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[spaghettimonster]

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[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?

[ribticklers]

[Sans pulls out the recipe.] Half a cup in the crust and a quarter cup in the filling. [A completely reasonable amount of butter for a pie. Sans is looking as innocent as he can with his particular permanently grinning face. But really, he didn't put any extra butter in it.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Those sure are large enough sounding numbers to Papyrus, but he didn't make a point of comparing the recipe to other butterscotch pie recipes before. His eyes flicker slightly as his attention focuses elsewhere, and then:] Some versions don't even have butter? Or scotch. What a ridiculous name.

[But he doesn't say it like he's changed his tune about trying it, in a day or so, after giving Sans time to not get weird at him. Some of the recipes do have butter, so even if Sans is messing with him here... Oh, wait, he saved the recipe before. He'll notice if it tastes weird.]

[ribticklers]

See, I thought about putting scotch in, but that seemed like advanced stuff. [He might have set it on fire or something. That's supposed to be Papyrus's thing.]

prepping for time skip I figure

[spaghettimonster]

So extra butter and cinnamon it was... [At least the cinnamon looks brownish. Powdered scotch, except not in literally any way. Well. He doesn't want to torment himself loitering in the room with the smell and the decision not to try any yet, unlike how he could order his own batch of takeout. He shifts to straighten, and hesitates a moment.]

So, uh... Keep paying attention to yourself! If you feel a weird need to feed people weird things... Let me know! Maybe by carving the words in the top of the pie, if it's too hard to say. [That was completely not how his mindset had worked, back then, but it's nice to leave the idea that maybe he just hadn't tried warning the right way.]

sounds good to me

[ribticklers]

So we're leaning into the horror movie stuff now? [A creepy pie message... But Sans sounds entertained by the idea, unsurprisingly.] I'll make sure to add some red food coloring if I do.

[There will be no messages, carved into the pie or otherwise. This is a safe pie, and Sans only has a couple more pieces in the name of saving some for Papyrus.]

[spaghettimonster]

Gross but effective! Follow that instinct, lean into ways of being weird, to cut off the urges to be weird in different ways! [Which... is that accidentally a confession about some of Papyrus's life choices? Maybe so, enough that he gets on with his skedaddling and escapes to pie-less lands elsewhere in the house.

The sight of the pie the next afternoon... Is a relief. As is the fact that nothing weird's been going on. No neighbors coming in to do housework, or congregate on the roof at night like birds, or anything. If there's a weird symbol-listening group recently hooked on pie, he hasn't heard anything on the news. Nothing seems awry... But while he cuts a piece of the pie, setting it on a plate and bringing it to the table with a glass of milk and a fork, he stares at it contemplatively.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans wanders into the kitchen in search of snacks, as he often does, when he sees Papyrus at the table with the pie. There's a moment where he wonders if doing the wrong thing is going to mess it up, like it'll trip some sort of weirdness trigger he didn't even know was there, but that's probably just paranoia talking. He goes to the fridge to dig around like normal instead.]

[spaghettimonster]

[The sound of the fridge startles Papyrus ever so slightly. Enough to make a slight noise - metal being even louder than bone - but only briefly. Sans isn't pressuring anything, and the pie smells fine, and he wasn't startled! He picks up the empty fork to drum it on the inside of his jaw. There, cover story for the sound achieved. Never mind that Sans watched the whole process via halo.] ...Hey, are you already out of your fancy chips?

[ribticklers]

[Sans rummages a little and pulls out a mostly empty bag of chips.] Not quite. [It's more crumbs than chip, though. There are multiple reasons that bag should not be in the fridge, and none of them will stop Sans.] Why, you want some?

[He knows Papyrus isn't into his junk food, which is why he asks.]

[spaghettimonster]

No thanks!! That's not expertly baked. [Even if they are baked chips, designed by experts, etc etc. This is by Papyrus standards of expertise, and they don't pass the sniff test.] I'm just asking, out of curiosity! And concern! And keeping ahead of the endless grocery shopping.

[He's only complaining a little bit. A lot of his food needs these days are energy, of the electrical variety. Eating isn't a polite fiction type priority, exactly... But Papyrus has slowly shifted the markings indicating sides of the fridge to give Sans a larger space. Definitely not just out of concern for that time he was eating everything.]

[ribticklers]

I worked that out already. [Hopefully the hotels don't mind an occasional wandering skeleton angel lurking the corridors at night feeding off of whatever people are dreaming about. And yet they both keep eating regular food. Sans definitely isn't planning on stopping. Now that he's gotten a bag of chips out, he kicks the refrigerator door shut and meanders over to the table.] But if you're goin' shopping soon, get the ketchup chips.

[spaghettimonster]

Just staying prepared!! [Slightly defensive, as he downplays the preparation level. It's warranted by now, he thinks.] You never know what else might change. Or, if we might, have guests? Sometime? [This question is a little leading, a little probing, one last test of things since Sans conveniently walked in when he was pie-pondering. Not that it's not like Sans doesn't already sell food, but that's different than... than what he'd once had the urge to do, and the complete lack of will or reason not to.]

[ribticklers]

You gonna invite some friends over? [Sans shoves some chips into his mouth and talks with his mouth full, of course.] I'll leave my good socks in the living room.

[spaghettimonster]

Wow, thanks, you shouldn't. [Emphasis, shouldn't, accompanied by eye roll. Please do not. Cease and desist. While he contemplates alternative wordings for telling his brother to knock off the usual nonsense, he scoops the fork back down to cut a small piece off and skewer it. Pie, on his fork. Made by his brother. Still smells good.]