Quiet Hands (part 1)

Sans opened his eyes, sitting up from where he was slumped on the couch. Something was different this time, something was wrong. Usually when Frisk charged home from school, hands moving so quickly their signs blurred together like ink and water, they threw the door open with such eager forced that it often rebounded off the wall. Now, however, there was the softest hushhh of wood on carpet, the faint tap of a shoe, and then the heavy thud of a backpack falling to the floor.

"Frisk?"

There was no answer, no quick smack of palm against the wall to let him know that Frisk had heard him, no cheerful whistle, no hurried patter of little feet running toward the couch. Sans waited, listening harder and glancing at the clock. 3:30. Fifteen minutes later than usual. He heaved himself to his feet and walked down the hall, turning the corner to see Frisk huddled against the wall, tears streaming in twin rivers down their cheeks and dripping onto their knees.

"Kid, what's wrong?" Sans pushed the door closed and crouched in front of them with a frown.

Frisk shook their head and shoved their forehead against their knees, their hands curled into pale-knuckled, trembling fists.

Sans picked up their backpack with one hand and wrapped his fingers around their upper arm, pulling them gently but insistently to their feet. "Come on, let's go away from the door."

Frisk allowed him to lead them toward the couch, immediately resuming their balled-up position upon sitting down. Sans dropped beside them, watching their shoulders shake with the force of their muffled sobs while their hands remained unnaturally still—there were no half-formed letters or signs of frustration, no anxious stimming or fluttering fingers—and now there was fear mingling in the pit of his stomach, boiling like oil through the rising tide of anger. Who or what had dared to hurt his kid this badly?

Sans draped his arm around Frisk's shoulder in a loose invitation, waiting for them to shrug it away or move closer. Sometimes they didn't want to be touched, and he understood that. This time, however, they immediately turned and buried their tear-streaked face in his chest, crying harder. He held them quietly, one hand drifting in a lazy path up and down their back, his bones whispering softly against the fabric of their sweater. He had to make a conscious effort to keep the tightness out of his body, shoving his anger and distress down into the darkness for fear that it would result in an empathetic surge from Frisk and overload them even more. He didn't want them to put a clamp on their own issues to try to fix his.

It took another few minutes for Frisk to cry themselves out, their heaving shoulders growing still and the tension leaking out of their small frame as their breathing slowed to a shuddery sort of normal.

"You wanna tell me what happened, kid?" Sans asked quietly, and his horror grew more profound as Frisk's face contorted. They didn't start crying again, and he watched, dumbstruck, as they strained as though struggling with something caught in their throat. A small, wordless noise, a weak gasping whimper, fell into the charged air and a devastating expression of blackest despair flung itself across their features. Frisk plunged their trembling hands into their hair, knotting it around their fingers in frustration.

Sans reached out and took their wrists, carefully easing their hands back down before raising his hands. What happened? His signing was slow, faltering, but he was learning. The motions seemed to drive Frisk to a boiling point and they exploded into a flurry of motion, their hands flying faster than he had ever seen them move, almost violent in their rage and frustration.

I was signing to introduce myself and the teacher Mrs. Harris (their fingers flashed to spell out H-A-R-R-I-S before introducing a name-sign of the letter H and the universal motion for 'up-yours', their left palm slapping down onto their bicep with an audible smack) was staring at me and then later on I was signing to answer a question about my family and I said I loved them and I spelled your names and she asked where I came from and I said Mount Ebott and she made me write it down because she couldn't understand what I was signing and she made a weird face and said I was THAT kid and then later on she told me that I have to use "quiet hands" (Frisk's air-quotes were so heavy that they nearly formed fists) because my signs are distracting and she made me keep my hands in my lap the whole day and I wasn't allowed to talk and then she said later that she's going to arrange for me to take speech therapy classes so I can fit in with the other kids and so they won't make fun of me because I'm different and I told her I didn't want to and then she said to use my words and I hate her I hate her I hate her I HATE HER!

Frisk buried their face in their knees again, just in time to miss the flare of icy blue that bloomed through Sans' eye like fire over dry grass. The hand that wasn't holding Frisk close had curled into a fist and he was struggling against the surge of magic he had instinctively drawn to him, nearly overwhelmed by the urge to annihilate this Mrs. Harris.

"Do you want to take speech therapy?" Sans asked, clenching his jaw and failing to keep the furious tremor out of his voice.

Frisk half-raised their head and shook it violently, scrubbing at their tears with the heels of their hands.

"Then you won't."

But she's the teacher and she said I have to! Frisk hung their head, their shoulders sagging with miserable defeat.

Sans reached out and placed his fingertips under Frisk's chin, lifting their tear-streaked face so their eyes met, watery brown against glowing white. "Listen to me, Frisk," Sans said seriously, keeping his hand in place. "She may be your teacher, but you're my kid. And if she wants to impose some stupid ableist agenda, I'll give her a bad time."

Don't hurt anyone, Frisk signed, and Sans felt a hot pain sear across his heart like a brand.

"There are other ways of solving problems than resorting to violence," he said, ruffling their hair. "Although I think Mrs. Harris could learn from a blaster, I promise you I won't do anything like that. Okay?"

Frisk nodded, wiping their eyes on the hems of their sleeves.

Sans took them by the shoulders. "Toriel told me that there's a PTA meeting tomorrow," he remembered aloud. "I'll go to that and I'll make sure Mrs. Harris understands that she's wrong. Your signs aren't disruptive, and that you don't need to be fixed."

Frisk reached up and put their arms around his neck, leaning their temple against his collarbone. He hugged them back, wondering what he had just signed himself up for. Humans weren't afraid to hurt or to kill—hell, they were eager to do it. But they had made a mistake when they had come after Frisk.

Holy hell, they had made a mistake.