At long last we can get this show on the road. I've been fiddling with this AU for ages now so I'm glad I finally get to work on it properly.


"Are you going to keep this?"

Papyrus thrusts the box towards his brother, frowning when the mere movement blows up a cloud of dust. The normal, not-panic-worthy kind. Those days are over.

Sans looks at the assorted trinkets with vague disinterest. "I guess."

"That was actually a yes or no question." Papyrus mutters, putting the box of whatever-they-are into the 'maybe' pile.

A pile which, dare he say, is considerably taller than either the 'keep' or 'discard' piles are at this point.

It pains him to see, how could the great Papyrus ever allow his abode to become such a enormous mess? He guesses the entire immigration of their species to the above ground world, as well as a stop to what was essentially a time-loop that has left him in a bit of an existential crisis, could serve as an excuse.

Then again, maybe it couldn't.

"I'm assuming you want this?" Sans calls out, holding what for the longest time has served as a paperweight to his brother. It is, in essence, a particularly decorative rock.

"Assume makes an ass out of you and me." Papyrus answers, taking it for the trash. He hasn't managed to visit the store quite as often as he would like in the short year they've been living on the surface, only twice a day that is, but he's sure he can find something better to contain his papers than an upgraded pebble.

It's yet another relic from their previous life anyway.

The entire room, in fact, is filled with junk the two of them upheaved from their old home in Snowdin, but never managed to find a permanent spot for in their new house. For the longest time the stellar, shiny, dazzling ways of the surface had distracted them both from missing any of this stuff.

So, for the one year anniversary of their 'freedom' (And no matter what Frisk says Papyrus will still refuse to use that word without the air quotes) they decided to celebrate by taking out the trash.

And with they he means himself. Sans wasn't too keen on the idea, but not very keen on refusing much either so that worked out in the end.

"How did we even manage to collect so much useless crap to begin with." Sans says wearily, ignoring the way Papyrus frowns at the word he chooses to describe their items. "There's only two of us, there's enough clutter in here for an army."

"We're hoarders." Papyrus decides, throwing away an incredibly bend coat hanger.

His brother is occupying himself with folding stray papers into air planes and aiming them into the trash bag. His proficiency tells Papyrus this isn't the first time he has done this. "We were hoarders."

"You say that, but I've seen your room, Sans."

He gets over to the back of the basement, where there's something big covered in tarp just standing around in the corner. Pulling off the cloth reveals the (not-so) mystery machine his brother always kept in the (not-so) hidden room behind their house in Snowdin.

Papyrus has seen it before. Sans even invited him to help him figure it out, timelines ago, but it has been a while since that. It looks older now, rusty around the edges and clearly still with pieces missing.

His bother hasn't fixed it.

He runs one hand along it, the grooves are foreign to him, yet radiate with a weird kind of familiarity that remind Papyrus of why they locked it in storage anyway.

"What about this thing?"

"What about it?"

They look at it in unison, silent resignation between them because this is too big to easily throw out and too broken to do anything with. Unless they can still manage to find some kind of way to fix it.

And Papyrus just knows Sans doesn't care. He would be more than content to just leave it where it is forever. Sans doesn't care much about anything these days.

"We can leave it for now." He says cautiously, taking care to emphasize the last few words lest Sans ignore them, because he can't really see another option.

Maybe if he meets Alphys sometime he can ask her to take a look at it. He's fairly sure Sans hasn't done that before.

And if there's anybody out there who can repair this thing it's the (ex-)royal scientist after all.


He forgets about it, of course.

They clean the rest of the basement and then they have lunch with Toriel and Frisk and when he next meets up with Undyne, days later, the broken machine has completely slipped his mind.

The sun is bright, summer is right around the corner and there's something interesting seemingly hanging in the air. A subdued kind of excitement about the coming months that the humans tend to feel instinctively.

Papyrus doesn't really get it. Either because he's not used to changing seasons being a thing, or because he's become so accustomed to the Snowdin climate. Though he agrees sunshine is preferable over rainy weather.

Undyne doesn't cook with him anymore. She kind of gave up on the whole 'training' charade as soon as the royal guard disbanded, and Papyrus is grateful for it.

Not just because they were never any good at it in the first place, as Undyne's kitchen can attest, but also because he honestly feels their relationship has improved a ton without the constant lying and false validation.

These days they just go out together to get ice cream or talk.

"Are you feeling alright, Pap?" She asks him that time, hair not held up in a ponytail for a change. It falls around her face in loose curls and he rather suspects she does it because Alphys likes it.

"Yeah, I'm fine." He says, perhaps a tad too quickly, for she squints at him suspiciously from between cracked eyelids.

"I'm fine." He repeats, hands clenching around the fabric of his shirt. He misses his scarf, but he also knows wearing it in this weather would make him look quite mad. And appearance means a lot to humans. "I just haven't been sleeping so well."

It's only half a lie. He hasn't been sleeping at all.

"How come?" She wants to know, eyes drifting off to their surroundings instead and at least Papyrus feels a bit less nervous without her gaze focused on him so intently.

"I don't know."

A complete lie this time.

That's one habit he has yet to break. Though maybe it's better he keep up the practice just in case Frisk still-

He forces a smile, knowing he shouldn't still be thinking like that.

"Maybe it's because you've become such a lazybones. What do you even do all day, besides sit around the house and fold your laundry three times over." Undyne laughs, slapping him on the back amiably with the kind of force that could break a bone.

Papyrus is quick to defend himself. "Only twice. Besides, I don't know what I want to do yet."

"You've been saying that for over a year now, Pap." Her hand stays on his shoulder, reassuring him and Papyrus knows she likes to see herself as his teacher still, in some ways. "I know you're nervous but you'll have to bite the bullet some time."

"I have no idea what that means." He groans. "Though it sounds very not-healthy."

"It's a human expression, which you would have known if you'd actually come out of the house once in a while."

He sighs, not able to articulate his fears yet again. There's little point in doing something, doing anything, if you know it's probably only temporary. What's the use in building up a life for yourself if you're acutely aware of it having the distinct possibility of being ripped away in a heartbeat.

Besides, the gold will last them years more on the surface, none of them really prepared for how valuable their meager currency would be to the humans. Which is the reason Sans isn't in much of a hurry to find a job either.

He's not even going to uni, despite looking into it when they first came up here.

Papyrus knows there's a very real possibility his brother's reasoning is much the same as his own, though they haven't talked about it out loud.

Talking is still hard for them.

"I'll think about it." He says instead, because it makes her smile regardless and pat him on the back once more, like a kid that has pleased her.

"That's the spirit." Undyne gets up with a leap, hands on her hips and he wishes he could be as oblivious as she sometimes makes him out to be. How much simpler it would be then. "Don't think too hard though, you might hurt your head."

He doesn't tell her it already does.


He still remembers when Sans found out.

He rather wished he didn't, but The Great Papyrus has a great memory and that day will forever stick with him. Or the look on his brother's face, the kind of unrestrained horror he thought Sans would reserve for his dying days.

Those had come and gone and maybe it had been callous of him, to presume he could keep up the oblivious act forever.

"You know? How long have you known?"

And Papyrus crossed his arms then, thinking maybe that could shield him. Shield both of them.

"I've never not known, Sans."

They didn't talk about it then and they didn't really talk about it after, not in many words at least. It just kind of sunk into their relationship, a new reality they'd have to deal with now.

At least they were less lonely. At least their tainted jokes and self-deprecating sarcasm had a soundboard now, an echo.

But it never became any easier.


When he comes home Sans is on the couch. Where else would he be.

His only saving grace is that at least the humans have more diverse tv networking than Mettaton used to have. It's nice, being able to watch a quiz show and not knowing all the answers already because this is the 127th rerun.

Now they just don't know the answers because it's questions based on common-knowledge for humans, not monsters, that the participants are being quizzed on.

Papyrus plops down next to him, sighing dramatically just because he can and also maybe to annoy Sans a little. His brother turns down the volume and looks at him.

"What's up, bro?"

He could say 'nothing'. That would probably annoy Sans even more. There's a tiny part of him that takes joy in that, or maybe comfort. But he leans back into the cushions instead, staring at the ceiling.

"Do you think we're being lazy?"

"I am." Sans answers without skipping a beat. He has many flaws, but a lack of self-knowledge isn't among them. "What's this about?"

"This is about us, being here on the surface and not doing anything." Papyrus mutters. "Because of you know what."

They never call it by name, ever. That's bad luck.

The screen flickers. There's a commercial on with a very naked human smearing something all over their body in the shower. Papyrus never really got that either. Humans are weird.

"You mean this is about us being hesitant to trust the kid." Sans says. "And not being able to believe in the slightest good thing that comes along because we're cynical assholes."

Just as he had thought.

"Are we, though?"

"I mean, we could be wrong, you know." Sans stretches out along the couch, laying his slippered feet in his brother's lap. Papyrus doesn't push them off this time.

"We could be." he admits softly. Would it even change anything?

The television hums, a soft static noise barely perceptible over the music that kind of gets on his nerves for some reason.

"Do you hear that?" Papyrus asks.

"Hear what?" Sans answers, turning the tv off because he isn't watching anymore anyway, but the hum doesn't fade as the screen does.

It gets louder.

"Nothing."


It's dark. Too dark to see anything and when he looks down he can't even see himself.

That's mildly concerning.

The sound is faint at first, he can hear it as if he's listening to it through a wall. As if he has his ear pressed against a door and they're playing some kind of music he can't fully grasp. Having a conversation he won't be able to understand, but wants to.

Where has he heard this before?

He presses harder.

Except he's not pressing against anything except the sides of his own skull and it hurts. Not painfully so, nothing like dying, but a dull ache that's more bothersome than anything else.

That creeps up his spine and settles into a pounding in his head.

He groans but no sound comes out. Or not any he can hear over the noise at least. It's louder now, echoes against the walls in eerie ways and he's not sure if it's actual words anymore or just a constant crackle.

More static.

He reaches out but there's nothing in front of him, behind him. He's not confident there's a floor below him. Only more noise.

It's so loud he can't hear himself think, insistently getting louder and louder and grating, jumbled-

Somebody grabs his wrist.

Of course Papyrus wakes up then. Dreams have a tendency to stop abruptly just as something important is about to happen.

The noise is gone, even the hum from before blissfully absent, but his head aches as if somebody drove a truck over it.

Not that Papyrus knows what that would feel like, but he imagines that if a truck would ever drive over his head it would feel somewhat similar to this.

It's very dark, too dark, so he turns on the nightlight and ignores the way the shadows crawl along the walls. He reminds himself a mere absence of light is nothing to be afraid of.

He's had this dream several times now, not always exactly the same sequence but familiar enough to feel significant. And every time it leaves him oddly anxious, unable to sleep properly or at all.

He rolls over, draws the blankets up over his head and wishes he hadn't convinced himself to throw out his storybooks. Maybe if he sleeps some more the pounding will go away. It's getting so bad he doesn't want to get out of bed in the mornings anymore.

But he stays awake the rest of the night instead, listening to the silence.


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