Don't wake me up,
I am still dreaming.
The story's undone,
Unravel at the seams.
Don't wake me up,
Death is misleading.
And when I fall asleep,
Sleep with your ghost.
That night, for the first time in longer than he cares to admit, Papyrus has a nightmare.
Normally, he doesn't sleep very much, and when he does, he's practically out like a light. His nights are blissfully empty of thought, one of the only times he can actually feel safe to let up on his constant state of vigilance.
This dream is different.
Here, it is bright. Too bright, shining white down on everything, creating a horrible contrast between his hands and the dust covering them.
They tremble, unsteady as they try to scrub the powder off.
He can't stop thinking about the sounds. The sound it made when he pierced it with his attack. How it whined, kicking and feebly trying to get away from him.
It hadn't died.
Not on the first hit, anyway.
All his resolve had left him after that initial blow, but now it just lay there, half-turned to dust yet still clinging to life somehow. The light in its eyes had already faded, but they were still wide with fear.
And so, Papyrus had struck again. And again.
It took longer than it should have, slowly chipping away at hp, every attack eliciting another pained noise from it, until it died at last.
And then the rush had come. An almost indescribable feeling of euphoria.
It felt good.
Papyrus was sick of being scared. He was sick of being hungry, sick of being cold, sick of being trod on by monsters more powerful than him.
Who did they think they were anyway?
He would show them. If he joined the royal guard, if he made his way up its ranks, he wouldn't need to fear anyone anymore.
He would be able to take care of his brother.
Sans is there, standing in the doorway, looking at him as he methodically rubs his hands clean.
Papyrus can tell he is angry. Disappointed. Maybe even scared.
But if this is what it takes to keep them safe, to survive, then so be it.
He will keep going, leaving a trail of scattered dust in his wake if he must, for as long as it takes, ignoring the part of him that enjoys the thrill of the kill.
He meets Sans's eyes, and for the first time ever sees hate reflected back at him. It fills his soul, mixing with the almost ecstatic feeling of having ended somebodies life, making him strangely giddy and disconnected.
Papyrus knows things will never be the same.
When he moves his fingers, he can still feel the small particles stuck between the joints, despite having scraped at his hands until they hurt.
Skeleton anatomy is full of small crevices, ideal for dust to get stuck in.
He will need to remember to wear gloves next time.
Sans wakes up slowly for once, consciousness creeping in gradually until he's fully aware of his surroundings.
He feels weird, warm and secure in a way that is not the norm. It takes him a few moments to realize it's because he is not lying in his bed, but rather on the old comfy sofa that occupies their living room.
His face is pressed into the cushions, and he wiggles a bit to try and get a better bearing of the situation, but finds himself unable.
Because he is trapped between the back of the seat and the body of his still sleeping brother.
The couch isn't exactly made for fitting two people like this, so Sans feels slightly mushed, but with some effort he manages to turn and face the other's sleeping form.
Papyrus is lying on his side, balancing precariously on the edge. His body has instinctively compensated by leaning forward, and Sans can feel their legs tangled together.
In the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the dim light of barely anything shining outside their living room window, he can see his brother's face strangely scrunched up, as if even in sleep he's angry at something.
Unbidden, Sans reaches forward. His fingers stop short of actually touching, the thought of what would happen if Papyrus woke up to find them in such a position making him hesitant to proceed.
Then again, it's not like their relationship can get any more fucked up than it already is.
Besides, Sans knows his younger brother is a heavy sleeper. He sometimes inwardly jokes that he could fire off a Blaster right next to that dingy old race car bed, and Papyrus wouldn't wake up.
The dubious part inside him is satisfied for once, and Sans proceeds to lightly touch his brother's face.
That fucking scar. He trails his phalanges down it, feeling the slightly sharp edges and uneven texture surrounding it.
He remembers what it felt like, the shock that he experienced when Papyrus came barreling through their front door in a flurry, clutching a hand to his face with dust seeping through his fingers.
Sans had been downright terrified. He had wanted to help, do anything, something, to elevate the pained expression on his brother's features.
But even back then, they hadn't been on the best of terms, so to speak, and the taller skeleton had simply shrugged him off with an agitated huff, locking himself inside his room for the remainder of the day.
Sans knows, because he had been sitting outside that door the entire time, trying desperately to calm down his racing thoughts.
He'd thought he was over the whole caring thing by then. He wasn't, he was worried to death instead.
And now, feeling the jagged texture beneath his fingertips, illuminated by the twilight outside their window, Sans wonders if that's what Papyrus felt those few days ago.
His brother frowns in his sleep, twitching, and the small skeleton jolts aware to the present, pulling back his hand.
But the younger brother doesn't wake, instead pitching forward slightly, robbing Sans of the small amount of personal space left.
Their chests are touching, and just like last time he becomes distinctly aware of the other's soul, like a physical warmth that somehow fills him entirely.
Papyrus mumbles something incoherently, subconsciously throwing an arm to lay around Sans's waist, the other appendage trapped between them at an awkward angle.
In this position, he doesn't really have a choice, besides burrowing his face into his brother's scarf, smelling the faint scent of ash still clinging to it from so long ago.
Papyrus never washes it, he realizes. He probably never takes it off.
Sans closes his eyes again and thinks about the smile from his dream.
The muted sunlight that shines through the cracked cavern ceiling is streaming into their living room, vivid and brightening up everything with a brilliant shine.
It slips between his closed eye sockets, making it hard for him to fall back asleep.
He wants to though. It's been too long since Papyrus has had a decent nights rest, so a few more minutes of undisturbed peace and quiet are long overdue.
But alas, The Great Papyrus does not function that way. Wasting daytime is not his style, that would rather be something up his brother's alley.
Speaking of Sans.
When the tall skeleton properly wakes up, mind jolting to the present almost instantly, he's immediately aware of not being alone. He almost flings the figure sleeping half on top of him straight across the room out of instinct.
But the ugly wallpaper and dull colored sofa he's residing upon tell him he's inside their home, and there is no way an intruder would dare trespass on their property.
So, by process of elimination, the person so liberally invading his personal space is Sans.
Papyrus takes a moment to consider how they got into this position. He remembers sitting down to watch Mettaton last night.
Evidently he had been more tired than he thought, and Sans could quite possibly fall asleep anywhere.
He tries to find it in himself to be irritated. To be bothered by their current situation.
But he can't.
Sans is clutching the red fabric of his scarf in a loose fist, face practically buried into his taller siblings neck. He's sleeping peacefully for once, features relaxed into a look of utter content.
It's been too long since Papyrus has seen that look on his brother's face.
Therefor he allows himself to indulge for once, not even bothering to remove his arm wrapped around the smaller body.
He turns his head and sees the clock on their wall, telling him it's well into the morning hours. He's going to be late for Undyne's training if he doesn't leave soon.
'1 more minute' he tells himself. '1 more minute and I'll get up.'
10 minutes later he nudges against Sans harshly, face recomposed to the angry scowl he usually wears.
"Sans... Sans! Wake up, you lazybones." He hisses, pushing against the other's ribcage in an effort to dislodge him.
His brother responds by clutching more tightly, mumbling softly. "Just 5 more minutes."
Papyrus sighs, starting to try and withdraw himself, but finding himself unable. Sans is lying on top of his other arm. "5 more seconds and you're not waking up at all."
Sans cracks his eyes open immediately, but there is an almost amused smile playing around his mouth. "Grumpy in the mornings, aren't we?"
With some effort, Papyrus does manage to pull back, at least freeing his arm and laying on his back, putting as much distance between them as possible with Sans still attached to him.
"Don't be an idiot..." As far as witty retorts go, it's not very adequate, but it will have to do.
Sans grins wider, but still seems to spot the agitation on his brother's face, letting go of the fabric between his fingers and sitting up, back making a cracking noise as he straightens it.
Papyrus pops his newly released arm back into it's socket proper, rotating it slowly to regain feeling in it.
"We shouldn't sleep on this blasted thing anymore." He comments, starting to walk to the kitchen, but changing his mind at the last moment, heading towards the door instead.
The captain isn't renown for her patience. He goes to put on his boots, mindful to not forget the reports she requested.
"I think it's pretty comfy." Sans mentions, laying back down and stretching onto the newly acquire space. Unlike his brother, he is actually small enough to fit on it perfectly when alone.
"I bet you would." Papyrus snorts, and Sans turns toward him with a sly look.
"Really, Boss? I'm not sure if I'm more surprised that you just made a joke, or disappointed that it was a jab at my height."
"I can be funny." The younger brother answers automatically. Because really, there's nothing The Great Papyrus is not great at. It's in the name, for fucks sake.
Sans has the audacity to actually laugh at him, so he makes sure to slam the door behind him extra hard.
Undyne is already outside when he arrives, but he's surprised to see she's not wearing her usual armor. She looks so much smaller like this, strangely vulnerable.
But Papyrus knows that looks can be deceiving. Besides, she still towers over him at least 4 inches.
"There you are, punk." She sounds high-strung, eyes darting around as if expecting a surprise attack any second.
And she should. Captain of the royal guard is a much coveted position, and can actually be won in combat.
But usually it's the second in combat who will challenge the current leader for their position, and that would be him.
Sometimes Papyrus wonders if that's why Undyne is so chummy with him. Keep your friends close and your enemies closer, and all that.
But she seems too direct to do that. He couldn't imagine the captain putting up with that kind of shit. If she really thought he would be a threat to her position in such a way, he probably wouldn't be walking around anymore.
She's right though. Papyrus has no such ambitious. He's happy where he is. For now, at least...
"Give them to me." She commands, already holding out her hands the moment she saw him entering the cave mouth.
Papyrus does so, watching with a confused expression as she rifles through the documents at high speed, apparently looking for something.
Her eye scans line after line of text, narrowing as they go. Whatever she's looking for either isn't there, or it is, and she's displeased with it.
Then, in a flurry, she tosses the entire thing over her shoulder, papers scattering all over the damp ground.
Papyrus is caught between being angry that all his hard work is going to waste or concerned for his commander's sanity.
He settles on a bit of both.
Undyne grabs his arm, the grip a lot less hostile than the previous day, and there is something disconcerting in her eye.
"You! Me! Cooking lesson! Now!"
As she starts dragging him over to her house, Papyrus knows something is seriously wrong.
Undyne usually only cooks with him when she's extremely stressed out, agitated, or perturbed.
All memories of an almost secluded morning bliss fade away instantly.
In their world, there are two general truths. It's kill or be killed.
And good things can never last.
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