Chapter Text
The static in your brain morphs into a high-pitched ringing in your ears and you curse, reaching up to rub at the back of your head. It’s still dark, but you can see little squiggles of color swimming before your eyes. You hear your name again, the tone one of concern and the voice now familiar. You squeeze your eyes shut tightly and hiss, “Shit, Papyrus, hi, sorry.”
You can hear the sound of furniture moving beside you, and Papyrus’s hand alights upon your shoulder. “THAT WAS A NASTY TUMBLE YOU TOOK, THERE.”
“Yeah, sorry,” you mutter, pulling away your hand to rub your fingers together. They don’t come back wet, so you don’t think you’re bleeding. “I forgot where the coffee table was, I guess.”
Papyrus hums, and after a moment’s hesitation he moves his hand to hold it out in offering. “I DIDN’T MEAN TO STARTLE YOU.”
“Oh, no, you’re fine, you didn’t–” His hand completely envelops yours when you bridge the gap between them, and you flinch. Shit. You sigh and allow him to ease you up and lead you to the couch, cheeks burning. The skeleton dwarfs you, but your reaction is unfair to this gentle soul. “Okay… Yeah, but that’s… That’s on me. You didn’t– it– it’s just been a long– it’s been… a lot.”
“IT’S OKAY. YOUR PUZZLE PIECES GOT ALL JUMBLED AROUND.”
“That’s one way of putting it,” you muse. You squint, letting your eyes adjust to the dark. It’s difficult to parse Papyrus’s expression; you’re unsure whether what you're seeing is actually there or if your brain is trying to make sense of such little detail, making patterns where it can. He shifts away a moment before pressing something into your palm. A piece of candy, judging by the texture and sound when you feel it out. You mumble a thank-you as you unwrap it and pop it into your mouth. It’s salty but also reminds you of pancake syrup. As the candy dissolves in your mouth you feel the Pop Rock tingling sensation in your scalp and your knuckle. It draws a wry chuckle from your lips. “That’s so weird.”
“BETTER?”
“Much. Magic is wild.” There’s a brief moment of silence between you, and despite the racing of your heart it feels comfortable. The adrenaline and absence of pain have you feeling a little weightless. Floaty, but in a way that doesn’t reignite your panic. “This is really happening, huh?”
“NYEH?”
“Us being here. Underground, er, in The Underground.” The couch is much larger than you, but when you draw your legs up onto the cushion you still tuck them beneath you so you don’t encroach on the skeleton’s space. You already feel small, and it feels reassuring to curl up this way. You’re not making yourself a smaller target, really; Papyrus has given you no indication he’d hurt you. But the behavior is an easy one to fall back on and puts you a little more at ease. “I know I’m not dreaming, it’s just…. I couldn’t have expected all this. It’s a lot to get a grip on. It’s so far removed from everything I expected my life to be, you know?”
“WHAT WAS IT LIKE?”
“My life?” You chuckle, your lip twisting into something wry and bitter. “I don’t think I should dump all that on you.” But, you think, Papyrus deserves something less dismissive. Something less closed-off. A little vulnerability would be fine; you just had to figure out where to stop before you overshared. “It was also a lot. Quill’s father and I… we weren’t the best people for each other. We drew out the worst in each other, and Quill was just stuck in the middle of it all. So I was in the middle of leaving Patrick, and he wasn’t happy about it. It was hard starting over, but I was trying.” You let your head fall against the backrest, your breath pushing slowly from your nose. “Who knows what he must be thinking right now. Though I guess that doesn’t really matter, anymore.
“It’s stupid, isn’t it? He was so awful to me, and I wasn’t much better in return. I shouldn’t care about how he feels in all of this. But I think about him hearing that we’re probably dead, and how horrified he must be. He would be, right?” You hope. If the roles had been reversed, you’re sure you would be out of your mind with grief. A knot tightens in your throat and you swallow. You’re absolutely oversharing, but despite yourself you can’t stop. “And I know there’s no point in regretting what happened. I’m here. Quill is here. But I could have stayed. I could have tried harder to fix things. I…”
Papyrus’s hand comes to rest on your shoulder, and whatever words you were trying desperately to weave together fall apart. “I DON’T THINK IT’S STUPID,” he says, his tone gentle. “SOMETIMES, BROKEN THINGS CAN’T BE FIXED. KNOWING WHEN TO PUT THEM DOWN AND WALK AWAY KEEPS YOU FROM GETTING HURT MORE."
“It’s just… I– I don’t know where things went wrong,” you insist, trying to… what? Explain yourself? Justify your actions? Identify this nebulous sense of loss and hurt for doing everything you’ve done up until this point? There’s an empty, aching pit in your chest, and through the pain the words continue to spill forth, each one stumbling over your lips and making them tremble. “I loved him. I– I still love him, and isn’t that just awful? To miss him, and want to keep trying, even after everything?”
The skeleton makes a soft shushing noise, and despite how weird it is to know he can make such a sound without lips, it’s not jarring. It’s odd, but the susurrations are familiar and comforting. “IT’S OKAY TO GRIEVE,” he murmurs, “THE LOSS OF WHO A PERSON COULD HAVE BEEN.”
And isn’t that a twist into the heart. Your breath shudders from your lips as you blink against the sudden sting in your eyes. Because that’s what you’ve been doing, isn’t it? For months now, you’ve been struggling with the loss of a happy marriage, a loving spouse, a caring father figure for your child. Someone Patrick stopped striving to be, a promise unfulfilled, potential spoiled. It hurts. It hurts so much, and there’s nothing you can do about it. You’ve lost the chance at a life with someone you loved, someone you thought you knew, and though you held on as tightly and for as long as you could, it had been merely sand between your fingertips. Rough, fleeting, the itch of it still on your skin long after it was gone. But you can’t gain closure from grieving someone who’s alive. “Papyrus…” Your voice is a near squeak, your throat is so tight. Your hand lands upon his and you pat it once before squeezing it tightly. “I… I don’t know what to say.”
“ANYTHING YOU LIKE,” he assures. “GOOD MEMORIES, BAD ONES. OR ABOUT OTHER THINGS YOU CARE ABOUT. I THINK YOU HAVE A LOT ON YOUR SOUL RIGHT NOW. NYEH.”
“Maybe? I mean… yes,” you hedge, your thumb shifting back and forth over bone, “that’s… true. I keep wanting to spin things around and say ‘hey, could be worse’, like what if I was leaving a pet behind? Or Quill ended up down here without me, or… you know, we actually died? I want to deflect, heh…. But that doesn’t make it easier; if anything it makes me feel worse, because then I feel guilty.”
The air between you is subdued but peaceful. There’s a certain kind of ease and tranquility to unloading your thoughts in the dark, tossing them into the ether. Except your stream of consciousness is not lost in the void. Papyrus shifts in the dark, you think, but he makes no move to pull away from your touch or get closer. The couch cushion dips a little, near where his knee would be if he turned to face you more, actively listening. You huff, bemused yet comforted. “I feel guilty,” you repeat, soft and somber. “Everyone on the surface has to think we’re dead now. My family, my friends, everyone’s dealing with that. I just saw my friend Tatum this morning, and now, ‘poof’. Never again. There are probably cops dredging the river, or maybe they’ve already done that. Someone’s got to be struggling with the idea of planning funerals. So much grief–” Your breath hitches despite yourself and you take a moment to hold it, then release it in measured slowness. “We’ll be missed. I hope. No, I know? Yeah… I know. I already miss them, so….
“Tatum, especially. I met them in school– in my first year of college– and we didn’t really click at first. I was actually friends with their roommate, and we got to know each other through him. And by the time that friendship fizzled out, we had grown on each other, you know? We had a lot in common, and our energies really balanced each other out. We ended up being roommates ourselves, for the rest of college. We focused on different things in our studies but were each other’s biggest supporters. Even after graduation, once they moved and I married Patrick, we made time to hang out and keep in touch. They adored Quill, too. …They, ah, they were actually the biggest help when it was time for me to leave. To the end, they’ve been the best friend I could ask for. And… now I’ll never see them again.”
That was going to be tough to reconcile. You were never again going to be able to text them a meme or call them at two in the morning to scream about the slow-burn romance you were reading. You’d never make them their comfort food after a bad breakup again, never be there to take care of their cat when they had to go out of town. They’d never make another quilt for you, never create chaos in the kitchen with Quill again, never make you delightfully greasy food after a night of bar-hopping. So many little moments were gone, and that hurt.
But it’s okay to grieve the could-have-beens.
“Thanks,” you murmur after a moment. “For listening. I didn’t mean to ramble so much.”
“I DON’T MIND.”
“Still. I bet I’m keeping y– wait.” Your thumb, which had been sliding idly back and forth over one of his knuckles for the past minute, pauses in its current arc. What is that? You grip his hand and pull it away from your shoulder, settling it instead into your cupped palms. “What on earth…?”
“WHAT IS IT?”
“Sorry. Your hand, it just… feels weird?” That’s not what you mean to say. That sounds rude, and you cringe; hoping he isn’t insulted, you quickly backpedal, “Not– Not weird, just not quite how I expect? It feels…” Curiously, you run a fingertip with a delicate touch along the length of a metacarpal. It’s smooth, but there’s a tingle that prickles at your skin ever so subtly. It’s something akin to the soothing buzzing sensation of having someone run their fingers through your hair, which is absolutely bizarre to feel at your fingertips. It almost reminds you of a chamois cloth. You gasp softly, elated. “It’s fluffy.”
“OH! YES!” The quietest snicker dances in the dark living room. “WE SKELETONS ARE VERY SOFT AND CUDDLY. AND FULL OF CALCIUM.”
A giggle hiccups from your lips and you grin, continuing to stroke the faint fuzz with all the care you would give a newborn kitten. It really is such a subtle texture, just enough to be noticeable but difficult to pinpoint in the brief moments of contact you’ve shared before. “Human skeletons aren’t this soft.” Curiosity urges you to press down a little and you’re rewarded when the bone gives a little. It’s not as elastic as human skin and muscle so it’s also tricky to perceive, but there’s definitely less rigidity. Like pressing your fingertip against thick EVA foam. It shouldn’t be as mesmerizing as it is. “We are full of calcium, though.”
Papyrus twists his hand and you stop, a quick apology already forming in your mouth, but instead of pulling away he settles in your grip with his palm up. It seems like permission to continue your exploration. Still, you hesitate. You know he’s humoring you with this, but are you crossing a boundary? Is he simply tolerating this to be polite? He probably is uncomfortable you’re poking and prodding at him like a child playing at being a scientist. His physiology is a far cry from your own, but that doesn’t give you any right to treat him like a novelty. Right? You chew your bottom lip, caught in a bit of a moral quandary. You don’t want to offend him; your intentions may be innocent, but the perception and the outcome are what’s important, here.
You’re just about to ask Papyrus if you should stop when his fingers curl, the tips of the long digits brushing against and tickling the inside of your wrist. You shiver at the sensation, not at all hating the way it radiates zephyr-like out from the point of contact like dandelion fluff in a light breeze. When he does it again, still gentle but with a more assured motion, you feel the winding tension in your shoulders unfurl. With an amused huff you return the favor, grazing your fingertips into the valley of his palm. The long bones there eventually coalesce against one flat mass, rather than the cluster of intricate osseous matter you expect to find. The carpals, you recall dimly from your anatomy lessons. Those bones are supposed to work together to provide flexibility for the wrist to move, but the absence of that delicate jumble of parts doesn’t hinder the Monster’s motor function at all. It’s a wonderful dichotomy, blunt form and elegance rolled into one.
Fascinated, you dip the pad of your middle finger between the joint of the carpal and two of his fingers, intending to follow the gap with your touch. Papyrus squeaks, twitching in your loose hold as a vibrating tingle rushes up and bursts along your skin and nerves. Though it isn’t painful, it’s intense enough to jar you; you pull back, feeling the phantom buzz follow with you.
Papyrus laughs, the chatter sounding at once startled and delighted. “THAT TICKLES!”
“Oops!” Your own laugh is breathless. You roll your fingers against your own palm, trying to smooth away the popping and tingling. It’s not nearly as strong, you think, but it’s still that feeling you get when magic disperses through your body after you eat. That makes sense, really. What else could be holding him together without muscle and sinew, if not magic? You lower your hand again, touch light, but he doesn’t pull away. Your other hand, which only loosely cupped his bones to hold them aloft, shifts; you thread your thumb into the curve between his own and the rest of his hand, only mildly surprised when he flexes the digit to rub slow circles against your skin.
This is nice. It’s unobtrusive. You’re cradling his hand in your own, allowed to indulge your own curiosity in the dark with only the sound of soft breaths between you both, and he’s free to do the same. It feels innocently intimate. Relaxing. You sigh softly, a slow soothing exhale that leeches away the remaining tension within you.
“It’s too bad,” your murmur, tracing along his phalanges. Now that you’ve unloaded the gloom fogging up your heart and mind, your thoughts begin to turn toward more productive avenues. There’s nothing you can do about how you ended up here, but you can make the most of it. Your future may be limited now, and in ways you couldn’t ever predict, but you still have one to make the most of. “I don’t think there’s any way I could put together a disguise to realistically look like one of you. Skeletons, that is.”
“YES! THAT! MIGHT NOT BE POSSIBLE.” Papyrus hums. “I HAVE SEEN NO ONE ELSE LIKE US. ALTHOUGH! I’M SURE THERE ARE MORE! POSSIBLY.”
“Really?”
“MM. SANS SAYS THERE WEREN’T MANY OF US TO BEGIN WITH. AT LEAST WHEN THE BARRIER WAS ERECTED. AND AS ILLUSTRIOUS AND COOL AS WE ARE, OUR POPULATION HAS STILL DECLINED. FOR. MANY REASONS.”
There’s more to be said, you know. There’s a story there, but you can hear the ache in his tone, just under the surface. The dodgy way he presses out the last few words, as if silently asking you not to press. You oblige, side-stepping that avenue of conversation. “It would be best if I manufactured a look that was more likely to blend in. Something common, or a blend that makes sense. Monsters have such a wide range of features. Maybe something ape-like would work, but….”
It makes sense. You could create a disguise that twists your current physiology with your far distant ancestors and your distant cousins on the evolutionary tree. You mull it over, rolling it around in your head and testing the feel of the idea. “It feels like a bad idea to stay in a similar ballpark, biologically speaking. Like tempting fate. You know?”
“YOU WOULD BE SAFE UNLESS YOU HAVE A BALL AND WON’T SHARE IT,” the skeleton teases. At least you think he’s teasing, and not simply misunderstanding you. His playful drumming against your wrist makes you lean toward the former. “ALTHOUGH! I ALSO DO NOT RECOMMEND BONES IN THE BALLPARK!”
And doesn’t that bring up some interesting questions? Your nose crinkles and you can feel the apples of your cheeks tighten as your grin. “Okay, so not a Skeleton, and not anything ape-like. I have a feeling anything furry would be a pain to try to replicate anyway, not to mention hot in general. Nothing I’d want to try enduring long-term. Feathers would be fun. I’ve always loved birds. But I think I’d run into the same issue as with fur.”
“OH! SCALES, THEN? AND FINS! OR GILLS. FISHY OR MUSHROOM-Y.”
“That sounds a lot more workable. Tricky still, but workable.” You rock your shoulders up and down in an excited seesaw. “Hey, I know it’s late, but do you think I’d wake anyone if I turned on the lights in here? Maybe we could brainstorm a bit.”
“YES! WE CAN DO THAT.” Suddenly your hands are empty and you can feel a rush of air. Part of you wonders how Papyrus is so energized this late at night, but then, so are you. Whether it’s the aftereffects of adrenaline or the company you can’t say, but you feel somewhat giddy when the Monster returns and plops down onto the couch, making the cushion bounce. With a flourish he pulls a pencil and pad of paper from seemingly nowhere, cackling softly. “NOW, LET’S PUZZLE THIS OUT!”
In the light you can see the way his brow bones shimmy slightly with emphasis and you snort. Puzzle wordplay, huh? How on earth did this big doofus scare you, earlier? You pluck the items from his grip with a pleased thank-you and settle back to sketch out a few simple busts to use as the basis for all of your ideas. Full-body designs can be done when you’ve decided on something more concrete. “Scales, horns, and tails should be relatively easy to incorporate into something functional,” you muse, jotting those keywords in the corner. Next to them you add another short list. “Frills, gills, and fins might be harder. We’ll have to be more strategic in placement, especially if we’re working with limited materials.”
“NO NEED TO WORRY! SANS AND WINGDINGS CAN HELP WITH PIECING IT ALL TOGETHER. THEY’RE VERY SKILLED. IF THE LAB DOESN’T HAVE WHAT YOU NEED, IT CAN BE MADE!”
“I don’t know about that. Well…” Your brow furrows as you consider. You tap the paper thoughtfully before continuing your rough draft of saurian facial features next to a draconic face. You itch to erase and try to fine-tune already, but force the impulse down. It’s more important to get as many ideas down as you can, first. Still, you’re careful to craft the nostrils in a way that makes them look slitted at an angle. If you can’t hide it, accentuate it. “It is true that there’s a lot of viable machinery and furniture down here. More than should be possible if it’s only washing up through the river. With some creativity I could craft horns. But I can’t see how certain prosthetics and makeup would be safe to use after being dumped. It’s a big concern. And unless the lab has a reason to try synthesizing the materials…”
“DON’T WORRY. REALLY.” A nudge into your shoulder jostles you slightly. “LEAVE IT TO WINGDINGS. OKAY?”
“Heh… okay.”
Incorporating mushrooms gets axed pretty quickly. There are an infinite amount of mushrooms to choose from, but the general forms are a hassle to put onto your body in a seamless and artful way without either making you look diseased or inducing a general sense of unease upon looking at the design.
You play around with insectoid features and admittedly go overboard with the aesthetic. The next attempt at a more piscine form turns out much more cohesive and speaks to the ethereal beauty of a sea nymph, but the accessories needed for the look are far too large. With your luck you’d bump into them or knock them around during your day-to-day.
You scoot closer and explain your process aloud to Papyrus as you work, along with your concerns about each design and the overall durability and convenience of each piece. He hums and nods where appropriate, his expression uncharacteristically still and considering. After your fourth design is on the page he leans in, pressing against your side and gesturing at the pencil. “CAN I?”
“Oh– uh– sure?” His proximity and the pressure of his body against yours, as casual and unassuming as it is, catches you off guard. There’s a hitch in your breath and a sudden hyper-awareness crawling over your skin. You swallow it down, feeling silly. He’s not focused on you at all. His large, slender hands take up the pad and pencil, and with quick certain movements he lays out a new design for consideration. Before you is a blend of draconic features with smaller horns sprouting from your hairline and large scales blending down into the smooth central features of your face. The insect features are left merely as silhouettes in the way he’s depicted finned ears and high cheekbones. In a word, it’s gorgeous. You say so with an awed breath. Papyrus is a brilliant artist. Who knew?
He hands everything back to you, a flattered expression on his face. A swath of pastel pink appears underneath his eyes, surprising you. Is that…? He can blush? “NATURALLY,” he says, though the tone comes out quite shy.
You bite back a laugh and relax into the couch again, taking his draft into consideration. “This is something I can really build upon! Thanks.” Now to figure out just where to tweak things and finalize a design. “Have you considered doing something artistic for a living?”
“DEFINITELY NOT.” His response is swift and chipper. “I MAY BE AN ARTISTE, BUT I DO NOT WANT TO MONETIZE MY SKILLS WHEN I USE THEM TO RELAX! THEN IT WOULDN’T BE RELAXING. IT WOULD BE TIRESOME!”
“I see your point, there. There’s this saying about doing what you love as a job and never working a day in your life, and while I agree to an extent… burnout is the worst.” You shrug. “Personally, I would love to be able to live off my skills. I get it, though.” It was why you’d gotten a degree in the fine arts, after all. In the end there were so many factors that worked against you, the dream slipped through the pipes. With the way things were still going you doubt they’re salvageable. “I’m guessing you feel the same way about… er, puzzles?”
You’re very sure that your idea of what a puzzle does and doesn’t constitute is different from Papyrus’s definition. You’re not sure you want to know the difference, either. You purse your lips, rearranging the horns and making them even smaller, blending them and the scales into the ridge of forehead and temple.
“ACTUALLY! THAT WOULD BE NICE. I THINK.” Papyrus shifts in what you can only assume as a shrug, and such an uncertain gesture already feels unnatural; it clashes with the bombastic energy you’ve seen from him all day. You glance at him from your periphery with an encouraging noise before returning to your sketch. “I DO LIKE PUZZLES! THEY’RE ENGAGING! AND I’M BRILLIANT AT THEM! IF I PUT IN THE REQUEST I COULD MOST EASILY GET A JOB AT THE CORE!”
“Why don’t you, then?”
“NYEH… WINGDINGS BUILT THE CORE. AND WHILE I HAVE THE WIT, THE SAVVY, AND THE HUMILITY TO DAZZLE THEM! I DON’T WANT TO CAST A… FAMILIAL SHINE.”
“Huh… You mean you’re worried it would be nepotism?” At his agreeing groan, you shake your head. Your first instinct is to tell him you don’t think he has to worry about something like that, especially if he lets his own skills speak for themselves. That’s what you begin to say, but ultimately decide that’s dismissive of his concerns. You mull over how to respond as you draw a small set of fins where your ears would be. A second layer accompanies them, and it’s a nice choice; it doesn’t add to the visual noise. “I think it’s admirable, wanting to make your own way. Your brothers seem to be well-respected in their field just from what I’ve heard and seen so far, so I understand not wanting to ride their coattails. They also seem to care about you very much. There’s no rush to figure it out, right?”
“THAT’S WHAT SANS SAYS. I THINK HE’S INCORRECT. HE’S TAKEN CARE OF US FOR SO LONG, AND WINGDINGS WORKED HARD TO GET WHERE HE IS. I DON’T WANT TO SIT AROUND AND BOONDOGGLE WHEN I COULD CONTRIBUTE!”
“Sans took care of you?”
“YES! IN OUR LAST FEW YEARS OF SCHOOL. OUR PARENTS FELL, AND HE STARTED A JOB WHILE THE THREE OF US FINISHED OUR EDUCATION. (I THINK HE WAS WORKING MORE THAN HE SAID. HE WAS ALWAYS SO TIRED.) WINGDINGS WORKED HARD TO ACCELERATE HIS LEARNING, AND HE GRADUATED A FEW YEARS EARLY WITH SANS. I WAS VERY PROUD WHEN THEY WENT TO COLLEGE! WINGDINGS EVEN GOT A SCHOLARSHIP FROM THE ROYAL FAMILY! BUT THEY WORKED THEMSELVES TO THE BONE.” His soft rattle of a laugh draws your gaze up. The pun was low-hanging fruit, and you both know it. His amusement seems muted, but genuine. Though he was talking about what had to be some really hard years, he was being candid about them. Fondness laced his voice and softened the hard planes of his face. “OUR HOME WAS ALWAYS A MESS, AND NEITHER OF THEM WERE GOOD AT REMEMBERING TO FEED THEMSELVES. SO I MADE SURE THEY ATE AND KEPT THINGS TIDY. THEY POWERED THROUGH, AND HERE WE ARE! THEIR HARD WORK PAID OFF.” He shrugs. “SANS SAYS WE DON’T NEED ANYTHING MORE, SO ‘WHY WORK IF YOU DON’T HAVE TO’. BUT THEY TOOK CARE OF ME! IT’S MY TURN TO TAKE CARE OF THEM!”
It clicks, then. Papyrus fears he might be a burden to his brothers. Talk about an echo of your own insecurities. There’s always that quiet reproach in your head, dark and tenacious, a venomous whisper that you could be doing more. You’re worth nothing if you’re not of use; if you don’t have anything to offer your loved ones, they’ll eventually get tired of your presence. “It sounds to me like you already have,” you murmur, idly swirling in some cosmetic markings– a nice final touch to your sketch. It’s perfect for your needs, but you can’t find the satisfaction in it; you listlessly toss the pad of paper onto the coffee table. “Cooking, cleaning, shopping, running the necessary errands to keep your home afloat– all of that is a job in itself. You were barely an adult, and you were a caregiver. Don’t sell yourself short.”
“ME? SELL MYSELF SHORT? DON’T BE SILLY, EXTRA MONEY DOESN’T MAKE YOU SHRINK.” You snort, your nose wrinkling and your smile comes out as a cringe. Humor as deflection has never been your favorite defense tactic, and that attempt was just so… bad.
“Seriously, Papyrus. All that stuff is important. You were looking after their best interests while they focused on other– just as important– things, and you kept them alive.”
The Skeleton straightens, whether bolstered by your words or jolted by your sharp elbow to the wing of his ribs, who’s to say. “TELL ME ABOUT IT! THEY’D BE HELPLESS WITHOUT ME!” He huffs and tilts to head down to get closer and give you a shifty, almost conspiratorial look. “I’LL HAVE YOU KNOW, ONE TIME I WENT TO DO THE LAUNDRY AND FOUND SANS INSIDE THE WASHER.”
The image punches a startle laugh from you. “What?”
“IT’S TRUE! APPARENTLY HE WENT TO GO CLEAN HIS LAB COAT BUT HE WAS WEARING IT, AND HE WAS SO TIRED HE JUST… PUT IT IN THERE. SANS AND ALL.” Papyrus’s laughter is soft but hearty enough to shake him, and by extension, you. “HE DIDN’T THINK ABOUT HOW HE WAS GOING TO TURN IT ON FROM THE INSIDE! SO HE TOOK A NAP INSTEAD.”
“Oh, my god,” you breathe, quaking from your own repressed giggles. A yawn breaks free, amplifying the jitter in your bones and releasing your mirth for him to hear. “Please, tell me it was a one-time thing.”
“NOPE! WELL. THE LAUNDRY THING, YES. FINDING SANS ASLEEP IN WEIRD PLACES, NO.”
“Now I have to know. Share, share!” And so he does. He’s eager to talk about his brothers, whether he’s praising them or dishing the embarrassing stuff clearly doesn’t matter. It’s all in good fun, and with every anecdote you’re drawn in deeper, asking for another. The brothers share a tight bond through circumstance and steadfast devotion, and it warms your heart to hear the love pouring forth with every playful word. So when sleep finally claims you it does so like a thief in the night, whisking your consciousness away. The next time awareness returns to you in the early hours of the morning, you find yourself curled up on the couch with an enormous fluffy blanket dutifully tucked around you and the beginnings of a smile pulling at the corners of your mouth.
