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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111. If You Need Me

'Are you okay?'

'Yeah. I'm fine.' 'Just disappointed I won't be able to further offend your delicate sensibilities with my scandalous tales of debauchery.'

'I'm sure you'll get plenty more opportunities in the future.'

'Exactly. The world is my oyster.' 'When one door closes, another one opens. Etc.'

'Gonna get back in the saddle?'

'And other suitable metaphors, yes.' 'Unless... no, nevermind. That's just weird, even for me.'

'Oh my god.'

'That's the spirit.'

You scroll through the exchange that you and Deacon had an hour ago, and you can't help but feel like he's being too nonchalant about what happened. But this is Deacon. The guy who managed to move onto a mountain filled with monsters, and all that entails, without hardly batting an eye. He rolls with the punches, moves on. Doesn't let these things bother him. He's acting like this is all just normal for him.

Maybe it is. You don't know much of anything about his life before moving here. He made it seem like casual sex wasn't something new to him, and you'll just have to trust him. Why do you want him to be more upset? Shouldn't you be happy that he seems okay?

The oven starts beeping and you pocket your phone, getting up from the couch. Maybe you'll call him later, check on him again... Or, gosh that might seem a little overbearing wouldn't it? You'll see him at work tomorrow.

"No fair!" Asriel says, falling backwards onto the shaggy rug he and Frisk are sitting on, playing video games.

"C'mon, it's my turn now. You lost," Frisk says, trying to pry the controller from his fingers.

Asriel rolls over, hiding it under his stomach. "No, let me try—" He's cut off by a loud bleat as Frisk digs their fingers into his sides, climbing on top of him and tickling him. He dissolves into giggles as they ignore his protests and attempts to squirm away.

Smiling to yourself and shaking your head, you head into the kitchen.

As you pull the lasagna out of the oven you hear Sans's voice in the foyer. He must have teleported home; Papyrus has been spending more and more time out of the house and you remember Sans insisting that he didn't need to pick him up from work today if he had other plans. Maybe you should stop making such big meals... Nah. You can just have leftovers for lunch.

Sans walks into the kitchen as you set the heavy glass dish on top of the stove, tugging off your oven mitts. He looks a little confused, glancing around the room like there's something missing. "just us?" he asks, rounding the island and slipping his arm around your waist.

You lean down to kiss him. "Were you expecting company? Frisk and Asriel are in the living room."

"yeah," he says, and as he pauses you can hear the kids both laughing and still roughhousing as far as you can tell. "saw them when i got in. but, uh, yeah i was kinda expecting deacon to be here."

"Oh, because of what happened earlier? Yeah he texted me, told me you walked in on him and Grillby," you say, frowning at him as you slip out of his grip so you can get some plates. "Good job with that. Not sure why you'd expect Deacon to be over here, though."

Sans lets out an annoyed sound, but doesn't say anything to defend himself. "i dunno. he seemed kinda upset when he left. figured he'd come see you."

"What?" you say, taken aback. You turn to look at Sans and he raises his brows, apparently just as surprised as you are but for a different reason. "He seemed fine earlier..." Oh, but you knew that couldn't have been the entire truth. You knew. Biting your lip, you walk back over to the stove and set down the stack of plates. You open a drawer to find a metal spatula to serve up dinner. "I'll go over there after we eat."

As you're about to start cutting into the lasagna, Sans takes hold of your waist and turns you towards him. Giving you a weak, lopsided smile, he traces your hips with his thumbs. "maybe you should go now. you can take dinner with you."

You blink. You want to. You hadn't even really considered it as a possibility with him and the kids home, but... "Oh, Sans are you sure?" you ask, hopeful.

"yeah, don't worry about us. you go. i know you want to," he says wrapping his arms around you and hugging you close. "you're just gonna worry about him if you don't."

He's right. He knows you so well, it makes your heart swell with a rush of affection. Leaning down to pepper his face with kisses, you feel so thankful for him. "I love you."

"love you too. go take care of your friend."

So, ten minutes later, with two plastic containers of lasagna hot in your hand, you're knocking on Deacon's front door. It takes a minute, but soon you hear the sound of the lock sliding open and the knob turning. He's standing there in comfortable clothes: a pair of sweatpants and a tank top. For a second you realize this is the first time you've seen most of his tattoo, the thundercloud covering his shoulder and more forks of lightning cutting through the dark blackwork on his bicep.

But it's hard to admire the detail when your friend looks so disheveled. His hair is ruffled, like he's been running his hand through it too much, and his clothes are all wrinkled. His expression is caught between being happy to see you and frustrated at the same time. You stare at him, taking this all in, and after a second he winces. "Dammit," he grumbles under his breath, doing his best to give you a smile. "Hope, I'm fine, really."

"Oh hell no, let me in," you say, clutching the lasagna tighter in your hands as you shoulder your way past him. "We're having dinner. Go get some forks and drinks."

He hesitates for a second, giving you an odd look, then does as you tell him. Maybe you shouldn't have been so forceful. He doesn't really deserve being bossed around, you know that you don't like it when people do that to you. While he's in the kitchen and you set out the two plastic containers on the coffee table, you take a second to compose yourself. Yes, you're worried, but that's no reason to take it out on him.

The television is on, playing an infomercial. It's right in the middle of a 'demonstration', so it must have already been playing when you showed up. Was he watching this? Why?

He's back a moment later, popping open a soda can and setting it in front of you. You're handed a fork and he flops down beside you on the couch. It jostles you for a second before settling again. Then, sitting with his legs crossed beneath him, he reaches for the lasagna and glances up at the TV. Grimacing, he starts to go for the remote but you beat him to it. You turn it off.

"Were you just sitting here in sweatpants watching infomercials?" you ask him, setting your fork down on your still-closed dinner.

Deacon looks down at his food, using the edge of his fork to start cutting. "No, it was just on," he says, evasive. "This looks great by the way, much better than what I had planned."

You ignore the compliment. "Why didn't you tell me you were upset? I would have come over," you say gently.

He doesn't answer. Instead he stuffs his face with lasagna and takes his time to chew. While you wait you pick up your drink and take a sip. Realizing that you're expecting a reply, he looks over at you through his lashes, hunched forward over his food. "It's not a big deal. I'm fine."

"I mean, I know you said things with Grillby weren't going to work out, but—"

"I'm not upset about Grillby," Deacon snaps, making you flinch a little. His brow furrows and he looks frustrated with you. "This is why I didn't ask you to come over."

You can only stare, unsure of what to say. Then, feeling suddenly stupid for coming over, you cross your arms over your chest and glance at the front door. Maybe you should just leave. You should have left him alone, obviously he would have said something if he wanted to talk to you about this. "Sorry. I was just worried about you," you mumble. "I can go."

"No. Goddamn it, Hope," he says, hissing a breath beneath his teeth as he sets down his dinner and reaches for your hand. It's strange, to feel a hand that's distinctly human but not Frisk's. You look down at it as his fingers curl around yours, squeezing. "I didn't mean it like that. Shit. I'm sorry, this is just... Please stay, but can we just talk about something else? Anything. Anything that's not Grillby or what happened with Sans, please."

You swallow, looking up at his face. His blue eyes are searching yours, apologetic and worried. You can see the muscles in his jaw tense. Desperately, you wish he would just talk to you. To trust you with how he's doing. Didn't he say you were his best friend? He can trust you with more details about his sex life than you ever wanted to know, but when it comes to the real stuff, the stuff that matters, he's holding back. Does he have anyone he can talk to?

"Okay," you say, giving in. He relaxes and pulls his hand back, gripping his knee. "I just want you to know that you can talk to me. About anything."

His mouth twitches into a crooked smile, then he picks his dinner back up. "Yeah. You can talk to me too. I mean, I know you've got Sans and all your friends, but... I'm here, if you ever need me." Huffing a weak laugh, Deacon jabs at his food with his fork. "In that unlikely event."

"Hey," you say, making him look at you. "Of course I need you. You're my best friend."

His smile brightens a little, and you think he looks a little embarrassed. "No way. I mean, you're my best friend, but you don't need to, like, say it back. It's not like I'm going to go out and get us matching bracelets or something."

"I guess I need to cancel that order I made the other day..." you say, trying not to smile.

Deacon lets out a surprised bark of laughter, taking a swig of his drink to help wash down his dinner. "Fine, whatever, if you insist. I think we've already proven I'm a terrible best friend. I'm clearly getting the better end of the deal."

"Yeah, you're right," you say, finally leaning forward to open your own container of lasagna. "I feed you, listen to you talk way too much about your personal life..."

"Hey, those stories are a gift. The gift of entertainment. Not to mention the pleasure of my company," he says, sounding more like himself. "I take it back. You're lucky to have me as a best friend." He seems happy enough just to have you here, talking to him. That's fine, right? You can't force him to talk about anything he doesn't want to, no matter how much you wish he would.

So you stay, and you eat dinner, and talk. Mostly about nothing. Television shows you both watched as kids, books you think the other should read, places you want to take Sans and your friends once the Line is open. You both agree that the beach should be a number-one priority, even if it's in the middle of winter. You can't wait to see their faces when they get the chance to look out at that broad expanse of water.

When you finish eating you both settle into the couch, and after a while Deacon turns the TV back on. He gets up to take the dishes to the sink, and when he gets back he sits closer to you, nudging you playfully with his shoulder. You nudge him back. He gives you another halfhearted nudge in retaliation, then stays there, just barely touching you.

You wonder, again, if he gets lonely here by himself. You want to ask him, but at the same time you're hesitant to try and pry again. Instead you just sit there with him, until it starts to get late.

You're still the one to move in first when you hug him goodbye, but he doesn't seem to mind so much. He hugs you back, resting his chin on your shoulder for a second. "Thank you for coming over. I feel a lot better."

"I'm glad. Even if you don't want to talk about it, you can always let me know if you just want to hang out, Deacon," you say, pulling back and giving him a reassuring smile.

He nods, looking a little sheepish. "Okay. I'll keep that in mind. And, uh, same. Because, best friends," he says, holding out his hand.

With a weak laugh, you take it and you both shake. "Best friends."

   
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