What little pieces of time he has to himself are precious.
Like breadcrumbs, some people might say.
They're also rare.
Like decent humans, he thinks.
The key catches the light of the monitor when he opens the door, a shining promise. With each step, his slippered feet slide across the floor, the only sound in what is otherwise silence.
Everything's changed in the last few hours-the readings coming from his programs and charts have shot up. Just skimming them makes his eyesockets sore.
"You've made a lot of progress in the last couple hours, huh kiddo?"
His mouth is always smiling, sometimes in a grin, other times in a small, private smirk. Now it shifts to sadness. Changing expressions isn't exactly an easy process for him or his brother, and it takes an extreme of emotion to accomplish.
He sits. The wooden chair isn't comfortable, but he planned it this way; anything too soft and it's likely that he'll sleep, carried away into dreams where-
-he could smell the dust. It coated what was left of his clothes like a thick chalk and smelled so much of him, of dying, that it made everything inside of him burn-
He jerks and types a few commands in without thinking. The display changes. The Child is moving. Where, he isn't sure just yet. He leans forward, resting his elbows at the edge of the desk as he watches and waits. Alphys is doing her part, but it can't hurt to have backup, just in case.
In another part of the house, Papyrus is oblivious, and he likes keeping him that way. At this hour, he's asleep in his bed, legs dangling without so much of an ounce of grace over the side of the racecar. He'd gotten that when both of them had been much younger, and sometimes at night even now (at Papyrus' insistence, of course) they would stay under the covers, reading books and historical documents lent to the taller skeleton by Undyne by flashlight.
"Sans. What are you reading now?" The other night he'd brought some printouts to bed, too distracted to keep them in his secret room. "Is that another human historical document?"
He'd had the sense to stuff the papers discreetly into a book on puns. "Nope. Say, Papyrus, why did the skeleton fail all of his classes?"
Papyrus' eyes cut away from his book. "I'm just reaching what Undyne says is the most important part to this, so please-."
"Because he tried too hard tibia good student." The snicker wrenched past everything else welling up inside, the memories of red dyeing his own slippers, the nights where rest was impossible. "Get it?"
Papyrus groaned. "Sans, how many times must I tell you, the Great Papyrus must be involved at all times in human monitoring activities and human studies without distractions? It's the only way to outsmart and capture the human when they get here!"
When. It made his hand go to his chest, press against the oversized shirt Papyrus had gotten him for Monsters' Day last year. His empty eye socket joined it in an agonied concert-the Child's hands had been cold when they'd reached in and pulled, extinguishing its light forever. He'd had to lie to Papyrus and say he'd had a small accident when the former had noticed. Then- The knife had given him such a sharp, clean cut he hadn't felt it until-
His own gift sat nestled against Papyrus' pillow, staring at them with button eyes. He'd made it himself, cobbling it together from odds and ends. It was a little crude, but...
"Sans! This is-it's-" Papyrus had held the little thing up from its gift box and stared at it in confusion. "What is it?"
"A doll." He'd shrugged. "I decided to make it in the shape of a human. Y'know, just because."
"I..." He brought it closer to his face. "Yes, I see it now!" He'd turned to him with excitement pouring from his bones. "So you do support the magnificent Papyrus' hunt for the elusive human!"
There were times he cursed the fact that his sibling had more observant moments than he gave him credit for. "Wh-" He brushed the stammer off with a laugh. "Where did you get the idea that I didn't, bro?"
Papyrus hugged the doll to the front of his oversized, guady sweater. Was it a trick of the light, or were those buttons closer to a dark red than the brown he'd thought they were? "I sometimes think you oppose it, brother. I've noticed there are times where I mention capturing the human and you fall asleep in the middle of the conversation, or space out and then I might as well be talking to a wall!"
"I can't help it, Papyrus," the smaller of the pair smirked. If Papyrus knew where his thoughts traveled to at times, the reasons for why he slept at odd times..."You know what they say. Sometimes everyone gets-"
"Sans, no. I forbid you to finish that joke-."
"-stonewalled."
"Sans?" Bones clacked together at his brother's touch against his shoulder. "Is everything all right?"
"Yeah. I'm, it's, I'm good. Just tired." Tired of watching the world burn over and over. "Just a little down from my latest trip to Grilby's."
"And why is that?"
"Heh." Sans closed the book. "They were out of hot dogs."
"Is...Is that all? I thought it was something serious!"
"It is serious." He slid the book closer to himself. The old lady was getting worried about the world's state of affairs, too. She didn't have equipment like Alphys or his knowledge of the extent of the Child's activities, but she had something much more powerful.
Intuition.
Papyrus' expression shifted to one of confusion. "Why?"
"Because the hot dogs might start to feel cheated if their 'rolls' at Grilby's aren't good enough."
Papyrus stared at him. "I am removing myself from this bed and getting a snack." The blanket moved and he was gone, leaving him alone with a dying flashlight and the knowledge that things wouldn't remain safe for much longer.
Feet clacked across the floor. His door creaked open. "Do you want anything?" Papyrus asked.
His real answer froze in his throat. How many more times would they be able to do this before the Child came? Would time always reset itself, or would the time come where things would truly be over? What would the outcome be?
"No. No, thanks, bro."
"There's leftover spaghetti~."
"I'm fine."
If he repeated those words like a mantra, maybe they would become true.
A sudden but quiet beep from the machine draws his attention back to it. In spite of himself, he'd dozed off after all, but for once, the dreams had been good. He'd started to feel the ghost of his old smile return before the readout arrives to dash the slight uptick in his mood to pieces.
They're-
He's up and out of the chair in an instant. Behind him, it crashes to its back, hard wood meeting cold floor.
No. God, no-
He gathers his power to him and envisions the place he has to go. Maybe if he's fast enough, he'll get there in time, before that first event gets the ball rolling, before the whole situation spirals out of control.
Maybe-Maybe it isn't too late. The thought comes to him coupled with frightened mental laughter, through wind and early snowflakes that swirl though the leafless black remains of the forest's trees.
She lives alone just ahead, in a small place that radiates warmth from the door he leaned his back against when he first went to talk to her. He'd discovered it by accident one afternoon, when everything had been colder than usual, Papyrus was on one of his many patrols. He wondered if something or someone was inside when he'd first smelled something sweet, and when he'd knocked, she'd answered.
But she never told him her name, or allowed him inside.
That had never really bothered him. She was pleasant to talk to, and everybody had their secrets. There was a certain warmth to her voice that chased away his troubles-not to mention that she loved his puns and would come up with more than a few of her own that made him laugh.
He realizes his hoodie is open, allowing the wind to rip past his ribs and sing against his exposed spine. The large arched door is but a heartbeat ahead.
Come on, old lady, please, please...
It's open just enough to allow him to smell the sweet scent he'd long ago identified as butterscotch. She'd been baking more lately, pie after pie. Once she'd allowed him to have a small piece, and mixed with it was something spicy, something that registered as almost bitter. Still, it was good, and when he was done he'd sat in contemplative silence for a few minutes, permitting the breeze to murmur to him.
"Hey."
Her voice moved closer to the door. He opened an eye and glanced back.
"Still here."
"Oh, good." Her breathless relief made his fondness for her grow. It wasn't too dissimilar to what he felt for his brother. She was innocent, like him.
That made him worry sometimes.
"I read a new joke the other day and wanted to try it out on someone."
He'd answered without hesitation. "Shoot. After all, I'm all ears."
"I thought you were all bones?"
He laughed quietly. "Good one. But you might want to hurry up," he added, smiling though he knew she couldn't see it. "If I stay out in the cold for too long, I might get a femur."
"Okay, okay, so...Oh, dear, let me see." He heard paper rustling. "I thought it was on this page, but I just-Oh, here we go. What would you do if you broke your leg in two places?"
He never did hear the end of the joke. Papyrus had called him to do something, he can't remember what now, and he'd needed to leave faster than he would have liked. He promised to come back, promised to hear the end. She'd sounded so disappointed.
Please-
Pieces of paper scatter, picked up by the wind. They're bigger than snowflakes, striped in black with the remains of words on them. Torn, he assumes, by nasty little hands that also carry a knife. Dust glimmers in the wind, the smell of death on them.
Inside, something breaks. He feels a cold that will never warm as he falls to his knees, aware that the hot ectoplasm of his tears are streaking his cheeks. One small scrap of paper comes to bump against his hand, and through the burning endless blur the world has become, he picks it up automatically.
What would you do if you broke your leg in two places?
Stay away from those two places.
Just like that night that seems like eons ago, his chuckle twists up from his chest, shakes his body in its entirety. It turns to a low moan, which in turn becomes a sob.
He doesn't hear the crunching of snow behind him, but he feels the knife as it enters his back, sees red eyes set in an innocent, round face twisted with hate.
His last thoughts are of his brother.
Hey, Papyrus. He can feel his hands turning to dust.
Wait for me, okay, buddy?
The red staining the snow, the ectoplasm of his life, reminds him of cheap Grilby's ketchup. He knew, from when he'd broken the Child's bones, that human blood looks similar.
He closes his eyes.
I'll do better next time.