Work Text:
When Papyrus died, it took Sans a long, long time to feel anything.
He stood there, at the edge of Snowdin, hands hanging limp at his sides. Snow drifted to the ground gently. Like nothing was wrong. Like everything was A-OK. If everything was okay, today would’ve been a nice day for a walk. If everything was okay, Sans would’ve pretended to do his job, and he’d go to Grillby’s on break and wouldn’t pay his tab, and he’d go home and he would fall asleep on the couch and wake up tucked into his bed.
But it wasn't okay, because the empty, evacuated town of Snowdin lay vacant behind him, the stores ransacked and the magical, comforting tune dulled down into something slow and creepy and uncomfortable.
The snow was starting to bury his feet. Sans didn’t care.
He didn’t feel anything.
The snow shimmered harshly in the faux sunlight, unnaturally so (not that he’d ever seen snow in real sunlight). He never really noticed how harsh the lighting was from the outer-space ceiling of the cavern, distant shimmers from the barrier. But Sans could see how blinding the false light made everything now.
Against the snow was a pile of grey, unreflective, unforgiving dust. It was so different from the ground all around it that it made Sans’ head hurt. He couldn't look at it. But he also couldn't look away.
Exhaustion dragged at Sans’ limbs. He ached to curl up right there on the ground and sleep forever, next to his brother. Papyrus’ vibrant red scarf lay crumpled, torn from where That Human had slashed through it.
And Sans felt nothing.
A part of him thought to reach for the scarf and tuck it safely against him. How silly, some other part of him thought. It's not like Papyrus needed it anymore. Sans wanted to sew up the rip. Sans wanted to turn and tie it round Papyrus’ neck like he’d done when he was too little to do it himself. Sans wanted to make sure the scarf wasn't damaged beyond repair. Papyrus loved that scarf. He’d had it a long time.
Sans had adored Papyrus from the second he was born (created, test tubes, solution, sticky). He cried a lot when Dad first pulled him out. Sans remembered how his SOUL ached at the wails. How he instinctively pushed comfort, comfort, comfort towards this strange, real, good new feeling deep inside him. The SOUL bond had been formed immediately. It was perfect. It felt like something he didn’t know was missing had been found.
Sans saw the dust and he saw his baby brother sleeping in his arms. Sans saw the dust and heard Papyrus say his first word. Sans saw the dust and he remembered how Papyrus mispronounced his name as Sandy until he was five.
Sans saw the dust and he couldn’t feel anything.
Sans had basically raised Papyrus. Yeah, Dad had been around. But he was always at the Lab, always too tired, always sleeping through feeding. So Seven-Year-Old Sans had taken it upon himself to wake up, had fed him late at night, had played peek-a-boo and had made dinner - albeit terribly.
Sans had patched up the holes in Papyrus’ pants when he fell, held Papyrus’ hand through the busy Capital streets, had filled in for Dad at school, he’d learned how to cook, he’d sat Papyrus on his shoulders to watch the annual Royal Guard Parade and had been the one to grin when Papyrus vowed to join them one day.
Sans thought about all that and he thought about how for all that love and devotion, he felt nothing.
After Dad’s accident, they’d both been put into care. Sans thought it was ludicrous then and he still did. He was seventeen and Papyrus was ten. Surely they’d be capable of taking care of each other, but the government refused. They didn’t let Sans take Papyrus even after he turned eighteen.
“Proof of income” this and “Wellness checks” that. Fuck off.
Sans worked day and night, visiting Papyrus as often as he could, spent every spare moment in the lab working on anything that would earn him money, and had two retail jobs on top of that. He’d do anything to prove he could look after Papyrus.
Finally, finally, at twenty and thirteen, Sans got custody of Papyrus. He’d never grinned harder than he did when he shut and locked the door to the house in Snowdin and shortcut straight to the foster house to rescue Papyrus. They’d lived in the Capital before, but Sans moved to Dad’s old house. It took longer to get to work but rent was cheaper.
Papyrus liked Snowdin. He liked the house. He kept looking around and back at Sans and smiling. They watched movies on the floor and ate candy and fell asleep cuddled together in Papyrus’ new room and it was the best day of his life.
Sans stared at the dust and felt something.
Papyrus had been the very reason he’d kept going. When times were rough and he could barely get out of bed, the only thing that kept him from crumbling, literally, was Papyrus’ contagious smile and enthusiasm. When Sans quit his job at the lab and stopped washing his laundry and taking showers, Papyrus dragged Sans out for walks around town and did the laundry for him and washed his face with wet rags and a bowl of warm water.
When Sans said he wanted to end it, Papyrus held him close and listed off every wonderful thing about Sans and had promised it would all turn out okay. He’d sworn that one day, they’d take his telescope and look up at the real stars, on the surface, and make their own constellations.
Sans realised the nothingness he felt was quickly being replaced. The sight of the dust swirled behind his sockets.
He reached for Papyrus’ bond in his SOUL. There was a hole where it was once nestled. Like someone had reached into Sans rummaging around until they found what they’d wanted and had snatched it away without a care, without a single thought.
Sans’ gloved hand reached up, tentative, gentle, as though he was assessing an injury or cradling a baby. His hand came to his collar bone, he trailed his finger tips along each rib until he found the slow beat of his SOUL. He wondered if it looked different now without Papyrus' presence. He didn’t bother checking.
Sans let his hand fall back down to his side, and he stared at Papyrus’ dust.
He stared at his brother’s remains, and the feeling snapped into place.
Sans had seen it happen. The wind had carried Papyrus’ plea for the Human to be better. To be good. Through the gaps in the twigs and leaves, he'd crouched frozen with terror and watched the Human decapitate and kill him. How anyone could kill someone so blatantly kind, and innocent. Someone so willing to forgive and love. Someone so desperate to help. How anyone could do that was all beyond him.
Nightmares about this were not uncommon for Sans. He’d had them since he was a teen. Papyrus’ dust on his hands, his empty bedroom. Papyrus had convinced him it was leftover trauma from Dad’s death. Sans had cried and cried every time but believed him all the same.
Sans gazed at Papyrus’ discarded scarf and thick, clumped dust and thought about how very real and physical it all was. His magic stormed through him furiously, crackling with rage.
His brother was dead. For a while, Sans felt nothing but apathy.
Then he began to feel nothing but anger, strumming through his bones.
Haha. Not funny.