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The comedy special on the TV is loud, breaking up the early-evening stillness of the skeleton brothers’ home. You lay on your back on the couch in the living room, scrolling through your phone with your feet tucked beneath Sans’ femurs. The afternoon has drifted by in mindless monotony, the two of you caught in the inescapable trap of hyperfixation. Sans, on his side of the couch, is in a boneless slump, reading one of his non-fiction books that he likes to hide from everyone but you and his brother. Every once in a while, his hand lifts to turn a page before lowering back to its position on your ankle, rubbing soothing circles into your skin. Other than the TV, the only sound is the quiet scratching of pen on paper as Sans takes notes on whatever he’s reading.
Speaking of his brother, Papyrus chooses that moment to arrive home, the front door slamming open, only stopped from putting (another) hole in the drywall by the valiant doorstop that Sans put in last week. He calls your name as he makes eye contact with you, greeting both you and his brother as he stops to remove his shoes by the door. Once properly de-shoe-d, he makes a beeline straight for you, folding his tall frame nearly in half and enveloping you into one of his signature hugs. You're stuck half-sitting up and half-reclined, but wind your arms around his boney shoulders anyway, hanging off of him and squeezing back just as hard.
“Welcome home, Paps! We missed you. How was Undyne?”
“HYPERACTIVE AND BOISTEROUS, AS USUAL. WE MAKE QUITE THE PAIR, SHE AND I! ALTHOUGH I AM THE ONE WITH SUPERIOR VOCABULARY. HOW WAS YOUR DAY?”
You snicker, releasing him from your hold and relating the daring tale of your afternoon laying on the couch like garbage. He tsks at you before turning to his brother, who is watching the two of you with a fond expression. Papyrus reaches down and grabs the top of Sans’ skull with one massive mitt, physically tilting his brother’s head up to meet his eyes.
You slap a hand to your mouth, trying to hold back laughter as you watch Sans go entirely limp. He leans all of his weight into Papyrus’ hand, the pressure of which being the only thing keeping the shorter skeleton off of the floor.
“heya paps,” Sans grins at his younger brother from beneath his outstretched arm, not a care in the world for what looks (to you, at least) like an uncomfortable position for his neck.
“AND WHAT OF YOU, LAZYBONES?? SURELY YOU DIDN’T SPEND ALL AFTERNOON BEING A BAD INFLUENCE?”
“nah, not all afternoon. i got up once to make pizza rolls.”
You hum, rubbing contented hands across your belly. They had been some bomb-ass pizza rolls.
“HMPH. UNSURPRISING.” Papyrus releases his brother, who flops comically over his lap with the loss of pressure. The younger skeleton ignores his antics with a practiced ease born of a lifetime spent with an annoying sibling, stepping back and placing his hands on his hips.
“WELL! NOW THAT I’M HERE YOU WON’T BE SUBJECTED TO PROCESSED GARBAGE. I WILL START ON DINNER FORTHWITH!” He spins and strides purposefully into the kitchen, the sound of rummaging and clanking following soon after.
“Uh oh,” you say, turning to grin at Sans. “He’s gonna make us do self-care.”
Sans still hasn’t moved from his folded position, and his voice is muffled by the fabric of his sweatpants.
“noooo, not the self-care,” he grumbles, turning his skull to meet your gaze with the most pitiful expression he could muster on his face. “if i have to shower i’ll die.”
“THEN I SUPPOSE YOU’LL JUST HAVE TO PERISH. SHOWER, PLEASE.” Papyrus’ voice carries easily from inside the kitchen. He waits for a minute before he peeks his head out of the open doorway, glaring at his brother—who is still folded and unmoving next to you.
Oh, no. You know that look. Sans stands no chance.
You salute your fellow soldier as he groans, setting his book aside and rolling off the couch in an attempt to get onto his feet without actually putting the effort into standing up. As he shuffles towards the stairs, he looks over his shoulder at you.
“remember me as i was.”
Papyrus huffs, leaning against the kitchen doorway and crossing his arms. “STARS ABOVE, I’M JUST ASKING YOU TO FRESHEN UP BEFORE DINNER!”
“but paps, my natural musk!”
“WE’RE SKELETONS, SANS. THE ONLY NATURAL MUSK YOU HAVE IS THE GREASE LEFTOVER FROM YOUR LUNCH, WHICH I CAN SMELL FROM ALL THE WAY OVER HERE!”
“ya don’t have a nose, pap.”
“IRRELEVANT!”
Sans groans dramatically (again) and begins hauling himself up the stairs, moving like every step was pure agony. He hams up his performance even more when the sound of your laughter carries above their conversation.
“Godspeed, soldier!” You call, laying your hand over your heart.
“AND DON’T FORGET TO SCRUB BETWEEN EACH PHALANX! I’M TIRED OF GREASY STAINS ALL OVER THE REMOTE!”
Muffed grumbling is his only response as Sans trudges to the shared bathroom upstairs. Despite his dawdling and complaining, you hear the sound of water running soon after. Papyrus lets out a good-natured sigh as he turns and heads back into the kitchen. With your skeletal foot-warmer otherwise occupied, you heave yourself off of the couch, digging around in the cushions for the remote (eugh, it does have greasy finger stains all over it. Poor Paps…) and turning off the TV.
You stand in the empty living room for a minute, trying to decide what you want to do. The small goblin running your brain wins out, and you wander into the kitchen in search of enrichment. Papyrus hears your feet against the linoleum and inclines his head to acknowledge your presence, his focus on the food prep in front of him.
“HONESTLY, HE ACTS LIKE I’M TRYING TO GET HIM TO RUN A MARATHON.”
He sounds so profoundly exasperated that you have to laugh.
“I’m sure it’ll take a marathon of scrubbing to get his bones clean. It’s been over a week.”
Papyrus shivers, letting out a soft “ech”. Your gossip was meant good-naturedly, of course—while the brothers didn’t technically need to shower, being made of magic, they still picked up dirt, and Papyrus was infamous for his meticulous daily grooming routine.
“What’s for dinner, Papaya?” You ask, smoothly changing the subject before the discussion of his brother’s hygiene could ruin Papyrus’ mood. You cross the kitchen as you speak, peeking around his shoulder to glance at what he was working on.
“MUSHROOM-STUFFED TORTELLINI! I FOUND THE RECIPE ONLINE.”
You let out a quiet breath of relief. As much as you love Undyne, her cooking style and recipes were decidedly…fire-inducing. Papyrus was certainly capable of making good food…when he wasn’t cooking with your fishy friend. The fire extinguisher in the corner would be spared from duty for another day.
“Want some help? I’ve got two free hands.” You roll up the sleeves of your shirt, wiggling your fingers at Papyrus when he turns to look at you.
“OF COURSE! COOKING TOGETHER IS AN EXCELLENT WAY TO GROW THE BOND OF FRIENDSHIP, AFTER ALL! THERE’S AN EXTRA APRON IN THE BOTTOM DRAWER! WASH YOUR HANDS FIRST, PLEASE.”
You do as he asks, tying on an apron (that was surely one of Sans’, the puns Papyrus makes are never so lazy) and vigorously scrubbing your hands before reporting for duty. Your skeletal companion has already prepared hand-made dough, and is currently working on mixing up the stuffing.
“Ready for orders, captain!” you chirp, warmth spreading through your chest as you see the sparkling light that blooms in his sockets.
“O-HO! HOW DILIGENT OF YOU, CADET! WELL THEN! YOU CAN CUT THE DOUGH INTO LITTLE SQUARES! BY THE TIME I’M DONE WITH THIS WE’LL BE READY TO ROLL THEM UP!”
The two of you descend into your tasks, the atmosphere of the kitchen sinking into a calm lull broken only by the soft sound of Papyrus’ humming. You’re so focused on your work that you miss the sound of the water shutting off upstairs. What you don’t miss, however, is the wet skeleton suddenly draped across your shoulders.
“EeeEEH!” you yelp, a truly hideous sound leaving your mouth as you instinctually move to shake him off. He just snickers back at you, hanging on tighter and rubbing his damp cheek against yours. Water drips from his skull and bare forearms all over your shoulders.
“SANS!” Papyrus crosses the kitchen in two steps, plucking his brother up by the scruff of his (damp) hoodie. Sans’ feet dangle off the ground but he doesn’t struggle, hanging calmly in his brother’s hold with a shit-eating grin on his teeth.
“c’mon pap, wha’s the big deal? ‘m all clean.”
“YOU KNOW WHAT THE ‘BIG DEAL’ IS, BROTHER! I WON’T HAVE MY LOVELY ASSISTANT BOTHERED BY YOUR SHENANIGANS! BESIDES,” Papyrus drops his brother, who lands smoothly on his feet with his hands already stuffed into the pockets of his hoodie, like this is a common occurrence (and in your experience, it is). “I KNOW ALL OF YOUR TRICKS BY NOW, YOU ABSOLUTE GREMLIN! HANDS TO YOURSELF IN MY KITCHEN!!!”
“aw, man. i jus’ thought i should share the love. don’t want them to be left out.”
“THAT’S NOT HOW THAT WORKS, SANS! PROPER BATHING REQUIRES A TUB!” Papyrus snatches up one of the kitchen towels, tossing it over the older skeleton’s skull.
“hm, i dunno, bro. sounds sudspicious to me.”
“UGH!! PUT SOME EFFORT INTO YOUR WORDPLAY FOR ONCE!!!” Papyrus pinches his nasal bone, and you reach up to pat his shoulder, glaring playfully at Sans as he peeks cheekily out from beneath the towel.
“Deep breaths, Papperoni.”
He heaves a weary sigh.
“I MUST RETURN TO MY PREPARATIONS. BROTHER, PLEASE TRY YOUR HARDEST TO BE NOT ANNOYING WHILE I DO SO.”
“heheh. can-do, paps.”
Now dry thanks to Papyrus' efforts, Sans slinks over to stand at your side and promptly leans his weight into your shoulder while he watches you work. You roll your eyes, whispering to him as you measure out small, even squares of dough.
“I thought Paps said not to be annoying.”
“mm, annoyin’ to him. he didn’t say anything about you, bud.”
You huff but leave him be. It wasn’t actually any real annoyance, and if you were honest, the warm buzz of his magic is comforting against your arm. The atmosphere in the kitchen settles back into a quiet lull as you finish up, and Papyrus finally steps over with a bowl of filling and some small spoons.
“THESE LOOK EXCELLENT, CADET, GREAT JOB!”
You thank him, stepping aside to allow him more room. Sans seems content to remain slumped against you, following your steps and expertly shifting his weight to maintain maximum lean potential despite your movement. You help Papyrus dole out the fillings for the dumplings, making sure each of your squares has a tiny blob of cheese-and-‘shroomy goodness.
“Come on, bone boy. Give us a hand.” You nudge Sans away with your elbow, freeing yourself from his weight. Sans, predictably, continues to stand there and run his mouth.
“eheh. stars, i wish i could pop my hand off at the carpals. that would’ve been perfect.”
“NO, IT WOULD NOT HAVE BEEN.”
“c’mon paps, for the bit!”
“THE ONLY BIT ALLOWED IN THIS KITCHEN IS THE SMALL-QUANTITY-OF-FOOD KIND!”
Always ready with a smart comment, that one. Sans chuckles and shuffles over to the counter as you plop down the last of the filling. Papyrus observes your shared work with pride, his hands on his boney hips.
“NOW! SLOTHFUL BROTHER AND VERY AWESOME CADET, YOUR MISSION IS TO FOLD SHUT THE DUMPLINGS WHILE I FINISH THE SAUCE!”
“aye aye, cap’n.”
Papyrus quickly shows the two of you how to fold the dough properly; wetting the edges so they stick, then pinching them together, and finally folding the wings over each other. You set into your task, the smell of cheese and garlic permeating the kitchen. Your stomach growls in response, and Sans chuckles at you.
In short order, the dumplings are made and ready to be dropped in the boiling water Papyrus had ready. He was always perfectly prepared; you don’t know how he does it. When you try it you always manage to waste several minutes standing around waiting for the water to boil.
“THERE’S NOT A LOT LEFT TO DO NOW; IF YOU TWO WOULD SET THE TABLE I’LL FINISH UP HERE! THANK YOU FOR YOUR HELP.”
“Sure thing Paps, it was my pleasure.”
You take off your apron and lay it over the counter before grabbing the sleeve of Sans’ hoodie and dragging him across the kitchen towards the cabinets where the brothers kept their plates. The older skeleton merely follows your lead, looking bemused as he allows you to stack plates into his arms. Burdened with this great responsibility, you shoo him off to the table while you grab glasses and fill them with everyone’s drink of choice.
By the time Papyrus has finished up at the stove, the table is set, and both you and Sans are seated patiently. Well, you are waiting patiently. Sans is dozing with his skull nestled into his arms, but you suppose that counts considering he isn’t actively trying to annoy his little brother.
Papyrus steps over to the table with the steaming pot balanced against his iliac crest and dishes out your tortellini—it’s absolutely bathed in garlic parmesan cream. Sans picks that moment to snort awake, his eyelights fuzzy as he watches you ferociously dig into your dinner.
“hey wait, why do they get served first?” he asks, his tone playful.
“BECAUSE THEY DID NOT SUBJECT ME TO LAZY WORDPLAY, BROTHER.”
“lazy?! i’ll have you know, baby bro, my wordplay is expertly curated. i’ve been knockin’ out plays-of-words since before you were a lil’ spark.”
“AND CLEARLY YOUR PRACTICE WAS ALL FOR NAUGHT!”
Sans shoots you a mischievous grin and tugs at the strings of his hoodie.
“knot cool bro. you can’t diss me like this in front of my best pal!”
“I CAN, AND I SHALL!”
Dinner and a show, it seems. You’re sure even the neighbors can hear the sound of your laughter as it carries over their good-natured bickering.
~*~
After dinner, you and the boys migrate back to the living room, full and satisfied from a hearty, delicious meal. Sans has shortcut himself into the beat-up La-Z-Boy in the corner, unwilling to make the trek with so much food in…uh… wherever their food goes. You don’t have the brainpower right now to recall the explanation they gave you; that ability has tragically been stolen by carbohydrates. He’s already comfy and boneless (ha) as you approach, and you eye him with jealousy. What you wouldn’t give to not have to hobble around right now. You return to your earlier position on the couch, settling back into your spot (and it was your spot now, you’ve been working on breaking in a perfectly defined butt-print in the old cushions, thank you).
As you let yourself sink into your plushy haven, Papyrus emerges from the kitchen clutching something in his mitts. He looks up from the parcel and catches sight of you, and… wow, you can see the exact moment that his soul is overwhelmed with exasperation.
“UGH, YOU TWO! I STEP AWAY FOR TWO MINUTES AND YOU’RE ALREADY SUCCUMBING TO YOUR SLOTH!!”
Sans proceeds to let out the loudest, fakest-sounding snore you’ve ever heard, and you can’t hold back your laughter. Papyrus’ look of resignation is just the icing on the cake.
“Sorry Pap,” you snicker, not at all sorry. “What do you have there?”
At the mention of his cargo, he perks up again, the brewing lecture over your laziness forgotten.
“I JUST REMEMBERED, I FOUND SOMETHING VERY SPECIAL WHEN I WAS DIGGING AROUND IN THE CAPTURE ZONE EARLIER!”
Sans stops his terrible fake snoring and cracks open a socket, the lone eyelight in its depths shifting towards you.
“he means the garage.”
“WHATEVER!”
Papyrus gently unwraps the parcel and holds up what looks to be a small, timeworn book, little bits of paper peeking out of many of the pages. Sans seems to know what it is immediately; he shoots out of his lazy slouch, excitement making his eyelights sparkle.
“oh, shit! no way, i thought we’d lost it!”
“WE WOULD HAVE, WERE IT NOT FOR MY SUPERIOR SEARCHING SKILLS. I’M LIKE… A SLIGHTLY COOLER VERSION OF A TRACKING BLOODHOUND! …WITHOUT THE HOUND PART. OR, ER, THE BLOOD. ANYWAY!!”
Papyrus presents the book to Sans with a little bow and dramatic flick of his wrist.
“...you’re so cool, bro.”
“I KNOW. NOW, QUICKLY, OPEN IT! I WISH FOR OUR HUMAN TO BE REGALED WITH EPIC TALES OF MY TIME AS A TINY BABYBONES!!” Papyrus folds himself onto the opposite side of the couch and pats the fabric next to him encouragingly.
Sans’ chuckle is fond, and you hear it echo in two ears at once as he shortcuts over to the middle of the couch. He sits cross-legged on the cushion next to you and opens the book, an excited energy radiating off of him that you’ve only seen a select few times before. You lean into his shoulder, tucking your feet off to the side as you observe the mystery book that has them both so happy.
It’s filled to bursting with old polaroids, newspaper clippings, and magazine cutouts of cars and superheroes glued haphazardly by hyper little phalanges. You shift your gaze along the page, trying to take in as much as possible before your eyes come to rest on a photo that Sans is softly brushing his fingers over. You realize with a start that the little skeletons you see in that photo… had to be the brothers themselves.
Oh, your heart. They were so tiny, looking up at the camera with wide, expressive eyelights and huge grins on their faces. Papyrus looked to be just old enough to start teetering around, his little hands fisted in the loose material of Sans’ baggy t-shirt, using his hold on his brother to keep himself upright. Sans was obviously a bit older, his trademark grin already stretched across his face and his skinny arm clutching Papyrus close. The background was too blurry to make out (and it almost gave you a headache to focus too much on the ink-like darkness…), but the boys themselves were captured in perfect clarity.
“I DON’T REMEMBER THIS ONE, OBVIOUSLY. I LOOK MUCH TOO TINY TO BE CAPABLE OF ANYTHING OTHER THAN BABBLING AND BEING ADORABLE.”
“You were so baby,” you grin at him. He reaches over to tweak your nose in response.
“YOU WOULD KNOW.”
“this was when we were still pretty young, back in new home.” Sans lets out a low hum, his eyelights going fuzzy as he thinks. “don’t remember much from back then. ‘lotta blurry memories of someone takin’ care of me, n’ then paps of course, but not much else. wasn’t too soon after that we, ah…had a lil’ change of scenery.”
You don’t say anything in response, simply squeezing his forearm through the sleeve of his hoodie. You know that time was still a sore, bitter topic for him. He huffs good-naturedly, shaking himself and letting the accompanying rattle of his bones clear the air before he turns to a new page.
One photo was a bit dark and hard to make out, but after a few moments you think you know what you’re looking at. It was a candid shot of a small skeleton—judging by the shape of the skull you’d bet it was Papyrus. His tiny little eyelights have burst into sparkling stars as he holds up a scratched and dented toy car. The very next shot is him turning to the camera and holding up his prize, the excitement causing his little bones to vibrate, if the motion blur of the photo is any indication.
“SANS ALWAYS KNEW THE BEST SPOTS TO SCAVENGE! HE WAS ALWAYS LUGGING HEAVY BOOKS AND ELECTRONICS BACK TO OUR HIDEOUT.” Papyrus gleefully jabs a phalange into the picture you’re looking at. “THIS WAS THE FIRST MODEL CAR I FOUND! THE BEGINNING OF MY COLLECTION, THE START OF AN ERA!”
“Truly a historic moment,” you smile at him over Sans’ skull, though privately, your thoughts are tinged with sorrow. These boys grew up digging for toys in literal trash heaps. Their books were water-damaged, torn up castoffs that humans threw out. And still… all of it was so cherished, treated with care and gentleness, repaired and reused…
Sans notices your dip into melancholy right away, hyper-aware of the shift of your eyebrows and the miniscule downturn of your lips. He knows you, familiar enough with your brain and thoughts by now. Reading you was easy; you were one of his people, after all.
He nudges you with his arm.
“Gold for your thoughts, bud?”
You jump slightly, not expecting the attention in the room to shift to you so suddenly, and you flounder for a bit searching for a way to verbalize your thoughts.
“I, uh, guess I was just…thinking about the whole…digging-through-garbage thing. For…f-for you guys, and monsters in general. How unfair it is that you had to live like that.”
You don’t lift your gaze from your lap, curling in on yourself. Sans makes a thoughtful sound, twisting to face you. He gives you a comforting pat on your leg.
“it wasn’t all bad. the situation wasn’t ideal, sure, but monsters are a resourceful lot.”
“I know, I just… you were babies. You… everyone… deserved better.”
Sans shrugs, leaning into you.
“yeah, we did. but we made do with what we had, and that’s okay. we’re here now, n’ we’ve got good food, great friends, a house full’a laughter… i think it turned out pretty rad, ya know?”
“I guess,” you mumble.
“I Know You’re Upset Because You Care, But We Don’t Want You To Wind Yourself Into A Spherical-Shaped Object Over This. We Took Our Circumstances And Built Up Something Beautiful. We Never Gave Up! That’s Something To Be Proud Of.” Papyrus’ usually boisterous voice is soft and thoughtful, and he reaches over his brother to ruffle your hair.
You laugh shakily, shooing the tall skeleton’s hand away.
“Yeah, I… you’re right. Sorry for being so…” You gesture vaguely.
“nah,” Sans grins at you. “your thoughts are important to us.”
Papyrus chimes in, back to his usual, confident self. “WE DON’T WANT YOU HIDING THE WAY YOU FEEL BECAUSE YOU THINK WE WON’T LIKE THE WAY YOU EXPRESS YOURSELF! I WANT YOU TO FEEL SAFE WITH US!”
Aw, man. These two. You smile at them both, rubbing at your suddenly-moist cheeks.
“I do.”
You’re rewarded with a huge, sunny smile from Papyrus, and fond, fuzzy eyelights from his brother.
“EXCELLENT!! I CAN’T HAVE MY TRUSTY CADET FEELING UNSAFE IN THEIR ENVIRONMENT, AFTER ALL! THAT WOULD BE IRRESPONSIBLE. AND ALSO AWFUL??”
Papyrus leaps up off the couch, stepping over and lifting you up into his arms. You slump against him, suspended off the floor and laughing into his shoulder.
Sans speaks up from behind you, in a tone you know far too well by now.
“ya know, speaking of feeling unsafe in your environment…i ever tell ya about when i first started teaching paps magic?”
The skeleton holding you freezes, and you lift your face to see him watching his brother with squinted, suspicious sockets.
“eh, we had fun, didn't we pap? had ourselves a real… blast.”
Uh oh. Papyrus’ face was starting to flush with magic.
“DON’T YOU DARE.”
You look over your shoulder and see for yourself the mischief sparkling in Sans’ eyelights; he’s never been one to pass up on teasing his baby brother.
“hey, c’mon bro, ya don’t hafta be so hot-headed.”
“DO. NOT.”
Sans leans back, slotting both hands behind his skull. His grin makes you wonder if you’re witnessing the face of pure evil itself.
“it’s ok. happens to everyone, s’ what i told him at the time. i had several… incidents too, but, heheh…at least i didn’t set a couch on fire.”
“YOU!!! FIEND!!!!”
Papyrus sets you back on your feet, stomping his booted foot.
“AT LEAST I DON’T REGULARLY LOSE MY CLOTHES IN AN ACCIDENTALLY CREATED POCKET DIMENSION BETWEEN THE COUCH CUSHIONS!!”
As the conversation devolves into increasingly implausible physics-and-time-bending shenanigans, you find yourself drifting, reflecting on your life since you stumbled into this calcium-filled chaos. There was never a dull moment; always something to laugh about or banter over, always some insane plan or mad-scientist invention to test. In the back of your mind, your doubts and insecurities whisper to you; those thoughts that always seem to come out at night and especially when you’re alone… but then Sans tells a lame, half-assed joke and Papyrus reaches over to grip his brother’s entire face in an effort to shut him up, and you think—with your cheeks aching from the stretch of your smile, ribs hurting from yet another night full of laughter—that everything’s gonna be okay.