Chapter Text
The smile on his face strains as he carefully plucks off each of the sticky notes, laying them on the counter to be dealt with later.
He… He doesn’t know why he was doing this.
Sentimentality? Respect? Honoring the closest thing to a final wish his little brother had?
The last one stings a little harder than the rest, and he retreats to the couch. It feels baren with its empty other side.
It’s a tragedy, plain and simple. Papyrus may still be alive right now, but he’s certain it isn’t for long. No one makes it out of a fight with that human— or whatever it is. And there’s no convincing Pap out of something he’s already set his mind too.
There’s nothing he can do about it.
Sans curls up on the couch, holding the sock close to his sternum. Maybe he’s wrong— if anyone could convince that thing it’s his brother. Maybe the door will swing open any minute now and Pap will waltz through, yamming about how he was right and Sans was wrong and the entire ordeal has been dealt with by his wonderful self.
Or maybe not.
Either way, Sans is exaughsted. There’s a genocide outside and honestly, he’d just rather take a nap than feel anything about it or his late brother or the evacuation thing.
So he does.