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Something smells nice. You stretch to your full length, toes poking out from the end of your sheet. For whatever reason, the stupid thing always seemed to get untucked overnight. You don’t even bother making your bed anymore. One hand reaches over to the nightstand for you pho-
“Oooohh crap.” You pop up in bed, looking around in dismay. Alone. Like always. Sighing, you glance over at your bedside table. You may have totally screwed up last night, but Sans- sweetheart that he is- had done his best to make sure you would have everything you needed when you woke up. Phone, water, aspirin . . . well, you wouldn’t need that last one- oddly enough, you didn’t feel hungover at all- but it’s the thought that counts, right? You sniff.
“What is that?” It smells like salt, and grease, and . . . smoke? Since when do any of your neighbors bother cooking breakfast? Wherever it’s coming from, the smoke is definitely starting to overpower the more tempting aromas of eggs and bacon.
Your fire alarm goes off.
“starcross it!” a deep, familiar voices rumbles from your kitchen, accompanied by the rattle of cookware on the stove. Sans? Why would he be here? You hop out of bed to look- and immediately trip over the cord of your phone charger.
“FUCK!” You fall to the hardwood floor, bonking your head against your bedframe on the way down. The panicked clattering of dishes stops abruptly. Sure enough, Sans rushes in to check on you- just as you realize you’re not wearing any pants.
“______, what-?” Sans stops short in your doorway when he sees you and averts his eyes. “sorry! sorry, i’ll just- i’m gonna- uhh, breakfast!” Before you can respond, he’s turned tailbone and fled back to your kitchen. The affronted shriek of the fire alarm continues, driving splintered toothpicks into your now-aching skull. You fumble gingerly to your feet and down an aspirin from your bedside table with a gulp of water. Guess it came in handy, after all.
Shit, shit, shit. You curse your stupid, drunk self. Clearly, you hadn’t gone home alone last night like you first thought. But, you can’t remember how you had convinced Sans to sleep with you. Mission accomplished, but at what cost? Your dignity? Your friendship? The only way to know for sure was to talk to him, and . . . ugh. That look on his face when he saw me. Guilty? Ashamed, maybe. Of accepting my invitation. Maybe because I’m human? Oh God, what if my body disgusts him and that’s why he didn’t want to look at me? Is that why he made breakfast? To try to soften the blow when he tells me last night was a mistake? All this thinking is not making you feel any better.
You take your time getting dressed. Every so often, your hands drift down to brush across the tender new bruises on your hips. Once, you splay out the fingers and press down firmly to see whether the sensation jogs your memory. If Sans decides he doesn’t want anything to do with you anymore, you’d like to at least have that last good experience to look back on. Granted, “We’ll Always Have Paris” sounds way less romantic when you swap “Paris” out for “That One Drunken Romp at My Place”.
Finally, you have to admit that you can’t put it off any longer. Sans had long since turned off the Lemongrab-esque claxon and your headache had faded to a dull hum. You half-hope that he’s given up waiting for you and left already. No such luck. When you turn the corner into the kitchenette, there he is, staring blankly into a mug of coffee. He doesn’t even like coffee. It’s not until he hears you pull out your chair that he even appears to notice you.
“Hey,” you smile weakly. Sans’ usually-relaxed grin is strained. Almost a grimace.
“yeah. uh, hey.” On his plate is a mushed-up mess that might have once been eggs and bacon with toast. It’s hard to tell whether he actually ate any or just pulverized it. You feel a little guilty for making him wait so long. “d’you want me to- i can nuke that for you.” He gestures at your congealing breakfast. “if you want.” You take a bite of egg and shrug. It’s cool and rubbery, but you can hardly taste it anyway.
“No, it’s good.”
“oh. okay.” The two of you sit in silence for a while as you eat. You catch Sans looking at you oddly, and he immediately goes back to staring into his mug. His smooth-tipped phalanges tap quietly on the ceramic.
“So, can you tell me exactly-”
what happened last night?
what i did last night.
“i need to talk to you about -
You both pause.
“Oh. Uh, good. I mean. Sure. Yeah, okay.” Sans looks nauseous.
“well. um. d’you-? i mean, you remember the drinking contest right?”
---
You gape at the usually-mellow skeleton sitting across the table from you, mug of coffee long since grown cold in your hands. Sans makes a valiant effort to disappear into the bulky hood of his jacket. Is he fucking serious?
“so, uh. yeah. shit, kid, i’m really sorry.”
You reach across the cluttered kitchen table and slap Sans. Hard. This is a mistake, not because he doesn’t deserve it, but because it definitely hurts you more than it does him.
“Owww, fuck!” You hiss, pulling your injured hand back against your chest. Sans leans forward in his chair and reaches out as if to comfort you, but pulls back when he see the irritation clear on your face.
“kid, please. i get why you’re mad me,” Do you, Sans? “really, i get it,” No, I don’t think you do. “but let me at least take a look at your hand. that sounded like it hurt.”
“I can’t believe you, you jerk! Could you really not wait until I woke up?”
“i- um. come again?” Sans is baffled. You’re not listening.
“Jeez, would it have killed you to just talk to me? God dammit, Sans!” You’re on your feet now, pacing in a tight circle while the lights of Sans’ eyes follow you warily. “I spent all day yesterday psyching myself up to make a move, and you,” Sans starts when you turn to point at him accusingly. “you go and pull this shit when I’m not even awake? Of all the selfish- UGH! You know what?”
“er.” You cross your arms over your chest, eyeing him up like you hadn’t already had breakfast.
“I’m going to go and take a shower. When I come out, I expect this mess,” you gesture at the table and kitchenette, “to be gone. And I expect you-” Sans winces.
“yeah, i gotcha. you want me gone, too. never wanna see me again. that’s fair.” Sans shrinks further into himself at your nod.
“That’s one option. On the other hand, I may be willing to forgive you if you show me what I missed last night.” Now it’s Sans’ turn to gape.
“‘scuse me?” You scoff.
“Sans. I have been trying to get a read on you for god knows how long. Yeah, what you did was stupid. And selfish. And illegal.” Impossibly, Sans’ eye sockets seem to stretch wider in dismay. “What, did you not even think of that?” His eye lights shift away.
“wasn’t really thinkin’ about much of anything,” he admits. The blue blush rising on his cheekbones is more gratifying than you like to admit.
“Yeah, I guess not.” You chuckle dryly. “But my point is, I like you. A lot. And lucky for you, I’m in a forgiving kind of mood.”
---
Sans watches in silence as you turn and walk towards the bathroom. He feels the tingle of magic simmering in his marrow, buzzing with hunger. It’s not gonna be fun sporting a raging hard-on while he cleans up.