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“So.”
“SO?”
Frisk rubbed at the cloth of their sleeping bag, while Papyrus attended to his tin of soda, his reward for making it to the surface.
“WHAT IS IT YOU WANTED TO TALK ABOUT?”
Frisk looked over the horizon, to the city, familiar, and yet not very.
“I just remembered… You beat me to unconsciousness? Five times.”
“GOOD TIMES,” he laughed, “GOOD TIMES.”
Frisk blinked.
“I could have died.”
“BUT YOU DIDN’T! I COULD BE A MILLIONAIRE, OR BE HEAD OF THE ROYAL GUARD, BUT I’M NOT. THE IMPORTANT LESSON IS; BE YOURSELF.”
Frisk stared back, aghast, while Papyrus sipped politely at his silly straw.
“You left me in a shed, with a head wound.”
“YOU’RE A REAL GRUMPY GUS TODAY! WOULD YOU LIKE SOME OF MY SODA? IT’S ORANGE, APPARENTLY. AND WHAT’S A VIOLENT TRAUMA BETWEEN FRIENDS? UNDYNE TAUGHT ME! A HEAD WOUND HERE, A SMASHED FEMUR THERE, A TOTAL CATASTROPHIC SEVERING OF THE SPINE THERE. IT BUILDS TRUST, AND CHARACTER! BUT… I WILL SAY, IF YOU’RE UPSET I GLEEFULLY PUNCHED YOU IN THE FACE MANY, MANY TIMES, THEN I’M SORRY.”
Frisk scratched at their neck in relief.
“Well… Considering pretty much everyone else tried to kill me, I can forgive it.”
“OH I WOULD NEVER KILL YOU!” Papyrus declared, remembering that sweet haymaker he got off back in Snowdin, “THAT’S WRONG!”