I am so sorry for this.


You lose track of time.

Curled under the desk in the room where your blind running brought you, you try to make yourself as small as possible in the hopes that eventually you'll be able to disappear entirely. Your eyes are stinging either from tears or dust, you're not sure which, and everything hurts so badly that you can't tell if your current immobility is the result of a physical incapability to move or the lack of desire to do so, not that it matters either way. Your fingers are white-knuckled around your arms and you can feel the sting of your nails even through the sleeves of your sweater, and though your bruises are screaming and you think distantly that you might be crying, you can't bring yourself to let go or to react at all, not right now, not when everything hurts like this. The pain might be all that's grounding you or it might be making everything worse, but the truth is, you don't care. You need something, someone, but nobody's here except for you and nobody ever has been and maybe it's better that way, because the last thing you need is for anybody to see you like this.

As your fingers crush into the mottled purple that makes up your arm, you wince sharply and it turns quickly into a whimper as the pain brings back the memory of your father all but throwing you to the ground. You are not my fault, he'd screamed, and you think now that he was right, that you're not his fault or anybody's fault except your own. You create your own misery and dig your own graves and paint your own bruises with all the things you do wrong and the problems you create for yourself, for everybody. Everything you do gets in somebody else's way, hurts them when it should hurt you. Your father may not be much, but you know he's been trying despite the odds, and you always just push him further, push everybody further with your shyness and your naive pacifism and your insistence that you're not Francis, and now you've started a fight with the monsters and probably made all of them worry or worse, made them realise that you're not good enough to be their ambassador and now they won't want you either and it's all your fault and-

The door opens, and you flinch, retreating further into yourself as you try to curl up tighter and wind up bumping your elbow hard on the underside of the desk. Your breath hitches momentarily with the renewed pain, and you close your eyes tighter in an attempt keep the tears locked inside where they belong.

The door shuts quietly, carefully, as if whoever is closing it knows that you're in a state of panic and is going out of their way to avoid making it worse. Even their footsteps are careful as they walk into the room, the movements punctuated by the soft whisper of shifting metal.

"Frisk?" Mettaton's voice is quiet, and you hear an unfamiliar undertone of concern to it that makes you flinch. He shouldn't be concerned. None of them should be. You curl up tighter into yourself as the metal shifts again. "Darling?" he asks, and when you don't respond, he sighs softly, sounding sad. "It may not seem like it, but I still have my ghost senses, beautiful. I know you're in here." You bite your lip hard to repress the growing urge to cry, and when the silence continues too long, Mettaton walks over to the desk where you're hiding. You can just see where his legs are preparing to bend as he crouches down before you rip your gaze away and bury your face in your arms.

You can tell the exact moment he sees you, because you hear the quiet intake of breath and the concern in his tone. "Frisk..." he begins. You don't respond, and he reaches out to you, metallic fingers just brushing against your arm before you jerk away from them and wind up slamming your arm into the back of the desk hard enough to make you gasp a bit in pain. You hear the metal shifting as he moves the hand away, and you flinch at the sound of his voice, at the selfless concern laced through it and the way it's far more even and patient than you probably deserve. "It's just me, darling. You don't need to worry. Can you let me see those gorgeous eyes of yours?"

You shake your head violently, instantly. "No," you manage, "no, I can't-" The lump in your throat cuts you off, and you're choking.

"Then I won't make you," he concedes immediately, and a wave of gratitude washes over you, followed shortly by a wave of guilt as you bite your lip hard against the feeling. You can't see Mettaton's face, but you can feel him watching you as he leaves his crouch for a more comfortable position, leaning against the desk in a manner that keeps you aware of his presence without ever making you feel trapped. It's the kind of casual consideration you never were exposed to at home and never quite got used to in the underground, and the stinging at the back of your eyes intensifies.

After a few minutes of silence, he speaks. "Toriel told us what happened," he says gently, and his tone bears no hint of accusation. Instead, it's understanding, sympathetic. "Living in the wrong form isn't much fun, is it?"

Oh.

"I'm sorry," you say immediately, though you're not quite sure why. Sorry doesn't fix anything, and it doesn't change anything either. Your father's always said it's a worthless word, that it's not an answer, that it means nothing, and you think he's probably right.

Though your sleeves muffle the apology considerably, it's clear that Mettaton is still able to make it out, or at least the sentiment. His voice rings of surprise that would probably be comforting if you weren't so wrapped up in how much you don't deserve it. "Whatever for, darling?" he asks, and you don't meet his eyes.

Instead, you shrug as much as you can with how tightly you've tied yourself together, your eyes clamped shut. "Everything," you admit. "I shouldn't have- I didn't-" You pause, shaking your head and compacting yourself together even more, though at this point you don't really think you can become any smaller without breaking something. "I'm sorry," you say again, and you mean it. If only you weren't such a handful, he wouldn't have to be worried, but no, you hadn't even been able to die successfully. For some reason, you'd kept fighting again and again for one more chance to live and save everybody, and now here you are, dragging them all down. The irony burns.

"You've got nothing to be sorry for, beautiful," Mettaton assures you, interrupting your thoughts with a shocking certainty in his voice. "If anybody should be sorry, it's that Elizabeth woman. Honestly, one would think that a political position would hire someone with more tact, but I suppose as a secretary, that becomes optional." You hear him sigh in what sounds like resignation before his voice picks up again with the same unshakable faith as before. "It wasn't your fault."

You shake your head, unable to make yourself believe it. Of course it's your fault. Somehow or another, everything is. "I should have just stayed quiet," you mumble into your arms. "Then none of this would have happened."

Mettaton sighs again, still sympathetic. "Darling, I'm afraid my ability to translate through sweaters is somewhat sub-par, so I'm not entirely sure what you're saying, but I'm going to guess, and you can correct me if I'm wrong." There's somewhat of a rueful smile in his voice when he continues. "There's nothing wrong with standing up for yourself."

"But I messed everything up," you insist miserably, moving your face out of your sweater and shaking your head. Your face is toward the back of the desk and the lump in your throat is threatening to choke you. "I ruined it."

"You didn't mess up anything, darling," Mettaton disagrees. "Everything is as it was before, no setbacks at all. Everybody just wants to make sure you're alright before we try to keep moving. If you hadn't noticed, you're somewhat instrumental in all this."

You don't believe it for a second. "But I...If I could just..." Your voice trails off.

"Frisk, darling, can I ask you something?" You're temporarily surprised by Mettaton's request and the gentleness in his voice, but you nod, making a small noise of affirmation. "Who are you?"

You blink at the question, shaking your head. "I..."

"Don't think about it," Mettaton urges you. "Just answer. If we're not talking about paperwork or anything else, who are you?"

You bite your lip, closing your eyes and already hating the answer you're about to give, because even if it's true, that doesn't make it any easier to say. "I'm Frisk," you say, voice quiet.

"Exactly, beautiful," Mettaton says, and you can hear the soft smile in his voice. You sniffle a bit, but he continues. "You're Frisk, and you're perfect just as you are. Never apologise for being yourself, darling. Who you are is nothing to be sorry for."

It's the total lack of bitterness in his voice that finally gets you, and the tears that have been stinging the back of your eyes break free, spilling over onto your cheeks with a quiet hitch of breath. You don't deserve this kind of consideration, this kind of forgiveness. You messed up. Mettaton should be angry with you, not comforting you. This isn't right. When you mess up, you get bruises and guilt and hatred-filled silences, not this consoling warmth he's offering. You haven't earned it.

Mettaton hears you crying and he shifts again. "Frisk, darling, look at me. Please."

You don't want to. You know you probably shouldn't, since it will just make him feel bad about making you cry. You do it anyway. Just like you knew he would be, Mettaton is smiling encouragingly, and he holds out a hand to you in a silent pledge of support. "Why don't you come out from under there, darling?"

You take his hand.

There's something gentle in the way he half-leads, half-pulls you from under the desk, wrapping you up in his arms as soon as you're free and not commenting when you cry all over the metal plates that make up his chest. You know that you probably shouldn't be crying, that you should try and put yourself together, that you should be stronger than this, but lying here pressed against Mettaton as he gently pets your head is far too comforting and far too familiar for you to care about what you should be doing. Right or wrong, this feels like safety and it feels like home, and you're thankful that Mettaton isn't like all the human celebrities who would probably care a lot more about six-year-olds crying all over them because you need this right now, more than anything.

It's a long time before you finally nod into his shoulder and pull away, attempting a reassuring smile when Mettaton looks at you even though you're still sniffling a bit. "Better?" he asks, and you nod, prompting him to smile. He nods at your arm. "Is your arm alright? It sounds like you hit it fairly hard when I came in."

You almost tell him the truth, almost, but you've done enough crying for today and you still don't know how to explain things without sending everyone back underground, so you keep your mouth shut and give a quiet nod. "It's fine," you tell him.

Mettaton raises an eyebrow. "Are you sure?" he asks, and you nod again. There's a brief pause before he seems to decide that you're telling the truth, or at least not lying in a manner which could prove to be harmful, and he smiles before standing, extending a hand back down to you. "Then let us be gone, darling. Everyone's waiting."


It's considerably harder to climb back up into your window that night than it was to climb out of it, and you nearly lose your grip on more than one occasion. After the third time, you almost think that it would be better to just go around the front, but then you remember the locked door from last time and decide you're better off taking your chances and playing it safe than trying to go the easy way and interrupt your father, whatever it is that he's doing. You can tell by the car out front that he's home, and while you don't know if Emily's around too, you know that you don't want to get involved with them and risk the consequences of interference.

By the time you make it back in, your arm is screaming and you're tempted to scream along with it because it's aching and stinging and it hurts, but you make sure to stay quiet as you slip downstairs to grab a glass of water and a little snack before retreating back to your room.

When you get into the kitchen, Emily's waiting.

You can tell immediately that something is wrong, because she's not smiling. Even when it was just the two of you in the car on the ride home from the hospital, her mouth had always been twitched up at the corners, as if it was some instinct of hers to grin at everything. That's gone now, vanished completely. Her hands are clasped together on the table, fingers fluttering like caged birds. Her face is pale, and when she looks at you, her eyes are bright with tears until she looks away almost immediately again.

To her everlasting credit, she tries. "Hey, Francis," she manages, but you don't believe the cheery tone in her voice at all. The pitch is off, the undertones twisted together in ways you know they shouldn't be, tangling into knots that leave a lump of dread resting heavy in your stomach. "How was the meeting?"

You've never been any good at pretending, not in your opinion, and you can't play along with this. Your pulse is tearing at the inside of your veins as if it wants to escape, and panic is starting to creep in too. You hug yourself to try and keep calm. "What happened?" you ask, and your voice is small.

Emily flinches. It's obvious she's trying not to, but she fails miserably, her entire upper body clearly stiffening, head ducking apologetically. The knot in your stomach tightens again, and she doesn't look up. You focus on breathing. "Emily?"

"I'm sorry," she says.

You shake your head. You know the answer, but you changed your mind about pretending. You're going to play along as much as you can. You have to. This will crush you if you don't. "For what?" Somehow, the words are stable, even if your voice is not.

Emily's shoulders droop with obvious defeat, and if you weren't focusing on breathing, you think you would have choked by now. You can see from the fringes of her mascara-thick eyelashes that she's closing her eyes, the same way you do when you're steeling yourself to say something difficult or trying not to cry. Her lip quivers slightly. She doesn't look up. "Your Daddy and I, we were..." She starts her story and trails off almost instantly, and her voice is flat in a way that burns with the flimsiness of the attempted facade because for all her attempted nonchalance, you can feel the remorse all but dripping off of her.

"What happened?" you ask again.

Emily shakes her head. "We got a phone call. He did." She pauses, and you hear her inhale. "It was from the governor. He said there'd been a situation at the meeting because of names, and that you'd run off." The words bury themselves in your stomach. "He said... He said they had it covered, but he was obligated to let your Daddy know, and so he did."

Your hands are shaking, so you dig your fingernails tighter into your arms because that's the only way you know how to respond. You've ruined it. You've ruined everything. "Where is he?" you ask, and you're pretty sure it sounds more like a whisper than an actual question, but you don't know how to be louder, how to be stronger when everything important is flashing before you in all these heavy words following into a dead and silent space from the mouth of a woman too full of regrets to look you in the eye.

Another head shake. "He got real mad after he hung up the phone," Emily explains. "He started yelling a lot, threw a pillow. I tried to say something but..." Emily's voice cuts off, and you hear her inhale, trying to collect herself. You'll never forgive yourself for the damage you've done to everyone today, never.

You have to know. "Did he hit you?" you ask. You don't know how else to phrase it.

Emily's shoulders are shaking now with tears she's failing to hold back. She still hasn't looked up, and she shakes her head. "No," she says, or tries to, but no sound comes out and she only mouths it. You're thankful, but you're hardly comforted. "No," she repeats, with noise this time. "No, he got real mad and looked like he was gonna, but he just...stopped. He said he...He said he needed to take a moment and he left. I don't know where he went."

The world is spinning without you. You don't know what else to say anymore, but there's still one last question you haven't asked, one last answer you need to know so that you can be prepared. "What did he say about me?" you ask, and your voice is so painfully steady you can hardly take it. You don't think it should be this steady, but you don't know how else to make it sound anymore. There's nothing left for you to feel, and the fear won't come until he's present again, and the silence comes with him.

Emily's crying now. She's no longer even bothering to hide it. "I'm so sorry, Francis," she whispers, and she sounds broken.

You shake your head, uncomprehending. You ask again. "Sorry for what?"

Emily swallows. Tries to collect herself. Fails. The words are stuck in her throat the same way they always get stuck in yours. It takes several attempts for her to dislodge them. "He said...He said you couldn't be the ambassador anymore. That he's not gonna deal with this out of you."

And there it is, the deathblow. You should have known. You did know, of course you knew. Of course there would be a repercussion for losing it like you had today. The monsters were kind, but the world was not. Losing your temper comes with consequences of the real kind for you, and it always has. Mettaton had told you that you were guiltless and you'd believed him, but in the end, it's not a matter of guilt, it's a matter of responsibility, of integrity. You'd sworn not to interrupt your father, not to get in his way with this, and then you'd done just that not only once, but twice. You'd known there would be a price, and here it is.

Your face is dry, and you're no longer thirsty. You nod slowly at Emily's words as they process from a distance through the sound of her crying and your own pain. "Okay," you say, ever-compliant because there's no other way for you to be, nothing else you can do but play along and come when your strings are pulled. You've never been your own master and you know it, you've always known that, even when the monsters are there to make you forget. You can think you're in control as much as you'd like, but you never are and you never have been. "Okay," you say again, and you turn around.

"I'm so sorry, Francis," Emily whispers again.

You don't respond. There's nothing to respond with. All your words have died along with what little hope you had, and you carry the irreparable remains of both with you up the stairs again as you slip back into your room, take the phone out of your pocket, and lay it quietly in your sock drawer like you once laid roses on your mother's casket as everyone cried, but this time, when you slip into your closet and curl up, nobody notices and nobody cries.

Not even you.