Anger can be explosive, and a thundering rage could be dangerous. Not very pretty, it got messy, and it was hanging by the thread of the unprofessional. And Sans was the calm type, he'd think he wouldn't blow in an upsetting proportion, that he'd have his emotions under control. Very few got to see how he could really be, when not working. His brother was the default, and Frisk was the only human who managed to warm up to him so quickly. But Chara.

She seemed to know how to hit every fucking nonexistent nerve in his body. Crawl her way into his skin, so to speak, and thrive off his pain like some goddamn virus.

So now his temper was not one of a quiet blizzard, more so of a wildfire. And it spread in flashes of blue and yellow. It threw chairs, broke tables, shattered glass windows, bruised and cut flesh. It was loud and destructive and could not have been less professional than this. But fuck that, fuck the quiet, have anyone dare to try to approach them at this moment, he was surely not going to back down and he wasn't sure if he even could at this point.

And Chara made no move to run either, only ever hit back with as much force her human body is able. Being trained and educated, however, made her a difficult opponent. Might he say an impossible one. His brother never had a chance, did he?

Sneaky little witch.

Human Determination was enough to deal with as it is without the user being taught magic, but it didn't stop Sans from being reckless. Her knives had slashed as much as her fire had scorched him, some parts of him sliced, other parts charred, and yet still he continued to assault her with furious rows of attacks. Blue magic cheated, made her steps heavier or her hands, sometimes he'd launch her to the walls when she couldn't deflect his hold just in time. She was never one for being defensive and he took advantage of that.

He wasn't being careful though, and she planned this, she must have – she planned to burn that building, have all those documents become crisp and useless, throw the plan in a loop and now there's police on the fucking case and a fire brigade and ambulances and sirens

and fire

and dust

and she planned this

– she murdered him.

The sniper at the window and Chara being the only person residing within the same room spelled it very clear.

A fanged skull in the shape of a wolf's head appeared and he aimed it straight at her. He felt his chest heave, his legs were giving in, and he wondered why the hell he could be so tired when adrenaline should have been keeping him up. And then he remembered.

Tea.

She offered him tea before they all got here. No doubt she'd either drugged it, or better yet poisoned the drink. It was her specialty. He briefly wondered if any of the others were going under the same effects, and his jaw tightened.

"You dirty–"

"I'd be insane," she interrupted, deep breaths making her voice seem raspy, and she wiped the edge of her mouth, "if I went against you without a trick up my sleeve."

He couldn't feel the same energy from before anymore, though his rage was in tact, but it was useless when he couldn't act at its whim. Sans felt himself shake, wolf skull disappearing with a panicked growl, and then the monster fell to his knees. Summoning his blasters took too much from him in this state, laced with an unknown chemical that would decide if he'd wake up after this or not.

Skeletons don't need air, he didn't have lungs, or heart, no organs. But he understands now the fear some humans have, of feeling like you're drowning. He dug his phalanges into the wooden floor and vaguely heard himself wheeze, his whereabouts suddenly becoming dimmer.

"It won't kill you."

Sans barely has time to register how cold Chara's hands were on his head, fingers sliding to the front of his face and latching inside his sockets to pull him up, then slammed him down skull first. He coughed and tried to spit, but he wouldn't be able to do that anyways. The lights that made up for his eyes were now most certainly gone as well without his magic, so he couldn't exactly glare at her either.

How pathetic he felt at the moment. How destroyed.

"I had to give you an extra dose just in case, and fuse it with magic, obviously, for someone like you."

He didn't want to hear her, even if earlier he'd give it his all just to catch that last rotten breath leave her pale lips as he chocked the life out of her. But she continued talking, a bit rapidly, probably knew she didn't have a lot more time to leave the area, and he wasn't going to stay conscious for everything she had to say.

The red-eyed human raised one more knife, looking at its shine or maybe her reflection, before facing him again, her hand still at his skull, holding him down. Sans couldn't make out anything by then, the light of her skin becoming blurry and her expression hidden in the darkness of the room. He felt his fingers twitch, one last call to his magic, any of it, but not even a fuse.

"Guess I won't feel too bad after this. Seeing as you tried to kill me, so."

Hypocrite.

He couldn't utter a single word, only felt steel graze across his left cheek, over his scar-like crack, before stopping at his eye. Then he didn't feel anything else.

Sans woke up with his wrists zip cuffed over his head, a metal pipe keeping him from slouching down. He felt emptier than usual – ha – and the brow of his sockets melded to a frown. The skeleton monster had his head more clear, logical thoughts residing back into his head where they should belong, and he grunts as he rolls his neck.

There would be no calling of magic for a while, so it seemed. He thinks he'd be more shocked at that, but that sensation had run out. Some of his power lingered, since he was still alive, though how much Chara took made him wonder. And why did she want it? She wasn't completely incompetent at it, for a human, and she had never shown interest in being better.

That really didn't matter, he knew he was trying to distract himself. And it wasn't working.

He hears fast footsteps approaching, passing the room he was in and he didn't bother making a sound. Sans kept his head bowed, looking at the floor as if it provided all of the answers. The footsteps slowed down and retreated back, soon stopping at the door. It creaked open, and a warm presence made him ball his hands into fists whereas it would have usually calmed him amazingly.

But he couldn't feel calm. He was still so, very, angry.

Sans could hear her breathe in, and then her hands were cupping his face, the softness of her skin making the tension all the more unbearable. But Frisk's concern clouded everything else upon seeing the monster this way, and she pressed her forehead against his to catch the glowing orbs in his sockets, but she found nothing there.

He moved his head to the side, away from her direction, her hands sliding away and she sighed quietly. Frisk got up after a moment and observed the room, soon catching the sight of the sniper leaned next to the window. He could feel her anxiety rising as she moved closer.

"Sans," she started with a firm note, but it was crumbling fast. "Where is my–"

"Sorry, honey." His voice his gruff, dry and hoarse, and he didn't mean to sound that way but he was almost uncaring. "Don't really want to talk right now."

Frisk rubs her elbow, her back to him, brown eyes trained on the gun.

"There wasn't any dust."

She was raw determination, and he admires that, but he would really prefer her to stay quiet. He needed the time, the moment to think, not act, to progress information, not move again

even if sometimes the silence made his skull feel on fire

it wasn't

reminding him.

And he really didn't want to have Frisk see him when he has to face the music.

"So he... Papyrus couldn't have–"

His arms moved down, swiftly away from the wall and the pipe holding him captive was torn from its place, meeting the floor with a harsh sound. She had flinched, turning to see the other tear the cuffs apart so easily, then pacing across the room to throw a chair against the door.

"I said I don't want to talk right now."

Frisk bites her lip, hand raising up over her mouth as she looked away and to the outside instead; saw the building now like black coal, huge gapes on the sides and windows broken, a ruin. A tear runs down as she closes her eyes.

"I'm sorry."

Sans rubs a hand over his face and reaches for that peace of mind again. After that stunt, however, he felt exhaustion keep up with him.

Anger will still persistent in staying.

"I'm sorry."

So did grief. And he didn't want it there inside him any longer, but it wasn't a solid piece of him that he could just rip out.

He felt sick.

"I'm sorry."

"Stop." He swallows, or makes an attempt to, keeping that stubborn ball of frustration and loss held down. But he was weak, and so tired. He's not sure if he was fighting it anymore.

"Sans."

Damn her, she was relentless.

"I don't want... I can't."

"It'll help."

She won't give in, and though she continued to push, she was nothing but gentle while doing so. He can't win against her, not with her soul exposed to him like that, coaxing his own to reach out.

"I promise."

Well, fuck.

The steps forward felt like lead in his shoes and he was relieved when Frisk closed the rest of the distance for them both, and it was her who caught him, her arms circling around his shoulders as he let himself tumble.

The rest of their team found them a bit later, Frisk cradling Sans, his magic leaking from one socket, both human and monster tormented from an identical loss.