Fransweek '23 - Day 2
Theme: Magic Rating: M Pairing: HT Sans/Frisk TWs: Mentions of Death, Mentions of Murder and Cannibalism Word Count: 2,299
A scenario of Aliza being the one who made Horrortale happen and Frisk being the one to fall after her for @fransweek! Cross posted to Ao3 here.
Sans busied himself scrubbing the mold and debris from the fork in his hands, his cyclopean eye narrowed above a grimace as one single spot refused to wash free.
He'd gone digging through the dump just for shits and giggles, an old twang of nostalgia pushing his legs to entertain what had been a wayward thought, and had just happened upon a nearly intact silverware set, made of the real deal.
Sans' first instinct had been to sell it, maybe use it as a bargaining chip for more of that fake meat Grillby had recently learned to make—rancid stuff, but filling.
But then he'd remembered Frisk's face the other night when they'd been having one of their rare meals; how sullen she had looked at her spoon, so crudely carved from obsidian and chipped all to hell. The way she'd attempted not to sigh in regret as it had snapped in her hand on the downward swing for another spoonful. Papyrus made the silverware, and while they both knew he didn't mind when it broke and was always happy to make more, Frisk could never help not feeling bad over it.
Over their situation.
Sans wasn't a fool, he knew she missed the surface. He missed the surface and he'd never even seen it. So he did his best to try and make her miss it a little less when he could, by finding and bringing her things that could make her new home…feel like home. And if a stained and disgustingly fungus encrusted silverware set could make the last ten years even easier for her every time they managed to eat then so be it. Papyrus would probably appreciate it too; his brother always had a want for the finer things in life, especially a penchant towards human made goods.
Sans had had the same interest long ago…
He huffed and snarled as the spot still refused to come free. Sans was on the verge of throwing the cursed thing out the window when he heard telltale footsteps echo off the worn tiles behind him.
He'd hoped he could've gotten the things clean before she woke up, but he rarely got the things he wanted anyways. He forced his anger behind a mask of apathy as he dropped the fork and moved onto a butter knife.
Frisk didn't need to see his rage, she didn't deserve such a sight.
"Morning." She yawned. Her voice was cutely wobbly and still sleep heavy, it was his favorite sound.
Sans grunted an acknowledgement.
There was a pause, before a soft, delicate tiny hand came intentionally into his line of sight and moved up to rest on his arm. "You didn't sleep again, did you?"
He spared her a glance.
Hair trussed from rest, and eyes just barely open that her golden irises peeked through nearly stole his breath away. How she always looked so good, even as messy as she was, would always be a mystery to him—one that he wasn't honestly complaining about. Sans practically forgot every day how much smaller she was compared to him. It always came as a bit of a shock when he'd have to look down at her rather than up like he was used to with other monsters. It was still hard to believe she was the average human height…
So tiny, so vulnerable.
His frisk.
"nah, got lost on the way home." He grumbled looking back to the sink…silently cursing out the knife as he found yet another stubborn spot!
Frisk's eyes widened as she let out a surprised gasp. "Is that…" her words seemed to die before they could form as she reached in to pluck the previously abandoned fork and marvel at it.
Sans allowed himself a small grin. He knew this was the right decision!
Hopefully…
…he probably should've gotten the fake meat.
Frisk grinned up at him, practically cradling the fork to her chest like precious gold as adoration and love filled her eyes, making them brighter and all the more stunning. "You went to the dump!"
Sans shrugged as he reached over and took the fork back, chuckled at her tiny pout as he dropped it back in the suds with the rest of the utensils.
"tell paps, and i'll eat ya. he would never let me live it down." Frisk rolled her eyes, lips pressed flat to try denying him a smile that only served to give him more satisfaction than it would have otherwise. He loved getting a reaction out of her.
"You wouldn't eat me." She gloated, just as she always did when Sans made the threat. "I'd give you indigestion."
He openly laughed at that.
Sans recalled so vividly how stunned he'd been when they first met. Utterly mystified and enchanted with how her hair swayed in the icy breeze and the slight dip to her chin as she'd hunched in on herself for warmth. He'd been smitten instantly, and knew then what the young girl was to him. Sans hadn't known how to react, what to say or do, but Frisk had spoken for them both.
"P-please don't eat me…"
Sans had raised a brow, perplexed and wondering if Toriel had warned her, when his thoughts had stopped all together.
"I-I'll give you indigestion!" She'd attempted a grin.
The thought of a skeleton getting stomach problems was hilarious!
He had slowly chuckled, and then had broken into a full on cackle as what felt like years of humor and enjoyment slammed him all at once. Taking her in had been really easy, convincing Pap to let her skip the puzzles not so much, but he'd managed. The fact that little declaration still made him laugh was something he cherished, Frisk too if the way she smirked beside him wasn't telling.
Silence lapsed. He was content and took the mold's resistance in a far better stride than he had previously. Frisk's presence was always a balm, sometimes not always, they did have arguments on occasion, but he just couldn't stay cantankerous and petty around her. The spot finally came free and Sans held it up with a wink before setting it in the drying rack. Frisk giggled, and then frowned as Sans shook the ache from his hand and went back to the fork.
"Sans?"
"hm?"
"I've noticed Papyrus usually gets everything clean really quickly, inhumanly fast, and I asked him about it."
Sans made another sound to show he was listening, counted the bubbles that sprang up and popped between his phalanges.
"He said he uses magic to help him."
He froze. Didn't look at her. Stared as a bubble spontaneously grew between his middle and pointer, and popped, spraying suds over his metacarpals.
"Why don't you use it?"
Sans didn't say anything, stayed quiet.
"It'd probably be easier on your joints…" She mumbled, uncertainty coating her words as he felt her move a touch closer to him.
It took him a second, but Sans started scrubbing again, slowly and then resumed his normal pace.
"i do use it."
Frisk frowned.
"I don't think I've ever seen you use magic. The whole time I've been down here."
That was because Sans didn't trust himself to use it. It had become twisted, so full of rancor and spite that it automatically geared towards harm and injury when used. He was still so full of rancor and spite, bitterness and bile a constant flavor in the back of his throat. The last thing he wanted to do was take the risk by using his magic with his soulmate around.
Sans was so paranoid about it even three years into their marriage he hadn't consummated the relationship, hadn't gone further than a chaste kiss even when Frisk would try for more.
She started to believe he was incapable of certain things because he was a 'skeleton', and he went on letting her believe that for her safety.
He was dangerous.
There was an ugly truth they were dancing around.
"i use it at work." He answered.
"Work?"
Anger flooded him, and he couldn't control the glare he shot at her as his eye flared red.
The fork creaked in his hand. "...you know what i do."
Frisk flinched away from him.
And Sans was instantly overcome with so much guilt.
He dropped what he was doing and reached for her, gently gripped her shoulders and tenderly guided her into his chest. Frisk didn't resist, shook maybe for a moment, but went willingly into his arms. Sans held her and breathed deep of the scent of her hair, willing calmness.
"sorry. i didn't mean to do that."
Frisk was quiet. So still.
He didn't dare breathe until he felt her arms lift and come around him to return the embrace. "It's okay. I know you hate discussing work. I wasn't thinking."
It was times like these where Sans wondered if his soul was rotten. He should contradict her, tell her she shouldn't apologize because really, she shouldn't. He wasn't owed that nor did he deserve it.
Sans still killed humans just to spite Undyne. He hadn't stopped.
Despite marrying one.
And Frisk didn't know—
He couldn't bring himself to tell her.
It was so much easier to let her believe he did what he did to simply keep the villagers from starving. To be seen as selfless rather than the demon he'd become. Sans could have easily been harvesting the souls of the victims, he had the jars for it in his lab. They could've all been freed ten times over by the time Frisk had fallen.
But then Undyne would've been freed too.
And now, it was too late to set a different course. Despite knowing that Frisk would so easily convince him to try anyways if she found out, and Sans also knew he'd buckle if she asked. There wasn't a thing he would deny her if he was able, he never could. But since Frisk, two had fallen, only two, in ten years. Maybe the humans had finally wizened up to how dangerous the mountain was with all the disappearances through the years and had sealed it off, who knew?
Truth of the matter was…his wife would die down here, as a consequence of his actions, his vengeance.
They all would.
Sans had too many sins on his back.
He ran a comforting hand along her spine, ignoring how he soaked the fabric as he eyed the clean butter knife. Taking a step back he looked down at her seriously. "stay right here. don't move."
Frisk blinked in confusion but obeyed as he went to stand in front of the drying rack.
Sans closed his sockets and took a deep breath before snapping them open and staring.
The knife vibrated.
Frisk gasped.
He felt sweat gather on his brow as he focused on the sensation of floating, pictured space and the lack of gravity lifting upward and out. Willed his magic to be calm, gentle. The strength it took just to imagine being kind to the target made his bones ache.
The butter knife began to glow, a faint billowing cloud of red surrounding it, and shakily it lifted into the air.
Frisk covered her mouth in awe as it turned sideways, and began to fly around the room like a bird in swirling loops and spinning twists. Sans grinned as he heard her start to laugh but didn't dare to take his focus off of the knife. It had been so long since he'd used his magic so innocently, it felt odd, foreign. A muscle that hadn't been stretched being forced to endure a sprint.
It was worth it to see the wonder in Frisk's eyes. Sans hadn't seen that look since she was younger. Back when she found the silver lining in every desolate moment and came out with a playful joke or positive comment.
She rarely did that anymore.
Eventually he felt him reach his limit, the knife tilted and shuddered as the gentleness he'd been trying to hold onto began to turn sour and guarded. Sans felt his magic run thin, used to single violent bursts it was no longer used to how long he was utilizing it. Trying to remain calm he guided it back to the rack intending to slide it gently back into place, but jumped instead as it viciously stabbed down and impaled itself in the middle of it.
Awkwardly, he glanced at Frisk expecting to see horror and unease.
She was grinning at him, ear to ear and with tears in her eyes. "That was amazing!"
Sans' sockets widened.
"You are really gifted Sans. I wish I was so lucky. It flew like a bird! Oh my god!" He could only watch as she ranted and raved about how impressed she was, how she loved what she saw, and how beautiful she thought his magic was.
It was merciless, cruel, something to be feared as he himself didn't know to what limits it could go. His magic was just as dark and ugly as he'd become.
Yet she praised it.
Frisk was so kind and thoughtful.
An angel.
Sans loved her, he really truly did.
Just as when he'd been compelled to visit the dump his legs were moving again, and he was embracing her before he could think. One arm around her waist and the other across her back with a hand cupping the back of her head, he pressed his face into the crook of her neck.
Frisk instantly hugged him back, so full of care and concern. "Sans? Are you crying?"
He pretended he wasn't.
"...i love you."
"I love you too, magic and all." She whispered with a kiss to his skull.
Sans didn't deserve her.
