Frail Reality - [Deltarune | Sans x Reader]

Chapter One | A Beginning (Part 2 of 3)

          In a panic, you turn back toward Sans.

          …And come across Frisk sitting over his head, grinning and giggling, while you frown and huff.

          "Get down from there," you exclaim, though there's really no reason for you to be shouting, as you're taller than both them and Sans combined. "And let's go! I need to do a few things before we go to the library."

          "Can't I stay with him while you're done?" they sign, mouth pouted and eyes puppy-eyed. "We can unpack later!"

          "No, you can't," you reply, glaring at them. "Now…" You grab them from Sans's head and prop them over your shoulders for a piggyback ride. "Stay put, and don't you dare scare me like that again."

★ ★ ★

          Fifteen more minutes of walking and Frisk's whining, and you're starting to feel like you don't need to exercise anymore than you have this week throughout the whole moving process.

          Nor go to church to confess any sins, because it's been a long trip, and there aren't any stop signs or red lights to help you catch a break and regain peace.

          The second you enter your new home – with your shoes kept on, a face mask worn, and coat thrown over the nearest (and cleanest) flat surface – you feel your body weaken and your head hurt. The apartment's dim and dusty, and there are several shadows by nooks and crannies you fear are all sorts of insects and critters waiting for you to move stuff around to attack. All the discounts you received before accepting the offer make more sense the further you look around, and what tops it off is the window you break as soon as you brush the slightest bit with it to try opening it, air as stifling as your surroundings. Even so, there's one good thing you can say about this so far: there aren't any weird stains or bad smells around – only signs of old age and neglect. Other than that, you figure a little sweeping, dusting, mopping, and scrubbing will get most of your problems solved.

          "Do I actually smell like wet dog, dear?" you ask, looking toward Frisk. "You would've told me, wouldn't you?"

          As if they haven't caused enough panic already, Frisk is crouched in a corner of the living room, feeding half of a cheese stick from their lunchbox to a mouse.

          They nod and look toward you, signing, "You smell like wet earth. It's nice. I like it."

          "Smelling like mud isn't a good thing!"

          "Not mud. Earth."

          Like child like mother, you pout, hands clenching and forehead wrinkling when you can't find a way to win against that logic.

          "That's the same thing."

          "No, it's not."

          You warn them to stop playing with the mouse – to no avail.

          Instead, they return to the topic about how 'earth' smell is different from 'mud' smell, and how they don't mind cuddling up to you when smelling like the former of the two.

          You at least give them props for being so passionate about those seemingly subtle differences – and for being cautious with their fingers while feeding the mouse, as well as for not choosing to poke around an unclean house.

          "Either way, not everyone likes that smell. Could you tell me next time?"

          They nod.