Winter approached, slow and steady and quite near. And with winter came Papyrus' wedding, the invitation to the upcoming battle proudly stapled to the front and center of Sans' fridge. His dear bestie was wholly ecstatic about it, having bought a suit and tie for the first time in his life. Neatly ironed and tucked away into the back of his closet, covered in what appeared to be some plastic coating to keep it away from anything that could ruin the clothing. It'd look nice on Sans. A bit plain for Alastor's tastes, who loved theatrics and unique outfits, but he didn't dare complain and try to change it. If Alastor dared to stroll into Papyrus' wedding in a suit that screamed attention-seeking, Sans would Old Yeller Alastor out back. The same principle of wearing white to a wedding, he supposed.

Sans was excited. Ecstatic. Every breath was spent talking about the upcoming wedding in two weeks. Every bone seemed to clank around whenever the phone buzzed with final touches, which happened quite often. If his phone so much as twitched, Sans would leap across the room, staring giddily at his screen. From the few phone conversations Sans had on speaker, Papyrus sounded just as excited. Somehow more so. An ouroboros of excitement Alastor had to excuse himself from tolerating for his own sanity.

Papyrus would certainly be an interesting individual to meet. Alastor heard countless tales of the man, been privy to a good chunk of photos, and suffered one, baited conversation with him. And dare he say, he wasn't too impressed.

Papyrus was reminiscent of Charlie, but somehow more high-pitched, tall, and obnoxious. A fun, obnoxious thing to watch while sipping a beer at a bar, the kind of fun where you giggled amongst your friends about the silly person who finally got blackout drunk for the first time. Not the type of obnoxious you kept in your day-to-day life. From the snippets Alastor picked up, Papyrus was near completely innocent. Wide-eyed, all doughy and squeaky clean. The only thing that sullied Papyrus' whole ignorance of brittle reality was what Sans gave to him. Considering the fact that Papyrus was the one who found his brother on the floor in the bathroom one night after an attempted suicide, well, he doubted anyone would remain the same afterwards. Papyrus wasn't stupidly ignorant, but was damn near close enough in Alastor's book.

He doubted Papyrus was far off from the impression he'd been given. Sans told plenty of stories, and the statements Papyrus earnestly said only backed it up. Like, "Nyeh heh heh." Who says that seriously?

But Alastor couldn't bring himself around to despising Papyrus how he despised others. Oh, he certainly found the man to be in the same category as the rest of the worthless people roaming the Earth. Yet that man was his sweet Sans' little brother, the baby that Sans raised single-handedly after their parents both died. Papyrus was a reflection of what Sans couldn't have. Of what Sans believed was the best life to give someone. Papyrus was the walking embodiment of Sans' hard work and dedication. A successful man with a happy romantic life, strong self-confidence, good work ethic, bountiful friends, and empathy.

Alastor couldn't hate Papyrus because he wasn't allowed to. Sans would likely kick his ass back down to hell. Alastor, thus, entertained Sans. He felt nothing for Papyrus, but seeing Sans happy always scratched that little pleasant itch in the back of his head that made his chest go fuzzy. Papyrus was a necessary step in that regard. An ugly piece of the puzzle to make the whole thing blindingly brilliant. So while Alastor didn't typically pay attention, he certainly did when it came to Papyrus. Alastor allocated more effort than he usually gave to people who weren't in his immediate scope of interaction. Alastor didn't have a choice, not when Sans could smell bullshit and Alastor faking any genuine interest towards Papyrus to Sans would be sniffed out instantly. He settled for simply paying attention and asking questions when needed, which always sent a smile onto Sans' face.

While he wasn't invested in the people the wedding was for, Alastor still found himself looking forward to attending. It had been a while since he attended a wedding at all. And getting to meet all of the other important people in Sans' life was something he looked forward to, especially since he was Sans' plus one, not any of them. Alastor already had his suit, a nice deep brown to match his human hair, in his closet for when the day swept around. The present, too, was prepared: a pristine crystal glass set for wine, alcohol, or any plain drink. Cost him a pretty penny. Alastor spared no expense in preparation for the day.

The wedding remained a steady two weeks away when Alastor was caught by Sans' neighbor. Neighbor, in a strong sense, considering she was a decent walk from Sans' house. An older woman Sans had a vein of pity for, whose children all lived out of the country now and only visited for holidays.

Alastor first noticed Maurie when they were walking back after another trip. With two weeks of constant cramming for the wedding, leaving Sans' schedule with few respites for Alastor to slip in. Which was fine—he had some catching up to do in hell, and had busied himself with preparing his outfit and gift for the wedding. Alas, Alastor's newfound friendship with Sans introduced the concept of loneliness. So he all but launched himself at Sans when the man finally had some free time again.

After seeing a fun but beginner play of The Hunchback of Notre Dame, they cozied up for lunch nearby before they succumbed to a walk back. Which, frankly, Alastor found a bit annoying—in particular, not being able to fund their excursion. Having to sit back and wait for Sans to fish out his wallet never sat right with him. He really did need to steal some real cash for himself. Alastor despised waiting on Sans to care for him so often without an equal trade.

Maurie appeared before them on her porch, sitting back in an old rocking chair with a crochet set on her lap. An older woman, he noticed quickly, with likely less than ten years to her. Fringy white hair, blue eyes with a thick pair of glasses sat on the ridge of her fattened nose. A simple blouse and pair of shorts was what she wore, pristinely kept. Alastor couldn't help but wonder if that was what would have happened to his Mother if she lived longer. If he had decided to move after all, and if true old age had clung to her bones. Would she have spent the days away alone, ironing all of her outfits over and over just to keep away the loneliness?

Alastor was glad he did stay at home instead of travel out, or disregarded his duty in favor of tossing her into a nursing home. Her final days were never lonely.

Maurie only briefly reminded him of his Mother. She didn't have the dark complexion or the curly hair, not like his Mama did. But she had that sweet, gentle touch to her, like a sun-kissed smile honeyed with familiarity.

Maurie waved at them, her movements slow yet firm. Strength hadn't quite left her yet, it seemed, so living alone was still a feasible option. She had a smile on her face as they approached.

"Oh, Sans, is this the boy you mentioned before?" Maurie asked, her wrinkles pulled taut. In a good way, straining from joy. "Why, he's such a cutie! What a handsome young man you snatched up."

A typical reaction from a woman her age. Alastor always had been the handsome young lad. Older woman always loved him. A strength of his he had ever since he could mumble nonsense as a mere infant.

"I sure am!" Alastor replied, a hand sticking out promptly. The unclaimed hand, as Sans had now taken residence on his left arm.

His left arm specifically. Not his right. Now Alastor was never one to care for what arm was claimed by the person he was walking around with, but this was Sans. A man who seems to deliberately place anything he wants to see in his leftmost field of vision, admitting quietly one night that an injury from a human has damaged his vision. It's a detail so little and trivial, and yet was a detail that sends him wild with joy. What a funny concept to think about. That the mere act of someone simply holding onto his arm with their more vulnerable side would send him into such a tizzy. Yet it did, because Sans was Sans.

Seriously, it was a blessing only one man in over one hundred years of his existence could connect with Alastor like that. Alastor didn't think his mind could handle a third worming their way into his inner circle. He'd likely implode. Maybe dissolve into nothing. Not that Alastor ever had to fear that. Sans was the only person in the world that could exist as such imperfect perfection. Annoying and too smart and nerdy and righteous yet his all at once. That sort of combination wasn't easily replicated.

He supposed he was always this jealous. An inherent trait to him ever since he could comprehend obsession. His Mother had few connections to keep around, and there were no other children in competition for her affection. It never became prominent when there was no such need for that behavior. Alastor kept learning new things about himself, even in the afterlife.

And he loved the way she described it. Snatched up. As if Sans owned him, because frankly, he did. Alastor developed far enough he could easily admit that openly—to the skeleton only, of course. They were besties, after all. First in each other's lives, without a silly romantic or platonic partner with nonsense to interrupt. Pure, unbridled platonic bliss. Untainted by carnal needs. Anyone who had enough talent to get him to willingly wear a bracelet with the word 'bambie' with several hearts on it, pink and glittery, was someone who could twist Alastor around their fingers. Just like his Ma.

Then again, Alastor doesn't think he'd fully change for either of them. There was a reason he hid his more obtuse actions from his sweet and innocent Mother. And it wasn't like he'd stop listening to jazz at their requests, or anything of that ridiculous nature. He'd simply tolerate much more than usual for them. Like being invited to his neighbor's house for a somewhat pleasant, impromptu dinner. Normally Alastor would insist and say no, since eating alone with Sans was far more preferred, but then Sans agreed, and Alastor was a helpless passenger along for the ride.

Not to say that Alastor didn't have fun in public—why, Alastor adored roaming around the streets with Sans next to him. Always fun banter, with fun petty arguments or little games they played amongst themselves. The best always was when they'd make up some elaborate story to strangers the other would run with. But privately, they could talk freely. It's so liberating to be able to talk to someone without constantly watching what he says, being able to just... spill. A privilege Alastor never realized he needed until Sans had walked into his inner circle. The one person Alastor would allow himself to be vulnerable near.

"May I ask," Alastor hummed quietly, a whisper under his breath in Sans' general direction as they followed the sweet elderly woman, "why exactly we are doing this?"

"I wanna see if ya can be pleasant to someone you'll have to meet again," Sans mumbled back. He cocked his head to the side, almost lazy in his pace. It's funny, really. Sans insisted he was lazy, yet Alastor only found more and more evidence as to why he was not. And, by all accounts, Sans earned the right to be lazy for all of the work he did before. "Consider it practice before ya meet my bro."

"Sans," Alastor continued, "I think you forgot to recall how I'm a psychopath. I have a very good track record of never being caught, and being quite pleasant and sociable."

"Really? I've never seen it myself, so it must be horse shit then. Which is odd considering horses are far from your species, Bambie."

Sans made a face, and Alastor returned it in earnest. Just to further mock him, he stuck out his tongue, something Alastor knew Sans could not reciprocate. Ah, the advantages of having flesh.

"At least my species and my actions are consistent with one another, Cheshire." Alastor tugged on the bracelet dangling around the skeleton's wrist.

Sans tugged right back. "Oh shut it, deer meat. You love me."

"A hostage to my emotions."

"Oh, the tragedy."

Maurie's home was one Alastor knew wasn't there when he was alive, but still had age to it. Pleasant age, the kind that matched Maurie's face. The architecture was quaint, cute all the same. Ripe plants littered several corners of the home, along with a bountiful veggie garden right past her back door within a white picket fence. Her home was spotless, and Alastor abided by the silent rule, quietly stealing his shoes from his feet and tucking them into a corner by the door. Sans followed suit, his eye sockets owlishly looking around the small but well-kept entry room.

Maurie was sweet, both in smile and tone, as she guided them further. It'd been a while since Alastor was invited into someone's home like this. Not many people in hell were too keen toward imposing an open door policy to strangers, unless they had a scheme up their sleeve. Alastor never fell for such traps (except for that one time, but he still was in control of his soul, so it was fine), and he never visited any orgies for obvious reasons, so Alastor didn't get invited in warmly very often. The last time was Sans, he assumed. If that counted as nice in skeleton language.

The walls were pastel blue, and the carpets were a fine white. Pictures bombard the walls, all framed pictures of children or teenagers as they go through their stages in life. Infants to toddlers, one toddler in particular covered in paint just like the wall behind him in one image. The rest were typical pictures. The children growing, eventually graduating, along with a few pictures of Maurie with a man Alastor didn't recognize. There was an urn at the very corner of the room with more pictures of the man, so Alastor supposed he'd need to direct his questions to that bundle of ash if he wanted answers.

Thank god he wasn't turned into an urn. Alastor found being turned to brittle nothingness... unpleasant. Walking around and knowing his corpse was buried somewhere in or around this town in an unmarked grave was far more amusing to him.

He wasn't sure if he could say that out loud without Sans giving him some look, regarding Sans' species and the very obvious implications of what Sans would inevitably become when he passed. No choice for monsters. Sans had gone on a typical science-filled tirade. Alastor couldn't follow along about what caused it, but regardless, the outcome was the same. Monsters dusted. Their bodies didn't stick around. That, Sans had insisted, was far more unpleasant. Likely used to the concept of urns, Sans' gaze passed over it without a second to spare. Alastor followed suit.

"Thank you for inviting us over for dinner," Sans said, following Maurie into the dining room. "It's about time we had dinner together again, especially with Alastor. He's been wanting to meet you."

"I have! Sans talks about you a lot, insists you're so sweet and lovely. I hadn't realized how much more lovely you were in person—his words couldn't do your beauty justice," Alastor followed up cleanly.

Maurie blushed and cooed at Alastor. She giggled to herself, mumbling about how sweet kids were these days. Ironic, considering Alastor was born before she was even a concept. Maurie looked to be in her sixties, old enough for the gray hairs to settle in but healthy enough where everything wasn't a hassle just yet. If she was in her sixties, she was born well after Alastor died. Over twenty years after.

"You have a lovely home," Alastor pointed out. "It's lovely. Did you inherit it from your parents?"

Sans shot him a look, but Alastor offered a light shrug to combat it. He was curious, frankly. So much had changed in the town, so few familiar faces. Alastor thought more people would stay in the area, and that he would see descendants of those he once knew, but no. Not a single name or face held true to his old memories. The town was awfully busy with new residents or tourists; old shops torn down in favor of new, silly fun ones. The most stifling ones were the shops around voodoo that he had caught in the corner of his eye.

That religion cost him and his Mother so much grief to follow throughout their lives, and they turned it into a tourist lure. How insulting. Alastor hated those stores, and always crossed the street when he spotted them. Thankfully, Sans cared for no religion—organized or not, big or small—and followed Alastor's example.

"Oh no, I moved in here with my husband after our children all moved out. We didn't need a big house for retirement," she giggled, waving a hand. "Now it's just me. But it's always nice to have company over. And Sans is always a darling, helping me carry my groceries or keeping an eye out for bugs. Such a sweet boy."

Sans offered a grin toward her, genuine despite the stiffness to his shoulders. "Who wouldn't? I don't mind at all."

"Aw, hush you. Take the compliment. You need to do that more. By the way, tea or lemonade? I have this rose tea I've been quite excited to try, and I'd love to whip up a batch for you both."

"Why, we would be delighted!" Alastor exclaimed. He planted a hand onto Sans' shoulder, as if he was the supply of both their answers. "I prefer mine with some honey and milk, and I'll assume Sans would like it plain."

"Yeah. Don't add anything."

Absolutely vile and disgusting. Alastor wasn't sure how he, the local cannibal, had a better palate than Sans. Maybe it was because Sans didn't have a stomach. Nothing to upset.

Alastor blinked as Maurie nodded along with their choices, and went on about how she and her husband used to drink tea together. Useless, idle chatter. Having only bones to one's body would certainly bring about different behaviors. Maybe Sans had different tastes because he lacked a tongue. And he didn't mind drinking pure black coffee or unsweetened tea due to having no throat to scald with bitterness. Monsters truly were fascinating. He couldn't wait until Papyrus' wedding. About time Alastor met some more monsters.

"I heard from Sans you work as a radio host, but I've never heard your voice while I've driven around. I think that's a darn shame, sweetie; your voice is amazing! Like honey," Maurie said. Applied the finishing touches to his tea—a fat drizzle of honey, half mixed in.

"I work out of town. You likely won't hear me on the local broadcasts," Alastor answered, easy as pie.

"He also works at a hotel," Sans added, accepting his plain tea from the woman with a gentle, appreciative tone. Sans looked more lax with her than other humans he had been near, his shoulders less tense and his fingers still. The corners of his mouth were forced upwards, straining just enough where Alastor knew it was more so the awkward half-mixed tea over the company.

"I do!" Alastor stole a quick sip of the unmixed tea, too sweet grass water coating his tongue. It was warm, almost boiling. The perfect temperature for most drinks in hell. He could see Maurie tense, the elderly woman insisting he blow on it to cool it down a tad. "And don't worry, I prefer my tea quite hot. This is marvelous!"

Alastor did very much prefer colder anything after he was banned to hell, but he'd rather tolerate a warm drink over incurring any issues with Maurie.

It was... average. Plain tea with milk haphazardly poured in without a spoon in sight. The kind of tea that was simple, not leaning in either direction. Alastor didn't dare to tell her that, though, not when Sans was trying to have a positive connection with her. He'd rather not risk Sans tugging on the plug for the wedding for misbehavior.

And Alastor knew how to talk to people. He wasn't sure why Sans needed to double-check how Alastor could talk to people, since there was a very, very good reason a mass serial killer got away for so long. A colored one, no less. Alastor knew how to sweet-talk, when to use his dimples or when to raise his voice for a sugar-twinged lie. If anything, this was just an excuse to go to his neighbor's house and drag along Alastor so he wouldn't have to go alone. In the same vein of girls waddling off to the bathroom together in their groups, or friends all waiting for one another to order so they wouldn't feel lonely by the register.

Alastor didn't mind, though. Even if it was an excuse, it was an excuse to hang out with Alastor one last time before the wedding. And Alastor would take that. Even if the tea was average, painfully comparable to the woman who served it.

The dinner, as it turned out, was enchiladas. A simple recipe, packed with chicken and rice galore. Alastor and Sans were sitting at the table while their discussion continued, briefly about Alastor's jobs before he redirected it to what Maurie had been up to over the years. The woman had been a simple desk worker, until she started crocheting and started a small business on Etsy when age became an unruly factor. Alastor, who never reached old age, could relate nonetheless. He watched that very same thing happen to his own Mother.

They spoke about worthless topics. About her business, how she had met her husband, how they had fallen in love. Really, the dinner was just to keep her busy and less lonely for a night. Alastor knew Sans' compassion was what kept them planted in her dining room. The discussion was enough to carry over to dessert, where a massive homemade apple pie had been brought out and sliced with generous helpings of vanilla bean ice cream. When the night did end, Alastor was nodding along to Maurie's stories about her two children, twins who both graduated in honors, as she all but stuffed leftovers into his hands.

It was a nice night. Nothing outstanding. Just nice. Simple. Casual. Alastor could handle that. She insisted he enjoy the rest of his day, wished Sans and his brother good luck for the wedding before she lumbered off for an early bedtime.

When he went down to hell that night, leftovers in a Tupperware box, he ate the leftovers with his bracelet in proud display in the town square of cannibal town. Vox's screams of fury and confusion served as brilliant background music while he hummed some quiet tune Sans had insisted he listen to, created by some ghost monster who Sans met in college. A hilarious background to lessen Vox's obnoxious noises, while everyone else in hell watched the radio demon inhale a foreign box of home-cooked food. It wasn't made by his special someone people had been asking him about, but the idea alone is enough for Alastor to be vague when someone did ask him.

It was always enjoyable to make all of hell squirm, after all.