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

[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?

[trombones]

"Okay, I take the goading back. Now you're daring me."

The quirked brow remains. He shrugs.

"I mean, I was gonna make me a drink. You still didn't answer the question, though. What would you wanna see?"

[returnvoid]

Of course I'm not. Of course he is.

Here I thought... that saying to make a spectacle of things would have been clear enough.

Perhaps I should have phrased it as 'an utter disaster' instead?

[trombones]

Of course I'm not, Sans signs again, like any eight-year-old parroting words just to be annoying.

As the dare turns more obvious, though, Sans grin widens even more. Okay. THAT, he understands. Almost immediately, he reaches for a basket of eggs and a wine glass nearby. He pulls a single egg out and taps it over the rim.

"Believe it or not, some humans like this stuff raw. Then again, so does Grillby."

[returnvoid]

Of course I'm not, Gaster repeats right back, single open eye closing again in a long blink as his tight smile cracks just that bit wider. What an absurd accusation.

Watching Sans's grin stretch though does confirm the presence of something he thought he'd noticed earlier. Ah. ...Are there other remnants.

Still, his next reply comes evenly enough.

I believe it's because they are more nutritious that way? It's general, broad strokes knowledge, but he's probably not the best expert on this. His personal eating habits were, perhaps, not quite something others should try to replicate? Before. Well.

The things you get away with when you're a skeleton. Unless you mean a preference for the flavor, in which case I do not believe you have any room to talk, Sans.

[trombones]

It never ends.

As for his 'remnants', stretching his smile that wide makes him re-aware of the scratch all over again. Out of habit how, he runs a finger over it. That reminds him. He was still figuring out how he was gonna breach that, huh.

"Hey. I didn't say it was a bad thing."

Once it was cracked enough, he breaks the egg into the glass. Then another. And another.

"... So. How you doing?"

[returnvoid]

Oh. They're doing this, are they? Almost unconsciously he pulls in on himself, the borders defining him growing to be as clear as they ever are.

He sighs mildly, as if it's not any kind of deal, and spreads his hands. It's three pairs that sign his reply.

Fine/could be better/never mind me.

And the extra sets vanish as soon as they're done.

Yourself?

[trombones]

It was going to happen eventually. Any other day, and Sans would have left the elephant in the room right where it was. But, you know. It was still an elephant. Better say something.

"I'm the one that asked, Gast. I'm minding."

Mind him, he means. As for himself... he too is briefly quiet for a moment. He signs back.

Better.

Technically true. He was comfortable in his own skin again - technically speaking. And the part where he stabbed him in the leg and tried to steal his soul? He already forgave him.

Too bad their whole conversation reminded him how homesick he was.

[returnvoid]

I think you know what my sentiment about you... about anybody paying me too much mind is. 'Forget me,' 'please don't think about this anymore'. There's no need to worry about him. Regardless of what does or does not happen to him, it isn't as if it affects much else as long as he stays removed from things. An observer on the periphery.

He'd done a fine job of that the previous month, hadn't he. But of course... it hasn't stopped you yet.

'I don't... I don't want... to forget... he keeps telling me I should, but...'

Last month is a mess of memories of varying clarity, but that--what Sans had said as he advanced on him--stands out. As did what happened after, but.

...I believe I'd asked. Whether there was still anything that could cause permanent damage. Is... that the only mark that was left?

[trombones]

Heh.

"Nope," Sans says outloud this time, feeling like sign wouldn't quite convey it. Of course it hadn't stopped him. He's been doing it for years. He's not stopping yet.

As for the 'scar', the skeleton blinks up. Oh. Right. That. He glances toward the side of his face the scar was on. Obviously, he can't see it - but he was aware of its presence all the same.

"Apparently. But it wasn't there before. Not 'til I changed back."

Which still didn't make sense. Gaster healed it. It was gone completely. Then when he changed back, it was there. He'd say that Gaster saw it himself, until he remembered Gaster probably wasn't paying that much attention to his face after he healed him.

"I call it a bad excuse for a scar."

[returnvoid]

Gaster slides himself fluidly out of his chair, edging slowly around the corner of the table. "⌖☜︎☹︎☹︎📬︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ ✌︎☼︎☜︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ ⌖☼︎⚐︎☠︎☝︎📬︎"

A bad excuse for a scar, indeed. Chips and grooves, wear and tear. Funny how despite a monster's physical form reflecting their magic and soul, permanent markers on them could still be so easily left. They are not nearly so malleable as the concept would imply.

Else he'd likely lack two of the most prominent marks on his own face, really.

Interesting, he signs as he circles, searching and scrutinizing not with some small amount of concern. I would not be surprised if, somehow, I had done things wrong, when it happened. Managed to get at the surface level but not deeper down... That really is all, though?

[trombones]

"You didn't cut that deep, if that's what you're saying. Which is another reason why this is stupid."

Sans points to the 'scar', just in case it's not obvious what he's talking about. Then, using the same bony finger, he brings it down into the yolk-filled glass and starts stirring. Talk about mood whiplash. Whisklash? Whisking???

"That's really all."

[returnvoid]

I meant in the healing. ...I have never had the talent for it.

'Stupid.' Well. It is a strange inconsistency that the most minor of the injuries involved turned out to be the only one that left a permanent mark.

Maybe it's trying to say that forgetting isn't as easy as asking people to do so. Ha, ha.

(Whiplash, whisklash, whisking. Would a narrator say that it necessitated whiskey?)

He continues his examination for just a bit longer even after Sans repeats that that's all. It turns nothing up, and he doesn't so much relax as he stills with another sigh, drawing himself up.

I should still apologize. Properly, I mean. The only thing you did was to simply be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and I... The movement of his hands slows. Gaster tilts his head minutely, eyelights flickering briefly and smile flattening out as he changes tack.

You said you were doing better. 'Better' does not necessarily mean 'all right.'

[trombones]

"Oh." Well. Me neither.

Sans had a similar theory. Out of all the wounds he took when they fought, the castle didn't make him keep anything debilitating. Just the minor one. Like it just wanted him to remember. Like it thought he would forget.

Nice sense of humor, this place had.

"It's okay, really," Sans says, glancing up at Gaster from the disaster drink under his hand. "All seriousness. I was never mad at you to start with, and I'm still not."

For all the stupidity his hands are still doing, he means that. Maybe it doesn't help the mood, but it's still the truth.

Speaking of stupidity: after properly stirring his drink, Sans withdraws his index finger and wipes the yolk off on his pants. Nice. Alright. He rests his elbow on the table and rests his chin in his hand, observing the glass, thinking. It's already a disaster by itself, but Gaster said he wanted a disaster. Meaning all it needs now is the perfect garnish.

Too bad Gaster wanted to bring up how he was doing. Yikes. He looks back up slowly again, then peels himself off the table. He turns around, and hunts through a disorganized set of spice bottle just adjacent.

"Welp. I'm comfortable in my own skin again... figuratively, without the skin part" He jokes. There's a tinge of dismissiveness. "So that's pretty all right."

[returnvoid]

Yes, 'oh.'

Gaster only shakes his head, folding his hands behind him. "✋︎ ✌︎💣︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ ⌖⚐︎☼︎☼︎✋︎☜︎👎︎ ✌︎👌︎⚐︎✞❄︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞ 👌︎☜︎✋︎☠︎☝︎ 💣︎✌︎👎︎📬︎ ✈︎✞✋︎❄︎☜︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎ 👍︎⚐︎☠︎❄︎☼︎✌︎☼︎✡︎📪︎ ☼︎☜︎✌︎☹︎☹︎✡︎📬︎" But he's cutting that thought off before it goes anywhere else. "✋︎ 💧︎❄︎✋︎☹︎☹︎ ⌖☼︎⚐︎☠︎☝︎☜︎👎︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📬︎ ❄︎☟︎✌︎❄︎ ✋︎💧︎ ✌︎☹︎☹︎📬︎ ✋︎ ✌︎💣︎ 💧︎⚐︎☼︎☼︎✡︎ ✋︎❄︎ ☟︎✌︎🚩🚩☜︎☠︎☜︎👎︎📬︎"

He does have to refrain from commenting on Sans' preferred method of cleaning up after himself, but then again it isn't as if he hadn't already been expecting it. Still, honestly, it's a wonder those clothes last as long as they do.

His head tilts back archly, eyesockets wide but empty as he listens to Sans' reply. It gives him a good sightline toward the items on the top shelf. Hmm. The dismissiveness comes through clearly, though, and Gaster closes his eyes for a long moment before he bows his head much more briefly in a crisp nod despite Sans not being able to see it. "📬︎📬︎📬︎✞︎☜︎☼︎✡︎ ⌖☜︎☹︎☹︎📬︎ ✋︎ ✞☠︎👎︎☜︎☼︎💧︎❄︎✌︎☠︎👎︎📬︎ ✋︎ ⌖✋︎☹︎☹︎ ☠︎⚐︎❄︎ 🚩✞💧︎☟︎📬︎

"💧︎❄︎✋︎☹︎☹︎📪︎ ✋︎☞︎ ❄︎☟︎☜︎☼︎☜︎ ✋︎💧︎ ✌︎☠︎✡︎❄︎☟︎✋︎☠︎☝︎ ✌︎❄︎ ✌︎☹︎☹︎ ✋︎ 👍︎✌︎☠︎ 👎︎⚐︎ ☞︎⚐︎☼︎ ✡︎⚐︎✞📪︎ 🚩☹︎☜︎✌︎💧︎☜︎ ☹︎☜︎❄︎ 💣︎☜︎ 😐︎☠︎⚐︎⌖📬︎"

[trombones]

They kind of have, kind of haven't. There's still a tear in the shoulder of his jacket, and his t-shirt was shucked a while ago - which wouldn't be THAT unusual if he access to his other clothes from home. But he's a skeleton, so. That's not weird either.

"..."

Sans sighs. He still doesn't really want to talk about it, but maybe this much will put Gaster's mind at ease. He turns around and sighs.

I know. But I already told you pretty much everything when it happened.

Okay, that's half true. The part where Sans blurt out that he didn't think he'd see Papyrus ever again wasn't saying he was homesick exactly. But it was close enough.

[returnvoid]

"⌖☟︎☜︎☠︎ ✋︎❄︎ ☟︎✌︎🚩🚩☜︎☠︎☜︎👎︎✍︎" he parrots, brow furrowing. His hands twitch behind him. Absently, a few more hands materialize around the room to begin gathering supplies.

He thinks back, sifting through the shards of disjointed memory he'd compartmentalized away and not let process. He remembers lamenting Sans' poor, misguided decision to stay and wondering why, despite his fervent desire to protect the memory of a dead and lost man, Sans would not fight back even when given every allowance to. He remembers that Sans had only really lost composure when it'd truly seemed that a monster wearing his father's face would be the one to take away that last bit of recollection he had.

He remembers wondering and yet thinking on it now the answer seems so absurdly obvious. Why wouldn't Sans care about his family, wholly present or not?

Neither of which were here. Not as Sans had known them, anyway.

Oh, Sans. His expression drops. He doesn't apologize again, it would be terribly egocentric to claim responsibility for something like this, but Gaster looks as tired as he feels, now. Have I aggravated this?

[trombones]

Yeah.

"Nah."

You know what? Cinnamon sounds good. He used a lot already on the pie, so why not...

...

Sans' hand hovers over the bottles behind him and he sighs. Finally, his hand drops. Forget it. He's not good at multi-tasking right now. The skeleton finally, wearily looks back to Gaster.

"Just..."

His gaze averts. He watches the hands materialize around the room as he signs the rest: Reminded me.

[returnvoid]

'Nah.' Sans hasn't called him doc, old man, or the previously-common near slips of 'D-' once in this conversation, but Gaster doesn't call him on the lie.

The hands pick up various odds and ends. Eggs, flour, leavening. A hand whisk. Gaster, for a moment, has half a mind to send some of them out to the gardens, but decides against it based on the fact that it would likely divide his attention a little too much. For now it is focused entirely on the other skeleton.

He glides forward a little, then stops.

...What would you have me do? It's signed slowly but evenly; some approximation of gentle. Forget his guilt. Does his presence do more harm than good? He'd be inclined to believe it if the answer was yes, after the month previous.

[trombones]

If anything, the yolk monstrosity in the wine glass has been officially forgotten. Sans' eyes follow the disembodied hands at work instead. He would argue otherwise, something along the lines that he hadn't had a good chance to call him old man yet, but...

Gaster gets closer. Sans forces himself to look up. He's quiet for a long time.

"... I don't know." He sighs. "It's not your fault. It's this place. I mean--"

He shrugs.

"Whatever you do or don't do, I'm stuck here anyway, right?"

Funny how much he missed his own world now. They were in a good place. A really good place. The last thing he wanted was to take Papyrus and the others away from that, just to make him less lonely.

"All honesty, doc... I just wanna go home already."

[returnvoid]

Whatever I do or don't do... can at least not contribute to making any given situation worse than it already is. He smiles wanly, but his hands would be wringing if they weren't already busy. They were always a bit too expressive. These are not wholly separate concepts.

'Stuck.' Simple, colloquial wording, but it strikes a chord somehow all the same. Wrong time, wrong place. There isn't much he can do about that though, no. He avoids thinking on it.

I understand, he repeats again, leaning in. Their definitions of home may differ, but: Truly I do. I only wish I could help. From the sound of things, the answer to that is negative, is it not?

Gaster straightens back up, coat fluttering with the movement. He laughs softly, shortly, and the sound is almost clear. I apologize. I only just said I would not push and here I am regardless. I have been told more than once it is something of a failing of mine. But even so, something tells me... the last thing I should be doing is to leave you alone.

[trombones]

"Maybe," Sans said with a sigh. He really didn't know if Gaster could help. Not about that, anyway. "... Heh. It's funny. One time, back then, I thought it would be better if we all wound up somewhere totally different. Like this, I guess. Now I just wanna go back, even if... I don't exactly know what happens next."

That was up to Frisk. But they promised him something. Something he still believed in, no matter how much the paranoia in the back of his head wanted to tell him otherwise.

Anyway. That was off-topic, and Gaster was talking about something else. He scratches the back of his skull.

"... Yeah. No. I don't want you to go anyway."

Maybe just talking would help. One of the few people who would truly understand it was standing right in front of him. Too bad he was bad at it.