto their skin!” Your mother exclaimed, folding up your clean dish rags in sharp, angry movements.

You, on the other hand, were busy trying to calm yourself down from full-body shakes of laughter. Tears pricked in the corners of your eyes at how horribly your suggestion to her lask week had backfired. How stressful that must’ve been: keeping a handle on a dozen toddlers hellbent on gluing uncooked pasta to themselves instead of going with the innocent crafts project.

It was a very good year

“I can’t—” you wheezed, “I can’t… that’s terrible!”

“It was on purpose no less!” She griped, but she was smiling despite. “It’s the parents, I’m tellin’ ya. The parents are to blame. You never did that kinda thing when you were young ‘cause you knew not to. Nowadays, kids try to either eat everything in the room, or glue it onto themselves.” She shook her head, exasperated, but she was laughing by the time she was done talking. You took a deep breath, still giggling, and cocked your head in a ‘so-so’ motion.

“I mean…” You dragged the syllable out. “I did my fair share of stupid shit when I was a kid.” 

She waved her hand as if to brush it off. “Who didn’t? But did you ever glue shit to your skin?”

It was a very good year for small town girls

You winced, still smiling. “I don’t think I did.”

“EXACTLY!”

“I did eat glue once though.”

This gave her pause, staring at you with the expectation that you’d elaborate. You chortled.

“I… I ate an entire hot glue gun stick—obviously, not when it was hot, but I still—”

“You ate the whole thing?!” Her scream of shock caught you off guard, and you folded into breathless laughter again. “The whole thing?! Was the taste not a deterrent?!” The task of folding your dishrags was long forgotten with the bomb you just dropped on her.

And soft summer nights

“I c— It didn’t really taste like anything!” you cried, cheeks hurting from how hard you were laughing.

“So you just kept eating it?” To that, you didn’t respond—couldn’t respond. You just let your unstoppable wheezes be your answer.

“I take it back, the parents are not to blame,” she shook her head in mock disappointment.

We’d hide from the lights

Still cackling, you made your sweeping rounds of the restaurant, taking a quick glance at the clock to confirm your close-up time. 10:00 sharp.

On the village green, When I was seventeen

As you approached the neon sign in the glass, you stopped in your tracks, and you looked outside on the empty roads of the night. That flickering bulb in the streetlight hanging above your shop was still there alright, shining like… well, like a broken streetlight would. It broke years ago, and you’d submitted a letter to try and get it changed when you still had hope for the town. You wondered when that hope had died.

“Get any interesting customers lately?”

You were still standing there, staring at the pavement through dirty window panes.

“Actually, yeah,” you swallowed, unmoving. “Mom, what do you think of monsters?”

“I think that I haven’t met any yet,” she said. “Why?”

Nerves suddenly crowded in your throat, and the rocks sitting on the sidewalk underneath the flickering glow of the streetlamp became really interesting to you. “A monster came in here the other night.” You’d been wanting to bring this up to her, but you grew so nervous at the thought. If anyone can ease my mind on something like that, it’s her.

She paused. “Really?”

“Mhm,” you hummed, still frozen by the window. Your vision unfocused; a mess of cotton clouded your head. “He came in really late, but you remember what Jack said.”

This made your mom scoff angrily. “Boy, do I ever. I shoulda kicked his teeth in while I was still young enough to move like that.”

“The monster that came in,” you continued. “His name’s Sans—I didn’t get his last name. He started askin’ cop questions.” Cop questions. The scariest things someone could ask. 

“Which ones?” You could hear the fear strung into your mom’s voice, but your body was unreactive.

“Asked about the management of the town,” you mumbled, “and what I thought of it. How I’d feel about a change.”

“A change?” 

The fear you’d been tucking away began to sink in, fear you really should have felt when you started talking to that monster, fear that should have stopped you from talking about Mitch in any capacity. As you thought that night back through, the whole conversation, you really couldn’t find a reality where you’d live to see next week.

“I tried to be careful,” you muttered, ice in your gut. “You know I’ve been careful. I don’t say anything about Don Mitch. Ever. I don’t know what I was thinkin’, mom, I don’t know what was goin’ through my head. The way he was talkin’, it sounded different than them, but I know better, I knew better—”

A familiar warm hand landed on your shoulder before you could finish your ramble, and she pulled you into a tight hug. Oh fuck, you were scared .

“I believe you,” she whispered by your ear, and you trembled out a breath. “You know I believe you. Let’s close up first, you can tell me after we get somewhere a little less public.” You nodded, taking breaths. As you pulled away from her embrace, she gripped your arm tightly, looking into your eyes so reassuringly.

“I know you’re careful,” she said, squeezing it twice. “It’s gonna be okay. I promise you that, and I’m not a liar.”

You could only muster out a soft ‘okay.’

…

The walk to her apartment filled up with conversation on light topics, which your mom was leading, definitely as a means to distract you. It was a relatively short walk, which had been greatly convenient for you when you moved out. You hadn’t wanted to move far—you two were much too close for that. It worked out so that you could visit her place whenever you pleased, and she could do the same for you. She held your hand the entire walk over, squeezing it in that way she always did, and you’d squeeze back, letting her know you were still listening, not quite lost to that fear sitting heavy on your shoulders.

‘ya have my word, i ain’t a snitch.’

The words echoed in your head. How good is the word of a gang member? Has Mitch ever been known to stay good on his word?

Were you really that stupid? Why did you entertain his questions with honest answers? You’ve lied your whole life about those questions, what was so different?

‘If they did say anything, about the pizzas, I’d have them banned for life .’ 

His reaction to when you said that. That’s what was different. If you’d ever said anything to that likeness to a cop, let alone one of Mitch’s goons? You’d be beaten and bloody by the end of the hour, dead by the end of the week. Sans, he looked surprised, like he really hadn’t expected that answer. If he was one of Mitch’s dogs, he was a damn good actor.

Someone squeezed your hand.

“We’re close,” she whispered. “Try to keep your thoughts on something else until you can tell me what you’re thinkin’.” You nodded, and squeezed her hand right back.

…

Halogen orange lights illuminated the outdoor hallway of your mom’s apartment complex, which was littered with trash and chipped paint. The familiar smell of cigarettes and dead grass settled your nerves just so. Ah, the smell of home. A shiver traced up your spine from walking out in the cold, even though your walk had been short. You liked autumn as a season, but you wished you’d prepared with a bigger jacket for the night. 

Your mom still held your hand as she fished out her keys and unlocked her door. Her apartment smelled a lot better than it did outside. Her place was quaint, but she made it homely with her decor. A small maroon leather couch sat close to a TV you could compare to the size of a laptop, and next to the couch sat a matching maroon leather chair. The curtains were the same shade of maroon, but the rest of the living varied in hues greatly: dark greens, creams, and an occasional splash of black for depth. The only exceptions were the frames hanging on the wall of old family pictures, which were nice golds and silvers, chipped of course, to reveal brown underneath. No such thing as a fresh paint job in Atheby, even if it meant your own things.

“I’ll get us glasses of that red in my fridge,” she told you, squeezing your hand once more before releasing it. You found your way to her couch to wait, finding even more comfort in the way in sunk audibly beneath your weight. “Might need it to take the edge off for this conversation.”

“You sure that ain’t an excuse to open the bottle?” you smiled.

“Tomato, tomahto.”

When she returned, she handed you one of the glasses before grabbing a nearby blanket and draping it over both of you. She took the remote off of the coffee table after you two were comfy under the blanket and turned the TV to a random channel.

“Okay, let’s hear the whole conversation.” She waved her hand in a beckoning motion, and sipped on her wine. 

“Well, I don’t remember much of the beginning,” you shrugged, most of your nerves from earlier calmed. Most of them. “But, y’know, he was doin’ the weirdest thing, he kept mentionin’ how I didn’t have much decor in the shop.” She hummed in acknowledgment, and you took a sip of your wine before continuing again. The comforting rich flavor of the drink as it gently burned in your throat made talking feel a lot less daunting.

“He finally asked me, after I said ‘well, y’know, I got bills to pay, and decor can be a little pricey,’ he said ‘do you think those bills are higher than needed?’” Your mom kept her eyes on you, pondering on every word.

“Which, I dunno, I’d never really been asked somethin’... like that? Y’know how cops usually bait you to talk nice about Don Mitch?” She nodded. “He was baiting me to talk bad about him, to say stuff like the management needed change. It just felt… different. But that feels stupid to say, I know it’s never different. I know that.” When you felt your voice get a little thin, you took another sip. Your mom reached for your hand, squeezed it.

“It’s not stupid,” she said. “Men in that profession all have silver tongues—their whole job is to manipulate. That’s their thing. You’re not stupid.” You gave her a small thankful smile, but the words did little for the nerves knotting in your belly.

“Yeah,” you said, unconvinced. “Anyway, he- he could tell I didn’t really wanna talk, and he almost looked sympathetic. When I did… end up tellin’ him a few things, I didn’t ever say it explicitly! I never- I never said his name. Not once. Made sure of that. But, I did… allude to the fact that if this information came back…” you swallowed before continuing…

“It’s my head on the line.”

She squeezed your hand.

“Funny enough, actually,” you remarked, cogs turning in your head as you remembered. “He stopped the conversation once he heard me say that. Like, he didn’t want me to talk about it anymore in public. He gave me his number and said to call if I ever wanted to talk more privately about it.” I don’t know of any cops who offered the same sentiment.

“But, I don’t know. I mean, what do you think of that?” You shuffled where you sat curled up on her couch in an attempt to get a little more comfortable, adjusting the fluffy blanket wordlessly.

“That’s definitely not what I’m used to with cops,” she mumbled in agreement, and then focused her attention to you. “And I want you to know ya did good by not using names or nothin’. Even if this comes back to you, there’s always a chance to deny anything. My little smart cookie.” She squeezed your hand twice, and your scoff turned into a chuckle.

“Ma,” you pleaded.

“Oh hush—” you grinned as she waved off your comment— “Anyway, I don’t want you to worry none about this. I know you’re careful, you know you’re careful; all we can do is hope nothing comes of this.”

You nodded, but those words still left the nerves in your gut unchanged.

“Hold on, it was a monster, you said?” she asked, resting the weight of her glass on her thigh. You nodded, periodically sipping on yours. Her brows furrowed thoughtfully. “See, now that makes me think you’re safe. We both know what the fucker thinks of monsters, but now out of nowhere, they’re doin’ resident checks for him? That doesn’t seem right.”

Now that she mentioned it, it didn’t sit right with you either. The first monster you’d ever seen in your town, and he comes in to do copper rounds? And he offered you a safety net to talk more shit about Mitch? Wouldn’t he just kill you once he got the feeling you weren’t happy with Mitch?

“Huh,” you hummed. “Y’know I hadn’t really thought about that part.”

“Feels wrong, don’t it?”

“Yeah, it really does.”

“Again, all we can do at this point is see how it plays out,” she reminded you, “but I think you’re in the clear about it coming back to bite ya in the ass.” That time, her words settled some of the flips your stomach had been tumbling through. You took another sip of your red, finding the glass near empty.

“I do feel better about it now,” you said.

“Well of course you do,” she huffed with a smug grin. “I make everything better.”

You rolled your eyes, and as you got up from the couch, you grabbed her glass to refill the both of you.

…

Chapter Text

It was a quiet walk through the old Dreemurr home—the only sound being the crisp clacking of his calm but deliberate pace, and it wasn’t nearly as daunting as it was when Wingdings had first begun his partnership with the family. The decoration hadn’t changed, not even moved by an inch: still the same old family pictures, all hung in gold frames covered with intricate patterns. The walls, painted a soft color, had the same disgustingly expensive patterns built into the molding in the hallway. Wingdings had treated his home to pricey decor as well, but he had worked for it. He dirtied his hands with years of intensive education and labor. The Dreemurrs? They couldn’t even tell you what the word ‘labor’ meant. They made sure any blood from their work didn’t end up on their hands in the end. Fucking royalty. 

As he approached the door to the Don’s office, he sighed. No longer was he the hidden scientist behind their growing empire, but he still couldn’t make a move without letting the Dreemurrs know. Years of that fat fucking boot digging into my neck sure did some damage. The doorknob, a fine brass knob with those same damn patterns molded into the metal. He lifted a hand up, rapped on the dense wood that left a mild sting in his knuckles. There came a muffled voice from beyond the door, Wingdings heard it call something of an invitation inside. So his hand landed on that cold familiar knob, and he turned.

Inside the office sat a large goat monster, by far the biggest monster from underground. Not the tallest, no, Papyrus had him beat there, but definitely the biggest. In a sickeningly fancy brown suit, Asgore Dreemurr stared expectantly at Wingdings Gaster, hands folded in front of him on his dark wooden desk. The worst part was, it wasn’t even the most impressive suit Asgore owned, not by a long shot. Behind him hung a terrifyingly beautiful portrait of Queen Toriel, scowling. Surely, it was a business tactic of Asgore’s, having his wife frown in disgust at every single creature that dared sit before him. That’s what Wingdings chalked it up to, at least. Asgore had a perfectly professional look on his face, scary enough to send shivers up the spines of any other monster, but Wingdings resolve wasn’t that of just any monster. He nodded to Asgore. 

“Good evening, Don Gaster,” the King greeted him in that awfully dark voice of his, low but warm, only in a way that Asgore could achieve. “I’ve been looking forward to this conversation.”

“As have I,” Wingdings lied. “Some decisions have been made that I thought would be good to bring into light.” 

Asgore was incredibly wide for a monster. Broad. His shoulders spanned very far on their own without extending his full wingspan. He was a strong monster, too. Quite easily the strongest. His arms were massive in their own rights—his suit could hardly conceal them. 

“Please,” the boss monster waved a giant hand non-threateningly, “let us at least enjoy each other’s company a moment before discussing that. Would you care for a cup of tea?” 

Wingdings wanted to refuse, wanted to keep the conversation as professional as he could so as to speed this whole ordeal up. But he didn’t have much choice when it was just a one-on-one with him and Asgore. Not if he wanted to keep the king’s temper at bay. It seemed nowadays that everything Wings did was to satiate others’ trigger-happy tempers. How incredibly annoying.

“I would prefer if we could move this along,” he said in that crackly old voice, but relented for both of their sakes’. “But if you insist, then I could go for oolong if you have it.” One of Wingdings memories from the underground came from his habit of enjoying a daily cup of oolong back when he worked as Asgore’s lead scientist. Through many sleepless nights and skipped meals, Wingdings trusted in the calming effects and caffeine in oolong to save his body from shutting down out of neglect. Asgore always had some in his cabinets as he began his work, and considering it was a luxury he couldn’t imagine affording on his own, of course he’d drain up the king’s stash. Now, it tasted of nostalgia and work—a taste he could stomach, although slightly bittersweet. 

“Of course I have it,” Asgore smiled. “I doubt there exists a tea I don’t have in my cabinets.” The goat monster stood from the desk, towering over the mere skeleton, and walked towards the door. He used one massive fluffy paw to open the door, effectively dwarfing the knob, and waited for Wingdings to follow him out of the office. Wingdings did not falter, didn’t stumble or tremble at all. He trailed behind the king, a slight slouch in his spine, maintaining a pace not of leisure, but not of anticipation either. It didn’t take but a minute to get to the king’s kitchen, and such a magnificent kitchen it was.

Birch wooden cabinets lined the walls, a golden trim around the edges and handles to match the style of the appliances. There sat a Typha plant in the corner of the room, a bit further from the cabinets and kitchenware. Harmless, but reminiscent of the one territory in the underground the Gasters never took from the Dreemurrs.

Wingdings lingered in the doorframe of the kitchen, waiting on Asgore.

“I’m not sure why you ever ask me to meet you in your office,” Wingdings said. “You always end up bringing me here to make tea.”

Asgore didn’t respond immediately, but he smiled at the words as he filled a rustic golden kettle with water. “I think it makes the meetings a little less… unfriendly. Wouldn’t you think?”

“I think it also slows them down,” he countered. A bleated chuckle boofed out of Asgore.

“Maybe it does.” He placed the kettle on the stove, turning the dial for the heat. The stove clicked two times before a flame sputtered to life underneath the thick metal grates. “Maybe that’s not such a bad thing. Let it take an extra few minutes so long as it’s not so tense.”

I really don’t care how tense it is. I can hold my own against tense. But I’d rather not put up with you for longer than needed. Wingdings seldom let one of his internal tantrums show on his face, so he graced that sentence with a grin only he could feel was taut. It seemed to appease the king, like he knew it would, and like it always had before.

“I can’t understand why you use a gas stove when your specialty is fire magic,” Wingdings pondered aloud. “I don’t remember you ever using a stove before.” Before. The word had such heavy implications. Before the surface, before freedom, before that silly toddler came in and won over the heartless monsters, leading them with a unwavering determination into what they only dreamed of for centuries, a millennium. 

“I try not to make a habit of my magic anymore,” Asgore responded without a smile. “Make a habit of it and you’re much more likely to do it when you’re really not supposed to.”

Wingdings responded with a quiet hum of understanding as a means to hold his tongue. While Wingdings could hold his own against the mind of Asgore, he’d rather not have the king be pissed off when it came time to discuss important business matters. What Asgore had mentioned was something Wingdings considered to be what he called a preventable mistake. In Wingdings mind, there were two main mistakes made in the world, the aforementioned preventables, and the inevitables. Inevitable mistakes are as their name explains, inevitable. Someone is unaware of the consequences of their actions, so, no matter the timeline or how the situation arises, that person makes that mistake. They will have always ended up making that mistake, and Wingdings believed that’s how people grow. Inevitable mistakes. He had a surprising amount of patience for that sort of mistake. The other kind, preventable mistakes, Wingdings had… slightly less patience for. In these cases, the person knew the consequences of their actions, they had most likely known that what they did was wrong in some way, but through negligence, ignorance, or carelessness, they made the mistake anyway. Asgore was flat out admitting to being so out of tune with his own magic, that even as the king of monsters, he’d end up slipping up . How embarrassing.

Wingdings had trained his magic, for years, alongside Sans, to ensure he had complete and total control over his magic 100% of the time. His magic would never act when it wasn’t supposed to. To Wingdings, Asgore’s admission of such a careless possibility only meant that he hadn’t the discipline that Wingdings had.

Soon enough the kettle starting howling, and Asgore got to finishing up the cups of tea.

“Do you take milk or sugar?”

“A splash of milk, yes.”

Asgore finally led Wingdings back to his office, holding the two cups of tea in his impossibly massive paws, dwarfing them entirely. He sat back in his gigantic seat with a gentle grunt, but his chair didn’t make a noise. Not a single creak of complaint over the 600 pound monster settling into it.

Wingdings sipped from the steaming cup in his hand, remarking that besides the overwhelming temperature, it was a very good cup of tea.

“Now,” Wingdings began, setting his cup down. “The matter at hand is regarding a new territory deal with Don Mitch.”

“Ah, yes,” Asgore nodded. “The human-monster integration program.” He said it with light-hearted finality, like the idea was outlandish and rather silly. Wingdings chose to ignore it.

“My brothers and I decided on the city of Atheby to begin this project,” he continued. “It’s one of the less fortunate areas under Don Mitch’s control—”

“You can just call him Mitch with me,” the goat spoke like they were old friends, a scowl crossing his face as he opened his mouth again. “Humans don’t deserve the formalities.” 

Don’t fucking interrupt me. Wingdings thought. Homicide briefly flashed in his mind.

“Sure. Anyway, the area has little to offer in profits, but by working on a poorer area, rehabilitation will have obvious effects that we can use to maintain a good public opinion, and soon expand further into places like Springside, Nolyna—places with a better profit margin. By starting this ordeal with an obvious success under our belts, it will take much longer for press to turn on us, especially if we’re careful for the time being.” Wingdings spoke unwaveringly, monotonous. Despite his definitive speech, Asgore seemed unconvinced.

“Your plan… it makes sense, don’t get me wrong,” he assured, but his eyes said the opposite. It chipped at the marble of Wingdings’s patience. “I just wonder what sort of income you’ll bring in from that city if it’s so… miserable.”

“Financial gain is not our main concern at this stage of the project,” Wingdings reminded him. “Not to mention Mitch’s growing interest in my weaponry will be more than enough during this time.”

“I suppose so,” Asgore replied, resigned. “There is always the option to bring your potions back into business.” The suggestion was so harsh to Wingdings, so horrendously unprompted, unnecessary , that he had to physically restrain himself from flinching at the thought. My potions. He internally scowled. A massive ask of me, and you did it so casually.

“While I understand your concern, I see no benefit in re-entering that industry. I ended my association with it for good reason, and a few months of residential rehabilitation is not near enough to even think of reconsidering.”

“Alright, alright,” Asgore put his hands up in mock surrender, which only infuriated Wingdings more. “But I don’t think it’s ridiculous to suggest tapping into that market. A profit can always be made on those sorts of areas, you just need to be willing to get your hands a little dirty.”

That same homicidal urge returned tenfold—Wingdings had to grit his teeth to shut himself up. He let out a curt hum of acknowledgment; if he opened his mouth he was sure he’d end up leaving here much earlier than he intended to. Willing to get my hands a little dirty, Wingdings thought nonplussed, picking his cup up to sip it. When have you ever done anything to earn what you have now? Maybe I only want to “dirty” my hands with respectable work now.

“What knocked Nolyna or Springside out of the running?” Asgore asked, lifting his cup to his lips. 

Wingdings absolutely hated having these meetings with Asgore, as opposed to Toriel. It was downright painful having to explain things to the one who was so obviously not the brains behind the operations, things that Toriel would’ve already understood on some level, and then Wingdings could have a real, intelligent conversation with someone on these matters. Instead of wasting his time with a brute of an overgrown farm animal that hadn’t a knack for these kinds of things. Unfortunately, after a certain… incident… Toriel wasn’t as sharp as she used to be. She stopped leading these discussions.

“Mitch has more of an attachment to those two territories.” Wingdings glanced to the clock on the wall. “Whereas with Atheby, we wouldn’t have to supplement the deal so much, and it would come with more benefits after the success of our project.”

Asgore hummed in consideration, but he looked unconvinced, still. Wingdings was losing patience with him, and this meeting had been long enough as it were. This was meant to solely be a short dialogue to make sure there were no glaring issues with this decision. They could have finished by now. Could have finished a while ago. Maybe this could have been a phone call. No, I need to be more professionally cordial. That means polite meetings. It was his own mind saying it, but he had to resist the urge to roll his eyes at that thought.

“You and I,” Asgore chuckled softly, “have very different priorities when making territorial decisions, you know. You’re hardly motivated by profit at all.” He stared at the Wingdings like he was a puzzle, impossible to decipher. He narrowed his eyes at him expectantly, like he’d solve himself if he just stared hard enough. Wingdings sipped his tea.

“Again, the goal of this is not to expand our empire,” Wingdings spoke as he set his cup back down. “This is for the betterment of monsters as a whole. Most monsters have hardly left Fell at all, let alone Ebbot. We need this for everyone so we can finally live better li—”

“You can cut the politics with me,” Asgore cut him off, for the second time since they began the conversation. “It’s such a tired conversation, but I get what you’re saying. Mostly.”

I am going to kill you, I swear on it. Wingdings thought, and swallowed before picking up his cup again, finishing off the remnants of his drink.

“So, about Atheby, how are the businesses?”

…

Tock, tock, tock…

Down in Wings’s lab hung an old plain white clock upon one wall. Its numbers were a little worn, and it had to be fixed more than once, from when the minute hand stopped ticking, to when the hour hand also stopped ticking. The seven had a visible nick that made it look similar to a one, and next to the six was an almost entirely faded, crudely drawn on ‘9’ in sharpie from when Sans visited the lab as a teenager. You’d see something similar to that clock if you visited any high school; it was nothing special to look at, truly. 

But Sans had been staring at that stupid clock on his wall for the last five minutes, watching as it ticked past 9:12 all the way to 9:17. If you’d had asked him to do that when he was a baby bones, he’d have thought it was some sort of torture: doing one single, unmoving, unengaging task for more than a minute, let alone five. As it were, that supposedly torturous feat Sans thought much more interesting than what he was meant to be doing, which was the project assigned to him by Wings. Weaponry had become their main focus—it was all Sans worked on anymore in that God-forsaken laboratory—specifically magic-infused weaponry. It was flashy enough to entice Mitch into business with the Gasters, but the days he had spent down in that stupid, stupid lab were giving Sans more skull-splitting migraines than he could count. 

As it ticked to 9:18, Sans blew out a hefty sigh.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ starve down ‘ere workin’ on this dumb fuckin’ design,” he grumbled, dragging a hand down his face. “he wants me t’do this shit fer hours. hours on end. ‘m gonna blow my brains out if ‘e makes me come down ‘ere again tomorrow.” A little grumpy, yeah, but he felt it justified. His last meal was way back in the afternoon, and, again, Sans wasn’t just any monster. He needed way more food than he was getting under Wings’s downright abhorrent conditions of work, and today in particular was worse. Sans knew Wings was meeting with Asgore, which meant that no matter how tired Sans was of working through human type weaponry and trying to find aspects to apply to monster type weaponry and jotting down the notes and rebuilding them and…

It was killing him just to think about it all. But no matter how tired Sans was of all that, he had to at least finish working through this last piece of junk, lest he wanted to feel the wrath of a moderately overworked and frustrated Wings.

He finally tore his eyes off the clock, settling them back onto the weapon sprawled out in front of him, in many different pieces. He breathed deeply, and got back to work.

For about another minute and a half, that is, up until he heard a soft few knocks against the door to his workspace. Definitely not Wings or Papyrus.

“kiddo? ‘s that you?”

“Yeah, can I come in?” Sans’s brow bone furrowed. 

“yeah,” he responded, and after the door opened to reveal them in a striped hoodie and their pajama pants, Sans spoke again. “ain’t it past yer bedtime?”

“I can’t go to sleep, I’m too hungry,” they replied, a little quiet, and walked over to him, rubbing the sleep from one eye. They climbed up onto his lap with some help.

“hungry? what happened t’ dinner?” Sans got really nervous for a minute. Taking care of a kid meant feeding them too, and neglect really didn’t look good from monsters—

Sans cut that train of thought short, internally disguted. Bureaucratic bullshit is taking over my head. Can’t believe my first thought was what other people would think of this instead of just getting Frisk food.

“I went to Micah’s house after school, but his parents aren’t good cooks,” they said sheepishly. “I told them my lunch was big, so they didn’t make me eat a lot.”

This got a hearty (and mostly relieved) laugh out of Sans. “that always sucks. alright, good thing ‘m just about finished up wit’ this.” A lie, but stars, if this kid wasn’t doing Sans’s psyche a huge favor. They brightened up and leapt off of his lap, bounding up the stairs with a newfound energy.

Sans sighed, barely less stressed than before they came down, but at least it was something. He heaved himself up with a grunt, and pushed his chair back into his desk before following the kid upstairs.

Wings ain’t gonna be happy if I go up there without finishing this, he thought, but ultimately decided he didn’t care enough.

Fortunately for him, Wings wasn’t on the main level ready to greet him with an interrogation on his work. Sans connected that Frisk probably would’ve talked to Wings first about their neglected appetite instead of disturbing him in the lab. They mentioned once or twice before that they didn’t really like going down to the lab—something about it was unnerving to them. Sans supposed that if he hadn’t spent decades holed up in that sort of environment, and was also eight years old, the basement lab would be a little scary.

“wings not back from his meetin’?” he asked. Frisk shrugged.

“I don’t think so, I haven’t seen him yet,” they replied.

“huh. how ‘bout that.” Sans felt his shoulders loosen. “listen, ‘m too tired to make anythin’, but ‘m not sure how many places are still open now, ‘specially since grillbz’s closed.” Sans mumbled the last part of that sentence, and folded his arms across his chest, thinking.

“got anythin’ yer cravin’?” 

“Mm, not really, I’m just hungry,” they said.

Sans tried to think about a good option for a late dinner.

That pizza place closes at 10, we could probably get there in time.

He checked his watch and, sure enough, it had just turned 9:25.

“ya want pizza?” 

They perked up at the suggestion. “Can we? Get pizza?”

“there’s a place in atheby, ‘s pretty good. mind if we take a shortcut?”

“Mm, I get kinda dizzy when we do,” they frowned. “Can we go on your bike instead?”

Sans mulled it over with a grin, then finally relented into a reluctant nod. “alright, bike it is. might take a little while to get there, though.”

Frisk could not have cared less about the second part of what Sans said, for they were already hopping out to the bike, chanting ‘bike ride’ over and over. Sans chortled as he grabbed a coat to throw over his less-than-fancy attire.

…

You’re caring too much about what I say

Your shift had gone relatively smooth so far: no particularly angry customers, no overwhelming rushes, and none of Don Mitch’s dogs had stormed in with an eye for blood, namely yours. You figured that your possibly-too-loose tongue hadn’t gotten you killed just yet.

You’re wondering too much about what I do

As you finished up your shift with a quick clean up of your place, any remnants of lingering anxiety fizzled into nothings, and you figured you could finally breathe. So you did. A hearty breath swelled up your lungs, and with all the confidence of a business major at first year job fair, you sighed it out.

And baby, your imagination now

Ding ding!

You gotta be kidding me. Twice in a week? At this fucking hour?

9:49 sharp, the clock read above you. Eleven minutes. Give me a break. Most people in this town had the decency to not go to the restaurants fifteen minutes to closing time. So what gives. 

In that next second, before you turned to greet the customer, you felt a bolt of something cold run through your body. Unearthly in sensation, like something had opened up your rib cage and poured water into your chest cavity. It nearly made you shiver, and it gave you the sudden inexplicable urge to cover yourself, like you were exposed . You finally turned around.

Just like that, your gut was back to churning itself into butter, the thought of dying a forefront in your mind.

Imagination’s got the best of you

That skeleton from before had returned, wearing… an outfit that didn’t scream “gangster” actually. His shirt was just some dirty white t-shirt, covered by a huge leather bomber jacket, matched with dark jeans. Not quite what you were expecting for someone of his profession. In addition to his casual attire, next to him stood a toddler, a human child, who couldn’t have been older than ten years old, you’d guess. They had brown hair, wore what looked to be pj’s, and were holding his hand—er, pinky, seeing as it was all they could wrap their fingers around. Having a toddler stand next to the skeleton only emphasized his height more: they weren’t half the size of him.

And then those nerves that had rushed right back slowly died back down. What the fuck kind of a shakedown…

“Welcome back,” you finally spoke, putting forward your best greet-the-gangster-politely voice, which was tinged with a little bit more confusion than usual. 

His brow bone raised slightly at your greeting, smile a little more surprised than it was when he first entered. “ya remember me?” In that same dark timber from that night before, he spoke, and it rumbled through the air with the same gravel as a hot engine, soaked in a Brooklyn drawl.

I ain’t doing nothing that you could really say was wrong

“I would be professional and say ‘I remember all my customers’ but that ain’t true. You’re still the only monster I’ve ever seen.” You gave him a light smile, a peace offering. He doesn’t seem angry or nothing.

That made his smile turn up higher, which you counted as a win. If he’s happy, he probably isn’t here to kill me.

His steps slowed as he reached your counter, reminding you of the overwhelming height difference between you two.

Probably.

“still open t’ orders, sugar?” You forgot, for a brief moment, how comfortable he was with pet names on strangers. Something you were… less than comfortable with. However, you were definitely comfortable serving him so long as it meant he wasn’t gonna kill you. He’s here for your food. Your thoughts paused another second. Probably.

Just one oversight and no, that didn’t last too long

“That I am,” you replied. “If the neon’s on, I’m still open.” His grin slackened in appreciation.

“yer a doll,” he said. “how’s two supremes? that okay?” His consideration touched your heart a little bit. A sizeable guy in a scary profession, and he was nervous about ordering too much in case you were tired. More considerate than any of Mitch’s dogs that was for sure. You felt your own face relax.

“I’m okay with anything, don’t worry about it,” you responded. Sans looked about ready to say something, but a little voice spoke up instead.

You’re caring too much about what I say

“Sans, can I get something else?” the kid asked. Sans looked down to them.

“yeah, whatcha want?” His voice dropped lower, nearing close to a whisper. Something sweet pulled at your heart.

“Pepperoni,” they said, smiling, and you noticed a tooth missing from that smile.

Sans looked apologetic before he started talking to you again. “‘s not too much t’ add a pepperoni t’ my order, is it?” You found yourself smiling at him, unbothered by the addition, despite the hour.

You’re wondering too much about what I do

“No, it’s not too much, I’ll have it out in a jiff.” You told him the total. He fished out his wallet with his free hand, fingering through the folds to scrape out a bill.

“keep the change,” he said, which made reading the bill that much more of a shock.

“All of it?!” you asked, incredulous. You really couldn’t help your voice coming out in a near-shout. “All of the one hundred?” First the fifty, now this . You felt like this was too much. A fifty? Okay, fine, that’s a crazy tip, but I guess spend your heart out. ONE HUNDRED DOLLARS? On three pizzas? He was pranking you. Had to be.

And baby, your imagination now

“all of the one hundred,” he grinned, that sharp golden tooth shimmering under your dim restaurant bulbs. “token of my appreciation.”

“Listen, Sans, I really don’t mind servin’ youse, no matter the time,” you practically pleaded, and pushed his bill back, even though it hurt like hell. “You don’t have to overspend here, really.”

“call me red, sugar, an’ i know i don’t haf’ta. i wanna. jus’ take the bill.”

You opened your mouth to protest again.

“either take it now or i put it in yer tip jar when ya go back there.”

You pursed your lips together. Backed into a corner… a really… considerate corner, that was offering you one hundred dollars. If he would just end up putting it in your tips, what’s the point of fighting? Defeated, you let out a sigh.

“You’re too kind, yanno,” you told him, and took the hundred, something that felt way too light in your palm considering how much this would do for you.

Imagination’s got the best of you

“dunno ‘bout that. three pizzas ten minutes ‘til close? if i was ya, i’d spit on my shoes.”

You barked out a laugh, much louder than you meant to, and slapped a hand over your mouth, covering the second half of it with a cough.

“I’ll ,uh, be right out with your order.”

I don’t know what you’re looking for

That interaction… was quite a relief. A huge relief. All day spent, worried your stomach would tie itself up into literal knots and you’d have to go to the hospital because your anxiety just about shattered the ceiling with how high it was climbing, only for that skeleton to return so casually, eleven minutes to closing time, and drop a hundred on a few pizzas, solely because it would inconvenience you. At your job. If it did end up being a shakedown, he was really getting you comfortable. And it would definitely be strange for him to shake you down with a kid present.

Speaking of which, he had a kid? Sure, mobsters tend to run their business with their family, but a toddler? A literal child? There’s no shot. This guy just has a kid. 

What’s this thing all about ‘true blue’?

There’s always a chance that it could end up going south, like maybe after you serve him, he drops the kid off in his car and comes back to finish the job so as to not do the dirty shit in front of them…

…or maybe he just wanted your pizza.

The order took some time, not too much effort, no, you’ve made so many of these you barely had to look at what you were doing while making. Which, in turn, led to your thoughts stirring around with the possibilities of his intentions. Maybe he only gave you his number so he could shake you down somewhere more private, away from prying eyes. Maybe bringing that kid in with him and wearing humble clothes was a tactic to get your guard down, to lull you into a false net of security so you’d… You’re not sure. So you’d… talk to him again? Why would he work to make you feel safe if he’d just end up killing you?

You could hear from your kitchen the faint sound of conversation between the kid and Red.

“Why didn’t they want your money?” the kid said.

“i tipped a lot, they didn’t wanna take it all,” he replied.

“Why not?”

“prob’ly not used to gettin’ tip sizes that big.”

Ain’t that the truth.

“Why’d you tip so much?” You slowed your ministrations at this question, as it had also been on your mind, unanswered. Sure, generosity was a reason, but maybe he’d confess to having ulterior motives if he didn’t think you were listening. You waited, shamelessly eavesdropping.

“for one, always be nice t’ people who make yer food, that’s a rule i live by and you should too,” this response made you smile despite yourself. “for two, they’re gonna end up stayin’ late jus’ to finish our order, least i can do is repay ‘em for that trouble.”

No ulterior motives…

The answer made you fully halt your movements, and if they did continue talking, you stopped pay attention to them. Was it possible for a mobster to act out of true kindness to someone like you?

You know I ain’t no danger boy, yeah

Was it possible he just wanted pizza, and he wanted to reimburse you for making you stay a little later that usual? Was it possible you were fully reading into your interactions with the monster way too much, and it was causing you a lot of unnecessary stress? Or was he just placating the kid with an innocent answer because they were too young to know the truth?

Your intestines tied themselves into a pretty bow which paired nicely with all the flips your stomach was doing. Like a little circus act happening all in your belly. For you to feel the brunt of.

Well, I’m not dead yet. Let’s just calm down and see how this plays out. There is always a chance you are reading too much into this.

You finally shelved the three pizzas into your oven, making a small note of the time on the wall before heading out to finish up cleaning the main area and brushing your hands off on your apron. When you walked though the door, you saw Red and the kid sitting at one of your floor tables, engaged in some kind of game.

“Six and two,” the kid said, a little unsure, but their eyes gleamed.

“there’s my tiny genius, that’s what ‘m talkin’ about,” Red replied, looking almost boisterously proud of their answer. As he praised them, he jostled their shoulder playfully. His hand was gentle, you noticed, when he shook them—careful.

It was such a sweet sight, you had to admit, and it calmed your nerves some more. 

“Okay, gimme a hard one this time,” they giggled.

“mkay, i needa second t’ think, though, gotta wrack my brain for new material,” he said, making a bit of a show out of thinking. 

This feels… a lot less intimidating than when he came in before. I mean, all he’s doing is playing games with his kid.

“‘kay i got one, ya ready?” The toddler’s incessant nodding was a good answer. “two numbers add together t’ give ya eleven, but multiply t’ give ya eighteen.”

You perked up; every hair on your body stood on end. Before you could stop yourself, your mouth dropped, along with whatever task you were busying yourself with, and you turned towards them with a bright sparkle in your eye.

“You play the numbers game, too?!”

They both stared at you, mostly in shock, for a good couple seconds. Red’s nonchalant grin dropped into a much fainter alternative; his skull blown into the most expressive face you’d ever seen it pull—surprised. Finally, the embarrassment settled in, and you pressed your lips tightly together, trying to undo the outburst—unsuccessfully, might you add. Your cheeks burned up a nice shade of the skeleton’s name, and you swallowed tightly. 

“I’m sorry, ab-about that I just—”

If you were any less embarrassed, you might have seen the way the kid positively glowed at what you said, and they chimed in over your shaking voice without hesitation.

“You know this game?! I thought Sans was the only nerd that ever played it!” 

That was all it took for your embarrassment to subside into surmounting excitement, the smile on your face bright enough to rival that of the toddler’s. Red snapped his head to the kid, with all the malice of an irritated chicken in his eyelights.

“wh- hey!” 

“I used to play that game with my dad when I was younger,” you gushed through bubbling giggles. “I thought my dad was the only nerd that played it!” The toddler joined you in a fit of laughter. Their laugh was positively adorable, high-pitched kid giggles were your weak spot, and their smile only magnified it—that missing tooth really knocked it out of the park. Plus the small spatter of freckles over their cheeks, that hair bouncing in young, messy curls—what an adorable kid. 

“yer the one that keeps askin’ t’ play it, who’s the real nerd here?” Red lifted the kid onto his lap in an entirely effortless movement, noogying them until they were breathless with laughter. Somehow, they still managed to get out the words ‘you are’. You snorted behind your palm, trying to look impartial. 

Eventually, Red showed mercy, but the kid took that opportunity and ran with it, doing their damnedest to try and noogie the skeleton in return. Unsuccessfully.

“still haven’t answered the new question, kiddo,” he chided without malice, easily keeping them away from the top of his skull. “add t’ eleven, multiply t’ eighteen.” The reminder made the kid sit back down, suddenly silent, but their lips mouthed nothings as that little brain sputtered around in deep concentration. It took only seconds for an answer to form on their tongue, and they looked up at his face with a precious determination shining in those brown irises.

“Nine and two?” 

His mug swelled with pride, and he dropped a hand for them. “gimme some.”

They squeal-laughed that time, slapping his hand with their tiny counterpart. Red pretended like the low-five hurt, like they were too strong for him.

My heart’s gonna explode, you thought, grin not slipping in the slightest off your face.

“What’s your name?” the kid asked you. It caught you a little off-guard, and they spoke again before you hardly processed the question. “Mine is Frisk.” Somewhere, in the back of your mind, that name rang a bell.

“That’s a really cool name,” you told them with a smile, basking in the swell of your heart when they returned it. You exchanged your name. 

“Your name is cool, too!” they assured you, busying their hands with the fur lining the cuffs of Red’s jacket.

“Thanks,” you replied. “Do you go to school around here?”

Suddenly, that unearthly sensation locked back onto you, another cold rush of water through your ribs, and, despite your best efforts, you shivered. Your face fell for a moment—it took you a full second to recover. You rolled your shoulders around and focused back up to the two at your table, still trying to ignore the feeling of cold water digging at your chest.

“No, I go to Ebbot Elementary ‘cause that’s where we live,” they replied. You were a little lucky you caught their response, still a little distracted by whatever that was. Is my AC broken? You glanced up to it, quickly reminded that your AC wasn’t aimed to where you were standing. So what do I keep feeling?

“That’s too—I’m sorry, did you guys feel that? Like a weird breeze? Do I needa fix my thermostat?” When you looked between them, Red’s eyelights seemed unusually… hazy. His grin looked a little tighter than it had looked the whole time he’d been sitting there, but it quickly fixed itself, instantly much calmer. You wondered if you were imagining things.

“prob’ly jus’ a chill,” he said. You shook your head to rid your thoughts. Yeah, just a chill.

“Yeah,” you decided to agree, “sorry about that. Anyway, I was gonna say that’s too bad, ‘cause my ma is a grade school teacher around here. I was wonderin’ if you were one of her students.” Red’s eyelights cooled to match his smile, nonchalant. The tension between your shoulder blades loosened, and you wondered for a moment when that tension had built itself up.

“I wish I was her student,” Frisk griped. “My teachers stink.”

“frisk, language,” Red parroted the words thoughtlessly, like he’d done it a million times before.

“Fine: my teachers are super boring and yell a lot,” Frisk corrected, and you had to stifle another chortle into your hand. 

“much better.”

You weren’t sure how that correction was better, but you thought it funny enough to let it slide. 

“an’ we are temporarily located in ebbot. yer gettin’ new teachers soon.” 

‘Temporarily located’ , you thought. Big fancy words for ‘still looking for a location of Don Mitch’s to settle in.’ 

“Oh? You lot movin’?” you asked, finally getting back to straightening up your place.

“yeah, we are, still workin’ out the kinks currently though.” Figures.

“Yeah, that whole process can take a while,” you said. “I mean, I’ve only moved once in my life, and it was just to get out of my parents’ place, but I didn’t leave Atheby. I’m like, right down the road from my ma.”

“Where’s your dad?” Frisk asked, hands back to mussing up Red’s jacket cuffs.

“Oh, well—” you swallowed— “he passed a couple years back, so it’s just me an’ her now.” Red reacted in a way you’d almost characterize as a flinch, discomfort painted on his maw. Sorry about the mood dampener. He cleared his throat before responding.

“‘m sorry t’ hear th—”

“Me too!” Frisk said, thumping two fingers at their sternum. “I mean, except for the mom part, my mom’s gone too. But now I have three parents, so I don’t mind.”

You’ve never had someone react with anything except sympathy after they learned about your father’s passing, which made it both a burden and cathartic to tell people: you tended to get emotional when people asked you about it, when they were trying to help. Sometimes, those conversations were nice to have; it was nice to know you had people around you that cared. Sometimes, though, it was just a regular Thursday and you weren’t in the mood to delve into the trauma of such a loss. Frisk, however, gave you the first reaction you’d call both inappropriate in tone, and also… welcomed. You enjoyed, when he had just died, talking with people who understood your pain. Some of your mom’s friends knew what it was like to lose a parent, and you felt those conversations had helped you to find peace despite.

Never had someone looked almost excited to relate to you. It threw you for a loop, and you wondered how you had forgotten that kids often didn’t know how to respond to difficult conversations appropriately. It was sort of refreshing. And then the realization hit you: Frisk probably felt the same way you did about having people that understood that feeling—that loss. You wondered if they got the chance to talk to many people that they could relate to.

“Three?! Now you’re just showing off,” you folded your arms across your chest dramatically, but you couldn’t help the smile on your face. Neither could they, apparently. They pointed to Red, and spoke.

“I have three skeleton parents, and they’re all brothers. Sans, Papyrus, and Wings.” They sounded so happy to have three parents, like it was the best alternative to their first parents. Now, you’d seen some interesting guardian situations for raising children before—your town was pretty diverse in that way—like the five polyamorous genderqueer people that lived in your complex and raised two kids altogether, or the multiple “single” parents you knew, single being in quotes because while they were single romantically, they each raised their kids with a friend alongside them (an ideal situation by your standards). You liked the diversity in parenthood that your town’s youth was getting, and being exposed to, because you really hated it when you’d go somewhere and every single resident was a carbon copy of each other: the same family in the same home with the same dog and same kind of kids, copied and pasted until every conversation with the residents played out the exact same script and you’d have the strongest urge to claw your eyes out just for an interesting conversation. 

Like Springside. You hated Springside. A buncha richies who talked a ton of shit about your area every time they would come into your place. They’d mention how scary the streets were, how sad the scenery was, how shameful some of the residents were—walking around in those clothes in the middle of the day—and how they only came back because little Johnny just loved the pizza, but they never understood the fuss about it—

I’m gonna claw my eyes out just thinking about it. You thought, before chuckling internally. I got so mad thinking about those assholes I forgot my original train of thought, oops.  

“So,” you said to Red, “that’s two brothers?”

“hooray, yanno how t’ count,” he replied. “whatta ‘bout ya?” The first half of that sentence made you flinch. Sorry?

“Uh, none. N-No siblings, I mean.” You said.

He hummed thoughtfully. “i’d say yer missin’ out, butcha ain’t. at least not with brothers. er, i guess jus’ not wit’ my brothers.” You smiled.

“Frisk, what do you think of Red’s brothers?” They tapped thoughtfully on their chin, made a little noise to show their consideration.

“Papyrus is really tall, like thirty feet probably—” your eyes went wide, and you glanced quickly to Red, who subtly shook his head at you, as if to say ‘not even close.’ Your smile returned. I love the way kids have no sense of anything.

“—and he’s a really good cook! He’s a lot louder than Sans and Wings, though. But I love him.” You noticed that, just barely, Red softened in the eyes. A mobster with a soft spot. That’s a first.

“Well,” you hummed. “Let me tell you, the day I meet a cook that isn’t loud will be when pigs fly.”

Red looked at you funny. You cocked your head to the side. “whazzat s’posed t’ mean?”

“What’s what mean?” you asked.

“‘when pigs fly’?”

“Oh, y’know,” you shrugged, but there was no recognition in his eyelights. “Like it’ll never happen. Because pigs can’t fly.” This explanation however, did not satiate his curiosity, indicative by his brow bone furrowing more.

“why pigs specifically?” he asked. “why not… i dunno, like horses?” You wondered for a brief moment why it sounded like he was accusing you.

“I didn’t come up with it,” you put your hands up in a surrendering gesture. “It’s an old saying.” That was apparently the right thing to say, with the way some semblance of understanding lit up his face, but it was more overshadowed but the way his face scrunched up, like he’d just smelled something bad.

“oh that’s like one a’ those dumb human sayings, right?” Now that was a funny way to put it. Your brain eventually pieced together that monsters probably didn’t have the same linguistic development as humans did. That lengthy separation created a massive rift in cultures, and that included idioms, linguistic norms, slang probably. Your interest slowly climbed higher.

“Yeah, I think it is,” you said slowly. “That’s crazy, you’ve never heard that before?”

“no, i’d definitely remember if someone started talkin’ like a lunatic to me.”

“Okay, well it’s not so crazy, I don’t thin—”

“there are like a million animals that also don’t fly, what the hell is so special about pigs?”

You laughed as you tried to talk. “I don’t know! It’s just how the saying goes!”

“well, i reserve the right t’ call the saying dumb. ya could jus’ say ‘it’s never gonna happen.’ that, at the very least, makes sense.”

“What’s the point of language if you can’t bend the words a little to have fun?” you countered with a challenging smile.

“the point’s t’ understand people. not try t’ confuse ‘em wit’ weird sayin’s.”

“No, I agree, it’s about having more fun,” Frisk interjected. Your smile grew even brighter.

“Boom! I win, it’s 2 v 1.”

“alright, kid, find another ride home,” he huffed.

You cackled as Frisk made several noises of protest, and mindlessly checked your watch.

“Oh, the pizzas,” you sprang up, and ran off into your kitchen to retrieve them. They were fine, you definitely didn’t burn them, thank the stars, because you were definitely getting a little caught up in conversation. You carefully boxed up each pizza, because, again, his tipping tendencies were much too kind for you to just go through the motions. Can’t afford to fuck up an order for someone that pays you THAT much.

Heavy were the boxes stacked up in your arms, and even though you had developed functional strength for this very task, that didn’t make the boxes any lighter. You brought them out to the front, and Red gave you an appreciative grin. Which was only slightly different than the grin he seemed to wear most of the time. He slid one hand underneath the bottom box, and took the weight off you with, again, way too much ease.

How fucking strong can someone be if they ain’t got any muscle…?

“by the way,” Red began, a more business-oriented look in his eyelights. “not t’ sound pushy, but do ya still have that card i gave ya?”

Oh, you swallowed, oh god. This is it. You should have just called. He’s probably furious you didn’t go by his word the first time.

“I-I do, I’m real sorry I haven’t called yet, I just—” he waved his free hand around to cut you off, as if to say it wasn’t a big deal.

“doesn’t matter, i get it,” he shrugged. “i jus’ wanted to ask thatcha keep my offer in mind. all i’ll say is: ya might be seein’ a bit more a’ me in the future. i’ve got my work cut out fer me now, an’ it wouldn’t hurt t’ have a bit of help.” He finished his reminder of that offer with a wink, which had become less creepy by a hair than when he’d first winked at you. 

Either way, that was a harmless double down on his original offer, except for… ‘ ya might be seein’ a bit more a’ me in the future. ’ Was that a threat? If you didn’t call him? If you were to reject his offer, would he return just to off you? You weren’t sure of the incentive to do such a thing, especially not with how little you’d done. These guys never make any fucking sense to me anyways. I could spend my whole life trying to figure out the way they think about all this shit, and I’d still end up wrong and sporting a slashed throat.

You swallowed again. “Definitely, I’ll keep it in mind.”

He grinned, satisfied. “good t’ hear it.”

Frisk leapt up off their seat and reached up for Red’s pinky before the two turned away from you to leave. 

“was good t’ see ya again, shug,” Red called back to you. “have a good night.”

“Bye bye! Thank you!” Frisk called.

“Come again!” you replied, and this time it reached the skeleton—none of that lingering red smoke on your floor from before. He turned his head back to you and winked once more before leaving.

Once that door shut, you were left to deal with your troubled emotions from that encounter all alone. What a fun thing to do so late in the day.

But at least you were troubled, which was a much better alternative than if you were sure that he wanted to kill you. At least there was hope.

…

Twenty minutes.

For twenty minutes, you’d been staring at the old maroon phone on your wall, with Red’s business card sitting in your hand, trying to decide whether or not to call. For twenty minutes, your head had been buzzing with the pro’s and con’s, with the contradicting want to be as wary of gangsters as possible, while also wanting to stay on the skeleton’s good side. For twenty minutes, you’d been going through each second of your encounter with him from earlier, wondering if anything stuck out that might be indicative of heinous intentions.

He didn’t come in looking for a fight, that was for sure. He tipped a shit ton for his bill again , and when his kid asked about it, his answer was that he felt bad for making you stay. Which, obviously could have been a fib for the kid, but some part of you trusted it. He chatted with you, and nothing about the conversation felt malicious or cold. When he brought up his original offer, there wasn’t anything scary about his tone, nothing to pressure you into taking him up on it, and all he said was to keep it in mind. With the way he brought it up, he’d made it seem like you’d be doing him a favor , which was always nice to have over someone in his field. Maybe a little unethical in nature, but having a gangster owe you one was a great thing when you were trying to survive in a place like Atheby.

You maintained your staring contest with the phone, like it owed you money, or like it had killed your father. 

I’m gonna burn a fucking hole through the receiver if I stare at it any longer, you thought with a huff. 

“Who knows, right?” you mumbled to no one. “It’s good to take chances sometimes. Maybe not so much with gangsters, but… who’s to say?” Your little pep talk wasn’t helping.

You gnawed on a nubbed down nail that you’d already worked down to nothing.

After another six stomach-ache-inducing, anxiety-filled minutes of staring at the receiver passed, you worked up the nerve to grab for the phone. You dialed up the number on the card with your heartbeat pounding in your face, and waited.

…

“ya can let me know when that kind of stuff happens before it gets super late yanno,” Red said, pulling Frisk’s comforter over them after they crawled into bed. “‘s not like i’ll be mad.”

“I didn’t think you would be,” Frisk said. “I just thought the few bites I ate would be enough. I didn’t mean to stay up.” Red felt a small tug of sympathy on his soul, but didn’t show it on his face.

“that’s okay,” he said quieter. “didja like the pizza?” This made Frisk grin really wide, that toothless grin beaming up at him. 

“I loved it! I wanna go back there again and talk with the pizza person again.”

“yeah, maybe we can go earlier in the day so we can sit inside.”

“Yeah,” Frisk yawned. “Let’s do that instead.”

“okay, kid,” he ruffled their hair gently, and turned off the lamp by their bed.

He walked towards the door, and turned back towards the room before closing it.

“Good night, Sans,” they said, in a small, sleepy voice. Red hoped the light from the hallway was casting his face in shadow, and smiled.

“g’night, kiddo.”

He shut the door slowly so as to muffle any sound, and headed down the hall to get a quick drink of mustard from that stash Grillby had mentioned. Those two pizzas he’d ordered completely satiated his hunger, and what better to go with a full stomach than a nice drink of his favorite condiment.

Unfortunately for Red, a certain older brother of his stopped him in his tracks in the kitchen. Something he was hoping to avoid.

“Did you finish up with the weapons?” Wings asked, not looking up from whatever he was doing. It looked to Red like he was writing something down. Red winced.

“yeah,” he lied. “for the most part.” Less of a lie. Wings sighed sharply, and lifted his head to glare at his brother. Red tried not to swallow his nerves.

“‘For the most part’ is not what I asked for. Did you completely finish with them?” Wings’s grip on his pen visibly tightened, along with his eyelights. Red huffed and rolled his eyes.

“fuckin’ stars, man, no. i didn’t. i got half of one left.” What a load of bullshit, Wings, come on. Half of one is essentially finished. Don’t blow it so far outta proportion. But Red knew his brother, and he knew that if there was any truth to Wings’s behavior, it was that he was a god damn stickler for his schedule.

“Sans, I don’t have the patience for repeating the same sentiment over and over,” he growled. “You cannot neglect your work. That is true now more than ever before. We cannot afford to lose our footing.”

The price to pay for Wings’s incredible intellect was his obnoxious and entirely unbearable lack of sympathy, as well as his inability to cut others slack. Running a family of crime, designing new weaponry, and now navigating the political landscape of the surface was taking a toll on the skeleton’s psyche, and the result was a heap of shit he’d unload onto his brothers for any shortcomings. Papyrus was understanding of this, but Sans thought it unacceptable. He was fucking tired. And he worked like a damn dog every day and every night keeping up with Wings’s plans. One night of a slight offset would not do anything in the long run, and both of them knew it.

“i got it. i know,” Red spat, exasperated. “fuck, man, i hadn’t eaten in hours and neither had the kid. they came down to ask for dinner an’ i didn’t wanna send ‘em to bed hungry. i was gonna finish up soon as i got back.” Wings stared at Red for an extra second before responding, minutely less accusatory in tone.

“Why hadn’t they eaten yet?” Red scratched at his maw.

“they went over to a friend’s after school but the parents sucked at cookin’, so they didn’t eat much.” 

“Fine, so tonight was an exception,” his tone was pulled taut again, intolerant. “You’re to finish with your work before indulging.” Red gaped at that, which morphed into a nasty snarl.

“yer not fuckin’ serious,” Red argued. “‘m not gettin’ plastered on the job, i jus’ needa fuckin’ eat. ‘m not allowed t’ eat anymore?” He was getting riled up enough to use his hands, gesticulating with open palms at his brother. Wings responded with a darkening snarl of his own, and slammed his pen down on the table.

“I don’t want to hear any more shit from you tonight, this conversation is ov—”

Rrrrring!

Both of their heads snapped to the phone on the wall.

If Red was any less angry, he might have found the timing of the ringing hilarious for cutting off his older brother, something no one could manage without earning a place on Wings’s mental list of people to kill. But at the moment, he could only find it entirely relieving, saved by the bell from what could have easily turned into a physical altercation with Wings.

“Were we expecting a call?” Wings asked, still looking at the phone.

“dunno,” was all he could respond.

Wings stood from his chair and grabbed the phone from the receiver. 

“Hello?” His voice came out in a harsh unwelcoming crackle. Sucks for whoever’s on the other end I guess.

Red tried to listen to the other voice, but only gathered muffled nothings. He crossed his arms, waiting for the call to end.

“Who is this?” Wings said eventually. Whatever the response was must have been enough to make the nasty face he was making relax ever so slightly. “No, this is the right number, let me get him for you.” Wings held the phone out to his brother, waiting for him to approach and take it off his hands. Red’s brow bone raised, and he pointed to himself in confusion. Wings nodded.

…

You had looped your index finger so many times through the cord of your phone that you were sure you’d have nerve damage. Whoever had answered the phone initially had one of the scariest fucking voices you’d ever had the pleasure (maybe unfitting word choice) of hearing. A dark croaking tone, like an old wooden chair had smoked one too many cigarettes, buzzed horrifyingly into your ear. Your phone audio quality probably didn’t do the voice any favors, but you’d still prefer to never hear that fucking voice in person. With a white-knuckled vice grip, you held the phone to your ear, listening to dead silence for a solid ten seconds before a sound came through the receiver again.

“yeah, this is sans.” Finally, that heavy Brooklyn drawl scratched through the tinny speaker, and you released a breath you hadn’t realized you’d been holding. 

“Evenin’ to youse,” you said. “This is the owner of Abbiocco, yanno, um, from earlier. I’m calling regarding the proposition you’d offered. About a private conversation we could have?” So you were doing it. No turning back. You took a gangster up on his offer. Some part of you felt like it was dying. Your heartbeat hadn’t left your face, maintaining the same cadence of a high school drumline’s bassline.

“oh evenin’ there, shug,” he said, and his voice settled some of the roiling tension in your chest. “‘s great t’ hear yer voice again. so, yer interested in my offer?”

You swallowed hard on dirt and fear. “Am. I-I am, I mean, I’m interested.” Smooth.

“well ain’t that dandy,” he replied, and you could just hear the smug turn up of those dreadful chompers. The cocky shine of his golden tooth. “now, let’s get them deets sorted, eh?”

Here we go.

Chapter Text

When you were young, your hometown was a place of community. Kindness. Hospitality. You knew mostly everyone, what with your father running a pizza restaurant, so you met a lot of people in town, and they grew to love Abbiocco. Most of the time, you’d just sit in the restaurant, doing your homework in one of the booths. Because you grew up in an environment where everyone knew you, or knew your family, or just felt comfortable talking with you, that sense of community became an integral part of you. A good, hearty meal could bring people together in a way that you couldn’t understand as a kid, but as you got older, you felt something in your soul develop so that it made sense to you. A good meal was a way to welcome people into your life, a way to let someone know you were comfortable with them. Maybe that was more so true when it was a meal had at your house, but to you, a family-owned restaurant did the trick all the same. Once you got old enough, your town lost its innocence to Mitch’s greedy hands, which strangled every resident until there was nothing left of them save for the heart still beating in their chest. You lost people to the dark times of Jack Schiavone. Kind, honest people rotted into husks of men, morals askew, and who could blame them? You wouldn’t. There was a reason people resorted to crime—it was never a willing decision. 

But there were seeds of what Atheby used to be. There still existed times when an old family friend would come in, and you’d talk with them, reminiscent of before. Although they had a few more gray hairs than they did when you were young, the conversation still left you with a lingering sense of warmth, of compassion. Those moments were a bit dimmer than they used to be, more scarce, a little more poisoned with despair. But those moments gave you hope. Those seeds, when your town would come together again like it used to, they were what gave you hope. They were why you kept in this town. It was worth saving.

One of those seeds sprouted in the Friday nights at Abbiocco. Those were the nights your town used to come to life, the streets warm with a bustle of foot traffic, people hungry and excited to live walked up and down the sidewalks, and those people would come in to Abbiocco after reading the sign in your window “Live Music! 6-9 PM Tonight!” People still loved Friday nights in your place. How they’d smile when your musicians would play—their kids up and moving around to the music, and the parents would join them, laugh lines wearing into their skin—a memory that could still be seen on their faces for years to come. 

“Ma, I’m gonna check on Diana, be back in a minute,” you called to your mom, who was busy shelving pizzas into the oven. She gave you a wordless thumbs-up, and you got out from behind your counter to approach the small stage in the corner of your shop. The stage bordered two walls, one of which had red curtains to hide the shabby backstage area for your talents to get themselves ready for their time. You called it shabby, but you were secretly very proud of it. It had a rustic vanity, a sink, and a closed off room for them to change in. Pushing past the curtains, you were greeted by the sight of a young woman, a beautiful musical talent, touching up her dark locs in the vanity. She was a fresh talent, just graduated high school a year ago, but you knew if she ever got the chance to leave Atheby, she’d make it big. Her voice was a supernova on a canvas of pitch black space. In the reflection of the vanity, she caught your eye, and you felt a spark of something sweet catch in your chest at the way she glowed at the sight of you. She hopped up from her seat and did a little twirl in front of you, despite the fact that she was wearing a phthalo green pantsuit and not a dress. 

“There’s the woman of the hour,” you said with a smile. “You about ready? Feelin’ good?” She returned your smile with one of her own, pearly whites beaming back at you in a way that almost made you forget that depressing train of thought you were following earlier.

“I’m feelin’ great, how do I look?” She asked, striking a pose so that you could see her outfit again. It let you get a good look at her silver jewelry and the fluffy white boa that she had hooked over her shoulders. You laughed lightly and nodded.

“Like a doll,” you told her. “All good if I introduce ya now? It’s—” you checked your watch in a quick flick of your wrist— “a couple minutes early, that okay?”

“Sounds perfect,” she assured you. “You go out there, I’ll do my warm ups while you’re talkin’.” You gave her two thumbs up and turned back to the curtains. You pushed through them, this time greeted by a mostly full restaurant, who’s faces turned up to find yours. You tapped on the microphone once, twice, and figured it sounded okay.

“Evenin’, folks!” you said, and that got anyone who hadn’t already looked your way’s attention. “Hope everyone has been havin’ a good day, but, no pressure if you aren’t.” The crowd gave a soft chuckle.

“Either way, your day is about to get a lot better, because I have the honor of hosting an incredible singer tonight, which means you all get the pleasure of listenin’ to her beautiful voice for no extra charge to your meal. ‘Course, that doesn’t mean ya shouldn’t feel welcome to leave tips for her performance.” Again, another round of chuckles from everyone. “Now, please put your hands together for the wonderful Diana!”

You adjusted the microphone as needed for roughly where she’d stand, and you hopped off the stage (which was really only a stair’s height from the ground). The restaurant erupted in an inviting round of applause for Diana, and so you retreated back behind the counter, taking the orders of the family that had walked through the doors in the time it took you to get the crowd ready for your performer. 

“Hi, everyone,” Diana spoke in a projected, but smooth voice. “I wanna give a big thank you to the best host for letting me live out my childhood dream in their place.” She clapped her hands, and everyone followed, which made you blush at the mention, and you waved to the restaurant gratefully. 

“It’s a lovely night tonight, and what better way to enjoy such a night than with a little Pomplamoose?” 

And immediately following that introduction, a quiet piano began to fill your place, a deceptively warm tune.

Johnny, don’t leave me, you said you’d love me forever

Her voice was angelic to the ear, like a drizzle of honey on a cool spring morning. It was everything that reminded you of what your town could be. What it might have turned out to be all those years ago, if Mitch hadn’t set his eyes on it. It was a promise of beautiful harmony.

Honey, believe me, I’ll have your heart on a platter

She swayed her body slowly to the indirect beat of the piano, hand coming up to the mic in a gentle caress of the metal, like it were another person up there with her. You finished tacking together the new ticket orders and headed back to the kitchen to help your mom. The music rang clear through the kitchen still, just a bit quieter.

Might you recall, we’ve got a small family business

“How ya doin’ back here?” you asked, and organized the tickets so the oldest were first.

“Got three pizzas that are ready to be served—two meat lovers, one veggie—for 120.” As she told you, her hands worked on the dough for the newer orders.

“Heard.” You retrieved the pizzas, traying each one on their own metal pan, and that was how the rest of the night would run. You’d pull the pizzas from the oven to serve, weaving through the tables to find who ordered what you were holding, and you’d retire back to the kitchen until someone hit the bell on your counter to get your attention. Your mom had the brilliant idea to not have the bell make a sound out in the main area, so as to not disturb the talent on stage, and instead have it ring back into the kitchen. She even got to make a little notecard in front of it that read: “Not broken! We hear it in the kitchen!”

And the family won’t like this

Diana’s voice held clear and strong on that note, in a way that nearly gave you goosebumps. Truth be told, you did get goosebumps the first time you’d heard her sing. Oh, what you’d give to hear her for the first time again. 

They’ll bust your kneecaps, ooh, wop dee do, wop dee do!

As you moved back behind the counter to join your mom again, you fated a glance back to your performer.

She had such a beautiful potential with that voice of hers. Her future would be so bright: she’d get so well acquainted with the flashing of cameras, the bright burn of a real, expensive spotlight, the shine of real rocks in jewelry. You could see it for her, clear as day. People would drive for miles for her shows once she got out of Atheby. 

They’ll bust your kneecaps, ooh, wop dee do, wop dee do!

If she ever did. Her potential meant little to nothing when it came to the cruel world you lived in. Atheby had a tendency to break anything beautiful that might come from it, anything that might live out to something bigger. Something worthwhile. Someone like Diana. She was worth everything the best singers were worth and so, so much more. She was everything Atheby might have been, but in the same breath, she was a perfect example of how it had become nothing. Diana, no matter how heavenly a voice, was doomed to a life to scraping together loose bills from her gigs just to afford a chance to continue singing. At all.

Johnny, you told me you were no fool, you were no chump

If there was ever anything you could do to make that reality a distant nightmare instead, you would do it. 

Then you got cold feet, now all you’ll be is a speedbump

So if the only way Diana could make a life from singing was by coming into your place every other week and singing her damn heart out with the prettiest smile that Hollywood would ever see, you’d pay her whatever it took to keep her coming back. To keep her singing. Her energy was infectious, a magnificent buzz of beauty that let you, just for a moment, live in a reality where your town didn’t kill anything with heart, didn’t tear everything from its artistic talents, where it didn’t devolve into the unrecognizable cement jungle it never used to be, all those years ago.

…

“Here’s your cut of the night.” You handed Diana a small envelope full of cash, and she took it from you to shove into her bag, still gathering her things. “Voice hurtin’ at all? Need anythin’ before ya leave?” 

“No pain, promise,” she smiled, but then her face fell, and she stood to face you. “Oh, actually, you haven’t heard from Callie or Tiff, have ya? They, um, haven’t responded to my calls, at all. For weeks.” She started wringing her hands together, and stared at you with hopeful, but fearful eyes. You swallowed.

“I was gonna ask you the same thing,” you said in a quiet voice. “Haven’t seen either of ‘em or heard word from ‘em since July.” Diana’s eyes fell from yours, despair trickled into her irises, the gleam from before faded. You didn’t know quite what to say.

“Oh,” she mumbled, crestfallen. “Ya don’t… think anythin’ happened to ‘em, right?” She looked back up to you, with those fearful, dreadful eyes. Those eyes were familiar to everyone in your town. Everyone knew that feeling that came with those eyes—knowing fear.

“No,” you lied. “No, I’m sure they’re alright. I’ll ask around, see what I can find out. Try not to worry about it. Just… stay safe, okay?” You wanted to keep lying, wanted to make it convincing, just to bring that light back to her eyes, but you needed her to keep herself safe. 

She wasn’t convinced with your words, but she gave you a gentle smile nonetheless. “‘Course I will.” She patted you on the shoulder and gave you a quick peck on the cheek. “You have a good night, ‘kay?” You smiled tiredly, that warm spark back in your chest. You watched her leave your place for the night, walking side-by-side with another one of your performers from the night. That, at the least, was relieving. She’d get home safe. In your heart, you wanted to believe Callie and Tiff were the same, safe and sound.

‘Wanted to believe’ being a key phrase.

…

“someone will stop by abbiocco to pick you up”

That’s what Red had told you over the phone when you’d asked where your conversation would be had. You scheduled it for your one off day of the week—Tuesday. If you were fully honest with yourself, the call had done a lot for the nerves you harbored from your previous interactions with him. Maybe it was because you didn’t have to look into those piercing lights floating in those dark, empty sockets. Maybe without that menacing, golden tooth shining supernaturally at you, you felt you could breathe a little easier. There were a lot of maybe’s.

Over the phone, he had mentioned someone would arrive at the time you both agreed upon, sharp. He was not wrong. As the minute hand passed the ‘12’, an inconspicuous brown car rolled to a stop in front of your restaurant, and somehow it was so much worse that they were eerily punctual as opposed to a little early or a little late. You swallowed, despite your throat resembling something of a desert, and brushed your hands down your outfit. You weren’t sure what to anticipate regarding attire requirements, so you’d tried to wear something you wouldn’t normally wear: something a little on the fancier side for you, but you didn’t have a lot of money to invest in fancy wardrobe, so while it was fancier for you , it wasn’t greatly fancy in general.

Okay, maybe overthinking the outfit choice now. You huffed. Let’s just get in the car.

And while it was such an easy thing to do—just get in the car—it was also incredibly nerve-wracking. What were you to expect? There was always still a chance for it to end in a gruesome death for you, and you’d be helpless to stop it. But, if you suddenly refused to meet with Red, he might be furious and call for your death anyways.

Can’t remember the last time I freaked out so much about a car ride, you thought, a mess of knots in your stomach. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

You tried to think of anything else to assure yourself with besides that sentiment, but you came up dry.

The door handle was cold on your hand, and, ignoring the tremor in your hand, you secured a grip on the metal, and then walked out. This could be my last time walking out of here. Is that what this was? Your walk to the gallows? Would you even be offered the courtesy of a last meal? What would you choose if you were offered? Should you have thought about it more beforeha—

Okay. Reel it in.

You tried to take a breath, but found it nearly impossible. Lightheaded, you locked the front door to the restaurant, and sighed shakily.

Your nerves didn’t leave after you got in the car. You folded your hands on your lap.

The interior was fine for a car, much nicer than anything you’d had, with cream faux leather seats and some soft burgundy material lining the door. Despite the unremarkable size of the car, it was surprisingly spacious, and you could stretch your legs out comfortably. 

The driver had yet to make a noise. You figured it was up to you to start conversation.

“This is a nice car you’re drivin’,” you said finally. The driver didn’t respond. You wondered if you should try again.

“... I really appreciate you drivin’ me,” you said, a wobble in your voice. You glanced into the rearview mirror to see what the driver looked like, and anything else you were gonna say cowered back down from your throat to the far reaches of your gut. 

They were a monster, and they had one massive eye that took up the entirety of their face. Flared out on the sides of its face were two horns on both sides, and above the massive eye, three marks forked up—which resembled eyelashes. Its eye was slightly bloodshot, a nice, thick red ring of irritation surrounding its iris, fading to white near the corners. The monster didn’t respond for a long time.

After way too long of a silence stretched between the two of you, the monster’s eye closed. That was… not assuring, considering they were driving, and they needed to see to drive. But when they opened their eye again, it revealed a row of teeth in a disturbing grin. Its eyelashes from earlier adjusted slightly to turn into a set of eyes with one mark sitting between them.

“... Are you picking on me?” it finally spoke, in an odd, buzzing voice, staring at you in the rearview.

… What the fuck.

“N-No,” you stuttered. “I’m thankin’ you. For drivin’ me to… wherever it is we’re going.”

The monster didn’t respond for another moment. You weren’t sure what to think.

“... I’m driving you to the Gaster residence.”

You nodded. “Right.” Suddenly, the familiar scenery outside the car window became the most interesting thing you’d ever seen.

That has to be the weirdest thing I’ve ever seen, you thought to yourself. Its eye became its mouth? How is that even possible?

“... Pick on me.”

Your face blanked.

“Sorry?” you asked. The monster’s face had morphed back into just one big eye. It stared at you in the rearview.

“Pick on me,” it repeated. You swallowed, slowly, and turned your gaze away from the mirror. 

“Uh,” you chuckled nervously. “I’m not gonna do that.” Why the fuck do they wanna be picked on. What is happening. 

The car filled up with a heavy silence, one that drew on for much too long. It made you fully regret your decision to meet with Red. Why would he send this monster specifically? Were they an exceptional driver? You supposed the ride was really smooth thus far. You wondered how much longer the drive would take.

“What are you so afraid of?” the monster asked you eventually.

You avoided looking at the rearview mirror again.

“Just... don't wanna be rude to the driver, yanno,” you offered with an awkward chuckle. You hoped to anyone above that your answer would appease the monster. You regretted trying to break the silence in the beginning of the ride to be polite.

The rest of the ride was dead silent. Some part of you was grateful for that. Another part of you wanted to curl up and die in the backseat.

At some point during the torturously awkward, but also alarmingly smooth drive, the car rolled to a stop. You had been staring out your window, not focused on anything really, just deep in thought about how the next hour or two might end up for you. You wished you’d said goodbye to your mom, or maybe told her where you were. You wondered if your death would be slow or painful, or if maybe you’d be given a merciful speedy death.

You were broken from those thoughts not when the car finally stopped, but when the monster driving you spoke again, and said: “We are here.”

You blinked, and quickly got your stuff together. Not that you’d brought much in the first place—just a bag with the essentials. You popped the car door open, and took an extra second to decide whether or not to thank the driver for the ride. 

“Thank you for drivin’ me!” Please don’t talk about picking on you again.

“... Sure.” The one word response made your eyes widen in delight. You gave the monster one last smile before they drove off.

When your eyes landed on the place, your jaw fell open like a dead fish. Fucking. Hell.

The property was positively beautiful. A massive, tasteful mansion, built in an almost castle-esque design, of stone brick walls and breathtaking windows —that’s how you knew it was incredible, the fucking windows were marvelous. There were few houses nearby, its nearest neighbor must have been a good couple blocks away. The front yard was sizable. Bigger than any property’s front yard in your town, not that that was really saying much, but it was just so beautiful. There was nice greenery lining the path to the front door, and what a door it was. As you approached it, you felt like you were shrinking. If you were twice your height, you still wouldn’t reach the top of it. And my god, the tree that was used for its crafting was hearty and whole. The coloring was just magnificent.

Suddenly, your outfit that you were relatively happy with felt wholly inadequate. You might as well have shown up in your pajamas. This is embarrassing.

With your heartbeat pounding in your ears, you lifted a hand, and knocked on the wood. Two heavy thuds that made you clench your fist from the sting. 

You didn’t wait long, thank whoever above for that, so you weren’t left to sit and ruminate with your thoughts. Which, by the way, were substantially less than helpful when it came to easing the anxiety worm currently gnawing a hole through your stomach.

Red swung the door open, much too easily for a door of that size (just how fucking strong is he?), wearing a face of displeasure. His expression melted as his gaze dropped to find you, and he grinned. You figured that smile was much more assuring than whatever his expression was in that second before, and you released a shaky breath.

He wore a nice suit. You were right to think the last two outfits you’d seen him in were not quite mobster-worthy. This one, this one really proved it to you. Down to his ankles stretched a hefty brown trenchcoat, and around his midsection was a damn pristine blood-red waistcoat. Said waistcoat hid his matching brown button down, which peaked out at his collar—and there at his chest, just peaking above the waistcoat was a matching red tie. His slacks matched the brown of the trench coat and button down, but his shoes were a much deeper brown. Fuck, if it wasn’t one of the nicest suits you’d ever seen. How coordinated the colors were, how expensive that material must have been. 

“good t’ see ya,” he glanced up past your head, scanned the street, and then looked back to you. He opened the door a bit more, allowing you inside. “c’mon in, shug.” As you stepped past him, his hand brushed the top of your back to usher you in, and you shivered. He closed the door behind you, and started walking through the mansion. You had yet to say a word, still so in awe of the place. You figured that might be a good place to start.

“This is a really nice house ya got,” you said, fighting to use your fearful voice. “I mean, really.” The interior was somehow more impressive than the exterior, with a wonderful chandelier dangling in the foyer, and just about the highest ceiling you’d ever had the pleasure of standing beneath. My god, was it spacious, too. There was so much room to do… anything you could think of really. They could host a ball here for a hundred people, just in their foyer (maybe a slight exaggeration). 

“heh,” he chuffed, humorlessly. “i know right. little overdone if ya ask me.”

You narrowed your eyes, thankful he couldn’t see. Are you seriously not happy with this fuckin’ mansion ya got? Too nice for ya?

Mobsters always were so confusing.

After a couple seconds of walking, he stopped in place, and snapped to face you. “uh, can i getcha a drink?” He looked almost uncomfortable asking, like it pained him to. It nearly made you laugh. “we got water, tea—oh, do ya drink alcohol? can i- am i allowed t’ ask that?”

You smiled, a little confused. “I’m, uh— just water’s fine.” He nodded, like he was grateful that was over.

“great,” he said. “hey, boss, ya mind gettin’ ‘em a water?”

“SANS! DON’T CALL ME THAT!”

You full-body flinched when the sudden roar of an unknown voice echoed through the house. For a solid several seconds, you thought your heart had up and stopped beating in your chest. It was only after you grabbed at your chest with your hand and felt that steady bump-bump against your ribs that you realized you weren’t dead.

“AND DON’T OFFER IF YOU’RE JUST GOING TO ASK ME TO DO IT!” The voice came again, and when you took a second to process it, you noticed how starkly different from Red’s voice this new one sounded. A bit higher in pitch, but much, much louder in volume. While Red’s voice resembled the low thrum of a hefty engine, and always calm to boot, this one grated on your ears, almost painfully scratchy, and was anything except calm in tone. It was as if you gave a voice to the phrase ‘all work no play.’

You turned to find the source, and suddenly you wondered how in the world you had managed to miss it in the first place. In the kitchen, sat the tallest being you’d seen in your life. And he was sitting.

This new skeleton monster had a skull very different from Red’s—all sharp edges, angles. His mouth, unlike Red’s, consisted of very few, but huge teeth. And from the top of his skull were two horrid gashes that drew down through his left eyesocket to his cheekbone. You briefly wondered what the fuck kind of creature could have possibly managed to scar such a monster so. You felt a little queasy thinking about it. The new skeleton, while much taller than Red, surely, was also much skinnier than Red. You assumed they had similar bone structures, even though they were so differently sized.

And his hands. If you could even call them that. Red had thick fingers made of bone, but this skeleton only had claws. Sharp, so sharp—terrifying to even glance at. You swallowed. 

“c’mon, boss, i gotta show ‘em t’ my office, otherwise i would.”

The tall skeleton made a noise of indignation. He rolled the lights in his eyes.

You felt really uncomfortable.

“FINE.”

You trailed behind Red the rest of the way to his office, dead silent. Any relief you had achieved from seeing his familiar face at the door had vanished after that encounter in the kitchen.

His office followed suit with the rest of the house, a grand mahogany desk in the middle of the room that Red circled around to get to the grandiose brown leather chair that, even after Red had sat down in, flared up high past his skull. Another flaunt of wealth, you assumed. Rich people homes made you uncomfortable. You could count on one hand how many times you’d been in one of these crazy rich mansions before in your life, and every detail in them that emphasized their obnoxious fortunes only served to make you feel worse. 

That tall skeleton from before entered the office soon after you, holding a glass of water that looked comically small in his hand. He handed it directly to you. 

“HERE IS YOUR WATER, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN,” his voice had quieted down enough so you didn’t flinch when he spoke again. “LET ME KNOW IF YOU WOULD LIKE ME TO FIX IT IN ANY WAY. I CAN BOIL IT IF THAT IS PREFERABLE, OR I CAN GET YOU ICE. AND I APOLOGIZE FOR MY BROTHER. HE IS NOTHING IF NOT A LAZY BONES! NYEH-HEH-HEH!”

You chuckled nervously. “Good one.”

The skeleton smiled victoriously, and stood beside your chair, waiting.

Oh, does he want me to try the water now?

You took a sip from your glass and made a face.

Oh, my god, I think this is actually the best glass of water I’ve ever had. What did he put in this?

“T-This is perfect,” you stammered. “Thank you so much.”

The skeleton struck a very proud pose at your compliment, only further emphasizing his impossible height.

“WELL, OF COURSE IT IS, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN! I AM NOT CALLED THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS FOR NOTHING!” He boasted, but his face fell immediately after the words came out, and he bent down to get closer to you. You instinctively moved slightly back.

“I APOLOGIZE FOR MY RUDE BEHAVIOR, IT APPEARS I HAD FORGOTTEN TO INTRODUCE MYSELF FORMALLY. I AM THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS, BUT YOU CAN CALL ME PAPYRUS.” 

“Papyrus is really tall, like thirty feet probably, and he’s a really good cook! He’s a lot louder than Sans and Wings, though.”

So this is who Frisk was talking about. 

He stuck a hand out for you, and while it took you a second, you shook his hand right back. You exchanged with him your own name, and he nodded. He gaze you one last, slightly less terrifying grin, and left without another word.

You felt conflicted again. Papyrus was a scary guy based on looks alone, but in the same breath, it was wholly rude of you to judge him on that. He was kind enough, you supposed, and he had good manners: he felt rude when he realized he hadn’t introduced himself yet. Plus, that water was the best damn glass of water you’d ever had. You took another sip, wondering what to think.

“don’t mind my brother,” Red said, cutting into your thoughts. “he’s a bit much, but he’s harmless.” You sighed, smiling. Maybe Red was a little biased, but it was nice to have the tension in your shoulder finally loosened.

“to you anyway.” Your eyes widened, until you caught on to the little smirk on his teeth, and you laughed. Some part of you wondered if he was actually joking.

“alright, let’s get into the weeds of it.” Red stretched his arms out in front of himself and cracked his knuckles, like a human would, and then he rolled his head around on his neck, like a boxer would. He grabbed a pen from the little cup on his desk, and held it anticipatively above his notebook. “start from the beginnin’, wouldja?”

You didn’t respond for a couple seconds. “Beginning of what?”

It was his turn to not respond for a couple seconds, which was conveniently the perfect amount of time for your brain to boot back up. “Oh, when- when Mitch came to Atheby—? Right.” You took another half second to think.

“It was… the spring of my eighth grade year, so probably about twelve years ago. Yeah, twelve. I can remember what it was like before he came in, and lemme tell ya, Atheby used to be a nice place. Not great, y’know, but… we had a couple parks, the streets were safer, and there were these beautiful trees around that would bloom so nicely in the spring. Now, ‘course, those parks are empty, and the streets are… well. You’ve been to Atheby at night before.” Red scribbled on his notepad for a moment. You took another sip of water.

“can ya elaborate on the crime?”

“Sure, yeah,” you set the glass down on his desk. “For one, most of the crime is drug based, I’m pretty sure. Not weed, that shit is mostly harmless. No, it’s the harder stuff. I’ve lost a lot of friends to that kind of addiction. And they can’t help it, y’know? It’s an awful, shit area—who wouldn’t try some kind of escapism? An’ I know it’s Mitch’s fuckin’ dogs runnin’ that bullshit scheme. I know it. That’s one of their big profits from here. I’m pretty sure they lace their shit too, nasty stuff. People get way worse than what they sign up for. It’s… hard to find anyone who doesn’t know someone that got hooked. The addictions are what made the homeless population skyrocket. There’s so many of ‘em now, and it’s always… I mean, I knew these people. An’ sometimes they just… stop showin’ up on the streets. Without an explanation. I don’t like thinkin’ about it too hard.”

Red continued writing for a while. 

“Sorry for, uh, ramblin’ a bit there.”

“when ya ramble like that,” Red began, without glancing up, “it lets me get an idea where the general public is in terms of opinion on mitch’s decisions. if anythin’, i appreciate it.”

“Oh. Good.” You folded your hands in your lap, and waited.

“ya mentioned before how expensive the bills were in this area—that has t’ do wit’ him too, i assume?”

“Oh, One-hundred-percent, it does. Mitch has people that, uh, sort of run his areas for him? In Atheby, it’s Jack that does that. One of Mitch’s sons. He overlooks another property, too, I’m pretty sure. But anyway, he runs all the apartment complexes, collects the rent, plus a protection fee.” Your face soured up at the thought.

“He bleeds the residents dry, I’ll tell ya what. Fuckin’ stars, yanno, I’m lucky to afford the restaurant as it is. I started doin’ something to keep revenue up enough for me to afford my place, the restaurant, and that protection fee, too. On Friday nights, I employ musicians to perform, 6-9PM, every week. It gets pretty busy then, and that becomes a lot of my sales for the week. It also helps those musicians make ends meet. Some of them—” you cast your eyes down— “some of ‘em really struggle out there. Breaks my heart to think about. They’re good people. I guess it’s nice that there are bars for them to work at, too, but… I’ve been to those bars. They’re dangerous, seedy joints. If it’s a woman on that stage…” You trailed off, and shook your head. 

“I try to enforce the safety of my performers, but that shit’s difficult to navigate sometimes. Actually, um, not to get, too detailed or nothin’, but… two of my acts, Callie and Tiff, kinda, um, vanished. Like, they didn’t show up t’ their gigs, no explanation, no nothin’. An’ I haven’t heard from them since.” You took a deep breath. “I don’t know what I’m askin’, really, or implyin’, but that kind of thing doesn’t really happen. They usually call if they’re gonna miss, if they need to tell me they moved, or got sick, or… I donno. It’s makin’ me nervous.” Red went quiet for a minute, and finished scrawling down notes on that notepad. He looked up to you with something of sympathy in his eyes.

Callie and Tiff were two regular performers of yours. Young women, both only a couple years older than Diana, and they’d shown her the ropes when she was first starting out as a singer. They were the ones that recommended her to you, and you trusted them—you’d known them for years. Inexplicably, in early May, Tiff didn’t show to her gig. You didn’t know until showtime, and she didn’t pick up any of your calls that night. Or the next day. Or any of the calls you’d left in the months following. Callie was a similar case, in late July. You started getting really nervous then, but you couldn’t talk to anyone about it—the cops were worse than useless. What were you meant to do?  

“‘m sorry t’ hear that,” he let his words sit in the air, thinking. “i’ll do what i can t’ look into that. not really sure if i have the power for somethin’ like that… but i’ll see what i can do.” He looked genuinely concerned. You gave a sad smile.

“Thanks, it means a lot.”

“‘course,” he said. “now, how does mitch enforce that fee ya mentioned? is it on threat of—” he cut himself off, and sort of looked at you awkwardly before subtly drawing a line across his throat.

“Kind of,” you made a ‘so-so’ gesture with your hand. “I mean, that’s what it always leads to, at least. Or, it did. You know how I said I make enough to afford living? I’m the one that collects the fee for Jack. I have enough saved up so I can usually cover whatever isn’t paid by the other residents for the month. It’s rough, and sometimes it really eats into my savings, but… man, I can’t just watch people die, yanno.” Tears prick your eyes. “Not to, um, get graphic, or nothin’, but when I was in high school, I watched… a lot of these apartments open up over the years. Jack made an example of some of them at first. I’m talkin’ in public, kids saw. That— That shit stays with you.” 

Red looked a little uncomfortable with your emotion. “do ya need one of those, uh, soft pieces of paper? the ones ya humans use when yer sick?”

… Oh, a tissue, you thought.

“Oh, a tissue,” you said. “N- uh, maybe. Sure, yes. Thank you.”

“don’t mention it, think i got a box in ‘ere.” He pulled out a box of Kleenex and handed it to you. You thanked him again quietly.

“Sorry, um,” you dabbed at your eyes before continuing. “Anyway, after a couple years of Jack makin’ examples of people, Mitch realized he’d be more profitable by implementing a sort of… uh, debt collection, if you will, onto those that couldn’t pay. He’d offer a debt of whatever you didn’t pay that month, but there was a catch. That debt hiked up every week it wasn’t paid off. Every fuckin’ week. And I’m not talkin’ a little 5% neither, it’s somethin’ ridiculous. Last I heard, someone said their payment went up by 40%. That kind of money is nothing something people can just play around with. And then again, it hikes up if you still haven’t paid. Plus, Mitch doesn’t waive the protection fee waiting for you at the end of the next month. It’s so much more expensive to be poor here. Anyway, if you can’t pay the protection fee, or you stop being able to afford the debt, Jack, uh, kills you. That’s the gist. Some people don’t wanna deal with that kind of stress, an’ I can’t blame them, so they figure they’ll just stick it out on the streets for a little while. But the thing about Mitch, is he doesn’t think homeless people look good for an area, so sometimes, Jack kills them too. Fuckin’ gangsters, man. They’re all fuckin’ sick in the head.” Red kept his attention to finishing those notes.

“N-No offense,” you realized.

“none taken.” You figured he was telling the truth, he didn’t look offended in the slightest. You waited another little while before continuing your ramble.

“Y’know, it’s funny, Jack doesn’t like his area lookin’ bad, I think he’s on some power trip, so he’ll enforce really stupid fuckin’ rules. Like, instead of doing anything to eradicate the homelessness in Atheby, he just… takes them out. Or there’s a lot of muggings on the streets at night. A lot. And it’s really hard to see who’s doin’ it ‘cause of the shitty streetlights. Fuckin’ scary, I’ll tell ya what. I walk my mom home when she hangs back to help me at Abbiocco ‘cause I get worried. But has he done anything about those lights? Fuck no, an’ he never will.”

When you stopped talking again, you were met with the familiar sound of his pen on paper. You folded your arms across your chest and waited again, glancing around the room. 

“Wanna know why I don’t close my kitchen ‘til 10?” you asked.

Red’s hand paused, and he looked up at you. “yanno, i have been wonderin’ that.”

You nodded, as if to say ‘it’s a fair thought.’

“It’s cause of Jack. Remember how I said he was on a power trip? Yeah, it was one night, I turned off my neon, closed up, ‘cause my last customer left an’ it was like… five minutes to ten, so I figured the night as done.” You chuckled humorlessly. “Not to him. I guess he was doin’ rounds or somethin’. I don’t fuckin’ know, but he saw my neon was off, and he checked my hours, and… he came in, fightin’ mad. He started screamin’ at me, told me I was makin’ ‘his god damned city look worse’ by not keepin’ with my hours. And then… then he, uh…” a look of pain crossed your face, and you inhaled sharp.

“Well, he’s not one for words. He was gettin’ real fuckin’ mad, and I guess my responses weren’t doin’ it for him, so he- he slapped me.” You paused for a moment, lived the memory again. “He kept screamin’ at me after, but… none of it got though to me. My ears were still ringin’. He’s got a heavy hand, kind of a strong guy. Um, but yeah. I wouldn’t keep my doors open if it weren’t for that. I just, can’t risk another one of his fits. That guy… he’s somethin’ else, man.”

Red stared at you for a little while. He opened his mouth to speak, but shut it when he realized he was coming up dry. He balled up a hand into a fist then released it.

“some people…” he began, struggling with the words from what you could gather. “some people are only in this business ‘cause they know they can do that kinda thing. trust me when i tell ya i’ve met some personally. i wantcha t’ know yer not gonna haf’ta worry about that anymore.”

You blinked at him. “What do you mean?”

Red looked at you for another second, glanced at his door, and then sighed. “... i think ‘m allowed t’ say this now. my brothers an’ i are takin’ over atheby.”

Oh, so not just a shared territory, Atheby is theirs now, you thought. A delighted smile worked up your face, despite yourself. Still gangster control, and Sans and his brothers could always end up being worse than Mitch, but… it’s something.

“That’s… really nice to hear,” you breathed. “Is that in effect now?”

“not yet, still gotta meet up wit’ mitchie about all this. should be cool by the end of the week.”

That fast? You blinked in surprise. 

“speakin’ of mitch, yanno anythin’ about his enemies in the surroundin’ areas?” Red asked, putting pen back to paper. You cleared your throat and nodded.

“Yeah, yeah, one of the big ones is the De Luca family. They’ve got a couple of the more rich areas, and one that Mitch has been trying to get his hands on. There was a rough dispute back a couple years ago, and the De Luca’s took it. I think Mitch is still bitter. Jack was supposed to get control over that area too, but when he didn’t get it, he was pretty pissed.”

Red looked up to you after his hand stopped. “jack was supposed t’ get the area?”

You nodded. “Yeah, I think it was Ovyridge. That place is really nice. It borders Nolyna and another area of Mitch’s too. And it was supposed to be Jack’s.”

Red hummed. “tell me more about the de luca’s.”

“They have the territories North of Mitch’s, and before the whole Ovyridge shit, they were mostly okay with each other. Now, there’s a bit of tension. They still do business together and all, but I’m pretty sure their whole dynamic is one little kick away from exploding.”

And that’s how the meeting continued for a while. Red asking about specifics or for general facts on Mitch’s areas, or the De Luca’s, or anything else that came up. By the time it was wrapping up, you were just about exhausted from rambling on and on about Mitch, remembering all the nitty gritty with his family, and recounting the past multiple years that might contain useful information for Red.

Red started getting sympathetic when your yawns started increasing in frequency, promising you it wouldn’t be too much longer. You told him you didn’t mind.

“okay, for now, i think that’s a good place to finish up,” he finally sighed, and rolled his shoulders around to stretch them out. What the fuck are you stretching out. You don’t have muscles. Or tendons. Or cartilage. You’re just bone.

You laughed in relief, and stretched your own arms out. An afternoon nap would hit the spot.

“oh, one thing i wanted t’ sort out,” he said, closing his notebook. He patted it twice. “this information ya jus’ gave me could getcha killed. an’ i wouldn’t want that t’ happen.”

You swallowed, the thought of your peaceful afternoon nap a far reach from the sudden reminder of gruesome terror you lived in. Me neither.

“sorry fer the mood killer ,” he winked. You laughed, despite yourself. A man of humor, I see. “yer bein’ more than helpful fer me ‘n my bros, an’ i know jack’s a bit suffocatin’ in his control, so it’d be remiss if i jus’ sent ya on yer way without takin’ any other precautions. there’s no way he wouldn’t be suspicious about me comin’ t’ yer restaurant a couple times before askin’ fer the area. ergo, i’d like to assure a little safety fer ya. jus’ t’ make sure nothin’ happens t’ ya ‘cause a my interference.”

Whoa, you thought. Protection? From the new owners of the city? It makes sense, logistics-wise, but I would’ve thought the best outcome of this is that they would just send me on my way. Is he actually saying he actively doesn’t want me to die?

“That’s… Are you being serious?” you glanced between his eyes, checking for any possible tells of a false deal. 

“‘m not a liar, if that’s what yer askin’,” he offered. “listen, obviously, ‘m not gonna go ‘n spill any of what happened t’ mitch. yer very smart, an’ yer a very good informant fer all this shit. ya could be real useful down the road, if yer up for it. but anyway, ‘m not worried about any of this—” he tapped his notebook twice with two digits, again, and you followed the movement with your eyes— “gettin’ t’ mitch. ‘m worried about them possibly noticin’ ya interactin’ w’ me, period. so. ‘m jus’ gonna make sure mitch is unaware a’ our interactions. understood?”

“Y-Yes, understood,” you nodded furiously. Is this the same as making deals with gangsters? It isn’t, right? “Just wondering, um, how much would this cost for me?”

Red looked at you for a moment, silent.

“are you bein’ serious?” he parroted your question back.

“... Yes?” you responded. “I mean, this is one of those protection fee guarantees, right?”

Red huffed a laugh, and closed his eyes, “yeah, no.”

He opened his eyes again, and gave you a deadpan stare. “again, the information ya gave me will get you killed if mitchie somehow found out. he won’t find out, but the least i can do fer ya at this point is guarantee yer safety. ya already paid the price of it by havin’ this conversation wit’ me. i mean, ya really didn’t have incentive t’ do this, butcha did. now that i think about it, that was a little stupid a’ ya. don’t get me wrong, i appreciate ya, but… why did ya agree t’ this?” His gaze narrowed, scrutinizing. Well, now you really felt dumb. Wasn’t he supposed to assure you that you made the right choice?

“Um, forgive me for this, but I thought you’d, uh… yanno,” you swallowed, tight. “Thought it was either I agree or it’s my funeral.” 

Red’s eyelights disappeared. 

You glanced down at your hands in your lap, folding them over each other to distract yourself. He shook his head as if to clear his mind and his eyelights returned to normal, but he took another while to think of anything to say in response.

“oh,” he said dumbly. “i hope ya know, now at least, that’s not… who we are. i know that’s what yer used to, with people in… this field. but my brothers ‘n i are focused on monster integration, not, um… that.” He clenched and unclenched his hands into fists a couple times. 

“th… thank you, fer agreein’,” he said, quieter. You perked up, and half-smiled. What a funny sight. A big scary monster, timidly trying to thank you. He could hardly look you in the eye.

“Thank you for worrying about me,” you cocked your head, lighthearted. “Not many guys in your profession are as nice as you.”

“please,” he said, and rolled his eyes, not unkindly. “‘s the least i could do. but feel free t’ keep strokin’ my ego.” He winked and then heaved himself up from his chair. You followed suit, and let him lead you out of his office. While you followed him, you put an extra pep in your step to keep up with him.

“how was the ride wit’ stig?” he asked during the walk. 

“Who?”

“the guy that drove ya here,” he informed you. “how was he?” Oh, that guy.

If I tell the truth, he might get mad at me for disrespecting his driver.

“He was… interesting,” you said quietly. “At one point, he asked me to pick on him. But the ride was really smooth.”

Red hummed in amusement. “yeah, astigmatisms are a little weird like that. i was considerin’ callin’ ya t’ warn ya, but i figured it’d be fine. hope it didn’t freak ya out too much.”

You sighed internally in relief. “No, it was fine. It did make me nervous, but no, it wasn’t too bad.” It is nice that he knew what I meant, and didn’t think I was catching an attitude.

“good t’ hear that,” he said. “i won’t make ya ride wit’ him again, was jus’ too busy t’ getcha myself. ain’t got that problem anymore.” 

“Oh, okay,” you replied.

“i’ll drop ya at yer restaurant, that okay?” he asked, and turned to face you. You craned your head up to meet his eye, and nodded. “cool. we’re gonna take a li’l shortcut. got all yer stuff?”

You patted your side to check for your bag, and nodded again when you felt the familiar cloth beneath your fingertips. “All good.”

“great. close yer eyes.”

You cocked your head in confusion. “S-Sorry?”

“ya heard me, close ‘em.” You thought better than to ask why, so you shut your eyes. “keep ‘em closed ‘til i say so.”

One large, firm hand landed cautiously on your shoulder, and in the next second, you felt as if you were being sucked through some kind of supernatural straw. It was an odd feeling that rang through your whole body, but it disappeared as quick as it had come, and you let out a shaky breath. 

“alright, yer clear t’ open ‘em.”

You did, and you were shocked to find your surroundings were no longer a magnificent mansion, but the familiar interior of Abbiocco. You blinked once, twice, and a sudden wave of dizziness hit you in the head. A lightheaded-induced loss of strength flashed across your nerves, and your knees went weak, along with most of the other major muscles in your body. It was such a sudden, unexpected sensation, that gave you zero time to react, and, as a result, you felt yourself begin to fall. 

Thankfully, the skeleton must have somehow known your legs were going to give out, because the hand on your shoulder moved swiftly down across your back to get a solid arm around you before you could manage to get any closer to kissing the floor. Your breath returned to you, and with it, your strength, and you stood to wobbly, but usable legs. Your instinct came back finally, albeit annoyingly delayed, and you gripped tightly onto Red’s expensive waist coat, with desperate hands. After a half second, you realized your instinctive reach out caused you to stumble further into the skeleton, smushing yourself into his midsection—into an odd, awkward-looking hug sort of thing. 

Does he. Have a stomach? Why the fuck does it feel like he’s got a gut under this coat?

“stars, don’cha think ‘s a little early fer ya t’ be fallin’ fer me? ”

And finally, embarrassment took a heavy swing right at your face, leaving you flushed, steam whistling out of your ears. You shoved yourself off him as quickly as you could begin to think again. From one of Red’s eyes wafted out a thin trickle of red mist, so faint that you only caught it for a moment before his white eyelight returned to normal. 

“Um, I’m sorry,” you rushed out. “I didn’t mean to. Uh. Grab you. Not sure what just, uh… happened.”

“no worries,” he said thoughtlessly. “was a… side effect type thing from shortcuttin’.” He waved a hand around while he tried to think of the right word choice.

T-That was the shortcut?!

“Sorry,” you said, blinking. “What the fuck kind of shortcut was that? I didn’t realize you meant bending time and space when you said shortcut.”

“‘s faster than drivin’,” he shrugged, giving you a half-apologetic, half-teasing smile. “yer legs okay t’ stand on?”

“Wouldn’t have guessed that breaking the laws of physics would be ‘faster than driving,’” you scoffed sarcastically, still slightly in disbelief. “And my legs are fine now, I think.”

“i wouldn’t call it ‘breaking the laws of physics,’ more like findin’ the limits of ‘em.” He winked at you, and, despite yourself, you found it a little charming.

“alright, so regardin’ that whole protection ordeal, ya jus’ give me call anytime ya feel like someone’s followin’ ya, or askin’ too many questions. it’ll go properly into effect after my meetin’ wit’ mitch, an’ after my bros an’ i are active in atheby. i’ll keep my— oh, shit,” he gave you a funny look, halfway to a wince. “i haven’t given ya my personal, have i?”

“Your what?”

“personal. like, my mobile number?” he asked. You made an ‘o’ shape with your mouth.

“Well, you gave me a number to call—it’s the one I called to ask about that conversation we just had.” Red nodded his head back in understanding.

“see now that’s my home number, which means ya might get one of my bro’s on the phone ‘stead a’ me. here’s—” he pulled out a small piece of paper and a pen, and started scrawling something down— “my personal number, which means i will always be the one t’ answer it.”

“Oh, thank you,” you said, and pocketed the paper. Guess now I won’t get whoever that was that answered the phone first.

“‘kay, now, payment,” he pointed a finger gun at you, as if he’d just recalled the topic. “i know we didn’t discuss it beforehand, but i was thinkin’ 500.” Your eyes went wide, thinking your ears were going bad. Payment? I gotta pay this guy? I thought he said I didn’t have to pay for the protection! Did he lie to my face?!

“I’m sorry,” a heap of regret piled heavy in your stomach. You knew you shouldn’t have fucking agreed to his terms. “I- I don’t just have that money—”

“no- no, i’m payin’ you ,” he interrupted, pointing a boney digit to his chest to iterate his point. “‘m not chargin’ ya, holy shit, how cruel would that be.”

The second half of what he said dissolved in your ears before it hit your eardrums. All you could remember were the words ‘i’m payin’ you’ and ‘500’. You didn’t say anything for a couple seconds. When you finally realized he was waiting for a response, you shook your head.

“I- I’m sorry,” you laughed, thinking for sure your ears had gone bad. “For a second I thought you were saying you were gonna pay me 500 dollars.” Despite your laughter, Red didn’t seem to find the situation funny.

“yeah, that is what i said,” he nodded slowly. He eyed you like you were growing flowers from your nose, then cocked his head in consideration. “were ya thinkin’ more? i could go 700, ‘s that more fittin’?”

Your laughter stopped. “S- Seven hundred…” you blinked. “Dollars? I couldn’t- I can’t take that kind of money from you, that’s—” he cut you off again by holding up a hand.

“i don’t think i need t’ repeat thatcha gave me information that could getcha killed,” his tone was stern, almost scolding you. It shut you right up. “seven hundred is not a generous number fer what ya did fer me today- actually, i’ll jus’ make it a cool thousand. let’s call it there.” He got out his wallet, and you were wordless, watching him rifle through the bills. He pulled a fat stack of green out, and flipped through them, counting up with each bill until he got to ten. Ten one-hundred dollar bills.

“that’s the cash there. give me a call if ya have any questions from ‘ere on out,” he tipped his skull to you, and stuffed his wallet back into the thick of his coat. “i’ll be in touch.”

You finally moved enough to take the cash from him, mouth still dropped open like you were itching to do some fly catching. When the bills finally landed in your palm, you weren’t breathing. One thousand… A thousand dollars. A full thousand dollars, just like that.

“I-...” the words died in your throat, embarrassingly. “I’m… I don’t even know what to say.” A life-changing amount of money, in your hands. This could help your one neighbor with their kid’s medical bills. This could cover a hefty portion of that protection fee looming over your head at the end of the week. This could do so much. So, so much. And he just handed it over like it was… nothing.

“don’t gotta say nothin’,” he waved off, but you looked up to him with tears brimming your eyes. “oh, c’mon, none a’ that. ‘s really not a big deal.” Your lip trembled, and you tried your damnedest to keep the waterworks at bay.

“Thank you,” you said, and your voice was so genuine, so raw. You needed him to understand how grateful you were. “Thank you, really. Is- Are you hungry at all? Can I make you somethin’ before you leave?”

“ya don’t gotta do nothin’,” he repeated, this time looking into your watery eyes. “i mean, y’ve done plenty. i wanna apologize fer takin’ up yer time on yer day off. but ya don’t gotta repay me or nothin’. yer the one doin’ me a favor.” 

He reached a hand into a pocket on his chest, and extended something out to you.

“come on,” he said, and his voice was saccharine sweet. Way too sweet for someone in his profession. “no tears.” You realized just then, that he was holding a handkerchief for you to take. You did, with a wet chuckle, and dabbed at your eyes. 

“I’m really, really grateful for you, Red,” you told him, in between dabbing your tear-slicked lashes. “Thank you. Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“no, shug,” he said, voice still gentle, oh-so-gentle. You bubbled up with tears again. “remember t’ reach out if ya have any questions. i’ll see ya around.”

He tipped his skull to you, and this time, you watched it happen. His eye sockets filled with thick red smoke, pouring down his face. It took less than a second for him to simply pop! out of existence in your restaurant, leaving a faint trace of that unnatural red, lingering in the air for an extra moment, before dissipating entirely. 

You stared at the spot where he had vanished from for another while, churning through your interactions with the monster in your head. You looked down to the expensive handkerchief, dirtied with your tears, and the thousand dollars cash in your hands.

He’s a real… character. You thought with conviction. Makin’ me revamp my beliefs an’ all. Maybe he’s just really shitty at his job. You sniffled, choking up a watery smile as you skimmed through the bills. Spendin’ so much on a nobody, just ‘cause I gave him a conversation. 

With shaking hands, you folded the money up and carefully tucked it into your bag. The logical part of you wanted to save all of it, and use it for this weekend’s dreadful fee.

A different part of you decided that you’d spoil your mom with a nice dinner tonight, and save the rest for the fee.

Chapter Text

Dogs. All of ‘em. Red thought.

A beautiful woman, young surely, stood upon the stage of the bar, singing her sweet heart out into the microphone. She wore a long, luxurious, sparkly red dress that shaped out her body nicely. Her smile was award winning, but it looked so forced for the crowd, Red felt no comfort seeing it. He couldn’t imagine how demeaning it was for her to take such a job, being the sight that she was. A cloud of smoke hung near the ceiling as thick as the stars in countryside nightsky, although not quite as majestic in nature. Besides the dirty air, just about every man in the joint leered over the singer, eyes filthy with inhuman intention. Some of them would holler when she would dance around to the song, voices filthier with unspoken jeers sitting on the tips of their tongues, not quite out in the open. Red didn’t want to imagine how that felt for her. 

He puffed on the fat cigar sitting comfortably wedged in his teeth, harboring the vice in his mouth to warm the flavor on his tongue. Without moving the cigar from his maw, he blew the dark, bloody-red, magic-infused smoke so it seethed out slowly from the gaps in his ivory. Red wondered what it was about this specific bar that enthralled Mitch so much so that he’d suggested it as a location for their meeting. Then again, Red was no fair judge of human liquor, so he assumed it had something to do with that. It had to be. The bar itself was nothing easy on the eyes: old wooden furniture—Red was trying to ignore the way his seat groaned in protest at any move he made, but he was also easily the biggest guy at the table—and shabby lights, not to mention the flat out depressing color of the place. Black has a lot of potential when used for interior design, but black flooring, walls, ceiling, as well as most everything else made the place feel so dull. 

My eyes are dry, my love, since you’ve been gone I haven’t shed a tear

“So,” Don Mitch began, setting his whiskey glass down on the table with a muted clink. “I hear you monsters are asking for one of my areas.”

The man, himself. A voice stained with decades of tobacco, as gravelly as the unpaved roads in Vermont. He was a fatter man—made sense for someone who hadn’t done hard work in who knows how long—his hands donning worn, hairy fingers, and on one ring finger was a dull golden band. He had thick, bushy eyebrows, a few grays growing in with the black hair, that faintly bridged together in an unkempt unibrow. Sat across his jaw was a speckly five o’clock shadow, which made Red wonder why he was having trouble keeping the hair at the bald spot on his head. His cheeks sagged with age, wrinkles clefted into leathery skin. Red thought he reeked of foul cologne, and he thought him grosser for the way his tongue darted out of his mouth to catch the dribble of whiskey lingering on his lip.

“just one territory near ebbot,” Red nodded. “in exchange for a shipment a’ some new monster weaponry. all we’re askin’ is one area without any interference from youse an’ yer men.” Mitch pressed his lips together a little tighter. He never looked at Red, eyes trained on the singer on stage, blissfully disregarding his wedding band.

I’ll never cry, my love, though every day seems like a hundred years

“I dunno,” he said, picking up his glass again and swirling the liquor around with the ice. “You monsters already have Ebbot. Why would I trade an area for something that makes me, frankly, a little sick at the thought, for something I already have?” He took a sip of the golden drink, and when he set it down, he finally looked over to Red, eyes impatient, uncaring.

Red had to hand it to the annoying fuck, he was one of the only humans that didn’t look quite so frightened to stare directly into his eyes. He couldn’t say the same for any of the other men sitting at their table, nor any of the other people in the bar. Some would glance over for a second, only to lose any coloring in their face, and immediately turn back away. Red would be impressed if only that fear wasn’t replaced by tired disgust. What a foul face to make.

For I'm just a fool who clings to his pride, but when I'm alone

“now, that’s jus’ the thing,” Red grinned. “monster weaponry ain’t nothin’ like what ya humans got—the magic infusion does a whole lot fer the effectiveness a’ the weapon. if ya got an eye fer some extra power, lemme tell ya this is the deal fer ya.” He could tell the bigoted fuck didn’t want to give any value to a thing he was saying, but at the mention of the mere word, power, Mitch’s eyes glimmered with something of interest—the pure greed in his heart speaking out to the trigger word.

But Red still needed to work past his hesitation of agreeing with a monster.

“or if yer dealin’ wit’ problems wit’ yer enemies, this is the perfect chance ta get some high ground,” Red said. He took a moment to puff his cigar, letting his words simmer with Mitch. “any disputes ya got goin’ on will disappear like that —” he snapped his fleshless fingers with a sharp, distinct CRACK sound that made the lot of Mitch’s men flinch in a way that pitched Red’s smug grin just a little higher at the corners— “forget whatever profit ya might lose on handin’ an area over ta me an’ my bros, these guns’ll earn ya tenfold.”

I can hear the sound of rain in my heart, of the tears that I hide

Mitch’s tongue ran over his teeth in a subtle tell, and Red considered the deal as good as done.

“Alright, monster,” while Red hated being addressed so rudely, he didn’t mind the way Mitch started talking, that familiar tone of a man convinced. “You got yourself somethin’ of a deal. I’ll look into which area I think’ll be worth the shipment.”

Red waved his hand around dismissively— “no need, my bros an’ i have been eyein atheby. is that an area ya’d consider fittin’?” At the mention of the city, Mitch’s face scrunched up in confusion, his poker-face slipping at the unexpected request. Red knew Atheby was not worth the deal in the slightest; he and his brothers were losing out on this deal profit-wise, but it still tickled him to see the head of the Schiavone family’s face quirk up, his cool business expression falter.

And it tears me apart, ‘cause I keep them inside

“Atheby? Really?” he asked, an ugly snarl on his lips. “That has to be one of my poorest territories, it’s ugly to even look at. I let Jackie oversee everything in it ‘cause it’s such an eyesore.” The table erupted in awful, smug, higher-than-thou chuckles, like Red was a fucking idiot for asking for the place. Like Red hadn’t done his fucking research.

“then i guess ya won’t miss it if we take over,” he countered. In an attempt of restraint, Red knit his fingers together tightly, squeezing the bones until he relieved himself of homicidal consideration. He briefly worried that dust would begin sprinkling off his knuckles from the sheer pressure.

I can’t get away from the sound of the rain in my heart

“God, no, a’course not, but I can’t understand why you’d want to,” Mitch said. He pulled out a pack of cigarettes, propped one between his dry, cracked lips, and lit it before continuing. “Guess that is the difference between you and I, monster, one of us has sense when making decisions.” A round of chuckles echoed from the table, and Red forced his smile to ease up. Knowing those assholes would have never laughed at Red if stupid fucking Mitch wasn’t sitting with them, if they didn’t have that fucker protecting them with his presence, it made Red want to shatter a couple skulls.

“if i may, is there a reason you’re still occupyin’ atheby if ya hate it so?” He puffed his cigar again, hoping the flavor of the smoke would do something for his diminishing patience. It was getting harder and harder to ignore the consistent, demeaning use of the word ‘monster’ by Mitch. You know my name, you shit-for-brains asshat. Use it.

How could I know, my love, I was a toy, only a game to you?

He blew the murky red out from the cage of his teeth, and the way some of the men paled as the smoke curled into odd little skulls was almost worth the pain in the ass this meeting was turning out to be.

“I’d like to keep some parts of my business private. I don’t see why it’s any of your concern, monster.” Despite the borderline aggressive words, Mitch had resigned to staring back at the singer on stage as opposed to Red, which only worked to make Red angrier.

He smothered his cigar’s heat.

…

“Okay, and on the docket for today is…” Wingdings flipped through his notebook, tutting his teeth, and Sans pulled a seat out from the table to sit down.

“don’t say ‘docket’, we ain’t british,” he cringed. “makes ya sound pretentious as hell.”

“Shut up for three seconds,” Wings replied without missing a beat. “Here we go, how was the meeting about the territory with Don Mitch?”

“we got atheby, so pop the champagne,” he said with a huff as he sat. “that was a joke, fer the record. ‘m still goin’ dry. anyway, mitch was cool wit’ it, but he didn’t seem so… enthusiastic about the ‘zero interference’ thing. i doubt he’ll keep to that. t’be honest, he wasn’t excited about the prospect of us gettin’ any land. period.”

“To be expected,” Wings muttered. “How did the chat with that restaurant owner go? Any new information?”

“actually, yeah, they were really helpful,” Sans nodded. He pulled out his own notebook and started flipping through the pages, trying to ignore how similar to Wings he definitely looked. “mentioned a lot about mitch’s enemies, the de luca family, and mentioned a lot about how mitch ran atheby. mitch’s kid, jack, is the sole runner of the area, and they bring in a protection fee from the residents—which is bein’ collected tomorrow, by the way, so paps ‘n i can introduce ourselves as the new landlords then.”

“TOMORROW?!” Papyrus snapped his head to Sans with wide eyes. “I HAVEN’T EVEN PREPARED A SPEECH FOR THE HUMANS—!”

“this is just the protection fee meetin’, and they told me they’re the one that collects the fee anyway, so we wouldn’t be meetin’ any of the residents.”

“OH,” he sighed, posture slackening for a second before straightening back up to perfection. “VERY WELL.”

The recent late nights of excessive work were visibly wearing on Papyrus too. That speech, under any other circumstances, would have been finished weeks in advance. But Sans’s younger brother had been suffering through the physical demands of WIngs’s plans which, in turn, had begun wearing down his mental strength as well.

“anyway, if we’re gonna be workin’ on the crime rates, we need t’ cut the cost of livin’ down.”

“That means no protection fee,” Wings hummed. “Cut the rent down, infrastructure boosts…”

“I have enough saved up so I can usually cover whatever isn’t paid by the other residents for the month.”

Sans furrowed his brow bone in thought. Jack was probably gonna collect up that fee again for the meeting. That was definitely gonna suck for the restaurant owner. And they’d been so helpful thus far; he didn’t like the thought of them struggling through another payment of Mitch’s.

“What were some things they mentioned about the De Luca’s?” Wings cut into Sans’s train of thought.

“oh, uh, a bit about some old territory dispute over ovyridge,” he said. “the de luca’s have a lotta richer areas, so i think mitch was tryin’ ta expand inta those kinda places, but it went south. they said ovyridge was gonna be under jack’s control too, so i think he’s also mad about that whole, uh… predicament.”

Wings wrote down a couple bullet points onto his notepad, and then smirked.

“‘Don’t say ‘docket’, Wings, that makes you sound pretentious, but I’m going to say predicament because I sound so smart when I say it—’”

“oh, oh, forgive me fer havin’ a vocabulary now—”

“Predicament. Really.”

“no yanno you jus’ go right ahead an’ filter through my notes on yer own, why dontcha.”

“Fine, moving on, so Ovyridge is dirt on Mitch with the De Luca’s, what else?”

“i think that’s just about it for recents. they said the families were about one little kick away from their little peace treaty exploding.”

Wings cocked his head to the side. “Useful. That, uh… restaurant owner is rather helpful with all this. It’d be great if we could keep that relationship up for information.”

Sans picked at something in his teeth. “yeah, i know. an’ look how fuckin’ great i am fer bein’ civil. fosterin’ relations an’ all that jazz.”

“Right, right,” Wings hummed thoughtlessly. “Great.”

“oh, that rough patch wit’ the de luca’s’d be good fer gettin’ mitch’s attention off us.”

Wings’s eyes lasered in focus. “That’s perfect. But what could we do to make him focus all his energy to that…?”

The table went silent.

Sans perked up, and a deeply malicious and calculating sneer stretched up through his canines.

…

A gentle breeze brushed past you, kissing your cheeks and flitting across your jacket, so tender, kind. The sky was bright with scattered clouds and a nice, proud sun shining directly on you. Birds chirped quietly in the scarce trees around, a calming noise to your psyche.

It would be such a wonderful day. If it weren’t the fucking protection fee collection day.

Always an awful affair, collection day meant you had to wake up early in the morning to get started knocking on doors and apologetically asking for a ridiculous amount of money from your neighbors to hand over to Jack Schiavone. It meant raw, red knuckles from over an hour of rapping on doors; it meant the painful drop of your stomach anytime you watched a resident fold their hands over each other, trying to find a way to break the news to you that they just didn’t have the money; it meant that sinking feeling, knowing your savings were about to take a massive hit, and knowing you’d make that decision in a heartbeat—that decision to save a life.

Most of your neighbors got the money together, but by God did it weigh on you each and every time you collected the fee. Good, hard-earned money, falling like water into Jack’s hands. And the fucker couldn’t care less. The money meant so little to him. Chump change. A life-changing amount of money to these people was pocket change to him.

You wanted to throw up thinking about it.

There were a few that couldn’t scrape together enough. Only a handful. Some got half of it, others got three quarters, but two had none. A sweet, middle aged woman a few doors down, burst into tears as she tried to explain to you her situation, her dog needed surgery for something awful and she couldn’t stand to see him in pain. So she found the money to pay the vet, and was left with pennies.

You told her, with a patient smile, that she didn’t need to worry. She burst into tears again, and hugged you, with a malnourished frame and shaking limbs. You hoped to some god above she was the only one that hadn’t the cash.

Then came the disabled 20-year-old, who’d gotten kicked out of their parents’ place when they were just 18, and had just received a nasty medical bill for a new prescription after a visit. Their job hardly gave them enough to cover rent as it was, and their savings had just run thin. They pleaded with you, and you told them they didn’t need to worry. 

You made a note on which doors to make extra food for tonight for dinner.

After one last short stop at your place to dig through the wads of bills you’d saved up, and then to pull out a hefty portion of those wads to stuff back into the envelope (after meticulously counting each scrap of green), you began a walk towards the community gardens shed. Or, what used to be a community gardens shed. Rotting wood became the walls, and the interior smelled mildly of mildew. Any tools left in the shed had been abandoned and were subsequently covered in a dried layer of mud. How awful.

You approached the shameful building and blew out a quiet breath, clutching the envelope in increasingly clammier palms. Now, time for the actual hard part.

Three knocks to the door by your numb knuckles. A muffled conversation came to a halt, and a loud, boorish voice called out from beyond the wood.

“Yeah, finally!”

You swallowed your heart and opened the door.

“Really fuckin’ classy of ya, huh?” Jack Schiavone griped in a taut, ugly voice. “Keep us waitin’ on yer shit-fer-brains…”

The rest of Jack’s grousing was lost on your ears when your eyes landed on the two other people in the room, two people who you were not aware would be sitting in for this. You, of course, meant Sans and Papyrus Gaster, who were standing on either side of the dark brown desk that seated the kvetching menace. They donned fancy garments, though not boisterously-so, and they weren’t outdressing Jack—that confused you for a fraction of a second. You have suits that could bring Mitch to his knees, but you’re gettin’ shown up by his prick of a son?

Papyrus stood to the right of Jack, arms tucked professionally behind himself, and when he was standing to his full however-fucking-tall height, he appeared about eighty-times more terrifying. Thankfully, after seeing him get you a glass of water and ask if there was anything at all that he could do to improve, his scare-factor decreased by about eighty- one times.

Red was on the opposite side, arms folded casually over his chest, and when your eye met his, he winked. You nearly smiled at the reassurance. Guess it’s nice to have a friend in this sort of th—

SMACK!

Jack’s hand slammed down on the wood of the desk, and you about jumped out of your skin in fear. Not surprise. Fear.

“Oi! Ya hard of hearin’ or somethin’? I asked ya a fuckin’ question.”

How demeaning was it, to have them see you in such a fearful manner. Sure, they may have intimidated you in first impressions, but you had grown to find Red… almost comforting, and while Papyrus was… well, Papyrus, he had proved himself to be at the very least, hospitable. Now, they got to see you shake like a fucking leaf through this entire conversation.

He’s worse today, you thought, horrified. He’s so much worse today.

“I-I’m sorry,” you mumbled. “I didn’t mean anythin’ by it, swear it.” You hoped to any god above that your pleading would strike some chord with him so he’d chill out by a couple notches. The snarl on his lips told you that your prayers could shove it. 

He rolled his eyes in a melodramatic fashion, then crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair to boot. “Ya see what I mean? These people… it’s like they got nothin’ bouncin’ around in their heads no more.”

Either he was too scared to, or just didn’t care to, but Jack didn’t look to see if either skeleton was listening to him. Red made a face at his comment—nasal ridge scrunched up in disgust. He subtly rolled his eyes, and then, out of Jack’s sight, stared at him in… utter distaste. It nearly made you laugh, Red blatantly disrespecting him without him even knowing. 

“H-Here’s the fee,” you offered dumbly. You extended a hand out with the envelope, trembling fingers secured on the paper. Suddenly, a bone-deep wave of nausea worried through your body, the fear of the money not being enough. Maybe you forgot a bill. Maybe something slipped through the cracks. You swallowed.

“Right.” Jack snatched the envelope from your hand carelessly, and shoved it somewhere inside his coat. “That had better be all of it. Ya remember what’ll happen if it ain’t?”

You swallowed tight, clenched and unclenched a fist, unable to ground yourself. “I know.” Your voice came out meek.

Jack still had the gall to cock his head at you with the most disbelieving, bloodthirsty look in his eye. “Hope that ain’t an attitude I’m hearin’.” A deep blush filled your cheeks. Your life flashed before your eyes. 

“No,” you responded instantly, shaking your head like your scalp was on fire, “no attitude, I’m sorry.” Jack wasn’t satisfied with that answer, it seemed. That bloodlust remained clear as day in his hazelly-brown eyes. His teeth grit together, and he moved so he could tap his fingers on the desk in thought.

“Well, yer already bein’ a bitch to yer new landlords.” He growled. “They’ve been here this whole time and ya haven’t even introduced yerself, ya fuckin’ cunt.”

You swallowed dry spit and nearly opened your mouth to tell him that you’d already had the pleasure of meeting the monsters, when Red’s voice echoed from somewhere in the back of your head.

“‘m worried about them possibly noticin’ ya interactin’ w’ me, period. so. ‘m jus’ gonna make sure mitch is unaware a’ our interactions. understood?”

Instead, you muttered your name quietly, as if they didn’t know it yet. “It’s a pleasure to meetcha.”

“likewise,” Red winked again. You had to fight down a smile, despite yourself. Mobster title be damned, at least he wasn’t fucking Jack Schiavone.

Papyrus nodded at you, remaining surprisingly quiet during the whole ordeal.

“It’s damn—”

“MIND YOUR LANGUAGE, HUMAN, PLEASE,” Papyrus finally spoke up, cutting Jack off with his loud, unrivaled voice. “IT’S INCREDIBLY UNBECOMING AND UNPROFESSIONAL. NOT TO MENTION, ENTIRELY DISRESPECTFUL TO THIS RESIDENT HERE.”

Think of the devil and he’ll speak, I guess, you thought with wide eyes aimed at the obnoxiously-sized skeleton. I can’t remember the last time someone stood up to Jack. And I’m a little shocked he’s not spittin’ in Papyrus’s face right about now.

Jack was mirroring the shock on your face, albeit slightly… angrier. But maybe the confusion was trumping his temper, because he wasn’t saying anything. You snapped your mouth shut and fixed your face before Jack could clock your expression.

He cleared his throat and chuckled, dry.

“Right, uh… excuse me,” he curled his hand into a fist and knocked lightly on the table a few times, trying to relocate his original train of thought. Nothin’? He’s actually gonna take that from Papyrus?

You made a great effort to not look him in the eyes, but seeing him force back his temper like that—enough to make himself look awkward and out-of-place—you couldn’t tear your eyes away.

“As I was sayin’,” he began, mojo lost. “Ya oughta put in just about any effort towards bein’ punctual. It’s godda— um, it’s… real rude t’ leave us waitin’ for as long as we was. I ain’t got all day ta sit here an’ wait on yer sorry a— uh, yer sorry… behind.”

A muffled snrk erupted from Red, but it quickly devolved into a forced cough. Your eyes snapped to him, and you watched as he attempted (key word) to regain his composure.

“D’jou say somethin’?”

“nope,” he said, made a show of clearing his throat. “no, jus’ got a frog in my throat or sum’n. please, continue.”

At that, you had to actively fight a smile. Red winked at you when Jack turned away from him again. 

“O… kay. Anyway, these’re yer new landlords. Unfortunately, I am… relinquishin’ control of here. But don’t think for a fuckin’ second that I won’t knock yer ass ta next Tuesday if the money ain’t all there. That’s all this town was ever fuckin’ worth—”

“UNBECOMING, SERIOUSLY,” Papyrus sighed. “THAT TYPE OF LANGUAGE SHOULD NEVER BE USED IN THIS SORT OF SETTING. AND THEY HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING TO EXCUSE YOUR SCOLDINGS! THEY BROUGHT THE COLLECTION IN A TIMELY MANNER, AND YOU CAN CLEARLY SEE THE INCREASED BLOOD FLOW TO THEIR COMPLEXION FROM PHYSICAL EXERTION THAT THEY WERE RUSHING TO GET HERE!”

Papyrus made a show of rubbing a hand down his face and then he accompanied his little lecture with short, precise gestures.

You almost wanted to cry, were you not so scared of Jack. Never, in your years of living here, had any mobster stood up to him in your defense, let alone TWICE. How heroic of him. Kind even. He saw no reason for unnecessary violence, or crude words, insults, fear-installation…

That’s a breath of fresh fuckin’ air.

You chanced a glance to the other skeleton in the room to catch him muffling snickers into a palm. Successfully, might you add. The corner of your lip quirked up just ever so.

Unfortunately, that infinitesimal shift in expression was all it took for Jack to snap.

“Yanno what, Papyrus?” He asked, a newfound, terrifying venom soaking through his words, bleeding through his teeth. “I didn’t see that ‘increased blood flow’ or whatever, but now thatcha said somethin’ I oughta look for it, huh? I mean, I do see that they’re smilin’, which don’t make no sense ‘cause I don’t remember sayin’ nothin’ funny.”

In the next moment, he grabbed your wrist and yanked you forwards until your chest was flush with the desk, arm extended uncomfortably over the wood. His grip on you was punishing, and with how swift he moved to pin you down, you let out a small cry of distress.

Your heart thudded in your face, beating in your cheeks, slightly louder on the right side of your face—the side that had hit the wood when he yanked you down. For a split second, you tried to beg him for mercy, but nothing came from your mouth. Not a whisper. You couldn’t move either, what with the vice grip he had on your arm.

He leaned in close by your ear, shifting his hands around to keep you pinned down. His voice hissed through gritted teeth, foul breath hitting you in the face. “Ya wanna explain to the class what the fuck was so funn—”

THWACK!

A sick crack of skin against bone echoed through the room, and the bruising pressure on your forearm disappeared.

“Ah, fuck!” Jack cried. “My- my nose!”

When you gained the brain cells back to finally back away from the man who just slammed you against a table, you saw Red shake his hand around like a public bathroom was out of paper towels. He stopped after about a second, and then pulled the fabric of Jack’s collar into a rough fist, making the prick look like a toddler in comparison.

“the fuck was’at for?” Red spat in his face, and seeing Jack Schiavone’s face pale in fear would probably live in the back of your mind for the rest of time. “ya lecture ‘em about fuckin’ manners an’ then ya go an’ beat on ‘em like they killed yer ma? ya wanna talk about rude, that was goddamn rude. they all but licked the bottom a’ yer fuckin’ shoes since they got ‘ere, an’ ya’ve been kickin’ up yer shit in their face like a goddamn newborn throwin’ a hissy fit…”

Red laid into Jack for a little while longer, sharp teeth set in a brutal sneer.

To be completely honest, you weren’t really paying attention anymore. Your ears stopped working when the blood rush to your face pounded in your ears like a divorced timpanist who received a new request on child support. Your world flipped on its side, watching him fully stand up to someone you considered to be the biggest source of your stress, someone who had consistently treated you violently or otherwise like shit, just because he threw you around a little bit. And maybe it was the way Red made Jack look absolutely stupid for acting tough by dangling him like a schoolboy, or maybe it was the fact that Red, a mobster, stood up for you at all, or maybe there was something in the air, but… Red suddenly looked… well, a good way to put it might be that the blush in your face was no longer due to fear.

That noise, the ‘thwack,’ was that Red? you wondered. Did Red hit Jack?

Finally, Red dropped (see: shoved) Jack back into his seat, and then brushed his hands down his suit to straighten himself out.

“stars, talk about unbecoming,” he huffed. “apologies fer bustin’ yer nose. in my defense, ya kinda deserved it.”

Holy shit, you thought, cheeks flushed with intense color. This is a fantasy I’ve gotten off to before.

“TRULY, YOU DID,” Papyrus chimed back in. “AND I THINK THIS MEETING HAS ABOUT RUN ITS COURSE. YOU RECEIVED THE PAYMENT. THAT’S ALL THERE IS TO THESE. SANS, PLEASE SHOW JACK OUT.”

Still shell-shocked and dead silent, Jack only moved to brush two fingers under his nose, checking for blood, most likely. You had a fine enough view to confirm that there was, in fact, a bit of blood dribbling from his nostril. Red clapped a solid hand on one shoulder and squeezed. Even you could see the way Jack stiffened up at the pressure.

“gladly,” he snarled.

And with a quiet pop! they were gone. Vanished into nothing. Nothing but gnarly red smoke.

Papyrus wasted no time in seating his ill-fitting self into the newly emptied seat, somehow still matching your eye-level while sitting. He folded his arms over the desk in a casual manner, but it still came off as professional from him.

“NOW, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN,” he began, taking a deep breath. “I WANT TO APOLOGIZE FOR THE DISTRESS THAT DEBT COLLECTOR MIGHT HAVE CAUSED YOU JUST NOW. I COULD NEVER IMAGINE ACTING SO UNPROFESSIONAL WITHOUT CAUSE.”

You blinked twice before clearing your throat, still in a state of shock. “Th-thank you, Papyrus, I appreciate it. It’s, uh, not the first time Jack’s done somethin’ like that. B-But I do appreciate the concern.”

Papyrus beamed at you, and you found it incredibly difficult to consider him scary in the slightest.

“WELL, OF COURSE!” he sat up straighter (somehow). “I AM NOT CALLED THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS FOR NOTHING!”

…

Sans’s surroundings filled themselves out to be a dingy alley behind some brown bricked building, with bordering buildings matching that same brick color. Next to him and Jack was a large dumpster, and as if perfectly on cue, two rats scurried out from behind it to leave them two alone.

The pathetic whelp buckled over to dry-heave, and a couple loose drops of blood stained the cement beneath their feet. Sans rolled his eyelights.

“apologies about the transport,” he offered reluctantly. “shortcuttin’s a whole lot faster ‘n drivin’.”

“Where- hrk- Where am I?” Jack asked, spitting up drool to join the blood on the ground. “What the fuck—”

“don’t worry,” he huffed. “yer back in springside.” A lie. 

“Oh,” he sighed. He took multiple deep breaths, hands on his knees. “Hey, so what- what the fuck was that back there? Why the fuck didja break my nose?”

Sans fought the urge to roll his eyes again.

“yeah, ‘pologies fer that. i only did it to build a bit of trust between me an’ that restaurant worker.” Another lie. “it was all fer business purposes, i got nothin’ against whatcha did in there.” And yet again. 

An idiot like Jack would fall for that sort of fib, but Sans wanted to make sure.

A quick SOUL check won’t hurt.

*JACK SCHIAVONE 8 ATK 6 DEF

*Convinced you’re just a good businessman, but is still pissed about his broken nose.

Jack grabbed his chest and shivered subtly. If Sans had never SOUL-checked a human before, he would not have caught the movement, nor registered it as a reaction to getting checked. 

Checking a monster, as a human, during a fight was one thing. Monsters know the feeling of a check, and supply their own information in those checks. Humans, on the other hand, are awful at recognizing the distinct, invasive feeling of a SOUL check, and thus, monsters have an upper hand in that sort of field when dealing with a human. There is no chance of a human lying about their own statistics, nor lying about that little descriptor that comes along with reading through a SOUL. Sans tended to use judgment checks as a way to discern who to trust.

Which meant for Sans, that Jack did fully believe Sans only broke his nose to gain the restaurant owner’s trust.

Some of these guys are wayyy too easy, he thought briefly. At least make it a little challenging.

“Oh,” Jack said again, and pushed himself up straight. “Ya couldn’t have… I dunno- didja have to break my nose?”

Sans fought down a laugh. “spur a’ the moment, no hard feelings.”

“... Right,” he muttered. “So where exactly in Springside are we? This is jus’ some back alley.”

“that’s the downside a’ shortcuttin’,” Sans said. “i’ve never been ta springside, so i jus’ ballparked it.”

He makes it too easy, that’s the thing. I would not be lyin’ as much if he was any smarter than he is.

Truth is, Sans couldn’t “ballpark” shortcuts. He had to have gone to the place at least once. And it wasn’t a lie when he said he’d never been to Springside, so he literally couldn’t shortcut them there. Not that that was ever part of the plan.

“Huh,” Jack mumbled. “Ya monsters an’ yer… freaky magic shit. I’ll never get used ta it.”

“so, jack,” Sans hummed. “got a lot on yer plate fer the rest of the day? how do these ‘collection fee days’ usually play out fer ya?” It was a pretty shitty attempt for conversation, but Sans needed to buy a little extra time. He was already in the ditches with Jack as it was—breaking his nose put a little bit of a damper on their talk.

“... Uh, no it’s pretty… clear fer me. This was about all I had planned fer the day. Truth be told, it’s pretty easy to deal with this place. Ya jus’ collect the fee once a month, an’ make sure people stay in line.”

Sans pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, took one out, and then offered the pack to Jack. The human eyed it almost suspiciously, then took one. Sans fished a lighter from his pocket and set the stick between his teeth before burning the end. He extended the lighter towards Jack too, who put a hand over the flame while he waited for it to catch.

“Thanks,” he said. “Suppose ya owed it ta me after that shit ya pulled in there.”

Wonder how many of these I’ll owe ya after this, then.

Sans pushed the vices back into his pocket, and pulled his arms back in a baseball stance. In the gaps of his palms, a heavy-set, blood-red bone spawned from nothing. It stretched out to fill out the length of two baseball bats, and twice as thick as one. He swung it around slowly, as if getting a feel for the club.

“What th—”

“freaky magic shit,” he explained. “now that we’re business partners, it’d be nice ta hear a bit about any enemies youse an’ yers got. i heard the de luca’s are a bit tense at the moment?” While he waited for Jack’s response, he repeated the motion of swinging through with the bone-bat. Slowly, still, just to keep his mind busy.

“Oh, yeah, those freaks,” Jack ground out. “There was a bad spat a couple years back: they took Ovyridge. We were all set to get our hands on it, an’ then those scumbags swooped in before the deal could settle. Load a’ horseshit, if ya ask me.”

“yeah, that’s shit,” he agreed thoughtlessly. Jack puffed his cigarette, blew the smoke down by his feet.

“You play?”

Sans turned to him with a look. “hm?”

“Baseball, do ya play?”

He shook his head. “nah, used ta when i was little. it was scrappy though. didn’t know all the rules. i try watchin’ the pros sometimes, but ‘sa li’l boring, ain’t it? takes forever ta get a good play, an’ they only last about 5 seconds when it is good.”

“It’s gotta be one a’ the hardest sports out there, though, credit where it’s due,” Jack shrugged.

“i donno, i guess so.” What’s so hard about throwin’ a ball around?

“Are you kiddin’? Tryin’ ta hit a ball goin’ 90 miles an hour, the size of my palm?” Jack asked. He put his hands up in a surrender motion and chuckled before continuing. “Now, if yer talkin’ women’s ball, that’s a different story.”

Sans gave him another confused look. “what’sa difference?” Jack smirked cruelly.

“Those girls have ta hit a huge ball, goin’ wayy slower, it’s fuckin’ easy,” he cackled. “But leave it ta women ta make baseball easier an’ then try callin’ it the same.” Sans’s eyes widened, but he covered his slip quickly.

“right, no, this jus’ got a lot easier on the conscience.”

“a dead son.”

Sans swung the red bone around and cracked it against the side of Jack’s skull, knocking into his cranium with a hollow thud. Jack flailed out as the fat club struck him, smacking his head for a second time against the brick of the wall before collapsing in a deadweight sprawl. Blood splattered on the bricks, and leaked from the wound to form a sizeable pool of red on the dirt.

Sans tossed the bat between his hands, then chuckled. “whaddaya know. it was easy ta hit yer fat fuckin’ head. guess yer right about balls bein’ easier ta hit when they’re bigger. in that case, it must be fuckin’ impossible fer me ta knock ya between the legs, huh?”

Jack sputtered nothings, garbled wheezes, hushed strains of a dying man. 

Not for a second did Sans worry someone might hear. 

“if his body is found in ovyridge, the de luca’s’ll take the fall.”

Sans raised the bat way up high above his head and swung down hard, reveling in the awful crunch noise that came from the impact.

“there we go,” he grinned, malicious. “ain’t got the balls ta go beatin’ on someone who won’t fight back no more, huh?” Sans swung his bone back over his shoulder to admire the state of the prick. Between his legs, blood began staining through his pants, right at the crotch. His sputters grew scarce, all the blunt force trauma finally getting through to him.

Sans raised the bone once more, aiming for the knee caps, when Wings’s voice came back to him.

“Make it believable. Only do what’s necessary, I don’t want to hear that they found him a mess of bits and pieces.”

He tutted his teeth, rolled his eyelights. Stupid Wings. Let me shatter every bone in this guy’s body. He deserves it.

Nonetheless, Sans forced the bone to crumble into dust, which quickly wafted away in a soft autumn breeze. He squatted down and rifled through Jack’s coat, pocketing the stashed envelope of cash. He heaved himself back up with a quiet grunt, and stared at the bloodied mess.

Jack’s cigarette laid abandoned slightly astray from his body, a tiny trickle of smoke yet to fade out. Sans pressed the toe of his Bulcher to the butt of the cigarette, listened to the quiet protest of the smoke, and shortcutted away. Red smoke ebbed out, the only indication of him ever being there, gone.

…

“THIS IS ENTIRELY UNACCEPTABLE FOR A COMMUNITY GARDENS SHED!”

You inched back at the booming volume of a very displeased Papyrus, who had gotten up from his seat soon after he’d sat down to chat with you once he’d heard you talk about the state of your town. He towered over you at the moment, staring at you in complete and utter shock, like he was waiting for you to tell him he was on a prank show.

“W-Well, a lot of our public recreation spaces haven’t gotten the funding in a few years to maintain them properly,” you shrugged, sighing in relief when he went back to his—still not reassuring—pacing back and forth in front of you. “Misuse of public funds an’ all, yanno?”

Papyrus didn’t respond to you, no, his pacing was much too intense. Arms tucked behind his back, skull unchanging its slightly downward angle. Eventually he halted, then turned back to you, arms crossed over his chest.

“ARE THERE ANY OTHER ENTIRELY UNFORTUNATE FACETS OF THIS CITY THAT DESPERATELY NEED MY AID IN THEIR REHABILITATION?” He leaned over you, emphasizing that terrible height difference between you.

“Well, sure, yeah,” you nodded. “Ironically, the rehab center needs rehabilitation, ‘specially considerin’ the drug problem here. Whole lotta addicts with no support system means none of ‘em are able to break the habit.”

Papyrus suddenly looked incredibly uncomfortable, as opposed to his previous incredulous expression. 

“UM, RIGHT, YES, ADDICT SUPPORT,” he agreed, suddenly unable to look you in the eye. “THAT IS ONE OF MY BROTHERS’ AND MY GOALS FOR THIS PLACE—TO REDUCE THE ISSUE OF… S-SUBSTANCE. ABUSE.”

“... Yeah,” you nodded along slowly. “That’s real kind of ya to consider, yanno. I mean, obviously it’s necessary, but… yanno Don Mitch and Jack weren’t so keen on helpin’ them, and they had control of here for however long. I’m happy to hear it’s up there on your list of things to do.” You smiled at him, genuinely, as it did give you peace of mind. A person can hope, can’t they? Who’s to say the Great and Terrible Papyrus won’t live up to his word? If anything, I trust him more than anyone else.

“Y-YES, OF COURSE!” He said, confidence revitalized. You noticed he was one to talk with his hands, making captivating gestures that you found a little comical, if you were totally honest. “THAT IS THE KIND OF THING THAT SHOULD NOT WAIT ON INTERVENTION. BETTER TO STAMP OUT THE PROBLEM SOONER RATHER THAN LATER. IF LEFT TO FESTER, LIVES COULD BE RUINED! IT’S ENOUGH TO TEAR A FAMILY… APART.”

His hands paused in the air as the last few words left his mouth, a sudden blanket of tension to cozy up the silence with. 

Hit a nerve, maybe?

“I feel the same!” you said, reaching a hand out to rest on his arm. You kept your gaze innocent, like you weren’t reading past the change in tone at all. “And I’m very happy we share the same passion in community aid. A-Another project that needs help would be the parks, or… o-or the rec center for youth sports! I could even draft up a small list of projects the people in my complex might want to see focused on, if that would help?”

“MIGHTY IDEA, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN!” His energy had returned tenfold, which you found yourself more relieved at than when his energy was lower. “THAT WOULD BE MOST SPLENDID—”

pop!

“hey, boss.”

HOLY SH—

“SANS! DON’T CALL ME THAT! AND DON’T SNEAK UP ON PEOPLE!!!”

You released the grip on your chest, and watched Papyrus do a complete 180 to face his brother with the most annoyed look on his face.

“oops,” he shrugged. “whatcha talkin’ about?”

“COMMUNITY RECREATION PROGRAMS TO IMPLEMENT!” He grinned, and leaned out of the way to give Red a clear view of you. You gave him a polite wave, and he winked at you again.

What is with him and that twitch in his eye, you wondered, the corner of your lip twitching up.

“that’s great ta hear,” he said, putting his palms behind him on the desk and leaning his weight back. He looked to you, and you swallowed. “how ya doin’, shug? got a lot on yer plate fer the rest a’ the day?” Your face flushed at the question, the tone he used. Somethin’ about that accent… Downright dangerous.

“I have to open up my place for the evenin’,” you said. “But I can wait on that. Why d’ya ask?” Yeah, let’s just take off our clothes while we’re at it. 

“got somethin’ i might need a little help with that i wanted ta run by ya,” he said. “were youse finishin’ up in here?”

“YES, WE MADE INCREDIBLE PROGRESS!”

At that, you made a face of slight disbelief. You paced back and forth for five minutes, frothing at the mouth at the idea of a poorer area. I thought you were gonna have a heart attack and I don’t even know if that’s part of your anatomy.

Red scanned your face subtly. He gave you a look that said ‘what’s the face for’. You quirked your lip up and shook your head in a small movement.

“I’ll have that list whipped up for ya in a few days, Papyrus,” you smiled at him. He gave you a curt, but pleased nod in acknowledgment.

“MAGNIFICENT!” He turned back to Red. “I’M GOING TO HEAD HOME TO DEBRIEF WITH WINGS.”

“magnificent,” Red parroted. “i won’t be much longer.”

Papyrus left the shed in a hurry after giving his salutations to you.

Red crossed his arms over his chest and gave you a once over. “so what was that look about?”

You just about turned beet red. “Well, he said that we made ‘incredible progress’ but that whole time we talked, I thought he was about a second away from shitting a brick.”

That made him bark out a laugh, and you calmed back down. Slightly.

“yeah, he has that tendency,” he grinned at you. 

“What about you, huh?” You cocked your head at him. “You were cracking up like the whole time.” Red’s grin widened, like he’d forgotten he’d done that.

“can ya blame me?” he asked. “pap scolded him fer havin’ a potty mouth an’ i’m not s’posed ta laugh?” You shrugged, unable to fight down a smile of your own at the thought. Because, God, was that funny. Big, scary Jack trying to stop pissing Papyrus off.

“anyway, onto what i needed ta run by ya,” he clapped his hands together and pointed at you. “i remember ya sayin’ that fee that jack collected was… put simply: bullshit. so i’d like ta do a little… givin’ back, ta the community, if you will. i will personally… reimburse yer complex of any payments made towards the fee from this month ta get a, uh… headstart on the…” He kept moving a hand around and pausing in his speech, trying to come up with the right words. He eventually sighed and rolled his eyes.

“i fuckin’ hate talkin’ bureacracy,” he grumbled, then used a hand to gesture at you. “mitch fucked youse financially with that bullshit fee an’ i’d rather get a headstart on some damage control, even if it’s just for one month’s worth of protection money.”

You didn’t respond for a moment. “Wait, I’m sorry—you said ‘reimburse,’ are you sayin’ you an’ yours won’t have a protection fee for the area?”

“yeah,” he said, much too nonchalantly. Much too fucking nonchalantly. “an’ i wanted—only if yer up fer it—i wanted ta go back on that little collection run ya jus’ did ta give back ta everyone, maybe introduce myself.” He put his hands up in a surrender-type gesture.

“however, i know ya might be a little tired, so i understand if that’s a no,” he winced, and crossed his arms over his chest again. “i jus’ know that some a’ these people won’t react… too kindly if i’m at their door. if ya came with me, they might be more inclined ta hear me out on whatever i say.”

Your bottom lip trembled. Tears gathered up on your lashes, despite you trying to calm yourself down. 

“Are you bein’ serious with me?” Your voice quivered when you spoke. “This ain’t a bit, right?”

“stars, no, this ain’t a bit,” he said, looking offended that you even asked. “what a cruel joke that’d be. no, i’m serious.”

“Oh my god,” you whispered, voice breaking. You cupped your hands over your mouth, and failed in keeping your tears at bay. “Oh my god, I’m- I’m gonna cry. I don’t know what to say.” You did, in fact, begin to cry. It was just so unexpected—your concerns about a possible raise in the protection fee had genuinely been keeping you up at night, and now he’s telling you he’s gonna waive the fee in its entirety, and he’s gonna repay everyone the amount of cash they’re out for the month?

He’s not a real fucking mobster. No shot. Not possible. You sniffled into your palms, desperately trying to calm yourself to no avail. They’re not meant to have hearts. You can’t survive in that industry with a something beatin’ in your ribcage.

“I’m sorry,” you chuckled wetly. “I’m- I will absolutely do that run again. I’m just so… That’s so kind of you. These people, they’re gonna fall in love with ya over this. Youse an’ your brothers… you’re all too kind.” You wiped away your tears again, and finally felt the waterworks subside. Your breath came to you in ragged inhales, but there was a smile on your face.

“c’mon, shug,” he smile-winced. “my head’s big enough as it is.” 

“I know,” you sniffled with a quiet laugh.

His eyelights had softened considerably, and while there was humor in his smile, you found only sympathy in his eyes.

…

Chapter Text

It was still a beautiful day outside, not quite ruined by your interaction with Jack, thanks to a certain pair of skeleton brothers who, for some odd reason, saved your ass in that meeting. A small chill ran over your jacket, catching a couple strands of your hair. Your walk was no longer tainted with the looming fear of financial doom, and you caught yourself putting a little extra pep in your step as you kept pace with the monster beside you. His legs, substantially longer than yours, were something to catch up to, even with his observably lazy gait. A lit cigarette had remained in his maw, as it had been since he’d shortcutted back into the community gardens shed a few minutes ago. He never used his hands to nurse the vice, instead opting to seethe the smoke out through the thin gaps of his chompers. The chompers that, just recently, started looking slightly less threatening and slightly more… hm. Maybe you should hold back on that thought.

You swallowed, turning your eyes down and catching his hands, which were stuffed in his slacks’ pockets. A hot fire burned up in your chest, soldering up right to the skin of your cheeks, as you remembered how he broke Jack’s nose during a business meeting. Because Jack got violent with you. Because Jack threw you around to show his control. And then he picked him up like he hardly weighed anything and laid into him until you thought the bastard might piss himself.

“How’s your hand?” you asked, still looking down at his pocket. He looked at you, and took his hand out of his pocket.

“... what about my hand?” he asked right back. Your eyebrows quirked down in confusion for a second.

“Did it not hurt?” you asked. He still looked confused. “When… you… yanno…?” You acted out punching someone, and immediately felt silly for it. 

“oh,” he hummed. He flexed his hand around, and you scanned his face for any sign of pain. Besides the tiniest flinch in his browbone, he seemed fine. “no, doesn’t hurt.”

“Are ya sure? We’re gonna pass by my apartment, I could getcha some ice for your knuckles?” Either way, you felt an overwhelming desire to repay him somehow for what he did for you. Maybe ice wouldn’t do much for his hand, but at least your kindness might be taken as gratitude. Maybe you could even… make him something for the road. As a thank you. Maybe.

“no, ’s all— oh my god, forget my hand, is yer face okay?” he asked, suddenly looking gravely concerned. “or yer arm?” You blushed again.

“Oh, ha, almost forgot,” you winced, half-apologetic. You turned your arm around, and—sure enough—it was bright red where Jack had grabbed you. “Um, I’ll live. Don’t—”

Red ignored whatever you were about to say, instead opting to shelf a gentle, but hard knuckle underneath your chin to lift your face to him. He moved a strand away from the right-side of your face, caressing your skin on accident with his phalanges, and grimaced. “it’s sure swollen, an’ yer arm is red. still hurtin’?”

You were partially glad he didn’t note the color in your face, or your suddenly wide eyes. He didn’t seem shy in the slightest about checking up on you, nor about touching you in a way that had your knees ringing the alarm bells to let you know the only thing you were about to be face-to-face with was pavement. Instead of answering him, like the adult you were supposed to be, you just opened and closed your mouth like a fish out of water. Wasn’t he meant to be some sort of scary gangster? Wasn’t it in the job description to not care about the people he was presiding over?

He was scanning the flushed skin of your face intently, nearing close enough that you could feel the heat of his cigarette end. It was much too intimate for you two. Why was he trying to care for you?

Red must have realized his mistake after a moment, and backed off, as if your skin was on fire. Which, to be honest, you were worried it might have been.

“sorry, i- uh, i’m used ta checkin’ up on frisk after they take a tumble outside,” he chuckled uncomfortably. “boundaries.”

Gee, nice to know I remind ya of your kid, you winced. 

“That’s kinda sweet,” you said instead. “But, uh, no it’s just a little… sore. I guess.” You chuckled a little awkwardly. 

“yeah,” he grimaced, and your walk had continued. “he gotcha pretty good, huh?”

“Yeah,” you chuckled, but it felt dark. Yeah, he did slam me against the wood pretty hard. Yeah, it does hurt pretty bad still. 

“i’m, uh… i’d feel better about this if i could get ice fer yer cheek,” he suggested. “i’m thinkin’ about it again an’ it’s jus’… i dunno. could we actually stop by yer place? i’m takin’ up yer previous offer.”

Who are you? Seriously? It was getting harder and harder to act natural with his repetitive gestures of kindness. You softened in your expression.

“As long as I get to ice up your fist, too.” You nudged him with your shoulder teasingly. He glanced down at you, and smiled.

“ya drive a hard bargain, shug. it’s a deal.”

…

“Here we are,” they announced anticlimactically. “Home sweet home.” The door to their apartment was old and every square inch of it had cracks in the red paint. It was a small door. And for a second, Red felt a little worried that he might be simply too large to fit through the frame, but he figured he could manage somehow. So he didn’t say anything about it.

The human fiddled with their keys for a moment before sticking them in the lock and opening the door. They turned to him one last time before allowing him inside.

“I haven’t, um, cleaned. In a while.” They smiled nervously. “Just as a warning.” Red shook his head, as if to tell them he didn’t mind.

After ducking through the doorframe, Red looked around the place. It didn’t take long to take in all of his surroundings. It really was tiny. There were coffee mugs scattered across every surface in the place: the coffee table, the counters, the window sills.

“ya like coffee?” he mused.

They turned to him in surprise, looked around quickly, and then laughed. “Yeah, sorry about the mugs. I’m a little… terrible at rememberin’ I’ve already got one out.” 

He tried and failed to keep a smile at bay. “no sweat off my back.” The internal decor of the place was quaint, humble. There were scarce decorations hung on the wall, but a few trinkets had been scattered around on some shelves in the living room. Little homely ones; ones that definitely had stories.

“Would ya like some? I could put a pot on.” They took a couple steps until they were in their very tiny kitchen. Red followed them. He wanted to reject their offer, but his energy did have an undesired damper on it, and that was quite the opposite of his preference for the day.

“sure, could use the caffeine,” he shrugged. They brightened up at his acceptance, and hopped around their kitchen to retrieve coffee-making supplies. It didn’t take too long, and Red liked seeing the smile stain their cheeks with how excited they were to get the pot started.

He opted to stand a little awkwardly just out of the kitchen, hands in his pockets.

“Yanno, I think I got some frozen peas in here somewhere,” they said, and popped open their… unfortunate-looking fridge. It was short, and the freezer part of it was measly. “I’ve had ‘em for a few years now, they’re definitely bad. But they work for injuries!”

Red chuckled. “how pea -rfect.” A bit of a reach, yeah, and Red wasn’t sure that it’d land, but it was on the fly so he wasn’t gonna fault himself too much.

The human looked at him and then snorted. “That one was kinda shitty.”

“not my best work, i’ll admit,” he smiled back at them. It was always nice to meet another pun lover. They’re not so rare, lots of people can’t resist the simple joy in a pun, but that doesn’t make it any less fun to get someone smiling over a stupid mindless joke.

“Could’ve said… um…” they smiled as they thought, mulling through ideas in their head. Red huffed a laugh.

“harder than it looks, right?”

“I got it, gimme one more second…” but they kept thinking for another several. Red didn’t mind. He kept grinning at them.

“Oh! Could’ve said they’re very thera- pea -utic.”

Red barked a laugh out at the pun, and when he looked back to them, they looked entirely pleased (see: pea -sed) with themselves. “that one’s way better than mine.”

“I know, bow down to my superior puns.”

“yer su- pea -rior puns.”

The delivery and timing worked just right that it knocked them in the gut, and they laughed loud. Maybe they were caught off-guard. It didn’t matter to Red. All he knew was that they were cackling one of the… ugliest, funniest laughs known to man. It didn’t last too long for a laugh, but it got Red joining in with them, and their cheeks filled with color to match the swelling of the red on that one side of their face.

“Wasn’t even on purpose, it just happened. I’m just that good.”

“ya really are, i oughta take lessons from youse.”

“You really oughta.”

They brought the frozen bag of peas over to him, and held a hand out, waiting.

Red glanced down at their hand, then back at their face. They stared at him expectantly. When it was clear Red was confused, they spoke.

“Your hand,” they clarified. “ Hand it over.” The last part was said with a proud smile, and he grinned at them before placing his hand, knuckles up, in theirs.

Their hand was warm. Human skin was like that, nothing like bones. Nothing like how his bones had been when he was younger, in the thick snow of Snowdin. Cold, hard, unforgiving. No, their hand was soft, tender. Warm against bone.

The punch had done little to his knuckles, maybe they were a little tight but there was no noticeable damage to the bone. The human moved his hand around in theirs, surveying whatever invisible damage was there. They glanced at the peas in their other hand, and then looked up at him.

“I just realized, I have no idea if ice helps monster injuries.”

Red cocked his head at them. “yanno, i was gonna say somethin’, butcha seemed so excited to help i couldn’t bring myself ta burst yer bubble.” They laughed at that, a genuine laugh about the situation.

“I’m sorry, I just… I always use it for bruises and stuff like that, and I like… just thought it through, that you don’t have blood which would make your knuckles swell or nothin’.”

“yeah, the sentiment is sweet, but… missin’ a few pieces,” he shrugged with a sheepish grin. “here.” Red turned his hand over and waited. 

They looked at him, and then placed the frozen bag of peas in his palm. He started reaching up towards their face, but he stopped, remembering earlier.

“ya mind if i…?”

They looked surprised, but nodded quickly. “No, go ahead.” Their voice was quiet, meek. Red didn’t say anything.

He used a hand to carefully brush away some hair from the side of their face. And carefully again, oh so carefully, he brought the freezing pea bag up to their cheek, which was still swollen. When the bag touched their skin, they flinched minutely back from the temperature, but then they let the plastic sit on their skin. 

…

It was way too intimate. WAY too intimate.

Who the fuck does he think he is? Caring for me after Jack’s bullshit… Making sure I’m getting ice on the site to reduce the swellin’… Holding the bag himself, even though I’m perfectly capable of holding it…

This was getting to be bad. Your face was catching fire with how hot it felt, fuck the frozen peas on your cheek.

“it looked painful,” he said eventually. You smiled, but it was more of a wince at the reminder.

“Yeah,” you hummed. “I oughta be used to it by now.”

Red didn’t respond, instead he stared at you expectantly. Like he wanted you to continue on that thought.

“He doesn’t do that kinda thing during those meetings too often,” you said. “But I don’t only see him in those meetings, so any time he was angry ya just had to be careful walkin’ down the street. Common knowledge to stay inside if ya saw him out an’ about.”

Red kept silent still. You weren’t sure if he wanted you to keep talking again or if he was just listening. You decided to stop talking. And to bring your gaze off of his. It was too much. His hand practically cradling your cheek, while he stood so, so close to you, staring into your eyes as you spoke.

“i’m sorry ya had ta live like that.”

And the fucking apologies man, you thought, snapping your eyes back to him. Anyone ever taught you that you’re gonna have people swooning if ya keep actin’ so kindly?

“I mean,” you shrugged. “I’m just glad it’s over now. I’m really excited to see how youse and yours will change the streets.”

“yeah, me too.”

Still so close, you figured now was as good a time as any.

“I also wanted to, to thank you, for earlier,” you said, quiet. “I don’t gotta tell ya that Jack wasn’t the nicest, and it was… really nice to have someone stand up for me. For once. So, thank you for that.”

Red glanced away from you, an almost bashful smile tainting his teeth. “i swear, shug, my ego is doin’ just fine.”

You smiled at him.

“Oh, shit, the coffee—”

…

If they were stroking his ego earlier in their apartment, with their kind words about him simply not beating them to a pulp for breathing in his vicinity, then the walk through the apartment complex had to be the sloppiest fucking blowjob ever given, right to his ego. He was already feeling like a saint—forget the bloody mess he’d made of Jack—when they’d looked into his eyes so kindly, with his hand on their cheek, and thanked him for the fiasco from earlier. But as he knocked on each door in the complex, and explained to each resident that the fee they’d paid just hours ago would no longer be a concern of theirs, and then pulled out the amount of the fee (regardless of whether they’d been able to pay in full) to hand to them… he might as well have been Jesus H. Christ himself, walking amongst men. Some of them were a little wary around him, sure, but many people shifted from initial fearful expressions to tearful disbelief. A handful of them hugged him so tight with their small frames, staring up at him with awe in their eyes, adoration. 

Red almost couldn’t take it. It was just so much.

And all the while, that sweet human who agreed to help him on this errand would look up at him as the residents realized they wouldn’t have to scrape around pennies for meals, with this saccharine joy in their eyes, their cheek still a reminder of the trauma they’d endured earlier. They beamed at him, and multiple times, they ended up with tears gathered on their lashes as well.

It was so much.

And it felt wrong to him.

A man’s blood (and brains) was on his hands from the morning, but now he had people crying in his arms about how incredible he was. Deep pangs of… something awful struck into his SOUL. Fuck the fact that Jack was a piece of shit, it never got easier to watch the life fade from someone’s eyes. That horrific, SOUL-wrenching moment of knowing he was the end to someone’s life, the complexity of who they were, the people they knew, the places they’d been, the life they’d lived, all came to a gasping, pathetic end by his hand. 

Gray area was where he lived. People could argue for years about whether or not Jack deserved it (Red was on the side for it), whether or not a man deserved to die for the pain he’d inflicted on others for so long, whether or not he deserved a painful, breathless last few moments, the same few moments he’d likely afforded to some of the unfortunate population of the town. It could be argued back and forth. That debate would never change the moment of truth that he had lived dozens of times. The sight of living eyes fading to lifeless, the color gone. The subtle movements of the pupil, to nothing. The terrifying, humbling damning of their soul, all by him.

Gray area didn’t save him from living as a murderer. Some might call it due justice, what he did to Jack. It doesn’t make the toll on the SOUL lighter.

But that… that fucking human … 

They stared at him like he had saved their life. Like what he’d done earlier meant nothing in comparison to the deed he was doing now.

And that. Was almost enough for him. Maybe that was enough to ease his SOUL, if only barely.

They knocked on another door, and before whoever behind the wood was able to open it, the human glanced up at Red, eyes wild with the most viral case of reverence he’d ever had the liberty of seeing. A smile pinned up on their lips by unadulterated excitement. Ecstasy. That’s the word. They were ecstatic to walk this death row walk, with the new knowledge these people wouldn’t be signing away their souls.

The door finally creaked open. It revealed someone seated, a young human, surely just a few years younger than the one stood next to Red. They sat in a wheelchair, head buzzed of all their hair, with dark brunette roots grown in on their scalp.

Over their torso was a large brown knit sweater, one that draped over their arms and hung loose on their frame. Their pants were simple patches sewn together to make casual sweatpants. Red thought they looked a little… grungy was maybe the right word. 

After taking one look between the human and Red, the resident’s face fell and they stammered through fragmented words.

“L-Listen, i-i-if this is about the, um- p-protection fee I promise, I-I just need a few more—”

“Oh no, Freddie, it’s not about that!” The human cut them off swiftly after realizing what they meant. “I mean, it’s sort of on that topic, but not what you’re thinking! Red, go ahead.”

They clasped their hands together behind their back and waited for him to continue the explanation.

“afternoon, name’s sans, sans the skeleton,” he nodded to them. Their expression hardly changed. “i’m yer new landlord. ‘m takin’ over fer jack schiavone. an’ i’m changin’ a few things here. one a’ which, is that fee ya mentioned. my brothers an’ i are in charge a’ this area now and we’ve decided ta waive the fee entirely.”

Their eyebrows furrowed a few seconds after Red finished his little speech. Like the cogs in their brain had yet to catch up. Which, to be honest, was a common reaction among the residents.

“that means ya don’t gotta pay that fee no more,” he said. “an’ ta make reparations fer the town, my bros an’ i are personally reimbursin’ ya fer whatever financial trouble this fee caused from this month.” After finishing that portion of the speech, Red handed them a rolled-up wad of cash, which they took with, not fear, but foggy confusion.

“I’m sorry,” they eventually responded. “I’m not sure I understand.” They spoke slowly, nervously, but not scared anymore. Red took that as a good sign.

“i’m here returnin’ the amount that was asked a’ ya from this month in the protection fee. regardless a’ whether it was paid or not. an’ ta letcha know it won’t be part a’ yer bills no more. jack’s no longer in charge here.”

Their gaze held onto Red’s for a moment longer before jumping over to the human next to him, inquisition in those nervous pupils. The human nodded their head in small but energetic movements, to assure their doubts away wordlessly. Freddie’s, as the other human had addressed them, mouth dropped open slightly, and their eyes reddened around the lashline. The shift was slow, but Red didn’t want to say anything else so as not to ruin the moment of overwhelming elation. But… maybe it was a bit too overwhelming. Red was never a fan of making people cry, even if it was out of joy. That still led to awkward waiting and unsure silences. He’d rather they just thanked him and the conversation continued on.

But he also knew what he was doing. He knew that this type of errand was accomplishing its goal of truly touching the hearts of the residents. He remembered what it felt like to pay a protection fee, how it felt to be strangled and crushed by such a heavy cost, month after month, watching money funnel directly into some cold-hearted, uncaring, devilish hands, and knowing it was weeks of hard work all for some fucking petty cash to those assholes. Red knew the feeling. He wasn’t gonna blame the folks in the complex for crying at such financial liberty. 

“I don’t… I don’t know what to say…” They sniveled. “I really- thank you, I guess is a good start. This… C-Could I invite you inside? I wanna hug you, but I’m worried that might be unprofessional or whatever.” They spoke with a wobbly, watery voice, but their lips stretched up into this crooked, gummy, angelic smile. Their cheeks creased to stretch that smile wider, showing off teeth that weren’t quite white, but still shined so bright to Red.

The human chuckled wetly beside him, and spoke. “We’d love to come in, but we have to keep knocking on doors for another little while, and I don’t wanna keep Mr. Gaster from the rest of his day. However, I will definitely take ya up on that hug.” They crouched down to comfortably hug Freddie in their chair, who squeezed them so tight, Red thought one of them was gonna break a rib. Freddie had closed their eyes, letting a few lingering tears leak out to roll over their cheeks.

Red followed suit, although he felt a little funny for it, as he had to crouch down lower still to be able to reach them, and he was careful not to squeeze too hard. When he stood back to his full height, Freddie was drying their eyes with their sleeves.

“I, uh, whew, I’m sorry for gettin’ emotional on you there. I just… can’t believe this. I mean, you just saved my ass from medical bills I’ve been dyin’ to. I really appreciate it. If I can ever do anything to repay this—I can make good soup! If you ever want to come over for soup!” 

The restaurant owner dried their own eyes, and chuckled lightly again.

“mighty kind a’ ya,” Red nodded at them. “i hope ya know ya don’t owe me anythin’ fer this.”

“Yeah, I know,” they answered. “But I wanna owe you a good meal for this. Even if I don’t need to. It’d be an honor to get to thank you properly.”

Red softened, and then grinned at them. “that offer is ‘thank you’ enough. hope ya have a good rest a’ yer day, freddie.” They returned the smile tenfold.

“Oh, hey, before we leave, I was wondering if you’d maybe let me know a few publicly funded programs you’d like to see get a bit more focus on them…”

…

A crisp clacking of familiar shoes echoed through the house, working themselves closer to Sans, who thought himself safer than he might have been. He at least thought he’d get another half hour of peace before he’d be dragged back down to earth to resume awful responsibilities.

His room was his haven, and while it’s not like the location was unknown to Wings, he thought he’d be afforded some more personal down time anyway. Like Wings would possibly ever want to make his life a little easier. He should have known better, of course. But he really did need the time to decompress after the day he’d had. And his beautiful, lovely bay window sufficed just for that purpose. It let him stare back into the forest behind their home. It reminded him of the underground, but in a way that reminded him also of freedom. Maybe a little backwards of his mind to conflate the two, but he enjoyed his bay window for that very reason. Tall, tall, very tall trees that continued far enough so Red didn’t know where the forest ended, and it let him feel insignificant. He needed that. He needed to feel small. Insignificant. Unimportant. Inconsequential. Bust out the thesaurus for those babies.

On a serious note, Sans was staring through the trees, watching as a couple birds flew around, catching onto branches before continuing their flight. Watching them helped with his insignificance.

Blood.

Earlier, taking a bat to Jack’s skull. Easy. Hardly a job, if you’d call it that.

Blood, splattered on the bricks.

Blood was different than dust. Dust disappeared when the wind came. Dust trickled away into nothing.

A dead, human body would sit. A dead, human body would stare you in the face after their life had left. A dead body wouldn’t run away with the wind. No, it would rot there. It would sit and decompose, until worms had taken it up like a renovated college dorm, until flies covered the rotting flesh, until its clothes wore away to strings of fabric. 

Dust left no trace. Humans did.

Sans’s bone hands were stained black with murder, metaphorically speaking, no his hands were an almost whitish-gray in reality. But they’d seen years of the sin, the wrong, the cruelty of slaughter. He knew it back underground and he continued that awful dance on the surface. He knew how to be brutal, how to make it hurt. He knew how to make it quiet, what to leave at the scene… etc. etc.

That knowledge didn’t save him from the SOUL-crushing guilt. He didn’t want to live it again. But it’s all he did. He lived with those memories. The pain. The suffering. The life that the underground was, and how it still mattered up on the surface.

Jack Schiavone was an asshole. He had a body count of his own, and his consisted of the residents he considered undeserving of life. Jack was perfectly fine with throwing around anyone that he knew wouldn’t talk back. Sans could at least say that he didn’t stoop that low. He went for the shitheads. The other murderers. At least then his conscience wouldn’t rip him to absolute shreds. 

Jack Schiavone didn’t make him feel that bad. It was the feeling of murder that did. The reminder. The faces he’d done it to before. It was more than Jack Schiavone. It was everyone that died to his hand. Knowing so many had.

“Sans,” Wings called from beyond his door. His face didn’t change its expression. “We need to talk about the protection fee meeting.”

Debrief. Meeting. Reassessment. Lab. Meeting. Debrief. Meeting.

Sans ground his teeth together making a terrible noise that bounded around in his skull.

“‘kay.”

He opened his door and revealed his older brother. He must have looked like shit because Wings immediately tensed up at the sight of him.

“You look like shit,” he commented.

“can always count on ya fer honesty,” he shot back.

“Yes, you’re welcome,” Wings said. “How did the meeting end up?”

“fine,” he shrugged. “er, probably better than fine. jack looks like he took a cannon ball ta the head. the restaurant owner is warmin’ up ta pap ‘n me. an’ every resident in their complex was a huge fan a’ the ‘reimbursement’ idea ya had. so they’ve all gotta be fond a’ monsters at this point.”

“Perfect, that’s wonderful,” Wings crossed his arms. “How did you leave Jack? Details.”

Sans huffed. “broke his nose durin’ the meeting, took a bat ta the side of his head, busted his balls ‘fore leavin’ him fer dead.”

“I’m sorry- did you say during the meeting ?”

“yeah,” he said. “jack slammed the, uh, restaurant owner down ta the table an’ i just. stopped thinkin’. dunno what ta tell ya. it just happened. the bat ta the head ‘n balls happened out in the alley at ovyridge.”

“You broke his fucking nose during the meeting? In front of a resident ?”

“it’s not like they were pissed about it! they thanked me afterwards. thanked me, wings.”

“Probably because they were fucking terrified of you and didn’t want to piss off the big, scary monster who just shattered their landlord’s nose!”

Sans shut his maw, and glanced between Wings’s eyes. He took a deep, pissed off breath, and sighed it out. “yeah, ‘m not doin’ this tonight. ask papyrus, he’ll tell ya the meetin’ was great. ‘fore ya do that, don’t forget ta eat shit, wings.”

Pop!

And he was gone.

…

“No more protection fee.”

“... You’re lying to me. That's cruel, yanno, lyin' to your own mother.”

“I’m not! I swear!”

“He did that?!”

You nodded furiously to your mother, who stood mouth agape at your counter, helping with clean up. She had one hand on her hip, one on the counter, and looked around in disbelief, as if waiting for the situation to make sense of itself.

“Wouldja look at that,” she mumbled. “Who knew a fuckin’ gangster would ever consciously decide to go easy on us…”

“Exactly what I was thinkin’!” You exclaimed. “I don’t understand him. Butcha know the best part of that meetin’?”

Your mom’s lip quirked up. “What?”

“He broke Jack’s nose after he started gettin’ violent with me.”

“During that meeting?! Didn’t ya say his brother was there too?” Your mom had fully abandoned her task by this point, enraptured by your story.

“Mhm,” you grinned. “His brother defended him immediately after, too, sayin’ it was justifiable, that Jack was ‘unbecoming’ or whatever. And he started layin’ into Jack too, picked him up like he was a fuckin’ schoolboy, danglin’ over his chair. My god, what a sight it was.”

“What a man,” your mom fanned herself and you laughed. “I’d have been fallin’ over myself after that kinda stunt.”

“Preachin’ to the choir over here,” you huffed, smiling at her. “He was so… intense about it too. I invited him over to my place for a coffee after the meetin’. Well, to be honest I invited him over to ice his knuckles, but then I realized: skeletons ain’t got blood. So, not like he was gonna bruise or nothin’.”

“Ooh, look at you bein’ all forward!” she gushed, getting back to her cleaning task so she was at least being productive during your little goss session. “Well, tell me how it went! How was it?” You rolled your eyes before relenting (it’s not like you weren’t dying to tell her anyway).

“He was… really fuckin’ nice,” you admitted, scratching at your jaw. “Like, when I realized he didn’t need the ice for his hand, he moved my hair aside and held the pack on my cheek, just about gazin’ into my eyes. Oh my god, it was insane. He’s just such a sweetheart. Really. I mean, I think he actually, like, cares about m—”

Ding ding!

Speak of the devil, huh?

“hey, shug, how’s it hangin’?” 

You just about turned into a tomato. What a fantastically, opportune, totally planned, totally not unprepared meeting between your mother and the very monster that had been changing a lot of shit in your life as of recently.

Drink up baby, stay up all night

“Red!” you called, clapping your hands together. “I’m doin’ okay, doin’ just fine. How, uh, how’re you doin’?” He approached the counter slowly, each step purposeful, intent. He stared you down with those god awful, hypnotizing eyelights. You almost tried to cross your legs.

“‘m alright, better now though,” he winked, so casually. You hated how casually he always did that. “how’s yer, uh—” he gestured with a cock of his head to you— “yer cheek? feelin’ okay?” You touched the sore spot on your face, which was honestly not quite so sore anymore. A little tender, but you knew by tomorrow morning it’d likely be healed.

“Oh, it’s practically healed up, no more pain,” you said. Then you glanced to your mom, suddenly remembering she was still there. She was only looking at you with this smug, fully-fucking-entertained look in her eyes as you responded to his concern. You would’ve made a face at her but you didn’t want Red to catch you.

With the things you could do, you won’t but you might

“Red, this is, um, this is my mom,” you introduced her, watching as she turned to face him with a bright, gleaming smile. “Mom, that’s Red.”

“nice ta meetcha,” he bowed his head slightly, and offered his hand. She took it eagerly, and your eye twitched in embarrassment.

“Oh, honey, the pleasure’s all mine!” she exclaimed. “We were just chattin’ about ya!”

Your eyes blew wide open. Hey mom. What happened to any sense of tact? What happened to your supposed room reading skills?

“that so?” Red asked, looking at you very amusedly. You pursed your lips together.

The potential you’ll be, that you’ll never see

“This one was just tellin’ me about how ya blew up on Jack earlier.” She gestured to you, and Red smiled even wider. You wanted to die inside, just a little bit. Just a little bit.

“ Ma ,” you pleaded.

“Oh, hush.” She leaned over to Red and put a hand up as if to share a secret with him— “The fucker had it comin’, if ya ask me.”

“Could I getcha anything?” you asked, wholeheartedly mortified. “Ya want a supreme? Maybe two?”

“ya know me so well, shug,” he winked. “two supremes sounds perfect.” He pulled out his wallet, fishing through the bills.

The promises you’ll only make

“Want me to make anything for Frisk? I don’t mind!” Yeesh, way to sound chill.

“sweet a’ ya,” he smirked at you, so kindly—it was all sugar and heat behind those teeth. “but nah, they’re asleep now, ‘s past their bedtime.”

“Ya got a kid?” your mom pressed. You tried to catch her eye to give her a disapproving look. She ignored your attempts. Thankfully, Red seemed unbothered by the personal question.

Drink up with me now

“yeah, ya might’ve heard their name before. frisk, ambassador of monster kind. my bros an’ i adopted ‘em after comin’ up ta the surface. they’re a real sweetheart.” He crossed his arms across his chest and chatted with your mom, a very amused look in his eyes.

“Oh, now ain’t that the damnedest thing,” your mom sat, enraptured by his answer. You stopped caring about her intense intrigue in him for a moment.

“That’s why their name seemed familiar!” you exclaimed. “That’s so crazy—does it get stressful havin’ ta help the ambassador of monster kind with their civic duties?”

And forget all about the pressure of days

“the only ‘civic duty’ they have is homework,” he scoffed. “i mean, they’re a kid. can’t really put ‘em in charge a’ politics, let alone to act as leader of a whole race. the title is really just a way ta keep our, uh… old king out a’ leadership.”

The old king of monsters, whose name you were blanking on, had been supposedly misrepresenting monsters by their own metric, and guiding them through a blind rage against humans during his entire reign over the kingdom. It had been a while since you’d heard the stories that came up about him, but you could remember bits and pieces. Something about… Frisk changing the minds of most monsters from Fell about humans, which in turn, led to the king losing popularity on his campaign for the damnation of all humans. You forgot specifics, but that was the gist.

“Oh,” you hummed. It suddenly struck you that you had yet to ring him up for the order, and subsequently, to start the order. You fumbled with your words for a moment when you gave him the total. To your horror, he took out two crisp hundred dollar bills and handed them over to you. 

You’re just fuckin’ made of money, huh?

You put your hand up, and opened your mouth to reject his offer, when he cut you off.

Do what I say, and I’ll make you okay

“before ya say anythin’, consider this a ‘thanks’ fer takin’ me on yer rounds earlier. made my job a lot easier.” He stayed firm, and you pursed your lips together.

“Red, it’s just too much money for pizza,” you winced, finding it painful to reject the money again.

And drive them away

“it’s damn good pizza!” he demanded. You didn’t budge. He didn’t either. “‘m not takin’ no fer an answer on this, shug.”

You held his awful, beautiful, hazy eyelights in your gaze another few seconds before sighing in defeat, and snatching the cash from him. “I can’t keep takin’ your money.”

“‘s not takin’ if i’m just givin’ it ta ya,” he shrugged, all triumphant.

The images stuck in your head

“I disagree strongly, but you win for today,” you huffed. “I’ll get those going an’ be back in a sec.”

Your mother did not budge from her spot, no, she even began to get comfortable, with an arm propped up to hold her chin so she could keep chatting with the monster in your establishment.

“Ma, ya wanna help back here?” you asked pointedly. She refused your hint.

“And leave Red out here all alone? Hell no, you’ll live.” She turned back towards the skeleton and you slumped, exasperated.

People you’ve been before

Of course not, you thought, irritated. Of course you’re gonna talk his nonexistent ear off while I’m banished to the kitchen, where I am unable to stop you from delving into uncomfortable territory.

You resigned to the kitchen, beginning the order with gusto, itching to get back out there to act as a barrier between your mother and Red. It’s not like you didn’t love your mother, and it’s not like you didn’t like the way she talked, no that’s not it at all. She could just get… excited about spilling gossip with people. And it was no holds barred with her, so you knew she was 100% chill with telling him that you thought it hot when he served Jack a steaming plate of justice, right in the kisser. Or how you gushed about Red lifting Jack off the floor, feet dangling so stupidly, so helplessly. How awfully scared he looked, how he’d finally felt the way you’d lived for years on end. The raw, unadulterated fear in those pupils, and the way Red was practically itching to bite his head off with those shark-like teeth—

See, that’s the problem, right there, you thought. If you weren’t so hot for mobster, there wouldn’t be a problem with your mom talking with Red.

As it were, you figured a quick five minute conversation between them wouldn’t kill you. Probably.

That you don’t want around anymore

It didn’t take long to get the pizzas shelved in your oven, and you practically threw your apron off of you to get back out in the main room. You were catching snippets of sentences through their whole conversation, laughter from your mom more than a few times, et cetera et cetera.

You walked back out to the two of them, dusting your hands off on your thighs. 

That push, and shove and won’t bend to your will

“No, if you’re moving to the area, you wanna get Frisk in Atheby Elementary, that’s where I teach, and the kids there are nicer than the other schools around town. I hear horror stories from my colleagues in those schools.”

“atheby elementary?” he asked, pulling out a notebook and jotting it down quickly. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

“That’s good,” your mom said half-mindedly. “The parents there are sweet too, which’ll make it easier to meet people. Have ya laid any roots down in the area? Mingled at all?” Red cocked his head around and relented with a response.

“yanno, besides this one over here—” he cocked his head over to you, and you straightened up at the attention— “i haven’t really met people.”

I’ll keep them still

“See?” Your mom nudged him playfully in the shoulder. “Meetin’ those parents will getcha out there. Oh! Or we could host a li’l shindig and getcha talkin’ to everyone in the area! We could get the locals, some family friends, help ya meet people so it’s easier ta network!” She was looking at you when she was suggesting a get-together.

“Yanno, that’s a great idea,” you nodded in agreement. “It’d be good for ya to get to know these people. An’ it’ll help ya with hearin’ public opinion.”

“Oh, perfect! Ugh, I’ll get a little word out, start invitin’ people, we can have it out in the park, and we can cater—or we could do a little bring-your-own-dish thing! Oh my god, I got a hundred ideas for this, we gotta getcha introduced right…” You smiled a little crooked at your mom, her eagerness for throwing a party. She was always like that: sociable and extroverted. She loved talking, loved hearing from people in town, and loved keeping up old friendships. True in her soul, she was a sweetheart. It was her nature, the nature that nurtured you. Suppose that was what made you love working at an old pizza place, was getting to see old friends and talk with the regulars. 

Drink up, baby

“that’s, uh… yanno, that’s real sweet a’ ya ta… offer ta help me get ta know the town.” You chuckled at that.

“Don’t get too flattered now, she was itchin’ to throw a get together for a few weeks now.”

“Hey!” she scolded with a guilty smile. “Let the guy tell your mother how kind she is, it wouldn’t hurt ta hear.”

“You’re right, that’s on me,” you grinned.

Look at the stars

“So, Red, ya tryna meet anyone when we introduce ya? In a romantical sense?”

You hacked up on your spit, knocking a fist to your sternum to right your air passages. The curveball from your mother had you fighting for your life. What happened to the wonderful art of subtlety? Of class? Mother? Can you tell me what happened to those?

“ Ma, ” you pleaded again, more demanding this time. “He’s just here for pizza.” 

“Whaaat?” she sung, feigning innocence. “He’s new ta town! There are a bunch of singles in the area! It’s a fair question.”

You burned a hot red. Flushed up to the tips of your ears, heartbeat pumping wayyy too much blood to your cheeks. Your grown, mature mother was going to kill you by embarrassment.

I’ll kiss you again

“nah it’s alright,” he chuckled, scratching at his maw, which sounded like chalk running across concrete, an oxymoronic soft yet rough sound. Gentle on the ears. “‘m on the market. but my, uh… my older bro’ bein’ a real pain in the ass about work. so it’s not my biggest concern ta get out there in the datin’ scene.” His eyes caught yours. Any and all thoughts in your head zipped out of the nearest exit. 

“but i s’ppose ‘m not opposed ta the idea.” And then the motherfucker winked at you.

Uh oh, you thought, swallowing.

Between the bars

…

Chapter Text

Drip, drip, drip.

Somewhere, a broken pipe let its presence be known, spilling a single, uniform drop of water every few seconds. Every few seconds. Every few seconds. Constant. Persistent. Like a natural unnatural pendulum clock. It used to exist only as a nuisance. Now it grew to be familiar. A quiet, but constant friend. In the deep, dark, unfriendly lab.

It didn’t matter the number of days she’d spent holed up in the lab, how comfortable she might’ve grown to the environment. It wasn’t the environment that made it scary, per se, it was knowing what lived there, what had once lived there. Experiments gone awry lingered in the walls, in whispers of the ventilation. Despite the unlively conditions of the place, despite the isolation that swallowed her, she wasn’t alone. Sometimes she believed that it’d be better if she was.

Drip, drip, drip.

After sparing a half glance to her clock, she reached down into a lower drawer on her desk, past old, untouched papers, until her fingers found the familiar cold neck of a bottle, and she pulled it out. Some monster brand alcohol, from an old friend, and frankly, a bad business decision. Strong though. Very strong, as experience would confirm. Somewhere on the bottle it probably said how much, but she didn’t care to double check. She knew it would do the trick.

Maybe on another day, she’d pull out a shot glass, maybe she’d be a little less hasty. But who cares? No stakes, no people to drink with, no one to share the bottle with, it wasn’t a big deal to tip the heavy bottle up in a (minutely) shaking grasp to her lips and rush the burn of liquor down her throat, straight. It tasted gross, she never liked the strong kind, but at least that was all she needed. She capped it immediately after, slid it back into the drawer and covered it with those decade old pages. A quick shot of alcohol did enough to stabilize her. All of her. The nerves, the stutter, the shaking, the uneasy feeling just from working down there. It slithered through her like rich syrup, slowly trickling down to every part of her, until her joints felt sticky and her mouth moved slow. Which made it easier for her to know what was about to come out. No more excess movements because they all came late and she could feel when each one would have its turn.

Drip, drip, drip.

She breathed slowly, and continued her work.

Old notes, even older books, studying specifics on her specimen. Supposed drug tolerance, herb intolerances, plant interactions. 

“Inconsistent, consistent, consistent, inconsistent, consistent.”

Right on time, a perfect minute and half since she checked her clock, a routine three knocks echoed around her lab, followed by the swing of a heavy door. She tapped her desk drawer with her foot to confirm that her bottle was indeed, out of sight.

A soft patter of heavy, slow footsteps approached her station, quiet on the concrete floor.

The first thing she always took note of was the ears, the droopy, furry ears that hung down to her shoulders. They acted as a replacement hairdo, but she supposed that being covered in fur was enough of a hairdo.

The next thing she saw were the eyes. Red irises surrounded by yellow, cold and hungry. Not that those eyes had anything to be hungry for, save for maybe answers. Once beautiful, alarmingly gentle eyes had become threatening. Unforgiving. Which was her least favorite thing to encounter. Unforgiving. It made her stutter worse, it made her shake down to her fingertips, it made the alcohol burn worse in her nerves, like the first shot was straight to her gut, fuel to the fire of fear.

“Dr. Alphys,” came a stern, yet humming voice. “What do we know?”

The overgrown lizard scientist turned her eyes to her pages, which all looked the same at this point. Yellowing paper, worn and harboring stupid bored sketches or half-baked notes in the margins. 

Drip, drip, drip.

“Many incon-inconsistent interactions. It’s incredibly unlikely the spe-specimen depicts an accurate r-repe-repetition of any selected herb.” Her eyes scanned back up to her boss, in all her glory. A tight sigh huffed from her lips.

“I hear that same thing from you every week it seems,” she scowled. “I can’t, in good faith, keep allowing this research to continue without proper results and secure testing materials!”

“I h-hate to bring it up again—” which was true, she was about to bring up something that made her want to claw at her own skin, but only because of the reaction it garnered— “but these tri-trials can only be run on the same or-ori-original specimen, and, Missus Dreemurr, you know th-that would be a human. It’s the o-only way to guarantee trial ac-accuracy.”

“And how on Earth would we manage to secure human subjects for this?” she demanded. “Getting monsters on board is one thing… We don’t have the leverage for humans.”

Alphys balled up a fist and swallowed. Always such a fucking pain in the ass to meet with her majesty. Ugh.

“Again, I-I’m not trying to start an argument, these are just details that come with ex-experiments.” She explained, like she had about a thousand times already. It was a simple reasoning that came with doing science in a lab. Trying to match results from a previous experiment? You definitely want to control your subjects previously tested on. But trying to explain that to someone who wasn’t too keen on the process of experimental testing, but more on the results… was like trying to… well, does everything need a metaphor? Point is, it made the liquor in Alphys’s desk drawer look way too full—in dire need of another shot thrown back from the bottle.

“Right, so, you figure out the details that come with the experiments, and I’ll figure out what we can actually do.” She said, in a very final tone. Alphys swallowed, wringing her hands under her desk.

A beat of silence, of Alphys knowing not to argue.

“Run it with the specimen.”

Alphys snapped her head to face the goat. That’s a very stupid idea, she wanted to say.

“M-Missus Dreemurr, I really think we should rec-reconsider our next subject for the trials—”

“You figure out how to run the experiments. I tell you what we can actually manage. That means no human trials. Unless you know a way to acquire a conspicuous amount of humans for possible fatal experimentation?” 

Alphys shut her mouth. She knew not to argue. She knew not to argue and she still tried to correct Toriel Dreemurr. Like the imbecile she was.

“N-No human trials, okay,” she muttered.

“Don’t mutter,” Toriel scolded. “It’s unprofessional. You’re an adult, talk like one.”

Alphys swallowed again. “So we run it with the specimen. I-I’ll start testing tomorrow—”

“Tonight,” she demanded. “You start tonight.”

Alphys nearly made the mistake of opening her mouth, but she caught herself just in time. “Tonight.” She agreed. Tonight, I oughta get the balls to talk back to you.

But she wouldn’t. Not tonight. If ever. No, tonight, when Toriel would leave the lab, she would pull the bottle of whatever-the-fuck out of her desk and try to forget she ever made the decision to work for Toriel Dreemurr.

Drip, drip, drip.

…

“Oh, baby, I’m still thinkin’ about that wink,” your elementary school teacher of a mother hollered as she fanned herself, lounging in front of her tiny, dingy, old TV. You cackled, loud, obnoxious, snorting laughter. You, too, were still thinking about that wink. Days old, still at the forefront of your mind. As you poured your plastic wine glasses (can I call them glasses if they’re plastic?) full of a cheap ass red, you remembered the way he spoke to you. The rumbling timbre of his voice, the way he teased his single status, the way he eyed you before dropping that nuclear sentence on you:

i s’ppose ‘m not opposed ta the idea

You’d give your left pinky to hear it for the first time again. Take the right pinky too for the wink combo. He might as well have just snatched you up off your feet and used one of his brain-numbing shortcuts to take you somewhere private so you could do everything to him you’d been thinking about for days and…

You oughta cut that thought short, huh? Keep it PG. PG-13, even.

“It has not left my mind, not once,” you giggled. “I still think it’s funny that I was a little scared to talk to you about this.”

“Honey, the men I dated ‘fore your father give me no room ta tease you,” she shook her head, taking the wine from you as you returned to your spot on her couch. “An’ I mean who doesn’t love a rugged type? I dated a few bikers here an’ there, an’ god if the whole bad-boy schtick isn’t a huge part of it, I mean… it’s an appeal. It’s an appeal an’ I’ll never fault ya for that.” She laughed and you joined in. You brought the cup to your lips, and then shook your head slightly. 

“No, it wasn’t about his look, it was the— the mobster part. The working-with-Don-Mitch part.” You inhaled quietly. “I mean, you know what they’re like, and- and a few… decent interactions… doesn’t mean he’s an exception to the rule. He might just be… playin’ his cards right. I dunno. All I know is he an’ his brothers are here, doin’ something about monster integration. When we talked, he would say stuff about… yanno, public opinion, and whatnot.”

“Thought it was either I agree or it’s my funeral.”

You thought back to that conversation. It scared you. The thought of it, the drive there. It was terrifying. Multiple times, you truly believed you were knocking at death’s door. Like the second you finished talking with him, he’d blow your brains out, and all you’d be was a red slushie splattered on the walls.

“i hope ya know, now at least, that’s not… who we are. i know that’s what yer used to, with people in… this field. but my brothers ‘n i are focused on monster integration, not, um… that.”

“But,” you began, soft, “he acts like… like he cares. About me. He freaked out on Jack after he assaulted me, he… he was worried about me afterwards. And god, he looked like he wanted to puke when I told him point-blank I thought if I didn’t talk to him, he’d kill me. Not to mention the fuckin’ overspending over pizza. I don’t— I can’t understand why he does that—”

“I think he has a crush on ya,” she smiled, or smirked more like. Teasing. You rolled your eyes at her, scoffed.

“This ain’t fuckin’ high school, ma,” you groaned. “We’re both grown. I’m still— I mean, you’re not- upset? Or anythin’?” She made a face at you like you’d grown a third arm.

“Honey, why would I be upset that you’re into a guy who has money?” she asked, then snickered when you rolled your eyes again. “No, I mean, didn’t he- you said he was in ‘monster integration.’ Now, that doesn’t sound quite like… a strict mobster, huh?”

You took a sip of wine, letting the smooth and faint burn of alcohol coat your throat. Soft. Warm.

“Yeah, he’s not quite what I’m used to,” you took a hiss of air between your teeth after the wine made its way to your liver. “Butcha can’t deny the implications of his work. He does business with Mitch. I have no idea of his- his past, or- or- or what he does day-to-day, or… I-I-I don’t know this guy, ma.” You still worried about that. Everything about Red. He scared you. Not because of the way he looked, no, you got past that quick . No, it was the not knowing. It was the inherent danger of who he was, who he knew. He knew that, too, he didn’t try to hide it. He told you that your interactions might get you killed. That was his line of work.

“Okay, well, take a breath, it’s not like you’re gettin’ married,” she said, lighthearted, and then she sighed. “I know that… his profession makes ya wary, and fer good reason. Yer right to be cautious on all of these grounds. The talkin’, the… interactin’, an’ all. But yer doin’ a whole lotta stressin’ over a few winks, over a little interest.” You opened your mouth, but she put up a hand to stop you.

“I know, I’m not sayin’ that ya shouldn’t worry,” she said. You closed your mouth and then sipped on your wine. “I’m sayin’ ta have a little fun. So what, the guy works with dangerous people? He’s obviously taken a bit of a likin’ ta ya. A little danger kinda… yanno, might get your engine going.” You rolled your eyes at that, and she laughed.

“Yeah, ha ha, very funny,” you grumbled.

A liking. Maybe he had taken a liking to you. Maybe. Maybe the way he held your face as he asked about Jack assaulting you was indicative of a little interest. Maybe him staring into your eyes as he said he was open to the idea of dating was enough. Maybe him always asking if it was alright to order a pizza or two before closing was enough. Maybe. Maybe. Maybe. But maybe he was just playing you right, so you’d go talk to people around about how nice and considerate the new landlords were. Maybe there was more going on than what you knew, maybe he was telling you exactly what he needed you to know.

It was fucking exhausting to say the least.

“Well, it’s not like anything’s come of it, right?” she asked. “You’re not involved with him yet, so I don’t want you freakin’ out about the ethics and… semantics, or whatever of gettin’ freaky with a mobs— yanno I’m not gonna even call him that. Gettin’ freaky with a… businessman.”

“‘Businessman,’” you scoffed. “I guess I shouldn’t be too worried… but I don’t know! Am I terrible for likin’ him? What about the people he’s hurt?”

“Okay, A: ya don’t know if he’s hurt people. He seems like he’s in a very different line of work than what Mitchie does. Ya don’t know if he’s actually as cruel. But, again, I think it’s smart of ya ta be wary around the guy.” You sighed, taking another reserved sip of your wine. 

“And B: ya know you’re not terrible for likin’ him,” she said patiently. “He’s been nothin’ but a fuckin’ saint since he’s come to town, ‘specially ta ya. In my opinion, it only makes sense thatcha’d start kinda… testin’ the waters with Monsieur Bones.”

“Okay,” you hummed, still unconvinced. “I dunno, what if he has hurt people?”

“You can’t go crazy over hypotheticals, yanno,” she shook her head. “What if he killed someone? What if he… kicked puppies for a livin’? What if he punched babies? Ya can’t know until ya find out, so there’s no point stressin’ about it until ya do.” Her point was a little backwards, and maybe you weren’t in full agreement, but at least you had your mom’s blessing to go buck-fucking crazy over some dangerous mobster who had a soft spot for your town. 

Maybe you oughta kick back a little.

…

Your day was uneventful. Finally. Your day off in the week, after exhaustive days spent tossing dough, making sauce, serving hot pizzas… Ugh. You loved your day off. You wished you could ever afford to take off another day every week to give yourself a real break. You needed it more than you needed anything. And while you’d gotten used to the workload at Abbiocco, you needed your rest.

Unfortunately, you hadn’t eaten in quite a while, and you were dying on your couch to the groans and cries of your stomach. You’d been postponing a meal though, to the ever-wonderful sensation of couch-rotting. How incredible. A chance to stretch out your limbs, to curl up and not move your arms over and over and over and over…

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

Your head perked up, and you groaned, rubbing both hands down your face. You threw your blanket to the side, furious. Who on Earth would dare disturb you on your day off? Who would ever do that?

You flung your door open, and were greeted by the sight of a skeleton who far exceeded the reaches of your doorframe.

“Papyrus!” you exclaimed. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I AM HERE REGARDING THE LIST WE DISCUSSED DURING THE MEETING LAST WEEK! WERE YOU ABLE TO TALK TO THE OTHER HUMANS ABOUT THE DISMAL ASPECTS OF THIS TOWN?” Charismatic and blunt as ever, he was. 

“Ha, yes, actually!” you replied, and then you opened your door slightly further to allow him inside. “Here, come in, I’ll show ya the ideas I got down.” He had to duck his head very far down to even attempt fitting through your door, which made you recount your words.

“Actually, you stay outside! I’ll grab it really quick and meetcha out there. Don’t wantcha to knock your head on my ceiling.” He gave you a curt smile at your compassion, and you closed the door gently, feeling a little awkward about closing it on him.

The piece of paper Papyrus gave you during the meeting for note taking was in pristine condition when you’d received it, but had crumpled considerably since it had been in your possession. Thank anyone above that you’d actually had the brain to set it on the counter near the door, and that you hadn’t left it in some random pants pocket. You grabbed the scrap of paper and grabbed a jacket lying around, hastily shoving your arms through the sleeves. When you opened the door again, Papyrus was staring at you with a face of polite displeasure.

“Everything okay?” You handed the list over to the skeleton, who was still looking at you with relative discomfort.

“UM, IS YOUR RESIDENCY ALWAYS SO DISORDERED?” He asked, and, maybe if you were slightly less exhausted, you would’ve had some kind of discretion. But as it were… you laughed out loud at his question.

“Yanno, it really is usually this rough,” you chuckled. “I just never really get around to straightening up.”

“WOULD YOU LIKE SOME HELP WITH TIDYING UP?” He asked, leaning down meet your eye better. You gave him a polite wince of a smile.

“That’s really alright, Papyrus,” you told him resignedly. “I really need to get outside today anyway. Ya wanna talk about these ideas over lunch maybe? I’d love to talk to ya about some ideas I had for the area too.” He scanned over the list very quickly, and nodded at you, curt.

“SPLENDID IDEA, AVERAGE-SIZED HUMAN!” Papyrus exclaimed. “NOW, I AM ENTIRELY UNFAMILIAR WITH THIS AREA. PLEASE SHOW ME TO YOUR TOWN’S FINEST DINING ESTABLISHMENT!”

…

“THIS ESTABLISHMENT LOOKS LIKE IT SELLS GREASY FOOD! THIS ISN’T ONE OF THOSE HORRENDOUS GREASE TRAPS, IS IT?” It was a good thing you were standing outside of the place when he said that. God, that’d look terrible if he was shit talking the restaurant so loudly while inside the place.

“No, no, it’s another family-owned business in town,” you assured him. “They sell incredible sandwiches, and I’ve been craving one all week.”

“UGH, FINE,” he groaned, much too pissy about food options in a town he’s never been before. How rude. Maybe your original gauge of his character was inaccurate when you thought he was a decent host for you in his house. He was awfully comfortable to complain about nonsensical things like lunch. “I’M GOING TO GIVE MY BROTHER A CALL SO HE CAN MEET US HERE.”

“Ya mean Red? Or your other brother?” you asked.

“I’M CALLING SANS,” he answered. “HE WAS MEANT TO MEET US AT YOUR APARTMENT, BUT HE TOOK HIS TIME WITH MY OTHER BROTHER, SO I’LL LET HIM KNOW WE LEFT.”

“Gotcha,” you glanced at the place. “Here, I’ll grab us a table inside for when you’re done on the phone.” He’d pulled his phone out already, and was dialing his brother. He gave you a curt thumbs-up, and you nodded in response.

The familiar scent of the restaurant eased the nerves you had from talking to a profound personality like Papyrus. It was nostalgic as you’d been coming here since you were really young. The family who ran the place was an old friend of your parents’, and they’d seen you grow up through the years. As opposed to a smell of tomato sauce, parmesan, and yeast, the restaurant was filled with a refreshing aroma of fresh bread, veggies, dressings… you were practically drooling.

An immediate call of your name snapped your head to the register, and your eyes landed on the old friend of your family, an older man, missing most of the hair on his head, and the hair that was still there was grayish. He was a fatter man, with a bit of a beer gut and a soft jawline that melted into his thick neck. Around his collar was a thin gold chain, which sat comfortably above an off-white wifebeater. One that probably used to be white, but had multiple stains worn into the fabric. His cheeks were flushed red from years of the sun and had deep smile lines from decades of life.

“Giovanni!” you called back, arms open in warm invitation. He came out from behind the counter. a great big smile on his face, pushing past the bush of a graying mustache. “How the hell are ya?”

The hug felt like home, like coming home from school with your dad and grabbing a hoagie from Giovanni’s.

“Good, good, good, we’re all very good here,” he hummed, all warm and friendly like he always was. “We miss ya! Haven’t seen ya in here in some time!” You shook your head, dejectedly.

“Too long, Gio,” you admitted. “Haven’t had a good sub in way too long. How’s your daughter, how’s Giulia?” He put his hands on his hips and sighed.

“She’s good, just started her sophomore year, very nervous,” he said. “She told me that the chemistry teacher changed an’ it’s not lookin’ too hot for her this year.” You winced in sympathy.

“Oh, yanno, I might have my old notebook from that class, but God, all chemistry just left my mind the second I finished that year.” He chuckled at your sentiment, and waved his hand around.

“No, no, I won’t make ya relive that hell,” he nudged you, and you laughed, slightly relieved. “Sorry fer stoppin’ ya up, whatcha in the mood fer?” 

“Oh, no, ya know I love chattin’ with ya! I missed youse and yours so much, I oughta be visitin’ more often!” you assured him. “But yanno, I mighta missed my old usual a bit more than I thought.” He gave you a hearty, gut laugh, and returned to behind the counter. 

“I’ll get workin’ on that pronto!” he called to you.

“Gio, how much do I owe ya?” you asked as he retreated to his working station.

He waved a hand at you dismissively, and yelled back ‘Bah!’ plus some variant of ‘Forgeddabout it’ as he started up on your sub. You found a booth somewhere, double checking that Papyrus would have enough room to stretch out his legs. And, as you remembered your sightly friend, you ran back to the register to give Giovanni a small warning.

“Hey, Gio!” you called to him. He perked up, craning his head back to see you. “My, uh, my landlord is tagging along. He’ll be in here in a second, just as a heads-up.” He furrowed his bushy eyebrows.

“Yer landlord?”

“Yeah, he’s new to the complex,” you clarified. “It’s not Jack. The new landlords are a pair of brothers, and they’re also, uh, skeleton monsters. Not sure if you’ve heard of ‘em before, but they’re really sweet! Swear it.” He cocked his head back in understanding, and then nodded.

“Sure, that’s fine,” he told you, but then he furrowed his eyebrows again. “But I mean, I knew it wasn’t gonna be Jack, yanno, after I found out what happened.”

At that, you narrowed your eyebrows. “What do ya mean?” He glanced around his shop, and then took a few steps closer to you. He leaned in a little further, and gave you a look of discomfort.

“Didn’t ya hear about what happened to the kid?” he asked. You shook your head, concern hiking higher. “He was found in some alley in Ovyridge, bloody and beaten to a pulp.”

You almost couldn’t believe your ears. You blinked a couple times and then shook your head to clear your head, which, to be honest had just gone through a hard reset. “Sorry?”

“The guy’s dead, and people are sayin’ it was someone from the De Luca’s. I didn’t mean to ruin yer lunch. I’m glad yer bein’ safe still. When ya stopped comin’ by, we started… well, we started thinkin’ the worst. Is yer mom doin’ okay too?”

“She… Yeah, no, she’s good.” Still, your brain hadn’t quite booted back up. “Did they say when he…?” Gio nodded, and rubbed at his neck.

“Just a few days ago,” he said. “Sometime over the weekend.”

“Oh, god,” you gulped. “I just had the protection fee meetin’ with him. I’m feelin’ a little sick.”

“Yer a saint, yanno,” he said. “I don’t have as much sympathy. I know ya shouldn’t talk shit on the dead or whatever, but Christ, I don’t know anyone who deserved that more ‘n him.” You couldn’t disagree really, but the idea of death still disturbed you. It made your insides turn up all wrong, like an egg frying in your gut. Especially since you interacted with him so close to him meeting his fate. A chill ran down your body.

“He was awful,” you agreed, “an’ it’s really just an occupational hazard for him. He really should’ve been more careful.” Gio smirked at you. Maybe it was sick of you two to say he had it coming, but you’d call it justice finally being served. Even if the thought made you feel ill.

“Exactly.”

You retreated back to your booth, a little shaken up, but otherwise okay. Your mom would probably want to pop a bottle of champagne at the news, but even still, you felt a little… wrong. Sure, the guy had countless people’s blood on his hands, plus years of instilling fear to innocent residents, in addition to strangling everyone’s finances with horrendous fees…

Yanno, maybe it was more deserved than you were giving credit for. The years of terror from him, the meetings that you’d leave bruised and swollen from outbursts. Or even the night that you started keeping your doors open until 10 sharp, when he had your ears ringing and surely gave you whiplash. He was such a foul, violent soul. Truly, it was only a matter of time until he said the wrong thing to the wrong person and got his ass handed to him. 

Soon enough, Papyrus walked through the door, and, unfortunately, caught the eye of most of the people sitting in. Somehow it had slipped your mind that Papyrus talked about calling his brother and telling him your whereabouts, so when you saw Red walking in behind his ten foot tall counterpart, you blinked in surprise. Giovanni looked a little nervous, but otherwise he welcomed them in as any other customers. You watched them chat him up as they ordered, and you tried to catch bits and pieces of their conversation. It was all formal, Red was a bit more casual than his brother, but it still felt stiff for a conversation. When they were finished up, you waved them over to your booth, and Red cocked his head in acknowledgment. 

A rush of all your feelings for the guy flooded back through your mind when he caught your eye. That awful, smoky red in his sockets smoldered like the burning end of a cigarette, focused directly on you. You wanted to smother the hot sizzle of something shameful in your gut, but a larger, more excited part of you wanted to let it cook your insides up to crisps.

Don’t get any big ideas

Red was wearing what you’d seen him wear the first time you met him: a wrinkled long-sleeve button down, haphazardly thrown on with some gray slacks. When he approached, a faint aroma of tobacco smoke wafted towards you. Perhaps not the sweetest smell, but still hot in its own right, especially on him.

They’re not gonna happen

He scooted into the booth first, sliding in riiight in next to you, all snug. You swallowed. 

“Hey, Red,” you greeted.

“hey, shug, how goes it,” he said. You shrugged.

“Fine, I suppose,” you figured this probably wasn’t the best time to drop the bomb of Jack’s death. Probably best to stick with the original topic of conversation. “Papyrus, did you look at the list at all?” Papyrus pulled the paper out and laid it flat on the table. 

“YES, I SCANNED IT OVER,” he said. “I WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THE CURRENT STATE OF EACH OF THESE PROGRAMS MENTIONED SO I CAN ESTIMATE THE WORK I HAVE CUT OUT FOR ME. NOT THAT I MIND A CHALLENGE! I AM NOTHING IF NOT DILIGENT AND HARDWORKING!” You couldn’t help yourself.

“You’re also great and terrible,” you teased. However, Papyrus didn’t take it as teasing, and instead perked up excitedly.

“THAT I AM, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN!” 

You tried not to laugh. A smile peeked through.

“I’d love to discuss these ideas though, seriously,” you said. “One that kept getting mentioned was the parks around town, which are just very depressing to look at. We’ve only got a handful, but approximately zero of them are fit for kids to run around in. A lot of the residents with children have that as a big concern, but I also think it’s just a concern of most residents in general. Better parks means more people walkin’ around town, thus a less dangerous town.” The two skeletons stared at you as you spoke, and while Papyrus looked a little silly so focused on you now that you’d had a conversation and a half with him, Red just kept getting worse for your focus.

“Another project I heard a lot was the roadwork, which, I really don’t think is much of your field, but it’d be nice if youse could somehow get that project expedited? There’s a whole lotta potholes around town that have been sittin’ there for years. I’d love to see those get fixed up.”

“oh, hey, i know how ta fix potholes,” Red chimed in. “i could take a look at a few of ‘em. they’re really not so bad.”

You paint yourself white

And now this asshole is offering to make my life easier by working on the projects I’m talking about? you thought. Come on.

And fill up with noise

“Oh, that’s great to hear,” you sighed, relieved. “I got a few of ‘em out in front of my place an’ I get worried someone’s car is just gonna eat it on one of ‘em one of these days.”

“YES, WE CAN BEGIN CONSTRUCTION BASED PROJECTS THIS WEEK, BEST CASE.”

“Wow, ya work fast,” you hummed absentmindedly. “That’s awesome to hear, though, seriously. Another one of those sort of infrastructure projects would be the lights around here? Red, I mentioned those to ya before, if ya remember. A lot of them went out months ago, an’ I just keep hearin’ about muggings on the streets. New lights would make the place a lot safer.”

“ARE THERE MANY PROJECTS TO STIMULATE COMMUNITY BONDING?” Papyrus asked.

“Yeah, a ton,” you replied. “The recreational sports center could use new management, and better attendance; the community gardens could use a revamp of materials, plants, and people to tend it; and Atheby used to do a bunch of festival things around the holidays, but they’ve like, totally stopped recently. If youse could work on those sort of community based activities, the residents would be wayyy happier. An’ I mean, I dunno your whole business model, but they’d also love youse for workin’ so hard to better the place.” 

“those kinds a’ projects could take like a year a’ steady work ‘fore we see any fruits ‘f our labor,” Red grumbled, scratching his maw. “we’d need ta make these city wide projects.”

But there’ll be something missing

“Oh, for sure,” you agreed. “High schoolers worked at a lot of these things, like the gardens, which previously had a scholarship program set up with a certain number of hours worked equalin’ a certain amount of scholarship money. It stopped gettin’ funded when Mitch came in, figures. I really recommend advertisin’ these new programs at the high schools if you’re worried about workers. Then once ya get ‘em up an’ goin’, it’d be good to advertise them at all levels of schoolin’, that way parents are able to get their kids goin’ to festivals, sports, stuff like that.”

“YOU’RE VERY WELL VERSED IN THIS KIND OF THING, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN! IT MAKES IT MUCH EASIER TO GET IDEAS WHEN YOU’RE FEEDING US PLENTY OF INFORMATION ON PROGRAM IMPLEMENTATION.”

You smiled at him. “Thanks, Papyrus, I used to be involved with the gardens when I was in high school, so I remember a thing or two about it all. I’m happy to be a help.”

“Alright, gotcher grub here now,” Gio announced to your table, holding a plate of fresh sandwiches, all looking utterly delicious. And, god, your hunger only made your food look that much better.

“Oh, hell yeah,” you grinned, taking your dish from him quickly. “Thanks so much, Gio, I’ve been dyin’ for a good bite.”

“Anytime, anytime, yanno,” he smiled at you. “Please tell me what ya thought, as some newcomers. I don’t get newbies often enough.” The skeleton brothers looked pleasantly surprised at his comment to them.

“YES, OF COURSE! EVEN IF THIS SORT OF ESTABLISHMENT IS NOT ONE I’D NORMALLY SET FOOT IN, THE FOOD LOOKS LIKE IT WILL MAKE UP FOR THAT!”

You turned bright red, and looked to Gio with an apology already on your lips when he laughed.

“Never judge a book by its cover,” he joked, and walked off. “Enjoy!”

You figured you could ignore the rest of the working conversation and instead focus on your food. Which was so… so… incredibly perfect for your hunger. No words could properly describe the nostalgic taste of the sandwich. But it tasted great, and you were glad you were able to share such an amazing place with two newbies to the area. Gio’s was a must, food-wise. 

“THIS IS SURPRISINGLY DELECTABLE! I AM IMPRESSED!” You laughed. 

“Giovanni is a great sandwich chef. He’s been workin’ here his whole life practically. It’s a similar story to my dad at Abbiocco.”

“stars, italians are so good at makin’ sandwiches,” Red moaned, a third of his sub already gone. Under the table, briefly, when he adjusted his posture, his leg brushed yours. But he didn’t say anything about it, no offhanded apology. He just brushed your thigh and then kept eating. And you wished it didn’t affect you as much as it had. 

Now that you found it, it’s gone

“Ha, you’re tellin’ me,” you said to ease your nerves. “I miss this place so much. I haven’t been in way too long.”

“when’s the last ya came?” Red asked, glancing over at you between bites. To be honest, you really weren’t sure.

“Yanno, I haven’t thought about it all that much, I just know that it’s been months. I’d say probably… February. An’ I miss it every day I don’t go.” A little dramatic, whatever, the sandwiches were damn good. Gio never skimped on ingredients, so you were always getting your money’s worth (or in your case, your time’s worth). 

“tragic,” he hummed. You snorted and shoved him in the shoulder, which he retaliated by nudging you back.

Now that you feel it, you don’t

“What, ya don’t have a place like that in Fell? Or Ebbot even?” you asked.

“i meeean, i guess i do,” he shrugged, like he was doing you the biggest favor by agreeing. “but i only stopped goin’ ‘cause he’s relocatin’.”

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry I’m a busy person an’ can’t always find the time to make the two mile hike here. It’s tough out there.”

“guess that ain’t a problem fer me.”

“Ya guess?” you asked, eyes narrowed. He rolled his eyelights at you, and you snickered to yourself.

You’ve gone off the rails

Chapter Text

A soft autumn breeze bristled through as your posse finally left the shop. Despite the cooler temperature, the sun still shone on you, no clouds in the sky to block its light. The heat from the unbroken sun, you found, was enough to keep you warm—that, and your jacket. The streets were empty, save for the occasional passerby, although that wasn't unusual considering the state of things. The sidewalks were a pain in the ass, deep rifts in the cement from years of neglect. It was a hazard just to take a stroll to the store. The road you were walking down, though, was lined with old buildings: brick and cement. Most of them were gray or reddish-brown. Quite the sore sight for eyes. That was another reason it had been some time since you’d visited Gio. This part of town was intense, even in daylight. Iron fences, with barbed wire decor to boot, surrounded dry lots of concrete and dead grass. Sometimes you wished that Gio would relocate, just so you wouldn’t have to put up with the walk to such a dangerous part of the town. Is there even a part that I can consider safe? You supposed, though, that you weren’t so afraid to walk around in this area with your… bodyguards, of sorts.

“thanks fer showin’ paps ‘n me that place,” Red huffed as you left Gio’s. “been fiendin’ fer a good hoagie.”

“Course, a’ course,” you waved a hand around at him. “If ya ever want food recs around the area, let me know. A lot of these places are family owned, so ya know the food is top notch.”

“uh, hey, isn’t yer place a forty minute walk from here?” he asked. You chuckled and cocked your head around. 

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” you said, giving him a small shrug. “It’s about two miles from here.”

“SANS WOULD YOU MIND USING A SHORTCUT?” At Papyrus’s request, Red flung his head back and groaned melodramatically. Papyrus immediately rolled his eyes and you struggled fighting down a laugh. So you stopped fighting it down. “DON’T COMPLAIN! IT’S NOT LIKE IT’S DIFFICULT FOR YOU!!!”

“but i gotta shortcut all three of us,” he lamented. “an’ that takes energy. ya wouldn’t get it ‘cause ya can’t shortcut.”

“I UNDERSTAND THAT YOU’RE LAZY! STOP MAKING EXCUSES!” Papyrus stood with his hands on his hips, very upset. And, despite being very serious about his brother’s unhelpfulness, it looked hilarious. Big, tall, serious skeleton with his hands on his hips, impatiently staring at his brother who was kicking his feet around. Brothers.

“alright,” he relented. “hold on tight an’ close yer eyes, shug, don’t wantcha ta get sick. or hurt.”

“Buy me dinner first,” you mumbled, though Red still heard your comment. You knew this, because he immediately burst into laughter, his sharp, fat teeth on full display. You could see his tongue sitting in his open mouth, something you remembered from one of your first conversations. It glowed . Just like it had when you first saw it. You wondered about that awful tongue. That awful, thought-plaguing tongue. How would a person made fully of bones even have something like a tongue, let alone a tongue that glowed. It was making you dizzy still thinking of it, so you stopped that train of thought and instead reached for his arm, which he responded to in kind by linking his with yours in one smooth motion.

An ache that I can never scratch

“don’t forget ta close yer eyes—” and then he leeeaned down, so his teeth were practically snagging your ear, and continued— “an’ close ‘em tight .”

Fuck, is it hot in here or is it just his voice?

And within seconds of you shutting your eyes, that familiar sensation of being sucked through a straw enveloped your entire being. For about… half a second. Then, just like the first time, it was gone. Despite the sensation not being totally new, it still shocked you to experience. I mean, who wouldn’t feel a little odd after bending time and space? You gasped shakily, and instinctively squeezed your support tighter. Your support chuckled softly at your reaction.

Your way of thinking

“coast’s clear by the way,” he nudged you. “ta open yer eyes, i mean. might wanna hold on a little longer. fer yer safety, a’ course.” And, just like the first time, that odd loss of muscle control returned in one massive wave, crashing through you, leaving you feeling like dizzy jello. Your gracious support moved his arm around so that he had the leverage to catch you easier, which you were not upset about. Just. Saying.

It had been a while since there’d been any romance in your life, or really any time for romance in your life. When Red’s burly arm snaked around your midsection to keep you from sucking face with the pavement, you could tell he restrained his strength from squeezing you back tight against him. He moved carefully, without hurting you at all. It was so nice to feel… for lack of better words— cared for like that, through an action with such thoughtful intent. Red was clearly, clearly, clearly stronger than that move suggested.

Give in, you know you’ll be damned

And just like before, when your strength returned, you gripped him tight, until you had your feet steady on the ground. Outside your apartment.

“Huh,” you hummed, brushing yourself off. “That really is convenient. Besides the, um, yanno. Nausea. Sorry for… grabbin’ ya so hard.” You chuckled nervously, trying to shake the odd dizzy feeling that insisted on lingering.

“i don’t mind a little grabbin’ ‘specially from ya, shug.”

And when you looked up to meet that red eyelight, he winked.

Ooooh, motherfucker.

My tunnel vision

THWACK!

Red jerked forward, very suddenly, and reached to hold the back of his skull. “oh, what the fuck?!”

“DON’T BE DISRESPECTFUL!” Papyrus scolded him, pointing a long claw directly at his face.

“don’t smack me, bastard, i jus’ fuckin’ shortcutted ya across town an’ i don’t even get a god damn ‘thank you’—” 

“YOU’RE MAKING THE HUMAN UNCOMFORTABLE WITH YOUR UNWANTED ADVANCES!” Red opened his mouth to retaliate, but you cut them both off. 

I need it so bad

“Oh, he’s not makin’ me uncomfy!” you interjected, not quite thinking it through. In your head, you wanted to assure Papyrus that you weren’t being made to feel uncomfortable by either of them, because you knew that they were keen on staying on good terms with residents. But immediately after you said it, you realized how. Those words might be misconstrued. Based on what he just said.

And you could tell what you said processed with the two of them, by their equally surprised reactions. Papyrus looked to be both relieved and disgusted. While Red… was more smug in his surprise. You, truthfully, only saw your words as having the depth to assure Papyrus that Sans wasn’t being that much of an asshole. And not that you were admitting to liking the way Red made you feel when he teased you with his stupid, awful, corny innuendos.

I need it so bad

I need to stop thinking about it because I’m getting fucking embarrassed over here.

“see, boss?” Red smirked, crossing his arms across his chest and shoving his smug fucking face in his brother’s grill. “they like when i make unwanted advances at ‘em.” Despite the humiliation you felt, you started cackling at his wording of it all.

I need it so bad

Papyrus looked entirely uncomfortable about the whole ordeal, making an expression of general displeasure at Red’s stupid smug grin shoved in his face. He put a full hand on Red’s mug and then shoved him back down, making Red snort. Which made you snort in turn, watching them bicker like the stupid brotherly duo they were.

“SHUT UP, SANS,” he grumbled. “THE HUMAN IS PROBABLY ONLY SAYING THAT TO SPARE YOUR AWFULLY SENSITIVE FEELINGS FROM REJECTION.”

“‘awfully sensitive’ my ass,” he grumbled back. “i ain’t fuckin’ sensitive ta anything. an’ they ain’t bullshittin’ me. right, human?” God, yanno, it’d be really funny to make him feel a little silly right now.

I need you so, so bad

“Right,” you responded. “I’m definitely not sparin’ your feelin’s or nothin’. But I guess I don’t care about the advances ‘cause I know they’ll never work on me.” You made sure to speak slowly, earnestly, intently. You stared into his eyelights as you spoke, as you teased him, far too boldly. A fat bundle of spit stuck in your throat, and you swallowed down on it, hard. Every breath you took felt heavy because for a second you worried you might have actually crossed a boundary.

You’re standing naked, I’m on the floor

Red’s eye twitched, grin suddenly tight. He snarled, but it oddly didn’t feel unfriendly. More… challenging.

“I TOLD YOU SO!” Papyrus gloated. “I TOLD YOU THEY WERE REJECTING YOU!”

Red didn’t even glance at his brother. Not a single twitch of acknowledgment that his brother was shoving an incredibly petty victory in his face, which, hilariously, seemed like just the thing to get Red’s head to turn. But nothing . He held your gaze like he was proving a point, unmoving, inflexible, you get it. You can look up other synonyms for ‘intent’ to understand the depth of his gaze. It almost made you regret what you’d said. What was meant to be a silly little ‘oh, no, your flirting has no effect on me!’ had begun some sort of odd energy shift.

A big production

You really only meant what you’d said as a little joke to… make fun of him in front of Papyrus. Maybe you weren’t close enough for that? Maybe you overstepped and made him feel like… you weren’t sure. And it was all from one look.

“‘s that so?”

It was as if you’d flipped a switch in him.

You can almost taste it, I’m wanting more

Maybe I should stop talking in general, you thought, incredibly nervous. I feel like I keep getting myself in trouble with him. 

“Yeah, yanno, I figure I don’t mind so much,” you responded, “I hope that’s not too much of a let down for ya.” Your head was positively buzzing with your sudden boldness. It was as if cotton and flames engulfed all your brain matter. Even still, you held his gaze with your own, watching as his eyelights pierced straight through you. Like you were that easy to read.

So why the hesitation?

“make no bones about it, shug,” he sneered, and you swallowed down hard before he spoke again. “i never mind a challenge.”

Is it hot in here or is it still just him?

And you were aflame. That nasty mix of hot copper wire and magma coiling in your gut, so, so, so addictingly. Your face held your heartbeat in it, thundering in your ears, beating that skeleton’s namesake hot in your cheeks. For a second, you tried to blame your jello-knees on some lingering side effect from his shortcut, but your brain called bullshit on that immediately. No, the incapacitation of your joints could only be attributed to his voice. His words. You couldn’t know the depth of them. If he was truly teasing you, if he was just a big flirt… or if there was some grip to what he said. Something you could hold onto. 

A name I’m never getting back, ‘cause she won’t listen

“SHUT UP, SANS!!! STOP BEING WEIRD!!!” Papyrus chastised. His voice was exactly what you needed to cut through whatever train of thought your brain was barreling down. You blinked, and finally broke the eye contact between you and the skeleton to turn to his much taller brother. “HUMAN, I WANT TO BEGIN THESE PROJECTS AS SOON AS FEASIBLY POSSIBLE. NOW, PREFERABLY, THAT WOULD MEAN TODAY, BUT I UNDERSTAND MOST HUMANS ARE LAZY ON THEIR DAYS OFF—” Red rolled his eyes at the wording, and you chuckled. “SO I WILL NOT KEEP YOU LONGER TO AID IN MY BEGINNING THESE PROJECTS. HOWEVER, I HAVE A FEW QUESTIONS ABOUT OUR DISCUSSION EARLIER.” You nodded and crossed your arms to prepare for the onslaught.

“Shoot.”

“COULD YOU SHOW ME TO THE SITES OF THESE PROJECTS YOU NAMED?”

You blinked once. “Uh… I could probably show ya around sometime. If you’re just talkin’ about the, uh, the communal grounds, like the sports center, the gardens, the- the parks, that sorta thing, I could definitely show ya to ‘em. But I’m gonna be real honest with you, Papyrus, it’s my one day off a week, an’ I’m not really in the mood to tour ya around. I could close up shop another day this week maybe to help ya. Or, actually, I could chat with ya more back at mine? If ya got more questions we can sit down to chat about?”  Papyrus sighed.

“NO, NO,” he refused. “MOST OF MY INQUIRIES WOULD INVOLVE PHYSICAL ACTIVITY. I SUPPOSE THAT WILL BE FINE FOR NOW, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN.” You felt a little bad for sending him on his way so soon. Especially since he came all the way to your place to talk with you about that list.

“Actually, those lights I mentioned to ya, they’re the ones out here. More ‘n half of ‘em are out.” You gestured to the streetlights on the road that bordered your complex.

“OH, THAT’S PERFECT!” He brightened up instantly, and your guilt dissipated. “I SHALL BE BACK HERE TOMORROW FOR A TOUR, AND TO BEGIN MY WORK ON THE STREETLIGHTS.” You winced, but retained your smile.

“Right, I’ll, uh… close up for tomorrow,” you decided against offering a different day. He’d probably be here tomorrow anyways, starting some project on his own, just waiting for you to get a moment to chat. To be fully honest, Wednesdays were relatively slow days for you, so it wasn’t the worst hit to your finances to help him with his work for the day. You could probably open back up in the evening.

“MAGNIFICENT, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN!” He agreed. You nodded. “I WILL BE BACK TOMORROW AT NINE IN THE MORNING TO BEGIN THE TOUR!” At that, you flinched. Full double take. You only opened at noon. You weren’t hardly ever awake at nine.

“N-Nine? In the AM?” you asked. You heard Red snort into his hand. “Papyrus, that’s a little too early for me, I-I won’t be any help that early.”

“THAT’S HARDLY STILL MORNING!” He argued back. You shrugged apologetically in response, and he groaned. “FINE. NINE-THIRTY.” You nearly laughed, letting out a humored sigh.

“No, Papyrus,” you said.

“TEN.”

“Eleven.”

“TEN-THIRTY.”

“Deal,” you sighed with a smile. “Ten-thirty.”

“OKAY, HUMAN, IF THAT’S ALL WE WILL BE DISCUSSING TONIGHT, I SHALL BE ON MY WAY TO FINISH MY OWN BUSINESS.”

“Heard,” you nodded. “You have a good one, alright?”

Papyrus turned to leave, both brothers nodding at each other before he rushed off. This left you and Red standing outside your place, the chill of the autumn day settling in through your jacket, like a nice hug from an ice cube . You opened your mouth to speak, but he spoke before you got the chance. 

“i, uh… gotta few business inquiries ta run by ya,” he said. “an’ no, ya don’t gotta tour me across town.” You chuckled, and then you shivered when another cold breeze coasted on by.

“Yeah, hey, my offer still stands. If ya wanna chat inside.” You cocked your head in the direction of your door. He glanced over at it, and then gave you a once over, arms crossed over his chest. All cool like. He tilted his head at you.

I’m stuck caught up in the trap of intoxication

“alright.”

…

“i… yanno, i’d like ta apologize on my brother’s behalf,” Red said to you while he got himself comfortable on your couch. “fer tryin’ ta make ya a morning person an’ all.” You chortled, and nodded your head in half-agreement.

After you’d invited the skeleton inside your place, you grabbed two clean coffee mugs to fill with water. One was a birthday present from your mom when you first told her you liked coffee in high school, and the other was a random mug you got from a yard sale (probably). The birthday present mug had your initial painted on it with silly little designs covering the rest of the surface area. The yard sale mug was a pale reddish color and donned homey chips in the ceramic. While you were up and moving, you turned your stereo on to fill any possible silence with tunes.

“No, no, I think it’s sweet,” you said. “He’s really passionate about helping out with community projects and…  I dunno, that’s very respectable. Do I wish that he would start those projects in the afternoon instead of bright and early? Sure, but that’s neither here nor there.” You heard Red laugh at your comment, which in turn made you grin.

Once you’d gotten the stereo booted up, you retired to joining the monster on your couch. He took up a lot of space on the cushions, like he tended to do, but you were still comfortable scooting to the very side of the couch to allow him room. Haphazardly, you grabbed one of the blankets that had previously been thrown over the back of your couch and draped it over your legs. The dropping temperature outside really reflected in your apartment. 

“no yanno, i just…” he hesitated before speaking again, running his tongue over his teeth and he sorted through his thoughts. “i feel like my brothers an’ i have been causin’ ya trouble ever since we’ve come in here.” When he said that, though, that’s when you looked at him funny. He met your gaze with one of sincerity, and it nearly made you feel guilty for the severity of the look you were giving him. Which, to be fair, was not one of malice at all, just confusion.

“The hell are ya talkin’ about?”

“well,” he began, looking down at his comparatively small mug, which he held with two comparatively large hands. “we keep takin’ yer days off. i talked ta ya fer hours about mitch, then ya gotta deal with this shit from my bro, an’ i made ya do yer fee collection walk twice in the same day.” You found yourself disagreeing with each point more than the last. Sure, the talk with him about details of Mitch’s gang gave you some real unignorable anxiety sweats about your livelihood, but he compensated you for time lost and assured your safety in addition. Or today with Papyrus, where he was getting every project you’d been grumbling to yourself about, for years, how they would never see the light of day. Papyrus was showing you real initiative with those demanding parts of fixing up an entire town. And even that protection fee walk the second time around, when you got to watch every neighbor of yours instantly melt from hallowed expressions of sorrow to overwhelming emotional relief, God, you’d do it a million times over so long as it meant no more money into Jack’s pockets.

“Let’s be real about this,” you said, readjusting to get comfortable before laying into him, “every time you’ve ‘taken’ one of my off days, ya made it worth my while. I hope I’ve been able to show ya how grateful I am for ya. I mean really, this whole thing with Papyrus is exactly what I’ve been beggin’ for from Mitch. Papyrus got on it in just a few days. If anything, you’ve made my life less troublesome.”

Red gave you another sincere look. It felt really nice being able to see his expression soften so much, especially since when you first met him, his face was as stoic as stone. As unreadable as a rock. As firm as a boulder. I’m running out of synonyms here, you get the idea. Either way, you always felt like he would pierce through your eyes, scanning every thought in your head like they were his for the consuming, like they weren’t even private. But now you got to watch his eyes haze slightly and his grin quirk up at your words. So different from when you’d met. The minute shifts in his face were suddenly so telling.

“how about me comin’ in so late ta ask fer pizza?” he said, and you snorted, lifting your mug to your lips to hide your laughter.

“Might not be my favorite habit of yours,” you mumbled, and when you peered at him above the shield of your mug, he smiled a little wider. You found yourself following suit. “But I don’t mind seein’ ya at my place no matter what time it is.”

“ya got a favorite habit a’ mine?” he teased. You tilted your head in thought, and then you smirked.

“Your tipping habit, probably.” He barked out laughing again. At some point in the time you were getting to know him, his guffaws started growing on you. Even though you’d gotten better at reading his less-than-expressive expressions, it was almost relieving to know exactly what he was thinking at that moment. 

…

FIRST SCENE FANART from @imherenowlol

READER HAVIN THE HOTS FOR RED from @spyderrrman

Chapter Text

With his days getting longer and longer, Red had been getting shorter and shorter with Wings during their conversations. He snapped at him again when Wings wanted him to continue working despite knowing Red had yet to eat, and again when Wings wanted to bring up the topic of violence in front of residents, regarding Jack during the protection fee meeting. He emphasized that Red needed to separate personal and professional matters. He needed to ‘stay cool’ and ‘ignore violent urges’ or whatever. His attempts at staying cool during the conversation with his brother resulted in waterfalls of dark smoke spilling out of his sockets, and he was only able to keep quiet against Wings’s relentless assault on his character for so long.

After that contention, Red was itching to ignore all of Wings’s concerns and piss him off even more. And wouldn’t you know it? That restaurant owner was shaping up to be the perfect way to intertwine personal and professional matters.

Each interaction with them only brought them closer. If he were to be completely honest, he truly thought that he’d have fucked up their relationship by now. He hadn’t been too careful about what he’d been saying around them, and yet, they hadn’t turned away. No, they even responded to his flirty nature positively. Positively . They matched his energy. Except for when… when they teased him in front of Papyrus. He didn’t know how to process that energy. For a second, he thought that they were really saying they were totally uninterested, but the way they stared at him. The way their eyes locked with his—he could see their nerves a mile away, with the way their pupils darted from one of his eye lights to the other, and that… that look in their eye. Like they were on dangerous territory. He could see that they were high on their own adrenaline with that line, and yet, they never dropped their attention from his face. Unyielding. Challenging .

How Red felt about challenges was no secret.

“yeah, figures,” he grinned. “so… i finally met yer ma.” Embarrassment flashed over their face at the mention, and they groaned.

“Oh, my god, I’m so sorry about her,” they said. “She has, like, negative filter. And negative boundaries. I cannot believe she was askin’ ya so many personal questions—I hope she didn’t offend ya at all, I promise deep down she’s got a good heart.” He laughed at their overly cautious apology and set his water down on their coffee table. In his next movement, he stretched his arm across the back of the couch which, with his wingspan, was only inches from reaching them.

“nah, don’t apologize,” he said. “i thought she was hilarious. how’s she doin’?” His charming grin lingered on his teeth, and they smiled, sheepish.

“Good, she’s good,” they relented. “She’s gettin’ back into the swing of things at school. They’ve only been in session for a month.” Something flashed in their eyes and they perked up, continuing.

“Oh, hey, I know you’re tryin’ to get Frisk enrolled in a local elementary school,” they said. “I’ll tell ya that now is as good a time as any. It’s close to the beginning of the school year, so they won’t have missed too much in their classes. The sooner the better.”

“oh yeah,” he hummed. “yer ma said ta go with atheby elementary, that right?” They nodded in response.

“Yes, that’s where she’s at,” they said. “And, I’d… try to give more advice on that sort of thing, but to be honest, I’m not the expert on elementary school info. I wanna tell ya to talk to my mom about that, but I’m also nervous that if ya talk to her again she’ll say somethin’ even more embarrassing.” Red grinned at the reminder of their mother’s indiscretion.

“yeah, figure i’ll talk ta her ‘bout that kinda thing in addition ta catchin’ her up on my love life.” The human turned bright red, and he cackled at the reaction. A blanket-covered-foot kicked him in the side, only serving to make him laugh harder. 

“Movin’ on to somethin’ other than my mom, how’s Frisk?” they asked, hiding their lingering blush behind their mug. “I remember them sayin’ they don’t like their teachers. Or somethin’ along those lines.”

Red scratched along his mandible, and nodded. “yeah… yeah, they talk ta me about how their teachers are all really boring, but… i dunno. it doesn’t sit right with me.” They tilted their head at him with furrowed brows. 

“Ya seem like the type to know exactly what it’s like to have boring teachers,” they teased, but then their face switched up. “Actually, I just remembered you’re a huge nerd, so I guess that tracks.”

He rolled his eyes and listened to their mischievous giggles.

“y’oughta be a comedian, yanno,” he deadpanned, but their pleased grin made it difficult to stay cold. I’m goin’ soft. “nah, it’s not that. it’s that… they’re not the kinda kid who’d think all their teachers are boring. i mean, they listen ta me when i give ‘em math lectures, yanno? i figure that… not all their teachers suck. i dunno, do ya know anything about how kids are in class?” They shrugged.

“I’m probably not that helpful in that regard, but I’d be happy to lend an ear.” And Red liked that answer all the same.

“i think they got this thing where they struggle in the classroom,” he huffed. “but it’s not the material, ‘cause whenever i work with ‘em, they get it down quick. i just think that they struggle with the… the focusin’ part. an’ they’ve told me before about not listenin’ right the first time ‘round. which i mean, i don’t mind helpin’ ‘em out. that’s not the issue. i’m just a little… i dunno. i never saw myself raisin’ a kid. and… now that i am doin’ it, it feels like something that’s real easy ta fuck up. so i get nervous about these things. i donno if they’re normal kid things, or if i’m accidentally neglectin’ ‘em. yanno?”

Their face softened at his little ramble. When he realized he was getting a bit personal, he broke eye contact with them. I’m goin’ wayyy too soft, he thought regrettingly. Yeah, lemme just tell ya all my personal problems like a big fat crybaby. ‘Oh, it’s so hard to raise a kid! Woe is me, boo-hoo!’ Despite his internal monologue, and being fully convinced they’d think weak of him, they nodded understandingly. He almost felt worse at that gesture.

“I think your concern is enough indication that you’re doin’ great,” they said. “That sort of care for them, bad guardian figures don’t feel that.”

He looked back to them. In their eyes. And he was met with sincerity. Warmth. He wanted to hate them for it. He didn’t like getting personal. He didn’t like the feeling of admitting to his own vulnerabilities, especially those pertaining to Frisk. He had two additional people to aid in parenting the kid, and he still got nervous he might do some real damage, real irreparable damage. But… They caught his eye and matched it with kindness.

“And I don’t think the focusin’ problem is much cause for worry for now, at least,” they continued. “Although it definitely could be an early sign of ADHD. Not focusin’ right in school isn’t surefire indication of it, but it could be somethin’ to keep on the back burner as they progress through school.”

Red furrowed his brow bone. “adhd?”

“Yeah,” they nodded. “Stands for attention deficit hyperactivity disorder. It’s no cause for concern, plenty of kids have it, an’ ya said they can still grasp material when ya explain it, so I wouldn’t be too worried.” He looked relieved at their description, albeit still slightly uncomfortable.

“will it get worse?” he asked. “is there a timeline fer this kinda thing?” They shook their head, giving him an oh-very-assuring smile. He felt the tension that was unfortunately building in his bones loosen, if ever so slightly.

“Nah, doesn’t really work like that,” they waved a hand. “Or not generally. It varies on a case-by-case basis, yanno? Again, at this point, don’t worry none. I bet you’re doin’ a great job as a parent.”

He scoffed at the reassurance, ignoring the odd thump in his chest that was unfortunately timed at their praise.

“I’m bein’ serious!” they insisted, smiling. “You’re a real sweetheart for bein’ so attentive of ‘em.”

“i appreciate the pity.” he deadpanned. Internally, he had fought to get the words out, truthfully appreciative of their sentiment. They weren’t taking any more of his bullshit deflections, it seemed, as they responded to him with another kick to his side. 

“It ain’t pity, ya bastard.”

Something about the moment made him react to their kick. He locked eyes with them, noting the hints of mischief still flickering in their irises. He found himself on the edge of desire. In that split second, he remembered how pissed he was at Wings. He remembered how this human had reacted to him entering their life. How they thanked him so many times, with genuine warmth bubbling up to their lips. How they laughed with him. How they always reacted to what he’d do. How they’d reacted to small things—his choice of words, or his actions. Their reactions had begun to feed into his actions. He’d be lying if he said that seeing them cry at the grand he gave them for their conversation about Mitch didn’t influence his decision to personally reimburse the residents of their complex. He’d be lying if he said he didn’t care if the executive decision by Wings to waive any protection fee would be overshadowed by him taking care of all those people’s bills. He was probably going to do it anyways. But those eyes they gave him, all full of gratitude and lined with tears.

He liked their reactions. It was, admittedly, nice to have someone react so kindly to him.

And he desired. He was selfish like that. He had his own desires, his own selfish wants.

He wanted. He wanted more of those reactions. Which was why in the next second, he grabbed their foot, the one that had kicked him, a mischievous glint of his own sparkling in his eyelight as he spoke, an undeniable heat rising to the tip of his tongue: “kick me again.”

He could check their SOUL like he had in the past, which would let him know exactly what thoughts were racing through their mind. It would tell him exactly where he stood with them, and how his words affected them. It would tell him what the hell that blush on their cheeks and those wide eyes meant.

But he liked the added challenge of not knowing. He enjoyed when he had to wait for them to react. When he had to wait for them to show him only what they wanted him to see. When he couldn’t just scan them on the utmost personal level to tell precisely what their own desires were. He wanted to wait and see.

…

What were you meant to do exactly? After he grabbed your foot and told you to kick him again? How were you meant to take that?

Definitely not the way your brain had taken it, which was in the light of climbing arousal. You didn’t want to think too hard about that. His grasp on your foot was firm enough so you couldn’t escape, but not firm enough to hurt you (of course he’d been careful enough in that manner). The knowledge of this hypervigilance of his own strength was unfortunately doing it for you. 

But you still didn’t know what he meant by that. Was he teasing you? Was he actually getting upset at your physicality? It surely couldn’t be the physical part of your action—he was actively touching you. Should you apologize? The weighted look in his eye told you no. But you weren’t sure how much you could trust your own perception at that moment.

“I bet you’d like that.”

Baby, now my head is on backwards

Like someone shoved a key in your ear and twisted hard, the ignition roared to life in your gut, soldering as hot as an engine with neglected coolant levels. It was begging for fuel to grow, for something to dig its claws into and feed on. Like it had been starved, and the only thing to satiate it was a skeleton with a thick Brooklyn drawl.

“ya’ve no idea what i like.”

“Are ya implyin’ ya know what I like?”

And my feet at funny angles

The skeleton’s expression remained as you knew it: unreadable. His grin was ever-present, ever-calm. 

“never said that,” he said. “but i’m gonna guess ya don’t mind my gettin’ handsy with ya, huh?” A flare gun went off in the depths of your stomach, rising until it shined through the skin of your face, temperatures skyrocketing.

And every time I take a step, we’re moving forwards faster

“Why would ya think that?” you accused. No part of you was sure where this was going. Intrigue pinched at your insides.

“ya haven’t asked me ta let go,” he answered. “or kicked me out.” You bit the inside of your cheek; he was right. You honestly didn’t mind his hand on you, the stark contrast of cool bone to your warm, warm, warmer skin. Briefly, you thought about how tight he could hold you. How you’d be at his mercy. You thought about his hands scoping up your thighs instead of stuck on your foot, up higher until they reached your torso, unforgiving digits grazing your skin, lighting matches to your yearning.

“Oh, thanks for remindin’ me, I almost forgot to get rid of ya,” you teased him. His grin twitched higher, and then he finally released your foot. 

“come on, shug,” he cocked his head. “yanno ya don’t want me ta leave.” You rolled your eyes at him, and he smiled smugly at you in return.

“Oh, heavens, what would I ever do with myself if ya left?” you deadpanned. “But yanno, I do remember ya sayin’ somethin’ about business inquiries earlier. Ya wanna run those by me?” His expression shifted just then. A soft quirk from his previous playful smirk to a more reserved look. Again, you wondered briefly about the internal workings of the monster, and if you’d ever be able to tell precisely what was going on in his head. He remained such an enigma to you. A hot, flirty, sharp-edged enigma with a strength you had yet to get familiar with, but an enigma all the same.

And lately I can’t take it

“yeah,” he said. “and… before we discuss this any further, i want ta reiterate that yer always allowed ta say no.” That part began to worry you. How outrageous would this question be? What even was the question? 

“Okay,” you said eventually. “Hit me.”

He clamped his teeth shut, then pulled in a hissing breath through the thin gaps. “alright. as the only human i can comfortably trust, i wanna make ya an offer.”

Unfortunately, whatever taut tension puffing between you two seconds ago had gone. The way he was speaking was more uncertain and much less… teasing. You sort of wished he would go back to his teasing. You sort of wished he would touch you again. And then you stopped thinking.

You nodded slowly, urging him to continue.

“my bros an’ i scour these cities fer places ta do business,” he began, shifting on the couch to face you properly. You moved similarly. “due ta our appearances, we get a lot of shit from humans. nasty looks, rejected of any service, the like. makes it difficult ta hold meetin’s in public, where humans tend ta like them. ‘specially when they choose the places that tend ta hate us most.”

You took a sip of water, the last sizzle of heat in your gut finally cooled.

“ta circumvent this issue,” he said, “we was wonderin’ if ya’d be open ta the idea of us usin’ yer place ta hold these sorts of meetin’s. ya don’t have ta talk ta anyone if yer uncomf’table with that. we’ll be there fer food, ta talk a little, an’ then we’ll be out.”

Baby, but my body’s intact in an ordinary fashion

“Huh,” you said dumbly. There wasn’t a decision made in your mind yet, and you weren’t quite ready to voice your numerous concerns: one of which, was the ever-present fear of violence associated with those gangs. And how that violence might become much, much closer to you than it was before.

“don’t need ta make a decision yet, a’ course,” he put his hands up in a surrendering gesture. “an’ i won’t pressure ya on one. but if ya do think it over and decide ta take me up on my offer, jus’ lemme know.” You didn’t want to leave it at that. At a ‘if I ever change my mind, I guess I’ll tell you, but that’s unlikely.’ You also didn’t want to associate with gangsters. You… also didn’t want to not do a favor for Red, as he’d done so much for you.

“I… have requests,” you stammered. When you caught his gaze, those eyelights and his grin shrunk minutely in pleasant surprise. Maybe I am gettin’ better at readin’ you, ya bastard, you thought proudly.

“let’s hear ‘em,” he probed. You pursed your lips together.

“I’m not comfortable around… men in your profession, especially those who answer to Don Mitch.” You swallowed. “Ya saw what happened with Jack. I just need a guarantee that I won’t be… treated like that anymore. I put up with it long enough.”

Deep purples and blues blooming across your throat, your arms, your cheeks, your eyes… They threw you around like a ragdoll tossed up for dogs. If you so happened to be on their daily walk route, and you so happened to look ripe for the beating (every time they laid their eyes on you), then that was that. It took your existence for them to swipe a hand across your cheek, leaving you swollen and sore for days. Not to mention the embarrassment that came with opening your place looking six shades of fucked up, and to see all of your customers wince and ask quietly how you were doing. How humiliating. To have them all see you in such a dark moment.

And everything I tried to leave behind is still beside us

Red stared at you, waiting. Probably for you to finish talking. You swallowed again, and looked at your lap.

“i hope ya know that was already on the list a’ guarantees,” he said softly. “i wouldn’t let that happen.” 

Besides your newfound… interest in the skeleton, you were truly growing to enjoy his presence. He was concerned for you. He cared about your safety. He’d demonstrated it before, and he proved time and time again that was far from a one time thing.

“I appreciate it,” you responded, earnest. “As much as possible, I’d like to avoid conversation with your business partners. Ideally, I’d just be back in the kitchen, and I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone. Except you.”

“done.” He held your gaze expectantly. You paused. Maybe you expected more resistance to your requests. Maybe you weren’t too upset at his doubtless assurance.

And lately I can’t take it

“Um, most of them were just regardin’ my own safety,” you hummed, “but the possibility of my other customers endin’ up as collateral damage is also not my favorite thought. And I don’t know how often your meetin’s do end up violent or… whatever, but I don’t wanna chance it.”

…

Red was struggling with his own internal dialogue. On one hand, he knew he needed to be careful with actually keeping personal and professional relationships separate. As much as he hated Wings for bringing up that bullshit argument, he knew it was the only way to work in his field. He knew better than to fight a battle he knew he would lose: combining passion and business was a bad idea. Point blank period.

On the other hand, the human was a massive. Sweetheart. After making sure that an agreement to his terms would be safe for themselves, their next concern was those around them. They were an empathetic SOUL down to the last detail. Without even thinking about it. It… was an admirable trait to have. Admirable. Admirable and enviable. For a moment, Red wanted to have those same instincts. He wanted to know what it was like to demand security for others like they did. No, Red ran on violent impulse and a charged temper. His body count was shameful, and he felt that was enough evidence to show the stark difference between them.

Besides that internal dilemma, Red was having a difficult time ignoring the way they looked at him. Especially after he grabbed them. Despite their differences in… just about everything, they looked at him like they were about five seconds from climbing his bones. Pun intended. He wanted to focus on the new conversation topic, but more than that, he wanted to see them break and succumb to desire.

Leftover breakfast cereal for lunch

“how wouldja like me ta accommodate fer that?” he asked. “we could come in later at night, an’ ya could close the place ta yer normal customers. that way no one’s comin’ in durin’ the meetin’s.” He watched them mull his words over, biting the inside of their cheek. They inhaled sharply, and met his eye. He kept his gaze calm.

“When would youse be comin’ in then? We talkin’ 10?” They cocked their head at him.

“i was thinkin’ more like 8 or 9 o’clock.” Their eyes softened, letting their brain churn through that new information. “that way we’d be able ta leave by 10. same closin’ time.”

He could practically see steam billowing out their ears from how hard their brain was working to crunch out more ideas.

“That… sounds okay,” they agreed. “Can you make sure that none a’ your business partners know anythin’ about me? I wanna stay in the kitchen, plus I don’t want them knowin’ my name or nothin’. I don’t wanna hear anythin’ about them knowin’ my family or friends neither. Capiche?” Red grinned and nodded.

“loud an’ clear, maestro,” he winked. The tiny up-quirk of their lips was not lost on him. “if ya wanna stay in the shadows, i think that’s out of sight .” He savored the giggling eye roll they graced him with.

…

You know what it is? It’s stupid. You thought, unfortunately amused at his dumb pun. It’s stupid how insanely into him I am. With his horrible kindness and consideration of my concerns, with his eager accommodation of my requests. 

Briefly, you wondered why he was so hellbent on gaining your agreement. But you also weren’t much in the mood for 8-D chess level thinking about his motives for proposing a “business opportunity.” In that moment, all you knew was that he was clearly willing to make sure you were as comfortable as possible with his proposition. 

“I… I guess so,” you finally said. “I don’t know, though. I’m still nervous at the thought.”

“an’ i get it,” he responded in kind. “but i’ll make sure ta cover any more concerns a’ yers as they arise.”

You bit the inside of your cheek a little harder, staring him in the eyes anxiously. Would it be the worst idea to agree? What if he assured you of all your concerns and you still ended up in a ditch?

“i promise.” Those two words from his mouth made your worries finally shut up for a half second.

“Okay.” You nodded, swallowing. “I trust you.”

…

Chapter Text

Cold. And loud. He always woke up like that. The first two words registered in his skull, were always, cold and loud. Loud being the noise from his clock, at a mind-numbing, foul 6:00 AM. Every morning, every weekday morning, that nasty alarm axed straight through his precious rest. Responsibility, a machete to bamboo, the gentle quiet of peace, the scarce hours he was allowed. And responsibility, like every other thing on planet Earth, was loud as shit. A banshee screaming for attention, inhuman and uncaring, at all hours of the night, all hours of every day. Responsibility. It pried his eyesockets open, no, cleaved was the right word. Cleaved. Like a knife slid across bone. Painful. Loud.

He rolled over, smacked the clock with a loud clatter, an effective end to the screeching. 

Cold. His bed never remained warm. Magic could be warm. Magic could start fires. Not Sans’s magic. No, his magic was cold. It could craft ivory, hard, textured. But Sans could not make warmth from his magic. He was a cold creature, inside and out. Blankets did shit, didn’t matter the fabric. Clothes were the same, it’s why he wore what he wore. Or, part of the reason at least. Clothes weren’t a way to be comfortable; they were a way to depict power. A way to assert himself. They were a way to talk without words, without body language, a way to communicate his worth. His… authority. But clothes, they weren’t warm. Nothing was. He never did anything to be comfortable, only to survive. Especially in his industry, yes, that was all he could do. If he lingered for more than a second, more than a human’s heartbeat, on his comfort, on whether or not he liked something he was doing… he couldn’t. You don’t survive doing what he did by caring about your work. You survived by wearing the right suits, saying the right stuff to the right people, doing the right thing—not to be confused with the morally right thing, no just the situationally effective thing—to the right person at the right time, warp their view of you to be humane, kind, caring, powerful, respectable…

Warm. You survived by making them think you were warm, even if, to your very core, you were only… bone.

Sans sat up, even if his joints ached. Even if the nights in that lab, that damned lab, were rearing their ugly head every time he tried to start his day. He sat up, swung his legs over the side of the bed, met his feet to the cold wood flooring in his room. When he stood, he groaned, tired and taut. 

Once the wail of responsibility was silenced, his room was quiet. He could hear his own breath: soft, slow. It was dark, that early in the morning, the sun had yet to brighten the skies outside his window. He turned on the lamp sitting on his bedside table, finally enough light in the room to watch where he stepped, and he needed to. The floor, now illuminated, still was difficult to see with the sheer amount of clothing strewn around. He’d oughta straighten up once in a while, but he never found the time for it. Never bothered to make time for it either. He didn’t care. He still had clothes to wear. Worse case, he’d throw in some of his stuff with Papyrus’s and wait for his not-so-little little brother to gripe about getting their suits mixed in.

He trudged to his bathroom, relieved himself, cleaned himself up, and then started dressing himself. With a few quiet groans here and there as he pulled up his slacks and yanked his socks on, he had dressed to the nines. Or the eights. It definitely wasn’t his best day. He grabbed a pair of Blucher’s and headed down the hall, stopping at a tall, white door at the end of the hallway.

He raised a knuckle, leaned close to the door, and knocked twice, quietly.

“you up, kid?” he asked. There wasn’t a response from beyond the door.

He turned the knob, carefully, slowly, wary of the soft creaking of the metal, and then pushed the door open.

A room soaked in darkness. Sans couldn’t see hardly anything, and that would be a problem, if he didn’t know the room so well. It took him about three steps to get to the bed, three steps and then he could lean down and feel the comforter with his palm to make sure he knew where he was. And he was right, three steps in, and the soft blanket poomf’ed under his fingers. He moved his hand further out, and came up on a lump under the covers. A small lump, from which faint breaths whispered out. Steady, calm. Surely asleep.

Sans felt for their shoulder, and gently nudged them. “hey, kiddo.” There wasn’t much of a reaction. A toss in their sleep, but nothing more.

“frisk, wake up,” he said in slightly less of a whisper. This caught their attention finally, and he heard the covers rustle as they sat up, sleepy, but awake. “mornin’.”

They didn’t respond with anything more than a quiet groan. He reached down, scooped his arms under their tiny body, under the warmth of their sleepy frame, and hoisted them up in a cradling hold. Humans were odd like that. When they slept, their bodies radiated heat like an engine. They weren’t made of magic, no, humans were made of odd electric signals and chemicals and water, but when they slept, heat emanated off of them. Whenever Sans went to Frisk’s room to wake them up, he noticed it. He noticed it very worriedly the first time. He thought their body went into overdrive or shutdown mode or… something. Like they got a fever in the night and were burning their insides up. Sans wasn’t all too familiar with human anatomy: the nitty gritty of all their inner body workings was too much for him. Mechanics, electric circuits, applied physics, those were things he could have a lengthy conversation about. But how to deal with a sick human? That was a very new topic for him. Incredibly new. Every day of caring for Frisk came with the bundle of anxiety over the very real possibility of fucking it up.

Sans didn’t consider himself father figure material, and if he was completely honest, he didn’t think he’d make it past adolescence. If someone had told him when he was in his… rebellious phase… that he’d see the surface one day, he’d call them a liar and probably rough them up a bit for trying to fuck with him. If someone had even implied that he might become something of a guardian? Sans wondered how badly he’d have taken that. He never saw himself in the life he had now. A kid to care for and a fully functioning family business that he was a major face in.

Parenting, in any right, was a massive, massive feat, but parenting a kid of a completely different species? A species in which Sans had only been trained to eradicate, and thus any motivation to learn about said species had been removed from him? Yeah. One could say he was a little nervous about the various, various ways he could misstep in his relationship with the kid and end up ruining their life. 

Not to mention his line of work. They could find out the intricacies of his business and lose any and all respect for him as a guardian. There was the very real possibility that they would grow to hate Sans and his brothers, that he would raise someone with such a pure heart, someone like Frisk, and they learn that Sans is the furthest thing from a saint. His past was dredged in sinful tar. His mistakes weren’t just small oopsies, they were inconceivable acts of immorality. A conscience blinded by a lack of future would taint said thing he thought impossible: a future. By acting out of wicked depravity so long ago, he would ruin his life. And it wasn’t as if the vices ended all those years ago. Sans’ hands would perpetually stain themselves, with violence being the smallest violation he committed regularly. That, and trafficking unregulated weaponry. Murder, the big one, that one was just apart of the job. Whenever things got messy, whenever it was necessary, Sans would take a life. Another life. A body to add to the ever-growing pile. 

If Frisk found out that Sans was a murderer…

… A sane person wouldn’t be able to look him in the eye. 

The worst part, to him, was that the best indicator that he raised Frisk right would be that they grow to hate him. Karma doing its job, or whatever.

He cradled the kid in a princess hold, thoughtlessly lingering on the way their body warmth faded from their sleep. They had closed their eyes again, dozing off in his arms. He figured he should stop worrying about the inevitable day that they learn to hate him, and focus on making them breakfast that morning instead.

He brought their frame, sleep-logged and deadweight, over to the table and set them carefully on a chair. In the instant they were seated, they plunked their head down on the wood of the table and dozed right back off. Sans found his mouth hiking a little at the corners, endeared.

He made their favorite—an easy bowl of cereal, one of those brands that was so sugary, but so good, and then he plunked a small plastic spoon in the bowl. He glanced down to them, smiling at the way they gently snored. It was such a soft noise, coming from them, so quiet. The house was quiet so early in the morning, Papyrus had definitely woken up to go… run an errand, probably, but Wings was surely still resting, and Grillby was about as lazy as Sans, which meant that he wouldn’t see him before noon. Grillby had the luxury of not having to wake up at the ass crack of dawn to take a kid into school—er, the luxury and the misfortune. Sans hated early mornings but he loved hanging out with Frisk.

“breakfast’s ready, kiddo,” he whispered, nudging them awake. Frisk blinked, catching his face in the sleepiest, 'lights-on no one’s home’ eyes he’d ever seen. Well, he’d ever seen since yesterday morning, when they did the exact same thing.

Mindlessly, they grabbed the spoon and shoveled a bite of cereal into their mouth, and Sans figured he’d make himself a bowl as well. It was so very sugary, and, for a moment, he wondered what had possessed Papyrus to be so gracious as to allow this sort of food in their place. Either way, he was appreciative of the possessive spirit. It was damn good cereal. He didn’t have much of a sweet tooth if he was honest, but he found himself enjoying the bowl nonetheless.

“so,” he said between bites, “d’ja finish yer homework last night?” Frisk was still blinking themselves awake, eyes half shut as they slowly… slowly… shoveled cereal into their mouth. Wordlessly, they nodded, closing their eyes again, and swallowing. He nodded in response.

“good,” he murmured. “got any tests comin’ up?”

They closed their eyes, shook their head. He nearly laughed. Every morning, it was practically the same thing. Dead tired Frisk, fighting to keep their head from falling into their breakfast, too exhausted to speak for most of the morning.

Eventually, after half an hour of slow-motion eating, and a battle between Frisk’s eyelids and their will to wake up, they finished their food. Sans had finished his bowl long before them, making his way around the kitchen to pick out things for their school lunchbox—a blue metal lunchbox with some cartoon dog on the side. They had picked it out over summer when they all went back to school shopping. Sans was very new to that. A massive supermarket with signs everywhere for pretty crayons and coloring pencils and highlighters, and nice three-ring binders, folders, spiral notebooks… His elementary school was lucky to have pencils in the room. He didn’t exactly grow up fortunate. But Frisk beamed at the sight of the sparkly pencil case, and he couldn’t not get it for them. And on that trip, they picked out a silly metal lunchbox with a character from a TV show they loved. Sans stared at the box for a moment. It was such a… a small thing. Practically meaningless.

He wondered if he would be who he was if he had grown up with simple luxuries, like a lunchbox, instead of…

He focused back on his task of chopping apples.

When Frisk finished eating, they stood from their seat, hugged Sans’s thigh, and ran away to go back upstairs to get ready for school. Sans paused his ministrations. They did it every morning. It was the same routine. He carried them downstairs, made them breakfast, made their lunch, and they would hug him on the way back up. He’d check on them before they left, and then he’d drive them in. It was simple. Easy. A convenient routine to fall into. His teenage self would probably gag at the sight of himself slipping into such a corny morning routine, that is, if his teenage self ever got over the fact that he made it through his teen years. His younger, rebellious self would stare at his current self in disgust, probably wondering what happened in just a couple years that led to himself acting so sickeningly cheesy.

But if you showed this morning routine to him as a kid—if he had breakfast made in the morning, a lunch packed, and someone sending him to school…

If he had someone to him, as he was to Frisk, someone to carry him downstairs when he was too sleepy to get up, someone he would wrap his little kid arms around really quickly before racing off to go look through a closet of nice, comfortable clothes, clothes that fit right, clothes that didn’t sag or droop or have holes…

Sans shook his head, and grabbed bread for a sandwich.

…

After he dropped Frisk off, he lounged around the house, admittedly incredibly unproductive. Grillby wouldn’t wake up for another while, and he wasn’t about to go bother his friend just because he was bored. He knew the second Wings woke up, he’d have to go down to his lab and work on some bullshit for hours. And he’d like to delay that for as long as monsterly possible. Yes, instead, he’d much rather sit back, a deadweight sack of bones, in his wonderfully comfortable recliner, which he’d worn down so much that there was a perfectly carved spot in the cushions where his weight settled. His eyesockets, half mast, focused in on the television, some dumb TV show playing on one of the channels. He supported the weight of his skull with a balled fist, his elbow anchored on the arm on the chair. He blinked slow. Maybe if he wasn’t in a suit, he’d be able to doze back off for a while. But as it were, he wasn’t, and so he didn’t.

His mindless watching of some stupid human show was interrupted by the sound of sharp steps in rapid succession down the staircase, which he recognized as much too fast to be his older brother. No, they were Papyrus’s, without a doubt. Sans’s face scrunched up, and he cast his eyes to where his brother would soon enter the room.

He was fully cleaned up, in one of his more active suits, but still on the flashier end of active. Sans watched his brother rush through the kitchen for food.

“mornin’, boss,” he called. It earned a pitchy groan of indignation from Papyrus. Sans ignored it. “oversleep?”

“DON’T CALL ME THAT,” he griped. “AND NO. I NEVER OVERSLEEP.”

“well, it’s already nine an’ this is the first ‘m seein’ a ya. what gives?” He checked his watch for added effect. Papyrus scoffed.

“JUST BECAUSE YOU DON’T SEE ME DOES NOT MEAN I’M NOT AWAKE,” he said. “I HAVE ALREADY EXERCISED AND POLISHED MY ASTOUNDING SPEECH THAT I WILL GIVE TO THE HUMANS OF OUR AREA! THAT RESTAURANT WORKER WANTED TO MEET AT 10:30, SO I AM GETTING READY TO LEAVE NOW.” Sans’s expression softened at the mention of his new business partner before his brow bone furrowed again in confusion.

“why ya leavin’ now?” he asked. “it doesn’t take an hour ta get there.”

“I KNOW,” he responded. “I WILL GET THERE EARLY AND WAIT ON THE HUMAN UNTIL THEY ARE READY TO GO. PERHAPS I CAN HELP THEM STRAIGHTEN UP THEIR APARTMENT WHILE I WAIT.” At that, Sans sat up, attention grabbed.

“no, pap, don’t do that,” he said. “they don’t wantcha there early, an’ ‘m sure they don’t want help cleanin’.”

“OF COURSE THEY DO! WHO DOESN’T ENJOY HELP AROUND THE HOUSE?”

Well, it was definitely Papyrus’s way of ‘helping around the house’ that deterred people. Maybe it was the condescending way he talked of keeping up with chores, or the way he insulted the state of anything not in the utmost pristine condition, or the way he would force you to do the chore alongside him, scolding you over and over about how you could never manage to do it properly, and that he might as well do it himself. That’s not to say his help wasn’t of the highest caliber. It’s just to say that the way he acted as he offered (see: forced) his help was… often less welcomed.

“ya heard the way they pushed the time back later an’ later,” he reasoned. “they’re not a mornin’ person, an’ they’re prob’ly not gonna feel up for getting housework done. hell, pap, they might not even be awake yet.” Papyrus remained unconvinced, and Sans was beginning to fear this was something he wouldn’t be able to change his little brother’s mind on. 

“WELL, THEN IT WILL BE BENEFICIAL FOR ME TO HELP THEM WAKE UP EARLIER! I CAN HELP EXPEDITE THEIR MORNING ROUTINE!” He argued back. “IT IS ALWAYS A GOOD IDEA TO ARRIVE EARLIER THAN PLANNED AFTER ALL!”

“papyrus, no, do not go—”

“I AM GOING TO LEAVE NOW, AND I CANNOT BE CONVINCED OTHERWISE AND I WILL KEEP TALKING OVER YOU SO YOU CANNOT SAY ANYTHING ELSE AGAINST MY FOOLPROOF AND INCREDIBLY COMPASSIONATE PLAN SO DO NOT EVEN TRY OKAY GOODBYE BROTHER!” And with that long-winded run-on sentence, Papyrus slammed the door behind himself, and Sans grumbled, slumping back in his chair.

“fuckin’ toddler, that’s what he is,” he muttered to himself. His new, non-morning-person business partner would be caught incredibly off guard by Papyrus and his lack of boundaries. Papyrus was adamant that everyone would be better off if they just woke up earlier in the morning. Fuck circadian rhythms or natural sleep patterns: waking up at the ass crack of dawn was the best idea to begin your day, without a doubt.

Sans knew how late they stayed up. With a restaurant open until 10pm, where the kitchen wouldn’t even close until that neon in the door was turned off, he could only imagine that they weren’t getting to bed until past midnight on the daily, which heavily contrasted with Papyrus’s strict 9 o'clock sharp bed time, one that was set 30 minutes earlier than Frisk’s. It was bold, but not uncharacteristic, of Papyrus to assume everyone on Earth could maintain the same militant schedule he kept up.

Another two minutes of feeling sympathy for the human made Sans want to… to do something. Surely they’d appreciate a warning that their morning plans were about to fall victim to Papyrus’s overzealous attitude towards getting shit done.

Before he could find a reason to not warn them about his brother, he had already pulled his phone from his pocket and dialed the number he’d saved as theirs way back when. They had clarified it as their home phone weeks ago, when they’d called and asked to have the conversation about Mitch. Sans was grateful he’d saved it.

His phone rang.

And rang.

And rang.

And rang.

And—

“Hello?” The voice that returned through the speaker was tainted with sleep. Soft, crinkly at the vowels, twinged with a yawn that had yet to break through the words. Maybe Red should have expected that they would sound like that, considering it was exactly what he was explaining to Papyrus. But it surprised him. He’d only ever spoken to them when they were already awake, already fully awake. He was a little embarrassed to say that it caught him off guard.

Hello

“mornin’, shug,” he grinned. “hope ‘m not disturbin’ ya.”

Do you read me?

“Red?” they responded, a yawn tailing the end of his name. “No, you’re not disturbin’ me. Although, I won’t lie, I’m curious as to why you’re callin’ at… 9:20 in the morning? I guess it’s not… like, that early, but my question still stands.” They spoke so slowly that he could practically hear their brain churning between each drag of their vowels. 

I have a message

“thought i’d warn ya that my bro will be at yer place in about a half hour.”

A message from the stars

“Half an hour?!” they tried to exclaim it, but when they tried to raise their voice, the lingering slumber only made them go scratchy. “But it’s not even 10 yet.” The last half of their sentence was whined, not unlike that of a child when you tell them it’s too dark to continue playing outside.

Hello, hello?

“i know,” he chuckled. “i tried to tell him to leave later, but he was hell bent on leavin’ now. figured ya’d like ta know his… less than considerate plans.” 

“I did like to know that,” they mumbled, and, God, the way they spoke when they were freshly woken up... They were so, so audibly not a morning person. So audibly on the brink of dozing back off. It sounded very… endearing, on them at least. “Well, yanno, thank you for tryin’.”

“‘course.” A faint grin lingered on his teeth; he’d nearly forgotten how much he enjoyed speaking with them. 

I get messages from the stars

‘Ideally, I’d just be back in the kitchen, and I wouldn’t have to interact with anyone. Except you.’

Nearly forgot how much they enjoy speakin’ with me too it seems, he thought during the silence. Perhaps he enjoyed that piece of information. Knowing people was part of his job: reading people, knowing where he stood with them, understanding the limits of those bounds and how to push them. He was well-acquainted with those aspects of his profession, he had to be. Death was a miscalculation away in any conversation he took part in.

That wasn’t the case when he spoke with this human, though. Not only were they unequipped to kill him, but they didn’t want to kill him. It wasn’t in their nature. In some humans, it was in theirs to act defensively, maybe pull a gun just because he asked for directions, but that wasn’t how this one acted. They lived in a city that, they claimed, had been overrun with gangsters for over a decade, and yet, one of their requests for working with him was that he would be the only one they would need to ever interact with. No other name came up that might be an exception to the rule—not one. In their ideal scenario of offering their place as a setting for his deals, the only one they’d speak with would be him. 

‘as the only human i can comfortably trust, i wanna make ya an offer.’

Nature might prove its dichotomy with each of them. Red knew himself to be a danger to others, and he knew the restaurant owner to be the furthest thing from that. However, nothing was ever truly black and white, was it? Maybe they weren’t so different after all.

When you’re making love to me

He suddenly realized that the line had been quiet for a little while. Faintly, very faintly, he could hear the whisper of steadied breaths coming through the speaker.

“shug?” he asked, brows furrowed. A sharp intake of air broke through the hushed, rhythmic sound of breathing.

“Awake, I’m awake,” they responded quickly. Red snorted at them.

“didja actually jus’ fall asleep on the phone?”

I get messages from the stars

“No,” they snapped back, and he laughed harder. “Yes. I’m tired, sue me. This is like 5 AM for me. I don’t know the last time I was awake before 10.”

“oh, my stars, ya poor thing,” he teased.

“Never mind, fuck you.” He laughed at them again.

“here i am, a saint, warnin’ ya that my brother’s a half hour from bargin’ in an’ deep cleanin’ yer place, an’ ya cuss at me fer it. there goes all my good will.” His words were a juxtaposition to his face, which was set in a wide, amused smile, awaiting their snappy, tired response. They were more testy in the morning, he found. Less restrictive with their vocabulary. He thought it was hilarious.

You must be from another galaxy

“Deep cleaning?!” they bemoaned. “We’re supposed to be tourin’ public spaces in the community. Why is he tryin’ to fix up my apartment?” 

“y’ve met my brother,” he said. “couldn’t tell ya.”

“I have met your brother,” they sighed. “I’m being a little dramatic. I appreciate the warning call, yanno.”

When I’m out there all alone

“yer welcome,” he said. “good ta know i didn’t wake ya up fer nothin’.”

“If you’da woken me up for nothin’ we wouldn’t still be talkin’ right now.” He laughed again. 

“noted,” he said. “so, no phone calls jus’ ta say good mornin’ then, huh?” He smirked, waiting for yet another short, snippy retort to come through the other end of the line.

“You call me before ten AM just to say good mornin’, I’ll actually spit on your shoes next time I see you.”

And feeling far from home

He rocked himself on his chair. “long overdue, t’be honest. yer tippin’ point is gettin’ woken up too early?”

“I think so,” they said. “I’m fine if you make me stay late for pizza, but don’t ruin my mornin’.”

“okay, dawn’t wake ya ‘fore ten, don’ wanna alarm ya.” 

A snort cut through the line, loud and stark. It devolved into softer laughter, and he thought of seeing their reaction instead of only hearing it. 

I’m fading into blue

“You’re funny,” they sighed into the phone, sarcastically. His ever-present grin hung casually on his teeth, unforced, relaxed. 

“ya say it like that, but i gotcha laughin’,” he teased.

“Who said I’m a good metric for somethin’ bein’ funny?” they countered.

“listen, if i tell a joke, an’ it gets laughs, it means i know my audience.”

There was enough of a pause, really a mere three or four seconds, that let him picture their smile of relinquishing defeat to his flawed, unserious logic. 

And there’s nothing I can do

“Fair enough,” they finally said.

And they sat like that a moment, the lingering of a grin still on his teeth, a leathery sort of ache rubbing in his joints from desired sleep. It was only another couple seconds of quiet on the line when he remembered his brother, who was surely halfway to their place at that point, and who he would have to thank for the roll of his eye lights.

“hey, as much as i’d like ta stay on the line, i don’ wanna keep ya from yer mornin’ routine,” he glanced down at his hand, which was tapping miscellaneous rhythms into the recliner’s armrest. “yanno, do whatever ya gotta do ta prepare fer my brother.”

Then out on the sky like a flash

There was another second or two of thought from their side.

“Right, yeah,” they said, voice tinny over the phone speaker. “Guess it would suck if this phone call was all for naught, huh?”

“yeah, i know,” his grin returned, “i only meant ta warn ya. ’m practically takin’ up yer whole mornin’.”

“Yeah, seriously,” they replied. He could hear the humor lining their voice. “It’s a good thing this isn’t your job or nothin’, y’oughta be fired for unprofessionalism.”

Sending me high, high, high

“ya sayin’ i should quit my side gig as an alarm?”

Another snort. “Yes. You’re terrible at it.”

“come on,” he teased. “who doesn’t love a more personal alarm? at least ‘m not jus’ screamin’ atcha.”

“Yeah, I gotta wait twenty minutes for your brother to deliver on that part.”

Red flung his skull back, guffawing, which had to have hurt their ears, if he thought about it. But he wasn’t thinking about it. He was just laughing his ass off into the phone. When he came back down from his laughing fit, he could hear their own laughter returning through the phone. He couldn’t tell if it was in response to his laugh, or their own joke, or whatever, but it was nice to have a little laughter-crash-out with them.

You rescue me

“that- that was a good one,” he huffed, the remnants of a chuckle tangling in with his attempt at speaking again. There was a tinny bubble of giggles that fed into his line. “god, that, like, hurt, laughin’ that hard.”

“Happy to be of service.” Came through with another lethal laugh.

“you specialize in laughter-induced pain?” Red thought to himself that if his phone had a cord, he’d be twirling his finger around it.

You saved me from a certain tragedy

“Laughter is the best medicine, yanno,” they responded. 

“ya tellin’ me i should laugh harder ? that’s what caused the pain, dumbass.” He furrowed his browbone, grinning into the phone like an idiot.

“It’s a— It’s a saying! I don’t know!” They pushed out words between thinly veiled laughter, if you could call it that.

“everythin’s a fuckin’ sayin’ with you.” He said, exasperated.

“What does that even mean!”

I get messages from the stars

“i donno,” he shook his head. “i’m tired.” Their laughter rang through the phone another few moments, and he just listened. It had been a little while since someone besides Frisk had laughed so hard with him, had indulged in light, stupid, morning conversation humor with him. That gentle waft of sleep still hanging on the line with them, tainting common sense. 

“Alright,” and it was the sound of the conversation closing up, even though he wished it could’ve gone on. “I gotta clean myself up now, no more chit chat.”

“hey, i tried endin’ the call five minutes ago, yer the one that kept chattin’.”

When you’re making love to me

“I did,” they sighed. “I did. I’d like to keep talkin’ too, but that’s okay. You did your job, you horrible alarm clock.” He chuckled quietly.

“have fun with him today,” Red replied. 

“Thanks, Red,” they responded. “You have a good one, ‘kay?”

“okay, shug. see ya around.”

“You too.”

I get messages from the stars

…

Chapter Text

KNOCK KNOCK KNOCK!

And there was your guest, arriving in at 9:52 AM, 38 minutes earlier than he was told to show up, rapping on your door at a volume equivalent to that of the Macy’s Day Parade drumline. You hopped up from your couch, steaming coffee in hand, a fresh, non-pajama outfit on, completely ready for this trek around town, forty minutes ahead of schedule. Thanks, Red.

Upon swinging the door open, the sight greeting you was a towering Papyrus, looking incredibly polished in a suit that was definitely tailored for more active days, and tailored to fit someone who stood at (probably) twice the height of you, but you figured that was applicable to all his suits. He and his brother tended to fit a theme with the colors they chose, generally darker in hue: deep muted browns, dark shiny grays, all with maroon accents and undertones. There were slight differences to each suit they wore, but overall, they tended to match and complement each others’ styles in a rather… comical way, now that you thought about it. Maybe you would have thought about that more during the protection fee meeting, were you not scared shitless during the entire ordeal.

You smiled at the giant, and gave him a clam-wave. “Mornin’.”

“GOOD MORNING, AVERAGE-SIZED-HUMAN!” He looked clearly surprised by your outfit, in what you hoped was a pleasant way. “YOU’RE ALREADY DRESSED!” You glanced down at your own outfit for a moment, then back up at him.

“That I am,” you said. “Did’ja expect me to come out here naked?” He looked appalled that you’d even ask, and you found a smile working up your lips.

“OF COURSE NOT! I’M APPALLED YOU’D EVEN ASK!” You’d laugh if you weren’t so tired: a smile still fought its way to your face. “I MEAN THAT YOU TOLD ME TO ARRIVE AT 10:30 BUT YOU’RE ALREADY COMPLETELY READY TO GO, SO WE DID NOT NEED TO POSTPONE OUR MEETING UNTIL THEN! I TOLD YOU IT WOULD BE OKAY TO LEAVE EARLIER.” He looked incredibly self-assured, and you had to bite down so, so hard on your tongue to fight from mentioning his brother being the reason that you were even conscious this early. You just stared at him for a couple seconds, picking your battles. You silently took a hearty sip of hot coffee, then you spoke.

“Right.” You sighed, tight. “Shall we?” 

…

“GODS, THIS IS… TRULY HORRENDOUS.”

The parking lot you were standing in looked like the after scene of a hurricane. The cement was more cracks than solid ground, and grass was finding ways to grow in through the gaps of pavement. The actual building itself was, simply put, horrid: it had been painted an ashy-sand color on the exterior, and the deep, structural cracks along the walls so unfortunately matched the pavement in the parking lot. Picture perfect sore sight for eyes. You could almost call it ironic, or something of that nature, that the building meant for helping out those in need was so deeply damaged itself. It was like poetry.

“She’s a beaut, ain’t she?” you hummed. 

“QUITE THE OPPOSITE. IT’S NO WONDER YOUR JUNKIE POPULATION IS SO HIGH—YOU HAVEN’T GOT THE RESOURCES FOR SUPPORT.” You winced internally at the language, but you shrugged.

“Well, yanno, it’s a communal service, fundin’ comes from town hall,” you explained, “and we don’t have a lot of financial stability in the community. So, yanno, town hall’s not gonna spend resources on somethin’ with a really low return rate. ‘Specially not when Mitch was in control of this place for so long. He had an iron grip on those finances.” You blew a breath out, shoved your hands in your pants’ pockets and rocked back and forth on your heels. 

It was a milder day out, despite being later in the year. The weather wasn’t coupled with its usual lover, wind stained with ice, so with the sun rising higher by the hour, a light jacket was enough to keep you warm. Your nose didn’t feel quite like it was 5 minutes from falling off your face. 

There were a couple trees scattered around the lot of the rehab center, which only aided in making the place look more pathetic to the passing eye. Being so close to winter meant that those trees were stripped to dead stalks, gray spider-webbing branches, which really hammered the last nail in the coffin. You weren’t sure there was a way to make the building look more depressing.

“FUNDED BY TOWN HALL, YOU SAY?” Papyrus asked.

“Yeah,” you said. “Not gettin’ a lot of donations as of recent. Dunno if you could tell.”

“I TRULY HOPE YOU ARE BEING SARCASTIC, HUMAN. THIS BUILDING IS HORRENDOUS!”

“I was bein’ sarcastic, Pap.” You nudged him in the shoulder, teasing. He took a second to respond.

“OH,” He replied, ever so slightly quieter. “GOOD.”

You smiled to yourself. Papyrus, despite himself, was getting much easier to be around. Maybe he was the kind of person that got better the more you hung around him. His personality, despite its slightly (understatement) overbearing nature, was beginning to grow on you, like a very boisterous moss on a stump.

“NATURALLY, WE’LL NEED TO DO WORK ON THE EXTERIOR. IT’S SO INCREDIBLY CONVENIENT THAT I AM A WONDERFUL HANDYMAN. I CAN HELP IN BRINGING THIS BUILDING BACK TO ITS FORMER GLORY. OR, PERHAPS A GLORY IT HAS NEVER SEEN IN THE HISTORY OF ITS LIFESPAN! NYEH HEH HEH!” 

You blinked in surprise and looked up at him. “You’re gonna rebuild it? By yourself?” Maybe that came out a little ruder than it sounded in my head.

Thankfully, he didn’t look too offended. “WELL, WHY SHOULDN’T I?”

“No, I just figured you’d hire help, like a construction team, or somethin’.” He scoffed at your reasoning, and you laughed internally at yourself for being concerned that you might have offended him a second ago.

“WHILE MOST EVERYONE WOULD RESORT TO THAT LAZY OPTION, I, THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE PAPYRUS, AM COMPLETELY CAPABLE OF REBUILDING THIS PLACE BETTER THAN ANY CONSTRUCTION CREW! IN ADDITION, I HAVE PLENTY OF TIME, SO THIS WOULD SAVE RESOURCES THAT WOULD BE SPENT ON A CONSTRUCTION CREW.” He finished his tangent in a heroic pose, with his hands on his hips and his chest puffed up. You laughed, despite yourself.

“Yanno, Papyrus, I wish every public servant was as dedicated to servin’ the public as you are,” you shook your head. “I am really excited to see what you’ll accomplish here.” That last line seemed to hit him harder than you thought it would, and he looked at you, almost touched.

You didn’t say it just to boost his ego, it was the honest truth. He was a bit much to be around, and maybe a little disrespectful of your morning routine, but he had shown more care for fixing up Atheby in one afternoon than Mitch did in the decade he oversaw the place. And as someone who saw the decline of your hometown, you had been praying to anyone above that you’d be fortunate enough to see its return to something more respectful of a town. The Great and Terrible Papyrus was shaping out to be the perfect man for the job.

“W-WELL, OF COURSE! I AM ALSO EXCITED TO SEE WHAT I WILL ACCOMPLISH HERE, HUMAN!” 

…

“GODS, IS EVERY BUILDING IN THIS CITY ON THE VERGE OF COLLAPSE?” Papyrus asked when he set his eyes on your local homeless shelter.

How hilariously unfunny and telling it was: your two major centers for offering aid and shelter to those in need were Atheby’s most unfortunate looking buildings. You would laugh at the irony if you weren’t so depressed over the fact. If it were a competition of which building looked worse, you might tentatively bet more on the homeless shelter, but the race would be close. 

“Feels like it,” you sighed, withdrawn. “I hear the shelter is constantly at capacity, but this building is… tiny. Our homeless population has only gotten worse recently, so most of them just have to stick outside. There are a bunch of abandoned buildings around here, which… would probably bode well for other locations for shelters. But, right now, we just have the one.”

“THIS IS IT?!” He boomed, and your eyes grew in shock at the volume. “THIS IS THE ONLY HOMELESS SHELTER YOU PEOPLE HAVE?!”

You nodded after a second. Papyrus halted his loud barrage, letting an equally loud silence sit between you. He turned his attention back to the shelter, crossed his arms, and used one hand to stroke his chin in thought. 

“THIS MIGHT TAKE LONGER THAN EXPECTED…” He hummed, more to himself than to you.

“Might need to hire construction help, huh?” you nudged him. He cleared his throat, probably rethinking what he said earlier.

“... YES, WELL, THIS CITY HAS MORE PROBLEMS THAN I PREVIOUSLY ANTICIPATED. PERHAPS SOME HELP WOULD SPEED THINGS ALONG.”

“Probably,” you agreed. 

I give these guys four more months before they call it quits on us, the pessimist inside you thought. They clearly weren’t expecting it to be this big of a project. It’ll take at least a year before any fruits of labor bloom, and even then, we’re talking pennies in return for thousands of dollars in investments. This place is a time, money, and energy sink. Even the Great and Terrible Papyrus has limits, and I’m willing to bet this might be it.

You weren’t sure if you’d call that voice a pessimist or a realist. You wanted to believe that Atheby wasn’t completely lost after the trauma its been under for a decade, but deep down you knew it wouldn’t be enough to have one skeleton with a passion for public projects to repair the damages your town had to show. They would probably stick around for four to five months before realizing that their efforts were turning up scraps in rewards, and they’d probably jump ship to look somewhere else for a nicer place with a much more appealing return rate. Maybe the only solution to having the chance for a hopeful future would just be to leave. Waiting for Atheby’s return to something livable might take longer than the years you had left.

“SAY, HUMAN, YOU ARE REMARKABLY WELL INFORMED ON THESE BUILDINGS’ STATUS AND THE QUALITY OF THEIR SERVICES.” Papyrus noted, turning towards you. You craned your neck and met his gaze. “PERHAPS YOU’D WANT TO SIT IN ON MY DEBRIEF OF TODAY WITH MY BROTHERS AND OFFER YOUR OPINIONS.” 

“Really?” you replied, incredulous. “You want my advice?” Papyrus gave you a confident expression, proud that you seemed so shocked to be asked to help in a serious business meeting. To him, it was such an honor to be asked anything by the Great and Terrible Papyrus, and your reaction perfectly embodied the emotion he hoped to invoke of those that interacted with him.

“YOU HAVE LIVED HERE FOR A LONG TIME, AND YOUR KNOWLEDGE IS EXTENSIVE ON THE CARE THESE PROJECTS NEED.” He was complimenting you, but he looked so incredibly smug while he said it that you’d think he was praising himself.

“I mean,” you began, but thought about your job. “I would love to be a help, I just… I’m not sure I can afford to take any more time off today.” He waved an unbothered hand at you.

“YOU WILL BE COMPENSATED FOR YOUR TIME IF YOU WANT TO JOIN.”

It’s like they’re fuckin’ made of money, you thought. What is with these skeletons and throwin’ cash around like it’s water?  

“W-While that is… a very convincing reason… I don’t just wanna take your money, Papyrus. I—” He put his hand up to cut you off.

“I AM NOT SURE IF YOU UNDERSTAND WHY I WOULD PAY YOU, HUMAN,” he said, not unkindly, not condescendingly. He sounded purely like he wanted to correct a misconception. “AS SANS INFORMED ME, YOU ARE NOW A BUSINESS ASSOCIATE OF MINE AND MY BROTHERS’. YOU ARE NOW A PART OF OUR BUSINESS, OUR INDUSTRY, OUR LIFESTYLE, SO-TO-SPEAK. ANY KNOWLEDGE OR SKILL YOU HARBOR IN THIS FIELD IS AN ASSET OF YOURS—YOU MUST USE THEM TO YOUR ADVANTAGE AND UNDERSTAND THE FULL VALUE OF WHAT YOU ARE CAPABLE OF SUPPLYING TO OTHERS. YOU MUST UNDERSTAND YOUR VALUE TO OTHERS.”

That shut you up quick. For a little while you were beginning to think that his brothers kept him along purely for his passion for life: Papyrus was the biggest go-getter you knew. You’ve never met someone with such tenacity or energy before in your life, and you figured that made him a convenient errand runner. But that spiel he gave you turned you up on your head and had your mouth zipped shut, listening. You were used to a job where your clientele was comprised of working class families that you knew personally, families of whose financial troubles were known to you, which often left you refusing excess payment for your work. By agreeing to work with Sans, you were now a piece to their operation, which, clearly by their way of living, was no cheap expense. They were paid for their work: whatever they profited off of—you knew monster integration couldn’t fund their lifestyle—had no chance of being a common occurring of work. But either way, they made sure they lost no value of their labor to their associates. By becoming an extent of that, you needed to learn that way of life. You needed to learn your value to them, to the industry, as an informant, if that’s all you could offer for now.

Man, if I had a nickel for every time I’ve been scolded by a Gaster for downplaying the value of information I have on Mitch, I’d have two nickels, you thought humorously. Which isn’t a lot, but it’s weird that it’s happened twice.

“Okay,” you said eventually, your heart pounding in your ribcage. “Okay, yeah, I’ll come.”

“SPLENDID!” He clapped his hands together victoriously. “NOW, PLEASE TAKE ME TO THE NEXT FOUL SIGHT IN YOUR TOWN I SHOULD OFFER MY GENEROSITY TO SAVING!”

…

You found yourself thinking of Papyrus more and more fondly throughout the morning you shared together. After his speech about your value to the Gasters, you realized how massive of a part in the field Papyrus was. He commanded respect as a figure—for himself and for others—he had a great amount of knowledge in his repertoire and knew exactly when to use it. That proved true in every interaction with him, even the protection fee meeting, which you originally thought of as Papyrus not knowing who to hold his tongue around. No, Papyrus knew much, much better than you did. By allowing Jack to run the meeting how he wanted, it let Papyrus see the flaws and immaturity in his control of the area. The loose, vulgar language that Jack constantly berated people with did not command respect: it instead portrayed insecurity. He wanted to control people’s ideas of themselves, of their behavior, make them think they were much worse of individuals than they truly were. His outbursts of violence made you feel small in those meetings, like a dog awaiting the next discipline from its owner, not knowing exactly why they were being beat.

It made him seem more volatile, less in control of the area. He was a trigger happy megalomaniac, and losing that power made him want to tell people: he was not a force to be reckoned with. At least, not by the residents of Atheby. Papyrus could reckon with him. Papyrus watched him turn you into a shell of yourself, a trembling, stuttering mess of fear. Papyrus knew he was a terrible authority figure, and he knew he used language to seem bigger. By taking that away from him, by making him sound unprofessional for cursing at you so much, he made Jack feel less than. 

Papyrus was a much bigger threat in his industry than he led people to believe. He knew when to exert his knowledge and control, he knew how to earn respect.

How… interesting. You hadn’t known it possible for someone in that profession to be capable of earning respect without means of violence or aggression. You could call it refreshing. Feel like I’m using that word a lot more nowadays.

After you finished running around town with Papyrus, he brought you back to his home, where you waited for his brothers to return for the meeting. Fortunately, you weren’t made to wait long: soon enough the two of them joined you in their dining room. 

Which led to your first meeting of who you presumed to be the older brother Red had mentioned a few times, Wingdings Gaster.

He was quite the sight. If you were intimidated by Red or Papyrus’ appearance in your first meetings, then you’d call it true fear paralysis, the shockwave that lit every nerve in your body on fire the second your eyes landed on Wingdings. Once you’d gotten used to Red’s chompers, they weren’t so scary to you—and now you knew they were by far the most human-shaped teeth of any Gaster skeleton. Papyrus’ teeth were few but massive, like spearheads. Wingdings, on the other hand, had many teeth, to the point that it appeared as if they were melding into each other: you couldn’t tell if some of them began at the top or bottom, or if they just reconnected to the opposing row. It was just a mangle of needle-teeth. And besides his nightmare-inducing teeth, your eyes caught the scars that decorated his eyes. It seemed each Gaster brother had his own unique facial scars, and Wingdings Gaster did not disappoint. The matching set of opposite scars that extended from his sockets sent a shiver down your spine. You tried to imagine who might have been capable of marring bone in such a way, which led to you wondering how many perpetrators there were to blame. Surely it wasn’t the same person? Maybe it happened when they were all younger, when they were more vulnerable, defenseless . You couldn’t imagine they picked up those accessories recently.

Every Gaster brother boasted an impressive wardrobe: from what you’d seen Red and Papyrus do business in, that was something they took very seriously . Wingdings was no exception. His trenchcoat—which extended to his shins—matched his waistcoat, undershirt, slacks, and shoes in a polished, shiny black color that, if you looked just a little harder, came in an impossibly intricate patterned material. His trenchcoat was not shiny, nor did it sport the same patterns, but it was so visibly sewed of the highest caliber material money could buy. To add a tasteful splash of color to the monotone, his tie, pocket-square, and belt were a lovely dark matte maroon. And finally, the finishing touch had to be the ever-classy silver chain that connected his waistcoat button to the pocket. You could only call it breathtaking, the sheer quality of his outfit. 

His shoes connected with the floor in an unwavering clack, clack, clack, like a metronome that echoed your heartbeat, which seemed to increase in pace with each passing second. While it felt like a lifetime of staring, in reality, you only chanced a quick glance at the skeleton as he entered, knowing you’d rather do anything else than ogle at someone just too long. Very soon after the eldest Gaster entered the room, a separate set of footsteps followed close behind, slightly slower in pace.

Red, in all his comfortably familiar glory, graced the room in an exceptionally fine suit, matching his brother in those same key tones of dark burgundy and black. You deflated with a sigh of relief when your eyes caught sight of his face after the shock Wingdings put you through. 

When Wingdings noticed you, he narrowed his eye-sockets in confusion, and you swallowed down the spit gathering on your tongue, not wanting to speak without being spoken to. 

“Who is this?” Wingdings asked, and you flitted your gaze up to meet his, but he was staring at Papyrus instead, speaking of you as if you weren’t in the same room. I’m going to shit a brick. I might even throw up all over this pretty table. God, that’d be so embarrassing. Please don’t throw up. 

“OUR NEW BUSINESS PARTNER, THE OWNER OF ABBIOCCO,” Papyrus introduced you, waiting for you to offer your own name. For a split second, you wanted to kill him for leaving you to talk for yourself when you’d rather curl up in your chair and die than speak a word in this tension.

After a beat of pause, you told him your name, with a noticeable quiver flickering through your voice. “It’s real ni-nice to meetcha, Don Gaster.” His expression cooled ever so slightly, which took a little strain out of your posture. At the mention of his title, he soured up again and waved a hand swiftly in dismissal.

“No need for formalities,” he stated. “Wingdings is just fine.” He sat down without another word to you, pulling out a small notebook and a pen. Almost immediately, he turned his attention to Papyrus and asked him a question, something you would’ve caught if a certain somebody next to you hadn’t addressed you.

“afternoon, shug,” Red greeted you quietly as he sunk into the chair directly next to yours, leaning a couple inches closer to you so his voice would carry. “i just can’t seem ta get away from ya.” He leaned his elbows on the table, interlocked his fingers, and held the weight of his skull on his hands. A smile breached your face.

Reachin’ out for something to hold

“Ugh, don’t remind me,” you rolled your eyes at him, and when you looked back, he was snickering to himself, which only caused you to join. When your giggles subsided, you spoke again. “Hey, um, thanks for the call earlier.” Red’s smile turned up minutely higher before shrugging it off.

Looking for a love where the climate is cold

“‘s nothin’. glad i could prepare ya fer the unstoppable force of my brother.” You matched his rising grin, warm and fuzzy in a way that shocked you: you were growing so acquainted with this skeleton. Never, ever in your time on this green Earth, did you expect to feel so lax around someone like him.

Manic moves and drowsy dreams

“Nice suit, by the way. There an occasion?” Before answering, he jokingly flaunted his threads by straightening out his overcoat. You rolled your eyes again.

“all fer ya, sugar,” he winked. You were gonna get dizzy if you rolled your eyes anymore, so you opted for socking him in the shoulder. He cackled. “no, ‘m teasin’. ‘s fer this guy wings n’ i are meetin’ up with after this sesh. this is jus’ ta dot some t’s, cross some i’s.” You gave him a funny look.

“Definitely not the saying,” you said. “Who you meetin’?” At the question, Red took a quick inhale and rubbed his palms together, glancing at Wingdings and Papyrus before looking back to you.

“yer favorite: mitchie.” Your blood ran a few degrees colder at the name. “he called us up over somethin’ urgent. we’re not sure what it’s about yet.”

Or livin’ in the middle, between the two extremes

A hundred and one horrid ideas flooded the forefront of your mind in an instant. That could mean anything. You didn’t know much about what they were involved with regarding Mitch, but by not clarifying details, you knew that was setting Red and his brothers up with a disadvantage. That could mean an ambush. That could mean they caught the skeletons dealing something they weren’t supposed to, and maybe Mitch didn’t know until now. That could mean Mitch was just sick of being associated with monsters. That could mean… That could mean…

“And… you’re not… worried? About not knowing? You’re not nervous?” you asked, any lingering memory of a smile wiped from your face. You stared into his sockets, enough anxiety riddled in your own eyes to make up for the lack in his.

“nah,” he replied very easily. It didn’t put you at ease. “my bro’s an’ i… are very good at handlin’ ourselves in tough spots. if it comes down to it.” Your expression didn’t change at all, but you glanced between his eyes, trying to consider his perspective.

Smoking guns hot to the touch

“Okay,” you said eventually. The whole situation wasn’t sitting right with you; your insides stirred uncomfortably, your impulses rang alarm bells. You weren’t sure what would ease your fear, but maybe… if you could be of help, that would, at least, appease some of the nerves which were painfully digging themselves into the crevices of your brain.

“I could host for youse, if you want.” You looked up to him again, hoping to gain any alleviation of the pit growing in your gut. “At Abbiocco. That way, you’d have the setting on your side. You wouldn’t be somewhere completely… I donno. You’d have some advantage on him—”

“gonna stop ya there, shug,” he said. You shut your mouth and gripped your hands together in your lap in anticipation.

Would cool down if we didn’t use them so much, yeah

“fer one, yer already iffy on the whole ‘hostin’ meetin’s at abbiocco’ thing already, an’ we haven’t even had one yet. i’d feel guilty if the first meetin’ was one with the big man himself.” You decided against interrupting him to tell him “big man” usually referred to some holy figure instead of a crime lord like Mitch. You folded your hands over themselves and let him continue.

“fer two, even if we wanted ta go somewhere familiar, he already picked a location. we’re kinda stuck with it.” You swallowed, waiting for something that would take the stress out of your shoulders more than the other points he’s mentioned. All he’d said thus far was that he was watching out for your sanity, and that they were backed into a corner regarding location. That was not doing much for you.

“an’ most importantly,” he turned to face you, as if to emphasize it, “mitchie won’t do anything. not to gloat or nothin’, but since we’re neutral with him, we’re untouchable right now, unless someone gets real solid dirt against us. an’ he’s got squat. this is purely business.” That last point was… slightly more convincing, but without knowing the nitty gritty of their relationship with the biggest piece of shit on the planet, you could only know so much about what to expect. Mitch was less of a lit fuse than his late son, but they were all the same when you stripped them down to their cores. Masochistic psychopaths, every last one of them. Red seemed confident about his safety, but you knew what unearned comfort led to. You lost too many people to that dangerous assumption.

We’re soul alone

Red seemed to gauge that you had yet to be convinced on the matter by your lack of response.

“yer definitely worryin’ about this a lot more than ya should. i know yer familiar with mitch’s… tendencies. but i wantcha ta trust my bro’s an’ i ta know what we’re doin’. yer gonna give yerself a heart attack if ya keep stressin’ about it.” You cocked your head with a forming rebuttal.

“It’s not that I don’t trust youse to know what you’re doin’... I just…” You trailed off with a defeated sigh. “No, I donno. I just… never feel quite right when he’s involved. An’ I can’t help but worry aboutcha.”

And soul really matters to me

That must have struck something in the skeleton, because his usual grin that tended to just hang on his face at all times fell. His eyesockets blinked a little wider, and those hazy pinpricks fizzled a little larger for moment. If only you were better at reading his expression changes, more of what was running through his mind might be revealed to you. All that was known to you was that you caught him off-guard.

Too much

Some odd sense of victory blossomed high in your chest when his cheekbones twinged with color. A gentle, almost unnoticeable, red hue bloomed across his skull. Thankfully, you were gazing so intently at his face that you were able to catch the change. How rewarding of a change it was! This guy was like a book written in a different language, and every moment you got to spend with him let you work at him with a conversational chisel against marble. 

If you’d thought this fondly of a gangster even just a few weeks ago, every working part of your brain would be ringing the alarms and ditching any sort of companionship that allowed that train of thought to develop. You would’ve considered this a corruption of your morals at their very root. But now? Seeing Sans Gaster go from his usual nonchalance to sporting a blush caused by yours truly… you felt nothing but… giddy pride. You considered the reason being that Red didn’t feel like a gangster at his heart. He didn’t go around beating on people smaller than him, he didn’t act with the pure intention of gaining something, he cared about how he affected others. He worried about those around him—he worried about you. At the very least, he proved himself as more than just a businessman, more than what you considered Mitch.

You’re out of touch

Red cleared his throat, straightening his jacket to quickly cover his emotional slip-up, but you saw it before he was able to fight that, frankly, adorable blush back down. “you, uh… h-here, how’s about i come back ta yer place afterwards ta give ya a little peace of mind on my whereabouts.” That sounded a lot more suggestive than he definitely intended it to sound. A tiny spark of something awful told you to take it and run, try to get the cool and collected Sans to break some more.

I’m out of time

“Oh?” you goaded, the anxiety drained from your face. “You’re gonna come by later and take care of my stress?” Just to seal the deal—maybe it was overkill, you didn’t care—you perched an arm on the table and supported the weight of your head in your hand, and you leaned towards him oh-so-subtly (lying), with your best attempt at bedroom eyes as the final cherry on top. Unfortunately, you had much to learn about this enigma of a skeleton, and that included what flustered him in the way you achieved not ten seconds ago. Apparently, laying-it-on-heavy flirting was the wrong choice. Way too quickly, he returned to his usual self, no remnants of your previous effect on him to see. That foul, treacherous grin was back, the blush was long gone, and his eyes … those fucking eyes. If he wanted to set you on fire, all he needed was to add the intensity of a single candle’s flame to the smart in his eyelights, and your insides were already frying themselves up nicely for him.

But I’m out of my head when you’re not around

“i’ll take care of ya real well, ya jus’ say the word,” he leaned right in with you. The stare he was drilling you with goaded you to make the next move: the ball was in your court, and he was waiting for your go-ahead, just like he had for this whole interaction. He only leaned in because you did first. He only went dirty because you did first. That knowledge made shoving him away by the shoulder feel like a welcome, friendly gesture.

“oh, how ya wound me,” he feigned. 

“You’ll live,” you responded with an exasperated chuckle that coupled up with the burning temperature of your face.

You’re out of touch, I’m out of time

...

BOOMSHAKALAKA YES GAWD TREND W RED!!!! from @clover-46

CHAPTER 6 SCENE W DA PEAS from @clover-46

COVER ART OF RED + OC from @kayakoba

RED SMOKIN A CIGAR HOT from @labyr-nth