#wilted spinach

[quo-usque-tandem]

Crumbed lamb cutlets with wilted spinach

[mayadawn]

Vegan Mushroom Pasta

Recipe by Lazy Cat Kitchen

[spinach-productions]

Wilted Spinach, epilogue

Summary: Everything wraps up neatly.  Kind of.

Word count: 371

Undyne makes it to Alphys’ apartment with enough time to watch the first three episodes of Gurren Lagenn.  Bro makes absolute sense to her.  She demands to know if Alphys can make pointed shades like his.  Alphys stutters and she could maybe, probably whip something up, but wouldn’t that be a liability during training?  Undyne assures her that she doesn’t care at all.

All is well.

-

Papyrus tucks Sans back in and sits by his bed until he falls asleep.  In the morning, he delivers a stern talking-to over eggs and bacon.  Sans scratches the back of his head and tries to explain, but after several failed attempts to talk about their father, he shrugs and lets Papyrus rant out his anger.  The tirade ends in hugging, tears, and an afternoon watching a marathon of Mettaton’s greatest hits (volume four).

-

Sans packs up his meager possessions into two suitcases and boards the ferry with Papyrus.  He helps remove the Tems that have claimed the house in Papyrus’ absence, then sleeps on the couch for a few days while Papyrus resumes training. They go to the local bar, spend time talking with the shoppe keepers, go for walks in the woods, and watch lots of TV together.

There’s a two-bedroom house for sale on the outskirts of Snowdin that has a “For Sale” sign out front, and the phone number of the realtors involved.  Sans enters the number into his phone.

“So,” Sans says the next evening, “I’ve got a good chunk of money and no interest in being the Royal Scientist.”

“But you loved that job,” Papyrus says as he tosses half-cooked pasta into burnt sauce.

“I’m ready for a change.  I’ve been looking at the house for sale in Snowdin, and thought if you didn’t mind me around, I’d buy it.”

Papyrus sets the bowl of pasta on the table. “Sounds good!”  He takes Sans’ plate, holding eye contact for a moment longer than necessary.  “When do we move in?”

Sans blinks, then smiles.

-

Life continues.  Papyrus trains with Undyne; Undyne hangs out with Alphys; Sans creates several jobs selling several kinds of merchandise.  Things are quiet, and normal.

201x: a human child falls into the Underground.

Author’s note: a very strange day has lead to me posting this on a ridiculously old mac computer and I hate it.  I’ll be updating the navigation pieces tomorrow morning, but I’m letting you know now that this is not the last chapter in the series, just the last chapter of this arc.  Another chapter is scheduled to go up about 10 minutes after this one.  Enjoy!

- Wilted Spinach - epilogue

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[mayadawn]

Scallops over Wilted Spinach Parmesan Risotto

Recipe by Skinny Taste

[mayadawn]

One Pot Pumpkin Pasta with Brie & Toasted Walnuts

Recipe by Food Above Gold

[spinach-productions]

Wilted Spinach, part 7.2

Part 2!

Summary: Sans doesn’t seem to be much of a threat on his own, but the blaster is huge, easily big enough to devour her if she were to hold still for too long.

Word count: 1003

The Hotland central lava flow bubbles and hisses in the background.  Sans glares from across the platform; the hovering blaster gives a wide, bifurcated grin.  Undyne eyes the skull with speculative glee.  Sans doesn’t seem to be much of a threat on his own, but the blaster is huge, easily big enough to devour her if she were to hold still for too long.  Its maw unhinges, and a staticky blue charge starts to collect between its jaws.

“You don’t want to do this today,” Sans growls.  He looks mad enough to give a decent fight, and Undyne is not going to down the first good brawl she’s had all week.

“I really, really do,” she says with a grin, summoning up a corona of spears and aiming them in Sans’ direction.

Sans’ eyelight glows bright (Undyne takes a moment to wonder if the blue color matches the blaster’s energy for functional or aesthetic purposes). “Okay.  Let’s—”

He and the light suddenly cut off.  Undyne, who had been preparing her own attack, looks over to find Sans frozen with both eyelights out.  She glances back to the blaster; it seems as confused as she is.

Sans is jumps across the platform in another surge of energy, right next to the drop.  He grabs the very edge with both hands, leans over, and starts making the unmistakable sounds of nauseous regret.

“Ew,” says Undyne.

The blaster powers down and drifts towards where Sans is emptying his stomach into the lava below.  When he’s finished, it gently bites down on the back of Sans’ jacket and carries him to Undyne. 

“I’m not carrying him,” she says firmly.

The blaster gives her a pleading look.

Undyne reluctantly takes Sans and holds him at arm’s length.  His head lolls to one side and he droops pathetically.

“Like wilted spinach,” Undyne says to herself.

Sans hiccups.

Undyne hoists Sans over her shoulder and shoos the blaster away; it makes a popping noise and disappears in a shower of sparks.  “Alright,” she says, adjusting Sans’ added weight so she can carry them both, “Let’s get you home.  Also, puke on me and I’ll drop you.”

-

The Underground is small enough that Undyne regularly jobs between Snowdin and the Capital as part of her workout routine, so it doesn’t take long for her to leave Hotland and enter the capital city.  A few minutes explaining the situation to the guards at the gate (“this guy's had rough night and I’m taking him home”) and she’s on her way to Papyrus' house.

“…and listen, lady.  Fish… fiSH LADY.”

“Is that supposed to be me?”

“I am NOT here for you t’drag me around.  Like the timeline.  Oh god, the timeline.”  Sans makes a sad noise against Undyne’s back.

“You don’t say.”

“You don’t know anything, fish lady.  You hear me.  ANTHYDING.”

“‘Anthyding’, huh?”

“Yeah.”

Undyne remembers Papyrus' address from the dozen or so letters he sent begging for a second chance to join the Royal Guard.  Apparently the Skeleton brothers live in one of the Capital City's nicer residential districts.  The streetlights all glow a warm yellow color, and there are trimmed hedges lining both sides of the sidewalk.  Undyne rolls a lead between her fingers; it gives off the slightest tinge of growth magic, but it otherwise a real, normal leaf.  Sans must make serious money if he can afford a two-bedroom apartment in a place like this.

“…I miss Paps,” Sans says.

“You wouldn’t need to miss him if you’d pick up your goddamn phone,” Undyne says, pausing under a streetlamp to adjust Sans’ weight.  He’s not heavy, but his sharp ribs have been digging into her shoulders with every step.

“Didn’t have one.  Didn’t have anything.  I didn’t even exist, sometimes.  I was everywhere all at the same time, and whenever I’d set down, I’d just end up somewhere else.  Kinda surprised I’ve stayed here this long.”  Sans pauses for a long moment.  “…you say Paps is here?”

Something is jumping up and down in the distance.  Undyne shields her eyes against the streetlamp’s light to get a better look.  “Sure is.”

He shifts against her shoulder like he wants to make eye contact, but doesn’t know where her face is.  “Can I see him?”

The silhouette is approaching extremely quickly.  “Yep.  Real soon.”

“Undyne!”  Papyrus calls, then notices the extra pair of legs draped over Undyne’s shoulder.  “Sans! Oh thank goodness, where did you find him?”

“Hotland.  I think he was heading to the core.”

“The core?!  Sans, that’s incredibly dangerous!  Why on earth were you going to the core?”

Sans has begun patting Papyrus’ face.  Undyne assumes he’s looking for some kind of comfort.  “You’re really here…”

“Undyne, thank you so much for finding my idiot brother,” Papyrus says as Sans slumps forward onto his shoulder.  “I’m so sorry you had to see him like this, he doesn’t usually drink, let along ignore his favorite family member for days on end.”

“No sweat.  He wasn’t hard to find, and you skeletons barely weigh anything.”

“Can I invite you in for some coffee?  We live just a few blocks from here, and it’s the least I can give you.”

“Nah, I gotta get going.  Alphys is expecting me.”

“Oh no, are you late for your slumber party?”

“Yeah, but it’s fine.  Listen: Something happened this guy.  I don’t really care, but he probably needs you or something, so I’m giving you some time off.  Figure this thing out, have heart-to-hearts, watch a movie or something.”  Undyne puts a hand on Papyrus’ unoccupied shoulder. “You can’t really train with distractions going on, so don’t come back until you fix your bro.  Getting ripped can wait.”

Papyrus smiles warmly.  Undyne is relieved, since this means she doesn’t have to say anything sentimental that could ruin her Tough Captain reputation.  “Thank you, Undyne.”

“Yeah, sure.”  She thinks of cute, nerdy Alphys and the connection that may or may not exist between them.  “Looking after loved ones, or whatever.”

- Wilted Spinach - PART 7.2

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[spinach-productions]

Wilted Spinach, part 7.1

This one is in two parts because I'm not a good person.  Also because I like the way it breaks this bit in half.

Summary: But the front door was open when I got back and he was gone and I don’t know where he went!

Papyrus is worried, Sans is drunk.  Undyne is so done.

Word count: 1453

Captain Undyne has been head of the Royal Guard since she destroyed the last captain at arm-wrestling and took the title as her prize. She hand-picks and trains civilians into hardened soldiers ready to give their lives to protect the king.  She can lift three times her weight, she can catch a projectile out of mid-air, she can hit any target within a hundred-foot radius with only one eye to aim.

She is also part fish, and Hotland is made of lava.  

The heat either cooks or dries out anything that steps off the Waterfall docks, which is why Undyne is currently topping off her water bottle at the community 'Welcome to Hotland' water cooler before she continues the walk to Alphys’ apartment.  She could, technically, ask the Riverperson to drop her off at Alphys' house.   Undyne could also, technically, give up her post at Waterfall and start a career growing turnips in Tem Village. They're equally likely to happen.

Undyne first met Alphys while on security detail for an experiment that needed to be moved from Alphys’ personal lab to the royal lab.  She’d volunteered, hoping to see some cool magic or weapons the royal lab might be developing.  Turns out there were neither cool magic nor weapons, but there was Alphys, who stuttered and stumbled and blushed bright red when Undyne shook her hand. They struck up a conversation when Undyne mentioned she’d been hoping to see a giant sword, and agreed to hang out to watch some movies involving giant weaponry.  A few months later, anime night began.  Alphys is interesting; Undyne likes that.

“How can I ever know your heart/ If my magic kiss is keeping up apart—”

Undyne's pulls the ringing phone from her pocket as she passes the reception area for the lab.  The caller ID reads Tall Weenie; she taps the talk button.  “Yo.”

“UNDYNE THANK GOODNESS,” Papyrus screams from the other end.  He's loud enough that Undyne fumbles the phone to get it away from her ear.  “I’m so glad I could reach you, something terrible has happened and I don’t know what to do!  I put Sans to bed an hour ago but now he’s not there—”

“Paps—”

“—gone somewhere else but I don’t know where that is, what if he’s wandered off and hurt himself or fallen off a cliff or made friends with the neighbors—”

“Papyrus,” Undyne says, invoking her stern Royal Guard Captain voice, “Slow down and take a deep breath.”

Papyrus gasps in a huge breath and lets it back out.  It sounds like a sob.

“Good.  Now, start from the beginning: what’s going on?”

“I’m sorry for shouting.  It’s just, I found Sans (he was at a bar, a BAR of all places) and I put him to bed, and since there wasn’t any food in the house I went out to get some.  But the front door was open when I got back and he was gone and I don’t know where he went!”

“Where have you looked?”

“EVERYWHERE!”  Papyrus’ voice sounds like it’s coming from inside a washing machine.  “He’s not in our old apartment, he must have gone somewhere else!”

“Calm down, Paps.  You said he was short, right?  He must have short legs, he can’t have gone far.”

“I'm just so worried, Undyne, what if something happened to him? He wasn't himself at the bar (actually he was really drunk, which is pretty strange—”

Undyne hears a shuffling noise, followed by something crashing loudly to the ground.  She looks over her shoulder and sees that the door to the lab is ajar.

“Ow,” says someone from inside.

“—since he doesn't hardly drink at all as far as I know),” Papyrus continues, oblivious to the possible break in.  “You need details about him, right?  That’s what happens in all the police shows when they look for missing brothers.  He's four-foot-nothing, smells like ketchup and bad puns, last seen wearing a blue jacket and fuzzy slippers—”

Whoever is in the lab apparently doesn't care about stealth, since they’re muttering to themselves as they stumble around.  “Where the hell is Gerald when you need him...?”

“—and make sure he eats something, please!  He keeps condiment packets in his second left-hand pocket at all times, so that will be easy enough—”

“Papyrus, I'll call you back.”

Undyne hangs up.  She stalks to the entrance and peers carefully through the open doors.  The royal lab is dark and empty, since the intruder apparently doesn't care about lights and seems to have tripped over the main monitor’s cord on the way past.  They've also knocked all the papers and pens off the reception desk and left a long line of displaced furniture on their way through the building, but nothing seems to be irreparably broken.

“Huh,” says Undyne.

She follows the trail of clumsiness through the building to the exit (stopping briefly to straighten a figurine on Alphys' desk).  The automatic doors open on one of the many platform paths that lead through Hotland. 

A sad pile of bones and blue fabric lies a few steps further down the path. It’s muttering to itself.  It sounds annoyed. 

Undyne approaches the pile.  “Hey,” she calls, prodding it with the tip of her boot, “Are you Sans?”

“Who’s askin’,” the pile grumps back.

She lowers herself to sit on the ground.  “Friend of Paps’.  He’s pretty worried about you.”

The bones and fabric slowly resolve into a short skeleton wearing a dirty hoodie.  He rolls over and glares suspiciously.  “What do YOU know about Paps?”

“I know he doesn’t deserve what you’re putting him through,” Undyne replies.

Sans lays back down.  “He doesn’t deserve any of this.  He’s gone in most of the times, and I, I didn’t even protect him.”

“From what?”

“From the kid. Or the future, or from grieving everybody, or anything.”

“You’re drunk.”

“YOURE drunk,” Sans accuses without sitting up.

Undyne decides she’s not getting any more answers from this guy. She grabs Sans’ jacket and uses it to haul him to his feet.  “Okay, time to get going.  Paps is probably checking the pipes for you by now.”

Sans knocks her hands away.  “Don’t touch me.”  He starts to stagger away from the lab.  “I remember. I have to go.  Everyone’s waiting for me.”

Undyne watches him go.  It feels like watching a small child who insists they can do something clearly beyond their abilities.  She weighs the pros and cons of leaving him here.  Pro: she wouldn’t have to deal with this.  Con: Sans is heading towards the core, and Papyrus would be devastated if something happened to his idiot brother.  Undyne sighs and follows Sans down the path.

“Come on, buddy,” she says, putting a hand on his shoulder to stop this sad two-person parade, “It’s time to—”

There’s a sudden crackle of energy, and Sans is no longer under her hand. Undyne gets the impression of blue-white light racing across the landing away from her, and when she blinks, Sans is standing on the other side of the path.  From this distance, she can see how much effort he’s putting into holding himself together.  He looks worn out and worn down, but on top of that, he looks furious.

“I have been punted out of my own timeline,” he says with angry sobriety Undyne hasn’t seen in him until now, “I have been yanked around dozens of different possible futures.  I’ve seen the Underground fall, I’ve seen the royal family murdered.  I’ve had to live under your regime, and under Metatton’s conspiracy government, and under Alphys’ best guess, and under Papyrus’ best guess, and in complete anarchy, and at several non-linear points in time I have even lived under the rule of a SMALL DOG. Do you know what having a small dog as monarch does to people?!”

Undyne, who is the local authority for both Snowdin and Waterfall, has heard her share of tipsy stories.  This one is not impressive.  “Okay, what I got from that is that you’re drunk and you need to get out some of aggression before you go home.”  She summons a spear and slams the blunt end into the ground.  “So consider this a favor for Paps.  Let’s go.”

One of Sans’ eyes has gone out.  The other lights up bright blue, illuminating the socket from within. “You want to fight, huh,” he grits out.  Sans mimes grabbing something out of the air with both hands and yanking it violently upward; an enormous canine skull materializes in a blaze of blue magic.  It emanates a staticky roar that makes the dry ground rumble.

Undyne grins.

“Okay.  Let’s fight.”

 Author’s note: when this was planned as a comic, Sans was going to speak in typos.  It was Jinny’s idea, and it didn’t work out in writing but I wanted you guys to know because it’s hilarious.

- Wilted Spinach - PART 7.1

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Masterlist

[spinach-productions]

Wilted Spinach, part 6

It’s dark, and then there’s an explosion.

Word count: 4418

It’s dark, and then there’s an explosion.

It’s their own fault for thinking energy of this magnitude could be contained.  In hindsight, storing magical and geothermic and temporal energy in one place was also a mistake.

Electromagnetic radiation floods the room first (which means the laws of physics are still partially in place, that’s good), closely followed by a deafening report.  Next comes the heat of explosion, though the boiling temperatures could also be due to a containment breach in the volcanic reservoir.  The second case would indicate this shindig is an entropic explosion, which would mean the energy is going into something other than heat, which, given the choice, Sans would really rather not contemplate.

He thinks about all these things to distract himself from the fact that there hasn’t been a force of explosion yet, why hasn’t there been a force of explosion yet what have they done—

It’s dark again, and there’s no explosion, but there is shrieking.

No, not shrieking.  It’s millions upon millions of noises layered on top of each other until they splinter into discordant anarchy.  Sans clamps his hands to the sides of his skull to drown out the chaos, but even then the noise won’t stop.  It echoes in his head and behind his ribs and everywhere else, and he can’t hear his own scream of agony because the sheer cacophony swallows it whole.  He belatedly realizes some of his pain is actually nausea due to the fact that he’s been falling this entire time (possibly endlessly, possibly even longer than that), but he can’t bear any more sensory input, can’t open his eyes to see when this fall will end and how many piece he’ll smash into from the impact with the ground and if it will kill him because if death means an end to this noise it might just be worth it—

The noise stops, and Sans' head takes up the explosion theme.

He can't see past the blinding pain, crumpling in on himself in a defensive ball on the floor to try and make a smaller target.  His soul beats loudly in his ribcage, each pulse bringing another nauseating wave of pain with it.  Sans can't even get a scream out because it would put too much pressure on his sound processors.  Everything is absolutely agony centered behind his eye sockets, growing to fill every crevice in his skull and pushing everything out of the way—

“Sans?  Are you alright?”

Everything recedes, slowly and piece by piece.  The only thing the tide leaves behind are memories.

“Yeah, just got a headache.”

He examines each one, but none seem out of place.  Everything is exactly the way he remembers it.

“That looked like a bad one, are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm fine,” Sans says, wiping his shaky hands on his pants.  It takes another moment to pull himself up off the floor.  “Guess I'm more nervous about this than I thought.”

“We don't have to call them,” Alphys says.  Her lab coat is stained and lays in dirty threads around the hem.  She looks haggard and run down, but that’s pretty normal for everyone these days.

Sans considers getting to his feet.  Alphys takes a seat next to him on the floor and steadies him with a hand to his shoulder.  “No, I want to.  I need to... I don't know.  This is important.”

Alphys gives him a long, hard look. She looks like she's done an unending string of things she didn't want to do and there's still more to be done, and she’ll fight like hell so no one else has to do this.  “Okay.”

He picks up his phone from where he dropped it (why did he drop it again?) and scrolls through his contacts to H for Human.  He pauses another moment.  “I miss everyone.”

Alphys squeezes his shoulder.  “Me too.”

Sans hands the phone over to the Queen.

Alphys talks for a while.  She talks about how much she hates what happened, but how much stronger she's become because of it.  She talks about Undyne's last words that gave her the strength to do the right thing.  She talks about how human panic is at an all-time high.  Sans listens and remembers his life before the human fell into the underground.  He can barely remember a time where he didn't have to check his logs for irregularities every time something changed.  He misses thinking that time was linear.  He misses Undyne, and Toriel, and even Mettaton.

“Just daydreaming here, but.”

Most of all, he misses Papyr—

“I really should have killed you when I had the chance.

Sans head splits open and the universe starts screaming again.

The floor is gone, gravity is gone, the laws of physics seem to have been pitched out the window, and Sans can't feel anything beyond the sense that he's being pitchedaround in space.  He can't remember where he was a moment ago, but he suddenly remembers the core, the explosion, oh hell everyone who was caught in the explosion oh god.  He throws both arms over his head in an effort to block the pain or the memories or anything out—

—and slams into a vertical surface.  Friction pins Sans in place for a moment before gravity takes hold and he slides gracelessly down the length of the wall.  It makes a wet noise, followed by the sound of a short skeleton hitting a hardwood floor.

He's hit with a piercing headache.  It's not as bad as he's expecting (has he had one like this before?), but the relentless pressure building in his skull is still enough to make Sans curl up on the floor.  It blanks out the world around him for a few long seconds.  The pain recedes, leaving things... right?

Sans hauls himself to his feet and finds himself stage left on an official looking set that’s dominated by a large desk and backdrop.  The backdrop is painted like a large window overlooking New Home, which now has a long smudge down one side from Sans’ impact with the wet paint.  Sure enough, a matching painted mess is smeared down the back of Sans’ blazer, and he can feel the painted hand prints on his skull from his... why was he on the floor?

“Sans!”

Sans looks up with more relief than he’s ever felt in his life, because storming across the stage towards him is Papyrus.  He’s wearing a blazer that matches Sans’, minus the paint stains, and looks absolutely livid.  Sans frowns at himself.  Why does he feel so relieved?  Where else would Papyrus be?

“Where have you been?!  The pre-staff meeting is in ten minutes and we still need to go over the scene changes for this afternoon, yet here you are just standing around— what have you done to the news set?!”

“Uh,” says Sans.

He wipes his paint-smeared hands on his jacket as Papyrus raves about more work and even further behind schedule and the king will be so upset!  Sans sheds the blazer and wads it up to minimize paint contamination.

“So,” he says, twisting the fabric to keep his hands occupied.  Maybe he's not over the damage the human caused after all, because he’s pretty concerned about Papyrus.  Who is standing right there in front of him get it together, Sans.  “You look pretty… lively.”

“Oh, well thank you for noticing Sans.  I’m often quite lively when I’m annoyed!”

“Right, of course.  Sorry about the mess, I’ll fix it.”

Papyrus fixes him with a glare.  “With your artistic abilities, you’d just make it worse.  I’ll have to call that guy who apologizes all the time, and you know Mettaton makes him nervous.”

Sans wanders to the official looking news desk and shoves his ruined blazer in the drawer.  “I'll call Sorry about the set, you go ahead to the meeting.  You've got a good handle on the scene edits.”

“Wait,” Papyrus says, catching Sans' arm as he dials his phone, “You need another jacket.  Mettaton's been clear about the staff dress code.”

“King MTT has more important things to worry about than what we wear,” Sans replies.

Papyrus doesn't let go of his hand.

Sans remembers countless nights spent watching Papyrus' favorite actor on TV and sighs.  “Alright, I'll go find something in costumes.”

Papyrus' relief is worth the extra work.  Sans pulls out his phone to text Sorry while he walks to the props cage, but his vision swims for a moment and he's already in the room.

“...huh,” he says to himself.

Sans finishes the text in the hallway, then sneaks into the room and rummages around in the old costumes until he finds a formal blazer.  The sleeves only need to be rolled up twice for him to wear it, so he grabs it and shrugs it on.

He's just leaving the room when an extendable arm blocks his path.

“Sans,” Mettaton says in a voice that's both playful and admonishing, “Didn't the staff meeting start thirty seconds ago?”

Mettaton is wearing the ridiculous crown and cape that mark him as king.  They're made of gold and fake fur and obscenely soft velvet.

“I got my jacket messy and needed another one.  No need to break the dress code, right?”

“Sans the Skeleton abiding by company policy?  I thought I'd never see the day!”  Mettaton slings an arm over Sans' shoulder and starts down the hallway, forcing them to walk together.  “It's just as well I caught you, I wanted to talk about something.”

Sans shrugs and lets Mettaton steer him through the facility and down the fire stairs to the basement.  All the rooms and both sides of the hall are lined with discarded old props and costume mannequins past their prime, giving the area a creepy, abandoned feeling.  Sans resists the urge to lighten the mood by tipping over one of the many stray mannequins.

They finally come to an undecorated door.  Mettaton shoves it open to reveal his lavishly decorated secret parlor, complete with hot pink damask wallpaper and a ridiculous crystal chandelier.  It the room he uses when he needs to get away from work, or talk about things it would be dangerous for monster civilians to overhear.

“I don't have time to give you a tune-up right now,” Sans says as Mettaton collapses dramatically over his pink and gold loveseat.

“You have a minute to listen to me complain.”  Mettaton says, patting the seat next to him.

Sans’ mouth twists fondly.  He hops up onto the couch.  “So, you gonna throw me in irons for breaking the royal dress code?”

Mettaton crosses his arms.  It makes the cape fall over his shoulders in a way that suggests regal disappointment.  “The laws are clear.  You should be executed for this.”

“But you're not going to do that.”

He sighs.  “I should.  I shouldn't let you get away with this just because you and your brother are my favorites.  The Underground is in enough chaos without the king throwing his weight around.”

“You're doing just fine,” Sans says gently.

“Of course I am,” Mettaton replies, uncrossing his arms to wave one hand dismissively.  “But fine is all I'm doing.  Everyone is still rattled, and the best I can do is play Big Brother for them until we figure out some kind of real ruling government.  I'm an entertainer, Sans, not a politician.”

“Some might say they're the same thing.”

“Now I remember why I hired you for standup,” Mettaton says with an eye roll.  He sits up, stretches his back, then drapes himself over Sans' legs.  “Tell me more, Royal Jester.”

“Thought you liked Paps' jokes better,” Sans replies.  Some part of him is surprised at how normal it feels to have the Underground's top celebrity-turned-leader laying on him.

“They're less cringey than yours, but...”

Sans waits while Mettaton threads their fingers together.

“It's been months since the human.  How long to you plan to keep lying to him?”

His hand looks small in Mettaton's, but to be fair, Sans’ hand would look small next to anyone's.  “How do you think I should tell him everyone is dead?”

“Sans.”

Sans sighs heavily.  “Sorry.  It's just— it would kill him.  He was friends with the kid, you know?  They wiped out everything from the ruins to the capital and then killed the king.”

“He's not a child, Sans.”  Mettaton straightens the collar of Sans' shirt.  “You can't keep coddling him like this.  It's not fair to either of you.”

“I know, I know.”  Sans looks away from Mettaton's face and squeezes his hand.  He suspects the hand-holding isn't always for Mettaton's benefit.  “It's... tough.  I don't want him to hurt, ever.”

“It was quick,” says Undyne.

Sans glares at her.  “Does that make you feel any better?”

She sighs heavily and leans back against the ugly old couch.  “No, it doesn't.  It makes me fucking furious.”

They fall silent.  One of Mettaton's news shows chatters on in the background.  Sans isn't sure if hearing Papyrus' favorite actor is better or worse than the all-consuming silence that's taken over the house.  He and Undyne have started hanging out in the evenings, and the house has become a safe haven from Undyne's responsibilities as ruler of the Underground.  On the clock, she's a pissed off human hating military woman; off the clock, she's still pissed off, but doesn't have to be so aggressive about it.

Sans kneads his temple when a headache starts up.  They've been getting worse since the human blew through the Underground.  He suspects some kind of temporal shenanigans have been going on.

“What I don't get is why you don't do something about this,” Undyne says without taking her eyes from the TV.  She sounds worn down and tired.

He rolls his eyes and attacks the dirty dishes with a vengeance.  The ladder to the sink is outrageously tall, but leaving the dishes seems like an insult to Papyrus' memory somehow.  “What am I supposed to do?”

“I've seen you use some kind of transportation magic,” she says, flipping idly through the channels, “And I've read the reports on the determination experiments.  Have you ever even tried to cross the barrier?”

“We're not talking about this,” he says bitterly.  The dishes are good enough, so he magicks them to the lower counter and begins the trek back down the ladder.

“Think about it, though.  If anyone can get out of here and get the souls, it’d be you.”

“Did you actually read the reports?  Even if I kept it together well enough to make it past the barrier, there's no way I could find six souls before melting.”

“You've never tried,” Undyne says again.

Sans stomps over to the couch.  He snatches the remote from Undyne's hand and mutes the TV.  “Do you really think I haven't considered it?  I've done that math: if we spend the next ten years synthesizing determination, I'd still have twenty-to-one odds of getting through the barrier.  Factor in my small mass and even smaller density, and I would be a skeleton puddle within thirty-five minutes of injection.  It isn't possible.”

Undyne jumps to her feet and throws her arms out.  “So we spend the next twenty years synthesizing determination.  Or thirty, or fifty, or a hundred!  Why are you so against this?!”

“Because it's not going to fix anything!”

“It's going to get us out of the Underground!”

“Yeah, and then what?  Do you have any idea how many humans there are on the surface?!  One human child completely decimated the monster population, and there are billions of them up there.”

“We have to try!”  Undyne cries, kicking the couch for emphasis.  It shoots across the room and slams halfway through the wall with a nasty crunch.  They watch as a crack forms above the point of impact and creeps a foot up the wall.

Sans and Undyne make eye contact.  Tonight wasn't supposed to be about fighting.  They wordlessly sit on the floor where the couch used to be.

“I'll fix that,” Undyne mutters.

“It's fine,” Sans says, unmuting the TV.

They watch one of Mettaton's musicals.  Apparently the TV producers were all killed in the incident, so he does whatever he wants now.

“One more thing, and then I'm done,” Undyne says.

“Would you honestly stop if I asked you to?”

“We're rotting away down here, Sans.  Even if going to the surface means the end of monsterkind, don't you think it'd be better than just giving up and waiting to die?”

Sans watches Mettaton traipse about the stage in a low-cut dress.  “Guys like me don't make decisions like that.”

But I value your opinions.

Shrieking static fills Sans' head.  The world cracks in half and shatters like it's nothing but one huge pane of glass.  Sans can see through the pieces into other worlds (other times?), and between those, the inky blackness of nothing.  He slips between the pieces of this world into the nothing, doesn't fight it this time because now he remembers this and, honestly, he's running out of panic.

This time, though, he can just make out a speck of something in the distance.  He looks at it as he falls past, and can almost make out a familiar set of mismatched eyes—

-

This time, the headache doesn't let up. Memories of all the timelines he's been thrown into crowd Sans' brain, pressing out to the very limits of his skull — Undyne in her full knight regalia, promising to bring war to the humans that had cost the Underground so much ; Alphys pouring over reports as she charts her new policies, a picture of Undyne set at the corner of her desk ; a small dog sitting on the throne? ; Mettaton standing at the head of a meeting table, demanding a more dramatic script to distract the population from how small it's become— Sans doubles over, trying to scrub the afterimages from his eyes, and blindly reaches out past the memories for something to hold on to.

His fingers find a surface. The tactile feeling overrides some of the visuals crashing around in his brain. Sans latches on. The surface is smooth and cold, stretching out farther than his trembling hands can reach. He slides both hands back towards himself until he finds an edge, connecting the horizontal surface to a vertical one. The edge connecting them feels finely beveled. Further down the vertical edge are a series of simple carvings, and a slight indentation that separates a rectangular pane from the rest of the space. Towards the center of the rectangle is a small spherical shape.

Ah. This is a drawer. He's sitting at a desk.

The excess memory strands crack into jagged pieces, but these also break under the strain of reality, leaving one set of memories behind.  The desk is well crafted and utilitarian, designed for function over details.  It used to belong to one of the dozens of royal advisers tasked with learning the minutiae of the kingdom. The goal was to run the Underground as efficiently as possible, and the number of people dedicated to the project was large enough to populate a small town. Now, it's been reduced to just two.

Sans eyes the mountain range of paperwork covering his desk.  It's designed to look like utter chaos (partly because that’s how he likes it, partly because it drives everyone else crazy, and partly because he likes being able to pretend things haven't changed), but the underlying organization means he does know where everything is.  Guys like him might not be cut out to run a kingdom, but at he can handle the bureaucratic side of things just fine.

He passes the next ten minutes choosing which reports most urgently need the royal signature.  The king's position is more about boosting citizen morale these days, meaning the paperwork needs to be severely streamlined.

Better get it over with.

He straightens his faded blue jacket.  Sans' official uniform is a purple robe hemmed down from someone approximately Toriel's-- (Toriel driven from the throne by a furious, grieving mob) approximately the former queen's height, but he throws his blue hoodie on the moment the front doors close.  Tonight is predictably quiet, since they’re down to a skeleton staff after what the remaining monster population is calling The Cull.  The corridors are barely lit by candlelight.  Sans takes a candle from the wall to light his path and makes his way to the throne room.

The ornate doors are ajar.  No noise comes from inside.  Sans taps on the door.

A startled noise comes from inside.  “Yes, come in,” says Papyrus.

“Business hours are over, kiddo,” Sans says, slipping through the doors and easing them shut behind him.  “Just me.”

Papyrus leans back.  He's wearing a toned-down version of the king's regalia.  Slumped down in the throne, the clothing doesn't look like it fits.  “Oh, thank goodness.  I don’t know if I could have handled another citizen today.”

“Relax, bro, everybody’s gone home for the night.”  Sans crosses the flowery garden to the throne that sits in the middle of the room.

“More paperwork?”  Papyrus asks, eyeing the stack of papers under Sans’ arm.  The room is dimly lit by five standing candelabras: two by the main entrance, two by the exit, and one next to the throne on the raised central platform.  Electricity seems wasteful in these low-resource times.

“Yeah.  They just need your signature.”

“Can’t you sign them?”

Sans hops up on the arm of the throne.  “Never thought I’d see you being lazy,” he teases.

“I am not lazy,” Papyrus says indignantly.  It sounds so much like something he’d say before The Cull that Sans has to grin, but a moment later he back slumps down into the too-fancy chair.  “I am tired.”

Sans plucks the crown off Papyrus’ head and hangs it on the back of the throne.  It’s just for a moment, but it’s a moment Papyrus doesn’t have to carry the weight of the kingdom.

Papyrus leans into Sans’ side and wraps both arms around him.  Sans, in an unusual position of height over his brother, hugs him back.  The sit in the abandoned throne room as the candles gutter around them.

“Why did everyone leave?”  Papyrus asks.

"I know you're trying to be kind here, but how much of this is really for Papyrus?"  Mettaton asks from where he's sprawled over Sans' legs.

Sans sighs heavily, massaging his temple with his unoccupied hand.  "You know, if it were anyone else asking that, I'd be kind of insulted."

"It's the right question and you know it."  Mettaton holds Sans’ hand in both of his and curiously examines the small bones.  He’s doing it so they don't have to maintain eye contact.  He's considerate like that.  "Of course you want to protect him, but doesn't Papyrus thinks all his friends have abandoned him?  That's not kind."

"And he wanted to make everyone happy," says Undyne, sprawled across the floor as Mettaton twirls on TV, "Don't you think he would have wanted you to try?"

A small white dog sits on the throne.  It makes a borking noise that the royal aids scramble to interpret.  How the hell did it come to this?

"He would have wanted to be alive," Sans snarls back.  The timeline whiplash is making his head hurt and he's not feeling magnanimous.  "Don't you think Alphys would have wanted to be alive?"

"Too far," Alphys mutters, penciling a report in near darkness, "We can't stretch our resources this thin.  Snowdin is simply too far away to send supplies, the residents are going to have to come here."

"They won't want to leave their homes," Sans says.

I value your opinion.

"This is their home now," she says firmly.  "It's simple: either they move here with the rest of the population, or they have to fend for themselves."

Sans stacks Alphys' used coffee cups and sets a fresh one on the desk.  "Speaking of surviving in the wild, when was the last time you slept?"

She gives him a look that silently points out the fact that Alphys is running a kingdom here, while also flicking over Sans' rumpled clothing and the half empty coffee cup he's kept for himself.  It's a very pointed look.

"I'm just the office grunt," Sans replies.  "The monarch, on the other hand, needs to get some rest."

Papyrus makes a sad noise against his side.  Sans tries to shake the afterimages out of his head without dislodging him.  “I don't have time to rest.  I'm the king now."

I value—

Sans coughs and holds his ribs together with one hand.  Shouldn’t have known napping would be the end of him—

Sans squeezes his eyes shut to focus past the sound of a thousand disembodied voices murmuring behind a cracking glass panel.  “Paps, I want you to know that I’m proud of you.  You’re doing great.”

Papyrus looks up at him.  He looks confused.  “I know.”

“Just, remember that for me, okay?”

“Okay,” say Alphys and Mettaton and Undyne and the small dog, clearly confused about the direction this conversation is taking.

“No, not you—” He glares into the blend of memories until he finds Papyrus again.  “Don’t give up.  Don’t fall down.”

“Are you alright?”

Sans holds Papyrus tight.  “Yeah, yeah.  Just give it a minute and everything will be fine.”

The screaming void opens up and swallows him whole.

-

Sans wakes up in a bed.  He pulls the blanket over his eyes and waits for the memories to push through the headache, but when several painful minutes pass with no new information or reprieve, he risks a peak.

The room beyond the bed spins slowly.  Sans can see a second bed with no covers.  The room is unnaturally neat, like someone has exactly half of it.  It’s his room.  This is his bed, which means the empty bed belongs to—

Sans prods through his current set of memories, but they’re incomplete and muddled with the other sets.  He isn’t sure who’s still alive, and can’t definitively remember anything past the explosion—

The explosion.

Sans glances at the blueprint pinned to the wall.  He’d pinched it from the garbage out of nostalgia.  It’s the first generation design for a central energy generator, designed to power the entire Underground for the foreseeable future.  It’s also what started all this.

He lurches out of bed.

Author’s note: thank you so much for the support everyone!  I was sure how the new formatting would be received, and I’m so glad you guys like it :D

--Yoo

- Wilted Spinach - PART 6

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