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[spaghettimonster]

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[spaghettimonster]

What a perfect recipe for indulging your sweet tooth... [You know, something something skeleton pun. Even if lots of people have visible teeth, and teeth aren't the same as bone bones. He leans against the counter but continues staring at the pie, with glances towards Sans now and then.]

If you do this some more, we should test how much observing the pie cools it. Is it just the state of being observed?? Does it make a difference if there's more than one person watching?? [That curiosity is why he's loitering here, for sure. Science. And not just grappling with the fact that it smells good and he wants a slice or two. Am alarming impulse, considering... everything. But the fact that he can just sit back seems like a sign it's fine. Right?]

[ribticklers]

We'd need more pies. Control pie, one person pie, two person pie... [A lot of pie.] We could make a chart. [Ask him what kind of chart.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Sans seems a normal amount of enthusiastic about the idea of making all these pies, and Papierus himself isn't feeling any urgency to actually follow through on them. That's another good sign. But the urgency about the chart...] What kind of chart?

[ribticklers]

A pie chart. [That would probably not actually be the best chart to use for this experiment. Sans is delighted.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Through Sans's delight, they're both treated to the increasingly familiar sound of a gloved metal hand clanking against a skull.] Oh my god. If this pie didn't smell so delicious, I would've seen that coming!!

[ribticklers]

[Sans is still pleased with himself, but he's caught a little off-guard by the exact reasoning Papyrus gives him for not having seen that particular pun coming.] You think so? [Too bad he can't let Papyrus have some.]

[spaghettimonster]

Well, not uncannily delicious! [He didn't mean to say so quite that directly, and he dithers for a fraction of a second, weighing whether or not to explain.] It's just. A more successful smelling endeavor than I expected! Congratulations!!! You'll have to tell me how it tastes. After I continue helping you, to cool it faster.

[ribticklers]

I figured. [It hadn't actually occurred to him to be worried about what Papyrus said, mostly because he was busy being surprised. Papyrus had said it smelled good earlier, but it's still not often that Sans does something that actually gets any sort of real praise. (That's Sans's fault, of course, not Papyrus's, but it still makes it rare.)] It might be cool enough to eat. The recipe didn't say how long to wait for the cooling part. [It's been a little while, though.] You do more cooking, what d'you think?

[spaghettimonster]

Cooking, not baking. Those are distinctive culinary arts! [Honestly, Sans. But that doesn't stop Papyrus from tilting his head to consider the slight ripple of heat in the air above the pie. Inconclusive. There's nothing for it - he digs in a drawer to pull out a digital thermometer, and stabs the pie in the center with it. (It doesn't actually splash everywhere, being a narrow tip.)] We will know! Momentarily!

[ribticklers]

Great idea, bro. [Do people usually use thermometers on pies? Sans doesn't know. His brother's ideas are good regardless. It turns out the pie is indeed at eating temperature! Success.]

[spaghettimonster]

Thank you, I am a font of them. [Papyrus: the official font of good ideas. And once the temperature settles at where the pie's at, he nods and pulls the thermometer out.] Looks good! Significantly less warm than magma, significantly warmer than ice.

[And don't mind him just, turning to take the thermometer over to the sink. To clean, clearly. After a couple more sniffs of the inside.]

[ribticklers]

[Okay, that font pun gets a real laugh out of Sans.]

That's good, I don't think I can eat magma. [Sans is going to cut a slice, then. The consistency inside is similar to pumpkin pie. It doesn't immediately collapse into a pie puddle, which Sans is a bit proud of. Of course, he can see Papyrus over by the sink.]

Uh, I'd offer you a slice, but. Y'know. [He would! Except they aren't supposed to do that.]

[spaghettimonster]

...Well. You haven't... actually invited me to have any. Or pointed out that I could wait til later.

[Y'know, like Papyrus had done. He's thinking more about this thought process back then than he cares to at all, trying to remember the ways he'd schemed to get food into people... But Sans really isn't doing any of them. He takes a deep breath, which mostly involves his internal fans kicking up as his indecision leads to things heating up. Maybe... Maybe it's time.]

S-So... So... maybe, just. Put a slice aside. For... in a day or two. When I confirm if you seem... okay.

[ribticklers]

[Is that safe? Well, Sans made pancakes from the batter Papyrus made before. And Papyrus obviously really wants some. Sans is pleased that Papyrus is interested and generally bad at telling him no, so.]

Yeah, sure. You'd start talkin' about how unhealthy I'm being if I ate a whole pie by myself anyway.

[spaghettimonster]

[Not safe safe, and there's a certain tension in Papyrus's pose... But he misses feeling safe enough to share food on the rare occasions they wanted to eat the same thing. And it isn't like not sharing food saved them from some other problems.]

You're right, I would! So don't go eating it all in one sitting! Save some... for the next few days! [If Papyrus is a little hasty in saying so, scrabbling for the normalcy of the excuse, then so be it.]

[ribticklers]

Don't want to spoil my appetite for the chips I'm gonna have for dinner, after all. [Sans will make sure there is pie for Papyrus if he decides to have some. Just in case.]

[spaghettimonster]

Chips??? With pie that smells like that?? [Sans, you are killing your brother. He turns the sink on, but his voice is more than loud enough to carry over the water.] At least order out!? Make it a proper meal, celebrating your baking day.

[ribticklers]

So you're saying I should spring for the gourmet chips. [That's what he means, right?]

[spaghettimonster]

[Siiiiiigh. But two can play at this game, as he starts scrubbing the thermometer to save himself the temptation of tasting it.] And some gourmet condiment to go with it!

[ribticklers]

Fancy chips and fancy ketchup, huh? [That is something Sans would consider a meal. Sans makes bad choices. But since Sans doesn't have to worry about eating his own food, he's going to try some of this pie. Sweet, buttercotch-y, and okay, maybe too cinnamon-y, but Sans's taste buds don't mind that.] Doesn't taste like quiche. [Good job, Sans.]

all the fanciest dijon ketchups

[spaghettimonster]

I should hope it doesn't??? Not when it smells like that. [Incredulous as he is at the last comment, his tone isn't dismissive on the last word. That's a very sweet and not-quiche-like smell, Sans.]

[ribticklers]

[The old lady would probably be glad to hear about his baking improvements. He told her about the quiche thing, too, and she laughed--which was fine, because it was funny--and told him to try again sometime. So now he has, but the old lady isn't around to hear about it.

At least Papyrus is.]

Yeah, you can definitely tell I got this recipe from someone who knows what they're doing. [Sans cannot be trusted to make a recipe.]

[spaghettimonster]

Expertly designed, not quite expertly but getting betterly crafted.

[He offers the sentiment as a compliment to Sans's secret friend, and enough of a not-compliment to be one to Sans. And... huh, he vaguely remembers a little bit about the secret friend. Not a surprise, when she'd come to Sans's mind back during the... back then, in that baking spree. Or, at least, he remembers knock-knock jokes, and laughter, and fondness. It's an interesting perspective into Sans, anyway. Not one his brother would've given away on purpose, he thinks as he scrubs a little more, then rinses the thermometer.]

[ribticklers]

Butterly crafted. [Which, of course he said that, but he really does sound pleased. This is much better than the leech-induced baking spree. He's way better-equipped to deal with one pie, for one thing.]

[spaghettimonster]

...Hmmm. [Papyrus drops the thermometer in a dish drying rack, and very casually leans against the cabinet to study the pie and his brother's expression.] About... how much butter... is in them?