Written By: Zana B. Sparrows
Fanart By: CrystalDAAD Sans' Wife

Setting the Stage: Yet another one that could happen any time within the one month period.

Your Perspective

            You shiver as you wade through the snow, drawing your jacket tighter around you. There'd been a blizzard a few days ago, and the resulting covering of white nearly reaches up to your knees. As such, not only is it hard to walk, but snow is completely coating the bottom portion of your pants, and pouring into the tops of your shoes. Your feet had gone numb nearly a mile ago, and your shins are quickly following suit.

It'll be a miracle if I make it there without getting frostbite, you think darkly.

            The thought causes you to reach into your pocket, where you keep your phone. Sans is just a speed dial away—you could ask him to come get you. He'd teleport out here in the blink of an eye, and a heartbeat later, you'd be sitting inside the skelebros' toasty living room. But... you fight the urge. You force yourself to take your gloved hand out of your pocket, and instead wrap it tightly around your backpack strap.

No. I don't want to bother him.

            ...In all reality, as your boyfriend, he probably wouldn't mind. In fact, when you finally get in the door, he'll probably be angry with you that you didn't ask for help. He's always worrying over you, and wading through the aftermath of a blizzard to go and see him probably qualifies as dangerous. However... part of you just doesn't want to do it. Why? Well... you don't like the role that you seem to have put yourself in.

Sans is always saving you. He saved you from that blizzard when you first fell down here, and then there was the whole thing with Flowey... you're constantly getting lost, and he's the one that finds you. And then just a few days ago, there was that whole "period" fiasco. And who was the one that went and got the pads for you? Sans. Alphys may have made them, but it was inevitably him that was blushing bright blue and passing you homemade pads through a crack in the door. 

            And even though you're extremely grateful to him, and you think it's really sweet... you just don't like playing the damsel in distress. And so, on this bitterly cold day, it's your bruised ego that keeps you trekking through the snow.

'Damsel in distress.' It's pitiful how well that title fits me, you continue, scowling at your own ineptitude. I mean, I can't even fight. Without Sans there, I'm helpless. What am I going to do if Flowey jumps me again? Or... or Chara?

            A shiver speeds down your spine at the thought, and you take a paranoid glance at your surroundings. ...Nothing. Just the painful white of fresh snow, and the occasional splash of pine green. Even so, you find yourself keeping a firm grasp on your little fold-able pocket knife.
            Luckily for both your feet and your nerves, you aren't too far away from the skelebros' house. You get there within the next five minutes, and as always, burst through the door without so much as knocking.

"Hey! I'm here!" you call. There's no answer.

            You aren't too surprised. Papyrus's probably over at Undyne's for training again, and Sans had told you a few days ago that he was going to start up his hotdog stand again. He claims that he's going to try and pay off his tab... but somehow, you don't buy it. You chuckle to yourself and close the door behind you, shrugging off your snow-crusted jacket and putting your frozen shoes by the door.

He's probably saving up for something, you guess. I can't think of anything he'd want, though...

            You shrug it off and pad into the living room, before dramatically crashing onto the couch. Its shot springs complain beneath you, but you're so used to it that you don't even notice. You yawn explosively and pick up the remote, absentmindedly flipping through the channels.

Mettaton, Mettaton, Mettaton, Mettaton, Metatton... aaaaaand Mettaton, you note. As always.

            You don't really feel like watching the pink robot posing in front of his kitchen again, so you promptly turn off the TV, and toss the remote onto the couch cushion beside you. You pull your phone out of your pocket and check the time.

I have two hours before work. Well... I guess I might as well take the time to practice. I won't disturb anyone, seeing as no one's here.

            You continue to stare at your phone for a moment, letting the idea sink in. Then you nod, and triple click the home button. You can't help but smile as you watch your phone grow into its laptop form, its black metal casing shining in the light from overhead. When it stops swelling, you type in your password, and click on a little music note in the top right corner of your desktop.

A dancing Neko Girl (courtesy of Alphys, of course) appears on your screen as the app starts itself up, and you go to place your laptop on the ground. Moments later, your laptop transforms again. Like an unfolding piece of paper, it continues expanding until you're eventually left with something surprisingly larger than the original package—a full-sized keyboard, complete with a pedals and a stand. You slowly shake your head in awe, smiling to yourself.

            I still don't understand how she did that.

Instead of trying to wrap your mind around it, though, you instead busy yourself with your work. Using the couch in place of a stool, you sit down, and then run through your pieces. It doesn't take you too long. Without the pressure of a crowd, you can play much faster than you normally would. Once you're done going through the paces, you look at your clock again. You have an hour and a half left.

            Well... I have time. And he's not here, so... it should be fine.

With one last glance over your shoulder, you reach into your backpack, and rummage around for your latest project. It takes you a while, but you eventually find what you're looking for. A piece of paper. You look at it and sigh, somewhat disappointed. It'd fallen to the bottom of your bag, and is so completely crumpled up. You take great pains to straighten it out, and then examine its contents. It's lucky that you wrote it in pen—if you'd use pencil, it would've smeared everywhere.

            Covering the page are a bizarre assortment of musical notes and letters. Starting at the top, you'd actually tried to compose like a normal person—with those little lines, and the key signature, and everything. But... that hadn't lasted long. You'd eventually starting writing down letters along with the notes, and then added in some arrows... You might as well just admit it. You've invented your own musical language. It might be illegible to most, but to you... it's a song.

You have no idea why you started writing it. You may like the piano, but never in your wildest dreams had you thought that you'd start composing. It must've been something really special that got you to create a song of your own. And... it was. This particular song is inspired by a certain skeleton. In fact... you could almost call it a theme song of sorts, as cheesy as that sounds.

            "...Megalovania," you breathe.

A smile spreads across your face at the sound of it, and a surge of pride rushes through you as you look over your achievement. It's almost done. You only have a few more lines to go. Then, you can start practicing it. And, eventually, when the time is right... you'll play it for him. You can't wait to see the look on his face!

            You smile to yourself and get to work, testing out sounds on your piano and then scribbling things down on your wrinkled piece of paper...
            Little do you know, you aren't the only person in the room. There's a strange presence lurking behind you, and there's a smile on their mutilated face as they watch you scribble away.

***

About half an hour later, the front door of the house slams open. You were so engrossed in your work that the sudden sound makes you jump, and you quickly move to shove your masterpiece back into your backpack.

"SANS! I'M BACK SANS—"

            "Hey Papyrus," you say, moving to turn your piano back into its original phone form.

"OH! HELLO, (Y/N)! I DIDN'T SEE YOU THERE," Papyrus says, glancing over at you.

            "Heh. I guess not. What's up?"

"I WAS JUST PATROLLING THE KING'S FLOWER BEDS!" Papyrus exclaims proudly. "AND I AM PLEASED TO INFORM YOU THAT THEY ARE WELL CARED FOR, AND COMPLETELY FREE OF SHADY CHARACTERS!"

            "That's great," you say, smiling. "All thanks to the great Papyrus, right?"

"ABSOLUTELY! THE KING WOULD BE LOST WITHOUT ME," he says, chest puffed out in pride. Then he shakes his head, and seems to refocus on something. "HAVE YOU SEEN SANS? I'M TRYING TO FIND HIM—I'M GOING TO TAKE HIM OVER TO UNDYNE'S. THAT LAZYBONES HASN'T USED HIS MAGIC ATTACKS IN AGES, AND I'M GETTING WORRIED THAT HE'S GOING TO GET RUSTY. SO, TO SOLVE THAT PROBLEM, I'M GOING TO HAVE UNDYNE GIVE HIM WARRIOR TRAINING! AS A FORMER MEMBER OF THE ROYAL GUARD, I'M SURE SHE'D BE HAPPY TO COMPLY."

            "Warrior training, huh?" you echo thoughtfully. Remembering the sight of that floating skull as it nearly disintegrated Flowey, you don't think Sans is rusty in the slightest. However, the idea of warrior training is very appealing to you. You need to learn how to fight, and who better to teach you than Undyne? "Well, I haven't seen him. I thought he was over in Hotlands at his hotdog stand. But, uh... maybe you'd be willing to take me inste—"

"NO, I'VE ALREADY CHECKED THE HOTDOG STAND," Papyrus exclaims, completely missing your question. "AND GRILLBY'S. AND HIS OLD SENTRY STATIONS. BUT HE HASN'T SHOWN UP IN ANY OF HIS NORMAL SPOTS! THIS IS AN ENIGMA..."

            "Uh... have you tried texting him?" you ask.

"...NO."

            "Then you should probably text him."

"OF COURSE! WHY DIDN'T I THINK OF THAT?!"

            Papyrus whips out his phone, his skeletal fingers flying across the screen as he types Sans a message.

"THERE! SENT! NOW... TO WAIT FOR A REPLY."

            Papyrus sits on the couch next to you. You'd start a conversation while he waits, but he's staring at the screen so intently that you're afraid to interrupt his focus.
            A minute later, Sans still hasn't texted back.

"THAT LAZYBONES! HE CAN'T EVEN BOTHER TO CHECK HIS MESSAGES!"

            That's not true. Whenever you text him, he replies almost instantly. Maybe something's going on. Something he doesn't want Papyrus to find out about...

"You know what? Let me try," you say, getting your phone out.

            'Paps's looking for you.'

You send the text and then wait... and wait... Eventually, a little checkmark appears next to your text. He's looked at it. You smile to yourself, and wait for him to respond. When he doesn't answer, though... you start to get worried.

            "NO LUCK?" Papyrus asks.

"No," you say, trying to sound uncaring. "Maybe he has his phone turned off."

            It's a blatant lie, but you don't want Papyrus to start worrying.

"OH!" Papyrus exclaims, snapping his fingers. "HE MUST BE IN THE BASEMENT. THE SERVICE DOWN THERE IS REALLY BAD—WHENEVER I TRY TO CONTACT HIM, HE NEVER ANSWERS."

            "...You have a basement?" you ask. Out of all the time you've spent here, you've never seen any stairs that lead anywhere but the second floor.

"YES INDEEDY! SANS HAS A WORKSHOP OF SOME KIND DOWN THERE."

            "A... workshop?" you ask slowly. "What kind of workshop?"

You don't really see Sans doing something as labor intensive as woodwork, or having the intense focus that's required of model making.

            "HMM... I DON'T ACTUALLY KNOW. HE DOESN'T LIKE IT WHEN I GO DOWN THERE," Papyrus says.

"HE USUALLY KEEPS IT LOCKED, ACTUALLY."

            He keeps it locked?

That makes alarm bells go off in your head. If he's locking doors... then there must be something sensitive going on down there.

            You glance down at your phone again. He still hasn't texted back—that isn't like him. You bite your lip, anxiety starting to worm its way into you. What if something's wrong? You doubt he's in any real danger, but that doesn't mean he doesn't need you. Knowing him, he's probably down there drowning in emotional turmoil, needing someone to keep him afloat.

...Wait a second.

            ...He might need you. You let that thought sink in for a second. You've known for a while now that he relies on you to stay emotionally stable. He leans on you, and you stay strong for him and keep him from falling into complete depression.

...Maybe I'm not a damsel in distress after all, you think hesitantly.     

            No. You may not be great at protecting yourself, but that doesn't mean you're not bringing anything to the table. You rely on each other. He keeps you safe, and you keep him happy. That's just how your relationship works.

And he may need me right now.

            Having made up your mind, you abruptly get up from the sofa, startling Papyrus.

"Papyrus, where's the basement?"

            "IT'S OUTSIDE, AND AROUND THE BACK OF THE HOUSE."

"Cool. I'm going to go check and see if Sans is down there, alright? I'll be right back."

~Meanwhile~

Sans' Perspective

            I'm sitting in my basement, cold white tile pressed up against my tibia and fibula. It's not a very comfortable sensation, but for some reason... it's... familiar. Sitting in my mini laboratory, I'm getting overwhelmed by a surging tide of nostalgia. The white tile. The bright overhead lights. The mess of paper strewn everywhere. The blueprints. The confined space. The smell of grease. The machine in the corner. And, most especially... the photo album that's open in my lap. All of it is comfortingly familiar. I feel so secure down here, as if nothing could touch me. But... why? I feel as if I have strong memories associated with all of this, but when I try to actually remember those memories... nothing. I keep drawing a blank. I sigh tiredly and lean my skull back against the wall, staring up at the removable foam tiles that form the ceiling above my head.

A lab. Something about a lab.

            The word 'lab' sends my metaphorical brain into overdrive. Long forgotten times and places are replaying deep within my subconscious, formless monsters speaking incoherent words to each other and laughing. Everything is fuzzy, like an out of focus picture. Against my better judgment, I try and force myself to make the mental images clearer. The moment I do, though, they spiral out of my grip completely, and I'm left at square one. A lab.

I huff in frustration and glance back down at the album again. It's filled with a bunch of pictures of me and a coupla' other monsters. We're all very happy looking. There's not a single picture where at least one person isn't smiling, or laughing... but despite that, every time I look at them, it feels like I'm taking a bullet to the soul. I... I don't recognize any of them. My aching soul tells me that I should, but... I just...don't.

            I lean in, hoping that getting a better look will spark something inside of me, and bring back the memories that I've lost. It won't help. I already know that—I've lost count of the times that I've gone through these photos. I've looked at them so often, and for so long, that I can see them with my eyesockets closed. I'm like a dog chasing its tail. I don't give up, even though I know that the exercise is pointless.

But even armed with that knowledge, I continue on. There are five monsters in these photos. A younger version of me, a ginger cat, a pale yellow, armless reptile, a blue head, and a more humanoid, leaf-green monster. Besides the monster who bears a striking resemblance to MK, none of them look familiar. But I already knew that. I quickly accept the fact and move on, trying to find something else; something that I may have missed before.

            It takes me a few minutes, but I eventually notice something. There's something kind of... creepy about some of these photos. There are times where the monsters are all looking in the same direction... but there's nothing there. It's like they're all looking at a ghost that'd just disappeared.

He's missing.

            A sudden image comes unbidden to my mind. A labcoat. And... purple. A purple glow.

I blink, caught completely off guard by the thought.

...What? He? Labcoat? Purple?

Just as quickly as the flash of memory came, though, it's gone again. I grit my teeth as frustration flashes through me, and in a fit of anger, I slam the album shut.

This is stupid! I've tried for years to remember, but it never works, and it never will. I should just do myself a favor, and get rid of all of this useless crap!

My magic flares to life, and a nimbus of blue energy surrounds the leather bound book that I'd just been flipping through. With my disappointment and anger nipping at my heels, I fight my first instinct—to scream in frustration—and instead fling the book across the room. It hits the blueprint that I'd tacked up on the opposite wall, and tears one of the corners loose as it falls onto the counter top. Panic instantly extinguishes my anger. I teleport over to the blueprint, and frantically inspect it for damage. ...One of the corners is torn. It'd ripped as the paper was forced out from under its thumbtack.

            A wave of shame takes over, and I robotically get another thumbtack out of a drawer, numbly righting the error that I'd made.

I need to be more careful with his things.

            I flinch, nearly ripping the paper again. There it is again. 'His.' 'Him.' 'He.' I can remember a pronoun, but I can never recall anything else. Is it really too much to ask for a face? Or a name? Why do I have to be tortured by feelings of warm nostalgia, only to be unable to associate it with anyone?

I let my hand fall, and stare at the blueprint for a moment. Within seconds, my brain goes to work crunching numbers and distances, calculating the physics behind the strange machine's operation, and noting the flaws in its structural design. While that's all fine and dandy, it just gives me another question to ask. Where is all of this knowledge coming from? My lazy ass could barely keep a job as a sentry—there's no way I would've put in the kind of dedication required to learn all this stuff. And yet... it's still there. Looking at this, I can even tell what the machine is meant to do—distort time, and allow for travel to alternate timelines.

            And let's not even start with the weird scribbling that's all over this thing. It looks like some sort of pictographic language—like Egyptian, but more modern. I squint at it, trying to make heads or tails of it.                         ...Something tells me that I should be able to understand it perfectly. But, yet again... nothing. There's nothing in my brain but an empty space—a cavity that I know wouldn't otherwise exist, unless I'd forgotten something important.

I slide back onto the floor, depression overwhelming everything—even my confusion and curiosity. Whoever those people are, and whoever that blueprint belongs to... I've forgotten them. Entire years of my life are just... gone. And, for some strange, inexplicable reason... I get the feeling that it's my fault.

            A sudden ringing sound emits from my back pocket, its accompanying vibration startling me. ...I don't want to check it. In fact, I don't even want to be here. What's the point? I can never hold on to anyone that I've loved. First it was... was these people, and then it was Papyrus and Frisk... and I'm sure that it'll eventually happen to (Y/N), too. Why not? It seems to be a pattern in my life. And while people are never predictable, patterns always, always, are.

Heh. Maybe it's karma, I think. Maybe this is punishment. There's plenty that I don't remember. Maybe I did something so bad that it fated the rest of my life to be a living hell.

            That's definitely one way to explain it, but I'm sure it has less to do with karmic destiny, and more to do with my own shining ineptitude—

My phone goes off again. I still don't want to look at it. Now's just not a good time.

...But it might be something important.

Not wanting to risk the possibility of my friends of family being in mortal peril, I sigh and reach into my jacket pocket.

'Papyrus's looking for you.'

I stare at the message, uncomprehending. My mind is so preoccupied by other things that I think I may have forgotten how to read. I blink hard and look at it again.

Oh. Paps's looking for me.

The last thing I want to do is see Paps right now. Neither of us actually remembers our childhood, but he nevertheless wouldn't understand. He isn't plagued by these stupid memory fragments like I am. He's accepted our strange double amnesia, and moved on. When I asked him why, he told me that it wasn't worth fussing over. That we'll probably never remember, so why worry? You can't force memories to come back. And if they eventually do... well, that's great—but he's not going to let 'what ifs' rule his life.

            ...My bro is wiser than I give him credit for. I should've followed his example. 'Might've made a lot of things easier for me. ...It's too bad I'm not the type to let go.

I sigh and reach up for the counter, fingers searching out that familiar leather-bound book. When I find it, I put it in my lap, and once again ready myself to flip through its torturously cheerful pictures.

            The door slams open. I jump, and then whirl around to face the stairwell. If that's Papyrus, then this is gonna be bad. What am I gonna say to him?! I'd better start coming up with an excuse—

"Sans!" a voice yells. "Are you down there?"

            I sigh in relief. It's just (Y/N). Then I freeze.

Wait. It's (Y/N). I-I shouldn't let her see—

            Too late. The brief interlude of natural light ceases as the door to the basement swings shut, followed by a certain human making her way down the stairs.

"There you are!" she exclaims. "Papyrus's been looking all over the place for you—something about wanting you to train with Undyne."

            She trails off as she catches sight of my "workshop," her eyes going wide.

            "Woah... Sans, what is all of this?"

Your Perspective

            "Woah... Sans what is all of this?" you breathe, taking in his so-called basement.

You say "so-called" because you don't think basements generally have flawlessly polished white tile, or strange half-covered machines sitting in the corner. Your eyes travel the length of the room as you take note of the details, questions automatically forming with each discovery. The removable ceiling. The blueprints on the wall. The mess of papers scattered across the countertop. And, finally... a certain skeleton sitting on the ground with a photo album open in his lap, and a devastated look on his face.

            You slowly go down the last few steps, struggling to make sense of what you're seeing. Is... is this a lab? The tiling used looks remarkably similar to the kind Alphys uses. But why would Sans, of all people, have a lab? You know he likes sci-fi, and you've occasionally seen books on quantum physics and astronomy laying around the house, but never in your wildest dreams had you actually thought that he could really be a scientist. He just doesn't have the drive for it.

Well... actually...

            Now that you think about it, there's a surprising amount of grime in this room. It looks more like a storage facility than a functioning lab.

"And here I was thinking that I've already seen the whole house," you say jokingly. "What next—are you gonna tell me that you have a pool in the attic?"

            Sans blinks, and then chuckles quietly. It's not a sound that shows his usual heartiness... but it's a laugh, all the same.

"No pool, Buttercup. Just the basement."

            "Huh. You sure?" you ask, crossing over to him. "No indoor trampoline, either?"

That one manages to entice a smile from him.

            "No indoor trampoline."

"What about a bowling alley?"

            "Nope."

"Target range?"

            "Paps would love that. But... no," Sans says, smiling. "But we do have a capture zone."

"A... capture zone?" you ask, laughing. "Do I want to know what that is?"

            "Probably better if you didn't ask," Sans admits, watching as you slide to the floor beside him.

"So... what're you doing down here, anyway?" you ask.

            As much as you enjoy sitting on the cold tile floor, you don't think it's something that you'd go out of the way to do. He must have a reason for being down here.

"Oh... nothing," he murmurs, voice melancholy. "Just hanging out."

            "Yeah?" you ask, not entirely convinced.

"Yeah."

            You hum skeptically, and then glance down in the album open in his lap. It's a bunch of pictures of Sans with a lot of people you don't recognize.

"Who are they?" you ask gently, sensing that it's a sensitive subject. Sans gives you a long look, before slowly turning his attention back to the book. He runs his thumb over one of them, and sighs heavily.

            "I... I don't actually... know," he mutters.

"What do you mean?"

            "I don't remember," he says flatly.

"Ohh," you say. "Got'cha. That makes sense—you do look pretty young in these."

            He falls silent, and looks away. Depression is thick in the air, but you can't figure out why.

"Aww, look at you! You're so cute!" you exclaim, leaning in. Whatever's on his mind, you're hoping that you can distract him from it. "You're just a tiny little baby bones~ How old were you?"

            Actually, you don't think he's ever actually told you his current age. Huh. Weird. You'll have to make sure to ask later.

"How old was I?" he echoes. "That's... a good question."

            You wait for him to elaborate. When he doesn't, you scoot a little closer, starting to worry.

"Yeeesss?" you prompt. He sighs, and continues staring at the opposite wall.

            "It's... complicated," he says.

"Well... alright," you say uncertainly. "Uh... oh yeah! I just realized that I don't even know how old you are. I mean, right now. How old are you? I'm 21, if you were wondering."

            "Heh. Heh heh," Sans chuckles darkly, his irises vanishing from their sockets. "That's... also pretty complicated."

You don't like that look on his face.

What's wrong? you ask him silently. What's going on in that head of yours?

"Sans, I'm dating a skeleton. Everything is complicated," you say, forcing a smile. "C'mon, just tell me."

            He falls silent yet again, and you can almost see the gears turning in his head. Eventually, he sighs, and focuses his gaze on the book in front of him, avoiding looking you in the eye.

"The truth is... I don't really know," he says.

            "...What do you mean? Did you lose count? We're a little too young for that, don't you think?"

You're trying to make a joke of it, but you don't appear to be helping.

            "It's not like that," he says. "Well... I never told you this, but... I'm actually an amnesiac. Paps, too."

"...What?!" you exclaim, looking at him incredulously.

            He nods, and continues to stare at his pictures. If he were looking at them any more intently, they'd probably catch fire and disintegrate. Never have you see him more determined not to look at you.

"...Yeah. I've forgotten something like half of my entire life, and I don't know how it happened," Sans tells you. "We just... woke up one day, in Alphys's lab. I had on a lab coat and clearance badge, and Paps was asleep in some kind of bedroom. The funny thing was... not only had we forgotten everything up to that point, but even though we appeared to live there, Alphys had never seen us before in her life. In fact, Alphys thinks that she was hit with it, too—starting on that day, she didn't recognize the lab. It was as if she'd never been down there before. Even weirder, the entire place was practically empty—you'd have thought it was newly built, and never used."

            He looks over at you, expecting you to comment. When you don't, he continues on.

"She helped us out, and convinced the king to help us out. There was an empty house in Snowdin, and so he gave it to us without a mortgage or anything. We've been here ever since," he says. "I took a few things from the lab with me when we came here, though—that's what all of this is. Just stuff from the lab that apparently belongs to me, but I have no recollection of."

            You glance at the pictures again. So... when he said that he didn't recognize them... it wasn't simply because time had worn the memories away.

"Wow..." you murmur. "That's... gotta be hard."

            "Heh. Yeah, you could say that," Sans says. "I don't know when I was born, so I have no idea how old I am. At a guess, I'd say early, maybe mid 20s. I think Paps is a little younger, but I have no idea by how much. And as for how young I was in these pictures... your guess is as good as mine."

You don't know what to say. What is there to say, really? 'I'm sorry for your loss?' Yeah, sure. Those words are among the few that always ring empty, no matter whose mouth they come out of.  So, instead, you scoot in closer, so that your legs are brushing, and then lean your head on his shoulder. He sighs quietly and wraps an arm around you, before turning and brushing his teeth against the top of your head.

            "...Does it bother you?" you ask eventually. Then you cringe, realizing how stupid a question that is. He wouldn't be sitting alone in the basement and meditating over pictures if it didn't bother him.

"Sorry!" you exclaim, trying to backpedal. "That was a really—"

            "No," Sans says gently, cutting you off. "No, don't apologize. You never need apologize for trying to understand me, okay? It's fine."

He nuzzles you gently, drawing a blush out of you.

            "It... does bother me," he admits. "More than it should. I know that I should just accept the fact that I've forgotten, and move on. It's been like this for years. If those memories hadn't returned by now, they never will. That's just my reality."

"But, at the same time..." he continues. "I... I just can't shake the feeling that something—someone—is missing. And that drives me crazy."

            He absentmindedly runs his fingers through your hair, and with the other, turns the pages in the album.

"There's someone important missing in these pictures. But I... I don't know who," he murmurs. "And it's that fact, above all others, that stings. How could I have forgotten about someone who was so close to me? It would be like forgetting about Paps, or forgetting about you. Somehow... it feels like I've betrayed him."

            Sans flinches, and slams the book shut. The movement startles you, and you sit bolt upright.

"...Sans?" you ask uncertainly, unnerved by his angry, dark eyesockets.

            "'Him,'" he repeats, teeth clenched. "I keep saying 'him.' Him who? Who is 'he?' Why can't I remember?!"

Sans' left iris flares to life, those mysterious blue flames making themselves known. The book is suddenly surrounded in a blue nimbus of energy, and Sans lifts his arm in preparation to throw it.

            "Sans, don't!" you exclaim, grabbing a hold of his outstretched arm. Sans gasps at your touch and his magic peters out, the once-floating album crashing onto the floor beside him.

"What were you thinking?!" you scold him. "I know you're upset, but that's still one of the only links you have to your past! Don't just throw it around!"

            Sans isn't listening to you. He's too preoccupied with the fallen book. His eyesockets are still dark as he reaches out for it, his hand badly shaking. Luminescent blue tears spring to his eyesockets as he picks up a separate piece of paper. It's badly wrinkled, and seems as if it had fallen out from between the album's pages when it fell. Sans makes a strangled croaking sound as he studies it. You watch as one tear falls, and then two.

"...Sans?" you whisper.

            He doesn't say anything right away. Instead, he turns the paper so you can see it. It's a sketch of three poorly drawn people. All of them appear to be skeletons (judging from the dark eyesockets, at least). The three figures are bunched together, as if just released from a group hug. The one on the far left is slightly taller than the one on the far right, and is wearing a huge smile on its face. The one on the far right is also smiling, though it doesn't seem to be quite as bad. In fact, the figure looks almost... melancholy, like it knows something the other two don't.
            It's the middle figure, however, that catches your attention. He towers over the other two, and has a strangely mutilated face. There are two large black lines leading away from its eyesockets, one of which is partially shut. He's wearing glasses, and his mouth is strangely slanted. Uneven. He wears some kind of labcoat, and he has his hands on the two other figures' shoulders. His hands... have holes in them.

The stroke work of the sketch is erratic and sloppy, as if the artist had been in a rush to finish it. However, the most haunting aspect of the drawing isn't the strange middle figure, or its creators apparent desperation. No, it's the words scribbled in the corner in a rounded handwriting. 'Don't forget.'

            "...That's my handwriting," Sans rasps. "I drew this."

He chuckles dryly, tears rolling unchecked down his cheeks. He turns the paper towards him again, empty eyesockets taking it all in.

            "Ironically, not only did I forget the person in the center, but I even forgot that I drew this in the first place," he says darkly, chuckling again. "Isn't that hilarious? It's like everything connected to him just... disappears. This time tomorrow, I'll have forgotten that the picture even exists. Again."

He continues to laugh. Then he slowly puts his head in his hands, and those chuckles transition into heart wrenching sobs. You're about to surge forward and comfort him when something... strange... happens. Something's shimmering in the air beside him. It remains like that for a few seconds—just a silver, shivery apparition in the air. Then, it takes a slightly more concrete form. You see a translucent, glitchy, barely recognizable humanoid figure. Or... a blob? Whatever it is, it has a strangely shifting black body, with white hands and a white head. You freeze, too afraid of the strange ghost-like figure to move.

            The figure crouches next to Sans, and then... lays a hand on his shoulder. Strange unintelligible whispers fill the room, making you shiver. Despite the skin-crawling creepiness of it, though, the figure doesn't strike you as dangerous. Quite the opposite, in fact, there's something about it that makes you feel nostalgic and sad, especially seeing it try and comfort Sans.
            Sans doesn't notice its presence. The figure seems saddened by the fact, and pulls away. Then... it turns to you, and your eyes widen as you catch sight of its face. Even though it's half-melted, globs of white slowly making their way down its cheeks... you still recognize it. You glance down at the drawing in Sans' lap, just to make sure. ...The resemblance is uncanny. You open your mouth to say something, and go to look back up at the apparition... only to find that it's disappeared.

And, as if a switch had been flipped in your head, you completely forget about the figure. You blink hard, finding yourself starting into space. Then you get annoyed with yourself. How could you zone out like that when Sans is having a meltdown right in front of you?!

            "Sans," you say gently, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Sans, it's going to be okay."

...That was weak. But for once, you have no idea what to say to comfort him. You've never been in his situation before, so how can you help him out of it? So, instead of trying to cheer him up with a barrage of kind words and positive assurances, you gently embrace him, and lightly press your forehead against the top of his skull.

            "I'm here."

Sans slowly comes out of his ball and returns your gesture, pulling you close. You sigh and gently stroke the back of his skull, allowing him to cry silently on your shoulder.

            "It's gonna be okay," you repeat. Sans sighs shakily, his grip tightening on you. "I love you, Sans."

He chuckles quietly and fits the bridge of his nose cavity into the curve of your neck.

            "I know."

He stays there for a while, nuzzling your collarbone as his tears slow to a stop. Eventually, his breathing steadies, and he pulls away, cheekbones airbrushed a familiar blue color.

            "I'm... sorry about that," he mutters, looking away. "That-uh... got out of hand."

"That's okay," you murmur, kissing him on the cheekbone. "Everyone needs to let loose sometimes. If keep bottling in your emotions like you have been, they're just going to explode."

            "...Wise words, as usual," he says, a smile slowly crossing his face.

"Just think of me like a giant teddy bear," you say. "I'm here for you when you need me."

            "A giant teddy bear, huh?" he asks mischievously. "Well... then I guess that means I get to do this!"

He pulls you against him so that your back is pressed against his rib cage, and then places the mandibles of his bony chin on the top of your head.

            "S-sans," you gasp, caught off guard.

He chuckles at your surprise, and you can feel the vibrations from the sound emanating from his ribcage. You purr contentedly in response, and he shivers as your own vibrations make contact with his sensitive ribs. You lean back slightly, planning to give him a surprise of your own—you figure his spine is just as sensitive as his ribs, and seeing as part of it serves as his neck... you get the feeling that kissing him there would send him into tizzy. Moments before you can, however, you phone goes off. You silently grumble at the bad timing, and reach into your back pocket.

            'DID YOU FIND SANS YET????'

...Even via text, Papyrus is loud.

            "...We should probably be getting back, huh?" Sans asks. He sounds mildly disappointed.

"I guess," you sigh. "We have been down here for a long time."

            Sans grunts as he shifts away from you, and you can hear his spine creaking as he stands up. Then he turns and offers you a hand, a shy grin on his face. You smile and take it, shifting your weight so that you swing up to meet him. Once you're on your feet again, though, you refuse to let go of Sans' hand. He seems confused at first... but then a tint of blue enters his cheekbones as he realizes what you want. He readjusts his grip, and then the two of you leave the basement behind, hand in hand.

???'s Perspective

            "✋❄ 🕈✌💧☠🕯❄ ✡⚐🕆☼ ☞✌🕆☹❄📬📬📬"

Author's Note

        *Notices that it's September 15th*       
        HAPPY FIRST BIRTHDAY, UNDERTALE!
        *Celebrates*
        Wait...
        *Remembers that I published it early.*
        Oh... uh...
        HAPPY EARLY BIRTHDAY, UNDERTALE!

        *Clears throat*

        Anyway... do you guys see what I mean about a crossover now? There may not have been anything MAJOR happening in this chapter in correlation to MGE, but I can guarentee you that it's coming. So if you haven't already, please, PLEASE, go check that out. I'm going to be concentrating on MGE for a while (I want to finish it ASAP so we can start WTSM back up again), so it may be a long time before I add in another oneshot written by me.

That's it guys! See you next time!

        ...What, you wanted to know the translation of the wingdings? I'd give them to you... but where's the fun in that? XD

        *Zana walks out of the room, giving all of you a smirk before she leaves.*