Sans looked down at his skeletal hands. It was all he could do, really. His soul was beating wildly, and every breath seemed suffocating. He knew that his eyes had been dark for far longer than he'd intended, but he couldn't seem to light them again.

God, how many resets had he gone through? He'd lost count at around three hundred. So many deaths. So many mornings waking up and not knowing who was still alive, and for how long. So many instances where he'd just stood by and watched as everything he loved was wrenched from his grasp. Had he ever tried? Surely not. He was too lazy. Too lazy to be of any use to anyone.

Until it was too late, of course. Why, oh why had he never once intervened? He chuckled mirthlessly, manically. How stupid had he been to wait until everybody was dead to even lift a freaking finger? Why? Why had he not once tried to stop the kid? Was it really so hard to try and be like Papyrus for once, talking the kid out of their crazy genocide?

He knew why. And it sickened him. The resets. The kid could just erase everything if need be, and killing them early on would only result in premature death on his part. And nothing would've stood between the kid and Asgore. So many timelines...

He thought of Papyrus's dust-stained scarf in the snow, of Undyne's goopy remains drip-dripping through the slats in the wooden bridge. He thought of Toriel, her essence likely scattered through the Ruins before anyone could know she was gone. He thought of his own blood, his liquid determination. He thought of Grillby and his own final moments, hallucinating a happy ending.

He deserved each and every painful death for his apathetic approach to the murders of his loved ones. He of all people knew that just because he came through in the end didn't mean he wasn't to blame for everything he could've prevented. Corpses can't be rescued, and avenging the dead means nothing if you fail.

He looked up at the wall and something clicked. He deserved to be dead...

"SANS!" Papyrus called up to him, and he was snapped out of his stupor. "I NEED YOUR HELP WITH THIS SPAGHETTI!" He slid down from his bed, plodding down the stairs to the kitchen. He lit his eyes, grinning wide at his younger brother.

"sure thing, paps." The tall skeleton frowned, lugging the pot over to the stove.

"YOU HAVEN'T MADE A SINGLE PUN ALL MORNING. ARE YOU ALL RIGHT, BROTHER?"

"i figured i'd take it easy on you today. but if you'd like me to patella you a joke, i'd be pappy to." Papyrus groaned, all worry replaced by annoyance, albeit a bit of relief. Though he'd never admit to it.

Sans poured the raw noodles into the boiling water, accidentally splashing some onto his phalanges. He hissed in pain, and Papyrus snapped to attention in an instant.

"SANS, YOU HAVE TO BE CAREFUL!" He said, inspecting the burn. Sans's HP was down to 0.9. A figure he was used to, but worrying for Papyrus all the same.

"i'm fine, papyrus," sans said, voice strained. Papyrus tried to get out the last slice of leftover pie and give it to him, but he waved it away. "let's finish the pasta and i'll heal with that, okay?" Papyrus seemed satisfied with this, turning to his vegetables with new resolve. Sans leaned against the counter, nursing his hand.

"heh, remember that time in the hotlands with the lava?" he asked, and Papyrus looked over at him, a strange look coming across the younger one's face.

"YES..." Papyrus said cautiously. Sans looked over at him, realizing his mistake.

"not that one, the time when we went down and chucked rocks to see how high the lava would go." He laughed. "we had little bits of obsidian stuck on our bones for weeks." Papyrus laughed too, because back then it was okay to head down to the hotlands. Sans had so much health back then. So much HoPe.

They continued cooking in silence, comfortable on Papyrus's side and quite uncomfortable on Sans's side. Because for Sans, the memory of that time was still lingering. And glancing over at Papyrus, he wondered if the knife in his brother's hand would still feel the same.