#i amn so sleepy. if you see typos no you didnt

[carlyraejepsans]

> They make tandem bikes with three seats, you know.

You think of the numbness.

You think of the noiseless, colorless nothingness that would await you every time. How drowsy it made you. The way it clung to your lungs, the way it pulled you in like quicksand.

And you think of the fear that gripped you. Tearing at your heart like a wild animal, all teeth and fangs and rabbit fast heartbeats as you stumbled your way towards that light only you could see. Like a torch in the darkness.

You think about how it stuck to your skin. Thicker and viscous and harder to break free from every time.

You think about how it will be when it finally swallows you whole.

The breath that claws its way out of your throat is something mangled and raw. You wipe at your eyes, furiously, pressing the balls of your hands against your burning eyelids, willing the tears back where they came from, but it's no use. You hiccup again with a full body shudder, and your lungs ache with the effort of keeping a hold of your breathing.

Pathetic, a chastising voice of old sighs in your mind, first no dignity, then no shame. In life, as in death. At least you're consistent.

Blurred through your tears, Sans looks actually embarrassed for the first time since you've met him.

"uh. right. gotcha. i see..."

He makes a noise somewhere between a hum and clearing his throat.

"this is, uh," he says, "kinda awkward. could you not—uhhh. nevermind."

He rubs the back of his neck again, very pointedly not looking at you.

"look pal, this isn't personal. a job's a job. it's show bizz, or whatever. you know the drill. besides," he shrugs, still only checking you out of the corner of his eye, "nobody else here gets to manipulate time and have another try at life, you know? we're just dead. so, uh, from my perspective, you kinda got lucky there—"

He stops himself and grimaces, "WOW. okay. that sounds even worse out loud. you know what? forget i said anything."

He passes a hand over his face.

You close your eyes.

"man, what the hell am i doing."

You lean back and your head rest against the library behind you, breath still spasming, no longer caring to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You're tired, and homesick, and running very low on hope.

You don't want to die, the thought alone terrifies you, but...

You just want it to be over.

Something bumps against the side of your shoe.

You crack an eye open to see a plastic bottle nestled against your foot, presumably after being rolled across the floor.

Sans hasn't moved an inch. He still won't look at you, but his eyes do go to it a few times. Then to the parcel in his hands.

Wordlessly, you reach out and grab the bottle. It's heavy and too opaque to see inside, but the liquid within sloshes around thickly.

You take a swig. The sweet, tangy flavor of it makes you sputter as soon as it hits your tongue.

You wipe your mouth with a sleeve, "Is this ketchup?"

"yeah," says Sans, finally looking at you, "why? you don't drink?"

The absurdity of the situation is enough to drag a wet snort out of you. You consider your options for a moment, than take another swig.

Sans' shoulders drop slightly.

"see? we're good," he says, almost to himself, "we're good. we, uh. didn't get along that much the other times, right?"

"Three," you croak after a few steadying breaths.

"huh?"

"Tandem seats," you rub your eyes dry one last time, "they—they make them with three seats, too. The bikes."

"seriously?" Sans says, "must be a long bike. that doesn't sound very, uh, practical."

"Maybe it's a balancing act."

"heh. maybe."

He passes a hand over his face, then closes his eyes.

"oh boy."

Seconds pass that feel like minutes.

Slowly, your breathing returns to normal. You rub at your wet nose.

"look, i'll make it quick," Sans says, "are you gonna destroy this place?"

You look at him, startled, "What?"

"wiping out half the map trying to get stronger... is that, uh, on your bucket list?"

You look at him a little helplessly, plastic bottle clutched in your hands, "I just want to go home."

He sighs. He looks tired.

"yeah, well. welcome to the club." Sans shakes his head, "actually... no. scrap that. goodbye."

He snaps his fingers. The latch on the bedroom door clicks as it swings open.

"you can go now."

You stare at him, "What?"

"leave. you can go" he repeats. He opens his arms, as if to showcase the tornado that swept through the room, "i mean it's already enough of a mess in here. do you have any idea how long it's gonna take me to NOT clean this up? i'll be sleeping for weeks."

He winks.

You scramble to your feet. None of this feels real anymore.

"You're not going to kill me?" you can't stop yourself from asking.

"what? nah. i'm on break. also, i mean, imagine if you actually stayed dead. how would i explain that to my boss?" Sans shrugs, "yeah you can just go. i've had enough surprises for the day."

It happens in the split of a second.

It bolts into the room from the window, sleek and writhing like a snake. Sans barely throws himself back in time to dodge it as it twists and crashes into the door, slamming it shut.

"what the—"

A second bolt follows. It catches him off guard and rips the parcel right out of his hand.

It takes a few seconds for your eyes to focus and notice the gleam of metal.

Then the gloves.

"Why, darling," hums a robotic voice somewhere near the window...