12. Socks
[[File 12.1 GA-####-#-#]]
"Did you just fingerspell an obscenity?" Gaster signed with a dry inflection. However, despite his formally rigid handshapes, distaste twisted his jawline and bafflement colored his eyesockets. It seemed Gaster could not quite believe this had occurred. Continuing on, he emphasized, "I do not tolerate swearing in the office. Please refrain in the future."
"well. just saying," answered Sans in broken sign, "you're not the person with a…" he laboriously spelled out a word "…f-r-a-c-t-u-r-e-d foot bone. OUCH!" The last word rocketed out loud, something Gaster would be thankful not to hear, as Sans shouted it right in the researcher's face.
The Royal Scientist paused from examining the injury to glare up at his charge. "You FINGERSPELLED a swear word. That is not an impulsive, interjectory response to something unpleasant, which is how expletives function in any language. What you just did is a useless, painstakenly slow gesture, a pathetic and indefensible excuse to spell out the word 'fuck'."
"oh. is that how you sign it?" Sans grinned and began repeating the gesture right in front of Doctor Gaster.
With a sigh and no direct engagement of the problem, Gaster stood up. He remarked briefly, "I must have given you too much painkiller," and turned around to mourn he had taught his employee an obscenity.
[[File 12.2 GA-####-#-#]]
Sans was still yawning into his coffee when he rambled through the laboratory front doors. He had rather impressively slipped a few fingers through the mug handle to carry the drink while simultaneously clutching onto crutches with palms. Plodding in a shuffle that belied his half-asleep state, he headed toward the main office, approached the mailboxes mounted in a matrix on the nearest wall, and rearranged the items he carried. The mug went into his right hand; the crutches leaned against the office desk; his left hand floundered toward his mail.
His finger bones shuffled inside the cubby for a long time. It could be hard enough to pluck paper from a slick surface awake; sleep-deprived and drowsy, Sans' poorly-coordinated fingers fumbled haplessly. Then he realized, belatedly, he was reaching into the wrong box. He pulled out his hand, reached into the correct cubby, and to his surprise landed upon something soft and squishy.
what…?
Sans stared groggily at the sock in his hand. It was white, with some dirt marks on the soles indicating it had been worn. A small note had been pinned to it. Sans did not recognize the handwriting; it was elegant cursive, but also seemed unsteady, as though the writer were unpracticed writing in it.
Mister Serif:
I believe you made the error of misplacing your sock in my office yesterday. I found it when I walked into my room this morning and was besieged by a powerful, repulsive odor. I have two questions about this. First: this is how you thank me for checking your injury? Second: do you ever bathe? Please refrain from leaving such disgusting and pungent items in my office, elsewise expect me to discard your property in the waste bin, where it probably belongs anyway.
"Oh, uh, Sans. Sans! You're here today? After yesterday's accident?"
Sans lowered the note and rotated his neck. He had not realized that someone had stepped up behind him. Wearing a bright pink hoodie beneath his white laboratory coat – in stark ignorance of their formal dress code policy – Rain should not have been difficult to spot, even out of the corner of the eyesocket. Welp. It was early. Sans had not quite woken up. And maybe the latest round of painkillers for the fracture was fogging his mind, too. He had plenty of reasons for not noticing his colleague.
Belatedly, Sans realized he had not answered Rain's question.
Rain was continuing to talk on now, commenting, "I would have thought you'd take the day off. Because you got a fracture, right?"
"yup. i got a fracture. but i don't… need a break." Sans whacked his hands twice on the desk then snapped his fingers in a poor 'ba-dum tssh' mimic. Rain stared for a few seconds to process the poor wordplay, but then sniggered when he finally understood. If there was one thing Sans could appreciate about his colleague, it was that Rain usually laughed at his bad puns.
"Well, don't work yourself too hard today." Rain bobbed his head once and pulled up a sheepish grin. "Not like Gaster would let anyone overwork themselves."
"dontcha worry. i wouldn't let me overwork myself either." He realized he was fiddling with the sock in one hand and the letter in the other. His mind was beginning to wander from the small talk, and instead concern itself over the contents of Gaster's message. Sans could not be certain of its tone… it could be read as condescending, or solemn, or biting… but as someone who tended to be mischievous himself, he could not help but detect a sense of humor beneath the words.
Regardless of whether or not it was humor, Sans knew what he had to do about it.
"fact is, pal," Sans resumed mullingly, "ive got just one thing i wanna get done today." He dangled up the sock in front of Rain's face, causing his colleague to recoil at both the stench and its sudden barge into his personal bubble.
"A… sock."
"yup. that's right."
"You're not getting work done with a sock."
"sure am. gotta return it to where it belongs, is all."
"It's another practical joke, isn't it?" Rain winced. As much as he enjoyed Sans' verbal jokes, he always steered shy of any pranks. Rain liked to play it safe, and while the puns were bad, at least they never disrupted laboratory atmosphere. "Who is it this time? Is it…" And Rain caught sight of the note pinched between Sans' fingers. "That's Gaster's handwr… Wait a. Wait a. No, no. Oh my god. No. Stop right there, stop stop stop, stop right now! You are not pranking Gaster. He's? ? the? ? head? ? of? ? the –"
And Rain's frantic babblings were cut off. Sans waved a hand casually through the air. "exactly. no one better to screw with than the big guy himself."
Despite Rain's protests, the prank happened. Despite Rain's protests, he helped Sans pull it off. Despite Rain's protests, the squirmy scientist turned out to be a good accomplice. Despite Rain's protests, he intentionally distracted Gaster for eight minutes in the hallway while Sans clunked gracelessly through the far corridor, staggered into Gaster's office, and completed his mission.
The office was immaculate. To the left of the door, there stood a bookcase, all the texts neatly aligned in alphabetical order by author. Of course it was alphabetical. Near the center of the room, a visitor's chair faced an office desk, an office desk with a beautiful, smooth, untouched, gleaming surface. Only one item rested on it: a family portrait. The rest of the surface was pristine, cleaner than the day it had left its manufacturers.
Sans plopped the sock dead center on the desk top.
He staggered out of the door, fleeing – best as he could with a fractured foot and crutches – to his own office on the far side of the building.
"I'm never doing that again!" Rain hissed, at a whisper, despite the fact Gaster would not have heard a protest at any volume. "That is – you hear me – the last time I'm ever getting involved in your stupid mischief! And if Gaster asks anyone who it is, you bet your stupid ketchup packets I will be the first to tell him that –"
"oh. he'll know who did it," Sans chuckled. He glanced in the direction of the Royal Scientist's now-contaminated office space. "some real immature weirdo. can't be too many of those odd sorts in the lab. ey. ya know anyone like that?"
Sans found himself gliding back home on his crutches at the end of the work day. What pride he felt. It might not have been that complicated of a joke – it really was at its most basic – but sometimes the simplest jokes reaped the greatest rewards.
He never actually saw Gaster's face the moment the Royal Scientist encountered the stray sock. The following morning, however, Sans found a second passive aggressive note taped to the outside of his office door.
Dear Doctor Serif:
I threw your sock in the trash, as prior threatened. I also took the liberty of throwing some other garbage away.
The second half of the note sounded strange and nonsensical, though its meaning became clear the second Sans unlocked the room and found five socks resting in a small pile on the center of his own desk. Rather, they were splayed across several open textbooks – for there was no clear space on his desk – but the intent was obvious.
Sans found himself grinning in malicious eagerness. Oh. Calling his office trash and dumping more socks back at him? This game was on.
"doctor gaster," he stood in the Royal Scientist's office space, acting as though nothing unusual had befallen this room the prior day, fingerspelling and signing with an air of well-feigned casualty, "heard there's some equipment malfunction going on in lab 2B-1? i think it's one of the fume hoods. nothing serious. but they were asking you to go look at it."
Four minutes later Gaster marched back in the room with six offending socks in his hands.
"I believe the hood has been fixed," Gaster said with cold severity. "Someone was incorrectly using the equipment as a hamper." Not a spark of emotion left his eyesockets.
The next day, no note decorated the outside of Sans' door. He found nothing in his mailbox, either. He did, however, find the six socks back on his desk the following morning. All had been made into elaborate puppets. It did not escape Sans' attention that the rattiest, dirtiest sock had been modeled to look like him.
"heya rain. look. im a puppet." He wiggled his hand, making the googly eyes shake.
"Oh my god, Sans. Take that sock off your hand and help me finish this test!"
He raised up his other hand – wearing a puppet of Rain – and started to imitate his flustered lab partner.
Several more days passed before Sans introduced himself to the laboratory janitor. She peered at him askance behind thick, round glasses, wide lips pursed into a skeptical frown, yet after enough cajoling, tossed him the keys. "None of my business, none of my responsibility," she muttered, clearly done with Life. She trudged into the closet and threw the mop into the corner, where it clattered on the floor and lay there the rest of the evening.
Sans, already chuckling to himself, prepared for a sleepless night. Oh, but it would be worth it.
He reclined in an office chair – rolled out from Gaster's office – right inside the main double doorway, sipping an enormous cup of coffee. Doctor Wings Dings Gaster always arrived first in the building every day, striding in early to prepare for every team, project, and proposal he would need to review. While Gaster did not crash into Sans, he did stumble, just for a step, upon sighting the other skeleton.
Sans pulled up his most winsome smirk. Slowly, he lowered his coffee cup into his lap. Wheeling toward Gaster – who had tried to march past him without a greeting – Sans suavely hailed, "good morning, doctor gaster."
The scientist met Sans' gaze eyesocket per eyesocket. It was a dead, expressionless stare. But the manner in which Gaster looked upward and toward the left – the exact location of his office – betrayed his thoughts.
At an unusually brisk pace, Gaster set for the stairs. He trotted up hurriedly. Sans, ignoring the crutches and opting to wheel himself on the chair to the elevator, pursued Gaster through his own indirect route. He arrived in time to spy the Royal Scientist's discovery and reaction.
Like burgeoning mushrooms, a mycological infestation, socks sprouted from every available surface in the room. Not an inch had been spared. One could not spy the spine of a single book; the ceiling-high shelves had become wardrobes, storing stacks and stacks and stacks and stacks and stacks of balled-up socks. Blue socks. Black socks. Pink socks. Green. They had been arranged into patterns – smiles grinning maliciously from each shelf.
Socks coated the entire floor like a ball pit. They might as well have been the carpet. Socks were hung from the ceiling, dangling from fishing wire in an upside-down jungle of footware. They looked like giant, blooming mops. Wherever the ceiling fan and lights were, no one would be able to tell.
Gaster tread forward slowly, soaking in the sudden changed climate in his office. The socks muffled his footfalls as brown toed shoes trod forward. Sock slowly swung from fishing wire as they brushed past his head. He peered down at his desk chair with an expressionless gaze. The seat was covered in a cauliflower of socks. Slowly, his left hand reached out and pulled open the nearest desk drawer. Papers were probably supposed to be stored here. He discovered only socks. Gaster opened the drawers one by one. Socks. Socks. Yet more socks.
The desk surface itself hosted its fair colony of socks. They were arranged to spell out three simple words.
get dunked on.
Royal Scientist Wings Dings Gaster finally turned and looked Sans in the eyesocket. For a moment, his face slipped into a smile.
He did order Sans to clean the office space, though.
Only took seven hours to return it to its prior homeostatic socklessness.
The next day in the laboratory consisted of an undisrupted calm, cheery, content, but also productive atmosphere. The day after passed similarly. And the day after. Two weeks following the event, Sans concluded he must have won their contest. The war, as entertaining as this campaign had been, ended.
He stepped into his workspace, where a laundry basket precariously balanced on the top of the door toppled down and showered him with socks.
…or not.
At the very least, though, Gaster could not top Sans' last prank. As Sans stood in the pile of socks, reflecting upon the event, he noted that this was a far scale below the quality of his prior trick. Gaster's room had been bedecked – it had taken him the entire work day to remove the most prominently placed socks in the room – and he still on occasion encountered another one Sans had failed to clean. Turning on the ceiling fan had been a surprise. But what Gaster had done to Sans here was a simple, common college prank. Amusing, Sans assessed, still loitering in the pile, but not extraordinary.
heh. i got him worse, Sans smugly thought.
Then… he realized he was wrong.
Oh so wrong.
These socks were sticky. And… still covering him… head to toe.
An hour later, in the restroom, looking like a headless multi-colored cloth cauliflower, he grumbled to Rain, "what kind of adhesive is this hell?"
His colleague muttered under his breath – sounded like something about wasting lunch hour. With a vicious tug, Rain yanked off a single sock and placed it in a growing wad on the floor. It took several tries before he pulled it off his own hand.
"Probably just the glue he uses to keep his glasses on. The big question for me," Rain said, trying to figure out where Sans' face was, "is how you two keep getting into each other's offices when they're supposed to be locked."
Sans just responded with a surprised yelp as Rain wrench off another sock.
"I swear there is not a single mature person in our physics department."
He found socks in his refrigerator. Socks inside his sandwiches, balled cotton replacing meat and cheese. Socks taped on the outside of his windows blocking out the light. Socks leading long trails up and down the workspace, first floor, second floor, basement. Rainbow colored socks tied together and hung from the ceiling like streamers on his birthday. Gaster, in turn, opened up packages of ordered laboratory equipment… only to find socks packed in each and every box. Everyone in the laboratory automatically began returning socks to Sans and Gaster whenever they encountered one in the workspace. No one said a word, just passively handed off the item and trudged away. They might as well have been sharing paperwork.
Some days were, naturally, more boring than others. Nevertheless, there remained a constant, tense atmosphere, as though at any moment, one could be clobbered by socks.
And yet there were always more plots to be put into motion.
Sans sidled up to Doctor Pearson with a winsome grin. "heeeeeyyyya rraaaain," he said. "you do photography, too. amirite?"
The doctor continued shuffling through research articles. In the process, he dropped a few pages, scattering the results section out of order. In fits, Rain whined, "If this is about socks I swear on your…"
"nope. not everything's about socks, pal. relax. just want to try out a new hobby."
Rain turned. Grabbed one paw on each side of Sans' cheekbones. Clamped his palms down hard. Pulled his colleague up close and studied him, eye to eyesocket, with utter severity. "Are… you… telling… the… truth?" No one had ever been cured of gullibility as quickly as Rain had been, working with Sans.
"sure. can't fool you anymore."
"Hmmm…"
"bud, you should like this. it's less disruptive."
"You could take a piece of grass and make it disruptive," Rain reminded him.
"heh heh heh heh. true. if you put the blade of grass between your thumbs and blow hard, you can make a real obnoxious noise."
"Case in point." Rain dropped his hands from Sans' face to cross his arms. He demanded, "Why are you interested in photography?"
"welp, no one else's gonna take pics of my bro and me."
Rain found himself rigging up a motion camera in Gaster's office, pointed in the general direction of the gigantic sock catapult Sans had finally finished.
"This is the last time I'm helping you, Sans, you hear me? The LAST time."
"yeah. i hear ya." Not as though Sans believed it. He could hear Rain shuffling unhappily down the hallway, storming out Gaster's office doorway toward the stairwell, but Sans paused to admire his work. All it would take to set off the contraption would be his supervisor opening up the door. There was a trip wire near the floor. In the morning, Gaster would not only be catapulted with several hundred socks, but Sans would be able to take an embarrassing action photograph out of the event. Perfect blackmail.
Sans should have known better than to trust all would occur as planned.
He stared at the community board two days later, laughing and shaking his head. One of his co-workers, Doctor Albertus, commented from beside him, "That's quite the shocked expression on your face, Sans."
Sans was still trying to puzzle out how Gaster had completely avoided setting off the trap in his own office, but had rather quickly transplanted it to Sans' and turned the prank against the prankster.
"Serves you right," Albertus burped, and shuffled away from the billboard.
There was only one day of the year that Sans had been forbidden to launch a sock prank. Sans himself reluctantly agreed it for the best. Annually, the king himself visited every branch of the Royal Laboratories, toured the projects to see their progress first-hand, and spoke at length with Doctor Gaster about research process and goals. Gaster pointed to the date firmly on the calendar, and emphasized to the research team, "We must maintain nothing less than the most proper decorum on this day. Doctor Pearson, Doctor Calibri, please ascertain you follow dress code protocol properly for once. Hoodies are not formal attire, even with a lab coat worn over them. Donus –" he turned to his translator "– some of those posters in your workspace are humorous, which is why I allow them, but perhaps they could be hidden for the day? Thank you very much. Doctor Serif..." a piercing stare "…you know exactly what not to do."
Half of the scientists sniggered.
Sans said, "sure thing, boss. so long as you don't do it either."
The other half of the research team laughed.
Gaster glared at Sans for mentioning publicly his involvement in the sock debacle, even if everyone on the team obviously knew how determinedly the head Royal Scientist battled. Some individuals had even begun keeping score on the whiteboard in the break room, though there had been debate about whether or not to mark each prank as a solid one point each, or whether to weigh pranks by value based upon their perceived efficacy and creativity. Most tallies, regardless of the actual numerical score, placed Gaster slightly ahead of Sans, though not by much.
"i'll be good," Sans assured him, this time more seriously responding. He could see that the Royal Scientist truly took these yearly evaluations seriously. If anything, Gaster appeared a little skittish about the monarch's upcoming visit. He would not tread against his friend's worries. For Gaster was becoming a friend, was he not?
Yet for all Sans maintained a careful vigilance on the calendar, he peered in consternation when an enormous purple-garbed figure shuffled through the double-doors, crown nearly clunking on the top of the door frame. Doctor Gaster, beside Sans, abruptly seized the shorter skeleton in a death grip. Yanking Sans by the shoulders down the hallway, Gaster pulled them out of sight down the corner. Pretending, futilely, as though all his emotions were controlled, Gaster insisted to Sans, "You must translate."
"what?"
"PLEASE." Gaster placed his flattened palm on his chest and rotated in a circle. "Donus is out of the office today. Your understanding and usage of sign is incomplete, but should suffice today on this last minute notice. Please interpret for the day."
"wait. so i didn't just lose track of the days? the king isn't supposed to be here today?"
"Will you or will you not assist me?" Gaster persisted.
At this moment an enormous avalanche of white squeezed through the hallway, taking over the corner and filling every last inch of the hallway in white. Even at the intersection between two hallways, King ASGORE barely fit in the building. He appeared content and comfortable enough, though, with a warm if somewhat sheepish smile squiggling over his muzzle.
"Oh! Doctor Gaster. There you are." A voice this low and rumbly should not have sounded so sweet. He beamed down at the two skeletons. "Howdy!"
Gaster insistently elbowed Sans in the ribs, an action which snapped Sans out of staring – he had seen the king at a distance, but had never encountered him up close – and reminded him about his duties in this pressing situation. Oh. Right. Awkwardly, Sans switched into sign, as ASGORE continued on, "I'm sorry for coming in unexpected. My plans changed. My schedule is so busy as king… this is the only time I could make it. I'm lucky I could come at all. I hope you don't mind?"
It was challenging to keep up with ASGORE's pace, but Sans attempted his best. He felt pretty impressed with himself until Gaster inserted in, not even responding to ASGORE, but instead correcting Sans, "you said s-p-i-c-y, not l-u-c-k-y. LUCKY. At least, I would assume that's what you meant to sign."
Gee thanks, Gaster. That really inspired Sans' confidence to be interpreting right now.
"like this?" He imitated the sign.
"that's h-o-t."
Welp. Great. He had just called the king of the underground hot and spicy. It was sort of funny though…
Giving up on Sans' accuracy, and of course wishing to maintain a calm, pleasant, and professional propriety, Doctor Gaster instead returned, "By all means, this is of no inconvenience to us. It is wonderful you can see the Royal Laboratories today. It is never a hindrance to the team for the leader of the underground to examine our work. We are always thankful to have you visit." Only his redundancy betrayed his nervousness.
For Sans, though, at least that translation direction was easier to interpret, even with Doctor Gaster's unforgivingly unsimplified eloquence. ASGORE beamed upon hearing the welcoming response, exclaiming, "Wonderful!"
"If you would be so kind as to follow me, I can give you the tour of the laboratory and explain the current research projects being developed."
The trio circled around the first floor, pausing alongside the glass windows of each laboratory while the Royal Scientist explicated the nature of their work. Afterwards, they entered inside to carefully peer at the progress first-hand. The first laboratory, housing a physics project of which Sans had once been a part, passed without interpretational incident; even when Sans could not comprehend or recapitulate one of Gaster's articulate linguistic choices, he could substitute with his own explanation and accurate vocabulary to ASGORE. The biology research laboratory, coming second, required more pausing, repeating, and clarifying fingerspelling for unknown vocabulary; as quickly exhausting as this task was becoming for Sans, ASGORE thankfully found himself contented with simple basics. No scientist himself, ASGORE enjoyed hearing about progress and goals. Minute details meant nothing.
As they reached the stairwell on the east end of the laboratory, Doctor Gaster paused, then decided to proceed to the basement. They circled around and descended downward. Shoes echoed on concrete and darkness cast shadows over them, at least until they arrived at the tile at the bottom of the stairway and Gaster could reach for a light. A single long, narrow hallway opened up to them, doors on either side. Gaster passed the first room on the left – which was mostly empty – but paused at the second door, where recently set-up inside was research equipment for a new physics project.
Though Gaster had allowed ASGORE to step in and carefully wander about the research equipment of other laboratories, the Royal Scientist avoided opening the door to this room. And, being as the room had not originally been a laboratory, there were no windows open to gaze inside and spy the activity. So far as ASGORE could see, they were standing outside of a regular door with regular walls.
"I apologize for not opening this room," Gaster signed, though oddly fumbled at the words, as though formulating a false excuse, "equipment has only recently been set up, and as is such, the workspace remains rather cluttered. There is not much to view at this point in time, but I am more than happy to explain the nature of this experiment. I, alongside Doctor Rain Pearson, and Sans Serif here, whom you have met, will be investigating matters of quantum teleportation. Unique photon patterns recorded by past experiments of other research teams indicate –"
At that moment, a figure shuffled past, a figure in a bright orange hoodie. A crumpled laboratory jacket was half-covering the lumpy coat. "Oh. Oh. I am so sorry. I am sorry. I'll just…" Rain winced, realizing he had stepped in the middle of an important debriefing between the King of the Underground and his Royal Scientist. Rain ducked down so low he almost crawled on the floor. "Sorry, sorry," he squeaked to the king, "Y-your Majesty. I'm supposed to be working in here. Um, can I – may I – step past? Sorry… sir?"
Sans completely ignored signing, reached out to try to grab Rain before the scientist could enter the laboratory. "rain, maybe you –"
But hurriedly slipping inside and shutting the door, Rain never noticed his colleague's concerned expression.
He heard it a second later. It came at once, without warning, without crescendo: one second it was silent, the next, cacophonous. Out from the other side of the wall exploded a piercing shriek, a terrified wail, high-pitched and haunting, like something out of a horror film. Its unholy screams reached the damned.
"AUGHHHH! ! ! THE SOCKS! ! ! THE SOCKS! ! ! OH MY GOD THE SOCKS! ! ! SO MANY SOCKS! ! ! ! !"
Sans stared in horror at the door.
ASGORE stared in horror at the door.
Unrelenting wails foreshadowed the gates of hell.
Gaster stood calmly outside, completely unaware of the caterwauling within. He alone remained unperturbed. He raised his hands to continue explaining the experiment, but Sans reached out, hurriedly pushing down the Royal Scientist's arms. He shook his head and pointed toward the door.
Sans had never seen Gaster terrified before.
Until now.
"OH MY GOD!" the voice continued from within. "SANS? ! ! WINGS DINGS? ! ! YOU BOTH BOOBYTRAPPED THIS ROOM? OH MY GOD, HOW MANY SOCKS ARE IN THIS MESS?! ! AUUUUUGGGGGGHHHHH!"
Every second standing outside this door put the two to greater shame. Gaster did not have to hear it to know he had been humiliated.
"SANS, I KNOW YOU CAN HEAR ME IN HERE! YOU WATCH OUT! YOU'VE GONE TOO FAR! ! WHEN I GET MY HANDS ON YOU TWO, I SWEAR I AM GOING TO –"
"Maybe," Gaster shook, "we should leave Doctor Pearson to his studies, and we… go… upstairs."
ASGORE, still staring in dread at the door, hurriedly agreed.