@slashore
He remembered holding Sans in his arms when he was still a babybones. Wingdings, seven years old at the time, had taken every opportunity to do so, and his parents had been happy to indulge him. It meant they could get a moment to themselves, at the very least. Wingdings would carry him around everywhere, read to him, show him the projects he was tinkering with. Sans had absolutely been too young to understand any of it, but Wingdings hadn’t minded in the slightest. He was a big brother, something he’d always wanted to be, and he’d taken that responsibility with a profound solemnity.
Carrying Sans now, his brother draped over his back as Wingdings ducked through alleys and backstreets, all he could think of now was that even in his mid-teens, Sans barely felt much heavier at all. Bones were light, he supposed. Or maybe it was just that they both had grown.
He wished he’d had Sans’s ability to teleport. That would’ve made this easier. But as it was, he was tensing up every time he caught a flicker of movement in his vision, thought he caught sight of things moving in the shadows. These streets weren’t safe for anyone late at night, and if anyone did try to cause them any trouble, Wingdings’ ability to protect them was going to be limited. But he had to keep moving. Every second he was terrified, worried that the unconscious pile of broken bones on his back would suddenly collapse into dust. The lightness of bone made lighter still.
Finally, he reached the door. He didn’t know Dr. Toriel, but he’d heard her name before. A physician who was known for fixing up those on the wrong side of the law.
At present, it was Wingdings’ only option. Once the door opened, he sagged in relief, adjusting Sans’s weight on his back.
“Doctor?” He tried his level best, to maintain his composure. Tried not to sound as terrified as he truly was. But his calmness had limits, and he’d passed it somewhere two hours ago when Sans had first crumpled in their doorway, beaten to a half-dusted pulp. “I’m sorry, I--he was out after curfew; I think a couple of Don Dreemurr’s enforcers roughed him up. I didn’t know where else to... please--please, he needs help.”
