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.


126. Not So Simple

It's almost midnight. Deacon knows he ought to get some sleep because he has to get up extra early to go home and get ready for work, but Bo is still wide awake, sitting back on her heels and tracing her fingers along his back. He lays there on his stomach, a pillow bunched between his arms, under his head, and he watches the curious look on her face. He could just watch her forever; the tiny little changes in her expression, the way her eyes follow her hands.

Affection stirs in his chest and there's that feeling again. That sense of more that scares the shit out of him. What the hell is he doing? Of all the times that he could decide to have a change of heart, to try and let himself have people stay in his life, why now? He's being so stupid. So stupid and foolish and every other nasty thing Grant said to try and convince him that this was a mistake.

Oh god, this is a mistake.

Not even because of all the things Grant said, but because she's going to hurt him. He's going to let her in, get attached, and right when he thinks he's safe she's going to push him away. Or she'll see him for who he really is, hurt and fragile and so fucking needy —when did he get so goddamn needy?— and decide that this isn't what she wants. And why should she have to deal with his mess, to pick up his pieces? If he keeps letting this go further, how can he handle that rejection?

He should leave. Everything inside of him is just yelling at him to run, just like he always does. It's safer that way.

Bo's fingers press into the tensed muscles in his back and he buries his face in the pillow, willing himself to relax. He's not going to run again. He won't, he won't. He told her that he'd stay and he's going to keep his word. To her, and to himself. This is going to be different, because as overwhelmed and confused and scared as he feels, he cares about her. He's happy when he's with her, when he's talking to her. A happiness that only his friendship with you can compare to. This is what he was missing before. He's starting to discover it, and how can he just let it go?

He can't. He won't.

He'll keep the ugly parts, the broken parts, the fragile parts tucked away like he always has and then she won't have a reason to reject him. He'll be happy, and charming, and funny, those things that drew her to him in the first place. He'll be that person, if it means that she'll keep wanting him.

Turning his head to look at her again, Deacon's sure that his expression is suitably contented as Bo meets his eyes, smiling at him before returning her attention to his back. Her fingers trail down to his side, to the uneven scar that reaches his bottom most ribs and goes all the way to his hip. It takes up maybe a fifth of his back, and as she touches it the smile fades a little from her face.

"Can I ask about this now? I know you didn't want to talk about it before..." she trails off, looking uncertain.

"I didn't think that it was the sexiest thing we could be talking about in the moment," he teases, shoving down the lingering fear coiled in his chest, latching onto that happiness he feels with her instead. He's not faking that, not lying, just... burying the rest deep down where it can't touch him. Or her. 

Her smile is back, just a little. Good, he just wants her to smile, to not worry about him. "Yes, well, I guess that's true," she admits, spreading her fingers and pressing her hand over the scar. Her touch is gentle, but firm. "Does it bother you?"

Deacon rolls onto his left side, freeing an arm from around the pillow and reaching back to cover her hand with his. He presses them both over the raised, patchy skin, trying to show her she doesn't need to be careful. "No, it's fine. It's a little numb in places, but it doesn't hurt or anything," he says, squeezing her hand and smirking. "You don't have to worry about being too rough with me, you know, like in the throes of passion."

Giggling, she frees her hand and shoves his shoulder, pushing him over onto his back. She scoots closer, her thigh pressed against the length of his side, her knee in his armpit. He drapes his arm up her leg, fingers tracing over her cream-colored wool that gets thinner the higher he goes. He wonders, vaguely, if the pink on her head and tail is dyed that way, since the rest of her is so pale. As he teases up the inside of her leg, he's pleased to see her blush, squirming just a little as she runs her hand over his chest. Oh, that feels good. Just having her close, touching him; he just wants her to keep touching him.

"So, how did it happen?" she asks, though she sounds a little distracted. Probably because his fingers are stroking the fur beneath her belly.

He'd rather pull her on top of him, to grab her hips and press her down onto his— Bo asked him a question. He ought to answer that shouldn't he? He blinks and tries to ignore the fact that he's hard again, wondering if she notices. "Camping accident. Tripped and fell onto the fire while one of my foster parents was cooking some bacon, and let me tell you, they are not kidding about grease fires."

Bo's face crinkles with sympathy and she strokes his stomach, and it's all he can do not to rock his hips towards her hand. He doesn't care about the scar, or her concern. That was ages ago, who cares about that? "What's a foster parent?" she asks and that snaps him out of his lust-muddled head. Oh, she caught that didn't she?

Deacon swallows, looking up at her from where he's laying. He really ought to tell her. This was bound to come up eventually, and like he told you, it's not exactly a secret... Sitting up, he rests his hand on her knee, tracing the curve of it with his thumb and he tells her. He explains the details with more casualness than he managed with you, maintaining a certain level of detachment as if he were giving a history lesson. Well, he supposes, technically, he is. But he tells her what he told you, about his birth mother, and his foster families. About Grant adopting him and that he doesn't consider him a father.

She doesn't say anything, doesn't interrupt. She just watches him, taking it all in as he speaks, and when he finishes with a shrug and a smile Bo takes his face in her hands and she kisses him. It starts gentle and tender, but she doesn't let him go, not until she deepens their kiss and leaves him flushed and breathless, wanting more. What was that, he wonders as she pulls away and searches his face, holding him back as he tries to chase after her lips.

"You're spending Christmas with me and my family," she says, and her tone leaves no room for complaint. Right now, he's not sure he could argue with her even if he wanted to. "I have more than enough to compensate for you not having one."

He's never met a girlfriend's family before. And the way she's talking it sounds like this is going to be more than parents. Maybe he should be concerned, or intimidated, but right now he just... he just wants her to let him kiss her again. Smiling, he lets out a breathy laugh. "Sure, that's fine with me," he says, and he lets out a satisfied groan as she stops resisting and he claims her mouth with his.

Deacon will do whatever she wants, meet whoever she wants, be the person she wants, so long as it makes her stay.

You and Leveretta are standing at the back of her class, waiting for Deacon to show up and the bell to ring. There's still a few minutes left so you're just keeping an eye on the kids, half listening as they talk —very loudly— about their weekends and their trips past the Line. Leaning against the wall, you take a sip of your coffee and glance over at the hare monster, watching her nose twitch as she rolls her own drink between her hands.

"So you guys had a good time at the beach?" Leveretta asks, raising a brow and taking a drink.

"Yeah, it was nice and quiet. No one bothered us," you say, watching her. "How about you? Did you decide to go out?"

She nods, looking down at her mug for a second before meeting your eyes again. "My cousin has a van, so a bunch of us went out. Just parked downtown and walked around, got some food. Most people were nice, a few took pictures," she says, the corner of her mouth quirking into a smile. But it doesn't quite reach her eyes. "We had a good time, but we had to tell off some jerks who were messing with a vulkin." She shakes her head, sighing. "And we heard that a pair of moldsmals had a hard time getting service at a restaurant too. It's like the more human we look, the easier it is for humans to accept us. It's not exactly fair, is it?"

"No, it's not," you agree, but you're not surprised. It's just human nature, isn't it? To find it easier to handle things that seem familiar. "Maybe it'll get easier once they have more time to get used to everyone."

Leveretta shrugs, and sips at her coffee. "I don't see why it's so difficult in the first place. What's so hard about just being polite or kind?"

"I ask myself that all the time," you say, with no small amount of bitterness.

The bell rings and a few moments later the classroom door opens, revealing a harried-looking Deacon. His clothes and hair are in order but he's got dark circles under his eyes and he's got a paper cup of what you can only guess is coffee in one hand. He greets the class, a little more subdued than usual, and when you catch his eye he gives you a small smirk in response to your arched eyebrow. Oh, did he and Bo...?

Later, at lunch, you're giving him a scrutinizing look, glad that he at least looks a little more energetic by this point in the day, despite the yawn he stifles behind his hand. He just blinks innocently, though you're sure he knows full well what you must be thinking.

"Well?" you finally press, pulling your lunch out of your bag.

Deacon just smiles, stirring his noodles with a pair of chopsticks. "'Well' what?"

Letting out an exasperated noise, you squint at him. "Well why do you look so tired today? Up late? Busy doing something? Or someone?"

He snorts, chuckling as the corner of his mouth twitches. "Aren't you being nosy today?"

"Oh come on!" you blurt out, pointing at him with a spoon, holding an applesauce cup in your other hand. "You're always telling me everything whether I want to hear it or not."

"It sounds to me like you're finally admitting that you like my... how did you put it? My 'oversharing'?" Oh he's just being infuriating now, with that stupid grin on his stupid pretty face.

"Deacon," you say, and his shoulders start shaking with laughter.

"Okay, okay!" he says, doing a poor job of placating you as he rubs his eye with the back of his hand. "I was with Bo last night."


"And... We... um..." His expression falters, his smile fading, and color creeps up the sides of his neck. Giving you a suddenly shy look, he pokes at his lunch with his chopsticks, swirling the noodles in their cup. "And we slept together. Figuratively and literally."

You grin, holding back a happy sound as you try to contain your joy. It just makes him blush darker, shaking his head but looking pleased at your reaction. "How was it? The two of you, the whole evening, you wouldn't be acting so coy if it didn't go well, come on!"

He chuckles, slurping up a big bite of his lunch as he makes you wait. "I, um... You're friends with her, this feels weird!" he blurts out, shaking his head. "And this isn't just... this isn't like what happened with Grillby this is... She's not just some girl, she's my girlfriend."

"Oh god, this is so sweet, look at you," you tease, feeling giddy with how happy you are for him. "You're in so deep, aren't you?"

He blinks, hesitating, and his smile falters a little bit. Then he gives a weak laugh, shaking his head. "I just think that maybe it might be... inappropriate to share those intimate details considering the circumstances," he says pointedly. You snort, raising an eyebrow in disbelief, and he relents. "Okay fine. It was amazing, thank you very much. Both times." He smirks and you laugh. "I uh, ended up telling her about my personal history and she sort of decided I'd be spending Christmas with her and her family out of pity."

"I'm sure it wasn't pity," you say, nudging his shin under the table with your foot. "It sounds like she cares about you, you dork."

He rolls his eyes. "So I guess I won't be joining you and yours for Christmas. I'll be with a herd of sheep."

"So if the two of you were... intimate, then does that mean she saw that scar on your back?"

"Oh come on, Hope. Just say sex," he chides, rolling his eyes. "And yes. So I got to have that fun talk."

You finish off the last of your applesauce and reach for your sandwich, using it to point at him. "You never told me about that. I saw it but you never told me what happened."

"Oh," he says flatly. "Camping accident. Bacon. Grease fire. Very messy."

"Well when you put it like that," you say, shaking your head and pursing your lips.

"What? It's not like it's a fun story. I tripped over some firewood and ended up almost ass-first in a frying pan," he says, shrugging. "It healed, now I've got this ugly scar, but somehow I managed to survive."

"Fine, fine. I guess I was just expecting something more... exciting?" you admit, feeling a little chastised. "Forget it. I know it must not have been fun for you."

"It's just not a big deal," he says, slurping up more noodles. "Happened when I was fourteen."

"So Grant used to take you camping?" you ask, idly curious.

He blinks. "Yeah, sometimes. He tried to do what whole... 'dad' thing on occasion. It's like he read it in a magazine: 'Here's what you do to seem like a dad. Go camping, brave the wild outdoors, go fishing. Man stuff. Etcetera.'" Deacon rolls his eyes and waves his words away with his hand. "Clearly you can see how well that turned out."

"Clearly," you echo back to him with the same level of bitterness. You wish you could... do something to that jerk. To make up for Deacon's shitty childhood.

Your phone starts to buzz in your pocket, which is strange because no one ever calls you while you're at work. For a moment you wonder if something might be wrong, until you see the name on the caller ID: Mom. Your stomach gives an uncomfortable lurch and you set it on the table, glaring at it as you refuse to answer. Crossing your arms over your chest, you just watch as the vibration makes it shift slightly across the surface.

"Oh," Deacon says as he leans over to look at the screen, then glances up at your face. "Just... reject the call."

You shake your head. "I don't want her to even think I saw it ring. I'll just... let it go to voicemail. If it's important she can leave a message or something..."

He reaches out and touches your shoulder, eliciting a small smile from you at the comforting gesture. His brow furrows and he rubs his thumb over the fabric of your blouse. The phone stops buzzing. "If she does you don't have to listen to it. You don't have to do anything you don't want to."

Sighing, you shrug, swallowing down the lump in your throat. Deacon doesn't understand, through no fault of his own. He can't understand that it's just not that easy. You watch, and feel a nauseating twist in your gut as a notification of a voicemail pops up on the screen.

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