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Summary
It was always quiet for a bit before the real feud began. The two would measure the time they had silently until Papyrus would return before turning and glaring at one another, eyes narrow slits of dangerous color, Sans’ ruling the match, glowing blue orbs emitting dangerous smoke, Mettaton holding his ground with piercing pink eyes that threatened to shoot lasers, fingers clutching the couch cushions, manicured black nails ripping the fabric, holding him back from lunging and fist fighting with the short monster.
This time, however, Papyrus had forgotten an ingredient and ran out of the house, heading for a different village completely. They had at least an hour to kill. Literally.