A/N:
since i'm posting now i figured i might as well post the main thing i'm working on, so! if you wanna read the (cough better formatted) original version with all of the chapters so far on AO3, then my profile's link is on my page-
otherwise it'll eventually all be posted to here, theoretically
additional tags btw because this website isn't enough for my tag skills - mystery, suspense, drama, and also basically most of the Undertale cast will be featured (and OCs because clearly everyone likes OCs)
anyway, hope you guys like it! :)
Apparently, skeletons can sweat—more than they should, anyhow, because it wasn't like Sans didn't know beforehand what he was and wasn't capable of.
...Why was he thinking about that. What was wrong with him, why couldn't he just relax?
I mean, he knew why but—
Why were you not here yet?!
You bailed, didn't you? Of course you did, you probably had better things to do than come here—
Oh gods what if you knew.
You probably knew what he was planning to do and you bailed because you didn't want to say no right to his face, did you.
I mean really why would you, you were too good for him, why even come here.
He knew it was worthless, he knew he didn't deserve you, why did he even bother—
"Sorry I'm late!"
...Wait what.
He straightened back up, as though he hadn't just been almost falling out of his chair, and met your gaze with a barely-convincing grin. "uh, hey."
You just smiled at him in response, which made his soul race a hundred times faster than it already was—which was saying a lot.
Also. Holy crap.
You looked amazing.
Of course, he knew you would, but this, he wasn't really expecting—
"Seriously, I'm sorry," you added, sounding like you meant it, which he wasn't too fond of. "They kept me later than I thought and—"
"'s no problem, doll." He wanted to say something else, to make you feel better, but it felt like his nonexistent tongue was in knots at that moment; all he could do was stare at you for a moment, which was probably creepy.
"...Is something wrong?"
Sure enough, you noticed him staring, and he half-snapped out of his daze. "uh, no, sorry..."
Oh boy. You looked even more nervous. Good job, Sans. "If—I'm sorry if this outfit is too much, I—"
"no!" he blurted, too quickly. "you're fine! great!"
...Wow.
His only saving grace is the fact you laughed at that.
Okay, it had officially been an hour and you two were still just sitting here, not making a move—much less him.
Should he do it now? Would that be weird? This probably wasn't even that romantic, right?
He probably messed up. You were going to hate him. He was such an idiot.
"Sans," you interrupted his thoughts with your voice, your eyes filled with concern. Oh geez, how could he get past that look. "Are you sure nothing's wrong?"
"err, yeah." Way to be smooth. Then, before he could convince himself otherwise: "uh, look over there!"
"...What?"
"shooting star," he choked out, near close to a coughing fit. You gave him a very odd look, but decided to look at the sky anyway. Without your gaze he almost fell to the floor in an effort to get out of his seat.
Okay. Now—
"I don't see anything, Sans," you point out, your voice all levels of unimpressed. You start turning around. "Really, if you're that embarrassed about your own outfit why don't we just head back to your..."
Your voice trailed off, and any ounce of humor you had been trying to tease him with flew out the metaphorical window.
Your mouth dangled open, and you merely stared back at him, and the way his entire body seemed to shake.
"u-uhhhh," he winced—oh stars he ruined this big time, didn't he-why can't he even hold the box right without trembling so hard— "will, you—uh..." He stopped himself, seeming to lose all knowledge of speech.
"Oh my gods."
His eye-sockets shot open, and he looked up at you, preparing himself for your inevitable answer, because by this point you obviously knew what was happening, he just hoped you wouldn't be too unforgiving—
Oh. Oh no.
Oh no.
What the Hell, why were you crying, how could he make you cry—
What had he done—
"'m s-sorry, i didn't—i'm sorry, doll, please don't—" he practically stumbled, forgetting the box in his hand temporarily as he tried to fumble his way to you in some odd attempt of comfort. He must have tripped his way further to oblivion because you ended up having to dive forward and catch him before he face-planted.
"Sans, stop," you laughed, actually laughed, even though tears were streaming down your face, "stop apologizing."
"wh—"
You pull the box out from behind you, having caught it a second before you caught him.
At first, he thought you just hadn't wanted to let something so expensive go to waste.
But then you looked up at him, tears still in your eyes, not an ounce of uncertainty or disgust in you.
"Yes," is all you uttered, through another smile; a loving, absolutely sure-of-yourself smile. And Sans couldn't believe his luck.
...It's no wonder that same luck wouldn't last.
Two weeks.
Only two weeks, you were his. Only two weeks, he was yours. Forever and ever, both of you promised. Until death do you part.
And then you were gone.
Frisk tried knocking on his door. It didn't work. They tried pounding harder, and it still didn't work.
So they took out a key—one they made sure not to tell anyone they'd gotten, of course—and unlocked the door.
It swung open, slowly. Almost sadly.
The room was dark. A bit chilly. Nothing about the atmosphere made them went to go in, but...
Something else did:
Determination.