#sparesyou

                  ❛ Sooooo... ❜ 

           There’s a beat as the man searched for words ( something, ANYTHING ). Come on, RIDER. Break the tension. A talking, walking skeleton can be ( acceptable? ) perfectly normal, right?

                         ❛ Have you always been a skeleton? Or is this just NEW? ❜ 

           ❛    i do not understand why you’re having so much trouble                      with this, brother. after all... it’s a no-brainer.    ❜

*drags face along the floor* thanks you!  but i have such a hard time categorizing the things i like???  a lot of people are able to have number one favorites but i am super!!!  indecisive!!1!

            and in an slight bribe attempt, a dainty finger pushes the open box of chocolates towards sans, the other hand propping serena’s head up as she looks at him, waiting for a response, waiting to see if he would ask or if she would need to take matters into her own hands.

     arms shaking, fists clenched.  it’s cold.  it’s so cold out here… he never noticed it before.  he wonders, briefly, where he is.  what he’s doing here.  he must be outside – there’s snow falling and in front of him are multitudes of tall, dark structures he assumes to be trees.

    he rubs his arm and slumps a little.  oh.  he must have sleepwalked again.  his breaths hang in the air in blueish wisps, evaporating before he can fully catch sight of them.  he figures he should head home  ––  if he’s lucky, sans’ll actually be sleeping at a normal time, and won’t ask.  when he turns, it’s sluggish.  like he’s wading in a heavy snowdrift, only … there’s nothing there?  nothing stopping him.  he doesn’t fight it, though, just turns as slow as whatever’s holding him back will let him. 

                     it takes several steps for him to see them. 

   they’re small –– just a bit shorter than sans.  at first, that’s who papyrus thinks they are, and calls out,     ❛    sans?  what are you d––    ❜       he notices the eyes.  the knife.  the smile.  his sentence drops off.     ❛    …doing out…   ❜    

   oh, no.  oh, oh no.  he’s not ready –– he’s not ready for a human visit, he hasn’t set his puzzles, sans probably isn’t even awake, and he’s in his pajamas in the middle of the frozen road.  he’s shaking, still, mostly from the cold, but when his bones begin to rattle over the wind, he wonders if that’s the only reason.  something presses him forward, and he takes another step.  his voice arches up.     ❛    human! what…   ❜

   papyrus doesn’t finish.  this time, they advance instead.  the knife glints in the pale light and even with his blurred vision, he can see the blood dripping into the snow.  suddenly, he’s able to pinpoint the owner of the claws digging between his ribs and at his eyesockets: FEAR.  he gives a breathy laugh.  

             ❛   h- hey,  don’t worry.  i won’t hurt you.  y- you can put that down!   ❜

   they don’t.  and when they step forward again, papyrus shuffles back  ––  not because he’s afraid for his own sake  ––  but because he knows where that blood came from. his voice rises.         ❛    have you seen my brother?   ❜       panic swells up and grips his ankles and he trips, falling backwards into the snow.  another laugh.   

                     ❛    sans.  my brother.  you know, short, lazy, blue coat..?    ❜

    they’re close enough to touch, now.  the blood isn’t just on the knife –– it’s on their jacket, their hands, their mouth –– they reach for him, lift the knife.  where is my brother, he asks himself.         he knows the answer.

              oh god, oh god. oh god.      sans –––     sans ––––––     SANS! 

    his eyes snap open ( were they shut? ) and he breaks off the tail end of the scream bubbling from his throat.  he’s panting, hff hff hff, and for a second he thinks he’s still outside, on the road.  he realizes quickly that the cold moisture on his face is tears,  and he’s on the floor in the kitchen, surrounded by pots and pans of assorted sizes.  hff, hff, hff.  his eyes, crackling and popping within their sockets, illuminate the floor enough for him to note that one of the lids is still spinning.  hff, hff, hff.  as the spinning lid settles, he hears a thud, like something fell down upstairs, and a series of hasty, shuffling steps ––– a few seconds and the kitchen door swings open.  not real, he thinks. it wasn’t real. 

    he’s still assuring himself of this when sans kneels, his small hands taking loose fistfuls of papyrus’ shirt. his brother’s unbroken calm was something he found himself grateful for, in times like these. he notes the blue tinge cast from sans’ now equally glowing eye, and the waver in his voice  ––  talk to me.

      he shakes his head, and closes his eyes tightly.  several times he tries to speak, but all he manages is a single word.  it’s said like a fact, though papyrus still didn’t quite believe it.  he’s okay.  he’s fine.  it wasn’t real.  HE’S OKAY.