Yet another prompt from tumblr. Some King!Papyrus and ED!Papyrus all rolled into one. Oh, and the rare 'Sans and Papyrus both remember resets and actually talk about it'


"What a wonderful day to be the king."

"Is it?" Sans asks, grinning like a madman, and Papyrus thinks he might be just that. A teeny tiny bit losing it.

Not that Papyrus can blame him. It's been what? Several weeks now, and still no reset. Weren't it for the regal public image he has to maintain, he would be crawling up the walls with impatience himself.

"Any day now," he tells Sans each evening, in a soft voice that barely strains around the edges, not because he believes himself, but because he's too tired not to. "Any day."

"Any day," his brother will echo back, like an empty hallway, and Papyrus knows Sans is the epitome of that. Emptiness.

And it worries him.

But not today. Today they are having a feast. Today it has been ten days since anybody has last given up. Today, it is a good day to be the king.

For just this occasion Papyrus will tolerate wearing the crown, and the cape that still feels large enough to drown in despite his and Sans' best efforts. It looks ridiculous but it is tradition and he knows better than to break with something so comforting to his people.

Never mind the fact that he feels like a little kid playing dress-up in his parent's clothing. Trying to take on a role ultimately impossible for him. Some shoes are simply too big to fill.

But that doesn't mean Papyrus can't try.

And try he does. He smiles at the right moments and shakes hands with the right monsters and when they compliment his flower garden he swells with delight.

Papyrus will never be as empty as Sans is. He is full of happiness and expectations. Full of sadness and fear. Full of Hope.

Isn't that the problem, then?

He politely refuses any offerings of food. There's plenty for everyone, he made sure of that, but it nags at him all the same. Something that tugs at his soul uncomfortably and he can't help but wonder what the doctor would say, seeing him sit the throne.

Maybe a tiny part of Papyrus still wants to think he would be proud. But then again, his father was never the kind for such fancies.

He was the kind to crave results. Hard empiric evidence or bitter failure. Mostly the later, where Papyrus was concerned. Disappointment was his middle name.

One could literally mistake it to be, given how often the doctor referred to him as such.

Then again, maybe that's one trait Papyrus can't deny having inherited. Sans might be satisfied with effort, but there's something too exhilarating about forcing your body to do the things it isn't designed to.

Or maybe it was, Papyrus doesn't know. His father isn't around to ask.

All he knows is that he hasn't eaten since becoming king. At first, because he felt too sick to even think about food, then because touching the king's stuff made him feel off. Then because of the challenge, of course.

He hasn't slept much either. It's not like he could ever get himself to sleep in the bed at the castle anyway, so Papyrus had to get by on the few hours of sleep he caught on the couch, whenever Sans wasn't around.

And results aren't in short supply. He's falling apart. Quite literally that is.

The doctor would be pleased.

"Any day..." he tells Sans, because if not he will break before they're through. There will be only tiny pieces left. "Just not today. Today it is good to be the king."


Tumblr: sharada-n