spaghettimonster | Canyon: Inbox

[Sans recognizes the sound as a laugh mostly by context; the static is pretty similar to his own non-ears, though the more he hears the various kinds the more he's starting to differentiate. Sans is--well, not happy, given the circumstances, but willing to keep commenting on the video. Sometimes jokes, sometimes his own factoids about the Hubble's construction and use. Telescopes are one of the few things he's put the effort in to know how to build properly.

Sans's commentary is getting more and more spread out, though, the words starting to melt together like watercolor. He can't say he feels safe here, with what he knows about what's underground, but he's safe enough to start dozing off. He really could use sleep.]

[He chimes in here and there, sometimes replying to jokes with jokes of his own or obligatory jokes, other times pointing out design choices that he bets he could do better, given the time and tech. An important part of demonstrating presence to someone trying to fall asleep is hearing their voice, after all - he make sure to keep talking from time to time as Sans drifts off, lowering his voice as to not startle him back awake.

In the end, Papyrus is watching the end of the documentary by himself, and carefully using the remote to set it to replay without jostling Sans. A year ago, sitting here doing little but being a heater would have been an uncomfortable, boring strain. And it still is - he's starting to use his phone, and the altered toy is still floating around gathering the trash it's capable of grabbing. But he's not vibrating with the urge to get up and do things himself.

Maybe he's too accustomed to sitting and charging for hours on end. Maybe it's because there's been a lot of awful, unheard of things since back then, skewing his sense of scale all out of proportion. Something like sending a toy down into a cave, of all places, turned into an unseen Something eating part of Sans's soul, and maybe there's nothing they can do to get it back. Maybe they're still dead and will get eaten soon, and... And, just sitting here not-alone, is desperately important.]

[For two hours, Sans sleeps without more than the occasional wing twitch as his body works to heal itself of all the trauma it's taken on today, let alone the broken wings from a few days ago. Then he starts shifting more, suddenly restless, as his mind forces together mismatched, jagged puzzle pieces. A squirming octopus with a smile fit to split its face. A thing dripping red with determination biting through his soul like an apple. An endless darkness keeping him pinned down, smiling and smiling and cutting his soul up with a knife, taking piece by piece. There's going to be nothing left, it's going to take everything--

Sans jolts awake and lurches forward off the couch, fit to land face first on either the coffee table or the ground if Papyrus doesn't grab him.]

[After a while into the nap, the coffee table was repurposed into a workspace. When Sans wakes, Papyrus is leaning a wheeled leg on it (with a pillow to keep from scratching the table's surface), the better to clean bits of debris from inner mechanisms. He startles and drops the tool with a clatters off his leg, trying to catch his brother without putting an arm through ghostly ribcage and risking jostling his soul. More static, startled and concerned this time.]

[Papyrus catches Sans just short of hitting all of Papyrus's stuff and scattering it everywhere, lucky for everyone. Disoriented from nightmares, Sans flails a little, but he's uncoordinated and has even less energy than usual, so he only succeeds in knocking one of Papyrus's tools to the ground before just hanging in Papyrus's grip.]

Sans? It's okay. [The same sounds from earlier splicing, the better to soothe him again. But wakefulness might need more than reassurances, given what an obvious nightmare that was, so he follows with twisting the sound up into a question.] You're okay?

[Beyond the obvious, of a nightmare and the still-eaten soul fragment and all. But even repeating the obvious would indicate Sans is awake and in the present.]

[The eyelights in Sans's halo, previously darting aimlessly, snap to Papyrus as soon as he speaks. He recognizes the tone even before the rest of him catches up with what's happening. Papyrus is right there. He had a bad dream. He's on--well, he was on the couch. Clumsily, he tries to sit back down.]

I'm okay. [Maybe if they both say that enough, it'll be true. His soul is throbbing again; Sans isn't sure if it started up in response to the nightmare or if it was his sudden burst of activity. It probably doesn't matter. It looks like Papyrus was working on something.] I knock anything over?

Just a screw-driver. [Dismissive is another tone that's hard to splice on the fly, so he goes for something bland and waves the matter off with a hand. There's one change from when Sans went to sleep - there's no tension of disgust in Papyrus's expression, not as he looks at his brother nor as he sees his hand in his peripheral. Concerned is more the expression, as much as he's toning it down.] It's okay, I'll gra-b it.

[He would have the helicopter drone do it, but there's not enough space between the table and couch to fit. Next project, a new floor bot... Or reattaching his hand... There's a lot of things to do, really. For now, he stays where he's at to help make sure Sans is sitting back down comfortably, before he ducks forward to retrieve the screwdriver in question (lest Sans do some sleepy fretting and try to get it for him).]

[Sans sags against the back of the couch, scrubbing at his face to try and wake himself up more while Papyrus retrieves the screwdriver. He's not sure how long he was asleep, but he knows it wasn't long enough. But with echoes of anomalies and things underground drifting through his thoughts, going back to sleep right now's just asking for another bad time. He sorts out his ruffled feathers instead.] Were you working on something?

[It's safer to focus on whatever Papyrus was doing.]

[Papyrus nods sympathetically, recognizing the avoidance of sleep - of nightmares - for what it is. He gestures to his altered leg, where part of the casing's off, and there's a towel with bits of debris and spilled lubricant - the better not to spill it on their surroundings.]

Re-pairs. Up-keep. And... I thought... [He considers for a moment how best to word the question, how to simulate the tone he wants, before going with a cautiously hopeful expression.] I no-ticed. My old limbs. Did you, put them some-where?

[Sans studies Papyrus's face for a moment. He really does look hopeful, and Sans is pretty sure it's not "hopeful that he'll get to take them apart for scraps". Well, maybe "it has been appeased" actually meant something, in terms of how everyone is acting.]

In my closet. Figured I'd hang onto 'em just in case. [He's also got those extra limb casings Papyrus was working on, and the butt rocks (that sometimes go on Sans's nightstand because he does know plants need sunlight), and that can of WD-40 he grabbed... Sans's closet is just a storage space for Papyrus's stuff right now.]

[The hope shifts into relief, and he ducks his head to consider his current limbs for a moment. The somewhat pocked hand, the newer clawed appendage... It's not what he wants to live with, but it's been a great help the last few weeks. He's sure he can make use of it in an assistant bot, as some kind of commendation for its great service... But he's sure, he wants hands again.]

In ca-se, huh? Do we need, to bui-ld you, a seco-nd closet...? [He is deeply appreciative of Sans's repeated gesture of gathering Papyrus's discarded important things until the weirdness wears off, and it shows in his face, if not his soundclip voice. But this is becoming a pattern, and one of the (many) last things he wants is to be an excuse for Sans to never put his own things away.]

I've only got two hoodies. [What else would he put in there? A more varied wardrobe? Never.] Plenty of space left over. [Plant-y of space, with the succulent. Which reminds him...] Got that plant you bought in there too.

[Another spark of surprise, and relief. For all that Sans was going to abstracted pieces, it seems like he really kept it together. He'll have to say thank you in some wordless, demonstrated way later. For now, he has to push a little:] Maybe... A thi-rd hoo-die. [He's sure he can find a design Sans would deign to wear.]

D'you think I'm ready for that kind of luxury? [But if Papyrus gets him a third one, Sans will wear it because Papyrus gave it to him. Now that Sans is more awake and the normal banter has settled him down, he curls himself back up on the couch, tucking his wings in. That extra set still hasn't gone away. Oh well.] Y'can go back to work if you want. I'll try not to jump off the couch again.

It's fi-ne. [Papyrus stretches, partly to show some freshly-woken solidarity, partly to test how the cleaning is going. Feels like... something is still catching in there. He doesn't really want to swap back to the rusted legs, so. He leans forward again to continue work, but shoots Sans a glance from the side.] If you do, ju-mp off agai-n? Would... the work-shop, be good?

[Not that he wants to push Sans not to sleep, given... everything, about the best excuse for sleeping he's ever had. But if he doesn't want to, lounging on the shelf is about as comfortable, right?]

[It would probably be easier for Papyrus to work in there, huh? Sans stretches out again, standing up. He doesn't wobble, which is good. He was kind of worried he might.] Looks like I fell off again. Guess we can go hang out in your workshop.

[Papyrus is surprised a few times over. That Sans doesn't slump into the couch to nap some more, that he offers immediately, that he bothers standing on his feet instead of floating vaguely in the air. But he's still being tangible, isn't he? And the smell seems weaker, the sight of things less distressing. Maybe that means...]

Guess... Guess so. [The words creak as if from disuse, but there's no distortion of syllable splicing together. He brightens a little, gathers the tools before standing as well.]

[Sans's expression shifts to a tired kind of pleased when Papyrus uses his actual voice again.] Hey, you can talk again. [Sans takes a moment to stretch all his various limbs--except for the wings on his temples, of course. Sans isn't sure what will happen if he tries shortcutting right now; he'll have to just walk. The grip he'd had on quantum physics just a few hours ago has loosened considerably, but that's for the best. Thinking on it just a little, he'd gotten weird about it.

Sans's steps are slow and measured. He's still pretty low on energy, after all.]

Nyeh... heh heh. Bound to happen, sooner or later. [It's still slow and a bit off, if not in the digital distortion way. Rougher than usual. Maybe there's a bit of rust in his neck that he hasn't cleaned, yet. Maybe the rust will slow enough for him to actually get ahead of it all.

He lingers with the tools bundled up in the towel, the better to have an arm free. Casually. Just in case Sans, tentative paces as those look, needs a hand.]

It's about time all this stuff started wearing off. [Never mind the likely reason why it started now. Sans is trying not to think about that, even if the soreness in his chest is making that difficult.

He hesitates for a moment before hanging onto Papyrus's arm. Needing all this help is embarrassing, but not as embarrassing as tripping over nothing would be.]

[Papyrus makes a sound of agreement, this time only slightly static - it's mostly actual voice sound.] Maybe I'll, turn in my... emergency fire badge.

[Not that there's an actual badge involved, so much as a small laminated card hastily put together for showing he's one of the people who volunteered to help with the various emergencies, called in at all hours. He feels even calmer than he has since the lightning storm, though maybe that's partly because he's making a point to help Sans out. Hard to say.

It's not like walking together when their thoughts had been melting together, mainly because Papyrus still isn't walking. The careful gliding, trying to match Sans's pace, is enough of a challenge that he doesn't think about where exactly Sans is going to sit until they're reaching the workshop itself.]

Might want to wait a couple days to make sure everyone else is getting better about the fire thing too. [So Sans's trust for everyone else isn't the greatest, what else is new?

Once they're in the workshop, Sans eyes the shelf. Normally he teleports up to it. He should have enough energy left for that; teleportation is one of the last things to go when he runs low on magic. But he should have had enough energy to pick up a phone earlier, too, and that hadn't gone great.

Solution: Sans plonks himself down on the floor. Problem solved, even if the workshop floor is kind of cold, actually.]

[With Sans walking over instead of teleporting, Papyrus really should have realized he wouldn't be appearing on the shelf. But they've barely stopped and hesitated, trying to figure out what to do instead, when Sans just sits down.]

Oh my god. [Papyrus shifts the towel of tools bundle to his clawed arm, the better to face palm with his remaining hand.] You... Sans. There's a chair?

[And at the very least, there's the pillow from the shelf that could be borrowed to be a softer, warmer seat for bones. He doesn't even wait for a reply before going over to retrieve it and offer it - locking his wheels up to be able to pick Sans up to drop it under him, if needed.]

I guess that'd work too. [The floor was closer, though. Sans reaches up for the pillow, at least, though he doesn't so much get up and reposition himself as he rolls lazily onto said pillow. The floor idea was maybe a quarter of a joke, but actually just walking across the house kind of tired him out. He's staying here.]

no subject

no subject

no subject

Papyrus'll talk next tag, after seeing how well he caught him

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject

no subject