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[ribticklers]

INBOX text / audio / action username: sans
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December 25th

[spaghettimonster]

[Sometime in the last couple days before Christmas, when Sans is out of the house, a gift-wrapped box appears in the Undertale fridge with a card reading FOR SANS - OPEN CHRISTMAS MORNING

The attentive nose would catch a whiff of something reminiscent of hot dogs, and for very good reason - it's an experimental cold hot dog pie whipped up by master chef Papyrus!! It may or may not be to Sans's taste. Fortunately, there's also a gift-wrapped book under the tree of a cook book for far less experimental pies, as prepared with the "modern" techniques available in Santa Rosita.]

text

[undiagnosed]

i'm going to carbonate mayo
they have soda streamers ray!!!

[ribticklers]

wrong number
but keep talking
i'm interested

[undiagnosed]

who

[ribticklers]

sans
you?

[undiagnosed]

archer
why do you even want to know this
side note: never tell anyone about this

[ribticklers]

why wouldn't i want to know about carbonated mayo
think of the possibilities

[As far as not telling anyone, no promises.]

[undiagnosed]

yeah actually i was gonna swap it out with ray's actual mayo

[ribticklers]

consider one of those giant tubs of mayo
and multiple people's hosues

[undiagnosed]

Go on

[ribticklers]

you just gotta see how many people's mayo you can replace
maybe the toothpaste too
that's usually white

[undiagnosed]

Too much effort
Unless you pay me

[ribticklers]

damn
boring

Backdated: rescue day

[spaghettimonster]

[Rescue is an undeniably good thing, Papyrus reminds himself through the escape back to Loomis Drive. Even when he's aching in ways that the healing power of time... might not mend. Or when he's jumping at shadows and strange sounds through the tunnels, with Sans pausing and pointedly avoiding certain areas.

Or when they finally emerge into the light of day, the brightness leaving his eyes watering... with tears stinging from salt in the rawness of his face, and the renewed realization he can't wipe them off. Thankfully nobody can see them, especially if he turns his face up to the sun and lets it dry them while he pretends just to be glad to see the sky again.

As he recovers and they continue, the city looks the same as it had, however many days before. (Papyrus doesn't ask how many days it's been, and Sans doesn't offer the information. Acknowledging things like that... not yet. Not yet.)]

S-so... I don't think I asked. Where to? Do we have some, fortified base, to lay up in? Ringed with puzzles, and traps...?

[ribticklers]

[Sans is undoubtedly relieved once they're outside, and that relief grows the farther they get from the elementary school and its worst secret laboratory basement ever (seriously, Alphys's doesn't even come close). Still, his tension doesn't leave him entirely; there's a stiffness in his shoulders and a sharpness to his senses that remains, and some part of him is still expecting something to jump out at them. As lazy as Sans is with traps and puzzles and all the trappings (heh) of his old sentry job, for once, he thinks it might be a good idea. But--]

Nope. Just my place. [He can only provide his house on Loomis Drive. He'd think to ask if Papyrus wanted to go back to his own house under different circumstances, but right now it doesn't even enter his mind as an option.] But we can make some traps in the living room if you want. [Look at that, Sans is even offering to help.]

[spaghettimonster]

[A faint 'oh' escapes Papyrus's mouth with Sans's first clarification, the answer something of a disappointment, and he looks around with renewed foreboding. Sayori was taken just as much as Papyrus and Kiara were, so there's nothing about Sans's home that makes it safe... yet, as Sans makes that offer, it sounds a better idea than going back to the Knochenmus home.]

Living room traps... I'm sure that couldn't hurt. [He nods slowly, building up a little enthusiasm as he goes.] Window locks, didn't do the trick. B-but I hadn't put traps in the house.

[Even if they're not effective at warding away mysterious home intruders, there's something to be said for the comfort of building puzzles and knowing his brother's around.]

[ribticklers]

[That disappointment is noted, but Sans kind of expected that. Or, rather, Sans already kind of thinks anything he had to offer in terms of making Papyrus feel safer is disappointing, because--well, he's not going to get into that right now. Better to focus on how he does seem interested in the whole trap idea.]

We should probably hold off on messin' with electrical stuff, but other'n that, we can make whatever you want. [This offer is a pretty good indication of Sans feeling guilty about the situation, even though it's not like Sans could even have done anything, because letting Papyrus come up with puzzle ideas is just asking for something complex and time-consuming. The only reason he's even saying to hold off on the electricity is that he's not sure how much Papyrus actually knows about how human houses are wired (Sans definitely doesn't know), and learning via getting hurt seems like the worst possible option right now.]

[spaghettimonster]

No electrical...? [Papyrus mulls it over with some skepticism, finger absentmindedly reaching up to scratch his chin. He stops just short of the mask when another pang reminds him of it, then drops hand to his side with a nod instead.] Yeah... Yeah, that's for the best. Security measure that turns off, with a simple power outage? That's no security.

[Not that there's city-smothering snowstorms going on right now, but it's easy to imagine something else taking those power lines down. Strong winds. Rampaging bulls. Construction vehicles run amok.

Kidnappers going in with wire cutters.] Maybe something... with tripwires... [Even as he speaks, it seems overly ambitious. All he really wants to do, this moment, is take a long bath and sleep. He can't even find it in himself to be outraged by the feeling.]

[ribticklers]

[Sans hates hearing Papyrus so subdued. Sans is sure he'd be feeling a hundred times worse in the same situation, but even so, Papyrus should be energetic and excited. That's how Papyrus is! There's a simmering anger at whoever did this that's only growing, but he can't actually do anything about that.] I stuffed the Christmas lights up in the attic somewhere, we could use those. [Some of them are probably still up, actually, but there were a lot of lights involved in that decoration fight. Sans is mostly suggesting it because those are ridiculously noticeable and would therefore make for terrible tripwires, and maybe that will spark some annoyance from Papyrus.]

[spaghettimonster]

[If nothing else, decades of knowing him have certainly given Sans some insight into ways to rile his brother - or at least bait for luring him into their usual bantering patterns. Papyrus scoffs and turns to frown at Sans as they walk, though his face remains obscured by the expressionless mask, and he's still speaking slower than usual in an attempt to minimize the pain of it.]

Hey, weren't we... not using electricity? Unless, you just mean, as unlit wires. Which is... a big waste of good lights. [Honestly, Sans, have a little appreciation for those lights. Decorative, defensive against random light-fearing weirdos...]

[ribticklers]

Just as wires. [Sans's grin widens when Papyrus turns to look at him, even with that mask--he's gotten a response, and he can work with this. Even if it's stupid. Especially because it's stupid.] You tie it to the couch and I'll lay on it to make sure the couch doesn't go anywhere. [This does not address the other side of the wire and also it's dumb.]

[spaghettimonster]

What...? [The mask does nothing to restrict Papyrus's expressiveness with his hands, and he raises both in a helpless shrug as his mind races to try to make sense of what his brother's saying.] Why are we trapping the couch, Sans? The whole point, is stopping mysterious doctor kidnappers? Not the couch, which is... already at home??

[The mask, he's finding, is only so flexible - which means it only really lets his jaw open so far before stitches and muscles tug and everything throbs even more. So rather than raise his voice to its usual volumes, he gestures further bafflement at Sans.]

[ribticklers]

Okay, so we put the couch in front of the door first. [That would actually block the door, but it makes the wires useless. Also, Sayori and Lorna still need to use that door, probably. But wire trapping it wouldn't make it easier for them anyway.] And I can still sit it to weigh it down.

[spaghettimonster]

That... the problem... [He stumbles a little on the word, the p and b and m all more difficult for his lips when bunched up like that.] It isn't the couch, brother. We can bolt down a couch. It's...

[Papyrus can already feel himself getting low on breath, and he's barely gotten worked up. Little exercise and little food, catching up to him again. He hisses annoyance between gritted teeth, slows down to try to subtly catch his breath again.]

Surgeons. You know, doctors. We need... [To not get that close to the real problems, when they're still out in the open where people can see his face. He scrabbles for a more bantering sentiment, and settles on:] We need to get some apples.

February 16 mid-afternoon

[spaghettimonster]

[When Papyrus woke the next day, it was in a different place than expected - but in a good way, with warm soft blankets (clean!) on a bed instead of cold bars and limited mobility. The aches and pains multiplied overnight, as he was finally sleeping in a different position, but the sunlight out the window (a few hours after dawn) made up for in a lot of ways.

Try as he might, Papyrus was still moving slowly. Offered to make soup or something, chatting - slowly - with the people around the house. Maybe insisting on an outing to Daybreak's hospice setup, to bring some food and check on everyone's recoveries, before ducking out again. Sans, likely following along the whole while, with that watchful slouch of concern neither comments on.

Eventually, Papyrus has his wrist radio back and some relative privacy, to check what sorts of worried messages people might have been sending over the last... several days. (He might have started to check first thing, heard the start of Sans's story - and immediately stopped it, to listen to later.)

He'd be lying if he said he didn't cry a bit listening to his brother's rambling stories, the way they got more tired and worried with each night - good thing that's all taken care of. No sense dwelling on that helpless fear, when they can focus on proactive things like littering the yard with apples, and other more dangerous traps. And to avoid lying, he just doesn't say anything about any tears or followup washing that came with them. A keen listener might notice his voice being a bit choked up, when he calls back, but why would anybody be reading that much into the tones of such a cool skeleton, anyway.]

Hi Sans - I got your stories. The recordings. Uhhh... I couldn't hear them, at the time, but. I hear them now, so that's like I heard them then. Incredible, the marvels of outdated technology.

...I appreciate them! And. You telling them. That... I'm glad you all found us.

...But! Uhh. Outside any nostalgic tears I'm not crying. Just so you know. Those stories could use, a little improvement? For one... you got the voices all wrong! For two. Do you even remember, how the story goes?? Here, let me tell you, it's more like this:

[It's been more than enough times, over the years - he has it memorized. Stumbles on a couple points, still adjusting to his face, but nothing that anybody needs to comment on.]