Chapter Three
Sans woke with a start, tossing his filthy blankets aside and looking around at his room. His head felt clearer than it had in a while. Had he slept it off, whatever "it" was? The fact that he'd woken up in the comfort of his own bed was noteworthy in this case. He'd either been acting normally enough to not evoke suspicion, or been acting just as off as he'd felt and Papyrus had brought him home to rest. It didn't take a genius to make the plan he did, but he gave himself a mental pat on the back anyway. He'd proceed with caution, find his answer soon enough.
He wondered what had caused that little episode, as he slipped his feet into soggy slippers. They made little squishing noises with every step he took. He didn't tend to crash like that unless trying to recover his lost memories of that day with the burnt toast. It was the reason he'd been so out of it lately. Try as he might, Sans couldn't get his mind to leave the matter alone. Lost time was nothing new, but this instance had been unique in some way he couldn't place. Yet just as his mind refused to let it be, something wouldn't allow him to dwell on the topic long. It made for a rather annoying loop that he hoped to escape from.
Papyrus wasn't here. The car was gone, sunlight gleaming on the stones of the driveway. He concluded that the previous night had gone well enough. It was doubtful that his brother would leave him alone in the house if he truly had been behaving so strangely. That matter settled, his thoughts turned to Papyrus' reaction to finding out the truth. Just how well was he taking it? Sans reached into his pocket for his phone, tapping a few times. His thumb hovered over the call "button" for a few seconds. He stared at the screen a moment longer, then tapped the home symbol and pocketed the device.
He'd talk to him later. For now, he had a few issues of his own to deal with.
Light filled the basement with a sharp, echoing click. He closed and locked the door, pocketing the key as he descended to his makeshift lab. He paused once at the bottom of the staircase, gaze scanning the chaotic mess that he was so accustomed to. He wandered to a rolling chair, picking up a bottle of ketchup from the floor along the way. He drank the condiment as he allowed his thoughts to wander.
Just how was he to solve a mystery that defended itself so well? How was it that some forgotten event could defend itself? His eye sockets wandered to the bright white ceiling, a blinding sight. Of course, this wasn't the first time a lost memory seemed to actively elude him. It was however, more aggressive than any others had been. He retraced his steps, looking back at each and every detail leading up to the Day of the Burnt Toast. He went back to the earliest memories of that day he could find.
He'd been particularly careless one day, making a mess of their freshly-cleaned abode. Papyrus had formed a revenge plot, which if he was honest with himself, Sans had likely deserved. The details grew muddled until he found nonsensical fractions of something like memory, but not quite. Then he was standing in the kitchen, an unpleasant scent filling his "nose" and provoking his magical stomach to spill its contents. He sat up straight, and his beverage fell to the floor with a thud. Smell! He'd been breathing, an act that skeletons seldom took part in. Whatever had happened must've caused him notable stress. Monsters such as he and his brother only needed to breathe when their bodies produced too much magic; their bodies did so in reaction to illness or other negative stimuli.
And the clothes!
Sans nearly fell three times on his way back upstairs. He hurried through the basement door and halfway to his room before remembering that he could teleport. He finished the trip that way. The world around him fell into oblivion for a split second, and he stood before his closet door. He pulled at the door, shoving it open in spite of the debris and practically diving into the cramped space. Shirts he never wore fell from their hangers, draping over his skull. He shoved a pair of sneakers out the way, reaching for the corner he'd first found the items in. His fingers gripped cloth, and he dragged himself from the cluttered storage.
In his lap was a pair of sweatpants, dark grey with darker splotches. The t-shirt was a simple pale orange. Faded red littered its features, and the bottom was torn in a few places. Perhaps most important of all was the dull green sweatshirt. The poor thing was weathered beyond repair. Most of it was stained, the color a hardly discernible red. He buried his face in the fabric, inhaling. He detected the scent of Papyrus' spaghetti laundry detergent, carrying with it a metallic twinge. That wasn't ketchup, not to mention the absurdly low chances of him ever wearing the clothes. He rarely changed, and these were simply not the colors he preferred.
What happened?
"What. Happened."
He could feel it coming on, the foggy threads wrapping around his mind and soul. He dropped the clothes, holding his skull in his hands as if they could protect it. He closed his eye sockets tight, clinging to the knowledge that something was wrong and he needed to figure out what. He wasn't accustomed to all this effort. He began to short circuit, every program shutting down against his will until he clung not to memory, but to consciousness.
So what if something happened? Why should it concern him as it had a few seconds ago? The floor looked so comfy, and he really needed a nap.
…
"SANS, I'M HOME!"
He opened his sockets to a spinning twilit room. The events came rushing back to him, suffocating him beneath a cobweb blanket. He forced air into his lungs, finding it a near impossible task. His soul pulsed with a foul exhaustion.
Okay, okay, he said, though not sure to who. You win. I give up.
He released the notion of discovery, let it fade into the cold air his garbage tornado produced.
Rebooting…
Rebooting…
Initializing Sans program…
He shifted onto his ribs, giving his aching spine some much needed relief. As the last of the dizziness left him, he rolled the outfit into a ball and threw it back into his closet. He rose carefully, using the wall for support. His brother called for him, approaching the bedroom as he shoved his closet door closed. Sans stumbled over the room's exit, trying the doorknob to find it unlocked.
"SANS! ARE YOU OKAY?"
"Yeah, 'm fine," he said. "Why?"
"YOU LEFT THE BASEMENT DOOR OPEN! YOU NEVER LEAVE THE BASEMENT DOOR OPEN."
He waved a hand as though trying to shoo away his brother's concern. "Oops. Didn't mean to."
"OOPS?"
Curse this stupid fog! It was taking him ages to put words together. It was easing up to some degree, however.
"BUT… YOU NEVER LEAVE IT OPEN," he repeated. Sans felt a gloved hand on his shoulder. "ARE YOU SURE YOU'RE OKAY?"
"Yeah, 'm sure."
"WHAT WERE YOU DOING?"
Getting his tailbone kicked by some aggressive amnesia.
"I was…" The fog wasn't clearing up quickly enough. "Eh, y'know. I don't even remember. Must've not been important."
"BUT…"
He shrugged the hand away. "Anyway, are you okay? You uh, seemed pretty upset last night."
He hesitated, taking a moment to organize his thoughts. "I WAS AT FIRST. I KNOW WE WANTED TO REACH THE SURFACE. BUT! I STILL DON'T KNOW WHY KING ASGORE WOULD HURT ANYONE TO DO IT. AND I DON'T KNOW WHY YOU KEPT IT FROM ME."
He looked away, muttering an apology.
"BUT ASGORE SAID HE WOULD DO ANYTHING TO MAKE THINGS BETTER, SO HE'S TRYING. AND ANYONE CAN BE A GREAT PERSON IF THEY JUST TRY! MAYBE THEY CAN ALMOST BE AS GREAT AS ME!"
"I dunno," he said. "You're pretty great."
"I DID SAY ALMOST!"
"Heh. How was your first day then?"
"IT WAS AMAZING! MISS MUFFET TAUGHT ME SO MANY THINGS, AND DIDN'T EVEN YELL AT ME A LITTLE WHEN I SET THE KITCHEN ON FIRE!"
"Cool."
"YES, VERY COOL! BUT SANS…"
He rolled his "eyes" and said, "I'm fine, okay? Probably just fell asleep looking for something I needed for a… something."
"WELL, IF YOU SAY SO." He hopped once, back to his usual cheery self. "DO YOU WANT TO TASTE MY LESSONS?"
"I'm sure they're delicious, but I'm gonna have dinner at Grillby's tonight."
"AW… PLEASE?" He stared at him with the most pitiful expression Sans had ever seen.
He glared. "No. Not tonight. Maybe tomo-"
Papyrus sniffled, wiping at his eye sockets. A sob. "O-OKAY. IT'S OKAY IF Y-YOU DON'T WANT-"
"Gah! Alright already! Stop it!"
"YAY!"
He remembered his brother's tricks, knew them well. Too bad they still worked.