Work Text:
Better Than Fine
"Check."
"SHOOT AND FIDDLESTICKS!"
Frisk let out a little hum, adjusting themself to sit cross-cross. They and Papyrus were sat on the floor of the latter's room — a one to one recreation of the one he had in the Underground, just like the rest of the house. Sans never explained how he managed to find a home this similar to their old one, but Frisk didn't care. It was nice. Familiar. They needed that.
Their eye flicked back to the chessboard in front of them. Apparently, they had slipped their bishop into Papyrus' ranks, checking his king. They let themself grin. They were getting good at this!
Not that they actually knew what they were doing. It was hard to memorize all of the patterns and theories that proper chess players used. The last time they tried to, they blacked out, waking up an hour later with a killer migraine. They'd know how that felt, wouldn't they? Skull pounding pain so awful it killed them. So familiar.
But even if their brain was too broken to remember, their hands weren't. Muscle memory was their best friend, and it never failed them. So Frisk spent a few days just moving their hands through different openings and theories, reading off move orders they found online, repeating the actions over and over until their hands moved on their own.
Playing chess without even paying attention. A novel concept. One that probably wouldn't work against anyone half-decent at the game, but hey, their opponents weren't exactly studying theory themselves.
"YOU'VE BECOME QUITE PROFICIENT AT THIS GAME, HUMAN FRISK!" Papyrus noted, scratching his chin and eyeing the board with a narrowed game. "VERY IMPRESSIVE!"
"Thanks. For letting me practice with you too." It was important to see if their training would work in an actual game. Papyrus was perfect for this.
"I HAVE TO SAY THOUGH, I AM SURPRISED."
"Hm?"
"I WAS UNDER THE IMPRESSION YOU DISLIKED CHESS," Papyrus said. "YOU'VE BEEN QUITE VOCAL ABOUT YOUR DISDAIN FOR IT. HAVE YOU CHANGED YOUR MIND?"
Absolutely not. Chess was an awful game. But Undyne had goaded them into a match a couple of weeks back. And then another. And another. And another. Again and again in a way that was so familiar, clashing against her over and over, smashing their head against her brick wall until one of them broke. They lost count of how many they played before they had to go home, but they knew one thing — Undyne pulled ahead at the end. Frisk ended on a loss. The score was unmatched.
They needed it to match.
So Frisk practised, so that the next time she challenged them they could even the score, make it fair, fix it fix it fix it fix it make it even get back at her and win.
"I guess it grew on me," they shrugged.
Papyrus gave them a look, one they pointedly ignored, before he eventually decided on a move, using his knight to block their bishop and protect his king. Blunder. Frisk's hands moved without thought, fingers pinching their remaining rook and sliding it all the way across the board.
"Check."
Papyrus squawked, fumbling to find a way out, but the situation was hopeless. The only move he could make was to move his king out of harms way. The second he did, Frisk moved a knight up and…
"Checkmate," they declared, their eye looking anywhere except the board. Papyrus snapped his finger, huffing, but accepting his loss. He gave Frisk his congratulations, shaking their hand far too energetically, making them bounce up and down, a giggle slipping from their lips. According to him, Frisk had played well, though they couldn't tell. It wasn't as if they remembered much of the game. Trying to would just give them a headache.
Regardless, they won. Proof of concept. They knew that their training had paid off. If they could beat puzzle-master Papyrus, they could definitely even the score win against Undyne. So all they had to do was-
"BEST TWO OUT OF THREE!"
…well, maybe they could go a few more rounds. Just in case this was a fluke. It couldn't hurt, right?
Baking had easily become one of Frisk's favourite pastimes. It was soothing. Calm. It was nice to just listen to music and bake, surrounded by the smell of chocolate and cinnamon and sugar.
It was even nicer with Toriel around to guide them so they didn't have to spend as much time reading the same recipe for the millionth time.
The two moved around her kitchen, dancing between different tasks. Toriel had Frisk mixing some cookie dough together while she set up the oven, pink flames licking at her palms as she lit it up. Soft music played in the background that she hummed along to. Their repetitive task and Toriel's gentle voice were a balm for Frisk.
They had woken up with an awful headache, pain pulsing from their empty eye-socket. Sans always told them to lie down and relax when that happened, but it never worked, never helped. Sitting still in their anguish only made it more apparent. They needed to do something. Needed a distraction. This was perfect. It helped.
"My child, are you finished?" Toriel asked, suddenly at Frisk's side, watching them with a smile that made their heart melt. They blinked once, twice, then looked down at the bowl, peering past the black spots in their vision to see the dough had been thoroughly mixed. Guess they were finished. Had it been that long? It felt like they had just started.
Oh well. They looked up at Toriel and nodded. She clapped her hands together happily, sending a quick spark of pain between Frisk's temples. Right, headache. That was still there.
"Wonderful," she chirped. "Now, how about you scoop the dough onto the trays while I check to see if the mocha mix is cooled enough to use for our next treat?"
Simple enough. They could do that. 'Small scoops,' they reminded themself. Can't make that mistake again. Placing the bowl down, Frisk walked over to the cabinet where Toriel kept her baking trays, stretching up on their tippy-toes to try and reach, fingers brushing against the handle before-
"WOAH!"
-their feet slipped from underneath them, gravity taking hold as they crashed towards the ground. Their arms flailed out as they began glitching around the kitchen, space and time bending around them as panic shot down their spine, their hands trying to find purchase, only to smash into a nearby bag of flour, sending it flying across the kitchen, a cloud of white raining down on them as they hit the tile.
"FRISK!" Toriel cried out, rushing to their side. She fell to her knees next to them, paws running along their body as she fretted over them. "Are you alright my child? Are you hurt? Did you hit your head? How many fingers am I holding up?"
Frisk opened their mouth to answer, only to hack and cough as flour hit their tongue, the dry scratching at their mouth and throat. "M'fine," they eventually managed to get out, batting Toriel's paws away.
She tutted in response, continuing to check them over despite their protests. "My child, you need to be more careful," she sighed. "Oh, what if some of the flour slipped under your eyepatch! It might irritate your… um… well, it might be uncomfortable."
Her hand gently cupped their cheek for a moment, before they tried to lift up their eyepatch. Frisk's hand moved on instinct, slapping her paw away from their face. "I'm fine!" they insisted. They were. Really! They weren't bleeding, weren't dying, it didn't hurt, they could keep fighting, they could still stab her kill her rip her apart didn't feel anything in there.
Toriel simply tutted again, shaking her head. "May I check regardless?" she pleaded. "Just to make sure?" Frisk let out a long-suffering sigh, rolling their remaining eye. They knew full well that she wouldn't stop until they let her check them over. She really was far too anxious for her own good. They wondered how she ever managed as queen. Did she spend this much time fretting over every single one of her subjects? It sounded exhausting.
So Frisk relented. They moved their hands underneath them, sitting on their palms to stop their instincts from kicking in again. Slower than before, Toriel cupped Frisk's face again, the warmth from her paw spreading through them, as she gingerly lifted up their eyepatch.
Frisk couldn't stop themself from flinching as the light hit their empty eye, ears ringing as stabbing pain pierced their skull. They eye was gone, gone, gone, but sometimes it felt like it was still there, an echo of it sitting in their skull, trying to see, and it hurt.
Toriel sucked in a breath, before fixing them with a stern look. "Another migraine?" she asked, though it didn't sound like much of a question. "I had a feeling. Why didn't you say anything?" Frisk cursed themself. She knew, of course she did. How did she always know! They were hiding it so well this time.
Gentle green and pink danced along Toriel's paw pads, the tell-tale sign of her preparing a healing spell. Frisk jerked their head out of her grasp, scooting a foot away from her.
"Don't, I'm fine!" they shouted, the volume of their own voice sending another pulse of pain, spots dancing in their eyes. "I told you, healing magic doesn't help."
"My child, please," Toriel begged. She shuffled closer to them, not reaching out, but looking like she desperately wanted to, her eyes shining. "I know I can't make the pain disappear. But let me help. Please?"
And dammit, how were they supposed to say no when she looked at them like that? It wasn't fair! Stupid motherly puppy-dog eyes!
Frisk closed their eye as magic washed over them. They hated how nice it felt, warmth blanketing the cold scars. They didn't hurt any less, but for a brief moment the pain felt distant. Further away.
It would never go fully away. Frisk made peace with that. They were okay with it.
The deserved it.
Pulling her paws away, Toriel let out a long breath as she finished her spell, looking more tired and weathered, but smiling all the same. Frisk stared at her, the pain sinking its claws back into them. It never made sense to them. Why Toriel exhausting herself made her smile so much. The magic didn't help, not really, not for long. But she always offered to heal them whenever they were hurt. Why? Why would she bother? And why did it seem to make her so happy.
…why did it make Frisk feel so warm.
"Are you feeling any better, my child?" Toriel gently asked, her voice soft, eyes filled with so much love it made Frisk feel like they were choking on it. They swallowed around the knot in their throat, nodding. "That's good. In that case, how about we finish with the cookies and go sit on the couch? I'm sure I can find a nice book to read for you."
A small smile crossed Frisk's face. That sounded… nice. Relaxing. Despite their protests, they couldn't deny that they liked when Toriel worried over them. It made them feel… something.
Safe?
Loved?
…neither of those words felt quite right. But they weren't wrong either. Whatever it was, it was warm.
Maybe they could stop hiding their pain?
"Checkmate."
"Shit," Undyne cursed under her breath. Frisk snickered, reveling in how her eye snapped back to them, narrowing in anger.
"Dang, cursing around a child?" Frisk snarked. "Wonder what Toriel would say if she heard you." They wouldn't actually tell her. They had certainly said far worse when she wasn't listening, but it was fun seeing Undyne squirm, whipping her head around as if Toriel would suddenly appear to scold her.
"Don't you dare!" Undyne hissed. She cut her eye back to Frisk, slamming a fish on the table. "Best two out of three! You won't get lucky again!"
Frisk grinned, showing their teeth. They almost, almost said yes, the words lying at the tip of their tongue, waiting to come out, but they bit down hard, shutting themself up. It was so tempting. Keep going. Get ahead. Keep beating her score, cut her down, tear her apart, dust her, make her-
"Pass," Frisk shrugged. "I got homework to pretend to do."
"Ugh, you sound like Sans."
No. They're done. They evened the score. They didn't need to keep pushing their luck. No falling into old habits. They were done, they were out. They were on the surface. They didn't- they couldn't-
No. Just… no.
Plus, it was probably a good idea to get away from Undyne. They didn't exactly hate her, but she still wasn't their favourite monster. They came here on a mission, and now they were done. Best to leave before-
In sync, Undyne and Frisk hissed in pain, Frisk's palm snapping up and pressing into their missing eye, palm digging into the skin under their socket. Undyne cursed again, this one a fair bit less repeatable than her last.
"Rain's coming," she noted. "Agh, that hurts. Yeah, definitely a bad storm." She pushed herself up from her chair, gritting her teeth. "Y'know, this is probably the worst thing about the surface. Never had to deal with this stupid weather crap Underground."
Frisk tuned her out, digging their fingers into the skin around their eye, trying to massage out the phantom pain.
Bad storm.
Very bad.
Lot's of rain.
Hurts.
Thunder crackling.
Pressure building.
Hurts.
Hurts.
HURTS.
They dig their fingers in further, trying to push the pain out, get it out, GET IT OUT, GET IT-
"Kid, stop!"
Frisk flinched as Undyne grabbed their arm, trying to rip themself out of her grasp, but she held tight, pulling their hand away from their face. They looked up at her, breathing heavy, an impassive look on her face. She held their gaze for a moment, then let them go, Frisk immediately ripping their arm back, their other hand rubbing the wrist she held.
"Don't use so much pressure," she warned. "Press too hard and you'll just make it worse."
"How would you know?" Frisk snapped. She raised an unimpressed eyebrow at them, hooking a thumb at her own missing eye. Right. She was the same.
She evened the score.
No she didn't. You didn't take her eye. She's ahead. Even the score, even the score, even the-
"Go lie down," she ordered. "Couch isn't the most comfortable, but its better than the lumpy mess Sans and Pap keep around." Frisk narrowed their eye at her, wanting to argue, but another jolt of pain shot through them, a nail digging into their skull. Maybe she had a point.
Ugh, agreeing with Undyne. What had the world come to.
Not feeling like getting up, Frisk closed their eye, remembering what it felt like to sit on her couch, the uncomfortably firm cushions, the smell of ramen from anime nights with Alphys, the bright T.V in front of it.
Their body flickered and glitched, before they LOADED onto the couch, dropping onto the cushions with a tiny thump. The second they landed, their head pulsed with pain, like a thousand rubber-bands wrapped around their skull, pressing tighter and tighter, on the verge of popping. They hissed in pain, biting down on their lip hard.
"Dammit, I meant WALK!" Undyne yelled. She let out a frustrated grunt. "Stay put so I can-"
tear out your soul and take it to Asgo-
"-call Sans to come pick you up. No more of your weird magic crap! I don't feel like getting yelled at cuz' you hurt yourself running and teleporting around."
Frisk groaned, annoyed, but complied. They heard Undyne stomp over to the kitchen. Their eye pulsed with pain, the socket feeling like it had a thousand needles pressing into it, sinking deeper and deeper every second. They considered themself luck that the rest of their old wounds and scars didn't ache the same way when the weather changed, or they probably wouldn't be able to even move or think through the pain.
'Not that you can think much anyways.'
Despite their better judgement, they listened to Undyne, returning their hand to their face, but with a gentler touch this time. They pressed their fingers into the skin under their eye, putting light pressure on it, rubbing circles into their skin. It didn't feel like it was helping… but it also didn't feel like it was hurting.
"-lying down right now."
Frisk cracked their eye open, flicking it over to the kitchen doorway and letting out a snort. Undyne never was good at being quiet.
"Yeah, storm's messing with their injuries pretty bad," she explained to (presumably) Sans. "Yeah. Yup. Better get here fast."
She sounded… worried?
Why would she be worried?
Oh, right, she already told them. Guess she really didn't want to be yelled at.
Or maybe she cared.
No, nope, not thinking about that. They had enough of a headache as is. They didn't need to try and wrap their head around how the hell the woman that stabbed them skewered them tore them apart crushed their skull made them bleed made them killed them could care. It didn't make sense. They couldn't-
"Here."
Frisk's eye slowly moved up, finding Undyne standing over them, holding something out. When did she get there? Wasn't she in the kitchen? Weird.
They trailed their eye down the length of her arm, noting the small towel she was holding out towards them. They stared at it for a moment, before looking back at Undyne with confusion.
"Hot towel," she explained. "Lay it over your eyepatch and keep massaging. Lightly." Frisk slowly reached up, grabbing the hot, wet towel, doing as they were told. "It won't make the pain go away," Undyne continued, "but I'll help. Just give it a few minutes."
To their surprise, Undyne was right. As the rain started to come down, Frisk's empty eye aches less, the agony just the tiniest bit more bearable. Despite the pain it brought, the pitter-patter of the rain was almost mesmerizing. Soothing. Frisk's eye felt heavy, weighed down by exhaustion. They closed their eye, feeling the warmth of the towel soaking into the skin, slowly massaging the scarred tissue.
Frisk couldn't tell when they fell asleep. The only thing they remembered was waking up in their bed, swaddled in blankets, a cup of water and some painkillers sitting on their bedside table, an arm's reach away.
Warmth spread through Frisk's fingers as they wrapped their hands around their cup of tea, savouring the sweet aroma before taking a tentative sip.
"How is it?" Asgore asked from across the table. The two sat in a recently built gazebo in his garden, explosions of colour surrounding it as flowers of all shades flourished. Despite its recent construction, vines and hanging moss had already made their homes along the structure, giving it an almost whimsical nature. Like something out of a storybook.
Frisk smiled, slowly lowering their cup. "Its good. Sweet." The clicked their tongue against the roof of their mouth, licking their lips. "Maybe a little too sweet." Asgore let out a low chuckle, bringing his cup to his mouth to hide his smile.
"Perhaps that is the consequence of adding four spoonfuls of sugar to an already sweet blend?"
"Nah, that can't be it."
Asgore laughed again, the edges of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. And yet, the dark circles underneath them remained. There was a weight in his eyes, one that never faded. Even without wearing it crown, it still weighed him down. Frisk could see it.
They knew what that felt like.
"Now, I believe you have indulged me enough," Asgore said, placing his cup on its saucer. His large fingers played with the handle, slowly pushing the cup back and forth. "You said you had something you wished to ask me?"
Wished was a strong word. This was a conversation Frisk most certainly didn't want to have. For both of their sakes. And yet, there they were, trying not to retch looking down at their reflection in the tea, Asgore patiently waiting for them to speak. They opened their mouth, then closed it, repeating the cycle over and over as their mind stumbled over itself, trying to find the words.
Through it all, Asgore remained patient, never taking his eyes off them, his gaze devoid of judgement or frustration. A small smile played at his face, one that was mired in sadness. He could feel the oppressive nature of the air around them. He knew this conversation would bring nothing but pain.
He remained anyways.
"Does it ever stop?"
Asgore watched Frisk, a hint of confusion creeping into his eyes as he tilted his head, almost like a puppy. "Does what ever stop?" he asked patiently. Kindly. Far more kindly than Frisk deserved.
"The guilt," Frisk choked out. "The grief. The- the- everything. When does it stop?" Asgore's eyes widened, a small intake of breath, before he schooled his features again. His paws stopped fiddling with his cup, as he placed his elbows on the table, grasping his hands together.
"…ah."
Frisk looked up at Asgore, their eye pleading. He had to know. After everything he had done — the wars he waged, the deaths that surrounded him, monsters cut down in front of him, children slaughtered by his hand — he had to know. How to make it go away. How to make it stop.
Make it stop before it killed them.
Asgore finally broke their gaze, looking out towards the garden. His shoulders sagged, his regal facade falling apart under the weight of Frisk's question. Despite his stature, he look so small. How could a king look so small?
"I'm afraid… you may not care for my answer."
Lead sank into Frisk's stomach, an anchor dragging their heart and lungs down. They swallowed hard, biting their lip, just short of making it bleed. "Please," they begged.
They needed to hear it. One way or another.
Asgore lowered his head, shadows covering his eyes.
"…it never goes away. Not fully."
…
…
…
So that was it then.
They had their answer.
Frisk closed their eye, gripping their cup tight. They could feel the porcelain crack under their grip, but didn't loosen their grip.
Maybe if it broke, the shards would cut their palms. The tea would scald their hands. Blood and burns washing away the dust that stained them.
"I've lived a very long time," Asgore sighed, rising from his chair. "I've watched many I held close lost to the whims of time. I've held crying parents who lost children to an uncaring world. I've been such a man myself, with none to aid me the same way. And… I've made decisions. Ones I'm not proud of. Ones I can never forget."
Seven caskets. Six bodies. Blood stained gold.
An eye for an eye. A life for a life.
"I still remember their faces," Asgore continued. He slowly walked over to the edge of the gazebo, his back turned to Frisk as he stared out towards the setting sun. "The fear in their eyes. The exact words they said as they pleaded with me for mercy. I can never forget."
He would never let himself, would he? Even if he could.
"I wish I could say that the pain will pass. That you shall be free from your suffering. I would not wish this weight on any, much less a child like you. You deserve far better than this."
Liar.
"However," Asgore said, turning to face Frisk again with a sad smile. "It does change."
"Change?" Frisk asked.
"Picture a storm at sea. The choppy waves tossing a ship around, towering over you. The blackened clouds overhead, concealing the sun, hiding the light from view."
Frisk stared at Asgore in confusion, but did as they were told. They pictured themself standing on the deck of a ship. Overcast skies, thunder roaring, waves battering the hull, their helpless body tossed back and forth by the whims of the ocean.
"When the storm is fresh," Asgore explained, "the sea is at it's worst. The waves are unrelenting. They hammer against the ship relentlessly. The water reaching upwards towards the sky, towering over the ship. It seems daunting. Uncompromising. The sky overhead shows no sign of an end. Perhaps there never will be one. Perhaps the storm will never end."
Frisk's hands gripped the table, their remaining eye burning. They wouldn't cry. They wouldn't. They promised themself that. No matter the answer, they wouldn't cry. If this was the answer, they would accept it. They had to.
They had to.
A hand clasped Frisk's shoulder. Asgore pulled them close to him, pressing their face into his chest. His paw moved up, his thumb gently rubbing circles into their hair.
"The storm may not pass," he whispered. "But it does change. Over time, perhaps the waves will not be as tall. Perhaps they will not come as often. Perhaps some of the clouds will part, allowing small rays of light."
Frisk pressed themself further into him, nuzzling his shirt. It smelled of dirt and flowers, things far beneath a king, a man who wore a heavy crown.
"Even if the storm remains, it becomes survivable. Easier to sail through." Asgore held Frisk tight, a light rumbling in his chest. "Some days it may worsen, and it takes everything you have to stay afloat. Some days it may be clearer, and you can enjoy what light remains. Do not fight against it. Simply… let it be."
Frisk pulled away, looking up at Asgore. He smiled down at them, hope in his eyes.
"You seem a capable sailor to me," he smiled. "I believe in you."
It wasn't the answer they wanted. But it also wasn't the answer they expected. It… it wasn't okay. Maybe it would never be okay.
But perhaps that would change.
Frisk let out a long sigh. Their shoulders felt the tiniest bit lighter. They were happy they came.
It didn't help.
But it did make it better.
They picked up their cup, raising it up, giving Asgore a cheeky grin. "To being less awful people?"
Asgore chuckled, a low rumble as he shook his head. He reached across the table to pick up his own cup, clinking it against theirs. "To being less awful people," he toasted. The two knocked the drinks back.
Their faces scrunched up in mutual disgust. The tea had gone cold.
Despite that, Frisk's fingers still felt warm as they grasped the cup.
"H-hold on!" Alphys stuttered, rubbing her temples. "Can you p-please back up and explain that again? In a way that makes sense?"
Frisk huffed, trying to blow a bit of hair out of their face. They were lying down on a couch in Alphys' lab, munching on a bag of chips they had laying on their stomach. Sans was nearby, lying on the floor with his legs propped up on the couch, eating the exact same way. Alphys sat across from the two on a chair she pulled up, a notepad on her lap, a bag of chips at her side, and a look of frustrated confusion on her face.
"Which part are you confused about?" Frisk asked. Alphys let out something between a scoff and a laugh, looking at Frisk incredulously.
"All of it???" she practically squealed. "You cant just say that time is a 'crappy blanket' and move on." She threw her hands up in the air, her pen flying up before falling back down on her face, her hands fumbling to catch it again. "A-and what the h-heck did you mean about stabbing it? You can't s-stab time!"
"not with that attitude," Sans snorted. A popato chip bounced off his skull, Alphys giving him a very unimpressed look.
Frisk rolled their eye, popping a chip in their mouth. "Okay, fine, I'll try again," they said with their mouth full. "But I stand by the blanket thingy. It makes sense!"
"I'm okay with that," Alphys sighed. "A-as long as you a-actually, you know, elaborate? And explain?" That was probably fair, but it was definitely going to give Frisk a killer headache.
"Right, so, time," Frisk began, their hands waving in the air as they explained. "It's not just a concept. There's physical stuff. Or as much physical junk as a metaphysical thingy can have. Little building blocks that can be grabbed and looked at."
"Right…" Alphys said slowly, scribbling away at her notepad. With how fast she was writing, Frisk figured she definitely had a doctor's handwriting. How she would be able to read all that later, they would never know.
Frisk blew at their bit of hair that was getting in their face again. It was being really annoying. "Those little bits of time, they're like thread, bits of wool. Every action, every choice, every moment is a single strange. Each of them weaves together, and they make time. A billion billion billion threads being stitched together to form a single second, making up every single thing that happens in that moment."
They paused, giving Alphys a moment to let that all sink in. The sound of scratching on paper slowed after a bit, Alphys pushing up her glasses and rubbing at her eyes.
"That… sounds like a lot," she noted.
"oh yeah," Sans snickered. "waaaaaay too much. pretty sure if you tried to look at it all would drive a person mad." Both he and Alphys flicked their eyes over at Frisk in unison, both of them quickly looking away as if Frisk hadn't already seen them.
"Yeah, I don't bother with that," Frisk grumbled. "I'm messed up enough as is. Don't need time scrambling my broken brain."
Chips hit Frisk from both sides, two pairs of stern looks shot their way. Rude.
"Yeah yeah, self depri-whatever is bad," they huffed. "Can I keep explaining this junk?"
"sure," Sans shrugged. "i'm just hoping you wool be a bit nicer to yourself." Frisk threw a chip at Sans. Bad Sans. Bad pun.
"So, time. Lots of thread. Too many to actually see all at once." Frisk reached up, tugging at a blanket Alphys had draped over the back of the couch. "You'd think time is like a rope, or a bit of string. Just stretching in a straight line."
"But it's not," Alphys said, nodding along. "It's… a-a blanket?"
"yup. parallel timelines, pressing up against each other. inphantasmaly small differences between 'em."
"Multiverse theory?"
Sans waves his hand in a so-so motion. "kinda? branches are weird," he explained in a bored tone. "a timeline doesn't exist until the choice that makes it is made."
Frisk hummed their agreement, nodding their head, ignoring the dizziness that was starting to creep in. "Every time a new timeline is made, the blanket gets wider. Some of the threads go to the side instead of forward to make a new stitch. But it doesn't branch out like… well branches. It splits."
"one bit of thread goes backwards, another forward. the new reality doesn't start at the choice, that's simply where it was born."
"But the timeline goes all the way back to the first moment of existence. It's just built backwards instead of forward." Frisk blew tried to blow the hair out of their face again, only for it to fall in front of their eye. Stupid hair. "There's only one timeline that's ever only moved forward." They blinked, tilting their head back a bit. "Dunno if I ever saw it."
Sans snorted, eye-lights rolling in their sockets. "doubt it. be like trying to find the first blade of grass in a field. at some point, your better off not trying."
"You're just saying that cuz you'd rather sleep in the grass than pick it."
"got me there."
Alphys' eyes moved between Frisk and Sans. She looked a bit out of her element. But a brief glance at her notepad showed Frisk that she was following along, the page filling up with more of her chicken-scratch. So she was understanding at least some of it.
"This is why I prefer fields with more tangible subjects," Alphys sighed. She took a quick breath, clicking her pen and leaning forward. "S-so time is a blanket where each line of threads is a timeline. And they all g-go on forever in both directions."
"They should go on forever," Frisk corrected. But they don't always.
Sans kicked Frisk's let lightly. "wonder whose fault that is."
Frisk ducked their head, trying to look smaller, chains wrapping around their lungs, squeezing the air out. "I didn't know!" they snapped.
"S-should I b-be concerned?" Alphys worried.
"probably."
"Not h-helping Sans."
Frisk huffed again, the bit of hair still moving in front of their face. They really wished it would just cooperate and move so they could…
…oh. Right.
They pushed the hair out of the way with their hand — which they definitely didn't forget they could do — turning their attention back to Alphys.
"Okay, so basically," they started, "timelines should always go on forever. Except… when people start messing with time, things can get a bit muddled."
"Uh oh."
"Yeah. Cuz' remember, everyone's got a strand in the weaving. We're all part of the thread. So… what happens when they start messing with their own threading?"
"Probably nothing good," Alphys guessed. Sans and Frisk looked at each other, then made "ehhh" noises, waving their hands so-so again.
"depends," Sans stated. "so, you know how the kid can SAVE and LOAD, yeah?"
"You've explained it before, yes."
"normal ones aren't much of an issue. don't cause much problem. it's like when a weaver makes a mistake. they don't ditch the blanket. they unravel, go back a bit, and do it again."
"Right," Alphys said slowly, scribbling away again. "B-but… Frisk wasn't doing that?"
"Not after a while," they confirmed. "Got too good at it. So I started jumping around. Moving between timelines, skipping from one strand to another."
"and that causes problems," Sans added. "cuz' if you got your own bit of thread in the strand, what happens if it disappears? if you simply cut your own bit of thread out of your timeline and another, retying themself back into place?
"W-what h-happens?"
"Sometimes, it means that the timeline can't go on," Frisk murmured. They closed their eye as the dizziness gave way to a pounding in their skull, the light shining down on them making it worse. "The weaving falls apart. Can't be built upon, can't keep stretching. So the timeline just… stops."
"Stops?!"
"yup," Sans replied. "they aren't erased, just… paused. held indefinitely. makes holes in the blanket."
"Some of them keep going though," Frisk said, covering their eye with their hand to push the light back further, the few bits managing to crack through their eyelid sending searing pain through their skull. They were really starting to regret agreeing to this.
"mhm," Sans hummed. "the ones where the kid's stitching is in a place that's not structurally bearing. but those ones are still damaged. frail. the absence is felt."
"Revisited a couple timelines I hopped out of," Frisk added. "It was weird. Folks didn't even remember me. Was like I never existed to them. And those ones are harder to hop into."
Alphys stared at them in horror like the vile, disgusting thing they were. "O-oh," she squeaked. "Right. S-so… n-not g-great." She dropped her head into her hand, palm crossing her mouth as she stared at the floor. "So.. there's j-just a bunch of timelines th-that are in s-s-statis?"
"yyyyuuuuuup," Sans drawled. "dozens. maybe hundreds?" Frisk figured it was probably thousands. Maybe more. But they didn't say that, the guilt wrapping around their throat and forcing the words back down, just on the verge of choking them.
Shakily placing her pen down, Alphys removed her glasses, rubbing at her eyes. "Th-this is… a lot," she breathed. "I-it's kinda scary? Knowing th-that someone c-can just. Do that? End a timeline at a whim."
The chains around Frisk's lungs tightened. Their throat closed up. Their skull pounded, searing pain from their empty eye-socket. They could almost swear they felt tears falling from it.
"uh, Alph?" Sans warned, giving Frisk a worried indecipherable look. Alphys, realizing what she said, muttered a curse, frantically looking over at Frisk, waving her arms around.
"U-um, I didn't mean- I wasn't- I, uh-"
"Its fine," Frisk managed to force out. They knew what they had done. They could admit that they messed up bad. The reminder hurt, but they could live with it.
They had to for the rest of their life, after all.
"That's why we're here." Frisk forced themself to sit up, the room spinning around them. "We're hoping that you can help us fix this."
"F-fix this?" she sputtered. "D-do you mean restore the static timelines?"
"yup."
"Is- is that even possible?" She let out a slightly delirious laugh, shaking her head. "Even if it is, what am I supposed to do? I-I'm not- I'm just- I'm…"
"one of the smartest people i know," Sans cut in, giving Alphys a hard look. "you're the royal scientist for a reason."
"Ex-royal scientist," Alphys insisted. "I was fired, remember?"
"eh, not relevant."
"Its extremely-"
"and to answer your other question," Sans said lazily, ignoring Alphys stammering, "fixing things might be possible. after all, Undyne remembers stuff from other timelines."
"Not a lot," Frisk added. "Bits and pieces. And she can't remember, uh… certain parts…"
Her dying, turning to dust, falling apart, melting into nothing, screaming into the void, swearing revenge, dying dying dying.
"…but the threads are all wrapped up. Stuff is clearly crossing over in places it isn't."
"which means we might be able to nudge it back in the right direction. find something to fill the stitching," Sans finished. He tossed a chip up in the air, as if he were going to try and catch it in his mouth, but made no effort to, letting it bounce off his head and fall to the ground.
Alphys stared down at her notepad, finger tap tap tapping at the side. Frisk watched with worry. They needed her for this. They couldn't do it alone. If she said no, if she couldn't help, they'd have to do it themself, go back to desperately jumping around trying to fix things.
They didn't know if they could go through that again.
"Th-this…" Alphys whispered. "This feels like its too much." Frisk's heart sank, dropping to the pit of their stomach.
"cuz' it is," Sans shrugged. "too big for me too. sounds like way too much work. and its definitely too much for the kid," he said, hooking a thumb at Frisk. "they're no tailor. trying to fix that big blanket on their own? didn't go too well. pretty sure they were just-"
"Sans, don't-"
"hanging by a thread 'for they asked for help."
Alphys groaned, slapping a palm against her face. "God, that was horrible."
"made you smile though."
"It did not."
"you're definitely smiling."
"You're s-seeing things!"
"sure," Sans said, rolling his eyes.
Frisk snickered quietly at the exchange, sinking deeper into the couch. They appreciated Sans for helping them with this. Their head was pounding enough as is. If they had to explain all of this on their own? They wouldn't have gotten anywhere.
"…okay."
"okay?"
"Okay," Alphys declared with fire in her eyes. "I'll help. I-I don't know how much I can do, but… but I owe it to the other mes. They deserve a happy end too."
"there she is," Sans grinned. "looks like we got a partner in crime, Frisk."
"L-let's keep the crime to a minimum, p-please?" Alphys begged. "I r-really don't want my girlfriend to arrest me f-for science crimes."
"No promises," Frisk smirked. They'd already broken more than their fair share of the laws of physics. What were a few more?
"Oh, what have I agreed to?" Alphys bemoaned. She let out a sigh, putting her glasses back on and readjusting them. "Wh-where do we even start?"
"well…" Sans started, only to be cut off when Frisk threw the remains of their chips at him to shut him up.
"Ice cream," they demanded. "I have a headache, and I deserve ice cream for this." Sans snorted out a laugh, Alphys managing a nervous giggle as well.
"S-sure, we can do that."
The sunset was beautiful.
Sitting along on the porch, Frisk stared off into the distance, watching the sun dip over the horizon. It had become something of a ritual for them. They spent so much time in the Underground, jumping between broken timelines, they forgot what the sun looked like. They never really appreciated how beautiful it was before.
They didn't want to spend another day taking it for granted.
Frisk took a deep breath. The crisp winter air filled them, the growing cold prickling at their lungs, a sign of the cold to come. An invitation to build snowmen, angels, and castles, to have snowball fights, to drink hot tea and cocoa under warm blankets by the fireplace, to open presents, to laugh with friends and family.
Papyrus' voice yelled out from behind them, followed by Undyne's roaring cry. A muffled reprimanding from Toriel, then what must have been a pun from Sans, based on the groans that followed. Alphys nervously sputtered something, Asgore's reassuring voice booming out after hers. The words themselves were lost on Frisk, yet the warmth they carried was still carried on the wind.
Frisk closed their eye, letting it all wash over them. For the first time in ages, they felt… not fine. That wasn't the right word. They spent so long insisting that they were "just fine" to everyone they spoke to. The word had long since lost its meaning. But it was still the closest one they could think of.
Whatever they were, it was better than fine.
They could live with that.