Quiet Hands (part 2)

Everything smelled uncomfortably like lemons, from the periodically-hissing air freshener plugged into the wall to the gleaming linoleum floor, power-scrubbed to the point of cracking but still bearing the faint yet telltale scuff marks left by decades' worth of dirty shoes. Mount Ebott K-12 was a colossal building shaped like the world's grayest, most disappointing snowflake: there was one central hub containing the cafeteria, faculty offices, library, and gym, while twelve grade-allocated branches jutted outward.

Teachers' lounge, Sans thought, walking through the halls. The sounds of his footsteps echoed faintly along the arrow-straight corridor as he considered opening a portal and simply hopping through it, but Toriel had warned him that there was growing anti-monster sentiment at the school and that it would be best to avoid any rash decisions like teleportation or liberal displays of magic. The thought of her worried brown eyes and the frazzled strain in her voice was the only thing that kept Sans from doing exactly what she had forbidden.

A small plastic sign screwed into the wall designated the teachers' lounge, a surprisingly spacious room with a square table positioned exactly in the center. The surface held an unnatural sheen—dear god, it's laminated, Sans realized with an inward shudder of some emotion too vague to name. Humans are weird. There was nobody else inside and Sans would have thought he missed the entire thing if Toriel hadn't so adamantly stressed that he be there by six thirty. The plastic clock on the wall ticked silently toward the half-mark, its rectangular hands showing five minutes to go. Sans sat down in one of the chairs, pushing it back toward the wall to kick it onto its back legs and lean with his skull resting against the plaster, blocked from the sight by the open door.

There was a rustling outside and the sound of footsteps. A woman entered, walking past Sans without looking at him. Her arms were full and she began unloading her burden onto the table: a plastic tray of lemon bars (lemons and plastic, Sans thought with a shake of his head and a smile. I'll just have to accept the hard, sour truth that I'll never get away from them.), a folder and pen, and a shiny silver thermos. She straightened up, her back to Sans, and tucked a strand of dyed-blonde hair behind her ear to reveal the glittering flash of a golden hoop earring and the unnatural shine of clear nail polish. She was wearing tight jeans and an unbuttoned white long-sleeve over a dark gray shirt. She stood several inches taller thanks to a strappy pair of wedge-heels. Sans made a mental note to never let Mettaton find out about them.

"Heya."

The woman started, turning around sharply. Creases appeared in her otherwise immaculate nude lipstick as she stared at Sans for several seconds, visibly trying to mask her surprise and distaste. "Hello."

"The name's Sans."

"Sans…"

"Just Sans."

"My name is Linda Harris," the woman said proudly. "I'm the president of the Parent Teacher Association."

So there had been a reason for the prickle of dislike that shivered down his spine. Sans sat up straight, letting the front legs of the chair bang down on the floor. Linda grimaced. "Right, I'd like to talk to you," he said, standing up.

"And are you Toriel's child?"

Sans laughed so hard he had to sit back down for several seconds before grinning up at Linda, who was regarding him with confusion to rival her discomfort. "You're a funny woman, Linda. But I've noticed your sense of humor doesn't extend to your students." He stood up again, his smile still in place but his mirth gone. "Frisk is my kid."

Linda's face spasmed as she fought valiantly against wrinkling her nose. "I see. So you and Toriel are married."

"Nope."

Linda brought a hand to her chest, the gaudy costume rings glittering in the fluorescent lights.

"We're not even together," Sans said, his eyes narrowing slightly in wicked glee as she grew visibly more uncomfortable. "But our relationship isn't why I'm here. Yesterday Frisk came home. They were upset. Do you know why?"

"I—"

"It seems you told them to use something called 'quiet hands.'" Sans provided the air-quotes before dropping his hands back into the pockets of his hoodie. "Cute name for something so blatantly discriminatory, Linda."

"Frisk's signing is distracting—"

"I really can't imagine how a silent language would be more distracting than the babble of twenty-three other kids," Sans said, leaning forward slightly. "I'd think it'd be pretty handy, actually."

Linda's nostrils flared as her mouth tightened. The lines in her lipstick deepened and blatant dislike crept into her eyes.

"Signing is how Frisk talks. They're mute—they are incapable of speaking. Speech therapy will not do anything but take time away from their education, and frankly, it's insulting."

"I'm looking out for Frisk's wellbeing, if the other kids begin to make fun—"

"Then you should use your authority as teacher to explain to them that bullying won't be tolerated." He pointed toward the silver heart she wore on a fine chain around her neck. "You shouldn't wear that if you aren't capable of teaching kids anything besides facts."

Linda's jaw jutted forward aggressively and Sans was preparing another verbal onslaught—delivered as calmly and casually as though remarking on the weather—but before either of them could speak, another woman came into the room, stopping dead when she saw Sans. Her hair was pulled back into a ponytail, unlike Linda's severe A-cut, and she was in intimidatingly good shape. Her biceps had absolutely nothing on Undyne's (Sans estimated that this new arrival had approximately the same upper-body strength as the average chicken nugget), but the designer sneakers and the #DISCIPLINE shirt did have a certain unsettling vibe.

"Helen!" Linda greeted her a little too enthusiastically, planting two loud kisses in the air next to her cheeks. "How wonderful to see you! How is Tyler?"

"He's…he's doing well," Helen said, recovering. She made a brave attempt at composure as she looked at Sans. "I don't believe we've met."

"You'd think a talking skeleton would be more memorable," Sans agreed with a wink and a nod. "But hey, I won't rib you about it too much."

Helen glanced at Linda, her smile frozen in place and her eyes just a little too wide. He could practically hear their internal screaming.

Jumping feet-first into the silence, Linda turned to Helen. "So this meeting I thought we could discuss the recent budget surplus and how to distribute it so that—"

"Hate to interrupt the chitchat, ladies," Sans said, sitting down and leaning the chair against the wall again, "but I'd really feel a lot better if Linda and I could continue our conversation about her discriminating against my kid. See, Frisk came home in tears over what you said to them." It was a dirty trick, but he wasn't going to let Linda think that she could get away with ignoring the hurt she had caused.

"I'm trying to look out for Frisk's best interests," Linda said superiorly.

"I'm sure that preventing them from signing or communicating at all does that admirably," Sans retorted, careful to keep his voice calm. He almost sounded sincere.

"The real world isn't going to cater to someone's specific needs," Linda snapped, planting her hands on her hips. "I'm trying to help her prepare for life outside of school."

"Them."

"What?"

"Frisk uses neutral pronouns, as I'd thought you'd gathered from my frequent use," Sans replied. "And as for life outside of school, Frisk's family have all learned to sign so that we can understand Frisk. Because we care about them."

"I'll, um, I'll get Diana," Helen said uncomfortably, power-walking out of the teacher's lounge. "I think Sharon, Carol, and Jillian are here too…" She called a greeting to someone down the hall and Linda glared daggers at Sans, who folded his hands behind his head, smiling despite the cold rage bubbling in his stomach.

"Since you're a monster," Linda said with forced, saccharine civility, "I understand that you may have different social conventions wherever you come from."

Sans cut her off. "Kindness is a pretty universal thing, Linda. Or, at least it is among monsters." He took a moment to enjoy her spluttered attempts at a snappy retort before he stared her straight in the face, letting his eyes go dark. She paled at the sight of the empty sockets and his wide grin, his posture unchanged but so unmistakable an aura of menace around him that she fell back a step, wobbling on her wedges. "Listen to me, Linda," Sans said quietly. "I'll give you a choice. You can reexamine your morals and resolve to treat Frisk like you would treat any other kid, or you can answer to me." He let his chair fall forward again, the bang of the front legs making her startle once more. His pupils returned, glowing faintly. "Aw, come on. Take a note from your lemon bars and don't be such a sour puss. All I'm asking is that you show a little kindness. It's not that crumb-y of a request." He tilted his head, watching her closely. "Did I hurt your peelings? I'm sorry. I'll leave you to make your own decisions about this conversation, but I think it was fruitful."

Linda was nearly vibrating with anger and Sans continued to smile, already considering volunteering for the meeting next week. That heavily made-up face promised war and he met her mascara-ringed glare with unflinching tranquility. Come on, Linda. Do your worst.