It was an accepted fact that you were content and capable at running your little farm all by yourself. After many years in your little corner of the country, growing your flowers and raising your bees, you had a good routine going. This time of year, you moved your hives into a little shed for shelter, knowing that eventually the storms would come and batter the country with wind and rain. You battened down your greenhouse and paid special attention to the flowers that needed the most sun, and you made sure your bees had enough honey to last the weeks that they would probably be stuck inside.
And you made sure you had food to last the rainy days. This was when the house would smell of cinnamon and vanilla, because while you were quiet adept at the living alone thing, your kitchen skills were limited to baking and the most simple meals. So the cookie jars filled, and your bulk rice, pasta, herbs and the good eggs from the skeleton boys' farm were stacked by the stove with you pots and pans. Your tastes were simple, but they did you well.
Mornings of wandering your greenhouse with a misting bottle, breathing in the smell of flowers and dirt, checking the plants for illness or drooping and treating the ones that needed it... your outside gardens were faring well too, for now, and you would try to keep that going through the storms. The daffodils were waving merrily up at you as you passed, and you smiled as they reminded you of the lovely boys that had your heart aflutter. You'd have to cut a few for the weekend, soon... their weekly secret confessions awaited. One day, perhaps you would let them in on the meaning.
You had crates ready for the bouquets you would cut for the market, lists of needed flowers for your regular customers pinned next to them in case you forgot. After lunch, you usually did the bees. It was hot work, in that triple-layered suit, and it took a while, but you wouldn't give this up for the world.
Your bees were your life now. They knew everything about you- of course you told them all about your life, there were no other living things on the farm to talk to. Gentle creatures they were, especially after you had let a particular rambunctious queen leave. Whatever misconceptions you had heard about bees didn't apply to your happy little hives. You barely even needed to use smoke anymore, and the less bees that got unfortunately squashed in the act of changing frames and moving things around, the calmer they were.
Three hives out of your fifteen were your usual daily routine. Methodically shifting boxes, opening things up and checking the frames, cleaning out excess wax and emptying the bug trays underneath. Making more room for eggs if it was needed, taking the frames with harvestable honey and leaving them enough for themselves, whispering your secrets to the bees that buzzed inquisitively around your hat as you took care of their homes. It was calming work, even though it was quite heavy and physical, and it took up most of your afternoon. By the time you were finished, you were a sweaty mess and your back was hurting from the heavy lifting, but you had your honey and the bees were happy, and you pushed your wheelbarrow of tools back to where they belonged and took a break before going through the process of getting out the honey.
Your days were long and full of hard work, and sometimes you were tempted to just sleep in and take the day off. But you liked what you did, and it made you a living. It made you feel accomplished when you finally stomped inside in your big beekeeping boots, the light outside dimming and cicadas starting to sing. Now was time to cook a simple meal, probably rice and eggs again with splash of soy sauce- cheap and filling and tasty, something you had discovered in the city when you were barely able to afford to live. Old habits died hard.
But tonight you weren't finished yet. You needed help moving your hives, since you didn't want to throw your back out again, and the place to find strong arms was in town, at the only little pub for miles. You might as well make a night of it, you suppose, and you change into something that's a little less smudged with dirt and sticky with honey and hop in your truck, eyeing the horizon as heavy clouds gather on the edges of the sunset. Papyrus could probably do this sky so much justice, you muse on your way into town. Your walls are covered in sunsets and shadowy countryside, and many more are stacked up, but what's one more? You want to support your friend.
Sauntering into the pub with your hands in your skirt pockets, fiddling with your keys and coins and nodding to the customers that smile and tip their hats at you, you make your way to be bar and order a large plate of fries with a serious helping of ketchup and aioli. Sauce is expensive and you don't come by it often so you make the most of things like this. Gazing around the establishment and trying to pick out someone both strong and friendly enough, you almost don't notice when an older fella slides next to you. Until he's uncomfortably close, that is.
"Not often we see you in here, lassie." His voice slurs a little, and you suppress a sigh of annoyance as you turn to him, frowning. "Now now, no need for the cheeky look, only being friendly-like."
"Yes, it's good to see you, sir." You're already edging away, tossing a few fries in your mouth as you continue your search for non-creepy able-bodied people. There's a lady in the corner playing poker with her wife and brother- she has the biggest biceps you've ever seen on such a lithe frame, but she'd have to, living on that ranch with that big family. Maybe she'd be able to help. There's also the boys at the jukebox, taking turns at using their immense strength to try and punch some life into the old machine. Dumb, but strong and probably nicer than the old dude currently breathing down your neck again. "Oh my god, what do you want? I'm not sharing my fries."
"I've had me dinner, miss, now I'm just lookin for my dessert." He gives an exaggerated wink, and you feeling your stomach churn with distaste before he takes it upon himself to connect the dots for you. "If you get my drift."
The hand slowly creeping up your leg is slapped away without hesitation, and you step back, brushing down your clothes with a murderous scowl. "It's been a hell of a day, and I didn't think I'd be in the mood to kick anyone's ass tonight, but I swear if you touch me in any way again I will surprise myself and you. And not in a nice way, dickhead." Your voice rises wth every word, and when you're finished you know without looking that you've gathered everyone's eyes on you. The bartender gives the old man a quick smack off the bar, confiscating his glass, and telling him to leave. You give them a grateful smile and go back to your fries, heart pounding and a little too anxious to ask around for help now.
There suddenly a presence by your side, and you're ready to mouth off at the creep again before your angry words die at the sight of a familiar face. "Sans!" You grin, feeling relief spread through your chest as the skeleton wiggles in fingers in greeting. "Hey, man, what's cookin?"
"not you, obviously." He snags a fry off your plate and drowns it in ketchup, expression relaxed and lazy and utterly gorgeous. Well. Beauty, beholder, all that.
"Yeah, I have an errand to run and figured I'd do dinner while I'm out. What about you- I though Papyrus cooks every night?"
"he did, and it was great. I just like to come out and... reminisce." He gestured around, looking a little sheepish. "this place reminds me of my favourite monster bar in the city. I was kinda missing it."
"Oh yeah? Tell me about it."
And so you listened to him regale you of tales about a warm, friendly bar, where the jukebox never worked and the food was saturated in grease and he kept a tab open for years before the barrier broke. Of the relocation to the surface and the fun new atmosphere and how it was one of the only things he missed about not being out there anymore. That led onto a talk about his friends, and a letter he had just gotten from ambassador Frisk, and pretty soon your fries were gone and your sides hurt from laughing. Sans was the most entertaining person you had ever spoken to, and you felt a little bit of your adoring heart melt every time he told a stupid pun or looked at you with those crinkled sockets and wide grin.
"anyway, I'm glad to have caught that little scene from before." He chuckled, dragging a finger idly through your leftover ketchup and licking it off, much to your disgust and fascination. "you ain't scared of nothin and it's so cool."
That had you blushing, and blustering as you tried to hide how much a compliment from your crush affected you. "Oh, yeah, I was ready to drag that old dude, no joke. Nearest hospital is an hour away and I guarantee you he wouldn't have made it there in one piece."
"I have no doubt- I would've paid to see it, too." He laughs, leaning back on the bar and glancing around the place, waving to a few people who caught his eye. "so, what errands are you running at 9pm in the town pub?"
"Oh- oh I forgot I was going to ask the ranch lady to help me-" you turn around, but the players at the poker table have been replaced a few times by now. "I need some help moving my hives into the shed for the storm, and I thought I'd find some extra hands around here. You distracted me, shame on you."
"oh, do forgive me- how about I make it up to you?"
The offer makes you swallow and push away cheeky replies to that innocent offer, raising an eyebrow him instead. "How so?"
He holds up his hands. "I can help. you wanna do it right now or tomorrow? I thought I smelled rain on the way over, it's probably a good idea to get it done immediately."
You study his hands- his skeleton hands, attached to skeleton arms that have no muscle whatsoever attached to them- and quirk a grin. "You? Mr Bone man? You think you have what it takes to lift 100 pounds of honey and wood?"
"are you challenging me?" His eyelights glint, and he straightens up and saunters toward the door. "I'll show you. five bucks says I can move your hives in five minutes."
"Five minutes- Sans there's fifteen hives and it's pitch black out there!" You hurry after him, incredulous but not about to give up a bet like that.
"yeah, you're right, I gotta think about my reputation- make it ten bucks." His cheeky grin has you giggling as you unlock the truck and let him in.
"Fine, ten bucks if you move my hives in five minutes. I have to see this for myself."
You should have know he'd have a magic trick up his baggy sleeve. It takes him five minutes exactly to shift your heavy beehives into the shed, surrounding them with a blue glow of telekinetic magic one by one and moving them gently through the air. You're there to help him land them as softly as possible, not wanting to disturb the bees any more than necessary, and when it's done you smile and pull out a ten for him. "You're full of surprises, aren't you? Thank you so much for your help, Sans."
He waves you away, shaking his head. "nah, keep your money, I was only helping a friend. and I cheated, kinda. it was an unfair wager."
You take his hand and press the bill into it, stepping back before he can give it back. "Oh shush, take it. I was always gonna pay whoever helped me for the service."
"oh, you're paying me for services now?" He waggled his browbones, and suddenly the chill that makes you shiver isn't just from the wind that's starting to pick up, blowing the scent of rain through the night air.
You chat a little more as you take the long way through your gardens towards the truck, walking in the light of your phone's flashlight. He stops to smell a few flowers, though most of them are closed at this time of night, and when you offer to drive him home, he waves you off.
"I know a shortcut." He taps his nose bridge, the sign of a secret, though it's not a secret to you. "Save a dance for me for the weekend, ok? See you then."
"Of course, Sans," you say with a smile, and with a wave, he disappears into thin air. You fancy you can feel a tingle of magic in the air when he does that. "I'd save all my dances for you if you asked me..." you continue softly, turning on your heel and wandering inside, just in time for the pitter-patter of rain on the roof to start.
