Would That Make You Happy?

Frisk is your child, the result of a teen pregnancy, but they've always been told that you're their older sister. In an effort to get away from your own abusive mother, the two of you end up falling into the Underground, where Sans is startled by this abrupt change in what had become a predictable pattern of events. Maybe your presence is what is needed to stop the endless cycle of Resets.

After many struggles, both internal and external, you and your found family reach the surface, only to face even more difficulties from the society you weren't sure you'd ever see again. You meet new friends and encounter people from your past, though for good or ill, you're not sure. Sometimes it's difficult to tell kindness from cunning.

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130. Bonding Time

The first thing Deacon realizes as he wakes up on Bo's couch is that— hey, when did he fall asleep? Last he remembers the two of them were watching television, something boring about fancy restaurants around the world (she just can't get enough of those travel shows). So, the first thing he realizes is that he's alone, wrapped up in a knit blanket that smells like Bo, but is a poor substitute for the real thing. Did she get up and cover him in a blanket? God, how is she so adorable?

The second thing is that the TV is off and there's music playing. Something bright and cheerful, with an easy beat and snappy guitar. Bo can't stand the quiet. Every time he's over here either the TV or music is going, even if it's just in the background. He can appreciate that about her, even if her taste in music is different than his. That isn't to say he doesn't like it, it's very her.

The third thing is that something smells delicious.

Rubbing his eyes and pushing his hair off his forehead, Deacon sits up to look over the back of the couch, towards the kitchen. Bo is there, stirring a steaming pot and swaying her hips in time with the music. Her back is to him so he takes a moment to just appreciate the view. She's wearing casual, around the house clothes; a black camisole and some loose, soft pants that cut off just at the knee (he thinks she hemmed them herself) and cling to her in all the right places. A strong, basic urge rises to the forefront of his mind, to go up behind her and wrap his hands around her waist and pull her back against him. He entertains the thought for a second, then saves it for later. There's plenty of time for that, he's not going home until tomorrow morning, before work. Spending Sundays (the one day off they both share) with her is becoming a bit of a habit. 

Bo has folded him gently into her routine, into her life. It hasn't even been a full week since she agreed to be his girlfriend and already he's just so wrapped up in this new normal. There's still that underlying fear, that tiny voice telling him to get out while he still can, to tear himself free while he won't lose too much of himself in the process. But he won't. Things right now are good, and he could be happy just keeping things exactly like this.

The song changes and so does the rhythm of Bo's movements. She taps her bare hoof on the kitchen tile and does this little back and forth step in time with the music. Softly, barely loud enough for him to hear, he catches her singing along. Deacon is smiling, a surge of affection welling up in his chest, and instead of balking in the face of it he just lets it sweep him up. Basks in it. It's that moment that Bo covers the pot she was stirring and does a little turn as she dances across her tiny kitchen, and sees him.

He gives her an embarrassed smile, feeling a bit like he was caught doing something wrong as heat creeps up his neck. She blushes a little under her fur but instead of being upset like he expects, she takes swaying steps in time to the music to come stand behind the couch.

"Enjoying the view?" she asks him, smirking. Oh, he likes it when she's playful (which is often, to be honest).

"Absolutely. I didn't realize I was being treated to dinner and a show," he says, shifting onto his knees so he can lean over the back of the couch and reach for her hands. She lets him take them, pulling her closer.

"Hmm," she purrs, freeing her hands so she can cup his face, running her fingers through his hair. Deacon tips his head back, making a contented sound as she strokes his head, eyes closing most of the way. "If you ask nicely I might give you a private performance later."

He lets out a low, suggestive chuckle that is quickly lost in a groan as Bo leans down to kiss him. His hands reach for her waist, the flare of her hips, holding her as she leaves him flushed and breathless. When, a few moments later she pulls away, looking very satisfied with the flustered state she's left him in, he has to take a second to collect himself. Oh she is good at that. Leaving him a desperate mess.

She smooths his hair before letting him go, straightening and covering his hands on her hips with her own. "Baby, you've got to let me go or I can't finish up dinner," she says with a smile.

Deacon holds her tighter. Her smile widens. "I'm sorry I fell asleep while we were watching TV," he says. "How long was I out?"

"About an hour," she says, reaching up to cup his jaw. She rubs her thumb across the stubble there, giving him an affectionate look. "I don't blame you, we were up late last night and you get up so early. Why didn't you sleep in?"

"Bo, nine is sleeping in for me," he says with a chuckle. "If it was a weekday I'd already have been at school for almost an hour."

She wrinkles her nose. "I don't know how you do it."

"Our schedules are sort of opposite, aren't they?"

She makes a noncommittal noise, her bright eyes dropping to his chin. Her thumb is still stroking his face, which feels good. He wasn't able to shave this morning. "Have you ever grown this out? I think you'd look handsome with a beard."

Deacon makes a face. "No, I'd look old," he says, unable to stop himself from thinking of Grant. "And I thought I was already handsome?"

"Of course you are," she says, placating him with a kiss on his forehead. "It was just a thought."

Bo pulls away to go back to the kitchen, and Deacon gets up to follow her. He feels a little guilty for sleeping while she was working hard on food, which is weird because he's never really felt bad for not helping you before. Should he? No, wouldn't he just get in the way? Well, whatever. He trails after Bo like a lost puppy, unwilling to let her get too far now that she's got his attention. That delicious smell is stronger now that he's closer and he leans in to get a better look as she lifts the lid.

Dodging the cloud of steam, he takes in a deep breath of the spicy scent wafting up from the pot. Inside is cubed, brown meat in a thick, dark orangeish sauce. It looks familiar, but... "What are you making?" he finally asks, his curiosity getting the better of him.

"Lamb curry. It's Indian," she says nonchalantly.

It takes a second for her words to register, and when they do he gives her a wide-eyed, stunned look. Lamb? Okay, he doesn't care if she is just a monster that looks like a sheep, that is definitely weird! No getting around it. No second opinion needed. Brow furrowing and gaping like a fish, Deacon is about to tell her as much when she bursts into a fit of giggles, covering her snout with her hand.

"Ohmygod your face!" she says between gasping breaths, leaning back into the corner where two sections of countertop meet. She's laughing in earnest now, and he can see tears shining in her eyes. "Baby, I'm sorry I couldn't help it! It's beef..."

He lets out a relieved sigh, shaking his head and grinning despite himself. "You scared me for a second. I know you don't have a problem eating meat, but that was just a little much even for me," he says, moving in closer to her and resting his hands on either side of her, effectively pinning her into the corner.

Bo drapes her arms over his shoulders, nuzzling under his chin in a small gesture of apology before kissing his throat. Oh, if she keeps doing that... He refuses to even think about the obvious 'lamb meat' joke that's hiding in there somewhere. That's just too close to pun territory and the last thing he wants to think about right now is Sans.

"Deacon," she whispers against his skin and his eyes close as he bites back a groan. "This isn't helping me finish dinner."

"Keep saying my name like that and I'm not going to care very much," he says, shifting his weight onto one hand and wrapping his free arm around her waist. 

She nips at his Adam's apple before pulling away, ignoring his disappointed whine as he looks down at her. Dropping her hands to his hips, she arches a brow as he pulls her closer. "You have to let me go," she says.

"No," he says with a playful pout, leaning down to bury his face in the wool around her neck.

But he doesn't get any time to enjoy it because she's pinching his sides, poking him and thrusting her hands up his shirt. With an undignified yelp of surprise, he tries to jump back but she follows him. "What's this? Are you ticklish?" she says, grinning.

"I— hey! No!" he barks out between laughs, squirming to try and get away.

Bo ends up chasing him back into the living room, pinning him to the couch and tickling his ribs until he's out of breath, pink-faced and cheeks aching. Then she's kissing him, pushing up his shirt and leaving him breathless in an entirely different way.

Dinner is a little burnt, but neither of them seem to mind.

Sans doesn't want to be here. What makes matters worse is that he even left work early to be here. He could have gone home, spent some extra time with you after a busy Monday, but no. Instead he's standing on Deacon's doorstep, because what's coming isn't something he thinks he can handle on his own. 

After a moment of frustrated hesitation, he knocks on the door. A minute later there's the scrape of the deadbolt being undone and then it opens. Deacon is standing there, dressed in his slacks and sweater vest, reading glasses perched on his nose. He gives Sans a confused look.

"Hope isn't here," he says, rolling a red pen between his fingers.

"i didn't come here looking for hope," Sans says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket.

Deacon blinks, then taps himself on the chest with the capped end of the pen. "Oh, you mean you actually want to talk to me? There's a surprise."

"yes, i'm here to talk to you," he says, gritting his teeth. Of course he wasn't going to make this easy, was he? It's bad enough that he's here at all. "i need to... ask for your help with something."

The human's face curves into an amused smile, stepping back to let him inside. "Oh, please, this I need to hear," he says, shutting the door behind Sans.

There's music playing, something he thinks you've described as 'classic rock' before. It's not very loud, more like background noise, which must be because there's papers spread out on Deacon's coffee table. Oh, that explains the red pen. Deacon gestures at the large chair next to the couch, and unlike the last time he was here, Sans decides to sit. The human takes his place in the center of the couch and pulls off his glasses, setting them and the pen down on top of some papers before running his hand through his hair and looking at Sans. That amused expression is still annoyingly obvious.

"What can I, a simple, ordinary human of humble origin, possibly do for Sans?" Deacon asks, threading his fingers together and draping his arms over his knees. "Is this about Bo's awful nickname for you? Do you want me to talk to her? Because believe me, I hate it."

Sometimes Sans wishes he could just wipe that stupid smirk off Deacon's face. But he thinks he knows a way how to do it in this case, without resorting to violence. "it's about hope."

And in an instant that insufferable look is gone. Deacon's smile fades, he sits up a little straighter and his brow furrows. His arms tense. "Is it about her mom coming this weekend?"

Sans nods. Deacon is quicker than he sometimes gives him credit for. More observant. And if there's one thing he can count on it's that Deacon cares about you. "yeah. i still don't get why she thought it'd be a good idea to invite her here but—"

"Home field advantage," he says, arching an eyebrow.

"huh?" Sans frowns at him.

Deacon sighs, shaking his head. "It's a... sports reference. Basically since this is familiar territory, and Kim will be out of her comfort zone, Hope thinks she might have the upper hand, you know?"

"oh. yeah, sure, pal. whatever you say," he says, shrugging his shoulders. "the point is that i want to know if you're gonna be home this saturday. just in case."

"Just in case of what, exactly?" he asks. Unlacing his fingers, he rests his hands on his knees.

"in case this goes south and we need some backup." Sans lets out a ragged breath through his teeth, freeing one hand from his pocket and cradling the side of his head in his hand. He looks down at the coffee table, away from Deacon. "i don't wanna give this woman any ammunition to use against me or papyrus, like if she decides to talk to the press or something. which means no magic. i mean, i will if i have to, but if push comes to shove... i'd feel better knowing we had a human to do the pushing and shoving."

Deacon is quiet for a minute, studying Sans's face. He leans back against the couch. "Have you talked to Hope about this?"

Sans shakes his head. "no. she's... optimistic about this dinner and i don't wanna take that away from her," he says, looking at the human again. He gives Sans a sympathetic look. "but i don't buy it. i don't trust her, and hope's too conflicted to see straight when it comes to her mom. so i'll feel better knowing you've got her back, if we need you."

"Yeah, of course," Deacon says, subdued. His expression crumples into something guilty and resigned, cringing as he glances down at the table and rubs the back of his neck. "Look, Sans, about all the shit I gave you when you got here... No matter what, I'm always willing to help you guys if you need it. I just want you to know that."

"thanks, pal," Sans says, and well shit he really means it. "i appreciate it."

"So what do you need me to do?"

Good, down to business instead of dealing with this weird... camaraderie they have going now. "i just want to know you'll be home so that if we need you, i can give you a call. which, uh, means i'll need your number."

Deacon's mouth curves into a mischievous smile. "Are you sure this isn't just some clever ruse to get my number?"

"don't make me regret this."

"Can I pick out a little emoticon to go next to my name in your contacts?"

"how does she put up with you?"

"Does this mean we're friends now?"

"you know what, i'm sure i can just get it from hope's phone."

"Wait, wait," Deacon says, doing his best to try and stop laughing as Sans grits his teeth and stands up. "Okay, I'll stop. Here, just give me your number and I'll text you so you can save mine however you want."

Begrudgingly, Sans lists off his number and fishes his phone out of his pocket. After a moment, a message pops up on the screen. 'You can stop glowering. I know you don't hate me.'

He's lucky that you care about him so much.

   
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