It was a difficult battle. From this fact alone he could tell that the kid had been at this for a while, dodging most of his blows with the casual air that only comes with endless practice. He threw everything he had at them, bringing the temperature of the room down to below freezing as a glowing mist curled in the air around his eye. Bone after bone forming to rush at his target, each meant to deliver a fatal blow, each draining a little more energy from him.

A creeping unease twisted at his core the more the fight wore on. Would this be the timeline in which he failed?

He'd known going into this what the likely outcome was. Hell, technically it had already happened, if their readings were anything to go off of. While he could make this difficult, make them angry, frustrate them to no end by standing in their way, he had his limits, and he was going against someone who could come back an unlimited amount of times. Eventually, they would learn how to overpower him, and then it would be over.

The underlying question throughout all this was why was he even bothering to try?

The answer, of course, was because he'd no other choice.

If he could get them to change their mind before they reached Asgore, then there was still hope that everything would be alright, that they could learn to be a good person, like his brother so claimed. Despite the violence, he still believed they could change, an echo of Papyrus's dying words. Everyone who'd been reduced to dust could come back, a fresh start, and none of this would have had to happen.

If he couldn't get them to stop, if they defeated him and finished their deadly sweep of the underground, then they really couldn't change, and what happened here would always have happened.

That was what made him take his stand despite the hopelessness he faced.

He was starting to grow tired, and he was starting to grow desperate. Sans steeled himself, and he delivered what would have to be his last attack. Finally they faltered, and he struck true, their soul coming apart under the weight of his magic. Their body hit the ground, and so did he, brought to his knees where he stood. Ice coated the hall around him, sharp spikes lacing the pillars, soft blue like the fading glow in his eye.

They'd come so close to beating him.

There was nothing more for him to do, now. Nothing more than to wait for them to reset. With a sigh, he pulled himself back up onto his feet, the flames in his sockets white and dim with exhaustion. Sans let his gaze linger on the fallen human a moment more, before turning, and walking away. A flash, and he was on the other side of the underground. Snowdin, of course. Where else could he go but Grillby's?

It wasn't the same as it was before all this started. His footsteps were hollow, echoing through the little bar, empty of people and empty of music. The bartender was gone, of course, evacuated with the rest of the monsters. That was fine. He knew where the ketchup was, and it wasn't like it was going to matter if he took it, anyway.

He sat at his usual chair, tipping the bottle back and giving the bottle a little shake to coax its contents out. Swallowing, he put it back down, and leaned heavily against the counter, let his eyes close and his breathing slow. Sans didn't expect to wake up. This timeline would soon end, and what he was in that moment would cease to exist. Maybe the next version of himself would be able to get through to them.

The blanket of sleep fell over him, thick and heavy, dissolving his thoughts and leaving him blissfully unaware of the world around him.

Yet he wasn't out forever. He came back into himself slowly at first, the weight of his own body coaxing him back to reality. Then his memories returned with a flash, and he saw them, that smile, a knife in their hand as they lunged for him. The chair clattered to the ground as he fell back, jerking away from the counter so hard that he brought himself crashing to the floor. Cold mist leaked from his eye, he scrambled up onto his feet, every sound bouncing back to him as he struggled to come to terms with where he was.

Still at Grillby's.

There was no clock in the bar. How long had he slept? It couldn't have been for that long. He huffed, standing to put the chair back in its place, to sit back down. Picking his bottle up again, he drained more of its contents, until it was empty and he had to go and grab another one.

Soon enough, that bottle, too, was empty, and he found himself resting against the counter once more. A second full nap later, and he opened his eyes to find that not a thing had changed.

If he could have frowned, he would have. Unfortunately, nothing could wipe that grin off his face.

He knew for a fact that timelines did not just keep going once a reset happened. That's not how it worked. The only thing this could mean was that they hadn't gone back to try the battle again, nor had they gone back all the way to start anew.

Fingers tapped against the edge of the bar, a sort of restlessness worming in, chasing away the need for rest, at least in the short term. It'd been a few hours, at the very least.

A third bottle of ketchup later, and he knew for a fact something was up. Were they doing this to spite him? No, that wouldn't get them anywhere. Even if they were doing this to hurt him, he'd have no memory of this when they tried anew. Were they finally considering his words?

...had they done this before? Did it always take this long? It didn't seem like it should take this long.

For lack of a couch, he chose to lay down in one of the booths. It was softer and less straining on his joints than the chair. Sans draped an arm over his face, and let himself drift off.

Drift off, only to wake again later, and nothing had changed at all.