A/N: So, this started out on two a.m on the day I beat my first playthrough of Undertale. You can probably point out where I got completely exhausted, because I tend to wax poetic when I'm tired. Either way, likes and reviews are always nice. Thanks!
The first time he sees them, their eyes are open and probing, searching. Shoulders tense, stick held like a guard, the knuckles that wrap around it white and shaking from the effort. There's a knife in the waistband of the kid's shorts. Plastic, not very sharp. Probably why they're using the stick.
He can tell from both the shakily erratic breathing and the trail that follows in their footsteps from the end of the stick that this child will not be a good one, and that his whoopie-cushion-in-the-hand-joke will not be appreciated.
He makes it anyway-because hey, it's not like he has anybody else to joke with now.
When he speaks, the stick lashes out before the small body turns, the tip of it just grazing his shirt as he jumps back in a neat dodge. The face follows soon after, expression filled with a terrified rage and contorted shout of surprise.
"Well, friend-o," he says, cool as ever, straightening his jacket and silently thanking his quick reflexes. "That's not how you greet a new buddy, is it?"
The face stares up at him as the kid sinks into a defensive stance, teeth bared like a wild animal.
"Let's try this again. How d'you greet a new pal, pal?"
No answer from the child. No movement of any kind, save their shallow, rapid breathing.
Damn, those eyes are creepy, he thinks, and abandoning all good sense he holds out his hand.
"You shake 'is hand," he says, hand still extended, whoopie cushion hidden in the folds of his jacket sleeve, awaiting the perfect reveal.
The kid doesn't laugh.
They reach out to grab his hand, looking all the while like they're expecting to be attacked, and as the incredible noise that is whoopie cushion fades into the forest, the kid doesn't even fuckin' smile.
Really, after a meeting like that, he shouldn't have been surprised at the reek of singed fur at the ruins, at the oppressive silence that now coats the place like the snow. At the trail of dust leading to Waterfall, at the deaths of both Undyne and his brother.
Shouldn't be surprised at his rage, a monster of a thing manifested in the clenching of a fist around a dust-stained scarf, the gritting of teeth and blue in a room that mimics what was supposed to be a sunset. His grief, a thing made physical in the blood darkened, tear tracked lines of his skull, a triumph turned fear turned determination as this kid steps over where their body had/never been to fight him again.
"Hey, buddy," he says, brushing his fingers off on the hood of his jacket. The blood that had been there a moment ago no longer stains the bone or fabric, and for that he's grateful. "You look like you've been havin' a bad time. You really wanna go there again?"
The question isn't really a question, but the punk answers anyways-a twirl of that plastic knife, sharpened to a point in the caves of Waterfall, is all it takes.
Sans smiles, blue and white bones flashing into existence around the kid like a promise.
Death, when it comes, as he knew it would, is the comforting warmth of Grillby's, the chuckle of his brother beside him, the tang of ketchup and knock on his shoulder by one Captain-Of-The-Royal-Guard that makes him spill it all over his jacket.
Leave it to the other Sans-es, he thinks, tilting his bottle back once again. Lemme have my peace.