Last time: Frisk, still in a coma, has a dream in which Chara explains what's happening to them: their will combined with the magic they've absorbed is turning them, body and soul, into a monster. It's a dangerous process that can only be achieved with self-acceptance and a good deal of support, both of which Frisk was able to gather for themself. Upon understanding this, and reaching the end of their transformation, Frisk wakes up. (full summary post is available on my tumblr)
It's only thanks to the monsters' careful planning that the next few days aren't utterly exhausting.
Word gets around quickly that you're better, of course. Toriel's voice over the phone is the first thing that wakes you up the next morning; you're not sure who she's talking to, but she sounds relieved.
You think for a moment about going to talk to her, but know immediately that it's impossible. You have...a sense, honed better than you're used to feeling, that you're weaker than you've ever been. The thought of stubbing your toe, or tripping over your own feet, feels like it could be a catastrophe. You push the blankets off you and stare at the ceiling and breathe.
Toriel fusses over you, and for once you think she sort of has a point. She doesn't talk much about what's happened, and she doesn't ask you many questions, either, aside from how you feel. It's probably for the best; you know who the child is that you met, and when you think about telling Toriel about them...
...It hurts. Trying to tell her about the child she lost, when the child she lost is like that...
Well, that's not quite fair. They're not that bad, honestly, and if you thought it would do anything other than make her sad, you would tell her. But there's nothing to do now; and honestly, you're not even sure if you'll ever see them again. Besides which, aside from a few flashes of a marred face and shriveled fingers, haunting eyes...you actually remember less and less, until you can barely remember what they talked about.
Brought your human body with you, though—that phrase lingers.
So you eat the food that Toriel provides, and it's got monster and human food in it, and the human food feels different—good instead of heavy, reassuring but like a treat instead of a necessity. Though you still can't eat much, you enjoy the happy tingles the magic sends through your body, confirming that all is well.
The phone rings throughout the day, to the point that you start feeling bad for the number of times Toriel has to head up and down the stairs to take calls.
You're still exhausted enough that you're pretty out of it, enough so that it took you till the mid-morning sun was shining across your bed that you realized you were aboveground. You're grateful, but you have no idea when that happened, or how, or why. You kind of want to ask as soon as it occurs to you, but Toriel's out of the room when you think of it, and then you drift off and by the time you remember again you're too comfortable watching her knit and chatting about nothing to want to bring it up.
But on the surface or not, she doesn't let anyone else come almost that whole first day, instead ensuring that you rest and fussing around the house back and forth while you do.
Normally you wouldn't love this, but this time around it's nice. Maybe it's because you can feel so directly that you need it.
And that same sense hits you again that evening, when you get your first visitor.
He's weird. He's breakable. You suspected that before, about him, but even now, with his bones more solid than ever under your hands, there's a sense of fragility there.
"look at you," he says, smiling as always; but he's the one looking at you, and you're looking at him. And there's still something stiff in whatever it is that holds Sans together, when he looks at you.
"you've changed," he says, looking you over in a way that isn't a glance at all.
You nod. There's no way that you haven't. If it were another monster, you might bring out your soul to show him. But doing something like that with Sans always seemed like a risky prospect. Now more than ever, you're aware of why fights with him seem to be taboo.
It occurs to you that both Asgore and Toriel respect Sans, that he has a lot of friends, but that Alphys is the only person who's ever seemed frightened of him. You can understand that a little better, now. But something deep in you, some echo of being human, still reminds you of lines you should never, ever cross.
You never would. You're fairly certain you never would.
" you okay with it?"
Right, he's talking about being a monster now. You nod again. If you weren't, you wouldn't have survived.
"huh. good for you." Sans raises his ketchup bottle. The condiment inside disappears, somehow, into his teeth. You glance down to look for telltale ketchup stains on the inside of his shirt, but none appear.
"...Are you?"
Sans makes a great show of choking on his ketchup, splashing some onto your face in the process. You wipe it off, raising an eyebrow.
"what, okay with you? yeah," he says, "yeah, 'course i am. why wouldn't i be?"
You tug at his sweatshirt zipper, moving slowly. He lets you, brow ridges drawn, wary. You get it down far enough that you can see his sternum, past it, through his ribs. You glance up at him.
"Sometimes," you say solemnly, "I can see right through you."
Sans zips his hoodie up again, and chuckles. "yeah, not this time, kiddo. i'm just glad you're alright. you can tell that much, yeah?"
You nod again.
"it's just little rough that you had to change, that's all. like, i don't think any of us would've wished that on ya."
You shrug. It's not something you particularly mind, and you tell him so.
"well, that's ok then."
It's not what he's bothered about, or at least not all of it, but he seems calmer. You sit up enough to shuffle over and nestle into his sweatshirt, feeling the long, curved stripes of his ribs through the fabric against your cheek.
Sans slowly shifts to accommodate you, curving around you and resting his collarbone on the top of your head. You can't see his face from this angle, but slowly you get the sense that he wants to say something to you.
"so that's that, huh," he says, finally.
You blink against his ribs, not sure what he's talking about.
"you came out of it on your own. all we had ta do was wait." A bony hand runs up and down your own ribs, a quiet reminder that you're not so different, you and him. Not on the inside.
You shrug, knowing he can feel the shift of your scapulae under your skin and clothes. He doesn't respond, though his hands move with you, not restraining you at all.
You breathe against him. You probably do still have to breathe, though you're not certain—and not sure how to test it, or even if you want to.
You're not sure what he's waiting for.
"you never really needed us at all, huh."
The words are so quiet you're not sure you were meant to hear them. You turn them over and over in your head, considering, and then lift your own arms, hugging Sans back.
He gives a surprised little twitch under your arms, and the knowledge flashes through you again of how frail he is. And yet, he's tense under you in a way that has nothing to do with fear and everything to do with something else.
He sighs, shifts, all shifting, sharp angles. He used to be better at cuddling than this. Is he out of practice, since you were asleep? The thought makes you feel oddly guilty.
"Sorry," you murmur into the fabric of his sweatshirt.
"don't think you have anything to apologize for."
You lift your head and shake it at him. That's not true.
"oh, you think you do? what's that, then?"
You think of the spin of time under your hands—the things you've done and haven't done, never did, might have done. It's a little bit blurry in your head, and you're not sure when that happened. But you've definitely felt a monster's dust on your hands, and that's more than enough to be sorry for.
You think of Sans, living bits and pieces of days over and over and half-knowing, the way he seems to have been. Even though you never thought to try fighting him, you managed to hurt him all the same. You're just glad the others seem to have so few memories, compared to him.
"I broke the barrier," you say.
"you're not gonna catch me complainin'."
"That's..." Not quite right, not what you were getting at. "I did a lot of big things. Changed things."
"again, not sure you're gonna get a lot of complaints—"
But the complaints aren't the point. "Nacarat," you say plainly, clearly.
The air between you seems to thicken—you'd been drawing gradually back out of Sans's arms for the last several minutes, and now you're far enough to see the way the light in his eyes flickers in uncertainty as he watches you.
Saying their name actually makes your soul twinge. Actual literal pain in your chest, where it stays, if only out of habit.
Sans reaches out and taps you on the nose. "about that," he says, and his voice sounds casual, but there's a tightness in his jaw that doesn't quite match it. "they came by to visit while you were here. wanted to thank ya."
Your mouth falls open. "They...came?"
"yeah," Sans says plainly. "they got up again. ...like you, actually."
You're still staring at him, disbelieving. "Are they...still around?"
"what, in town? probably. you wanna meet them?"
"...Yeah."
"sure, but wait another day or two maybe. recover a bit more."
You pout at him a bit, but he doesn't budge, so you sigh and settle back. He's right, anyway.
"why'd you bring up nacarat, anyway?"
It takes you a moment to think back and remember, but it returns eventually. Chaos. "I[[ who *actually* said this? (I think it might've been Asgore?)]] got it before. Sometimes even good chaos can push people over the edge." You shake your head. "I made people worry. That's why I'm apologizing."
"...geez, are you sure you're a human kid? you're not, like, as old as gerson or something?"
You're not exactly human anymore, but it doesn't seem like quite the moment to bring that up again. "...I'm an old soul."
Sans chuckles. "maybe you are."
Even after the time that's apparently passed (at least from his perspective), you and Sans are pretty much the same together as you've always been. Your conversation stays low-key and wander all over the place, and often trail off into silence. After a while you realize you're drifting off into a nap and just let it happen.
It's relaxing. It's familiar. But at one point when you wake up and Sans is still asleep, you end up forcing yourself further awake, to truly get a look at him.
He's snoring, that odd over-elaborate snore he does sometimes, but you feel oddly sure he wouldn't ignore you at the moment, at least not intentionally. So, weird as it seems, it seems he really is sleeping. You take a moment to observe him.
It's kind of impressive, how someone who's already sleeping can look so tired.
It crosses your mind, for the first time in a while, that maybe this person trying to look after you could use a bit of a break.
Once, you probably would've thought that Sans was the expert in resting, with nothing left to learn, but if he does it so often and still looks like this, maybe he's not the best at it after all.
That's fine, though. If you work at it, you can probably think of some way to help him out.
The next day is similar, only Sans comes in the mid-morning instead of the evening, and you're also feeling just better enough to start getting antsy.
(The two are related. Toriel actually admitted to you that she had a few things to do out in the town, and you insisted that she go do them, which meant you needed a babysitter. One day with her was lovely, and two would likely have been fine…but you also do still remember how things went the first few times she tried a little too hard to settle you down. Better to encourage some variety early, you think.)
You know he can tell you're better, too. He takes one look at you and crosses his arms, adjusting his feet in his slippers. "i'm under orders from tori, you know. no shenanigans. she's counting on us, alright?"
You nod. "No leaving the house." You'll even follow that rule today. Probably.
"cool. then what do you wanna do? tv? play with your christmas presents finally?"
Your eyes widen. "Was that Christmas?"
"oh. uh…kinda. yeah, mostly." Sans looks sheepish. "we thought it might good to do it early. kinda weren't sure it'd be safe to wait."
It's another reminder of how much you scared them. You feel bad. You think you should probably feel worse, but it doesn't feel like a catastrophe; it just stings. "I'm better now," you say.
He stares at you for a long moment, but then his grin turns into something a bit more genuine. "yeah, you know, i'm startin' to get that."
"Yeah." You aren't really sure how it happened, either. You just shrug at him, but then you pause and frown, and...
"I need to get them stuff for Christmas."
And Sans, you think, but bite the thought back just in time. He'd just say he doesn't want anything, and if you heard him say it, then you might have to take him up on it.
"you were sick, kiddo. nobody's expecting it of you. do kids even give other people gifts?"
Okay, it's technically optional, but you're grown up enough for this, at least. "People get presents for their friends," you say, firmly.
"look, we both know you're better, believe me i get it, but you gotta—"
You cut Sans off. "Rest. I know." You frown. "Can I have a notebook? I think I lent my last one to Alphys."
He gives you a suspicious look. "what're you gonna use it for?"
You dig around in the bedside dresser for a pen. "List. I don't have to go anywhere to start planning."
So you spend a little while like that, sitting in bed with your notebook spread across your knees, and then a little while longer with it in front of you, on your stomach with your feet hanging over your back. Your pen is from Muffet, and it's got a tiny calculator on the top for some reason. It reminds you that you don't have any real way of getting money right now, which limits your options somewhat. But you've made your way through the monsters' world getting what you needed so far without many problems. Maybe asking Toriel for pocket money is a thing you're supposed to do now?
"hey, just lookin' at you is making me sleepy. this a plan to escape containment by being boring?"
"No," you tell him.
"if your poker face were any better, you could toast a marshmallow on it," he informs you. You just shrug.
"fair enough," he mumbles, and watches you from his chair in the corner as you bend down over your notebook and get to work.
You feel your face go flat as the world falls away from you, and you start trying to write. Picturing faces in your mind, calling up what you can of your most recent memories, and trying to think of what you know about what they like and what you might get them in general. It's...strange. Not the concentrating—you've always been like that, a little—but how hard it is to think, to remember.
Are you the same person you were when you went to sleep? Even though you can't remember everything that happened, all those weeks ago, you know that something about you did change. And even stranger, you feel that the world has changed around you, and you're still not completely sure how.
And yet, you know beyond any doubt that you want to do this. That you love these people, and want to show them that you care. You can even feel that care wrapped around your heart, soul, whatever. Squeezing just tight enough to hint at a threat of pain, without actually damaging you.
"uh," Sans says eventually, stirring you out of your focus.
You look up at him, wordless, pencil still poised above your paper. It isn't so much that you forgot about him as that you'd sort of assumed after his comment earlier that he was asleep by now. But he's not on the list yet. Maybe he has a suggestion? You take a moment, slightly disoriented, to remember whether he knew what you were doing, and then, as you're wondering whether he's the sort of person to have opinions about other people's gift-giving decisions where he's concerned—
"look…not to be judgy or anything, but are you sure this is what you should be doing right now?" Indeed, Sans doesn't sound judgmental, only...uncertain. Nervous, actually.
You frown at him. "I want to," you say. And then, because he's seen the sorts of decisions you make on that basis, you add, "I don't think it's dangerous."
"...i guess. i'm not good at judging that sorta thing," he says. "my bro isn't either—he wouldn't know overwork if it crushed him into a teaset. but i don't...hm."
You look up for a little longer this time, and something inside your chest twinges, making you look up, then put your things aside. Sans is staring at you—not in the eye, but around you, like there's something unpleasant about looking you in the face. There are plenty of other monsters who you've seen act that way—you're that way sometimes, even—but it's not like him at all. Besides, you feel some uncomfortable recognition in the way he's curled, not sprawled but smaller than usual, in the armchair.
"What?" you ask, and then worry it sounds too harsh when he stiffens.
But he just frowns like he doesn't know how to get the words out. That's not actually concerning by itself, at least not for you, so you wait.
"this is gonna sound dumb," he says finally, "but. everything looks like work to me sometimes."
You wait for him to continue, but he doesn't. You tilt your head. "...Okay?"
"so. uh." He gestures at you on the bed, like it explains what he's saying. "i don't like...this. i know how ridiculous that sounds, though."
You frown at him. You're still not getting it.
"...yeah, nope," Sans says, and rolls out of his seat, standing and putting his hands in his pockets, shuffling his feet to set his slippers just so. "i'm not doing this right now. you keep doin' you, kiddo, i'm calling in backup. i'll see you later, yeah?"
You hate a little bit that it's a question. Rather than make a big deal out of it, though, you just nod emphatically.
"cool. it's been real. later." And he's gone.
You blink for a moment between the armchair and the corner where Sans disappeared. You wonder what just happened, turning over the conversation in your mind.
i don't like this. Was this...what you were doing? Making a list?
Or just...being back with you in general, after everything?
That thought hurts a little, but either way...you sit back and take breath. Sans said he needed a break and left, and that was...actually kind of a good thing, maybe. How many times have you wondered whether he was pushing himself for you? Maybe now that you're doing better, he's realizing that he doesn't need to do that as much anymore.
Maybe that's too optimistic, but then again, it's not like being more grim about it is going to change anything when he's taking a break right now either way. You promise yourself you'll ask later, whenever Sans stops needing his break.
And then you consider whether you should continue your list, or try alerting Toriel that you don't have anyone with you right now. She hasn't come right out and said she wants you under observation at all hours, but...she doesn't really need to. From the way she only leaves when you're in the company of someone else, it's been pretty obvious.
You're in the process of composing a message on your cell phone when there's a sharp, impatient-sounding rapping on your door. You hop out of bed without thinking about it, then stop and reassess—yes, there's someone at the door but that doesn't mean you have to get it, and you shouldn't if you—no, you're okay. You stand still for another second to check, to verify that nothing feels off, and then take another second to appreciate it. Then you scurry down the stairs.
Toriel really must not be home, because there's a second impatient rapping on the doors on your way down. You call out a "Coming," but you're not sure you hear it till you pull the door open.
"Frisk!" Standing tall on your doorstep in his human form, Metton beams down at you. You're instantly starstruck. "A little bird told me you were awake and all on your lonesome, and I just so happened to have some free time in my schedule. I simply had to come see for myself. Mind if I come in?"
You nod emphatically, then pause and shake your head. "Please do," you say, because neither of those responses felt right, and step back out of the way.
Mettaton steps over the threshold and instantly sweeps you up into his arms. "Now, let's have a look at you," he says, authoritatively, holding you briefly at arms length and briefly examining you, head to toe. You're briefly glad that you're in fresh pajamas, even if they're just pajamas. "Looking so much better than the last time I saw you, but of course some of that's gotta be your charm. How are you feeling, sugar?"
You shrug a little bit, feeling flustered. "Awake?"
"Not sleepy? Well I guess if all I was doing was sleeping for as long as you did, it'd be hard for me to feel sleepy either. If you're sure?"
"Pretty sure."
"Is it hard?" Mettaton props you on his arm and then heads towards the kitchen. "Knowing what your body wants, like this. I know I would get soooo confused by my new body every now and then! Both times. They each took a while to get used to. You saw that for yourself the second time, though." He looks you over. "Are you hungry? Could you eat? What can you eat now, anyway?"
You're not completely sure of the answer to all those questions, but you look at the clock and then, after some thought, message Toriel that you're eating dinner with Mettaton and you'll make her extra. You're glad that you can have monster food now, but between you and Mettaton there's probably a bit of luck involved in the two of you not burning the house down.
Mettaton tells you as he plates up dinner (leaving the rest in the fridge for Toriel) that Undyne and Alphys have had some trouble with that once or twice, specifically Undyne. Thankfully magic solves just about as many problems as it can cause, and there's now a friendly family of magicians who are experts in water magic who've moved in nearby. You laugh together over the story that led to this being the case, as Mettaton puts down a sparkly tea and lasagna in front of you. You savor every bite.
You're alive, you realize as you sit at Mettaton's elbow with your fork and feel the magic rushing into you. You're here, and there's going to be a whole life of food (sparkling or not) and companionship and good things you can't even guess at yet, if you're lucky.
And...the other stuff, too, but you never really stopped expecting that. Mostly.
After dinner, you go back upstairs (Mettaton carries you back upstairs, which is not actually necessary but you don't feel the need to argue over just yet either) and retrieve your notebook, to work on your list while you watch television. You ask Mettaton if it's really okay to spend the whole evening here and he insists that it's not a bother.
"Even stars need time off, you know," he says as he settles you back on the couch, and...he's giving you a look that you don't know how to read. Is it supposed to be a hint? Yes, he follows it up with a wink, and it's a pretty pointed one.
He's basically spending his "free time" babysitting, but you don't think that's what he wants you to be considering right at the moment. You frown at him a little, then pat the cushion next to you, almost as an experiment.
He settles right in, laying an arm along the back of the sofa (his legs are also crossed with panache, of course, the standard for him) and when you scoot to put your back against his side and then peek up, he doesn't seem disturbed by your choice of placement. You can see the TV out of the corner of your eye—Mettaton's jumping between human and monster channels, seeemingly as the mood takes him. The volume is low, so it's easy to tune out. You return to your list.
...You haven't gotten much further than adding a few more names before you want to go back up to your room, to make sure you aren't missing someone. You try to ignore the urge, but it settles in your spine and the pit of your stomach, making you shift restlessly—which brings up the discomfort of not knowing what's going on with Sans. It makes it increasingly hard to sit still, to enjoy what you know is a precious moment.
"You're just full of beans, aren't you?" Mettaton says after a little while, looking down at you. "What's getting you worked up, darling? A project?"
You shrug, and Mettaton looks over your shoulder. "Oh," he says. "Oh. Is this what you've been working on?"
He says it like it explains something he'd been wanting to know about. You look up at him questioningly. "Yes?"
"I get it," Mettaton says. "You're still processing all those lovely gifts you got before, aren't you?"
That includes his, of course. You blush a little and nod, and are grateful you haven't thought of anything to put next to his name yet. Him seeing what you're planning is even worse than him knowing you're still thinking about it.
"You know...I, too, have been simply overwhelmed with fanmail in the past," Mettaton says. "May I offer you a bit of advice?"
You nod. Yours isn't exactly fanmail, but you feel about as out of your depth as you would if it were.
"It's meant to be enjoyed, darling," Mettaton begins. "But I remember, right at first, when I first realized was actually getting a lot of it, enough that it was a fairly significant deal...well, it's like a switch flipped in my head, you know? And suddenly all that praise, all those good feelings, poof! There they went! I just felt stressed and guilty, which is not actually a logical response to being universally adored."
You nod again, more thoughtfully this time. You hadn't thought that would be the sort of thing to get to Mettaton, but it's not as though you can't imagine that situation.
"Which, in turn, is why I'm telling you..." Mettaton gestures towards your notebook. "This is a highly admirable strategy you've set out on here, sweetheart. But, I don't know, isn't a bit early to be thinking of everyone else? Self-care is a worthwhile investment, believe me. Pays back a thousandfold...or more, if you do it right."
Self-care. You understand now the message Mettaton is trying to send, and...your stomach drops as you put things together.
It was a very kind message, cleverly delivered so as not to make you feel bad, or cornered. And that would have worked, admirably even, if not for the wider context making you tear up a little bit.
"I messed up," you say to Mettaton, and it's simultaneously a little bit of a question and also absolutely not, because Sans's behavior already made you suspect that and now you're just reacting to figuring out how.
"No, you absolutely did not," Mettaton says firmly. He shuts the notebook in your lap and deftly sets it to one side without looking, as effortlessly graceful as ever.
You did, though. "I didn't think," you say. "I just...I scared Sans by jumping into thinking about everyone, and he's tried so hard for me, and I want to thank him—and everyone but I—"
"Frisk," Mettaton says, covering your hands where they're clenching at your blanket. "Worrying too much for Sans's sake would just be making the same mistake over again, don't you see? You don't need to do that, aright?"
You blink, feeling the vise clenching on your heart start to ease. "I don't?"
"You don't," Mettaton confirms. "I promise, it's okay."
"But what if he's..." You don't know. And that's precisely the problem, you don't know. You've already messed up once without realizing because of what you didn't know, and when you mess up bad things happen—
No. Not every time.
"I think he did pretty well for himself too for once, actually," Mettaton muses. "He's made it this far, et cetera et cetera, but more importantly, I think him asking me to check on you today is one of the first times he's actually managed to ask anyone for help where you're concerned. Except maybe from that brother of his, but even then."
"Oh." You blink. That's a point. You're a little worried that in itself is a sign that something's wrong, but...
"Don't fret, darling," Mettaton says kindly. "Sometimes it takes an outside perspective to see the obvious, but everyone's allowed to overlook things sometimes. Even you."
From your experience, that's not how things usually go at all, but maybe.
"So," Mettaton continues. "Before you get back to working, I think you need a little bit of downtime. When was the last time you enjoyed your gifts?"
It was before you fell down, which isn't surprising since it hasn't been very long since you woke up again...which, in turn, is exactly what Mettaton and Sans are getting at. You're not exactly embarrassed at your priorities—in a lot of ways you think they're indisputably the right ones—but maybe you're missing a few first steps.
It's also a little embarrassing, so when you get up to head back to your room, you're not moving slowly and gingerly just to make sure you can still handle walking under your own power today. Mettaton, perhaps sensing your embarrassment, lets you ascend the stairs on your own this time, and you're relieved to see the actual proof that you can (and that he lets you).
Sitting on your bed as Mettaton retrieves the first batch of presents in question, you try not to blush while also not letting your discomfort show. You're not supposed to feel awkward about gifts—you're supposed to appreciate them. And you do. But when someone else is around to see you, or even just when it comes time to show it on the outside, rather than just feeling it on the inside, it feels like you're doing it wrong somehow.
"Overwhelmed, sweetheart?" Mettaton says, coming up behind you and putting a hand on your shoulder. "I don't think it's that much, but maybe for a brave new star like you, it's a bit of a change of pace, hmm? Tell you what. If you don't have any particular ideas about where to start, then let me pick."
That sounds pretty good to you. You nod.
Mettaton's still really good at making you feel weirdly comfortable with things that would otherwise intimidate or embarrass the heck out of you, and he manages it again today. The last time you looked through your gifts, you...really hadn't been all there. And even if you had been, the circumstances had been such that you didn't really feel the full impact of everything. But this time, with a clearer head, it's harder than ever not to get overwhelmed. It's really hard to wrap your head around everything. But with Mettaton guiding you along, it's at least a little more possible.
You're also impressed by his restraint when he doesn't put his gift right at the very beginning. He does stick it in around the middle, though, and watches it as raptly as you do after starting it for you.
You can't keep from crying again, even after it ends. It helps that he's crying even more than you, even if he somehow makes it look pretty.
"Whoof," he says, somehow speaking through tears. "I'll admit, that was harder than usual to watch, even for me. It's surprisingly hard to accept that until just a little while ago, well...perhaps this one is still a bit too fresh. You doing okay, darling?"
You nod against his shoulder.
Mettaton takes a few deep breaths and blows his nose—musically, of course. "I, er...had an extra reason for doing it, though. Frisk. You realize how much everyone loves you, right? Not just in the conventional, platonic sense of the word! You're very much a beloved public figure, though it seems like you struggle a little with that fact."
You nod again. That's a pretty accurate description, or at least the struggling part definitely is.
"Well! If you're really set on doing good deeds, then I wanted to plant a seed in your head. You could do a lot as a public figure, I think. Nothing serious or scary right away, you've had far too much of that already, but for the morale and edification of the masses! The people want to know more about you, humans want to know more about monsters, monsters want to know more about humans...and you're right in the middle of all of it. I already know that you're an absolute marvel on camera under pressure, and trust me, you'd be spreading more goodwill than you can probably imagine. If that's something you think you could get into, will you allow me to be your executive producer? Get a little more of that Frisk magic out on the airwaves where it can do so much good?"
Once you've parsed the offer, you stay still, thinking hard. When you open your mouth, though, Mettaton claps you on the shoulder. "I won't let you accept today, so just think about it for now! Okay?"
"...Sure."
"That's my darling!" Mettaton cuddles you and drops a kiss on the top of your head, then releases you to go over to the other gifts, which he's started organizing using strategies that only he could understand. "Now, let's see, something a little more low-key next I think...oh, here's a lovely little token from the spiders, isn't it thoughtful..."
He stays for longer than you would've expected. You're grateful that after a little while, he lets you switch gears, planning thank-yous along with looking through gifts. Just...looking at everything, not doing anything, that's what feels tiring for you, even after Mettaton's advice. Knowing you're going to help overall still, that he's got a project in mind for you, also helps even if you haven't agreed.
...That probably means you're already planning to agree, doesn't it.
After Toriel gets home and Mettaton heads back, you sit with her as she eats a late dinner. (She seems grateful for the leftovers in the fridge.) You ask her about her day, and then, when that topics runs out, about what she thinks of Mettaton's proposal.
"Hmm." She thinks about it, taking a long sip of her tea. "I am glad he did not ask you to agree right away. I would like to think about it as well. Not that I will stop you, if it is what you truly want, but I would like to advise you after thinking about it." She looks at you cautiously. "Is that fair?"
You're not sure why she's making such a point right now of respecting your independence (or how long this pattern might last, if at all), but you like it. You nod.
"In return...Frisk, I have a proposal for you as well. One to think about, and that does not need to be acted upon immediately."
You find you're willing to hear another idea today. "Yes?"
"I would like you to start attending the school when it opens." Toriel looks a little embarrassed, like it's a personal request instead of just what she thinks you should be doing. "I would be...heartened to have you as a student. If you are willing, that is."
You're not sure how to feel about that, but you tell her you'll think about it. It's not a hard promise to give.
She smiles at you. "That's all I ask."
