spaghettimonster | Canyon: Inbox

[Sans watches Papyrus's slouch and hears the more subdued tone again and his preening only picks up in pace. If it's something Sans could figure out, then he should offer, right? It's pretty close to the least he can do. And hey, Papyrus probably literally can't get as annoyed or upset with him for not talking about this particular expansion of his magic earlier, right?]

I've got a couple more tricks besides the shortcuts and those invisible hands. Emotion tricks. I could try checking.

[Papyrus squints at him, puzzling out the (deliberate) vagueness of the offer. Sans thinks he can do something to figure it all out, to possibly help fix things. Something with emotions, that he hasn't mentioned before, and wouldn't mention if it weren't for this. Something with emotions...]

...You have something with emotions, and we tested dreams first? [It's not strong enough to be called indignation, but there's wisps of it as he stares. Finally, he shakes his head, his voice picking up a little energy.] How very incredibly you. Eating, and taking a nap, as first resorts. I guess that answers whether you're normal right now. [Which he'd still been wondering, in some corner of his skull and/or circuitry.] Yeah, okay. How does this checking work...?

I would've checked eating emotions next. [Not on Papyrus, though, considering how few of them he's been having lately. But that's not the point right now. Sans shifts forward on the shelf a little but doesn't move to get off of it.] I can--sync up, I guess--with what you're feeling. I don't need to touch you or anything, I can just do that from here.

[There's probably an upper limit to how far away from someone Sans can get, but as established, Sans has been trying to ignore his emotion-related stuff.]

With what I'm feeling, huh... [That's enough for a faint shiver, a tiny rattling. Somehow, that's less comfortable than literally uploading memories to his computer. Maybe because the computer doesn't have any lasting opinions about it ~~that he knows of~~, maybe because it's Sans. Or maybe because memories are the full context, instead of just the messy painful things Papyrus prefers to tuck out of sight.

It takes him a minute to realize why Sans is even offering the reassurance about touch. Because of that first time Sans offered to share how he was feeling, and they both wound up thinking they were gods. Just as well that stuff was before his perfect recollection began, or maybe he'd be returning to that state too. He eventually shrugs again, returns to the question of why this might help.] So, a remote session... so you can feel around for, a blockage, or something?

Yeah. It doesn't hurt or anything. I've done it a few times accidentally before, heh. [Not just with Papyrus but in general, and for all he's playing it off in the name of attesting to its harmlessness to the both of them he'd rather not think about the times his emotions just went off in weird directions without his say-so.] But I won't unless you say it's okay.

[At least not yet. If it gets really bad... Well, it hasn't yet, so he'll deal with any potential futures later.]

I don't think hurting is what I'm... thinking about. [Worrying about, if worrying is the right word for whatever caused him to shiver. Doesn't seem strong enough to call worrying, but it's... deep. A dry riverbed, but the banks are above his head. He instructs his thoughts to focus, to reference the framework he's been compiling about his normal personality. Why would this idea usually be discomforting to him?] When you... did that, before. Could they tell? When you were doing it?

[This is one of many things Sans doesn't really want to talk about. But he has to now.] No. Nobody's mentioned it, anyway. I guess someone might notice that I'm acting different, if it was a really big emotion, but they can't feel the magic. [But doing it on purpose means he'd be expecting it, so he could get it more under control. Which, yes, does mean Sans could be doing it all the time secretly, except Sans really doesn't want to do that.]

...I see. [His voice is quieter than usual, less subdued than simply words. He stares toward the screen, the better to not memorize Sans's expression as he processes this. The sense of continuous monitoring from the eyes in the halo, he's adjusted to, and it's less uncomfortable now than other times. That Sans has come to ask about what's up, and has been confused about what's happening, is evidence that he hasn't been subtly doing this. But. He could. A closed bedroom door would, presumably, not provide privacy.

In the metaphor of landscape and water as the difference between potential (and historical) models of his emotions, and the emotions he's actually experiencing, it's as if Papyrus has just realized the water is actually knee-deep, and also that the floodline goes well over the banks.]

...Thank you for telling me that. [His voice still just a voice, a little stiff and too-formal, and he shakes his head before deliberately adding a little more tone to it. A tone like conceding discomfort, and a hint of promise.] I think... In a few hours. Maybe in the morning, with breakfast?

[He thinks it would hurt Sans, to feel what he's feeling right now, in response to this. Unhelpful. Inefficient. Better to observe how Papyrus feels about sunrise, and oatmeal, and the satisfaction of completing a project.]

[In the morning means Sans is going to have to go through the process of getting ready for this conversation all over again. But even so, he knows there's no other answer he can give than the one he does.] Yeah, sure. Gives me a chance to take a nap or three. [And it'll give Papyrus time to prepare for Sans to do it. It's not like wahtever's up is likely to go away in a few hours. Really, even if it did, that would be a good thing.] I guess I can get out of your nonexistent hair for a while.

[But. Before he leaves, and while Papyrus is looking at Sans and not at his work, Sans is going to sneak an invisible hand out to grab that dusty knife and take it with him.]

...Thank you, Sans. [He offers this before Sans goes, unwittingly while the knife confiscation happens. Even if he's not feeling it, even if it's a formality and obligatory ritual phrase, he offers it again - making eye contact and everything to show the extra sincerity of it. It can't have been easy for sans to offer. That's important.

He's... less grateful, later on. It takes a while to notice, between wrapping up another set of uploads, switching to a new soundtrack, and deciding to finish the task. The cracks in his temples had healed in a rush, but incompletely, and the itching that plagued him for months had become throbbing in a way he'd recognized from some of his earlier transformations - bone dissolving, and giving way. The idea of scraping into his skull might have upset him ordinarily, but now it seemed the sensible thing to do - a preventative measure, before the budding circuitry could start breaking through it. So it's not a pleasant surprise, when he goes to continue, and the knife he'd concluded was the right size was missing.

No sign of it on the floor, nor sign he'd swept it anywhere else - the dust pile was unsmudged, nearly identical to before. It takes some investigating before catching the signs that the differences are from something pinching the pile, and presumably the knife. Only one likely culprit. He debates pounding on his brother's bedroom door to ask for it back, but if Sans was so sneaky in taking it, he'd probably deny having done so - and, possible, had some reason in doing so. Perhaps... wanting Papyrus to be back to normal, before making any more permanent modifications to his limited bone. It's the kind of thing he can imagine himself wanting.

...Ideally, he won't come to regret speeding the process up. But he can at least recognize that he might, and so make a point of gathering the dust into a bin to add to the rest he's collected. And wait until morning, at least, to let the annoyance over the missing knife be part of what Sans feels in him. A nice smokescreen negative feeling, to put up over his lingering unease at the whole idea. If remote emotion sensing works that way. If people don't notice, it at least suggests that all Sans is doing is sensing, and not manipulating... That's something.

A couple more projects fill the night, including another search through his programming for a self diagnostic that measures things like emotions. Plenty of things for identifying shorts, notifying him of damage, even something for - like Sans had started offering - compressing the various things saved. Nothing that gets into the relatively vague properties of emotions. Relatively vague, because the uploaded memories from post-transformation do have various forms of metadata describing emotions, cues that add up to experiencing it something like he had before. The most recent memories he backed up, from clothes shopping early in the switch, are even more packed with opinions and constantly shifting emotions. The older memories... differently formatted, with only the occasional tag. Maybe a diagnostic tool will start to form, now that he's aware of the need for one. Maybe Doctor Kassabian has one, or advice on writing one. But... As uncomfortable as revealing this stuff to Sans might be, far worse to open up that much to anyone else. No. Breakfast, and seeing what comes of it.

He's in the kitchen before dawn, working on a more complicated recipe than 'boil water, add to oatmeal.' Pancakes, but with the smallest size batteries in place of other additions. It's an oddly savory flavor combination, but a novelty that might be interesting for Sans to feel. More smokescreen options. If it works.]

[Sans doesn't sleep well. It's almost to the point that he considers hopping off to the graveyard to grab more fallen stones and statues, like the comforting feeling could ward off all his thoughts. But, well, if all those rocks could do that he'd have noticed by now. Eventually, curled under the heated blanket and with his wings tucked around him (sort of like those bats on that show he watched with Papyrus a few days ago) he manages to catch a few hours of sleep before the sunlight inevitably wakes him up. He's not sure if he'll find Papyrus in the kitchen or not--dodging by saying he'll wait until breakfast and then not making breakfast is more Sans's thing--but it turns out Papyrus has, as usual, beaten him to the kitchen. Looks like pancakes, but with empty battery packages nearby, not the kind Sans can steal. Too bad. Cereal and coffee it is.]

Morning, bro. [Sans keeps his greeting casual. He doesn't need to ratchet up the tension before they've even eaten anything. Still, he's keeping an eye on Papyrus. Multiple eyes.]

Morning back to you, brother. [He says it with a brief wave of the hand with the spatula, but without his usual energy or exuberant cheer. Just a greeting, with a half-smile. Now that they've talked, and it's clear that he's... not feeling it, not really, and they're planning to do something like this? No sense faking it that hard. He gets back to checking the pancakes, then glances Sans's way again.]

The... batter, in that bowl. It's just the box mix, nothing else added. I'm sprinkling these in, in the pan itself. [The batteries, which he gestures to the pile by the stovetop. If Sans wants to make himself pancakes - in a different pan, and maybe after he has a chance to check Papyrus for honesty. If it works like that.]

[Sans perks up a bit at the theoretical idea of pancakes.] Oh yeah? I'd have to make 'em, though... [He'd try to get Papyrus to do it except they're trying not to share food. Even if this is almost sharing food. It's hard to maintain that kind of mistrust in things Papyrus makes, though. Even if he's acting weird, it's not poison food weird. Probably.] Do we have syrup?

We should, I bought some the other day... [During that shopping trip, when concerned Sans might be starving for something unidentified. The better to ensure there were many food things available for the testing.

Of course, should isn't the same as yes, not when things go missing in the middle of the night. He strides to the fridge to check, even if Sans moves to do so, and confirms - there's the container.] Yes, we do.

Well, I guess you already mixed the batter, so... [Sans can bring himself to heat up a pan and put some of it in a pan to eat pancakes. He guesses. If there's any passive aggression in the way Papyrus checks to make sure no mysterious midnight syrup thefts have happened, Sans seems to be ignoring it entirely. There's plenty of things Sans feels guilty about doing and not doing, but taking the knife is nowhere on that list.]

If you don't... I can always store it for tomorrow. [Again, he suspects he'd be feeling more about this situation, if his emotions were like they used to be. The unexpected agreement to maybe use the batter, and how it implies trust in Papyrus's word - even with the distrust enough to go taking the knife. The erosion of one step closer to sharing food again, sometime.

As is, he doesn't know what to make of it all, so he doesn't. Instead he focuses on checking his pancake and flips it. Brushes the remaining batteries onto the plate with two pancakes already, to prepare for bringing to the table. Gets a glass of juice ready, while the pancake finishes its thing.]

Nah, I better take advantage of this pancake-making energy. [It could be gone tomorrow, who knows. Luckily, if Sans uses his invisible hands, he can make pancakes even while Papyrus is standing in front of the stove. Having all those hands is undeniably convenient. Sans's pancakes are extremely asymmetrical, though. They're barely ovals.]

[The pancakes, of all things, get the most reaction of anything this morning. Skepticism, traces of judgement and amusement, as Papyrus pauses to stare at them. He tilts his head in search of a direction from which they resemble something, but no - it's not an artistic decision. They're just... shapes. Lumpy shapes. Eventually he shakes his head and flips his remaining pancake onto his plate.] Well. Your pancake-making energy isn't making plaincakes. They have some character.

Someone should make a cartoon about 'em. [Just like those vitamin people. Sans proceeds to drown his shapecakes in syrup before teleporting off to the kitchen table--saving a precious five or six steps, maybe--to eat. It's kind of going to be a shame to ruin this whole breakfast thing with having to deal with emotions afterward. But Sans is still going to do it.]

A cartoon about pancake slimes... [That's about the closest shape that's coming to mind. Slimes, or maybe moldsmals, or something along those lines. Not like anybody or anything he's seen on the surface, so maybe the humans wouldn't see the appeal of the cartoon.

He lets the idea churn as yet another background process, rather than continuing to initiate conversation about it - or, really, anything else. He's feeling pensive, he thinks. Unnerved, but needing to proceed, without clear alternatives towards identifying what's going on. Doing nothing and keeping secrets hasn't worked. He pours the syrup in careful dots across the stack, cutting them into pieces roughly equally between the dots, and eats mechanically - moreso than usual.]

Edited 2021-12-19 22:50 (UTC)

[It's weird, watching Papyrus act so mechanical. Exactly how much of Papyrus's behavior lately has been acting for Sans's benefit? Of course, even Sans realizes that if he brought that up Papyrus would have a list a mile long of times Sans has done the same thing, so it's better not to say anything about it. Still, it's noted, and he has the strangest mixed feelings about it. He doesn't like Papyrus acting like this, but he doesn't like Papyrus not acting however he wants, either, even if it's like this.

If this is permanent, Sans is going to have to get used to it. It shouldn't be the other way around. But they have to figure out if it's permanent first.

Sans waits until after they eat, at least. He doesn't want to do this on an empty stomach, even if he isn't sure he even has to eat real food anymore. Real food is still great.]

So. You ready?

[The pancakes are serviceable, with enough milk in the recipe for some calcium - not that he needs much of it now, but it's good to include, especially with Sans borrowing some of the batter. The batteries add just enough charge to be more useful than a social food. Maybe he'll experiment with adjusting the recipe later, maybe he'll feel like things like that. He notes Sans's quiet, that it's lasting longer than usual... But it's early, but this is a plan full of potential discomfort, but many possibilities. When his brother finally speaks, shrugs at the question.]

I'm... Braced for it, at least. [It doesn't seem worth lying about his readiness, if Sans is about to feel it. Another flicker of uncertainty and discomfort crosses his face, which he doesn't rush to cover with anything more energetic. Instead he considers, then offers:] I think, I won't really know, until you do your thing. And see how it goes. So! Do you want me to do anything special...?

Nah, whatever's blocking things would be there no matter how you're feeling. [Or not feeling.] Unless you want to chill on the couch while we're doing this. [But Sans can do this wherever, so that's up to Papyrus.]

It... doesn't make a big difference to me. [Even if he gets uncomfortable on the kitchen chair, he can just temporarily disable the sensation of it. And the couch would carry the risk of leaning in a way that prevent healthy ventilation. But if Sans is suggesting it, then maybe he wants the excuse...?] But it is sturdier seating. Better if something surprising happens. Yeah, let's go.

Great, I love lounging. [And Sans vanishes, reappearing in his spot on the couch. Even though he talked about lounging, though, he's not actually going to do that. He's sitting up. Slouching, but that's about as close to sitting up straight as Sans gets.]

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[Papyrus will remember that] - and with Sans not pressuring it to be Now, he puts it off

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narration essay to help me ground the future mood, then time skip

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papyrus doesn't care, but any sad couch icons would be more relevant there

vital roleplaying decisions