Chapter Text
You're in hell.
This hellscape, this deadly area, this prison -- you have to get out. You know you have to get out.
You can't believe that they threw you in with a class of third graders.
Granted, you've just about finished with your undergrad degree in special education, and you're fluent with sign language. Of course the school hired you. They were even willing to overlook your lack of qualification; one of the incoming students was deaf, and none of the teachers would have known how to translate. Your adviser had boasted that you were the best in your class. There wasn't much sweet talking needed to get you the job at all, though. You were an immediate solution.
You remove your headphones as you enter the main office of the elementary school. The children would be getting off of the buses soon, and you aren't sure exactly what you should be doing or where you should be going. No one ever really specified what you should do.
"Oh, hello!" the receptionist greets you, drinking what must be her fourth cup of coffee judging by the amount of sugar packets on her desk. "Can I help you?"
"Yeah, hi." You approach the desk. "I'm _____ _____, and I'm starting today, working with a deaf third grader? I'm not really sure what to do or where to go."
"Oh, I have your ID card..." She pulls an ID on a long lanyard out of a drawer, which you put around your neck. "It's a good thing you came here. We could have had to hunt you down to give you that."
There's silence, where you only smile at her.
"Okay, um, all of the third grade classes are on the second floor," she continues. "Your class is 304, which is right... here." She circles the classroom on a small paper map.
"Thanks," you say. "I should really head up, then. The kids will be heading in soon."
"Have fun!"
You opt to take the stairs (no point in using an elevator to go up one floor). The map ends up being totally useless; you drop it in your bag and find the classroom considerably easier without it.
There's an older woman sitting at the desk in the front of the room that you've met before.
"Mrs. Anderson, hi," you greet her. She's honestly the cutest old lady you've ever met, with her long skirts and white hair pulled back in a bun.
She gives a wide smile when she sees you. "Hello, sweetheart! Are you ready for your first day?"
"As I'll ever be," you say, locking your bag in the closet at the back of the room.
"I met the child you'll be working with yesterday," she tells you. "Such a sweet child. Their name is Frisk. They/them pronouns."
She hands you a manila envelope with Frisk's student information. Sure enough, neither the "Male" nor "Female" box, but a handwritten one next to them that reads "Neutral" is checked. The only other thing written in the comments is the fact that they're deaf and prefer sign language.
"I'm so glad we were able to find you on such short notice," she goes on. "The poor child hasn't been in school for a while, but I've heard that their guardian has been keeping them occupied with homeschooling. They may even be a bit ahead of the rest of the class."
"I see," is all you manage to say.
You straighten up your desk, which is at the back of the room next to the cupboards, directly across the room from Mrs. Anderson's, as you hear children in the hallway. A flock of them enters, shrieking. One child, slightly smaller than the rest, lingers by the door. They're wearing a striped sweater. Mrs. Anderson gestures for you to head over.
The child furiously signs at someone on the other side of the door. You hear a low chuckle. You keep to a spot next to the door where you won't be able to see the person.
"don't worry, kid. they said they got you somebody that can sign," the owner of the chuckle says reassuringly.
The child sighs and turns as if they can feel your presence. They sign.
*"My name is Frisk. Are you my helper?"
You smile and sign back, "Yes. My name is _____. I'm happy to start working with you."
Frisk turns back to the door and signs (so you can see).
*"Her name is _____. She's pretty. You can go home now."
There's another chuckle, and Frisk waves before stepping into the classroom. They quickly find the desk with their name tag on it and sit down. You close the door as Mrs. Anderson clears her throat.
"Good morning, class," she announces. You take your place next to the white board where Frisk can see you and sign along, as is your job. "Today, we're welcoming two new members to the classroom."
She looks over to you, your cue to introduce yourself.
"Hi everyone! My name is _____," you say. And sign. "I'm the new classroom helper."
"What's the funny thing you're doing with your hands?" one boy calls out. "Are you pretending to be Naruto?"
You snort at the reference. "Ah, no. This is called sign language. If someone is deaf and can't hear words when someone talks, then they can learn how to talk with their hands. I learned how to do it, too, so I can help people understand the world around them."
Frisk is rigid in their seat. They look scared.
"Our other new friend," Mrs. Anderson cuts in, "is named Frisk. Frisk, why don't you stand up and wave hello?"
It takes a moment for you to finish translating the request, but Frisk eventually stands, visibly shaking, and waves.
"_____ is here because Frisk can't hear. Everyone, please be nice to them and show them how great our school is."
Frisk sits back down, eyes fixed on the top of their desk. Some of the kids murmur among themselves.
"NOW." Mrs. Anderson's voice is stern, and several kids jump. "Take out notebooks and pencils. Our first hour of the day is writing."
The morning passes quickly. Frisk seems to relax once no one has eyes on them. You help usher the class to the cafeteria, inwardly thanking the universe that Frisk brought a packed lunch so you wouldn't have to deal with lunch ladies.
You sit with Mrs. Anderson in the teacher's lounge, where the window overlooks the playground. You gaze out while you absently munch on a bagel.
"Don't forget," Mrs. Anderson says between sips of her tea, "that you're meeting Frisk's guardians after school today."
You recall that Frisk's file had three guardians listed.
"All of them?"
"I think only two. One is a very busy man."
"I see." You turn your attention back to the window. On the pavement, you see Frisk and a few other kids. You smile. They seem to be playing together.
Oh, oh no. One of the kids throwing a basketball at full force at the back of Frisk's head is definitely not playing. Frisk clutches their head. You know from experience that a basketball thrown that hard really hurts.
"Oh, shit," you hiss, standing and quickly heading for the door. Mrs. Anderson looks out the window and stands just as quickly.
Within seconds, you've sprinted out of the building and you're peeling children off of Frisk, who is now on the ground sobbing. Where the hell are the supervisors when you need them?! One kid manages to land a swift kick to Frisk's ribs before he's pulled away.
"What in the world do you think you're doing?!" you yell, helping Frisk to their feet. They wrap their arms around you and bury their face into your stomach.
"Do us a favor," the kicking boy spits. "Tell it that it's broken. Tell it that no one is gonna want to play with a broken toy."
You're taken aback, and you're ready to lose it on this kid when you hear Mrs. Anderson's distinct throat clearing.
"All of you, with me, now,” she growls, then turns to you. “Take care of Frisk.”
You nod and watch as she leads the offending children back into the building, leaving you with a very disheveled Frisk. You peel them away gently and kneel so that you’re eye level with them. They look up at you and sign with shaky hands.
*”They called me an it. They called me broken. I can read lips. I’m not stupid.”
You sigh and reply, “Are you okay?”
Frisk nods, their sobs slowing until they’re finally done crying. You wipe tears off of their face with your jacket sleeve.
*”You didn’t have to help. He would have dunked on them.”
Confusion washes over you. “Who would have dunked on them?”
Frisk points to the tightly clustered trees at the edge of the pavement. Nestled into the darkness, you can see a bright blue glow, lapping at the air like fire. There’s a fizz in the air that you hadn’t noticed through your rage. Magic. You stand and smile down at Frisk, signing your response, as well as saying it loud enough for whatever the source of magic is to hear.
“Well, he doesn’t need to worry about dunking on anyone, because I’m going to protect you, okay?”
Frisk nods vigorously, waves at the figure, and takes your hand. The bell signaling the end of break is ringing.
As you lead Frisk back to the building, the chuckle from earlier seems to echo around your head, followed by two words spoken in a low, menacing tone, right at the forefront of your thoughts.
“you’d better.”
*”Don’t be nervous! My guardians are super nice. You already met one today, kinda.”
That’s what scares you. You tap nervously on your desk. Mrs. Anderson promptly abandoned you at the end of the school day after wishing you luck. You had two rolling chairs pulled up on the other side of your desk, and Frisk was presently perched on top of your desk.
You know that magic meant monsters. It’s only been a couple of months since the barrier fell, and monsters are now everywhere. For all you know, that blue flame could have belonged to some kind of elemental (which you had only ever seen one of, tending a bar somewhere downtown). It’s not that you have a problem with monsters at all, it’s more of the fact that meeting new people was nerve wracking, and you haven’t had enough interactions with monsters to know what’s okay and what isn’t.
“Um, hello.”
You look up quickly, then stand even quicker. A large white goat woman is standing before you, dressed in a purple dress, smiling kindly. Next to her is a skeleton in a blue parka and basketball shorts, who is probably not much shorter than you. He has a lazy, knowing grin spread across his face.
“O-oh! Oh god! I’m sorry, hello!” You hold out a hand, which is immediately accepted between two large, warm paws. “Hi, I’m _____, Frisk’s... translator. You two must be...?”
Both monsters. They’re both monsters.
“I am Toriel, Frisk’s adoptive mother,” she says sweetly. “This is Sans, their guardian in case of emergency.”
“hey.”
Oh god, the voice from earlier.
“P-please, sit down,” you say. You watch as Toriel balances Frisk in her lap before you sit as well.
You decide to sign everything that you say, so Frisk can understand what’s going on. It’s only fair.
“I’m glad you guys could come out to meet me,” you go on, going through the spiel you had prepared. “I’m really looking forward to working with Frisk, and I want you to know that they’ll be safe--”
“you know,” Sans cuts in, and you swear you can see a blue glow in one of his eye sockets for a split second, “i hope you stick to your word, because if frisk gets kicked by another kid...”
“Frisk got hurt?!” Toriel gasps.
*”I’m fine!” Frisk signs in protest.
“Some of the kids were having... a hard time understanding Frisk’s being deaf,” you explain calmly. “They said some unsavory things, Frisk got hit with a basketball and a kick in the ribs, which is all I saw.”
Sans has a dangerous expression.
“They were all dealt with and sent home, and they won’t be back for a while,” you continue without breaking stride. “I took Frisk to the nurse to make sure everything was okay, and stuck close by for the rest of the day, to be safe.”
Toriel seems to relax a little.
“I have no tolerance for bullying,” you conclude. “I’ll see to it that nothing like this happens again.”
“i’ll be watching,” Sans mumbles.
“Do not mind him,” Toriel says, swatting his arm. “I am sure that you are more than capable of protecting and teaching my child.”
You smile at her, then get an idea. “You know what? Here’s my cell number...” You scribble it out on two small sheets of paper and hand one to each of them. “If you need anything or have any questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me. I know things are kind of hard on monster parents in this... school...”
You trail off and offer a sheepish smile, unsure of if you’d overstepped any boundaries. Toriel slowly reaches for your small notepad and your pen, taking them when you give her a small nod. She writes two phone numbers and writes a name next to each one.
“Here are ours. We will look out for you as well,” she says, and you know she’s being sincere. “We must be going. It was a pleasure to meet you.”
You say your goodbyes and wave them off. Once they’re gone, you add Toriel and Sans to your contacts. Not even a few minutes later, your phone buzzes.
Sans (4:18pm): thanks, kid. you’re ok.
You smile. At least he didn’t totally hate you, you guess. You fill out a brief report of your brief meeting to stick with Frisk’s file. Once the file cabinet is locked up, you get your bag from the other cabinet and eye your phone again.
It would be okay to text him back if he texted you first, right? Right. Just keep it professional.
You (4:21pm): I’ll do my best to make sure you don’t have to dunk on any third graders :P
Oh god oh no you aren’t texting your friends, _____, this isn’t professional the smiley with the tongue sticking out is totally not professional.
But you already hit send, so fuck it, right? Right.
Your phone buzzes. You’re filled with immediate dread.
Sans (4:23pm): thanks. wouldn’t want to expend any extra energy. you’re really lookin out for us. :P
He reciprocated the smiley, so it’s okay. It’s okay. You can stop panicking, you tell yourself.
Deep breath in.
You (4:24pm): It’s my job. Good to hear I’m doing it right.
Exhale.
You’re fine.
You lock up the classroom and sign out at the main office on your way out. For your first day, you think it was pretty alright. Aside from the playground incident, it pretty much went without a hitch.
You climb into your car and start it, enjoying the late afternoon air for a moment one you open the windows. It’s the middle of March, so it’s still a little chilly out, but you don’t really mind. It’s a nice contrast to the heated classroom.
Once home, your evening goes how it normally would -- you work on some stuff for university, you make some dinner (spaghetti, because you’re lazy), you curl up on the couch in your pajamas with your black cat, Neo, to watch some television.
You opt for the cooking channel (Chopped is on), and you settle in with a nice cup of tea.
It’s been a good day, you think.
Your phone buzzes a few times, scaring you.
Sans (8:43pm): sorry to bug ya so late
Sans (8:43pm): frisk wanted me to say goodnight to you
Sans (8:44pm): from them, not me.
You feel youself smiling like an idiot.
You (8:45pm): Goodnight, Sans.
You (8:45pm): Oh, and goodnight to Frisk, too.
Satisfied, you turn your attention back to the television, just in time to see it cut to enraging commercials.
Nope. No, your day is still good.
Eventually, you convince yourself to crawl into bed and get some sleep. Your phone buzzes, and you manage to read the text before you fall asleep.
Sans (11:58pm): goodnight from me, too.
You’ve never fallen asleep with a smile on your face before.