Work Text:
✧
The muffled hum of traffic outside pressed faintly against the apartment walls—the distant blare of a horn, the low rumble of engines.
But none of it could break through the persistent ache swirling behind your eyes. Each throb pulsed in time with your heartbeat, vibrating through your skull.
A soft, fussing whimper cut through the haze, quickly escalating into a full-throated wail. You squeezed your eyes shut, inhaling slowly, trying to gather what little patience you had left before setting down your half-applied lip gloss.
"Shh, I’m coming, baby," you murmured, your voice low and weary.
The travel cot sat within arm’s reach of your bed—not for convenience, but because the thought of her being farther away than that made your chest tighten.
Her pacifier, still damp from her last attempt to settle, had been spat out and now lay upside down on the mattress. You let out a quiet sigh of relief. It wasn’t on the floor.
Your pediatrician had reassured you a dozen times that she was past the risky stage, that you didn’t need to sterilize everything the second it touched the ground. Still, the habit died hard. So did the worry.
She’d also said not to panic about the fact she wasn’t walking yet.
That advice hadn’t stopped you from bleaching the apartment top to bottom until the chemical sting burned your hands.
It didn’t stop you from hovering, watching her carefully as she tried to pull herself up against the couch, her legs wobbly and unsure.
She fell on her backside every time, blinking in surprise before bursting into sweet, airy giggles.
You’d made a show of gasping dramatically each time, clutching your chest like it was the most shocking thing in the world—anything to keep her laughing.
You brushed a thumb over her furrowed brow as she blinked up at you with glassy, red-rimmed eyes. She took the pacifier without argument this time, her tiny hands reaching up instinctively for you.
"I know, sweetheart. You’re hungry," you murmured, your voice soft despite the exhaustion tugging at your limbs. You glanced at the clock, stomach tightening. "Nina will be here soon, okay?"
It wasn’t enough to coax her. Her face scrunched, a faint whine vibrating against the pacifier.
You were already moving toward the kitchen to fix a bottle when your phone rang—a sharp, jarring sound that cut through the room.
Your heart fluttered against your ribs, hope and dread tangling together in your throat. Maybe it was Sans.
But it wasn’t.
Your babysitter voice filled the line instead, her words rushed and awkward. "Hey, look, before you get upset—"
Your stomach dropped, dread sinking in like a cold stone. Your free hand curled around the edge of the counter, your knuckles tightening white.
“…You can’t babysit tonight, can you?” Your voice came out smaller than you meant it to, already knowing the answer.
In the background, you could hear the hum of laughter and music—lively, distant, carefree.
"I’m really sorry, okay? I’ll make it up to you—"
You hung up without another word, tossing the phone onto the counter without care. It landed with a hollow clatter, face down.
For a second, you just stared at it, your throat burning with something hot and helpless.
Your eyes dropped to your reflection in the microwave’s glassy surface—leggings and an oversized sweater, speckled with stains from spit-up and baby food.
There was a smudge of lip gloss on your cheekbone where you must’ve touched your face without realizing it.
You were almost grateful you hadn’t gotten ready yet.
Almost.
Your fingers trembled as you picked up the phone again, dialing almost on autopilot.
The dial tone barely had a chance to ring once before his voice came through the speaker—warm, familiar, and achingly casual.
“Hey, uh—you like beef joints, right?”
A shaky, wet laugh escaped you, surprising even yourself. It came out more like a breath than a sound.
"Yeah. Yeah, I do like beef joints." Your voice wavered as you exhaled, the weight of the evening pressing down harder now that he was on the other end. "I would’ve… really liked to go there with you."
His voice softened, the playful edge fading. "Everything okay?"
“I’m fine,” you lied, the words feeling thin and brittle. “It’s just… my babysitter fell through. I—I’m sorry—”
“Hey, it’s no biggie.” He didn’t miss a beat, his tone easy, steady. If he was disappointed, he was damn good at hiding it.
Then again… maybe you weren’t wrong to doubt things.
Sans had been persistent—charming, even when he first asked for your number. A part of you always expected his interest would die the second he hung around you and your babygirl.
But it hadn’t.
Still, that nagging fear clung to you like a burr. If you let yourself believe this could be something… what would happen when he realized how heavy your life really was?
A sharp, louder cry snapped you back to reality, echoing down the hall and making your heart lurch.
“I gotta go," you blurted, throat tight. "Um, I’m sorry again—”
“Hey, wait—are you sure you—”
You hung up before he could finish. The guilt hit immediately, sour and thick in your stomach.
The microwave beeped, and you startled, realizing too late that you’d set the time wrong. You tugged the bottle out, hissing as the overheated plastic stung your wrist.
“Shit.” You ran to the bedroom. Her cries grew more urgent, climbing into panicked wails.
Your exhausted mind had made the mistake of showing her the bottle.
She was sitting upright now, tiny hands reaching desperately toward the bottle. Her face was flushed and tear-streaked, her little chest rising and falling in ragged hiccups.
“Crap, I’m sorry, baby. Just two minutes. I swear.”
Your voice shook as you bolted back to the kitchen, yanking open the cabinet with too much force. A cascade of pots and pans clattered to the floor, the metallic clang ringing through the room like gunshots.
“Goddamn it!” You shrieked.
You grabbed the nearest pot and jammed the bottle inside, shoving it under the faucet and twisting the cold tap on full blast. Water roared against the metal, splashing against the counter, soaking your sleeves.
Your hands shook as you gripped the counter, your head bowing forward. The noise swelled around you—her cries, the water, the pounding throb in your head—blending into a relentless, deafening hum.
Your throat tightened, breath hitching hard in your chest. Hot tears burned over your lashes, blurring your vision.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, voice cracking. “I’m sorry—I’m sorry—”
The words tumbled out between ragged breaths, a mantra, a plea to no one in particular.
You pressed a trembling hand over your mouth, trying to stifle the sobs, but they came anyway.
"I—I can’t do this alone anymore." The admission barely made it past your lips, strangled and muffled against your palm.
You rocked forward slightly, curling into yourself, the cold water pooling around your toes finally breaking through the haze.
“Fuck!” You staggered to your feet, too fast, the room tilting dangerously. Black spots danced at the edges of your vision, and your stomach gave a nauseous lurch.
You swallowed hard, fighting the dizziness, and turned off the tap with shaky hands. The bottle was cool now—too cool.
But it didn’t matter. You dried it with a dishtowel, your arms feeling like lead.
Your knees buckled before you even realized you were sinking.
The floor was cold against your legs as you slid down against the cabinets, the world muffled and distant. The bottle felt heavy in your hand, your fingers struggling to keep a grip.
Everything sounded wrong. Dull and too far away. Even your own heartbeat echoed like it wasn’t part of you anymore—like a distant, hollow thumping.
No… not a thump. A knock.
The sound came again, louder this time.
“I’m comin’ in!”
Your head jerked up, heart lurching painfully in your chest.
No. No, no, no.
That wasn’t your heartbeat. That was the door.
Your panic returned in full force, crashing over you like a wave.
Please, don’t let him see me like this.
It was too late.
The air seemed to hum, a faint crackle of static tingling against your skin before Sans materialized in your living room.
His head whipped around, taking in the mess—the overturned pots, the puddle of water, the bottle still clutched in your trembling hand, until his gaze landed on you.
His eyelights softened instantly.
“There you are.”
His voice was low, too gentle. It only made the tears come faster. You curled in on yourself, pulling your sweater tighter around your frame like it might shield you from his kindness.
Your knees came up to your chest, arms wrapped around them.
“H-Hi.” The word barely came out, small and broken.
Your throat burned as you looked at him. He wasn’t in his usual clothes—no baggy basketball shorts or oversized hoodie.
He’d actually put on jeans, and the thick knit jumper clung to his broad frame in a way that made him look… warmer. Softer. Had you ever seen him without his usual jacket?
It was stupid how that detail hit you so hard, made your chest tighten even more. He’d dressed up. He’d been ready. For you.
But you couldn’t think about that now, not with your baby still crying, her wails sharp and frantic in the background, tugging at every maternal instinct you had left.
You moved to stand, but your legs trembled beneath you, too shaky to cooperate.
Sans was already stepping forward, hand outstretched.
“I… I just have to—”
“I can do it.” He cut in softly, voice hesitant but steady. “If you, uh… if you don’t mind?”
Your heart twisted.
You knew she’d be okay with him… you’d known that since the day you met him.
You remembered it vividly. It had been a rare sunny afternoon in New Ebott’s park. Your little one was laughing, happily buried up to her knees in the sandpit when a frisbee smacked the ground by your feet.
You’d spun around, anger rising—only to come face to face with a very sheepish skeleton, rubbing the back of his neck.
You’d later learned it wasn’t even his throw. It was his brother’s, but Sans had been too lazy to go after it before it reached you.
He’d apologized. Bought you both ice cream. Your baby had taken to him instantly.
And, despite everything, so had you.
The memory flickered out, leaving you back in the present. You stared down at the bottle still clutched in your hand, the plastic cool and slippery from the towel you’d dried it with.
Slowly, you held it out.
“Are you sure?” Your voice was quieter than you meant it to be, weighed down with exhaustion. You leaned against the wall to keep yourself upright.
Sans gave a crooked, reassuring smile. “I’m sure.”
You didn’t even see him move. One second he was there—the next, he wasn’t. Gone off to tend to your little one.
The apartment was quieter now, save for the distant sound of her cries fading into sniffles.
You let out a shaky breath, the tension in your body unraveling like a loose thread. You glanced down at your sweater—stained, wrinkled, and damp from your tears.
God, I must look awful.
With a low groan, you wiped at your face, but it didn’t help. Your cheeks were hot, puffy, and sore from crying.
Your feet dragged you to the couch, your body moving without asking your permission. The cushions felt like heaven, swallowing you whole the second you sank into them.
Your head found the nearest pillow, its cool fabric a balm against your overheated skin.
Just a second.
You promised yourself, barely able to keep your eyes open.
…Just one second.
Your eyes drifted shut. The world faded into a muffled quiet.
✧
The low hum of the TV stirred you first, followed by the faint jingle of keys. You blinked awake, the room coming into focus in sluggish fragments.
A soft fleece blanket was tucked around you, the kind you didn’t remember getting.
You shifted, realizing Sans was on the other end of the couch, your little girl nestled beside him, happily jingling his keys like they were the most fascinating thing in the world.
You sat up, groaning softly as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes. "Wha… what time is it?"
Sans glanced at his wristwatch, the lazy smile never leaving his face. "Just past eight. Relax, you only knocked out for a couple hours."
Your stomach dropped. "A couple? Oh, Sans, I’m so sorry—"
"What for?" he interrupted, tilting his head like you’d just said something ridiculous. His grin was light, playful. "You needed the rest."
You shook your head, guilt still twisting in your chest—until your gaze landed on your daughter, perfectly content and jingling the keys again.
“I see someone looks pleased with herself,” you murmured, a smile tugging at your lips despite everything.
Your girl didn’t even glance up, completely engrossed with her newfound treasure. Sans watched her with an amused huff, and when she tried to shove the keys into her mouth, he expertly tugged them away before they got past her chubby fists.
Your chest warmed at the sight.
The moment was broken by the loud, unmistakable growl of your stomach. You winced.
Sans snorted, his grin widening. "I see someone’s hungry."
“A little,” you admitted sheepishly. “Sorry about skipping the reservation.”
He waved a hand dismissively. "No biggie, I got something better." He pulled his phone from his pocket, holding it up like a prize.
You raised an eyebrow, intrigued despite yourself. "Oh yeah? And what might that be?"
"Restaurant delivery."
Right on cue, a knock sounded at the door.
Your head whipped toward it, then back to Sans, who grinned like a kid caught red-handed.
"Right on time," he said smugly.
Before you could respond, he gently lifted your daughter from beside him, holding her out to you.
She sank against your stomach, warm and familiar—but her squirming immediately started up again, tiny limbs wiggling in an attempt to get back to Sans.
You laughed softly, shaking your head. "Traitor."
The scent of food hit you then, savory and rich—it made your stomach twist with renewed hunger, but the feeling was cut short when you caught a whiff of something far less pleasant.
You leaned down, sniffing your daughter with a grimace. "Oh… someone’s stinky."
Sans chuckled from the door, already fishing out his wallet to pay. "Better you than me."
You rolled your eyes but couldn’t hold back a grin as you carried her off for a quick diaper change.
It didn’t take long, you were getting faster at this routine than you ever thought possible.
But by the time you stripped off your sweater and reached for a fresh vest, your daughter was already wiggling dangerously close to the edge of the bed.
“Hey, hey!” you laughed breathlessly, scooping her up again before she could tumble. “You’re gonna give me a heart attack one of these days, y’know that?”
She babbled something incoherent in response, patting your shoulder like she was the one comforting you.
When you came back into the living room, Sans had spread the takeout across the coffee table, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
You looked away quickly, pretending you didn’t notice the way his radius bone flexed as he sorted the food.
“She can, uh… have chicken nuggets, right?” he asked, awkward but earnest.
You bit back a laugh at his attempt. "She can have solids, but… nuggets might run through her."
“Ah, good to know." He nodded sagely, like you’d imparted some ancient parenting wisdom.
You moved to grab the high chair, but Sans held his arms out again.
“Bring her here.”
You hesitated, unsure why you felt the sudden urge to hold onto her a little longer. But his eyes were steady, patient.
So you relented, passing her over.
She nestled against him without a fuss—of course she did—and you made your way to the kitchen to grab a jar of baby food.
It wasn’t homemade. It wasn’t what she deserved. But it was what you had.
Your gaze drifted to the counters as you waited for the microwave. The pots and pans were back in place. The counters, mostly clean. He missed a few spots—but the effort made something thick and hot knot in your throat.
The microwave dinged. You shook yourself, grabbed the food, and headed back.
The sight waiting for you made you stop in your tracks.
Sans was sitting cross-legged on the couch, your daughter sprawled across his lap. He held his fork just out of her reach, her tiny hands swiping for it with an exaggerated pout.
“Your momma said I can’t,” Sans was saying, his voice lilting, playful. “Stop lookin’ at me like that.”
You bit back a laugh. "C’mere, you little grubber."
Sans snorted at the nickname.
“What’s so funny?” you asked, eyebrow raised.
“It’s so small.” He nodded at the baby spoon in your hand, eyes twinkling. Before you could argue, he plucked the bowl and spoon from you without hesitation.
Your breath hitched. It was such a small thing.
Feeding your child.
And yet…
When was the last time I got to feed myself first?
The thought came and went as you watched him. The way your daughter’s eyes lit up with each spoonful. The warmth in his voice as he spoke to her.
Dinner blurred into warmth and laughter. Takeout boxes emptied. Your half-watched movie became background noise to the sound of giggles.
Sans hovered your daughter just a few inches off the couch with his magic, gently plopping her down each time, leaning her squealing with delight.
You leaned back, contentment sinking into your bones. "Hey… thanks for tonight."
Sans glanced at you, his grin softening. "Don’t need to thank me."
You smiled, watching your daughter squeal again. "You’re spoiling her with that trick. She gets mad when I can’t do it."
“Aw, sucks to be mommy.”
“Hey.”
“Your momma can’t use magic,” he teased, nudging her. She giggled, reaching for his face.
You laughed, leaning in closer, your shoulder brushing his. "Stop it. I made you—you’re supposed to take my side."
Sans chuckled low, his gaze lingering.
“What?” you asked, cheeks flushing.
He hesitated, voice quieter. “Nothing. Just… she looks so much like you.” He smiled, leaning down to boop her nose. "Same eyes. Same nose. ‘Cept hers is tinier."
Your heart ached in the best way.
She giggled as he made a show of grabbing her nose. "Uh oh, gotcha nose, kiddo."
You gasped, hand flying to your face in mock horror.
But instead of laughing, she froze, her wide eyes flicked between you both.
You recognized that look instantly. Her little brows knitted together, her bottom lip trembled, and you barely had time to brace for impact.
“Oh crap,” Sans muttered, right as the wail erupted.
It was loud and heartbroken, the kind of cry that made you think someone had genuinely wronged her.
“Aw, geez, kiddo, I didn’t really take it.” Sans held his hands up, voice tinged with panic. “Your nose is still there, promise.”
You tried—and failed—to stifle your laughter, even as you reached for her.
“See what you did?” you teased, though your voice stayed soft, soothing. You bounced her lightly in your arms, rubbing her back. “Did the mean skeleton take your nose, baby?”
Sans groaned, slouching back into the couch. “I’m sorry, aw, c’mon, don’t cry. Look, look, I’ll give it back.” He mimed carefully holding up her “nose”
“Do you want it back, sweetheart?” you murmured into her hair.
She hiccuped and gave a wobbly nod, sniffling as she held a tiny hand out towards him.
You bit back another laugh when she snatched the imaginary nose from his outstretched hand.
Sans leaned his head back against the couch, exhaling dramatically. "Man, tough crowd."
Her cries softened into little hiccups, her face buried against your shoulder. You pressed a kiss to her hair, breathing in that familiar baby shampoo scent.
The room felt warm, comfortable, filled with the smell of food and the sound of your little one’s sniffles tapering off.
For the first time in what felt like forever, you weren’t tense. You weren’t waiting for the next thing to go wrong.
You glanced over at Sans. His grin had softened again, his gaze lingering on the two of you with something you couldn’t quite place. Something quieter.
You cleared your throat, your voice dropping into something gentler than before. “I mean it, Sans. Thank you. For everything. I… I really needed tonight.”
He blinked, his grin faltering just for a second before coming back—softer this time. “Yeah… anytime.”
Your daughter gave one last sleepy sigh against you, her little hand clutching your hair.
Sans watched you for a moment longer before leaning back, resting his head on the couch cushion. He stretched his legs out, his socked feet knocking against the coffee table with a dull thunk.
“Say night night to Sans.” You whispered as you rose off the couch.
Her soft snores greeted you both.
He chuckled watching you walk away. “Goodnight kiddo.”
✧
Creeping back into the living room, you nearly laughed at the sight of Sans sprawled on the couch, legs kicked up, arms behind his head, looking like he didn’t have a single care in the world.
The room felt too quiet now—the warmth from before still clung to the air, but the clock on the wall was a cruel reminder that nights like this didn’t last forever.
You hesitated, voice softer than you meant it to be. “It’s getting late. I’m… I’m not keeping you, am I?”
Sans tilted his head, eye lights flickering like he was weighing his words carefully. For once, the grin wasn’t instant.
“Would you, uh… believe me if I said I’m right where I wanna be?”
You hated how easily his voice made your knees feel weak.
“Sans…”
He patted the couch beside him. “Sit.”
You couldn’t help the soft chuckle that escaped you. “Yes, sir.”
The look he gave you was downright sinful.
“Don’t tease me with that,” he murmured, voice low and amused. But his eyes lingered a little too long, and the heat in your chest bloomed into something heavier, warmer.
“I had a good time tonight,” you admitted quietly.
“Me too.” He watched you tuck a strand of hair behind your ear, his voice dipping quieter. “I… I’d like to keep having nights like this. If you’ll have me?”
His voice wasn’t cocky this time. It was careful… almost nervous. The vulnerability made your heart twist.
“Sans, I… I want to. I really do. I’m just…” you swallowed, voice trembling. “I’m scared reality’s gonna set in. It’s not always like this—it gets a lot—"
“Because you’re doing it alone.”
The words hit harder than you expected. Your throat tightened, you tried and failed to stop the small sniffle that escaped.
“I… I have friends, mister.”
He chuckled softly, reaching out to stroke his thumb gently over your knee. The touch was light, but it burned in the best way, sending a shiver through you.
“I know you do,” he said quietly. “I’m asking for more than that, though. I know I am.”
You shook your head, brows pinching. “I don’t get it… you’re a nice guy, Sans. Funny, too. You could have anyone…” you trailed off.
“Well, keep going,” he teased, grin tugging wider—but his voice stayed soft.
You laughed, even if it felt a little wobbly.
“Sans… you could have a family of your own. A real one. A fresh start.”
His grin faded into something smaller, but no less sincere.
“I could,” he said with a shrug. “But it wouldn’t have you or her in it. Would it now?”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. Your hand found his without thinking, fingers lacing together like they belonged there.
“Sans, I’m a mess—”
Your words cut off in a heartbeat as his mouth met yours.
It wasn’t rushed or desperate—it was careful, slow, like he was afraid you might pull away.
His grin brushed against your lips, warm and hesitant, but the moment you tilted into him, it was over.
The hesitation melted.
You sighed into the kiss, your free hand finding his jaw, fingers brushing the edge of his cheekbone. You felt him exhale through his nasal, warm against your skin.
He pulled back, only an inch—his forehead nearly resting against yours.
He swallowed thickly, voice rough when he spoke. “Sorry, I… I’ve kinda been wanting to do that since the day at the park.”
Your lips still tingled. You didn’t even try to hide the smile.
“You might have to do it again,” you murmured, voice playful, but your eyes lingered on his mouth.
His grin was slow and lazy, but his eye lights flickered brighter. “Oh yeah?”
“Mhm. Missed it the first time.”
His hands found your waist, warm and steady. He didn’t pull, he waited, giving you the chance to move closer first.
When you did, his grin flickered into something hungrier.
“C’mere,” he breathed, voice low and rough, tugging you gently into his lap.
Your breath hitched, but you didn’t hesitate. Your legs straddled him easily, his hands sliding up to your hips, anchoring you to him.
The kiss was deeper this time, no hesitation, no nerves. His mouth parted against yours, his tongue teasing along your bottom lip, the sound that slipped from your throat was nothing short of elation.
His grip tightened, his fingers curling into the fabric of your vest like he didn’t trust himself to let go.
You weren’t sure you wanted him to.
His hands slid up your back, palms warm through the thin fabric. Each touch sent sparks racing up your spine.
His kisses grew deeper, more fervent, like he’d been starving for this, for you.
His tongue teased yours, as you moaned softly into his mouth, fingers tangling into his sweater, pulling him closer.
Sans groaned low in his throat, the sound vibrating against your lips as his hands roamed, memorizing the curve of your waist and the dip of your back.
His thumbs brushed under the hem of your vest, and the sensation of bone on skin made you shiver.
“Stars,” he breathed between kisses, his voice ragged. “You’re… you’re unbelievable, you know that?”
You barely had time to process the words before his mouth found your jaw, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses down the side of your neck.
Each one made your head tilt back further, your breath hitching when he nipped playfully at the sensitive spot just below your ear.
“Sans…” his name left your lips like a prayer, as you felt his grin against your skin.
“Been wanting this for so long,” he murmured, voice low and warm. “Didn’t think I’d get to have it. Didn’t think I’d get to have you.”
Your heart squeezed painfully at the raw honesty in his voice. Your fingers curled against the back of his neck, holding him to you like you were afraid he might disappear.
“You have me,” you whispered, barely able to get the words out between breaths. “You do.”
He froze for a second, like the words hit him somewhere deep. His grip on your waist tightened, just enough to make you feel grounded—wanted.
“I’m not going anywhere,” he murmured, voice rough. “Not unless you tell me to.”
Before you could answer, a sharp, wobbly cry split through the quiet house.
You both froze, his breath still hot against your throat.
For a second, neither of you moved—then you let out a soft, breathless laugh, forehead dropping against his shoulder.
“Looks like someone’s got poor timing,” you muttered, still catching your breath.
Sans chuckled, voice low and warm. His thumb brushed along your waist one last time, reluctant to let go.
“I got it,” he said, voice softer now. “You stay here.”
You blinked, startled. “Sans, you don’t—”
“Yeah, I do.” He cut you off gently, his grin smaller, but sincere. “I want to.”
You hesitated, but his expression didn’t waver. The playfulness was still there, but under it was something quieter. Steadier.
Something you wanted so badly to accept.
You nodded slowly. “Okay.”
He pressed one last kiss to your forehead—tender, lingering—before gently easing you off his lap.
He stood with a stretch and a low groan, muttering something about his "old man bones" that made you snort despite yourself.
The sound of your daughter’s crying tugged at you, instinct screaming to follow, but you stayed put—even though it felt like your heart was stuck in your throat.
It wasn’t fear that kept you rooted. It was hope.
You heard him in the other room, his voice dropping into that low, lazy drawl you loved so much.
“Hey, kiddo. C’mon now, what’s all this, huh? You miss me already?”
Her cries softened to sniffles almost instantly.
Your eyes stung.
You wanted this. God, you wanted this more than you’d let yourself admit.
You wanted him to be part of her life.
Wanted him to be part of yours.
And for the first time in a long, long while—maybe that didn’t feel so impossible after all