cooking with a lazy skeleton: awful snack edition

[trombones]

Something stinks. Literally. There's a hell of a mixture wafting out of the kitchen. It's a mix of meat, sweets, cinnamon (a million other spices too, but mostly cinnamon), bad eggs, worse cheese, and a lot more. Anyone who walks in will find Sans, now a skeleton again, with a pile of food mixed and mashed in ways it was never meant to be. There's flour, broken eggs, spilled spices, bits of meat and confectionaries - literally everything you can think of, literally all over the place.

The one thing that stands out in the chaos is sitting on the table behind him. It's a pie. Made somewhat crudely, but clearly with a lot more care than anything else in the room. There's a small, glass bottle of cinnamon next to it, half empty now, and some of its been sprinkled on the whipped cream sitting on top of the pie.

The nicely-made anomaly aside, Sans is currently in the process of slapping together some pulled pork between two crudely cut slices of bread with cheese melted in between. Which, by itself, isn't that strange. But nearby, there's a basket of sweets taken from both the ballroom and candy room. It's filled with cakes, sugar plums, bonbons, macaroons, petit fours and more. He looks over it and stills for a moment, apparently considering something.

After a second, he shrugs. He takes a slice of cake and a butter knife gingerly swipes the frosting off the top... then unceremoniously dumps it into his pork-and-cheese sandwich. In lieu of a toothpick, he sticks a candy cane through the center and sets it on a plate. Back home, ham and marshmallow sandwiches were his go-to snack, usually spiced up with some squeeze cheese on top. In a place as medieval (heh) as this one, though, he'll take what he can get.

Satisfied, he straights up and looks around again. Alright... now all he needed was a drink. He scratches at his cheek - until he feels his finger goes over a bump. He stops short. Oh. Right. He forgot about that.

Anyone paying attention might notice a long, thin cut across the cheek bone. It's a bad excuse for a scar. Despite being a skeleton again, despite that Gaster didn't even cut his face that deeply... the castle had a funny habit of leaving reminders that didn't make sense. It made sense that his jacket was still torn at the shoulder. But his face? Geez.

Anyway. Feel free to witness some nightmare snack making. He's more than willing to have a cooking partner.

Comments

[itstheend]

Why. Why this. Why anything. They just wanted a can't-sleep-got-to-do-something-or-I'll-go-nuts midnight snack, Sans. A single snack. Instead, they must watch this culinary travesty in horror.

So hi, once-more human Chara is just standing in the doorway. Staring. Judging. Judging hard.

There's so much waste. There's food, good food, bad food, all over the floor. It's on the ceiling somehow why the fuck. Sans. Sans.

Why.

"How have you survived this long?" is the first thing that comes to mind, and therefore to slip out without any filter.

[trombones]

Sans is grabbing a basket of eggs just as Chara comes in. It takes a moment to recognize them. He had actually met another Chara before, so their face wasn't unfamiliar, but there was something else about it...

... oh. Oh, wait. He gets it now. Right. Last month. Okay. Anyway. He breaks an egg into an ancient-looking goblet that would probably be in a museum under any other circumstances.

"I'm a skeleton."

[itstheend]

That both does and doesn't answer the question. Chara steps into the kitchen with the air of a cop walking under the yellow and black tape into a crime scene.

They eye the egg-cup.

"Don't tell me you're going to drink that."

But they wouldn't put it past him. Giving him a berth, they head over to a section of bench, and, wrinkling their nose, begin to clear an area. Honestly, they've been put off food a little now, but the repetitive, consistent task gives them something to do with their hands.

[trombones]

"What, you never heard of drinking eggs? It's good for you. I'm not even joking about that one, people actually do this."

Which is true. But Sans is just doing it for laughs - and honestly, a little bit of curiosity too. Like the monster at Grillby's once said, he knew a LOT about weird foods.

The skeleton grabs a couple more, and cracks one of them against the rim of the cup. As he does, he eyes Chara and watches them make a space. Huh, He shrugs to himself. He certaintly doesn't mind having a cooking buddy.

"Yolks like you shouldn't crack it before ya try it."

[itstheend]

"Salmonella is very healthy, true."

That's not to say Chara wouldn't happily risk it if there were nothing else and no way to cook it. But that's not the situation here. Let's see... there's still what must have been the ingredients for that suspicious pie lying around everywhere, might as well try and make something like it. Several steps between now and eating it is A OK at the moment.

They start washing a bowl.

"Stop egging me on."

[trombones]

"Sure is."

Good thing Sans doesn't have organs. A skeleton with a digestive system for salmonella to actually effect would be pretty gross, to be honest.

"Jeez. Now you're egg-scalating this whole thing. Don't scramble what I'm trying to say."

He closes one eye.

"Whatcha making?"

[itstheend]

"You make it so over easy."

They start gathering the ingredients. What goes into a pie? Flour, eggs, butter, milk, maybe? They don't know. Even if it ends up disaster-flavoured, it'll end up. They begin tipping everything into the bowl, Frisk having blearily woken up and making suggestions that imply they have only a slightly higher level of pie knowledge.

"And pie. Since everything has been so graciously laid out for me."

That's one way of putting it. They haven't decided on a flavour yet, but there's plenty of time while making the pastry to think about it.

*Butterscotch-cinnamon!

No.

[returnvoid]

He is extremely tired. At some other time he'd probably be marveling at the novelty. Right now, on the other hand, he's too exhausted to muster up more than a bland 'ah yes how interesting. Put it on the backburner.'

When he materializes in the kitchen, the process of it is something like something putting itself together from the ground up, pixel by pixel, block by block, in a swirling flurry of black and white. He ends up hovering somewhere a little behind and off to the side of the culprit responsible for turning the kitchen into ground zero, hands folded neatly behind him as he leans over and in.

He is judging. He is so very, very disappointed. He clicks and 'tsks', a little.

What did, his hands gesture. That sandwich ever do to deserve this.

[trombones]

It takes a moment for Sans to notice someone's literally materializing behind him until Gaster's already halfway there. Then he turns around. What - oh. Hey. Speaking of scars.

The very legitimate surprise aside, though, Sans moves his fingers away from the shallow scrape in his cheek and shrugs.

"What? You're a sandwich critic now? It's pretty good."

[returnvoid]

Look, even his state of being questionably grounded in reality is less... state-y than usual right now. That thing where he looks all gaseous and the hem of his coat lacking any defined edges due to wisping around in a nonexistent wind is at an all time low.

He glides delicately over to a spot that managed to end up high on the wall. What a fascinating texture, truly. The things questionable mixtures of egg, flour, and other unnamed ingredients can do. If it seems he's trying to give Sans his space, he is.

Statistically speaking. I am probably more likely to be one than otherwise? But I digress.

You have. Made a warzone out of the kitchen. Committed a very messy, and very pungent, culinary murder. He would be spreading out an array of hands to point out all of the spots on the walls, on the ceiling, but he isn't really feeling up to it right now. Don't tell me that that sandwich is all you have to show for it?

[trombones]

The space is fine. In all honestly, Sans is thinking about whether or not he should breath the elephant in the room - much less what he shoudl say. He tilts his head regardless, and his smile goes lopsided.

"I mean. I did some baking too."

Hence the pie.

"So, what, you wanna see me start World War III in here?"

Sans only has a vague idea of what a world war is (monsters have a pretty good excuse for missing out on centuries of human history), but he heard the phrase a lot on the surface.

"I mean, if you're gonna stick with the whole war-homicide analogy here."

[returnvoid]

All that, and for but a mere sandwich. It's such a waste. How does any of this end up on the ceiling in the process of making a sandwich? He clicks again, drifting back slowly to behind the table before amending, ...And a pie.

It is a rather okay pie. Better than the table in being an awkward barrier between the two of them, anyway.

At least that survived relatively unscathed, he allows, gravitating toward and letting himself collapse onto a chair. But quite honestly. You can do better than that.

His eyesockets blink closed and stay closed, and he pauses.

Perhaps not quite so violently, though. I may have overdone the metaphor.

...I wonder if I should not be encouraging you in this.

[trombones]

And a pie. Sans repeats the sign, rather than speak it, further emphasizing the repeat. "You know me. I impro-pies."

His eyes follow Gaster for a wile, from the table to a chair. A brow bone quirks than most skeletal faces would allow (despite his semi-permanent expression, he's still a walking cartoon), and he props an arm on the table.

"You're goading the wrong guy, Gast. I don't really care." His grin widens. "But I AM curious. What would you wanna see... hypothetically, anyway?

[returnvoid]

He misses the sign with his sockets still closed, though he does blink his good eye open again at the pun and the vibration of Sans propping himself up on the table. (He also doesn't avoid jolting back a little, but that's neither here nor there.)

Oh my god, Sans. The gestures aren't so much forceful as they are crisply made, emphasis on each single movement, but his expression is arguably, marginally, a thin smile. Outside of the usual skeletal rictus, anyway, because that doesn't count.

It was not my aim to goad. I do believe you can do better. Or... worse, I suppose? In this case. Hmm.

His fingers drum idly on the table as he thinks it over, before he shrugs and his own one-eyed smile goes lopsided.

I am simply of the opinion that if you are going to make a spectacle of something. Well. He waves one hand around at their surroundings. It might as well be something taken to absurd extremes. Shock and horrify any passersby.

Or at least have more to show for the mess than a sandwich and pie. Did you already eat the rest?

[ifyoumustblink]

Behold, the kid whose taste buds are not adjusted to anything in the castle makes.

Which means he's made his own food so far. It has rggs and chicken and fish and pork, the castle, and rice. (Thank god.)

But whatever ungodly concoction is slopped all over the walls is completely and utterly alien to him. Despite his better judgement. he can't help but creep close and look over the yokai's shoulder to peep at… something that even he can tell should not go together.

[trombones]

It doesn't take long to notice Kubo. Sans was getting good at finding all the kids that ran around this castle. Not that he was much taller than any of them.

As he's grabbing for a basket of eggs nearby, he looks back over his shoulder.

"What? You want some?"

[ifyoumustblink]

(Kubo is quite short, really, around 4-4'2. He might actually be smaller than Sans.)

He wants to say Heavens above, no, but that's mean. Of course, as is protocol for polite people, he kindly rejects the offer.

"Uh, sorry, I'm not hungry. I kind of just came to see what you're doing with…" His eyes travel the whole mess of a kitchen. "This stuff."

[trombones]

Either way, Sans has no canon height. He might as well be roughly the same height as the rest of the kids.

The skeleton picks up on the awkwardness and grins. He leaves it alone, but he still knows what's up.

"Making some snacks. This place doesn't have a lot of variety compared to what I'm used to, but I'm working with what I got. It's actually turning out pretty good."

[ifyoumustblink]

He probably shouldn't doubt Sans' taste buds, but Kubo can't help but feel like that… whatever-he-made shouldn't go anywhere near someone's mouth.

"What's it taste like?"

[trombones]

Sure it should. Just, you know, his and only his.

At Kubo's question, Sans is quiet for a moment. You know, now that he thinks about it, nobody's ever actually asked him to describe what it tastes like.

"... A grilled cheese on cake, I guess."

Regardless, he winks.

"It tastes pretty alright when you put it together. You could say it's a good ham-ily of flavors."

[pleasereset]

It's the scent of food that leads Asriel to the kitchen. It's been a weird month, he's glad to have legs back - and with all the chaos that's been going on lately, investigating weird food smells seems almost pleasant in comparison.

At least until he spots Sans, back in his skeletal body again. Regardless of his mixed feelings on Sans, it was weirdly comforting to see him as a skeleton instead of a human. And that sure is a lot of food. Asriel is about to step in, enticed by the basket of treats until he watches for a few seconds as Sans goes genocide route on that sandwich.

What's he doing with that cake frosting? No, Sans don't put it there...!

Asriel watches in mild horror as Sans creates his sinner's sandwich. Before he steps into the kitchen.

"Uh... um, howdy Sans!"

[trombones]

It's a sinner's sandwich alright, Diane. Sans glances up just as he grabs the nearby bread knife to cut his monstrosity.

"Oh hey, Az. What's up?"

The knife comes down and cuts the sandwich into a neat diagonal. Not that you could really tell, what with all the pork and frosting squishing out upward and mixing together. Satisfied regardless, Sans grabs an old, faded platter nearby and sets his work on display.

"See ya got your legs back. I gotta say, seeing you without 'em sent gills up my spine." NICE. "You hungry?"

[pleasereset]

Seeing meat and frosting squish out of a sandwich was enough to almost make Asriel lose his appetite. Luckily he's pretty darn hungry.

"I'm glad I got my legs back too. Living in that fountain was pretty cramped - I think my fur still hasn't dried out yet."

The pun gets a snicker. He tries to to think of a good one in return, but it's hard to think of puns on an empty stomach.

"Yeah, I think I'm hungry enough for a whole snail pie! ... They wouldn't happen to have something like that here, would they?"

[trombones]

"A snail pie? Nah. You'd have to ask Tori. But I got a regular pie over there."

He jerks his thumb towards his pie before he wipes meat-frosting off on his shirt.

"Well, cinnamon pie. Anyway. Lunch, dessert... now I just gotta figure out what I wanna drink. Go ahead and grab some pie if you wanna."

[pleasereset]

"I think I'll take a slice of cinnamon pie."

He wouldn't get in trouble for eating dessert before lunch here, right? Asriel moves forward to do just that, but Asriel still has some leftover fascination at Sans' food concoctions.

"Is that... does that taste good?"