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Chapter Text

“You just have to take my hand!”

Sans stares at the outstretched limb in front of him. At the chance.

Thoughts rush through his mind, a terrifying hope blooming within his SOUL. Memories of fragments of a past that doesn't exist, of the mountains of notes in his basement, of those terrible repetitive nightmares that he lives and breathes through in this convoluted mess of a world abandoned by time. 

He tilts his head, considering, expression steady and calm. 

Would it be more accurate to say that they've been betrayed by it? It's a funny thought, being betrayed by a concept, one that brings him nothing but bitterness. The resentment he holds towards it will never reach its recipient, only its user.

… A user he very well could end now, once and for all, if his theory holds right.

“Well? Don't you want something more interesting?”

(He does, he does, he does-)

He idly glances up at the dead human’s unchanging smile. Their form flickers in its place, seemingly straining with the effort of revealing themselves to a being so devoid of determination. 

It's easy to guess what their motivation for reaching out for him is. The fallen human has grown to be a tedious show, uninteresting and repetitive, and rarely deviates from a set path.

(Or at least, according to the fragments he holds.)

He is something new. He is interesting to them. 

And Sans? 

… Sans doesn't see any reason not to use them. His smile stretches a bit as he holds out his hand and agrees to sign his SOUL away for entertainment. 

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It's no wonder Nightmare finds Killer. He is a mess without a stabiliser, with the deceptively fragile emotional state of a Sans, so quick to break and give up, and the hate of a Chara, of their rage at humanity morphed into something darker in their death.

He is neither, and he is both, and his SOUL is more often than not screaming at the world, a deep, bubbling, well of negativity that takes pieces of his sanity and surroundings into its reaching claws. Moments of clarity are few and far between, guilt even more so. He is constantly moving, always, always, always, because he never wants to be still again.

Stillness is stagnation, is a world truly abandoned by time, of endless boredom and silence and-

Killer cannot handle that. Not on top of what he has become, if he allows himself to think of it. He does not want to stagnate, does not deal with stillness, always unapologetically loud and testing limits, searching for something new. 

Nightmare is only a new means to that end. Something new to test, something that'll open a path to other new possibilities. The moment he judged him to be telling the truth was the moment the deal was sealed, no matter how long he dragged the conversation on, digging for answers and limits till the guardian snapped at him through gritted teeth and a tight smile.

“Just take my hand. I will give you what you want.”

And Killer does, a smile still dancing on his face, razor sharp as he signs a deal with a new devil.

_______________________________________

Killer is lost when he's faced with a new path. This devil is kind, a gentle smile on his face, patient even as Killer avoids answering, gives noncommittal responses or is simply struck silent. 

He does not know how to deal with its kindness. 

Colour is a variable he never expected to get attached to, with his laid back attitude typical of a Sans despite the state his world is in. Their first encounter was an accident. Their second was curiosity. 

Killer does not know why he kept going after that. Is surprised Nightmare allowed him to, considering the risks associated with him hanging out in a Universe he has no relation to so often. A reward for his loyalty? A test for how deep his claws are set in his SOUL? 

He never cared enough to find out.

(Was too afraid to test this limit, to lose this.)

Despite Colour moving to the omega timeline, they still meet up in his old world, that dreary white void, whenever it's convenient for the two of them. After all, Killer can't exactly go to the omega timeline himself, and being seen together has Its own risks to Colour's position there.

“... I wish I could show you the place.”

Killer hums and tilts his head, but gives no response. Emotions he refuses to identify swirl in his chest, a fragile hope rising from them. In the stillness of this place, in the silence after that statement, his SOUL pulses with possibilities that he had long disregarded for himself.

He is not allowed there. He is not kind. He is not someone that can easily be forgiven, if ever.

(... He's not sure he wants to be forgiven. Is unsure if he's guilty about it at all, if his shame is a result of who he once was or of who he is. 

He's not sure he cares.)

“Killer.”

Killer startles from his thoughts, but gives no outward indication of his surprise. He shifts slightly so he's facing Colour, fingers digging into his palm. The serious tone is firm, an unusual occurrence from the easygoing skeleton. The sharp smile that rises to his face is a mask that causes Colour to wince briefly, but Killer doesn't bother dropping it yet despite the whisper of guilt brushing against his SOUL. 

Colour composes himself quickly, flickering flame and bright eyelight painted in shades of crimson and violet, with the smallest embers of pale blue.

His SOUL wavers.

“I can take you there.”

His body tenses up at the offer, thoughts stilling and smile stiff.

“Don't.”

As dumb as he sometimes acts, Killer is no fool. He knows what Colour is trying to imply, with that look in his eyelights and the heavy tone to his words, what he's encouraging him to do, and he's-

He's terrified. 

Colour's flame flickers, dimming for a moment before going back to its usual strength, a sheepish, guilty, but still determined smile on his face.

Killer is too busy looking at their shadows to care, too busy searching for that familiar blue to allow anything but fear to take hold of his thoughts. He has to consciously stop himself from flinching when a gentle hand settles on his shoulder.

“It's alright. He's not here.”

Despite the confidence in those words, Killer has no trust in them. Is too used to doubting everything, to questioning, to entertain that possibility like that.

“Please.”

The plea surprises the two of them, coming from Killer. He nearly doesn't recognise the desperate voice as his own, the warning in his clenched jaw.

(He doesn't want to lose this, doesn't want to-!)

Colour's flames shift to a solid red, a sadness weighing down his smile. He pulls him into a hug, and Killer takes the opportunity to bury his face into his jacket, the fabric quickly stained black. He's trembling, he realises.

“It's alright.”

The words are even heavier this time, more emphasis put on them, a promise more than a statement. It makes him relax, just the smallest bit, but it's not enough to truly reassure him.

“I can take you there. He can't reach there.”

Killer isn't too sure about that. That devil is not dead, will probably never be, and the past could always come knocking on his door. 

“It'll be fine.”

He doubts it, he really really does, but the fragile hope is still there, growing, and he wants to believe in this devil's words, to take its hand and sell his SOUL again, to a new pain and a new path.

Chapter Text

The grass beneath her feet feels odd. The spring breeze carries with it an echo of a past she hasn't entertained for a long time now, when she was as small as the child joyfully frolicking in the open field, their little saviour rushing around with a bright smile on their face. She feels heavy here, and warm, despite the lack of any machination or magic to stabilise the temperature. 

This, too, is now odd to her despite a distant familiarity. 

She can't help the tension in her shoulders, just as much as she can't help the giddy hope thrumming in her SOUL, a wetness rising to her eyes. They're back on earth. Her surroundings tug at her childhood memories, of woods and towns and mystical cities, though she doubts everything is the same as it was back then. 

Toriel can't wait to see how humanity has changed. 

(She hopes, desperately, that they have changed enough, at least in their opinion about monsters.)

Even with the smile on her face, the elation pulling a teary laugh out of her, Toriel cannot feel relief yet. She knows getting here is only the first hurdle out of many that monsterkind will have to face. That is not new. Their coexistence with humanity has always been a bit precarious, for as long as she could remember.

‘But this’, she thinks, her gaze fixed on the child who'd taken to her so quickly, a little spitfire of a human. ‘This is new.’

Having an advocate. Having evidence that they can coexist peacefully, combined with the balm of time and the hopeful stances of the monsters, will surely aid them.

(And if that fails, well- Toriel isn't above guilt tripping on behalf of monster kind. The masses are usually the key, rather than the leaders, and they do so love a story, especially if it's true.)

She only wishes that her child wasn't such a core part of the strategy. The position will likely bring them danger. Toriel cannot bear to lose another of her children, would rather dust than see it happen again, but has no doubt her precious child will find a way to help even if she's opposed to it.

Toriel can only protect them by staying by their side. Her gaze steels the longer she looks at them, hears the excited voices of her people, staring in wonder at their surroundings. 

Being the queen is not a role she expected to take up again, but…

Some causes are worth it.

Chapter Text

Swap frowns at whatever amalgamation his shark plushie has turned into. He could've sworn it was going well at the start, but it just looks… off, now. Maybe he should've stuck to a solid colour instead of attempting a dual colour plush. He's pretty sure it went wrong the moment he switched colours. He sets down his hook and plush for now, shaking off the string of yarn on his finger. He'll decide whether he should untangle it or try to salvage it later. 

Mind made, he stretches his arms above his head, sighing in relief as the tension leaves his body. His legs feel awfully numb when he stretches them outwards so he doesn't get up yet, though he does feel an itch to move after sitting for so long. He really should bring in a chair for himself since he doubts Error will be getting another beanbag anytime soon.

Speaking of his new sort of friend (previous kidnapper, which neither of them have truly addressed yet), he glances at how his giraffe plush is holding up. As expected of an expert on the hobby, the plush looks wonderful, unlike Swap's own mess. 

To be fair, it hasn't been that long since he first picked up the hobby to bond with the hermit. He's come a long way since his first attempt. He winces at the memory of how the yarn kept tangling and unravelling nearly every second Error took his eyelights off of him after Swap managed to convince him to teach him, a sheepish smile growing on his face.

With a shake of his head, Swap focuses back on the present, glancing over at Error one more time before slumping back on the floor starfish style. The cool floor is a balm to his skull, though the odd texture of it isn't something he's fond of. It's something that's solid, but oddly pliable, and it messes with his head a bit. Sort of like a non-newtonian liquid? Though not exactly, since he isn't sinking into it. 

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised that he doesn't understand the space. Not even Error does, not fully.

Swap lasts maybe five minutes staring up at the hanging strings and their collection of SOULs and dolls before he gets bored and strikes up a conversation. They've gotten far enough in their friendship that Swap can conclude the worst thing Error will do to him for breaking his concentration is dropping him into the freezing snow in his world with ninety percent certainty. 

“Hey, Error?”

Error gives a distinctly annoyed grunt, but since Swap feels no snow at his back, he thinks he's safe enough to continue. 

“Why do you keep collecting them?”

Swap waits for a few minutes in silence, anticipation building, and grins when he hears a sigh and the scrape of bones that signifies Error putting his hook down.

“C-cOllE-leCting wh-WhAt?”

He raises one arm and points towards a SOUL. When he gets no answer, he decides to verbalise it. A glance (that has him straining his neck at a rather awkward angle) at Error proves his initial assumption of the skeleton having taken off his glasses. He's squinting in the direction of Swap's finger, something that has him stifling a laugh. He has no idea why he's so against wearing them while doing anything other than crochet.

“The SOULs.”

(He finds the sight rather disturbing, but has grown… oddly desensitised to it after a while. He's not sure how to feel about that, not really.)

Error blinks and his eyesockets go back to their normal size before he looks at Swap and notices the grin on his face. Swap immediately switches to an innocent look at the suspicious glare on his face. If he could fool someone as critical as captain Alphys, he has no doubt he can fool Error. 

And he does, or Error simply doesn't care, as he rolls his eyelights and glances back up at the strings, a considering look on his face. Swap waits patiently for an answer, though he starts to feel the effect of the strain on his neck. Just when he's considering looking upwards again or changing his position Error sinks back into his beanbag, expression and tone unreadable. 

“I d-doN't nEed-D a reAson.”

Swap, recognising a boundary, doesn't push. No one said anything about filing the answer for a different date though. Giving up on the pointless torture that's his current position, he flips so he's lying on his ribcage, hands holding up his face as he kicks his feet like a schoolgirl. 

He should be getting back soon, really. His brother is probably starting to get worried and Error has very little patience for communication. Still, since he has his attention, might as well strike a conversation that's unrelated to yarn or the multiverse before he heads back. If he's lucky, he might be dropped in his bed instead of the ground!

“So, what's your favourite food?”

Chapter Text

“C-can you hold me?”

The hesitant question makes Sans pause. His brother's voice is soft, quiet, but Sans will always be able to hear him.

(Unless it's quite literally impossible, with his hearing being taken or unforseen extremely loud circumstances.)

It's not often Papyrus speaks, preferring to write down his words or use sign language instead. The braces make it difficult, and his little brother was never one for talking much. 

But that's not what freezes Sans to his spot. It's the question itself, an echo of his own younger self. It drags up a memory he'd willingly suppressed, stops him from moving a single inch, standing like a fool. He has no desire to know what expression is on his face, what's causing Papyrus to shrink into himself, mine blank as he remembers.

_______________________________________

“Can- may I hug you for a bit?”

Sans is finding it very hard to stand still, to keep his voice steady and firm. He's not usually one for much physical contact, but- his nightmare is still bothering despite his best efforts, the night terror haunting his day till he cracked and decided to ask.

He doesn't like being like this, so needy. His mother always prefers it when he keeps to himself, when he's being self-dependent. 

She keeps telling him it's a necessary trait to survive here. And Sans understands, he really really does, but can't he rely on his own family, just a little bit? The justification rings in his mind, but he doesn't let it leave his mouth. Blabbering will only worsen his mother's mood, and he's already asking so much.

Gaster throws him a glance, expression neutral as she stops writing down one of her theories. She looks more curious than annoyed, so Sans is hopeful, though he tries to squish it down. No use celebrating early.

“What brought this on?”

Her tone is bland, carefully blank, as it is most of the time. Sans blanches for a brief second, face flushing a bit. He doesn't want to admit it's because of a nightmare, but he doesn't want to lie either. His mother is too good at catching his lies, and that might make her annoyed. Maybe being vague will work?

“... Something bothered me earlier today.”

And oh, that was the wrong word choice, because he can see her interest decreasing the moment the sentence left his mouth. He shouldn't have gone for an emotional angle. Words, explanations, tumble out of his mouth without his input, each one making him more mortified. 

“I read that physical contact helps with emotions like that.”

Sans wilts at the annoyance and disappointment on his mother's face. A sigh leaves her, and she clenches the space between her eyesockets.

“What have I told you about reading that human nonsense? Honestly, if you weren't my son…”

_______________________________________

Sans had left that encounter with barely hidden tears, feeling worse than when he came in. He doesn't recall his exact age, the details vague, but he does remember never asking her for anything like that again. The memory, subconsciously, only lessened his desire for physical contact. 

Faced with a similar question, he's lost. He nearly instinctively rejects him, a lecture on his tongue, but holds himself back. He glances at the flower to their far right, having been asked the question at the stairs, when they were heading for their rooms. It's far away enough that Papyrus's words likely didn't reach it.

Slowly, consciously, he unclenches his fist. His palms sting, fingers shaking from the previous strain, but schools his expression and takes the few steps necessary to wrap his arms around his brother. Papyrus shudders before practically melting into him, arms wrapping around him as well.

(When did he get so big?)

Sans is not fond of physical contact. Has to restrain himself from stepping back immediately and running to his room like a coward. But Papyrus is, and Sans would never reject any of his requests, not if he could help it.

Chapter Text

“But… you promised.”

Frisk is stuck to that spot, staring at those ashes, the spot glistening with shades of red. The shine won't last for long. They know that, have seen that with other monsters's dust. Once the leftover magic disperses into the air, all traces of their adoptive sibling will be gone.

The realisation strikes a chord within them, a sharp keen leaving their throat as they collapse on their knees, desperately trying to draw MK's remains to themselves. They go unheard by the retreating humans, their efforts pointless as their hands simply phase through the ground.

He promised. He promised them he'd save everyone, make proper use of their SOUL, he promised them he'd live! This wasn't supposed to happen!

Unable to bring his ashes closer to themselves, they end up doing the opposite and curling over them as much as possible without touching them. Their chest feels hollow, the space in their heart they always saved for empathy, for hope, empty. 

They cry, and cry, and cry, and they learn to hate. Learn what it means to despise someone, why the monsters find it so difficult to accept them as a member of their royalty. As a part of them.

Frisk tries, they do, to always be nice, to hope. If they want the world to be kind, how could they be mean to it? They have to take the first step, reach their hand out first, and they did. They tried. 

And look what their belief got them? Transparent hands unable to reach for their brother, his ashes at their feet, and a pit of despair carved into their chest.

The world is cruel. It is a lesson they wish they'd accepted sooner.

Chapter Text

“... annoying.”

This is annoying. 

The word is uttered quietly, unheard by the laughing children running away. Nightmare clutches the storybook closer to his chest, his hands straining against the cover as he tries to blink away tears of frustration. 

Dream was supposed to stay with him today! He wasn't supposed to be stolen away again! It's been so long since he saw his twin for longer than two waking hours. Heck, he's even starting to sleep at the village somedays. Before long, Nightmare might…

(“I don't get why he hangs out with him.”

“Hey, bet if I said I'm feeling sick he'll agree to sleepover!”

“That's unfair! You know you'll win.”)

He'll be alone.

The thought makes the tears flow down his face. He nearly drops the book in his efforts to wipe them away, backing up till he's against the tree. He slides down it and places the book gently onto the grass with trembling fingers, drawing his legs close to his chest so he can bury his head against his knees.

It's so very unfair. So annoying.

He doesn't get what he ever did wrong. It's not like he asked to be given this role! He was just born into it, like his brother was into his own, but they get treated differently.

A wet laugh leaves him. That's putting it lightly.

Nightmare’s not even asking for much. He just wants one friend. Someone who cares about him. Someone who'll keep their promises instead of abandoning him over excuses of ‘I'm sorry ‘mare, you know how they are, they need my help!’ when they both know they're fully capable of doing those chores on their own. Sure, they might take longer alone, but they can do them. 

(... Nightmare wouldn't mind helping as well, if it means they'll like him more, but nobody ever asks him for anything. None of them want anything to do with him.)

He resents the villagers. It's a feeling that festers in his chest, more and more prominent with each passing day, each passing remark, each…

His hand trembles as he brushes it against the scratches on his left cheek. When Dream had asked, he'd said he was playing in the woods again and fell down. He only goes at night, when the moon is high up in the sky, since he can't leave the tree defenseless with Dream being away in the morning, so there's nothing and no one that'll say otherwise. Dream believed the lie.

(He'd never believe the truth. Nightmare knows from experience.)

Fresh tears roll down his face and blur his vision at the memory. He thinks he resents his brother too, just a little bit, and resents himself for feeling that way about the only person who cares about him. 

The sun is setting by the time his tears fully dry for the day, and Dream is nowhere in sight. Nightmare is glad about that for once since he doesn't want to explain the tracks on his face or the emotions he's emitting. Is too tired to.

… He doesn't think he'll be able to sleep tonight, despite the exhaustion he feels. He tilts his skull and brushes his fingers against the cover of the book. At least he has something to read, and enough light to do so thanks to the full moon.

It's one night of many. Nightmare manages not to be too sad at the thought of more to come like it.

Chapter Text

Undyne's skull throbs with every breath, a constant pounding against her head that started soon after she took this damned position. Her anger simmers in her chest, accompanying her every step, along with the smallest amount of helplessness. 

(She's not used to feeling helpless. It lingers like poison on her tongue, eroding a little bit of her mind day by day. But she is helpless, can do nothing to fix monsterkinds issues this time.)

Being the queen is very different and very similar to being the captain of the royal guard. She's used to giving instructions, allocating resources where they’re needed, but she's not used to those being the only things she can do. Not to mention, she usually goes ahead with what the top brass asks of her and fulfils it to her best efforts.

(Thinking of Asgore still makes her SOUL throb, makes her hate at humanity flare.)

… Undyne didn't have to think too much about the resources in the past. The core made it an unnecessary worry, but something is wrong, and the hunger clawing at her stomach, etched into her subjects (it's still a weird thought, even now) faces and sunken cheeks, works to remind her of that with every breath she takes.

Somedays, even she finds it hard to move, to think, wants to storm into the royal warehouse and devour anything edible she can find. She doesn't, only because her mind, her self-discipline, still remains.

(She doesn't know how long it'll last.)

She convinces herself that hunger is the reason she snapped at her previous crush, face twisted into an ugly snarl and voice a roar, each word like razors flying from her tongue. Convinces herself it's the reason she doesn't feel immediately guilty about the way Alphys shrinks into herself, eyes wide and shoulders hunched.

“YOU'LL HAVE TO TRY HARDER THAN THIS!”

Her voice echoes along the walls, transforming into something that makes even herself afraid for a split-second, and she turns away from Alphys's tears, shame crawling down her spine the moment the echo fades.

Undyne doesn't mean to be cruel, she never does with her people, but she's just… tired. And angry, and helpless, and she doesn't know how to deal with anything anymore. And that scares her.

Undyne is terrified.

(She always did have a terrible habit of taking it out on her surroundings when she gets overwhelmed. The collateral usually isn't others, especially those she cares about.)

“I'm s-sorry.”

Alphys's voice crack finally brings guilt to her SOUL, a wince coming to her face. Her words are even quieter than they usually are, a bit nasally from her tears.

Undyne braces herself and turns around, at least willing to face the consequences of this action.

“No, it's okay Alph’, it's just… are you sure there isn't anything else you can do?”

(Anything Undyne can do?)

Alphys looks vaguely guilty as she fidgets, gaze fixed on the floor, stance hesitant. Undyne knows that look, knows that she's contemplating something, and feels hope bloom in her SOUL. Her breath is held till the royal scientists voice sounds.

“Th-there might-t be a way…”

Undyne's hope chokes her, and she knows- no matter what the next words coming out of Alphys's mouth are, she'll do it. Her duty, a brand upon her head that sings and burns, demands she does.

Chapter Text

“How ya doin, royal scientist?”

The question is teasing, half curiosity and half mischief, stretching Sans's smile wider. Alphys can't help but frown, rolling her eyes at her friend. It didn't take him too long to get comfortable in her new lab, unlike her, splayed out as he is on the couch that came with it.

It still feels surreal. She hadn't expected to actually get the position despite hoping for it, and it feels like a dream come true.

(She feels a bit like a scammer.)

Alphys shakes her head, trying to physically dislodge the thought. Her clawed fingers gouge into the cardboard box she's holding. With a wince, she quickly sets it down next to two others. The boxes are mostly filled with miscellaneous stuff, save for one or two. She hadn't intended on initially bringing them. They were supposed to stay at her home, but the longer she thought about it, the more unlikely it was for her to be sleeping there most days.

She can't help it! She just gets a bit too focused on her projects sometimes, and maybe loses track of time a bit. Regardless, the lab isn't that bad of a place to move to! The view outside is great, unlike her home, with passing novas and a very distant black hole. 

Fidgeting with her glasses, she tries to distract herself from her doubts as she turns to face Sans. Her face is deadpan as she walks to the couch.

“It feels weird being called that, especially by you.”

“Awww. Should I be flattered?”

He bats his bonelids at her, and she's unwittingly reminded of the time he had badly drawn eyelashes on them and did the exact same thing. It's the only reason she snorts as she shoves his feet away so she can sit as well. It only causes him to flip so he's lying on his back and laying his feet in her lap. She doesn't bother removing them this time, used to the motion.

A bit lost, she stares at the stretch of space outside before dragging her gaze to wander around the lab. It's a plain place, hardly any colour or personality to it that's indicative of the previous scientist. The head royal scientist has the privilege of getting an entire building to themselves, with their choice of assistants should the monsters accept. All the others are in a separate shared one.

Supposedly, it's because the head scientist deals with bigger projects and needs the silent, isolated space to concentrate and for confidentiality. Alphys thinks it'll be a lonely experience.

“You sure you d-don't wanna be my assistant? I-i'm sure it'll be more fun than being a s-sentry.”

A strained smile on her face, Alphys glances at Sans to see his reaction. There's something off about it, contemplative and maybe a bit worried, leaving her feeling a bit embarrassed and resisting a wince. It's gone a split-second afterwards, but it lingers in her overthinking mind.

He waves one of the hands that had been previously cushioning the back of his skull, navy mittens catching the light.

“Nah, I'm sure you've got it. I know it sounds impossible, but there's no need to be so star-tled or pressure-d. You're in your element.”

She actually feels a little better till the emphasised words register in her mind. She deadpans. It's easy to guess where the first ones inspiration came from, and he's undoubtedly noticed the half unrolled poster of the periodic table on the desk to her left.

“Really?”

Sans, the bastard, gives her a cheeky wink and an unrepentant grin. “Sirius-ly.”

Despite herself, she feels a mirroring grin grow on her face. She covers her face with her hands and shakes her head, but it doesn't fool a laughing Sans.

Trying to escape the puns, she grasps at any question running through her mind.

“Hey Sans? You knew the old head scientist, right?”

Alphys struggles to remember their name, but it doesn't take her long to give up. When the silence stretches so long she thinks he fell asleep (somehow, in a matter of seconds, again) she uncovers her face and looks at him in confusion. 

There's an unreadable expression on his face. Something that's a little sad, she thinks. 

(As lost as she felt earlier, as she still does now.)

Feeling a bit like she's stepped on an unseen landmine, she grasps for other topics, internally reeling. 

“Areyouhungry?”

The words are squeaked out, rushed together, and she feels an embarrassed flush rise to her cheeks. Still, it's worth it as the expression fades from Sans face. Alphys doesn't mention the previous scientist again despite her lingering curiosity. Something in her knows that he's related to Sans somehow, despite no memory supporting that fact. But, she cares too much about her friend to press on a clearly sore topic, content to wait till he's willing to tell her about it, if ever.

For now, she's more than happy to argue about what restaurant they should go with.