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.]
If you're sure, that you're... good like that...? [After the near tonelessness of his syllable splicing, the skepticism in his voice is practically dripping everywhere. But he only waits long enough to see Sans settling his wings in to better cocoon, without sign of wanting to get up, before he sighs and drops the matter.]
Just, don't be surprised, when this is loud. [Not that it will be right away, he has a bit more of the meticulous cleaning to do. But removing casing from his neck, to better check it for rust, will take a couple of power tools if he doesn't want to take twenty minutes of slow and careful unscrewing again. (And he really doesn't, unless Sans actually falls asleep again.)]
It'd be loud on the chair, too. [But actually Sans is trying to do his best to brace for it. He remembers getting a little jumpy about seeing the helicopter, so he's not sure how he's going to react to power tools. But he can't just tell Papyrus not to use them if he needs them for something; he's in Papyrus's workshop. Keeping himself tucked under his wings, he keeps an eye on what Papyrus is doing so he isn't surprised by it when the noise starts.]
Sure, but then you'd be... Never mind. [If Sans is comfortable on the floor, then as much as that's probably bad for his self esteem, Papyrus isn't going to argue it. Especially when his voice hurts a bit to use. Instead, he grabs for a can of pressurized air, the better to start blowing some of the debris out more quickly. Louder, but not power tool loud.
The helicopter, meanwhile, is still moving around through the house, occasionally coming in to drop things off. The hunt for flowers went on while Sans napped, and now it's more grabbing supplies like stray batteries, or a piece of candy, or so on. This time, it veers off course from where Papyrus is working, and carefully deposits a chocolate bar a foot away from Sans. After hovering for a few seconds, it heads up to land on the nearby table.]
[Sans's wings twitch just slightly at the sound of the pressurized air, but he feels like he handled that pretty well, considering. He doesn't pay too much attention to the helicopter until it drops some candy nearby. A hand emerges from his cocoon to take it.]
Thanks. [Give that helicopter a chocolate delivery award.]
[The helicopter lifts very slightly then resettles in place, facing Sans's direction. No one's runs over to update its commendation door, but Sans's phone receives a text from Papyrus's number.]
WELCOME
[He's apparently decided that texting while he works is easier than talking. Maybe because he's pulled out an electric screwdriver, and is testing it to be sure the battery's doing well.]
[Sans may be on a pillow on the floor, but he thinks he might be able to fall asleep like this. Not quite yet, when he knows loud noises are going to be happening, but maybe soon. It wouldn't be the first time he's fallen asleep on a floor. If he does, Papyrus will probably roll his eyes about it later, but that's okay, too. It's nice when Papyrus does that. Consistent. Reliable. It means he cares enough about Sans to call him on his habits, which not a lot of people do.
For now, he's going to eat this chocolate. Human food isn't so directly tied to healing as monster food, but it definitely helps.]
[As Sans starts eating the chocolate, the helicopter takes to the air again, settling at a charge station on Papyrus's work station. Not a minute later, Papyrus himself frowns and looks around, before glancing Sans's way.
Did you...? [He mutters the question in his usual stage whisper minimum, quietly enough it's as if to himself, not expecting a reply. And he doesn't, given he doesn't finish asking it before he trails off and shakes his head, the new wires shifting around on his skull.] No, that's fine. Enjoy it!
[He stretches the same wheeled leg as before, turning it this way and that, nodding to himself at the improvement. Better, certainly good enough to hold up while he focuses on other repairs and replacements. But does he want to check on his throat while Sans is awake enough to be distressed about it...?]
[Sans looks up when Papyrus says something, but when he doesn't continue whatever it was, he goes back to finishing the chocolate. He's still not used to Papyrus's new wires, though now that Papyrus is less concerned about organic things, Sans is hoping he can make some jokes about Papyrus finally having hair.
Papyrus seems to be examining his wheel repairs, though, so:] Looks wheel-y good, bro.
[Papyrus gives another part-static part-voiced laugh, and tests rolling it back and forth on the ground.]
Thanks! But if you're impressed now, just wait. For! I plan! To swap out for one of my cool and improved arms. [The more muscular ones, that he's been nitpicking the design of for months, reluctant to really detach things. Given that one of his original hands is too rusty to safely use again... No sense being precious about them, anymore.]
First you get hair, now you're getting muscles... You're really on a roll. [So maybe these dumb jokes make him feel better. That's not really new. The chocolate helped, too, so he will refrain from dropping the wrapper on the ground and instead stuff it into his hoodie pocket where it will... Probably sit around longer than it should because he'll forget about it. But the point is he's being a good brother and not littering Papyrus's workshop with anything except himself.]
[Papyrus snickers again at the pun, releasing his brakes to better roll back and forth on both legs. Feeling similar enough, smooth enough. But the notion that his new head decorations look like hair...]
You think so?? [He runs his hand (singular) through the cables, testing how well they bend or sway with the motion.] Still don't know why, wearing a helmet... made robot hair? [Maybe there's a pun about helmet hair and static electricity in there somewhere, but nothing that flows well enough to be a plausible explanation for the timing of this change.] Styling it... won't be like the movies. But! I'm sure I can figure... something out.
[They're more like braids or locs than strands of hair, so far. And that's not something he can easily change - they grew from his skull, or maybe through it, to connect to the helmet. He can try splicing them into smaller casings, but he's not about to go adding to the places they emerge from. Not while he's got some skull left.]
Can you get 'em to stand straight up? You could do a mohawk. [That isn't exactly the kind of hair you think about blowing in the wind in a convertible, but it's an entertaining thought. As Papyrus tests the cables, Sans has that urge he gets with his feathers or Papyrus's joint wirings to straighten them out. That's probably weird. Anyway, Papyrus is all the way over there.]
Hmmmm. With a little wiring, as support... [He can envision at least one way to get that aesthetic going, especially if he braids in a mix of stiffer supportive wires, and these connective cables to fill it out, making a particularly spiky mohawk.
It's not the same as blowing in the wind as he drives (speaking of, his driver's test is just around the corner), but it's an exciting thought just like that! Enough to be worth asking the experts. Are there any monster hairdressers, in the sense of hairdressers who specializing in figuring out style options for monsters...? He sets a low priority background search running, the better to check out the options once there's a list compiled.]
Thanks, for the great idea! And. As great a distraction, as this all is. [He makes a throat-clearing noise, one that's both grittier and more static than usual.] This is... distracting me, from some important repairs. So! Hair will have to wait.
Right. [Maybe he should have stayed in the living room and told Papyrus he'd be fine on his own so Papyrus could get work done. Even thinking about being alone, though, is kind of unsettling. (He needs to get over that.) If Sans says sorry that might start a whole second conversation. Instead, Sans resettles himself under his wings.] I'll get out of your hair.
[Papyrus flinches a little at the change in tone, even if it was delivering another pun. He's only now realizing what an improvement the egging on of fashion ideas is, over the pained horror that's been ongoing since the end of the drive.]
No, don't... Don't go anywhere! [Not that it actually looks like Sans is getting up to leave, given the way he's just huddling up into a floor lump. It's not much better, with its one benefit that Papyrus can see if anything gets worse. The helicopter takes to the air almost before he directs it to, the better to perch up somewhere to keep watch. For Papyrus's part, he grimaces with the discomfort of being earnest.]
I'm... I was using you, as an excuse. For dragging my feet. [What feet, one might ask, which makes it a pun with layers. Matching the hair pun, trying to pull things back to levity.] If I didn't need, to check my neck... [His voice is returning, but is it repairing correctly?]
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spaghettimonster) wrote2021-07-31 02:32 am
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[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?]
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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.]
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Sans's steps are slow and measured. He's still pretty low on energy, after all.]
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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.]
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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.]
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[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.]
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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.]
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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.]
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Just, don't be surprised, when this is loud. [Not that it will be right away, he has a bit more of the meticulous cleaning to do. But removing casing from his neck, to better check it for rust, will take a couple of power tools if he doesn't want to take twenty minutes of slow and careful unscrewing again. (And he really doesn't, unless Sans actually falls asleep again.)]
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The helicopter, meanwhile, is still moving around through the house, occasionally coming in to drop things off. The hunt for flowers went on while Sans napped, and now it's more grabbing supplies like stray batteries, or a piece of candy, or so on. This time, it veers off course from where Papyrus is working, and carefully deposits a chocolate bar a foot away from Sans. After hovering for a few seconds, it heads up to land on the nearby table.]
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Thanks. [Give that helicopter a chocolate delivery award.]
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WELCOME
[He's apparently decided that texting while he works is easier than talking. Maybe because he's pulled out an electric screwdriver, and is testing it to be sure the battery's doing well.]
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For now, he's going to eat this chocolate. Human food isn't so directly tied to healing as monster food, but it definitely helps.]
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Did you...? [He mutters the question in his usual stage whisper minimum, quietly enough it's as if to himself, not expecting a reply. And he doesn't, given he doesn't finish asking it before he trails off and shakes his head, the new wires shifting around on his skull.] No, that's fine. Enjoy it!
[He stretches the same wheeled leg as before, turning it this way and that, nodding to himself at the improvement. Better, certainly good enough to hold up while he focuses on other repairs and replacements. But does he want to check on his throat while Sans is awake enough to be distressed about it...?]
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Papyrus seems to be examining his wheel repairs, though, so:] Looks wheel-y good, bro.
small text, small voice, shhh
Thanks! But if you're impressed now, just wait. For! I plan! To swap out for one of my cool and improved arms. [The more muscular ones, that he's been nitpicking the design of for months, reluctant to really detach things. Given that one of his original hands is too rusty to safely use again... No sense being precious about them, anymore.]
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You think so?? [He runs his hand (singular) through the cables, testing how well they bend or sway with the motion.] Still don't know why, wearing a helmet... made robot hair? [Maybe there's a pun about helmet hair and static electricity in there somewhere, but nothing that flows well enough to be a plausible explanation for the timing of this change.] Styling it... won't be like the movies. But! I'm sure I can figure... something out.
[They're more like braids or locs than strands of hair, so far. And that's not something he can easily change - they grew from his skull, or maybe through it, to connect to the helmet. He can try splicing them into smaller casings, but he's not about to go adding to the places they emerge from. Not while he's got some skull left.]
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It's not the same as blowing in the wind as he drives (speaking of, his driver's test is just around the corner), but it's an exciting thought just like that! Enough to be worth asking the experts. Are there any monster hairdressers, in the sense of hairdressers who specializing in figuring out style options for monsters...? He sets a low priority background search running, the better to check out the options once there's a list compiled.]
Thanks, for the great idea! And. As great a distraction, as this all is. [He makes a throat-clearing noise, one that's both grittier and more static than usual.] This is... distracting me, from some important repairs. So! Hair will have to wait.
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[Ha. But really, he'll shut up.]
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No, don't... Don't go anywhere! [Not that it actually looks like Sans is getting up to leave, given the way he's just huddling up into a floor lump. It's not much better, with its one benefit that Papyrus can see if anything gets worse. The helicopter takes to the air almost before he directs it to, the better to perch up somewhere to keep watch. For Papyrus's part, he grimaces with the discomfort of being earnest.]
I'm... I was using you, as an excuse. For dragging my feet. [What feet, one might ask, which makes it a pun with layers. Matching the hair pun, trying to pull things back to levity.] If I didn't need, to check my neck... [His voice is returning, but is it repairing correctly?]
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