Work Text:
Fandom: Undertale
Prompt: “Could you hold my hand?”
“flower you today, sweetheart?”
The child giggles, reaching out to take Sans’ hand as he helps them up. They give his hand two quick squeezes as he helps them onto his back. They’re taking the shortcut right out of the cavern today, to the flower patch. Sans had been poking around with his shortcuts and found an old one, to somewhere he didn’t remember. Probably made by someone else—
The shortcut fizzles, the energy dissipating slowly. Sans clutches the child’s arms close, sliding them carefully to the ground, keeping them close to his side in case they have to quickly vanish again. He scans their surroundings.
They’re in a towering cavern, the ceiling stretching far higher than any other he’s seen. Somewhere high above, a thin shaft of light illuminates a single golden spotlight on the ground. The vaulted ceilings look like the remains of some great castle, crumbling pillars, little chunks of rock sitting here and there. Tunnels lead off into the blackness. He can’t hear any other monsters. He can’t hear much of anything, actually.
“alright, sweetheart, i think it’s—hey, what’re you doing?”
The child lets go of him and walks confidently towards the light, shining down from somewhere above. Sans peers at the place where they kneel down, eyes widening when they finally adjust to the light.
The golden patch on the ground isn’t just the mysterious light hitting the rocky ground. It’s a golden flowerbed. The same flowers whose petals still litter the shoulders of his hoodie.
“s-sweetheart,” Sans mutters, walking slowly towards them, “is…is this where you…fall?”
The child takes his hand and pulls him down until he’s kneeling next to them. The flowers cushion the ground under his knees, cradling his bones. They tilt their head to the side, the golden petals on their face catching the light, gleaming. A sad smile crosses their face and they reach up slowly, feeling for his cheeks. He lets them, feeling them trace carefully over the ridges of his skull until they find the ends of his smile. Then they nod.
Sans glances around. Well, there were worse places in the Underground to be. And judging by the relaxed way the child sat in the bed of flowers, they probably knew it was safe here. Speaking of which…
“what’re you doing there, sweetheart?”
They have a bunch of flowers in their lap, toying with the stems. As he watches, they twist them carefully around each other, pausing every now and then to grab another one. A crown takes shape underneath their hands, a strange counterpart to the one growing on their own head. When they finish, they hold it out to Sans. He blushes, leaning down to let them carefully place it on his head.
“now we match, huh, kiddo?”
They take his hands and squeeze them happily. He smiles, watching as tiny little petals fall in circles around them. He turns his head this way and that, watching them flutter slowly away. When he looks back, they’d let go of his hands and had laid down in the flowers, the wreath on their face blending in seamlessly with the rest of the foliage.
They looked…golden. No, not just ‘cause the flowers were golden and the light was golden, but because they…fit.
Humans don’t last in the Underground. Humans don’t have flowers growing out of them. And they definitely don’t befriend monsters.
Yet…here they were.
Lying there, in the bed of flowers, looking every bit like they were supposed to be, something in Sans’ SOUL remembered the old, scorned story. About the ANGEL that would fall from above and make the Underground go empty.
He’d always thought ANGELs were silver.
He’s snapped out of his thoughts when a small hand twists in his. Thin shafts of the light reach their long fingers around the small bits of brown hair that have strayed from the crown as their head turns to face him. They tug gently on his hand.
“…you…you want me to lay down with you, sweetheart?”
They nod. Sans hesitates, looking around again. He knows he can’t really ever let his guard down, not down here, and even though the kid feels safe, he can’t deny the fact that might change any moment. And stars know he’s the one who’s gotta do the fighting if things go bad. But the flowers are so soft, the light so gentle…
“alright. hang on. could you hold my hand?”
The child claps excitedly when he shifts his bulk to lay next to them. And oh, it’s so much better than he thought it would be. The flower petals brush delicately against his cheeks, his legs, through his fingers. The blackness of his hoodie greedily soaks in the warmth of the light, drinking in every golden drop. He closes his eyes, his smile softening. It’s warm. It’s so warm.
It feels like honey.
He loses track of how long they lay there, in the light, in the warmth, until he registers that they’re no longer laying next to him.
“sweetheart,” he mumbles, blinking awake, “sweetheart, where’re you?”
He sits up to see them looking around the flower patch, searching, frowning slowly, one hand reaching down to feel around in the bed of flowers. Sans watches, slightly perplexed until they find whatever it is they’re looking for.
They withdraw their hand, opening it to reveal a tiny pendant. Sans takes it carefully, peering at it.
It’s a necklace, looped through with rough twine that scrapes against his bones. The pendant itself is a piece of plastic no larger than the end of his thumb. Something clenches in his SOUL when he realizes what this means. A necklace cobbled together from scraps, the only thing apart from the clothes on their back that made it to the Underground.
They really were alone, weren’t they?
“this is yours,” Sans murmurs, pulling them close in the bed of flowers, “isn’t it?”
They nod, taking the end of his hoodie between their fingers and playing with the fuzz. Sans looks at it again, before leaning closer to try and put it back around their neck. He frowns when they stop him, tapping the pendant insistently. He peers at it again.
Oh. Something’s written on it.
Scratched into the plastic—probably with a nail or something, judging by the way it’s torn and uneven in certain places—is a word.
“‘f,’” Sans mutters slowly, “‘r,’ ‘i,’ ’s,’ ‘k.’”
The child nods encouragingly.
“…’frisk?’” Sans frowns. “why’d you write that, sweetheart?”
The child takes Sans’ hand in theirs, flattening their other hand to their chest and patting it once, twice. Then they shake his hand.
Sans’ mouth drops open.
“…are…are you telling me your name, sweetheart? is this your name?”
The child—Frisk beams.
“well,” Sans grins, taking Frisk’s hand in his and giving it a little shake, “nice to meet you, frisk. the name’s sans. sans the skeleton.”