Chapter Text
'i'm just saying, you don't need that many pelts.' His tone was factual and echoed in your soul.
'It's just three,' you said, shaking the gathered snow off your mask. Maybe a better descriptor for it would be the canine skull strapped to the upper half of your head, missing its lower jaw.
'i swore you had two just yesterday,' Sans exclaimed, and you snickered, looking around the winter wonderland of snow and pine trees. You knew that a trap of yours had been set off around this area; you'd felt it, last night.
Disrupted snow piqued your attention. Your gaze travelled up the adjacent trees, spotting cornflower blue rope wrapped around a trunk. Bingo.
Stepping up to it, you plucked at the cord gently and netting descended from above, startling the hare inside. It squeaked feebly in terror, no doubt weakened by spending several hours exposed directly to subzero temperatures. Even as the net unravelled, it didn't have the strength to flee. Another hare dispatched for the game bag.
'Out of the two of us, I know who has the worse memory,' you sighed, resetting the trap with an upward flick of your hand.
'you.'
'Sans,' you said flatly, 'have I ever told you that you're unfunny?'
'sounds like a you problem,' he snorted. 'i find myself to be a bone-afide comedian...'
He trailed off as you zeroed in on a particular scent floating in the air, musky with a cervine hint but not quite accurate. It was something stronger, with a subtle difference in headiness. However, its distinction from the other scents in the forest was its freshness. The owner had just passed by.
The sound of rustling leaves made you perk up, and whip your head in its direction.
Several trees away, facing away from you, grazing on some frosted vegetation, it remained oblivious to your existence. Bones shaped as fungi branched from its head. Muscles rippled under its dark brown hide. The bull towered over you, easily double your size and very much capable of fracturing a bone or two with its built hind legs.
Moose didn't usually forage so close to the cottage and preferred to stay on the outskirts of Snowdin Forest, away from monsters. The charged static of magic seemed to repel them, which made this all the more precious.
Excitement bubbled. Immediately, you dropped to a crouch, taking cover behind a bush. As much as you longed to chase it, it'd be a risky choice without Papyrus close by to intervene when needed.
The bull raised its head in suspicion. After a few tense seconds of surveillance, it returned to its meal, none the wiser.
Thin periwinkle, almost cornflower wires shot out towards the animal's ankles faster than it could react. Upon contact, the wires lashed around its legs and thickened into rope, binding them in a crushing embrace. The bull bellowed in alarm as it crashed to the ground, kicking up a storm of snow. It didn't know that its frenzied struggle only triggered the rope to constrict.
The familiar thrum of sun-warmed magic greeted you as Sans's rifle materialised straight into his waiting arms and raised to the eyehole of your mask. With a skeletal finger entwined with the wires, he pulled the trigger.
Soundless, a bullet zipped through the air, straight for the bull's eye. Blood sprayed and blotched white snow. It stilled, marred head collapsing to the side with a muted thump.
The thrill of a successful kill coursed through your marrow. Pumping a fist, you leapt out of your hiding place. "Yes!" you whooped. The strings connecting your fingers and the bull yanked you back. "Shit— oomph!" You landed in the freezing snow face-first.
Sans cackled at your misfortune. You got back on your feet, adjusting the mask back in place. This time, you made sure to deactivate your strings. Another mishap would be rather embarrassing. "At least I didn't drink coffee powder," you grumbled.
Navy blue dusted your skull from your chagrined counterpart. "we agreed not to talk about that," he groaned.
"Lack of official records. Claim denied." You brushed the snow off your well-loved furred jacket of the same colour, patting down your black pants.
"objection."
"Objection overruled. You're an idiot."
"it has the same colour," he defended.
"Just because glue has the same colour as milk doesn't mean I think they're the same." You grimaced thinking about how you had guffawed out loud at his misfortune, only to choke and gag on the gritty particles in your throat.
Sans elected to ignore you. He dismissed his rifle and crouched down next to the carcass, retrieving a knife from his boot. He flipped the bull over and began to field dress it. Avoiding the subject, typical of him. He should know by now that you were rather merciless with teasing.
'whatever you're thinking of, don't,' Sans interrupted your thoughts.
"..."
"webs—"
"You look like a blueberry when you blush."
He sliced a little too deep into the bull's flesh. 'fuck you!' he hissed. Your shoulders shook with repressed mirth.
'you did that on purpose, you wet sod—'
'It's like the deep ocean—'
'you're distracting me—!'
'Is alpha dearest unable to handle a compliment?—'
"what part of that is more a compliment than a jab?!" he barked, growling under his breath. You laughed, loudly, and made sure to transmit your amusement to him just to rile him up a bit more. Though as much as you loved to tease your counterpart, you didn't want to actually incur his wrath, so you allowed him to continue his work in peace.
Your wires were shockingly versatile, capable of morphing into whatever texture, length and thickness that you pleased. Naturally, you did what anyone would do with such a power. You weaved a web so magnificent it put any other web to shame.
The idea had lived rent-free in your mind for months until you finally worked up the courage to suggest it. Sans had chuckled, given you free reign of the room, sat back and watched you work your magic, literally.
It'd taken several prototypes to achieve a stable structure — you were no architect, after all. After countless breaks to replenish your magic and even drawing up mathematical diagrams to calculate the best measurements, you found it. The perfect design. Some reinforcements to the supports and extra layers to make it more comfortable needed to be added, but other than that you thought it was hella spectacular and needed to be witnessed.
At that point, Sans had fallen asleep, so you dragged Papyrus out of his bed at 5am to marvel at your invention, disregarding the fact that he'd been sleeping on you for half the time and drowsily nodding along to your words. He'd never been much of an early bird.
By the time the bull was completely dressed, the game bag was bulging with all the gathered kills. You tilted your head upwards, looking past the cone towers of green needles, to the dreary sky. Lazy clouds drifted, tinted a drab grey. You'd learnt to distinguish the subtle differences between the times of day. Right now, it was after midday.
'We finished early,' you observed, a smile quirking your lips. These days were rarities. Normally, you'd be back at the cottage by latest sunset.
Sans uttered a sound of approval. 'let's see if paps's back at the house yet.' The world around you warped and your boots clunked onto hardwood floor. Familiar scents of pumpkin with a spring of sage, ginger dipped in lemon and a field of flowers after rain greeted you. A fire roared in the hearth and sounds of clinking metal travelled from the kitchen.
Your immediate impression of this place had been cosy. It just exuded homeliness. Everything was so warm, even without the raging flames in the fireplace. The colours, the aura, the framed pictures on the wall each capturing a milestone or an euphoric moment. The one with Sans asleep face-down in the snow was placed on top of the brick fireplace like a trophy.
It was a single-storey cottage, the living room joined to the kitchen. A hallway connected the bedrooms, bathroom and storage room. Curtains mostly obscured the windows, except for a few because they 'added to the atmosphere', you quoted Sans. A sliding door in the kitchen led to the backyard, ominous mountains overseeing the forest. And in said kitchen was another skeleton.
Snowy feathers dappled with ash hung just shy of sweeping the white tiles. Cheery hums of a catchy tune were uttered as the taller skeleton fluttered about the kitchen with experienced ease. His long phalanges picked up a ladle and stirred the brewing pot on the stove, his beloved pastel red apron tied around his waist.
You slipped off your snow boots, tucking them into a nook. Proceeding to the kitchen, you padded to the freezer where all the meat was stored and gently set the game bag down next to it.
Expertly avoiding brushing against his feathers, you snuck up to him and stood on your tippy-toes. Head right behind his, you listened for the moment that his humming slowed to a stop when he sensed a presence from behind.
"Boo," you whispered in perfect harmony of Sans's rough baritone and your soft-spoken cadence. Speaking alongside your counterpart made the differences all the more stark — where Sans's voice was distinctly masculine, yours was mixed and androgynous.
You narrowly dodged the elbow that went flying for your face as your brother whirled around, ladle brandished like a weapon. Holding your hands up in surrender, you backed away from him. "Just a joke, just a joke— please don't actually throw that," you said hurriedly, cringing away from the kitchen utensil.
"DON'T DO THAT!" he huffed, shoulders going slack as one hand patted his sternum. "YOU NEARLY MADE MY SOUL LEAVE MY BODY." The ladle was lowered. You relaxed.
"It's been a while since we've been able to sneak up on you like that. Can't throw that kind of opportunity away," you laughed, making a beeline for the sink. You had to wash the blood from your phalanges before touching anything, or Papyrus would go on a rampage seeing blood smears on his pristine kitchen.
You flicked on the tap and ran your soapy hands under the miniature waterfall. "STILL." He flicked the exposed part of your skull, making you whine.
"ow," Sans exaggerated.
"Are you that salty that we got you for once?" you teased, craning your neck to look him in the socket. Deep sunset orange eyelights looked down at you, the inner orb streaked by two darker perpendicular lines; a crosshair.
"AS IF," he denied confidently. "NOTHING IS SET IN STONE WITH YOU TWO. NOT EVEN MY PROWESS AT DETECTING PEOPLE."
"You can just say that we're better."
"BAH! AND LIE? WHAT KIND OF SKELETON DO YOU TAKE ME FOR?"
"someone who'll admit that he lost?"
"I DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT. I ALWAYS WIN," he proclaimed proudly, puffing up his feathers.
"Yeah, okay. What's cooking?" you inquired, tilting your head up to sniff the air. It smelled like boiling meat — its exact nature muddled by seasonings and other ingredients. You did pick out a hint of a grassy, herby aroma though. "...Lamb?" you took a wild guess.
"STEW. LAMB STEW." A big smile almost matching Papyrus's radiance overtook your face. "BUT IT NEEDS ANOTHER FEW HOURS."
"damn," Sans expressed his disappointment.
"TAKE A PAGE OUT OF WEBSTER'S BOOK. IT'S CALLED 'BE PATIENT'," he quipped, his tail feathers swishing. He turned back to the stew, resuming his humming.
Sans swept his hand in the direction of the drawers and they cracked open, airtight plastic bags zipping into his grasp. Chuckling, you sorted the dressed meat in the game bag into the bags and opened up the freezer. Cold air hissed over your phalanges. Labels of various types of meat were already pasted on each section, so all you had to do was place them with their brethren. You noted that there was more food than the three of you would could eat.
'we've gotta make another trip to town to drop off the extra,' Sans remarked, already knowing what you were thinking of. There was no real expiry date for meat, thanks to the magic present in the animals, but it was still better off consumed fresh.
Once that was done, you headed out to the shed after promising Papyrus that you'd be home in time for dinner("I DON'T WANT TO SEE YOU PASSED OUT IN THE SNOW AGAIN! TAKE BREAKS, FOR GOODNESS'S SAKE!") and readied your tools for skinning the animals. Shrugging off your fur jacket, you hung it up on the doorknob and rolled up the sleeves of your dark purple turtleneck.
In the game bag, you had a beaver and two hares, the former on the plumper side. You started with the beaver first since it was more troublesome. By no means were you a fan of seeing blood or having it staining your ivory bones, but you'd grown used to its sticky feeling over the years.
Your hands moved swiftly, almost automatic. Far from as quick or experienced as Papyrus or Sans, but you didn't know anyone else who was as efficient as those two. Every piece of knowledge in your head pertaining to hunting had been taught to you by your counterpart.
Well, the soul link shared that information with you, to be exact. Where to cut, how deep and everything else. It had been jarring to suddenly possess that in-depth knowledge and also the intricacies of quantum science(which you preferred to stay away from, it muddled you to be both confused about and familiar with it at the same time) among other things. Your mind teemed with every fact and detail, whereas your body didn't share the same expertise. You could describe it as knowing how to run, but having your knees buckle like a newborn fawn when you tested it out.
Whenever your mood dampened, which Sans could always feel thanks to the innate bond, he tossed in a light joke and encouraged you to try again. He and Papyrus were possibly the best people the universe could've grouped you with. Their enthusiasm was comforting and steady in a world so different from what you knew, even if your memory was lacking.
Speaking of which, was mainly dominated by emotion. Other than some other knowledge sprinkled in here and there — mostly of little importance — every other memory had some speck of emotion clinging to it. Sans had theorised that upon detaching with your body, your soul retained only the pieces that made up your core self.
Crocheting, for one. It was familiar, safe and natural, approaching you almost as easily as breathing. Ideas of patterns and structures flowed into your mind like a constant stream, sometimes bringing up weird suggestions you could describe but couldn't name. It bothered you to have a whole chunk of yourself missing, though not as much as your instinctual responses to some stimuli. Those were the ones you had to watch out for, the minefields in an unassuming plot of land.
Abandonment.
The sinking, crushing feeling of falling to the bottom of the ocean while others watched you from the deck.
They sailed away without you. Laughing with each other, as if they hadn't just left you to fend for yourself in uncharted waters. You'd reach the surface. Another boat would come by and offer you a hand on their deck. Just like the time before, you'd accept, and again it would repeat.
Every time you sank, another weight was locked around your ankle, and your anguish and doubt grew. Why did they do this to you? You tried to appeal to them. You spent nights thinking about how to earn their favour, to prevent them from leaving you. But the result was the same, every time. Once you weren't good enough, you'd be discarded.
You snapped that thought before it could infect your mind any further. Sans and Papyrus thought you were good enough, and that was all you needed. Not the opinions of people who did away with you like an old toy.
At first, you hadn't known why you'd been such an asshole(there was no sugarcoating, you'd been straight-up rude at times). It had just seemed the most logical option to you. Then Sans ventured out into town for the first time after the machine's malfunction, and you understood.
Seeing monsters of all shapes and sizes greet Sans with open warmth, while you had to stay hidden(ignored, disregarded, thrown away—) reared an ugly torrent of unwelcome emotions. You'd never known that petrichor and ginger could smell so miserably acidic and pungent.
Ice was your protector, but it was brittle and never fully opaque.
'webster?' Sans murmured to you, snapping you out of your thoughts. "you alright?"
'Just... thinking. Of the past,' you said absently, moving on to the hares. Peeling off the skin was like removing a sock from your foot. 'What I was like,' you clarified.
'a little puppy?' he suggested.
'You're the puppy,' you scoffed, rolling your eyelights.
'i'm your senior, show some respect,' he harrumphed.
'I give respect where it's due. You warrant no respect from me.'
'i cannot believe this. my own packmate,' he declared sombrely as if he had faced a great betrayal, 'whom i have guided every step of the way—'
'Whom you have made to do labour,' you interrupted, putting down the knife to tear the skin from the hare's flesh.
'it's a learning opportunity!'
'And not an excuse for you to not do the work?'
'how dare you accuse me of such treachery. my soul can never recover from this betrayal,' he claimed in a comically emotionless tone.
You pursed your lips, unwilling to give him a satisfactory reaction. Yet, against your best efforts, a tiny snort escaped that descended into hysterical laughter. Once the dam broke, everything else overflowed.
'You're— you're so full of shit!' you exclaimed, bending over the table. Your sharp phalanges dug into the wood for purchase as you wheezed uncontrollably. 'How come I haven't felt the pain yet, huh?'
'your mind is too incompetent to comprehend it.'
'Fuck you! You're too incompetent to comprehend the finesse of finger-knitting!'
'we don't speak of that!' his voice seemed to raise an octave.
Disregarding his mortification, you huffed, 'You always rip perfectly fine wool threads when I try to teach you!'
'that's exaggeration! i rip them only once in every seven tries! and can you blame me? they're not as durable as your magic ones—"
'You— you keep diverging from what I tell you to do! Your method may be more 'efficient', your words not mine, but what use is that when these pointy cones rip through them like tinfoil?' You wriggled your sharp phalanges for emphasis.
He grumbled irritably, and the conversation was allowed to fade into the background until it was brought up the next time knitting was mentioned.
'Finally done,' you sighed in relief as you stuffed the beaver and hare meat into their respective packages. Sans, ever in sync with you, shortcut you to the kitchen where Papyrus was the unfortunate victim of your sudden apparition.
"DEAR ASGORE—"
"Sorry!" you two apologised.
"REALLY, PLEASE MAKE SOME SOUND!" Papyrus lectured sternly, his wings fluffing up behind him. "AT THIS POINT, I'VE HAD AT LEAST TEN YEARS OFF MY LIFE FROM YOUR SHENANIGANS."
In your infinite wisdom, you said, "You can take the ten you've lost from Sans."
If you had separate bodies, he'd be burning holes into the back of your head. "i'm not even here, i'm just a hallucination," he grumbled.
"I HOPE NOT, BROTHER. THAT WOULD BE QUITE DISTRESSING FOR ME." Papyrus checked on the stew, which smelled lovely and savoury and every adjective associated with goodness. Having a better sense of smell was torture here because you could almost taste the stew but not quite.
Hunger snapped at your ribs. Yearning, growling, voracious. You pushed it down with a strained smile.
Tone transitioning back to light-heartedness, Sans chuckled, "don't worry paps, i'm just kidding." A flick of his wrist sent the meat bags sailing into the unlocked freezer box. It snapped shut after swallowing the new items.
"we needa take a trip to town soon too. need anything?" asked Sans with an easygoing smile.
"ACTUALLY, I MIGHT TAG ALONG THIS TIME."
...What?
"Huh?" you and Sans uttered in alarm. "That's not necessary—"
"IT'S FINE," he smiled. "IT'LL SAVE YOU TIME. BESIDES, I'LL STICK WITH YOU FOR MOST OF THE TRIP." He shuffled his immense wings and the entire structure, feathers and all, retreated into his back seamlessly, as though they'd never existed. He held a poker face, but you could see the tiny cracks of discomfort.
"Papyrus..." Your wary, diminishing tone juxtaposed with Sans's distraught one. Worry rampaged in your souls. You and Sans could afford to forgo your hybrid form, but Papyrus? Your magical radius only spanned several metres. If he strayed too far for too long, he'd have a harder time quelling his instincts.
Mimics, also known as boss monsters, possessed a unique ability to shift into the form of an animal. Past strife had driven a wedge between boss monsters and regular monsters, to a point where the latter had developed an extreme fight-or-flight response to any sign of a mimic. Think a cornered rabbit, but more desperate and impulsive. Some were more docile, only striking when they truly felt threatened. Others would lash out fiercely, sometimes with the intent to kill.
The war had occurred a millennia ago, but it often slipped your mind that monsters lived for centuries. To them, a millennia felt just like what century did for humans. The damages were still too raw to be discussed, and the topic was often skirted around.
It was a major problem for mimics, who were unable to sustain their full monster form for more than a few hours. Their inner animal could only tolerate being locked away for so long till it eventually gatecrashed the party.
Your magic had a soothing effect, but Papyrus wasn't going to stick by your side for the whole trip. There'd be gaps when he wasn't with you. Who knew if the Snowdin monsters would attack him out of panic, or vice versa? Both parties would end up injured one way or another.
"you don't have to," insisted Sans. "it's fine. we can make the trip ourselves."
"PLEASE DON'T GIVE ME THIS SHIT AGAIN," Papyrus stated with growing exasperation, pinching the bone between his sockets.
"Sans, it's fine," you sighed.
"what?" he hissed, sharp and white-hot like a poker.
"He'll be with us. It'll only take a few hours. We'll be fine," you reasoned.
Tension coiled in your stiff shoulders. Neon blue flickered within the wolf skull on your head, nigh invisible to anybody else. The black mesh in the eyeholes fulfilled their duty, but they lost to Papyrus's sharp eye.
"SANS." His hand gently clapped his shoulder, warmth seeping into the bone underneath your sweater. "IF TIME'S RUNNING OUT, I'LL GO FIND YOU IMMEDIATELY."
Both of you knew the answer, the most logical option. At long last, he relented and mumbled, "okay."
At once, Papyrus lit up. Had he been the sun, your eyelights would have been scorched beyond repair. Relief upon seeing the younger skeleton happy overshadowed Sans's anxiety, making him crack a guilty smile.
The younger brother returned the grin softly, then frowned. "WHERE IS YOUR JACKET?" Foot tapping against the tiles, his stern tone suggested an impending reprimand.
You looked down at your bare sweater. Your jacket was still in the shed. "Oh."
Sans teleported you out before Papyrus could launch into another tirade.
"SANS, WEBSTER! IT'S TIME TO GO."
"Coming, Paps," you yelled back, dropping your knitting needles and latest unfinished project onto a grey fluffy pelt, descending from your perch.
The periwinkle web underneath you swayed gently, thick rope and yarn weaved closely into a net sturdy enough to(probably) support the strain of a few bears. Its structure was inspired by a funnel web, while it bore the foundation of a traditional tangle web. Two of its six corners were attached to points of your height on the wooden burgundy walls, while the rest were situated lower, creating a gentle gradient that made it easy to climb. It dipped comfortably under your weight, and you could even adjust the foundation lines if you so pleased.
Hopping off the web, you strode towards the door and your hand closed around the handle, but you didn't use it. Strangely, your souls urged you to turn around and take a good, lasting look at your room.
Drawn blinds kept prying eyes from peering in, while warm lamps lit the room. The walls were rustic and wooden, the planks varying in their shades of brown.
The rest was what you'd dub organised chaos. Clothes weren't strewn on the floor, unlike sometimes when the laziness in Sans would kick in. The shelves and desk, all wooden, were crowded with items, mostly some of your finished projects, and the others being books. Your army of crocheted triceratops stood proudly at attention atop your drawers, while your neglected bed was drowning in yarn balls and the projects you couldn't fit on the shelves. Like pillows and larger crocheted creatures.
Your eyelights studied the room, thoroughly absorbing every inch of it. You wrote off your souls' sudden insistence as a strange compulsion that surfaced every once in a while. It was nothing to dwell on for too long.
"WHERE ARE YOU TWO?" Papyrus's sharp call broke you out of your distraction.
"sorry!" Sans yelled, sparing your room a last glance before pulled you into a shortcut. Swiping the backpack slumped beside a leg of the coffee table, you slung it over your shoulder and grinned sheepishly at Papyrus. You earned an amused huff and good-natured shove from him as the three of you set off for Snowdin Town.