Chapter Text
The next morning, you woke up bright and early. Trudging out of bed, you pulled off the sea-foam green hoodie you had slept in and shuffled groggily to your desk. You grabbed the box of wet wipes, intending to clean the grime and smells from the previous day off your bones.
Despite Papyrus’s belief that you were a much more put-together version of his brother, you shared the same basic struggle as Comic when it came to personal care. Getting out of bed was still a battle, but today you had no choice. You were on babysitting duty and had to make yourself presentable for the drop-off. The last thing you needed was for Toriel to give you the cold shoulder at the next get-together—a skeleton could only take so much chill.
A full shower sounded like far too much effort. You made do with what you could, wiping your face and hands clean. Then you walked to the closet to grab some clothes from the pile Comic had given you—things he didn’t use anymore. You pulled out a seaweed-green cardigan and slipped it over the white shirt you were wearing, then put on a soft pair of black socks. It was probably best not to walk around sockless with a bunch of kids around; far too scandalous.
Leaving your room, you paused to sprinkle a few colorful specks on Comic’s pet rock before checking the time on a nearby wall clock.
4:00 a.m. That was enough time to make breakfast for four. Or maybe five, if Toriel decided to stay.
Grabbing a old pair of Comic's Crocs, you made your way down the stairs towards the kitchen, your mind sifting through hazy memories for a dish that everyone would enjoy and was easy to make.
A sudden flash hit you—a cold morning in a cramped apartment, the world outside a blur of grey. Your hands, smaller then, were covered in a sticky, sunshine-yellow batter. The memory was accompanied by a feeling of quiet focus, of making something good with very little.
You grinned. You knew exactly what you were going to make.
You pulled out a large bowl from the cupboard, the clatter echoing in the quiet house. The recipe unfolded in your mind like a well-worn map. All purpose flour. Sugar. Baking powder. A pinch of salt. You measured them out with your instincts.
Next, you cracked one large egg into a smaller bowl, its yolk a bright, cheerful yellow. You beat it lightly before adding a cup of milk and melted margarine, the mixture becoming a pale, creamy liquid. You poured the wet ingredients into the dry, stirring gently. The batter was thick and lumpy, just as you knew it should be.
Then, the final touch. A tablespoon of vanilla extract but you didn't have any so you substituted it for some brown sugar. As you poured it in, the sweet, warm scent punched through the last of your morning grogginess, solidifying the memory.
This was it. This was the smell from that cramped kitchen. You hope it tastes just as good as you remembered.
You let the batter rest, the baking powder already starting to create tiny bubbles on the surface. While you waited, you melted some chocolate in a separate pot on the stove before pouring some milk in and mixing it all together. Hot chocolate would pair well with what you were making.
Once the batter was well rested, you greased a pan with some butter, watching it sizzle. You ladled the batter onto the hot surface. It spread into a perfect, small circle, and almost immediately, tiny bubbles began to form and pop on the surface. When the edges looked set and the bubbles covered the center, you slid the spatula underneath and flipped it. The hotcake landed with a soft hiss, its underside a perfect, golden brown.
The first one was always a test. You slid it onto a plate—a little dense, a little cakey, but perfect. Just like you remembered. You continued, the kitchen filling with the irresistible, buttery scent of cooking hotcakes, a small, warm sun rising in the quiet house.
Once the batter was all used up and the hotcakes were finished. You used the remaining margarine as adhesive for you to coat the hotcakes in sugar. Once you were done, you set a stack of them on the dining table, feeling accomplished with your cooking. You made hotcakes, a type of pancake that was sugary and buttery with a chewy consistency, you knew the kids would enjoy it.
The sun was fully up by now, and you spent the remaining time until their arrival scrambling some eggs for a bit of protein and setting the table properly. Right on schedule, a soft but firm knock came from the front door. Breakfast was ready.
Opening the door, your gaze drifted down to the three smaller figures standing at the doorstep.
Frisk stared back with their usual stoic gaze but if you looked closely enough there was the slightest uptick to the corner of their lips.
In the human's hands was a flower pot with none other than the bane of your existence, Flowey.
Flowey sneered at you. “Oh, look, it's the so-called ‘Cousin’. Have any more lies you want to tell us—”
He was abruptly interrupted as Monster Kid, standing beside him, darted forward between your legs and skidded into the house, looking around excitedly.
“Sans! Is Papyrus home!?”
“Not Sans, Rain.” You corrected before you shook your head apologetically as you closed the door once everyone was inside. “Sorry, Bud. Papyrus Had To Leave For Mascot Business.” excitedly.
“...Aww, what? Dangit!” MK visibly deflated with disappointment.
Toriel ambled in behind them, gently patting their spiky head. “Thank you for taking them on such short notice, Rain. I truly appreciate it.”
You flushed slightly and waved her off. “O-Oh, it's no problem, Tori. You Know I Love Taking Care Of The Kids.”
You led the small group to the dining room, where the warm, sugary scent of hotcakes still hung in the air. The kids immediately brightened at the sight of the food, with Monster Kid scrambling into a chair and Frisk carefully setting Flowey's pot on the table before taking their own seat.
Flowey, from his pot on the table, sniffed the air disdainfully. "You expect me to eat this? It's probably poisoned," he muttered, but didn't refuse when Frisk patiently broke off a small, sugary piece and held it out for him.
You watched with a fond smile as they wasted no time digging into the stacks of hotcakes.
Turning back to Toriel, who was observing the scene with a gentle smile of her own, you decided to ask the question that had been on your mind.
"If It’s Not Too Much To Ask," you began, keeping your voice low, "Why Are They Staying Over For A Whole Week Anyway? Couldn't Alphys Or Undyne Take Over While The Brothers Are Gone?" You then took a gentler tone as you spoke the next name. "Or Maybe Asgore?"
Toriel folded her paws neatly in front of her. "A fair question," she said. "I have volunteered to chaperone a field trip for the school I work at, which will keep me away for several days.” Her face turned sour as she began talking about her ex husband. “Asgore, as you know, is in a series of very important meetings with human leaders regarding monster immigration rights. It is simply not a good time for him."
"And as for Undyne and Alphys…” A knowing, almost mischievous smile touched her lips. "Undyne became fascinated with human 'bouldering' activities and insisted on trying it herself. Alphys, of course, wanted to go along to support her girlfriend. They left a few days ago, and I suspect they will not return until Undyne has scaled every notable rock formation on the coast.”
"So, It's Just Me, Then," you said, the responsibility settling more firmly on your shoulders.
"Precisely," Toriel confirmed, her voice warm with trust. "And I can think of no one better to look after them. They are quite fond of you, Rain.”
You snorted. “Well, the choice was either me, mettaton or napstablook.” You whispered lowly to Toriel whose face bore slight amusement. “between you and me, I was obviously the safest choice.”
"Indeed," Toriel agreed, her eyes twinkling. "While Mettaton would certainly provide... entertainment, and Napstablook is wonderfully gentle, I'm not sure either is quite prepared for a full week of childcare." She glanced fondly at the children, who were now enthusiastically devouring their breakfast. Monster Kid already had a ring of sugar around their mouth, and even Frisk was eating with unusual speed.
"You'll find extra clothes and their school things in these bags," Toriel said, gesturing to the small suitcases by the door. "Frisk has their medication schedule taped to the inside of their bag, and please try to make sure Monster Kid doesn't climb anything taller than themselves. As for Flowey..."
She lowered her voice further. "Just... do your best. He seems to respond well to you, in his own way."
You nodded, mentally cataloging everything. "Don't Worry, Tori. We'll Be Fine. I've Got A Few Activities Planned To Keep Them Busy."
Just then, Monster Kid looked up from their plate, eyes wide with excitement. "Hey, Rain! Are we gonna work on the machine in the basement while we're here? Papyrus said it's super cool!"
Sweating, “Uh, Probably Not, Bud. Too dangerous.” You replied with an apologetic glance.
Flowey's head perked up from his pot. "Yeah, the broken piece of junk that brought you here! Maybe if we mess with it enough, we can send you back where you came—" he squeaked when Frisk tugged one of his petals, preventing him from saying more.
Ignoring Flowey, you looked up at Toriel with an hopeful smile. “Are You Going To Stay For Breakfast? I Made Plenty.”
Toriel brightened but then she frowned before sighing. “Oh, I'd love to but I have to prepare for the trip.”
“dang, that's a shame.” You tried to hide your disappointment.
Toriel gave you one last, grateful smile. "I should be going." She gave each of the children a quick hug, even Flowey, who pretended to be disgusted but didn't actually move away.
"Be good for Rain, all of you."
With a final wave, she was gone, leaving you alone with your three energetic charges. The front door clicked shut, and the house suddenly felt much louder, much more alive.
Frisk looked at you expectantly, while Monster Kid practically vibrated in their seat. Flowey simply smirked menacingly.
"So," you said, clapping your hands together. "Who wants to help me with the dishes before we decide what to do with our week?”
Frisk and MK groaned but still had grins on their faces while Flowey sneered.
Yep, it was going to be a fun week.
+++
With breakfast finished and a few rowdy games to burn off their energy, Frisk and Mk had been put to sleep quite easily. Flowey, however, remained stubbornly awake, his golden petals shone brightly under the dimmed lights of the guest room.
You were just finished tucking the loose blankets around Frisk’s shoulders when Flowey piped up from the side table, his voice a low, venomous whisper.
“You know you can't keep pretending to be some stupid cousin forever. Eventually, everyone will find out you’re just another Sans.”
You didn’t turn, continuing to smooth out the blanket. “I Don't Know What You're Talking About.”
“Sure you don’t,” he hissed. “You know, for someone who’s another version of the trashbag, you let your guard down a lot.”
You finally glanced at him, your eyelights narrowed. “What’s That Supposed To Mean?”
“It means you're soft.” His grin widened, a cruel, twisted thing. "You walk around this house, doing laundry, making hotcakes, looking all sad and responsible. You act all… reliable. But I was there. I remember the day you came screaming through that machine. I know what you are.”
+++
You were propped up against the basement wall. Papyrus’ bewildered face in front of you as his gloved hands hovered, your HP slowly increasing.
Frisk’s wide, startled eyes, and Flowey inside the pot in their hands were witnessing everything.
Comic was at the side, helping his brother by wrapping some of your fractures. “we should probably tell everyone you’re a cousin or somethin’,” Comic had said later, his voice uncharacteristically serious. “the timelines… they’re finicky. havin’ two of the same person in one spot? who knows what kinda strings that could pull. better to play it safe.”
You had agreed. It was easier than explaining the unexplainable, anyway. And you were in too much pain to think of anything else.
"...call me rain."
+++
“Why Does That Matter?”
“It matters because the real trashbag hides behind jokes and naps,” Flowey sneered, his stem twisting. “But you? You have ‘bad days’ where you can barely get out of bed, and everyone just feels so sorry for you. It’s pathetic. You wear your sadness in the open. You don't even try to hide it. It makes you predictable. Easy.”
His voice dropped to a venomous whisper, each word a prick of thorns. “All that LV just sitting there, untouched. A soul full of pain, so ripe for the taking. It would be so easy, you know. To use it. To make myself stronger.”
You looked back, unimpressed. “You Know, Flowey. This Song And Dance Is Getting Boring.”
You took a slow step toward his pot, your voice dropping to a low, flat tone that held no trace of its usual tired warmth. “let me be clear. comic might tolerate your little murder threats. he's acting civil for frisk's sake, for toriel's sake and frankly, he’s used to your nonsense. but I’m not him.” Not in the ways that matter.
You leaned down, your eyelights narrowed down to cold, sharp pinpricks. “you threaten me again, and i won’t hesitate to dig a six-foot hole in the dry unshaded part of the backyard, mix a bag of concrete, and plant you in it. permanently. Are We Understood?”
The bravado drained from Flowey's face, replaced by a flicker of genuine, childlike fear.
Seeing that flicker, your own rigid posture softened. The cold anger receded as quickly as it had come, leaving behind the familiar exhaustion. You sighed, running a hand over your skull. “...Look. I'm Sorry. That Was Uncalled For. I… Just Haven't Been Doing That Well For A Few Days.”
You stepped forward again, this time gently tugging the blanket until a corner of it was draped loosely over the rim of his flowerpot, a makeshift tuck-in. “just... get some rest, alright? No More Threats From Either Of Us.”
You didn't wait for a response, turning and closing the door behind you with a soft click, leaving him in the quiet dimness of the room.
Flowey was still. The initial shock wore off, quickly curdling into a hot, seething resentment. His face, half-hidden in shadow, twisted into a scheming, pissed-off scowl.
+++
Outside in the hallway, you sighed, the solid wood of the door cool against your bony forehead. The confrontation had left a bitter, ashy taste in your soul. You hated resorting to threats, hated the person it made you become, even for a moment.
And in that moment of heightened emotion, the memory had slammed into you, unbidden and sharp.
+++
A flash of a different doorway, you standing in it, smaller. A towering, blurred figure looming over you, their voice a distorted, grating buzz of pure contempt.
You couldn't make out the words, but the meaning was a physical force—a scathing blaze of "you're worthless, you're a disappointment, you'll never be enough."
You felt your own voice, young and cracking, trying to form a defense, but it was swallowed by the onslaught. The feeling was one of utter devastation, a hurt so deep it felt like your very soul was fraying at the edges.
+++
You squeezed your eyesockets shut, trying to push the echo of a memory away. It made Flowey's childish, pointed barbs feel both trivial and eerily familiar. It was the same venom, just from a different source.
You took a deep, steadying breath, before walking off to do some chores while the kids were asleep. You decided to start with the quietest chore; folding the laundry left in the dryer. The warm, soft fabric was a small comfort.
As you worked in the laundry room, a small sound made you turn. Frisk was standing in the hallway, having slipped out of their room. They rubbed their eyes sleepily, then walked over and, without a word, picked up a towel and started mimicking your folding motions.
They pointed to you, then gently patted their own chest in a universal gesture of "Are you okay?”
The simple, quiet concern was so different from the toxic "care" you were remembering.
You managed a small, genuine smile.
"i'm okay, kiddo. just... remembering some stuff. bad stuff."
Frisk nodded understandingly. They then pointed firmly at the guest room door, where Flowey was, and gave a thumbs-down. The message was clear: He's the worst.
You let out a soft huff of laughter. "Yeah. He Really Is."
Folding a few more articles of clothing, you glanced at Frisk. You made a small amused smile when you saw them struggle to stay awake. “Sorry for Waking You Up, You Can Go Back To Bed If You Want.”
You watched as they tried to resist their sleepiness but it won in the end and they nodded, groggily retreating to the guest room. You must've gone overkill on the games you had them play after breakfast.
+++
Earlier that morning, after breakfast, you had indeed gone a little overkill on the games.
You’d decided on a simple game of catch in the backyard. It seemed safe enough. But with Monster Kid’s boundless energy and Frisk’s surprisingly competitive streak, ‘simple’ quickly went out the window.
Flowey, in his pot, had been placed on the grass nearby for "optimal viewing," as he’d sarcastically demanded.
The first time it happened was an accident. MK, overexcited, lunged for the ball, their tail accidentally whacking it too far. Flowey’s pot wobbled precariously before tipping over with a dull thud and a muffled "Hey—!"
You’d rushed over, righting the pot. "Sorry About That, Flowey."
"Watch where you're flailing, you scaly moron!" Flowey had shrieked at MK.
The second time was Frisk’s doing. Going for an ambitious dive, they skidded across the grass, Accidentally skidding to where Flowey was placed... Over went the pot again, this time with an indignant squawk.
“Watch where you're stepping, You Buffoon!” Frisk only snickered at his predicament.
You righted him again with a sigh. "Okay, Everyone, Let's Be Careful."
By the fifth time—a wild throw from you that Flowey insisted was deliberate—it was a full-blown routine. The pot would tip, Flowey would let out a stream of increasingly creative insults, and you would amble over, muttering "Yep, My Bad," or "Alright, Alright, Settle Down," before setting him upright again.
+++
You finished most of the chores. The only thing left was to walk Rocky. You had a sneaking suspicion that Rocky wasn't actually a magical rock, but Comic would always guilt-trip you for a week when you forgot to take care of it for him. The Prick.
The kids were awake, nestled on the living room couch and watching television. You watched them for a moment, a nostalgic, melancholic feeling bubbling in your ribcage—a fleeting image of a different, smaller figure curled up on a similar, shabbier couch. You shook your head to clear it before stepping forward and leaning against the back of the couch.
“I'm Going To Take Rocky On A Walk, Anyone Want To Come With?”
Frisk brightened up immediately and tapped vigorously on MK's shoulder. MK, however, was utterly engrossed in a rerun of one of Mettaton's dramatic novelas, their eyes glued to the screen as a robot dramatically confessed his love while juggling flaming chainsaws and performing a duet with himself.
Frisk began signing rapidly, their hands a flurry of motion. "Outside! We might see other kids! Maybe make new friends! And..." Frisk paused for dramatic effect, a sly grin forming. "If Rain says yes... we could get Nice Cream after."
That got MK's attention. Their head snapped away from the television, eyes wide with hope. "Really?! Can we, Rain? Can we?!"
You chuckled. "Sure, If You Two Behave."
"YEAH! ALRIGHT!" MK cheered, scrambling off the couch.
You then directed your question to the coffee table, where Flowey sat unusually still. "Flowey? Do You Want To Come With?"
The flower didn't even turn to look at you. "No," he said, his voice uncharacteristically flat and devoid of its usual sneer. "I'm not feeling too well. I think I'll just... stay here. By myself."
You studied him for a moment. He was still firmly planted in his pot. What trouble could he possibly get into? "Alright. Suit Yourself. Don't Burn The House Down."
As you turned to get Rocky's leash—a tiny, custom-made harness Comic had bought—you missed the slow, scheming smirk that spread across Flowey's face the second your back was turned.
You clipped the leash onto the always silent unmoveable Rocky while Frisk and MK struggled into their running shoes, their giggles filling the hallway as they tied the laces all wrong in their excitement. The scene was so normal, so domestic, that you pushed all your lingering unease aside.
It was just a walk. What could possibly go wrong?