For the people who are still alive

[sansational]

The nightmares come the night after the funeral.

He escorts S-4 and Sans-Serif back to the castle. Makes a couple of attempts to apologize to his other self that don't make it past his mouth. Tucks them both in, reads them both a story, returns to his own room just next door.

Barely an hour later, Sans wakes up blind with panic and crying out in terror. It leaves him huddled in the far corner of the room, his hands over his head, nails digging into his skull, teeth chattering and tears pouring from his eyes thick and fast enough to blind and choke him. Nightmares of what was and what could have been. Dreams of melting smiles and sharp teeth reaching and clawing for him, dragging him down and under and into and come and join the fun.

He resolves not to sleep again, after that. Eating also comes to seem...less important. He's not hungry. What good does food do him, anyway? It doesn't restore his HP. He's always at his best. It's just that his best isn't nearly enough.

One murderous human is dead. Another might arrive. He has to be ready. He has to protect everyone. He can't let those nightmares of dust (or maybe they're visions of timelines yet to be) come true.

Sans immerses himself in his lab. He buries himself in his work, and when he exhausts his old avenues of search, he makes up new ones. Anything to keep moving. Anything to not think of the past, here and elsewhere. When he emerges, it's usually to be found in the library, or outside, armed with his telescope and a notebook. And a pair of boots - the echo of bloody squishes from his old ones had led to Sans tossing them under his bed in disgust, along with his hoodie Otherwise, he gathers seemingly random ingredients from the gardens with an expression of fierce concentration on his face. There's probably no way to get this doseage exactly right.

But he can get close. Perhaps he can even do better.


It's like walking in on the wreckage of his own life. It's like waking from another nightmare all over again.

His brother, exhausted (that was never supposed to be the plan). His other self, lost (and Sans was supposed to show him better). His friends, worried or in some cases so far past worried that they had hit anger (he never asked them to care but of course that's the point).

So much is a mess, he knows he's done wrong and needs to fix it, but sleep isn't coming any easier and he doesn't know where to start. The raging uncertainty and the press of problems leaves him tempted to just curl up in a ball on his bed again and just...tune it all out.

But for others' sake, if nothing else, Sans is good at carrying on. It's just a matter of...shifting focus from what it had been before.

What Sans does know is that, for the first time in days, he's hungry. His soul feels hollow for the need of some proper food. And he's opened his eyes enough to properly see that S-4 and Sans-Serif are both looking a little more spindly again. Lucas' stew had done him some good the first time around. He'd even remembered to take some hasty notes on the recipe.

Maybe he can do it justice, if only for his family's sake.

So anyone who ventures down into the kitchens a day or so after Frisk returns will find a corner of it something of a mess. A pot of hot water is simmering on the stove, Some rather messily chopped vegetables are cooking away inside, along with an admittedly pleasant array of seasonings. A mess on the table testifies to Sans' attempts to continue adding ingredients...

...but, more than likely, visitors will find him dozing right there at the table, half a carrot or potato still waiting on the cutting board.

Anyone worried about his welfare can at least take some comfort in the fact that both the slippers and the hoodie have returned to their rightful place.


((ooc: Replies are likely to be slow as other threads progress. Just consider this Sans putting down a tether to the admittedly busy timeline around here. Either way, just note if you're tagging him before Frisk's return or after.))

Comments

[sansational]

Sans very much needs the sleep. Unfortunately, he's deliberately keeping himself too hyperaware for the presence of a certain human to miss the presence of a similar human in the kitchen, even if said human passes him right by for the sake of going to attend to the pot.

It's a struggle for Sans to wake up. Frisk will realize that he's trying when he lifts his head, rests it down on his folded arms, and then manages to lift his head again, half opening his eyesockets. He stares blearily at Frisk for a second before he realizes what they're doing. Then, shaking his head dazedly, Sans gets up from his seat to amble over.

"no...no, don't do that." He waves a hand to shoo them away. "not done yet."

[dustless]

"...don't want to set the kitchen and stuff on fire, do you?" Frisk gives the place he was sleeping at a meaningful look before stepping aside.

He'll feel their eyes on him and his hands, watching carefully to make sure he doesn't accidentally dip his fingers into the pot, or something.

[sansational]

Sans hops up onto the stepstool he's set by the pot and peers anxiously inside. He picks up his spoon, gives the contents a cautious stir, and then slurps up a little of the broth. After a thoughtful moment, he nods decisively and gets back down. Watching him, Frisk will see that his hands are still a bit shaky, and he keeps one resting against the countertop just in case, even if he doesn't actively lean his weight against it.

"it's fine. not even hot enough to set the pot on fire. wasn't sleeping that long anyway." Or at least, he hopes not. Either way, the soup is fine, and Sans picks up the knife to go back to work carving up carrots.

"want some when it's done?"

[dustless]

Regardless, Frisk is going to be standing right next to him and his stepstool, just in case. It's their turn to be paranoid. As if they haven't been at all before.

"...I can finish it, if you want." Subtly watching the knife near his fingers. "I can make stuff. Don't know how to turn it off, but I can figure it out."

They shrug. "'F there's stuff left later."

[sansational]

Sans looks up at Frisk blankly for a moment, and then shrugs when he realizes he can't really make out the look on their faec. "well, uh, you can help me chop up veggies, if you want." Mostly because he suspects it would be hideously boring work even if he wasn't hideously tired. "but i've gotta be the one who 'makes' it." He shrugs apologetically.

"this is mostly for s-4 and s-2. and a bit for me, i guess." The soup is starting to smell really good, in his opinion. Sans is actually pretty pleased with himself for getting close to Lucas' "recipe", for lack of a better word. "haven't been eating all that great, myself." Which he accepts probably won't be terribly surprising news, to Frisk. "food made by a monster is still a little bit monster food, y'know. and they need the help. it's better if you've got healing magic, of course. but neither of us has that."

[dustless]

They agree immediately, holding out their hand. They just look tired, mostly, though nowhere near what he'd been dealing with.

"...You could teach S-4, you know." Since he can heal, and would also probably very much enjoy it. "Don't need any. Still lots of human food stuff everywhere in here," they say frankly.

Wow, the vegetables are really weird looking. When they get the knife, Frisk will work a little slowly, but the sliced pieces will be a bit more similar in shape and size.

[sansational]

Sans passes over another knife, rather than surrendering the one he has in hand. This might not be the first time he's wound up with help today. Not that he's complaining. But he also doesn't want to entirely surrender the work. He wants to do something nice for the babybones, and is rather desperately hoping that this stays a nice thing that he doesn't mess up somehow.

He wants to think he's capable of doing something to fix the mess he's made of his life.

"huh. good point." S-4 would probably very much enjoy this, and he's got an undeniable knack for healing magic. Sans wouldn't be surprised if he'd already asked Lucas to show him how to make this soup the last time the kid had cooked up a batch. "i'll mention that to him when this is done."

Frisk gets a somewhat dubious look when they mention being fine with just the human food around the place. "...'f you say so." Sans ducks his head to continue working. "there's plenty if you want it, though. remember how i mentioned 'welcome back' spaghetti? thinking of calling this 'sorry i was a jerk' soup. so, uh, you're kind of entitled."

[dustless]

Frisk considers asking him to go sit down anyway. Maybe they will if he seems shaky. He could probably use more sleep.

Which they can't help but comment on a little. "Yeah. Or maybe tomorrow, or something. You look kinda tired still."

Sideways glance. "...just 'sorry soup' has a better ring to it, I think." The knife pauses, and they stare down at the pieces. "'S really been a pretty crappy few days all over, hasn't it."

[sansational]

Sans goes still for a moment, staring down pensively at the table. Then he huffs out a laugh, closing his eyes briefly. "i am very tired still." No point in trying to lie about it, even if it's a habit. It's a habit he's trying to be better about. "when we get to the point where i'm only 'kinda' tired, then at least we'll be back to business as usual. but i figured, hey. also kinda hungry. maybe fixing one will help fix the other."

He starts gathering up a few of the scattered pieces to be added to the pot, before returning Frisk's sideways glance.

Between this and some of the language Frisk had used when trying to wake him up, he briefly considers making a joke about Toriel forcing them to eat soap. But then Sans finds that even he doesn't quite have the energy.

"...yeah. pretty awful. kinda feels a little like a dream, today." At least to him. Though "nightmare" might be a more accurate word.

[dustless]

A quiet half-scoff. "'S not good to sleep hungry, but you can't eat yourself into being super awake. Probably."

Please. They know a lot worse words, and 'crappy' isn't even very rude to them. It's just a very good descriptor.

Frisk sort of hunches over, elbows resting on the counter. They have to adjust the vegetables and the knife a bit, but they can manage it. "...Woulda been nice 'f it was." Even nightmares can just be ignored after you wake up.

[sansational]

"i'll settle for 'awake'. not sure if i've ever been 'super awake'." Sans did once fall asleep and wake up dead, after all.

They're both clearly tired, but at least the pile of vegetables is getting smaller. It shouldn't take too much more work now. Then it's just a matter of waiting, an they've both had plenty of practice at that over the past few days.

"yeah. would've been nice." The steady sound of the knife against the table would be a little hypnotic on its own, but the two of them are working sufficiently out of sync to ruin any possible rhythm. "...already apologized to s-4 and sans-serif for not being around much. still wanted to do something nice for 'em. got the recipe off of lucas the last time he made this."

[dustless]

"That's se...sem...you know what I meant," they say with a slight eyeroll. "Still try to nap after, 'f you can."

Sans has had the practice, maybe. Frisk still feels like time skipped between their death and resurrection, and it's weird.

"Yeah? Thought I recognized that smell."

The pause after might be a little awkward. Frisk wants to talk about the whole--disaster that was the Chara meeting, but they don't really know how to start it.

[sansational]

"'semantics'," he corrects, without thinking. "and yeah, i guess. i'll definitely try to nap later, though."

Sans closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. "it's a good smell. smells like home. which is weird." He tilts his head curiously. "home never smelled like this." Not when home contained two scientists and Papyrus. Dinner was usually instant, reheated, takeout, or inedible.

The pause after that is a little awkward, though Sans notices it after Frisk does. He doesn't really know why - the obvious guess is that they want to talk about the meeting with Chara, but Sans both hopes he's wrong and doesn't see what else there is to say about that mess. He tries to keep working, but the silence from Frisk finally gets to be loud in its own way. Sans sighs, sets down his knife, and holds out a head of broccoli.

"broccoli for your thoughts?"

[dustless]

"...smells like a home, yeah." It makes them think of houses out in the country, which is weird, since they don't remember being out of their city that much. Or maybe Toriel's place, just 'cause she only baked them a pie doesn't mean she'd only ever make that.

Hmm. They stop chopping and take it, staring into the little 'branches' as if they held the secret of how to make their thoughts easier to untangle.

Eventually, they pick something simple. "...how long were you there?"

[sansational]

Sans' thoughts are still on home, at first. He frowns in puzzlement at the question. "how long was i...?" He used to work in Hotland, but even as much of a mess as his memories are, Sans is pretty sure he's always lived in Snowdin.

Then he takes another look at Frisk's face, and draws back a little in realization. Oh.

He goes back to work, more as an excuse to look away and keep his hands busy than anything else. "...pretty much from the start, i think. around about 'i'll give you thirty seconds to plead your case.'" It can take a few seconds for everything to snap back into place after he takes a shortcut. "but it took me a minute to really start following." The shock of actually hearing that Chara really was capable of speech had thrown him for a loop.

[dustless]

"Oh." Enjoy the weird sigh you're hearing, Sans. They'd genuinely forgotten that part. It wasn't nearly as important as the rest.

Silence stretches out again as they think, twisting the broccoli in their fingers.

Sans had heard...a lot of things. They very much hadn't wanted anyone to know some of those things, especially the Asriel thing. And he'd really messed stuff up by listening and storming in when he did, almost got them killed. But they can...understand that. Of course he'd want to know what was going on. Of course he'd hit his limit after he was missing Papyrus so much. In hindsight, they can't keep being very mad about those...

Considering quizzing him on what he'd gotten from the eavesdropping is shoved hard to the side by what they are definitely still mad about.

If he looks over, he'll see their expression change from neutral tiredness to something he'd seen only during the disaster itself.

"You. Don't ever. Ever. Try to die for me. Again."

[sansational]

Sans does look over, when Frisk is quiet for two seconds longer than might otherwise be expected. He looks over, and then the knife clatters to the floor from his suddenly nerveless fingers as he flinches away.

It's not quite hostility on their face, of course. But it's...definitely the closest he's ever seen on Frisk's face, at least while Frisk was able to choose their own expression. And it's the first time he's really been in a fit state to process the full meaning of that expression. Not to mention that he hadn't realized how used to their quieter voice he'd gotten until they'd spoken up louder just now.

"okay," he stammers, before really thinking about it. Then Sans takes a deep breath, and makes himself think. "...okay," he repeats, rather more quietly, sticking his hands in his pocket and ducking his head. "i mean, it's not..." He stops. Sighs. Tries again. Words are hard. "...it's not like i planned for that to happen. i wasn't thinking straight, i panicked, i..." I'm scared.

He gives a half-hearted half shrug, bends down to pick up the knife, and turns back to the table. "i'm sorry."

[dustless]

When he flinches, so do they.

Their throat is pretty messed up, so it takes a few more breaths to go again after that. All the screaming they did the other day took its toll, too. But it's his flinch more their their own pain that keeps them working on control of their own voice.

They talk through experience, a little. "Panic stuff can get you to freak out and jump into a bullet, not--not--not try getting yourself with yours," they say, fists clenched against the countertop. (They don't remember putting their broccoli and knife down, but it's not like it matters.)

Frisk feels their eyes start to burn and they clench their jaw hard enough their teeth make noise. This is not the time, not again.

[sansational]

"...maybe that's how you panic."

He can't bring himself to look up to see the beginnings of those tears. But he can hear the way their teeth are grinding (a particularly unpleasant sound to a skeleton), he can hear their struggle to keep control in their voice. And it causes a genuine stab of sympathetic pain in his own soul.

It's with hands that are still only shaking a little that Sans gathers up what he can of the vegetables they've already cut up. He carries them carefully back over to the stove, up his stepstool, to be deposited into the pot. A few stray drops of boiling water hiss and splash against the stovetop. He lingers there, staring into the simmering water, and takes a deep breath of the steam.

"look, frisk. i...i don't know what else you want me to say. i can...try to explain what i was thinking, if you really want me to?" He waves a hand, as though to tease a rational explanation out of the air that Sans knows is never going to come. "it's not gonna make sense and you're not gonna like it and it won't change anything. but if you're feeling particularly masochistic." He shrugs again, and keeps himself busy by stirring the pot while he waits.

[dustless]

'Humans don't have magic bullets' they consider saying, but that isn't very funny to them right now.

Frisk scrubs at their eyes, leaving their palms against them and watching little sparks flicker in their vision.

"I. Don't know either. 'M just really, really--I was scared, and really super mad, and I didn't want you to get hurt, and then you tried that. You told Chara you would do that stupid, stupid thing and I'm still scared and mad and I don't get scared and mad a lot, okay, and I don't know."

[sansational]

"it's okay not to know. it's okay to be mad." He's said as much to S-4 in the past, and it's just as true for Frisk. "if you wanna be really super mad at me for a bit, i understand. i'd probably feel the same, in your place." That might not even be a lie. Chara makes him angry enough on their own, Frisk dying was upsetting enough on its own.

And he's scared that he might have finally messed up enough to lose Frisk as a friend, to lose a few people as friends, but Sans can still rationally hold onto the idea that this is an irrational idea. It's letting him stay functional, at least.

(One upside of the resets was that Sans got really good at making friends. It let him practice. If he said something upsetting to someone on one cycle, he'd know not to say that on the next go around. Even if he could only find a few pieces of what might be bothering someone at a time, he could remember and put those pieces together. That's not an option here, and while he knows it's better that way, he can't shake the memory of it being, in some small and specific way, easier.)

"...so, just out of ridiculously morbid curiosity - assume we switch places, for a sec. what would you have done, if you made the stupid mistake and i was the one with the knife pointing at my face? hell, for the sake of argument we can say that we know monsters come back and chara specifically hates your metaphorical guts."

[dustless]

That makes them feel the tiniest bit less bad. They hate being angry, even if they feel like the anger should be aright (and anger, specifically, not justice an odd part of them murmurs). It isn't by that much; it doesn't make their emotions regarding all this any less.

Hands drag down their face, and they stare at Sans with slightly bloodshot eyes through their fingers. "Dunno. 'Pends why it happened. What I could talk to them about, 'cause I know stuff you don't. How much practice I knew you had."

[sansational]

"...yeah. guess it's not a fair question." Sans draws his hands down over his face, gives his head a little shake as though to physically dislodge the question from his head. "guess i was just curious."

He returns to the table, picks up his knife again, and reaches over to pull the last head of broccoli over. "because i really didn't see a way out, kid. i mean, you heard 'em say it. they wanted me to die. even if i hadn't tipped my hand to the fact that there were people they could use against me here, it wouldn't be a stretch for them to, say, take another skeleton hostage and make the same offer. it's like you said - we know you'd come back. i'm pretty sure s-4 would...but we don't know for sure. or suppose i lied to them - said 'sure' and shot them instead. all that tells them is not to bother talking next time."

And both Sans and Sans-Serif simply would not survive going through that. There's no doubt in Sans' mind of that much. Not to mention that he simply doesn't want S-4 to go through that kind of pain. Not to mention that Sans isn't at all sure he could personally live with the guilt of turning his back on a friend. Reasons on top of reasons, all of which made perfect sense to him there and then, all of which are still a lot more understandable to him now than they seem to be to Frisk.

"honestly, the fact that they even made that deal was kind of a surprise. two of my 'practice attempts' ended with us agreeing to stop fighting and me finishing them off anyway." The first time hadn't been unexpected. The second...Sans has tried not to wonder about.

"and if they'd done it themselves, at least they wouldn't have had to take my word for it that execution points don't exist, here. if they did, i would have gotten about eight levels of violence off of them. now, they'll keep wondering." Chara had talked about wanting to get stronger, and Sans knows that they aren't as strong as they will one day be.

"...don't expect you to accept any of that. if it just gives you more reason to be angry, then hey. at least there's that. but at least now you don't have to wonder."

[dustless]

"You shoulda just ran." No, they're not accepting it, and their voice is flat. "That would've kept them safe and you safe. And even if you--you--sealed the deal and I didn't do what I did, they wouldn't've thought that, they woulda thought it didn't count when a monster killed themselves, an' you woulda been dead, and I'd have to tell everybody what happened whether you came back or not and if you did everybody'd be--be--all weird and crying at you, too, just like they did me."

Frisk already understood before why Sans hadn't been sleeping, but they do even more now after they'd spent half a night extra just staring up at the stars, trying to think about what else could've happened, good and awful.

[sansational]

"maybe i should have done that..." Except he couldn't have, because Sans is sick and tired of leaving people alone to face that demon in a child's body. But that's another argument and another kettle of issues all on its own. "...but i didn't, and i'm sorry. i'm sorry i know that space-time looks like a piece of ravioli from the outside, but i can't read the mind of a genocidal nightmare like..." Like you can, he almost says, and stops himself just in time.

Sans gathers up the chopped pieces of broccoli the best that he can, though a few florets get left behind despite his attetion. "i'm an idiot and i'm a mess and i don't know what i'm doing." Recent events have driven home with rather brutal clarity that the best he can ever hope to be is somewhat less of a mess for the sake of a couple of babybones. He can't offer anything else to help them stop feeling angry - that's just something Frisk is going to have to work out themselves. "we are definitely on the same page there, frisk."

And just like that, what was a pile of unevenly chopped vegetables is now simmering away safely in the pot. So that's something, at least. Sans goes to add the last of it, glancing over his shoulder to add in a dull tone of voice: "thanks for the help, kid."