Chapter 4: Aftermath

Crutches. At the mention of them you had laughed, but the bitter sound had quickly morphed into uncontrollable fit of snorts and tears until you were hyperventilating. Great, not you couldn't even talk properly. Some friend you were. You were supposed to be able to help Sans through this, but you were more of a mess than he was.

You thought it was unjustifiably so, but Sans apparently thought differently. You couldn't understand way he was taking accountability for you as he accepted the offer of crutches from the doctor, also asking if you could keep the chair for a while more. He promised to her that he would help you around and have you try the crutches. She agreed, of course, probably knowing better than to argue with a grieving monster.

You hadn't noticed the nurse hovering over you until Sans had looked in his direction. Was he telling you to breathe? Probably, you realized, and you wheezed, coughing, until you were able to let out small spurts of air fairly rhythmically.

It was the day that you were scheduled to be released from the hospital. You were eager to be home but dreaded all that was implied in this. It would be so empty and quiet. Sans carried his own few belongings along with yours as he stood on his tiptoes by the reception desk, presumably filling out your discharge papers. You hadn't really looked at him in a while. He donned his blue sweatshirt per the norm, but it was tattered, a large tear coming down across the front, deep patches turned a purplish brown color, bloodstained. You knew it was your blood and felt a pang of guilt course through you. He would forever be reminded of the incident because your blood was on his clothing. He probably wouldn't take that off, either, since it was probably one of his only remaining sources of comfort and stability. But of course, you had to go and inadvertently ruin that for him as well.

Around his neck, Papyrus' scarf was fitted snugly around his neck. You realized when he first came back to the room that he had put it on and he had pretended not to see you glancing at it. Opting against mentioning it aloud, you felt a horrible mix of emotions at seeing him casually wearing his depression around his neck, waiting for it to choke him out in his sleep. You didn't dare question him as he absentmindedly toyed with it, wrapping the edges around his phalanges. You wondered if it still smelled like him, spaghetti sauce and clean soap on fabric, or if it smelled of death, reminding Sans each moment that his brother was gone, gone, gone.

Not an inch of his body was upright. Back slouching, he leaned forwards, inward curve to his limbs and neck making him appear even smaller than he already was. His eye sockets were more sunken in than you had ever seen them before and dark rings had appeared around his features. His smile remained, but you saw through it; it was far different from before, masking so much more pain. His eyes hid nothing, however, everything he felt clearly visible to the world if you just looked.

You couldn't stand to see him like this. A part of you blamed him. It was his fault that Papyrus wasn't paying attention to the road. Another part of you blamed the driver of the other car; a drunken widow, you had found out, and was upset that he had died in the crash because you wanted to do the honors personally. But mostly, you blamed yourself. You knew you shouldn't do that, that it was wrong and unfair, but if he had stayed in the underground, none of this would've happened. He'd be better off if you hadn't come around, living in Snowdin, happily cooking spaghetti with Undyne, working towards his lifelong dream of joining the royal guard. But no matter hard you tried not to overthink the situation, you always ended up back at the conclusion that you deserved to be where you were, disabled and in pain but not put out of your misery just yet, not before you were pushed to the breaking point, endured so much suffering and brooded yourself into a deep seated depression and had to try to go on before you eventually failed and gave in to the luring, bittersweet call of death. You'd probably have to live through Sans dyin-

No, you couldn't afford to think like that. You had to stay positive, if not for your sake then at least for Sans. It didn't matter if he hated you or hated himself, you were all he had left, and you'd be damned if you gave that skeleton any less than your best. You knew he deserved so much better than this.

Sans turned around to the sight of you staring blankly at where he stood, lost in thought, tears on the brink of falling. He sighed, disliking seeing you this way so often, own thoughts accumulating and indubitably torturing you from the inside out. His thoughts ate at him too as he tried to be strong for you, but seemed too wrapped up in his own sense of loss to do much. He toyed with the scarf, thinking that Papyrus would tell him to go on and do the best he could. He sighed, feeling a little better better but at the same time all that much worse, and approached you.

"Kid."

You snapped out of your daydream, looking up from your seated position by the lobby.

"Let's go home."

You nodded, and he pushed you out the door into the van waiting to bring you away from the hospital. You hoped you would never have to come back.

You didn't sleep the first night you spent at the house. Sans had helped you squirm into bed, which was painful, then sat on the edge of the mattress as you hugged him and cried. You had began to talk, useless blather driveling out of your mouth, when he silenced you with a kiss to your forehead, bone cool against your hot flesh, saying that the two of you would talk in the morning. You cried almost the whole night, positive that Sans was a room over doing the same. The two of you laid a wall apart, thinking, until you passed out at about 6 am the next morning. You got a restless hour of sleep, nightmares plaguing your subconscious, until Sans woke you up for breakfast.

Neither of you touched the burnt, scrambled eggs that were on your plates. You stared down at it, poking it with a fork, glancing up nervously to see Sans contemplating grabbing the ketchup next to him, hand resting on the corner of the table and just barely touching the bottle. Eventually you set your fork down, hand shaky as you nearly threw it on your plate, and met Sans' eyes.

"So." You whispered.

Sans stared back at you from across the table.

"What now?"

He sighed. "I don't know, kid."

Neither did you. "I…" you trailed off.

"Miss him?" The skeleton offered, prodding the ketchup.

"Yeah," you nodded, rolling your seat over to Sans and extending your arms to him.

He stood and drew you close immediately. He began to say something, an apology, you think, but you cut him off.

"Don't." You breathed in Papyrus' scarf. It smelled faintly of wreckage and sweat. Of course Sans hadn't taken it off. How he was able to sweat, however, eluded you.

"It's my fault." A sob from Sans.

"No, it's not!" You told him, only half believing it yourself.

"Okay." He responded to silence you and held you tighter.

Of course he wouldn't believe you. Of course he would continue to beat himself up over this, as would you. There was no way either of you could have a happy ending unless you got over him, which, even if you wanted to, was impossible, especially for Sans. You had lived the last few years of your life alongside this monster every day. He had given you hope when all was lost. But Sans had it so much worse than you. Papyrus was his light, the only thing he lived for. You couldn't imagine what it would be like to lose the one thing you had had ever since childhood. You hadn't had much to begin with. You supposed at least Sans had been able to enjoy the feeling while he could.

Or did that just make it worse to deal without it? Either way, you were jealous of Sans. Or maybe you just hated him for having someone so special and pure love him unconditionally. Even if he had killed him in the end, you were sure Papyrus would have still loved him. Stuffing your face and hands into the frill of his sweater, you choked out a breath, trying to will away your feelings and focus only on what was real. Sans, in front of you right now. No thoughts. Neutral.

But you couldn't. Everything you felt was just mangled into an incoherent ball of emotions that demanded to be felt. You were exhausted and in pain, both physically and mentally. After God only knew how long of feeling like this in the hospital and keeping it all bottled inside for Sans' sake, for your own sake, you knew you would explode sooner or later. You dreaded that someone might get hurt because of you and tried not to think of who it might be.

Sans moved, pulling you out of your thoughts. Trying not to think what he must be feeling right now, you suggested you both do something together.

To stay busy. To distract you from your thoughts. So you wouldn't grow further and further apart. Selfish selfish selfish.

He agreed. You watched a movie together since you could barely move. It didn't help either of you.

A week later and the house had started to collect dust. Sans had started to clean it and you tried to help, dusting whatever was at your level, but you both just gave up eventually, will to do anything so far out of reach and motivation even further. Not caring to do anything else, you both watched TV. Doctor Who was on. You wished you could go back in time so badly.

The next day, Sans seemed hopeful. You wished you could share his enthusiasm as you pulled clothes on, possibly dirty ones as you had trouble doing laundry and refused to let Sans help (though he had snuck in a few loads for you when you were asleep, which was quite often nowadays.) However, as he wheeled you up and down the much too large and empty hallways, you found yourself laughing, arms in the air, daring to squeal, "Faster!" Sans obliged, a hoarse laugh reminding you that you were both a mess, but Sans was allowed to have happy moments, and you could never dream of ruining this for him.

Besides, even if you didn't deserve it, you were having fun. You recalled how Papyrus would swing along the hallways, fingers grazing the walls, grin spreading so wide you thought his face might crack. You reached towards the small gray oil marks staining the creme wallpaper, smiling to yourself as Sans swung your chair around the corner before stopping so abruptly you lurched forwards. You would've fallen to the floor had Sans not reached out and caught you. Your smile vanished. Before you stood a flight of stairs, spiraling downwards into the living room. Sans sighed, arm across your chest, and plunked you back down in your chair as you held back tears.

Of course you had to ruin this moment for him. You useless fuck-up of a failure.

Sans was much too kind to you. You had screamed at him once as he helped you out of bed and onto his shoulders, having offered you a piggyback ride downstairs like he usually did so that you didn't feel like you were a chore.

"I don't deserve this!" You shrieked, tears running down your face. It was rare he saw your skin dry.

"Frisk, I don't mind-"

"You don't have a choice!"

Startled, Sans recoiled. "That's what you think?" He screamed back, dropping you back on the bed. "You think I want to take care of you? You think I still want to love you, after all you've done? This is ALL YOUR FAULT! IF IT WASN'T FOR YOU, I WOULDN'T BE HERE, SUFFERING! I WOULD BE WITH DEAD ALONG WITH PAPYRUS!"

As the anger left his face and he registered the fear on yours, you saw the instant regret in his eyes. He broke down in tears.

"You think I want to live like this either?" You cried, voice a harsh squeal, but unable to be much louder than a cat's meow, throat sore from crying. You looked at Sans, now nothing more than a ball on the ground, a faltering child's pose. You wished you could hold him, but you felt as if you would only make things worse.

"I'm sorry." Sans sobbed into the carpet, not looking at you.

"Don't be. I deserve worse."

"No, you don't." He looked up. He was in shambles.

"Okay." You hoped it would shut him up.

It did.

You dreamt that Sans was over you, red, bloodstained knife in hand, stabbing you over and over.

"THIS IS ALL YOUR FAULT!" He screamed, not relenting as you bawl for him to just please, stop, that it hurts so much.

"YOU DESERVE THIS!" Why didn't you just die yet? It hurt so much.

"IF YOU WEREN'T THERE I WOULD BE THE ONE PARALYZED! WHY DIDN'T YOU JUST LET ME GET HURT? WHY DIDN'T YOU LET ME DIE?" He stopped after saying this, face suddenly turning darker than before, making you question how that was even possible as well as worrying you beyond control.

"Why, kid, why?" He started to cry, dropping the knife, blood mixing with tears as the red sea beneath him splashes up at him, lapping at his bony legs and smearing his clothes. He steps back from you slowly. "I… I deserve to die. This is my fault." He darted forward to grab the knife before hurrying away once more. "I deserve this!" He stabbed himself, once, twice, again and again until you lost count.

You did nothing to stop him and woke up screaming, bashing yourself in the head with your fists. Another sleepless night it is, then.

You sat in bed for what seemed like hours. It probably was. Eventually, the sun leaked into your room through the curtains. Odd, you thought. Sans had usually gotten you up and moving by now. Leaning over, you checked the time: 8:14. That was weird. Sans always got you up before 7:30.

Sitting up, you reached as far as you could for your chair, which was next to your bed. To no avail, you started to thrash and claw at it, and on one particularly long lunge you fell over. Fuck, that hurt. On your elbows, you padded over with great difficulty to your chair. Knocking over the untouched crutches leaning lazily against the wall, you managed to crawl messily into the seat and position your legs into the chair. At least they were mostly numb. You praised God for medicine.

Rolling over to Sans' room, you knocked, quietly at first then louder when you got no answer. Creaking the door after a minute, you peered in to see nothing, darkness preventing you to see anything clearly. Flicking the light on, your eyes took a moment to adjust to the lighting and you squinted, seeing white for a moment. When your vision cleared, you gasped in horror. There, laying sprawled out on the floor, was Sans. He wasn't moving.

"Sans?" You whispered. Going over to him as quickly as you could without running him over, you saw the empty pill bottle next to him. Panicking, you fell forward out of your chair to reach him. Picking up the pill bottle, you read the label. Doxepin? Since when was he on antidepressants? Weren't overdoses of these things fatal?

"SANS!" You screamed. Struggling to flip him over, you lifted his shirt to look at his soul. You bit back a sob. The once strongly pulsating blue heart was now quickly vanishing, glowing dimmer and dimmer by the second. "No, you can't die on me!" You pushed on his ribs, smacked him, even tried CPR, but nothing worked. "No, Sans, No!" Crying uncontrollably, you didn't know what else to do. You took a breath and, shaking vehemently, gently touched his soul.

A wave of emotions flowed through you. Guilt, anger, sadness, hatred, confusion, fear, all so overwhelming. You pulled back abruptly, frightened and also heartbroken at the realization that this is what Sans was feeling in his dying moments. As soon as you did, the last of the light faded, leaving him as nothing but an empty skeleton for a few moments before he turned to dust. Shocked and terrified, you watched as his remains filtered through your open fingers before you frantically reached to the phone on his nightstand and dialed 911.

You sat alone in the empty house. First, Papyrus had died. Now, Sans was gone too. You wanted to cry, but you couldn't. Dry breath after breath filled your lungs. The teams of doctors and coroners had just left. Unsure of what to do next, you waited. Your doctor had come too to make sure you were okay. Somehow, you had managed to convince her that you were okay to be alone and that you wouldn't do anything to hurt yourself. She had said she would send a therapist to come check on you daily. It seemed odd. You had expected her to insist on staying. Maybe the situation was just so abrupt that things were missed. You laughed aloud at the thought. Of course. You were just a missed variable. Still laughing, you wheeled yourself to the bathroom. Prying open the mirror, you glanced around, puzzled at the place where all your pills used to be, now a barren shelf. You scowled, thinking the doctor had taken them.

Sighing, you slowly made your way to the kitchen. God, if you couldn't even do this yourself, how useless were you? You got to the knife drawer. A pang of guilt sliced through your heart at the sight of Papyrus' favorite chopping knife. Tears threatening to pull away from your eyes, you took a different, sharper one carefully from the drawer. Holding it surprisingly steadily in your right hand, you brought it to your neck. You stayed like this for a while, realizing after a bit that you were crying. Why were you hesitating? You had nothing left to live for. You felt the same loneliness that you had felt nearly three years ago, just before you had jumped down Mt. Ebott. So why were you so afraid now? Pathetic. You were such a burden to Sans that he would rather die than deal with you. You didn't deserve to live.

Just then, you heard the door open. You refused to cause whoever it was any more trouble. The knife cut through your skin and God it hurt so much, but it also felt so good, knowing that soon you would be free of this world. You heard a shriek, not sure if it was your own but not caring, awaiting the soothing caress of death and getting slowly more tired, feeling yourself drift further and further away from reality, when before you knew what was happening, you couldn't feel anything at all and all you saw was black. And then there was nothing.

AN: It's not over yet. It's just getting interesting, fuck yeah! Also, go listen to both NateWantsToBattle's and Groundbreaking's Undertale songs. They're fucking good. Bold Sans is the only thing I listen to when I'm trying to work, and the Accapella Bonetrousle always cheers me up.