Gaster should win the worst father of the year award. Idk how he acts in canon that well but from other AUs and my current one he is NOT dad material. I wouldn’t even call him decent monster material.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
An actual happy oneshot for once
“ ‘S not how y’ do it.”
Replay pauses what he’s doing, glancing over at Snooze. He had begrudgingly accepted the other’s invite to come over to his world, and he’s beginning to regret it.
Everything reminds him of home. Each face, each name, each interaction. It seems too good to be true. Replay has many times caught himself checking every corner he comes across, unwilling to let his guard down.
Somehow, Snooze managed to convince him to fix his and Snore’s corner table. How they broke it Replay doesn’t know, because every time he’s seen them the brothers are asleep.
“Th’ screws go inta tha’ one. On th’ left.” Snooze’s remarks are muffled from where his skull is pressed into the couch, sleeping mask riding up. His limbs are sprawled all over the place, left leg hanging off the couch while the right rests on the arm of the sofa. His hands are limply gripping his short blue robe in a pitiful attempt to keep it from falling off. One of his pink slippers is dangling on his foot, the other already on the floor.
He’s not even looking at Replay.
“Not even looking at me,” Replay grumbles, glaring from the corner of the room. His back is to the wall by the kitchen, keeping every exit in his sight. “Why not do this yourself? Since you don’t like how I’m doing it.”
Snooze raises his head slightly to look at Replay. He’s still tense, though less so than before. His glitching has calmed down to a steady resting pace instead of the constant static it was spewing earlier. He watches Replay fiddle with the screws, subconsciously stimulating his mind. He lays his head back down.
“Bonding time, man. You build, an’ I g’ve ya’ my ‘pinions. ‘Sides, ‘m not strong ‘nough to fix a table.”
Repay rolls his eyelights but concedes, unscrewing the screw he had just placed in order to place it in the left leg. If he’s being honest, the table looks more lopsided than when he took it apart, but he decides he doesn’t care. If you tilt your head far enough, it looks functionable. The brothers wouldn’t notice a difference anyways. Probably. “Same person. Calling me weak?”
“Nah, y’ve done some crazy shit. Got yerself leveled up. High score ‘n shit.”
Snooze turns himself over to bury deeper into the couch, the other slipper finally falling off. It lands with a quiet thud on the floor, reunited with its other half. Replay thinks he hears him start to snore.
Snooze’s back is to the room, leaving him vulnerable to an attack that could come at him.
Replay hesitates before giving in, dragging himself and the broken table over to his friend acquaintance. He positions himself so that he’s at the other’s back, close enough to protect and yet still having enough room to get an attack ready.
Hours go by, Snooze sleeping away as Replay curses at the table. He has already broken three screws with his hammer, and just bent a fourth. He’s just about to throw a table leg when he hears a door open. He jumps quickly into a crouch, his tool falling to the floor, visible eyelight a pinprick while the one covered by his eyepatch flickers with pent up magic. He’s just about to summon a blaster when he sees Snore walk through the kitchen.
He’s walking with a pep in his step, but his exhaustion is obvious. His normally expressive eyes droop with a lack of sleep, and his arms that are normally swinging around are at a slow sway by his side; even his feet seem to drag across the floor. He ruffles through the fridge before pulling out a tub of spaghetti. Snore doesn’t even deign to heat it up before he grabs a fork and digs into the cold noodles.
Replay huffs a slightly disgusted sigh and slowly deflates, sinking back onto the ground as the adrenaline rushes out of him. He glances up when the Papyrus enters the room.
“Oh, hello other brother! Sans brought you over I see, how wonderful! Ah, do excuse my attire, I’m afraid work was quite harder than usual.” He looks a little abashed, but holding himself strong. His voice is loud, more than his own Papyrus, and if it wasn’t for the way his eyes kept flicking towards the stairs Replay would’ve thought he was up for conversation.
“It’s fine. Go to bed. You look tired.”
Snore lets out an inaudible sigh of relief that he quickly disguises as a laugh. “Well, how am I supposed to argue that logic? Very well. Good night, other brother!” He trudges up the stairs as quickly as his tired body will allow him. The slam of a bedroom door and a muffled “Whoops!” signaled that the skeleton made it to his room.
Silence fills the house. But it’s not a bad silence. It’s not like the anti-void, where the loudest shout is drowned out by the deafening quiet.
No, this is homey. Content. Peaceful.
Safe.
Replay finally acknowledges his own drooping eyes, and with another quick check of the room decides a little nap wouldn’t hurt. He quickly picks up the hammer from where he dropped it on the floor.
Tool in hand and his back to Snooze, he drifts off.
——————
Snooze, Snore, and the whole of Snoozetale belong to @azmau, go show them support!
He doesn’t know how long he’s been laying there, back to the floor and eye lights fritzing out.
Days, weeks, months, hell it could’ve been a year since he’s been stuck here. The blinding whiteness of this… place, has destroyed any notion of time.
The lightest and darkest color is the same shade, his voice echoes all around him and yet when he listens it’s all so deafeningly silent. He gave up talking a while ago- he never got a response.
He can feel everything and nothing, the biting cold that surrounds him being fueled by the burning desire to feel something, anything.
By now he’s past the point of being hungry. Every stabbing cramp has turned into a mock caress. If he believed hard enough, it could almost be a really tight hug.
He’s starting to look wrong. The slash across his chest hasn’t healed yet, and ERROR signs keep popping up around him. Parts of him are starting to look like static, displaced where it should be whole.
It hurts.
At least, he thinks it does.
Logically speaking, he hasn’t felt any different from when he first came here, that being feeling the effects of being slashed across the chest with a knife, and then not having the injuries heal because his world is broken. The excruciating agony he had felt before faded into a background sting, feeling akin to a paper cut (he ignores the fact that he’s a skeleton and therefore cannot actually get a paper cut).
He lifts a hand to unzip his sweatshirt and pull up his sweater. He pokes a brittle finger at the cut, digging in the tip slightly before inspecting the appendage. There’s dried blood, and he can feel a tiny pulse of pain, but his finger isn’t red. The wound finally stopped bleeding.
With a sigh he drops his shirt and flops onto his chest, arms and legs out like he just fell to the ground to make a snow angel. His eyes close, and for the first time in a while he decides to try and sleep.
He immediately tenses at the sudden noise to his right.
He quickly flips over into a defensive crouch, left hand ready to form a blaster while the right holds a sharpened bone. His sockets squint as he analyzes what’s in front of him, eye light shrinking in apprehension.
His body deflates as his breath leaves him, arms falling limply to his sides like a puppet cut from strings.
Before him stands Papyrus. He’s a tall, lumbering figure above him, scarf resting against his chest and hands on his hip bones.
He can’t decipher his expression.
“Pa…Papyrus?” Sans’ voice is weak, croaky from a lack of water. He reaches an arm out, the limb shaking as he makes a grab for his brother. “Is that… you?”
Papyrus says nothing. He stares with blank eyes, none of his usual enthusiasm with him. His gaze sharpens as he steps back from his brother’s outstretched hand.
“Are you proud?”
Sans halted his reach, confusion and apprehension filling his mind. “What?”
“Are you proud. Proud that you slaughtered the Underground. Murdered me.”
Sans is silent. The only sound in this white prison is his increasingly heavy breathing. He grits his teeth. “I did what I had to,” he grounds out.
Papyrus bellows a laugh, but there’s nothing humorous about the situation. It sounds mocking, disbelieving. He crosses his arms, fully glaring now. “You didn’t do it because you had to. You did it because you wanted to. Because you enjoyed it. Admit it, you had fun.”
Sans shoots to his feet, any hesitance he feels at seeing his brother drowned out by the blinding rage he feels boiling in his bones. “Don’t you say that! You don’t understand! You never have!” He feels tears gathering in the corners of his eye sockets, fingers clenched painfully tight. “You don’t get to have a say in this because you never remembered.” He goes to poke Papyrus as he shouts the last bit, but as soon as he’s about to touch him his brother dissipates, fading out of sight. “What…?”
“You always have been a hypocrite.”
Sans whips around as the voice comes from behind him, and stops dead in his tracks, body tensing and soul beat pounding.
What used to be his brother is now some deformed creature. His skull is shattered at the top, his teeth are long, sharp, and mishappened, shiny with the saliva dripping out of his dislocated jaw. What was once a bright red scarf is now a sticky, metallic red as blood pools from Papyrus’ neck. He’s dusting in various places, his left arm almost completely gone.
He looks dead.
He looks like when he died on Hack 572, when Sans, for just a moment, wanted to let loose, give in to the craze he’s been feeling for ages. Maybe it would spook them enough into finally stopping if he started to look forwards to the massacres he would have to enact.
It didn’t. He can still hear their praise, their congratulating applause.
He had never been more repulsed. He never tried to enjoy it again.
Sans stays silent. He has to, because his brother is right. He is a hypocrite. But he has to be. If he wasn’t, he doesn’t know how he’d live with all he’s done. He wished he was never born. But he never gets what he wants, does he?
A piercing shout rings through his skull as Papyrus is suddenly in his face. “You are scum! Filth! You have disgraced the Underground, and you have failed me! You don’t deserve to be called my brother, you bastard!”
Before he can react, his brother- no, he doesn’t get to call him that anymore- releases a bone attack, striking him on his left eye socket.
He doesn’t feel anything for a moment, struck still at the mere thought of his brother hitting him with the intent to cause harm.
It burns.
He can feel it as his skull cracks, pieces of bone falling into his skull as one of his main mana lines is destroyed. He can already tell there’s damage to his eye light, although how severe he doesn’t yet know. Blood and dust pours down his face, painting him in his own gore. He goes to attack Papyrus back, but nothing is there.
Nothing, except his own bone attack still directed at his face.
Silence rings throughout the space, for once not accompanied by an ever-present ringing.
Sans thinks about what had just happened.
He sits down in his own dust and begins to laugh.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
