Sans dissipates his magic with a snap of his fingers, watching warily as you raise yourself up by your elbows and shrug off the torn remnants of your shirt. You're scanning your injuries with a practiced eye, wincing a little when you place a hand gingerly to the space between your thighs.
"Christ," you say softly, "You really did a number on me."
He takes in the sight of you: bright smear of blood across your pallid cheek, the indent of his teeth across the set of your shoulders - and thinks of broken fingers smoothing his sternum, of your body leaving deep red stains against his embrace, the soft haze of memory distorting into the clarity of the present.
You did this, your movements seem to whisper, so don't look away.
You're gently probing the purpling bruise on your shoulder, trying to gauge the severity of the wound, when Sans takes off his jacket and tosses it into your lap.
"Get decent," he says.
You raise an eyebrow at him, but slip your arms through the jacket's oversized sleeves anyway. It smells like him, like snow with a vaguely metallic tang, cold and crisp. There's a spray of your own dark blood along its front, still damp and soaking into the blue cloth.
An uncomfortable silence stretches between the two of you, both pointedly avoiding the other's gaze.
You're sitting close to one of the corridor's stained glass windows and its golden light illuminates your body, casting your shadow in sharp relief. For a moment you look like an illustration he'd seen from an old storybook about the Delta Rune. It had been a watercolor of the angel from the surface, its features indistinct in the blur of sunlight radiating from behind it, stretching an arm out to a crowd of monsters and leading them up from below the earth. Sans had dwelt a long time on that image as a child, digesting it slowly over years spent staring up at the gem-encrusted ceiling of Waterfall, thinking that were there any truth to the prophecy at all, its fulfillment would surely be as dim and strained as that artificial starlight.
You've always been so achingly human, so fearful and full of resentment, but death has changed you so much, its touch evident in your ready acceptance of that familiar violence lodged deep inside of your soul. It's given you a brittleness in your calm, strung you out to a tapering and quivering tension. You're so sickeningly lovely like this, so disgustingly beautiful in your treachery. Even like this, violated and bruised, there's something venomous in your vulnerability.
Despite everything, it's still you. And he knows that even at your worst you're still his black hole. He's caught in your trajectory and being drawn inescapably closer in every timeline.
You take the intermission you've been given to catalogue the worst of your injuries.
A nasty gash across your thigh, another spanning the length of your back. Something broken in your chest that makes you spit up blood when you breathe too deeply, something badly bruised in your abdomen that sends a paralyzing ache through your body when you sit up for too long. Right ankle sprained, left shin broken, the skin around it turning an ugly shade of violet.
Then there's the bite of despair in your chest that digs itself deeper with the slow, thick trickle of Sans' seed from your entrance, the plaintive longing for some form of warmth. This entire timeline you've been wholly removed from the kindness of others, willfully rejecting it in favor of the mechanical comfort of steel in your hands. And it had been alright for the most part. You'd embraced it, even. It made the gritty feeling of dust under your nails bearable, made it easier to cut a long line across Papyrus' neck, across Undyne's plate armor and into her determination-infused soul.
(It's ok, says the sweeping motion of your arm with its every sideways stroke, I'll be joining you soon enough.)
The scorch of white fire, the sickly crunch of broken bone - these things you can take. But not the intimacy steeped in animosity that came with his body buried within your own, not the malice in his kiss, the viciousness of his thrusts.
You'd lied when you said you didn't remember him. Of course, of course you did. How could you ever forget the feeling of his insistent tongue between your thighs, his hands gripping at your lower back, pulling you as close to him as humanly possible? It's enough to thoroughly salt the wound and leave a nictitating sting along your very soul.