Frisk crouched. Hunkered. Withered. She rubbed the goose bumps on her arms in an attempt to conceal the fact that she was so very cold.
Sans stood above her, watching, and though he had no eyes, Frisk though that he might see into her very soul.
"You want my jacket, kiddo?"
Kiddo. Frisk was not a kid. She was almost fifteen, though now that she was an adolescent, her weary heart ached to be a child again, when the only things you had to worry about was how much allowance you got, and whether to eat cake or ice cream.
But those days were no more. Now the world had worn her down like an eraser that had been used too much, and her smiles were so very rare.
Frisk stood slowly, like an old woman with creaking limbs, and embraced the skeleton. His metaphorical skin had been torn away by life, and his bones ached a little too often now. He shrugged off his coat, and wrapped it around this pitfall creature, his arms holding it against her.
A single tear fell onto his collar bone, and he thought it might burn like acid.
"Sorry," he whispered. Sans didn't know why he said that. What did he have to apologize for? Yet the words still spilled from his mouth, clumsy and uncertain.
Frisk gave no reply, only hugged him tighter, pulling him closer in the process.
Sans could feel her heart, bruised and broken, yet still beating. And for the hundredth, thousandth, billionth time, he wished he could be warm for this girl with the icy breath, and cold, cold eyes.
