[One of the useful things about being a robot is the ability to set pre-planned actions, soft-locking his body into very literally going through the motions, with the same pacing and energy and all. It's not good for walking on unsteady ground, but fantastic for giving consistent quality handshakes (ugh), or other such gestures.
But the programming doesn't extend to the remnants of bone in his head, which was part of the reason for the helmet at all. Now, when he focuses on his brother's soul, his expression doesn't adequately hide the sharp concern at the sight. Those fragments, trailing up into the space where a chunk is missing. The dimness, in conjunction with the missing piece. Alarmingly like he imagines a very slow-motion death would look. It's one thing to know they're dead, but they're existing as if they're not, and if Sans wasn't talking...
Papyrus pointedly memorizes the sight, and calculates the missing area, estimates the volume. A full tenth, assuming the wings and orb aren't part of his soul.]
[Sans has to tilt his head to get a look at his chest; his halo is above his head and the vision's a little blurry besides. Not so blurry that he can't see his soul and Papyrus's reaction to it at the same time, though. He has the weirdest urge to reach into his chest and touch it, try and feel along the torn edges for signs of further injury, but the thought is there and gone, buried in a slow-detonating horror he's never experienced before.]
Welp. I'm really broken now, huh? [He shouldn't have said that out loud, or at least he should have tried to make it sound less like a joke he thinks the universe is playing on him, but it's not like it's a secret at this point, is it? It wasn't really ever a secret, just something they ignored.
That thing sleeping underground ate part of his soul. What's he supposed to do about any of it?]
thankfully the plurk convo before sleep reminded me he should make a face
[Papyrus can't ignore it now, not with that tone, not with that expression. He settles onto the couch next to him, grabs for Sans's nearest hand with his remaining hand.
There's discomfort in that, but lessened somehow. Maybe the disgust with organic forms is overwhelmed by the upsetting situation, but he doesn't spend any time on analyzing it. Instead he gently (gently! calibrated after testing!) squeezes Sans's hand, trying to physically ground him. Physically remind him that he's not goo, singing weird praises underground.]
I've... see-n wor-se, to-day. And... It migh-t he-al?
[It's the only optimistic suggestion he can scrounge for, on such short notice with such a new and horrifying possibility. Their souls have shattered before, and healed. The missing piece might be returned, might heal back for all he knows. Nothing about monsters would suggest that idea, but it's not like anything here works like it used to.
...Maybe because they're all in the mouth of some impossibly large and powerful not-monster, not-human something or other. It's awful that Sans's injury is a relief in that it's small and tangible enough to feel horrified about instead.]
[Might heal? That sounds ridiculous, but Sans can't deny that it's apparently healed from worse than this once. That doesn't mean Sans can bring himself to believe it's going to happen, but it does keep him from running his mouth further before he can think about what he's saying. He hangs onto Papyrus's hand; the grip isn't tight, but it's the most he can manage right now.]
How long d'you think something like that'd take? [Sans can't make himself sound like he believes it'll happen, but he can at least sound neutral.]
[Papyrus can't begin to blame Sans for the skepticism, all things considered. A damaged or missing soul... It's reminding him of something, but he can't focus enough to figure out what, which must mean it's from before changing. He offers another squeeze of the hand, and tries to think about injuries and their healing. Undyne had that eye covered by an eye patch, some injuries only scar over without ever replacing the lost material or functionality, but least they're not getting worse. He'd cracked a few bones growing up... but it's hard to remember specifics on how long any of that took.]
...At lea-st as lo-ng as bo-ne...?
[Well, they'd at least respectively had cracks in skulls and halo here for weeks, if not a couple months. And those were only cracks, thanks to Sans's intervention, not whole huge chunks torn out. Which.]
And, may-be... You he-al! Does... an-y-one el-se?
I just remembered the after-event effects are going on right now SO...
Probably. [Sans says that, but thinking about showing anyone else his soul like this... He doesn't like thinking about how his soul is visible all the time in general. It's even worse like this. Nobody outside of this room would understand the significance, but--
A flower pushes its way out of the wall. Two flowers. Six flowers. One of them curls its way around Sans's leg, between his tibia and fibula. He stares at it, and it stares back as it and the others bloom into a multitude of eyes.
[The sight of flowers suddenly growing from the floor is distressing in several ways. Not just the sight of flowers, in the house, through the floorboards, and the hints of damage that implies. Not just the sight of flowers, themselves, in a space he's gone to pains to rid of all unnecessary organic life. But they look completely unlike any of the other talking flowers he's known in his life, thin and black, twisting up to touch in a way that reminds him of the flesh tendril grabbing at the car minutes ago.
Grabbing at Sans, he realizes with some delay as they start sprouting eyes.
He pulls his hand out of Sans's grasp, ungently if necessary, the better to duck down and pull the flower out from between his brother's bones - lest it leave some kind of fleshy residue there, too. If it does anything to his hand, that's fine, they can chop it off and replace it.
As he's tugging, one line in the whispering is clear: "It has been appeased." As if he had any question where sudden weird growths like these eye flowers (no faces, no mouths, just whispering eyes?) came from.]
[Sans remains completely still on the couch, like if he doesn't move the flowers won't be able to see him. Instinct screams at him to get away, to teleport, and he should have enough left to do it, but his magic feels as frozen as his body. "It has been appeased", they're saying, and Sans remembers awful chanting and the crush of ruined quantum physics that he couldn't hope to understand and (DARK D̸̬̓̌A̴̟̍̽ͅR̴̡̤̕Ḳ̷͝É̴͇̖̐R̴̖͊͗ͅ Y̵̲̹̞̬̺̆̀̓̀Ȩ̷̛̮̳̗͎͕͂͊͛͛T̴̢͉̙̯̍͒̅ ̸̩̽̈̒̀̇Ď̴̛̖͜A̷̤̐̈́̍Ṛ̴̓͂͘K̴̨̡͚̖̲̗̒̓̓̚E̴̬̓̃̽̏R̶̼͐̿̈́́ )]
[Sans yanks his legs up onto the couch and pushes gracelessly back into the couch like he's forgotten it's solid and he can't go through it (has forgotten that he could go through it, if he wanted). It's the most he's moved since he landed on the ground. His body aches and his wings protest being pressed so tightly into the couch, but his thoughts are swimming and he just needs to get away, right now.]
Edited (zalgo text keeps swallowing my closing parentheses) 2022-03-26 01:27 (UTC)
once you zalgo you don't close parentheses, it just keeps happening :) :) :)
[One second he's just getting the off-brand echo flower out of Sans's leg, and the next he's dodging being kicked as his brother startles up onto the couch.]
H-hey, i-t's o-kay, it's o-kay, it's okay.
[There's a degree of just saying it in an attempt to soothe his brother, but the sounds get smoother with repetition, almost as if he's starting to believe it. He's raising his front appendages in a placating gesture, claw as open as his fingers, when more motion draws his gaze back down. The whispering flowers abruptly closing up, withering and collapsing to the floor... with no apparent cause, but his brother recoiling just before it.]
[Sans's eyelights flick to Papyrus's face and back to the withered flower and back to Papyrus, where they stay. He keeps himself pressed flat against the couch, but he doesn't keep trying to burrow into it. When Papyrus asks about something Sans did, he's not thinking about the way the flowers withered. No, he's miles under the ground, his thoughts whirling and slamming into each other, watching that thing waiting in the dark.]
It took part of my soul as an offering. [He remembers the research. Societies appeased it with offerings. With food.]
Edited 2022-03-26 02:22 (UTC)
sans's soul is damaged but they are both GOO-exposure traumatized
[Getting syllables and tone out accurately in a hurry is still a challenging juggle. But confusion gives way to something upset, hurt and offended on Sans's behalf.]
Your... but. You di-dn't off-er...
[Papyrus had, offering the car as a gift - which had been shoved aside as unimportant. Sans had reached in the screen... but that was after protesting, after something happened. Did it hear his offer, decide to take a different one...? Not just taking an offering, but sending a message - one underlining those last comments about the futility of resisting. And now reaching up into their home, not as some weird accidental happening, but deliberately sending the message in words.
Papyrus emits a frustrated static in lieu of growling, scrapes at the nearest flower with an aggressiveness not displayed since the last time he started lighting fires. He should help Sans, somehow, but he doesn't know how - at least he can do this.]
I'll ge-t the-m o-ut of he-re.
you ruined two perfectly good skeletons is what you did
[Sans watches Papyrus scraping at the flower and wonders, distantly, if he's going to set it on fire. Sans wouldn't really mind if he did, except for it being inside. The eyes covering the house have started to recede; already they've completely vanished from outside, and they're starting to thin out inside, too. Sans doesn't mind; he doesn't need more sensory input right now. Papyrus getting farther away from him makes him uneasy, but at the same time he doesn't want even the dead flowers anywhere near him. He tries to think.]
It said my name. Before I tried to get away. [Before he'd slammed into the ceiling and it ripped his soul out. He's trying to piece the events together, step by step.] It changed the car. I felt it grabbing me. It said my name. [Then, chaos.]
[Papyrus does his best to unroot it from the floor, scraping at it enough to leave a mark - but that's just as well, he'll want the visual indicator of where he needs to lift and repair, after getting out any roots that he can. Before he can set to working on the other flower remains in the room, let alone bring them out to a burn barrel or something in the workshop for a safe fire, Sans starts dropping more bad news.]
It... yo-ur na-me? Whe-n you were... when it...
[When Sans started panicking, for no reason Papyrus could pin down, then demanding it give it back. And with all this reality-bending bullshit, the ways things seem fantastical and dripping with menace, some outright faerie tales come to mind. Stories of not-humans, not-monsters, with impossible kinds of magic, pulling mischief and destroying lives on a lark. Maybe stories about things like this, which, with Sans going on about his name.]
Yeah. [Sans is simultaneously unsure about how something could take a name and convinced that thing underground could do it, if it wanted. But "Sans" still feels like him the way it always has, so as far as he can tell, that's safe.] When it grabbed me and started talking to me, I tried to get away. [Even if "away" was "up into the ceiling in a panic".] And that's when--
[He can still feel his soul getting ripped out, phantom echoes of pain that isn't there anymore. Every action after that was instinct and panic and anger; he's lucky he didn't just smash the screen when he tried reaching in after his soul, because he had absolutely no evidence or idea that reaching in would work. (Or was he lucky? It's not like it worked. Lucky he didn't smash up Papyrus's stuff, maybe.)]
Uh. Y'know. [A lame end to that sentence, but Sans doesn't want to think about it even if he can't stop thinking about it. His body is starting to unclench by degrees, but it's more exhaustion than relaxation. His wings hurt less now that he's not pressed flat into the couch, at least.]
[At least Sans is Sans, and not missing pieces of himself as obvious as name or memories. That's something. Papyrus grimaces at the flower pieces he's gathered, and grabs the nearest plastic bag to shove them in, tie it tight, then dunk it in the living room trashcan. Two layers between flower and house. He glances at the others in the room... then back at Sans, whose posture is still tense.]
I... We-ll, I see. I don't rea-lly know - you see-m, a li-ttle frea-ked out. Understan-dably. But...
[How does he say that Sans seems... bizarrely okay, outside the panicked recoiling up on the couch? It's hard to tell if he's in pain, and by the looks of it it seems like something that would hurt, or would feel like dying had.
But, then, it's not like he has no experience talking with someone who had... implied something was off, about their soul's status. With some of the plotting his flower friend had proposed, when talking about the someday a human might arrive... But most of Sans's soul is there. And... just from trailing off like that, it's clear Sans doesn't want to describe what he's experiencing. Papyrus hesitates a few seconds longer, studying his hand and claw for signs of them turning into flesh, then gives up and returns to the couch.]
Woul-d it... Hel-p, to clea-n up. Or ju-st... Hang out?
[He still wants to get all the dead flowers out, to tear them from the house, dump them in a barrel in the garage, and burn them where the neighbors won't complain. He jitters a little with it. But, it's less pronounced, too. And he can see the way Sans tensed up as he left, and relaxed a little as he returned.]
Stay here. [Sans says, immediately, and feels (what's left of) his soul clench with how that sounds.] I mean, since when do I care about cleaning up, right?
[It's a joke, but there's undeniable strain in Sans's tone as he trips over himself to make himself sound more okay. He's probably being ridiculous--it shouldn't be a big deal for Papyrus to go across the room, or to another part of the house.]
[The immediacy of the reply grabs his attention, and the strain in the traditional deflection keeps it, but Papyrus nods like he's accepting the story.]
True en-ough! Let me just...
[He telegraphs his movements as he goes to lift the couch cushions, including the one he settled Sans onto, in order to retrieve his phone from inside it. Settles them back down and sits down himself, tugging a cord out from his torso to reconnect to it. Focuses into a vague distance, visual attention mostly focused elsewhere for the moment. There's an odd noise in the distance, by the workshop door.]
Hap-pily. I have... some tools. To clea-n, for me. That sh-ould work, for now.
[The sounds resolve into the door opening, and the toy helicopter flying into the hall. The motions fluctuate now and then between very rigidly directed and more fluid, as Papyrus lets it run on instructions and occasionally intervenes to correct where it's going... But all in all, it's quickly clear it's using the little claw mechanism to uproot the flowers and do the cleaning for him.]
[The eyelights in Sans's halo flick sharply toward the sound and motion, but Sans recognizes the helicopter and so he settles down before he can get himself worked up again.] Then why d'you even try to get me to do chores, huh? [It really is a useful little helicopter. Seeing Papyrus's phone reminds Sans that he's not actually sure where his ended up. It would probably be easier on Papyrus if he could text...
Sans spots it on the floor, where it must have landed somewhere around the time he crashed into the ceiling. He doesn't want to get up, but it should be in reach of his longer arms; he reaches out and lifts the phone up.
But that's magic use. He's surprised by a jolt of pain shooting from his soul through the arm he was trying to use and drops the phone all over again.]
[Papyrus gives the question the eyeroll it deserves, rhetorical joke as it is. Nobody likes having creepy whispering eye flowers around the house, even if they could just grow back at any point, and they have no power over this...! Okay, so the conversation below is sticking with him, and the illusion of control in cleaning is important - at least for people who like to take effort.
...He rues this train of thought almost immediately, as Sans suddenly winces back, the clatter of the phone hitting the floor.]
Sans, wh-at..?? Oh m-y go-d.
[Upset static punctuates his words as he throws syllables out there with minimal processing to connect them. That sudden pained wince, the phone dropping - oh. From picking up the phone. Papyrus has broken enough bones, and gotten various other injuries, to recognize the pained wince for what it is. He ducks down to grab the phone before Sans can make another grab for it (not that he's likely to try), then offers it in claw.]
O-kay, do-n't... do-n't. Yo-u're in-jure-d. So, ju-st... Le-t me hel-p.
[Sans lifts a hand to his chest before putting it back down, belatedly remembering he doesn't have a solid sternum. He takes the phone instead, staring morosely at it and telling himself it's to check for damage instead of his phone just being a convenient object to sulk at.]
Maybe you were right about me not gettin' enough exercise. [The joke comes across a bit weak, but it's safer than anything else he might say.]
[Weak, but there's an effort being made, and it's another relief upswing in the whiplash of these last several minutes. Is it obvious, when Papyrus's surprised static is more of a laugh than distress? Surely it shows in his face, anyway.]
Of cour-se I was, I'm al-ways righ-t.
[A little forced, but pushed it out fast enough to not let the joke go flat and awkward. He keeps a pained smile up as he sits back down - close enough to lean against, if Sans wants. Takes a little more time, as he had through the maybe super ill-advised investigation, to connect syllables more smoothly.]
However... in light of, your hard work... and injury. I am waiving all my lectures, about exercise, in favor of... getting some rest.
That's cool of you, bro. [Sans appreciates Papyrus going along with his attempt to smooth things over. He appreciates Papyrus's closeness, too; after a few moments of careful shifting Sans drops against his brother's side. He's a little bit colder than he really should be, and his arm still aches from trying to pick up the phone. Is it just going to be like that forever? Sans has no idea.]
It didn't do anything to you, did it? [Sans thinks he would have noticed if Papyrus had been there with him in any capacity, but he'd been--distracted.]
I don't... think so. [He examines his front appendages again, pushing past the discomfort with them to check for signs that the flower did anything. But it doesn't look to have had the same effect as that tendril of skin had on the car, so he shakes his head.]
You said... it grabbed you? I didn't, uh. Feel anything, like that. Or... pain.
[Is that because he thought to offer something, so it passed him by? Did Sans get grabbed because Papyrus offered something unsatisfying, piquing its curiosity and hunger, inspiring the idea to go for something... more to its taste? Obviously it's still that entity's fault, of course, no matter what maybe-Jonas said about sleeping and hunger and being too wonderful to have a mind to change, it has agency of its own. But... It's just been a few minutes, and already it feels like the idea's going to haunt him. Maybe all the worse because he feels fine, when sending the car down was his idea.]
Good, it sucked. [That's an understatement, but it's also true. He'd rather Papyrus not also have to deal with this.] It was like--it was holding me in the cave. Which I guess it was. [Part of him, anyway. He laughs, just once, a little too sharply.] Y'know, I could feel it? That part of my soul. Even though it wasn't attached anymore.
Y-Y-You... still, felt it. [Papyrus goes more still than usual, fans kicking in a little louder.
Felt it while it was torn off and eaten, Sans means? The only reason Papyrus doesn't shiver is because of how he's locked his bodily movements down for the second.] Past tense... Not anymore?
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spaghettimonster) wrote2021-07-31 02:32 am
remember how i started a reply last night? it's not in my drafting doc, good job me
But the programming doesn't extend to the remnants of bone in his head, which was part of the reason for the helmet at all. Now, when he focuses on his brother's soul, his expression doesn't adequately hide the sharp concern at the sight. Those fragments, trailing up into the space where a chunk is missing. The dimness, in conjunction with the missing piece. Alarmingly like he imagines a very slow-motion death would look. It's one thing to know they're dead, but they're existing as if they're not, and if Sans wasn't talking...
Papyrus pointedly memorizes the sight, and calculates the missing area, estimates the volume. A full tenth, assuming the wings and orb aren't part of his soul.]
...It di-d, ta-ke par-t. It... doe-sn't loo-k li-ke it's wor-sen-ing.
[He doesn't think so. The little trail isn't fading off, the broken section isn't visibly expanding as he watches. But... it's not good.]
oh no, the tragedy of lost effort
Welp. I'm really broken now, huh? [He shouldn't have said that out loud, or at least he should have tried to make it sound less like a joke he thinks the universe is playing on him, but it's not like it's a secret at this point, is it? It wasn't really ever a secret, just something they ignored.
That thing sleeping underground ate part of his soul. What's he supposed to do about any of it?]
thankfully the plurk convo before sleep reminded me he should make a face
There's discomfort in that, but lessened somehow. Maybe the disgust with organic forms is overwhelmed by the upsetting situation, but he doesn't spend any time on analyzing it. Instead he gently (gently! calibrated after testing!) squeezes Sans's hand, trying to physically ground him. Physically remind him that he's not goo, singing weird praises underground.]
I've... see-n wor-se, to-day. And... It migh-t he-al?
[It's the only optimistic suggestion he can scrounge for, on such short notice with such a new and horrifying possibility. Their souls have shattered before, and healed. The missing piece might be returned, might heal back for all he knows. Nothing about monsters would suggest that idea, but it's not like anything here works like it used to.
...Maybe because they're all in the mouth of some impossibly large and powerful not-monster, not-human something or other. It's awful that Sans's injury is a relief in that it's small and tangible enough to feel horrified about instead.]
no subject
How long d'you think something like that'd take? [Sans can't make himself sound like he believes it'll happen, but he can at least sound neutral.]
no subject
...At lea-st as lo-ng as bo-ne...?
[Well, they'd at least respectively had cracks in skulls and halo here for weeks, if not a couple months. And those were only cracks, thanks to Sans's intervention, not whole huge chunks torn out. Which.]
And, may-be... You he-al! Does... an-y-one el-se?
I just remembered the after-event effects are going on right now SO...
A flower pushes its way out of the wall. Two flowers. Six flowers. One of them curls its way around Sans's leg, between his tibia and fibula. He stares at it, and it stares back as it and the others bloom into a multitude of eyes.
The flowers are whispering. Sans goes rigid.]
no subject
Grabbing at Sans, he realizes with some delay as they start sprouting eyes.
He pulls his hand out of Sans's grasp, ungently if necessary, the better to duck down and pull the flower out from between his brother's bones - lest it leave some kind of fleshy residue there, too. If it does anything to his hand, that's fine, they can chop it off and replace it.
As he's tugging, one line in the whispering is clear: "It has been appeased." As if he had any question where sudden weird growths like these eye flowers (no faces, no mouths, just whispering eyes?) came from.]
cw: some sort of panic attack
[Sans yanks his legs up onto the couch and pushes gracelessly back into the couch like he's forgotten it's solid and he can't go through it (has forgotten that he could go through it, if he wanted). It's the most he's moved since he landed on the ground. His body aches and his wings protest being pressed so tightly into the couch, but his thoughts are swimming and he just needs to get away, right now.]
once you zalgo you don't close parentheses, it just keeps happening :) :) :)
H-hey, i-t's o-kay, it's o-kay, it's okay.
[There's a degree of just saying it in an attempt to soothe his brother, but the sounds get smoother with repetition, almost as if he's starting to believe it. He's raising his front appendages in a placating gesture, claw as open as his fingers, when more motion draws his gaze back down. The whispering flowers abruptly closing up, withering and collapsing to the floor... with no apparent cause, but his brother recoiling just before it.]
Di... Di-d you...?
no subject
It took part of my soul as an offering. [He remembers the research. Societies appeased it with offerings. With food.]
sans's soul is damaged but they are both GOO-exposure traumatized
[Getting syllables and tone out accurately in a hurry is still a challenging juggle. But confusion gives way to something upset, hurt and offended on Sans's behalf.]
Your... but. You di-dn't off-er...
[Papyrus had, offering the car as a gift - which had been shoved aside as unimportant. Sans had reached in the screen... but that was after protesting, after something happened. Did it hear his offer, decide to take a different one...? Not just taking an offering, but sending a message - one underlining those last comments about the futility of resisting. And now reaching up into their home, not as some weird accidental happening, but deliberately sending the message in words.
Papyrus emits a frustrated static in lieu of growling, scrapes at the nearest flower with an aggressiveness not displayed since the last time he started lighting fires. He should help Sans, somehow, but he doesn't know how - at least he can do this.]
I'll ge-t the-m o-ut of he-re.
you ruined two perfectly good skeletons is what you did
It said my name. Before I tried to get away. [Before he'd slammed into the ceiling and it ripped his soul out. He's trying to piece the events together, step by step.] It changed the car. I felt it grabbing me. It said my name. [Then, chaos.]
no subject
It... yo-ur na-me? Whe-n you were... when it...
[When Sans started panicking, for no reason Papyrus could pin down, then demanding it give it back. And with all this reality-bending bullshit, the ways things seem fantastical and dripping with menace, some outright faerie tales come to mind. Stories of not-humans, not-monsters, with impossible kinds of magic, pulling mischief and destroying lives on a lark. Maybe stories about things like this, which, with Sans going on about his name.]
Do you sti-ll... ha-ve your name...?
no subject
[He can still feel his soul getting ripped out, phantom echoes of pain that isn't there anymore. Every action after that was instinct and panic and anger; he's lucky he didn't just smash the screen when he tried reaching in after his soul, because he had absolutely no evidence or idea that reaching in would work. (Or was he lucky? It's not like it worked. Lucky he didn't smash up Papyrus's stuff, maybe.)]
Uh. Y'know. [A lame end to that sentence, but Sans doesn't want to think about it even if he can't stop thinking about it. His body is starting to unclench by degrees, but it's more exhaustion than relaxation. His wings hurt less now that he's not pressed flat into the couch, at least.]
no subject
I... We-ll, I see. I don't rea-lly know - you see-m, a li-ttle frea-ked out. Understan-dably. But...
[How does he say that Sans seems... bizarrely okay, outside the panicked recoiling up on the couch? It's hard to tell if he's in pain, and by the looks of it it seems like something that would hurt, or would feel like dying had.
But, then, it's not like he has no experience talking with someone who had... implied something was off, about their soul's status. With some of the plotting his flower friend had proposed, when talking about the someday a human might arrive... But most of Sans's soul is there. And... just from trailing off like that, it's clear Sans doesn't want to describe what he's experiencing. Papyrus hesitates a few seconds longer, studying his hand and claw for signs of them turning into flesh, then gives up and returns to the couch.]
Woul-d it... Hel-p, to clea-n up. Or ju-st... Hang out?
[He still wants to get all the dead flowers out, to tear them from the house, dump them in a barrel in the garage, and burn them where the neighbors won't complain. He jitters a little with it. But, it's less pronounced, too. And he can see the way Sans tensed up as he left, and relaxed a little as he returned.]
no subject
[It's a joke, but there's undeniable strain in Sans's tone as he trips over himself to make himself sound more okay. He's probably being ridiculous--it shouldn't be a big deal for Papyrus to go across the room, or to another part of the house.]
no subject
True en-ough! Let me just...
[He telegraphs his movements as he goes to lift the couch cushions, including the one he settled Sans onto, in order to retrieve his phone from inside it. Settles them back down and sits down himself, tugging a cord out from his torso to reconnect to it. Focuses into a vague distance, visual attention mostly focused elsewhere for the moment. There's an odd noise in the distance, by the workshop door.]
Hap-pily. I have... some tools. To clea-n, for me. That sh-ould work, for now.
[The sounds resolve into the door opening, and the toy helicopter flying into the hall. The motions fluctuate now and then between very rigidly directed and more fluid, as Papyrus lets it run on instructions and occasionally intervenes to correct where it's going... But all in all, it's quickly clear it's using the little claw mechanism to uproot the flowers and do the cleaning for him.]
no subject
Sans spots it on the floor, where it must have landed somewhere around the time he crashed into the ceiling. He doesn't want to get up, but it should be in reach of his longer arms; he reaches out and lifts the phone up.
But that's magic use. He's surprised by a jolt of pain shooting from his soul through the arm he was trying to use and drops the phone all over again.]
no subject
...He rues this train of thought almost immediately, as Sans suddenly winces back, the clatter of the phone hitting the floor.]
Sans, wh-at..?? Oh m-y go-d.
[Upset static punctuates his words as he throws syllables out there with minimal processing to connect them. That sudden pained wince, the phone dropping - oh. From picking up the phone. Papyrus has broken enough bones, and gotten various other injuries, to recognize the pained wince for what it is. He ducks down to grab the phone before Sans can make another grab for it (not that he's likely to try), then offers it in claw.]
O-kay, do-n't... do-n't. Yo-u're in-jure-d. So, ju-st... Le-t me hel-p.
no subject
Maybe you were right about me not gettin' enough exercise. [The joke comes across a bit weak, but it's safer than anything else he might say.]
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Of cour-se I was, I'm al-ways righ-t.
[A little forced, but pushed it out fast enough to not let the joke go flat and awkward. He keeps a pained smile up as he sits back down - close enough to lean against, if Sans wants. Takes a little more time, as he had through the maybe super ill-advised investigation, to connect syllables more smoothly.]
However... in light of, your hard work... and injury. I am waiving all my lectures, about exercise, in favor of... getting some rest.
makes up soul damage symptoms on the fly
It didn't do anything to you, did it? [Sans thinks he would have noticed if Papyrus had been there with him in any capacity, but he'd been--distracted.]
good reason to bundle up in hoodie and wings
You said... it grabbed you? I didn't, uh. Feel anything, like that. Or... pain.
[Is that because he thought to offer something, so it passed him by? Did Sans get grabbed because Papyrus offered something unsatisfying, piquing its curiosity and hunger, inspiring the idea to go for something... more to its taste? Obviously it's still that entity's fault, of course, no matter what maybe-Jonas said about sleeping and hunger and being too wonderful to have a mind to change, it has agency of its own. But... It's just been a few minutes, and already it feels like the idea's going to haunt him. Maybe all the worse because he feels fine, when sending the car down was his idea.]
become coze
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Felt it while it was torn off and eaten, Sans means? The only reason Papyrus doesn't shiver is because of how he's locked his bodily movements down for the second.] Past tense... Not anymore?
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cw: panic attack... again
pretend their positions are swapped in this icon
everyone needs to be reassured on a couch sometimes
what are couches for if not sitting and having feelings, then taking a nap
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Papyrus'll talk next tag, after seeing how well he caught him
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small text, small voice, shhh
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