No expense is spared on the five course meal laid out for the king and his queen. Bread as light and fluffy as a cloud, soup with the perfect amount of seasoning. Thick cuts of beef from freshly slaughtered bovine, vegetables plucked and peeled from the garden that very morning.
Papyrus' detractors claim he's ushering in a new era of decadence and despotism, but in Sans' (slightly biased) opinion, they couldn't be further from the truth. Asgore had dragged the kingdom down into ruin after his son was killed and his queen went mad. Papyrus has spent his first year as king fixing Asgore's mistakes, restoring the kingdom to its former glory. His stringent rules and policies could be unpopular, but the king does not need to be adored by the populace, only obeyed.
To Sans' dismay, corralling the Underground back into some semblance of order has left Papyrus with little time to spend with him. Papyrus spends the days training up the new captain of the guard, brokering tax agreements with merchants, going over new infrastructure with engineers and construction workers. Sans splits his days serving as judge for high-profile cases, and dealing with the petty complaints of the common folk. By the time they've finished their daily duties, both are exhausted. Sans often passes out the second he hits the mattress, and Papyrus is rarely far behind.
But not today. Today, Papyrus called an end to his meetings at the stroke of four, and Sans pushed back the next trial on his list to the following day. This evening is about them.
Sans would have been content to spend the night in bed, alternating between fucking and lounging around. But Papyrus intended to really make the most of it, ordering the cooking staff to prepare an especially ornate meal for the evening.
Sans salivates at the obscene amount of food laid out before them, and discretely wipes off drool on his cloth napkin.
Papyrus sits at the head of the table, Sans at his right. At the king's legs sits his massive hellhound, a dish of raw venison left out for it by the servants. It watches with its sharp red eyes for Papyrus to begin eating before it wolfs down its meal. Sans takes this as his cue to eat as well, carefully cutting his food into bite-sized portions. A few months of manners training has wrung most of the sloppiness out of him. When in public, at least.
"How's the new captain?" Sans asks, between mouthfuls of filet mignon. Guards are posted by both sets of doors into the room, but Sans can speak freely; the guards won't dare report back to their captain about the words of their king and queen.
Papyrus stabs a bit of his steak moodily.
"That bad, huh?"
"They're a placeholder, and everyone knows it." Papyrus says. "There's another monster, that goes by the name MK, who joined the ranks not too long ago."
"He's better than your captain?" Sans spoons more food onto his plate.
"Not yet, but soon will be. Still, it's better for MK to climb the ranks with his own prowess than me simply appointing him."
"Good call." Sans shovels a cheesy pasta into his mouth, enjoying how it settles warmly in his magic.
"Still, they won't respect a captain that can't hold his own in a real fight."
"We'll figure something out." Sans promises. Papyrus huffs in agreement.
The hellhound licks its chops, plate empty. A servant girl glides over, silent as a mouse, to refresh the dish.
Sudden shouts and concussive booms of magic from the hall have Sans and Papyrus rising from their chairs. The hellhound growls, muzzle still matted with blood from its meal.
"Get behind me," Papyrus orders, in a tone that brooks no argument.
Sans darts into his shadow just as monsters crash into the room, overwhelming the guards posted at the door. A pack of forty monsters, by Sans' count, and fairly organized. They'd have to be to launch a direct attack on the royal palace itself.
The remaining guards fall into formation. They're vastly outnumbered, but that hardly matters. This is what they've trained for. Papyrus sends out a wave of glimmering bone attacks. The rebels, wedged in a cluster by the door, go down in droves.
The remaining rebels climb over the bodies of the dying, bellowing war cries as they fan out into the room.
Papyrus pushes Sans back from the fight, towards the kitchens. The cooks and waitstaff begin to form a protective circle around the queen.
"Boss, I can—"
"I won't have you taken from me by some stray attack."
Papyrus whistles sharply, and his dog-beast bounds over to stay by Sans as its master dives into the fray.
Sans watches impotently through the curtain of shoulders as Papyrus and the guards effectively begin their counterattack.
Papyrus' years of training show as he takes down his enemies with precise aim and minimal magic, driving bone constructs through his enemies' chests and necks.
One lone monster manages to slip through Papyrus and the guards, but Sans doesn't get the chance to so much as summon his magic before the hellhound reacts, tackling the monster to the floor, ripping open his jugular.
Monsters scramble on top of the dining room table, kicking dishes away with their feet, hoping to flank the king. Three guards grip the wooden lip of the table and overturn it, sending the rebels crashing to the ground with the rest of the meal. Several rebels stagger upright, but stumble on the slippery footing and are swiftly dusted by the guards.
The sheer number of monsters present makes the battle confusing and chaotic, and Sans doesn't realize what happened until he's too late to stop it.
He hears Papyrus scream, loud and agonized in a way Sans hasn't heard for years—and then nothing. Sans shoves through his ring of protectors to see Papyrus crumpled on the floor, a triumphant monster standing over him with some kind of electrical baton.
Sans races for his brother as the hound bolts for the one who injured him, leaping upon the monster and tearing chunks of flesh and muscle from his legs.
Sans drops to Papyrus' side, cradling his head in his lap.
"Boss, Pap, c'mon, don't do this to me—"
Another monster charges for the royal couple, looking to get a cheap shot in. Sans hurls out a bone attack at them to knock their feet out from under them; a disheveled guard finishes the job, impaling the monster through the chest with her lance.
"Protect your king and queen!" She roars, and the soldiers rally in a tight circle around Papyrus and Sans.
Papyrus doesn't show any sign of dusting, but he won't awaken, either. Sans rips open Papyrus' shirt, buttons scattering across the floor. There's a faint discoloration, like a burn mark, on his sternum where he was struck. Sans traces the edges of the mark contemplatively. Papyrus' HP has been chipped down from some lucky shots in the fight, but he's nowhere near low enough to be rendered unconscious like this. What the hell is going on?
The buzz of magic in the room fades, and Sans glances up. The guards have killed every rebel in the room, save for the one who got the hit in on Papyrus. The hound sits atop him, teeth warningly at the monster's throat.
"Hook him in the torture chamber for questioning." Sans orders.
The dog backs off as a guard grabs the rebel roughly by the arm. The rebel screams, unable to support himself on his half-flayed legs. The guard drags his shuddering body from the room, his blood smearing across the ground to mix with the dust of his comrades.
"You." Sans points to one of the guards at random. "Get that staff to the science department."
The guard gives a brief bow. He gingerly picks up the baton by the handle, unwilling to somehow activate it by accident.
"And will someone get a goddamn healer in here already?"
The guard who had rallied the others removes her helmet; a cat monster. She cards a clawed hand through her mussed lilac fur.
"I've already sent for one, my queen," She reports. "I also ask that you remain here until we are sure there are no others lurking about in the castle."
"Sure, whatever. Just get that healer."
The hellhound pads over, curling beside Papyrus. It noses Papyrus' hand, and, when he remains lax and unresponsive, keens softly. Sans runs a hand along its fur, soothing the both of them.
After several tense minutes, the healer—a froggit—arrives. Slimy perspiration is gathered on her skin from the hurry over. She hops to Papyrus' side and begins a scan, green magic flaring up and cradling his flickering soul.
"His HP is reading steady—"
"I already know that!" Sans snaps. "What's wrong with him?"
The froggit frowns, continuing her scan under Sans' severe gaze. After a moment more, the healing aura around her dissipates, Papyrus' soul returning inside his chest cavity.
"His MP has been totally depleted." She explains grimly. "The meager amount he has left is just barely keeping his body in one piece."
Sans has magic to spare. "I can give him some of mine—"
"No." She sighs. "No, my queen. He is now like a newborn. He has to craft the foundation of his magic again on his own. The addition of foreign magic now might wake him up sooner, but would be detrimental in the long run."
"So what the hell am I supposed to do? Sit on my hands and wait?"
"As soon as he wakes up, get some food and drink into him to help him build his magic reserves back up. But until then…yes. I'm afraid all you can do is wait for him to recover."
Sans struggles to speak through the lump in his throat.
"How long will it take?"
"I've never seen a case where the MP was depleted to this extent." The healer admits. "Look at this."
She points to his elbow joint, which, upon closer inspection, is quivering slightly.
"Tugging on his limbs too hard might very well disconnect the bones. You must be very careful with him until he stabilizes. I would predict three days, at minimum, for him to recover."
Three days? Sans clasps Papyrus' limp hand in his own. Not an hour ago, Papyrus had been fine. And now—and now—
"That'll be all." Sans dismisses her, dully.
She opens her mouth, as if about to say some comforting platitudes, but thinks better of it. Her mouth shuts again. She bows to the queen, and hops from the room.
Once she's gone, the feline guard crouches down by Sans' side.
"My queen. I ask you allow me to carry the king myself once it has been deemed safe."
"He's heavier than he might look." Sans says. His thumb traces idle circles in Papyrus' hand. "It'd be your head if you dropped him."
"I can deadlift my own body weight." She declares. "I'm confidant I can manage it."
Sans supposes he should be impressed, but finds it difficult to muster any enthusiasm considering the circumstances.
"You got a name?"
"Catty," She practically purrs. If the queen bothers to learn your name, you have a much better chance than most of advancement.
"What creative parents you had."
She can't tell if Sans is being sarcastic or not, so she simply nods.
A guard reenters the room, and heads right for Sans.
"There were a few rebels lingering in the halls, which we apprehended. The bedroom was checked thoroughly and deemed safe."
"Let's go." Sans tells Catty. Papyrus is too exposed, too vulnerable out in the open like this.
Catty straps her lance to her back, freeing both arms up. Gently, she hooks an arm under Papyrus' legs, the other under his shoulders. Holding him secure and close to her chest, Catty strides from the room, Sans and the hound following closely behind. Servants and guards alike gawk as they pass by. The king never seemed to tire or grow ill, but now here he was, not dusted, but defeated. Sans glares at anyone who stares too long, and they duck their heads instantly, abashed.
Sans is immeasurably relieved when they arrive at the double doors to the royal couple's bedchamber. He pushes the door open, presenting a room of red cloth and gold trim, furniture carved from dark cherry wood. Candles gutter on Papyrus' work desk and on the windowsill, bathing the room in light. The centerpiece is the large canopy bed, replete with plush pillows and thick comforters. Catty lays the king down reverently on the bed, then turns to Sans.
"My queen, I will see to it myself that there are two guards stationed right outside the door at all times."
Sans nods and waves her off. Catty bows deeply, and departs from the room, shutting the door softly behind her. Sans walks over and locks it when she's gone, as flimsy a defense it may be. The hell-beast jumps up onto the bed, settling into its customary position at Papyrus' feet.
Sans fetches a pair of pajamas from the closet for Papyrus, a crimson silk. He changes Papyrus out of his formal wear, easing off his boots and clothes, tossing them haphazardly on the floor. He helps Papyrus into the bedclothes, like a child would a doll. It's unnerving, to say the least.
Papyrus' bones have grown so cold. Sans recalls sneaking into a private section of their father's lab as a child, discovering one of the human's corpses on a slab. They were like ice to the touch, as Papyrus is now.
Sans layers blankets atop Papyrus. It probably won't have any effect, but what the hell. It can't hurt.
Sans strips down to his boxers and then slips under the first layer of sheets, next to Papyrus. Sans stares at him, hating how still and lifeless he's become. Only the most minute rise and fall of his chest indicates he's still in there.
Sans reaches over, tracing the curve of his lover's mandible.
"I'm supposed to be the lazy good for nothin', not you," Sans scolds him weakly. "So you better wake up soon, okay?"
With a flick of his magic he extinguishes the candles in the room, engulfing it in darkness. Slowly, he drifts off into an uneasy sleep.
Sans is awoken by knocks on the door.
Bleary-eyed, he pushes himself upright on the bed. He glances over at Papyrus, who doesn't appear to have moved an inch since the previous night.
When the knock at the door comes again, he scowls, throwing off the sheets from his lap and getting up. Sunlight glimmers warmly through the windows; a glance at the clock tells Sans it's nearly three in the afternoon. Fuck, he had cases scheduled for this morning. Papyrus usually woke him up quite early, and Sans didn't think to set an alarm clock.
Sans shrugs on a shirt and unbolts the door and opens it just as the maid on the other side is about to knock again. She lowers her hand, which was poised to knock. Balanced carefully in her other hand is a tray of what Sans assumes is breakfast, covered in a silver cloche.
"My queen. When you did not come down for breakfast we grew concerned."
"Uh, thanks."
Sans takes the tray from her. As the scullery maid departs, he looks to the guards posted at the door.
"Any update on the device yet?"
"Negative, my queen."
"And, uh…the case I was supposed to handle this morning?"
"Aside from the guards and staff, no one has been allowed inside the castle walls since the attack."
There's a lot of food on this tray, and it's staring to feel rather heavy. Sans backs into the bedroom again.
"Notify me as soon as the scientists have something."
"Certainly."
Sans shuts the door to the outside world.
He sets the tray on the bedside table, and removes the cloche. An elaborate breakfast of fruits, nuts, toast, and poached eggs is arranged on the tray. Tucked into the corner of the tray is a selection of condiments, including his favorite. Sans grabs a piece of toast and dumps an obscene amount of the yellow condiment on top of it. He gnaws on the toast, crumbs scattering everywhere, some mustard dripping onto the floor. Does mustard stain carpet fabric? He wouldn't know. Papyrus was the one who cleaned back in Snowdin, the one who did everything—
Sans sets the half-eaten slice of toast down, appetite gone.
He wavers between action. Most of him wants to stay here, to watch over Papyrus in case he awakens. But there's a pit of anger within him at the thought of the monster who hurt his brother, still alive in a dungeon cell. With the injuries the hound inflicted on him, Sans knows he will not survive long. But death from infection is not enough; Sans needs blood, needs dust that'll linger in the chips and nicks of his phalanges.
Sans dresses quickly, in his old outfit that he hasn't worn since the Snowdin days. The ratty black jacket is a comforting, familiar weight on his shoulders. He keeps the new collar on, though. When Papyrus became king, one of the first things he did was raid the royal coffer for its finest rubies. He had them sewn onto a new leather collar, to let all know that Sans held power and was his. San trails a hand across the collar fondly. He's hardly ever removed it since.
Shaking himself from his thoughts, he looks over to the hellhound.
"Watch over him for me," Sans orders. The dog gives an affirmative growl, eyes pinned on its master.
With one last glance at Papyrus, he slips into one of the rents in reality and steps into the dungeons. There are rows and rows of cells, fitted with magic-repellent bars. These cells have housed countless criminals of the crown, but are all empty now. Asgore, soft-hearted fool that he could be, kept the dungeons teeming with the scum of the Underground. He said he kept them alive to serve as the first fodder in the human-monster war once the barrier shattered. Monsters muttered amongst themselves that Asgore hoarded them up to limit the LOVE other monsters could gain. Personally, Sans just thinks he was too much of a coward to execute them himself.
When Papyrus came to power, he had every last one of them killed by his hound, effectively getting rid of Asgore's loose ends and powering up one of his most loyal allies in one fell swoop. Nowadays, if someone commits a crime bad enough that they deserve to be in the dungeons, they're usually executed in the town square instead.
Shrieks of agony echo throughout the dungeon. Sans follows the screams to the royal torture chamber. The room fits its title; nearly every torture device imaginable is neatly hung on the wall or piled in chests.
The Inquisitor, a brutish boar monster, has the rebel tied down on a rack, pulling the rebel's limbs from their sockets. The Inquisitor eases off the lever of the device as he spots Sans.
"My queen." He speaks loudly to be heard over the rebel's gasps for breath. "What a surprise to see you down here."
"Has he said anything yet?"
"The bastard's stubborn, 'e is. I got nothin' out of him but creative insults about my mother."
"Let me have a crack out of him."
The Inquisitor looks slightly put-out at being robbed of his fun, but does back away to let Sans have his turn.
The rebel lifts his head slightly off the rack, glaring at Sans with as much heat as he can muster. Sans summons a bone to his hand, one tip sharpened down to a vicious point.
"You think this will change anything?"
"I think I'll feel a lot better once I've dusted all your little friends."
"Rot in hell—"
The rebel lets out a hoarse scream as Sans shoves the bone construct into the exposed wound on his leg. Sans twists the bone, really digging it in there. Fresh blood wells up and spills over earlier stains.
"You bitch!" The rebel howls, limbs straining uselessly in the straps.
"Gee, I've never heard that one before." Sans drives the bone harder into his leg, churning around muscle and dislodging bone.
"You're doing yourself no favors by keeping your mouth shut." Sans says. "I can do this all day."
Sans summons a second bone, shoving it in the monster's other leg just as he's about to speak. Only when he grows bored of the constant screaming does Sans remove both magic constructs.
The rebel's body wracks with tremors, cold sweat coating his skin.
"Well?"
The rebel begins to laugh, an unsteady, raspy thing. Sans has to stop himself from rolling his eyes. As far as torture goes, what Sans has done so far has been fairly tame, nowhere near close enough to shatter the monster's mind.
"He'll never be what he was. Do you know that?"
Sans' gaze snaps to the rebel, alarmed. The monster leers at him through bloodstained teeth.
"His magic is gone. Your king might as well be dead."
Sans sees red, and his magic flares instinctively, waves of jagged bones ripping apart the monster until he dusts. The dust spills down through the slats of the rack, trickling onto the floor.
"Clean up this mess," Sans spits, and steps through the rift again, back into the royal bedchambers.
Papyrus is exactly as he left him.
Sans bends over by Papyrus' side, gently clinking their skulls together. That asshole had just been trying to frighten him. Papyrus will be fine. Sans has to believe that.
A week passes, a hush falling across the castle. It's over twice as long as the healer thought he'd be unconscious, and Papyrus still hasn't shown any signs of waking. The kingdom responds to their king's absence. Low level recruits start acting up, itching to advance in this uneasy moment. Projects are postponed. Monsters have started to talk, to wonder—what if Papyrus does not awaken? There were plenty ambitious enough to try to fill the power vacuum. Sans knows they would all fail; the human, before they left, had ripped from them every other monster worthy of the mantle.
Sans should be out in the public, demonstrating the stability of the crown. But the rebel's words have amplified his anxiety, and Sans spends his days against Papyrus' cold, unmoving side. He likes to imagine Papyrus is getting warmer, some life seeping back into him, but perhaps it's only Sans' body heat warming the bed.
"You have to get up, Papyrus." Sans pleads. "I won't do this without you."
Insistent knocks at the door once again disturb his vigil.
"Go away," He snarls. "I don't want to eat anything."
"My queen, I have a report from the royal scientists." Comes the muffled response.
Sans stumbles out of bed, throwing on a robe for some preservation of modesty, and opens the door. Catty stands there waiting for him, ramrod straight.
"Speak."
"Its purpose appears to be exactly what the healer described—it drains all of a monster's magical energy upon contact. But, more importantly, they discovered it's powered by a crystal only found deep within Waterfall."
"…You find the supplier, you find the rest of the rebels." Sans realizes. Catty nods. "Seek out the base, but discreetly. Dress as a civilian, eager to join their cause—"
The hellhound barks, drawing Sans' attention. Papyrus is struggling to push himself upright into a sitting position. Papyrus is awake.
Sans scrambles over to his side, soul pounding a mile a minute. The hound licks at Papyrus' face; he gently swats it away.
"Enough, mutt."
"Papyrus!"
Sans grabs him around the chest in a tight hug, pressing his face into the fabric of his nightshirt, reveling in the pulsing beat of Papyrus' soul, the new warmth radiating from his bones.
The hound trots over to the door and nudges Catty's legs. She gets the hint, letting the dog down the stairwell and closing the door behind them, leaving the royal couple to their privacy.
"Pap, Pap," Sans murmurs. Papyrus' arms encircle him. "You're okay."
"Of course I am," Papyrus says, voice still rough from his long sleep. "As if some pathetic device could defeat the great King Papyrus."
Sans laughs. Just like that, all his worries drop away. That stupid monster didn't know what he was talking about. If anything, Papyrus will find a way to enhance his magic, make it even stronger, thanks to all of this.
Reluctantly, Sans disentangles himself from Papyrus. With hands shaking from excitement, he pours Papyrus water from a carafe and hands the goblet to him. Papyrus drinks deeply.
"T-The healer said you should have something to drink, and eat, when you wake up—"
And why, why had he dismissed the maid that morning, he could have given Papyrus some of the food off the tray—
"Sans." Papyrus is calm as he sets the goblet aside. "Come here."
He opens his arms, and Sans curls up against his chest. Sans' hands grab Papyrus tightly, reaffirming that he's awake and warm and here.
"You smell awful." Papyrus remarks, absently patting his skull. "Don't tell me you've just been lazing around the whole time I've been out."
"H-Hey, give me a little credit." Sans protests, though what Papyrus said is basically true. "The guards have a lead on the remaining rebels."
"Oh?"
"And I killed the bastard who attacked you myself." He says, with some degree of personal triumph.
"Did you now?" Papyrus rumbles. "I suppose such an act deserves an appropriate reward."
Papyrus has regained enough magic to conjure a tongue. Tilting Sans' chin up, he engages him in a long, slow kiss that Sans melts into. God, he missed this. After a moment they pull apart again, faces flushed.
"Never leave me." These past days have been horrible, riddled with anxiety and fear. He doesn't ever want to imagine a life without Papyrus in it.
"Never," Papyrus promises, pulling Sans closer. "Never."