Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He doesn’t know what happened.

He doesn’t know what happened, but he’s in strange woods that look too much like his own, in a strange place that looks too much like his own, with a strange skeleton that looks way too much like him standing in front of him, blinking down at him where he’s sitting huddled against a tree.

He doesn’t know what happened. But he knows that it wasn’t supposed to happen. He knows vaguely about other timelines and resets and such, but nothing like this (it’s not that farfetched of an idea but it’s so weird, it’s so weird and he doesn’t know what to do).

There’s an odd version of himself standing in front of him and asking if he’s alright, because he looks kind of scared, and wow we look really alike, are you hungry, are you hurt, wait I’ll be right back I gotta go get my brother.

And then he is alone again, and he’s still very confused, and he still doesn’t know what happened.

Something bad, because these are not his woods and this is not his town, even the snow underneath him seems off somehow, and he should be at his station right now, and Papyrus will kill him if he doesn’t get back to work, and he doesn’t know what happened.

And he’s so focused on his problems that he doesn’t see anyone approaching until they’re practically right on top of him. He hears the crunch of snow under someone’s foot, and look up to see— Papyrus. But… not Papyrus.

Someone who looks an awful lot like Papyrus, startlingly like Papyrus, scarily like Papyrus, but instead of pointed armor and clawed gloves, this Not-Papyrus is wearing… an orange hoodie?? And sneakers?? With a lit cigarette between his teeth and a look of surprise on his face, like he isn’t unfairly tall and seems like he could crush him under his foot if he wanted to.

Instinct makes him shrink back against the tree trunk. Instinct does not make him cower. He does that pathetically on his own. He hates it.

Not-Papyrus stares down at him for a moment, before shifting his weight onto one leg and rolling the cigarette between his teeth.

“Hey,” he says, and what kind of thing is ‘hey’ to come from the mouth of someone like him, it’s so casual, too casual, and it makes him surprisingly angry, makes him want to yank that annoying cigarette (he used to smoke, back in the day, before his brother found out and left him with a crushed pile of ash and a few idle threats not to waste his time like that again) out of his mouth and crush it under his foot.

“…What?”

The skeleton blinks, “My bro said something about a look-alike in the woods. I take it you’re him?”

“What… what is with you?” he asks, because what is with him? He’s really tall and intimidating looking, even with that stupid droop to his eyes and bright orange jacket, and instead of yelling or fighting him he’s just staring.

Not-Papyrus takes a step forwards, and sans hates the way he flinches back. And hates the way Not-Papyrus catches it.

“What d’you mean?” he asks in that too casual tone.

“I mean,” he gestures vaguely at his clothes and lazy posture and dumb sneakers and everything else so wrong about him, “Why are you like this? What’re you doing? What is this?”

“I’m… not sure, actually.” Not-Papyrus answers slowly, rubbing the back of his skull, “But are you alright? You seem kinda tense.”

And sans wants to laugh at that, he really does, he wants to laugh because of course he’s fucking tense, he doesn’t know what’s going on, there’s another him and another Papyrus who’s looking at him like he doesn’t want to startle him and he doesn’t know what’s going on.

He wants to laugh, but he settles for a snort and shifting further against the tree behind him. Not-Papyrus regards him for a moment, and he feels like he’s being put on display. Eventually, he steps closer and extends an arm and says:

“Hey, do you… do you wanna come home? Sans is probably making you something to eat, and you look like you need rest.”

His voice sound ridiculously soft and what kind of monster is he to offer something like that— what kind of place is this to allow something like that?

He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want to go anywhere with this Not-Papyrus. But he also doesn't wat to stay out here in the snow. Slowly, without accepting the hand held out to him, he climbs to his feet, stands, hands curled protectively around his torso, and nods.

Not-Papyrus withdraws his hand and shoves it back into his pocket, before turning and starting to walk away. He throws a hand over his shoulder in a gesture to follow him.

And after a moment’s hesitation, he does.

This Other Sans is odd. This Other Sans is really excitable and sort of loud and is very adamant about his cooking. This Other Sans is bouncy and kind of annoying in an endearing sort of way, and insists he sit on the couch and eat his tacos and rest up even though he’s barely said two words to the guy, even though he doesn’t know him, even though he could attack if he wanted to.

(He notices that their door is unlocked. Their shutters are open. Their windows are unlocked too.)

(They wouldn’t last a day where he came from.)

This Not-Papyrus pats this Other Sans’ head affectionately and eats his vaguely shitty tacos (the meat is a little overcooked and he wouldn’t eat them if he wasn’t actually really hungry because he hadn’t eaten in a day or two because his brother had been mad at him and given him extra work so he couldn’t go to Grillby’s and they didn’t have shit in the kitchen) and smiles this lazy smile when Other Sans says something about him falling asleep at his station.

It’s unnerving. He can feel the dumb brotherly affection in the air and it makes him want to throw up.

“So Red,” Not-Papyrus begins, and sans’ head shoots up, “How’d you wind up—“

“What did you just call me?” he interrupts, and almost immediately regrets it, because now his eyes are on him.

“I gotta tell you apart somehow. Don’t wanna have to specify which sans I’m talking to every time I say something.” the casual edge to his tone makes him… less intimidating, somehow.

“What kinda name is that, though? It sounds like a damn pet name or some shit.”

“Language!” comes Other Sans’ voice from the kitchen, and that makes him pull his legs to his chest, annoyed.

Not-Papyrus shrugs. “It’s better then like, ‘sans number two’ or something.”

sans just shrinks back into the couch cushion.

No, he doesn’t know how he got here, he says.

Not-Papyrus asks if he knows about other timelines and stuff, and yes, he answers quietly, he does, and yes, he has a machine, too and no, he didn’t mean to come here, and yes, he has a Papyrus— and his Papyrus is a lot more intimidating than you are, probably a lot more powerful, might be looking for me, might not be, might kick my ass when I get back because I’m not at my station right now like I should be.

And Not-Papyrus looks vaguely troubled at that, and sans hates it.

He stands up and sans fucking flinches again and he hates it, he hates how This Papyrus looks at him, he hates it.

It’s kinda weird having another sans here, he says, but until we find a way to get you back home, you can stay here.

sans doesn’t want to. But he doesn’t have anywhere else to go. and the couch is way more comfortable than his own. And he’s used to doing things he doesn't want to anyways, so it doesn’t matter.

After a moment’s hesitation, he says: sure.

He dreams about cracked skulls and shaking hands and disappointment, little kids and flowers and snow under his shoes, and he wakes up to a clatter in the kitchen that he almost mistakes for his Papyrus, almost thinks he fell asleep on the couch and almost thinks he should hurry upstairs because Papyrus hates it when he does that.

But then he sees a flash of a blue scarf and feels the comfier couch underneath him and oh yeah. He hates that he feels something like relief. He doesn’t want to be here. But he doesn’t want to be on his own couch either.

He doesn’t know where he wants to be.

Other Sans offers him something he calls Breakfast Tacos, which sans declines, and almost feels bad about the flash of disappointment that crosses his face. Almost.

Other Sans eats and then says something about how he should make himself at home and about going on patrol and then he’s gone.

Not-Papyrus comes down and pulls out a bottle of honey (???) from a cabinet and then sits next to him on the couch, far on the other side, which maybe sans is grateful for. Not-Papyrus downs half the bottle of honey, and then exchanges that bottle with another cigarette that he pulled from his pocket (????) and lights it and leans back, and looks way too at peace.

He doesn’t say a word to him other than a slight nod of his head in greeting. sans doesn’t like the silence, and focuses on the smoke and the way it curls into the air.

“You want one?” Not-Papyrus asks when he notices him staring, and it takes sans a moment to realize he’s talking to him, and talking about the cigarette.

He nods, takes one from his outstretched hand, and looks at it for a moment. A Papyrus offering him a cigarette when his Papyrus would snatch it out of his hand and grind it into the dirt. A Papyrus doing something that another one would disapprove of, a Papyrus helping sans do something another one would disapprove of— some kind of poetic irony.

He puts the cigarette between his teeth and breathes, and wants to laugh at himself.

There’s nothing poetic about this.

There is nothing poetic about the sting on his cheek or the clawed handprint that lingers there, the carpet rubbing against that cheek or his own hand digging into the floor so he has something to hold onto. There is nothing poetic about a silhouette of pointed shoulders and curled hands or cracks running up the back of his skull or the chips in his spine. There is nothing poetic about a world of killed or be killed, so there’s nothing poetic about a world of sunshine and butterflies and ridiculous doppelgängers. 

The only thing it is, is some sort of disgustingly twisted. A Papyrus that isn’t hellbent on the title of Captain of the goddamn Royal Guard, that isn’t willing to crush anything or anyone that gets in his way, a Papyrus who doesn’t treat his brother like yesterday’s garbage, even if at least half of it is something he’s forgotten is just for show— hah! It’s so disgusting it’s almost laughable, but a part of him thinks that if he laughs he might cry instead, and he doesn’t think he buys the whole Nice Papyrus act yet. Because a nice Papyrus. Well, that’s like a sunny motivated excited sans. Ridiculous, and unbelievable, and right before his eyes.

He watches his own smoke curl into the air and ignores the skeleton sitting next to him.

A nice Papyrus. He wonders if he’s planning to interrogate him or something. Get some sort of answer from him that he doesn’t have. He wonders what his angle its. He wonders why he’s not at work, like Other Sans is. He pulls his jacket tighter around himself and wonders what he’s gonna do, how he’s gonna get back.

(He wonders if his Papyrus is worried about him, or if he’s happy he’s finally gone. He doesn’t know which one he would prefer.)

“Whatcha thinking about?”

He glances over at Not-Papyrus, who glances back at him.

“What?” he thinks he’s been saying that a lot lately.

“You look worried about something.” he remarks, and takes another drag, “And kind of afraid that I’m gonna hurt you or something.” quieter, this time.

“…Are you?” 

Not-Papyrus blinks, like it’s such a farfetched idea when he was the one who suggested it in the first place, “No. Why would I?”

sans looks away, and shrugs, “I’m some strange monster from another damn universe who just showed up. What if I attacked you or something? What if I attacked your sans?”

He sees him tense from the corner of his eye. “You didn’t, though.”

“Yeah, but I could’ve. And you two didn’t even think about that, did you? I could’ve, and you let me sleep on your damn couch, for god’s sake.”

“We’re not monsters— I mean, technically we are— but we wouldn’t leave someone out in the snow like that.”

“Why not?” he asks simply, and Not-Papyrus seems surprised.

“Why would we?”

“I mean… you don’t just do something like that. You don’t let a stranger into your house— you don’t keep you damn door unlocked. How have you survived this long? It’s ridiculous.”

There’s a long silence, and sans can feel the taller skeleton’s eyes on him, searching. Just as the silence gets too heavy, he says:

“I don’t know what it’s like where you’re from, but we don’t worry about that kind of thing here. Snowdin is a pretty chill place, the people are nice.”

He looks over, “…Was that a joke?”

Not-Papyrus winks- winks- at him, “It was, actually. I’m glad you noticed.”

sans huffs. Papyrus always hated it when he used to make dumb puns like that. He stopped a while ago.

He feels something like a rush of anger in his bones— this world, this excuse for a Papyrus, he has it so easy; he can make dumb jokes and slack off without consequence, he can keep his dumb door and windows unlocked, he can pat his brother’s head and take in a stranger, and acts like it’s no big deal. He has no fucking idea what the real world is like, what it’s like to have to keep your shutters locked tight, what nighttime is really like, why it’s dangerous, a death sentence to be out at night by yourself.

He and This Sans, they have no fucking clue.

“…You alright there buddy?” sans flinches at the sudden sound.

“Don’t call me that.” he says.

Not-Papyrus falls silent. For a moment, sans fears he’s done something wrong again, but the silence remains. Not-Papyrus exchanges the cigarette for the honey again.

sans hates it, but is glad he doesn’t have to talk anymore.

He doesn’t know how to feel around this person.

He dreams about flashes of what used to be, about some semblance of peace and about cracks in that peace, he dreams about hands pushing against skulls, about suffocating, about fingers clawing against a boney arm. He wakes up gasping for breath, sprawled out on a couch that isn’t his in a world that isn’t his. It’s still nighttime— or so he assumes, because Other Sans was up pretty early yesterday, and he’s still in his room.

sans tries to slow his breath and swallow his unnecessary fear. He pulls the blanket that had been draped over him sometime during the night over his head and curls up underneath it. He is pathetic, caving in on himself like a child afraid of the dark, and he hates it.

It’s not much, but he feels safer here than he does in his own house anymore, and he hates that too.

He hates a lot of things, but he thinks he hates his own fear the most, because he shouldn’t have to. He shouldn’t have to fear his dreams or his house or his job. He shouldn’t have to fear his life. He shouldn’t have to fear his brother (and when did that happen, he wonders), but he does, and he hates it.

He hates Papyrus a little bit for it, and he hates himself for fucking up so badly and letting whatever it is that happened happen.

He doesn’t sleep for the rest of the night, but closes his eyes and pretends to when Other Sans marches down the stairs.

(He really should come up with a better name for him. Something to do with the color blue, since Not-Papyrus had been oh so clever with his stupid nickname.)

“Have any idea what you’re gonna do to get back to your timeline?”

sans looks away from the excitable robot on the television. Other Sans does too, from where he’s sitting on the edge of his seat— he really seems to like this show.

“Want me gone so soon?” he says.

“Of course not!” Other Sans pipes up, eyes wide.

“Yeah, I was just wondering.” Not-Papyrus says, “Thought you might be eager to get back— y’know, your brother might be worried and all that.”

“Oh! You have a Papyrus too?” Blue Sans (something to do with color— didn’t sound about right though) asks, sounding excited.

sans snorts, leaning back, “Yeah, but I doubt he’s worried. Probably glad to finally be rid of me.”

Both skeletons fall silent. He sees them exchange worried (??) glances, and blinks.

“…What? Did I say something wrong?”

Blue Sans shakes his head quickly, “No, no, it’s just… he really wouldn’t be worried?”

“Nah. Wouldn’t be around to embarrass him anymore. Or hold him back.”

“But… he’s your brother.”

“Yeah, well,” sans pulls his hood over his head on instinct- protective instinct, a shield- and then pulls it back down, “He stopped thinking of me as a brother a long time ago, I think. I’m more of an… inconvenience nowadays. Don’t know why he still keeps me around.”

He doesn’t know why he’s telling them any of this. It doesn’t matter, and he doesn’t like the looks they keep giving each other, like he isn’t right in front of them.

“But he’s your brother,” Blue (blue something, something was missing— blueberry, maybe?) Sans insists.

“That doesn’t mean much there. Not if you’re weak.”

“But…” he sounds almost desperate now, for some reason, like he can’t wrap his head around it, “But he’s your—“

“Brother, I know.” his patience snaps, “I get it, alright? It’s fucked. But that’s just the way it is— it doesn’t matter. He keeps me around to do his work— and sometimes as a punching bag or something to fuck, okay? I’ll bet he’s real disappointed he lost that, but he can find someone else if he misses it so much.”

Blueberry Sans freezes. Not-Papyrus freezes. sans freezes. All the freezing might’ve been funny, in a different situation.

He regrets his words as soon as they leave his mouth, regrets opening his stupid mouth in the first place. He’s such a fucking idiot— what if they kick him out now, what if they’re disgusted, what if they were regretting not leaving him in the woods?

“Shit…” he hears Not-Papyrus mutter; he stares intently at the ground (a blow or something, maybe a kick, maybe some yelling, he shouldn’t have opened his mouth shouldn’t have gotten angry he’s so stupid so stupid).

He jumps when he feels a hand on his shoulder, and nearly hits Blueberry Sans in the face by accident before he catches himself. He notices vaguely that his hands are shaking. Notices vaguely that his body is shaking as the other skeleton slowly wraps his arms around him.

“I’m sorry,” he feels him mumble into his shoulder, “I’m really sorry, I shouldn’t have pushed you, I’m sorry.”

sans blinks, sort of shocked, sort of confused, sort of embarrassed?? He swallows, and risks a glance up to see Not-Papyrus looking at him in a way he can’t place, eye sockets drawn up in concern and vague horror.

And then Not-Papyrus stands up and walks over and sits on his other side, and slowly copies his brother’s movements, giving him plenty of time to pull away. And then there are two skeletons hugging him and he’s sort of cocooned in place and sort of doesn’t know what to do?? Because?? This is really weird?? And he didn’t even say anything all that hug-inducing?? And??

And he doesn’t know what to say, or what to do, because there are two weird skeletons hanging off of him and this has never happened before and they barely know him and they’re trying to offer him some sort of weird comfort, so he decides to just not say or do anything, just sort of sinks into the warmth.

It’s weird. And maybe kind of nice?? But also weird.

And maybe kind of nice.

Maybe.

Not-Papyrus stays on the couch with him long after Blueberry (he’s sticking with that one, it suits him for some reason) is done apologizing and goes to bed— after some more apologizing.

He’s fallen subconsciously against his chest, leaning into the warmth of his hoodie. Long fingers stroke the side of his skull comfortingly, and for once he finds he doesn’t mind the touch of someone else.

He sighs lightly, kind of… kind of content. He’s leaning on a stranger, in a strange house, in a strange world, but… but it’s nice.

“I’m sorry too,” he hears the taller skeleton say, softly, like he doesn’t want to disturb anything.

“What?”

“About your brother,” he sounds hesitant, hands sliding down to his neck, rubbing in small soothing circles, “I’m sorry. He shouldn’t… I’m just… sorry. You don’t deserve that.”

sans would shrug if he had the energy. Instead he just grunt half-heartedly, “It’s not like it’s your fault. And… I do deserve some of it, at least. It’s my fault he’s like that. I just… wasn’t a good enough brother, I guess. And it’s just the world we live in.”

“But it shouldn’t be like that.” Papyrus ( Orange Papyrus??) says, “It shouldn’t have to be like that. And you don’t deserve it.”

sans sighs, but doesn’t say anything more.

The hands move up again, this time along the cracks in his skull, gently. sans shivers.

“How’d you get these?” he asks quietly, like he’s not sure he wants to know the answer.

There’s a pause, “…I dunno. Fucked up something bad, probably. I think it might’ve actually been the Doc that time. I don’t really remember. Hurt like hell, though.”

Orange Papyrus makes a sad kind of sound, “The Doc?” he asks after a moment, “Like… Gaster?”

“Yeah. You have one of him here?”

It’s Orange Papyrus’ (he needs a better name) turn to pause, “I think so. Only know a little here and there— scientist, fell into the Core. No one really remembers him.”

Huh.

“Huh.” he says, “Wish our Gaster fell into the Core.”

Papyrus doesn’t press, only hums and strokes that one place near the base of his skull that has sans shivering again and nuzzling further into the hoodie.

“Hey, do you… do you want to stay?” he almost doesn’t catch it.

But he does, and he glances up in surprise.

“You barely know me.”

Papyrus shrugs, “I know enough. I know you really shouldn’t go back there. You’re a good guy, Red.”

sans huffs at the stupid nickname and looks away, “I’m really not.”

“Still. You should stay. I’m sure Sans would love it, and we’re not quite sure how to send you back, anyways.”

“But…”

“Give it some thought. Until we find a way. Once we do, you can decide. I’m not gonna force you into anything.”

sans doesn’t say anything, because. Because maybe a part of him wants to stay.

He hasn’t felt this safe in a long time. He hasn’t felt this wanted in a long time.

It’s weird, but it’s nice. It’s warm, not the kind of warm that comes with the friction of bone against carpet or the warm that comes with stress, but a calm sort of warm.

“…I dunno. I’ll think about it.”

He thinks he sees Papyrus smile.

He thinks maybe he smiles a little too.

Chapter Text

He still doesn’t know what happened.

He still barely knows where he is— some kinda alternate universe, a weird copy of his own, yeah, not all that surprising really, but. But he still doesn't know who these skeletons are, apart from their names and uncannily familiar appearances. And he still doesn’t know how to feel about them, about this, about all of it.

These monsters are friendly and vaguely cautious around him the next morning, vaguely careful about what they say— he doesn’t know if he’s grateful or kind of angry that they’re treating him like something delicate. He doesn’t know if he feels sorta safe or kind of on edge (it’s not a new experience; he’s wary of a lot of things).

(He still thinks they might have an angle. Who is this nice for no reason? A part of him wants them to come out with it already, tell him they want him to work or lay back and spread his legs for someone, earn his keep, pay his rent, something. It would be a lot nicer than this anxious anticipation.)

(And then he thinks about the sincerity in Blueberry’s apology and Not-Papyrus offering him a cigarette and feels horribly guilty for even considering that possibility. Whoever these skeletons are, they’re not that kind of monster.)

(And that’s really fucking weird.)

It’s really fucking weird, really fucking surreal to lay out on the couch and not be required to do anything. He has this itching feeling in the back of his skull telling him to get off his ass and get to his sentry station, telling him he’s being ungrateful, leeching off these strangers, telling him to make dinner or clean up or do something useful you lazy piece of trash— it sounds remarkably like his brother.

It’s really fucking surreal, really fucking weird to sit on a stool in the kitchen (because that side lab is ‘way too small and kinda uncomfortable’ Blueberry Sans had said) and prop his head on his hand and look over these hastily scribbled notes as slowly as he needs to. No rushing involved, no need to hurry his ass up and write out the equations and come up with something because ‘time is running out, Asgore is coming to look over our progress later’.

This kitchen is nothing like that long forgotten lab, and there’s no one looking over his shoulder to make sure he’s actually working.

(A long long time ago, way way back in the days he doesn’t remember super clearly anymore, sans used to work under the Royal Scientist— the one that came before Alphys swooped in and took power in his old age. sans wonders what happened to him after she’d kicked him out, that good old W.D. Gaster.

Fallen into the Core like the one in this timeline?? Maybe. He kinda hoped so.

And wouldn’t that make a great story, a funny kind of irony, falling into his own creation.

Working for Gaster hadn’t always been super hard, but it also wasn’t always very pleasant.

The Doc had cared about his work a lot— way too much, obsessed over it, spent all his time on it, because the core was ‘my creation, my legacy,’ he’d say, ‘I’ve spent my whole life on this masterpiece’.

And there had been times when the workload got to be too much and Asgore got impatient (and no one wanted that, the king’s impatience was as much of a horror story as the tales of the war against humanity), times when sans would find the lab in shambles and the Doc pacing in the corner and speaking too fast for him to understand—

the Doc had cracks in his skull from experiments gone wrong over the years and so did many of his coworkers (from experiments and from him and from Asgore maybe because science was a dangerous career path to pursue— sans wishes someone had told him that before he tried it out), he’d scratch at the cracks and lash out, all self-injected Determination and frustration and the fears of an old man with time catching up to him.

The Doc had been demanding and worked them harder than they could handle sometimes, he had been stress-inducing and sometimes fear-inducing, especially when he had come back from a meeting with the King with a fresh crack running up the back of his skull that one time, and sans thinks maybe that was the day Gaster gave him his own special little matching skull decoration).

Working here, in this kitchen with Blueberry Sans, is nothing like that lab.

He had been… kinda surprised when Blueberry was the one who’d offered to help him find a way back to his timeline.

And then he’d stood up all straight and motivated with this excited little light in eyes, and of course this guy would be the one to volunteer, and of course he was all science-y— he could probably be anything, if he tried hard enough.

Working here, with Blueberry Sans, is an… experience. A very different experience from that hell of a lab— Blueberry pushes him, sure, but not that much, not when sans gets uncomfortable or anxious or whatever the hell he gets that makes this Other Sans hesitate and say something about a Lunch Taco Break, even though it’ll be like four in the afternoon. sans doesn’t know if he likes that or not.

Working here, with Blueberry, mainly consists of Blueberry getting ideas and getting pumped up about them and sans thinking them over and finding something wrong with them— or the other way around, minus the pumped up part, or sometimes Blue will criticize his own ideas. And then sans will consider lighting a cigarette and Other Sans will tell him to ‘please not do that in here’ and that ‘god, you’re as bad as papyrus,’ and sans will get this weird feeling in his chest, because while they have vaguely the same sort of meaning as Papyrus’ words, they have no real anger behind them. Maybe mild annoyance, but nothing threatening.

It’s weird.

And then Orange Papyrus (what the fuck is he supposed to call him? he’s usually great at nicknames) will come in sometimes and just kinda hang around in the background, not really doing anything, just making throwaway comments and occasionally sipping from yet another bottle of honey (how?? sans wonders, does this guy not throw up from all the excessive sugar???).

That’s also weird: the calm atmosphere, like it doesn’t really matter if they make any progress or not (which they usually don’t, but that’s not the point here.)

(The point here is that it isn’t Bad, doesn’t give him that Worry in the pit of his stomach that working under Gaster did sometimes.)

(And that’s weird too.)

(They haven’t found an answer yet, haven’t found a way back. It’s been about a week since he popped into the woods, and sans doesn’t really know if he wants to find an answer.)

He hasn’t left the house yet. He looks pretty much exactly like Blueberry, so.

That would be kind of difficult to explain.

(“We could just say you’re our cousin or something, visiting for a while,” Papyrus…Pap??? had suggested— was that good?? it wasn’t his full name so he didn’t have to think about his brother, and it rolled off the tongue a lot easier.

“the Underground isn’t a very big place.” sans had responded, “if I’d really been here all this time, someone woulda seen me, or at least heard about me.”)

And he doesn’t really want to leave the house anyways.

His Snowdin isn’t a very friendly place, not a town to be strolling around in, and although he’s been told a few times that all the residents are nice and stuff, he’s not sure if he wants to see these counterparts of everyone. It’ll be unsettling, probably, and might make him a little bit mad to see the sunshine and rainbows version of the dogs when the ones he knows want to use him and his brother as chew toys.

Pap goes to a restaurant called ‘Muffet’s’ a lot (which is weird, because his Muffet is that spider chick who traps people for their money. No one fucks with Muffet, because she’s loaded, she’s got a million little spiders everywhere that do her dirty work, she could ruin you if she wanted to).

From what he’s said about it, it’s a lot like Grillby’s back in his timeline. If this Muffet is anything like his Grillby, he’s kinda glad he can’t go out.

(Grillby’s is a nice enough place, he supposes, he doesn’t allow outside disputes in his restaurant, kicks people out whenever they start fights, lets all sorts of monsters in, so long as they pay.

Grillby’s friendly enough to sans, but over the years all the unpaid for drinks and burgers and favors started to pile up and sans wasn’t stupid, not really, he’d noticed the way the bartender looked at him sometimes. He looked at quite a few people that way, but his gaze had a way of making sans feel exposed.

And Grillby had leaned over the bar one night, with nearly everyone gone and sans a little drunk, gloved hand coming up to lift his chin and tilting his skull back and forth like he was examining him— and he’d been uncomfortable, even in his drunken state, even more uncomfortable when he’d leaned in closer, face inches apart from his own, looked him up and down and wondered aloud how long sans’ tab had gotten, how many favors he owed him, and how he knew he didn’t have the money right now but favors didn’t have to be paid in money.

And sans knew how this would work.

He’d seen it a few times during his late nights at the bar, when Grillby would excuse himself and lead some poor bastard into the back room and he knew how this would go, he knew how he’d ‘pay’ and how he’d do it again and again whenever this man wanted him to and how his hands would feel pressed up against the wall and no, he’d mumbled, words slurring, I can get you the money, you just gotta be a little patient— and ha ha he never found the money, but the wall wasn’t as cold as he thought it would be.)

He hasn’t gone out, but he can admit that the food Pap brings home for him— practically spews poetry about when he pulls it out of the bag, watches him intently as he takes his first bite because ‘just wait you’ll love it, you’ll see’— maybe lives up to that praise.

(“It’s alright, I guess,” he says anyways, and almost laughs at the offended look on This Papyrus’ face.)

(Almost.)

He dreams about cracks along a broken horrible skull and static and spines pressed up against walls and bending under the strain.

He wakes up, and stares at the ceiling above him, and it’s crack-free, blemish-free, like almost everything about this dumb sunshine-and-daisies world. He’s still sleeping on the couch, because there’s nowhere else he can sleep unless he shares a bed or sleeps on the floor. He doesn’t mind— it’s a lot comfier than his own couch or bed, really.

He wonders what would happen if the ceiling caved in on him. He doubts it could happen— a crack-free, strain-free, nice little ceiling. He decides he doesn’t like this ceiling very much.

He hears Blueberry moving around on the other side of that ceiling, footsteps surprisingly light. The guy wakes up so damn early sans wonders if he has some sort of internal clock that knows when the sun rises on the surface. If the sun was a thing down here, he’d probably get up at the crack of fuckin’ dawn.

He does that Thing where he lays very still and pretends to be asleep when the other skeleton comes downstairs.

“Hey, Red?” he whispers after he’s cluttered around in the kitchen for a bit, and sans learns that he’s apparently not very good at that Thing of his. He wonders what other Things of his he’s not very good at. “Do you want any Breakfast Tacos?”

He cracks an eye open to Blue’s eager face, and acts like he just woke up.

“…nah, not really.” he says, and has that vaguely guilty feeling again when his smile dwindles a bit. “sorry,” he adds, “just not very hungry.”

Blueberry perks up again, “It’s fine. I’ll just leave some out for you for later.”

sans is going to protest again, but Blue is already back in the kitchen, humming this ridiculous tune that sounds like something kids would sing.

He grumbles and shifts to bury his face in the crook of the couch, and drifts off to sleep again to the sound of pots and pans and childish humming.

sans has been everywhere in the house except Pap’s bedroom.

(Blueberry had dragged him into his one afternoon and insisted he look at every single one of his action figures— he thinks Papyrus used to have these sorts of things when they were younger, but a lot less of them. It’s kinda cute, in a hyperactive little brother kinda way, how excited he gets about showing them off, and all the complex backstories he’s created for all of them.)

Pap keeps his bedroom door shut and locked, like sans does. Or tries to. There are permanent scrapes on the wall from the door being slammed open one too many times. Locks don’t matter on a wooden door with old ass hinges.

The difference here is that This Papyrus succeeds in keeping his shut and locked, and that he hardly ever seems to actually be in his room. When it’s not the supposed nighttime, he’s in the living room, or out doing who knows what, or sprawled out on sans’ favorite place on the couch, or smoking out front, or smoking indoors when Blueberry isn’t home.

He doesn’t get up until pretty late, but he also doesn’t go to bed until pretty late.

He doesn’t go out to ‘work’ until past noon, but Blueberry has also commented on how he ‘hasn’t been staying out as late as he used to’, and how ‘if all we needed was a guest to get you home on time, I would’ve had someone move in ages ago.’

Which is also kinda weird, because there’s no reason the guy needs to come home just because sans is still on their couch. Maybe he still doesn’t quite trust him not to do anything. That, he can understand. He probably wouldn’t trust himself yet either.

He’s been everywhere in the house, walked up and down the stairs for minutes at a time, explored all the kitchen cabinets (full of… honey) and the refrigerator (full of cold tacos??? and day old food from Muffet’s???), and he’s starting to get restless.

Television has gotten old quickly, because there is one single monster— robot—in every single show or movie that’s played. Which he’s used to, but with a lot more yelling and general Bad Things that he’s learned aren’t really a part of life here. It’s actually pretty boring; every show is pretty similar and extravagant and over the top, but it’s one of the only things Pap does when he’s home???

Which is okay, sans supposes. It’s calm, and he doesn’t really have to do anything, which is pretty nice. Nothing is usually one of his favorite things to do, and he’s been doing it almost full time lately.

The robot’s voice is very loud, and sort of grates on his skull after all this time, even when the volume’s low, and it’s all a little too colorful, all bright bursts of light meant to shock and awe that just make him blink the black spots out of his vision.

“So,” he says, when the drone of the robot gets to be a little too loud, and it’s maybe the first time he’s started a conversation; he’s proud, “what the fuck do you—“

“Language,” Blueberry cuts in absently.

sans frowns. “What the hell do you—“

“Language,”

“What the heck,” he stresses, “do you even do around here?”

Pap shrugs, taking a long drag of his cigarette that has Blue shooting a glare in his direction before making a show of waving the smoke out of his general vicinity and stomping out of the room with a short ‘fresh air’. It’s almost funny.

“Sans wants to be a member of the Royal Guard,” he says after a moment, and he doesn’t sound too happy about it, “So he’s training for that.”

“and you?”

Another shrug, “Sentry duty, mostly. Sometimes sell hotcats on the downlow— don’t tell Sans I told you, though. I think he ignores it on purpose.”

sans snorts.

“same, actually— the sentry part. and the… brother Royal Guard thing.”

“Huh.” and this time he actually sounds kind of interested. There’s really nothing to elaborate on, though.

“yeah,” he breathes in the smell of smoke in the air, glances around to make sure Blueberry is still out of sight and earshot, and gestures to the cigarette between the other skeleton’s teeth, “you have any more?”

“Uh,” he pats the pockets of his hoodie and pauses, “Upstairs?” he replies after a moment, seeming surprised himself, like this is the first time it’s ever happened before.

sans groans, because he knows This Papyrus isn’t gonna get up to go get them because he’s a lazy ass, and sans isn’t gonna go do it because he’s also a lazy ass and the bedroom door is locked anyways.

“Gimme yours then,” he says, oddly at ease.

“Hell no,” Pap says, raising his eyes like he’s amused.

“C’mon,” sans... whines?? not something he normally does??? and leans over to reach at it.

“Hell no,” he says again, leaning back out of his grasp.

“C’mon,” and he swipes at it again, and misses, and tries again.

“No— cut it out- oh my god, Red,”

And this is the most sans thinks he’s seen This Papyrus move at one time, even if he’s sitting in one place, and that’s a feat to be proud of.

“Ok, cut it out!” Pap says, swatting his hand away and actually standing up this time-- another feat.

Standing up quickly, though, suddenly looming over him and he sounds pretty angry and maybe he shouldn’t have pushed him like that-- and for a split second he sees pointed shoulders instead of an orange hoodie and a sharp scowl instead of teeth clenched around a cigarette, and stumbles back.

“S-Sorry,” he stutters reflexively, pathetically, unthinkingly, “Sorry, boss,”

He doesn’t see the other skeleton’s scowl drop so much as he feels it in the air around them. He keeps his eyes trained on the ground, arms curled around his torso.

“That’s. What you call him? Your Papyrus, I mean.” And his voice is all hesitant, a striking contrast to the almost-yelling from a few moments before.

sans nods. He doesn’t really feel like he should talk yet?? He usually kept silent after apologies, unless it was to apologize some more.

“Shit, I—” Pap takes a step forwards (and sans fucking flinches back wow what a shocker) and then stops, “I didn’t mean to yell— hardly ever do that, to be honest. Sorry.”

And that’s so weird, it’s so weird, because Pap’s voice is pretty much the same as his brother’s, just missing the gravelly undertones, and here he is, apologizing? for something that isn’t his fault? And what the fuck is he supposed to say to that??

He doesn’t know, so he settles on shrugging instead, burying his hands in his pockets.

(He risks a quick glance up— Pap’s eye sockets drawn up in something like concern, hands hovering awkwardly in the air like sans is some kind of startled animal and really, what kind of bullshit?? He didn’t do anything, what’s his problem?)

“I really am sorry,” Pap says again, and he really hates that worry in his voice— in Papyrus’ voice, because it doesn’t belong there.

“S’fine,” he mumbles.

And he thinks it’s fine—like, actually fine, because he fucked up and nothing happened, so. That’s good.

The other skeleton seems like he wants to say something else, but sticks his cigarette back in his mouth instead. sans can relate. Pap has that whole vague ‘emotionally constipated and bad with feelings’ air about him, and it’s not like sans can hold that against him.

Either way, the silence is uncomfortable.

“We should get another bed,” Blueberry says, like it’s a statement instead of a suggestion.

“Why?” sans asks, at the same time Pap hums in question.

“Well, the couch is okay, but I doubt it’s very comfy after a while.”

“Huh? It’s fine,”

“I know that’s a lie,” the taller skeleton pipes up, “Once I slept on it for like three days, and my back hurt like hell—heck,” he quickly amends, “it hurt like heck afterwards.”

Sans blinks, because “it really is fine— way nicer than i’ve had in forever.”

There’s a pause, and they regard him in that way that makes him feel like he’s being examined from the inside out.

“A new bed could be nice,” Pap says, “But I’m not picking it out.”

He dreams about rope looping between radiuses and ulnas and pulling tight, shadows darting just out of sight and hands yanking on hoodies.

He wakes up in a cold sweat, and there’s someone on top of him. There’s a body on top of him, bigger than him and taller than him with pressure on his torso, weighing him down.

There’s someone on top of him and as he blinks it looks more and more Papyrus-shaped, weighing him down and sorta heavy and suddenly it feels like he can’t breathe, because Papyrus is on top of him and he can’t get up and he doesn’t know how he got back to his own world but he knows what’s going to happen and he can’t breathe.

The body shifts and arms wrap around his waist and shit shit he tries to twist out from under him but he can’t move, can’t breathe because, because—

because hands on him, clawed hands on him because he’d messed up embarrassed him made it worse he was useless god why are you so goddamn useless, how do you manage to fuck up every single job I give you??

hands on him and maybe this’ll teach you a goddamn lesson and hands on him, hands tugging on his jacket pushing his skull and

“fuck you,” he had said, “get off me, fuck you get off get off get off,” and kicked a little and squirmed around because he really really didn't want to he wasn’t in the mood not like this he at least wanted a fucking warning but his brother was bigger than him and stronger than him and had flipped him over like he was nothing and pressed him into the bed by his spine and that was that.

(he’d clutched at the sheets and pretended his hands weren’t shaking because if he didn’t have something to hold onto he just might float away, might just turn to dust.)

—because he’s stuck and trapped and then suddenly the body is off of him and there’s a face hovering over his and a sleepy: “Red? You okay?”

Papyrus, but… not Papyrus.

He looks pretty worried, and kinda scared, and kinda confused, and Papyrus never looks any of those things, and then he’s remembering how he fell asleep on the couch last night watching that robot show again and how this Papyrus had fallen asleep next to him and… he breathes.

Pap asks him if he’s okay again, more urgently this time, because he’s just been staring.

He nods, and tries to say something, but can’t, so just nods again, tense and still vaguely breathless.

“…You don’t look okay,”

And if he could speak he’d tell him thank you for your observation jackass, but instead he just looks away because eye contact is kinda intense right now.

“I’m… sorry I fell asleep on you,” Pap says a moment later, “I didn’t mean to hurt you or anything,” an awkward laugh, “Sans does say I eat too much grease— must be takin’ it’s toll.”

sans blinks up at him. “You didn’t—“ he tries, and then clears his throat because it came out as a whisper, “You didn’t hurt me.”

“Oh. Well, that’s good.” he shifts his weight so he’s propped up above him on one hand, “What happened, though? I-If you don’t mind me asking.”

“I do mind, actually,” he snaps, and then regrets, because he’s not angry, not really.

“…Alright.” a pause, “Bad dream or something?”

“Didn't you just hear me?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Pap shifts again, and sans thinks that position is probably uncomfortable; he’s still pretty close to him, and it’s weird, “This whole ‘sharing your feelings’ thing is new to me too; it’s more Sans’ thing than mine.”

He snorts, “I can tell.”

The taller skeleton rolls his eyes.

“…Are you sure you’re okay, though?”

“I dunno.” he says; his soul still vaguely feels like it’ll beat out of his chest, “Doesn’t matter.”

“Yeah it does.”

“Nah.”

In the dim light, Pap looks like he wants to argue again, but just moves to wedge himself between sans and the couch cushion instead. It’s a pretty big couch.  

After a few minutes of silence, sans feels an awkward pat on his ribcage— an attempt at comfort??

“Sorry again, for falling asleep on you.”

“It’s fine.”

They don’t say anything else. The hand stays lightly on his ribcage.

He doesn’t fall asleep again for the rest of the night, but he comes pretty close.