Archive of Our Own ^beta

It's funny. Less than a week in this world, and it seems like all anyone can talk about is you.

Not that you didn't make a hell of an entrance, though, according to the others. Maybe you should have anticipated the attention after apparently taking out power to the whole house for two days -- or maybe after finding out you'd been unconscious for three.

Or maybe it's because you can't remember anything.

After all, though this odd little house is filled to the brim with skeletons just like you, you're the only one without a whit of memory to your mysterious forgotten name. You've got nothing but scars to tell your story -- nothing else concrete, except for a flimsy paper gown, expertly bandaged ribs, and a thick metal collar. Seems it's rather uncommon among your species -- or type, or class, or whatever you are as a monster.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror beside the bed and find yourself unconsciously heaving a sigh at the reflection. You're a skeleton, there's no doubt, but you hardly resemble the others around you. Sure, one of the ones who found you, a tall one clad in orange who'd called himself Script, has the same face as the one reflected back at you, but something about you is...

... different. Unfamiliar.

A long-healed but hideous crack runs across your face just beneath your sockets, which are empty but for two small, quivering lights, one white and the other a vibrant green. It's wide enough to fit a finger, and deep enough that if you tilt your head just right, you can glimpse the fragile bones of your sinuses. Another, much less imposing hairline fracture traces up the apex of your skull from your right socket, and a third crawls down the side of your head into the corner of your left. A fourth crack, even thinner, takes a neat diamond-shaped chunk the size of a pin from your chin, and a fifth does the same to your nasal aperture.

Script doesn't have all of those. His face is smooth, unmarred except by the dark rings seemingly burned beneath his sockets. And even despite that, there's life in his eyelights and a purpose to his presence. He looks good. Happy. Maybe even handsome, in a way, while you...

Your gaze flickers down, past your chin, and to the heavy, featureless metal collar sitting around your neck.

The stares, the palpable horror, the familiar wordless rejection, it crawls down deep into your bones and cozies up in the marrow like a sickly parasite.

It doesn't come off. It will never come off.

... You look away.

There were three who found you. Ace, you haven't spoken to, but Script and Comic recounted the same experience: a catastrophic explosion and sudden blackout, and finding you on the floor once they'd finally agreed on who to send. Better three than all ten, or twelve, or whatever number they'd said. He was just the most memorable, maybe because of the resemblance.

Though, you also see a lot of yourself in Ace. Even though he and his dimensional twin, Comic, are shorter and rounder than you, Ace's sharper features echo some of what you see in the mirror. The teeth, especially; you might lack a gold one, but your four canines come to a matching fine, razor sharp point. And besides that, something about the set of his jaw and the slope of his shoulders feels familiar in a way you can't quite explain.

Not that you can remember. You can never remember. A blank slate, wiped clean -- that's you.

You're pulled from your reverie by the click of the door latch, motion in the corner of your eye following its swing as the aformentioned Comic enters your room. Not that you look, though -- you rarely do, now that the novelty of them walking in on you has worn off a bit. Instead, you continue to watch your reflection, tracking him in your peripherals as the other skeleton lumbers over.

He drops into the chair at your bedside with a weighty huff, flashing you the same open yet impenetrable smile as always. "mornin, sunshine," he rumbles, placing a tray on the nightstand. "brought some oatmeal for breakfast."

Slowly, you pull your stare from the mirror. You still don't look at him, not quite, but you do manage to make eye contact with the hem of his shirt. It's close enough. "thank you", you reply only just loud enough to hear.

His smile doesn't change, but he taps on the tray, bony phalange echoing a sharp rap-tap on the plastic. "you should eat," he says. His voice is gentle, as it always is. "script says your magic's still bottomed out from before."

Right. Your arrival, he means -- they'd worked out in the interim of your mild coma that you'd somehow been the one to overload the machine this time, burning all of your magic to drag yourself into this reality, miraculously without dying in the process. From what you hear, it was quite a sight, and also quite destructive.

Ace isn't happy about having to rebuild the machine from scratch yet again. You've heard him cussing up a storm a few times already.

But despite what your magic says, you're not really hungry. Or sad, or tired, or, well, anything. You're just kind of... here. Existing.

Your gaze wanders across the tray. One bowl of oatmeal, dotted with colorful eggs, as Comic said. A glass of what you assume must be milk. Also a round fruit. You stare at it for a moment, trying to remember what it's called.

Comic follows your gaze and picks up the fruit, hefting it between his hands. "this is a starfruit," he explains before digging his fingers into the skin. Blue juice dribbles down his wrist as he deftly shucks the rind away, depositing it back on the tray. Then he splits it apart. "from waterfall. they're rich in magic, good for sick babybones." He offers you one half; hesitantly, you accept it, watching your fingertips sink into the soft flesh.

It's quiet for a moment, Comic continuing to expertly peel apart the white-veined segments. He lines them up on the tray in a neat little row -- probably the only neat thing about him. Then he swaps your half for one of the pieces and pops another in his mouth with a deliberate look. Obediently, you copy him.

The fruit is tender, the taste an oddly harmonious sour-sweet. You try to ignore how it makes your insides lurch.

Comic hands you another piece, calmly disassembling the fruit like it comes so naturally to tend to you. "i got a few questions, if you're up to talking."

You don't have a choice. You've never had a choice.

Your gaze wanders away again, landing on your knees. Even beneath the warm knitted quilt, they look far too knobbly and misshapen to belong here. "okay," you say.

(You don't see the clench in his jaw at your tone or the flash of yellow in his socket, a brief slip of his iron calm. He's so, so careful to only show you the patient, caring older brother side of him.)

"only if you're sure," he replies, handing you another piece of fruit. You keep eating despite the turning in your stomach. "you don't have to answer anything you don't want to."

"okay," you say again. You don't look at him, only at the juice staining your fingers.

Another piece. "do you know who you are?"

Objectively, yes. "my name is papyrus," you reply. Subjectively, no. "script said so."

Comic is careful not to show you a reaction, mouth still set in that warm but empty smile. He hands you another piece of fruit. "do you remember anything that happened before you got here?"

You haven't even dreamed since you got here, you want to say, but you don't. Instead, you shake your head. "i can't," you say quietly. It's like there's a wall between you and the past, featureless and indefinite no matter where you try to look. Logically, you know you must have existed before waking up here, that you must have had a life before this -- but there's nothing. Not even a fragment.

It bothers them more than it does you.

"that's all right," Comic hums, wiping a hand on his jacket. The juice doesn't stain, probably because they're the same color. "then do you remember when we found you?"

Bits and pieces. It's foggy -- you were injured, in pain, and practically running on fumes, from what the others have said -- but you remember Script calling to the others, and Ace swearing at the mess. You remember Comic holding your head in his lap, soothing you while someone struggled to heal your wounds. You remember Ace, hushed beneath the screaming agony threaded through your bones, hissing, "where's the other one?"

You remember their panic and desperate attempts to keep you awake as you drifted off into a coma.

So you nod. "mostly."

(And if you'd been paying attention, you would have noticed that Comic's sigh wasn't one of disappointment, but relief.)

"good, good." Instead of fruit, this time Comic hands you the glass of milk. It's cold to the touch and much heavier than the fruit; you almost drop it, far too weak to handle the difference at first, but he clasps both your hands around it with his and waits for the trembling to stop. Then he helps you tip it up, and you manage a small sip.

It's warm. Sweet, too.

"blue's idea," says Comic with a soft smile. "milk and honey. says he made it for his li'l bro all the time when he was a babybones." He tilts his head towards the tray. "oatmeal was my paps. it's his favorite -- figured you'd like it, too."

You sip quietly at your drink, unsure of what to say. Thankfully, the turning in your stomach seems to be calming down, but now there's a jitter in your bones, a gnawing, aimless urge you don't know how to interpret.

There's a bit of an awkward silence. Comic's smile twitching at the edges.

"alright," he finally says, relaxing back. "i know script said he's gone over this with you before, but i wanna do it again just so we're all clear on what's going on."

You listen quietly, slowly working your way through your glass of honeyed milk while Comic explains (probably for the third time, because while you do vaguely remember Script talking at you, you're also pretty sure someone else had tried before him) how you got here.

In short, he, and several other hims throughout the multiverse, was working on the aforementioned machine for one reason or another (you're told each one had a different goal) when they all simultaneously malfunctioned, tearing a hole in something he calls "the Void". All the holes collapsed in on each other, which caused reality to collapse in on itself, and something called the universal rule of causality then un-collapsed reality with the added side effect of kicking anyone with matching magic into this universe -- the "alpha timeline". Now, while they try to fix this version of the machine to send them home, they occasionally have to welcome new arrivals who apparently keep getting caught up in the cosmic backlash and dragged in on a semi-regular basis.

You understand this explanation about as well as you did the hypothetical first one, back before you fell into your coma.

The important thing, Comic says, is that you and everyone else here are dimensional duplicates of each other. "the ones who look like me are all sans," he says, indicating himself, and then he points to you, "and the ones who look like you are papyrus. gets confusing quick, thus the nicknames."

Regarding those, he explains, "we didn't think it was fair to keep our names since no one actually chose to come here, so me 'n' paps go by comic and chief."

Then there's Script, the Papyrus in orange that looks so much like you, and his brother, Blue. "they're from a world that's like this one, but backwards," says Comic. "they're ruled by the queen instead of the king, blue's more like paps and script's more like me, so on and so forth."

Ace and his younger brother, an imposing skeleton in black by the name of Valor, come from another, more "hostile" world that Comic describes as revolving around the phrase, "kill or be killed". Their jagged, dangerous features and short tempers reflect the mentality it takes to survive in such an environment, though, he notes, they've cooled off a lot since arriving in such a peaceful timeline.

Then there's the others, ones you haven't met.

For instance, a set of pairs that Comic refers to as the "purple" four -- Sabre and Slim in violet, and Marquis and Ginger in red. "far as we can figure, their worlds are different takes on the same thing," he says. "even showed up at the same time. they're almost identical, too, so best way to tell them apart is by color."

Then the twins, Butch and Sage. "they're oddballs; monsters in their timeline never got sealed underground, so coming here was some real culture shock. they're kinda standoffish, so don't let it get to you."

And finally, there's the hermits, Hunter and Trace. Comic's expression goes a little tight at the edges at their mention. "they're from a... pretty dark timeline. they're doing fine now, but they don't like to talk about it, for good reason." From what he says, you won't see them much; they live in a small cabin in the woods, more than content to have their space from everyone else. When they do show up, it's mostly for scheduled meals or group meetings.

At that, the smaller skeleton heaves a sigh and relaxes back into his chair, tucking his hands into his pockets. "that's everyone so far, except you," he says with a lazy grin. "when you're feelin' up to it, we'll figure out a nickname for you, too. but for now, you can just focus on getting better."

You're not sure when your gaze wandered up to Comic's face, but now it snaps back down to your empty glass. You don't remember finishing your drink. "i think i understand," you say to the cup. The buzzing in your bones is still there, crawling through your marrow, and you're no closer to figuring out how to deal with it.

Comic taps the tray again, giving you another meaningful look. You pretend not to notice. "we all know it's a lot to take in, so it's okay to ask questions."

You don't look up. "i understand."

Rap-tap-tap. "we're hoping your memories will start coming back once your health improves."

You're not hungry. "okay."

Comic sits forward, leaning one elbow on his knee. His other hand keeps tapping on the tray. "that means recharging the magic batteries, pap."

The buzzing in your bones grows louder. You steadfastly stare at the empty glass in your hands. "i know."

With a sigh, Comic finally places the tray in your lap, delicately removing the glass from your hands. He replaces it with a spoon and says, kind but firm, "eat, papyrus."

Nausea replaces the buzzing, cold and thick in your throat. No matter how much you don't want to, you obediently lift the spoon to your mouth. You don't say a word.

Despite the pained look on Comic's face, he doesn't, either.

Once you finish, Comic leaves, doing his best to look as calm and cheerful as ever despite being visibly upset. He says something about bringing clothes by later, and about getting you up and around downstairs for dinner, but you're too busy staring at the mirror and trying to drown him out to pay much attention to the details.

At least this means you get a moment to breathe.

Despite your misgivings, it's clear that the food has done you some good. Before, you'd been sore all over like you'd run a marathon, exhaustion threaded deep into your bones -- and while you still ache, in that certain kind of way you know will never truly go away, it's significantly more manageable than before. The buzzing in your bones has dimmed to a hum, and the light from the lamp by the door doesn't hurt your eyes and skull quite so much as it did before.

You look better in the mirror, too, though you don't need memories to know you're still in pretty rough shape. The paradoxical dark bags under your sockets seem a little lighter, the lights in them a little brighter and steadier. It's not as hard to sit up, or to breathe, and your bones are more of a clear off-white than dull and ashen.

But you're still scarred. Still weak. Still blank.

It's funny, thinking about you causing an explosion. A stiff breeze could knock you down in this state, and you don't think you'd look very powerful even if you weren't bedbound and feather-boned. After all, you're not sturdy like Comic, or lean like Script. You're thin, willowy, almost sickly, with narrow shoulders and sharp yet delicate bones.

You hold up a slender hand, watching it waver, and try to imagine ripping through the fabric of reality like paper.

The exertion of keeping it aloft makes your arm and shoulder quiver and throb.

Yeah. You're so dangerous.

But you had to get here somehow. Maybe your Sans did something -- Comic had mentioned, what feels like ages ago, that he'd be willing to do whatever it took to keep his Papyrus safe  -- or maybe the "you" behind the big white wall was stronger than the "you" who landed here. Would that make you his shell? An echo of who you used to be?

Not that it really matters, though. You're here now, however it happened.

You lie down, folding your hands across your chest, and close your eyes to wait.

"--make no sense," the short one in the furred black jacket hisses, clawed hands clenching and unclenching at his arms where they've been folded together. The details keep blurring in and out, ungodly pain constantly threatening to drag you back into oblivion, but you think there's a glint of gold on his face somewhere. "it ain't never been one , an' this shit's gone on, what, five times--"

"--but he's hurt," argues the tall one back. He's clad in an orange hoodie and long shorts. "maybe there was a fight, and--"

"that would make sense," the third muses, thoughtfully stroking his chin. He's small like one and dressed like the other, but in blue. His head tilts your way as he says, "if that's what it took to keep pap safe--"

Red makes a noise like a strangled balloon. "then how'ya 'splain the busted machine!? that shit don't explode on its own!"

"power surge?" says Orange with a shrug. "just 'cuz it's never actually blown up before doesn't mean it's impossible."

Blue hums, absently stroking your head. "not actually sure how it didn't blow up on the purple pairs," he ponders. "if it was gonna explode on anything, you'd figure it'd be those four."

"yeah, all things considered," agrees Orange. He glances down at you again, expression too blurry to read. "what a mess."

"what a mess," echoes Blue.

As it turns out, you're quite tall. Very tall, in fact, once you manage to make sense of the long, gangling sticks that are your legs.

Script had been the one to bring up your new clothing, reluctantly rousing you from your light, fitful slumber on his arrival with a gentle knock on the doorframe. He'd held up a small stack of colorful fabric, a small, lopsided smile on his face, and said, "need a change?"

(You're still not entirely sure how to feel about him, and it's clear, despite his efforts, that he feels similarly about you.

You think you still prefer him to Ace, however. The fiery red dwarf has still yet to show his face to you again since (colorfully) extricating you from the wreckage of their precious machine and hauling you upstairs.)

When you didn't respond, Script's forced cheer had flickered in some expression you couldn't recognize, though he valiantly soldiered on and carried his quarry to your bed like some sort of funeral dirge. "we did our best guess on your size," he said, lifting a plush grey sweater with a flick of his wrists, "so, uh, these might not fit great. you're kind of a funky size for one of us."

That's true. You looked down again at your arm and covered legs, mentally comparing your proportions to that of Script beside you. At your best guess, you kind of look like he'd had a bad run-in with an angry taffy puller.

Like he'd read your mind, Script cracked a sideways grin and held the sweater up to your shoulders. "stars, yeah, you're gonna be swimming in slim's stuff. valor should have some belts to tide you over 'til marquis gets back."

For a second, the names went over your head, leaving you blinking blankly at Script -- then you remembered Comic's explanation again. Right, Slim was one purple -- the violet one -- and Marquis was the other, red purple. Valor was Ace's brother. You nodded in understanding, and the tension in Script's rictus grin eased.

Then Script tried to get you out of bed so you could change -- which leads you to now.

"you need to eat more," Script blithely comments beside you, your arm slung around his shoulder and his wrapped around your back. Even though you're bent nearly double with most of your weight on him, struggling to coordinate your weak and ill-responsive legs, he barely seems to notice. "a guy like you oughta be twice this heavy."

You breathe a short huff through your nose, situating both legs somewhat beneath you. In the mirror, you look a bit like a baby lamb, all gangling joints and no concept of which way is up. You hadn't expected the concept of standing to be so difficult to master.

Script snorts softly and heaves you forward a bit, forcing your legs to bend beneath your weight. They immediately start to tremble, but he maintains his grip and starts urging you forward a bit. "here, follow my lead."

"not sure what your world's like," he continues as he leads you on a slow, gentle circuit of the room, "but there's plenty of food here. blue, valor, cap -- chief, i mean, blue 'n' me call 'im "cap" cuz he's not our alph -- 'n' sabre all take turns cooking on weekdays, and marquis does a regular sunday brunch. sometimes hunter 'n' trace'll bring a deer and veggies and we'll have a harvest party, too." You stumble and he patiently helps you catch your balance. "valor's probably gonna corner you once we get downstairs about your favorites -- he's a little obsessive about that kinda thing, keeps a schedule on the side of the fridge and everything."

You have no idea what Script is talking about, but your legs are starting to shake less and obey your commands more now that you're on your second lap of the room. Whatever this is, it's working.

"i mean," Script continues, seemingly oblivious to your inattention, "he's not the only one who's gonna mob you, honestly. blue's been on pins 'n' needles wanting to say hi since you woke up, and i'm sure hunter's gonna campaign to keep you soon as he figures out you're a loner--"

Without warning, he ducks away with a fond, "guy's a total mother hen," leaving you standing alone in the middle of the room. You wobble a bit, startled by the loss of your support -- and when you don't fall, Script tucks his hands into his pockets with a smile. "lookin' good," he says. "try coming this way."

That's a little sudden. You're not too sure on your footing yet, but you take a tentative step anyway, carefully measuring how much weight you have to shift where. Then you take another, and another.

By the time you make it back to the bed, Script's holding up your new borrowed pants. They look a little short and definitely too wide in the hip, but they're soft and silken to the touch. "pajama pants," Script explains with a shrug. "cap's idea."

It's obvious why. You pluck halfheartedly at your rough, ill-fitting paper gown -- your only possession, aside from the metal collar sitting cold around your neck.

Script's face softens -- in sympathy or pity, you can't tell. "do you want me to help?" he asks.

You do.

You don't have to be a genius to see the horror in Script's eyes when the paper gown drops.

It's not like you haven't known what you look like. The gown only covered so much, but at the same time, it made everything feel so disconnected -- so temporary. Garbed like an intensive care patient, the gown granted the illusion that you could be fixed.

Without it, you're hideous.

Pasty grey scars, cracked divots, and devastating fissures cover your body from head to toe like a lightning storm. Though all you feel is a persistent faint throbbing and a dull, bone-deep tiredness, Script's expression says quite clearly that he doesn't comprehend how you're able to stand, let alone function in this kind of condition. You don't really understand -- as far as you know, you've always looked like this -- but it's become obvious over your brief time awake that maybe things in your world weren't exactly, well, right.

(Which lends credence to the theory that your absent Sans somehow drop-kicked you through dimensions as some sort of fraternal fail-safe, you suppose.)

You're not sure what condition your ribs, the source of most of your aches, are in, but considering how the rest of you looks, you're equally unwilling to remove the bandages to find out. Everything else is too much as it is.

There's a soft little clack as Script snaps his jaw closed, suddenly determined to look only at your face, and he all but shoves the silken pants into your hands. "here, uh, i'll-- just- just sit down on the bed, and put these on..."

He guides you through dressing yourself, rambling throughout and only visibly relaxing once you're fully clad head-to-toe in fabric, including a pair of plain black socks. You're not entirely sure how to handle the sudden sensations of cloth on your sensitive (yet somehow also numb) bones -- the borrowed pants are distractingly soft against your femurs, boxers and sweater snug and soothing like you're wrapped in a physical hug. The collar takes some wrangling, but eventually the two of you manage to thread the sweater's cowl through, burying the unsightly metal beneath flowing grey plush.

Covered the way you are, with only your head and hands exposed, you might almost look like you belong here if not for the scars.

Script heaves a sigh while you examine yourself in the mirror, scrubbing his hands over his face. With a muttered something under his breath, which you don't bother to try and overhear because it doesn't really matter, he flashes you a tired smile and says, "you look good."

Turning this way and that, examining the way the fabric falls over your thin, jutting bones, you think you might agree. Sure, the sweater's sleeves end halfway to your wrists, and sure, the pants fall right at your mid-shin -- but it's a far sight better than the hospital patient you looked like before. No one but Script will ever know the horrors that lie under your new soft and fragile-looking garb.

Like this, you might almost be able to pretend you're normal.

Satisfied, you curiously incline your head towards Script. What's next? He'd mentioned going downstairs, but hasn't made a move to suggest where he's planning to actually go. Maybe he has other things for you to do first? You watch him quizzically.

He looks back, also looking curious and confused. But rather than asking you whatever is so clearly on his mind, he places his hands back in his pockets and nods toward the door. "ready to go?"

Sure. You flick your gaze between him and the door, waiting patiently.

For a second, you think he might look a little lost -- not that you know why -- but he eventually turns and starts to lead you out. You follow obediently, and quietly, behind.