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[spaghettimonster]

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[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.]

[ribticklers]

You wanna bet? [Don't. Sans might actually swallow a bolt to win a bet, and that won't be good for anybody.]

[spaghettimonster]

I'm sure you can eat one. But you don't have the stomach to digest it! [Not that either of them has a literal stomach, but they both know what they mean there. It'll give Sans a terrible time, if it doesn't just fall out those ghost ribs.] You're just not metal enough.

[ribticklers]

[Sans leans forward across the table. He's got that "friendly bar buddy who wouldn't hustle anybody" kind of stance going, except this is Papyrus he's talking to and Papyrus knows him too well for that to actually work.] Yeah, yeah, but do you wanna bet? [No this is a bad idea this conversation should stop.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Listen, narrator. Dear voice of sensibility and life advice. This is not a time for making smart decisions. This is a time for feeling a little reckless and stupid, because they've already gone back on the food policy, they might as well see what's going to go wrong now.]

Well, first, you tell me - what are you going to do when you can't eat it?? [This is the opposite of stopping this conversation.]

[ribticklers]

Like that's even gonna come up. [But it's not a bet if he doesn't ante up.] Three days of chores. [He can't pick anything as grand as a week, Papyrus might suspect something's up. At least, more than he probably already does, given how Sans treats bets.]

[spaghettimonster]

Three days. [Papyrus is impressed enough to make a point of showing it. That's not as outlandish and unbelievable as a week would've been, but from Sans it's still quite the number. Really emphasizes that there's some kind of hustle going on - has his brother learned to disintegrate things in his mouth and hasn't mentioned it? Keeping new powers under wraps until they're useful... It's a very Sans thing to do.]

Well. Well. I can't deny your courage. The commitment of putting that on the table... [Now he really has to think, what can he offer to one up that energy?]

[ribticklers]

So what's your offer, huh? [Papyrus better make it something good. Not that Sans thinks he won't, really, but Sans set a standard here with the three days of chores thing.]

[spaghettimonster]

I think you'll find you'll be sorely tempted to throw it! Because. I am offering. [He outright dramatically pauses.] To learn to make those greasy frisbees you like to eat. And. Then. To make them for dinner, for three days.

[Matching the bet in numbers and personal dislike of the task alike. He's not completely joking in encouraging Sans to throw the bet, for all he's not backing down. And as for the part where he's offering to eat these same burgers for three nights... Well, if he secretly runs the memory of the flavor of his ghost friend's gift, that's between him and whatever in his skull lets him taste things.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans's grin widens.] You're on. [Will Papyrus be able to learn to make a decent burger? Irrelevant.] We can use one you've already got, but I pick which one. [So Papyrus will know it's not some sort of trick, secretly-cake bolt, but also Papyrus cannot select one that's bigger than Sans's mouth or something.]

[spaghettimonster]

[Well then, they're really doing this. He doesn't need to prep his phone with an emergency number, given the easy access, so he just stands and stretches before starting to lead the way to the garage.]

I just want to be clear, don't get any ideas here. My tool supplies are not an all-you-can-eat buffet. [The occasional illicit snacking on a scratched bolt or screw or whatnot aside. He doesn't do it that often - batteries are still better, providing metal and electricity.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans follows along, not teleporting this time.] Yeah, yeah, I'll stick to the hotel. [Dream buffet.] And those burgers you're gonna make me.

[spaghettimonster]

I promise they will be terrible. You will regret eating them, like you should have regretted them all. [He is lying, if he's going to learn to make them and eat some himself, he's going to put some effort into it. And not an Undyne enthusiasm style effort.]

[ribticklers]

I'm gonna intend to enjoy 'em so hard it won't matter. [That's not how intent works at all, especially not here.]

[spaghettimonster]

Wow, what an incredible power! If only you put it to eating healthy food. It sounds like you're more than capable of it! [Maybe that is how intent works for people with bird and ghost traits, Papyrus is willing to tentatively believe it. But only for the sake of razzing his brother.]