This is a fluffy little thing that takes place about seven years before "Shield Against the Dark," and it explains what some people pointed out as a discrepancy in SAtD. It actually was intentional, I just didn't have anywhere to put the explanation so it fit. So here it is. And what was supposed to be a one-off has now become a series. There's a fairly large post-SAtD story in the planning stages right now, because this game won't let me go. I'm calling the series "Under Shield" for now, because that's kind of the thread that ties all three together.

The winters Above could be wonderful in ways you hadn't ever imagined, but you forget sometimes how bitter they can be, too. On days like this, you almost miss the gentle chill of Snowdin. Shivering, you make your way up the path, and the crunch of the snow beneath your feet echoes throughout the skeletal plants in the garden. Some of the other kids at school find the twisting branches a little creepy without their covering of leaves and flowers, but you've always found them warm and comforting.

You shift the box beneath your arm, holding it a little more tightly as you reach for the knob with your free hand. The door isn't locked; it never is. Anybody who came to the house meaning harm wouldn't be able to get past the garden, and anybody who needs help or a friend is always welcome inside. You've never actually talked about it with Mom. It's just one of those things you just seem to understand these days. The fact that you wish Undyne and Alphys had come in with you after your shopping trip isn't because you're worried about coming home alone. It's because you're still upset about what happened at the embassy earlier, and you wish you could let them deal with it for you.

But you're the ambassador, even if people have been calling you too young and too irresponsible for the job over the three years since you left the Underground. You can't let other people do the hard things for you. If you do, you'll just be proving that being mean gets people what they want. You saved the future of humans and monsters when you were eight; you can handle this. Taking a breath, you open the door.

Warm air scented with cinnamon swirls around you, practically dragging you inside. You can't help but smile as you shrug your way out of your coat, hanging it carefully with your holey scarf and placing your boots neatly underneath, careful not to drip melting snow on the nice clean floor. Mom wouldn't appreciate coming home from school to find the house full of puddles. You pick up the box again and pad quietly into the house, your sock feet only a little slippery on the cool, polished wood.

You weren't even sure he'd be here - it's not technically his house, after all - but you find him in the living room, slouched on the couch. Mettaton's latest show is on, but Sans is barely paying attention, watching like he's not really seeing. Indecision freezes you in the doorway, and you bite your lip as you stare at your mercurial big brother, trying to figure out what to say.

"hey kid." He hasn't moved his head, but you're not surprised he knows you're there. You move farther into the room, still unsure of your welcome. He turns to face you, finally, but whatever he's about to say falters as he catches sight of the expression on your face. "aww, c'mon buddy. don't look at me like that. here." He shifts over, and you climb up next to him. Normally, this would be the part where you curl up against him and watch TV until Toriel comes home and scolds you for not doing your homework, but instead you just tuck the box between yourself and the arm of the couch, and then fold your hands in your lap. Sans sighs and leans back against the cushions, tipping his head to gaze at the ceiling. "sorry if I scared you, kiddo. i'm not mad at you."

You should have known that, really. But things have been strange between the two of you ever since… since…

You skip down the path, laughing as the leaves skirl away beneath your feet. Glancing over your shoulder, you see that Sans still hasn't left the bench. Silly, lazy skeleton. You're pretty sure he'll catch up eventually, even if he keeps protesting that he's too tired to ever leave the bench again. He's a tiny, distant figure now, and you're a little surprised that he hasn't come after you yet, but you walked a lot longer through the Underground, and you're not tired at all. There's so much space here, and sometimes you just want to run forever.

Turning back to the path, you skid to a halt, your laughter ending in a gasp. You didn't hear the man now standing before you, blocking the path, and he's looking at you in a way that makes you step back without really understanding why, leaves crunching beneath you as you move.

"Hello," you say, holding out your hand politely. "I'm Frisk."

"I know," he says, and his voice is strange. Hollow, somehow. It reminds you of… of something. He puts his hand in his pocket and takes a step toward you.

Between one blink and the next, Sans is between you and the strange man. Leaning to one side, you peek around him, and see that the stranger's face has gone white. Sans turns his head toward you, and you start, taking a step away. You've never seen his eye glow like that before.

"hey kiddo, i need you to get back to the house, okay?" His voice settles some of the unease you're feeling. His eye may be strange, but his voice is still as friendly and easygoing as ever. "fnd tori and tell her it's getting cold, so she oughtta make chilli tonight."

You roll your eyes, but before you can say anything, the leave scrunch as the stranger shifts on the path. A second later, a ring of bones erupts around him in a spray of rocks and dirt, and the man drops to his knees with a cry, covering his head with his hands. A slow, steady rain of bright leaves begins to fall from the trees around you.

"hold up, bucko, you can't leaf now. I need to be aspen you some questions."

You reach out a tentative hand, but Sans gently pushes it back down. Taking you by the shoulders, he turns you around and shoves you lightly down the path. "better hurry if you're gonna beat tori home. go on, frisk. i'll be right behind you." You look back, uncertain, and he winks his left eye. "i know a shortcut."

Without waiting any longer, you turn and run down the path as Sans' voice drifts after you, and you shiver in the sudden chill. "...so you think you can patella our ambassador what to do? that's pretty humerus. But I've got a bone to pick with you . . ."

The memory clings like spider webs, and by the time you shake it off, Sans is staring at you. You look down at your hands, folded in your lap. You know he's not mad at you, not really. But it's not often that you see him angry - or anything other than warm and funny - and he was definitely mad today.

A lot of the humans at the embassy were never really comfortable with the way he hung around the place, setting up a coffee cart in the lobby despite their insistence that he needed a permit, or walking into top-secret negotiations with a tour group in tow. After that… that day in the park, it had only gotten worse. You may be a kid, but you're not blind, and you knew they wanted him out. But what they'd tried today was so stupid, you couldn't believe it had actually worked. There weren't technically any rules on the embassy books about coffee carts or tours, but they finally found one they could use. An obscure rule about shirts and shoes, or something. Even then, you still couldn't believe it actually worked until you were watching Sans walk away. He was grinning - he was always grinning - but there was a fury in his eyes that frightened you deeply, and you'd been too shocked to say anything until he was already gone. Now, you wonder if he thinks that meant you didn't care. Or worse, that you agreed with them.

"frisk?"

You jump, and have to catch the box before it slides off the couch. Sans tilts his head at you and tries hard to look like he didn't notice your reaction. Or that he wasn't hurt by it. He almost manages it, too. "whaddya got there?"

Sheepishly, you pull the box out and show it to him. He stares at it in confusion for a minute before something pained flickers across his face. He masks it quickly behind his ever-present grin, but you've had too much practice reading expressions on a skull that never changes to be fooled.

"it's a nice thought, kid. but like i told those yahoos…" Leaning back with his hands laced behind his head, he lifts his feet to rest on the stool in front of the couch, waggling his pink slippers at you. "...my dogs are barking and i'm not giving up my comfy tootsies for anyone."

Biting your lip, you just slide the cover off the shoebox. He's about to protest again, you can tell, but you push the sneakers insistently toward him, turning the box so that the side is visible. As he takes in the words written there, his protest stalls, and he blinks in disbelief.

Hush Puppies.

A strangled sound bubbles up in his throat, growing louder until it bursts free, and he throws himself back against the couch, howling with laughter. You've never been able to resist it, and before long, you're joining in, tears running down your face.

"aww, kid. how can i say no to something that brilliant?" Shaking his head, he tugs off his slippers, tossing them into your lap, and laces the sneakers onto his feet. "whaddya think?"

Finally, you know what to say to him. "I think they make you look like a cool dude."

"pssh. i always look cool," he says, but he beams at you, and you smile back, shedding the tension that had stretched between you like casting off a heavy coat. Without that unease gnawing at you, you can finally feel other things again. Things like the squishiness of the couch, and the little drafts that always manage to sneak through the house in the wintertime, like they're lonely being left outside. You shiver a little, and Sans plucks the slippers from your lap to push them firmly onto your feet. "there. now you can look as cool as me."

It's all the invitation you need. Tossing the empty box to the floor, you curl up next to him. As you bury your head against his jacket and cling tightly to him, he sighs, and the arm he'd been resting on the back of the couch wraps around your shoulders. You shiver again, and though you're almost certain that he hadn't had it with him when you walked into the room, he hands you a steaming cup of cocoa. You free one of your hands to take it from him, and the warmth of its rich sweetness runs through you and chases the chill away.

"you really want me back there that bad, huh?"

It's not that you don't feel safe at the embassy. Between Mom and Dad and Undyne and Alphys, someone you trust is always with you. Papyrus, too, that goes without saying, though Undyne makes sure he never has to deal with anything too serious. She thinks human politics would just make him sad. But all of them have other responsibilities outside the embassy, and just like you have to balance your time between the embassy and school, they divide their embassy time up in shifts between them. Sans is the only one who's always just… there. Even when he's supposed to be doing a job somewhere else. When he's there, it never even occurs to you that there might be anything to worry about. You honestly like the work that you do, even when it's hard, but when Sans is around, you have fun with it. It's still hard, but it doesn't feel like work.

"Yeah." You look up at him, resting your chin on his shoulder. "I really do."

His resolution crumbles beneath your stare, and he groans. "sheesh, put those things away, kid. that is weapons-grade adorable." A bony hand covers your eyes, making you giggle, and Sans heaves a resigned sigh. "all right, all right, you win. i'll come back to work. but first we're gonna do some stuff that i wanna do." His arm tightens around you, and the hair on your arms begins to prickle. "hold on a sec."

Something deep within you shifts, a sharp tug behind your navel, and a frigid blast swoops in to replace the warmth of the house. Sans' hand lifts from your eyes, and a rich orange glow replaces the dark. He's done stuff like this often enough that you're not even startled to find that you're not on the couch anymore, but perched on a branch with a hundred feet between you and the snow, Sans's sneakered feet swinging in the air next to your slippered ones.

Tightening your hold on the cocoa, you scoot over until you're on his lap, his legs between you and the icy bark. Answering your unspoken command with a quiet snort, Sans opens his jacket and hoodie and lets you nestle against his ribcage. Once you're comfortable, he pulls the jacket closed around you, wrapping you in soft fabric that protects you from the cold far better than even the heavy winter coat you left back home. You've never been able to figure that one out, either. With a contented smile, you take another sip of cocoa beneath the shelter of his jacket, no longer feeling the bite of winter at all.

The weight of Sans' chin comes to rest against the top of your head, and the worries that have whispered in your ear since that strange day in the park finally hush as you watch the sun set together.