Chapter Text
You've seen this too many times to count. You're not even sure you would want to count- how could someone play out the same scenes over and over again, like a perfectly rehearsed play, each time easier to do and faster to complete than the last. Of course, you always give them trouble. It takes tens, maybe hundreds of tries before you crumble. You're proud. You stalled them. So did everyone else, but a guy can have some credit.
But pride means nothing here. Pride lasts a second before the gut-clenching reminder hits: you'll have to do this again. And again. And again and again and again and again and again until a week passes and they grow bored and there is no child or what was once a child. Now they deserve the same title as you. Monster.
Every time after the last, everything seems easier to them. Their soul gets that much harder to break when you're following something like a schedule. You go here, you wait until then, you die now. You do everything in a perfect order. You and everyone you know are cogs in a perfectly oiled death machine. Actors in a play that gets performed every day, maybe only hours apart.
Maybe this time the show could use some improv.
You see the signs, as you always do. Monsters flee into their homes. They speak only in hushed whispers of the human, the one who tiptoed out of the ruins covered in white dust with something plastic at their side. You greet them as you always do. You will your hand not to crush their tinier one as you shake it, giving your best grin as the whoopee cushion sounds. There is no laughter. Papyrus comes and he plays his part even if he doesn't know it. He always does. He's the most loyal guy you know, that you'll ever know at this rate. You don't tell him your plan. What would he do? He doesn't know what happens here, how determined that child is to coat their glove-covered knuckles in the white powder that used to be a bright-eyed skeleton that only wanted to help. You know. Flowey knows. Did the woman behind the door know? Does the king know? You can never bring yourself to ask.
You wait until the very last moment. You don't watch them ransack your town- your home. Not this time, anyway; you have before and it only made you more determined. That didn't help out in the long run. You almost got reckless at the end, but you stuck true and you've ended up here again.
You've only seen this fight once before. Papyrus, even with how he is, is a very capable of fighter. He usually is, anyway. The one time you stuck around and peered through the thinning fog, you saw the exasperation on his face as they pummeled him mercilessly. Blue didn't mean anything. They already knew everything he would throw at them. Before his soul gave out you swore he saw you, staying far behind, knowing what would happening if you dared approach. Empty sockets stared in shock as you stood stock-still, hands in pockets, not moving a muscle in case they would notice. He didn't, still doesn't know of what you were, are capable of but still his eyes asked why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Why? Until he was nothing but sand on snow. They didn't even wipe off their shoe as they passed over him. You've never watched again.
Until now. The very last moment. Again, you're waiting behind that thing, hidden in the fog. Papyrus seems so tired. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries to dodge, his soul can't take much more of it. Some part of you regrets letting this go on so long, but if you'd come in in the beginning, who knows what would have happened. They reel their fist back as Papyrus collects his thoughts and his breath. He doesn't see. You do.
Who knew a solid hit to the rib cage could rattle a guy so badly?
You're on your knees before you know it, the kid steps back and pauses. It's the first real surprise since their first run down this timeline. You haven't seen shock like that in who knows how long. You turn your head toward Papyrus and see a similar expression on his face, eyes comically wide and mouth agape, and all you can do is flash him your usual smug grin without any hint of the smug part. As good as you usually are at keeping yourself together, you can feel your bones and your very soul begin to shiver and crack. There's no point in standing anymore and it only wastes energy. You sit, instead, on cold snow.
Papyrus reacts before the kid and he goes up to you, face unchanging as his hands go to your shoulders before one moves to where the hit landed, where a crack widens. You think he's asking you why you did that but it's not like you can hear anymore. This is how it goes. Your hand pats his slowly and you're sure you whisper something cool and throwback-y like be good.
Papyrus is the most loyal guy you know. Maybe he'll do better.
Turning to powder doesn't come all at once, but it does start at the head.