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Sans is nothing if not a creature of habit. Routine means Not Thinking and Not Thinking means he can pretend everything’s okay for a little longer.
QC’s bakery is closed. The sheet of paper tacked to the door says her sister caught some kind of bug (metaphorical, unfortunately, or else he’d ask for tips). So no Cinnamon Bunnies he’d planned on gifting Toriel to make up for accidentally sleep-shortcutting into her bedroom last night.
(That better not become a habit. For someone who snores so hard, she’s quick to jump awake, fireballs in hands. She wouldn’t hit him on purpose, and bone’s not particularly flammable, but still.)
Habit. He’s not been on the other side of the door long enough to build new ones, yet, though he will. He has before. Not the first time his life’s up and uprooted like a grinning Vegetoid, and at least this time there are familiar places to backtrack to.
Too bad they’re not open.
He sighs, watching the artificial sunlight filter through the golden storefront window, before shortcutting out of the closed shop.
By habit, he almost ends up at Grillby’s before yanking himself back to the Ruins. Can’t throw those dogs a bone. They’ll have too many questions about the Ex-Queen—geez, even about him—and whatever he says’ll end up back to Undyne and he’s not ready for that.
Ruins. The Ruins are safe, for all that they’re unfamiliar. Papyrus would’ve loved exploring the place, with all its rusted traps and spikes.
He shuts his eyesockets for a moment. No habit to keep him on autopilot here. What was he doing again?
Treats. That’s right. Something loaded with sugar that Toriel won’t have to bake herself. Conveniently, his off-kilter shortcut landed him in the room with the bowl of candy… but pilfering the sweets she’d left out for the Froggits and Whimsuns just to give them back to her is too lazy of an apology, even for him.
Speak of the devils. A pair of Froggits and one shaking Whimsun hop-and-flutter through the door. The moth-like monster bursts into tears at the sight of him, fleeing back into the hall.
“Huh. That’s a first.” His grin tightens. “Normally pals wait to cry until after the joke.”
“Ribbit, ribbit,” one Froggit’s face-mouth croaks.
“(Joke?)” the mouth hidden in the shadows of its belly translates. Different from the Final Froggits Sans is used to, whose two mouths tend to speak in harmonizing tandem. “(I don’t understand.)”
Man. Tough crowd.
“Don’t worry ‘bout it.” He shrugs his hands into his hoodie pockets. “Not everyone’s got a funny bone.”
Not even a groan at that. Just a couple of low, cricket-like croaks.
How has Toriel survived so long with this kind of audience? He can feel the humor leaking out his humerus already.
The Froggits are still staring at him. Warily.
“You know anywhere to get some grub around here?” he finally asks, because the silence is threatening to suffocate him and shortcutting around still-mostly-uncharted territory is a great way to spring one of those centuries-old traps. Just walking until he finds something is out of the question, of course. The Ruins are huge, and his legs aren’t.
“Ribbit…” “(Grub…?)”
Right. They’ve been stuck here as long as Toriel, with even less contact with the outside world.
“Food,” he translates. Though Toriel would probably appreciate literal grubs, too, considering her bug-hunting hobby.
“Ribbitttttt.” “(Ohhh. Spider bake sale. Go out and make a left, then keep going until you reach the end of the hall.)”
He has no idea how far that is, so. Walking. Fun.
“‘Preciate it.”
His slippers scuff across the lavender stone, and he can feel all four pairs of eyes follow him out. Normally he only minds stairs, not stares. But for some reason it makes his vertebrae shiver.
Maybe it was just that Whimsun. The sudden crying, before he could even get a word out… he’s not used to that.
He’s not used to silence. He’s used to laughter and warmth and explosions and booming cries of “SANS PICK UP YOUR SOCK!” He’s used to being at the beating heart of wherever he is—lab or town or bar or, or. Maybe no one needs him, but they like him and want him and he wants them and he never realized how much being alone sucks.
And this is how Toriel’s been living. For centuries.
Maybe she likes it this way, he rationalizes, but he’s heard the excitement in her voice every time he arrived at the door, the faintest longing whisper any time he mentioned his brother or friends. He doesn’t know her at all, and he knows her too well to believe that.
The thoughts buzz in his skull up until his foot plunges through a false veneer of stone.
Normally, he has a healthy respect for puzzles, for all that they’re not really his heritage to claim. Today, as he lands face-down in a leafpile, all he can muster is a flat annoyance.
Maybe he could shortcut back to Toriel’s house and restart from there. But ironically, he doesn’t have a good enough sense of direction to find the bakesale from that angle. If he even can now that he’s fallen a layer deeper underground…
The leaves are pretty comfy. It’s tempting to just lie here. It’s what his old habits want.
Fortunately—unfortunately?—something chomps down on his ankle.
“Contains Vitamin D,” a Vegetoid says, its voice muffled by the tibia in its mouth.
“Huh. So this’s where the jokers’ve been hiding.” Sans grunts and kicks the sentient vegetable away. “No wonder I didn’t Cal-cium before.”
Cal-see-’em. It’s horrible. He’d bet twenty G he can get Toriel to shoot milk out her nose with it.
“Plants Can’t Joke Dummy,” the Vegetoid deadpans despite the grin still carved into its face.
Eh, he can’t begrudge it the grin. He knows how having a one-note facial expression goes. Couldn’t it have at least given him a pity “heh,” though?
“Nah, Dummy’s in a different room,” he glibs despite knowing it won’t get him any results.
“Eat Your Greens,” it replies unrelatedly as he checks the puzzle explanation on the sign and treks back up the stairs.
Ugh. Stares and stairs. They really should just close the curtain on him today.
This time, he pays more attention to the terrain, and makes it to the bake sale with only a few more awkward encounters.
(He hadn’t meant to pick on Loox. He doesn’t pull out the eye trick for just anyone. It isn’t his fault the optical monster had chosen to interpret it as an insult rather than a flashy display of solidarity.)
He blinks at the bake sale prices on the signs. Only seven G for a donut here? Maybe that’s a reasonable price, but Muffet’s Hotland stand was as much of a ripoff as his fried snow. When the Froggit mentioned spiders, he’d expected to have to haggle or barter his way into some baked goods—which was always a good time, with Muffet. She understood the art of a good deal and if she swindled him a bit too much, at least it was going to charity.
Of course, Muffet isn’t here anyway. He doesn’t know what kind of bargaining these spiders would be up for, if any—and considering his track record today, dropping fourteen G in the web is probably his safest bet.
Some spiders crawl down and silently hand him two donuts.
“Pleasure doin’ business with ya,” he says. Habit.
His words echo off of the enclosing walls, topple down like a cave-in. With ya, with ya, with ya.
Somehow, he hates that even more than the silence.
XXX
Routine is like habit’s second cousin. Close enough to crash family reunions, distant enough to flake out when you need it most.
There’s no routine to coming home, ‘nuts in hand, only to find Toriel sobbing in her armchair.
“Uh,” he grunts, too caught off guard to even curse.
Toriel doesn’t cry. She didn’t cry when she saw Asgore’s dust, or when Undyne threatened her at spearpoint, or when she stumbled back over the Ruins threshold, blank stare glazing over her mahogany eyes. And Sans—well, he can’t cry, no ducts to pump out saltwater with, so he doesn’t—doesn’t know what to do.
Now that’s an understatement.
“Spider ‘nut?” he offers weakly, because food never made anything worse.
A wheeze cuts through her sob. She shakes her head, but waves him over.
Mixed messages, here.
“I was gonna get ya a cinnabun,” he approaches with soft steps, “but QC was closed today.”
Toriel wipes her face. Her hands are shaking; her claws leave thin trails in the fur above her brow.
“Of course. Of course, that’s all it was.” Her laugh cracks over the words.
“Huh?” Another step closer.
He wishes he weren’t holding donuts; he’d like to take her hands, pull them away from her face before her claws decide they want to dig in any deeper. He’s not sure that’d be welcome, anyway, after the scare he gave her last night.
“Ap…apologies,” she murmurs. “I… s-so pathetic…”
“Hey.” His browbone scrunches a little. “Not sure what you’re goin’ on about, but I won’t judge. There’s do-nuthin’ to be ashamed of.”
After all of today’s failures, he almost expects it to fall flat, but this is Toriel he’s talking to. A wet bleat interrupts her tears—and boy, that’s a lot of snot. He’s impressed.
“O-oh dear…” She stares down at her slimy hands.
He shuffles the donuts to the dining table so his hands are free, then shrugs out of his hoodie.
“Here.” He offers it to her, and she blinks down at him sharply.
“What—no, Sans—”
“‘S due for a wash anyway.”
He drapes the hoodie over her hands before she can protest any further. Too late, he hopes she wasn’t protesting because she wanted something cleaner to wipe her hands on. Oh well.
“...Thank you.” She clutches the garment tightly.
Something squeezes in his ribcage. They’re both staring, and trying to pretend they’re not, and the fireplace is cold so the only thing he can hear is her still-somewhat-congested breathing.
“You, uh. Want me to give you some space…?” he finally asks.
“No,” her answer is quicker and firmer than he expected. “No, please. Stay.”
He nods. Then, hoping he’s not pushing his luck, he hauls himself up onto the arm of her broad chair. His legs hang off the side, his back pressed to her shoulder.
“Now ya won’t have to break your neck lookin’ down at me,” he rationalizes away the touch.
“How thoughtful.” She smiles with a wet snort.
Her hands tangle deeper into his crumpled hoodie. Her claws are retracted now, though. He’s pretty sure she won’t poke any holes in it. Not that he’d mind if she did.
“I… thought you…” she inhales a shaky breath, “I thought you had left.”
“Yeah, I went out to get snacks and—oh.” He blinks. “You thought I—why?”
She’d thought he left. For good. Not even that he was gone, which could’ve implied she thought a stray Froggit offed him for one of his bad jokes. That he could’ve understood. But left, on purpose?
Nope. Not happening. She’d have to throw him out the doors and recast the seal if she wanted to get rid of him.
“I—I nearly hurt you last night…” she trails off, brows furrowed.
“Yeah, ‘cause I sleepwalked into your room.” Sleepwalked? Sleptwalked? Technically it was sleep-shortcutted, so. Whatever. “That’s, uh, what the apology ‘nuts were for.”
Stupid walking with his stupid legs. He must’ve taken even longer than he’d thought if Toriel had thought he wasn’t coming back.
“Of course. Of course.” Another weak laugh. “I have been falling apart over nothing…”
“I’ll leave a note next time,” he says lightly, but he means it.
He knew he meant a lot to her, but this—geez, this scares him. And thrills him, in a messed-up way that sends guilt itching at his collarbones. Someone does still want him, and that someone happens to be the funniest, sweetest, most incredible monster in the Underground. Staying with her was the easiest decision he’s ever made.
The thing is, where he stays is rarely his decision. Not with his luck. If anything happens to him, and she thinks he left by choice—
He just. Won’t think about that. Honestly, he may look as tough as wet cardboard, but he’s not gonna fall down to any Froggit or Loox.
(And if any twist of fate tries to drop him somewhere new again—he’ll fight and claw with all the determination he doesn’t have. He’ll try.)
(It’s the best he can do.)
He burrows his hand into the hoodie with hers, because the joke he has in mind doesn’t work without touching her palm. That’s the only reason.
“Tori. I’m sticking with you.”
She looks up, and her hand twitches. Still sticky.
“Snot like you can get rid of me that easy,” he says, in case the first quip was too subtle.
And there it is again, that laugh he lov—likes.
(Cherishes. Adores. Wants to bottle and put on everything like ketchup.)
“Thank you, Sans. I am… sorry you had to see me like that,” Toriel says, having mostly recovered. He can’t feel her shoulder trembling against his back anymore.
“Hey, like I said. No judgment here.” He shifts, bumping his shoulder against hers with a grin. “What’re friends for?”
After a blink, a warm smile spreads across her face, uncovering the two sharp teeth poking down from her upper lip.
“They are for worrying me silly, apparently.”
He’s about to apologize when she cups the side of his face, hand still sticky. Her thumb brushes the curve of his cheekbone.
“Also, for making me laugh, and smile, and apologizing for things that are not his fault, and being kinder than I remembered was possible.”
“Uh-uh…” he blushes, warm and blue under her touch. His brain is short-circuiting a little, and it shows in the embarrassingly flimsy joke he comes up. “I know you are, but what am I?”
She laughs anyway. She always does. It’s enough to make up for every silent Froggit and Whimsun and Loox in the Underground.
“You are awfully handsome in that shade of blue,” she answers, and his brain’s short-circuit goes into full power outage—
Only to explode like Gyftmas lights when she presses her lips to the side of his skull, her protruding teeth scraping slightly in a way that makes him shiver.
That’s something he could stand to make a habit.