Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

        Sans had not smoked in months. Well, not since (Y/N) came back into his life. The new version of her that was enough like her. The one who didn't die on that cold checkboard floor. The one they had found. She looked the same, sounded the same, and yet still was not and could not ever be the same as the woman he remembered.

        Too late.

        This (Y/N) had made it clear from the start how she felt about his old habits and about the things he’d done. And for a while, he’d tried to keep his distance from the things that pulled him back into his past. Things like the taste of burnt tobacco on his tongue, the flickering ember at the end of a cigarette, the weight of something familiar between his fingers.

        The air was colder than usual tonight, but that didn’t stop Sans from stepping outside his small hideaway, the shadows of Snowdin stretching long into the trees. He could hear the faint rustling of leaves in the distance, but his focus was elsewhere on the small, crumpled pack in his pocket.

        With a flick of his wrist, he pulled one out, the soft crack of the pack breaking the silence of the night. He glanced down at it for a moment just a damn cigarette. Nothing more, nothing less. As the lighter sparked to life, the familiar scent of smoke curled up into the cool air, and for a moment, it was like he was back where he started.

        He took a long drag, the smoke scratching its way down his throat before he let it out in a slow, bitter exhale. The orange tip glowed in the dark like a warning light; stop, turn back, wrong way! But Sans ignored it. He stood there with his hood up and his shoulders hunched, as if the cold might seep in and freeze out whatever mess was boiling under his SOUL.

        “Dumb,” he muttered, the word bitten off near the end in between his teeth. “All of it.”

        The cigarette dangled from his fingers as he stared out into the black stretch of trees. His magic itched behind his eye socket, raw and restless. He could feel the old weight pressing down on his spine again. The timelines, the RESETs, the screams he’d heard a thousand times and the silence that followed after every loss.

        And her.

        (Y/N), bright and warm and breathing, looking at him like he was someone worth saving. Like he was someone who hadn’t burned half the world just to feel her heartbeat again. But she wasn’t the same girl. Not really. This version of her flinched at his temper, pulled away when his voice got too sharp. She hated the smoke. Hated what it meant even if she didn’t know the full weight of it because this wasn't the same (Y/N) so what did it matter!

        For fucks sake.

        He crushed the cigarette underfoot. Then lit another.

        “She don’t even remember,” he growled, voice low and gravel-sharp. “She don’t get it. What it cost me. What I did.”

        His fist clenched tight around the lighter, the plastic casing groaning under the strain. He should’ve been done with this. He was supposed to be the reformed one now. The good man. The one who learned from his mistakes. But who was he kidding? He’d slit the throat of every version of himself if it meant keeping her alive. So yeah. Maybe he wanted to smoke. Maybe he wanted to crack the timeline in half and shake it until the right (Y/N) fell out.

        Makin' things right.

  That was the lie he told himself. The thing he muttered through clenched teeth when he was dragging himself out of another dead-end timeline where she didn't appear. Another version of her with eyes gone glassy and a name torn from his throat like it might mean something. It didn’t. Not anymore.

  The wooden log wall pressed uneven, cold, and rough against his spine. The air had bite to it, sharper than usual, like it knew his mind was slipping somewhere it shouldn't. He stayed still anyway, eyes half-lidded as smoke curled up from the end of the cigarette between his fingers. The stars overhead flickered behind a haze, distant and silent. Watching. Useless.

  The smoke drifted like ghosts through the alleyways of Snowdin, soft and lazy. Familiar. He took another drag, the ember flaring bright in the dark. It tasted like static and guilt. Like the scream she never got out. Like the way her hand had gone limp in his once, still warm, and then cold. He’d clawed his way through timelines for her. Burned bridges, broke rules, bled and none of it had ever been enough.

  This was the one habit he’d never shaken. The one thread tying him back to all the pieces of himself he was supposed to have buried. But here it was, still smoldering between his fingers with a cherry red hot tip staring back at him.

  “Funny,” he muttered. The word didn’t carry far, swallowed by the trees and the wind. “Spent all that time wreckin’ the rules to keep her safe. Now I gotta act like I ain’t wrecked myself.”

  The cigarette burned low. He let it drop, the filter hissing where it hit the snow. No final thoughts. No ceremony. Just ash in the dirt where it belonged.

  Then came the quiet. That kind of silence that didn’t just sit around you, it settled into your bones. It reminded you of the people you lost. The ones who never even knew what hit ‘em. The ones who looked at you like you were salvation, not the fool who ran out of rope a hundred RESETs ago.

  His phone buzzed in his pocket.

  Once. Then again, louder. It cut through the fog in his head like a hot knife, sharp and immediate.

  He grunted, pulled it out. The glow of the screen lit up his face in the dark. Her name sat there. (Y/N). No picture. No fluff. Just the name with no last name and that was enough to make his stomach twist like he’d been punched. He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen. That name carried more weight than it had any right to. It wasn’t just a name. It was everything he’d fought for. Every line he’d crossed. Every monster he’d become.

  The first time she smiled at him in this version it hadn’t hit like a memory. It had hit like a brand. Hot. Final. He knew then that maybe, just maybe, this one could stay. Not because she was the same. But because she was alive.

        Her scent lingered with him longer than it should have. Soap and pine—simple, clean, nothing like the mess he dragged behind him. Her hands were always a little too cold, brushing his by accident or on purpose, but never long enough to mean anything. She talked to him like he wasn’t a monster, like the things he’d done didn’t rot beneath the surface. Her voice cut through the static in his head better than anything else ever had.

  He answered the call.

  “Yeah?” His voice rasped out low. His voice gravely and laced with old smoke.

  “Hey, Sans!” Her voice cracked through like sunlight over a graveyard. Warm. Bright. Still alive. “It’s (Y/N). I was thinking we could have dinner at the cottage tonight. Papyrus is already making spaghetti, and I promised Frisk I’d help with the salad.”

  He didn’t say anything right away. Closed his eyes instead. Breathed deep. This time, the air wasn’t filled with smoke. Just cold, clean air, biting and sharp.

  She didn’t know what he’d done for her. Not really. But she still called. Still laughed. Still wanted him to show up. Not because she needed to be saved because she wanted him there and that meant more than anything else ever had. It wasn’t perfect. She flinched when he moved too fast. Watched him close when his tone dropped low. She didn’t trust him all the way. Not yet. But she was still trying and so was the kid.

  His eyes dropped to the cigarette filter half-buried in snow. His fingers twitched. He could light another one. Go back to pretending he didn’t care. Slide into the version of himself that didn’t have hope, didn’t have her. But then she laughed in the background. Light, real, full of something he hadn’t heard in a long time. Frisk said something about cucumbers. He heard her snort.

  “Yeah,” he finally said. His voice was still rough, but steadier now. “Yeah, that sounds good.”

        "Great! Food's gonna be a little while more."

        “Sounds good,” he repeated, forcing a bit of ease into his voice that didn’t come naturally anymore. “What time?”

        “I was thinking around six, if that works for you."

        “Yeah, I’ll be there,” he said.

        “Great!” Her voice was bright, too bright for the kind of world they lived in. It cut through the fog in his head like a blade. “I’ll make sure the place is ready, and I’ll even save you a seat at the table, alright?”

        He gave a soft chuckle, but it was hollow. “I don’t need a seat saved. I always find one.”

        There was a pause, quiet but not cold, and he could almost picture the faint smile tugging at her lips.

        “I suppose that’s true. It’s been too long.”

        “I’ll be there,” he repeated, quieter this time.

        “Good,” she said her voice dripping with earnest, and those words stuck in his chest longer than they should have. “I think it'll be great. It's not a party without you, Sans.”

        Damn it.

        “I’ll see ya soon,” he muttered, and before the weight of it could settle, he ended the call and shoved the phone back into his pocket.

        The world bent around him like a shiver through reality, a flicker of red monster magic curling around his bones. Teleporting wasn’t something he had to think about anymore—it was instinct, like breathing, like blinking. One moment, he was hunched over the worn counter at Grillby’s, the dim light flickering in the grimy windows. The next, his magic sparked at his fingertips, a rush of weightlessness tugging at his ribs, and the world collapsed inward.

        When it snapped back into place, he was standing outside her cottage, snow crunching beneath his boots. The biting cold gnawed at him, but he barely felt it, too used to the way the chill seeped into his bones. He took a slow breath, his breath puffing out in faint, misty plumes. The air still hummed with leftover static from the teleport, crackling faintly around him before fading into the night.

        The cottage looked small and cozy from the outside, the kind of place that seemed cut out of a storybook instead of dragged through the dirt of reality. Candlelight spilled from the windows, soft and warm, like it actually belonged to people who hadn’t seen hell. Smoke curled from the chimney, drifting up into the dark sky, and the muffled sound of voices inside carried faintly to where he stood. Familiar, soft, reminding him of things he couldn’t quite touch anymore.

        He could’ve just walked in. It would’ve been easy—push open the door, slip off his boots by the doormat like he used to. (Y/N) would probably look up, give him that half-smile, ask him where he’d been. Papyrus would grumble about tracking in snow, already reaching for the broom before Sans even got his slippers on. Frisk would look from a book or a painting from the floor; scattered around them would be crayons and markers. It would’ve been easy, almost painfully normal.

        But he didn’t.

        Instead, he just stood there, hands stuffed in his pockets, magic still buzzing under his skin like a lingering ache. He didn’t move—just stared at the cottage, watching shadows move across the windows. The light flickered, soft and steady, like a heartbeat, and he couldn’t help but feel like he was standing on the edge of something fragile, something that could shatter if he pushed too hard.

        He vanished again, this time landing near the tree. The old one. Gnarled, with thick roots curled into the ground like wicked limbs that dug and twisted into the dirt. It had stood through everything; monsters tearing each other apart, snow falling like ash, blood freezing where it spilled.

        This was the place. This was where she found him.

        Sans lowered himself onto the roots and leaned back, bones aching against the rough bark.

        He looked up instead. The sky was cold and stretched wide, white blank stars staring down like they didn’t give a damn. They never had.

        He hadn’t seen the attack coming. Plum was faster than he’d expected. Cleaner. For all the scraps Sans had dragged himself out of, that one was different. A slash across the back so hard it cracked bone. He went down against this tree, spine fractured, snow dark with marrow. He remembered thinking it was the end. He didn’t even fight it.

        What was one more RESET?

        But then he woke up.

        Not in the dirt. In a comfy, warm, clean bed in a room he had never seen before. His spine was wrapped tight in gauze and the pain was dull but manageable. The air smelled like herbs and something sweet he couldn’t name and her voice, low and tired, saying something under her breath while she worked. She still had a mark on her wrist from his boot.

        It didn’t erase what came before only hours earlier. He’d almost broken her wrist just for stepping too close. He’d slammed her face into the snow with his magic and told her she wasn’t worth the breath it took to kill her. He’d meant it, then and still, she dragged him out of that tree’s shadow and kept him breathing. Her nose had bled and her wrist almost snapped.

        Every damn day, Sans thought about it. Why had she saved him? It wasn’t out of kindness alone—he wasn’t stupid. Maybe she had an agenda. Maybe she just wanted him to owe her, to be in her debt. Maybe it was because she hated Plum more than she could ever hate him. Whatever the reason, she had pulled him out of the dirt, out of that cold grave he was about to fall into.

        Her SOUL was green. Her kindness ran deep, deeper than anything he could comprehend. So why? Why would she save him, of all monsters, when he had given her nothing but cruelty? He couldn’t stop wrestling with it. Maybe she saw something in him—something he couldn’t see in himself. Maybe she saw the part of him that could still be redeemed, no matter how cracked and broken he was. But that didn’t make sense either. He had been everything but deserving.

        When she brought him dinner, delicious and still hot, that was the first real moment of the old timeline that was new. The one that felt like it could’ve gone different for the first time.

        Sans lowered himself onto the roots and leaned back, bones aching against the rough bark. Every joint felt like it ground against glass, sharp and familiar. He’d gotten used to it by now. Pain was just background noise. Like the wind, like the emptiness clawing at his chest. Like everything else.

        He looked up instead. The sky was cold and stretched wide, white blank stars staring down like they didn’t give a damn. They never had. Didn’t matter how many times this world rewound, crumbled, and built itself back up again—those stars never blinked. Just watched. Unfeeling. Detached.

        Just like you’re supposed to be, he thought bitterly.

        He didn’t know what the hell he was doing. But if showing up for dinner was the next step in whatever this was turning into, then so be it; at least she hadn’t saved someone who wouldn’t try.

        His teeth clicked together as he exhaled, sockets narrowing. His magic flared low in his chest—angry, hot—and with a crackle and hiss of red light, he blinked out of the clearing.

        When he reappeared, it was silent, no louder than a breath. He stood in the shadows beneath the sloped roof of her little cottage, tucked away from the world like it could hide from everything chasing it. His sharp eyes flicked up—the back bay window was glowing warm and golden against the dark outside, and he could see all of them inside like a picture he wasn’t part of.

        There she was.

        Leaning over Frisk to help them stir something in the pot. Papyrus stood behind them both, towering and barking orders with his usual dramatic flair—the great and terrifying chef giving a lecture on "the perfect simmering technique." (Y/N) laughed. That same damn laugh. Too bright for this world.

        Sans' fist curled against the wood siding. He didn't teleport closer. Didn’t knock. Just watched.

        Watched as her face crinkled up when she teased Papyrus who declared he would avenge his wounded honor in a duel he would definitely win. Watched as Frisk grinned, cheeks flushed from the heat. Watched as she tucked her hair back and wiped her hands on her apron like this was just some normal day. Like none of them knew how many times this whole story had played out and burned.

        His chest squeezed tight—something ugly, sour, and raw twisting in his ribs. Because that was the real joke, wasn’t it?

        (Y/N) didn’t remember.

        This (Y/N) didn’t carry the weight of the version of her that he lost. The one who bled out trying to save them. The one who looked at him and saw more than just a lazy, violent screw-up monster. But he remembered. And now here she was again and alive, smiling, stirring soup in a goddamn kitchen like the universe hadn’t already torn her apart once.

        He dragged in a breath, though it rattled in his skull. His sockets burned with that flicker of red—that hot, violent ember that never went out.

        “Heh, domestic bliss, huh?” he muttered, voice low, bitter. "Real heartwarmin' scene you got there, sweetheart."

        His grin stretched, sharp and teeth-baring. Too wide to be real.

        “Almost makes a guy forget this whole timeline's built on garbage and dust.”

        But even as he said it, he couldn’t tear his eyes away. Couldn’t stop watching her laugh like she had no idea how breakable she was. Like she weren’t a ghost that haunted every inch of him. His fingers flexed against the wall. But his SOUL thrummed painfully in his chest, red magic crackling under his ribs like a fuse lit too long and he kept watching.

        His fingers flexed against the wall. His breath came rough, rattling through his teeth like broken glass. Red flickers of light pulsed in his sockets before he blinked them away, forcing his magic back down, caging it behind his ribs where it seethed and clawed at his bones.

        This wasn’t the time.

        It never was.

        Teleporting felt different this time. It wasn’t the usual sharp, instinctual flick—more like a heavy pull, the weight of his own thoughts dragging him to the front step. Red light crackled around his skull, shimmering like dying embers, and for a moment, he felt like he was dissolving before snapping back into place. The cold bit into him again, but it was muted, almost like it knew it couldn’t touch him while his mind was somewhere else.

        When his vision cleared, he was standing on the front step, snow crunching underfoot. The cottage door loomed in front of him, the wooden frame familiar and sturdy. He glanced at it, his gaze skimming over the faint, worn carvings that looked like they’d been etched into the wood a lifetime ago. For a second, his mind twisted back to that other timeline—the one where the cottage was nothing but a smoldering ruin, windows shattered, roof caved in. The fire had spread fast, licking up the walls like a ravenous beast. Papyrus had led the charge—Captain of the Royal Guard, his red scarf snapping in the wind like a banner of war.

        But not this time. This time, the cottage stood unharmed. The windows glowed with candlelight, smoke rose peacefully from the chimney, and no heavy boots crunched through the snow to drag them both away. It was safe. She was safe.

        And he was gonna keep it that way.

        He couldn’t stop himself from reaching out, gloved fingers brushing the wood. Just to make sure it was real. Just to remind himself that this wasn’t that timeline. That he’d kept her safe this time. A cold wind swept past, ruffling his jacket, and he forced himself to take a breath, to shove the gnawing memory back into the dark corners of his mind.

        His footsteps padded toward the door, heavy and deliberate, his grin twitching at the edges. It didn’t feel right, too tight, too sharp, like his face was stretching around it. Like every bone in his skull was about to crack apart under the pressure. He couldn’t help it, though—the need to see her, to just be in the same room without that creeping dread clawing at his mind.

        The door creaked open, and there she was.

        Framed by the warm, golden light of the living room's fireplace, apron still smudged with sauce, hair a little messy from where she’d pushed it back. She looked so human, so impossibly normal, that it twisted something painful in his chest. Her eyes landed on him, and for a heartbeat, he saw confusion flicker there—then recognition, and a smile that spread like warmth in the frigid night air.

        Easy. Open. Like she had no idea he’d just been outside, lurking in the shadows like some damned monster. Watching, just to make sure she was okay.

        Like she trusted him.

        And that was the worst part.

        His chest felt too tight, like his ribs were trying to squeeze his soul out. That smile of hers wasn’t just a greeting—it was a reminder that she still believed in him. Still thought he was worth something. Even after everything. Even after his temper flared, after he almost lashed out. It was too much and not enough all at once.

        “Hey,” she said, her voice soft but steady. “You coming in, or just standing out there freezing your bones off?”

        Sans swallowed down the tightness in his throat, giving her a lazy shrug like he wasn’t on the edge of breaking apart. “Heh. thought I'd give the porch a little company. Looked kinda lonely.”

        Her smile softened, and for a second, he let himself imagine just stepping inside, letting the warmth of the cottage pull him in. But he couldn’t move, just stood there like a ghost on her doorstep. That gnawing need to protect her from everything—even himself—kept his feet rooted in place.

        Because no matter how much he wanted to be in that light, he knew how easy it was for things to fall apart. And he’d be damned if he let that happen to her again.

        His grin twitched when his gaze caught on the faint shimmer at (Y/N)'s sternum—not glowing now, not active, but he could feel it. The pulse of her SOUL. Purple. Not green.

        And that?

        That twisted the knife in deeper.

        The version of her that mattered. She had a green SOUL. Kindness. A strong calm, gentle kindness.

        But this time?

        This (Y/N) was purple. Perseverance. Different. Wrong. Stubborn, blinding kindness that was honest and blunt. Right enough to fool him but wrong enough to gut him every time.

        (Y/N) raised an eyebrow, leaning against the doorframe, clearly waiting for him to make a decision. The wind howled around them, flinging snowflakes against his shoulders, but she didn’t look like she was planning on closing the door. Not until he stepped inside.

        Sans shifted his weight, glancing at the ground, before finally muttering, “Guess I could use a little warm-up.”

        Sans’ boots scraped against the wood floor as he stepped in, the door clicking shut behind him.

        The back of his ribs ached where that red magic still throbbed.

        The comforting smell of home wrapping around him instantly. Spice from the sauce simmering in the kitchen, the earthy scent of old wood and wool blankets, and that faint, lingering scent of pine she always wore. He kicked off his boots and slid his socked feet into a pair of oversized, fluffy slippers that Papyrus had insisted on buying—bright red with little yellow stars on the toes. They were comically large, but soft and warm, and he couldn’t deny the weird comfort they offered.

        As he straightened, (Y/N) gave him a faint, approving smile, then walked ahead into the living room. Sans followed, hands shoved into his pockets. The living room was cozy—blankets still piled up around the stove from the night before. He spotted a book on the arm of the worn-out armchair, pages folded to mark where (Y/N) had stopped reading. The fire crackled low in the iron stove, its heat stretching only a few feet beyond, but it was enough to take the bite out of his bones.

        He slumped onto the couch with a practiced laziness, the tension still prickling under his skin. (Y/N) sat on the other end, tucking her legs under herself, and picked up her book again. Sans watched her from the corner of his eye, trying to make it look like he wasn’t. Just the simple act of her reading—eyes flicking across the page, mouth moving slightly with the words—made him feel like maybe things hadn’t spiraled completely out of his control.

        From the kitchen, Papyrus’s booming voice cut through the quiet.

        “The sauce requires more pepper!”

        The clatter of pots and pans followed, and Sans huffed out a low chuckle.

        (Y/N) glanced over, catching the smirk, and closed her book, giving him a curious look. “You okay?”

        He didn’t look at her directly, just kept his head angled toward the fire. “Yeah. Just, y’know. Cold out there.”

        She seemed to sense the way his shoulders stayed tense despite the warmth. Without a word, she leaned over, grabbing one of the thicker blankets from the pile and draping it across his lap. Sans swallowed, his fingers twitching where they rested on his knees, but he didn’t move.

        “Better?” she asked softly.

        “...Yeah. Thanks.”

        She gave a little hum, seemingly satisfied, and went back to her book. Sans let himself sink into the cushions, relaxing by inches, but his mind wouldn’t stop running in circles. The storm outside beat against the windows, and he glanced at the door again, like he was afraid it might burst open and Chara would be standing there, knife in hand, that twisted smile on their face.

        He couldn’t shake the feeling that his grip on this reality was slipping—that if he so much as blinked too hard, everything would unravel. He knew it wasn’t rational—he’d checked the locks, made sure they were all safe for the night. But fear wasn’t something he could logic his way out of, and the anxiety simmered under his rib cage, itching like a wound that wouldn’t heal.

        Sans stuffed the ache back down where it belonged and let the warmth swallow him whole as he slouched into the kitchen with the blanket on his shoulders. The table was already set with the plates stacked, forks clinking as Papyrus arranged everything like he was orchestrating a grand battle plan.

        "Ah, brother!" Papyrus beamed when he spotted Sans skulking in. "You have arrived. Excellent. Your presence was accounted for in my calculations. I made precisely one extra meatball for you. A generous portion, though perhaps more than you deserve, considering your usual laziness."

        Sans' grin sharpened. "Heh. I dunno, Pap. Maybe I’ll just take your plate and call it even."

        Papyrus gasped with full offence taken. "You wouldn’t dare! The Great Papyrus requires sustenance to maintain my peak performance! I have been stirring this sauce for exactly forty-seven minutes!"

        Frisk sat at the table already, feet swinging where they didn’t quite reach the floor. They signed something quick, fingers flicking with practiced ease: Forty-seven is way too long. It smells burnt. Like it's gonna start smoking. Please turn it down at little before it explodes again like last time.

        Papyrus threw his hands up. "Nonsense! My culinary instincts are unparalleled. Burnt? I’ll have you know this is perfectly caramelized! It adds depth. The black bits are what provides the most amount of flavouring."

        (Y/N) snorted softly, not loud enough to mock, but with a warmth that softened the edges of Papyrus' dramatics. It was often her job, along with Papyrus and Frisk's prep skills, to make dinner most nights. Sans admitted, in this timeline, (Y/N) was still one hell of a delicious cook. She set down a basket of her homemade bread rolls, her hands moving with that easy, calm grace Sans couldn’t stop watching.

        "Pap, it smells great. I'm sure it will taste great." (Y/N) caught Frisk's eye with a smile and a sly wink. "And we’ve got enough bread rolls with butter and jam to save the day if it is burnt."

        Frisk grinned back, signing: Bread wins every time.

        Sans dragged out a chair and dropped into it with a heavy sigh at the kitchen table in the corner, ribs still thrumming like someone struck a cracked bell inside him. He slumped low, sockets half-lidded but sharp underneath as he watched (Y/N) move. She was quieter than before. Less fire, more ember. But damn if that ember didn’t still glow.

        Dinner hit the table like a victory feast with spaghetti piled high, meatballs rolling dangerously close to the edge of plates, and sauce thick and red like blood but smelling like comfort. Bread rolls were buttered heavy with thick slabs and were expectantly awaiting to be dipped in the sauce.

        Papyrus flourished a ladle like a weapon. "Behold! A meal worthy of kings, heroes, and hungry siblings alike!"

        Sans reached lazily for the basket. "I’ll settle for bread. Carbs keep the old bones together."

        "Sans," (Y/N) said lightly, sliding a plate toward him, "at least take one meatball. Pap worked hard."

        "Heh. Yeah, yeah." He plucked one off the plate with his fork, balancing it like it might explode. "Look at me. Real health nut."

        Dinner rolled on in a familiar rhythm. Papyrus holding court, lecturing about spaghetti techniques and the structural integrity of noodles. Frisk wordlessly needled him with hand signs and exaggerated faces, making Pap huff and bluster while barely holding back a smile.

        (Y/N) mostly listened; quiet, but attentive, nodding along, her smile small but real. She asked the kind of questions that made Papyrus puff up and elaborate even more ridiculously and every so often, she caught Frisk's little jokes and translated them aloud so Pap wouldn’t miss them, her voice soft but steady.

        Sans watched it all, one elbow on the table, chin in his hand. He chewed through garlic bread like he had somewhere else he’d rather be, like none of this mattered. He'd eaten when a plate was placed in front of him and the sauce was not bad, but it wasn't the bed his brother had made.

        "Meh, I mean, it's alright, Paps."

        "I challenge you to a duel to the death. For my honour as Member of the Royal Guard you will perish-"

        "Boys, not at the table tonight. Take it out back later please."

        I think that Sans would win.

        But he never stopped watching her. Because she leaned in when people spoke. She caught every small thing. Her laughter wasn’t loud, but it was genuine. And even though her SOUL wasn’t green—wasn’t that stubborn, blinding kindness that got the last her killed—there was something in her that kept tugging at him anyway.

        His fingers drummed once against the wood, the pulse in his ribs ticking hotter.

        Papyrus stood suddenly. "I shall fetch dessert! An experimental tiramisu, delicately balanced on the edge of culinary genius and utter disaster! It is delicious, but definitely experimental in comparison to most dishes I have prepared for you taste buds."

        Frisk gave a silent thumbs-up.

        As Papyrus clattered off into the kitchen, (Y/N) rose too, collecting empty plates with practiced ease. She glanced at Sans, head tilting slightly. "You okay over there? Haven’t heard you crack a single bad pun all night."

        Sans’ grin stretched wider on instinct, though his chest pulled tight.

        "Heh. yeah. Just savorin’ the atmosphere. Real five-star joint you’re runnin’ here." His sockets flicked down, then back up to her face. "Couldn’t miss out on seein’ you play house." (Y/N) blinked at that, surprised, not offended, but something flickered there in her eyes. She huffed a small laugh, shaking her head as she stacked dirty plates.

        "Somebody’s gotta keep things running," she murmured, quiet enough he almost didn’t catch it. "World doesn’t stop, right?"

        Sans’ grin faltered a fraction. His sockets darkened as he leaned back in his chair, bones creaking.

        "Heh. Yeah. No kiddin’."

        The red glow under his ribs flared again, just once—a warning shot.

        Papyrus’ voice echoed from the kitchen, sharper now, rougher around the edges. "Nobody touch a damn thing! The tiramisu is fragile! If it falls, heads will roll!"

        Frisk signed something that looked suspiciously like: Ten bucks it falls over.

        (Y/N) laughed, soft and tired and beautiful, but even that sound didn’t quite cut through the tight pull in Sans’ chest.

        Papyrus stormed back into the room a moment later, a towering skeleton with a jagged bone scar slashing over one eye socket—a mark he wore like a badge, not a wound. The plate in his hands trembled slightly, but his glare dared anyone to comment.

        "Behold!" he barked. "The Great Papyrus' masterpiece. Fragile, deadly, and delicious. Just like me."

        Sans lifted his gaze, letting his grin slide back into place, but his sockets flickered cold. "Heh. Real poetic, Pap. Gonna stab someone with that dessert?"

        Papyrus sneered. "Only if they deserve it. And you, brother, are always on the list."

        Frisk signed quickly: I wanna see that fight.

        Papyrus snorted, dropping the plate heavily in the center of the table. "You’d pay to watch me mop the floor with him? That’s cold, kid. I respect it."

        (Y/N) shook her head with a quiet chuckle, already reaching to cut the dessert before the tension crackled too far. Her hands were steady, practiced, even as she side-eyed both skeletons like she was ready to step in if it came to blows. Again.

        Sans watched her, the way her fingers moved with that same quiet care she gave to everything. It gnawed at him—the way she kept this place together, even when the cracks showed.

        "You okay over there, Sans?" (Y/N) asked, flicking her gaze his way. "You’ve been awful quiet tonight."

        Sans leaned back in his chair, bones creaking. His grin didn’t reach his eyes. "Yeah. Just savorin’ the domestic bliss. Real heartwarming stuff."

        Papyrus growled low in his throat. "Tch. Don’t get soft on me, brother."

        "Yeah, yeah," Sans muttered. His fingers twitched against the wood of the table. The red glow in his chest flared again, hotter this time, like a fuse burning low.

        (Y/N) passed him a slice of the tiramisu, her smile a little smaller now, a little more tired. But it was real. And that made it worse somehow.

        "Eat, Sans," she said softly. "Keep your strength up."

        His sockets flicked to the plate, then back to her face. For a beat, the world narrowed down to that simple, ordinary thing: someone giving a damn whether he ate or not. He stabbed his fork into the dessert with a little too much force. "Yeah. Wouldn’t wanna waste Papyrus's masterpiece."

        Papyrus crossed his arms, scarred socket narrowing. "Damn right. If you say one bad pun about it, I'll knock you through the wall."

        Frisk signed dramatically: Worth it.

        Sans huffed out a laugh, sharp and brittle. "Heh. Kid’s got taste."

        The tiramisu was sweet and bitter on his tongue, and somehow that felt fitting. He ate, the red throb in his chest dimming just enough to get through the next bite.

        The room buzzed with rough laughter and clinking forks. Papyrus barked orders like a drill sergeant even while shoving dessert in his mouth. Frisk leaned back in their chair, grinning silently. And (Y/N)—she moved around them all, calm and steady, her purple SOUL pulsing faintly like an ember refusing to go out.

        Sans leaned back farther, his grin slipping just a little as he watched her. This version of her wasn’t green. Wasn’t the blinding kindness that got her killed last time. But she was still here, still standing, still pulling the pieces together and against every bone-deep instinct screaming at him not to care, that ember kept dragging him in.

        His sockets darkened as he muttered under his breath, too quiet for anyone else to hear. "Yeah, world doesn’t stop."

        Papyrus threw an elbow into his side, making his bones rattle. "Quit daydreaming, Sans!"

        Sans’ grin snapped back into place like a shield. "Nah, just savorin’ the moment."

        Papyrus huffed, but there was a glint of something warmer in his scarred gaze. "Better be, I hate it when you don't listen."

        Frisk signed quickly: Next time I pick the dessert.

        (Y/N) laughed again, soft and tired and beautiful and for one flickering second, Sans let himself listen.

        Papyrus and Frisk tackled the dishes like it was some great crusade, bickering in grunts and exaggerated sighs as they tried not to knock the fragile dessert plates into the sink. The clatter of silverware and running water echoed from the kitchen.

        (Y/N) gave them a small smile and shook her head. “Let them have their victory.”

        She tugged a blanket from the back of the couch and draped it loosely around her shoulders, settling down in the living room. Her legs stretched out, bare from the middle of her thighs down where her pajama shorts rode high. The fabric of her loose-cut top shifted with her movements, collar dipping low enough to reveal the slope of her collarbone and just the faintest shimmer of her SOUL’s dormant pulse deep in her chest.

        Sans hovered in the doorway for a beat too long.

        His sockets flicked down—quick, sharp, involuntary—and caught the pale skin of her legs where the blanket didn’t quite cover. The sight landed like a punch in his ribs, setting that dull red throb off again.

        He grunted, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets as if that could ground him. “Heh. Real cozy, huh?”

        (Y/N) glanced up, blinking once before her mouth tugged into that soft little smile that was more ember than flame. “It’s cold and I’m tired. Cozy is the goal in this weather."

        Sans let out a breath that wasn’t quite a laugh. He slouched over to the armchair opposite her and dropped into it, bones creaking. “Tch. Guess you earned it, sweetheart. Got Pap and kid cleaning up while you lounge.”

        Her eyes flickered with amusement. “You could always help, you know.”

        He smirked, sharp and crooked. “Nah. I’m morally opposed to dishwashing. Bad for my reputation.”

        From the kitchen, Papyrus bellowed something about "the more soap suds the better" and Frisk made a silent wheeze of laughter that echoed off the tile.

        (Y/N) shook her head again, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders, but the movement let the fabric slide just a little more off one shoulder, baring more skin. Sans’ sockets tracked it before he could stop himself, and his grin faltered. His tongue clicked against the roof of his mouth.

        Damn it.

        Why did it always come back to this? That pull. That flicker of heat low in his chest that made the red magic flare, hungry and wrong and too familiar. This version of her wasn’t supposed to get under his bones like this. Wasn’t supposed to look at him with that calm, steady gaze that made something in him fray at the edges.

        The red glow under his ribs throbbed again, hotter this time. Closer to the surface.

        In the kitchen, a plate clattered and Papyrus yelped. Frisk signed something sharp and fast, probably calling him out, and the noise broke the strange hush that had settled in the living room.

        Sans let his grin smooth back into place. Easy. Lazy. Safe. “Well. At least they’re keepin’ things lively.”

        (Y/N) gave a soft chuckle, leaning her head back against the couch. Her legs shifted under the blanket again, bare skin catching the dim light, and Sans’ eye lights flickered.

        Real lively.

        His fingers curled tight in his pockets, and that fuse under his ribs kept burning slow and hot.

        He was so screwed.

𐂯

Chapter Text

        Sans couldn’t sleep.

        Not that he really slept anymore, at least, not in a way that gave him rest. It was more like shutting down, like the flicker of a dying neon sign, and tonight even that escape refused to come. Something pressed behind his eye sockets, heavy and dull, a weight that made him feel like his skull might split from the inside out. The silence in the room wasn’t quiet. It was tense. Fragile. Like the dark itself was strung up on a fraying thread, ready to snap if he breathed too hard.

        So he went outside.

        The porch groaned softly beneath his steps, slippers dragging across the warped wood. The old boards had long since dried and split from too many winters, and each creak beneath his weight echoed into the cold like the house itself was sighing. Above him, the porch lamp buzzed weakly, casting a sickly yellow glow that barely cut through the night. The snow reflected it in patches—dull, gray, indifferent.

        The air bit deep, crisp enough to make even his bones ache. And still, he stood there, jaw tight, hoodie tugged over his shoulders like armor. His breath hung in front of him, curling in ghostly strands before vanishing into the frozen stillness.

        His gaze, like always, drifted to the edge of the yard. There, past the brittle remains of the garden fence, half-buried under snow and time, was it—that patch of earth that had never quite healed.

        Even in the dark, the soil there looked wrong. Too dark. Too raw. Like a wound. The snow barely clung to it. Where the rest of the yard lay smoothed in white silence, that corner stood out like a scar—one that hadn’t scabbed over. The wooden slats of the fence bowed low with age, tired and crooked, leaning like sentries who’d given up standing at attention.

        Right there at the base of it, something caught the moonlight.

        Just a glint. Just enough to remember.

        Sans didn’t move closer. Didn’t need to. He knew what was buried beneath that snow—who had been buried there once, in a different time. A different run. One he couldn’t erase, no matter how many times he wished that one could re-loop like all the other ones had. Flowey had explained to him once that (Y/N)'s chances of falling her low to begin with, so her chances of falling and making it past Toriel—fucking Toriel—in the Ruins were also low. She would always fall before Frisk, so, Sans was the one responsible for looking after her.

        He stayed rooted to the porch, hands buried deep in the pockets of his hoodie, fingers curling tighter with every breath he took. His teeth grit hard behind the edge of his smile. That smile he wore like a mask, stretched too thin over something cracked and rotting underneath.

        Guess even the ground knows when something's gone for good.

        A flicker of movement caught his eye, and his head snapped toward the house before he could stop himself. The window to the left—her window—shimmered faintly with light. Just enough to cast a silhouette against the curtain. He saw her shift behind it, that familiar outline moving slowly, maybe brushing her hair back, maybe just pacing. The kind of idle motion you did when the night felt too long, but it was late and she was up at this hour like he was.

        His soul twisted. Hot. Sharp. Like someone had jammed a blade behind his ribs and left it there to rust.

        She was right there.

        Safe.

        Warm.

        Untouched.

        Still he looked at her like she was something unreachable. Something fragile. Something sacred. Like a sinner staring up at a stained-glass angel, knowing damn well he didn’t belong in the same breath as salvation.

        He hated himself for it.

        For watching. For needing. For remembering what it looked like when this very house burned to the goddamn ground—when flames peeled the paint from the wood like old scabs, and smoke curled out of the windows like the place was exhaling its last breath. He remembered how the curtains had caught first. Pale lace, just like she liked them. They went up like paper. He remembered the smell—burnt cloth, scorched blood, magic ripped open and curdled in the air.

        Papyrus—his brother—storming through the wreckage like a hound on a leash, armor streaked with soot and murder in his eyes. Royal Guard Captain. Executioner. His red scarf whipped behind him like a damn war banner. He hadn't just kicked in the door—he ripped it off the hinges. Tore through the floorboards in that first mad rush, bones summoned with a snap of his fingers, impaling everything that moved.

        Sans had let it happen. Frozen, flickering like a weak lightbulb in the back of his own goddamn skull, blinking in and out of visibility while everything fell apart.

        The worst was the Drylands. Dry, cracked earth split like old scars, the horizon warped by heat and desperation. He remembered the three of them running—Frisk gasping for breath, (Y/N) dragging a blood-slick leg through the dust. Then the whistle of a bone, clean and cruel, before it punched straight through her calf like it belonged there.

        He remembered the sound of her screaming.

        She had dropped. Hard. A messy heap of blood, grit, and disbelief.

        Frisk had screamed her name.

        Sans felt sick.

        He could still see it sometimes when he closed his eyes—the way her body jerked when the bone hit, the red soaking into her pants, the hollow sound her hands made slapping the earth as she hit the ground. Like meat and magic weren’t meant to mix. Like the universe was personally mocking him for thinking he could keep her safe.

        Maybe if he’d stopped Papyrus then—really stopped him—none of it would’ve happened. Maybe she wouldn’t have that pale scar on the back of her leg, or that look in her eye sometimes like she was still back there, dragging herself through the sand and wondering if she was about to die.

        Maybe.

        But maybes were a goddamn luxury.

        So he’d done what he always did. Reset. Rewound. Buried that timeline six feet under in a digital grave, reset the board, shuffled the pieces like he wasn’t cheating at a game that refused to let anyone win. But the memory didn’t die.

        It lived on. In the way the wind curved around that scorched patch of earth. In the ache that lodged behind his sockets like splinters. In the way he watched her now—guarded her—from the shadows of a timeline that still wasn’t clean. Like if he blinked for too long, she’d vanish again. Snatched away by a brother who had once ripped the soul out of his chest with a smile.

        He stayed static in his skull, buzzing behind his grin like some busted neon sign. Stuck between the past and the now. A flicker of a monster trying too damn hard not to fall apart.

        He hated it.

        He hated himself.

        But he still watched. Still guarded. Still stood there like some cursed sentry, staring at a house he’d already watched burn once, swearing it’d never happen again—even if he had to burn everything else to the ground first.

        His fingers curled so tight inside his pockets, he felt the bones strain.

        She’s not yours, he told himself. She’s not even—

        But the thought wouldn't finish. His gaze slid back to the ruined patch of soil, and the silence whispered the rest.

        Not after what it cost.

        The cold finally started to bite through his hoodie, nipping at the joints where bone met marrow. Even he had limits. Even monsters made of magic and regret could only stand in the cold so long.

        So Sans turned.

        Not with peace. Not with resolution.

        Just the quiet weight of knowing he would do it all again.

        He stepped back inside, silent as snowfall, the warmth of the cottage rushing up to meet him but it didn’t reach deep enough to thaw what was frozen inside. He closed the door behind him like sealing a crypt, the night held out just long enough for another breath. He didn’t look back—not yet anyway.

𐂯

        Sans couldn’t remember when he finally slumped into his usual spot on the couch, but the pale light of morning felt too bright when it crept in through the blinds. The house was stirring now, floorboards groaning soft under familiar steps. Routine. That was the point. Keep things moving. Keep the cracks from showing.

        The kitchen smelled like coffee and toast when he finally dragged himself in. Papyrus was already there, bright and loud, clattering around like it was any normal day. He had a bowl of something complicated in his hands, stirring too fast with a look of exaggerated concentration. Frisk sat stiff at the table, their shoulders hunched as they picked at their plate, eyes pointed anywhere but at Sans.

        (Y/N) stood at the counter, still in her sleep clothes, pouring coffee like she didn’t notice how tense the room had gone. The morning light caught on her wrists when she moved, pale skin stretching when she reached for the sugar jar. Sans’ gaze caught there then traced up to her throat, to the soft line of her jaw when she smiled faintly at some half-joke Papyrus made.

        Something sour twisted in Sans’ chest. He looked away fast, grinding his teeth until it felt like his whole skull might crack under the pressure. Disgust curled hot and sharp. Damn idiot. He shouldn’t be thinking about her like that. Not now. Not ever.

        "Heh. Guess everyone’s feelin’ a little scrambled this morning," he muttered, tossing the pun out like a shield. His grin stretched wide, brittle as thin glass. No one laughed. Not really. Papyrus let out a polite chuckle, too bright and too forced. Frisk just stared down at their plate, fingers tight around their fork. (Y/N) gave a little hum, distracted as she stirred her coffee.

        Papyrus’ voice bounced back into the silence, too loud in the stillness. "Things have been quieter now, haven’t they? Without that garden pest showing up all the time!" His laugh cracked awkwardly. "Not that I miss him! Haha! Just—quieter, that’s all!"

        Frisk flinched. Their head snapped up, and their hands moved sharp and fast, signing something at Papyrus. The signs were too quick for Sans to catch or maybe he just didn’t want to. Either way, it was fast, and there was an edge to it that made the air feel thinner.

        Sans’ sockets darkened, and for just a second, his vision flickered red. Heat surged deep in his chest, a flash of magic bubbling up from the place where his SOUL still smouldered under the weight of everything he didn’t say. He swallowed it back down hard, biting against the flare until it died out.

        Papyrus blinked at Frisk, looking a little thrown off. "Oh! Uh, sorry! I didn’t mean—well, anyway! Who’s ready for pancakes?" He clapped his hands together too hard, the sound sharp and jarring in the heavy quiet.

        Sans didn’t answer. His gaze flicked back to (Y/N), still turned away, humming under her breath like she didn’t feel the tension crawling up the walls. He wished he could hate her for that. Wished he could hate himself more for wanting her even while the world kept cracking at the seams.

        Flowey deserved better this time. He thought and the thought hit too fast, too sharp, before he could shove it back where it belonged.

        Frisk was quiet. Too quiet. Their eyes flicked between the two of them, darting from Sans’ half-closed sockets to (Y/N)’s casual movements. It didn’t take much to see the way their shoulders tensed, how their hands clenched and unclenched around their cup as if fighting some inner conflict.

        Papyrus kept on, his tone sharp, unaffected by the heavy silence in the room. He shoved another pancake onto his plate, syrup drizzling over the edges with a little more force than necessary. "So, what’s the plan today? Got anything more exciting than pancakes on the menu?" His voice had a bite to it now, a little too casual, but not quite as lighthearted as it used to be.

        (Y/N) set the coffee pot down with an almost rehearsed calmness, though her fingers lingered on the handle just a moment too long, as if she, too, had felt the weight of the silence crack the room open. She glanced up at Sans then, her smile soft but edged with something unreadable, something too familiar to him. Too close to what he couldn’t quite stop feeling.

        Sans gritted his teeth, his eyes twitching down to her wrist again. Her skin looked so soft in the morning light, so delicate. He swallowed, forcing his attention elsewhere, but it wouldn’t leave. It never left.

        He shifted in his seat, the chair creaking beneath him, and forced his gaze to the plate of pancakes that Papyrus was stacking high with too much syrup, too many whipped cream clouds. It all felt too sweet, too much, and not enough at the same time.

        The space between him and (Y/N) felt suffocating now, her every movement pulling at him like gravity. He could feel the ache, deep in his bones, the pull of something dangerous. Something he had tried for so long to bury, but it was like trying to hold down an explosion with bare hands. He couldn't contain it. Not anymore.

        (Y/N)’s voice broke through the tension, calm and casual as she looked up again. “I was thinking of heading into town for some supplies today, but I’m not in a rush. Maybe a walk later?” The offer was soft, simple, but there was an undercurrent to it. Something like she was giving him a choice.

        Sans nodded, his breath catching as he met her eyes for the briefest second. Her gaze was warm, but there was a shadow behind it now, a kind of knowing that made his chest tighten. He looked away too quickly, his grin a little too wide as he forced out, “Heh. Sounds good. I’ll keep you company. Can’t let you go out there alone.”

        Papyrus was still talking, but there was an edge to his voice now, sharper than it used to be. He shoved a pancake onto his plate, smearing it with syrup in a way that almost felt deliberate. "Guess I could use some supplies too. Hot sauce, definitely. Gonna make something that'll burn the roof off your mouth. Grab that for me brother when you go into town and drop it off at the house."

        Frisk stood up suddenly, their chair scraping against the floor, the sudden motion sharp against the slow, drawn-out rhythm of the morning. They didn’t meet anyone’s gaze as they excused themselves, mumbling something about needing fresh air. The tension between them and Sans thickened, palpable, as if there was something left unsaid, something that was making this quiet unbearably loud. Sans knew they were trying to keep it from him, but the way they clenched their jaw, the way they wouldn’t look at him directly, told him everything.

        It didn't make things easier when Frisk left, their shadow trailing behind them like an unsettled thought.

        Sans' focus snapped back to (Y/N), but now, she was looking at him too, her expression unreadable, almost distant. She shifted slightly, like she was too aware of the way the air had shifted between them, like she knew, just as well as he did, that everything was starting to tilt out of control.

        It felt like everything was going to break. His mask creaked in protest as he cracked a bitter smile. “Well, I guess we’re all making moves today.” The words tasted like ash, the dry, bitter edge of something unspoken hanging between them.

        (Y/N) didn’t respond right away. Her gaze flickered to the window, the soft light outside casting shadows over her face as if the world itself was pulling away from them, too. She cleared her throat, the sound almost too delicate for the weight in the room.

        “Yeah,” she murmured, the word soft like a secret. “Guess so.”

        Sans barely heard the rest of the conversation as he watched her move again—the sway of her hips as she turned toward the counter, the way her fingers brushed over the mug before picking it up. It was the smallest thing, but it felt like a rope was being pulled taut between them, inch by inch, until there was nowhere left to run. 

        (Y/N) stood for a moment, her hand resting on the counter, her fingers curling around the mug as if it were something to hold onto. Her gaze shifted toward the window, but it didn’t last long before she broke the silence with a faint sigh, like she was trying to shake off whatever had settled in the air between them.

        “Alright then,” she said, her voice low but steady, as if she was choosing to let the tension slide into the background, just for now. “You want to go for that walk?”

        Sans nodded, already pushing himself to his feet with a soft groan, the quiet grind of his bones almost too loud in the still room. “Yeah. I could use some fresh air. 'Sides, it’s not like I’m gonna get anything done sitting here stewing in my own thoughts.” He was already on autopilot, slipping on his jacket, but as he adjusted it, his eyes lingered on her again, just for a moment. He couldn’t help himself. It gnawed at him, that damn feeling of being torn between what he wanted and what he couldn’t have.

        He couldn’t stop himself. He needed a distraction.

        “So,” Sans hesitated for a fraction of a second before the words slipped out. “You wanna play a game?”

        (Y/N) raised an eyebrow at him, her lips quirking into a playful, almost teasing smile. “A game? Like what?”

        Sans pushed his hands into his pockets and shrugged, a slight smirk tugging at his mask. “Something I used to play with an old friend. Nothing too serious, just fun.”

        She raised her chin slightly, a soft glint of curiosity in her eyes and she smiled. “What kind of game is this?”

        “It’s simple,” Sans said, his tone low and almost conspiratorial. “One person asks a question. You answer, and then you get to ask one question in return. Only one. You don’t get to follow it up with a thousand more. No cheatin'.” He gave her a sideways glance, his voice thick with unspoken layers. “If you're in, of course.”

        (Y/N) tilted her head slightly, considering it for a moment in slight anticipation, before she nodded. “Alright. Why not? It’s been a while since I’ve played something simple like that.”

        Sans grinned, the tension between them momentarily forgotten in the faint flicker of familiarity. “Good. You start.”

        (Y/N) leaned back slightly, eyeing him with the same curiosity she’d shown the first time they’d met, though now there was something deeper in her gaze—something that made Sans feel the weight of her attention more than he was comfortable with. She tapped her finger against her chin, thoughtful, as they stepped off the porch and onto the narrow path winding through the dark forest behind her cottage. The snow crunched under their feet, the only sound besides the distant rustle of bare branches swaying overhead.

        “Alright, what’s your favourite place in the Underground? You know, if you could go anywhere right now.”

        "I can kinda go anywhere I wanna whenever." Sans gave a lazy shrug, but his eyes flickered—just for a second—as he watched the crooked trees stretch like claws against the grey sky. “Grillby’s, I guess. Quiet. Warm. Cheap mustard. Real thrilling, huh?”

        He shot her a crooked grin as they trudged past the old fence that marked the edge of her garden.

        The wind whistled through the forest, biting cold against her cheeks as she pulled her scarf tighter. Sans shifted beside her, tilting his head toward her as they followed the trail that would lead behind Plum's place. “My turn. You ever think about leavin’ this place? You've been here for a couple of months now."

        (Y/N) blinked, caught off guard by the sudden sharpness behind the casual question. She hesitated, then laughed softly, a little unsure, as they stepped over a fallen log half-buried in snow. “I mean, I’ve thought about leaving, sure in the beginning anyway. But leaving not possible, not right now and you know that. So, this place is home. Even then, I'm not at a rush to leave.”

        Sans' smirk faltered just a fraction as he ducked under a low-hanging branch. His sockets dimmed, the humor draining from them for a breath too long. "Yeah. Home." He murmured it like it was a foreign word, but he knew better than to trust her entirely o the matter; he knew she had family waiting for her on the surface; parents; an older brother who she adored. In this timeline, he knew she had the same even if they were a little different too.

        (Y/N), sensing the shift, pressed on as they kept walking, boots leaving a trail through the thinning snow. Her turn now. “Okay, what were you like as a kid?”

        Sans’ grin snapped back into place, quick and practiced. “Short, sweeheart.” He stuffed his hands deeper in his pockets as they passed the back of Plum’s house, its windows dark this early in the morning. “Still am, come to think of it.”

        She huffed, rolling her eyes. “That’s not an answer.”

        “Sure it is. Fits the rules. One question, one answer.” His grin widened, daring her to challenge him as their path sloped downward toward the ladder that led into town.

        She huffed but didn’t argue, breath clouding in front of her in the cold. Her turn again.

        His gaze softened just slightly as he asked, “So, what makes you stay? Here, I mean. With us.”

        (Y/N)’s playful smile faded a little at the edges as they reached the clearing before the ladder. She glanced ahead at the snow-covered trees, her voice quieter now. “You guys are lovely, you've treated me so well since I've been here. You're the first person I met Sans, then Papyrus. Without you I doubt I'd have lasted as long as I have."

        Sans' chest clenched tight. He looked away quickly, pretending to watch the snow drift lazily from the sky again, the way it gathered in little piles on the branches like ghosts. She didn’t know. She didn’t remember. That made her answer hit him like a punch to the ribs.

        But, it was true, he was waiting for her at the golden flower bed in the Ruins when she woke up.

        She stepped a little closer now as they approached the wooden ladder that led down into the back paths of Snowdin Town, tilting her head at him. “My turn again.”

        “Rules are rules,” he muttered, keeping his grin up like a shield as they started their careful descent.

        (Y/N) narrowed her eyes, studying him as they reached the bottom, the familiar crunch of snow softer now. “Why do you always act like nothing bothers you?”

        Fucking yeouch.

        Sans’ smirk stayed in place, but it felt brittle even to him. “Cause if I let it show, I’d never stop.” His voice was too flat, too quick, and he knew it. Before she could press him, he straightened and fired back, “You ever regret stayin’ here with us? Even a little, doesn't have to be a lot."

        (Y/N) blinked, surprised by the sudden intensity in his question and then she shook her head firmly. “No. Never.”

        That, somehow, made it worse.

        His grin faltered, just a little. “Your turn.”

        (Y/N) stepped even closer now, their shoulders almost brushing as they continued down the narrow path leading into town. Her eyes searched his face, and her voice dropped lower. “Who do you miss?"

        How the fuck-

        The question landed like a blade between his ribs. Sans’ breath hitched. For a flicker of a second, his sockets flashed a faint red glow before he squashed it down. His grin returned, razor-thin. “My old self.”

        It wasn’t a lie. Not exactly.

        (Y/N) frowned, confused but sensing something deeper. She opened her mouth like she might push, but he was already leaning closer now, tilting his head with that lazy smirk as they crossed under the arch of snow-heavy branches near the entrance to the town streets.

        “My turn,” he murmured. “Why do you trust me?”

        Her breath caught, and her eyes widened just a little at the sudden sharpness behind the question. She licked her lips, flustered. “Because, you’ve always been there. You act like you've done horrible things, you helped me into town, silly. I met your brother and you took me to Grillby's."

        Sans laughed under his breath, but there was no humor in it. “Yeah. Guess I have, sweetheart, guess I have.” The wind stirred again, colder this time, sending a shiver through her coat, and before either of them could say more, he started walking ahead, boots heavy in the snow, leaving his words and their meanings hanging heavy in the air.

        Sans didn’t look back as he trudged through the snow, boots crunching down hard like maybe if he stomped hard enough, he could silence that gnawing voice in his skull. But her footsteps caught up quick, light but determined. Just like her. Always chasing, always smiling at him like she didn’t have a damn clue.

        She caught up right as they hit the edge of the trees, where the path sloped toward the town of Snowdin. The wind cut through the branches, thin and sharp, but Sans barely felt it. His focus snapped to the old bell tower near the plaza just in time to hear it chime...wrong.

        It stuttered. A beat too soon, then another half-second late, like the world couldn’t remember how to count time right. His spine went stiff. His sockets flickered dim. But he forced his bones to stay loose, let out a breath through his teeth, slow and even. Glitch. A small one. Could be nothing.

        (Y/N) didn’t seem to notice. She kept walking, her breath puffing out in soft little clouds. "It’s colder than usual today, huh?" she muttered, hugging her coat tighter.

        Sans grunted, more out of habit than anything. His eyes flicked up again. The sign above Plum’s bakery shuddered—just once. A flicker, like a sprite caught between frames. Wrong colour too. The usual warm gold turned a harsh, sickly green for half a second before snapping back.

        His teeth clenched behind his grin. Too subtle for anyone else to catch. But not him. Never him. Not after everything. Sans shoved his hands deeper into his pockets, forcing his shoulders down before she could catch the stiffness creeping into his posture. He couldn’t let her see it. Couldn’t let her even start to think that something was off. Not yet. Not until he was sure.

        She glanced at him then, smiling easy. "Hey, you spacing out on me already? Come on, lazybones."

        Sans barked a laugh that too sharp, too loud. It echoed wrong in his ears. "Yeah, yeah. Guess I left my brain back at the house. Classic me." But his gaze swept the street again while he laughed. Shops looked normal. Monsters bustled around like any other morning. And yet—

        That corner by the flower stand? He swore he saw the snow blink. Not fall. Blink. Like frames skipping in a broken video.

        His grin stayed plastered on, but inside, his SOUL throbbed hard against his ribs.

        Shit.

        Sans shifted his weight, forcing his bones to relax even as everything inside him coiled tighter. His sockets flicked sideways, casual-like, but he was cataloguing everything now. The colors. The sound. The feel of the air. The way the world was hiccupping in places it shouldn’t.

        His grin stretched wider.

        (Y/N) was still at his side, humming, blissfully unaware. But then, her humming wavered, and she glanced sideways at him, eyes narrowing just a little. “You’re doing that thing again,” she said, voice low.

        Sans barked a laugh, sharp and hollow. "You overthinkin' things again, sweeheart?" He shot her a grin that felt like glass in his mouth. "I’m golden. Just cold. Bones freeze easy, ya know.”

        She stopped walking, right there in the middle of the street. The snow crunched under her boots as she turned to face him fully. “Sans.”

        His name, no nickname, no lilt, just flat. Heavy.

        His grin didn’t falter, but his sockets flicked over her face. “Yeah?”

        “You’re lying.”

        And stars, wasn’t that just perfect. She had to go and make this so much fucking harder. His SOUL gave an ugly twist. “Look,” he muttered, dragging a hand down his face like it might wipe away the crack in his composure. “Ain’t a big deal. Just got stuff on my mind, alright?”

        (Y/N)’s eyes softened, and that made him want to snap even more. That pity, that concern, it curled under his ribs and gnawed there. He couldn’t let her get closer. Not now. Not when things were slipping.

        He jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Tell you what. Why don’t you head on to Plum's place? I just remembered I promised my bonehead brother I’d grab some hot sauce from the house.” His voice sharpened, biting now. “Shouldn’t take me long."

        Her mouth opened, maybe to argue, maybe to call him out again, but he was already stepping back, giving her a lopsided wave. “Go on. I’ll catch up later.”

        The wind tugged at her scarf as she hesitated, chewing her lip. “Fine. But don’t flake on me, Sans.”

        “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

        She gave him one last, lingering look before turning away, trudging down the snow-packed path toward the trees that would lead her back toward Plum's shop. Her shoulders were tight, hunched. She didn’t believe him. Not really. Good. She shouldn’t. Because the second she disappeared around the bend, Sans’ grin dropped like a stone.

        His sockets swept the street again. It was too quiet now, like the town was holding its breath.

        Fast. Low. He blipped into the shadow between shops, where no one would see him as he trailed her at a distance. Watching. Making sure she got back safe. Making sure the world didn’t blink again and swallow her whole while his back was turned. His teeth clenched hard enough he thought they might crack.

        Sans moved like a shadow between the stalls, never straying too close, but never letting her out of sight. His sockets flicked over every window, every alley, every shape that might glitch wrong if he looked at it sideways.

        (Y/N)’s silhouette moved ahead, trudging up the old snow-packed path leading toward the woods. She wasn’t humming anymore. She kept glancing back, shoulders still tight, like she could feel it—that something was off. Good. He hoped she did. Kept people sharp.

        The bell in town chimed again. Too soon. Too loud. The note stretched long enough to scrape at his teeth. He winced but didn’t stop moving.

        Plum’s shop door flickered when she passed. Open. Shut. Open again. Like a skipped frame. Sans’ grin stretched tight enough to hurt. The air felt thinner out here. Like the world was using all its energy just to hold shape.

        He kept to the treeline, watching as she reached the old ladder that led up toward the cottage. Her hand hesitated on the rung. For a heartbeat, Sans thought she wasn’t going to climb. Thought she could feel the weight of his stare. But then she shook herself and started up.

        His hand dropped to his side. Red light flared faint in his palm—reflex more than anything. He told himself it was just in case. Just in case things blinked again and swallowed her. She made it over the top. Disappeared from view. Sans let out a breath. Counted to five. No new glitches. No missing frames.

        But then—

        Movement.

        His sockets snapped back to the path. Down near the snowbank, where the shadows ran deep and the town's light didn’t quite reach.

        A shape.

        Small. Low to the ground. Petals curled in like a fist.

        Sans' breath locked in his ribs.

        “...No.”

        It looked up.

        Two pinprick eyes glowed in the dark. Hollow. Empty. Accusing. The way Flowey used to stare at him in those last loops—before he gave it up. For a flicker of a frame, the snow wasn’t snow. It was dust.

        Then—gone.

        Sans blinked.

        The snowbank was empty again. No shape. No petals.

        But a chill pressed hard against his ribs, a pulse of cold panic that didn't fade. His fingers curled tight until his knuckles cracked.

        Sans stood frozen for a moment, staring at the empty snowbank. The place where the ghost had been—where Flowey had been—was still and quiet again, as if nothing had happened. But everything felt wrong. Like the air was thinner, pulled tighter around his chest.

        He exhaled slowly, letting his fingers stretch out from the tension, but his thoughts kept racing, gnawing at him. That was the second time something like that had happened today. The snow. The air. The glitches in the fabric of everything around him. Something was wrong with the timeline.

        His teeth clenched. He knew who could mess with the code and he sure as hell didn’t want it to be them.

        With an annoyed exhale, he turned away, slipping into the shadowed alley between the shops. He needed answers, and the only one he trusted enough to get him some—well, they wasn’t exactly a friend.

𐂯

        Frisk was sitting cross-legged in (Y/N)'s favourite chair by the fire in her cottage when Sans found them, their face illuminated by the weak light spilling from the far-off the dying fire. The soft sound of the wind stirred the branches scratching on the window shutters. Sans stood at threshold of the kitchen, watching them for a second.

        They hadn’t noticed him. Too busy pretending to not think about what was coming.

        He cleared his throat, louder than necessary. "Well, well. If it ain't my least favorite human."

        Frisk glanced up, their expression unreadable and then they signed: You know, Sans, you could at least try to sound happy to see me.

        Sans raised an eyebrow, smirking. "Yeah? And ruin the fun of it?" He took a step closer, the grin never leaving his face but his eyes weren’t joking. "Need a hand with anything, kid?"

        Frisk didn’t answer immediately. They just studied him, like they were weighing the words in their head before deciding whether it was worth saying. They signed: What’s wrong?

        Sans couldn’t help the bitter chuckle that escaped his lips. "You always ask me that. Don’t you know better by now?" He leaned against the wooden post of the bridge, his hands shoved deep in his pockets. "Never a good sign when I'm not the one doing the asking."

        Frisk was quiet for a moment, but Sans could feel their gaze on him, sharp, piercing. They signed: What happened?

        Sans sighed, leaning his head back, staring up at the stars like they’d give him an answer. "I keep seeing fucking weird shit going on." He glanced at them, a flicker of something darker behind his eyes. "Something's up and I'm seein' things fucking up in the code."

        Frisk’s face didn’t change, but Sans could see them stiffen, their fingers twitching in anticipation. He didn’t need to say it. They understood. They always understood.

        They signed frantically: You think it’s—

        "Yeah and if it’s them, well, you know how that goes." Sans nodded, his smile pulling tight.

        The air between them thickened for a moment, the weight of their shared history settling in the space. Frisk, the human who had killed and been killed more times than either of them cared to remember. And Sans, the skeleton who had watched it all from the shadows, too busy surviving to be the one making the choices.

        Finally, Frisk broke the silence. You want me to look into it.

        Sans didn’t answer right away. It was the kind of question that carried too much meaning, too much history. If Frisk messed with the code, it was the kind of thing that might stop everything or make everything worse. But they were the only one who could do it.

        He leaned forward, dropping his voice to something rougher, something only for them. "You’re the only one who can mess with this, kid. I’ve seen it before. I’ve watched it happen and I don’t need to tell you how that ended last time." His grin was thin, dangerous. "So yeah, I need you. But if you do this—if you start messing around with the numbers there’s no going back."

        Frisk stared at him, their face unreadable. You’re not asking. You’re demanding.

        Sans gave them a lazy shrug. "Ain’t much difference when the stakes are this high." His grin widened, showing too many teeth. "Besides, you’re not the one who has to live with it if it all falls apart again. I am."

        Frisk’s fingers twitched again, like they were resisting something. Maybe something inside them remembered the cost. Or maybe they just didn’t like playing into his hand so easily.

        Alright, they signed at last. I’ll look into it.

        Sans exhaled in relief, though it came out as a half-choked laugh. "Good. But—" He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "If anything goes sideways, if you fuckin' screw it up—"

        I’ll fix it, Frisk signed, as calm as ever.

        Sans narrowed his eyes. "Better."

        He started to turn away, his grin back to its usual sharpness. "I’ll be watchin’."

        Frisk didn’t respond, but Sans didn’t expect them to. They were always good at staying silent when it mattered most.

𐂯

Chapter Text

        The sky over Snowdin hung wrong that morning. Heavy and flat, like the whole world had gone still and no one had remembered to press play again. Snow fell, but too softly, like static fuzzing at the edges of an old screen, and somewhere beneath the crust of frost and ice, something else gnawed slow and quiet. Sans could feel it. It had been there for days now a hum in the back of his skull, a weight in his bones that wouldn’t shake loose but today, it pressed harder. Today, it was too loud to ignore.

        He stood slouched against the porch rail of (Y/N)’s little cottage, hood drawn low, grin carved sharp across his teeth with a shiny gold tooth like it was stitched there permanently. He looked like the same but his sockets hadn’t strayed from that narrow trail through the trees. The same trail Frisk should’ve come stumbling back down two days ago in the blip they created. Two days, and not even a whisper of them. That was the first real sign something had gone wrong—seriously wrong.

        Sans’ fingers tapped against the porch rail in a broken rhythm—too fast, too sharp—like something ticking inside him was about to snap loose. The wind scraped cold along his spine, but it wasn’t what made him shiver. His hand kept drifting, muscle memory pulling it toward the inside of his hoodie, the usual spot, the usual fix. But it stopped short every time, curling into a fist against his femur bone before slapping flat against the wood.

        The porch light hummed above him, casting his shadow long and warped across the snow. He stared out past it, jaw tight, sockets low, teeth worrying the inside of his grin like something bitter was stuck there.

        The door creaked behind him, light, familiar steps pressing against old wood, and he didn’t need to turn to know who it was. He could feel her SOUL before she even spoke, that steady pulse of purple, bright and relentless as a heartbeat. She was checking on him, guess he had lost track of how long he'd been outside.

        "Sans? Are you alright?" Her voice was soft, careful, like she was testing the waters and already smelled the rot underneath.

        "I'm alright, sweetheart."

        (Y/N)'s eyes flashed nervously toward the dark tree-line and then back to him.

        "Have you seen Frisk? They said they’d be back yesterday."

        He let out a laugh, too rough and grinding in his throat, like gears stripped of oil. "Heh. Kid’s prob’ly holed up back at my place, sweetheart. Got no sense of time. Y’know how they are. Don’t sweat it." He didn’t turn, didn’t let her see the crack forming behind his easy grin. Because if she looked too close, she’d see it—the tightness in his sockets, the pulse pounding hard enough in his chest it felt like it wanted to punch its way out.

        But (Y/N) wasn’t like most. She didn’t flinch from the ugly parts, didn’t let up when things got hard. That was the thing about perseverance—it didn’t bend, it pushed. "Sans," she said, stepping closer, her voice losing that soft edge and turning firm. "You’ve been off for days. I can tell. Please, I need to know what’s going on. I just want Frisk to be okau.""

        His grip on the railing tightened until the old wood groaned under his fingers. "Wound me, dollface," he muttered, voice low and lazy in that way he knew irritated her just enough to change the subject. "Thought I was always a little off. Kinda my thing, yeah?" But she didn’t bite, she never did when it mattered.

        "This is different," she said, and her gaze burned like a steady flame. "I think you're scared of something. And I can tell you’re trying to hide it. I want to know if you're okay, Sans. I want to offer my help in anyway that I can. Please, what's going on?"

        Something cold and sharp twisted deep in his chest. He hated that tone, hated that stubborn glint in her eyes because it meant she wasn’t going to let this go and it meant she didn’t understand just how deep the hole went. How dangerous it was for her to start poking around. "Nah," he drawled, slouching deeper like he could sink right through the floorboards. "Nothin’ to help with, sweetheart. Frisk’s fine. Kid's tougher than they look. They’ll turn up. Trust me."

        "I do trust you." And gods, the way she said it, steady and sure, made something crack deeper inside him. "But I’m not stupid. Frisk wouldn’t just disappear like this. And you, you’re acting like you’re waiting for the world to fall apart. I'm worried about you. I care about you, Sans, please stop shutting me out."

        For half a second, his smile slipped. Just a flicker. Barely there. But it was enough. "Sweetheart," he rasped, trying to summon back the grin, even if it felt like broken glass in his mouth, "If I was scared, I'd be six feet under already. Fuck, we'd all be. Ain’t dead yet, so we’re fine."

        She didn’t move. Didn’t blink. She stood there watching him like she was seeing something she couldn't believe; her eyes full of worry and concern. "I'm going to look for them. If you won’t help me look for Frisk, I’ll go myself." Her voice was low now, but iron-hard. "I'm not going to  stand here while you lie to my face."

        There it was, the pushback he’d been dreading. The point where (Y/N), stubborn to her core, started fighting against the wall he’d spent months building between them. She thought she could help. Thought she could fix this like she fixed everything else. But this? This wasn’t something kindness and perseverance could touch. This was deeper. Dirtier. The kind of wrong that cracked timelines and swallowed people whole.

        His palm slammed down on the railing hard enough that the wood cracked loud between them. "Don’t be stupid, (Y/N)." His voice dropped sharp, no grin now, all steel and grit. "You go out there alone, you ain’t findin’ Frisk. You’re just gonna get yourself lost. I ain’t got time to go dig you outta the snow.

        (Y/N) flinched—not a dramatic jerk, but a quiet recoil, like his words had blown up the tense air between them. Her hand, half-lifted to zip her coat the rest of the way, froze mid-motion. Her eyes didn’t narrow or glare, just dimmed. Soft around the edges, like a candle caught in a gust. She looked down, jaw tight, lips pressing into a line as she swallowed whatever she'd been about to say. That gentleness he always clung to, the thing that made her different from this rotten world, flickered low like it had taken the hit straight to the gut.

        Sans’ breath caught.

        Shit.

        There it was. That sharp-edged regret carving straight through his chest the second the last syllable left his mouth. He’d spent weeks—months—clawing toward something better, patching up the wreck of who he was with duct tape and good intentions. All it took was one wrong flick of the tongue and he was right back where he started: the asshole yelling at someone too good for it. Real smooth, bonehead. Real goddamn inspiring.

        "Do not call me stupid, Sans. Don't talk to me that way. It's better than standing here while you do nothing," she snapped, spinning toward the door. "I'm going to go and look for them, I'm going to ask to stay with Toriel for the night so don't expect me to be here. Call Papyrus back while your at it."

        She stopped, paused for a couple of seconds, and turned around, her teeth slightly clenched.

        "Don't ever talk to me like that again." Her voice cracked a little but she continued anyway. "I will not be talked to like that by anyone. I care about you, Sans. I want to know if you are alright. If you are safe. That's all that matters and will matter to me. I am not and will never be your enemy."

        She took a breath; she had spewed words out of her mouth like it was too fast for her mind to keep up with her mouth.

        "I am on your side. I am always on your side."

        He could see her eyes blinking rapidly as she spun away and stalked toward the door. The aged wooden door banged open and slammed shut behind her, the cold wind cutting in like a knife before it vanished, leaving Sans alone on the porch, still frozen in place. The sky overhead stayed heavy and still, the snow falling softer and wronger than ever, and somewhere deep in his skull, the static hissed louder.

        Too late.

        His fingers twitched again, desperate, craving that old comfort. God, he wanted a smoke. More than anything. Because at least then, he wouldn’t have to feel this way.

        Sans stayed there on the porch long after the door had slammed, the cold gnawing at his bones like teeth. His sockets stayed fixed on that narrow trail through the trees, but he wasn’t really seeing it anymore. His mind was somewhere deeper, darker, where numbers glitched and twisted and timelines bled together until nothing made sense. The static in his skull crackled sharper now, louder, like it was crawling down his spine and into his marrow.

        If the glitches kept spreading, people were going to notice. Not just him. Not just the kid. Fucking everyone. Papyrus would see the world flicker wrong, see people stutter and repeat, like they were stuck in some broken loop. (Y/N)—she’d push and push until she got too close, until that shining purple SOUL of hers brushed up against the cracks. He didn’t even want to think about what would happen then. Glitches didn’t just break code. They corrupted. They rewrote and unravelled and didn't make any sense as their files, their essence was corrupted.

        The thought of them getting caught in that mess twisted something ugly and sharp in his chest.

        He hissed out a breath between his teeth, trying to shake it off, but the static just pressed harder. He couldn’t let them scatter. Couldn’t let them get picked off one by one. He needed to keep them together, close enough that he could control the board. Keep them moving, but within reach. That was the only way to stop this from spiralling even faster.

        His fingers twitched again, and he almost, almost reached for that old pack he knew was still buried deep in his jacket pocket. But he forced his hand back down, gritting his teeth until it felt like they might crack. "Heh...you’re losin’ it, bones," he muttered to himself. "Get it together."

        Makin' things right.

        Squaring his shoulders, Sans turned and shoved the door open, stepping back inside. The cottage was still warm, the faint smell of tea and old wood smoke lingering in the air, but it felt empty now. Hollow, like a stage after the actors had all left. He could hear (Y/N) moving around in her room, hurried and angry, throwing things into a bag. The door shut behind him with a soft, thump.

        For a second, he just stood there debating whether he should just let her go. Let her storm off and get it out of her system. But no—she’d look. She’d start pulling at the threads, asking the wrong questions. And worse, she’d go alone. That was too risky. He needed her close and he needed Papyrus with her. Papyrus could keep things stable, at least for now.

        For fucks sake.

        Sans forced a grin back onto his face and shuffled down the hall, leaning against the doorframe of her room with that lazy, slouched posture that made him look like he didn’t have a care in the world. "Heya, sweetheart? Don't give me that look," he drawled, voice smooth, easy. "’fore you go stormin’ off into the snow like a hero, mind if I make a lil’ tiny suggestion?"

        (Y/N) paused, mid-pack, her eyes flashing with that same stubborn fire that had driven her out the door in the first place. "What, Sans? If you’re here to tell me to stay put again, save it. I'm not listening unless it's an apology."

        He chuckled, low and gravelly. "Nah, nah. I get it. I am being an ass. You wanna look for Frisk. Can’t blame ya. Kid’s important." He shrugged, casual, like it was no big deal. "Just thinkin' if you’re gonna head out, maybe you...oughta take Papyrus with ya. Y’know, my bro’s got a real knack for findin’ humans. Guy’s practically a bloodhound when he gets goin’. Plus, he’d feel real useful helpin’ out."

        She narrowed her eyes, as she considered the name. "Papyrus? He is one of the best in the guard. Oh, we have to tell him about Frisk still, he'll be so worred!" Her voice softened a little, that edge of anger slipping as her fondness for him took over again. "You really think he could help?"

        Sans’ grin stayed fixed, but inside, something twisted bitter. He didn’t like doing this—playing on her trust, nudging her where he needed her to go. But it was safer this way. Safer for her, for Papyrus, for everyone. "Yeah," he said, voice smooth as silk. "Trust me, sweetheart. Pap’s lived in Snowdin as long as me and has a knack for direction. Plus, you two together? Nothin’ gonna touch ya. Safer that way."

        She hesitated, biting her lip, her hands slowing as they hovered over her bag. He could see her thinking, weighing it. He knew, deep down, that she trusted him more than she probably should. That was the part that made his SOUL ache, the part that made him want that damn cigarette more than anything.

        "Fine," she muttered at last, slumping a little, but her spark came back a second later. "I’ll go get Papyrus. He's at home? Never mind, I'll give him a call."

        "Heh." he said, raising his hands in mock surrender. "Just lookin’ out for ya, sweetheart."

        She pulled out her phone and kept it pressed her to her shoulder as she continued to pack and dress herself. He could hear Papyrus on the end exclaim loudly that "together as an unstoppable team there was no place in the Underground where Frisk could hide."

        Sans followed her out toward the front door.

        With a click of her phone, she grabbed her coat off the rack and opened the door, and as she did, he caught the faint flicker of that bright purple glow pulsing steady in her chest. Perseverance. Unyielding. For a second, he hated himself for using that trust against her, even if it was to keep her safe.

        "You're free to join us, if you ever wanted to." She offered one last time, giving him one glance back but nothing more.

        As the door clicked shut behind her, Sans let the smile slip away.

        Sans cracked his neck, letting the bones pop sharp and loud in the silence, then pushed off the wall and slipped out the door after her. The cold hit him like a slap, but he barely felt it, without skin it's easy to ignore the cold. The static in his skull was louder now, like a busted speaker turned all the way up, hissing and popping with every step she took away from the cottage.

        He stayed to the shadows, slipping between the dying trees and warped, frost-bitten bushes as (Y/N) trudged down the snow-packed path toward Snowdin. She moved fast, her jaw set, that stubborn pulse of purple light flickering faintly every now and then beneath her coat. Of course she wasn’t gonna give this up. Of course she’d keep pushing, even if it broke her.

        "You’re a real pain in the ass, y’know that?" Sans muttered, voice rough as gravel as he watched her stomp through the snow like she could fight the whole world if she had to. He flicked his fingers, magic crackling faint and red between the bones, and with a blink, he warped ahead—reappearing with a soft crack and a ripple of distorted air just in time to lean against a dead, gnarled tree as she passed.

        "Jeez, sweetheart," he drawled, grinning sharp and lazy, "you always take the scenic route, or is this just for my benefit?"

        (Y/N) jolted, hand flying to her chest as she spun toward him, eyes wide. "Sans—!" She hissed through gritted teeth, her pulse spiking enough that even from here, he swore he could hear the way her SOUL gave a startled flicker beneath her ribs. "Dammit, you scared me!"

        "Heh. Mission accomplished," he quipped, slouching deeper against the tree, like he had all the time in the world and none of it mattered. His sockets dragged over her, lingering just a second longer on the faint thrum of that purple glow he could still sense even through her coat. "Didn’t mean to make ya jump, sweetheart. Just figured I’d walk ya part of the way. Keep ya company, Y’know, like a gentleman."

        Her eyes narrowed, suspicion flickering there, but the anger was cooling now, worn down by the worry that still chewed at her. "What are you doing here? Are you following me? If you’re here to stop me again—"

        "Nah, nah," he cut in, raising his hands like he was surrendering. "Told ya, I'm not stoppin’ ya. Just rerouting ya a little." He pushed off the tree, the lazy smirk still plastered on his face, even though the static in his skull was screaming at him now, louder every second she stayed near the cracks.

  “How ‘bout I blink us to my place, grab Pap, and let you two play detective while I babysit the tea kettle? Sounds better than you freezing your pretty teeth off all the way to Snowdin,” Sans drawled, hands stuffed deep in his jacket, gold tooth flashing when he smirked. “C’mon. I’m offering warmth and convenience. Practically charity.”

  She crossed her arms, weight shifting, chin tilted with a suspicious brow. “You could’ve said that back at the cottage. What are you really doing here, bones?”

  He clicked his tongue against his teeth, glancing off to the side like the truth might be scribbled on the wall. “Yeah…I know.” A beat passed. “Look, I was bein’ an asshole earlier. No excuses.” His voice dropped an octave—not soft, just less barbed. “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

  He let it hang in the air, just long enough. Not grovelling. Never that. But it was the closest he came to meaning it out loud. Then came the grin—toned down but still sharp, slanted, with that gold tooth catching just enough light to say don’t get too comfortable. A calculated edge, softened by just enough charm to tilt her lips despite herself.

  “You’re impossible.” She sighed, rolling her eyes, the beginnings of a smile curling in the corner.

  “Heh, it kinda my thing. For whatever it's worth, you can always count on that.” He chuckled low, fingers brushing the pack of smokes in his pocket. A crutch he didn’t pull out. Not yet. 

  Sans flicked his wrist, fingers curling until the crimson glow in his palm sparked alive—wild and dangerous, like bottled lightning. The air around them tightened, pressure prickling against their skin as reality started to strain.

  “Alright, sweetheart,” he muttered, stepping in close. His hand hovered a moment before settling on her elbow, his touch firm but not forceful. “Y’know how much you love this part. Close your eyes. Breathe in and hold. Try not to scream.”

  (Y/N) didn't flinch. Instead, she moved into him, fingers gripping the edge of his coat. And then—just as the light from his magic flared brighter—she leaned in, bold as brass, and buried her face against the curve of his red turtle neck and where his collarbones rested.

  He froze for half a second. His breath caught. The heat of her against him was dizzying in contrast to the cold hum of magic. He could feel her breath on his chin and he could feel a twinge start from the base of his skull to the tips of his feet. The feeling of her body, the warmth—fuck—the warmth of her body against his in the cold was enough to make his hips shift slightly.

  He swallowed thickly, jaw tightening. “Heh. You makin’ this a habit?” he rasped, but there was no bite to it.

  “Shut up and jump.”

  The air cracked.

  The world folded in on itself, pressure slamming inward like a collapsing lung. For Sans, it was muscle memory now—static, pain, done. But her? He felt her flinch as the cold cut through them, as that awful twist in space churned the sense of direction and orientation sideways. Her fingers dug into his coat harder. He held tight, this time with purpose—not just to guide her through, but to keep her anchored to something real.

  They reappeared in a shudder, boots landing in the frost-bitten snow outside his house. She staggered against him, breath catching. Her face was still near his neck, and for a moment, she didn’t pull away.

  “Shit,” she gasped, dragging in air like it burned. “Still hate that.”

  Sans chuckled under his breath, letting her linger a second longer before he stepped back. “Told ya—close your eyes, hold your breath. It works for Papyrus and Frisk. You never listen.” He turned toward the house, voice light and teasing but worn as he could feel the drain on his magic from just one jump. “You’ll get used to it. Or you’ll puke. Either way, kinda fun to watch.”

  The house rose before them like a threat—sharp-angled and mean-looking, with boards like broken teeth and a shutter that slammed against the siding in the wind. The snow here wasn’t clean—it was ash-streaked, coal-colored, crunching underfoot like brittle bones. The whole place looked half-abandoned, barely holding itself together under the weight of the sky. Still, there was soft yellow light pooling in the windows and he could smell smoke meaning Papyrus either had the fireplace going or was burning something horribly in the kitchen.

  Sans had seen this house in a thousand timelines—burnt out, caved in, buried in snow, repainted, reassembled, shattered and rebuilt again. It wasn’t home. Not really. Not anymore. Just a shell with walls he knew too well. His home had stopped being a place a long time ago. Now, it was wherever his people were—wherever Papyrus stood grinning like an idiot or yelled at him to get off the couch.

        Home was the sound of someone else’s footsteps in the kitchen. A voice in the other room. A reason to come back.

  Sans paused with his hand on the door, casting a glance over his shoulder. The magic residue still crackled in his fingers. She was watching him, lips parted, hair tousled from the jump. Something about the way she looked at him—stormy and unafraid—made his SOUL twitch behind his ribs.

  “Next time,” he said, his grin curling slow, “I’m charging extra for the neck nuzzle.”

        (Y/N) rolled her eyes, cheeks already crimson from the biting cold, and she crossed her arms tightly over her chest.

        "It wasn't a neck nuzzle."

        "Then what was it?"

        "I was hanging on for dear life, are you kidding." She said, walking up the steps to stand beside him at the doorway.

        "Because you don't listen to what I tell ya'."

        "It's disorientating no matter what I do!" She exclaimed in an almost defeated manner and his grin only widened.

        (Y/N)'s eyebrows narrowed as she paused.

        "You're doing this on purpose."

        "Maybe, I am, maybe I'm not."

        She shoved him off the porch into the snow.

        He launched her into a snow bank with a flick of his wrist.

        "That's not fair! You have magic." She exclaimed while laughing, snow falling off her head and she brushed herself off.

        "You started it, sweetheart. Don't go blamin' me." He said with a chuckle, brushing off snow from his own jacket and turtle neck with a shiver. "Now come on before we freeze out here. Pap’s gonna love that you came askin’ for his help. You’re about to make his whole damn week."

        The door creaked open with a groan like something dying, and Sans stepped inside first, the familiar stench of dust and old smoke hitting him like a wall. He heard the clatter before he saw him—Papyrus, stomping in from the back, armour half-on and scarf trailing like a banner of old blood. His brother’s voice cracked through the air loud enough to rattle the warped windowpanes, already demanding to know who dared disturb his fortress at this hour.

        The fireplace crackled vibrantly in the fire, with fresh cut wood drying in the rack beside it.

        (Y/N) barely had to say a word—just Frisk’s name, soft but tight with worry—and Papyrus was already moving, grinning wide with those jagged teeth and slamming his fist against his chest like he was gearing up for war. Of course he’d help. Of course he’d throw himself into the search with that same fierce loyalty that hadn't rotted away yet, not even in this version of him. That was the one thing that still made Sans' chest twist, watching how Papyrus could still burn bright even while everything else fell apart.

        So Papyrus grabbed his cracked battle-axe—because subtlety wasn’t in his vocabulary—and (Y/N) pulled her coat tighter, that glow of purple burning steadier now as her resolve hardened up like iron.

        Sans gave them a lazy little wave, told them to stick together and to keep to the main paths through the forest—because the deeper parts, well, even he couldn’t promise what was real and what was already starting to come undone. She gave him that look again, the one that cut a little too deep because it still trusted him, and then they were off, boots pounding into the dead snow and fading into the dark between the skeletal trees.

        And that’s when Sans got moving.

        While they swept the forests, calling for Frisk through cracked voices and chattering teeth, Sans blinked out—short hops at first, keeping close so he could track them from the shadows, make sure the static didn’t catch up with them yet. But then he went further. Past the brittle woods and into the outer edges of the map where things weren’t holding together so clean anymore.

        The Drylands first—dusty, color-bleached stretches that should’ve been dead quiet but twitched at the corners like a broken screen. Rocks flickered in and out, and the sky there glitched between red and black with every step. He spotted a seam splitting open near the old canyon walls, raw code bleeding through like an open wound, and he marked it with a flick of his hand before moving on.

        Next, the Swamp—usually choked with that thick, toxic fog, but now the water didn’t ripple right and the reflections were wrong. Trees with too many branches, shadows that stretched just a little too long. He could feel it there, the crackling wrongness threading through everything, hissing in his skull like a radio tuned to static and screams.

        Frisk had gotten trapped somewhere in this mess—caught in the collapse as the code started eating itself alive—and if Sans couldn’t find the source, couldn’t patch it fast enough, it was only a matter of time before it swallowed everything else too.

        People were gonna start noticing soon if they haven't already. If they got too close to the glitches, they’d get corrupted too—twisted, broken, maybe even erased if it got bad enough. So he kept moving, tracing the fractures like a man tracking cracks through the foundation of a house already halfway collapsed. He kept one eye on the search party, one eye on the map tearing itself apart, and somewhere deep in the hollow of his ribs, he tried to ignore the way that static was getting louder, closer.

        Too late to stop it clean. But maybe—just maybe—not too late to buy them a little more time.

        Sans' phone buzzed against his hip like a warning shot. He didn’t want to answer it. He already knew who it was by the name, already knew the shape of the conversation waiting for him on the other end—jagged and bloody and too damn familiar. Still, he thumbed it on and muttered, “Yeah?”

        "Sans! You finally answer you piece of shit." Alphys’ voice crackled through, high-pitched and ragged with incessant ramblings in between. "I’m seeing readings, Sans. Wrong ones. Numbers that don’t stick—coordinates that loop back on themselves. The baseline’s shifted. This—this isn’t random noise. These numbers don't make any sense. If it gets to the CORE-”

        Sans winced, bones tensing like piano wires pulled too tight. “Deep breaths, Al. You’re spiralin’.”

        “Don’t you gaslight me, you lazy sack of bones!” she spat, sharp enough to cut. “I know this stinks like you. It’s your fingerprints all over it—your work, your mistakes. You- You- You broke it, didn’t you? Now it’s rotting through my lab! Ruining my numbers, the CORE!"

  With a heavy sigh, Sans blinked out of the snow and reappeared inside the Lab, the shift in temperature immediate and brutal. The cold was replaced by a stale, metallic heat that clung to his bones, thick with the scent of ozone, scorched wiring, and chemical decay. The air didn’t just smell wrong—it tasted it. Copper and static.

  He clicked his phone off and shoved it into his jacket pocket, eyes narrowing as he took it all in.

  The lights above sputtered and buzzed like dying flies, casting the room in fractured, sickly reds and jaundiced greens that bled into one another across the floor. Shadows pooled in the corners—deep and twitching, like they might move if you looked away too long. The hum of machinery pulsed in the walls, low and rhythmic, like a mechanical heartbeat just a little off-tempo.

  Monitors lined every inch of wall space, some bolted directly into the metal paneling, others stacked haphazardly on rust-stained tables. Lines of corrupted code scrawled across the screens in manic bursts, twitching and glitching like the system itself was trying to speak—or scream. Wires hung like vines from the ceiling, some sparking, others coiled like they were waiting to strike.

  Alphys was there, hunched over her main console, lost in the glow of a monitor that flashed too fast to follow. Her scales looked greyed-out and matte under the lab’s rancid light, and her posture was all wrong—tight shoulders, twitching claws, tail coiled too close to her ankles. Her eyes, ringed in shadows from sleepless nights, didn’t look up when he arrived, but he could feel her tension spike across the room like static.

  It was the kind of place that had witnessed too many secrets and buried most of them alive.

  Sans leaned against the wall, slouch casual, his arms crossed and hood low, but his sockets stayed locked on the flickering screens. The red and green light stuttered across his skull, casting sharp shadows across his features like cracks in old porcelain.

        "Heya, Al."        

  Alphys jolted upright from her console with a startled yelp, her claws flying to her chest. “Fucking hell, Sans! You can’t just teleport in here like a horror movie ghost!”

  He leaned against the wall like he had all the time in the world, hands in his pockets, slouching like gravity had a personal grudge. “You’re one to talk. Place already looks like a horror movie set.”

  Her expression twisted with irritation, but behind her thick lenses, her eyes were burning—shadowed, twitching, cracked with sleepless strain. “You son of a—this is your fault, isn’t it? You've been poking around again, screwing with things you shouldn’t, and now the CORE’s bleeding out.”

  Sans tilted his head, unfazed. “You done screamin’, or should I come back after you get it outta your system?”

  “Don’t you dare.” She was already turning back to her monitors, clawed fingers twitching with adrenaline. “You disappear for a week, leave me here to do all the work, show up outta nowhere, and I’m sitting here trying to duct-tape the laws of reality together with no warning—”

  “Show me,” he said, voice low and flat.

  Alphys exhaled, sharp and frustrated, but she snapped her claws and dragged a tangled mess of windows onto the main screen. The displays flickered, then flushed red, lines of code pouring out like open wounds. Erratic. Stuttering. Loops and commands warped and bleeding into each other, some repeating so violently the characters blurred, like they were trying to crawl off the screen.

  “See this?” she hissed, pointing at a spiral of red numbers collapsing inward like a star on the verge of going nova. “Baseline variance keeps doubling every hour. Anchor points are going unstable. I can’t lock onto the CORE’s coordinates anymore. Every time I try, they’ve shifted. Like someone’s slicing chunks off the architecture and tucking them somewhere else.”

  Behind her, one of the larger monitors blinked and went dark for a beat, only to flare back to life with a high-pitched screech, static crawling across the surface like mold. The whole lab felt wrong—thick with pressure, like it was leaning in, listening.   

        Sans stepped closer, sockets narrowing as he scanned the scrolling chaos. He could read the patterns—he hadn’t forgotten how—but it came slower to him now, like digging through dust-covered memories. The strings of errors, the redundancies, the breaks in temporal scaffolding—it all told a story. A bad one.

  Sans clicked his tongue, slow and dry. “Sounds bad.”

  But Alphys read it faster. Where he hesitated, she filled in the gaps.

  “You see that fragment right there?” she jabbed at the screen. “That’s not supposed to exist. It shouldn’t be here. Nothing from that should be here in any regard. But no matter how I try, it won't settle and I've been trying for hours, Sans, hours! And where the fuck where you?"

        He said nothing, jaw ticking behind a crooked grin that didn’t reach his eyes.

  “Sounds like you,” Alphys snapped, rounding on him, her voice taut like a wire about to break. Her scales gleamed with a sheen of sweat, and her eyes—wide, twitching, bloodshot—locked on his. “You’ve been poking at this under the table, haven’t you? Have you been messing with the CORE? With the CORE's code?”

  The accusation hit deeper than he let show. His jaw clenched behind the grin, but he let it curve up anyway—lopsided and sharp enough to cut glass.

  “Al, if I was dumb enough to break that fancy piece of machinery,” he drawled, “d’you really think I’d be here talkin’ to you about it?”

  She bared her teeth, a snarl rising in her throat. “Yes. That’s exactly what you’d do. You’d let it burn just enough to keep your hands clean and make everyone else dance to put it out.”

  Her words echoed off the cold walls, swallowed by the hum of overworked processors and the mechanical breathing of the ventilation system. A nearby server flickered, lights cycling in a nervous rhythm. It smelled faintly of overheated metal like the whole place was sweating.

  Sans said nothing, but his fingers curled slightly against his ribs. She wasn’t wrong. Not entirely.

  But that wasn’t what mattered now.

  He turned back to the main screen, where a thin green line—Frisk’s last known pulse—glitched in and out of existence, tangled in the shifting CORE data like a thread caught in a spinning blade. Frisk was still in there. Somewhere. Lost in the guts of a machine trying to rewrite its own logic, and Sans knew it—time snapping underfoot like ice, the universe flexing in ways it shouldn’t.

  He was running out of road to stall, and the abyss was starting to stare back.

  “Look,” Sans said, voice dipping low. The grin stayed, but it thinned out like it was stretched too tight over something rotten. “I don’t know everything, alright? But yeah, I know enough to say this—if we don’t move fast, this whole joint’s gonna crumple like a house of cards doused in gasoline. Frisk is caught in the CORE fractures, and if we lose 'em, we lose the only person who ever stood a chance of pulling the thread straight.”

  The words hit like a needle to the spine.

  Alphys’ breath caught—sharp, wet, panicked. Her pupils blew wide as she spun back to the screens, her claws flying across the cracked keys. Static crawled along the monitors like insect legs, red code spiraling and jittering in place. All across the wall, her rig flickered and spat fragmented logic—familiar errors that shouldn’t be repeating, shouldn't exist. Buried variables from dead timelines, anchor drift she could never explain, phantom pings from memory spaces long since overwritten.

  “You mean they’re already inside the collapse?” she rasped. “How—when did—how the hell did they get in there?! That’s not even—Frisk shouldn’t be—”

  Sans gave a slow, solemn nod, his hands still shoved in his jacket pockets. The glow from the monitors gave the gold tooth in his grin a faint, sick shine.

  “Yeah,” he said. “And you’re the only one who’s ever pulled someone back from that deep. Remember that time your brain shorted out and you puked in a trash can for two days straight? Yeah. That one.”

  Her claws curled into fists, trembling just shy of breaking skin. “You’re lying,” she said, voice shaking with equal parts anger and fear. “You’re not telling me everything. You never do.”

  “Course I’m not,” Sans said, casual, but his sockets didn’t blink. “You’d do the same in my shoes. Probably worse.”

  The hum of the machines crawled louder, higher-pitched, almost accusatory. Behind Alphys, more screens began to twitch with bursts of light—garbled simulations looping across the walls like a carousel of past mistakes. Each terminal spat a different flavor of corruption: spatial drift, temporal bleed, memory echoes, noise that didn’t come from this version of reality.

  The whole place reeked of metal, fried circuits, and half-buried secrets. Old chalk scrawls were half-erased on the dryboards, circled numbers and phrases like “interference variance” and “CORE ghosting” underlined in smeared red marker. A long-dead rat twitched on a sticky trap under the nearest console, half-decayed, its fur burnt off from a blown capacitor. Even the walls seemed to sweat under the pressure, covered in a sheen of condensation that wasn’t water but some unnamable humidity reality left behind when it buckled.

  “I always had a theory,” Alphys muttered, eyes wild, flicking between the data like a gambler tracking a bad hand. “About the numbers. The noise. Patterns that didn’t belong—repeating lines of data that couldn’t have existed. I thought I was going mad. But if someone—if something—was tampering with the CORE or the coding...the numbers revealed it. Across various timelines converging at one point, one person."

  “You weren’t wrong,” Sans said, taking a slow step closer. His voice was soft now, like the lull before a quake, and he needed to be careful. “You just didn’t have proof. No one does. That’s the trick. That’s the safety net. You never remember what you weren’t supposed to find.”

  Alphys stared at him, and he could see it happening—the war inside her, grinding metal on metal. Fear on one side. Curiosity on the other. He just had to keep her looking forward, not inward. Had to keep feeding her just enough.

        "Why do you get to remember?"

        "I just do."

        Alphys glared at him.

  “You wanna sit here and argue while reality eats itself?” he asked, head tilting, smile sharp as a scalpel. “Or do you wanna be the genius who stops it again? The kid needs help, and neither of us can go in.”

  That last part landed like a trap springing shut. Her claws twitched. Her eyes burned.

  “But I can,” she said, more to herself than to him. “If I find a stable signal vector…maybe with a memory echo. A dive tether. But I’d need a live code node—oh god, I’d have to patch through corrupted infrastructure—”

  Sans said nothing. Just watched. Let her unravel.

  He didn’t have to drag her into the fire.

  All he had to do was let her see the smoke.

  Alphys trembled—half from rage, half from that gnawing, marrow-deep kind of fear that curled up behind the ribs and never let go. But Sans saw through the panic. Past the sweat slicking her scales and the tremor in her breath. There it was again—that look. That desperate, teeth-bared pride. The part of her that needed to fix things no matter how wrecked she was. Even if it meant breaking herself worse.

  She spun back toward the console with a snarl low in her throat. “Fine. I’ll track the deep fractures. I’ll stabilize the anchor points. But when this is over, Sans—you’re gonna tell me everything.”

  He gave a shrug, that lazy half-grin snapping into place like a well-worn mask. Armor made of old habits. “Sure, Al. Cross my heart.”

  But the static inside him flared sharp—bristling like claws dragged down the inside of his skull.

  "Just let me know when I need to dip in and take the kid out," he muttered, voice too casual.

   The lab lights flickered overhead—more red than white now, the color of cauterized wounds and things long past saving.

  "I have to tell you, ass." she hissed, voice paper-thin. "Some of these anomalies—they’re moving. That’s not—they’re not supposed to move. They don't just move. Unless someone’s carrying the corrupted code—”

  Her voice cracked. Froze.

  The static in Sans’ skull shrieked like glass under pressure. His spine went rigid.

  Moving.

  Carried.

  More than one.

  He lurched over the console, sockets narrowing on the screen. The map was bleeding out—fractures unfurling like cancer, spiderwebbing in unnatural, sentient patterns. Pulses throbbed under the surface of the display. Not decaying.

  Multiplying.

  Alive.

  “Shit,” Sans rasped, the grin peeling off his face like old paint. “Shit. Shit.”

  He pushed back from the desk so hard the chair screeched and spun, slamming into the corner. Red light surged from his hands—crackling, violent, barely stable. The heat coming off it warped the air. His fingers twitched, curled in on themselves like claws.

  “I left ‘em too long,” he choked, voice cracking. “I knew—I fucking knew—”

  His breath hitched.

  And he saw it again.

  That moment in the snow.

  The town had been dead quiet. Not even the crunch of boots. Just cold, bone-deep silence. And then—there. A shape. Low to the ground. Half-buried in frost and dust. Wilted petals. Twitching. Rotting at the edges. Eyes like voids. Black pits that stared straight through him.

  Flowey.

  No—not Flowey.

  Not anymore.

  The sprite had jittered, glitched—pixels dragging like torn flesh, petals fluttering between animation frames that shouldn't exist. Parts of him were burned-out data, flickering with half-loaded code. Other parts were too sharp. Teeth where there shouldn't be teeth. His smile had crawled up too high, split too wide.

  And behind him something wrong in the code. Like a tail. A red, seeping corruption snaking behind him, dragging through the world like it was infecting the map just by existing.

  He'd blinked—and Flowey was gone.

  But the rot was still spreading.

  Now he knew why.

  Anomalies. Plural.

  Someone was using them. Planting them.

  Tearing into the very structure of reality like it was paper. All of it unraveling at the seams.

  Not just to break the world.

  To hurt him.

  To fuck with everything he’d clawed back from the void. All the things he’d killed for. Died for.

  The static shrieked.

  The red fire swelled.

  “Sans, wait—” Alphys reached out as he turned, voice cracking with something far more human than usual. "You’re not right. You’re not—your signal’s fluctuating, your magic’s overheating, I can see it from here. You need to wait—I can reroute the interface—”

  He stopped. Stared at her.

  The way her hand hovered—not touching. The way her eyes darted.

  She was scared.

  Scared of him.

  That hit something deep.

  That she could see it.

  The fracture in him.

  The way it was spreading.

  “I don’t have time,” he growled. Low. Final.

  Alphys recoiled like she’d been struck.

        "If anything goes sideways, if you fuckin' screw it up," He leaned closer to her, feeling the fire pool in his right eye. "you fix it. I'll be watchin'."

  And then—crack—he vanished.

𐂯

        First jump: Drylands.

        The ground was dust and ash, split wide with glowing red glitches that pulsed like open wounds.

        Sans landed hard, breath tearing in his throat. His sockets swept the barren horizon. Empty.

        "Dammit—" He snapped his fingers, red light bursting sharp.

𐂯

        Second jump: the Swamp.

        The air here shimmered wrong, water bubbling where it shouldn’t, trees warping shapes at the corners of his vision. He spun, hands raised, magic crackling like teeth bared.

        Nothing. No (Y/N). No Papyrus. The static climbed higher, shrieking now, wrapping around his skull like barbed wire.

        "Nonononono—"

        Snap. Teleport.

𐂯

        Third jump: entrance to the Ruins. 

        Glitches bled through the stone walls here, flickering in and out like dying lightbulbs. The ground rippled under his feet. The static howled, too loud, drowning everything else out. But there were no fresh set of footprints, so they hadn't even made it this far yet.

        "Where—" His voice cracked, low and raw, breath coming too fast. His eye lights flickered like bad signals. "Where the hell are you—"

        His fingers shook as he snapped again.

𐂯

        Fourth jump: nowhere on the map.

        Instinct. The static twisted sharp and pulled him home. (Y/N)’s cottage rested still against the snow like it always had, smoke curling soft and innocent from the chimney. Too quiet. Too still. But there was fresh foot prints on the cottage door step.

        Sans landed heavy, knees locking, every bone in his body screaming danger. He didn’t knock. Didn’t call. He slammed the door open with a burst of red light and there they were.

        Too late.

        (Y/N) sat by the fire, smile soft, tired—but gentle—like this was just any other night. Like nothing was burning outside their walls. Beside her and curled up against her side, swaddled in one of Papyrus’ thick old, patched blankets from when they were small, was the kid.

        Small. Shivering. Big, red-brown eyes peeking out from tangled hair.

        Chara.

        Sans’ whole frame locked up like a sprung trap. His sockets shrank to pinpricks, breath scraping out slow through gritted teeth. The static didn’t just scream now—it roared. A wildfire behind his eyes, loud enough to drown out everything but the sharp, primal alarm pounding through his bones.

        His first instinct was to raise his hand and end it.

        One strike.

        But (Y/N) was too close.

        Too close, and Chara’s cold stare was already waiting—daring him to try it.

        Go on, they said without words. Let’s see who breaks first.

        His hand twitched, fingers flexing like they needed something to hold, something to crush.

        "Move," he rasped, voice low and cracked, nothing left to hide behind. No grin this time. Just raw fear. "Please, (Y/N). Step away from them. Here. Come here. Now."

        (Y/N)’s head snapped up, eyes flashing with worry and confusion. "Sans, what's going on? Are you alr—"

        "Now." He stepped forward, too fast, magic flickering at his fingertips like wildfire sparks. His voice broke on the words. "They’re not safe. You’re not safe—"

        Charlie flinched closer to (Y/N), small hands fisting the blanket tighter. A soft, broken cough rattled out of them. Small. Sick. Harmless. At least, that’s what everyone else saw.

        Sans could barely stand to look. Because under the blanket and the cough and the wide, innocent eyes—he saw it. That glint. That knowing, mocking glint and that same pleasant contented smile.

        (Y/N) straightened, stepping between him and the kid with her shoulders squared, voice sharp. "They were freezing, Sans. Alone out there. I found them out there, in the snow. What is wrong with you? No one deserves to die like that. Dying alone and helpless in the freezing snow."

        His SOUL cracked in his chest.

        "That’s not—" he swallowed hard, the words burning like acid. "You don’t know what you’re protecting right now—"

        "You don’t know this kid, Sans. Surely." (Y/N) shot back, voice trembling slightly but it remained stubborn and confident. "This child who hasn’t hurt anyone. We found them outside in the cold! Why are you acting like this?" Her words hit harder than any blow because she was right and the version of him she cared about—the one she smiled at, the one she maybe, maybe could have loved—

        Wasn’t this.

        "They needed help." (Y/N) stated firmly, her eyebrows narrowing on her face toward the skeleton.

  “Brother—”

  Papyrus’ voice cracked the silence like a dropped match in a gas leak. Quiet. Hesitant. Brittle as splintered bone.

  He stood in the doorway like he didn’t know whether to come closer or run. Armor scuffed, posture stiff and wrong—like a soldier who’d walked into a battlefield after the war was already lost. His red scarf hung limp at his side, stained darker at the edges, the color of dried blood.

  He watched. Silent. Tense.

  And it was clear in his eyes—he didn’t understand what he was seeing.

  Didn’t understand the way Sans was pacing, back curved like a dying animal, breath ragged and eyes glowing too bright, too wild. Didn’t understand why the air around him shimmered with heat and static, like a fuse seconds from burning out.

  Didn’t understand why the red magic in Sans’ fists wasn’t fading.

  Or why the floor beneath him was cracked.

  But there was no answer.

  Just the hum of unraveling code. And the terrible, stifling weight of something coming undone.

        Chara’s gaze flicked—just briefly—to Papyrus.

        A warning.

        Sans’ breath hitched so hard it made his ribs creak.

        "The human child. Charlie. Hasn’t shown aggression," Papyrus added, voice tight and hopeful. "They’re utterly harmless."

        Harmless. The word scraped down Sans’ spine like a knife.

        He wanted to scream. Wanted to grab them both and shake them until they felt the static crawling under their skin too.

        But he couldn’t.

        Couldn’t tell them Frisk wasn’t just missing—they were gone.

        Couldn’t tell them Chara was here to end this timeline before they could ever reach the surface.

        And worst of all—he couldn’t tell them it was his fault.

        Because he’d been too busy.

        Too busy pretending things were okay.

        Too busy letting himself believe he could have this—(Y/N), laughing and alive and close.

        Too busy letting himself hope.

        And now it was too late.

        So instead, he swallowed it down. Choked it back like poison tearing through his throat. His hands fell to his sides, the red glow hissing out and dying like a flame in the snow. His shoulders slumped, every inch of him screaming danger danger danger—but his mouth forced out something else.

        "Fine," he croaked, voice dead and hollow. "Guess I was wrong, my bad. With Frisk being gone it's hard not to be a little on edge you know? Feels like everyone's on edge."

        Chara flinched.

        (Y/N)'s lips pressed into a thin line as she considered his words carefully. She exhaled, sharp through her nose.

        "Sans. Papyrus." Her voice was low, too calm. But there was a firmness under it. "Can I speak with you outside?"

        For fucks sake.

𐂯

Chapter Text

        “What do you think she’ll say when she sees us again?”

        The cavern swallowed the sound of Flowey’s voice, an oppressive silence thick enough to taste. He had asked Sans while they waited for another countless reset to begin again.

        The air was different—still and stale, like it had forgotten how to breathe. Unlike the rest of the Underground, this place had rejected light a long time ago. There was no gentle, comforting glow of bioluminescent moss, no soft ripple of water lapping at the edges of stone. Only an overwhelming darkness, where even the shadows seemed afraid to linger too long. Beneath the surface, something unseen shifted, groaning like an old wound refusing to heal.

        The Swamp had not always been like this. It had once been alive with the quiet beauty of Echo Flowers, their fragile blue petals swaying in the breeze, catching whispers that no one else could hear. They used to repeat the voices of lost travellers, their stories carried across the air like forgotten dreams. Now, the water was thick and stagnant, the flowers drowned beneath it, their voices silenced forever. The air was heavy, weighed down with the scent of decay and rot, as if the whole place had given up on the possibility of life.

        When Sans stepped forward, the ground yielded beneath him, the sticky muck clinging to his bones like a physical manifestation of the passage of time—stagnant, unrelenting. He shuffled his jacket on tighter, the sound of mosquito filling his head with the sound of buzzing and he swatted one away as it flew into his eye socket.

        Flowey sat half-submerged in the muck, his once vibrant petals curling at the edges, dull and worn. His expression was unreadable, a mask of frustration and something else—something deeper, darker—that Sans couldn’t quite place. The flower shifted slightly, the muck bubbling around him, but it was clear he wasn’t moving for any reason other than to exist in the same space as the nothingness around him.

        “She won’t recognize us, she wouldn't know it was us.” Flowey said, his voice bitter, forcing a small, hollow laugh that didn’t reach his eyes. “What we did. What we are doing. She won’t know what we did, not that I'm looking for a thank you."

        Sans exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping with a weariness that had taken root long ago. “Maybe that’s for the best.”

        Flowey’s laugh turned into a scoff, wet and tired, barely a sound against the distant ripples of water. “For the best?"

        "You'd have her remember dying?"

        "I'd have her remember that she loved us."

        Sans clenched his teeth, but he didn’t argue. There was no point. They had been at this for so long, so damn long. They had searched through timelines that bled into each other, through worlds that folded in on themselves like crumpled paper. They had walked through endings that didn’t end, watched victories unravel the moment they let their guard down. Every timeline was another shot in the dark, another fracture in reality that they had to claw through, only to reset and start again.

        Each attempt felt like a flicker, a brief moment of movement before everything was snuffed out. He remembered walking forward, only to find himself back where he started, like some cruel joke, a loop they couldn’t escape. He remembered the conversations and the words they’d already spoken a thousand times over, the responses they’d known before they’d even asked. He remembered the fights and the endless, grueling battles where he had lost, and then won, and then lost again. The victories became hollow, empty echoes, and in the end, even the victories felt like failures.

        “You ever wonder,” Flowey’s voice trailed off, dropping into a hushed murmur that seemed to blend with the sound of water lapping at the stone. “If maybe she was never supposed to come back?”

        The question hung in the air, heavy and unresolved. Neither of them spoke after that. They just sat there in the swamp, a place that used to be full of life, now lost to time and decay for what seemed like ages.

𐂯

        The memory faded like smoke, and the damp black of the Swamp peeled away, replaced by the crooked outline of the cottage porch. Sans blinked, sockets fixed on the wet smear of moss creeping up the porch rail—green and black and glistening in the low light. It clung there just like the muck had clung to his boots back then, heavy and cold and impossible to scrape off. His skull throbbed—a dull, familiar ache that reminded him it wasn’t just old ghosts gnawing at him now. Somewhere behind him, the soft murmur of voices tugged him back to the present, and he realized he’d been staring at that patch of moss so long it felt like it was staring back.

         (Y/N) stood across from Sans at the worn wooden front step, her gaze fixed on him, patient and steady. Sans shifted where he stood, suddenly uncomfortable under the weight of her attention. Papyrus’s voice cut through the haze, louder and sharper than usual, but there was an edge of worry behind it.

        Papyrus cleared his throat, crossing his arms. “Sans, you can’t just act like nothing just happened in there. You almost—” He hesitated, clearly struggling to find the right words. “You almost hurt Charlie. Which we have established by logic and reasoning to be the incorrect way of handling our problems, as (Y/N) and Frisk have informed us. Remember our good virtue of the week presentation nights?”

        (Y/N) reached out, placing her hand gently splayed out between them, not quite touching him but close enough that he could feel the warmth radiating from her skin. “We just want to understand, Sans. We want to be here for you, to understand. So please if you could tell us what is going on we could help you.” she said softly. “Why did you look at Charlie like that? Like you were about to—”

        Sans cut her off, his jaw clenching. “Nothin’ happened. I didn’t do anything.”

        “That’s not the point,” Papyrus snapped, though his voice was less angry and more concerned. "Why did you behave that way, brother? It makes no logical sense to harm a child you have clearly never met before in your life. You are smarter than that, Sans."

        Sans didn’t look at either of them, his fingers twitching like he needed something to do with his hands. The room felt too small, too bright. He wanted to teleport out, to vanish back into the dark where he didn’t have to explain himself. But (Y/N) was still watching him, her eyes soft and understanding in a way that made his soul ache.

        “Sans,” she murmured, leaning forward slightly. “Talk to us. Please. We just want to help.”

        He didn’t know how to explain it without sounding crazy. Without telling them that Charlie wasn’t Charlie at all, that it was Chara lurking behind those eyes. They didn't want this all to end, lest it meant nothing. That every instinct in his bones screamed danger when that kid was near. But he couldn’t say that not without sounding paranoid and absolutely insane while losing his brother. Not without risking (Y/N) looking at him like everyone else did: broken, unstable, too far gone.

        He rubbed a hand over his skull, exhaling slowly. “I just, I got a bad feelin’, alright? Doesn’t mean I was gonna do anything.”

        Papyrus didn’t look convinced, but he stayed quiet, glancing at (Y/N) as if hoping she would know what to say.

        (Y/N) hesitated, then offered him a small smile, one that didn’t quite reach her eyes but was genuine nonetheless. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. You’ve been...different lately. Distant. We’re worried about you, Sans.”

        Sans grunted, not committing to a response. The guilt gnawed at him, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that he was right about Charlie. That even if nobody else could see it, danger was creeping closer.

         “We’re here. No matter what. You don’t have to go through this by yourself.”

        Sans didn’t respond. Instead, he just stared at the grain of the wood, trying to ground himself in the texture and the warmth of the cottage, reminding himself that this timeline was different. It had to be. Sans shifted his stance, forcing a smirk onto his face and letting his shoulders relax, like the tension had just been an afterthought. He couldn’t keep them worried. Not when there were bigger problems to deal with.

        “C’mon, Paps,” he drawled, voice low and lazy. “You know me. Sometimes my instincts get the better of me. Charlie just caught me off guard, that’s all. Ain’t gonna happen again.”

        Papyrus frowned, his expression softening just a bit, but the worry didn’t quite leave his eyes. “But you’ve been acting strange for a while now. You’re more on edge than usual. It’s concerning brother.”

        (Y/N) nodded, chewing the inside of her cheek. “We just want to make sure you’re okay. You’re important to us. You know that, right?”

        Sans managed a small chuckle, pushing his hands into his pockets. He leaned back, letting his weight settle more comfortably against the wooden railing of the porch. He made himself look casual, like this whole conversation was just a minor inconvenience rather than a crack threatening to split him in half.

        “Important, huh?” he joked, glancing between the two of them. “Guess I got more fans than I thought. Relax. You two are makin’ a big deal outta nothin’. I’m fine, really, both of ya'. Just got a lot on my mind. Can’t help it if I’m a little off-kilter lately.”

        Papyrus looked at him skeptically. “You’re just saying that because you don’t want us to worry.”

        Sans gave a lazy shrug. “Maybe. But that’s just how I am. You know me—rough around the edges. It’s nothin’ new.”

        (Y/N)’s eyes softened, and she took a small step closer. “We know you’re rough around the edges, but this is different. I just, don’t want you to shut us out, okay? We’re on your side.”

        A twinge of guilt pulled at his ribcage, but Sans didn’t let it show. He couldn’t afford to. He couldn’t let them get tangled up in this mess. Not with Charlie, not with Chara, not with the possibility that everything could come crashing down again. He forced another smirk, aiming to ease the tension.

        “Didn’t realize I was gettin’ this much attention. You two really need a hobby,” he teased, giving Papyrus a light shove on the shoulder. “Look, I appreciate the concern, but I’m good. Promise. Just need some time to get my head on straight. That’s all.”

        Papyrus huffed, clearly still not convinced, but he let it drop. “If you say so. Don’t make me come drag you out of whatever corner you’re sulking in next time. You’ve been making everyone worry.”

        Sans grinned, though it felt forced. “Yeah, yeah. I hear ya. I’ll be better about it.”

        (Y/N) glanced between the brothers, finally relaxing a little. “If you need anything, just ask. We’re here. You don’t have to carry everything by yourself. You have to say your sorry for scaring them, okay?"

        He gave her a lazy wave. “Yeah, yeah, I got it. Thanks.”

        "Come and join us when you can. I'd like to introduce you two properly with a good introduction this time." She smiled back, hesitant but hopeful, before finally turning to head back inside with Papyrus. Sans waited until the door clicked shut behind them before he let the smile drop.

        He pressed his fingers against his eye sockets, exhaling slowly. He hated manipulating them like this. Hated how easy it was to fake a grin and slide past their questions. They deserved better, especially after everything he’d already put them through. But he couldn’t risk them knowing. Couldn’t have them digging into the truth, not when it might put them in danger.

        He couldn’t tell them about the way his soul screamed when Chara was around. Couldn’t admit that he knew who "Charlie" really was, and that every instinct was telling him to be ready to fight. If they knew, they’d want to help, and he couldn’t let that happen.

        Sans let out a low growl, digging his fingers into the worn wood of the porch railing. He couldn’t lose them. Couldn’t lose her. He’d already given too much—fought too hard to get to this point. If Chara was back, then he needed to deal with it himself. Keep them safe, keep them in the dark. That was the only way he knew how to protect them.

        A low wind swept through the trees, scattering dried leaves across the ground. Sans listened to the rustle, keeping his senses tuned to any movement in the dark. Chara wasn’t one to make a direct move, not unless they were sure they’d win. But if he knew them at all, they’d be watching, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And if they knew that he knew—if they suspected that he was onto them—they’d shift their game plan in a heartbeat.

        Sans stayed on the porch long after the cottage had gone quiet. The night wrapped around him like a shroud, hiding him from the soft glow spilling from the windows. He could still hear the distant hum of conversation inside—Papyrus trying to reassure (Y/N), insisting that Sans would be okay if they just gave him space.

        But space wasn’t what he needed. He needed to keep his head straight, keep his soul from splitting down the middle under the weight of it all. It wasn’t just the threat of Chara lurking behind Charlie’s eyes; it was the gnawing fear that he’d snap one day and hurt someone who didn’t deserve it. Someone like her.

        He shifted his weight, his hands still gripping the railing. He could feel the splinters digging into his phalanges, grounding him. He couldn’t get the look on (Y/N)’s face out of his mind—the way she looked at him like she was worried, like she actually gave a damn whether he was alright. He didn’t deserve that kind of attention, not after all the shit he’d put her through.

        It made him feel sick to his stomach. Wanting something he couldn’t have. Wanting to touch her just to remind himself that she was real, that this timeline wasn’t some cruel joke. He could still feel the warmth of her hand even though she hadn’t quite touched him, and that alone was enough to make his soul ache.

        Sans didn’t move from the porch for a long time, just listening to the muffled quiet of the cottage. It wasn’t until the cold seeped through his bones and made his joints ache that he finally pushed himself away from the railing. He glanced back one more time at the empty path stretching into the woods before pulling the door open and slipping inside.

        The cottage was dark except for the soft glow of the fireplace, its embers casting long, shifting shadows across the room. Papyrus was sprawled out on the worn armchair, his head lolled to the side, snoring softly. Sans couldn’t help but smirk—some things never changed, even here.

        Quietly, he moved to the corner of the room, settling down with his back against the wall, just far enough from the chair to give Papyrus space but still in a position where he could see everything. From his spot, he had a clear line of sight to the spare room down the hall—where Charlie was sleeping—and to the closed door of (Y/N)’s bedroom.

        He didn’t want to think about Charlie. The way they watched him when they thought no one else was looking. The way their smile didn’t quite reach their eyes. No, it was better to focus on the one thing in the room that didn’t make his soul twist with dread.

        (Y/N)’s door was cracked open just enough to let in the light from the hallway. He could see the edge of the bed, the curve of her form outlined by the moonlight streaming through the window. She had kicked the blanket halfway off, one arm dangling over the side as if she’d fallen asleep mid-thought.

        He couldn’t help but stare, his chest tight with a familiar ache. It was easier to watch from here, where she couldn’t see him. Where he could let his guard down for just a moment without worrying about what he’d say or do if she turned those soft eyes on him again.

        His mind drifted back to the first time she’d said she wanted to hang out—just him and her. The memory was a quiet, almost sacred thing, something he pulled out when the loneliness clawed too hard at his ribs. She’d come to him at Grillby’s, hesitating at the door before walking up to his usual spot at the counter.

        “Hey, Sans,” she’d said, voice warm and a little unsure. “You busy tonight?”

        He’d raised a brow, caught off guard. “Busy? Nah. Just, y’know. Occupied with important business.” He gestured vaguely at his half-finished mustard bottle.

        She’d smiled, a little sheepish, but there was a spark of something in her eyes. “Think you can spare some time? I was hoping we could, I don’t know, just hang out. You and me.” It had taken him a moment to process. Nobody ever just wanted to spend time with him, not like that. Not without Papyrus or the rest of the Underground involved. Just him.

        “Uh, sure,” he’d managed. “Got a place in mind?”

        (Y/N) had shrugged, but there was a brightness to her smile that made his soul do a little flip. “Grillby’s is good. Or we could go back to my place after. Maybe watch a movie or something.”

        He hadn’t dared to hope. Hadn’t wanted to assume she meant anything by it. So he’d just nodded, putting on his usual lazy grin. “Sounds good. I’ll try not to snore halfway through.”

        They’d eaten in a comfortable silence, her laughter bubbling up every now and then when he cracked a joke or teased Grillby about the newest menu addition. Afterward, they’d walked back to her cottage, the path lit by the flicker of streetlamps and the soft glow of falling snow.

        When they got there, she’d tossed a blanket over the couch and rummaged through a stack of movies. Sans had settled in, half convinced that it was some weird dream he’d wake up from any second. She’d picked a lighthearted comedy—something silly and sweet and settled in next to him, close enough that he could feel her warmth through his jacket.

        He hadn’t realized he’d fallen asleep until he’d woken up to find her leaning against him, her head resting on his shoulder. At some point, his arm had curled around her without him noticing, and she was smiling faintly in her sleep, like she was exactly where she wanted to be.

        The memory made his chest ache now. He’d never dared to ask for another night like that, too afraid of what it might mean if she didn’t really want it. Better to assume it was a fluke, a one-time thing. Better than risking the look of pity if he’d been wrong.

        He pulled his knees closer, resting his chin on them, his gaze fixed on her door. She shifted in her sleep, mumbling something he couldn’t hear, and he forced himself to look away before he did something stupid like go in there and stay by her side just to feel that warmth again.

        He couldn’t afford to be selfish. Not now. Not with everything on the line. But damn it if he didn’t want it just for one night. Just for once, he wanted to be close to someone who made him feel like he was worth a damn. He swallowed back the lump in his throat and stayed rooted to the spot, keeping watch over the house, trying to remind himself that keeping his distance was the only way to protect her. Even if it meant hurting himself in the process.

        The memory twisted in his mind, refusing to be shoved aside. He couldn’t help but think about the way she’d looked that night at the cottage—the way her shirt had ridden up just enough to reveal the soft curve of her waist, her thighs bare where the blanket had slipped away. The neckline of her top dipped lower than usual, and every time she shifted against him, he caught a glimpse of her collarbone and the swell of her chest. He hadn’t meant to look—hell, he’d tried not to—but his gaze kept drifting back to the line of her neck, the way her skin seemed to glow in the dim light of the TV.

        It made his face heat up in a bright cherry-red just remembering it, and he gritted his teeth, annoyed with himself. What the hell was wrong with him? Getting all twisted up over something as simple as bare skin. It wasn’t like he hadn’t seen plenty of monsters and humans alike dressed just as casually or hell, even less. But something about seeing her like that had messed with his head in ways he wasn’t ready to unpack.

        He growled low under his breath, feeling like a damn idiot. He shouldn’t be getting worked up over a human, let alone her. What did that make him—some kind of freak? A monster with a human fetish? He rubbed his hand over his skull, trying to shake the thoughts loose, but they clung to him like cobwebs, sticky and stubborn.

        He tried to convince himself it wasn’t like that. It wasn’t just about how she looked—it was about how safe he felt when she was around. About how the world didn’t feel quite as heavy when she smiled at him. That didn’t make it any less pathetic, though. If anything, it made it worse. He was supposed to be tougher than this, colder, not hung up on some human girl who probably didn’t think of him that way.

        But he couldn’t forget the way she leaned against him that night, her head on his shoulder, her breath soft and even as she slept. He didn’t dare move then, too afraid of waking her up and losing that fleeting closeness. Maybe he’d wanted to believe, just for a little while, that he could have something like that.

        With a frustrated huff, he forced himself to focus on the darkened room again, keeping his senses sharp. Whatever these feelings were, he’d deal with them later. Right now, he needed to stay alert, needed to protect them—from Chara, from whatever came next. He could fall apart when the danger was gone. Until then, he just had to keep it together.

        He leaned back against the wall, bones aching from staying in one position for too long, but he didn’t dare move. The house was quiet, just the soft creak of wood settling and Papyrus’s slow, steady breathing from the armchair nearby. Outside, the wind howled, rattling the windows like it wanted in. He glanced back at (Y/N)’s door, half expecting her to walk out and catch him keeping vigil. He’d come up with some excuse if she did. Maybe say he was too restless to sleep.

        In reality, he wasn’t about to let his guard down, not when he knew what was at stake. Alphys was still working on getting Frisk back. They’d been planning for what felt like forever, trying to navigate the mess of timelines and fractured realities. It wasn’t as simple as just bringing Frisk home—something was tangled up with their soul, threads tied in knots that even Alphys couldn’t unravel without more time.

        Time Sans was trying to buy by keeping things quiet and keeping Chara at bay. He didn’t know how long he could keep this up, pretending that nothing was wrong, convincing Papyrus and (Y/N) that he was fine. It took every ounce of control to keep himself from snapping, from dragging “Charlie” out and ending it. But he couldn’t do that without proof, without risking Papyrus hating him, and (Y/N) well, he didn’t even want to think about how she’d look at him if he hurt the kid.

        Flowey’s soul was another problem.

        A part of Sans didn’t want to admit that he was worried. About Flowey. About Frisk. About keeping this fragile peace balanced while Alphys worked on fixing things. He just needed to hold out a little longer, keep Papyrus and (Y/N) safe until Frisk came back. Then, maybe, he’d have a chance to untangle the rest of the mess.

        His gaze drifted back to (Y/N)’s door, the thin strip of light from the moon painting silver lines across the floor. He couldn’t help but wonder what she was dreaming about. If it was something peaceful, or if his mess of a life was leaking into her dreams too. He hated dragging her into this, hated how her kindness made him feel vulnerable. He was used to fighting, to pushing through no matter how much it hurt. He wasn’t used to someone looking at him like he was worth saving.

        He dragged his hoodie down a little lower, the brim of his jacket shading his eyes, and forced himself to look away. Just a little longer. He could hold it together just a little longer. Once Frisk was back, things would be different. They’d figure out how to deal with Chara, how to fix Flowey’s soul and maybe then he could finally breathe easy. But until then, he’d keep watch. He’d lie through his teeth, smooth-talk his way past any suspicions, and keep them all safe even if it killed him.

𐂯

Chapter Text

        The cottage was filled with the smell of cooking—a heady blend of simmering broth, herbs, and the faint scent of burning wood. The little kitchen was alive with warmth, the iron stove crackling merrily as steam rose from the giant pot rest on it's worn surface. Wooden counters bore the marks of countless meals prepared in a space that had seen better days, but it felt lived-in, softened by tender care.

        Sans leaned against the counter, chopping vegetables with a knife that had seen more battles with stubborn root crops than he cared to count. Each rhythmic thunk of the blade against the cutting board matched his own slow, even hand movements. The red outline of his magic engulfed the handle of the hovering kitchen knife, slicing with ease with a flick of his wrist.

        Beside him, (Y/N) moved with quiet efficiency, pulling dried herbs from the shelf, her touch gentle as she crumbled leaves between her fingers. A soft hum slipped from her lips, something low and soothing, cutting through the perpetual tension that hung in the air.

        Despite himself, Sans couldn’t help but notice how her shoulder brushed against his as she stirred the pot, how the soft light from the stove caught in her hair. Being this close, it was hard for his focus to slip away from maintaining focus on his magic holding the knife in place. He forced his focus back to the carrots, slicing them with a little more force than necessary.

        The kitchen opened into the living room—a cozy, if cluttered, space where a sagging couch faced a low wooden table piled with books and odd trinkets. Blankets were draped haphazardly over the back, evidence of nights spent huddled against the cold. Candles burned on the windowsills, their flickering light painting shadows on the worn walls. Just beyond the living room, a narrow hallway led to the foyer, where the front door waited at the end like a watchful sentinel. Two small rooms and a storage closet branched off to the side, tucked neatly away in the cottage’s modest layout.

        Sans didn’t mind the cramped space—coziness wasn’t something he’d gotten to feel often, and it beat the bare-bones shacks he’d holed up in before. It felt like (Y/N), even if things were placed differently it still felt like her in her cottage in the forest. The tension in his spine eased as he listened to her humming, but his guard remained up, senses tuned to the creak of the cottage settling against the wind outside.

        A sharp knock shattered the quiet, echoing through the hallway. Sans’s head snapped up, and he exchanged a glance with (Y/N). Her brow furrowed, indicating she didn't know who was at the door, and she wiped her hands on her apron and walked toward the foyer and out of sight. There was a quiet pause, hesitation for a moment, then the sound of the front door being opened.

        Sans followed her out into the foyer to find Plum standing in the doorway, brushing snow from her hat.

        “Plum?” (Y/N)’s voice was bright, but there was a hint of surprise. Standing just outside, Plum shook the snow from her shoulders, her long ears twitching. The rabbit monster looked more than a little worn—fur ruffled, scarf pulled tight around her neck. She managed a wobbly smile as she stepped inside, her boots clunking softly on the wooden floor.

        Her face always wore an easy smile, not unlike Sans' own, to attract and welcome the many customers to the only general store in Snowdin. She was a kind lady, but in another timeline he could imagine she was well driven to protect those she cared about. Sans was lucky he was on his best behavior in this timeline.

        “Evenin’, darlin’,” Plum greeted, her drawl soft and sweet as honey despite the hint of worry in her tone. She hefted a woven basket onto the floor, the smell of fresh bread and dried herbs wafting from it. “Brought y’all some supplies. Thought you could use a little somethin’ from Snowdin. Got some dried meat as well as the sugar you asked about.”

        (Y/N) returned the smile, though her eyes lingered on Plum’s uneasy stance. “Thank you, Plum. You didn’t have to do that."

        Plum gave a small, tight-lipped smile, brushing at her coat absently. “Reckon it’s just habit. Can’t stand the thought of folks goin’ without.” Her gaze slid past (Y/N) to where Sans leaned against the kitchen doorway. “Howdy, Bones. Keepin’ outta trouble?”

        Sans gave a lazy wave. “Can’t make any promises.” His tone was light, but his eyes didn’t leave her face. Something about the way Plum kept glancing back toward the door didn’t sit right. “Everythin' peachy?”

        Plum hesitated, her ears flattening. “Ain’t rightly sure,” she admitted, voice dropping to a murmur. “I admit I didn't come all this way for nothin' or some sugar though I love you to bits, (Y/N)."

        "Plum? What's wrong?"

        Plum paused, shifted in her spot a little and scrunching her hat in her hands. "Something’s goin’ on out by the river. Folks say not to go near it right now. An’ the snow’s meltin’ in weird patches.”

        "Something's going on? We found Charlie there a couple of days ago, I called you then, but we haven't seen anything." (Y/N) frowned and glanced toward Sans, trying to brush it off. “Could be bad frost messing with the soil? Not sure about the river though."

        Plum shook her head, stepping further into the living room and glancing out the window. “It’s more than that, hun. The water’s gone thick dark like old oil. An’ it smells like somethin’ foul. An’ the forest path here somethin’s seepin’ into the ground. Looks like blood, but thick coagulated, almost, I wouldn't touch it.”

        Sans felt his jaw clenching. He forced himself to keep his face neutral, but his soul churned with unease. This wasn’t just the usual Snowdin paranoia, Plum wouldn’t risk coming out here in the snow just to share rumours. These were true because real people were getting scared, scared enough to come let their neighbours know.

        "Have you seen it?"

        Plum looked at her steadily with knowing black eyes, her purple bunny ears lowered. “I wish it was just talk. But I seen it with my own eyes. The ground’s bruised. Ain’t natural, that’s for sure. With Frisk being gone, Charlie's appearance, things are going rightly upside down around ere'."

        Sans caught Plum’s gaze, and for a moment, he saw something raw and real in her eyes, fear, gnawing at the edges of her usually calm demeanor. He didn’t blame her. Whatever was happening wasn’t just a coincidence. He could feel the wrongness in the air, like static crawling over his bones.

        Plum sighed, rubbing her arms against the lingering chill. “Y’all just keep an eye out, alright? If anything weird starts happenin’ around here, don’t ignore it. It’s like the Underground’s gettin’ sick, an’ I don’t know what’s causin’ it. I've been telling folks to keep an eye out for Frisk as well when I can, but nothin' yet.”

        (Y/N) nodded, giving Plum a grateful smile despite the tension tightening her shoulders. “Thanks for letting us know. Please keep any eye out for Frisk, it's unlike them to go days without a call or at least seeing someone."”

        "Of course, hun. I hope we find them too. They're in the Underground. Take care, the both of you." Plum gave one more wary look around, then pulled her scarf tighter and headed out. The door creaked shut behind her, the cold air lingering even after she’d gone.

        (Y/N) moved back to the stove, her hands slower and less sure than before. “Think she’s just overthinking it?”

        Sans didn’t answer right away, watching the snow fall outside the window. “Maybe,” he muttered, voice low. “But it doesn’t hurt to be careful. Frisk is gone, we've looked everywhere in the Underground, but nothing.” He really should answer the missed phone calls from Alphys, but he couldn't leave and go to the Lab with Chara lying in the living room a few feet away taking a nap.

        The snowstorm hit hard that night. It started as a whisper—flakes brushing against the windows, carried by a low, mournful wind. By midnight, it had become a beast, howling and clawing at the cottage, shaking the old wooden walls like a giant’s hand trying to tear it apart. Snow piled high against the door, and the wind screamed through every crack it could find, filling the small space with a bitter, icy draft.

        Sans kept watch by the window, his eye socket narrowed as he tracked the blizzard’s progress. The world outside was gone, swallowed by a swirling white chaos. The storm had blocked the path entirely, and the familiar forest had become an unrecognizable, hostile landscape. He couldn’t even make out the treeline anymore—just a blur of snow and shadow.

        Inside, the cottage felt smaller than usual. The fire in the iron stove blazed, but its warmth barely stretched beyond the kitchen. They had dragged every available blanket into the living room, piling them on the floor around the fireplace to create a makeshift nest. Papyrus had insisted on arranging them with a surprising eye for comfort, muttering about optimal blanket layering to maximize coziness.

        (Y/N) brewed hot tea, pouring it into chipped mugs with careful hands. Her movements were slower than usual, tension evident in the way she kept glancing toward the door, as if half-expecting Plum to return with more bad news. She handed Sans a mug without a word, her fingers brushing his, and he pretended not to notice how his soul steadied just a bit at the contact.

        Charlie had claimed a spot near the far wall, stretched out like a lazy cat, one arm draped over their eyes. They’d been quiet since the storm started, eyes shadowed and far away, the usual sly grin replaced by something more guarded. Sans didn’t like it—couldn’t help but feel like Charlie was plotting something behind those half-lidded eyes.

        Sans waited until (Y/N) and Papyrus were distracted, talking over tea and the finer points of optimal blanket placement. He cast a sideways glance at Charlie, who was still sprawled out, one eye cracked open just enough to catch Sans’ movements. Pretending not to notice, Sans slipped his hands into his hoodie pockets and ambled toward the foyer.

        The front door creaked as he eased it open, and he winced at the way the wind snatched at the handle. He slipped outside, pulling the door shut behind him, muffling the cottage’s warmth and light. The world outside was nothing but snow—heavy, thick flakes falling in relentless waves. The wind screamed, making his bones ache, but he moved around the corner to the sheltered side of the cottage, leaning against the wall where the snow had piled up only waist-high.

        Something buzzed in his pocket, and he fished out his phone, the screen cracked and dusty. Missed calls. Alphys had been blowing up his phone for hours. Muttering to himself, he finally hit redial, holding the cigarette between his teeth as the line clicked and whined.

        “Sans?” Alphys’ voice was raspy and jittery, more frantic than usual. “Oh my god, I thought you’d never answer! Where have you been?”

        “Snowdin. Got caught in the storm.”

        “You—Oh. Okay. I was worried something—uh, happened. Listen, I figured something out!”

        He waited for her to catch her breath. “Yeah? This about Frisk?”

        A shaky exhale on the other end. “Yes! I—uh, I think we can do it. I ran some more simulations and calculations, and if we stabilize the soul’s position, I think I can pinpoint it long enough for you to, um...get in and out of the CORE.”

        Sans frowned, shifting the phone to his other hand. “That’s a pretty big ‘if,’ Al. How sure are you?”

        “Eighty percent. Maybe more, if I can get the stabilizing machine calibrated. I just.. I need to build it first. But once I do, we can use your, um, abilities to pull them free. You’ll have to be fast, though. If the connection fails, their soul could—”

        “Explode? Fall apart? Get scattered into nothing?” He chuckled, a humorless rasp. “Yeah, I figured. Ain’t my first trip to the CORE.”

        “Sans, it’s different this time. The distortions are getting worse. I—I don’t know how long Frisk’s soul can hold out. The corruption is— it’s like it’s spreading. Infecting the Underground.”

        Sans leaned his head back against the wall, snow settling on his skull. “Yeah. Plum said the river’s rotting. Water’s thick and black. Sounds like the world’s fallin’ apart.”

        There was a long pause, filled with static and the sound of Alphys tapping something on the other end. “We don’t have much time. I’ll keep working on the stabilizer. Just be ready. When I call, you’ll need to move fast.”

        “Always do. Just don’t get your hopes up too high. You know how this kinda thing usually goes.”

        A small, pained sound from Alphys. “I know. But we have to try.”

        The line went dead, and Sans tucked the phone back into his pocket, staring at the snow until the wind whipped it into his eye sockets. He turned and trudged back to the door. He had a bad feeling this time like something darker than usual was leaking into their world. He couldn’t shake the gnawing worry that even if they pulled Frisk back, it wouldn’t be the Frisk they knew.

        As he stepped inside, shaking the snow from his shoulders, he caught (Y/N)’s eye. She smiled at him, her eyes soft and tired. He didn’t let himself smile back just gave her a short nod and pulled his hood lower, hiding the worry that gnawed at him like a parasite.

        Sans took a deep breath as he settled back inside, the warmth of the cottage barely brushing away the cold gnawing at his bones. The snowstorm still howled outside, pressing against the windows with relentless force. (Y/N) had gone back to her spot near the fire, her eyes half-closed as she sipped her tea. Papyrus was rearranging the blankets again, insisting on perfect symmetry.

        Sans wanted to relax, let himself pretend for a while that the world wasn’t collapsing around them. But the anxiety had wormed its way under his ribs and stayed there, crawling through his thoughts like ice water. He couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong not just with the storm, but deeper, like a fracture spreading through reality.

        He lingered in the living room, keeping watch without making it obvious. The storm raged on, but inside the cottage, it was almost too quiet. The kind of quiet that made his skull ache.

        Then he heard it—a whisper, faint and crawling, just at the edge of hearing. It slipped under the door from the hallway, threading through the room like a cold breath. Sans froze, his eyes narrowing. Words tumbled over each other, soft and vicious, like something scratching at the inside of his skull.

        “you couldn’t save them... you let them die... useless... weak... liar...”

        His phalanges twitched, and his soul thrummed with a familiar, suffocating dread. He pushed away from the wall, moving silently toward the second bedroom door, careful not to draw (Y/N)’s attention. As he approached the door, the whispers grew louder, more distinct.

        “...and then you gave up. just watched it happen. all those dust-covered bones...just watched.”

        Sans pressed his hand to the door, hesitating. His magic sparked red at his fingertips, more reflex than intention. He took a breath, then pushed the door open just enough to slip through. The bedroom stretched ahead, dark except for the faint glow from the living room spilling in from behind him. The whispers scraped along the walls, bouncing between reality and memory.

        He followed the sound, each step quiet, deliberate. As he neared the spare room, he saw them—Charlie, standing in the middle of the hallway, back turned. Their shoulders were tense, hands twitching at their sides.

        Sans stopped a few feet away, his hand hovering near his jacket pocket. "Chara," he called, keeping his voice low.

        Charlie’s head jerked to the side, just enough for Sans to catch the gleam of red in their eyes, like a smear of blood across their gaze. They whispered again, louder now, almost singing. “slice them open... paint the snow red... watch them break...”

        Sans’ teeth clicked together, his hand tightening into a fist. Chara. He knew that tone. Knew that poison. He gritted his teeth, forcing his voice to stay even. “Not the time for games, Chara. You’re gonna wake everyone up. Knock it off.”

        Charlie—or Chara—turned slowly, their eyes too sharp, too knowing. “Why pretend it matters? You can’t protect them. You’re not a hero. Just a coward. Always have been.”

        Sans swallowed the bile rising in his throat, his pulse pounding. Chara took a step closer, head tilted, a smile that cut like a razor across their face. “You think you can keep them safe. From me. From yourself. But you know what happens when you fail, don’t you? Dust in the snow and you’ll be alone again. Like you deserve.”

        His magic flared, glowing faintly blue at his fingertips. “You’re not gonna touch her. Or Papyrus. Or any of em'. I don’t care what sick game you’re playing this time. It ends here.”

        Chara just smiled wider, the red in their eyes deepening, the shadows pooling around their feet. “You can’t stop me. Not forever. Sooner or later, I’ll make you watch. Make you break. Then we’ll start over. Over and over till you’re nothing but dust. You think this can all just end? Like nothing ever happened?”

        A sudden, heavy silence fell, the storm’s roar muffled as if the world itself was holding its breath. Sans stayed rooted to the spot, every muscle tense, eyes locked on Chara. He couldn’t let them win. Couldn’t let them take another soul.

        Sans felt his magic surge, flickering around his fingertips like sizzling red embers barely held back. It took everything he had not to launch a bone straight through Chara’s smug face. Instead, he clenched his fists, forcing the magic to ebb, but his voice still came out low and dangerous.

        “You’re real cocky for a little shit who’s been wiped out before,” he sneered, his grin stretched too tight. “Maybe this time I’ll make it stick.”

        Chara’s laughter was soft, almost childlike, but there was nothing innocent about the malice lacing every note. “You think you scare me, Sans? You’re too afraid to do anything. Too scared of losing control. You’d rather rot in your own guilt than actually take a stand.”

        Sans forced himself to breathe, to push down the rage boiling under his ribcage. Chara wasn’t wrong. He was afraid—afraid of how easy it would be to end it right here. To snap their neck and let the dust scatter across the floor like it had in other timelines. He’d done it before. It would be good to get rid of them.

        He could feel his skull throbbing, his eye socket lighting up in a searing blue glow. His mind raced, flashing through scenes of red-soaked snow, Papyrus’s scarf torn and trampled, (Y/N)’s body crumpled against the ground. It was always the same—always Chara, laughing in the aftermath.

        “Why are you holdin’ back, Sans?” Chara taunted, their eyes glinting with sick delight. “It’s not like you haven’t killed me before. What’s one more? Think you’ll save her by keeping me around? You’re a coward. A pathetic little skeleton clinging to the scraps of your happy ending. Spoiler: it’s never gonna last.”

        The words cut deeper than he wanted to admit. His hands twitched, his bones aching for the chance to finally shut Chara up for good. But then he heard it—a muffled thud behind him. He turned, and there was (Y/N), staring at him with wide, startled eyes, a split mug at her feet, steaming tea pooling on the floor.

        “Sans?” she whispered, looking between him and Chara, confusion and fear written all over her face.

        Chara instantly dropped the smug act, their expression morphing into something small and fragile, tears welling in their eyes. “Sans... why are you so angry?” they murmured, voice trembling. “I-I was just talking to him, and then he... I didn’t mean to make you mad...”

        “Hey, it’s okay,” she said gently, trying to calm them down and gestured for them to come to her side. “What’s going on?”

        Sans couldn’t look at her—couldn’t force himself to admit that he’d almost lost it right there, in front of her. Chara sniffled, looking pitiful, and (Y/N) placed a hand on their shoulder, comforting them. He bit back a curse, letting the magic die down, his hands going limp at his sides. Chara gave him one last, satisfied smirk when (Y/N) wasn’t looking.

        “Nothing,” Sans muttered, his voice hollow. “Just forget it.”

        (Y/N) shot him a worried glance, but Chara was already wiping their face, putting on a shaky smile. “I-I’m sorry if I upset you, Sans. I didn’t mean to.”

        Sans didn’t trust himself to speak. He just stalked past them, heading out the back door into the storm, letting the biting wind cut through the rage still simmering in his soul. He couldn’t believe he’d let Chara get to him worse, that (Y/N) had seen it. The wedge was already there, and it felt like it was driving deeper every second.

        The wind hit him like a slap to the face as Sans stepped out onto the porch, his bones aching with the cold seeping through his hoodie. Snow whipped around him in frenzied spirals, and the storm howled like a wild animal hungry for blood. He dug his hands into his pockets, trying to ground himself, but his soul still pulsed with frustration and guilt, tangled together like barbed wire.

        He wasn’t alone for long. The door creaked open behind him, and he didn’t need to look back to know it was (Y/N). Her steps were light but purposeful, crunching softly against the snow that had drifted onto the porch. For a moment, neither of them spoke—just the wind between them, frigid and relentless.

        Finally, (Y/N) cleared her throat, her voice low and worn. “Sans, I...I can’t do this anymore.”

        He didn’t move, didn’t even blink. Just stared out at the swirling snow, jaw tight. “It wasn’t—”

        “It doesn’t matter,” she cut him off, her tone firmer than before. “This is the second time, Sans. The second time you’ve lost it around Charlie. I get that you’re stressed—I do. But I can’t have you lashing out at them. They’re just a kid.”

        Sans clenched his teeth, every muscle in his body tensing. “You don’t know what they’re capable of,” he muttered, mostly to himself.

        She took a step closer, and he could feel the anger simmering beneath her concern. “Maybe I don’t. But I do know that whatever your history is, it doesn’t give you the right to terrify them like that. I can’t— I won’t let you do that in my home. If you can’t control your temper around them, then you can’t stay here.”

        That one hurt. He couldn’t stop himself from finally looking at her, and there was no warmth in her eyes—just hurt and resolve. Sans swallowed, trying to force words past the knot in his throat. “You’re really kickin’ me out?”

        Before he could respond, the door opened again, and Papyrus stepped out, his silhouette tall and looming against the light from inside. He crossed his arms, his cracked scarf fluttering in the wind.

        (Y/N) hesitated, her own breath coming out as fog in the freezing air. “I’m sorry. But I have to think about what’s best for Charlie. For me. You’re dangerous when you’re like this. You can’t be around us if you’re going to snap every time something goes wrong.”

        Sans turned to him, desperate for support, but Papyrus just shook his head, one crimson eye narrowing. “She ain’t wrong to ask you to leave. You get like this, and you don’t see straight. You’re gonna hurt somebody someday if you don’t figure your shit out.”

        The reality of it hit Sans like a gut punch. He knew he was losing control. He knew Chara was pushing him closer to the edge every day. But to hear it from (Y/N), from Papyrus, it felt like the ground was cracking beneath his feet. He forced himself to swallow the bile that threatened to rise again, forcing a grin that felt more like a snarl.

        “Fine,” he rasped, stuffing his hands deeper into his pockets. “You don’t want me here? I’ll clear out. Don’t bother worryin’—I’ll keep my distance.”

        (Y/N) didn’t say anything, just watched him with that guarded, hurt expression. Papyrus grunted, his tone softer but still firm. “You need to figure yourself out, bro. Maybe some space will help.”

        Sans didn’t answer. He just stepped off the porch, the snow crunching under his boots, and trudged into the storm. He could feel their eyes on him, but he didn’t look back. The wind howled louder as he put distance between himself and the cottage, the bitter cold clawing at his bones. After he was sure he was obscured, he jumped from the forest though every calcium atom in his bones told him to return to the cottage else he find it stained red when he returned.

        The Lab felt too quiet, too still, as if the world outside had swallowed all sound and left him stranded in silence. Sans leaned against the grimy wall, head tipped back, staring at the cracks branching across the ceiling like fractures in his own mind. His fingertips trembled, still tinged with faint traces of magic that flickered and died out like guttering flames.

        He was losing it. He knew it. It didn’t matter how much he tried to push it down, how many stupid jokes he told himself to keep the fear at bay. That little creep was right—one way or another, he was gonna break. And when he did, (Y/N) wouldn’t be able to look at him anymore. Papyrus would be disgusted. They’d see him for what he was: a failure. Someone who couldn’t even protect the people he cared about, no matter how hard he tried.

        He buried his face in his hands, fingers digging into his skull. The memory of Chara’s smirk haunted him, gnawing at his thoughts like a parasite. He could still hear their voice—cold, cutting, promising that one day he’d snap, that one day they’d make him watch it all happen again.

        Not again. Not this time. He couldn’t lose them again.

        Sans forced himself to breathe, but the air felt thick, suffocating, like his own lungs were betraying him. (Y/N) didn’t understand. She couldn’t see the cracks—couldn’t see the way Chara was winding everyone up, getting them to turn against him. And he couldn’t blame her. How could she know? How could she understand what it was like to see someone crawl out of the dirt and look at you like they’d never died in the first place? How could she know that every time Chara smiled like that, it felt like a knife twisting in his ribs?

        He couldn’t lose her. Couldn’t lose Papyrus. Couldn’t lose this timeline, even if it was just another shaky, fractured chance at something better. He had to protect them. From Chara. From whatever sick plan they had. Even from (Y/N)’s own blind trust.

        His hands twitched, curling into fists. He’d have to find a way. He’d have to do something. Even if it meant getting his hands dirty. Even if it meant sinking lower than he’d ever been before. If it meant saving them, he’d make the call.

        The heavy clang of the door startled him out of his spiraling thoughts. Alphys stumbled in, her lab coat smeared with grease and one of her hands wrapped in a filthy bandage. She looked like she’d been at it for hours, frazzled and twitchy, but her eyes widened when she saw him huddled on the floor.

        “Sans?.”

        He didn’t move, just gave a tired, humorless chuckle. “Yeah. Turns out, I ain’t exactly welcome at the cottage no more.”

        Alphys hesitated, shuffling closer, then dropped onto a metal crate near him. “Did something happen? With (Y/N)?”

        He didn’t answer right away, just kept staring at the floor, the shadows pooling around him. “She’s pushin’ me. Windin’ me up, makin’ it look like I’m the problem. (Y/N), she doesn’t see it. Papyrus trusts her more than me, his own brother, for fucks sake. Thinks I’m just some violent asshole who can’t keep his shit together.”

        Alphys looked like she couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, she just looked at him with wide, worried eyes. "I’m building the stabilizer. We can get Frisk back—”

        Sans turned away, his gaze fixed on the darkened window, snow swirling beyond the cracked glass. “If it doesn’t work, then I’ll do what I have to. One way or another.”

        The silence stretched out again, broken only by the distant, relentless howling of the storm. Alphys swallowed hard, her voice small. “Just don’t do anything yet. Let me finish this.”

        "Don't fuck it up, Alphys."

        All he knew was that the more he thought about it, the more he realized one simple, brutal truth. He’d protect (Y/N) from what she didn’t understand. Papyrus for being so trusting, even in this timeline. Even if it meant becoming the monster everyone feared he had been before. Even if it meant dragging Chara into the dark and making sure they never came back. He hated that (Y/N), green-souled, would hate to see him now.

        He wanted her.

        He wanted her back.

        He wanted to see her soul flash green again.

        But it never would and he was going to make sure that the purple soul floating inside the cabin walls. His magic, red and fiery, burned in his left eye and flowing freely from his finger tips. Flames licked at his jacket's fur, ruffled around his neck in flickering dancing blaze akin to a lion's full mane.

        Even in all of the timelines that existed, Sans still managed to out match Chara on nearly all the times they fought and by the looks of things Chara's LOVE indicated they hadn't killed anyone just yet. So he still had time and that's all that he needed to ensure that Chara wouldn't see the surface, he'd bury them down here like everything that had happened over and over and over again in the Underground and forget that all this happened.

        With (Y/N)'s soul being anchored to the resetting mechanism and Flowey's soul anchoring the timeline in place. All that Sans needed to do was get Frisk out of the code, keep (Y/N) and Papyrus safe, and handle Chara one way or another. He'd face worse situations, watched his brother's head fall into the snow and crumble into dust, and he was sure that regardless of what would happen; Chara was coming down with him.

        He smiled, holding a cigarette up to his lips and lighting the end in the flame of his lighter.

𐂯