Short and timid. That's what the tiny spider demon who met with Alastor was, by all accounts. She was a short little thing, with perky pink hair and a distant stink of the lust ring to her. Twin pigtails single-handedly hold her outfit together, with a very parallel design carrying it further into acceptable fashion. Even if her clothing were, as many people in hell would describe it, whorish.

"Not many people commission human bodies from us for anything other than sex, so... so it was a bit of a, uh, weird request." Her hands slithered against one another, all six of them. Back and forth like a twisting pile of snakes that couldn't dare to rest, even for a single second.

"Not many sinners have many options for commissioning human bodies, dear!" Alastor said, swirling his cane. "Did you keep it as close to the original as possible? I would like to look like myself after all."

Human disguises were disgustingly easy for lesser demons to get ahold of, but those not born into hell had... far more difficulty. Bound to one ring only allowed them to access finite resources, and they didn't have the innate talent to simply change themselves. A natural order meant to deter them from the land they once roamed, to remember that their punishment was eternal and damning.

Alastor was always a sneaky little thing. He knew how to access resources.

Charlie was a simpleton. Had her own bountiful powers but couldn't bestow human disguises upon others. Her father would never help Alastor. A glaring sign that he should regret his choices that led to their hostile acquaintanceship, but Alastor would do the same if he had the chance to start over. Lucifer didn't deserve the power he was given, frankly.

Sadly, that meant his own sources to try and find access to a human disguise were for naught. Most of his usual contacts found themselves scarce of such interests, Alastor had learned. A troublesome predicament solved suddenly when Angel Dust and Husk had swept past him in the lobby, bickering over some random topic.

Porn stars were often in contact with succubi. And succubi were the leading demons in human disguises. All it took was one request for Angel Dust to connect him with someone who could procure a replication of his previous existence, Alastor had promised, and Husk would get a whole month of freedom for them to do whatever they pleased out of the hotel. No binding contract to keep him locked behind that bar. Sure enough, not even a full day had passed before Angel Dust and Husk slapped a card for an expert human body replicator before they pranced away to do whatever sexual deviants did.

Sex, probably.

And there he was, finally reaping the rewards of his minimal effort. The small spider demon whose name he never asked for led him forward, into a small, almost closet-like room with a dangling, widespread light. Under the violet illumination sat a bundle of glow, wisp tangles within a glass ball on a necklace.

"Once we make a few adjustments, we'll release the body for you to use," She whispered tenderly, her voice small and minuscule as she handed him the cold metal. "This is just the wearing phase, to make sure everything fits. Then you'll be the sole owner of the body. It should come naturally to you since you're a sinner."

"Release the body? So it's not like Asmodeus' crystals."

"No, not really... we just give you the power after designing the suit, and then you can do it whenever you want."

Alastor's ability to travel up to Earth came from a crystal firmly lodged into his stomach, not something intrinsically tied to him. Not like his shadow powers, or his puppets, or that innate ability for him to draw up and yank Husk's chain whenever he felt like it. He had assumed fake bodies would be in the same vein as the crystals, as they were both under the same rule of the lust ring, though he supposed they did fall under different criteria to use.

(And the lust rings confirmation of sending succubus folk up to the surface always did spur him on with questions. It made Alastor wonder if any of the people he stumbled into at the dead of night, their blouses low or their pants bulging, were not human at all. And he simply chalked them up to being late-night hookers or sleazy men. How many were secretly demon-born, roaming the earth, looking to tempt unsuspecting humans into hell with sweet words and soft caresses?)

(It's a thought he always pondered, and one he'd never quite shake off.)

The chain blistered against his skin as the magic sprung forth, wrapping around him like a weighted blanket. Ah. So that was what a human disguise felt like. Not changing his true form, just... stuffing it into a different container. Odd. Funny, even. He wondered if he tore at his skin, it'd reveal the monster underneath.

Though he supposed Alastor had always been a monster beneath his skin. With or without his demon form to aid in his twisted sense of entertainment.

The lust demon scampered towards a mirror in the corner, her tail coiled around her leg as she turned the mirror towards him. Brown, plumpened eyes bore back at Alastor. Familiar.

Ah. Alastor almost forgot what he looked like.

Slick brown hair he always meticulously straightened out to rid himself of those damn curls that further set him apart from the whiter folk. A fact that haunted him after hell: his hair turned naturally straight and rid of its charm, which his mother always insisted it had. Brown-tinted skin. Straight, smooth fingers with fingernails evenly trimmed. Alastor's body was wearing the suit he had been wearing before he died, all ironed and tucked in. There were glasses on the rim of his slightly crooked nose, round and thin.

It's him. Despite everything he'd gone through, through death and eternal damnation, it's still him.

The spider demon crowded about, poking and prodding at his newly formed body. She muttered to herself, a useless storm of nothing in particular, as she clattered around him, just like a little insect would. "Any discomfort?"

"No, it's quite snug! Very well fitting. You're very good at your craft, madam."

The spider blushed, twirling a piece of hair around one of her fingers. "Thank you."

"Of course, darling! Good work, you're very talented."

Compliments kept the world turning, kept people he needed for later positively tucked into his pocket. And Alastor knew he just added another to his collection, the woman stuttering and spinning a hair further, twisting and twisting until it firmly wrapped itself around her finger.

Soon, the second half of the payment was handled, and Alastor let the bundle of whispering transformation power slip into his own, as if it always belonged there.

He could turn into himself again. Not the spiritual version of himself, all red and grey with teeth yellow and sharp. Himself. The body he grew up in, the only body he thought he'd ever have.

It was a nice thought to linger on.

Looking at Alastor in the flesh, real living, breathing flesh, was a new experience Sans never processed he would live until that very morning. On a Saturday morning, no less, the type of morning where anxious 9-5 workers would roam out and try to rapidly fill in their need for fun activities before work dragged them back, miserable and strained.

When Alastor showed up that morning, on the rare occasion Sans woke up at a completely normal time and didn't linger in bed on his phone rotting for thirty minutes. Alastor was in that new 'skin suit,' as the man eagerly called it.

And yeah. It's him. In the flesh. Real, tangible, breathing, living flesh.

Both forms felt like Alastor in entirety. Both encapsulating him as his existence saw fit. While his demon form was more like his evolved form, this was quieter. Tamer. The sweet scent of the flytrap Alastor was previously. Sans knew, logically, this was the same demon who was haunting him. The very same man he researched forever ago, tucked away into a spare file on his laptop that Alastor despised with a passion. The same face that walked on earth ages ago.

He couldn't help but feel that both were different parts of him, though. As if this was simply a face to be used for more devious purposes.

"Huh," Sans piped up.

"I went through all of the effort of restoring my body, and that's the response I get? 'Huh'?" Alastor pitched up his voice, making it sickly childish and whiny as he mocked Sans. His cane was gone too, Sans noticed quickly, along with that radio filter, making room for a honeyed voice. The man was dressed in a bit outdated but completely normal and casual clothes. A nice bowtie and button-up top with ironed-out dress pants. By every single account, he looked human. A bit retro, sure, but still entirely human. Like some guy fished out an old suit his father had once upon a time and wore it around town.

"Oh, excuse me, let me try again." Sans made a show of fluttering eyelashes he didn't have and pressed the back of his hand against his forehead. Cold to the touch. "Oh, Alastor, you're making me swoon. My knees are so weak, your face is so blinding that I may very well die."

"Your acting simply is something to behold, Comic Sans." Alastor said. His teeth were straight and white, but Sans knew there was a sharpness to them regardless. "Something indeed. Not good, but something."

"I can only do as good as the materials given to me let me."

Sans reached up and swept aside some of Alastor's bangs. Soft and fluffy, the same kind as his normal demon form. Good to see some stuff stayed the same.

The now human-looking man leaned forward, his brown glasses positively primal. "Why don't we go around town today? As I recall, you promised little ol' me a trip around memory lane. I'm very much passable as a human now, and I'm sure you'd like to have me out and about and get some practice in before your brother's wedding."

"Hm. I dunno. I like sitting inside all day and rotting away the days," Sans said, lightly elbowing him toward the door. "I'll go put on my shoes."

Alastor laughed. The kind of laugh that made Sans' insides go a little warm and his smile uptick. Hearty and full, and genuine. Sans thought it was the laugh Alastor only reserved for himself, Alastor's mother, and some poor fucker who was getting torn to pieces.

It took Sans a moment, fumbling with laces that he despised, before he stepped out into the humid heat of fall. The weather began to close into late autumn, yet New Orleans was as hot as it could come. And more crowded too, since Halloween was creeping closer with every passing day, and apparently this was the place for haunted shit. Guess the town had history with serial killers or hauntings or something.

Who would've guessed.

As Sans watched Alastor close the door, an uptick of wind picking up on his porch, he wondered how much of that history came from Alastor. The town that birthed one of the most dangerous serial killers in the twentieth century. That kind of presence, even after death, had to feel good. To be able to look around a town, shaken by your actions almost one hundred years ago, and know that you left a horrifying legacy. He wondered if that's part of the reason he wants to go around town. Nostalgia was strong and gripping, but Alastor wasn't easily swayed by it. If he was, then he would have forsaken Sans to explore Earth instead of stubbornly clinging to his side.

Fuck Alastor for being handsome in his human form. Then again, the man wouldn't have gotten away with literal murder if he didn't have physical charm going for him. Sans could imagine Alastor back then, his breath lightly stinking of alcohol while he sweet-talked away police that questioned the only colored radio host of that entire town. A face as beautiful as poison and words as honeyed as his brown, nearing hazel eyes. Weapons of destruction lost to this town through time, that would roam the streets again, unknown of the horrors that they wielded long ago.

Now that Alastor had his face, Sans supposed he could snap a photo and send it to Papyrus, along with links to Alastor's old hideous deeds and his old photos. But Sans wouldn't. Any moment up until now he could have simply taken a photo and shook it in his brother's face, the ringing of "I told you so" coming from his mouth, singing and victorious. That'd ruin the fun, though. As much as it annoyed him that his brother and friends simply didn't believe him, it'd annoy him more to have to supply them proof.

They'd figure it out eventually anyways. Death came for everyone, no matter how lovely and sweet. One day, they'd know. That was a guarantee.

"I swear, you're my personal mosquito repellent. It's so fucking amazing." Sans chuckled, his hands resting comfortably in his pants pockets as he led Alastor down the gravel parking lot-made driveway. Seeing Alastor's cocked eyebrow, Sans couldn't help but let out a giddy laugh. "Ever notice how there's no animals here? Or bugs? They steer clear of the place, bud. And you."

"Ah, I did notice that, though I just assumed global warming had picked off the ample populations of those animals and bugs."

With this newfound knowledge in hand, Alastor took a moment to sweep his gaze across Sans' ample front yard. Considering that his true exploration of Earth had been Sans' house and small chunks of the forest relatively close to his house, Alastor probably hadn't figured it out quite yet. Everywhere else in town was rife with wildlife and bugs, little pesky things that crawled under his clothes and over his bones if he didn't catch them fast enough.

Sans never had that problem at home. Not when everything kept a ring around the house of distance, as if even the little bugs could sense the itching wrong that it emitted. Refusing to close in on what they assumed to be dangerous territory. And the moment he and Alastor ventured out into the woods, it continued. The gators seemed to drift away slowly. The bugs refused to dwell near.

Their bracelets jingled in an almost harmonic way as they began to descend down the slope of gravel and empty trees. Alastor was humming a tune Sans had never heard of, pleasant and sharp. Even when he didn't have his radio walking stick, he still found a way to provide Sans with music. A radio host to the end.

"Ah, I'm so excited!" Alastor exclaimed, walking in perfect tandem with Sans despite his legs being much longer. Very considerate of him. "It's been ages since I've been into town. I wonder if my old school is there, I could show you where I went to school! Or my old house. I believe it was fully burned down, but it wouldn't hurt to check. And I could show you where we used to go tap dancing for the school contest down by the river."

Alastor was akin to a little kid talking about a new show he loved watching, rambling on and on with a soft smile and glistening eyes. His hands were never still. Fluttering about in the air, as if trying to take perch in the perfect pose. It was the same kind of tone Sans could imagine the guy having when he was alive, explaining to a group of tourists the sweet luring of his beloved little town. Alastor really did adore this place, loved it so much that even death couldn't stop him. A shame the town didn't love him back.

Then again, he did slaughter a good chunk of his town, so Sans supposed it was justified.

Sans couldn't judge, either. Not when the Underground had such a tight iron grip on him, digging itself into his heart to remain in nostalgic bliss. A place his species was banished to, with no sun or sky to watch. Even if it was his prison, it was a prison he could never quite hate. The Underground had once been a lovely place for people to visit back in the day. It was the humans who banished them, not the cave's fault for housing them unwillingly.

"Well, we have an entire day, mister Alastor," Sans hummed, grasping his fingers behind his back. He swung his fists back and forth slightly as he walked, feeling a little childish fun at the events of that day. "Let's do all of them."

Since Alastor somehow still remembered the way, he took a sharp turn in the direction of town without Sans even needing to lead him. A hop to the man's step, fueled by excitement and drive. Sans almost felt like he was back Underground with Papyrus again, his little brother wearing a Halloween costume the two spent ages meticulously crafting. Paps clinging to his arm, wide-eyed and eager as he went to show everyone his cool outfit.

It was a warm memory Sans held dear. And this one sought to join it. Different parts of his heart, but gooey and fun all the same.

When they got to the outskirts of town, with the bustling sidewalk of humans roaming about, Alastor's eyes were comparable to saucepans. Blown out and wide, his fingers itching at his sides for a cane he wasn't holding. As if he wanted to swirl it around and announce his arrival, letting everyone know he was back home.

Right. Sans' home wasn't always a home. It was Alastor's old workplace, a nine-to-five job where he slaved away for a measly paycheck. It would only bring back so many memories. The town was a different story, with all sorts of reminiscing remains of his time plump for the picking. Little Alastor roamed these streets around a hundred years ago. What a thought to linger on as he watched his besties face.

"So, human guy, where you wanna go first?" Sans asked. He latched a soft grip onto Alastor's sleeve and tugged, making the man's brown eyes focus down onto him. "We could get some coffee and scones before we walk around."

Alastor jerked up suddenly, as if his back wasn't straight enough already. "What a brilliant idea, Sans! My, you do spoil me from time to time. As I deserve, of course." He marched forward, waving a hand in the air for Sans to follow. "Come along, let's go find a decent coffee shop and explore. So much to see, so much to do. It will be a busy day!"

Despite not being out in public on Earth in ages, Alastor walked with confidence. Every step filled with direction. Alastor walked like a local, although he was more prim and proper than they were nowadays.

It didn't take long for them to find the local coffee shop after Sans tugged Alastor onto the right street, feeling all too smug with himself. And by the way Alastor grinned at him, sharp and unyielding; it was all over Sans' face.

"Mind you, you may know the shops, but I know the layout of the streets and where all of the fun nooks and crannies in ditches, creeks, swamps, and the old abandoned buildings down by the bay," Alastor said to Sans, his voice nothing above a whisper. "So don't test me, or I'll lead you to a covered well and leave you down there to die."

"And I'll tell everyone in hell that you secretly adore ponies and you always wanted to be a fairy princess until you were thirty-seven," Sans retorted back, lightly tugging on his bowtie to lower Alastor down to his own height. "I think we're at a standstill, so let's go get coffee."

From what Sans had been told about hell through snippets and fables Alastor gave him, hell was just earth with more red and casual bloodshed. And that held true with how easily Alastor slipped into the shop, completely casual. Sans had been hoping for some entertainment, but it seemed his luck was thin in that regard. He called the cashier darling and buttered up her dangling earrings until the ears they pierced were bright red. Sans could only watch, bewildered and a little pissed off at the very awkward conversation going on next to him.

The audacity.

"Rubies of the sun, I must say! Amazing, hun, really. All red and brilliant," Alastor hummed, and Sans swore he was going to combust in flames in ten seconds.

Alastor was being proper and kind and giving her sweet compliments. Sans assumed he probably did just the same back in the day. Alastor knew to respect a lady, but more importantly, Alastor was a serial killer. Serial killers were charismatic more often than not. Had to lure away people somehow.

And that was fine in a vacuum. It was a bit more annoying when Sans was about to foot the bill. After all, demon money wasn't a formal currency out of hell. He expected Sans to follow up that act? Already, as Alastor stepped aside, he could see the cashier giving Sans a bored, empty look. The kind that only a minimum wage employee could give after realizing she was back to normal, boring customers.

Sans didn't try to one-up Alastor. He was quite shit at flirting compared to a psychopath, so he'd rather not try and fail his way through it. Sans simply spat out his order, shooting Alastor a side glare before the woman gave their totals.

"Let me guess," Sans clipped out and stared heavily at Alastor. "I'm paying?"

The demon's eyes sharpened, and he opened his mouth before clicking it closed. Intrigued. "I believe I left my wallet at home. I'm sorry."

"Fine. Seriously, I'm getting tired of this." Sans said, his voice all dramatic as he fished his card out of his wallet. "You flirt with a cashier when I'm right here, make me foot the bill, and you barely pick up my calls. Are you ever going to tell your wife about me? I'm tired of waiting."

The cashier gaped. The customer to their left, who was on their phone, tried to subtly stare while not quite being subtle at all.

Alastor retained a giddy, life-filled smirk on his face. Radiating, almost. The kind that quietly acknowledged a game on that none other than themselves would know about.

"And I told you to give me time." Alastor swooped down and managed to lightly poke Sans' nose socket, where it just began to curve upwards. "She's a feisty woman, and I'd prefer for my lover to not be slaughtered in front of our kids. Not to mention the custody battle."

"I thought we agreed you'd leave the kids. We can always have new ones." Sans' fingers plucked at the interior of his hoodie pocket, unable to sit quite still. Every bone in his body thrummed with energy and excitement. Life.

"No offense, but I would rather avoid having one with your kind." Alastor had the gall to look Sans up and down. "Too much hassle."

"Says the guy with herpes." Sans shot back earnestly.

That's when Alastor cracked, leaning his head back just enough to look physically possible as he cackles. Sans followed Alastor into oblivion, laughing. Soon, he was pawing at his wallet as he dropped a good chunk of a tip into the tip jar for the poor girl who had to witness such a scene and thanked her for her service. They didn't bother to explain it, but they didn't need to. The cashier was all over herself in relief, and everyone soon followed suit. They'd rather believe in two friends messing around over being stuck with two lovers in a quarrel in public, after all.

When they eventually left, Alastor was holding a latte while Sans was holding a completely black coffee. No sweeteners or sugar. It tasted best that way. And the way Alastor was looking at the cup, as if it personally was the reason he was sent down to hell, it made the taste plenty sweet enough.

"Are you sure you're not a psychopath?" Alastor asked, arching an eyebrow. "Questionable coffee tastes there, my little skeleton companion."

"I like it bitter. That's where the real coffee is, you see," Sans hummed. He jostled the cup in front of Alastor's lips. "Aren't you the guy with particular tastes? Try it. It's good. They grow coffee beans locally, so it's really good."

Alastor rolled his eyes at Sans' insistent tone, yet grabbed the cup. "Sharing germs with me? I suppose I do only have herpes, after all."

"And syphilis, now that you're drinking from my cup."

Alastor smiled against the rim of the cup, and stole another sip just to prove some unknown point. Despite his wavering determination to continue the little game with Sans, he recoiled from the taste. Nose scrunched up and everything. It made Sans laugh, and he stole the drink easily.

"I can't believe you like raw meat more than this. Gross, bud." Sans said.

"Oh please, I grew up in the primal time of food. I'm sorry that your tastes are much more lazed with modern times," Alastor said, waving his arm in Sans' direction. "Though I do love how they decorated the interior. Modern times really do have some gems hidden within them, I suppose."

Sans latched onto his arm to pinch him, and Alastor quickly enacted revenge by sticking a finger into Sans' eye socket, making his eye light sputter out until Sans blinked down onto the intruding finger. Alastor snorted at the pain. Once they were done lightly bickering, they settled into a comfortable walk, with Sans' fingers latched onto the edge of Alastor's sleeve to keep pace. Or to keep him close, as if he may slip back into hell at any given second.

Most of the buildings were new, but the streets were kept the same, so Alastor began the pastime of pointing out what used to be within the town Sans resided in. A hairdresser replaced an old restaurant. A bookstore replaced an older barbershop. The town hall was torn down and built anew, with pillars Alastor swore were never there before.

"A building that was always older than me." Alastor had insisted. Left-leaning and without pillars. Oh, the man who used it for his office always did hate support beams. Thought they brought down the property value of a historic building. Silly of him, considering the entire building was torn down.

Next to nothing from his time was kept. Sans could see it in Alastor's face, the way the realization slowly dimmed the mood until he was grimacing at the overly touristy places all around town. Lost its charm.

His old home had, too, succumbed to time. Something Alastor was pointedly unsurprised by, leaving Sans to nod along and move on elsewhere.

What did remain, as Alastor lit up at the sight, was a single run-down building on the edge of town. A condemned piece of shit. With busted-out windows and awkward, sticking-up wood and bricks at random places. Just on the outskirts of town it sat, in the direct path where the creek Alastor always played in when he was young.

Sans expected a long, story-riddled rant about the building in question. One filled with anecdotes, with only enough mentions of murder or cannibalism to keep Sans on his toes and paying attention. Not that Sans could ever tune Alastor out. He had a commanding voice that demanded anyone in the room to listen, with confidence and an attitude to boot. And when he did listen, silent to let someone else ramble away, he still held an air of authority about him. Authority Sans always challenged because it was fun.

This smile was strained, just enough. Enough for the conversation to dwindle, and for a second, the two could only stare at the old building. Alastor's expression all pinched up.

"A church?" Sans asked. "Thought you didn't like church."

After a moment, Alastor finally spoke. "Yes. This was the town's church."

His voice wasn't quite right. Off. Just enough. As if he was holding back a burp or hiccup. Sans was secretly hoping for some fish out of water when Alastor did roam around the town, just to feel a bit of satisfaction, but sadly Alastor was able to slip into the rhythm without much trouble.

Whatever this was, it wasn't what Sans had yearned to see. It was the wrong kind of power dynamic.

"We don't have to go in if ya don't want to."

And then there was that damned look. The look Sans imagined was on Alastor's face when he sat in his radio tower in hell, bloodied and alone, spitting out vile toward the pitiful voice over the radio.

"Only I can, remember?" Sans said, tugging on his sleeve. "Only I get to be all sweet and careful towards you."

"Right," Alastor whispered. He glanced over at Sans, his eyes sharp and slitted. "I do suppose this is a part of me, even if it's something I'd rather rip off of me." His fingers shifted, restless. "And you wouldn't get New Orleans without churches. It would be an unfaithful tour if I didn't include it."

"I personally don't have any issues with tours skipping places if they're dark and unwanted," Sans added. He tugged on Alastor's sleeve again, trying to remind him that he's there. "If we go in there and you're lying, I'll drag you to that damn creek and throw you in."

"The place has some unpleasant memories, but I'm not afraid of the location." Alastor's hand sneaked up and snatched onto Sans' own hand, warm to the touch. Just as warm as his demonic form was, with blistering warmth that seeped into Sans' chilly joints. "Churches are always unpleasant for me."

Sans was never a big fan of churches or organized religion, but that's due to his very strong disbelief in there being any holy being who truly meant good for the world. The mere thought of a god up there who loved him unconditionally, felt like a dying man's desperate attempt to feel wanted. A lie just to explain the afterlife. Even after Alastor's reveal of the afterlife, Sans couldn't help but feel more distrusting of such church songs that praised God. If God were so good, he thinks the guy wouldn't send angels down every year to kill those he claimed to love.

Maybe Sans was just not quite built for religion. He had stared death in the face, seen proclaimed angels and confirmed demons, and he still never could quite grasp the holy salvation many claimed to have. And that was okay. He didn't need to believe if he was content with hell. Someone was waiting for him there, after all.

"At least we know there's no more services, I guess," Sans offered dryly.

There was something more personal about this visit. The rest of the trip so far had been Alastor humming about the changes and the new buildings, staring in awe at the new buildings built over old buildings or previously empty space. And the town had pleasant memories for him, all full of casual conversation about where the speakeasy once was, or how a certain alleyway that now had a building crammed into it was where he killed four people.

This felt different. A reminder of Alastor's bitterness, of a memory he couldn't spin into any fun story without Sans seeing through it. The man was still having some difficulties with being open with Sans, yet he gently grasped the skeleton's hand and led him forward.

The church interior was decrepit, with only the old, rotting remains of wooden fixtures to fill it. Across the creaky wooden floor lay a vast array of pews, all evenly aligned for room to walk down the middle, right up to the altar. Sans and Alastor lingered near the door, staring up at the hobbled-together stained glass up along the wall. An unwelcome presence.

Alastor's eyes linger on the pews, a finger drawing across the dust-encrusted surface. He rubbed the tainted finger against his thumb, as if he couldn't bear to be covered in anything this church left behind.

"Every Sunday we'd come up here," Alastor reminisced. He wore a hardened smile on his face, and his silky voice was lower than usual. "Sunday morning, that was. My mama would brush my hair with a comb, and my pa would wear his nice suit and tie for once. Always wanted to be nice for the Lord. Whenever I'd wake up, breakfast was ready, and my Ma would be rushing to go put on her nice summer dress. It was the only one she had not covered in dirt."

"Sounds like a busy Sunday," Sans replied.

Alastor tilts his head, that usual sickening crack he always liked to make his neck produce lacking this time around. "It was. Ah, but we'd do it. Everyone in town would rush into this tiny church. For colored and white alike. 'All are worthy to see the Lord, after all!'" Alastor turned on his heel, outstretching his hands as if performing for his skeleton friend. "Every damned Sunday, I'd get dressed in my best wear, and would come down here to duck my head down and blend in. I dared to be colored; after all, I couldn't dare to believe in anything else."

Sans went to talk, but felt his teeth click shut. Not the time. If Sans had gone on a rant about his fight with the human from long ago, he doubted he'd feel better if Alastor suddenly interrupted with a witty response.

"The pastor would stand, right here, as we all filtered in." Alastor moved to the podium, broken and only half-there, with his arms outheld in a wide, almost eagle stand. His eyes were blood red and focused. "Would stare and bless us with the Lord's gaze, would tell us we're being saved. His skin was white, and his hair blonde. He worked an accounting job and had the nicest car in the neighborhood, yet he'd pass around this old wooden basket for donations to fix up the church. And my father would make my mother fork over the leftover money she had from her allowance at the end of every week, else he'd get pissy we weren't supporting the Lord."

Alastor tilted his body to the side, and for a moment, Sans could see it. A tinier version of Alastor, hunkered into the back row of the church while watching his mother fork over money he wished she'd rather use on herself. Wearing a suit handed down from his father, sleeves too big and baggy.

"And bless my mother, she'd do just that. For a god she didn't believe in. Then we'd sit and listen to prayers and lectures about a god neither of us wanted to hear about. But we couldn't not attend, unless we wanted the whole town to stare at us like monsters, like terrorists. Or because my Pa would beat her, making her arms black from bruises. Believe in God, and be saved. They said it was a choice, but it never was," Alastor grunted. He waved an arm out, broadly gesturing towards the whole church. "Every Sunday I'd come here, listen to the preacher tell us about the good of marriage before he'd talk back another young boy to his office while the parents lingered after a ceremony. Every Sunday I'd hear my pa sing praises to the Lord while he'd spit at my mother and call her names for not letting him have sex that evening. Everyone's equal unless you're not white, or not straight, or not a man, or not Christian. Don't worry, they'd give some kids wine and tell us we're drinking God's blood, and that he loves us and we're all destined to heaven if we believe."

There was a breath he stole, filling and deep as his chest expanded. For a moment, Alastor stood there, almost basking in the echo of the empty room as he stared down at Sans. Like he was the audience Alastor was now preaching to. The man wore the human suit like just that—a suit. Even in the holy light through the tattered church window, Alastor looked nothing short of demonic. It sent a giddy shiver down Sans' spine.

"There's nothing more holy than a church, yet a demon like myself can walk through it just fine. I was a sick bastard, but at least my hand never trailed down the pants of a boy no older than eleven. I didn't care about Jeremy, but when he took his dad's shotgun out back, we all knew why he was found with his brains on the tree the next morning. And I knew that would've been me if my Ma believed blindly in the lord and the pastor who sung him praises," Alastor said, his voice softer. "I was—still am—a sick deviant who deserves my eternal damnation, but I didn't earn it because I missed church a few times, and my Ma never believed in Christ Almighty, not for a second, yet she was given access to heaven. I despised that the first few years after my death, knowing I wasted so many Sundays letting white folk glare at me over their shoulders while a man who liked them young spouted nonsense he would never follow."

He spat at the floor, another breath sucked in through his clenched teeth. His posture relaxed, forced as he leaned his head back and glanced up towards the ceiling.

"I never felt much from the start. It wasn't the color of my skin, or my disbelief in Christ, or my and my Ma's belief in voodoo. Maybe it was my father beating me, or the white folk who would cross the street not to brush up against my arm, or the way my pa would throw out our candles and scream at us until we tasted his spit for trying to practice our own religion behind his back. Could have been any of that. Could have been none of that." Alastor brought his head down, leaning against the crooked, broken wood of the podium. "I remember someone who died shortly after me blaming the fact this church didn't do me any good as to why I ended up in hell. I think it was the people who made the church up to blame: the pedos, the racists, the beaters, or those who simply liked to watch from the sidelines. And yet I still practice my religion in hell, despite knowing it's not real, and it's never going to be real. Is that wrong?"

Sans took a tender step forward, watching Alastor's eyes meet his own. Almost angelic was how he would describe the demon at the moment. By all accounts, Alastor was an intruder into the holy building. A demon in a church. Yet he seemed to fit in so perfectly, light hitting the back of his head until he was glowing. His anger swept away in a glorious instance, leaving Alastor so vulnerable and alone up there, illuminated in his solitude.

"I don't think so," Sans said. "I don't think I have the right to command you about your religion."

Alastor snorted. "Yet so many people do."

"The same people that'll get on your ass about not wanting to date or have sex. If strangers are that invested with yer genitals, they're crazy anyways," Sans mumbled, taking a step forward. He continued this motion, slow and steady, until he found himself right in front of the podium. "If anyone bitches about you practicing voodoo or whatever, send them my way. I'll kick their ass for you. The only person who gets to insult yer life choices is me, alright? I like that seat of power, and I'd like to keep it, bud."

"I suppose," he said, his voice soft and strained. His high seemed to be wearing off.

A hand outstretched, resting upon the one Alastor had set down onto the podium. His fake flesh was as warm as leftover embers from the fireplace. "Do ya wanna keep ranting, or do you want to put this place onto a list to burn down later and go check out that old creek you used to play in?"

Alastor chose the creek, his fingers snaring around Sans' as he moved around the podium. Sans could tell Alastor's need to vent was wrapping up, and they both knew. This was just another part of Alastor figuring out how to be so vulnerable with Sans, bit by bit.

And maybe, down the road, Sans would do the very same. Walk through the orange checkered floor of the Judgement Hall, his arms wide as he accepted that everything he went through was so utterly pointless. Would rush up to Alastor, tug on the front of his coat, and beg that the demon tell him he didn't do it all for nothing, and what he went through was ridiculous, and that Alastor saw and understood his pain, even if he could never relate to it. But that day was not today. The Underground wasn't somewhere to travel to just yet, not when there was a cute little quaint creek down by the local neighborhood, with lush grass and crystal-clear water.

It was Alastor who waddled into the water first, his pants rolled up to reveal his thin ankles, and it was Sans that pushed at his back to make him fall into the water. Alastor, ever so observant, quickly clutched onto the hoodie strings of Sans' hoodie and dragged him in afterwards. In a way, the church's sins against Alastor were cleansed by the easygoing water of the creek, water that they splashed at each other until their arms grew tired and their breaths heaved. There was no talking besides idle threats and bursts of giggles until they collapsed against one another on the grassy slope to watch the clouds go by.

Sans rolled off his wet hoodie by that point, letting his bare arms rest against his chest as the two discussed the merits of a cloud looking like a cowboy hat. His scars were out in the open, but the usual itching embarrassment that came with them didn't arrive when he saw Alastor glance over. Alastor didn't comment, either, which Sans particularly liked. Sans already did therapy that day; he doubted he could mentally handle that again. With nothing but the soft tinkling of water in the humming background, the two sat in blissful silence.

Alastor used to come there all the time with fellow kids back in the day. Many others had come down to this area with Alastor, played in the water, ran, giggled, or drank alcohol until their breaths stunk of illegal substances. This place was not unique to Alastor and company.

It was nice to know, regardless, that Sans was the first real friend Alastor brought here.