[It's easiest to start the water and muffle the world outside as the room starts filling with steam. Distantly Papyrus can hear the ongoing motion as Sans shuffles about, but there's no haste or alarm in the sounds, so strange as his brother's mystery labors are, he has other things to focus on.
His pajama top isn't stuck to his sides, an almost pleasant surprise as he removes it - but it's pretty quickly clear, that's only thanks to running around dodging mannequins. There's too much caked blood in common places, between his sides and shirt, and fresh blood in the places most sharply throbbing - torn loose in all the movement, probably.
And in the further inspection... There's the strange soft indentations up and down his ribcage, the places where there simply... aren't ribs, anymore. The long lines of stitches, plainly holding skin together as much as any shirt needs the thread to stay intact. The... other stitches, along the edges of his face, where even a breeze hurts. The impression of white in the mirror at the side of his eyesight as he passes it, and stops to stare into it.
...He'd thought Sans's injury from the zombies had been bad.
...No wonder Kiara seemed confident he could survive losing some ribs, if he's holding it together like this.
...He'd just gotten used to his face.
Within a minute, he abandons the mirror for the hot water, which stings worse than just about anything he's known, but at least he can pretend the pain's not from crying. It's harder to muffle his sobs when he can't get a hand over his mouth itself, can't bite on the nearest towel or anything, but he does his best.]
cw: post-surgery fun
His pajama top isn't stuck to his sides, an almost pleasant surprise as he removes it - but it's pretty quickly clear, that's only thanks to running around dodging mannequins. There's too much caked blood in common places, between his sides and shirt, and fresh blood in the places most sharply throbbing - torn loose in all the movement, probably.
And in the further inspection... There's the strange soft indentations up and down his ribcage, the places where there simply... aren't ribs, anymore. The long lines of stitches, plainly holding skin together as much as any shirt needs the thread to stay intact. The... other stitches, along the edges of his face, where even a breeze hurts. The impression of white in the mirror at the side of his eyesight as he passes it, and stops to stare into it.
...He'd thought Sans's injury from the zombies had been bad.
...No wonder Kiara seemed confident he could survive losing some ribs, if he's holding it together like this.
...He'd just gotten used to his face.
Within a minute, he abandons the mirror for the hot water, which stings worse than just about anything he's known, but at least he can pretend the pain's not from crying. It's harder to muffle his sobs when he can't get a hand over his mouth itself, can't bite on the nearest towel or anything, but he does his best.]