Chapter Text
The porch creaked beneath Sans as he shifted his weight, leaning forward with his elbows propped on the weathered railing. His phalanges curled loosely around his coffee mug, one of Papyrus's "World's Okayest Brother" gifts that had survived the journey from underground to surface. Over a year up here and he still found himself staring upward with a mixture of awe and unease. A part of him was still waiting for it all to unravel, for the timeline to snap back like a stretched rubber band, to blink back to his room in Snowdin.
His coffee had gone cold. Again. A thin layer of frost had formed across the top, reflecting the starlight. He couldn't remember how long he'd been standing out here.
But the kid had kept their promise so far. No more resets. No more waking up in Snowdin with nothing but déjà vu and phantom pains in his chest. Frisk was safe, growing taller by increments that Sans secretly measured on Toriel's kitchen doorframe when no one was looking. They smiled more now—real smiles that reached their eyes.
Asriel was back to being his fluffy goat self instead of a soulless plant, still adjusting to having a soul again. Sometimes Sans would catch him touching his chest, a look of wonder on his face as if he couldn't believe the steady rhythm beneath his fingertips. The prince's return had been complicated; scientifically, politically, and emotionally. But seeing him and Frisk chase each other through fallen leaves made all the quantum loops and calculations he had to do worth it. He'd quietly ensured Alphys's name was the one celebrated; a knowing glance passed between them once they had succeeded was enough acknowledgment for him.
Chara was... around. Not just as a whisper or shadow anymore, but flesh and bone and narrowed eyes that tracked Sans' movements across rooms. Their resurrection had been the hardest—the most dangerous—and sometimes Sans still questioned the wisdom of it. But the kid had insisted, and who was he to argue with the determination that had saved them all? Now Chara moved through the world with wary precision, dark sweater always a size too large, fingers fidgeting with the locket they never removed. They didn't trust Sans. He didn't trust them. But they both trusted Frisk, and that fragile connection was enough to maintain their uneasy truce.
And Toriel—well, she was trying her best. Having to navigate all the politics around monster-human relations while sharing custody of Asriel and Chara with Asgore wasn't doing her any favors. The bags under her eyes had become a permanent fixture but so had the gentle smile she wore whenever the kids were around. She'd taken to stress-baking at midnight, which meant the house always smelled like butterscotch.
However, watching his brother grow was perhaps the best part of this timeline. Papyrus was thriving in his own exuberant way, having enrolled in a human culinary school where his enthusiasm far outpaced his technical skill. His instructors were simultaneously baffled and charmed by his insistence that "MORE PASSION EQUALS MORE FLAVOR" and his unique approach to knife handling. Every evening he'd return home with elaborate stories about his "CULINARY TRIUMPHS" and containers of increasingly edible practice dishes. Sans dutifully ate every creation, no matter how questionable, because the pride in his brother's voice was worth the occasional stomachache (theoretically of course, given his lack of actual organs).
So why did the stars still feel like strangers?
Sans had spent more time with them than with most people he knew—gazing upward across timelines that no longer existed. Yet they remained cryptic. Unreachable. Maybe that was the appeal.
*They were one of the few things Determination couldn't touch. Couldn't rewrite. One of the few things that made him feel less alone in remembering. *
Behind him the front door opened with a gentle squeak, that particular pitch of hinges that Papyrus had been meaning to oil for months, but Sans had secretly grown fond of and hoped his brother never fixed. He didn't need to turn to know who it was, he’d learned the pace of those footsteps over too many timelines to mistake them. Frisk's footsteps had a particular rhythm to them. Deliberate. Patient.
The wooden boards of the porch whispered under their weight; they were so much lighter than what they should be for someone carrying the fate of two worlds. They moved to stand beside him, not speaking, just existing in the same space. Their breath formed small clouds in the night air, synchronized with the stars' twinkling in a way that seemed almost deliberate.
It struck Sans sometimes; how small they still were. How their sweater sleeves still fell past their fingertips when they reached out. How despite everything they'd seen, all they'd done, all they'd undone, that they still looked at the world and believed in second chances.
"Hey, kiddo," he said, not turning around, "come to star-gaze with me?"
Frisk stood beside him, looking up at the night sky. Staring out into the horizon for a moment before a gentle tug at his sleeve.
"I know, I know," Sans said, his perpetual grin unchanged. "I’ve been out here too long, right? Your mom's probably wondering if I dusted myself by now. Guess I'm just lost in my own solar system of thoughts. The night sky really has a way of making your problems seem meteor sized. Cosmic, right?”
Frisk huffed at his antics, now more used to them than ever. A smirk made its way onto their face as they took away his frozen coffee mug and pointed toward the door. Through the window, Sans could see the warm glow of Toriel's kitchen. The glass now fogged, hinting that something sweet was sure to be baking.
"Alright, alright," he sighed, pushing himself off the railing. "Lead the way, little ambassador," his grin softening as he trails behind Frisk.
The warmth of the kitchen wrapped around them as the scent of cinnamon and butterscotch hung in the air. Toriel stood at the counter, humming softly while she kneaded dough with her powerful paws. She looked up when they entered, her eyes softening around the edges.
"There you are Sans. I was beginning to worry," she said, brushing flour from her apron. "It is getting rather cold out there, is it not. The forecast mentioned something about snow."
"Snow problem for me," Sans winked, earning a gentle smile from Toriel and a quiet snort from Frisk.
"Well, I hope you're not planning on going out again tonight," Toriel continued, turning back to her baking. "But if you are…” She nodded meaningfully toward the coat rack.
Frisk followed her gaze, then dashed off into the hall. They returned clutching something red and worn, looking at Sans with that particular expression he'd come to recognize as trouble.
"What's with the look, bucko?" Sans asked, leaning against the counter. "you're plotting something, and I don't mean the pie chart kind."
Frisk's smile only widened as they approached, holding out what Sans now recognized as fabric, old and frayed at the edges.
"Mom said if you're going out, to wear a scarf," they said, voice soft but steady.
"pfft," he snorted, eye sockets crinkling at the corners, "Your gonna cramp my style, pal."
"She said it'll keep your bones from locking up," they replied, face deliberately blank. Toriel let out a soft snort in the background, completely content to let her child bully her poor friend.
Sans winked back at tori, "Well pal, you can tell your mom that bones don't lock, they rattle. It's a whole different thing."
Frisk smirked but held out the scarf regardless, shaking it a little for emphasis.
When Sans reluctantly took it, the scent washed over him—cinnamon and firewood and something else that felt strangely like home. A home that wouldn’t be reset or taken away.
He didn't tie it properly. Just slung it over his shoulders, hands returning to his pockets with practiced nonchalance.
But he kept it on as a flash of blue took his place with a wave of his hand.
#
Grillby's on the surface wasn't what humans expected when they heard "monster bar." It wasn't the kind of place you stumbled into for a wild night, there was no neon sign screaming its name, no rowdy crowds spilling onto sidewalks. Just a modest storefront with tall windows that glowed amber from within, and a small hand-painted wooden sign with a simple flame icon.
When Grillby had moved his establishment aboveground, he'd carefully transported each piece of his Underground home, beam by weathered beam. With a few new upgrades of course. For example, the bar now has a basement for storage and an upstairs living area. The result was a place that existed somewhere between worlds not quite human, not entirely monster, but became somehow more welcoming than either.
Inside, the ceiling hung low with exposed wooden rafters that still carried the faint smell of Snowdin. The floor wasn't the polished concrete of modern cafés but worn hard wood that creaked in specific places, creating a map of footfalls that regulars knew by heart. Monsters claimed these familiar creaks were an intentional security system of sorts that let Grillby know exactly who had entered without looking up.
The booths were deep and padded in wine-red leather, the kind that invited you to stay a while. Each table had a little lamp—not electric, but a glass bulb of slow-burning magic, like captured candlelight. Every surface gleamed with the kind of clean that came from immense care. The bar itself stretched along one side of the room—hand-carved, its edges smoothed down by time and a hundred casual elbows. A vintage jukebox nestled in the corner exhaled soft jazz and soulful piano that seemed to rise and fall with the gentle cadence of conversation and the musical chime of well-worn mugs.
The menu, written daily on a chalkboard in that same elegant script, featured both human comfort foods and monster staples. Somehow, Grillby had mastered the art of making both equally satisfying, though no one could quite explain how a being made of fire could cook without burning everything to a crisp. The place always smelled like firewood, faint citrus, and something sweet, maybe cinnamon. Maybe something only Grillby could name.
It wasn't just a bar. It was his bar. It was home.
Tonight, the bar was quiet, its usual patrons starting to dwindle in numbers. Closing tabs and stepping out into cool night air. Sans didn't appear with sound. Just a shimmer, a flick of blue light near the bar's far edge, the last seat at the bar. And then he was there, hood up, hands stashed away in pockets, that same old slouch like gravity meant nothing and everything at once. The red scarf still hung loosely around his neck, a splash of color against his usual blue and white. A small dusting of snow that hadn't been there before clung to his shoulders, melting quickly in the warmth. The jukebox skipped a beat, as it always did when magic disturbed the air, before settling back into a slow jazz tune.
The other patrons barely noticed his arrival. They'd learned over the years not to question Sans's comings and goings years ago. A few humans, startled by his sudden appearance, started to say something, until the retired dog guards beat them to it, barking cheerful greetings from their usual card table.
Grillby didn't look up from his work. He just paused in polishing a glass, fire crackling softly at the edges of his face, the equivalent of a raised eyebrow. He set down his cloth, reached under the bar, into the low cabinet he only ever opened when the night was nearly over, and retrieved a small ceramic teapot; dark glaze, speckled with copper flecks reminiscent of tiny embers.
A matching cup followed, Grillby poured without asking. A steeped blend Sans couldn’t name, something floral with an earthy undercurrent, warm enough to soothe magic fray. No milk. Just a slice of something citrus curling on the rim, the oils from the peel releasing their scent as the hot liquid touched it.
Sans blinked. A flicker of genuine surprise lit in his socket. It was tea. Real, genuine tea at a bar, was being placed in front of him.
"You looking to add tea to the menu, G?"
Grillby gave a soft huff, the equivalent of a shrug. Smoke curled lazily where his breath should've been, spiraling up toward the ceiling beams. His flames burned a shade warmer, more of an amber than an orange, a color Sans had come to recognize meant amusement.
Sans huffed softly, “that a smile, or are you just warmin’ up the place?” Grillby tilted his head slightly. Not a word spoken, but the flame in his chest flickered a touch brighter.
Sans took the cup without questioning his old friend further. The warmth seeped through his phalanges, a pleasant counterpoint to the memory of frost-covered coffee on Toriel's porch. He buried his face in the scarf for a moment, breathing in the lingering scent of Toriel's home before taking a sip.
The tea was perfect, exactly what he hadn't known he needed. It tasted like quiet afternoons and camp outs with the kids. A small wisp of steam rose from the cup, curling around his face like a friendly ghost, drawing out the tension from his bones.
As the clock nudged past midnight, Sans slipped off his stool with a glowing blue rag that started wiping down tables—quietly, almost absently. Not that he'd ever admit he was helping. Chairs stacked themselves when Grillby wasn't looking. Glasses polished themselves in mid-air, floating just an inch off the counter with a faint blue glow.
One of the little magic lamps flickered, threatening to go out. Sans tapped it gently with a metacarpal, his eye flashing blue for just a moment. The light steadied.
Grillby didn't say anything. He just continued on like nothing out of the ordinary was going on. His flames crackling in what might have been appreciation. A comfortable silence settled over them. The kind of silence that wasn't uncomfortable. The kind that lets you breathe. The kind that felt like understanding.
By the time Sans stood to leave, his cup was empty, and the room was cleaner than it had been at opening. He stretched, exaggerated, bones cracking like knuckles. The scarf shifted with the movement, a reminder of warmth that went beyond temperature.
“Guess that’s my cue,” he said, half under his breath, “before I start settlin’ in and claimin’ squatters’ rights.”
Grillby looked up from the glass he was drying, the flicker at the edges of his flames warming just a shade.
“You know you’re always welcome,” he said, voice low and rough like charred wood, but gentle as an ember.
Sans paused; grin crooked, “heh. yeah, but if I hang around too long, you’ll start taxin’ me rent. or worse, askin’’ me to sweep.”
A small puff of smoke slipped past Grillby’s mouth. Amusement. Maybe even affection.
Sans’ fingers absently found the frayed end of the scarf, rubbing the worn fabric between thumb and forefinger. There was something grounding about it, a soft reminder that someone cared.
Sans opened the door just enough to let in a flicker of wind. Static danced on his fingertips. The shimmer of magic began to gather—
Then, a spark. A snap. And he was gone.
Just a warm teacup left behind, perfectly clean. And beside it, a folded paper.
Star-shaped.
Grillby picked it up carefully between glowing fingers. But he couldn’t bring himself to unfold it or throw it away. So, instead, he decided the star would be placed in a jar. An empty jar located behind the bar, for just in case.