A/N: Sans POV of the previous chapter. While you can technically skip this, I highly recommend reading it. The chapter gives some additional context to Sans' situation moving forward, as well as the nature of his and Frisk's relationship.
08/2018: Uhhh . . . I reworked this? I think I overcooked it before. Anyway, should be more fluid, less maudlin. If you miss the old version PM me and I'll send it to you. Honestly, though, I don't think there's anything to miss here.
Enjoy!
Chapter TW: depression, suicide, self-harm, language, uh . . . vomiting? Not excessively, though, I promise.
They were all lucky, not knowing what it felt like.
Wrenching through time and space. Bending backward like a rubber band past its means. Vertigo. Nausea. The vilest incarnation of a migraine.
Sans always felt helpless in these moments. Not as if he had any control of the waking world, either, but each reset crushed his ribs like a snake. If only he could rip out his memories and leave them behind … but the timeline always scratched away from him, as sharp and irreparable as broken glass.
He plummeted into life again, another piece of his soul lost. His body shuddered like a newborn bird fallen from the nest. Deep down, it knew this wasn't the mind it had started with.
He lay sprawled on his mattress as if all these future memories had only been dots of his eyes swept the burgundy walls outlining a single window above his bed. Powder blue carpet zig-zagged under a single dresser, a neglected treadmill, and an explosion of dirty socks. Trash spun in a perpetual whirlwind by the door. The same, the same, always the same.
Sickness raced like snails down his spine. He rolled feverishly out of bed into a wad of blankets and scrambled dizzily to his unused trash bin. Dry heaves, mostly, but a hearty attempt just the same.
He sank to sit between his heels. His cold hands relieved his burning face only a moment before he stole them back to glimpse the window. Snow. The sight of it panicked him, now. The sight of just about anything in the Underground made his insides want to cave until nothing remained. Countless resets taunted him like a house of mirrors. How many was this, now? Eighty-eight? Eighty-nine? He had promised himself he would last until one hundred.
His forehead fell to the trash can's brim with a small "clunk." Just a few more to go, he told himself. Keep that velvet ribbon taut. Just a few more.
Downstairs, Papyrus stood diligently at the stove as he had every restart. He had dressed himself in the same hero costume, a white and black ensemble with yellow trim and blue bottoms, complete with bright red gloves, boots, and scarf. He mixed a chunky blend of unseasoned pasta sauce in a black pot, humming loudly, proudly.
Sans sluggishly embraced his brother as he passed, a lifelong ritual performed every morning, every night. His right hand remained planted in his jacket pocket, always a bother, easily fatigued by the simplest movements.
Papyrus hugged him back. It was a small, sideways squeeze but at least this part of Sans' day always meant something. He turned to leave.
"OH, BU—SANS, YOUR BREAKFASKETTI!" Papyrus called after him.
One day, Sans would ignore that. Today, he spun on his heel and shuffled back to the kitchen.
The sight and smell of his brother's cooking upturned his stomach on a good day, but Sans could never tell him that. Sentiments did not stop the carcinogens from slithering like eels into his sinuses.
"uh … i'm on a diet," he said instead.
"REALLY?" Papyrus was visibly impressed, but his eyes quickly narrowed with suspicion. "YOU'RE SETTING ME UP, AREN'T YOU?"
"wha—who, me? never!" Sans rolled his eye lights away. "just trying to cut back a little, y'know? you could say i'd rather not … break my fast."
Sans waited to the sound of a spatula scraping circles through tomato char. He adored those four painstaking seconds it took his brother to register the joke, the way he stopped stirring so stiffly a little slop spattered against the backsplash. Papyrus threw back his head and moaned.
Even after everything, hearing it always gave truth to Sans' smile. Even if this Jormungandr ran an endless circle around their lives. Even if they were destined to rewind again in a few short days. Even if everyone else would forget. Even if … even if …
even if it amounts to nothing.
"SANS?"
Sans snapped back to reality and realized he had tears in his eyes. He wiped them away.
"i'm just so proud of myself," he played them off.
The Ruins' crackleur walls loomed higher than could be seen, off toward a dark ceiling flaking with snow. Pillars flanked the entryway under a lintel engraved with the delta rune, a winged symbol of the people underground. The purple amethyst doors remained tightly shut. Today, they were set to open for the first time in more than a decade. For Sans, it had only been a few days.
Sans waited alone behind the tall black bark of towering evergreens. The memory of Papyrus' humming filled his head, as if actively trying to drown his wallowing. He wished it could. He closed his eyes and focused on the melody, trying his best to ignore the coarse fingers picking away at his sanity. Then, right on cue, the snow scraped away just enough for a Frisk-sized exit.
Always the same in your striped sweater and rough cut umber hair. In the past, you had emerged worse for wear, but after the first twenty resets you had finally hit your stride. Relief still surged through him to see you safe, despite the circumstances.
He crept behind you to the first bridge, just like last time, just like every time before. He asked you to greet him and leaned in for a handshake. The whoopee-cushion-in-the-hand trick does get old after a while, he rued to admit now, even if he could never say otherwise. At least you had the decency for a pity smile. What had once been an amicable greeting had been reduced to an opportunity to read the reset counter on your wrist. 95, it said, crisp in black ink.
ninety-five … ?
His soul cracked a little further inside him, a sensation so common now he had trained himself to ignore it. Just the same, he could feel that tiny speck tearing off at the edge and dissipating into dust. It took everything in him not to grip his chest, to keep his eye lights blazing, to keep his grin frozen. His mind spun circles to keep up with the act. Stay calm. Stay calm. Stay calm.
When he gathered his senses, he caught you staring up into his face with concern. He looked away as if nothing were wrong. Guilt swamped him like high tide over a sand castle, but he did not dissolve as easily. There was a reason he wore this mask of a smile. Better not let it fall now.
Soon you were saying goodbye, heading away into town, leaving him alone. As soon as you disappeared across the bridge, he stepped backward into a shortcut to … just about anywhere. Somewhere isolated, he thought. The universe folded inward like a Grillby's dinner menu until he fell flat into the snow, miles from where he had started. The white blanket gloved him like a figurine in styrofoam.
He stared upward. Firs and evergreens spiked to the distant cave ceiling they all pretended was a sky. Snowflakes drizzled down to create the illusion of soaring through outer space. No one would find him here. Nothing he did among these branches would matter. So he pressed his hands to his face until his skull begged to crack, and screamed.
It was practically part of the script now, asking why he should play along. Did he really have to supervise you every step of the way, all for some half-baked promise he had made Toriel before the resets began? You had always managed well enough on your own. So why should he feel obligated to put up with this a hundred times over, all so some snot-nosed little …
No. That wasn't how he felt. That was just his id talking. He knew why. It was the same reason your words rang in his head, the same reason your smile sparked a light in the vacuum of his eyes.
He loved you.
With every fiber of his being, he loved you, even if he didn't remember why, even if the brilliance of that emotion cast a dreadfully long, scythe-wielding wraith of a shadow behind him. With every retry, the blade inched closer, just a little bit tighter along his neck. He could feel it cutting the ribbon holding his head in place, thread by thread by thread.
but frisk doesn't need you to make it.
the timelines would be exactly the same without you.
you're just some clown playing pranks in the backdrop.
His mind spiraled down a dark hole until all he could think was one terrible, terrible thought.
He tugged the soul out of his chest by an invisible string. A red light glowed dully at its center, like roses through a frosted windowpane. The dusty white edge frayed, rough and broken. So feeble. So small. In this state, a single nick would likely shatter it. He held it gently between his thumb and forefingers, tempted.
Beyond love and health checks, most monsters considered surfacing your soul taboo. The sensation of seeing yourself from two sides, separate and yet together, belied your existence. It pitted the will of mind against body. It disgraced your unity. As a scientist from a family of scientists, Sans thought himself well beyond that poetic nonsense.
His phalanges quivered against the spade. Just break it, said a voice inside him. Snap it. Rip it. Tear it apart …
A loud thump jerked him back to attention. He whipped his head to the brick of snow that had just hit the ground, too heavy for the branches upholding it. When he turned back, his eyes widened to see the soul in his hand, as if he hadn't thought it real.
He hurriedly pushed it back into place and chastised himself. What was he doing? He could push through. He could make it to one hundred. For you.
for frisk.
Deep in Waterfall, you stumped through mushrooms and marshes into vast, blue-lit caverns. Beside a tunnel and a broken telescope, Sans leaned nonchalantly against the cold stone wall. He snored loudly as you rounded the corner.
You crept up to him, smiling. Events often fluctuated, however slightly, and yet you wondered why this had never happened before.
"kill all humans," he murmured. "kill all—"
His eyes snapped open when you tugged on his sleeve.
"oh, hey, kiddo," he said, smiling lazily as if he hadn't expected you.
"You weren't at your station," you pointed out.
He notched an eyebrow. "did i show you my work schedule, squirt?"
Your ears burned.
"eh, i was on break," he relented. "hey, check out this premium telescope."
The two of you followed the script as usual, but surprise crossed your face when you pulled away from the lens. Unlike every time before, no pink circle stamped your eye.
A rush of warmth flooded up his backside into his face. For the first time in all these resets, he had forgotten to paint the eyepiece. Though his heart ran circles like an annoying dog after its tail, he forced himself to appear calm and measured.
"not satisfied?" he ventured cautiously. "don't worry. i'll give you a full refund."
You watched him a moment longer than he liked. He stared back patiently, troll grin plastered wide.
You had struggled to peel back his facade many times. Even after growing inseparably close, you had yet to discern what boiled inside that ivory skull. Your heart ached for those past-now-future days, filled with bleached bones and sunburnt skin … but you had made a decision. That future would have haunted you forever when sprouted from the seed of Asriel's sacrifice. On this new road, you would rebuild with everyone saved. You would see to it that those glowing years happened again, even brighter than before.
A smile bloomed like a flower across your face. You thanked him for the fun and waved goodbye around the bend.
At that moment, a memory speared through Sans like a lightning strike. That wave. That grin over the shoulder. In his mind, the Underground collapsed to reveal a warm morning sun, piercing through a heavy corona of clouds. A long forgotten memory of you waved an identical farewell, then ran away to the wide open doors of a brick-laid school. He nearly returned the gesture, but his hands only trembled in his pockets.
That's right, he thought. After the barrier was broken, Toriel had founded a school. It had been his job to drop you off in the mornings. After all, you …
You lived with him, didn't you?
He closed his eyes. He nearly saw it, how often you turned back halfway because, no, just one hug wasn't good enough. How he lifted you playfully off your feet, even though you had grown so tall so fast he had nearly lost the strength. How that, in turn, surfaced memories of his years raising Papyrus. How that skeletal twig had sprouted into a monolith overnight. How caring for him hardly redeemed the loss of another. How he had been too young to do the job properly. How he could have been better for Papyrus, spent more time at home, read more stories and played more games. How with you, he had found a third chance to do it right, to be the best big brother anyone could ask for.
was i still not good enough, kiddo … ?
Though these new memories folded his soul into senseless origami shapes, he could not deny them. Cycle after cycle, his vision of the future past had become slowly clearer. Now, finally, his hall of mirrors had found an end. This timeline he saw—it had been the very first.
Waterfall's scenery seared against Sans' vision like pixel burn on a television screen. Weariness ached through his bones, and his arm draped across the broken telescope for support. Its rusty legs creaked and ground against their bolts and washers. He had never felt so tired. It was as if a hole had been driven through his body, his heart, his soul.
Years, he thought miserably, holding his face in one hand. You had lived on the surface together for three years … and he had been there for you every day of it. He had done everything to make your life the best it could be. You had seemed happy, and yet … you had chosen to strip it all away.
Why?
Though he did his best to follow through the remaining timeline as charted, he caught himself spacing out more often, staring into his hands or his feet. His ribs felt more cagelike than ever.
It would be nice to see the sky again, he tried to convince himself … but when you revealed the setting sun, it only hurt his eyes.
Sans blinked awake to his ceiling in Snowdin. Everything around him glared like an overexposed film. He closed his eyes. When he reopened them, he found himself lying on his stomach, arms dangling off the edge of his bed. His throat felt raw; a few sparse drops of magic glowed among the carpet fibers on the floor. He nearly felt sick a second time when he remembered the last reset.
He looked out the window. Snow again. Snow as always. Cold leaked into his room through the poorly-insulated frame. He reflected on the sharp contrast between this frigid air and the oven-hot atmosphere of his last breath, where he had fallen into a molten grave.
His left hand grabbed his face reproachfully. He had done it again. Twice now, he had lost sight of his promise in favor of his worst thoughts. Why did he have to be so weak? Only a few more resets remained until one hundred, or … how many was this?
He curled into a ball on his bed. His head screamed in protest of thinking too deeply. His bones, too, ached as if someone had rubbed sand into his joints. As he waited for the walls to stop dancing with bright-ringed circles, he vaguely wondered if resetting hurt you like this too.
Over the past few resets, he had found plenty of time to reflect on his "original" life on the Surface. Your time together had been a veritable paradise, complete with lei and tiny umbrellas in his margarita. So why had you reset? Had it been one-sided to think your years above had been a dream come true? Had something bad happened to his kid that he had been too incompetent to notice? Digging for answers rebirthed more than bargained for, from anime parties to PTA meetings, and ultimately left him at a greater loss than to start.
He struggled for confidence that you had a reason, but in his heart he knew you were a good kid. That didn't make it hurt any less.
Ninety-nine, he concluded suddenly. That's right. Before stepping off that ledge, he remembered thinking, "the difference between ninety-eight and one hundred matters as little as the consequences."
Downstairs, Papyrus stirred his usual spaghetti sauce to his usual tune. Sans slipped through space to stand instantly behind him and snuck both arms around his waist. This time, he clung to him much longer than usual, even as his right arm began to shake. His face rested cradled in the lower curve of his brother's spine as if it were fashioned to hold his head. Budding tears tested his self control.
Papyrus could not return his affection at this angle, even less see his face, but he turned just enough to pat him warmly on the head. At that, Sans released him. He forced his right hand into its pocket and headed for the door.
"OH, BU-SANS! YOUR BREAKFASKETTI!"
This time, he ignored him.
Sans once again waited for you to arrive outside the Ruins' doors. Hazy daydreams drowned him in white noise and spaghetti songs. There were no more thoughts left to think, no more feelings left to feel. He had forced those gremlins back under the bed to leave him in peace. It was easier this way.
You met him outside the Ruins as always. Since his last vanishing act, you noticed more than ever his tired posture and downcast eyes. He hardly bothered to hide the whoopee cushion from you. You saw his eyes shift discreetly to the number on your arm, the counter you drew at every start. It meant something to him, you could tell.
99, said the soft skin of your wrist. He couldn't help feeling just the tiniest speck of relief. In one more reset, he could finally untether himself from the yoke of this storyline. He could remove his variable from the equation and fade away to sleep.
He forced a smile through word searches and death traps, through x's and o's and Alphys' failed maze. He forced a smile even as he stood alone at the snowy ledge beside a wall of eyes. You used to seek him out here, once upon a time. Once upon a time, you had stopped coming.
His pupils stared off into the cavernous dark of the Underground toward distant squares of light. That cabin in the distance … whose was it? Was it warm inside? Whoever they were, they seemed happy from here, though it was difficult to tell at this distance. Would they see him, if he fell into the deep below? Would they give it a second glance?
Crunching snow shuffled him out of his reverie. When he turned to face the sound, it surprised him to discover Frisk, the one and only, for the first time in ages.
You frowned up into his face apprehensively, wringing your hands.
He brightened his smile at once. He prepared his usual dialogue to ask what the holdup was, if you were following him … but you cut him short with a warm hand in his. His breath caught in his throat.
"Are you all right?" you asked, so quietly it hurt.
His soul snapped in two. Some of it broke off and dusted against his vertebrae. His smile shuddered into a passive, downturned rest, eye lights snuffed into total darkness. A drifting sensation overwhelmed him as if he had slipped away into a shortcut and landed on the sea. Was he all right…? Was he all right? Had you really just asked?
You had never seen his smile fall. Its sudden absence frightened you more than anything he had ever said or done before. You wished you could go back to thinking it was impossible for the short skeleton jokester to do anything but grin, but the façade had been undone. The implications slammed your soul to the ground as if cast in blue.
In the long seconds it took him to regain self-control, he witnessed the shock, realization, and dismay unfold on your face. An ache spasmed through him unlike anything he had felt in almost a year. A pupil returned to his left eye and a smile curved back into place, genuine but faded, the best he could muster for you now.
He removed his hand gently from your trembling grip and stopped it to rest on your head. His fingers traced through your hair in the way he knew you liked, the way that had always comforted you back to sleep after a bad nightmare, the way that had reassured you there was nothing to fear. It was the touch of someone who knew you, someone who loved you, someone who had walked this entire path alongside you, silently, and remembered.
"doesn't matter," he said, almost as a breath. "don't worry 'bout me, kid."
He took a shortcut away before you had the chance to say a word, and you would not see him again that entire timeline.
Through his portal, he drifted away from reality and away from you. He had no destination in mind, only that he wanted to escape, to disappear. When he opened his eyes, he was swallowed in a dark that only grew darker … yet darker.
Sans found himself hanging off the edge of his bed again, aching. Magic gnawed at the back of his skull, as if he had attempted to expel some and failed.
The way he had left the most recent timeline misted over in his mind, and it may as well have blended with the others. Something prodded his memory with concepts of darkness, ghosts, regret … nothing unusual, he supposed. He could only assume he had played by the rules. It would be uncharacteristic of him to willingly abandon you in your final timeline together, yet his last recollection never went past the cliff behind Snowdin, where his smile had fallen, where he had run his fingers through your hair …
… oh, god. you know , now, don't you?
He shivered for more than reset sickness.
anything i do now will mean something.
He clutched at his face, sank fingers into the holes of his temples and eye sockets.
how could i have fucked up so badly, and at the last possible second?
His skull cracked against his disproportionate magical strength.
but that's just what i do best, isn't it? fuck up, fuck up, fuck everything up …
Sudden calm overtook him like a lap of warm water across his back. He released his face, no mind given to the spider web of fractures spread like a ballroom mask across his eyes. One hundred. A breath shuddered inside him, far behind his sternum.
one hundred.
He closed his eyes and pulled his soul from his chest. It fared even worse than before: scarred, torn, and ragged, with a searing red glow visible beneath the white haze. His hands took hold of it firmly. The scythe slinging across his neck drew near enough to scratch bone. The ribbon snapped free.
don't worry 'bout me, kid.
He crushed his soul to powder.
Three more resets like this. Four. Five. Six. Eight. Twelve?
Sans lay still on his bed, aching with more sickness than all past timelines conjoined. At this point, resurrecting hurt more than dying. Dying was simple, euphoric even: a sharp pinch prelude to a gentle endorphin rush like the best damn dream he'd ever have. Rebirth, on the other hand, always multiplied that awful, far-too-familiar reset aftermath: the burn in his bones, the throb in his head, the spin of his insides.
Over the course of more than thirty resets, his soul had become more and more difficult to surface. This time, it was nearly impossible. When it finally fluttered out from his chest, helpless like a baby bird, he took a moment to observe it. It looked simply awful, only half alight, edges frayed into deep cracks across a dim red center.
The scientist in him wondered if this repeated suicide had an adverse, compounding effect on the little white spade. The stress had clearly carried over from reset to reset. Especially now, it appeared as if Time's ancient, scraggly hands had cobbled his soul back together with a few cross-stitches and some scotch tape. Surely this was unexplored territory, thought the mad scientist inside him, something to be recorded for posterity. Oh, but that's right; nothing ever lasts here.
"one hell of a thesis project, huh, dings?" he whispered to no one in sight.
He closed his eyes, bracing for the brief, inevitable stab of pain. A heavy knock battered away at his door, interrupting him in the knick of time.
"SANS?"
His eyes snapped open, empty of light. Papyrus?
The door swung open before he could react.
"SANS, THERE'S SOMEONE ON THE PHONE WHO …"
Papyrus stood rooted in the doorway, one glove to the handle and another to his ear. His sockets seemed to shrink back in his head. The phone at his temple slid away and clattered to the floor.
Sans stared stiffly ahead at the soul in his hands. His earthquake escalated to new heights on the Richter scale. Stars. He couldn't do it, not in front of Pap, but … He blanched, whiter than his usual ivory. His soul wouldn't go back inside.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?" Papyrus marched over and seized him by the wrists. "STOP THAT! STOP THAT RIGHT NOW!"
It was just too weak.
In the firmness of his brother's grip, Sans' soul snapped between his hands like the most fragile summer snowflake. Pain shot through him with a volt he couldn't hide from his face, not when he hadn't expected it. He choked on a scream.
"SANS!"
He watched the horror unfurl on Papyrus' face, the one that knew all at once what he had done, what they had both done. Guilt. Blame. Terror. His image was darkening away.
Sans wanted to touch him, but he could barely think. He felt gathered into strong arms though his body quickly displaced into ash around them. It was strange, he thought vaguely; rain on dry earth … tears on dust …
*smells like petrichor.
Dying suddenly hurt again in the presence of someone he loved.
The following reset barreled into him like a truck. Its sensation overpowered him differently than before, heavier on impact, more resounding. Was it odd to think the air weighed down with something like … finality?
The pain blinded him. For minutes on end, he lay on his bed nearly senseless, incapable of breathing more than one shuddering gasp at a time. His limbs wouldn't budge; something about them felt loose and empty. His fingers slid too softly, like sand, where they touched.
Sans could feel himself dying on his own.
Tears had already gathered in the pools of his eye sockets. All he could think about was what might have happened if that timeline had continued. His imagination burned with images of his brother, traumatized for a lifetime, his once boundless joy forever dampened by guilt. How long had Papyrus spent processing the horror before time so graciously stepped back? Even those few seconds Sans had witnessed were more than he could stomach.
He couldn't do that to Papyrus again. He just couldn't. Even though his will to live had been buried far deeper than the Underground itself, for Papyrus he had to start digging. The memory of his brother's stricken face had branded his soul with an immortal scar. A big, scraggly ravine. He could see it.
His soul still hovered outside him.
Cracks twisted violently across his spirit's entire surface, inward from dark, dusty edges; however, as his resolve to spare Papyrus more heartbreak had surged, some of these had healed in a glow of bright red. His bones had strengthened, just enough to feel solid again. His fingers did not slip against each other. He could finally breathe.
Fearfully, his hands retrieved the small spade—if he could even call it that anymore. How it managed to hold together escaped him. He ran his fingers carefully across the breaks, smearing red onto his ivory fingertips. His insides writhed like a netted fish. As much as he might have willed it, his soul still refused to go home.
CRASH.
Papyrus kicked in the door. It slammed into the partition between their two rooms, leaving a large, clean hole in the drywall. He locked eyes with the shape in Sans' hands and, once again, dropped the phone.
"WHAT ARE YOU DOING?"
Sans recognized the emerging pattern. He couldn't let it happen again. He wouldn't . He summoned spatial energy around himself, seeking to teleport as far away as possible. For whatever reason, whether the separation of his soul or its instability, he failed to birth more than blue sparks.
He backed away instead and curled into the wall. It was the only idea he could conjure to keep his tattered soul beyond reach.
"SANS." Papyrus struggled to turn him. "LOOK AT ME!"
It's hard to put up a fight when your adversary is twice your height and can bench you like a plush. Papyrus lifted him off the bed and plopped him back down to face him. He took advantage of the frailty in Sans' right arm to pry it away and pinned his shoulders back. With that, his soul hovered between them in plain sight, completely vulnerable.
Papyrus stared stiffly at the ravaged embodiment of his brother's life essence and, all at once, the severity of things became clear. His face contorted through a cycle of emotions—shock, dismay, concern—before settling at last on heartbreak. His eyes dragged upward to his brother's haggard face.
"SANS … HOW LONG HAVE YOU …?"
"don' touch it," Sans whispered desperately. Tears stung at the low curves of his darkened eye sockets. "puppy, please. it won't go back in, so just … keep away."
Papyrus lingered a moment before releasing his shoulders. For another beat, he knelt thoughtfully, worriedly across him on the bed. Then, in defiance of everything Sans had just said, he slipped the glove away from his right hand and lifted it to that shuddering soul.
Sans' insides lept. He caught Papyrus' bare hand in both of his before it could make contact. He pushed it away.
Papyrus didn't let go. Instead, he folded his fingers, enveloping those small hands in one all-encompassing grip. With just that, Sans felt every inch of his fear drain away.
"Don't worry," Papyrus said, for a rare moment speaking below his standard bellow. He smiled, the softest Sans had seen in years. "The Great Papyrus could never hurt someone as important as his brother."
Sans' eyes widened, allowing the tears to leak down his face. The words struck a deep blow, but Papyrus' expression had fallen on him with such sincerity, such understanding, such concern. It hurt, but in a way Sans craved. That supernova of a heart Papyrus carried was shining out, and its radiance paled the deathly shadow stretched miles behind him.
Closing his eyes, he allowed Papyrus to touch the shattered glass. It didn't break. It didn't tear. If anything, it felt to grow stronger.
"Breathe," said Papyrus.
Together, with their hands combined, they ushered the pale spade behind his ribs where it belonged.
Moments later, Sans realized he still rested there, alive, holding Papyrus' hand over his chest. He lifted his head. Those small but aching, sympathetic eyes stared back into his, smiling with reassurance.
His bones clattered despite themselves. Before he had a say in it, Sans was sobbing, heaving water from his eye sockets in great, fast rivers. Papyrus let them find a sponge in the costume fabric of his battle body. Sans clung to him, blubbering apologies, gratitude, excuses. Papyrus listened to them all, shushing them as the wind to his wishes on dandelion seeds.
Sans didn't catch what Papyrus said when he picked up the phone again. He hardly cared. His new goal was to lie here every reset, wrapped in his brother's arms until the universe gave out around them. It was bittersweet to think Papyrus would forget this soon.
The ache behind his chest deepened. Who did he think he was to call himself Papyrus' brother when he had abandoned him to dust and an empty jacket? If this were his second chance to prove himself, he had surely failed … just as he had failed his first chance years ago, failed to sacrifice more than half his body for a life infinitely more important than his own. Their fingers had been inches apart, but it may as well have been lightyears in terms of time and space.
Tears slipped faster down Sans' cheekbones. He knew no god, and yet surely this imprisonment was karmic retribution for arms too goddamn short to reach.
"i'm a terrible brother …" he whispered.
Papyrus had been running his gloved hand up and down Sans' back, but now he paused. "Do you really think that?"
Sans had several different reasons to confirm that question but only stared into the mattress. Those long bones tensed underneath him, and the touch on his back vanished.
"i tried to leave you," he settled on. "i gave up. not that i'd … ever rocked the gig anyway."
Papyrus did not answer him at first. Sans resigned to the silence as confirmation until he realized quite suddenly that Papyrus had only been building steam.
"You … you …" Papyrus' voice quivered. "YOU HAD SO MUCH. YOU HAD A CAREER. YOU HAD FRIENDS. YOU HAD DREAMS AND AMBITIONS AND A LIFE AND YOU … YOU GAVE IT UP. FOR ME!"
The dismay in his voice took Sans by surprise.
"WHY DO YOU THINK I'M SO AMAZING? WHY DO YOU THINK I TRY SO HARD? YOU GAVE ME EVERYTHING. I HAVE TO BE WORTH IT."
"papyrus," Sans breathed.
"EVERYONE NEEDS TO KNOW HOW GREAT YOU MADE ME. AND IF YOU DON'T EVEN KNOW, THEN … WELL …" Some of the wind seemed to leave his sails. "Then maybe I'm not doing a good enough job at it."
For a long moment, Sans didn't know how to answer. Never, never had he thought Papyrus understood the hardships he had gone through to raise him right. Never had he wanted him to know it, let alone do his best to make up for it. Once Sans finally picked his jaw up off the ground, he clenched that red scarf in his fist and lifted his tired head.
"bro," he said, "you don't gotta prove nothin' to nobody. we can tell just by lookin'. you were born cool."
"Oh … I know," sighed Papyrus, "but you made me ice cold."
Sans snorted involuntarily.
"You're the best brother in the world," Papyrus said. "I never say it but I think it and I … I … I love you, Sans."
Sans' heart swelled, and several cracks in his broken soul resealed. Though they had expressed this sentiment in other ways—hugs; fond glances; jokes, games, and pranks—the words hadn't crossed them in far too many years. He let his head fall home onto Papyrus' chest.
"love you too, puppy dog," he muttered.
By then, Sans' magic had run dry. The effort to stay present had dwindled out and he could hardly lift his limbs—even the good ones. His right eyelight slowly snuffed out, followed by his left.
"imma … take a nap …"
Papyrus stiffened. "Okay," he began hesitantly, "but … only if you promise to wake up."
Sans could not say yes or no. He already lay limp, small snores rattling his sinuses. Papyrus held him closer, then, and finally allowed himself to cry.
The last time he had felt this content, he had been on the surface. His friends had met him at the heights of Mount Ebott to stargaze, as close to their old prison as they dared gather. They had sat huddled on Toriel's gift of a patchwork blanket, taking turns at the telescope … he, Papyrus, Alphys, and …
Frisk.
One pupil slowly illuminated inside his left eye socket. He stared at you for a long, long time, empty and expressionless. You reached out a shaking hand to his cheekbone. When you touched him, it was as if you'd only breathed and his fence of leaves fell down around him. He leaned into your palm, his mask at long last removed.
You couldn't help yourself then. You launched into his arms, tears flooding over into the blue of his jacket. He held you, and Papyrus held you both.
Some part of Sans' soul reformed inside him, a part that had missed your bond, that had needed your love, your acknowledgment, your reassurance. He threaded his pale fingers into the dark of your hair, lost in the waves of an umber sea.
"asked you not to worry 'bout me, kid," he whispered.
Papyrus made room for both of you in his embrace to create a warm bundle of bones and cloth and comfort. In some time, however, Papyrus left you to go on patrol under the condition that you watch Sans like a Loox. He asked you to call if you needed anything— anything —but should he encounter a human, there would be no guarantees, "so please be responsible."
Sans smiled at that, a tiny ghost still dampened.
"he hasn't guessed you're a human, huh," he said.
You shook your head and grinned.
As the two of you lay together, facing each other like sleepover friends exchanging secrets, you held a long overdue conversation.
Sans told you everything, from his journey in gaining awareness to the psychological toll that knowledge brought. He had felt trapped, that his existence was meaningless, that he had failed you on the surface, that you would fare just as well without him. As twisted as the logic may have been, the act of removing himself had given him a semblance of control.
"i tried to hold out," he said of those moments. He tapped your wrist, where you had failed to write a number. "wanted to give you till a hundred, at least."
"Why didn't you tell me?" you asked.
He brushed the backs of his fingers against yours in want of your hand, but couldn't bring himself to take it. "i trust you," he said. "y'know? to do the right thing. didn't want to mess up whatever you had in mind by acting off-script. it had to be for a good reason, right? everything you do is for a good reason."
Neither of you spoke for several excruciatingly long seconds.
"at my worst, i started to wonder, though," he said. "is this just some game to you? running through everything over and over again just to relive the under-golden days or somethin'. but that's a skeluva dumb thought … right?" His eyes hollowed out, as you knew them to do when especially serious. "why'd you do it, kid?"
You stared back thoughtfully. His phalanges still rested back to back with yours, and it wasn't good enough for you or for him. You threaded your fingers into his. His eye-lights returned and focused on their knots and ties.
"Asriel," you muttered. "I came back for Asriel."
"… the dreemurr kid?"
You explained for the first time, then, what had really happened when the barrier fell. The story of the flower, Asriel reborn, and the experiments in Alphys' lab that led to his creation, all felt like a weight leaving your chest. You had always been too afraid to share this with anyone. The thought of tarnishing the young prince's precious name would only cause harm. The burden was yours to bear until it became so heavy you turned back time itself.
Suddenly, everything made sense to Sans. Not only did your motivations become clear, but questions he had long pondered about that day had finally been answered. He smiled, a weak little crescent curve he really, truly felt, even if bittersweet.
"not satisfied until everyone's saved, huh?" he said miserably.
His words shattered apart near the end, and he broke down again. He felt your thumbs at his eye sockets, but this river was too wild to be dammed.
"even if you keep resetting until the timelines fold in on each other … i can't imagine how to save someone without a soul. and if you keep trying … god. i'm at my limit, kid. i-i'm at m-my … i won't make it. i'll fall down on my own. it's me or him, you know that? it's m-me or …"
He curled in on himself, broken.
Shame washed over you. Your ability to reset had twisted into a god complex, hadn't it? It had given you the illusion of immortality, of inconsequence. You could have tried to save Asriel forever until your determination ran dry and your guilt was assuaged … but this crusade had not come free. It was the salvation of one, hand in hand with the destruction of another. You had run Sans into the ground to lift Flowey to the surface.
For a moment, Sans was left to silence, to weeping, to wondering how long this Groundhog Day nightmare would torture him before his soul crumbled on its own. When your arms enfolded him, tucked him close like an old teddy bear, it meant nothing and yet everything. It was strange to think you were smaller than him, centuries younger than him, and somehow your font of compassion never ran dry.
"But I already chose," you murmured against his temple.
It was useless, he thought. There was no way you would give up on Asriel now.
"yeah …" he said, voice earthen with resignation. "yeah, i guess it only makes sense that …"
"I chose you."
He stiffened, and his eyelights lifted like needle points to yours. "you … what?"
Your forced smile told him so much more than words could. Sadness, fear, uncertainty. This last reset had been different, hadn't it? The air pressing down around him was … heavy.
"frisk," he began, clutching the bed sheets underneath him tightly, "what did you do?"
A strange mixture of regret and determination crossed your face. Then, you told him a story.
You described a child who had struggled with guilt, who had wondered day in and day out if there were some detail they had missed along their journey. A child who had looked into the eyes of the woman who wanted to be their mother and had found all the wrong reasons. A child who had turned to Sans instead, because they couldn't bear to replace her son, not when they had failed to saved him. A child who loved the new life they had but hated what it cost. A child who had been selfish enough to throw it all away, thinking no one would ever know. A child who had unwittingly dragged their best friend through the dirt behind them. Their best friend who had not complained once out of love and trust. Their best friend who had tried his hardest until the nightmare inevitably consumed him.
Their best friend.
Their brother.
And the child had been terrified of losing him, so terrified they continued abusing their power for a different reason. They had rushed to save him, over and over and over until they realized that very act was what had brought them here in the first place. And so, in light of everything they might lose … they destroyed it.
They would never reset again.
As Sans listened, a myriad of emotions rushed through him, strong enough to dance across his face without a mask. All his questions answered, all his faith restored, all his hopes rekindled. It was the most unguarded you had ever seen him and it was refreshing. You wished it could have always been like this.
"why?" he asked finally, though his voice left him considerably lighter. He scooted back to see you properly. "why all that … for me? i'm pretty small, all things considered. side character in your life's story and all that."
He ignored the look of disapproval that crossed your face and frowned.
"kid. you tried so hard for asriel. i watched you. a hundred or so resets? remember? and still, you … you threw all that effort away? all your determination addin' up to nothin'?"
"I'm determined to save someone else, now."
He blinked, at a loss for words.
"And … there's still the future." You smiled ruefully. "Even if I only have one shot."
A few lingering tears trickled down his cheeks. This was real. You really meant it. To think that he had come so close to throwing his hand in the future away. Now, after everything that had been said, after everything that had been renewed, the thought of life had become more precious to him than ever before. The harshest ravines of his soul sutured back together and began to heal.
He smiled, the largest most genuine grin to cross his face in a long, long time. He brought your hands to his eyes and dropped new tears against their golden skin.
"if you've got room in your dimensional box for a bag of bones and a few dumb jokes," he said gently, "kid … i'll do everything i can to make sure this one timeline … is the best timeline of your life."
Head above water
Now the waves have some space in between
And I can see the words up above me
Were just some trite advice that said "remember to breathe"
Well I guess you got what you're after
If you're after a life on your knees
Everyone just wants to be blameless
To have a place to point to say "it wasn't me"
And then we rinse and repeat
Afraid to stay and scared to go
Until I found a road where nobody knew me
And my name was just a word that tasted strange
And I finally got to pick what it meant.
Take a breath
Clean yourself in the river of time
'Cause somewhere the sky's always falling
And sometimes it's just your turn
Let it go
Let it go
Let it go
Let it go
So now you know the hell
Of wondering if a change is gonna come
It don't mean much
Don't hold your breath
They will just have to save themselves this time
But you
You
You will be just fine.
A/N: Hoo, boy. This one ended up being way longer than the last one. Sorry about that, and sorry this took so long to update. My time's a little split at the moment.
I know there are a few unanswered questions and ambiguities brought up in this chapter, especially where Sans is concerned, but count on having those answered as the story progresses. Yes, I intend to make this a starting point for something else. I have a few pretty solid thoughts about what I want to do for a full story arc. I aim to keep it pretty short overall, no sprawling fifty chapters and whatnot. If I mark this as complete, I have failed you, my love, my darling, o apple of my eye.
The song is "Eclippse" by Radical Face, also the title of this chapter. It's from the short album "SunnMoonnEclippse," though "The Family Tree: The Roots" will always be my favorite. If I can make just one person appreciate this musical genius of a human being's work, I've succeeded in life.
Thank you for reading!
Next up: Gameplan, start!