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[spaghettimonster]

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[spaghettimonster]

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.]

[ribticklers]

[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.]

[spaghettimonster]

[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.]

[ribticklers]

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

[spaghettimonster]

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.]

[ribticklers]

[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?

[spaghettimonster]

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.]

[ribticklers]

[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.

[spaghettimonster]

[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.

[ribticklers]

[It's well-established that Sans does not know the number of fingers on a spider. But he's distracted from that by the praise.] Y'think so? [He sounds somewhere between surprised, pleased, and a little embarrassed. Listen, he doesn't get a lot of praise for things he does, considering usually what he does is nap and slack off and annoy people.]

[spaghettimonster]

[In fairness, Papyrus doesn't know either. But if they do have four fingers per limb, then they're even more suited for computer comparisons than the web pun accounts for, a truly impressive feat. Of feet?

That said, he nods with only traces of cautious watchfulness still going on.] I do! Behold. [He takes another bite, willingly and with a little unnecessary flourish to cover his nerves. Takes a moment to experience the flavor, to check his own thought processes for signs of unusual things, then adds in an undertone:] This is no time for me to lie about culinary opinions, anyway.

[ribticklers]

[Ah, yeah, that reminder of the food situation in San Benedicto is pretty good for knocking Sans out of his moment of not actually thinking about all the potential pessimistic outcomes. But Papyrus still seems fine.] I guess now I can have pie whenever I want as long as I make it. [...] So still not that much.

[spaghettimonster]

What?? [More faux offense, accompanied by waving the fork around and scattering a couple of crumbs. He'll deal with them later.] I thought you were all empowered now, by my expertly selected pie tin! How quickly the baking craze fades...

[He's joking, and not hiding that he's using the joke to check Sans's outlook here. No baking spree to push it upon neighbors? Only a slight increase in proclivity-to-bake?]

[ribticklers]

Maybe if you make me an automatic rolling pin. [Automate all the pie-making for him.]

[spaghettimonster]

I'll just go grocery shopping instead??? [Wasn't the point for it to be homemade for family times, or something? The answer's no. But at least this is still very reassuringly Sans.]

[ribticklers]

I'll press the buttons to make it roll the dough. [Does that count as homemade...?]

[spaghettimonster]

Oh my god. Maybe I'll make the pie next time! [Which, is an admission there'll be a next time, assuming nothing goes catastrophically wrong with this. His smile shifts to something uneasy but holding in there.]

[ribticklers]

[If Papyrus actually went out of his way to make a pie, Sans would eat it. It's hard to say no to Papyrus. But Sans is still trying not to directly address the food rule that they're sort of breaking, so.] I bet it'll be ap-pie-tizing.

[spaghettimonster]

Maybe it'll be an apple pie, at that. [Which isn't a pun, so much as making fun of the way Sans emphasized that for his pun. On one level of processing he actually starts searching for apple pie recipes, before the rest of him notices and he pauses. Not uncannily motionless, just staring vaguely at the pie for a moment, before looking sidelong at his brother.] ...You're still feeling okay too, right?

[ribticklers]

[When Papyrus pauses, Sans straightens up a little. It's a subtle thing; he's still mostly slouching. Is he doing something weird? He hates how often that happens and he can't tell. But dumb puns are something he's done as long as he's known what a pun was, and joking about slacking off is an old habit, too, and he feels okay, so...] Yeah. 'S far as I can tell. Are you feeling weird?

Papyrus is living out my yearning to stop social distancing I guess

[spaghettimonster]

No. [Papyrus shakes his head for emphasis, to cut off the sudden alertness he sees in that slight movement.] No, I feel fine. Normal... if anything's normal anymore. [His voice goes wry on the last part, and he rolls his eyes before making eye contact with some of Sans's halo.] If... If a few days go, and nothing. Else. Happens. Maybe we can just... It doesn't stop other weird stuff. [The last is almost rushed, a defensive explanation of how tired he is of the enforced distance.]

skeletons have no lungs so they are safe

[ribticklers]

[Sans laughs wryly himself.] Yeah, the weird stuff just sort of shows up at our doorstep no matter what we eat, huh? [Sans isn't actually sure how much either of them strictly need to eat regular food anymore. Even assuming they gave it up entirely--which Sans really doesn't want to do--there have been plenty of weird things that didn't have anything to do with food and didn't pass from one of them to the other. Of course, the things that did pass between them were pretty memorable. Still.]

Well, somebody's gotta steal your food. [The edible food, anyway. Or the usual kind of Papyrus edible, where sometimes the outside is charred and the inside isn't done. Not the battery acid. The point is if Papyrus would rather stop dancing around the food thing, Sans is okay with it. Or maybe he's just resigned to weirdness whether or not they do extra work, and doing less work is easier.]

But are others safe from their hypothetical future hiveminds

[spaghettimonster]

Sometimes just for going online!! [Well, more for responding to mysterious anonymous posts with weird cadences and agendas. Which isn't great internet safety behavior. But Papyrus isn't sure he could stop going online if he tried, not to go by his distress back in the cave months ago. He needs the connection and flow of information like he needs electricity.

He makes himself scoff at the remark about food theft, does his best to shake off the memories of dread and disorientation. Focuses on the now, and the near future, and what he can do about it all.] I'm going to add twice as many nuts and bolts, just so you only take what I want to share.

only the mods know

[ribticklers]

Hey, iron's a vitamin, right? Or a mineral, or something. [Sans don't eat steel bolts.]

[spaghettimonster]

Oh, I'd love to see you try. [He remembers Sans's distress in the face of tiny little batteries, as if he's about to actually eat any bolts.]