He snored. Loudly.
What more can I say? Sans's room was, just like the rest of the house, an exact replica from their home in the Underground. From the funky flames beneath his door to the treadmill, the lamp on the drawers, the trash tornado and his piles of dirty socks littering the floor.
So much had changed since leaving the land beneath Mount Ebott, yet this one skeleton refused to alter, adjust, modify, or edit. Heroes were made. Villains were born. Sans remained Sans, sleeping in both his day clothes and his night clothes like he did months ago.
His bedsheets and pillow cases lay in a knotted ball by his sleeping side. Washed every week with fabric softener and detergent, one could still smell the freshness; it said on the front that this scent was called Moonlight Breeze, made by people who have no idea what a breeze under a full moon actually smells like.
Nevertheless, Sans snored. Loudly.
The long, white hallway with no windows, doors, or anything had its silence disturbed by the shuffling of slippers. With hands snugly deep within pockets, Sans the skeleton shimmied down it without a care or fear, having done it more times than he cared to remember. He hummed a casual little ditty along the way; a tune worthy of any cheesy nineties sitcom.
His sockets blinked and there appeared the end, with a black rectangle to visualise the exit.
Sans ambled on through, exiting the passage and stepping into a world of blackness. It encapsulated him. No ceiling. No ground. No horizon. No sights, smells or sounds of any kind. Not even an echo attached to his own voice.
Oblivion. The end of time itself. And yet, onward he strutted as if he were on the catwalk, being watched by millions.
After a few feet. Sans stopped his walking and his humming. In one fluid motion, he whipped his hands into the open, snapped his fingers and span around. As he expected, the opening leading to the white passageway was gone and in its place were two luxurious armchairs divided by a round table.
One of the chairs was occupied by a lanky, white-faced figure.
"Sans," he said, nodding and smiling, speaking that name as if he had said it ten times prior that same day; void of surprise.
With those same hands pointed in the air like a cowboy holding two six-shooters, Sans aimed coolly at the figure. "Mister W.D to the G," he replied as he made his way to the vacant seat. "What's up?"
"Oh, not much," W.D Gaster said. Sans rounded the chair and spotted a red bottle and a hotdog on the table. "Your usual."
As Sans parked himself, he said, "You shouldn't have," and reached for the bottle first. Before taking the first swig, he asked, "Been up to much, lately?"
"Same old, same old," said Gaster in all honesty. He tipped his head to one side, then the other. "Rumour here. Ghostly appearance there. Occasional cameo on the side."
"Cool." Sans gulped the first mouthful of ketchup. He grabbed the hotdog and began to gobble it greedily. In-between bites, he mumbled, "Same order of business with me. Who would'a thought gettin' part-time jobs on the surface would be as easy as in the Underground?"
Gaster shrugged. "I cannot speak from experience myself, but I shall take your word for it."
The short skeleton mouthed his snack and washed it down with the final drags from the bottle. Once finished, he dropped the empties on the table, with no intention of cleaning it up himself.
Sans wiped his toothy mouth with his sleeve.
"Much appreciated, G."
"Much obliged, Sans."
Gaster leaned back and clasped his hands together, intertwining his fingers. He continued, "Now, shall we continue our discussion from last time?"
Sans chuckled. "You bet."
In the vast emptiness, there sat two people in comfy chairs and with an empty ketchup bottle between them, joined together through time and space. The pair eased back, basking in the indulgence offered through such generous padding and in the added surety that their words would be heard by themselves only. Ne fears of eavesdropping existed in this realm – with the exception of you and me.
"Do you remember where we left off?" asked Gaster. However, he knew the answer before phrasing the question.
Whatever happened here between San and Gaster, stayed between Sans and Gaster.
"I remember alright."
Two brilliant minds, watching one another. The previous royal scientist and his former assistant. Only two intelligences such as theirs could share such deep, thoughtful conversations. Words that many would kill to hear. Secrets that could reshape the world as we know it. Theories that no mortal could—
Sans shot forward and yelled, "You never told me to label that switch!"
"Yes, I did!" Gaster retorted just as loud, also leaning headlong in his seat.
"No, you didn't!"
"Yes, I did!"
"No, you didn't!" Sans slammed his fists against the armrests
"Yes, I did!" Gaster copied the outburst of the other.
"Why you gettin' on my case for, anyway?" Sans demanded to know. "You yourself couldn't remember last month."
"I had a lapse in memory, okay?"
Sans glanced away and scoffed. "Yeah, not for the first time."
Gaster's brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, deeply insulted by that remark. "Well, I'm not the one who left empty chip packets in the fridge."
"And I ain't the one—" Sans resumed eye socket contact "—who insisted on havin' no 'Bring you pet rock to work day' day."
"And I'm not the one who heated up dark matter in the microwave."
"And I ain't the one who suggested a trapdoor over the Core."
Gaster's arms went wide. "I told you, I had that installed for a very specific purpose."
"Yeah, and what purpose was that?"
Gaster paused and stared off into space. A quiet mumble seeped out his lipless mouth.
Sans, astounded, continued, "Amazing. Years after the incident and you still can't remember why we installed that trapdoor."
"No, no, no," Gaster muttered, waving his hands, "there was a reason; it's on the tip of my tongue."
"Ah, shut up, you don't even have a tongue," Sans remarked. Gaster ignored that statement as he scoured the recesses of his mind for the reason. "Well, it don't matter no more," Sans went on, "since you were dumb enough to be standin' there when I flipped the wrong switch."
"Well, you should have labelled them like I asked."
"You never told me to label that switch!"
"Yes, I did!"
"No, you didn't!"
"Yes, I did!"
"Uh-uh, uh-uh." Sans plugged his earless ears and closed his eye sockets. "La la la la la la la la la—"
Gaster's frown deepened. "Stop that."
"—la la la la la la la la la—"
"Stop it."
"—la la la la la—"
Two floating hands materialised from Gaster's own will and grabbed Sans by the wrists. A rigorous tug from each forced them apart.
"Stop being so childish," he said, dismissing his magic.
"I'm not being childish," Sans said, shaking his head out of stark denial. "You're being… child… ish… er."
The other cracked a grin, although it might have come off as more of a sneer. "Still the master of puns, but not of wit, I see."
Sans folded his arms. "At least I'm fully intact instead of being scattered across time and space."
"Perhaps I wouldn't be had you not flipped the wrong switch!"
"And p'haps if you'd've told me—."
"I did tell you!" Gaster interrupted, belligerent.
"No, you didn't!"
"Yes, I did!"
Sans rose on his chair. "No, you didn't!" His eye flared.
Gaster got up to meet the other's level. "Yes, I did!" His white face turned red.
Let's, err, back away from this little reunion nice and slowly before it turns messy.
With a sprinkle of fairy dust, the curtain is drawn. Back to Sans's room, where the pun-loving skeleton himself snored. Loudly.
Be thankful. Had we stuck around for the entire argument, we'd be there all night. Literally.
