Did somebody say 'weird, twisted Sans and Frisk codependency fic with angst and slight PTSD thrown in'? Wait, nobody did? Oh, oops…
Anyway, this was pretty much inspired by Draikinator's amazing fics (go read them, they're a much better writer than I am) and it's a bit messed up. Frisk uses ASL in this fic and is selectively mute as well as non-binary. Please tell me how I can improve my writing. I'm only really a beginner and I need all the feedback I can get.
Quote of the day (which was also kind of an inspiration for this story):
"'Nothing ever goes the way you planned', as an Earth pop band called Modern Romance once put it. But they also said 'ay ay ay moosey', so we can't regard them as having a coherent philosophical position." ~Bernice Summerfield
Chapter One
The human steps out from behind the door without a hint of caution, takes a short look around, and continues walking, even as you watch. Their expression is carefully blank, and their eyes are too deep in shadow for you to read any expression on their face. It looks like they haven't slept for a week.
They don't seem to hear the soft crunching of your footsteps in the freshly fallen snow, and when you come up behind them to begin your spiel; they turn around and shake your hand without even being prompted. The whoopee cushion goes off, the sound flat and unamusing, but they don't even react.
They blink placidly at you, and you hurry on with talking to them. It's really disturbing, actually, their lack of reaction. Even more disturbing is the fact that their striped shirt and hands seem to be covered in a thin grey dust. You try to dismiss it as nothing. The Ruins are probably pretty dirty behind that door. The fact that there's dust all over them doesn't mean that they, well, killed anyone.
You really should've known better.
The text comes in a few hours after midnight, and the buzz that your phone makes when it receives it is enough to wake you up out of the dark, blissful realms of drunken sleep. You're not generally a very heavy sleeper, so it doesn't bother you unduly, but you still lie in the tangled sheets of your bed for a few minutes before sitting up, internally debating if you should pick it up or leave it until morning.
The phone buzzes again, as if in response to your thoughts. Maybe it's just your imagination, but it sounds slightly more urgent. With a sigh that rattles your teeth, you sweep your phone off the side table so it bounces and lies face-up on the mattress. Your fingers slide over the lock screen and the display lights up instantly- you're far too lazy to actually put a password onto it- and with seconds, a message blinks lazily on the screen. The sender is labelled as 'Frisk', which doesn't really surprise you, but you really wish that they could've waited until tomorrow or something. Another tap. Message opens. You have to tilt your head to actually read it, and when it becomes visible, it takes another moment to process.
Ah, hangovers. You gotta love them.
- Come pick me up
- Please?
The message reeks of desperation, and you almost cringe. You tap for the keypad, and type out a quick reply.
* can't you take a taxi or something?
A few moments later, the reply comes, and you stare at it as the phone rattles in your grip.
- No.
And they leave it at that, like that's some kind of response that makes sense and will end any oncoming argument. Maybe it is, since all you do is sigh, sit up in bed, and begin fumbling for your jacket with one hand while still typing with the other.
* where are you?
You hit send, and it takes both hands to slip your comfortingly puffy blue jacket over your shoulders, so you put the phone down on the side table, and do that. You snatch up your motorcycle's keys, tucking them into the pocket and half-zipping it up. One of your shoes is under the bed and the other is lying on the third shelf of the bookcase that Papyrus helped set up- mostly you just sat to the side and made bad puns in the process- so you distract yourself with finding them and putting them on for a moment. While you're at it, the phone buzzes again. You lean over, scanning the screen. There's a short, concise description there that shouldn't take too much effort to find. You throw one last, longing look at your bed before opening the door- it creaks a bit- and padding quietly down the stairs towards the front door.
Your motorcycle is parked outside, leaning between the side of the garage and the large red sports car that takes up most of the space. The car is polished and well-looked after, while your small blue bike is slightly more dirty and scuffed. But it works well for you, and can reach speeds that are actually quite impressive. Better yet, you can take shortcuts with it, which is handy when you're running late for anything at all. Or if you need to go pick up a friend.
You pull the key out of your pocket, and start the engine up, swinging yourself onto the seat. For a second you just sit there, staring blankly at the roof as the motorcycle idles and you just think- about all sorts of things. How you got to this point. Why you got to this point. Why you're currently about to head off at the crack of dawn to pick up the kid who saved all of monsterkind. Hell, now that you actually think about it, you don't quite even know why yourself. You kick off the ground, and motor out of the driveway and onto the road. Gravel hisses and spits beneath the tyres until you speed up, and then you barely notice the noise anymore.
It's the work of moments to find an appropriate shortcut to get you halfway across town and towards Mount Ebott. You take a right turn through the fourth and fifth dimensions, ignoring the uncomfortable twisting feeling that it brings in your skull- you're more than used to that sort of thing by now. Your phone buzzes furiously, shaking against your ribcage, and you slow down enough for your hand to slip down to pull it up to eyesight.
- Are you coming?
With a sudden dip of guilt, you realize that you never wrote back after the last message. It's too shaky on the gravel road where you currently are to compose anything too lengthy, but you can type three letters and hit 'send' without too much hassle.
* yep
The phone seems appeased by that, so you tuck it away again, and concentrate on steering. A building is visible in the distance- a bus stop, faintly green-and-white against the darkness. The dim, hesitant light of a street lamp is shining onto it, and there's a figure huddled on the seat. That's the place, then. It doesn't look as if any buses will be coming- at least not any time soon, so it's safe to assume that the rather bedraggled-looking human is Frisk.
You cheat a bit, and take another shortcut so you don't have to go all the way up the hill, and it hardly gives you a headache at all this time. You swerve and screech to an undignified halt next to the bus stop, sending dirt scattering. It's not your usual sort of entrance- you're normally much more subdued than this. Well, never mind that.
Frisk is still sitting in the same position that you first saw them in, but they uncurl a tiny bit at your approach, and stare out at you with shadowed eyes. They're wearing their old striped shirt, which they've had for years and is far, far too small for them. It has suspicious-looking stains and rips and tears all over it, but they've got it wrapped so tightly around them that it looks like it's the most comfy thing that they've ever worn. Comfort clothes, you guess. You can relate.
Their hands shoot out and move rapidly in short motions. You're drunk.
"so are you," you reply, having already seen the telltale marks- the slurring of motions between the signed words; the slight glassiness to their eyes.
Their hands move again, quite irritably. How do skeletons manage to get drunk, anyway? The sharp downwards gesture that accompanies the word 'skeleton' is done sharply and almost jeeringly. It matches the scowl on their face. You consider the question carefully.
"magic," you say dryly, and sign the word for emphasis- a twirl of both the hands that ends in all the fingers splayed out, palms downwards. They laugh aloud, but it's a sharp, jeering sound that dwindles away quickly into nothing. They stare off into the horizon, where the faintest sliver of sunlight is appearing, and their face goes blank. You shrug and remove the key from the ignition of your motorcycle, leaning it against the corrugated aluminium of the bus shelter. For a moment, you stand and look in the same direction as them, and note the brilliant rays of gold and orange that are spiralling through the sky, turning it pale pink. The perfect, Hallmark-esque image is streaked through with clouds trailing wistfully through the cacophony of color. They're dyed red. Blood red.
You drag your gaze from it, and go to sit next to Frisk on the bench, which creaks at the extra weight. It was only really designed for one person. They scoot away from you, and press themselves up against the opposite side of it.
"what was it this time?" you ask mildly, and they take their time in responding. Their hands rise, and lower, and come up again.
Humans are stupid, they sign eventually, the childish phrasing coming through even in the three words. They sigh out huffily. It's like normal racism, but worse. There's been a series of attacks targeted at monsters especially and nobody does anything. Three T-E-M-M-I-E-S were killed in the last one.
"oh," you say, because you hadn't heard about that. "guess being ambassador's hard work."
Like you'd know, they sign tightly in your direction. All you do is hang around in bars nowadays. A pause. What was it this time?
You fold your arms, and are silent. They make a dismissive, wordless gesture in your direction before continuing. Or didn't you have a reason?
"i always have a reason, kid."
Hands in motion again. Don't call me K-I-D. The last words are spelled out for emphasis. I haven't been one for a long time.
"yeah, we all know you're twenty one and independent," you say, and you would roll your eyes if you actually had any. "that doesn't stop anyone from caring about you. no one's seen you for days and tori's worried sick."
I'm fine, they sign, and turn away, burying their face against their too-tight jumper.
"liar."
"You are too," they mutter aloud, and the faint sound of their voice, so very rarely used, nearly surprises you. Just nearly. They shift a bit closer to you.
"everyone is, kid," you reply, and they glare at you before closing their eyes.
Go away, Sans, they sign tiredly. Your name is a sort of stiff swirl of their hands that ends with them crooking their fingers outwards.
"thought you wanted me to pick you up."
I can get home fine.
"then why did you text me?"
They don't respond, and they pull out their phone. You watch as they open up a game of Angry Birds, and settle into playing it with much more intensity than is actually needed. Their fingers dart across the screen, plucking and tapping so fast that they become a blur. With one hand, they sign go away again, flipping it away from their face in a quick and irritated fashion.
The sunlight's breaking forth from behind horizon and the color-tinted clouds, and it's casting shadows across Frisk's face. You watch them for a minute or two, and then turn to walk to your motorbike.
"frisk," you say, and a slight tilt of their head is the only indication that they're listening. "just remember, uh, we're all here for you. if you need us."
They place their phone down on the seat next to them, and their hands flit quickly up. I don't.
You sigh. "that's fine, but, kid… just humerus for a bit, please?"
As you turn away again, and slot the key into the ignition, you just barely see a slight smile drift over their face.