spaghettimonster | Canyon: Inbox

[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.]

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.]

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.]

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.]

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.]

[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.]

[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?

[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.]

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.]

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.

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.]

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.

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.]

[Again Sans is struck by that "don't do anything weird" feeling. Nothing weird happens. As far as Sans can tell, he's feeling normal. But he generally didn't notice when he wasn't feeling normal. But Papyrus hasn't mentioned anything.] Yeah, you're right, we don't want the place to feel too formal. I'll stick with the regular one.

[He continues not mentioning anything, because this is an extremely normal flavor of annoying banter. Sock flavor. Just the kind of thing to ponder, when preparing to eat a thing. Just for that, he delays a little longer, the better to shoot Sans a skeptical look.] Do you even have formal socks? Why?

To round out the collection. [Not for wearing. Just for having. Also, this may or may not be true and these socks may or may not actually exist. Facts are irrelevant to this conversation.] Might get extra feet one of these days. [Actually possible here, though Sans prefers his current number of limbs.]

You do already have extra hands... But they're hard to put socks on. [If Sans can figure out how to make socks stay on the ghost hands, they could finally be visible. As is, not much good for socks. Seems likely any future legs Sans might sprout would also be ghost limbs. And as for the idea of growing more tangible limbs...]

...I could have extra feet any time I wanted. [He says this with a bit of wonder. As much as he complains about being a robot sometimes, the sudden sense of power this brings is considerable, and obvious in his voice.]

[There's this brief look in Sans's eyes when Papyrus mentions putting socks on Sans's extra limbs that promises floating sock puppets in the future. Before he can think on it more, though, Papyrus points out the modularity of his own body, and Sans is distracted.]

So you're gonna be a spider too? [Extra limb solidarity, except people would be able to see Papyrus's. It's weird to think about, but extra limbs being something Papyrus builds for himself because he now has that power is different from things being foisted onto him.]

[Papyrus makes a considering noise, not rushing to agree. On the one hand, he's still getting the muscular arms really up to snuff. There's emotional levels where he's not totally convinced that maybe the robot arms will just turn back to bone, and what if both arms are detached when such a day arrives? But on the other hand, the cool and muscular hand... Creating a new and improved him is the most effective way to embracing his body there is.]

...Well! Maybe. I'm sure that could only help me advance my programming skills. [Ask him why, Sans.]

[Well far be it from Sans to not ask when Papyrus wants him to.] Oh yeah?

Being a spider... It'd really help with spinning websites. [Nyeh heh heh. He laughs at his own joke, a little surprised Sans didn't jump to the punchline on him, but not so surprised that it's concerning. Just a triumph that tastes a lot better than talking about socks. Enough so that he gives the pie another sniff to be sure.]

[It's important to support your sibling when they tell jokes. Except when you're interrupting them to harass them, that's also important. It's most important to keep your sibling on their toes. But anyway, Sans laughs, too.] You'd really be crawling the web then, huh?

Crawling like I was born to it. [Which he didn't actually intend as a pun, but he snickers a little more when he catches it.] And then going even faster!

[The pie still smells good, there's no new red flags in this conversation, and... The hell with it, he wants to feel like things can get back to normal feelings even after weird bullshit brings upheaval. He brings the fork to his mouth, and the piece of pie disappears.]

[Sans is definitely curious about what Papyrus thinks about the pie, but if he asks it might sound like he put something weird in it. Again he inventories the recipe he used. Nothing weird. Of course, Papyrus probably hadn't thought it was weird to put bits of bone into the food he made when the leech was in him, but--well, he's not going to think about the leeches. And thinking the bone thing was gross is probably a good sign.]

If you've got eight legs, when you surf the web, you can hang eighty.

[Papyrus snorts at the notion of a spider surfing around with all limbs in the air. Would that be sledding, at that point? Whatever it is, he'll surely do it in a faster and more stylish way. With rocket boosters, maybe, or whatever the programming equivalent would be. He finishes swallowing the piece of pie, and muses aloud.] If only eighty was a good computer number... Maybe hang sixty-four.

[Wait, don't humans have two legs? Spiders should just be four times whatever humans hang. So hang forty, or maybe thirty-two. He shakes his head, and cuts a second piece of the pie with the edge of the fork tines. Says, with only a little nervousness:] ...It smells like it tastes, by the way! Good job.

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prepping for time skip I figure

sounds good to me

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