Work Text:
"what the fuck do i get them for christmas?" That was a google search for the ages.
You stared at the internet history, pages upon pages of google search results and weird random shopping sites stared back at you. You’d been wondering why the computer was so slow-- now you understood. Hell, he’d been exploring Amazon.com for hours last week.
Curiosity made you click on one of the links he’d continuously revisited, and you saw he was still signed into Amazon as… holy shit-- you covered your face to keep from laughing aloud and startling him. He’d passed out with the laptop still in his hands, but it had been easy enough to pry it from his fingers without waking him. He’d be the first to say he slept like the dead.
You were going to have to order him something with that username on it and give it to him. “sir jangles bonely” was bad enough without the user image of Sans’s photo with a mustache crudely drawn in what you could assume to be mspaint.
You saw a wishlist function, as well as an Orders Shipped tab, and wavered for a moment before clicking just the wishlists. You let out a breath. One wishlist each for you and Papyrus, and you concluded he must have upended most of the the entirety of Amazon.com into each of them. Holy shit.
You finally broke down and looked at the Orders Shipped tab-- and stared. “Who the fuck is this for?!” You whispered to yourself.
You could imagine it now.
Christmas morning, Papyrus tackles the package under your tree. "A BAG!! IS IT MARBLES, I LOVE-- OH GOD, NO!!"
"merry christmas."
"JUST BECAUSE IT'S A RELIGIOUS HOLIDAY DOESN'T MEAN YOU NEED TO INFLICT A BIBLICAL PLAGUE!! OH GOD, THEY'RE IN MY EYES, THEY'RE IN MY EYES!!!"
"they'll do that."
As hard as you tried to not laugh, you did anyways, and you closed the laptop as Sans woke up. He sighed and stumbled around the room getting ready for work.
“Babe, you okay?” You asked gently.
“isn’t there a law against working christmas eve? traffic is shit, everything is shit, and the sludge is shit.”
“Sans, you don’t have to abide traffic. Take a shortcut. And wear some damn boots. The sludge wouldn’t be so bad if you wore actual shoes instead of slippers.”
He looked at you and smiled. “yeah, you’re right. it’s not that shit-tastic, i just make it that way so i can bitch about it.”
Seasonal depression sucks.
You got up and went to him. “Hey, call in.” You told him gently. “If they fire you, I’ll eat them.”
He snorted. everything isn’t shit. still got you.
“You know what they say about dragons, right?”
“do you still have that shirt that says ‘don’t meddle in the affairs of dragons, for you are crunchy and taste good with ketchup?’”
“I do.”
“come with me to work like that so i can make puns today. about you.”
“I’m honored. Let me get dressed.” He hummed in approval, but you snorted and pushed him in the direction of the bathroom. “Shower.”
While Sans was at work, you got to thinking. All the things you’d gotten him, stuffed under the tree, they were great and all, but they just weren’t personal enough. You wanted him to smile, to laugh, and to get over the seasonal slump he was in. Hell, you were circling the snowy drain, yourself, and helping him might help you.
You went through your movie collection and pulled out all the classics. Monty Python and the Holy Grail, The Princess Bride… you realized you had no christmas movies, but who the hell cared? This was your first christmas together on the surface-- why not make a tradition now!
Sitting and watching a funny movie was great and all, but what would you feed him? You looked through the cupboards and noticed a distinct lack of food. You grumbled, wondering why that was-- and then you remembered how insane traffic had been lately.
You sighed and sat down on the couch with a heavy plomf! and pondered what you could do for dinner… and noticed a takeout menu sticking from between the cushions. How the hell did it get there? Eh, it worked. You ordered from these people a lot. They were sweet and the food was amazing-- and they knew you tipped well, so it always got to your house still hot. The thought of it made your mouth water.
Definitely a night for takeout hibachi. You hummed in anticipation of the food alone. You went to start a shower-- where you do your best thinking-- and had to walk back through the house for a towel, glad there was no danger of anyone bursting in.
Halfway through your shower, you began asking yourself: What was missing? Something to make it fun, casual… maybe flirty?
Well, you didn't’ like getting dressed immediately after a shower anyway… and he’d be due home in just a few hours, since they didn’t want to pay him overtime for more than that. You got out and grabbed your bathrobe, swathing yourself, not even using the towel, as you ran around the house, cleaning things up. You’d call the hibachi restaurant in a few minutes, and tell them what time you needed it by.
You set up the movie in the bedroom, and set about preparing snacks and grabbing an entire 12 pack of drinks out of the pantry for yourself, as well as a mega-sized bottle of ketchup for Sans.
You set everything up around the bed and then thought “well how the fuck do I make this romantic?”
While you called in your order, you started lighting candles. The smells clashed with each other (vanilla, honeysuckles, and cinnamon buns don’t go well together, surprisingly) and you blew them out and opened a window.
The food got there and you tipped extra. You hurried back up to the bedroom and set it with the drinks, checked that utensils and napkins were in there, before getting too cold and closing the window. Hell, your hair was still wet! You combed through it with your fingers and tightened the robe around you, glad it wasn’t sheer-- or else answering the door would have been very awkward.
You sat down on the bed and grabbed your phone, waiting for the sound of the front door to alert you that he was home.
You waited. And waited.
“Come on, dammit… I want to live this cliche.” You grumbled to yourself, and your phone vibrated. Sans was texting you? Your stomach dropped. Was he staying later?
sans
where are you lol
you
Where are YOU?
You heard something creak in the house-- the distinct sound the sofa made, actually.
sans
im on the couch waiting for you to get home.
you
I’m in the bedroom.
sans
thought you were gonna go do things and stuff?
you
Not until after Christmas. Come here.
sans
you come here.
you
Not playing, Jangles.
sans
me either. too lazy. c’mere.
“SANS!” You yelled. You heard him chuckle in the living room.
sans
gotcha. make room on the bed.
You had about enough time to move over, and he plopped onto the bed, rattling.
“paint me like one of your french girls.” He was wearing his own stained, old robe, cinched with a rope. You chuckled. “wait. i smell food.”
“No shit.” You laughed, and hugged him.
“fuck, did you do all this for me? now i feel kinda bad.”
“Why?”
“knew you were in here the whole time. thought you’d eventually come make food and i could use that line and make you laugh.”
“Well you made me laugh.” You said. “Let’s eat and watch some funny movies.”
“fuck yes, the teriyaki is killing me.”
It had taken a long time for you to get over your scars, but of late it had been much easier for you to feel confident, at least around the house. When the robe slid off your shoulders, you didn’t really care, and he never treated you any differently.
“you know what would be even better?” He gestured with his ketchup as you switched out the movies.
“What?”
“i should go get some alcohol from grillbz. but i’d have to put on pants. that’s a no go.”
You shrugged. “We can have fun without alcohol.” You said. “Also, don’t we still have some from last time?” You hit play on the movie and sat down, tossing the remote away again.
He shrugged back. “yeah, probably. but you’re right. hangover tomorrow would suck.” He threw an arm around your waist and hauled you closer with a sigh.
“Especially when Paps gets here.” You mused, and then considered the ladybugs again and laughed. “You’re going to kill him. And the house. Under a fuckton of ladybugs.” You weren’t really that distressed anymore. Just like everything your new family did, this would turn out memorable and treasured, you knew it.
“tis the season, shale.” He breathed contentedly against your shoulder. “tis the season.”