Just me and my serial killers

Chapter 9

Sans is having a problem. Seeing Frisk brought up issues he hadn't even realized he had until they were thrust into his face. Unavoidable. Spongy messes of morals and internal debate. And he hates how, despite not having thought about her in months, Oliva somehow keeps coming back full force.

She's a representation of his fucked up life. Of hypocrisy. Of feeling guilty over one and not over hundreds of others. He needs to confront their bodies if he wants to live this life. He needs to confront Oliva, in a way. Oliva and Frisk. He has to let these feelings exist, and sit down and deal with them.

So, Sans tries something new. He sits down. And he writes. He answers. He explains.

Why does Frisk dying make him upset? Happy? Scared?

- It means that the person who hurt him so much died so easily. It reminded Sans of their mortality. That his entire life was ruined by someone who just... was a child. And that hurt to admit.

-They're gone. He's free.

-It means there's someone else out there, and they could be worse. And... it's making him confront how fucked up it is that he's so darn happy a kid is gone. And it's making him confront how he enabled people to do this, and would do so again in a heartbeat.

Sans still doesn't feel like he's getting anywhere. So, with a huff, he erases until his wrist aches and he starts over again.

What's the difference between Oliva and the other victims that makes her important?

He sits on that one, for a while.

There's the obvious. She was under his supervision. He watched it happen. She died brutally. She was a kid. Yet she was different than...

Maybe it's because it happened when Sans was still connected to the idea of lives were important?

He doesn't know. Fucking hell.

Sans has known all along this is fucked up, that this is wrong, and that he is an enabler who is just as guilty. So why the fuck did Frisk's funeral bring about all of this? He hates it.

Do you want to become a CreepyPasta?

He does. And he doesn't. It's... complicated. Then again, that's this whole situation. It's all complicated, and that's why he's struggling. He can't quite find the words to perfectly explain his situation.

"You might not get your feelings," Jane explains one day, setting a cup of coffee down next to Sans with a gentle click that breaks him from his thoughts. Her expression is stern and soft. Gooey, almost. "That's okay as well."

"It... it's still weird, ya know?" Sans coughs out.

Jane stares. "Sans, you're a parent of two newborns, neither of which is a year old yet. You're the sole caretaker of about a dozen serial killers you have to constantly be worried about. You're in a neighborhood you don't want to be in, and you're juggling three relationships. And you dealt with resets and experiments on your own, along with being a Judge in your past and also wanting certain people who hurt you dead. You just went to the funeral of one of your main tormentors and saw old friends you're estranged with. Sans, if there's anyone in this fucking world who can have conflicting standards you have to face, it's you. It's okay." She kisses his skull lightly. "Now drink your dumb coffee, write in your notebook, and go play with Cole and Bean."

He does. He listens to her advice and writes until things can maybe one day make sense.

It doesn't. But it helps him get a somewhat decent handle on his emotions, he supposed.