The Start of a Beautiful Relationship (Frans Secret Santa)
Merry Christmas, @themsource, twas I who was your secret santa--sorry for taking so long to post, I had a rough morning, but here's your present, so I hope you enjoy!
I picked the request for a mobfell switchup where Frisk is the mobster and Sans is the musician, which sounded like such a fun idea, I couldn't resist. As for content warnings: mild violence, references to various crimes, and a big ol' helping of whump and recovery.
Now, crossposted to AO3.
If you listened to the government or even the news networks, humans and monster were supposed to be living in a cooperative integrated community—having stepped out of the proverbial dark ages of tension and hatred, everyone was supposedly playing nice with each other. Of course, if someone were to bother to ask Sans if that was entirely true, he’d be honest and say that it was all horseshit. Well, maybe he would, after he tricked you into locking yourself into a closet for a day just to get some peace and quiet. For the both of you. He was a nice guy like that.
The truth was humans barely tolerated the tiny monster communities that were slowing growing in human cities. If it wasn’t for the convenience of monster magical abilities like healing or cooking foods that could restore health, Sans wouldn’t be shocked if humans drove them out of the city like a tsunami flooding the coast. Thank god humans had yet to really cotton onto the fact that monsters were physically weak to human aggression, otherwise Sans feared monsterkind really would be in trouble. Instead, monsters were bluffing in a high stakes game of life or death and humans had yet to call them out.
Sans couldn’t help but think the whole charade felt like a game of chicken—slowly the two sides were inching towards each other and he just prayed it wouldn’t be monsters that flinched first.
Maybe that was, in a small way, why Grillby allowed his bar to be used as a neutral ground—in his bar, Grillby was king of his realm and the golden rule was to not cause property damage. One day, someone would try to break it, but for the moment, the bar was probably one of the safest places for a monster to be, no matter how much Sans’ younger brother might grumble about him coming home smelling like frying grease. Heh; for a skeleton, Pap sure had a sensitive nose.
Well, the lingering aroma of deep-fried goodness aside, tonight there was more than just music floating through the air. No matter how loud or hot his band could play, the minute the humans stepped into the bar, tension rolled in with them. Tonight, the Red Soul gang wasn’t here to make trouble—after all, they had business with the Dreemurrs, although Sans had done his damnedest to not learn about whatever the hell they were meeting about because he had no interest in being an accessory to anything, thank you—so, all the monsters in the joint just had to pretend not to notice the deal being struck among them.
As far as mob gangs went, the Red Souls were trouble for other humans only—they were bootleggers, Prohibition breakers, owners of more than a dozen or so speakeasies with maybe a toe or two dipped into racketeering and the occasional murder, but their crimes trended towards their human clientele, nor monsters. If Sans had to guess, that was why the Dreemurrs—monster gang royalty all on their own—were willing to get into bed with them. Or hell, maybe the Dreemurrs were just into humans and that really wasn’t any of his business.
Not that he’d blame any of them—the humans that weren’t too shabby of a sight. The head of the gang was a tall, slender human with creamy skin and rosy cheeks like a cherub and a smile as mysterious as a statue of a long gone god. Chara, if Sans remembered right—made sense as he heard that this Chara had old ties to the Dreemurrs, which would explain the warm hug offered to them by Asriel Dreemurr himself—had somehow wrestled control from the former boss the year before and ruled it with an iron fist in an elegant black glove. Behind Chara, another pair of humans faithfully followed. Sans wasn’t particularly acquainted with either of them, but he knew them vaguely by their nicknames. The one on Chara’s left had picked up the nickname “The Cowboy” on the account of carrying a pair of six shooter revolvers at their waist, but apparently they’d decided to lean into the nickname because now they were sporting an old cowboy hat.
Both of these two were fairly attractive in their pallid, fleshy human ways. They were there on business and looked it; Chara had their head bent politely to Asriel as they talked and the Cowboy was carefully watching the crowd for funny business.
The last human, however, looked different enough to catch the eye; darker than their compatriots, this human was lanky, but more athletically built than their boss or gun toting compatriot. It was hard to get a good look at them from across the bar, but there was something soft about their face—maybe just a touch of baby fat still, but if Papyrus was around, he’d probably proclaim that it gave the human an air of kindness—that was pleasant. This human, as far as Sans knew, was only called the Shadow. Despite their ominous title, the name wasn’t because they were particularly gruesome, vaguely racial insult, or what-have-you. Instead, it referred to the fact that the Shadow always trailed behind Chara as faithfully as their actual shadow—there’d been a brief rude mumbling of instead calling them “The Lapdog” but that talk died fairly quick. Not because of fear, but because the Shadow had a reputation of generosity whenever they turned up.
This night was not any different—the band had just finished playing Someday, Sweetheart when a round of shots appeared as Sans sat his trombone aside to readjust the mouthpiece. “Compliments of an appreciative guest,” the waitress announced to the band’s delight. Sans grabbed his shot from the tray as the rest of the band collected their own and found himself looking directly up at the Shadow. He could never be quite sure why his instincts told him who’d ordered the drinks, but when he raised his glass in a polite toast, the Shadow nodded back. Tossing the drink back, Sans let his mouth turn up in a genuine smile—hell, the human had damn fine taste in liquor!—and called out the next song’s name, Pennies from Heaven.
And so ended his first brush with Frisk of the Red Soul gang. Chara and Asriel’s meeting ended later that night after a few more rounds of celebratory drinks and afterwards, Chara and their guards followed out with little fanfare. If only all humans could be so agreeable, in Sans’ opinion, then maybe the distrust between the two species could eventually fade away like a nightmare in the light of dawn.
That night, however, was not the last time he saw the human; in fact, it seemed suddenly that they were trying to become a fixture at Grillby’s. Every Tuesday night, they would show up promptly as his band began to get ready, grab a chair near the little stage Grillby threw together, and there they would sit. After the first few hours, the tension of the monsters at the nearby tables would slowly relax—Frisk often was silent for the entire night aside from nursing simple whiskey cocktails or dragging every last puff they could get out of a cigarette. Most often, they’d lean back in their chair and let their head just loll back—a daring pose to take, exposing their throat like that. And sometimes, when one of the band really let loose and started playing hot, one of their feet would start to tap along—Sans began to wait eagerly to see when that foot would start to move. It felt like a compliment of the highest order, although he wasn’t sure why.
Sans would have been content with this arrangement of never speaking, but respectfully appreciating the music he and his band made. Much the same way you begin to feel unusually fond of seeing someone consistently on the same bus ride home, he found himself looking forward to their presence every Tuesday night. After all, they did him no wrong—hell, sometimes they would buy him and the entire band a round of drinks. When that happened, he would tip his hat to them, they would nod, and by the end of the night, half the bar was wore out from dancing while the other half was hoarse from singing along.
And then, one night, things went offbeat.
Later on, Grillby told him what really happened—miscommunication between him and one of the waitresses meant that a certain customer who should not have been allowed more drinks did not get cut off when he should have. This gentleman, a foul mouthed snowbird, was two sheets to the wind when he abruptly shouted something saying that he could “put on a better show than this!” and tried to storm the stage. “Tried” being the operative word—Sans had been lost in the chorus of I Don’t Stand a Ghost of a Chance with You, eyes shut against the lights pointed down at them, and the next he only faintly heard the gasp of the crowd over the music and he looked up past the golden shine off his trombone to see two things in quick succession.
The first was the fool rushing the stage; the second was said fool being slammed beak first into the stage, one wing caught in an armbar hold, twisted behind his back. On his back, Frisk calmly gripped the wing and kneeled against him, knee pushing into the small of his back.
There was a moment of stunned silence and then the snowbird began to squawk in outrage and pain—one little twist from Frisk, however, sent the squawking into squeals of pain. Only once the monster swore to behave did Frisk get up. Rather than let him scramble away or wait for him to summon his magic, Frisk hauled the snowbird up and then hurled him into the spare chair at their own table and glared.
“Sit,” they ordered, voice frostier than the ice crystals of the monster’s crest. They hopped off the stage and took their seat. “Stay.”
The monster was nearly as stunned as the rest of the crowd; Grillby, however, wasn’t going to let the awkward moment ruin his business for the evening and sent his waitress back out to take care of orders while he tended his bar. Sans made a point to give an exaggerated shrug before leading the band back into the song, schooling his skull into an expression of ignorant bliss, but keeping a close eye on the human, wondering if finally they remind everyone—including himself—why a human should be always feared.
It was three songs later that something happened; the only reason Sans heard it was because they were taking a small break to readjust their instruments or shuffle around sheet music. The relative silence made it easy for him to notice the snowbird in the crowd trying to shift and slink away from his chair.
He didn’t get far.
“I said sit,” the human reminded him as they flipped open a lighter and lit a cigarette.
The snowbird began to sweat so hard, Sans wondered if he was melting. “I, ah—I need to use the toilet!”
Sans nearly snorted directly into his mouthpiece. The sheer audacity of this guy was astonishing. Maybe he really was one hell of a comedian. Still, Sans watched from beneath lowered lids, curious to see where this would end.
Frisk didn’t disappoint; they barely bothered to glance up. “Piss yourself then,” they ordered and shut their lighter with a snap before dropping it into a pocket.
This time, Sans couldn’t stop the snort that escaped him; he tried to hide it with a cough, but when he glanced up from his fake coughing fit, he looked up to find his gaze perfectly locked with the human.
Funny; he didn’t know a human’s eyes could be that shade of gold. He rather got the feeling that he’d accidentally looked directly into the eye of a wolf and now he’d committed some ancient taboo. Ancient paranoia screamed to either play dead or run for his life, but his body couldn’t decide which to do first.
Frisk took the matter out of his hands; still looking at him, they smiled wryly at him and saluted him with a casual flick of their cigarette.
Feeling a little like a rabbit being spared by a bear, Sans dipped his head in nod of acknowledgement and was quick to swing up his trombone and start up the next song, leaving his band to scramble to keep up.
The rest of that night, Frisk sat at the edge of the stage, nursing a cocktail and tapping their foot to the beat. Sans didn’t dare look at them directly again until the bar shut down and Frisk dismissed the snowbird with a flick of their fingers—the monster, who’d practically sweated out his inebriation, shot out of his chair and skedaddled out of the bar like the hounds of hell were after him. Frisk, on the other hand, rose languidly, slung their jacket over their arm and put their hat on, but not before tapping the brim to Grillby on the way out.
Strange, Sans noted distantly. Human violence was usually enough to scare off any monster in the direct vicinity, and yet the bar was still fairly full as Grillby took the last call of the night. Somehow, Frisk’s quick intervention and getting physical had barely affected any of the crowd at all—well, accept the snowbird, obviously. When exactly had Grillby’s bar come to accept the quiet human so readily?
For that matter, why did he find himself looking forward to see the human again, and maybe even sooner than next Tuesday night?
A week later, Sans would get his wish in a way he never hoped for. It was another Tuesday night, but there was no familiar human in the crowd. Oh well, he’d get over it—the absence might feel odd, but what did that really mean for him? It wasn’t like they were friends.
Still, it felt weird. As if he’d gone out for a walk only to find one of the local landmarks had got up and walked off.
Shoving the disconcerting feeling aside, Sans excused himself from helping the band sitting up their instruments to duck out the back of the bar. He’d like to think it was just him covering up his slothful ways with a bit of fresh air, but he wasn’t entirely sure why felt the urge to step out into the brisk winter air. Maybe the chill would calm his jitters and maybe it could have done so if he hadn’t glanced down the back alley and looked up to see Frisk slam their shoulder against the brick wall of the back of Grillby’s bar.
For a moment, their gazes locked and Sans could actually read the surprise on the human’s face as they spotted him. “Has your band started yet?”
Sans blinked. “Not yet, no.”
“Oh good,” Frisk mumbled. “I worried I would miss it.” And with that, their body promptly slumped over, leaving a long smear of blood on the bricks as their body slid to the ground.
The first thought that ran through Sans’ mind was oh shit, are they dying? followed swiftly by not my problem. I need to get the fuck out of here before someone tries to pin the death of a human on me. He had family, friends, and even bandmates to worry about and it’d be a lot more than bad press if word got out a human had died right out back of a monster establishment, especially an illegal speakeasy.
It was the thought of “illegal speakeasy” that made Sans freeze as he started to hurry back into the bar. Grillby’s bar was no stranger to crime or criminals and the memory of Chara sitting inside the bar itself rose up like a sea serpent in his mind. Chara was no mobster to cross and just how would they like it if word got out that a monster let one of their own subordinates die in a pile of trash? Chara seemed to like monsters but Sans didn’t doubt that a mobster couldn’t just let such disrespect slide.
And, a small part of his soul throbbed, he didn’t want to see Frisk die. Whether it was because familiarity bred fondness or just because he liked admiring their face as they basked in the sounds of his band, a sharp pain stabbed at him at the thought of the presence vanishing. Especially if he was the one to let it go so easily.
Despite all his instincts screaming at him not to get involved, he stepped back out and hurried over to the collapsed human. The light revealed nothing to him other than the shine of dark blood staining the bricks; he needed to get them inside and out of the filth, fast. Cautiously, he let his magic settle on them, seep into their flesh, and anchor on their soul as if it were a physical thing. Blue magic began to radiate off their skin and with a gentle flick of his wrist, their body rose into the air.
Well, at least their body was all in one piece and now mobile. It was a start.
Glancing around—it’d look really bad if a monster was spotted hauling around a human body by magic—he turned and walked back into the bar, Frisk’s body floating behind him in tow. Now, the problem with Grillby’s bar was that there was almost no place that wasn’t immediately in public—no backstage, not even an office where the fire monster did accounting, not even a bathroom to hide in. So, that left him two places: the tiny kitchen where Grillby fried some simple foods or a storage room that both held supplies and cleaning equipment. On one hand, the kitchen was probably cleaner and from what Sans knew about human biology—not exactly his field of study back in the day, although their skeleton structure fascinated him—that their wounds probably would benefit from a cleaner environment, it also didn’t even have a lock on the damn door. So, storage closet it was.
Grillby himself walked into the kitchen just in time to see Sans hauling Frisk’s body into the closet and for a moment, the two monsters stared at each other in silence. Sans didn’t bother to speak—Grillby was a smart guy and he could see the fire monster doing the mental math in front of him. Dead human plus angry mob plus his establishment equaled out to bad news for everyone.
At last, Grillby narrowed his eyes at him. “Don’t make a mess.”
“You got it,” he answered with a nod before pausing again. “Mind if use your phone?”
With a pointedly careless wave of his hand—he wanted absolutely nothing more to do with this nonsense more than he already did—Grillby quickly vanished back out, leaving Sans to put Frisk carefully down in the storage room before snatching up the phone from its hook.
Grumbling about the holes on the dial being too small, Sans used his magic to connect to the operator and then had to force himself not to snap at said operator when she at last picked up. Sans was fumbling to light a cigarette as Alphys finally picked up.
“Dreemurr Laboratory, Alphys speaking.”
Oh, thank fuck, she picked up for once. He cleared his throat and spoke. “Al, it’s me.”
“Sans? What do you-? I’m not helping you bury any bodies.”
Hypocrite; as if she wouldn’t jump at the fucking chance if a certain fish would ask her to do just that. But Sans needed Alphys to get her ass down there as fast as possible, which meant trying to butter her up, not taunt her. “Nope, opposite problem. I need you to come help me heal a body, not dispose of it.”
Alphys scoffed. “You know for damn sure I’m not that kind of doctor!”
Sans rolled his eyes and tried not to flinch as he heard a distinct grunt of pain from the closet—god, he hoped Frisk wasn’t trying to get up and move around in there. Grillby would kill him if they got blood everywhere in there. He couldn’t stop himself from snarling “no shit, but I know you have back up medical potions, and you fucking owe me, so get down here.”
There was a pause where it was a tossup if Alphys was either sweating bullets or considering hanging up on him. At last, she sighed. “Where the hell even are you?”
Trying not to sigh back in relief, he rattled off the directions to Grillby’s bar and then said his goodbyes as he put the phone back up on its hook. Taking a deep breath to wonder where and when exactly his night had gone off the rails—he’d really loved having some leverage to hold over Alphys, so it looked like he was going to find some other ammunition to use against her in the future—he pulled off his suit jacket and ducked into the closet.
Damn them, Frisk had been trying to get up. They’d also failed and had managed to splatter some blood when they flopped back down. Shit, Grillby may very well kill him—best to try and get that bleeding under control for both of their sakes. Checking the boxes surrounding them, Sans found some bundles of fresh cleaning rags—he grabbed fistfuls of them and kneeled down next to the crumpled human.
Carefully, Sans peeled back their suit jacket, but their black shirt was so damp with blood he wasn’t sure where the injury was. With a sincere apology, Sans grabbed their button up shirt and ripped it open, sending buttons flying. Frisk grunted something, but Sans could only mumble back “yeah, sorry, sorry, I usually try to take people out to dinner first before undressing them, but eh, what can you do.”
He’d been so focused on finding the origin of the bleeding, that Sans almost didn’t recognize the sound that they were making. He had to pause and stare before it sunk in that they were, somehow, chuckling at either his words or the entire situation, he wasn’t sure which.
Still, it felt promising. At least they probably wouldn’t kill him for taking the liberty with their body. Also, if they were conscious enough to laugh, they could start to help him in turn.
“Hey, can you try and show me where you’re bleeding so I can plug this hole?” he asked, half certain that it was a futile effort, but then that only meant he was pleasantly surprised when they lifted their left arm. Taking that to mean it was on the left side, he pulled up their undershirt and narrowed his gaze down at the sudden gush of blood. Yep, there was a hole alright. Time to get to work.
Grabbing the rags again, he did his best to press them against the decent sized hole in their torso. Checking their back, his brow bones shot up as he found another hole—probably the entry point—back there as well. “Hey, we’re in luck. Looks like the bullet punched clean through. That’ll make fixing you up easier.”
To his surprise, they muttered a deadpan “yay” in reply.
Forcing his chuckle to sound nonchalant, he grabbed some more rags for their back and tried to remember what he could of his human biology lessons. It wasn’t exactly his forte—lord knew he had no interest in becoming some asshole human’s doctor—but his old boss had been thorough in his training. Guess he owed the old bastard an apology.
Speaking of human biology, he wondered if Grillby actually would kill him for using some high proof alcohol to sterilize the wound—or would it be far worse to pour a bunch of alcohol into a human’s open torso? Hmm, well, now his thoughts seemed to be spiraling, which if his thoughts were going sideways, who knew how Frisk’s were doing. Probably best to start seeing if he could get some actual answers out of them now that they were communicating somewhat.
“Alright, if you’re in the talking mood, mind answering some questions while we wait for help to arrive?”
They grunted in what he hoped was a yes.
“Since you don’t usually show up looking like swiss cheese, I’m assuming your night’s not exactly going to plan. Can you tell me what happened?”
For a moment, he wondered if they would even grunt at him, but then he watched in momentary fascination as they licked their dry lips to speak.
“Meeting—for a deal. Went bad. I—ungh—shot. Got shot… while trying… to get Chara in. Getaway car. Told them to go. Promised—I promised to make my own way to safety. Things got blurry after that.”
The explanation seemed to sap their energy and their eyes began to drift closed, which just did not seem like a good idea to him. He had to keep them talking. “Deal went south, huh? Well, I hope you mind if I don’t incriminate myself for asking more about that, but how about you tell me just how far away this went down. I hope you weren’t bleeding out over half the town.”
They made another strange sound, like the grinding of a rusty gear deep in their chest that was a throttled, pained laugh. Finally, they coughed an answer that nearly made him choke on his own curse.
“Well, fuck, you probably did bleed over half the town.” He made a point to keep his voice light, but all he could really think about was wondering just how much blood Frisk even had left in their body to lose. “Couldn’t you have gone some place where someone could patch you up faster than here?”
Frisk grunted, but he was pretty sure that it was only half confirmation, but the rest was from pain, so he tried to carefully readjust them to be more comfortable as he kept the pressure on their wounds. “Didn’t… didn’t want the… the last thing I’d hear be,” they began and then stalled out so long, he began to worry they’d drifted away on him already, but at last they continued. “The sounds of other people dying.”
Fuck, he could use a drink. “Oh, no? Not even your enemy’s last breaths?”
Their groan could have been from disagreement, or maybe they were bleeding out. Hard to say. “No. Not worth it. Music… music’s better.”And then, they managed to surprise him with a smile, even if did look a touch delirious. “I didn’t want to miss the show tonight.”
“Aw,” he said, doing his best to sound glib, “I had no idea you were such a big fan. Or that’s your blood loss talking.”
Their eyes rolled past him, unfocused. “My head does feel fuzzy.”
Oh, that sounds bad. Where’s Alphys when I fucking need her? Quick, keep them talking! “So—ah-” Fuck! “What makes you such a fan of our music anyway?”
They smacked their lips—maybe he should have found them some water to get some sort of fluid in them again?—and they mumbled, “music. Like music.”
“You like our music?”
They grunted in what vaguely sounded like a no. “No. Like my music.” And then he watched in confusion as they raised their hands and began to mime tapping away at the air.
He stared for a moment before it was his turn to grunt in surprise. “You’re a pianist?”
“Nn. Too long… haven’t… so long.”
Shit shit shit shit-! “Ah, come on, you can’t be too bad. Maybe when we get you fixed up you can swap with Coughmo and we’ll see how you tickle the ivories in comparison.”
They made a noise that was neither grunt nor laugh—a huff maybe?—which wasn’t much, but it was at least a sign they weren’t dead yet.
Sans spent the next five minutes spinning grand proposals and silly ideas and then another five telling the worst jokes he could think of just to make them groan in more than pain at him. As bad as their dismay at his jokes were, at least they were still responding by the time Alphys finally came spilling into the closet, two large bottles of what he knew to be some of the most potent and frankly nasty healing potions that Dreemurr Labs could cook up. He’d know—he’d been there when his old boss had patented it—awful tasting stuff that burned all the way down and was strong enough to heal over the stump from an amputation.
Damn, now he was going to need to thank her for not being stingy and bringing the good shit.
“What the fuck!” Alphys hissed after a moment of staring. “Sans, that’s a human!”
“Congrats that your eyesight hasn’t gotten worse,” he snapped back. “They’re also running with the Red Soul gang and all things considered…” He let his words hang in the air—Alphys might not have been the most social of monsters, but she was also nosey as fuck, constantly trying to find out who was doing what around her. He was betting that she had to know who her boss’s kid was making deals with and what the consequences of letting an associate of the Dreemurrs die would be.
And bless his ability to judge character, she immediately cursed and began to fumble with the thick lids of the potion bottles as she crouched down. “Hold ‘em down,” she muttered, unsealing one bottle. “If they survive the initial shock of this, they’ll recover.” She paused, glancing at all the blood beneath them. “Mostly recover,” she amended. “Holy shit, that’s a lot of blood.”
“Focus,” he snapped, as he began to tug and twist Frisk’s body with his hands and magic so Alphys could pour the potion into their body’s wounds directly.
Alphys paused, looking for a moment genuinely queasy as she held up the bottle. “Don’t move,” she said, probably to both of them. “If I don’t get this stuff in the wounds, then I won’t have enough to fix this.”
And then she poured.
The moment the potion hit the wound, Frisk had to choke a scream down to a hiss between clenched teeth as their entire body locked up—one of their hands clamped onto Sans’ sleeve, but as Alphys told them, they stayed still. At least they had the decency not to grab onto Sans’ body, which was great as they probably would have snapped any of his bones with their strength in that moment. By the time Alphys had finished pouring the second bottle, their body trembled, but they refused to thrash and their wound was healed, hole knit cleanly together, even if it still steamed. They let their body flop sluggishly against him and for a moment, all three of them took the moment to just breathe and thank their personal deities of choice that they were alive.
“My job’s done,” Alphys announced first as she climbed to her feet and winced as she planted one of her hands in the puddle of blood. “I need a damn drink.”
Sans, who was still content to lean against the shelves, take some deep breaths, and enjoying the soft body against him—humans were so deliciously not pokey in comparison to even skeletons—grinned idly. “Good idea. Get me a scotch on the rocks.”
“You can go fuck yourself,” she snapped vehemently and slammed the door behind her.
He let himself chuckle before resting the back of his skull against a shelf. Ah, maybe he really would have to leave Alphys be for awhile—she definitely had pulled through this time. Then again, knowing her, he didn’t doubt that there’d come a day when it’d be her turn to call him up with a favor. Until then, he’d let her off the hook.
Speaking of people who’d he done a favor, he almost started in surprise as they shifted against him—he’d half figured they would have passed out from the pain. He certainly hadn’t expected how pleasant they felt pressed against him. Or, well, mostly pleasant—the blood coating them both was starting to cool and grow tacky.
Still, not the worst ways he’d ended up cuddled up with someone.
Okay, asshole, pack it in, he reminded himself sternly. They are one, barely recovered, and two, fucking trouble. Don’t let yourself get carried off in the euphoria of accomplishment.
That was easier said than done as they curled up against him, as if they were trying to seek body warmth—tough luck for them though. Skeletons weren’t exactly known for being the warmest bodied monsters, that’s for damn sure. He was so distracted by his thoughts that he almost missed their voice as they spoke.
“That was an interesting person,” they mumbled, surprising him again.
“Who, Al? Oh, she’s a character,” he said carefully. After the favor she just did him, the least he could do was not incriminate her too much. “Every now and then, she can really pull through, especially when you force her.”
Frisk’s chuckle was considerably warmer and pleasant now that they weren’t actively dying. “I owe her one,” they announced and Sans considered tucking that away for future reference—maybe as a show of good faith, he’d let Alphys know that the mobster was willing to do her a favor in the future and she could use that to her advantage, maybe. But that was business between them and not him, to his relief. Nope, this was enough trouble for him for tonight. He’d just let his eye sockets close just as they spoke again. “How do you know her?”
“Old co-worker,” he answered before he could stop himself. Hrm. Maybe it was time to extract himself—he was getting a little too comfy if his mouth was starting to run off like that.
“Were you also a doctor?”
His chuckle was genuine as he carefully considered how to shrug them off in a way that would force them to sit in their blood. That just felt wrong. “Oh, Al would be the first to tell you that neither of us are the kind of doctor you’re probably thinking of. And, more to the point, I’m a musician now.”
Yes, a musician. There was so many less ways to die when all you did was play trombone every week; his old boss being a great example of what happened when you got careless doing science. Music was good enough for him.
As he gently peeled them off of his front, he felt the first shiver rocket down their spine, but rather than let himself get cocky thinking his touch had much to do with that, he felt their entire body begin to tremble again—he wasn’t the best judge of temperature, but the tacky clothes beneath his phalanges felt distinctly less warm than they had just moments before. In their defense, their clothes were soaked, but it wasn’t like he could do much for him—actually, he had no clue how he was going to play off the blood all over his clothes to his band or the crowd, let alone Papyrus (who was probably going to blow a gasket the first moment he saw him tonight, oh joy). The both of them were just going to have to live with it for awhile longer, probably.
Still, humans could die from catching a chill, couldn’t they? That sounded correct. Well, he didn’t exactly have a change of clothes for himself, let alone them, so he hoped propping them up in one of the less bloody sections of the closet would help, but he began to wish he had a blanket he could toss over them. Maybe an apron could work?
And it was that moment he remembered his own suit jacket, still sitting to the side and fairly pristine in comparison to the rest of his clothes currently. Ah, that would be helpful to hide some of the blood on him, but Frisk’s need was obviously greater. Grabbing it, he tucked it around their shoulders and hoped it would hold out until Frisk recovered enough to look after their own self.
Now if only he knew when that exactly would be. “Welp, looks like Lady Luck came through for you tonight,” he made a show of huffing as he sat back against one of the shelves. “But try not to pick up any new holes for a few days, cause we’re not scheduled to come back until next week.”
They didn’t even flutter their eyes open as they replied. “No promises.”
He snorted. “Well, at least you’re honest about some things.”
“I’m very honest,” they protested, even if it was barely more than a mumble. “When I need to be.”
He wasn’t quite sure how he was going to reply to that, but he never got a chance to find out—out in the kitchen, he heard the distinct voice of one of this bandmates quietly calling out to. “Hey, the crowd’s getting restless and the waitresses are starting to ask when we’re going to start.”
Sans blinked, but his eyes were fixed on Frisk; shit, looked like he needed to ditch them fast, but how the hell could he manage that? Maybe he wasn’t decent like some folks, but he didn’t know if he had it in him to abandon someone in such a delicate situation, even if they weren’t likely going to start bleeding out again. Should he tell them to go cancel the show for the night? Would Grillby tolerate that, on top of all the blood he’d gotten all over this closet and half its contents?
You know, he thought in irritation, I used to be fucking sensible about not sticking my neck out for troublesome people but I must have lost my mind tonight.
A slight shuffle next to him made him look up to see Frisk raising their head, barely. “The show must go on,” they whispered.
He almost laughed and he forced himself to climb to his feet. “I guess so. Don’t go dying until I get back.”
“I probably won’t be here when you get back.” When he snapped his gaze back to them, they hunkered back down into the jacket. “It’ll be better for everyone if I’m not found here. Especially for me.”
Pragmatic, he mused and was surprised to realize how annoyed he was by it—he wasn’t entirely sure why their glibness bothered him at all frankly. Well, perhaps he’d just chalk it up to hating the idea they would waste all the hard work he’d done to save them; that was probably good enough. And probably another sign that he needed to get the fuck out of there—getting protective of a mobster just wouldn’t be good for him.
“No dying,” he reminded them but then paused as he reached for the door as for some godforsaken reason, his traitor mouth chose that moment to rebel. “Anything I can do for you before I go?”
They sniffed sleepily. “You mean a request?”
“Well, within reason.”
They smiled without opening their eyes. “Embraceable You.”
He stared for a moment before he nearly laughed. “Well, at least you picked something popular. Yeah, I think I can swing that.”
Their eyes flashed gold for the most fleeting of moments before their eyes fluttered shut again. “I’m just glad I didn’t miss the show.”
And with that reminder, he forced himself to leave them behind and stepped out of the closet. Walking out was awkward—monsters didn’t see human blood often enough for them to be certain what was all over his clothes, but didn’t doubt that most of his band and the crowd knew his excuse that someone had spilled wine on him was utter bullshit. Still, the crowd wanted their music more than they cared about his messy state, so no one stopped him from grabbing his trombone and announcing the first song of the night as Embraceable You.
That ended up being another great night of playing hot and loud as the crowd danced and drank their cares away, even if his mind couldn’t stop wandering back to the closet in the back, wondering how his troublemaker was doing.
He spent the rest of the night reminding himself that Frisk wasn’t his anything, not that his mind seemed to want to retain that idea.
They burned through the rest of their set, ending on When Your Lover Is Gone as Grillby announced last call. As the crowd stopped their applauding and started their exit, he set his own instrument aside and abandoned his baffled band to trespass once again into Grillby’s kitchen. One of his waitress gave Sans a baffled look as he pushed towards the closet, but inside he found that someone had obviously done some cleaning—a mop was sitting in a bucket of water, trying to soak the blood back out of it, although no one had bothered to wash off the blood from the crates or boxes that would probably be discarded soon enough.
Most importantly, Frisk was true to their word—they were gone, not even a note left to let him know how they fared before they vanished. All that they’d left behind was his suit jacket, neatly folded, but now discolored where blood had dried on it. Feeling hollow, he reached for it and idly wondered if he could get the blood washed out when his digits felt a small lump in the lapel.
Blinking, he opened his jacket, and glanced inside to see the fastener of a pin that he had definitely not put there himself. Turning the jacket back over, he lifted the lapel to see what exactly was there.
He didn’t have to look hard—a small, bright red heart pin winked at him. A calling card of the Red Soul gang, Frisk probably used it daily to identify themself. It meant belonging, credibility, camaraderie for them.
For him, it meant protection; Frisk had all but branded him as worthy of trust, respect, and most importantly, worthy of help.
He carefully folded his lapel back down. Damn; maybe he didn’t have leverage over Alphys at the moment, but Frisk had just given him plenty over most of a group of mobsters. Tucking his jacket under his arm, he left to got fetch his trombone.
Tonight had been a wild night, but as he gathered his things and got ready to leave, he couldn’t help but muse that he doubted he’d seen the last of the not-so-silent Shadow. Oddly enough, the thought of seeing Frisk again was almost as thrilling as the powerful little gift they’d left behind. Hell, maybe he’d even convince them to jump onto the piano stool for a bit so he could hear them play for once.
Quite without meaning to, Sans found himself humming as he left the bar. It took him a moment to place it, but when he did nearly laughed before he began to idly sing under his breath, “this aching heart of mine is singing, oh ‘lover, come back to me’.”
