Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

You stare longingly at the ballet dancer spinning in your jewelry box. Her leg is at perfect point, even if a tad unrealistic. She’s stick thin, though her ribs do not poke from her chest like yours did when you were a dancer.

You miss it desperately.

Ballet isn’t a one-to-one comparison to figure skating, but you can see the same grace in it. 

You wonder, if you were a ballet dancer, if Claude would find it feminine enough for you to still perform?

You grab your wedding rings and shut the music box, the soft melody dying with the click of the lock.

♡

The large diamond clinging to your left ring finger explodes with light as you open the living room curtains. Your husband is on the phone, sprawls across the couch and yelling into the receiver. 

“Yeah, well, Jeremy just can’t help himself! I don’t give a shit what marital problems he’s having, his wife can’t be bitching on our phone lines. We have real work! Jeremy does fuck all in office, he’s only here because his uncle runs the place!”

Claude is… half complaining about work again. You can’t tell if he hates his job and stays to complain, or if he loves the job and loves complaining equally as much. 

The man on the other line says something that makes Claude roar with laughter. You’ve been around it enough not to flinch anymore, but it still rubs you the wrong way. 

You brush the thick curtains into place, stepping away from the window’s light to duck into the kitchen. His voice is a little grating, but you love him. 

Isn’t love about compromise?

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Washing the dishes is dull. You put your ring onto the counter as you scrub dried steak sauce off your painted porcelain. You try not to think about how you asked him not to use this plate. You’d painted it yourself and–

You’re being selfish and stupid over a plate. 

Claude tells you all the time that you need to grow up. Being seventeen isn’t that big of a difference from being in your twenties. You’re not a child. Stop acting like one. 

You settle the plate onto the drying rack before finally moving tonight’s left overs into the fridge. You feel like you haven't left the damn kitchen all day. First it was deep cleaning because Claude’s friends were coming to watch the Sunday football game, then it was cooking for seven men, then it was cleaning again. Your hands are red and your feet hurt, but you don’t stop.

It’s better than working a real job. You wouldn’t be able to handle that. You’re too weak to handle all the bullshit that comes with it. You guess you just hadn’t expected being a housewife to require so much work. 

You ignore the ache in your soles and straighten up the living room. You’ll have to vacuum, one of them spilled chips into the carpet. Wipe a splash of beer from the side table, pick up discarded throw pillows and blankets. Someone had knocked into the bookshelf. Thankfully it hadn’t been knocked over, you’d hate to have to reorganize the thing again, but Claude’s high school diploma had been displaced. Class of 2016. Your diploma is… probably still at your mom’s house. In a box or settled up in the attic with the rest of your useless bullshit. 

Claude wouldn’t have wanted it being shown anyway. Not next to his college degree either. Class of 2025. Not when your high school diploma is stamped 2024. Claude thinks it looks weird, but he likes that you were accepted into college but dropped out just for him. He likes to say he brought you back to your senses. He fixed you. 

You don’t feel fixed, you feel broken. And dirty. You’re tired of cooking-cleaning-cooking-cleaning. You thought you’d have time to skate. Claude said it gave you too much muscle. It was un-lady-like to have ‘gains.’ 

You’re trying your best to lose the weight, but somehow exercise and skipping meals isn’t working. 

You look outside mournfully. It’s too dark out to cut wood. You’re scared of what lies in the forests once night falls. But you could really go for sinking that wood axe into the nearest tree and pretending that it’ll solve your problems. 

If only you could strike a blow to Claude’s sex drive. 

His thick, calloused hands encircle your waist, closing on your hips and dragging you backwards into him. He grinds against your ass and you really wish you were more interested in sex as a concept. You told Claude you were asexual before you got together. 

He thinks he can fix that too. 

“I’m tired.”

Claude immediately stops grinding. He doesn’t move either, just… holding you. Husband and Wife.

“That’s alright. You really set up everything so perfect today. I just thought to try to make today perfect, you know? But I appreciate you.”

You lean back, appreciating his warmth. “...Thank you.”

Claude smiles down at you, “The boys were giving you compliments all night. How clean the house is, how good the steaks were. They all agree I’ve got a catch.”

You can’t help but melt. You feel your face heat, and let him press a kiss to your temple, then jaw, then neck. 

Ah, what the hell. Let’s make today perfect.

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You don’t know why you’re so violent. 

You sink your axe deep into another tree, over and over again. You imagine it’s.. You. 

What would it feel like?

You shake off the train of thought. Imagine Claude hurting you instead. You imagine his large hands striking you, and don’t get much farther than that. 

You don’t know what you’d do if he hit you. Leave, right?

…

And go where? You don’t have a job, don’t have a degree, don’t have your parents to save your ass anymore. You don’t have… anyone. 

But Claude. 

And you love Claude! You’ve never loved anyone like this. 

You just thought that love would make you… happier?

You don’t know what’s wrong with you.

But you just want out.

But not back.

Not forward either.

Just…

Just gone.

You stare at the axe, and wonder what it would feel like, cleaving through your chest. Would it be a slow death? Certainly a painful one. 

…

You’re being dramatic.

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You feel a little less dramatic as you’re covering up a bruise on your cheek. 

Claude put his hands on you.

You didn’t do anything but cry. He felt bad. Kissed it better.

It didn’t really work. 

Your makeup covers the bruise okay enough for straight men to not notice. You can’t erase the redness in your eyes, but Claude’s friends don't usually look that closely at you anyway.

You cook. You clean. You save their food, you clean again. 

This time when you're alone in the kitchen, you let your curiosity win. The knife is razor sharp. 

…

You barely feel it.

You watch the blood drip slowly from your arm, emotionless.

You guess it hurts less when you do it to yourself.

ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ♡ﮩ٨ـﮩﮩ٨ـ

Claude sees the fresh wound. 

He thinks it hilarious. 

“Baby, if you wanted attention, all you had to do was ask.”

…You guess you did want attention. Not this kind. But attention. You also just wanted to know what it would feel like, but you’re certain Claude doesn’t care about that.

You tuck yourself in wearing a nightgown you got when you were a child. Claude called you a tease for wearing it tonight. For some reason, it’s Claude’s favorite thing ever. He’s fucked you in it. 

You didn't understand, don’t understand. You don’t really care either. 

You tell yourself you were asking for it when his hand slips from your hip to your inner thigh.

You stare at the wall for a long time before you fall asleep, attempting to pretend the heavy, calloused hand on your hip didn’t exist.

You just wish you were attempting something else.

You just wish you were dead.

Chapter Text

Sans doesn’t really believe in a higher power. If God’s real, and let monsters suffer like this, then God’s kind of a dick. 

But he can feel… something. 

Something. 

“SANS?”

He blinks, glancing up to his brother. Sans can’t help taking a register on Papyrus’ well being. His hands are still shaky from cutting open a hiker last night, and another tooth chipped. Sans removes his own hand from scratching at the edge of his head wound to take Papyrus’ hand. He needs to buy Paps some new gloves. Or steal them. Papyrus’ hands are freezing. “hey, bud. how was patrol?”

Papyrus winces, “AH. RAN INTO DOGGO. HE DIDN’T SEE ME, BUT IT COULD MEAN UNDYNE IS TRYING TO GAIN TERRITORY.”

Sans rests his chin on his spare hand. “huh. where was he head-ed?”

Papyrus opens his mouth to answer, but pauses to point at him, “THAT IS NOT FUNNY. AND HE WAS NEAR HIS OLD HOME, WHICH IS WHY I AM UNSURE IF IT WAS ACTUALLY AN ATTEMPT OR JUST DOGGO RETRIEVING SOMETHING HE’D FORGOTTEN. OR… FEELING NOSTALGIC.”

Sans frowns. ‘Feeling Nostalgic’ was a really kind way of saying Doggo may have lost enough sanity to confuse his past with his present. Monsters who resorted to cannibalism and eating fallen humans tended to, if they didn’t have a support system. 

Sans will make damn sure it doesn’t happen to Papyrus.

Sans sighs softly, “gotcha. i’ll let tori know, anyway.”

Papyrus nods sharply, then ducks under the roof of Sans’ sentry station to whisper as quietly as Papyrus can whisper. “ARE YOU DOING ALRIGHT, BROTHER?”

Sans smiles weakly. He hates lying to Papyrus. “‘course, bro. you okay? you’re hands are still shaking.”

Papyrus frowns at his hands. “...I CAUGHT SOMEONE IN A TRAP. SHE LOOKED A LITTLE LIKE FRISK. FOR A MOMENT I THOUGH FRISK HAD COME BACK. TO SAVE US.”

Sans gently squeezes his brother’s hand. “...i’m sorry, paps.”

Papyrus grimaces. “I JUST DON’T UNDERSTAND. WHY WON’T THEY RESET?”

—-----------------------------

Alphys giggles, “Pepper jam, purple window!”

Undyne tries not to show her aggravation. She loves Alphys. She loved her.

It’s strange, to be the one pouring through books and research. It’s fucking sickening to know exactly what's wrong with Alphys, but not know how to fix it. Wernicke’s Aphasia. All of the research is human. 

All of their listed cures don’t account for missing half of the fucking brain as well as experiencing damage to Wernicke's area. Undyne isn’t even sure monsters and humans have the same brain structure. 

All she knows is that Alphys is at best locked within her body, and at worst, gone.

Undyne’s hands shake. 

She’s going to kill him one day. 

…

If she wasn’t fucking terrified of him.

The core’s up, monster-kind isn’t dead. But she lost two close friends and her fiancé in one night for something she’s not sure was the only route. Alphys convinced her to sacrifice Sans. Of course, of course Undyne said no. 

Undyne loves Papyrus, and Sans was nice enough of a guy. Hell, he’d gifted her the blueprints of the core when Alphys was pissed at both of them. Sans told her to try to rekindle their relationship. 

“all we have is each other, ‘dyne.”

Hah. 

Haha. 

Now she has no one but the remains of Alphys and the fucking robot. 

“..DARLING! Doggo went to Snowdin.”

Undyne flinches away from the books cluttering the throne room. “What? Why?”

Mettaton, settled proudly into his ‘human killer’ NEO form, the last thing Alphys achieved, shrugs. “Not sure, but Papyrus definitely saw him. So Sans and Toriel will be alerted shortly.”

Undyne groans, “Shit.” The last thing she needs is a fucking rebellion, if it was even be called that. From her sources, Everyone in the ruins is dead. Most of Snowdin is dead or dying, and the remains of the royal guard are only spread across Waterfall to the Capitol. That leaves the bunnies, mostly women and children, and a couple stragglers. But the very last thing Undyne wants to do is provoke Sans. “Is he still there?”

Mettaton grimaces, and Undyne doesn’t know how to feel about his incredible range of motion as a robot. Alphys was… incredible. Was. “Not sure, but Papyrus didn’t attack him soo… I don’t think they’re all that pissed about it.”

Papyrus not attacking doesn’t surprise Undyne at all. It makes her sad. “Of course not. He believes everyone is good.”

Mettaton hesitates. “...He would feel the same towards you.”

He should've stayed silent.

Undyne snarls in the robots direction, her bitten lips curing over rotted, mangled teeth. Her eyes are manic and feral and Mettaton doesn't hesitate to take his leave quickly. 

.....

Undyne would never ask for Papyrus’ forgiveness. She doesn’t forgive herself.

And Sans would kill her for even looking in Papyrus’ direction.

No need to tempt fate. She made her bed, and she’ll lie in it.

Alone.

“Haha! Puppy-chow!”

—--------------

Papyrus won’t eat tonight. 

Sans butchers the meat left by the human Papyrus found. 

It’s unusual for two humans to fall so close together. Usually one falls, escapes the Ruins, and either gets caught in one of Papyrus’ traps and somehow dies, or they’ll have LV. 

Sans always finds those. 

Papyrus curls on the couch and ignores the sound of Sans’ axe slicing though lean muscle and tendons, occasionally getting caught on a bone or two.

Sans used to feel really sick doing this. 

He forces himself to see the bodies as livestock instead of people. It’s not like he killed her. It’s sad though. This could’ve been the last soul they needed, had they found her before she died. Sans grimaces. No point in thinking like that. They’re so close. 

The second a human with LV falls, they’re free. 

Sans puts decent portions into old Tupperware, already stained reddish brown from previous use. He’ll deliver it to Grillby to distribute tomorrow. They already have enough portions to last them a while from the hiker. They’d gotten a lot of good supplies from that. Rope for Pap’s traps, clothes for warmer weather, new shoes, and medical supplies. It's a small first aid kit, but it's far and wide better than nothing.

The hiker didn’t have LV, Sans doesn’t think. It can be hard to tell, without his Judge Eye. He can usually still sense it though. The guy slipped hard enough on the ice to bash his skull in. Bad way to go, Sans can attest. 

He shoves the remains of the woman, bones and unsavory organs, into a large bucket. He shuffles outside, dragging it behind him to deposit her skeleton into the large metal drum outside their house.

He strips off the blood soaked apron and his black ‘work’ jacket before going back inside. 

He cleans the kitchen in his t-shirt, and doesn’t put his hoodie back on until he’s certain their home is free of blood. 

Sans sighs as he settles down on the couch, sitting next to Papyrus’ head. Papyrus is still for a moment, before he scoots closer to drop his skull on his lap. 

Sans rests a hand over Papyrus’ forehead, gently dragging his thumb back and forth over the smooth bone. “...pap?”

“AM I A BAD PERSON, SANS?”

Sans frowns, gently squeezing his shoulder. “of course not.”

Papyrus sniffles. “I’VE EATEN PEOPLE. THAT MAKES ME PRETTY EVIL.”

Sans gently pulls Papyrus around to face him. “no, paps. you’re not just.. out here killing people or fun. you haven’t killed anyone–”

“MY TRAPS–” Papyrus protests, but Sans has none of. 

“the only times your traps have killed someone have been accidental. the maze isn’t deadly. you couldn’t have sensed someone with a pacemaker would fall. the hiker guy just got unlucky when he slipped. that’s not your puzzle’s fault. dozens of people, monsters and humans, have made it past that one with no sweat. you’re not evil. you’re not a bad person. you’re surviving.”

Papyrus buries his face into Sans’ shirt. 

“...THANK YOU.”

Sans squeezes his shoulder again. “always.”

—---------------------------

Sans leans against his sentry station, staring at the stained snow. 

There’s no footprints. 

He’s not sure why he expected any.

He just…

He had a feeling.

Chapter Text

You pick gently at a scratch on the shank of your engagement ring. It’s an expensive thing, shiny. Very flashy, little actual design. The ring is gorgeous, of course, but it’s not at all what you imagined resting on your finger for the rest of your life. It’s heavy. 

It feels more like a chain than an achievement.

It’s the wrong fucking color, too.

You don’t know why Claude not knowing what metal you prefer pisses you off more than him hitting you, but your teeth grit every time you think about it. 

It’s childish. You don’t care.

You’re not a child, you’re 19 and very much an adult, thanks, but you’re allowed to be pissed about your husband not knowing your preferences.

You realize pretty quickly he doesn’t know shit about you. He doesn’t care.

He doesn’t care that you wanted to be a skater.

He doesn’t care that you had a promising future in the arts. 

You don’t even paint anymore. You don’t skate, you don’t do anything without his permission. 

Everything with his permission.

You skirt around the couch, deliberately ignoring the seven open beer cans. Claude sneers at you, but doesn’t speak. Yet. 

“Can I go cut wood? We’re running low.”

We are not running low. He’s too fucked up to know though. 

Claude grumbles, but never really stops you from collecting lumber, even if he complains that you’re not losing weight because of it. He hates the woods.

You’ve grown to love them. At least if something in the woods kills you, it’s because it’s hungry.

You try not to think about it. Claude won’t kill you. It’ll damage his reputation too much. Even his lawyer daddy couldn’t save him then.

That fact helps you sleep easier at night, when Claude’s rough, calloused hand finds itself cupping your throat. Your neck is the only thing that Claude would call dainty. It makes you feel kind of sick when you think about it.

So you don’t.

Your axe sinks into the log, getting stuck enough for you to have to use your leg as leverage to get it out. 

You swing again.

…

Your name is called from inside.

You groan, leaving the axe stuck in the log and returning to your prison.

—————————————

There are some times, when Claude is at work late or you’ve finished your chores especially early, when you get to just… breathe. Outside.

You stare longingly at Ebbott mountain. 

Twenty six people have visited the mountain and never returned. It’s closed to the public. Rescue crews won’t even really search there, at least not on foot, because it’s too dangerous. Helicopters search for the missing hikers, children, and civilians often. 

None of them have been found. 

It’s spooky, it’s right in your backyard, and it’s an escape if worst comes to worst.

You can’t kill yourself. You’re too weak to.

Hell, you can’t even cut yourself anymore. Granted, that’s more of a result of hating Claude’s responses and really not feeling like covering fresh wounds next time Claude forces you to attend a work party with him.

You hate the damn Christmas parties.

You want to go home.

—————————————

“Can you like… do something??”

You blink under the heavy blanket, stripped bare because you’re tired of saying no. Claude is spread eagle naked on the bed beside you, blanket tossed to the side as he pants. 

“Like. I’m tired of putting in literally all of the work. You literally just lie there.”

You don’t respond. 

If you’re lucky, he’ll think you’re sleeping. 

(If you were lucky, you wouldn’t be in this position.)

You’re not lucky. You never have been. 

He rips the blanket off of you. You try not to flinch. You’re not sure it worked. Claude drags you by your shoulders to face him. Despite all of his claims about you gaining too much weight, he seems to manhandle you just fine. His hand shoots to your neck, and you remember a little something an old friend, a defense attorney now, you hope she’s okay, mentioned to you freshman year. 

“Men will hit their wives, right. And some girls excuse that, fuck that but I guess I get it. But the moment a man choked you, you gotta go. Like, I just looked at some statistics— and I can’t really remember the exacts or anything— but men who strangle their wives are the men that end up killing their wives. It’s the last step, you know?”

You barely get the chance to struggle, he slaps your hands away effortlessly terrifyingly— before he stops, shoving himself off you and out of bed. “You’re hotter when you’re choking than when you cum.”

You find it in yourself to laugh hoarsely once he leaves. He’s never made you cum.

———————-

You try not to think about the bruise on your neck.

You find yourself outside— dressed, now— and taking down a tree. You finally learn how to swing in a way that your axe doesn’t get stuck in the bark. You hit the tree—- you think it’s a pecan tree, you’re pretty sure you’re allergic—- three times before you’re summoned back into the house.

You slam the axe into the tree one more time. Fucker.

It slides out covered in sap.

Fucker.

You groan as you drag it back out of the tree. You’d have to wash it inside, Claude broke the hose last time it got cold. You’d told him forty times to leave a drip. He shut it off because he didn’t want to ‘waste water.’ The pipe broke within the day, it gets too cold here.

It’s nothing like home. It was warm where you grew up. 

You stumble into the house, kicking dead leaves off your legs. Fall. You used to love it, the colorful leaves, the satisfying crunches. Now it just feels like a fire hazard. You’re annoyed with having to rake them away from the fire pit. Claude likes to do big bonfires every weekend. 

It’s.. annoying.

Just like Claude screaming your name from the living room.

The back of the axe dings against the door frame, and you huff softly before ducking inside the house. You don’t mean to slam the door, but it rattles when you close it.

You wince. Claude hates when you do that.

You don’t even have time to set the axe down, let alone wash it, before Claude is upon you, seething. “What the fuck is your problem?!”

You blink up at him. You… don’t recall doing anything. Not having a problem. He’s the problem, usually. 

…

Mostly.

He pushes you into the wall, and you gasp as you feel a picture frame dig into your spine, the glass shattering and slicing into your back. 

You’re not looking forward to trying to cover that up at the next Christmas party. You wish your family would save you. You miss them.

Claude shouts in your face and you’re quickly brought to the present. Oh. Yeah, your husband is mad at you. You push off the picture frame and slump into the wall next to it. When you glance back you realize it’s one of your wedding pictures.

Fitting.

You hiss through your teeth when Claude slams you back into the wall. Glass sinks deeper into your shoulder and slices down your back.

“Are you even LISTENING to me?!”

You wince, “Yes! Yes, I’m sorry-“

His finger tips leave bruises on your shoulders as he slams you into the wall again, “Yes, sir.”

“Yes sir!” You bite your tongue to stop yourself from making a noise. Crying doesn’t make him feel bad anymore. You think he likes it when you cry. If you don’t he loses interest.

Don’t cry. 

Claude gives you a disgusted look. “You should be happy I even try to fuck you. You refuse to even try to loose weight, you won’t try in bed, and you’re always fucking covered in dirt!”

…

Oh. That’s what he’s mad about. You guess you kind of do have a problem.

You don’t like sex. 

His hands on you feel seven times more dirty than having foliage in your hair. You don’t wash the dirt off immediately because he usually doesn’t fuck you if you’re dirty. Sometimes he’ll just drag you to the shower and fuck you there. 

It’s worth the risk, usually. Even if he’s rougher. 

You are trying to lose weight. You’ve skipped enough meals in the past two years to stop feeling hunger pains. Or, more realistically, you register hunger as nausea. It works. Or not. 

You wish you’d left him when you were seventeen. You wish you could contact your parents. Or just your mom. Your Dad wasn’t much different from Claude. He didn’t take ‘no’ either. 

You’re pretty sure he’d bought you the nightgown. 

You don’t remember wearing it. 

Claude slams you into the wall again, bringing you back out of your head. “LISTEN TO ME!”

You open your mouth to respond, only to choke and cough as the air is forced violently from your lungs when another thrust of his arms bashes you into the wall. You wonder what it’s made out of, because it’s pretty sturdy. 

You scramble to grab his hands, “I’m listening- I’m–”

Your spine meets drywall– no drywall couldn’t withstand this, brick maybe?-- again, and fear spikes through you. “Stop– Stop, Claude, please–”

He smacks your hands away, leaning in close and grabbing you by the neck to keep you still as he snarls in your face. “Sir.”

“Sir!”

It feels like losing. 

It’s a blow to your ego, certainly. You don’t even want to live. Why the hell do you care?

Claude rips away from you, laughing. You can smell the beer on his breath. It reminds you of someone. You take in a sharp, desperate breath, leaning against the wall and panting. 

You don’t cry. 

You’re proud of yourself for that. 

You imagine killing him. He’s drunk, laughing at you, beating you because you aren’t good enough at sex. 

You could never. 

But his eyes terrify you. 

There's just… nothing. No compassion. Not even pretend love. No lust either. Just… malice and… nothing. 

It strikes you then, when you can see nothing but contempt in his eyes and can feel the bruises on your neck, that Claude doesn’t love you. Claude will kill you. 

Claude will kill you and you’ll be the twenty-seventh hiker. Your body will never be found, you will never receive justice, and your family will never know. 

You’ll have suffered all of this for nothing. 

Faster than you can comprehend, Claude is still smiling, still giggling, he palms the side of your head, and bashes it into the wall. 

…

You will not die to a man that does not love you. 

Your vision is overtaken by black for a moment. You’ll never be sure if it was from the hit or from rage. You can’t really see, and your swing is sloppy. Your hit still lands, of course it does, you’ve been cutting wood for years. 

A skull isn’t that different. 

You didn’t really hit it at the right angle and perhaps you used too much force because your axe gets stuck when you move to swing again, but it doesn’t really matter. 

The impact makes a satisfying crunch, not unlike the leaves outside. Red explodes around you, and you have to let go of the handle so his body weight does not drag you down with him as he drops. 

You killed him.

Oh. 

It feels different than you imagined. 

You use a leg as leverage again, using your foot on his chest to keep him down as you struggle to get the axe out of his head. 

It’s gross. 

You don’t really..

You care. 

You feel gross and dirty and horrible.

You killed him. 

You killed someone.

You drop the axe, stripping your blood soaked clothing off as you go. You can hardly breathe, but it has little to do with the bruises around your neck. You stumble into the shower, desperately scrubbing blood off your hands. 

It doesn’t stop, your hands are still redredredred–

It’s a long time until you realize you've rubbed them raw. They’re stained. 

You’re stained.

Who are you kidding, you’ve always been tainted. The second Claude touched you, you were claimed. And now you’re claimed by his blood. Lovely.

…

It doesn’t matter. 

It doesn’t. 

You have an opportunity now. 

Claude is dead, your family hates you, you have nothing to live for. 

You’re done.

It’s… It’s over. 

You change into more comfortable clothes. A pair of sweats and a hoodie you’d stolen from your brother years ago. Sneakers instead of heels or flats. You pack a bag. Stuff you want to be buried with. You find your skates in the attic. Your old college sketchbook and some supplies. You pack a bunch of food and water and medical supplies. If you somehow survive hiking the mountain, starving to death sounds miserable. So does dehydration. And basic infection. Pass.

Not that you’re going to survive. 

You’re going to die. 

It feels oddly freeing. 

It’s over.

You pass the body. It’s… ugly. You genuinely can’t believe you did that. You actually killed your husband. Ex husband. As in Ex-Alive. 

You laugh at yourself as you rinse the axe in the sink. It only sounds a little manic. It’s when you step outside and feel and hear the crunch of the leaves underfoot, that you realize something. 

You want it gone. Over. Just like you. 

Wood.

The house is made of wood, you realize. Fire hazards. 

You smile as you set those stupid fucking curtains alight. 

You keep the ring as you slowly climb the mountain, warmed by the phantom flames of your life. You can still see the house in the distance. It’s bright. Brighter than that house has ever been. 

You smile softly. 

You swear you can feel the heat. 

You swear you can feel something calling to you.

The forest is unnaturally silent, something you’d usually associate with the presence of a predator. 

You’re the predator in this case. 

Haha. That’s ironic. You’re usually the prey. 

It pulls at something in your chest, tugging you closer to the top of the mountain. It gets harder to breathe. 

It feels natural for you. 

You see it. 

A giant, gaping hole in a shadowy enclave of the mountain. 

The maw. 

You take deep breaths.

It’s over. 

It’s all over.

You’re going to die. 

You step to the edge of the hole and hesitate. 

You’ve always known it’s pretty damn hard to kill yourself. 

You turn around and breathe. There are flowers everywhere. 

You love flowers. 

It’s a trust fall. 

You salute the stars as you’re caught by nothing but air. 

Chapter Text

You wake up surrounded by flowers.

Buttercups, you recall. You remember them being poisonous from a book you read as a teen. A wife used them to kill her monstrous husband. 

Fitting.

…

How in the actual fuck are you not dead.

You shoot upright, looking around the large space. Dark, dry, and kind of hot. You’re in a large patch of flowers… which is the only thing in the cave. Huh.

 You can still see the sun.

It’s impossibly high up.

How did you survive.

You’re not even fucking hurt! You force yourself to your feet, and you can’t believe you’re aggravated that the only pain you feel is in your shoulder from the glass, but come on. You jump down a giant hole in a mountain and you somehow survive.

Your luck, your honor.

It’s shit. 

Twenty six people who wanted to live are gone, but the twenty-seventh, the only one who wanted to die, survives the scary mountain.

You’re actually going to kill yourself.

…

Oh, yeah. You already tried.

Great job that did you. Now you’ve literally got yourself into a hole.

…Hold on, if twenty six people died on this mountain, at least one of them fell down this hole. Unless there are a bunch on these trypophobia final destination fucks around the mountain trail, there should be a dead body in here. 

You look closer at the area, your eyes finally adjusting to the darkness, when you see it.

A door.

Somehow, that is far more terrifying than any creature.

There are people here.

What a fucking idiot you are. You escaped one prison to literally throw yourself into another. You’re a girl. And by Claude’s first impressions, an attractive one. Most of the hikers that went missing were men. If enough of them survived to build a.. house?? Whatever is behind the door? Then you could be in danger. 

These people have been trapped for at most, three or so years. At least a couple months. 

You have supplies that could be stolen. 

…

Your body could be claimed as well.

When you grip your axe tighter and match towards the door, you steady yourself with the thought that you survived Claude. 

Sex and murder. 

You happen to have a lot of experience.

—————————————————

You feel a little dramatic when you open the door and no one is there. 

Another cave-thing.

Oooookay. You cross over another patch of far off light and try not to wonder how many people fell down that hole. There’s another patch of buttercups.

There’s no blood.

You keep walking. 

It’s… old.

Immediately, you recognize that you are not in a shoddily made shelter, but what remains of a genuine population. 

The walls are an old, desaturated brick, stained purple. You think purple clay is a thing, you feel like you heard one of the sculpture majors mention it. 

You cough into your sleeve, kicking a pile of straight dust away. You don’t have a clue how so much dust got underneath a mountain, but it’s agitating your lungs a lot. You sneeze.

Claude says— said you have a cute sneeze. You grimace thinking about it. 

You walk though through a few rooms, avoiding decayed vines and still water as you pass disabled traps and faded riddles. It’s weird. You grimace at the emptied cobwebs and dead trees, their red leaves crunching underfoot. It reminds you of something. You take deep breaths and focus on the smell of dust and mildew so you don’t trick yourself into smelling blood. 

You’re vaguely nauseous. You kick pebbles into the old water features, and immediately skirt around them when the water barely moves. You’re not really sure how brain-eating amebas work, but it looks a lot like the abandoned-exploration videos you used to watch. Pass. 

You don’t want to die like that. 

You find a more hidden tunnel, and duck inside the small alley to find a balcony. A balcony. Underground. You carefully approach the edge, certainly not trusting the craftsmanship of whatever built this place, but you can’t help yourself from looking over it. It’s a long fall. You could jump, but that didn’t really work out for you last time.

…

There's an entire city under you. It’s ancient. Beautiful.

Haunting. 

…

Not something twenty six humans could’ve built.

Something else was down here. 

There's a shuffle in the distance, soft footsteps passing the alleyway, retracing your path backwards towards where you fell. Your heart lodges in your throat. 

Something else is down here. 

Something is in here with you. 

You peek out of the alley, your curiosity forcing your movement. If you die because of this it’ll be one hundred percent your fault, you dumb whore. You walk quietly forward, but freeze when you catch sight of your… new friend. It’s tall, sickeningly thin, and horribly pale. 

From behind, you see its… dress, if it can still be called that, draping over protruding shoulder blades. Its hair is patchy, ghost white and visibly ripped out of its scalp in varying patches. Its hands are deformed and–

It turns.

It doesn’t see you, just brushing something off of a sign, probably more dust, lord knows this place is bathed in it. But you see it. 

Its face is mangled, lips chewed off, revealing hot pink gums and rotted teeth. Its nose is squashed and pink, little patches of white hair and blood sticking to the peach-ish white skin. Its eyes are… horrifying. Pupils so tiny you can’t even see them from where you stand, irises an unnatural teal, and sclera a sickly yellow.

You realize in one horrifying moment that whatever you are looking at is not human. 

It’s not hair. It’s fur. It’s not just a deformed face, it’s a muzzle. 

It’s not human. 

You must gasp. Maybe you stepped backwards, maybe you leaned too hard on the wall. You have no idea what you did. But its eyes snap to your form. Its eyes widen, and you see the raw muscles contract in its face because its skin is ripped off. 

“-y child?”

Your back slams into the other side of the alley as you launch away from it. 

It spoke to you.

The creature- it takes a stumbling step towards you, and you can’t stop yourself from shrieking, scrambling out of the alley and sprinting down the hallway away from it. 

You don’t know where you’re going, don’t know what the fuck is behind you or what it wants, but you hear limping uneven footsteps behind you. Frantic shuffling. 

You look behind you, and regret it.

It’s chasing you down.

Fast.

You scream, some instinctual, childish part of you wishing to be saved. You run faster, as fast as you physically can. You use your axe to cut down overgrown vines and thorned branches as you tear your way through the old, dust covered halls. 

It’s still behind you, gaining on you, when you find a house. You slam into the front door, revealed to find it unlocked. You frantically lock it behind you before bolting inside, ducking into the closest room and cowering in the corner. 

Your heart beats loudly in your chest, a fast funeral drum, and you can’t breathe through your panic. Strangely enough, the room is completely free of dust. 

It’s only when you can hear the door unlock with a soft click, that you realize you ran into a house underground. A house in the direction the monster came from. 

You’re in the creature’s fucking house.

Your eyes finally adjust to the low lighting and you’re able to take in the room. It’s red. There's a mobile above the bed. The bed is small. 

…

You’re in the monster’s house, in their child’s bedroom.

…..

… It can speak. It said ‘child.’ It has a house. It’s wearing clothes and knew– knows how to unlock a door.

You’re not sure what’s more horrifying. That you’re being chased down by an unknown cave creature, or that it’s sentient.

…

You’re breathing too loud. 

You hold your breath, curling against the tiny bed frame and thanking the lord the monster’s child isn’t in the room. You’re too scared to cry. 

You hear the staggered, uneven steps approach the door. See the creature's shadow darken the floor under it.

You realize you didn’t lock the room door. Not that it would’ve done much, the creature probably had a key, but it could’ve stalled your fate a few precious moments. You try to breathe as silently as possible, eyes burning as you stare unblinkingly at your death.

 “...-y child? Are you in there..?”

The door creaks slowly open, and its eyes find you horrifyingly fast. Staring down at it head on, you realize it kind of looks like a goat. It’s got the floppy ears and facial structure. The rectangular pupils. You hadn’t noticed it wasn’t just its lips gone, but all of the skin surrounding it, torn off its nose and nose bridge and stripping a line through its forehead. It looks simultaneously old and fresh. Painful. You can’t breathe.

Its head tilts, looking at you like… You don’t know. It’s terrifying to see the eyes of a prey animal in a predator’s placement. 

It shifts to move closer and you slam backwards into the bedframe. Your shoulder immediately alights in agony that you ignore. Its head bobs strangely towards you and a high-pitched, terrified whine builds in your throat.

“-e not a-raid, -y child, I-”

It does not move from the door, but its head jerks towards you, rotting, crooked, almost too human, teeth snapping in your direction. You shriek, feet slipping on the frayed carpet as you try to push yourself farther away to no avail. 

It reels back, covering its mouth with a misshapen hand. “I- sorry! Sorry!” 

You can’t fight it anymore, eyes burning and teeth clenched tight in terror. Tears pool and burn and fall as you choke around terrified gasps and sobs. “Please, I don’t know what you want, I just–”

It backs away, only holding the door open a crack. It stares at you, tracking each movement with horrifying precision. It reminds you of a poem you read. Your heart feels pretty tell-tale right now. It shuts the door. You gasp weakly, grasping at your chest as if to quiet your heartbeat. 

You hear something slide down the door, and stop. 

You wait in precious silence for it to rip the door back open and kill you, hopefully quickly, but it doesn’t.

Your breaths still stutter in your chest, but you can watch the shadow under the door and dry your tears to die with dignity. 

“...Hu-nan?”

You jolt, “Wh-What?”

Are you seriously fucking talking to it???

“Hu-nan? Are you alright now?”

Hu..nan?

….

Human. 

It’s… It can’t pronounce it properly. No lips. 

“...Y-Yeah? I… I think?”

….

ARE YOU SERIOUSLY FUCKING TALKING TO IT???

It knocks gently against the door, and you fight a bolt of terror. 

Your breathing picks up into a frantic pace as it knocks again. You grip your axe tighter, bracing it in front of you and shutting your eyes. You don’t want to see it while you die. You wanted to see the flowers.

“...Knock knock jokes usually require a ‘who’s there,’ -y child.”

…

Oh.

“...Who’s.. There?”

“D-Dishes.”

..

You’ve heard this one before. 

“Dishes.. Who?”

“Dishes a -ad joke.”

…

You snicker, despite yourself. Your heart is still racing. You’re still scared. But if you could die laughing that could be… better. You think. 

“Dishes.. A -ad ti-ne to -e here, -y dear. I -hra-nise, I’n not usually… I -uasn’t always so -rightening.”

…. She promises.

You don’t really believe her. 

Her?

Her?

“...I’m sorry.”

It– She laughs weakly. It rasps against her frayed vocal cords. “It’s not your -ault. I ha-e no intention to har-n you.”

You curl up, rubbing your legs gently. “....do you promise that too?”

She wheezes softly, “Yes. I raised -any hu-nans -e-hore t–... this. I could ne-er eat -y children. I kee- sa-e.”

Before ‘this.’ …Before… what. Eating herself? You think? 

What if she was just in an unfortunate accident. What if you’re being ableist right now. 

…

That doesn’t explain where the fuck the twenty six victims went. If she was keeping them ‘safe,’ why did not a single one return home?

“.....You’re starving.”

“.......Yes.”

…

Okay, that you can work with. 

You’ve always been good with getting yourself out of holes. This is just a really big and really deep, skinwalker filled one. You dig through your bag. “Do you have like… dietary restrictions?”

“...No…?”

Her voice is softer. 

“Uh… okay. Cool. Uhm.” You grasp a tupperware from the bottom of your insulated bag. It’s cold, but it’s food. You had grabbed all of the leftovers Claude created. You hated wasting food, and he hated eating the same meal twice in a row. Bastard.

It’s saving you right now. 

“If I give you a home cooked meal, would you let me go?”

“....I said I -ould not hurt you either -uay…”

You hear her breathing go a little ragged. 

“You ha-e -ood?”

…

“Uh… Yeah. One portion. I’m not hungry, you can have it. Just let me go… elsewhere,” You don’t even know where you’re supposed to be going– “and you can have the whole thing. I- I cooked it myself. For my husband. It’s… It was up to his standards, at least.”

She lets out a soft whine. “...You had a hus-and?”

…

She knows what that is??

“..Y-Yes.”

“-e too. -etrayed -e.”

You stare at the floor. 

“...My husband betrayed me too. I’m sorry.”

She wheezes again. “I Sorry, too.”

You scratch gently at your arms, “...What’s your name?”

“......no one -as asked -e that in a long ti-ne, -y child.”

“...Me neither, if it makes you feel better?” 

She laughs. The shadow beneath the door shifts, and you hastily zip your bag, only taking the tupperware of– casserole, you think? You fucking hate casserole– out. She creaks the door open again, and she’s just as scary as before, but you can’t help but see her with a different, softer lens. A woman betrayed by her husband, starving.

You’re not so different.

“Toriel.”

You blink up at her, slowly raising to your feet. “Toriel. I’ve never heard that before. It’s… It’s really pretty.”

She’s still standing too close to the door for a moment, before she backs away, hands shaking. 

“....Thank you.”

—----------------------

You cautiously follow her out of the child’s bedroom, axe shoved into your pocket and tupperware tucked under your arm. Your bag feels lighter on your back. 

Her home is meticulously cleaned. Too clean, compared to everywhere else. You figure she has nothing else to do. 

The books in the small bookshelf are worn and cracked. You’re surprised to see the kitchen looks normal. 

Just.. empty. 

She sits daintily at the table. It alludes to a life before.. ‘This’ as she put it. 

It makes you sad. 

You rub the back of your leg with your foot. “So… uh… where do I.. go?”

Toriel looks closely at you. It’s terrifying. 

“You are young. Snowdin should… should -e sa-e.”

She seems lost for a moment after saying it. 

“..Yes, Snowdin… downstairs…… the doors… should ha-e destroyed…?”

……

You set the container of food down on the table, then slide it to her on the other side.

“T-Thank you, Toriel. It’s cold but–”

She opens the container slowly, staring at the food with wide, hungry eyes. 

You take a step back, unwilling to find out if she has food aggression in any way. Starving things usually bite the hand that fed. 

The table was already set with a fork, spoon and knife next to a porcelain plate. She takes the first bite straight out to the container with a fork that she dwarfs in her horrifying size. 

The fork drops to the floor. 

The clank ignites your adrenaline, but Toriel does not look at you. Her deformed hands claw into the dish, scarfing the casserole down in large, desperate bites. You’re surprised she doesn’t choke. 

You inch back, making it to the stairs while she’s distracted, but the first step down creaks. 

Her attention snaps to you, the softness gone from her expression. 

She looks…

It looks feral. 

Its head tilts fully sideways, unnatural and horrifying as it studies you.

“Chara.”

You don’t know that name. You know nothing of this creature except one fact that you, for a moment, had forgotten. 

It is a creature.

It shoots from its seat launching towards you, its deformed hands arched like claws as it scrambles over spare chairs to get you.

You run like a girl.

You run like hell.

You don’t even remember going down the stairs, you could’ve jumped them entirely and you wouldn’t know. You feel nothing but the fire in your lungs and the hard stone under you as you fling yourself around corners until you see huge doors. The hall is almost devastatingly long. 

You run. 

Toriel– She– It doesn’t speak to you anymore. 

It’s so fast. 

You don’t have the spare attention to scream. Don’t have the time to cry. 

You run until you slam into the door.

They weren’t as heavy as you expected. 

The doors snap open, and you're deposited directly into snow. You’re on your back, facing the doors as they close. Toriel stops just short. 

“Chara, I kee- you sa-e?”

You gasp in the freezing air, frantically forcing yourself away, “I’m not Chara– I’m not Chara!”

Her head tilts again, twitching. 

“Oh. I…. sorry.”

The doors click shut. 

You don’t die. 

—--------------

You’re still shaking as you get up. You’re covered in snow, sticks, and leaves. You can’t find it in you to care. You pretend your tremors are from the cold. 

It’s… strange. Wrong. Subliminal. Snow underground. Hundreds of pine trees lining a straight snowy path. 

…

You hate the cold. But you wonder if there's a frozen lake somewhere.

It could be nice to skate one last time. 

You feel like you’re being watched. You try your hardest to ignore it. 

You walk until you stumble over a large stick. You’d love to say you didn’t eat shit immediately, but you’d be a liar. Internally, you laugh at yourself. You externally immediately try to break the stick, jumping on it a few times before giving up with a pout. 

You walk maybe five steps past it when you hear a sickening crunch. 

Claude. 

It sounded just like Claude’s skull when you–

You whip around, breathing shallow and quick as you stare at-

The stick. 

You step backwards away from it, hands shaking as you stare down at the wood.

It’s completely shattered. 

Like Claude’s skull, caving under your axe.

Something’s watching you. 

You freeze, unable to force your tensed muscles to move. 

It takes several, terrifying seconds to lift your eyes from the destroyed branch to the figure standing several paces behind it. 

It’s not Toriel. 

It’s a… zombie of sorts. 

Something you’d see in a kid’s Halloween film, distorted into something horrifically real. A skeleton, bones stained with too-red blood stands in the snow, incredibly still. It’s wearing clothes, like Toriel did, but its hoodie is all black and scuffed to shit. Camping gear, it looks like. 

Twenty six hikers.

You take a trembling step back as your eyes finally land on its face.

What’s left of its face. 

It’s staring at you with one impossibly red eye, black pupil zeroed in you and your every move. 

A giant, gaping hole mars its head, like a shattered glass bottle or a smashed lightbulb.

It’s holding a thick wood axe in its hand. 

Claude. 

It’s Claude. 

You’re going to die.

Chapter Text

He hears her first. Hears her harsh breath, the terrified flutter of her heart beat, the soft shuffle of snow as she stumbles away from the Ruin doors. She's about the age of most of the humans that fall into this hell. Maybe a little younger. 

Doesn’t matter.

He knows he's not going to learn anything about her, not when he has an axe with her unknown name scrawled across the blade in dried blood, but he mentally refers to her as Seven. 

She's the last soul they need, after all.

One final soul marred with LV. 

Granted, it’s not much. Perhaps she was a hunter, and killed a deer or something with negative intent. Perhaps she sacrificed a friend to save herself. 

Or maybe she killed someone in cold blood. 

Unless she proves herself to the judge, even without his eye, she’ll be their ticket out. 

Papyrus knows she’s here. Sans frowns just thinking about it, aggravated that he’d given himself away. Papyrus hates that Sans has killed humans, even if he understands why. Even if Papyrus doesn’t hate Sans for it, Sans hates making Papyrus sad. Papyrus is more than willing to wait for a truly evil soul, and refuses to get his hopes up for escaping. He’s a little excited for a potential pal. Sans will determine if she’s a friend or a forfeiture from the universe. 

She’s not covered in dust, in her favor. She obviously didn’t kill Tori. She looks a little frazzled, but not… crazy. Not like he is, at least. 

Papyrus would take one look at her and get attached, Sans knows it. It’s why he told Paps to stay home. He doesn’t want Papyrus to get involved, and he doesn’t want Papyrus to see him kill. 

It’s not like Sans enjoys killing. Her face will live in his nightmares until he dies, he’s sure, just as well as all the other LV ridden fucks that fell down here.

She trips over the root and lands in the snow. He can’t see her expression, but he isn’t amused by how she immediately tries to destroy the thing that tripped her. Her weight does nothing as she jumps on it, and Sans can’t really read intent that well anymore, but he doesn’t like it. He won’t risk it.

It’s only when she gives up and continues forward that he sees her face a little clearer. Well. 

The only thing he really sees are her eyes. 

They’re dark, blood-red. 

Just like Frisk’s were.

He doesn’t hate Frisk. He loved the kid before they left, even with the resets. He’s certain Frisk couldn’t tell Sans could sense them, and it’s not like they ever hurt anyone. Their intentions were pure, just as the determination in their soul. Pure survival. 

He knows Frisk would have tried to help if they could. He knows that if Frisk knew what was happening Underground they would reset. He knows that Frisk would have come back Underground if they could.

Control over time and reality itself.

Sans doesn’t want to know what someone with LV would do with that power.

He snaps the branch.

———————————————————————

Claude is uncharacteristically silent, staring you down like death. 

You want to die. Wanted to, at least.

He begins to shuffle closer, and your breath hitches in your throat, choking you as effectively as his hands. You nearly slip on the snow underfoot, but you right yourself quickly, used to ice under you. The branch crunches under his feet, and you bolt. There's a sturdy-ish looking bridge with thick, crooked supports and stained wood. You launch through the beams and make it maybe six steps away from the bridge before Claude catches up to you.

You don't understand how, you don’t remember Claude being that fast, but a hand is on your shoulder, five fingers digging the fabric of your hoodie into the fresh wound that already resides there. Claude would know where to hurt you, he was the one who shoved you into the picture frame. 

It’s agonizing, and the pain distracts you for half a second, and it’s all Claude needs to throw you into the snow. 

You swear, you don’t even hear his footsteps, but he’s there looming above you, thick wood axe in hand. Your breathing is frantic, your chest heaving around stolen air as your throat closes in your panic. 

Claude adjusts his grip on his axe, and prepares a swing.

You want to die.

But not like this. 

Not to Claude. 

Not to a man that does not love you. 

You push past the pain and launch yourself from under his weapon. It flashes dangerously in the artificial lighting of the cave and the white of the snow, disturbed by your crash. 

You instinctively try to run into the woods, trying to lose him in the trees while he struggles to retrieve his axe from where it’s stuck in the frozen Earth. Of course he got it stuck, he’d never actually helped you with lumber. You pass probably four rows of trees when you realize the snow is thick and you’re leaving incredibly obvious tracks.

You could climb a tree, but Evergreens aren't really easily climbable without you using a belt to support yourself and you don’t have one. You wouldn’t be able to climb it fast enough for him not to see, and even if you were, your tracks would stop right in front of a trunk and even Claude isn’t stupid enough to not look up.

He’s right behind you as you stumble into a clearing. 

Your throat produces a panicked whimper, pinched and hoarse.

You whip around and meet Claude head on.

You will not die.

Not to him.

You won’t let him kill your future, your soul, your fucking spirit and actually take your life. 

You still have your axe. 

Entering the open space, realizing you need to fight to survive, and getting your hands on your weapon, occurs in what can’t be more than three seconds. Your axe lifts to protect your chest, and Claude’s blade slams against it a split second later. 

You scream, but your hands hold the weight for just long enough for Claude to pull back. He gears another swing, and you force your body back away. He stops to adjust, following you. 

You hardly breathe, but your body begs you to speak. 

Beg.

Beg for your life. 

Claude likes it when you beg. 

He’s bigger than you, stronger than you. But he’s also more injured than you are, and you’ve killed him before. You can do it again. 

Begging didn’t work before. 

While Claude is fixing his stance, you lunge forward.

It’s just like the trees. 

Standing in snow isn't that much different from ice. 

That’s two advantages you have over Claude, and you use them both in one moment.

You balance easily on one foot, and put all of your weight into a kick to his chest. 

Claude isn’t expecting it, and he slams into the ground. You find it incredibly satisfying. 

It knocks the air from his lungs, and you take your opportunity just the same as before. You don’t know shit about zombies, maybe you have to kill them the exact same way? You’re gearing to slam the blade of your axe into his skull, when you realize something crucial.

His head wound’s on the wrong side. 

—---------------------

“....Claude?”

Sans pants heavily, axe several feet away from his reach. He doesn’t have enough magic to retrieve it and he wasted what magic he did have on that first teleport. 

how am i not dead.

He glares up at the human, who’s hesitating. Her axe is much smaller than his, the handle bright red with peeling paint instead of blood. She’s breathing just as heavily, but looks wholly uncertain about killing him, which is hilarious considering she just kicked him hard enough to tank half his HP and didn’t seem real against the idea when she was about to smash another hole in his skull. 

“........Claude?”

Sans glares up at her, “who?”

Her hands are shaking. She takes a step back, removing her boot from his sternum carefully. “...You’re.. You’re not Claude?”

Sans coughs blood into the snow before leveraging himself upright to sit in the snow. “no. name’s sans. the skeleton.”

She blinks once down at him, then flips her axe. 

“Oh.” She holds it by the back of the blade, offering him the handle. “You uh… You can kill me then.”

Sans stares at her. 

“....fucking what?”

The human rocks on her heels, nervously tossing the small axe within reach of him. “I thought. I don’t uh.” She laughs hysterically, shoving her matted hair out of her face, “I thought you were my ex? Like.. a zombie of him? Trying to kill me?”

… Sans takes it back. This bitch is crazy. 

“what?”

She flails her arms, “I don’t know! Look, I literally jumped down the mountain to die, didn’t die and I’ve just been running on adrenaline! I don’t want to live, I just didn’t want to get murdered by my shitty ex!”

Sans squints at her. “why didn’t you jump off the bridge?”

She looks exasperatingly in his direction, gesturing wildly at the cave. “Jumping down unknown spaces didn’t exactly work out for me. With my luck I’ll hop down and land on a fucking pillow, kill me.”

Sans' left socket twitches. “...no?”

She stares at him for a second, squinting. “...What?”

Sans reels slowly back, face pinched, “fucking, no? what the hell is wrong with you?”

She straightens, visibly disgruntled, “What’s wrong with you? You attacked me first!”

Sans hesitates for a long moment, before sighing. He shifts to his feet, shuffling over to his axe and shoving it into his inventory. He kicks her axe back to her feet. “yeah, well. i changed my mind.”

He could tell she was young before attacking. 

He hadn’t realized she was just a kid. 

Even if Sans would be willing to kill a child, which he’s not, it’s not like Papyrus would ever be able to stomach eating one. Papyrus would rather starve to death and Sans would rather wait for another human to fall. 

He’s insane. But he’s not horrible. He hasn’t lost himself that much. 

She frowns. “What the fuck.”

Sans sighs loudly. Stars, he cannot believe he’s dealing with teenaged angst right now.

“look, as much as you say you want to die, which, you’re a fucking weirdo for, you don’t want to die to a sentry. everywhere there is snow, is snowdin territory. if you want your soul ripped out and your body eaten alive, head over the waterfall. the entrance is dark and wet and covered in blood, you can’t miss it.”

She stares at him for a minute, before picking up her axe and shoving it into her bag. “Uh.. okay. Thank you?”

Sans grimaces, “don’t thank me. if you even think about hurting someone, i will make your death slow and appeti— agonizing.”

Cough. Maybe he’s a little hangry. 

She pulls her hair out of her face. “..Oh. Okay. Uh, I don’t want to hurt anyone.”

Sans wills the remains of the Judge to attempt to verify that.

He slumps a little when he realizes she’s being genuine. Fuck, Paps is going to love her. She’s so dead.

He winces, “…okay, well.. good. uh… i’d recommend staying away from anyone else. i try to keep everyone here from hurting humans but… well. just, if you see somebody that’s not a skeleton, i suggest running. you’re uh… you’re decent with defense too, and they might be faster than you, so keep that axe on hand.”

Sans knows she’ll still starve. She’ll slip on the ice, or she’ll freeze to death. She’ll get caught by a feral. She won’t listen to his warning and venture to Waterfall. Something will go wrong, he’s certain of it.

She’s going to die.

But he can try to postpone that a little. Maybe another human will fall and she can escape with them.

…

Sans frowns, stepping away. He’s too far gone to be acting this optimistic. 

She stares at him with wide eyes. “…Oh. Oh, yeah, right. T-Thank you. Again.” She stares at the snow for a second before startling, “Hey, wait, what is this place? What are you? And Toriel?”

Sans pauses, staring at the human.

No point in lying. 

“we’re monsters.”

Chapter Text

Monsters. 

They are literally monsters. 

Got it. 

You breathe calmly, forcing yourself to believe this isn’t a big deal.

You stare at your shoes for a long moment, processing the fact that monsters are real, before you realize that the skeleton in front of you– Sans?- is probably starving too. It’s probably why he was hunting you in the first place.

You look up, lips parted to offer a meal from your bag, only to be staring at open air. 

He’s… gone. 

…

Okay..? 

….

What the actual fuck.

—---------------------------

You have a minor panic attack in the woods. 

Once you’re able to fix your face, you retrace your frantic trail back to the path. 

You need… shelter, right? You don’t want to freeze, that sounds miserable. Maybe there's an abandoned house or something.

You pass a small sentry station, filled with empty ketchup and mustard bottles and the occasional clear plastic bag. You climb inside and huddle under the counter, but it’s nowhere near warm enough for a shelter. It blocks the chilled cave-winds but it does little in terms of insulation. You move along, kicking at least six inches of snow out of your way as you continue away from the purple area. You hope Toriel’s alright. 

….

She tried to kill you. You think. You’re not sure why you hope she’s okay. 

Your hope tends to get you in trouble. 

You hear rushing water, and head up the path, trying the left route when it splits into two. There’s a river. It goes on very far in both directions, and it’s fast. You can feel heat radiating from it. 

You don’t think it’s safe to drink. 

You backtrack then take the right path forward, squinting at a scratched sign. You can’t make out the words. There’s a box next to it, but the lid is ripped from the hinges. You cringe at the splinters and ignore it. You have enough debris in your body with the glass in your shoulder.

There's a long stretch of trees, passing a destroyed sentry station, then an actually nicer one. You peek inside it to see if it’s a suitable shelter, and find it scratched to shit from the inside, as if something wanted to dig a hole through the earth and kept catching its claws on the wooden sidewalls. You look closer and see what looks like a dog bed nestled in the little hole. You grimace and get the fuck away from it in case it’s still occupied.

You’re still a little heebied and jeebied at the dog-house thing when you  stumble into a larger clearing with… an ice lake. 

Or, an ice pond really.

….

Puddle would be more accurate.

You tap your heel against the edge and the ice immediately shatters. 

You frown. 

You really miss skating. It would’ve been nice to dance one more time before you die.

You ignore the sign in the center of the water feature, the wood was too mangled to make out and it’s not like you could reach the sign to read it closer without getting soaked in ice cold water. You’d get hypothermia and die, probably. 

The next clearing is filled with a whole lotta nothing. 

The snow is dug in an ominous, melting maze, and you avoid it entirely. 

…

Okay you went though the maze and you smiled your ass off while doing it. You hadn’t been to a corn maze in years. This was like finding chalk hopscotch on your college campus.

…

You can’t believe you’re missing college right now. Loud sigh. 

You clear the mini maze quickly, and find yourself on a cliff face. There’s only a small gap between the ledge you're on and the next chunk of land continuing the path, and while the drop actually doesn't look bad if you were to fall and the little wooden bridge doesn’t look horrible, you take your chances with simply jumping the gap. 

You don’t die.

…

Yayyyyy…!

There are little trees in this area but there is a mini soccer game? 

You grin wildly as you carefully kick the snowball into the small hole across the chunk of earth.

It’s…

You're having fun.

You cough, brushing snow from your clothes and continuing like that didn’t happen. You’re acting childish.

You continue to act childish as you find a word scramble on the ground. It’s very old, a date from about two years prior marking the top right corner. You sit in the snow, setting your bag next to you and digging around in it for a pencil. You find an inkpen in one of the pencil bags and use the meat of your thigh as your flat surface to fill in the page. 

It doesn’t take too long, it’s clear it’s meant for small children.

You fold it neatly before stuffing it in your pocket, not wanting to litter.

You struggle to get up, your legs feeling a tad numb from the cold, before marching along. You pout when you see a table in the immediate distance. You’re cold for nothing.

There’s a little mouse hole. You stare at it for a moment, but it remains silent and dark. Too cold for mice, you suppose.

You pass the wooden table, still pouting, but your mood is immediately brightened by the silliest sign you’ve seen in your life. 

‘Caution! Dog Marriage'

You giggle as you pass the area, jumping over some very old, rusted spikes and actually using the next bridge because the jump was a little bigger. 

Your laugh pitches into a scream as one of the planks snap underfoot. You lurch forward and land heavily into the snow gasping in cold, damp air as you watch half of the bridge fall soundlessly into the trees below, sound blocked by thick snow.

You flop onto your back, gasping at the cave ceiling as you catch your breath, letting the adrenaline drain from your body.

Okay.

Scary.

You’re fine though. 

You force yourself to sit up, shaking the snow from your hair and hoodie, and make yourself continue. You need to find shelter.

There’s precious little to note for a minute, another long stretch of trees before you reach a… puzzle?

You think?

You step on two pressure plates and press a button.

The spikes, rusted to shit and clumped with snow and mud, slide down into the earth. 

…

Oh.

Cool.

You pout, realizing you’d accidentally skipped a puzzle when you jumped the spikes last time. You still hop over the holes, just incase the machinery is fucked up or it runs on a timer.

There's another, bigger puzzle of a similar design, but more complicated. You could just jump over the spikes again, and you debate it considering how fucking long it takes to find all the pressure plates in the snow, but the slide of metal clicking home is incredibly satisfying and it’s not like you’ve got somewhere to be.

Other than out of the cold, that is. Remember, you need shelter.

There’s another wooden bridge. You grimace, and launch yourself over the gap. Not going through that bullshit again, thanks. The snow gives immediately under you, and you absolutely eat shit onto snow covered… tile??

…For real?

You glare at the tiling but don’t risk your poor knees, simply scooting across the area until you find the border where slippery plastic meets dirt. You get up, brushing the snow off of you again, and grumble quietly to yourself as you find another sentry post. 

It’s still not good enough for a shelter, the mouth too wide to block any wind. 

You’re still frowning when you see it. 

A pond. 

Completely frozen over. 

You run over, tapping the edge with your foot before genuinely cheering when you determine it thick enough. Normally you’d have to drill it to check that it’s so many inches, but there’s a small hole dug into the dirt at the edge, and it’s at least six inches of ice. Enough for you!

You drop into the snow and dig excitedly through your bag, dragging your skates out from the bottom and shoving them onto your feet. You chuck your boots into your bag so as to not let them fill with falling snow. 

Your hands are freezing, you didn’t really bring gloves and you’ve been touching ice and snow for a hot (or really quite cold) minute, so it takes a while to lace them with your fingers’ limited mobility, but your skates feel so right on your feet. 

You. 

They’re bright red, they still fit perfectly, and you’re upright in seconds, ready to be on the damn ice again. 

Your first step onto the pond feels like coming home.

You don’t have music, nothing other than you humming to yourself, and you don’t really remember your old routines. 

But you can still dance. 

Wait! You do have music! 

You race back to your bag, throwing in a twizzle for fun before you slide to your knees and dig through your bag again. 

Your old, old IPhone sits in one of the side pockets, turned completely off. You boot it up, and grin when you see it has a decent charge. You’re also pretty sure you have the charger somewhere in your bag if you could find an electrical outlet to plug it up. That’s if you find shelter, dumbass. 

You scroll frantically through your apps to find YouTube Music, because you didn’t like Spotify as a middle schooler and now you’re only used to YouTube’s UI, and swipe through several cringe worthy playlists before you find one filled with old routines. You can’t believe it’s still downloaded. You’re so glad it is.

You press play. 

It’s different than you’re used to performing. There’s no industrial speakers, the ice isn’t perfectly level, it’s a smidge windy, you’re not wearing the right clothes. 

It’s wonderful. 

Your muscle memory carries through most of the technical skills, but your heart sings with the melody and you dance.

Not for points. 

Not for judges. 

Not for Claude.

You dance for you.

The playlist melds nicely together, the routine being that of your very last show. You trained for months. You never got to perform it.

…

You still don’t believe that day was the only date available for your wedding. You suppose it’s your fault for letting him set the reservation. 

You pull your hoodie over your head and toss it on your bag as your movement circulates heat through your body. Your face is red, not from the cold but exertion, and the burn in your muscles feels better than any slip of a knife. 

Why the hell did you stop?

You land a more complicated jump, and laugh with it, spinning freely with the melody from your phone’s tiny old speakers. 

You breathe. 

Your lungs strain with the effort as you push yourself harder and harder, but you breathe and for once it doesn’t feel like a hand’s clenched around your throat. 

You land another leap, and for the moment you were in the air, you felt as if you were flying. Free. 

You try out a certain spin, you can’t for the life of you remember the name of it, but you spin on one foot and hold the blade of the other skate, contorting your body down then back up into a high point. You spin in quick circles, feeling a little like the ballerina in your music box, until the song ends. 

You giggle, dizzy as you escape the spin, doing an easy backwards crossover to right yourself. 

A sharp snap rings out nearby. 

Something hard, padded by something with a little give, smacking against something. It sounds like bone. 

Like Claude’s skin dulled the sound of the blow just a little. The sound of his skull splitting beneath your wood-dulled blade. 

You straighten, heart beating fast as you frantically look at the surrounding tree line. The sound echoes again, louder and faster, over and over until you find the source. 

A tall, tall man. 

…

Clapping. 

You stare, hands shaking from the cold and terror.

‘Stay away from people,’ They said. 

So you play music? In which you attract people?!

You go stock still as the man approaches, ducking under a branch before appearing in the light. 

…Sounded like bone. 

A skeleton. 

You glance behind the freakishly tall skeleton, and find Sans not far from its side. 

….

Oh. Sans did say to run if you saw someone who.. Isn’t  a skeleton. Maybe they’re related. 

You hesitate, but he’s clapping for you, not attempting to nibble on you, so you take a professional bow before straightening.

Sans nods lightly at you. You take it as a threat. You think. Or maybe he wants you to please the taller skeleton?

You don’t really know how to read this guy. He attacked you, viciously you might add, then refused to kill you, then gave you tips on survival.

And now he’s watching you skate. 

Okay.

You keep your distance, but skate a little closer, waving gently. “Uh, hi. I’m guessing I don’t need to run from you? Unless this was a plot. To catch me. Which is silly because I would’ve let you.”

Sans clears his throat, “no, you don’t need to run.”

You purse your lips and sway on the balls of your feet, balancing precariously on the back edge of the blade. “Right. Cool. Thanks, Sans.”

The taller skeleton perks up, reels back to side eye Sans, who offers nothing but a grin, before turning his attention fully on you.

“HOW DIDN’T YOU FALL?! HOW DID YOU DO THAT?! THAT WAS INCREDIBLE!”

You blush, grinning and offering a false curtsy, “Lots of practice. If you have skates I could teach you?”

The skeleton slumps, “AWH, I’M AFRAID I DON’T. WATCHING YOU IS PRETTY COOL THOUGH!” 

You smile, doing a quick little spin. “I wish— Oh well, I think I do have the videos from my last competition, but— I uh, yeah. I could show you?”

His teeth, chipped badly and crooked in several places, morph into a beaming smile. You hope it doesn’t hurt him as much as it looks like it does. “YES! I WOULD—“

His eyes lock to your palm. 

You, confused and startled because you’re still worried you’re going to get eaten or something, let your eyes fall to your hand. Your skin is stained by bright red, fresh blood.

Claude’s blood on your hands, splattered across the wallpaper and smeared up your arms—

Hands are on you.

You flinch away, and your foot slips from under you.

The hands catch you before you slam into the ice, and you’re held securely against someone’s chest. “WOAH! I KNOW I’M PRETTY GREAT, BUT THE ICE IS NO PLACE FOR FAINTING! OR FALLING! YOU COULD HIT YOUR HEAD! AND DIE!”

Ah.

You wish he’d dropped you then.

“don’t say that, paps, or she’ll do it on purpose.”

…

Okay, that was a read.

You giggle. Sans gets you.

Your eyes stay shut so you don’t see the blood. Your shoulder aches so hard it burns and you wonder if you ripped wounds open again.

…if you can rip open a wound that wasn’t closed in the first place.

You squeeze your hand to feel how much blood is there, and your palm stings. 

….

Oh, you know what you did. You used to cut your hand on your skates doing that little fancy move all the time. 

“Sorry, I must’ve sliced my hand when I grabbed the blade.”

Your eyes squint open, and you grimace at the amount of light reflecting from the snow. Sans shuffles closer, looming above you. 

“yeah, that happens when you grab blades.”

He’s lucky you’re wearing knives on your feet or you’d kick him in the shin. You pout, “You just don’t respect art.”

The tall skeleton, who clearly caught you considering you’re braced against his sternum, laughs. “SANS DOES NOT RESPECT ART. BUT I DO! I THOUGHT YOUR DANCE WAS VERY RESPECTABLE! AND PRETTY!”

You blush again, patting his shoulder with your non-bloody hand. He’s a lot less scary when he’s complimenting you. “Thanks, uh… Paps? Is that your name?”

‘Paps’ gasps loudly, “I DIDN’T INTRODUCE MYSELF?!”

You laugh as he sets you gently onto the ice to stand straight and proud before dropping in a bow. “I AM THE GREAT PAPYRUS!” He leans closer and stage whispers, “BUT PAPS IS ALSO OKAY!”

You giggle as he straightens, offering you a hand to right yourself. “AND WHAT IS YOUR NAME, LITTLE HUMAN?”

You take it, somehow more comfortable with a literal monster than your husband. Go figure. “It’s, uh–”

“seven.”

You pause, your mouth clicking shut. Your name is definitely not ‘Seven’ but he said it confidently enough to make you feel like you need to check your birth certificate.  

Sans coughs, smiling strangely, “we’re calling her seven.”

Papyrus immediately looks cross, “THAT’S A HORRIBLE THING TO CALL HER, SANS! THAT’S LIKE CALLING A PET SHEEP ‘LAMBCHOP.’”

Sans snaps his fingers, “there’s a good one, bro, lambchop.”

“YOU MOTHER FUCKER.”

—--------------------

Sans snickers helplessly, wiping a non-existent tear. His favorite part of the day is pissing off Paps. Seven, in all fairness, takes the nicknames in stride, shrugging, “I don’t really have a preference. Lampchop is kinda funny.”

Sans raises a brow, “funny?”

She pauses, “As in like, ironic? There’s this old story I read as a kid called ‘Lamb to the Slaughter’ that uh… yeah. I don’t really mind it. I don’t get how ‘Seven’ is offensive though, I thought it was kinda cool.”

Oh, yeah. Sans should’ve realized she didn’t know shit about the Underground or the barrier. It’s not like Toriel was in any place to tell her, the poor woman barely remembers anything beyond Chara and almost nothing beyond Frisk. Plus, she can’t really… talk. 

Sans grimaces, “uh… don’t worry about it for now.”

It’s not like it’ll matter if she knows if she’s just going to die from something else. No need to put that fear over her head.

…

He realizes she’d probably volunteer to get her soul snatched for the barrier.

Sans is an asshole, but he’s not going to send her to an early death, even if she wants him to. If she dies from her own stupidity, that’s her business, but he’s not going to kill her.

Paps would never forgive him.

Papyrus gently pokes at the wound, “IT LOOKS PAINFUL!”

She blinks at it, then winces. Either a delayed reaction, or she’s more bothered by the blood. She doesn’t pull away from him though. “Oh. It doesn’t really hurt.”

She bites her lip, bouncing on the knives attached to her feet. “Oh shit, it’s not going to get infected, is it? I think I have medical supplies in my bag but—“

Papyrus carefully shakes her hand, “WE HAVE A LOT OF MEDICAL SUPPLIES! THAT WE CANNOT MAKE USE OF! AS WE ARE MONSTERS!”

Seven pauses, smiling softly, “Is that like… your species? Like your species name is a ‘monster?’ Like I’m a human?”

Papyrus nods, and Sans clears his throat. He thought he told her that. Did he not tell her that? He swears he—

But. 

He didn’t?

“Oh, cool. Sans said you guys are monsters but I was pretty sure it meant something a little different here than where I’m from.”

Oh.

He did. 

Okay.

He’s not crazy.

‘Kay.

-Wait.

He grimaces as Papyrus ushers her off the ice. “COME WITH US, DEAR HUMAN, I CAN PATCH YOU RIGHT UP!”

He doesn’t really want a human in his house, not when they’re a target. But Papyrus hasn’t been able to really talk to anyone in weeks, anyone sane that is, and he looks so damn happy Sans folds. 

He shouldn’t, because Papyrus shouldn’t waste his efforts on someone who wants to die, but Sans allows it to happen anyway because he always waits until it’s too late to intervene. 

He sighs, follows behind his brother and the dancing girl. Seven. 

Just Seven. 

“alright, paps.”

Seven smiles weakly, waving before weaving from Papyrus’ grasp– quite impressively for a human on death-shoes, to grab her bag from the other side of the ice. “Sure! As long as I won’t be a bother, or anything?”

Papyrus waves her off immediately, “OF COURSE NOT!! BESIDES, YOU WILL NEED SOME SHELTER FROM THE COLD, AND THE INN IS UNFORTUNATELY CLOSED AT THE MOMENT AND THE LIBRARY IS NO LONGER PROPERLY INSULATED! SO UNLESS YOU KNOW ANY OTHER DEVILISHLY HANDSOME SKELETONS WHO CAN PROVIDE YOU WARMTH WE MAY BE YOUR ONLY OPTION! AND AGAIN, YOU ARE CERTAINLY NO BOTHER!”

Sans clocks her spike of fear the moment Papyrus implied she didn’t have a choice. 

Her foot placement is almost immediately less confident, and she is more walking on the ice than skating as she hesitantly approaches. Brave girl. 

Or. No.

Suicidal girl is more fitting. 

Seven picks hesitantly at her hands. “...But I can leave… right?”

Papyrus blinks, “DO YOU ALSO LOVE NATURE RUNS?!”

Sans snorts. Papyrus is precious. “you’re not a prisoner. you’ll probably die though.”

Seven looks oddly comforted. “Ah. Well. I don’t want to be a burden, so you know, I can pull my weight. I don’t mind chores and stuff.”

Sans respects that at least. She should be nervous and anxious and hesitant. But some old, still sensitive version of him is a little saddened by it. He doesn’t know what she went though– and he doesn’t care– but if she’s willing to fight and die she must’ve been through a lot. 

“can you cut wood?”

She blinks, then smiles. “It’s one of my better skills.”