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The Language of Blood

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You have never in your life wanted to slap fire, but here you are, hand raised and ready to smack this snarky fire elemental over the head.

“Are you fucking kidding me, why would you even agree to bet her on anything ? It’s Frisk! Frisk! Determined as fuck, dating Sans, that Frisk?”

Grillby’s mouth smirks devilishly as he dodges your hands. He catches them in his own, but you keep struggling against him.

You are fucking pissed .

“I’ve heard of her,” he says, half-assedly trying to keep you from smacking him into next century.

“She bet you she could drink you under the fucking table!”

“And I won.”

“You’re a bartender you piece of shit! Of course you did!”

Grillby has the gall to laugh. With an exasperated sigh you wrench your hands out of his and pull away, brushing off the bits of soot that just always seem to collect on your clothes around him. You haven’t worn white in months.

“And she’s currently puking her guts out in our bathroom and I’m the only one that’s not hungover in the house and can take care of her. You will collect your stupid friend and get out of my house.”

The orange flames of the fire monster’s body flare little flashes of blue as he laughs. “Of course. Where is Sans?”

You point empirically towards the couch facing the television. A single skeletal hand lifts and does a very limp-wristed wave to acknowledge he heard you.

“could be a lil quieter, y’know,” Sans grouses.

As much as you want to start speaking louder just to spite him, you’re not sure how to get ecto-puke out of the carpet so you fight the urge to jostle him further.

“He tried to tell me last night he could get her home no problem,” you say, marching over to the small pile of belongings that you’d gathered around the house that morning. “I knew something was up when they both started sending me Snapchats. Sans hates that app.”

Grillby holds out his arms for you to drape Sans’s blue hoodie over them, followed by the clothes he’d worn to the bar last night. Currently the pitifully posed skeleton is covered from the waist down in a pair of Frisk’s jeans and a shirt you think was leftover from a charity event at the embassy. Not that a shirt sporting the phrase Cookout 2041 - A ‘Bun’ of Fun! looks out of place on the master of painful puns. Especially not with the cartoon hotdog winking on the front.

“I’m gonna check on Frisk now. Let me know when you get this bag of bones home, will you? Papyrus has been in a right state all morning. I had to video-chat with him to calm him down. I guess Sans confessed some stuff on the phone to him last night-”

A mighty groan rolls up from the couch cushions.

“-and he was sure something awful happened,” you finish, ignoring the pathetic interruption.

You can’t find it in yourself to pity Sans his situation that much. He’s a grown-ass monster who can deal with the consequences of his bad decisions.

“I’ll text you when he’s home,” Grillby says.

There’s still a smirk in his flames and you know Sans will not get a reprieve on his trip home. Not that you disagree with that. You still can’t get the sight of ectoplasmic something violently filling a flower planter outside your house. Damn it, you’d just planted those last weekend and now, a disgusting purple mass had soaked into the soil. You still don’t understand how a skeleton monster can get drunk, let alone puke it all back up.

“Good. I’m going to take care of the girl that this miserable skele-baby should be.”

Grillby helps Sans into the car he’d asked for on his ride sharing app, and you don’t bother watching them pull away. You’ve got much more pressing matters.

The house is modest, a three bedroom ranch with two bathrooms. The latter is what you’re truly grateful for now. Frisk is currently taking up residence in the half-bath near the kitchen, face pressed into the cool ceramic of the tile floor. Her arm lifts towards the sink counter as you walk in but you stop that before it can go too far.

“Woah, there,” you say as you kneel down. You’re much gentler with your housemate than you were with her boyfriend. “Slow moves. Did you drink the apple juice I left in here?”

As much trouble as she got herself into, you are more pissed at the boys for letting her get this way; she can’t help but rise to a challenge. Too much determination.

Frisk nudges the empty apple juice bottle with her toes, her feet pulled up to her chest as she groans in pain. “I hate alcohol.”

“Yeah, me too, buddy,” you say, trying not to let too much bitterness rise in your throat from that. You settle to sit next to her, leaning against the sink cabinet as you stroke her hair away from her face. “Does Toriel have any magical monster candy fix for hangovers?”

“Nope,” Frisk says with extra popping emphasis on the ‘p’. “Stars, this is awful.”

“If you promise not to puke anywhere else I can help you stand up and - op, nope, okay.”

Mid-sentence Frisk lifted herself and the toilet seat in a single fluid motion. All you can do is hold her hair and rub her back until it’s over.

You are definitely slapping that fire monster the next time you see him.