#AND I got to pun mightily that morning | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

songfell-ut · 4 years

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Chapter 6

In which things get squishy, and a bit longer than usual, pun intended as much or as little as you like. Hope this scratches a bit of the Frans itch, @lostmypotatoes!

Also, I have a very weak punning reflex and had to Google sleep puns, but one of the ones I ended up using here made me laugh so hard that I scared my cat awake. Chapter be here!

Two days later, the royal sorcerer walked slowly down the hallway to the High Priestess' quarters, deep in thought. Before he rounded the last corner, he used a hand to pull out a mirror and check his reflection, and then approached the guard outside the double doors. "How are they this evening?" asked Dr. Serif.

The guard saluted. "Very well, sir," he replied. "There's little to report, except that she's had far more correspondence than usual. The...gentleman took her elsewhere in his usual fashion after dinner, and they returned about twenty minutes ago."

The doctor half-smiled. "His magic is fully functional, then?"

"Yes, sir, but I believe they spend most of their time studying. It's been very quiet and—"

From inside the room came a massive thud, a bellow of laughter, and Frisk's voice raised in shrieking indignation. "Peaceful," the guard mumbled.

Dr. Serif sighed. Rather than summon a hand to raise the bar again, he rapped on the doors.

A full twenty seconds later, the priestess answered, pink in the face. "Good evening, Doctor," she said, sending a death glare over her shoulder as Sans kept snickering. "Please come in."

The cause of the ruckus turned out to be an upturned chessboard in the middle of the worktable, pieces scattered across the carpet and the red queen sitting in the basket on the hearth. "It's a lovely evening to spend cheating," Frisk snapped.

"I don't..." Sans could barely breathe. "I dunno what yer talkin' about, everyone knows...chess pieces like ta pawn themselves off as somethin' else!"

Frisk gave another snrrrk before she could stop herself. "Well, I hope chess pieces like fire, because that's what they'll get the next time I catch you swapping your queen around when I'm finally about to win!" She stabbed a finger at the chessboard. "Now clean up this mess!"

"Why me? Yer the one who threw a fit n'—"

"Children, please." They stopped guiltily as the royal sorcerer picked his way across the floor and seated himself at the worktable. Sans raised a hand, and the chessboard flipped right side up, all the pieces collecting themselves from around the room and landing neatly on their own squares. "I apologize for my absence this morning," said Dr. Serif. "With the Feast imminent, I've had to rush to finish several projects." He pulled two small boxes from his robe, handing one to Frisk and tossing the other to Sans. "Here is another emergency use of Sans' teleportation magic, my lady. I took the liberty of setting it in a piece that will be aesthetically fitting."

Frisk peeked in the box. "Goodness," she said, surprised. "This is beautiful! Thank you, Dr. Serif."

"When are you gonna stop passin' my stuff out like candy?" growled the boss monster.

"You're welcome, Your Eminence," the doctor said over him. "I apologize, but I would like to speak to Sans privately. Would you kindly deprive us of your presence for about ten minutes?"

"Certainly." Frisk took the box and headed to her dressing room. "I may as well lay out my things for tomorrow. Thank you again, Doctor."

The royal sorcerer nodded graciously. The moment her door closed, he plucked at his neck, human facade dissolving into bone. Before Sans could speak, Gaster said crisply, "I have very specific instructions for you. Bring your device into the bathroom. Lock the door. Turn your back to the mirror. Put the device around your neck. Look down at yourself and do not make any noise or otherwise overreact to what you see. Do not touch any part of your body except to remove the device. Do not leave the bathroom until you have removed the device. If any of these things are not possible, skip the remaining steps and remove the device. Do you have any questions?"

Sans opened his box and scowled at the short, neatly coiled chain therein. "Why's it smaller than yours?"

"I meant any good questions. If not, then do as I say."

The boss monster stared at Gaster. Gaster stared back. With an almighty sigh, Sans got up and went into the bathroom, shutting the door and clicking the locks into place.

Gaster glanced at the dressing room. He turned around, selected a few letters from the basket, and began unfolding and reading them, tugging on the chain to resume his human guise.

The air in the High Priestess' workroom was cool and still, smelling of sharp herbs and citrus; the only sound was Frisk humming to herself through the door. The royal sorcerer picked up the next letter, papers rustling gently.

He did not move, except to close his eyes and sigh, when the peace was shattered by a roar of "Whathefuckisthi" that, to Sans' credit, lasted only a moment before he stopped himself.

"It's all right," the royal sorcerer assured Frisk as she flew out of the dressing room. "Please, High Priestess, calm yourself. I've prepared something for Sans to use tomorrow, and he has done exactly as I said not to do with it. He's a little alarmed, but otherwise fine."

Frisk nodded apprehensively, and obeyed his motion to go back to her dressing room, with many worried looks at the bathroom.

Sans emerged two minutes later, sockets wide and pinpricks showing. "What the—"

"Not only did I warn you, boy, I told you specifically how to avoid what just happened! You've alarmed Frisk and done my ears permanent damage, for which I do not thank you. If I were to give you further instructions for tomorrow, would you pay them any better attention? Or would you prefer to put her life in even greater danger than it already is?"

Needless to say, when Frisk came out, Sans was listening intently as Dr. Serif spoke in low, rapid, urgent tones. The priestess approached, cocking her head, and the doctor nodded to her. "That is what we will likely have to do," he said to Sans, loud enough for her to hear. "I will speak with the captain of the guard and His Holiness to ensure we will not surprise each other. What time will you be at the chapel tomorrow morning, my lady?"

"The service starts at eight o'clock, and I plan to be there half an hour early." Frisk sighed. "I'll probably be awake by five, so if you need anything, I'll be here until about five-thirty."

The doctor folded his hands. "Oh? Why so early?"

Frisk smiled self-consciously. "I agreed to have tea with Lord Owen before the celebration. He asked several months ago, and I haven't seen him since, so..."

"Owen," said Sans. He was scowling mightily, tapping his phalanges on the tabletop. "Wasn't that yer friend's name?"

"Yes, actually. Luke is Mathilda's older brother—I met him when their family visited St. Brigid's." Frisk couldn't keep from glancing at the hearthside basket, and noticed one of the open letters on the table. She gave Dr. Serif a pointed look, picked up the papers, and tossed them back into the basket. "Don't worry, Sans, you can sleep in. I'll be back here by seven o'clock," she said.

He quirked an eye socket at her. "Very funny, kiddo. You're not goin' anywhere tomorrow without me."

"Indeed, my lady," said the doctor. "It's purely a visit between old friends. You have plenty of time to make up your mind whether to arrange a more serious meeting in the future, and in the meantime, safety is more important than etiquette." He abruptly stood and gave them a short bow. "Forgive me for visiting so late. I'll leave you both to your sleep. Remember what we discussed, Sans, and get plenty of rest, my lady. Good night." And before either of them could say anything else, he was gone.

Frisk didn't get plenty of rest, as it turned out. She had finally dismantled her pillow fort that morning, but after their "slumber parties," as Sans termed it, she found the office colder and darker than usual. It was hard to relax without her gigantic apprentice between her and the door; somehow, she even missed him pestering her with "What'd th' mama cow tell her calf at night? 'It's pasture bedtime'" or "If I can't sleep, I hafta eat somethin'. It's a condition called insom-nom-nom-nia" when she was trying to fall asleep. Maybe she shouldn't have insisted on coming back here instead of taking the bed and letting him stretch out in the workroom like he'd wanted. That way, even if they couldn't talk, he'd still be right outside the door.

Did Luke like puns? She couldn't remember. She would probably feel safe with him, though; the last time he'd visited, she had already been surprised at how tall and muscular he'd grown. If that wasn't enough for her peace of mind, they could afford all the guards she wanted, and everything else would be perfect. True, Sans was good company, but he wasn't exactly life-partner material...it wasn't as if he even had a—

Frisk banged her head against the arm of the couch. She had gone so long without thinking that thought right out loud! She'd been doing such a good job! Why now?

...But, if he could use magic to give himself a tongue, why not any other form of soft tissue? And another thing: without lips, did skeletons kiss by bonking their teeth together, or—

No! Stop it! Stop it right now! she screamed at herself. Think about having to sing tomorrow! Being murdered! Literally anything else!

.........How did skeletons combine their magic to reproduce, anyway? Sans had made it sound like an internal process requiring a male and a female, the same as humans, but without the usual mushy male or female parts, how—

NO! It's just magic! Go to sleep, you pathetic, sick-minded degenerate!

Thus, many layers of frustration stood between her and her rest, which came only a few hours before the cuckoo clock she'd barely remembered to set woke her at five a.m. Frisk bleared her way across the workroom, whacking her arm on a corner of the table in passing, and had to stand around squinting for an eternity before her eyes adjusted to the dressing room's soft light.

It was too early for her ceremonial dress, so the priestess changed into a modest dove-gray gown and picked out a pearl-drop pendant, a little pearl bracelet, and matching earrings. The first two went on easily enough, but after poking her earlobes in groggy frustration for a few minutes, she gave up, carried them out to the workroom, and knocked on the bedroom door. "Rise and shine," she croaked, and continued to the bathroom for some water, not bothering to close the door behind her.

To Frisk's surprise, Sans came out in less than a minute. The young woman glanced up from the vanity, head still bent and earring in hand. "Good morning. I'll be ready in a moment." She concentrated fiercely on her reflection, leaning in for another round of futile jabbing. Her hand was shaky with exhaustion, and she had a feeling that it just wasn't going to happen. But she already had one in! What was she going to—

Bones clicked as the skeleton sat on the floor beside her. "Geez. Gimme that," he said, sounding...exasperated, but something else, too. Frisk was too startled to think about it, or to protest as he took the earring from her with a speck of magic and used two fingers to tip her head up and sideways, gentle as always. He never touched her with any more force than necessary, she thought, at least after that first encounter in his prison cell; even when the assassin was after her and Sans was physically maneuvering her to safety, he had been careful not to hurt her. It was incredibly endearing.

Actually, given her principal source of frustration from thinking of skeleton parts and looking forward to conjugal relations, it was better – worse? – than that. Frisk twitched as the earring slid in and the tiny back-piece wriggled into place, and Sans looked concerned. "Don' tell me that hurt."

"No, it didn't, thank you," she said quickly, reaching up to check. It was perfect, secure but not too tight. If she could just stop blushing... "Um. Thank you." She jammed her hands into her hair and began untangling it as fast as she could. "One minute, I just have to get this sorted out."

Sans watched the proceedings, and her occasional facial contortions, as if she was an exotic animal performing some strange function unknown to science. "What's wrong? I thought hair didn't have any feelin' in it."

"It's attached to my scalp, and the human scalp ow is extremely sensitive. The problem is that I haven't brushed it properly in a couple of days." The priestess grabbed a comb from the vanity drawer, opened a jar, dunked the comb in it, and began pulling through the bigger tangles. "This nngh will help. I should've washed it last night, but I had too many letters to send out." Something in Sans' expression made her add, "I haven't even touched any of the proposals."

He stayed silent as she finished with the comb, patted her now-flatter hair, and dug through another drawer for makeup. A touch of eyeshadow, a dab of lip gloss, one more jar of goop for the bags under her eyes, and she was done. Frisk put everything away, washed her hands, and stood up, moving around the giant bones in her way. "Shoes," she muttered, mostly to remind herself.

Sans didn't get up till she re-emerged and said, "All right, I'm ready. Could you take us to the terrace, please? Lord Owen doesn't live far from there."

"Yeah, sure." He looked her over critically. "You forget yer veil thing."

Frisk hadn't expected any compliments, as such, and she wasn't very dressed up, but was tired enough to still be annoyed. "I don't need it today. Don't ask why, because all I know is that we do things differently on holy days." She held out her hand. "Terrace, please."

He grunted. Frisk braced herself, and when the now-usual swooshing sensation came to an abrupt stop, she was pleased to find she was only a little dizzy. They were in the hallway outside the terrace that they'd visited after dinner; the priestess led him further down past the kitchens, heading into the nobles' wing of the palace. "I haven't been up here in a while," she said over her shoulder. "I may have to ask for directions when we get closer."

"Goody," mumbled Sans.

Frisk sighed. "Let's be very clear, Sans. I don't expect you to fawn all over Lord Owen. In fact, if you're too cranky to be civil, please don't talk to him any more than necessary. I didn't want to drag you here in the first place, and I don't want to spend the whole visit worrying about your behavior. All right?"

"...A'right."

She'd have to be satisfied with that. Luckily, at least one problem was solved for her: as they ascended another staircase and came to a branching hallway, Frisk stopped for a moment to try to remember which way to go, only to be approached by a maid who curtseyed and asked, "Your Eminence? My lord bids you good morning. Please come this way."

They followed her to a suite of rooms as big as a couple of houses put together, decorated in white and gold and general wealth, until they reached the parlor. The maid shut the door behind them as a handsome young man rose from a couch ahd held his hands out to Frisk. "My lady?" Lord Owen smiled at Frisk, who found it easy to smile back. "How wonderful to see you again!" He pressed his lips to her fingers, then clasped her hand. "I hope you have been well, Frisk. You're even lovelier than I remembered! I didn't think it possible."

Frisk laughed. "Thank you, Luke. It's been far too long." She turned to see Sans watching them intently, and reclaimed her hand to indicate the skeleton. "Forgive my rudeness, my lord, but I've brought a guest. This is my apprentice, Sans. Sans, please meet Lord Owen."

Sans bobbed his head. "Lord Owen."

When Sans made no move to hold out his hand, the lord bowed to him. "The pleasure is mine, sir. It's an honor to make your acquaintance. Please, have a seat." He hurried to push the couch closer to a little table laden with pastries and tea things, fetching a smaller chair for himself.

The priestess allowed the lord to bow her into another chair by the table, and reflected that her memory had been accurate; Luke was over six feet tall, with fair hair and blue eyes that reminded her of Mathilda. He waited till they were both settled, then pulled up his chair and began pouring tea, bringing an extra cup out from somewhere. "How do you take yours, sir?" he asked Sans.

"I don't know," the skeleton said. "Never had any."

As Frisk had hoped, the young lord was too well-bred to laugh or say anything stupid. "Well, then, may I interest you in trying some? This is a very mild variety of milk tea. It goes well with soul cakes—they're delicious, but quite dry on their own."

"They're named for the day, not a monster or human SOUL. It's mostly cinnamon," Frisk said, knowing he'd take the hint to get out his tongue, and trying in vain to avoid more tongue-related thoughts.

Sans lifted one shoulder. "Sure, I like cinnamon okay." He glanced at Frisk, who gave him a quick smile of approval and willed herself not to look in his mouth.

With the tea and cakes distributed, the lord sat back, steepling his fingers. "If anything, Frisk, I am glad you've brought your emissary with you. You've heard that a sizeable tract of farmland near Mt. Ebott will be available in the near future?"

Sans looked up from examining his teacup. Frisk hadn't expected this, and set her own cup down. "I have. Why do you ask, Luke?"

"Because I am the executor of my late uncle's estate, and the land in question was his. It's my responsibility to oversee the proper disposition of one thousand hectacres, and they're located less than a mile from the no-man's-land between our kingdom and the Underground. The fields haven't been tilled for several years, as my uncle neglected it before his death, so it will require some care. However, under proper management, it will be extremely productive in very little time."

"There ain't many big farms near us. Is it the place by the river with all the maple trees?" Sans asked.

"I believe so," the lord replied. "I went there a few times as a boy, and there were several maples on the river. I doubt there are two farms near the Underground matching that description."

"One thousand hectacres," Frisk mused. "That's a little under two thousand and five hundred acres?"

"Two thousand, four hundred seventy, yes."

Frisk shut her eyes. "I've been looking into the matter, and I know for a fact that good cropland goes for an average of four thousand dinar per acre. Rounding up, that means that the asking price of that tract is...roughly ten million?"

Sans nearly spilled his cup, rescuing its contents with his magic a split-second away from the carpet. Lord Owen watched in fascination as the tea arched into the air and splashed neatly back into the cup. "Yes, my lady, that's correct," he said. "We'll probably sell it at that exact price. The soil is excellent, but most people find the location too remote."

The skeleton grimaced. "It'd be great if we could get ahold of it, even with the stuff I'm learnin' about how to improve the land we already got. But there's no way we could afford that, assumin' you'd even sell it t'us."

"No, it's a bad idea for monsters to try to purchase anything from humans at this point, especially for that much money," said Frisk. "We need to make much more social and legal progress before we can be sure that your rights would be respected." She tried a sip of tea. "That's why I will buy it."

"I suspected as much," the lord said as Sans' sockets widened. "I cannot promise anything, of course, but I will send you the name of the broker we've been using, and details on how to contact her discreetly."

"Thank you very much, Luke." Frisk smiled at him.

"Of course, my lady. ...Are you all right, Sans?"

"He's fine. We'll discuss it later," the priestess said meaningfully.

"Splendid. Now, to better things." Lord Owen picked up a small bell on the side table and rang it. When the maid appeared, the lord instructed her, "Fetch Ruby for us."

"Ruby?" Frisk couldn't help sitting up to peer into the next room as the maid rushed off. "Is she the one you brought along on Easter vacation?"

"She is indeed." The lord grinned. "Hold out your hand, please, Frisk."

Frisk smiled, and raised her hand, turning it sideways.

"If I may—" Lord Owen took her wrist and angled her hand upward. "Well done, my lady. It'll just be a moment longer. And if I also may—" He felt her bracelet for the latch and undid it, placing it on the table. "I don't want this to be destroyed. You know how she is," he added, and Frisk nodded ruefully.

Sans was looking extremely grumpy by the time the maid came back. The lord started to speak, and there was a loud rustle and ducking of heads as something large flapped across the room. "Hello, Ruby," the priestess said gaily to the parrot clinging to her wrist. "Do you remember me?"

It was a beautiful bird with a red crown and glossy green body. The parrot squawked amiably at the priestess, then bent down for a head scratch, closing its eyes as she obliged.

"She remembers everything," Lord Owen declared. "Do you still know 'Rose of May'? If you sing the chorus, she'll follow along. It's her favorite."

"Of course!" Frisk stopped scratching, licked her lips – unaware of keen attention from both man and monster – and began whistling a melody that made the bird's head snap up. Instantly, the parrot started singing along in a strange, creaky bird-voice that made Frisk laugh, and thus stop whistling, at which the bird bobbed its head irritably. "I'm sorry! Here," and the priestess mastered herself enough to restart the song.

Lord Owen watched her, and Sans watched him a little, but mostly watched Frisk, who whistled at the parrot until she was out of breath. "The Owens breed red-crowns as a hobby," she said to Sans, placating Ruby with more head skritches. "It helps to keep people from going out to catch wild ones to sell as pets. Mathilda could talk about them for days on end."

"Yeah, seems kinda cruel to keep 'em caged up," commented Sans.

"Indeed it is," the lord said warmly. "We've converted three bedrooms into an arbor, and we keep two full-time servants solely to look after it. The birds are very attached to them." He chuckled. "We're more like aunts and uncles. Our visits are tolerated, but only if we bring treats."

"Oh." The skeleton poked at a soul cake, which looked even tinier in his massive grip. "Doesn't leave your family a lotta room, does it? This place is pretty big, but..."

Frisk burst out laughing as the parrot swung under her hand and dangled by one foot, calling "Oh nooo" in a tragic voice. Thus encouraged, the bird flapped its way upright, looked Frisk in the eye, and immediately swung down again: "Oh noooo!"

"That's very kind of you, sir," Lord Owen said, sounding a little amused, "but we only stay here when we have business in the palace, or for holy days. My parents are at our winter villa with three of my siblings—I'm the oldest of five, and my baby sister just turned six. They all say hello, Frisk, but my father recently allowed some sick travelers to stay the night, and now the whole family's caught it. There's no real danger, but I can't come home yet."

"I'll bet your mother was thrilled," Frisk remarked. "If anyone was ever generous to a fault..."

"Yes, that's Father," the lord admitted.

Sans tossed back his cup of tea and threw a cake in to join it. Frisk noticed him about to speak with his mouth full and asked loudly, "May I use your powder room? Ruby would probably like to go back as well."

The bell was rung again, the parrot was lured back to the maid with a walnut, and Frisk found herself escorted to an opulent little bathroom. Seized with morbid curiosity as to how the two males would fare when left alone, she took her time, though there wasn't much to fuss about with her appearance; she was just happy to be free of the veil for one day.

When Frisk returned to the sitting room, she half expected to see things broken and/or on fire. Perhaps more surprising was the sight of Sans in deep conversation with the lord, the former leaning down far enough on his elbow to talk to the latter on a nearly equal level. "D'you mind?" the skeleton asked Lord Owen, nodding at Frisk.

"Yes, you'd better," the young man said, and sighed. He rose to take Frisk's hand again. "Your guard has informed me that it's time for you to prepare for the All Souls celebration. Please take this with you." On cue, the maid materialized from behind the chair with a huge basket of cakes. "Thank you for coming this morning, dear lady. May I see you again soon?"

"As my schedule allows," she said politely, accepting the basket. "Thank you very much for having us."

"Yep. Nice to meet ya, bye." Sans took Frisk's free hand, and as she started to warn him not to go anywhere yet, the world swooshed by and she was standing outside her rooms.

"Do we have to make a new rule about this?" she asked tartly. "If my life is not in imminent danger, no teleporting until I say so!"

"Yeah, about that." Sans waved the guard aside and banged the doors open and shut. "D'you know a guy named Fernand?" He took the basket from her, set it on the table, and popped a few more cakes in his mouth.

Frisk had to stop for a moment and redirect her train of thought. "Yes, I do. He's an archdeacon, and my oldest half-brother. Why on earth are you asking?"

Sans slapped his leg in triumph, sending crumbs flying. "Ha! He didn't know that. Here, it's after seven already. Go get yer stuff on, but keep the door open so I can tell ya what's goin' on."

This was not the most polite suggestion she'd ever heard, but time was indeed wearing on, and curiosity was already outweighing her sense of dread, so she listened through the cracked door as she undressed.

It seemed that, the moment she left the room, Lord Owen had asked Sans if Her Eminence was all right after the recent attempt on her life. Knowing extremely well that no one should know it had even happened, Sans had played dumb and asked where he'd heard about it.

The lord had had a good explanation: he'd visited his friend Fernand a few days ago and found him completely distraught that someone had attacked the High Priestess in the night; Fernand was apparently concerned that it was a plot against Church officials and he could also be targeted. Lord Owen found it very strange that no one else was talking about any assassination attempts, and when nothing seemed to come of it, he chalked it up to his friend's general strangeness and tendency to get drunk at odd hours; he was ready to dismiss the matter entirely before he thought to check with Sans, who he correctly assumed to be Frisk's bodyguard.

"So he said he was gonna run and let the captain of the guard know, real discreet-like, an' wished you good luck," the boss monster finished. He paused, and in a different tone, added, "I don't like it, Frisk. If he's lyin' about any of this, I'll rip his eyes out and feed 'em to 'is damn birds."

"Sans," she said patiently, "I'm sure he knows that. Putting aside any personal feelings or influences, there is literally no good reason for Luke to hurt me. His sister cannot become eligible to be High Priestess until spring at the soonest, and everyone already knows I'm getting ready to retire—see the extra letters piling up? Until I announce either my new position or a betrothal, I'll be more useful alive than dead."

Silence, then an extra-loud grunt. "Why doncha just burn 'em? Ya don't have time to read all that crap. We've got way too much stuff t'get through. I think I'm onto somethin' with mixing that alfalfa meal up for better fertilizer, 'n if I can finish analyzing the composition of different kinds'a glycerin 'n distill it a little more efficiently, we could really—"

"Sans."

"...Well, 'm not gonna sort 'em for ya."

Frisk finished tugging on her gown, tried to pluck it looser in the bust, and, with some effort, heaved a sigh. "Fine. Get back, please."

Sans moved away from the door and she stepped out, scratching her collarbone. She had always hated this outfit, which had flagrantly been designed by a man: it covered most of her skin, but not only was it somehow tighter than her everyday High Priestess garb, it was dark violet in color, with a black sash around the waist and a black neckband, almost a choker. Dr. Serif had given her a new brooch to pin to the neckband, this one opalescent and rimmed in silver—a much-needed touch of class, in her opinion. At least her usual black dress muted her curves somewhat; this one looked more like body paint, though it certainly didn't feel like it!

Sans had picked up a small leather bag and was looking at the clock. "Ya wanted to be there at seven-thirty, right? If we leave now, we should—" He glanced at her, did a double take, and made a sound like "Gggk."

The priestess flushed. "I know, all right? I don't have a choice." She went to the worktable and picked up her circlet, then shuffled to the bathroom and, rather than bend herself enough to sit at the vanity, leaned over the mirror to check her makeup. A little eyeliner, a tiny bit more color on her lips, and another comb-through to straighten her hair, and that should do it, she thought wearily, putting the circlet on. It felt so strange without the veil that she could hardly enjoy leaving it off.

Frisk turned back to Sans, who was looking very directly at her, eyes blank. She wanted to punch him again. "Would you stop that? I know it's ridiculous! It's bad enough that I have to wear this the whole day, but then they expect me to sing when I can barely even breathe!" She strained against the dress to sigh again, and Sans' eye twitched. "Now, please, let's go."

The skeleton started violently. "Wait a sec. That's what yer goin' t'church in? You're gonna leave the room like that? On purpose?! Why'd ya even put clothes on if it looks like—"

"Saaaans," she snarled, and he clamped his mouth shut. Frisk grabbed his hand and ordered, "Chapel, now," and he meekly obeyed.

Sans had lived through a lot of crap, including a bone-shredding magical catastrophe, multiple fights for his life and those of others, and enough emotional turmoil to kill most people, human or monster. But somehow, he couldn't think of anything worse than having tea-time with that smug, perfect piece of shit with his smug, perfect hair and perfect courtesy and perfect lots of money and modesty and kindness and nice family she liked who also liked her and cutesy pets that made Frisk laugh and he kept touching her for no damn reason.

Worse, that perfect shithead had to go and make himself useful, too, offering that land by the river—and what the hell was Frisk doing, thinking of buying it for the monsters? Was she on a quest to make every other human in existence look bad, or was she just being her?

Anyway, the guy not only was giving them a leg up on that, he had what Sans grudgingly knew was a genuine lead on whoever had tried to have her killed. With a named suspect and evidence of a plot against her, the palace guard would have the right to search everyone entering the chapel, and they'd have a ring of guardsmen between the altar and the congregation. That would free Sans to enact Gaster's plan without having to keep too close an eye on her, which was probably for the best, given how amazing she looked in that stupid painted-on dress. Seriously, why was she even bothering to wear clothes?

Oh, fuck. Speaking of which, he'd been so distracted that he'd forgotten to tell her what they were planning. Welp, hopefully, it wouldn't come up.

He'd brought her to a small hallway off the main one leading into the chapel, sent her straight to the guardsmen standing ready to meet her, and ducked back into the hall to put on his new silver chain. After ten minutes, he casually fell in behind a party of churchgoers headed to the service, submitted to a search, and allowed someone to direct him to a seat near the middle-front of the chapel.

The place was filling up fast. The boss monster took a hymnal and leafed through it to avoid having to talk to anyone, feeling exceptionally strange as he listened to the people around him chatter. It seemed most of them were planning to visit family graves or altars for the dead, and there would be a festival set up in the castle town's square. At least one small child was already whining about having to sit through church before he got to eat, met with the usual threats of not getting any more food for the rest of his life if he didn't behave.

The only item of real interest was when people noted the increased security, and how the last High Priestess had been shot with a crossbow at this very service. General opinion seemed to hold that the current High Priestess was much kinder and more sensible than her predecessor; it was a pity she'd be leaving soon, though they wished her well in her future marriage. One woman admired how Her Eminence had tamed that horrible skeleton monster, but wondered about the propriety of a pretty young woman keeping a male of any kind in her living quarters, and her husband murmured that it didn't count if the monster wasn't capable of male-specific activities. His wife shushed him, but in a laughing way, and Sans looked around in vain for something he'd be allowed to kill.

There was nothing of the sort until the service started. Murmurs of admiration – and more – arose as Frisk appeared and began reading the opening prayer; the husband behind him was so enthusiastic that his wife thumped him on the arm to shut him up, and Sans caught a few other remarks that did not improve his mood whatsoever.

It was hard not to return to his previous line of thinking that he should get her to the Underground, keep her with him and Papyrus as a new pet human, and call it a "diplomatic mission" or some similar crap. She might object at first, but after all this responsibility and the loneliness of being High Priestess, maybe she'd come to see it as a sort of vacation. How could she object to snowball fights and pillow wars and all the puns she wanted? No more worrying about plots against her, no more having to be ogled by every amorous dipshit in the kingdom, no marrying anyone...

The organist was playing the introduction to the first hymn, and Frisk was stepping up to begin singing. To Sans' absolute rage, that was when the back of his neck suddenly started itching. Gaster had warned him that his new device would react to a certain threshold of magic being used nearby, and this was a lot of magic, very close by.

The boss monster turned and zeroed in on a skinny woman sitting a couple of rows back, holding onto her diamond bracelet and frowning intently at the altar. Sans didn't stop to think: he took a very short shortcut, said "'Scuse me" to the startled people whose legs he was suddenly squishing, grabbed the woman's wrist, and teleported them both away.

Before the woman could react, they were in the King's favorite meeting room, where several armed guards were waiting. "Caught her 'bout to use this," the boss monster said tersely, holding up the bracelet.

Dr. Serif raised his head from his book as the guards took charge of the woman. Sans concentrated on the bracelet for a second and ground his teeth. "You bitch! Where'd you get Snowdrake's magic?" He nearly threw it at the royal sorcerer. "That poor bastard went missing over three months ago!"

"Find the owner of a monster called Snowdrake and bring them here immediately," the doctor instructed a guard. He turned the bracelet over in his long, thin hands. "This was designed to freeze a person from the inside. Ingenius, in a completely amoral and reprehensible way. Well done, sir. Please return to your work."

Sans didn't let himself think. He appeared at the back of the chapel, and to his horror, two more people were already preparing to use magic. He short-cut over to a man sitting near the choir, deposited him in the meeting room, and zipped back to another guy standing by the chapel entrance. He didn't stop to catch his breath, but dropped him off and came right back to check for more.

Nothing. He sank to his haunches against the chapel's backmost corner, head between his knees as a dull pounding filled his ears. He was distantly aware of people applauding around him—he'd missed Frisk's song, damn them to friggin' hell. At least it had distracted people in the midst of random churchgoers vanishing. He had to stay that way for several minutes, but was able to stand up by the start of the next song...performed by some other woman. Dammit.

But as he tolerated the hymn, he felt something else. It started as a tingle on the back of his neck, and he scratched it, cringing at the utter weirdness of the sensation; it got worse, not better, building rapidly to a crescendo of power so strong that he couldn't tell where in the chapel it was coming from. It didn't feel like it was targeting the altar; the attack was being aimed behind it, where the clergy had a series of storage and waiting rooms.

Frisk wasn't on the altar. That meant she was—

Sans had never moved so fast. He thought of her and cut straight to the back room where she was standing. As her eyes widened and her mouth opened, he took her hand: quick as thought, they were now outside her rooms. "Run!" Sans barked at the guard.

The guard promptly dropped his weapon and sprinted down the hall to the stairs. With him out of the way, Sans turned to ask Frisk if she was all right, only to have her twist out of his grip and smack him hard enough to crash him into the wall. "Who the hell are you?" the priestess demanded. She backed away, looking around wildly. "Sans! Sans!"

"Frisk! It's me, you fu—friggin' psycho!" The skeleton yanked the silver chain off and blinked hard, trying to adjust to the sudden height difference. "See? Ta-da! ...Damn, my head!"

"Sans?" Frisk came forward a few steps. "Sans...what...?"

"Sorry, forgot t'tell ya," he mumbled, staying against the wall. "Hol' on a sec, I had ta get around a bunch'a times in a row. 'm worn out."

"Forgot to tell me what, exactly? What just happened? Who was that?"

"That was me, dum-dum. Look." The boss monster slipped the necklace back on, and Frisk yelped as a tall, slim, nearly white-haired human reappeared. The man blinked his dark eyes a few times, then squeezed them shut. "This is so damn weird, you have no friggin' idea," he said in Sans' voice. "Everythin's closer, it feels like the air is attackin' me—and how the hell d'you handle bein' able ta smell things? He said he reduced how much I'd process outside stimuli compared t'the average human, but this is nuts! That actually hurt!" He made a show of rubbing his cheek, then flinched. "Augh, that makes it worse! Can I take this crap off now?!"

"Is..." The priestess still had to look up at him, though it was now only a foot or so. "Did Dr. Serif make this?" Her face cleared. "Ohh, that was what he gave you last night, so you could disguise yourself for the service." She pursed her lips at him. "Yes, you absolutely should have told me about this before you scared me to—"

Boom went something outside, not very far off.

They stood, stunned, for the count of three. Frisk went to one of the windows lining the hall and peered out. "Fireworks? It's too early," she said, watching the colored lights fade in midair. "And why is there so much magic in it?"

"They're not real, that's why." Sans looked at his fleshy hands, touching his fingertips together one by one as he thought out loud. "That's the power someone was buildin' up t'use on you. Guess whoever it was couldn't find ya in time and didn't want to cause a big scene for nothin'. They had to get rid of all that magic, so they got outside and made it look like someone set off fireworks." He stuck his hands in the pockets of his black overcoat. "Pretty smart, whoever they are," he admitted. "That was fast thinkin'."

Frisk was standing a little too still, headdress clinking on the glass as she rested her forehead against it. "If they didn't want to kill anyone else, then all that magic would've been focused on me," she told her reflection. He saw her fists clench; the headdress rattled faintly on the window. "I probably wouldn't even have felt anything. It'd look like I just disappeared."

Sans could have killed himself. He'd done it again, talking about how she could have died as though it was no big deal. "Frisk, I—'m sorry, I didn't mean—"

She turned around with an expression he didn't recognize. "Hold still for a moment," she whispered, and before he could react, the young woman came to him and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his chest.

Nothing had prepared him for this. The human-shaped monster froze in place with his arms half raised, feeling her full length pressed against him, her heart pounding and his SOUL fluttering up to meet it. Just existing had already been a sensory overload, and his first cogent thought was that his first real hug was going to be his last.

The second was that she was the softest thing he'd ever touched. The third was how warm she felt, the fourth that she smelled like...of course he didn't know what that scent was, but it was her, so it was the best thing he'd ever smelled.

Frisk was trembling. All he could see was the top of her head, the circlet nearly poking him in the eye. Sans tried to move it aside and had to catch it with a bit of magic as it started to slip off, wafting it over to rest on the windowsill.

She shook her head and burrowed in harder, almost knocking him off balance. Sans reflexively steadied her with one arm, only to encounter the silky material of whatever the dress was, and her body heat coming through it. An answering wave of heat swept through him; he tried to remove his hand, to tell her that that was enough, but it was like his SOUL was stuck in place, refusing to let him move away.

He was dealing with exactly as many feelings as he could handle when she sighed and made a small sound, and yet another damn thing started happening. He didn't understand it any more than the other things this human body was doing, but while it was the most physically pleasant sensation he'd ever experienced, it felt way too personal, probably because of the area in which it was centered. Sans hoped devoutly that it'd go away on its own, and had a strong suspicion that it wouldn't: most of his nerve endings seemed to be clustered down there, and they weren't going to stop doing their job as long as Frisk was plastered against him.

...Okay, now it was getting painful, and he did recognize his rising – ha – urge to grab her as hard as he could. Even in this smaller, fleshier body, she was so tiny that he could very well squish her to death.

The need to spare her from any lasting damage was what gave Sans the willpower to finally get his hands on her also-very-soft shoulders and push just hard enough to move her away. "Sorry, too much," he mumbled, face averted. He shuffled back and reached up to slip off the chain, becoming his normal size and insensitivity. "We probably better getcha back to church 'fore anyone thinks ya got blown up for real. It should be safe now that they used their biggest whatever-it-was," he added.

"Yes, you're right." Frisk picked up her circlet and settled it in place, looking almost as flustered as he felt. "I'm...I'm so sorry about that, I just needed a moment to—"

"S'okay," he said hurriedly. "I didn't really—ya just surprised me, an' I'm not used to bein' able t'feel everythin' all the time. It was just a lot to take in." Sans rubbed at his sternum. His parts might be gone, but his SOUL was still acting up. "Don' worry about it."

Frisk somehow got even redder. "If you say so." She scratched her shoulder, making a scratchy sound on the thin material. "Let's go to the same place we started from last time, please, not behind the altar. We'll say that I felt sick and then we were outside watching the fireworks."

"Sounds like a plan." Sans held out his giant-again hand. "Off we go, boss."

She smiled. "Off we go."

#songfell no idea how long this thing will end up

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