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.


14. Mom

You wake up on the couch, wrapped up in a soft blanket and propped up a bit by a mound of pillows. Slowly, your eyes blink open and you're greeted by the familiar living room. Sans is sitting on the edge of the cushion, leaning back against the armrest and holding your hand in his lap. His head is facing the television, volume barely high enough to hear, and the smooth surface of his thumb strokes over the top of your hand. The motion is soothing, and almost distracts you from the bone-deep ache throughout your body, radiating from your chest.

Taking a moment to collect yourself, you let your eyes drift over Sans before he realizes you're awake. Even though he's distracted by the television, he doesn't seem to be paying attention to what's on the screen. He's lost in thought. Shoulders hunched, his thumb continues to run over the sensitive skin of your hand. He sighs and gives your hand a squeeze, and you can't help but squeeze back.

That makes Sans turn to look at you, and you can't help but smile at the way all the tension eases out of his grin. "hey, babe. how're you feeling?"

"Like someone ran me over with Papyrus's racecar bed," you say, the corner of your mouth twitching into a wry smile.

"so you're saying you feel a bit wrecked?" he says, but his grin seems as weak as his joke.

You let out a small huff of laughter, smiling at him anyway.

"yeah, i know. sorry. it's hard to come up with jokes when i'm busy worrying about you." He looks down at your joined hands, then back up to your face. He looks tired.

"You were worried about me?" you ask. You feel a warm flutter despite yourself.

"heh, was that supposed to be a joke?" he says, raising a brow at you. Hesitating, his expression turns solemn. "if we hadn't got there in time..."

Sans lets out a ragged sigh as you squeeze his fingers, shaking his head and giving you a weary smile. "lemme go get you something to eat. there's nothing better for the soul than some good food. trust me, it'll make you feel better." As Sans starts to ease off the couch you tighten your grip on his hand, stopping him.

"Where's Frisk?" you ask, realizing that your child is nowhere to be seen.

"they're fine, not a scratch on 'em. they're upstairs with papyrus," he says, misinterpreting your worry.

You're glad to hear that physically they're fine, but you're more concerned about what they must be thinking. That wasn't the way you wanted Frisk to find out the truth. But you couldn't help it. Facing down Undyne, all of your newfound maternal instincts had rushed to the surface and the words had just spilled from your mouth. No one else was ever going to hurt your baby ever again; not as long as you were there to protect them. Your mother had been the first and final straw.

Maybe it's the exhaustion or the way you feel so fragile right now, but your vision blurs as you look up at Sans. "I need to talk to Frisk."

Sans's brows draw together, giving you a worried look. "you need to rest and eat something," he says, using his free hand to stroke some hair away from your face. "they aren't going anywhere."

"No," you say, with the little bit of force that you can muster. Pushing down the blanket, you sit up with some difficulty, ignoring Sans's protests. You blink back tears and rub your face. "I need to talk to them. Please, I— Sans they know."

His eyes widen the slightest bit. "how did that happen?"

You sigh and sit up against the pillows, tenting the blanket as you draw up your knees. Looking away from Sans, you instead watch your own hand smooth out the fabric over your legs. "I wasn't thinking. I just blurted it out while protecting Frisk from Undyne."

He squeezes your hand. "i know that's not how you wanted it to go down, but maybe it's for the best..." Sans pauses for a second, then leans in to brush his mouth against your cheek. "okay. i'll go get the kid for you."

Looking up at him as he stands, you give him a weak smile. "Thank you."

"don't. promise me that you'll eat something once you're done."

He waits until you nod before heading up the stairs. Watching him as he goes, you realize he was probably sitting with you the entire time you were unconscious. Once you're sure Frisk is okay, you want to make sure that Sans is okay too. You can only imagine how worried he's been... The hand that he was just holding is now pressed to your chest, your thoughts turning to your cracked Soul. You wonder what he saw when he looked at it. Just remembering the look on his face makes your heart ache.

The vaulted ceiling of the house makes it easy for you to hear Sans upstairs. "hey kiddo, why don't you come downstairs? your..." he hesitates, and you can't help but wince. "she wants to talk to you."

"But I'm playing with Papyrus," Frisk answers. You can just picture the stubborn look on their face, avoiding eye contact as they try to dig in their heels. You try not to take it personally. It doesn't quite work.

Papyrus is suspiciously quiet, you realize.

"c'mon, don't make me patella you twice." A pause. "i know you're worried about her, why don't you go check on her, huh?"

There's some muffled words you can't make out.


Frisk appears at the top of the stairs, staring intently at their feet as they slowly make their way down. Sans shows up a moment later, lingering by the second-floor railing. Catching your eye, he points at himself and then at Papyrus's room, letting you know where he'll be. You give him a small smile and nod. He walks away and closes the door.

To your relief, Frisk comes right up and sits next to you on the couch, facing you but looking down at something in their hands. It's your phone. Their small fingers rub over the dark surface nervously. "Sans fixed it. He said it just got wet from the snow, but it's fine now," Frisk says in a small voice. "And all the groceries are okay. We put everything away while you were sleeping."

"Thank you sweetie," you say, reaching out to brush their bangs out of their face. They glance up at you and then back down again. "Do you know why I want to talk to you?"

Frisk tucks the cell phone back into their pants pocket, tugging their sleeves over their hands and pressing the ends to their mouth. After a second they nod and mumble an affirmative noise. You swallow past a lump in your throat and realize your hands are shaking.

"I understand if you're mad at me—"

"I'm not mad," Frisk says. Part of you wants to say something about them interrupting, but you know now isn't the time. Their shoulders hunch forward, making them seem even smaller. "I'm just confused. Lying is wrong."

Pulling their hands away from their mouth, you cup those tiny hands in your palms. You know, even though you can't see them, that Frisk has your fingers. They're long and skinny, with nails clipped short so they won't gnaw them off. You think they got that bad habit from you.

"It is. And I'm so sorry, baby, I hope you believe me," you say, and you can feel the tears swimming in your eyes. Pressing your thumbs into Frisk's palms, you pull their hands to your chest. "I never wanted to hurt you. I love you, and I was scared. Your grandmother wanted to take care of you, and I was too scared and didn't know what I was doing, so I let her." Tears are running down your cheeks, and by some act of mercy your voice is still clear enough to speak. "I helped take care of you the best I could, and I know that it wasn't enough—"

Your words hitch in your throat as Frisk flings their arms around your neck, burying their face in your chest. Pulling them into your lap, you curl over your child and press your eyes into their thin shoulder, sobbing. You feel small hands stroke your hair, comforting you, and you only cry harder.

"Don't cry, I'm happy, knowing I have a mom that'll never hit me," Frisk mumbles to your sternum.

"Never," you promise thickly, shaking your head for good measure. "I should have taken you away before she ever had the chance to hit you, Frisk, it's all my fault."

"No. You said it was her fault, and I believe you."

What did you do to deserve this kid? How did this turn into you being the one that turned into a sobbing mess while the six year old does the comforting?

"Nothing has to change, if you don't want it to," you say, sniffling. "You can still call me Sissa, I can still be your sister."

Frisk hugs you tighter, burying their face under your chin. "I'd rather have a mom than a sister."

Your face scrunches up and you bite back a sob, happiness bubbling up under the turbulent waves of conflicting emotions running through you. Fear and regret are smoothed away, overwhelmingly relieved that Frisk still loves you just as much, if not more. You were so afraid of pushing them away with the truth. You never stopped to wonder if it might pull them closer.

"I'll take care of you, the way a mother should, I promise," you tell them, reaching up over their head to try and wipe away your tears. The most you do is smear them across your cheekbones.

"You already do," Frisk says. You tilt your head to press a kiss into their hair.

"How do you know just what to say? I love you, Frisk."

"I love you too, Mom."

Peeking downstairs, Sans can't help but wonder if this is what Frisk was missing all along. If you are what they need to keep from resetting everything again.

He hopes so.

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