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Papyrus frowns, metal fingers drumming on the door frame as he takes this in. Very definitely not spam, then. Something that seems to have been concerned for Sans, and explaining - without prompting? - how they got the number.

"Well... Okay, that does sound a little like, something I could have done, while unconscious," He admits, then considers and rephrases. "Semi-conscious. Did you... answer them? Not that I need the answer!"

Really, he doesn't need it - it's plain that Sans isn't okay, after all. The dim light of the hall is enough to make his brother look spooky, but between the glow and his eyes adjusting, Papyrus can see that tired expression. He's a little curious whether Sans answered, but doubts it.

"It's only, maybe I can figure out who it was," he explains. "And... erase the number, from their message history?" That would be more hacking than he wants to do right now, more than he usually admits to being able to try doing (because people complain). But it should ensure there won't be annoying followup texts... as long as they didn't back the number up anywhere. He can try. It's something to do to help, that isn't turning back time or rebuilding his skull or anything.

"Nah," Sans says in regards to answering the text. He'd asked who they were, had gotten a response about them having gotten the number from Papyrus, and hadn't said anything after that. "I can give you the number, though."

He didn't delete the messages. Considered it, but ultimately hadn't bothered. Not that he remembers the number at the moment, or even if it was an actual number or something restricted. Normally he'd be better about that, but his memory of the past week is pretty foggy.

Sans is still just standing like a statue in the hallway. He doesn't really know how else to act.

"Please do," Papyrus says quickly, then reconsiders. "Later. I need to, well..."

He can't pick one thing to say, because there's a lot he needs to do. Figure out where his phone is - or isn't. Whether he needs to buy a new one, or if he... just doesn't need one, anymore, like he has a sinking feeling is the case.

But more immediately, he needs to do something about Sans's stunned stillness. He keeps a hand to the wall as a balancing aid, and takes a few steps down the hall towards his brother, watchful for spooked wariness or other signs that Sans is going to bolt. He remembers that being in a haunted house was more enjoyable when someone was around to find and translate for the ghost. Being haunted by one's recently seemingly-dead sibling must have been worse. And this not so long after they'd actually talked about so many things...

"...I could look around, make sure I unhaunted the house all the way?" The offer is unsure. He wants to reassure Sans that he's back, and it's better, and it's really him. He wants to reassure himself that, too.

Sans shows no signs of bolting, at least, though he also shows no signs of moving in general. Only his eyelights move, all of them tracking Papyrus's wobbly motion.

"Yeah, sure. You feeling okay? D'you need food or something?" Sans asks, though it might just be how Papyrus's body has changed that's throwing him off. Still, it's technically been a week since Papyrus has eaten, right? Sans isn't really sure how that works in this situation.

The question of food hadn't occurred to him yet, and his tentative steps come to a halt as he considers. He doesn't feel hungry, or tired... Despite spending the last week in some sort of consciousness, trying to consume all the power he could grasp.

"I don't need to charge," Papyrus concludes first, voice going dry. "Not when, uh, I charged enough to knock the power out! Sorry about that." Not that he actually expects Sans to mind the power outage, especially not for the purpose of keeping him going, but it's polite to say so.

"But I could... try to eat." He could have said I could eat, but. He really doesn't know if that's the case now. Not when...not when his bones are all dust, and there's nothing that needs the calcium anymore. It's worth a shot, anyway, in case something like the shock of reforming his body is preventing him from noticing.

None of this feels entirely real. Sans moves, finally, to scrub at his face. Papyrus might not feel tired, but Sans definitely does. He's feeling a lot of other things, too, that he doesn't know what to do with. Papyrus says he'll try to eat, and Sans realizes that he doesn't know if Papyrus even can now. Sans can't see any bone, but that doesn't necessarily mean anything one way or the other.

"Meet you in the kitchen," he says finally, and vanishes. The brief time alone gives him a moment to try and sort himself out as far as acting more normal goes, but he still feels very off-balance.

It's a few minutes before Papyrus makes his way downstairs. If there's eyes in the hallway, they might catch Papyrus immediately sagging against the wall after Sans leaves. It's one of dropping a mask, of relief to have found his brother so quickly, and weariness with worries what else might have changed. He stiffens self-consciously only a few seconds later, glancing around the hallway for signs of new eyes, then makes his way back into his room with a hand on the wall for extra support. A couple minutes, and he emerges again in shorts, skeleton t-shirt, and a spare pair of gloves.

The footsteps down the staircase aren't as unsteady as his hand on the wall and railing might imply, but they're heavier and thus louder than usual - the week without moving around makes everything unfamiliar, and well. Maybe his body is denser, now.

Papyrus glances around everywhere as he goes, checking for signs of changes and stagnation. Some mess, but less than he might have expected, even with the sense that Sans wasn't out here much. Had someone been cleaning...? He pauses in front of the television to look for signs of a lingering digital ghost, but the only Papyrus there is his own reflection on the screen, despite everything.

Finally he reaches the kitchen, continuing his survey of the house's status. The power's out, still, and he suddenly remembers this puts the food in jeopardy. "Hey, uh... Do we have a lot of perishables? Maybe I should go, get the generator on. Not for me, for the food." If there is much food left, if Sans didn't empty the fridge again today.

Sans can see Papyrus nearly the entire time he walks to the kitchen, except for the time Papyrus is in his room, but he tries not to focus on that too much. It's impossible to put it completely out of his head, and not just because he can't turn off his eyes; it's hard to stop himself from confirming Papyrus is alive and moving around again. Looking different, but acting like Papyrus.

Sans is sitting in his usual spot in the kitchen when Papyrus asks about the food. He looks up from the kitchen table and then over at the refrigerator.

"You've still got stuff in there." Sans went through his side, but hadn't really touched Papyrus's, even thinking Papyrus was dead. Of course, a lot of that stuff has battery acid in it, but even the acid-free products are still there.

Good to know, even though it isn't an answer to his question. Papyrus glances back down the hall, reluctant, then decides the generator can wait a few minutes - or an hour.

"I'm glad you didn't eat my stuff," he says instead, with a ghost of a snort. It would have been pretty terrible to return from the dead only to find Sans dead in his place, having eaten acid or worse. He shivers the morbid thought off, and focuses on the relief that Sans had stuck around through this week. "What about your stuff? Is this a family meal, or..."

There's a prodding to his voice, and he's not sure he'd apologize even if called on it. If no, it's not like this would be the first time Sans has just sat and watched him eat, the focus on verifying Papyrus's health. But... the idea of doing so now drives home the experiment of it, testing whether he's even capable of eating anymore. Not much of a welcome home.

"I haven't gone grocery shopping in a while," Sans says, shrugging a little. Not since Papyrus died. But actually-- "Think I've got takeout left."

He doesn't remember ordering the takeout, but it had arrived and he'd eaten it anyway. Which does mean he has something in the fridge, but that's all that he's got in there.

"You can have some if you want, but I don't think you'll like it." Since it's food Sans orders semi-regularly, and therefore not exactly healthy.

Except for that shrug and slight, occasional movement of his head, Sans seems to have taken up being a statue again.

It's not a good sign, that stillness. Is it from lying around doing nothing all week, Sans's own version of no longer being used to moving?

...Or, maybe, is it careful watchfulness? Some unspoken distrust about Papyrus being who he says he is, alert for anything that will give him away...?

"Maybe I should, just to test if my tastes have changed," he risks saying, like he's daring his brother to contradict him. "Not that I was asking for me, anyway!"

Papyrus suggesting a test does get a raised eyebrow--or raised brow ridge, at least--out of Sans, though since Papyrus is using the no arguments allowed tone, Sans doesn't actually say anything. It's hard for Sans to imagine Papyrus's tastes having changed that much, but if he's all robot now, maybe he doesn't even have taste buds, in which case...

"I'm not gonna stop you, as long as I can watch." You know, to see the look on Papyrus's face if his tastes haven't changed. Or maybe just to stay close to Papyrus now that he's back. Whichever.

He should have expected Sans just rolling with whatever like this. Somehow, he had expected a little more pushback, or at least a little more investment in getting to eat these takeout leftovers. Maybe it's not that his brother's ability to take a hint was dusted with Papyrus's second head, but that he's seeing how far Papyrus will go with it...?

"Yeah, okay. One performance of Dining With Papyrus, coming up," he announces, not about do back down now.

The few strides to the fridge are steadier than before, he realizes once he's in front of the door. Automated locomotion once he's focused on the task, rather than second guessing his every movement, probably. Doesn't help with the looming sense of doubt in himself, but he shoves it aside again in favor of opening the fridge. A few things from his side, and then whatever takeout containers are in sight, all transferred to the counter before the door is thoroughly closed again.

While he could just bring them all back to the table... presentation is important. He grabs two plates reflexively, pauses to consider, then puts them both down. The better to sort machine-only and things either of them could eat - could have eaten before, at least.

Sans watches as Papyrus brings out plates. Sans hasn't been using plates much this week, so there's plenty to use. Of course, they are a little low on clean utensils. It seems like Papyrus is moving more steadily, which is good. Soon enough Sans is going to get used to how Papyrus looks, and then they can just--go on, he guesses. Not think about this again.

When he's sure Papyrus can't see him, Sans looks at Papyrus's neck. Making sure it's solidly attached. He knows the impulse is stupid, but he can't ignore it.

Not only is his neck attached, but it may be more solidly attached than ever before. A couple of vertebrae - those previously severed, where his scar had lingered even through the transformation - are thicker than the rest. Extra reinforced, exchanging a little flexibility for stability.

The back and side of his head shows similar changes - a cover for the temple port that properly blends in, and thicker plating in the parts of his skull previously damaged in the cave. Unconscious design choices to be a little less vulnerable.

In the conscious world, Papyrus is unaware of the observation, portioning food out on the plates. Large enough servings that the overall spread would satisfy even if he were ravenous... Even though standing over the food hasn't awoken any particular sense of hunger, yet. Maybe because the food's just out of the fridge, and it's nearly all meant to be heated. He refuses to dwell on it, scavenging what few utensils he can with a sigh at them, and brings the plates to the table. The containers he leaves on the counter - no sense opening the fridge again so soon.

Definitely solidly attached. He notices the thicker vertebrae; is that the universe being ironic or did Papyrus subconsciously recreate himself like that? It probably doesn't matter, but Sans would prefer the latter. Better if Papyrus made some sort of decision, even if it wasn't one he was aware of. Thinking about changes, though...

"Hey. You've got somewhere the food can go, right? Like--a stomach, or something."

Thinking about practical stuff like that is easier than dealing with the emotional weight of the day. Of the week. He's trying to keep that tide dammed up but he's not sure if it'll hold.

Papyrus doesn't pause in the process of putting plates on the table, but only because he'd absentmindedly automated the motion. He's frowning as he finishes, and turns to blink at Sans.

"A... I don't know! This is a test."

It being a test is true. A test of taste, and a test of eating at all alike. As long as he'd still had some of his skull, he'd been able to eat about the same as ever: with a bit of focus, the food had just absorbed into his body's magic, and somehow that energy had partly converted into electricity... which he'd had to increasingly supplement with charging. Magic, calcium, and so forth had dispersed through him as needed.

But this isn't like the initial days of his transformation, when he'd been so unused to the relative strength and weight of metallic limbs that he'd accidentally damaged the floor of the hotel in a few spots. He knows his body - changed as it is. Knows the gist of what sorts of programs and functions guide his parts and let him self-assess for damage, simulating pain and so on. It's the act of a second to know he could just scan his own body to figure it out. He... could. He doesn't want to, yet. It feels too much like defeat.

Sans examines the expression on Papyrus's face, considers it. Well, if Papyrus wants to test it like this, that's fine. If Papyrus can't taste or eat anymore, that will be... Something else to deal with. At least Papyrus is alive. Papyrus is alive again.

"I didn't bring a number two pencil," Sans says, though it's rote even for him. That dam is taking more energy to maintain than he'd prefer.

"I'm not eating a pencil," Papyrus manages to bounce back, as he settles into a chair with another automated movement. Not even if he is still capable of eating things, his tone adds.

He's not sure if it's more a relief not to be challenged on his choice to test like this, or that Sans is still going through the motions of banter... or that he can hear that rote quality, giving away that they're both distressed about all of this. Misery loves company, he guesses? It both helps and hurts that they're not trying so hard to hide unhappiness from each other anymore.

"Or... Or sharpening it," he adds to build on the banter, old discomforts reasserting themselves in the face of all this change and distress. "I probably don't have a pencil sharpener..." He's not completely certain, he's realizing, another layer of the disorientation in himself. But he has something that lets him smell the food, at least.

Edited 2022-09-09 05:26 (UTC)

"You could add one in. Be like that guy in that one cartoon." This is extremely nonspecific, but Sans is referring to Inspector Gadget. With a moment's consideration for Papyrus's expression, Sans leans in to steal some of the takeout with deliberate casualness. Something to break all this tension.

"Takeout's still good, you're safe from poisoning." He's talking with his mouth full, of course.

Papyrus makes an amused noise despite himself, at the reassurance and the mouth sounds alike. Annoying, but all the more grounding and reassuring for it - though, is grounding good for him, if he's basically electricity now..?

"Phew, that concern was weighing on my mind," he says instead. "Thanks for taking the poison tester position! I barely uploaded the listing, and already it's filled, wow."

He could continue the bantering bullshit, but it probably won't boost his morale more than it already is, so he grabs a fry from the takeout plate. An experimental sniff isn't promising - the scent seems faint, maybe because of the cold. Taking a bite of it... he's able to, and does so without a hitch. Swallowing it doesn't hurt, so he's sure it's not drop into his circuitry anywhere, and it's probably going to digest properly. That's something.

"Hmmm... Okay, my taste for fries hasn't gotten any tastier," he notes, expression going pensive. "It seems... a little bland. Is this bland to you?"

Sans takes a haphazard bunch of fries and stuffs them into his mouth. Tastes like fries. Cold fries, but as salty as he expected. "Nah. Tastes like regular cold fries. Should be extra salt on these." Otherwise Sans's own magical tastebuds don't pick up on it well, but he's been like that as long as he can remember.

"I am picking up salt..." Papyrus agrees, still pensive. He wouldn't have guessed extra salt. And the potato and oil parts of the flavor aren't standing out as much as they should. Not as much as they would have, before.

"...Well, regular cold fries aren't a Papyrus staple anyway, so who cares!" If he says this while caring a visible amount, he's still able to limit the processing he puts on that thought, and force most of his focus on the next food experiment. Something from the robot side of things... One of those battery acid tarts, so it's a mix of food-food and Papyrus-food. An experiment sniff reveals that its scent is stronger, but it is meant to be eaten cold, so maybe the cold hasn't weakened its food power or anything.

"Guess I'll have to take care of these." Sans can't steal the tarts, so he settles for working on the remaining fries instead. He's gone out once for dream-food, but that doesn't mean he's completely gotten over having gone without for almost an entire week.

"You're welcome to them," Papyrus says, magnanimous in returning Sans's food to him, triumphant in having nudged his brother into sharing a meal. He considers the tart a little longer - this was the batch he'd drizzled with a little motor oil, having some idea that oil being good for machinery made it a great choice for a healthy visual contrast. Alas, the oil's smeared a bit and bled into the tart filling over the... the week and a day since he made them, so the effect is a little spoiled.

...It still smells more appetizing than the cold fries, and a bite confirms it tastes better, too. Maybe the crust is bland, from being in the fridge a week, but the filling and topping are energizing and tasty alike, for all he'd be hard-pressed to describe these flavors to anyone else.

"I will... have to make another batch of these," he decides, taking a second bite. "So far it's home-cooking one, takeout zero!"

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ribticklers - 2022-09-10 20:53 (UTC) - Expand

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spaghettimonster - 2022-09-10 23:27 (UTC) - Expand

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the power of the night flows through me

sanssweep: the true power bringing electricity back to the canyon, or our hearts

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good thing I have all these food icons

it's important to have his essential icons

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