Summary: They just appear, don't they?

For the first time in many resets, the house of Snowdin's iconic skeleton brothers found itself sheltering no short, brown-haired children- seeking a date or otherwise.

Instead, the inner dwelling was still. The only signs of its current habitation were the turned "on" overhead lights hanging above the center of the living room and the faint banter/chainsaw noises emanating from Mettaton's cooking show, which ran on the TV in the background.

However, the one monster home to appreciate it didn't so much as give it a glance. Because he, Sans, was far too busy frowning whilst peering over the couch's backrest and out the window directly behind.

And, for once, he had concerns regarding his mental health.

Just beyond the slightly frosted glass, skirting the border of Snowdin Forest, laid a short, stocky skeleton- who appeared to be entirely identical to himself, barring the black splotches on their right cheek, odd eyelights, and strange choice in attire. Something admittedly suitable for Snowdin's chilly weather. Well, if not for one detail.

Their outfit consisted of numerous layers made up by what seemed to be a shirt, a slightly longer-sleeved shirt, gloves, a coat, some weird skirt-pants, more pants, and, strangely, no shoes. Not even fuzzy slippers. Or... socks.

By far, they stood as the most boldly dressed skeleton monster Sans had ever seen. (And that was saying something, given his own brother's taste in clothing.)

He sighed when the stranger noticed him, turning his way with a sunny grin and an excited wave.

Ugh! Why does there have to be another one, Sans internally groaned. All the while, resisting the urge to unleash a frustrated scream.

This mysterious interloper was hardly the first he'd witnessed. In fact, they had been appearing nonstop (and at random) since the end of the last twenty resets. The turning point, when it became all too common for him to be going about his day-to-day life and spot one- like the dark-cloaked, winged doppelgänger digging through the rubbish bin behind Grillby's bar. Or the black-boned, glitchy fellow he caught cackling manically in the woods prior to them getting chased off by a yellow-clad version of himself.

Whining pitifully, Sans turned and sunk down into the couch cushions and tucked his knees against his chest. Effectively curling up into a ball.

"I think I've finally gone crazy..." He murmured to himself, silently praying Papyrus would return soon and dispel the haunting creations of his mind.

Alas, his hope shattered when a bubbly voice chimed from beside him, "No, you haven't! We are very much here and not figments of your imagination."

Sans jolted. Immediately, he whipped his skull to the left, and his shrinking eyelights landed on the stunningly bright cheer of a starry-eyed, blue-armored skeleton modeled after himself.

In his living room.

On his couch.

Right next to him.

"GAH!" He screamed, scrambling backward, spine pressing the armrest opposite to the intruder.

The unwelcomed individual remained undeterred by his outburst, giving a polite wave and loud greeting. "Hello, friend!"

"Aahhhhhhh!"

"Rude," Blue grumbled as he watched the Classic Sans bolt upstairs and disappear behind his bedroom door with an audible slam followed by the clicking of a lock. (And perhaps some murmurings of need to see the local doctor. Or priest.)

Killer popped out from beside the couch, huffing in agreement, "Yeah, he could have at least offered us a drink before he left."