Sans and I talk about absolutely nothing at all for the rest of the morning. It's as though the conversation is a stream; Sans and I are two springs, and when he cracks a joke there's a happy burble made by the water flowing around it. Even though I know that this brief lapse can only last so long, I lose myself in it, and laugh like there's never gonna be another joke.
Our conversation stream lasts all the way through lunch (a ketchup sandwich and a PBJ- I'll let you guess which is which) until it was stopped abruptly by a levee in the form of my dad pulling into the driveway. Sans blips off somewhere, and I hastily put his plate in the sink on my way to the door.
Dad sweeps through the door, already muttering irritaably about the cretins littering today's workplace. Hobbes agreed loudly in Feline on the way to the food bowl, ambling with a cat's arrogance on the way to the food bowl even though a city sparrow laid upon the doormat. I just grin. That's my two dorks, all right.
[Funny. Her eyes just glide on over the extra car, dusty from disuse, and that door in the hall. I wonder where it goes...]
"Would you like something to eat?" I ask Dad pointedly over his exasperated raving.
"I mean, really, he's had plenty of time to learn this! You'd think tha- oh. Yeah. Thanks, Jean." His ears turn a little red, and I fight the urge to laugh. He runs a hand through his hair- ginger, like mine, but lacking the curls- and then shoofs my head with the same hand. "How was your day?"
"Eh." I shrug nonchalantly. "The world turned, some stars went nova, a skeleton fell through the mirror in the basement. Same old gig."
He laughs softly, and smooches the top of my head. "I love you, blue jeans."
"Love ya more, old man." I lift the boxes out of his preoccupied hand and sigh noiselessly through my nose. Pizza for dinner again. when will he ever get the courage to cook agai
What was I thinking…? Never mind. If I can't remember it now, then it must not be important. I start his favorite sandwich- ham and mayonnaise with fresh spinach, all toasted. I almost think we're out of spinach until I realize there's a whoooole 'nother bag in the very back of the top shelf in the fridge. "Are you home for real, or is this just a lunch break?"
"Ah, sorry, just a lunch break. Where's the toaster?"
I choke down my relief and remove the bag of tortilla chips. "Right there. While you're in town, could you pick up some ketchup and milk? We're almost out."
"Ketchup? Didn't we have two bottles in the pantry somewhere?"
"Nope."
"God, going senile already. What a nightmare." I force a chuckle along with him, handing the sandwich over to be toasted. " What about work? I thought it was just something small…?"
"Yeah. S'just, a there was a bunch of other small things, and they all got snowballed together."
There's a tense silence, frustrating because I don't know why it's tense. Dad's fidgeting, quiet, tapping out anxious rhythms on all the surfaces within reach. I sigh. "Wh-"
"It's just, uh, that, that she… It's been- been a year since…"
Slowly, absurdly slowly, I realize the meaning cringing behind his fumbling, achy words. My heart rate speeds up, and then slows to a crawl.
Oh, most of me thinks. That.
The rest of me- small and livid with terror- is scrambling around on hands and knees, begging, pleading to know why the hell I'm not staggering under this weight I'm supposed to be carrying, yelling my throat hoarse at the intensity of this agony I do not feel, sobbing at the unquenchable greif in my soul that I'm not aware of, and not feeling this aching hole in this God-forsaken world that her absence left.
I blink. My eyes aren't even stinging, and when I sepak, my voice is level, casual. "I'll go get my coat."
With an hour-long lunch break, a five-minute distance betwixt work and our house, and a 40-minute round trip to the cemetery Mo She was buried in, there is little time to get flowers. Dad chooses slowly and carefully, gruff from the pressure of unshed tears; three stargazer lilies offset by baby's breath. There is a 4-for-5-dollars discount, but the number three is sacred- one for me, one for Dad, one for me, and one for Her.
The drive to Oaklawn Cemetery is utterly silent. When it's time to get out, Dad uses 30 precious seconds to steel himself. I think we both know the steel will rot anyway.
He silently hands me the flowers. I gently free the blossoms of their plastic wrapping and lay them just below the headstone. Then I retreat to Dad's side, and we stare at the inscription under which she rests, thinking and remembering.
Elizabeth Jean Silversmith Gabiola
Mother, Sister, Daughter, Wife
April 12, 1977 - October 26, 2016.
May the stars watch over her.
My hand finds Dad's.
I miss you, Mom.
Out of the blue, I want to do something- shout Her name, scream, cry, sing in remembrance of what was lost; a shooting star, brief, fleeting, outlined against the frigid desert of eternity, doomed to freeze, to fail. If the universe is cold and uncaring, to steal such a beautiful person in the prime of her life, then what chance have I, a person a twelfth of Her, dirty and dim in comparison? What is the point of living if this is our fates, regardless of the good or bad we commit? What is the point?...
The energy fades, faster than it came and leaving lethargy in its place. Numbness threatens to take over my mind. It is only with the greatest willpower that I beat it back, back to the dark place from whence it came. The numbness has been there since day one, lurking with predatory patience; every time I beat it back, it's a little quicker to the edge of the skirmish and a little later in leaving. I know that it will be there as long as I have a soul; I know, too, that one day, I won't be able to hold it back any longer.
I don't think about that day much.
With a jerk, I realize that I haven't been breathing much at all for the past 45 seconds; I breathe in like I've been underwater that whole time. Dad starts, too, unaccustomed to the noise. We don't release the other's hand until we have to part to get into the car. Dad breathes- quavering on the inhalations and shuddering on the exhalations- before surreptitiously wiping his face and starting the car.
It is only then that I notice the twin wet lines on my face.
Hobbes' Perspective
He yawned, and stretched. The short-sleep in his chair had been refreshing. He sat back and washed himself, considering his options; inspect his realm that the furless-cats-on-two-legs used (by his permission), eat the dry, flavorless rocks-that-he-could-eat, drink out of the white-bowl-with-loud-water, or make dirt in the dirtplace-in-a-box. He had sadly been trapped inside the boxed-in-nest, and thus could not go into the outdoors and hunt. Hobbes decided on the first choice, and padded out of the room.
Rubbing his face and twining his tail around anything and everything he could, Hobbes inspected the eating room. Then he stopped at the only closed door in his boxed-in-nest; the short furless-cat-on-two-legs' favorite den, which often dressed in bright, exciting pelts and gave that odd, drawn-out barking purr very often.
For three winters, since he'd been a kitten, there had been three furless in the nest; the furless-she-kit-with-bright-hair, the furless-tom-with-bright-hair, and the furless-queen-with-dark-hair. The sorry represenative of purring had come quickly those days, and with ease, especially from the furless queen.
The day it all changed, there had been no warning but the heavy rain the night before; the family of three had vacated during the early hours, when the sun was just painting the horizon in red, and they didn't return for the whole day. In fact, the furless queen didn't return at all, no matter how much he pleaded for her to come back and play with him, and when he posed the question to the other furless, all they did was turn away.
Eventually, Hobbes came to the conclusion that the furless queen was not-breath-cold, and would never ever again come in through the entryway to scratch his ears and purr. He himself was no stranger to mourning- he had lost his mother and littermates in a fire- but for some bizarre reason, the furless kit and the furless tom kept feeling grief at the furless queen's absence an entire four-season after she was gone. It was curious, but Hobbes came to accept it, like many things before.
One thing Hobbes wasn't accepting was the recent appearance of lazy-dangerous-miserable-not-furless. Its voice buzzed around much longer than needed in his ear fur, he had too-knowing eyes, and- worst of all- Hobbes had no idea what it was. It smelled like the bone of the various birds he caught, acted like a furless with problems, and it could lift things without touching them and make them smell like hot-water-empty-space-fire-bitter-cold for days.
It also slept a lot.
As a matter of fact, reflected Hobbes grouchily, it slept too much. Far too much. Not even he slept that amount, even when he was ill! He stood in the doorway, glaring petulantly at the slumbering heap, lying face-down on the carpet. Hobbes twitched his ear in a sour fashion, and the lump of blue turns completely over in response, mumbling something that sounds like "P'pyr'ss…", still out cold.
Since Hobbes obviously hates Sans, it will be a complete mystery to all when the cat stomps over and settles into a loaf shape on the exact center of his ribcage.
Well… Perhaps it isn't a complete mystery.
He is a cat, after all.
Sans awoke to the slam of a door.
Shortly after, a lock clicked loudly- presumably on the same door- a door rolled out of the drive, and footsteps clacked on the floor downstairs. His mind was full of a pleasant pink cloud after a decidedly bland, dust-free dream; there was a heavy, fuzzy warmth on his ribs, and light from the CORE was filtering in from his window. He wondered vaguely if Pap was oka-
Wait.
Wait wait waaaaaaaaaait.
They didn't have a car, or a cat?
His spike of panicked magic- the monster equivalent of adrenaline- awakened higher thought with a bang. Papyrus isn't here- maybe safe, maybe not. There hadn't been a RESET- that was sunlight through the window and a tomcat on his chest. And he was mostly sure that this human wouldn't massacre the Underground.
…
Yeah, okay, he was lying and he knew it.
But, marginally less importantly, why on earth was this weird thing sleeping on him? He wasn't exactly, I dunno, warm? Or very soft? Just, what?
Meanwhile, the footsteps made their way up the stairs and into the bedroom. The mind's eye pans from the Sans with a Hobbes on top, and Jean shuts the door. She then proceeds to silently ooze down it into a well-practiced position- a tight, upright fetal ball with her arms hugging her knees, which in turn disguised her face.
"Hi Sans," She mumbled, voice uncharacteristically gray and flat. "Nice to see you somewhat awake. Why is Hobbes sleeping on you?"
"not the foggiest idea. to tail the truth, i have even less of an idea than you cuz there was nil cats in the Underground outside anime."
Jean raised her head, and sweet Asgore her eyes- "You had NO cats? What about Temmies? Don't they count on some level?"
"... uh." they were just blank my God is that how i look when- "no. temmies are… worse."
She really perked up at that. "Worse? How worse?"
"they. uh…" oh great, he was starting to sweat. Hobbes was starting to wake up. Joy. "they just. i. don't like them."
"Wait. are you scared of temmies?"
She was starting to look delighted. Hobbes, in a spirited movement, had somehow contorted his body into a position that most professional acrobats would be madly jealous of without falling off of Sans- though he did get a 8/10, for the tail draped across Sans' face. "keep going down that path and i'm gonna go to sleep at will."
She started to snicker. "I cannot believe you're scared of Temmies! That's terrible!"
"yup. downright clawful. night." Sans flopped backwards and drifted into the waiting darkness.
Jean smiled and crawled across the ground to scratch Hobbes on the head. He opened a single emerald eye, spotted her, and purred, digging his meathook claws into Sans' white shirt. Sans, who had his left arm thrown over his face, did absolutely nothing but mutter something suspiciously like "tem" and shiver faintly. Jean heaved a sigh, sitting down next to Sans cross-legged and thoughtful. She continued to pet Hobbes, relishing in the silence. The calm before- well. Not the storm, per se. Real life wasn't a roleplay; there was a long, sweaty, silence before the battle, reeking of fear; there was death, and bad luck, and unexpected rainstorms; there was consequences, and there was no reset button. Jean winced at that thought. Today had been painful, almost. The shadow of anguish hinted at a far deeper torment below the surface, and Jean was scared that feeling very much at all would set it off.
That was how she knew her soul trait wasn't bravery. When she was scared of something, she ran away instead of, at the very least, looking the problem in the face before turning heel.
But if she felt hardly anything at all… If she could sleep easily after her passing… What did that make her?
[Jean is ready to be experienced by the readers from first person.]
Hobbes chirped suddenly, chastising her for stopping. Jolted out of my reverie, I smiled faintly, wistfully at the tabby. "Do you remember her?"
Hobbes sighed in bliss and pushed against my hand.
"Figures. I never really thought animals were capable of much grief. Maybe it's a soul thing, huh?"
Hobbes yawned and began to wash his paws.
"Yep, those exist now, buddy. Whooda thunk it." I smiled a little wider. "I think she would have liked him. Do you remember? She always had some quip or prank or joke ready. Someone would insult her, and she'd just bounce back laughing; that one guy called her short, and all she did was say, 'Yeah, I've got hobbit blood and proud of it!' Remember?"
Hobbes started washing his ears and face; I moved my hand to his shoulders.
"She made oil paintings for five people, but she always preferred something else if it was someone she liked- watercolors, sketches. She even made that one hanging tree ornament for her twin sister, remember? And she said, 'iron, for strength and corruption, copper for surprises, and silver, for starlight and memory.' She always spoke in near riddles." Hobbes, who had sat up to wash his forelegs, flicked his ears at the crack in my voice.
"She always loved telling everyone within earshot about their eighth date. They hiked up a mountain, and while the sun set, he pulled out a guitar, and he played the absolute off-key, warped rendition of Drops of Jupiter. She said…" I shake my head at the burn in my eyes. Just when I think I'm done… "She said it was the most beautiful song she ever heard."
Hobbes was washing, but I barely knew he was there; I was far, far away, eyes glazed with the mists of remembrance, unseeing. "She always had time for people, too, hold up something important or halt in the middle of something that needed close attention, and listen to someone list all their worries. A little kid, a single mom, a little old person. She'd sit there and give them her ears and her heart, and make time for them. She called herself a 'christian in atheist's clothing'. That always befuddled dad to no end. Heh."
I keep going like that- masochist that I am- and on, and on, remembering every detail that I can. I can still remember her face, her voice, the touch of her hand on mine, her ringing laughter. It's wrong, and yet somehow makes some kind of sense- because I know that as long as I can remember, I'm at least a little safe. A little safe a little longer.
I snap to, checking the time. Holy- It was already five freaking thirty two! Gosh, how in the world did it get that late? I leapt to my feet and ran down the stairs. I had a plan, but it hinged on my dad not being here. Which meant I had to be on time…
I am so glad we got ketchup.
I poked Sans.
"C'mon, bonehead. I gotta talk to you about something."
No reaction. I poked him again. "I'll throw a sock at you?"
Nada. Third time. "I made you a ketchup sandwich."
"mnf."
"Saaaaaaannsss. Please wake up. Please?"
"i just came for the sandwiches. i didn't sign anything about weird timespace shenanigans like this."
"Did you read the small print? You're always supposed to read the small print."
"heh. nope. that's it." He blinks an eye open. "'sup, kid."
"Ceiling, troposphere, maybe some cloud, jetstream, stratosphere, mesosphere, thermosphere, a bunch of space junk, and then the depths of outer space." I crouch down. "But I expected you're interested in the ketchup sandwich."
"right again." He takes the plate, gingerly setting it on the floor like maybe it will explode if he's not careful enough. "but really. just patella me the truth; what's up?"
"Um." I start tracing circles in the carpet. "Sorry for you to have woken up to me pestering you, but… I just- I'm, like, a gold-medal athlete when it comes to avoiding things, and I just figured maybe we could get most of the questions out of the way tonight? Before my tiny shred of courage runs away again?"
He sits there for a moment. I fumble. "Because, um, it's a conversation we'd both rather not be having and I just figured that- if you don't want, that's fine- It's, it's just I-"
He grunts and swipes a negative gesture through the air, cutting me off. "nah. i get your logic. i relish the fact that we can together mustard the strength to taco 'bout… eh. i ran out of sauce. i'll ketchup later."
I winced. "Ouch. That was a little lacking in tact."
"hey, if you wanted tact, ya should have called in colonel mustard."
"Owww," I groan. "Stop. Just. Stop right there. Continue no further down that fell path. You're taking us off track."
"sorry, what? i didn't catch that. mayonnaise you speak up?"
"It's may you speak up," I say firmly past my grimace, "And if you don't stop I'll stuff your eyesockets full of marshmallows."
Said eyesockets widen. "you wouldn't."
"Try me," I growl. "Now. Twenty small questions, six deep questions, and you can't just call small questions deep because you're too lazy to do anything else."
"thanks for the idea."
I scowl at him halfheartedly. A grin identical to his own is fluttering underneath. "No lying, and you can call three save-for-laters, which means you answer it later. And actually answer it later. No buts, no cuts, no coconuts. Now we fist bump."
I hold out my fist. He misses the first time- deliberately, I can see his smile get a little wider at my huff- and then hits my knuckles with an unexpected pop! I yelp. There's tattered remnants of a tiny yellow balloon on his knuckles. "How?! That definitely wasn't there before!"
He smirks. "one small answer to go: maaaaaagiiic."
"You know- Ugh. I give up. You're the prank master."
"i had no idea there was ever a competition in the first place."
"Ha. There wasn't." I pause to think for a moment. "What's your favorite color?"
He looks incredulous. "nn?"
"I asked you a question, dork."
"uh. blue i guess?"
"Don't just leave it hanging like that. I gotta have a valid reason here!" I protest.
"i dunno. because- blue is echo flowers? and the color of the sky? and just… 'cause blue."
I nod, satisfied. "Okay, then. Your turn."
"... why…" I perk up. A deep question?
"why did the froggit cross the road?"
I have to think long and hard. "Because it had a warrant?"
"nope. to get to the other side."
"That was officially the worst one yet."
"knock knock."
I give him a withering glower. "Who is it now?"
"the froggit."
You could probably hear me groan from the Russia/Alaska border. "Ask a real question, please."
"where were ya at lunch?"
Wow.
This is just.
"Pfff," I snort. "Real slick. I went- Dad and I-" I throw my hands in the air because I can't even bleeding talk- "We visited Mom's grave!
He just kind of... sits there. "M-moving on now! What's your favorite number?"
"why would i have a favorite number. that's so pointless."
"No it's not! Favorite numbers are very important, they- wait. Was that a pun?"
He grins. "i don't know, was it?"
"You're just impossible." I think for a second. "My favorite number is twelve, because it has six factors and when squared, all the digits are factors of twelve. Your turn. I think."
"'kay." A silence grows, one I feel should probably be tense, except I don't know what to be tense about. Then he says, carefully, "what did you mean earlier by "humans whose job is to be scared'?"
Crud.
Of course he had to ask that.
Curse you and your keen mind, Sans.
"huh?" Great. Even better. I must've said that last part aloud. Greeeeaaat.
"Okay. So, you know the Royal Guard, right? And, I don't know, all the rest of that? Sentries and stuff? Well, um, us humans have something like that, too, except we've had way more resources and space- ha, literally in some cases- and motive for forming things like that. And we're stubborn, and we have an absurdly gargantuan population, and, um, stuff like that…" I scratch my chin. How do I put this.
"So a bunch of humans decided that they wanted to make sure they were safe. And, heck, they definitely probably started out with mostly pure intentions, but then some people overseas started getting powerful. I mean, crazy powerful. And… Oh, buggery, I can't remember what happened next. Gimme a second-" I hop up and start poking through my bookshelves. "Oh, come on, I swear it was there not five days back… Aha!" I hold up my triumph; a thick history textbook.
"Kay, so I'm going to start at about the War of 1812. So, there's two major temperate continental masses, one in the Western Hemisphere-" grunt as I pry open the textbook-" and one in the East. A bunch of humans who called themselves Englishmen found that, lo and behold, not only was the earth round but there was a whole 'nother landmass out there, dubbed America at some point in time (This is where you are right now, fyi). So… "
I flip it to a specific page, one with a couple of maps- one of the Americas made in the 1500s, and a modern one on the next page. "A bunch of people who were feeling like some major religious freedom would be a nice change crossed the Atlantic ocean and reached the Americas. Eventually, almost everyone else in Europe felt like coming over, and the people who ruled Europe got ticked off. One thing led to several other petty things, which led to a declaration of war from America.
"After the War- which we, the Americans, won- and a rocky start, people settled down somewhat and focused on making America America. Most of the Army was formed during that time, and kept up in case something like 1812 occurred again. Which it did, of course- the Civil war, World War Two, et cetera."
I heaved a sigh, leaning over the book. "The army is supposed to make sure this country is safe- and believe me when I say they aren't prone to being merciful. They have other people to do that. And completely unknown-to-mankind-stuff like you, bonehead, isn't going to make them happy. They've gotten all kinds of terrifying things in their arsenal, so don't go ordering pizza because chances are the pizza boy is going to put your lovely face up on social media. Which will spell the end for you, with a capital En." I close the book, holding it up and waving it around for emphasis. "Now, there's a lot of squiggly parts and knots, but that's what this thing is for, so if you get really bored, read it. But mostly, just… Stay safe I guess? Because everyone has a phone these days. With a camera."
Gosh, I can't remember the last time I rambled so long. Sans is staring at- no, now he's looking at the book. Something strikes me out of the blue; all their textbooks… Came from the dump. Which means they'd been through book hell and back. Water, acidic water, pointy stuff in the acidic water to tear at pages and bend spines.
It almost makes me cry.
I try to turn to cheerier topics. "So on a rather unrelated note, what's your favorite book?"
He's got that look again- the vaguely uncomfortable one, with a bit of unreadable mixed in. "i, uh, don't have a favorite book."
"... You don't have. A Favorite. Book."
"that's what i said."
I feel my jaw drop. "Dude. You have to have a favorite book. How about classics? H. G. Wells? War of the Worlds? Journey to the Center of the Earth? Fahrenheit 451? Nothing? Oh, gosh. This is atrocious." I get up, again, to peruse my books. This trip takes considerably less longer than before. "Okay, considering your culture is much different from humans'- I think- you might not enjoy these as much as I did, but I'm afraid you're going to have to forgive me, because I can't really find all that much well-written science fiction. This is Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy, and this beauty is What If?, Serious Scientific Answers To Absurd Hypothetical Questions. I think you will enjoy it tremendously." I set down the novels and pat them. "This is your unofficial homework. And before I ramble any more, please ask me a question."
He frowns at the books for awhile before asking quietly, "what do you think of me?"
And again, he stops me in my tracks. Truly, this is a night of surprises.
"I don't know. Perhaps… Perhaps a better question would be how much I know."
"then how much do you know?"
He's not defiant. This is Sans I'm talking about, he's given up on everything but his brother, remember? He looks… tired. Without hope. He's not scared either. He's just…
Drained. A pile of dust with a smile pasted on.
"I…"
Sweet cheese, where on Earth do I even start?
"I know too much, and not enough. I haven't seen every outcome, but… I wanted to, so what does that make me? I was given the ability to strip away consequences like old paint, make the world anew, to never die." My mouth twitches up into its little half-smile. "It was just a game, after all, what did it matter? Just zeroes and ones, just lines of code, just pixels on a screen. What did it matter if I killed everyone? Even if they did exist, I could just-" I slam a fist on the floor, infuriated with myself- "start over. Hell, they wouldn't even remember! I was one of those people who examined every nook and cranny I could wedge my character into.
I loose my hands from their grip against themselves and force calm over the squall of my head. "I was careful, I- I systematically pried everything apart. If I could have chosen everything at once, I would have done that. I was testing the waters, poking things to see what they'd do, and it was okay, because if I dusted that snowdrake on accident, I could just click a button and everything would be back to normal."
I take a moment to fully restore my voice. "I did the most average routes- a Pacifist, a few of the Neutral routes, A Genocide, a No Mercy, and two True Pacifist. It's never really certain exactly how much of the Resets you remember, but it's definite that you do. There's… Amalgamates in the True Lab, and… Well." I give a little laugh. "You two were the most mysterious people in the game, you and Papyrus. You just- up and asserted yourselves one day, out of the blue, in Snowdin. But, umm…" Ah, what was it…? "I'm a legendary fartmaster."
Sans' eyebrows (come on, I have no idea, stop asking me) rose to an astronomical height. "welp. i guess that answers my question. you are really immature."
"Hey! I'm not-" My mind flashed an image of what I'd just said. "O-okay, so maybe that was-" He starts sniggering. "Hey! This isn't funny!"
"no, you're right," he gasps, "it's hilarious!"
"You have a terrible habit of trying to convince everyone you're alright by cracking jokes at your expense," I say flatly.
"you know you're smiling, right?"
I change the subject. "Why do you even drink ketchup, anyway?"
"why not?"
"Because you could drink tea."
Sans gags. "yech, no. leave the weird fruity sludge to someone else."
"Coffee?" I try.
"half the stuff that falls is disgusting, and a tenth of the stuff that's not actually tastes like coffee. luxury commodity."
"That's terrible!" I exclaim, looking aghast.
"tell me about it."
Oops, bitter subject. (Oh my gosh nO NOT A PUN) "Your turn."
"What did one skeleton say to the other?"
"... I've got your back?"
He chuckles a little. I have to squash down an absurd spiral of glee. "good, but no. it's 'i've got a bone to pick with you.'"
Okay… why do you always wear that one jacket? You have to have something else, the possibility of you owning another jacket somewhere in your chaotic room is way too high."
He puts a hand to his chest. "ouch, that cut me to the bone," he complains with a false-hurt expression on his soft-edged face. "your room isn't exactly a beauty, you know." He leans forward conspiratorially; "however, i did clone this jacket. i have six more somewhere."
"Where somewhere?"
"i'd tell ya, but i'd have to kill ya."
"Fiiiiine, Mr. Mysterious. Your turn."
"you said 'completely unknown to mankind' earlier."
I get the feeling I know where this is going. It's not a nice feeling. "Yep. That I did."
He pins me with a gimlet stare. I stare back. Chills start racing up my spine and back down again. My eyes begin burning. And then I realize something vital (ahaha);
Sans doesn't need to blink.
…
Did I ever say that I can be really stupid?
Yeah, I figured.
"Fine, okay," I groan. "I'll try to make this painless. Either monsters literally didn't exist, or nobody remembers you, because I think our technology would be better. Yes?"
Sans stares at the- wait. He doesn't need to blink, which means he stares at everything. Stupid stupid dumb. Nevertheless, he stares at the ketchup sandwich. "sure."
I feel like I need to say something. "Sorry" slips off my tongue before I even think about it.
Something in his face twitches. "stop doing that."
I blink. "What?"
"stop apologizing like that." He shrugs his hood over his face, but I can still feel him glowering at the sandwich like it personally insulted his lineage. My subconscious starts worrying about it; if he gazes any harder at it, he'll start toasting the bread from sheer will. "you're not supposed to feel sorry. you're not supposed to feel guilty. you're- youre-"
My brain grinds to a halt. I'm angry, and I'm not sure why- because anger is easy to feel?- and then I get even more angry, because I think I know why.
It isn't quick- there's no lightbulb. It's just… a bunch of little things connect, finally.
"I'm what? Supposed to be human? Do you know something, Comic Sans? I'm going to apologize, and apologize some more, because I'm not some mindless destruction machine. I'm largely aware of my mistakes, thankyouverymuch, and I regret many of them. And you wanna know why I regret them? Because I was aware of my choices." There's a deep seated fury in my voice, but I make sure it's cold, and that the waves don't toss my boat against a sandbar, because I'm really, really quiet and mumbly and- as frankly ashamed as I am to admit it- the anger makes me enunciate way better.
"I know you would just love to live under a rock and bar yourself off, but that's a bad idea. I know that's a bad idea because I did that, and still am to some shameful extent, and by the four dimensions known to man, I'm going to clear up why that's a bad idea and how hard I'm going to throw a nectarine at your head if and when you do that." I jab a finger at his surprised face. "One. Barring yourself is distancing yourself, is basically what LOVE is. I'm not about to sit here and let you do that to yourself any longer. And two-" I throw my hands up in the air- "Like, what the actual hell! I mean heck! What was it that trapped you guys underground again? Racism! What are you practising? Racism! Racism is a disgusting, poorly named, entirely hereditary thing and good lord, I'm not going to have that under my roof, buster. Three- Imma turn that poor fruit into sauce, and there will be a dent the size of hobbes in your head. So cut it out." I sag. "And in case you have any doubt, I said all that because I'm worried about you and it really drives me up the flipping wall when people don't take me seriously. SO. We are going to TREAT each other like COMPLETELY CIVILIZED PEOPLE instead of STEREOTYPES. Period. End of rant. Done. No buts." I plop to the floor. "Now, if you aren't going to actually eat that sandwich I'll put it in the fridge because lukewarm ketchup is disgusting."
He's still watching me. I glance behind me to make sure there isn't, say, a clown smiling over my shoulder, or maybe a mime (which is almost as bad). "What?"
He takes a few seconds to reboot. "you don't normally do this, do you?"
"Rave for that long? No. Not since my best friend Chloe left."
"you did this to your friend."
"Obviously. I cared about her health. Sandwich?"
His eyebrows start rappelling down. "... i guess not."
"Good. I'm going to make a mug of tea. Shout if you want some."
I start going down the stars, completely ignoring the look on his face. It's the most confused I've seen him yet, which is saying a lot, considering.
And I still have to tell him about Gaster.
i- but no comment on the third person. Hmmmm. I wonder… Nah, he's just still half asleep and dreaming.
Poor Sans. Once he was a young hopeful skelle who wanted to be friends with most everyone. AND THEN UNDERTALE HAPPENED WHOOPS
