No Rain

by Digitaldreamer

They had made it to the surface and that was great. Then again, Sans had thought that a couple times already and it hadn't saved him from waking up with no stars in the end. After countless resets, Sans finally has a breakdown and leaves town, which isn't exactly surprising. The real question is if he'll let anyone else pick up the pieces.

1. life is pretty plain

-No Rain-

An Undertale Fanfic by Digitaldreamer

Chapter One: life is pretty plain

—

Because even in the true pacifist run, in this cute little game where you save everybody through the power of love and friendship, the most you ever get from Sans is a sad little "just give up, i did." This poor skeleton has problems and they were bound to catch up to him eventually, I just decided I had to write it. Also because he really always keeps everyone at arms length and never discusses his problems.

This fic will be a Sans-centric character study set in a Post-Pacifist and Post-Genocide timeline, so Sans and Frisk remember dozens of events in both and everything in between. Frisk has their soul back and there is an explanation why, but this is mostly about their relationship with Sans. This will also focus on Sans' relationship with the rest of the main cast and… y'know. Issues.

There will be angst. So much angst.

I can't promise I'll finish this since I have two jobs, but while I'm inspired I'll write what I can. I hope you all enjoy it!

Oh, um, the title is from the song No Rain by Blind Melon, a song which just… well, makes me think of Sans, haha. Prepare for some very lame long references.

WARNINGS: If depressive thoughts and actions, suicidal thoughts ad the occasional somewhat horrific description of the genocide route aren't your cup of tea, you may want to skip this one.

—

You are so tired.

Sweat drips from your skull in streams, gathers in pools at your collarbone, dries in a salted gum to your teeth. It's disgusting, absurd that the magic holding you together is apparently not enough to ward off needless functions like this. The puffs of hot breath in your rib cage are equally insulting, gasps of air doing little to ward off the telltale rattle of your knees. Papyrus had been right, you should have been working out after all.

You think of your brother. It fills you with determination.

"Hah…. yeah, right!" The thought draws a wheezing, bitter laugh from you that nearly knocks you off you slippered feet, but it keeps you awake so there's also that. You shake your head, fix flickering pinpoints on your opponent and the knife in their hand. You will not fall asleep, you cannot, because you know what happens if you do. You've been here before, you both have, the two of you trapped in this endless stupid dance with your rapt audience of stained glass and silence.

You will not forget, but that doesn't really matter, does it?

They have not stopped smiling, but neither have you this time around, so at least you'll tie in something. Barely a tick on the scoreboard, but then again you'd still managed to kill them ten times (or was it twelve, or fifteen?) so you guess that's fair. You let out a long, shaking breath.

"Hey," you mumble. "Are you just some kinda sick freak or something? How many times has it been now? I'm all outta speeches, it's not like there's anything new here. Or are you just feeling bonely?"

They don't even blink through the dust coating their face. Your ribs shudder from the effort your laughter takes from you. "Fair enough, guess I'm gettin' lazy." You try to shrug but your shoulders are as heavy as the mountain hanging above your head, entombing you both. You are so tired. You'd say death is preferable, but you've been stabbed enough times to know that's not true.

The room spins. Your breathing slows, your eyes flicker and fall shut, the world spins as you feel the insistent tug of the floor, pulling you down, down..

The movement is subtle, a knife cutting through the air, but you jump back anyway, bones acting on reflex learned only after countless burns. The game, the dance is on again and the world is back in focus, that stupid music looping back into infinity (was it their music or yours, you don't know anymore) as your bones provide the percussion. A torrential downpour of bones, lightning flashes of blue energy, the thunderclap of a small body weighted to the floor by whatever was left of their soul.

You can't think anymore. You're slowing down. Dragging. The mountain is so heavy but you fight, you wheeze, everything is too fast, too much, if you could just get a second to remember how this went last time you—

You miss a step.

A flash of glittering red eyes. A smile where there shouldn't be one and it's wide, too wide, wide like your eyes and your stance, too open.

The knife hits and with a choked gasp you—

—

Sans woke in an unfamiliar bed.

This would have been dramatic were it not for his sheets, which chose that particular moment to show their true colors. They tangled around his arms in some mockery of their intended purpose, had him thrashing in their grip for a good twenty seconds before he finally threw them aside. He remained upright, gulping in unnecessary air as if returned from drowning. It took several minutes for this to subside, a minute afterwards to tick off the familiar landmarks of his room. Dusty treadmill, computer, desk, sock tornado. Sunlight rudely peeking its way past his blinds, capturing dust motes in its glow and casting a stuffy haze over all it touched.

Sunlight. The surface. Right. Sans let out a groan as he fell back onto the bare mattress, fighting to ignore the throbbing the motion caused. Same timeline, or at least that's what the evidence pointed to. Some good news for once.

It wasn't that he always remembered. From his estimates it was one in three resets, and even then he had no way of knowing if that math was correct. That hypothesis was a volatile mixture of actual memory and deja vu, alongside a pinch of guesswork and his formerly meticulous notes. If it weren't for the fact that he'd always been pretty lazy about the scientific method the whole thing would be laughable. Books hadn't exactly prepared him for this. Then again, if there was one thing he couldn't remember, it was the last time he'd actually bothered to check a book.

Sans let out a laugh, then grimaced as he recalled similar laughter whistling from the wound in his torso. Well, thank goodness he could still remember that.

He couldn't be entirely sure where memory became his own carefully placed suggestion. Memory was a fickle thing when it came down to it, images and feelings scrapbooked together by hastily scribbled notes in his own voice. Whether locked in his skull or on paper the result was the same, his thoughts subtly stained different hues by emotion in spite of his efforts. Eventually time would take them, chewing the life from them until words became meaningless, pages stuck together and in reality all he was recalling was the echoes of the story he had told himself to hold onto.

"Whoa there friend, you may need to slow down," He muttered to himself, scrubbing at his eyesockets with his palm. It felt uncomfortably warm even with the box fan fighting to valiantly keep up airflow, and the sunlight wasn't helping. Outside, the cicadas droned. Seasons were a pretty great novelty, but he was finding his first (or was it fifth?) experience with humidity particularly unpleasant. The heat of the Hotlands mixed with the wet of Waterfall, leaving everything sticky and gross, and the lack of rain wasn't really helping.

Sans rose with a groan, his joints popping and cracking like a drumline as he shuffled over to his desk. He squinted down at his notepad, thin fingertips brushing across tickmarks. After counting in his head he grasped for a pencil, awkwardly fumbling with it. The thing had been worn down to the point where actually using the lead was barely an option, but he didn't feel like hunting through the trash tornado for the sharpener. He scrubbed a dull, half-hearted tickmark on the lined paper, more a carving into the material than a written symbol.

Day four hundred and forty-three. Well over a year and the longest a timeline had held, if his notes were correct. Which, to be fair, he could never entirely be sure, but whatever.

He strode right past his slippers and stumbled his way through through time and space to the kitchen, grasping at the coffee pot handle like a lifeline. The cold liquid sloshed into his waiting mug, some of it splattering onto the counter, but Sans paid the mess no heed. The added sugar mostly turned his drink into a gritty, room temprature sludge, but he sipped it anyway.

"Just part of the daily grind," he snorted to himself. That one was too lazy even for Toriel, she deserved a higher caliber of pun.

The skeleton let out a sigh as he leaned back against the counter for a moment, flickering pinpricks gazing out at the rest of the apartment, or what little there was to see. A living room, a kitchen, two bedrooms and a bathroom, with plenty of threadbare carpet to stretch between it all. Cheap, but a reasonable price if he and Papyrus intended to get a house again. Besides, between the lumpiest second-hand couch they could find, the laundry piles and Toriel's paw-sewn curtains, the place almost felt like home.

Kinda.

He was just contemplating the use of some aspirin when the front door slammed open, as if the ensuing caps lock had been summoned by his very thoughts. "BROTHER!" Papyrus called out, posing in the entryway. "I HAVE RETURNED FROM MY PLACE OF EMPLOYMENT!"

Sans flashed something between a grin and a grimace, squeezing one eye shut against the sharp pain shooting through his temple. "Hey there, soldier, how go the retail trenches?"

"THERE WERE MANY HUMANS AND I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, DUTIFULLY GREETED THEM AND INFORMED THEM OF OUR RIDICULOUSLY LOW PRICES!" Papyrus declared as he slammed the door shut behind him, the entire apartment shaking with the action. "SOME DID NOT GREET BACK SO I SIMPLY DID AS UNDYNE SUGGESTED AND GREETED HARDER. IT—"

There was a loud banging from beneath his feet, causing both skeletons to flinch. Papyrus lowered his volume as he plopped onto the threadbare carpet. "I encountered more of those strange half-children today."

"Teenagers," Sans reminded him. "The word you're looking for is teenagers. You know, like the Snowdrake kids and Icecap."

"Yes, yes, between-agers," Papyrus agreed, waving long, boy fingers dismissively. "They keep asking me if it is Halloween. I tried to get a calendar to explain this very simple concept to them, but they do not seem to get it. I certainly hope Toriel is educating the next generation a little better." He unlaced his sneakers lovingly before placing them neatly on the shoe rack, jaw tugging into a frown as he gazed down at the graveyard of much smaller shoes right next to it. "SANS, HOW MANY TIMES HAVE I ASKED YOU TO USE THE SHOE RACK? IT IS THERE FOR—" More pounding beneath their feet, both brothers flinched. "It is there for shoes."

"Look, I admit I just didn't train them properly, okay?" Sans drawled as he took another sip of coffee. "You've got some good, upstanding shoes there Paps, civilized and made for this modern era. My shoes are wild, they just aren't meant for the city. They gotta roam free, its in their soles."

Papyrus threw a slipper at him. It arced perfectly into the empty sink. "Ten points," Sans chirped from the couch.

His brother rolled his eyes as he stood, though the expression was lost as he shrugged his work polo off. "We will have to do laundry tonight, this shirt is disgusting," He grimaced as he held the shirt away from him, clad in an undershirt and khakis that seemed equally worse for wear thanks to the heat.

"Aw, but we just went. C'mon bro, nobody else washes their work shirt every day," Sans groaned as he draped himself facedown over the back of the couch.

"Yes, but they should," Papyrus huffed as he lovingly removed his nametag. He polished it with the edge of his undershirt, then apparently deemed it satisfactory and placed it in the bowl alongside several keys, some loose change and a ring that might've been jewelry but also might have been a important part of somebody's drain pipe at some point. "It is disrespectful to arrive at work with anything less than your best, and that absolutely includes body oder. Besides, you have enough dirty socks that we could visit Wash World every evening for a month and we'd still be buried in your filth."

"Eh, that's fair," Sans shrugged as he rolled over, head lolling against the backside of the couch. He sipped at his coffee upside down, the liquid dutifully maintaining its place in his mug in spite of gravity.

Papyrus wandered his way into the kitchen, then gave a groan. "Sans, you can't put the empty coffee pot back on the burner, the glass will break!" There was the click of a switch being flipped, followed by the rush of water. "And you could have at least rinsed it out!"

"Sorry bro, didn't even think about it." Sans called back. "I guess you could say I had a latte on my mind."

Another groan. "Your jokes are more insulting than your mess." A squeak as the faucet was turned off, followed by the sound of the fridge being opened. "You did not go grocery shopping like I asked, did you?"

"Uh…" Sans grimaced. "Whoops?"

Papyrus sighed, nudging one of the topmost cabinets open and pulling out a plastic, slightly battered cup. "I don't suppose you went job-hunting either?" He asked, clearly trying and failing to sound casual on the subject.

"Of course I did," The lie came easily enough, was familiar now. "Online applications, bro."

"It is better to go in person, it shows you take initiative. Which, granted, you do not, but you could at least pretend," Papyrus pointed out as he flicked the faucet back on and filled the cup. He gulped the liquid down, then made a face. "We need to get a filter like Toriel has. Undyne is right, city water tastes strange."

"Mmm," Sans had pulled his phone from his shorts pocket and was now dutifully scrolling his way through the news. Asgore was working on a Remembrance Day, but you know, who cared about history when Metaton had a new show starting in September?

Papyrus flopped down on the couch next to him with a sigh. He glanced over his brother appraisingly. "You have worn the same clothes for three days in a row now."

"Mmmhmm," Sans agreed as he glanced over the weather. Yep, same heatwave, no end in sight.

"Did you just get up?" Papyrus asked suspiciously.

"You don't know that," Sans replied through a slurp of coffee.

"It is four in the afternoon, Sans. That coffee has been sitting here since I left at six, you should not be drinking it."

Slurp.

"Sans!" Papyrus snatched the half-empty mug from his brother's fingers. The lukewarm sugar and coffee sludge shakily floated in the air for a moment, but fortunately Papyrus righted the mug just in time.

"Whoa there buddy, that was a risky move for somebody who's so worried about our security deposit," Sans chirped from behind the closed bathroom door.

Papyrus let out a frustrated groan. "You're impossible!" Sans heard some shuffling, followed by the sound of running water. He couldn't help but chuckle. Papyrus couldn't leave a mess for more than a minute if he tried.

He took a moment to observe himself in the mirror, his usual grin fading. His eye sockets were sinking in, heavy from lack of sleep, and the pinpricks of light in his eyes flickered. Okay, so maybe going to bed at four hadn't been the best choice. He was finding it harder and harder to convince himself to sleep, however, because if he slept the next day would come and well, he had no way of knowing if that next day would be here or somewhere farther back. Which was stupid, of course, because tomorrow would come regardless of how late he stayed up playing sentry for it with the internet and some shitty memes for company.

But it was still better than the dreams, so he'd take it.

A minute later had Sans abruptly plucking his now clean mug from the dish rack and dutifully drying it. "So," he spoke over the roar of the faucet. "Water we going to do about dinner?"

"Not Grillby's," Papyrus sighed as he took the now dry mug without missing a beat and returned it to one of the higher shelves in the cabinet.

"Lame," Sans drawled as he scrubbed at a newly cleaned cereal bowl.

The two worked in companionable silence for awhile, the only noise coming from the clink of dishware, the running water and Papyrus' cheerful hum. It was a scene that could have fit anywhere, a constant that seemed comforting but for how easily Sans knew it could be torn away. He tried not to think about it, focusing instead on rush of water and his brother's hum, occasionally providing a backup tap on the countertop for a beat.

"Toriel's?" Sans suggested as he polished the last bowl. "We could pick up some groceries on the way, I'm sure she'd appreciate it."

His nodded as he turned the faucet off. "Yes, but you are not leaving this house until you change your shirt. And no hoodie either, it's too hot for that."

"Aw, don't be so clothes-minded."

Papyrus flung water droplets at the spot where Sans had been.

—

Toriel's house was exactly what one would expect. It was a modest thing the group had all chipped in together on in spite of the boss monster's protests, something she had only relented when reminded how much better it would be for Frisk to have a permanent roof over their head instead of a crummy apartment. Of course, with the house being the last stop on Undyne and Papyrus' morning runs, Sans' frequent visits for tea and pun exchanges, Alphys' weekly (or sometimes even daily) anime and movie nights, it was rare that Toriel and Frisk were really alone.

It was important for family to stick together, so there was no better place than mom's.

Sans smiled at the thought as he sunk back into an overstuffed armchair. A summer breeze mercifully rustled it way past paw-sewn curtains, past the whirring ceiling fan and out through another open window. Unlike the apartment, Toriel's house had decent airflow, so the heat was at least bearable here. Flowers bloomed from vases on every available table space, bouquets of expertly trimmed golden petals mixed with daisies and wildflowers that had been plucked from roadsides by tiny fingers. Framed photos and albums joined them, memories of beach day outings, birthdays, their first Christmas…

Okay, not really the first, but Sans pushed that thought away with a grimace. He sighed and adjusted the strings on his hoodie, falling back again.

"I can't believe you're wearing that," Undyne groaned from her place. She was sprawled out on the wood floor clad only in loose shorts and a tank top, gills wheezing. "How are you not dying?"

"'What is dead may never die'," Sans quipped, then grinned knowingly as Alphys positively beamed at the reference. He'd seen enough facebook posts to know she'd been really into Game of Thrones lately.

"You are the least Ironborn person I know," The fishwoman grumbled, though her tone softened somewhat as Alphys ran claws gently through her hair. "Ugh, babe, no fair, 'm trying to be cranky here…"

"I-I know. We should really convince Her Majesty to get an air conditioner…"

"She'd never do it," Udyne sighed. "Too practical. It's this hot what, one week outta the year?"

No one suggested the idea of heading to the girls' air-conditioned loft instead.

"I dunno, I kinda like this," Sans piped up after a moment of silence, picking his head up to grin down at the girls. "I'm finally in fashion." Undyne's brow furrowed in confusion, which only made Sans grin wider. "Everybody's finally wearing sweatpants."

Undyne snorted, Alphys groaned. "You are the worst, Sans!" Papyrus howled from the kitchen over Toriel's tittering laughter and Frisk's giggles.

"I know!" Sans called back, and if his laughter seemed a little hollow nobody noticed.

Sans simply laid there for awhile, listening to Undyne and Alphys' lazy chatter as pots and pans clanged in the kitchen. Toriel was proving to be a better cooking teacher than Undyne, but her patience still did little to taper his brother's enthusiasm. From what he could gather, the two of them and the kid were in the process of making some kind of quiche, though he could hear Toriel tutting over the ingredients. "If I'd known you were going to pick up groceries, I would have asked you to get more eggs."

"DO WE NOT HAVE ENOUGH!?" Papyrus gasped. "Never fear, I, the great Papyrus, will run to my store and get some! We have a sale going on where you can get two for the low, low price of one sixty-nine! They come from free range chickens, which I suspect is far better than regular range chickens!"

"No, no, that is all right," Toriel hummed. "We have just enough, although I appreciate you telling me about the sale. We'll simply have to go grocery shopping tomorrow. Frisk, dear, could you help me measure out the flour?"

There was silence for a moment, then Toriel laughed and Papyrus let out a long-suffering sigh. Sans could only assume Frisk had signed some sort of pun and grinned. It took some real skill to manage puns with sign language, he couldn't be more proud.

Sans let out a sigh, letting his eye sockets fall shut. A familiar heaviness overtook him as he took in the scent of flowers and clean linen, let the words wash over him in a haze of white noise and anchor his heavy bones to the chair. It was impossible to shake the idea that this could be gone at any moment, but the familiarity of it meant he could pretend. He was so tired.

There was a wet splat from the kitchen, followed by a few more. "Oh!" Toriel gasped. "Looks like I spoke too soon on those eggs."

"Do not worry, I have prepared for this moment!" Papyrus boomed, his voice growing louder as he darted for the front door. "I will be to the store and back faster than you can say kweh-sh!"

"It's pronounced 'quiche', punk," Undyne deadpanned from the floor.

Sans eyes remained closed as the chaos washed over him, his breathing slowing as he caught Toriel's gentle reassurances. "Don't worry about it Frisk, dear, let's get a washcloth so we can clean this—"

The world stuttered.

Sans bucked upright from the armchair with a jolt, eyes flickering into focus.

"If I'd known you were going to pick up groceries, I would have asked you to get more eggs…" Toriel's voice echoed from the kitchen. Sans choked on his own gasping breath, clasping at his chest with boney fingers.

"Uh… you okay, dude?" Undyne asked from the floor, brow furrowing in concern. She then flashed a sly smile. "What, you have a nightmare about getting less than twelve hours of beauty sleep?"

Sans gave a hollow laugh, grasping at the arms of the chair like a lifeline. "Haha, yeeeaah… yeah…" He rose on shaky feet, bare bones clattering against the wood floor as he stumbled toward the kitchen.

Another reset. Over eggs. What the hell.

"Oh, is old lazybones here to help?" Papyrus exclaimed as Sans stuantered in.

"No way bro, you know what they say about too many cooks," Sans drawled as he glanced around, eyes finally settling on a blue and magenta striped tank top. He reached down to rustle a mop of unruly brown hair, causing his victim to let out a squeak and bat his hands away.

Frisk spun around and pouted up at him. "You causing trouble in here, kiddo?" Sans asked, raising an eyebrow meaningfully. The child's expression faltered slightly before they flashed a somewhat guilty smile and shrugged.

"Oh Sans, you know Frisk never causes any trouble!" Toriel laughed. "Perhaps a bit of mischief, but they're a good child."

Sans stared at the kid for a moment, then sighed and patted Frisk's head again, perhaps a little hard. "Course not, what am I saying? Nothing worth breaking a few eggs over, right?" He brushed past them to a fridge practically wallpapered with crayon drawings, then opened it. It wasn't worth getting worked up over, of course the kid who saved the whole underground just by hugging it out would want to avoid something as simple as messing up dinner for everybody. Stupid, but understandable, assuming this was still the kid and not somebody else…

He tried to ignore the way his fingers shook as he reached for one of the ketchup bottles Toriel always kept on hand for him.

Sans was just popping the lid off when he heard Toriel gasp again, heard the puff in the air of the bag of flour dropping to the floor and the splat of the eggs once more. Goddamnit. Instantly they were all reduced to coughing and hacking, arms waving every which way in an effort to dissipate the cloud that had fallen over the kitchen.

"The skeleton coughed, turned back to face the chaos. "Whoa there Tori, you know what they say about—"

White dust nearly obscuring blue and magenta stripes, gathering on top of hair like snow. Hands covered in white, so much white, a knife clutched in a fist.

His hand shot out on reflex, fingertips flung outward, six blasters summoned in a burst of blue flame and the roar of a jet engine, light pooling in their mouths like stars. Bones clattered from everywhere and nowhere, a cacophony of sound and sharp edges, poised and ready. Cabinet doors flung open from the force of it all, the pie dish hit the floor in an explosion of glass.

A pair of eyes blinked back at him, wide open for the first time in ages and absolutely terrified. Dark. No red.

Sans froze. Nobody breathed.

The bones hung in the air, blasters wheezed as if alive. His eye burned. Papyrus' jaw had dropped, Toriel clutched at her chest. Undyne poised at the kitchen doorway, glowing spear in hand, her eyes wide.

Frisk let out a hiccuping gasp.

Bones clattered to the floor in a rain, Sans' arm dropping to his side. The blasters vanished in an instant. Undyne was on him in seconds, strong hands joining Papyrus' hands on his shoulders as they both pulled him back. Toriel flung herself between him and Frisk, threw her arms around her child. Alphys was running from the living room, eyes wide.

There was a lot of yelling.

"Frisk!? Frisk, are you okay!?" Toriel cried, her paws going over every possible inch of Frisk's body.

"What the FUCK, dude!?" Undyne snarled in his ear, her grip so hard on his shoulder his bones creaked.

"Undyne, careful, he's not— Sans, what was that, Sans!?" Papyrus sputtered.

"What happened, what was that noise, why is everyone yelling, what happened!?" Alphys cried out.

Sans just stared, his eyes completely blank and stuck on the space where Frisk would have been, shielded from their expression by Toriel's back.

No. Nonono. This wasn't happening. This couldn't be happening. He couldn't be—

He couldn't.

Sans took a shaky breath, his entire body rattling. His jaw jerked its way into some semblance of a smile, sweat beading on his forehead. "Whoops! Looks like dinner's ruined, sorry about that. Well, you know what they say, omelets, eggs, you guys were making omelets right? Something like that." He tried to move, but Undyne's hand remained on his shoulder, holding him steady. "Look, no worries, I'll just pop down to the store and grab some more. I know a shortcut."

Papyrus stepped in front of him, put both hands on his shoulders, met his gaze with a frown. "Sans, don't you dare—"

"Back in a jiff!" Sans chirped, and in a flash of blue he was gone.