In which a wager is made, a question is asked, and Sans does not get a sandwich.

You

You suck at fighting games, but that doesn't stop you from playing them. You even enjoy them, though Sans never lets you win.

"Noooo!" you howl, deliberately overdramatic, as Ivy goes down in the final round. "I did a thing, I did a thing, why didn't he die?!" You wave wildly at Yoshimitsu. Sans just snickers. Not only did he trounce you pretty thoroughly this round, but he added insult to injury by finishing you off with Yoshimitsu's absurd sword pogo attack. Your frantic button-mashing near the end had translated at one point into a wild special move you'd never seen before... but that hadn't been enough to save you. You groan and slump backwards, sinking into the couch.

"another round?" Sans asks, far too cheerfully under the circumstances.

"I don't know," you hedge, placing an arm over your eyes. Usually you can get a few wins in through sheer luck, but luck has not been with you this afternoon. "I've just been impaled by the world's sharpest bunny hop. It might take me some time to recover."

You feel the couch cushions shift as Sans leans towards you, and your stomach flutters. You're about to lift your arm to peek at him when he pokes your cheek with the controller.

"Ack!" You swat his hand away as he tries to poke you a second time.

"c'mon, it's this or housework."

You laugh. As is frequently the case, Sans has taken the opportunity to divert you from scrubbing and dusting and has pulled you into his slothful little world with, apparently, the intention of keeping you there indefinitely. "If it was up to you, I'd never leave this couch," you tell him. Sans's grin widens, and he slumps down against the arm of the couch, plopping his feet in your lap.

"there. now you can't get up."

"Oh, for god's sake." You roll your eyes as you shove his feet off your legs. He puts them right back.

"i can do this all day." He waves the controller at you, waggling his brows.

You groan. "Fine." Snatching the controller from Sans's hand, you add, "Brat." Sans pokes you in the side with his toe, making you squeak and squirm. You smack at his leg and select Ivy again as quickly as possible, hoping to free up your hands for defense if necessary. "I wouldn't tickle me if I were you," you threaten. "I have your feet in my possession." You lean an elbow over Sans's ankles and wiggle your fingers menacingly near the bottoms of his metatarsals. Now it's Sans's turn to squeak and jerk, but your forearm is keeping his legs locked in place.

"et tu, checkers?" Sans is watching you with suspicion and great trepidation. He really doesn't like being tickled, yet you can't help but tease him sometimes. You pat his legs reassuringly, grinning at him, and let his ankles go. Surprisingly, he chooses to keep his feet in your lap as he selects his character. He settles a little deeper into the couch cushions. You note that the dark circles under his eye sockets are deeper than usual today. He didn't sleep last night. Nightmares, again.

You haven't slept in the same bed with Sans for weeks now. The Rob Incident necessitated a "sleeping buddy system" for a while, but when you started feeling safe on your own again, you put a stop to that little bit of codependency. Since then, you've had occasional cause to regret your stubborn pursuit of independence. The "buddy system" had been good for Sans, too. Really good. There were days when he actually had some energy, and the bags under his eyes had been less noticeable for a time. But today, they might as well have been etched with a chisel. You turn back to the TV.

"Yoshimitsu, again?!" Your arch-nemesis. Sans chuckles as the character spins on his selection screen. "I thought you were my friend!"

"i'm'a try and do the whole thing with just the sword pogo this time," Sans says merrily.

"Hmm." You shoot your friend a sideways glance. He looks so, so tired. You heard him shuffling around last night, a small, forlorn ghost with fuzzy pink slippers and a million excuses for being awake, none of them true. You'd have gotten up to keep him company, but you were only half-awake yourself, and instead of rolling out of bed, you fell back asleep.

You pause the game before the fight can begin.

"I propose a wager," you say, and it's not until after the words come out of your mouth that you realize what you intend to do, or at least hope to do.

Sans quirks a brow at you. "what sorta wager?"

"If I win, I get to ask you one question, and you have to answer truthfully. If you're caught in a lie, you have to wear Papyrus's glittery pink tutu for a week. And flounce around in it like a ballerina whenever I ask you to."

"checkers, jesus," your friend protests. "that's harsh."

"Because I want the truth, and you lie, like, all the time. This way, if I can't get what I really want, I can at least get a moderately entertaining week out of it."

"crap in a hat." Sans is staring at you. He looks almost impressed.

"I scare because I care." The line is delivered blandly, but inside, you're suppressing a fit of giggles so hard you start to wonder if your face is turning purple.

"what do i get if i win? it better be somethin' damn good."

"I'll answer any question you ask honestly."

"nope."

You almost drop the controller in shock. Sans is usually a sucker for friendly bets like this one. "What? Why not?"

He sighs and rests his own controller on his knee. "checkers... you share everything with me anyway. at least, i think you do. all i gotta do is ask. but... you gotta understand, there are some things..." Sans fidgets, twiddling his fingers, staring at his hands. "some things aren't betting material, you know? i don't know what you wanna ask, but..."

His waffling gives you plenty of openings to interrupt, and seeing your hopes recede into the distance lends you the will to do so. "The hot dog! I'll wear Papyrus's hot dog costume for a week. Only in the house, though!" Sans stops talking, staring at you incredulously.

"would you... fit in paps's hot dog costume?" Fair question. It would probably drag the floor at the bottom and sag down into your face at the top. Papyrus is, after all, two feet taller than you.

"I'll make it fit."

"i don't... man, i dunno if..."

"And every time you annoy me I'll have to say, 'Doggone it.' Every. Single. Time."

That does it: the lure of a terrible, repeatable-at-will pun on top of your abject humiliation must be too much for him to resist. "you're on." You can giggle now, and you do, which almost ends you as Sans un-pauses the game and hits you with a sucker punch before you were ready. You scramble to shift mental gears, throwing up a block to buy yourself some time. You know better than to complain about his cheating; Sans is notorious for not playing fair. And, after all, you plan to cheat, too.

You manage to perform a perfect kick to Yoshimitsu's jewels, and as Sans scrambles to regain control of his stunned character, you run the edge of the controller lightly up Sans's foot.

"aah!" Sans jerks his feet out of your lap, laughing helplessly, and you seize the moment. You hit his character with a simple but powerful attack, and follow up with that fancy special move you discovered in the last game you played with him. By this time, you're too far ahead for Sans to catch up, and after another minute, Yoshimitsu is KO'd.

"you little cheater," Sans drawls, sounding more impressed than annoyed. You grin and wink at him. "i'm gonna freakin' curb-stomp ya."

"Bring it!"

Sans clearly isn't kidding around. In the second round of the three-round battle, he manages to knock your character into the air and juggle her out of the ring. You're defeated without landing a single blow of your own. Sans leans back, smiling smugly. "get dunked on," he goads with more cheer than you think the situation warrants.

"Back at you," you announce, and as the final round starts, you flop over to the side, landing completely on top of Sans, your eyes never leaving the television. Sans wriggles under you and puffs out several breaths, trying to blow your hair out of his face, as you make short work of Yoshimitsu.

"dammit, checkers, get off, will ya?" Sans is shoving at you, clearly annoyed now. You choose to take this as encouragement and go limp on top of him, rolling over so the two of you are face to face. Sans's breath stops and his eye-lights dilate as you tilt your face towards his.

"I win," you whisper, breath mingling with his. You're so close to him you can feel his bones start to radiate heat as he blushes. With the rush of challenge and victory flowing through you, you're hyperaware of your body, and consequently, of his body. Sans's legs are tangled with yours. His heat seeps into you. His ribs rise and fall as he breathes, pressing into your chest, his eyes locked with yours and filled with a strange combination of hunger and fear. You break the gaze yourself when your eyes flicker down to his mouth, and your lips part slightly as a hot shiver rushes through you.

Then your phone chirps, announcing a text. You and Sans both startle, and you bite back a curse. For a moment there, you were a million miles away from anything resembling the real world, and the sweet little tweet you use as the notification sound for Roxy's texts is as harsh and sudden a wake-up call as a bucket of ice water to the face. A bucket of ice water would do me some good, you think grumpily as you push yourself slowly back into a sitting position. Sans continues to lie against the arm of the couch, seemingly stunned. After a moment, he fumbles with the bottom of his hoodie and zips it up. You don't bother to take out your phone. Whatever the damned message is about, you're sure it can fucking wait.

"so..." Sans's voice squeaks a bit. He clears his throat and tries again. This time, his voice is low, his tone resigned but still carrying an echo of its previous tension. "so what's your question?" He's still blushing, but is also watching you warily. You can tell he'd like to call you out on your dirty fighting, but he can't do that without making himself look just as bad.

You try to calm your racing heart and think about what you want to ask him. You almost feel bad for putting him in this position. To be fair, though, he can't be compelled to honor any part of the bargain if he chooses not to hold up his end. He might just decide to welch on the whole deal.

Well, there's no way to know until I try, you think to yourself, and you meet Sans's eyes steadily as you ask your question.

"Why do you keep some things about yourself from me?"

Sans blinks. Clearly, he wasn't expecting this particular question. A moment later, his mind starts to supply him with answers. You can see it happening. And apparently, he doesn't like any of them. His expression grows more and more sour as you watch in a sort of sorrowful amusement.

"I'm gonna make some lunch while you process that," you say, and stand up. You pause on your way to the kitchen but don't turn around when you ask, "Any requests?"

"if you can put ketchup on it, i'm good," Sans replies. You try to hear something, anything in his voice that will indicate what his ultimate answer might be, but it's no use. He sounds more disgruntled than anything else. You suppose that makes sense, but it's still discouraging.

You sigh as you pull out bread and lunchmeat and other sandwich fixings. Oh, and ketchup. Mustn't forget that. You lay out bread for four sandwiches: one for you, one for Sans, and two for the fridge in case Papyrus comes home for lunch. His job at the pet shop starts at one p.m., but this morning he's working at the Hobnob, a coffeeshop just down the road, and instead of getting lunch there before he goes to Precious Pets, he usually walks back to the house to eat.

You chop a slice off of an onion with more force than necessary, and it's only then that you realize how upset you are. Everything here has played out, so far, exactly as you expected. In most cases, that would be satisfying, but here it means that Sans doesn't trust you completely, isn't able to let himself be vulnerable around you, or maybe he doesn't think your friendship with him is strong enough to withstand whatever it is that's eating at him. Maybe he thinks it would hurt you more to hear whatever-it-is than it hurts him to keep it a secret. That's a possibility, but it isn't his job to protect you, and he should know by now that you can take a little pain. You expect all these are the first answers that came to his mind when you asked what you asked, which is why he started looking so sour. That's really why you chose this particular question: you wanted to force him to face some of his assumptions and emotional problem areas. His tendency is to goof around and pretend he's not hurting inside. Sometimes you can tell that smile of his is completely joyless, and that hurts you more than anything else. You can't make him talk, but you can make him think.

Oh, man, maybe this is one of the reasons he won't confide in you! Are you too manipulative? You try not to be, but some things are too important to leave the deck un-stacked. You really don't think you're sneaky by nature! ...But maybe Sans does. Maybe he sees something in you that's weak or untrustworthy. Your brow furrows as you search your heart for indications that you can't handle, or would be irresponsible with, whatever it is Sans won't tell you. You can't find anything, but maybe you can't see the forest for the trees. You really, really hope that's not the case.

The other possibility is that Sans's problems are too big for even a strong friendship like yours to surmount. If that's the case, you hope he realizes it. If he can admit the depth of his issues to himself, maybe he'll be able to start working on why they exist in the first place.

...If Sans didn't have so much baggage, would he be more open to a relationship with you?

You scoff at the selfishness of the thought, but you can't stop your stomach from fluttering as you replay in your mind how close you were to kissing him just now.

The flutters die down a bit when you remember the fear in his eyes.

You don't know how much more of this back-and-forth you can take.

Your mind flickers, as it often does these days, back to that moment on Valentine's Day. You and Sans were on the ceiling. Papyrus was in the kitchen, "fixing" the cookies. Sans's "lips" touched your forehead lightly, and then your temple. When he leaned towards your mouth, you thought your heart would stop.

Sans was going to kiss you. You're almost certain of it. You could feel it at the time, crackling in the air around you, shivering across you with his warm breath. He would have kissed you if the two of you hadn't been interrupted.

Naturally, you'd assumed that the next step in your relationship was right around the corner.

And then nothing happened. The same way nothing always happens when it comes to you and Sans.

I should ask him. Just ask him what's getting in the way!

You really think he'll be honest about it?

He's opened up to me before.

Yeah, but only when he felt like it. Usually, he hides in his mind-cave and you're not allowed in there, so quit knocking on the door and just leave him alone!

Shut up! Nobody should be THAT alone!

You slam the refrigerator door so hard that Sans calls from the living room, "uhh, everything okay in there?"

"Yeah," you respond, feeling foolish now. "I was talking to myself, but myself is being kind of a bitch." Sans snickers. "Hey, Sans?" you ask, starting to bag up the leftover vegetables.

"mm?"

"Would you... ever... consider..." Your voice gets quieter with every word. God, why was it so hard to get the words out? You swallow hard, forcing down the lump in your throat. "...dating ...me?" Your voice is so soft by the end that you're certain Sans can't have heard you. You wait for him to ask you to repeat yourself, but he says nothing. In an agony of combined dread and curiosity, you peek around the doorjamb.

Sans is looking right at you, his face frozen in an expression of shock. Oh, yes, he heard you. "uh... what was that?" Or... maybe not. "somethin' 'bout a gate?" Okay, either he didn't hear you, or he heard and is playing dumb. Which would be a really jerky move, but not at all unlike him.

You can't stand the anxiety. Your mouth takes over without your brain's permission, trying to reclaim some semblance of normality. "Nothing! Forget it! Said what? Nobody said anything!" You duck back into the kitchen, face burning, and lean against the wall, pressing your forehead into it, trying to melt through the wallpaper.

"uhh, checkers?"

Shit! Shit, shit, shit! You're certain now that if you'd asked that question clearly, you'd have been rejected. How could that not be the case? Sans has successfully dodged nearly every romantic moment that threatened to overtake the two of you, and the ones he couldn't avoid he either brushed off or joked about. If he didn't hear you, you can pretend, for just a while longer, that maybe, just maybe, he'd want to be with you. If he did hear you, he's pretending he didn't, which is as clear a rejection as anything he might say outright. Tears prickle your eyes. Stupid, stupid, stupid! You bump your head against the wall with each admonishment.

You didn't hear Sans approach, but when you raise your eyes, he's in the kitchen, bony fingers gripping the doorjamb tightly in an uncharacteristic display of anxiousness. His eyes search your face. "no, really, what'd you say? you look upset."

He didn't hear you. You breathe out a sigh of profound relief. Just a little longer. I can pretend we could be together for just a little longer. A moment later, you're ashamed of your cowardice.

"I'll tell you later," you say to Sans, and you mean it. You know you can't put off that particular conversation forever. "Anyway, you owe me an answer."

"huh?" Sans blinks at you, thrown off by how quickly you changed gears.

"The bet. I asked you a question. Where's my answer?" Both questions are connected, anyway.

"oh, uh, that. we didn't agree on a time limit." He gives you a cocky, though still somehow tentative, smile.

You draw back. "What?"

"no time limit. i can take as long as i want to answer."

"Or not answer at all." You grit your teeth, struggling with sudden frustration. You don't want to admit it, but you need to hear his answer. You're not going to let him get away with playing this game. "I see you're a fan of tutus," you threaten, as calmly as possible under the circumstances.

"sorry, checkers, but that only applies if i'm caught in a lie. if i don't answer at all, it's not lying." His smile grows wider. It's infuriating.

You stalk towards him like a hunting cat, and Sans's eyes widen as you draw yourself up, seizing every inch of height you have, and slap a hand to the wall beside his head. You lean in, crowding him, coldly furious. "I didn't say which lie. You play by the spirit of the law as well as the letter, or every lie that passes your lips from now on ends with fancy dances in fancy pantses."

For a moment, Sans seems to be holding his breath. Then he lets it out in a wheeze of laughter, which makes you start cracking up, and before you know it, the two of you are laughing so hard you're clinging to each other to stay upright. "I don't believe this," you gasp, trying to catch your breath between giggles. "Are we incapable of being serious?"

"maybe incapable of staying serious," Sans answers, ribs heaving as he chuckles. "it'd be easier to focus if you weren't so damn cute." He stills immediately. Everything stops. Eyes wide, you pull back so you can see his expression. He's struggling to force his face to produce what you suspect is meant to be his usual smile, but right now it insists on looking more like a panicked rictus than anything else. When he fails to manage a casual grin, he...

Freaking...

'Ports.

One zap of blue from that magic eye of his and his spot in the kitchen is as empty as his stupid smile.

Shit.

Your eyebrow twitches. You sigh and bonk your head lightly on the wall. Then you grit your teeth, take up the plates with your and Sans's sandwiches on them, and march to the basement door.

"Sans?" You balance one plate on your forearm, allowing you to open the door and walk far enough down the staircase to look around Sans's work area. He's not here. You climb back out and proceed to the living room, ascending the staircase to the second floor. When you reach Sans's bedroom, you knock on the door with what you think is a more-than-reasonable amount of patience. "Knock knock."

There's no answer.

You frown and try again. "Knock knock, bonehead. Your sandwich is getting cold." You listen for a snicker in response to your weak attempt at a joke. Nothing. You check the doorknob, and finding it unlocked, you open it. Nope, not here, either. You sigh and turn back toward the stairs, slumping in discouragement. You don't know where Sans went, but he's not in the house anymore.

Back in the living room, you plop down on the couch, setting the plates on the coffee table and staring at them disconsolately. The game is still running, aggravating you, and you seize the T.V. remote, turning off the offending images with a sudden viciousness that suggests the poor boob tube has personally offended you. Then you pick up a sandwich and start doggedly, even aggressively, chewing your way through it. It doesn't matter that you're not hungry anymore: you made sanswiches... sandwiches... and by God they're going to get eaten. When you finish yours, you pick up Sans's. You have no appetite and were done eating before you even started, but there's something viscerally satisfying in devouring someone else's meal when you're annoyed at that person.

You imagine the sandwich shooting you finger guns and flashing a big, toothy smile. Then you take the biggest, most ferocious bite you can out of it, putting away almost half of it in one fell swoop.

"I'm eating your sandwich!" you holler, hoping against hope that Sans is listening and will show up to rescue what's left of his lunch. "I'm eating it and it's fucking delicious!" When your infuriating friend fails to appear, you cram the rest of the sandwich into your mouth vindictively, and then take a small moment to regret your angry binge, especially the part where your mouth is too full to chew, and you yourself are too full to swallow.

Of course, your phone chooses that moment to ring. The cheerful, bouncy tune is your Roxy ringtone, and you almost answer, but finally decide that you need to manage the crisis happening in your mouth before you'll be able to speak, so you let it ring while you attempt to chew your critically oversized mouthful. Roxy gets your voicemail before you're able to swallow. Shoot! You feel a little guilty now for not prioritizing her. But she's sure to leave a voicemail, so if you call her back now, her end will be busy. You lay your phone on the coffee table to remind yourself to call her back in a couple of minutes.

The click of the front door opening announces Papyrus's return for lunch, but not nearly as loudly as his hearty shout. "GOOD AFTERNOON, SIBLINGS! IT IS I, THE GREAT PAPYRUS, HERE TO NOURISH MYSELF!"

"Hey, Papyrus," you greet him, trying to smile and almost succeeding. "There are sandwiches for you. I think they're still on the counter."

Papyrus gives you a funny look before striding into the kitchen, arms swinging. He comes back a moment later with his plate and sits next to you on the couch. You're seated on the middle cushion, and the large skeleton's superior weight bearing down on the saggy old structure right beside you creates a black-hole effect, causing you to tip over against him. You sigh and let it happen, resting your head on his humerus and closing your eyes. "MY EXTRAORDINARY POWERS OF PERCEPTION INFORM ME THAT YOU ARE TROUBLED," Papyrus says. You hear a soft crunch as he takes a bite of his lunch. "FOOD IS A GREAT SOURCE OF COMFORT. WOULD YOU LIKE A BITE OF MY SANDWICH?"

"Oh, god, no," you say, and giggle a little. "No, I think I'm done with sandwiches for the foreseeable future."

"OH, DEAR. I DID NOT REALIZE SANDWICHES COULD BE SOURCES OF TRAUMA. I SHALL DISPOSE OF THE AWFUL THINGS FORTHWITH!" He springs upwards, preparing to launch himself into the kitchen to throw away the offending items. You grab him by the arm and haul him back down to the couch.

"No! No, it's not the sandwiches' fault." You're laughing now, and when you look up at Papyrus's face, he looks bewildered and concerned. You sigh again and look down at your hands, fiddling with the charm bracelet Sans gave you for Christmas. "Your brother..." you venture uncertainly. "Does he... talk to you? About... stuff?"

"OHHHH," Papyrus says, nodding his head in understanding. "THIS IS ABOUT SANS AND HOW HE WORRIES US AND HOW HE WILL NOT TELL US WHAT IS WRONG."

"So he doesn't talk to you, either?" You don't know if that makes you feel better or worse. Worse, you decide after a moment. It means Sans really IS all alone. It's definitely worse.

"MY BROTHER HAS ALWAYS BEEN A VERY PRIVATE PERSON," Papyrus tells you. "HE DOES NOT LIKE TO TALK ABOUT HIMSELF. THIS WAS NOT SUCH A PROBLEM BEFORE FRISK CAME TO THE UNDERGROUND, BUT..." He hesitates, arranging his thoughts. You watch his face, waiting patiently. "SOMETHING HAPPENED, I THINK. SOMETHING MADE SANS CHANGE FROM A MOSTLY CONTENT, ALBEIT ANXIOUS, BROTHER INTO A VERY SAD ONE. I DO NOT KNOW WHAT IT WAS, BUT IT HAPPENED VERY QUICKLY, AND HE HAS NOT CHANGED BACK EVEN THOUGH OUR LIFE ON THE SURFACE HAS BEEN VERY HAPPY AND COMFORTABLE. WE HAVE SO MANY FRIENDS NOW, AND A LOVELY NEW HOUSE THAT IS NOT REALLY OURS, AND I HAVE TWO VERY FINE IF SLIGHTLY ILLEGAL JOBS, ALTHOUGH I HAVE APPLIED FOR A WORK PERMIT AND THAT IS ALMOST THE SAME AS HAVING ONE! AND OF COURSE THERE IS THE SKY, WHICH IS MUCH BETTER THAN A CEILING IN ALMOST ALL RESPECTS! SO I DO NOT UNDERSTAND WHY HE CANNOT BE HAPPY."

"It happened suddenly?" Your curiosity is piqued. "That's... I mean... He became depressed, started having nightmares, started faking smiles and stuff, all in the space of a few days?"

"IT SEEMS SO," Papyrus agrees, and crams the entirety of his second sandwich into his mouth with far more grace and success than you managed when you'd attempted the same maneuver earlier. "AND HE HAS HAD... MOMENTS..." Papyrus's face takes on a troubled expression. "I DO NOT THINK HE WOULD WANT ME SHARING THESE MOMENTS WITH ANYONE, NOT EVEN YOU. I THEREFORE SUGGEST YOU ASK HIM ABOUT THEM YOURSELF. AND ALSO I HOPE YOU WILL NOT MENTION TO HIM THAT I MENTIONED THEM TO YOU?"

"It'll be our secret," you tell him with a small smile. You pinch your thumb and forefinger together and make a zipping motion across your mouth for good measure.

"LOCK IT, TOO," Papyrus demands, and you twist your hand in front of your pressed-together lips, turning an imaginary key. Once the tall skeleton is satisfied his accidental indiscretion has been safely locked away, he breathes a sigh of relief. "THANK YOU, SISTER, THAT IS MOST REASSURING!"

"You're welcome," you answer, hoping your desperate curiosity regarding Sans's "moments" doesn't come out in your voice. You really, really want to know, but you feel like Sans's privacy is, at least in this, something you need to respect.

"I AM SORRY MY BROTHER HAS WORRIED YOU," Papyrus says. "IT IS ONE OF MANY TERRIBLE HABITS HE HAS."

"It's okay. I think I'm more annoyed than anything right now... which reminds me, can I borrow your tutu?"

"OH, ARE YOU THINKING OF TAKING UP BALLET? I VERY MUCH WANT TO LEARN, BUT THE LAST TIME I PRACTICED IN THE HOUSE I BROKE THE LIGHT FIXTURE. I WAS THEN FORCED TO HIDE IT BEHIND THE COUCH TO PREVENT AWKWARD QUESTIONS."

You turn in your seat and rise to your knees, looking down behind the sofa. "...Ah. So that's where that lamp went." Papyrus gives you a guilty little smile. You run a hand over your face and turn back around, slumping against the tall skeleton once more. "Sans... what are we going to do about him?" You're speaking mostly to yourself, but of course Papyrus answers anyway.

"I HAVE TRIED SEVERAL TIMES TO TALK TO HIM ABOUT WHY HE IS SO STRANGE AND SAD. HE NEVER WISHES TO DISCUSS IT WITH ME. BUT HE MAY FEEL DIFFERENTLY IF THE ASKER IS YOU."

"What? Why?" You lean away from Papyrus so you can look at him properly. "But you guys have such a special relationship! You're... you're family..."

"WHILE THAT IS ALL TRUE FOR ME, IT IS ALSO TRUE FOR YOU. AND YOU HAVE THE ADDED BENEFIT OF BEING SOMEONE WHO IS MUCH LIKE OUR BROTHER. PERHAPS, BECAUSE YOU ARE QUIET AND DO NOT NAG HIM, AND PLAY VIDEO GAMES WITH HIM, AND LAUGH AT HIS JOKES EVEN THOUGH THEY ARE A SIN AGAINST HUMOR, HE MIGHT CHOOSE TO TELL YOU THOSE THINGS HE HAS NOT YET ENTRUSTED TO THE GREAT PAPYRUS." You're in the middle of giving Papyrus a look of gentle pity when he adds, "OR PERHAPS SANS WILL TELL YOU THINGS BECAUSE YOU ARE PRETTY AND SOFT AND HE WANTS TO KISS YOU."

You jerk upright, cheeks burning, and wave your hands frantically. "He doesn't want to kiss me! What makes you think he wants to kiss me?! If he wanted to kiss me he'd've done it a long time ago!" Your reflexive denial comes more from embarrassment than from a belief that Papyrus is wrong.

Papyrus cackles and pats you heavily on the head, making you grit your teeth as you focus for a moment on enduring the gentle thumps to your skull. "YOU ARE A VERY SMART HUMAN, SISTER, BUT THERE ARE STILL SOME THINGS YOU DO NOT UNDERSTAND." He continues to giggle as you try to absorb his final few statements.

Finally you say, "I guess I need to have a talk with Sans, huh? Like, a real talk. No more dancing around things."

"THAT WOULD BE AN IDEAL COURSE OF ACTION! IF THE TWO OF YOU DO NOT TALK TO EACH OTHER, HOW CAN YOU KNOW WHAT THE OTHER IS THINKING? UNLESS YOU ARE TELEPATHIC." Papyrus squints at you suspiciously. "ARE YOU TELEPATHIC?"

You laugh. "No, of course not!"

"OH, GOOD, THAT MEANS YOU WILL NEVER KNOW I AM AFRAID OF DACHSHUNDS."

"You're afraid of wiener dogs?"

"THEY'RE TOO LONG! TOO LONG, ______!"

You laugh, feeling a weight lifting from your shoulders as you do. You should have talked to Papyrus about all this months ago. Sometimes, a different perspective is all you need to help you commit to a course of action. "I hope Sans comes home soon," you mumble, mostly to yourself. "I wonder where he ended up?"

"HE IS ON THE ROOF."

You stare at your sort-of-adopted-brother incredulously.

"I SPOTTED HIM SITTING UP THERE ON MY WAY IN. WHY ARE YOU LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT?"

You laugh and shake your head. You could ask why he didn't see fit to tell you this earlier, but that would have cut your conversation short, and honestly, you think you needed to hear what Papyrus had to say. "Thanks, Papyrus."

"YOU ARE VERY WELCOME! AND THANK YOU FOR THE SANDWICHES! I AM FULLY REFUELED AND READY TO CLEAN THE HAMSTER CAGES!"

"Well, have a good day," you call as he heads for the door.

"ALL DAYS ARE GOOD DAYS WHEN YOU ARE THE GREAT PAPYRUS! NYEH HEH HEH!"

"Oh, and don't warn Sans that I'm coming up to talk to him." You don't want him to run again. If he escapes this time, you may never find him.

"YOUR WISH IS MY COMMAND, SISTER! GOOD LUCK WITH OUR BROTHER!" The lanky skeleton sweeps out the door.

There's a dormer at the end of the upstairs hallway that you judge to be a good access point. The wooden window frame is stiff with years of warping, but you manage to pry it open. It rasps slightly as it slides upwards. Wriggling out the window is a little painful: it's narrow and the bottom is level with your navel, so you can't just step out onto the roof: you have to squirm your way through on your belly. You try not to wince, but you're sure you'll have a band of bruises across your stomach tomorrow. Once your feet are firmly planted on the sloping shingles, you straighten carefully, adjusting to the slant, and after a moment, you climb to the crest of the roof and look down the other side.

Sans is sitting on the flatter part of the roof which overhangs the small porch in front of the house. As you make your way over the crest, he turns and startles. "checkers! jesus! what are you doin'? get down before you fall!"

"Sans, I need to talk to you," you say, carefully scooting down to his level. You take your eyes off your feet to look at him, wondering if he's going to flee again.

"siddown," he says instead. "you'll break your neck walkin' around up here!"

"I won't fall." You sit beside him anyway, pulling your knees to your chest and wrapping your arms around them. You take a deep breath of fresh, cool air. The weather must have turned last night: the slight breeze is cool but the sun is warm, and though you still need a sweater, it feels positively balmy out here after so much winter. "I'll have to open the windows when we get back in. Air out the house."

Sans grunts affirmation. "but you didn't come out here to talk about the weather."

"No. No, I didn't."

Sans seems to shrink into himself a little, sitting with his knees to his chest in an unconscious echo of your own posture. "so..."

"So?"

"there's... shit, there's a lotta stuff you don't know. and i don't know if i can talk about it. but... what it comes down to is that i'm sorta afraid to be happy? i know that wasn't your question," he says as your face falls into an expression of dismay.

"That's not it," you tell him, and scoot closer, leaning lightly against him, sharing your warmth. "I just... I hope you know how much I care about you."

Sans sighs a little and leans into you, silently accepting your support. After a moment, he continues, "you're right, you know. about me. and you. you asked the right question. so, like... i don't feel like i can talk to anyone 'cause it's all too raw, you know? and nobody'd believe me, anyway. hell, i don't completely believe me. but you talked to me after... you know, after what happened to you, and i know it hurt, but you did it anyway, and that's not... fair. it's not fair that you put yourself out there for me, all open and... and vulnerable and... shit, i can't even bring myself to tell you the little things, like..." He pauses here, glancing at your face. His pupils contract when his eyes meet your earnest gaze, and he hides his face in his knees, blushing. His next words are muffled by his jeans.

"i like you."

Your breath stops.

"like-like you, you know?" Sans continues, face still buried against his legs. He reaches up and pulls his hood over his head for good measure. "and, yeah, i'd date you."

You can barely hear him through the multiple layers of fabric, but barely is enough. Your whole body tenses slowly, and your hands start to tremble. You grip your forearms tightly, trying to still them. "I knew it!" you accuse, teasing him to cover the strength of your reaction. "You asshole, I knew you heard me!"

"i'm not... i'm not good for you, checkers, i'm not... shit, i'm so fucked up, there's no telling how this thing could end, and-and i'm a monster, you'd catch hell for being with me, and..." You wouldn't have thought it possible, but Sans hunches even deeper into himself. This time, you can hear him mumbling, but you can't catch the words.

You grip him gently by the shoulder and lift the edge of his hood with your other hand. "I didn't catch that," you say softly, peering into the shadow of his hoodie.

Sans slowly turns his head until one bright eye is able to peer out at you. "we might not even be... compatible," he says in a whisper.

"Well..." you venture, giving him a little, hopeful smirk. "Lesbians seem to manage."

Sans chokes and starts laughing. He buries his face in his knees again, shoulders shaking. "god," he gasps when he calms down, and uncurls from his ball slightly so he can look at you. "i've been worried about this for months, and you don't even care!"

You're laughing too, but you manage to ask, "Months?"

Sans rubs the back of his skull. "ah, shit, i guess i've sorta carried a torch for ya since... december?" He won't meet your eyes. "not to be a creep or anything, but..."

"I wasn't thinking that." You're actually trying to place the exact moment when you realized you had a crush on Sans. It might have been... Well, shit. Who's the creep now? "Actually," you admit, "I think I noticed I liked you when I kissed you under the mistletoe."

Sans stares at you, mouth slightly open. "seriously?" he manages after a moment.

You shrug, trying to play it cool. The effect is probably ruined by the blush you can feel suffusing your face. "I guess Christmas really is the most wonderful time of the year."

Sans chuckles and stretches one leg out, leaning back on his hands. Wanting to see his face better, you reach out to pull his hood down. You're gratified when he lets you. He meets your eyes, and there's a glimmer of a real smile on his face, but then his expression drops. Yours mirrors his.

"What's wrong?"

"i just... this doesn't fix anything. i can't help thinkin' this'll all end in tears. i don't..." He turns his body towards you, leaning in slightly, eyes flickering over your face. "i don't wanna hurt you. i don't wanna be hurt."

The look on his face breaks your heart. You lift your hand, placing your palm on his cheekbone. Sans sighs and closes his eyes, leaning into the touch. "So to avoid suffering later, we should suffer now?" Sans huffs out an amused breath and opens his eyes. It's not until those shining pupils pierce your soul that you realize the two of you have been drifting closer.

"guess it sounds silly when you put it like that," Sans says softly. His breath ghosts over your face, his unique stormy scent fills the air around you, and the first hints of spring tingle across your skin, heightening your senses and making everything feel vividly, vibrantly alive. You only have to rock forward a little to press your lips to his mouth.

Sans gasps softly and freezes. Your lips cling to his for a moment. You draw back very slightly, just enough that your mouth and his are barely touching, and turn your face a bit, gently dragging your upper lip across his as you change your angle. Then you lean back in, kissing him more firmly this time. Sans has been still for so long you're beginning to feel anxious, but then his mouth softens against yours and he presses back, one hand lifting to cup your face. This time, when you try to draw back, Sans follows, fingers sliding into your hair now, sending a shiver down your spine. You open your mouth a little and wrap your arms around his neck. The kiss deepens. Sans tastes like melted snow and nearly-forgotten memories, clean and sweet and sad. When your fingernails scrape along the vertebrae at the nape of his neck, he groans into your mouth and clutches at your back, dragging you against him until there's not a millimeter of space between the two of you. His pseudo-flesh diffuses enough for his bones to start pressing into you, and the contrasting textures of soft and hard add to the intensity of the experience. His chest is warm against yours, warmer than normal, and there's an answering heat behind your sternum that's growing by the moment. Sans tugs at your bottom lip with his teeth, and the heat behind your ribs throbs and shudders, sending tremors through your body, creating a coil of tension in your core. Your body temperature rises and, through the press of his ribs, you can feel him heat up as well, as if your bodies are responding to each other in a way more strange and profound than any purely human liaison could produce. His tongue traces your lip and you shudder, a tiny, desperate sound escaping you. When Sans's lips leave yours, you're left reeling, disoriented. Your face turns to the sky as he trails kisses down your neck. He finds your pulse and presses an open-mouthed kiss to it while you gasp and cling to him, flickering his tongue against your neck briefly before he pulls away to look at your face.

He's flushed and panting, pupils blown wide, mouth hanging slightly open, and you feel the hot coals inside you burst into flame at the sight. Then his eyes clear a bit, and a sparkle of satisfaction enters them, making you realize you must look as dazed and overwhelmed as he does.

"Don't be smug," you scold. The effect is rather ruined by your breathlessness. Sans chuckles lowly, but when you lean in to place your own lips on his neck, the chuckle shifts to a gasp. "Who's laughing now?" you breathe against his vertebrae, and scrape your teeth lightly on the bones.

Sans muffles a profanity in your hair, and then you're dropping through darkness, landing on your back with a bounce, something soft and springy breaking the short fall. You squeak in surprise and sit up, glancing around to orient yourself. Sans, who's landed on top of you, sits up as well, looking mortified.

"shit... sorry. didn't really mean to... yeah."

He's 'ported the two of you onto his bed.

You pitch backwards, laughing uncontrollably. After a moment, Sans starts to chuckle, too. "So," you say once you've caught your breath. "That happened."

"that happened," Sans agrees, rubbing the back of his neck bashfully. He looks at you sideways and gives you a shy smile. His soul is glowing brightly under his t-shirt. Then he blinks at you, his expression shifting to a look of gentle wonder. "checkers..." He points at your chest.

You glance down. There's a soft orange light glowing in the center of your sweat shirt. Mystified, you raise the shirt to check beneath it. Sans averts his eyes, his own glow pulsing slightly. Your chest heats and throbs in response, the orange light pulsing in time with Sans's glow. The light is shining through your skin as if there's a fire inside you. It's... beautiful. Realizing suddenly what you're looking at, you yank your shirt back down and place your arms over your chest protectively. Sans zips up his hoodie. You note absently that that's the second time today he's had to do that.

"i didn't think humans could, uh..." he says quietly, placing a hand over his own chest as if to hold his soul in place. "i... sorry. that could've... that could've gone too far, too easily. should'a been more careful. sorry."

"Don't be sorry," you reply, reaching for him. When you draw him down to lie beside you, he relaxes, one arm wrapping around your waist to hold you close. "Don't ever be sorry for this." You lie with him quietly, aware that you should be thinking about this new soul revelation, but unwilling to let yourself be drawn out of the moment. There will be plenty of time for overthinking things later, you tell yourself, and you lean over to place a kiss on the bridge of Sans's nasal cavity. He sighs contentedly and closes his eyes.

"so... this is a thing now, yeah?" he asks, a little uncertainly, and opens his eyes again to look at you. "us, i mean."

"Yeah," you confirm, and give him another gentle kiss, this time on the mouth.

"we gonna talk about how you just glowed?"

"Not now."

"ok." Sans leans in this time, kissing you more deeply. When he pulls back, his pupils are dilated again. "can't believe i get to do that now." A small smirk plays along the edges of his mouth. Then he frowns. "shit."

"What is it?"

"paps is gonna throw a friggin' party when he finds out."

Sans has a sour look on his face now, but you can't stop yourself from bursting into laughter.

~ Author's Note ~

Surprise! I'm not dead! No matter how I feel. Le sigh... I'm living in the mosh pit of life right now. Not un-fun, necessarily, but it's been pretty stressful and hard to concentrate.

Sans and Checkers are playing SoulCalibur II in this chapter. It used to be a popular group activity among my gang of friends/family. I haven't played it in, like, ten years, so please excuse any inconsistencies! Or, you know, correct me. I'm good with that, too. :P