How would Farmer Sans handle hearing that MC was sick? Maybe they usually meet up a certain time while managing their morning chores and they’re just.. not there, only for him to later find that they’re bedridden
"hey, pumpkin."
The sound of Sans' voice, regardless of how soft it was, made you panic.
You sat bolt upright from your spot curled into the couch, jolting out of your strange fever dream. A cooling pack fell off your head, and a blanket you didn’t remember grabbing slipped from your shoulders to your lap.
Immediately, you could tell that you weren’t on your home couch. You didn’t recognise the blanket someone had tucked you under. You weren’t cold, you couldn’t smell the usual mix of dust and gradually fading damp - in fact, there were many wonderful scents mingling in the warm air, soup and tea and a sweet bread aroma that made your stomach rumble.
It certainly wasn’t where you expected to wake up, after you fell asleep in front of the dodgy TV once the painkillers finally kicked in. This was someone else’s couch. And after a few bleary moments, you recognised it all.
... It was Sans’ couch. You were in his house.
You looked up a little to see the man himself, as handsome as ever, leaning over the back of the sofa and looking at you. A gentle flicker of relief passed over his face.
“rise and shine,” he said, voice as warm as the room. “how’re you feelin’?”
Huh?
...
Your eyes widened. "S-Sans!?"
Bad decision. At such a sudden vocalisation, your body decided that was the perfect moment to send you into a horrendous coughing fit that made the inside of your throat feel like someone had gone at it with sandpaper.
Sans just put a big gentle hand on your back, letting you work through it, quiet as you hacked your lungs up.
Eventually the coughing eased off; once you had control of your body again, you turned your gaze back to him.
"Y-you...” Your cheeks were starting to burn. “why am I...?"
“you weren’t answerin’ the phone. i got worried.” As he spoke, you kept messing with your shirt, nervously pulling it down over yourself. “came to check on you, an’ you were totally out of it, could barely answer me. i had to go work, but figured i should bring you somewhere me an’ pap can keep an eye on you.”
... Oh no. You put your hands over your face, slowly getting quieter and quieter as the situation dawned on you. “Y-you really didn’t need to...”
“course we did. ain’t safe for you to be so sick all on yer own.”
This was a nightmare. Now, on top of being sick, you were absolutely mortified at Sans seeing you in this state. Tired, achy, sweaty... you were dressed in a stained old shirt and pyjama pants, visibly unshowered and pretty much as ungroomed as one could get. You distinctly remembered throwing stuff on your floor before you fell asleep, too weak to get up and go put it in the garbage - empty blister packs and used, crumpled tissues. Did he see all your dirty trash when he came to find you?
You wanted to melt into the couch. He had seen you delirious and ill, at your absolute greasiest and grossest. Stars, what did he think of you now?
“I-I’ve been out for hours?” you asked.
“mhm.”
Your whole world was coming down around your ears. Why couldn’t Sans have just let you die at home, where no one would see your shame?
“you didn't tell me you were sick,” he said, so quietly you almost didn’t hear. There was a strangely... sullen edge to his tone?
Your face was on fire. You had already intruded so much on him and his brother’s kindness over the last few weeks. Sans had repaired your stove and water pipes, bought you fresh food from the farm, helped fix a leak in the roof, not to mention when you asked him to stay the night like you were a frightened baby. Now here you were; being sick and disgusting right in the middle of his house.
Before he could say anything else, you pushed the blanket off you, swinging your legs over the side of the couch and scrambling to your feet.
“I-I should get home,” you said, hoarse.
Immediately, Sans’ brows raised. You didn't look at him for long, walking unsteadily and trying your best to concentrate on not tipping over.
“I’m so sorry to intrude. I’ll just-”
... Your feet went out from underneath you.
You squeaked, loudly - but Sans didn’t care, he scooped you up like you didn’t weigh a thing. To him, you probably didn’t weigh a thing. You could feel his massive strength through his clothes, and you immediately knew that if he wanted to, he could’ve thrown you straight into the air like a child.
You couldn’t tell if it was the height that was dizzying, how close your face was to his, or if you were just way weaker right now than you realised. But immediately your hands balled in his shirt.
"... easy," he murmured, one arm under your thighs. "i don't bite."
... Your face filled with so much heat it felt as if the tips of your ears were going to set alight. You tried to say something, but when you opened your mouth, literally nothing came out. Not a sound. All you could do was hold on to his shoulders.
Sans’ voice became normal again, jokingly stern. “sorry. not goin’ anywhere on my watch, pet. you need to rest. look at you - yer burnin' up.”
Your whole body had tensed up. But not out of fear. You just stared into his eyelights.
He very gently sat you back down onto the couch, putting the cold pack into your hands. “you stay right there, ok? i’ll getcha some soup. it should be ready by now.”
"O-ok," you helplessly replied.
Sans moved away, disappearing into the kitchen.
...
There wasn't much else you could do, but lay down and put the cooling pack back on your head... trying to figure out how to make your heart slow down.
619 notes
·
View notes
Steddie Drabble, TW: child abuse.
Initially, Wayne doesn’t care for Steve. Calls him “the Harrington boy” or “Richard’s son” with contempt, asks if “Richard’s son” is coming over for dinner again and Eddie just rolls his eyes and says “yes, Wayne, STEVE is coming over at 7.” Wayne doesn’t like him because…well, he’s not stupid to judge a book by its cover, he thinks.
But the fifth time Harrington comes over, he brings a bouquet of flowers, and Eddie, well, his cheeks are redder than the spaghetti sauce Wayne’s been stirring, so that’s something.
And then the sixth time Steve comes over, he brings Wayne a Garfield magnet. It’s small, “found it at the thrifty mart with Robin, I’m sorry it’s not brand new…” Steve mumbles, and Eddie is wide eyed and smiling, and Wayne LOVES Garfield. He puts it on the fridge, pats Steve on the back, says “um, thank you son.”
They fall into a pattern, the three of them. Steve comes over for dinner every Friday night after work. He dresses clean and is polite to Wayne, helps with the dishes, sometimes brings bread rolls or licorice or beer or jokes. Eddie starts setting the table. Wayne starts laughing at the jokes. After Steve leaves, Wayne knows Eddie smiles himself to sleep. It’s different, now.
And then the next time Steve is supposed to come over for dinner, he doesn’t show. Eddie had been making macaroni and cheese all evening, grating the cheese carefully as he bopped his head to some metal song, cheerful, and then it was 7 and then it was 8 and then Wayne thought “maybe call him, Ed.”
Nobody answers. When they call again, nobody answers. And Wayne has a bad feeling about it.
It isn’t until almost 11, dinner cold and Eddie pacing, about to radio someone named Robin when Steve’s car pulls up, they know the lights so well. They run outside to greet him and Eddie freezes when Steve starts falling out of the drivers seat, face dark and pained. Wayne jumps into action. Wayne catches Steve and hauls him into the trailer, his living room, and oh god, he’s covered in bruises like he was put through Eddie’s cheese grater, and oh god, Eddie’s broken out into tears behind him.
Steve’s left eye is swollen shut, and his face is purple and bloody. His lip is split and his hair is wild, his shirt is torn, and Wayne wonders what’s underneath the shirt as he gets the first aid kit, wonders how the hell he thought Steven was anything other than an angel.
Eddie gets a dish towel wet in the kitchen and cleans Steve’s face, quiet and crying, and Wayne sets the first aid kit down next to Eddie and makes some coffee. He thinks about talking, doesn’t. Touches the Garfield magnet for good luck. He feels like maybe Steve needs it.
Steve who is holding Eddie’s wrist as he cleans him up, wincing and crying from his good eye. Finally, after a silence that gives Wayne heartburn, Eddie sits back on his heels and says whisper quiet, “your dad?”
Steve gulps, blinks. “My uh, my dad. I was writing you uh, uh a love note.” Eddie looks over at Wayne. Wayne wipes his brow. “But uh, he found it, and your name’s not uh, Edith” Steve lets out a chuff, winces again. “So he asked what was going on, and I told him. I told him. And then he said I had one minute to take it back or he’d make me take it back.” Eddie lets out a small gasp, more like a howl, and sits completely on the floor. Wayne sits down at the table, cold mac and cheese looking like a sick joke. And he’s so mad. Wayne is so, so mad, seeing this young man who so obviously loves his pride and joy, shares in his pride and joy, who brings him apples to make apple pie, he growls out
“Don’t you worry about a thing, Steven, not one thing. You stay here long as you like, hell, don’t leave. We got you, boy.”
And that’s that. Steve crumples in on himself, and Eddie pulls him into a big hug, just holds him, rocks him, coos “a love note, huh, sweetheart? For me?” And Steve nods until he nods off.
The next morning, while Robin takes care of Steve, Wayne and Eddie break into Steve’s room, clear out everything he owns, and slash his dad’s tires. That was Wayne’s idea - the least he could do for a loved one.
1K notes
·
View notes