The following two days after the wedding were spent with Sans. They took a leisurely pace back to New Orleans, one full of slow car rides through long stretches of highways or back roads. Creaky bumps of pavement and muffled car tunes held their attention in between destinations, the scent of construction or farmland filling the car whenever a window rolled down. When the wind struck his hair at those particular moments, Alastor felt an odd emotion surge within him. He never drove much in his living days, and hell's technology had become so twisted he preferred to stray from it. It was nice to be gathered up within a car again, wind in his hair.

The mini vacation was full of impulsive activities they saw based off of road signs and bombarding advertisements. Alastor's favorite moment was when they went emergency clothes shopping. Considering the two men had nothing but suits and ties to themselves, it was a necessity that took up quickly. A pair of golden glittery pants was what made their morning, so outrageously hideous that they both simply had to try it on. Neither bought it; parading around in a mini fashion show with those pants was plenty enough to satiate their curiosity. Oh, the temptation was most certainly there. They just had enough self-respect to not go through with it.

Alastor had a feeling that, if the two of them did decide to celebrate gift-giving holidays, those pants would somehow find their way into a wrapped box. With a pink bow, just to spite him.

Sadly, the two and a half weeks passed in the blink of an eye, and soon enough, Papyrus was back in Sans' life. Alastor was able to monopolize the entirety of Sans' attention for those two weeks, and spent the night before Papyrus' scheduled return with his head in a pillow. Simply contemplating how he was going to handle that man's existence for the foreseeable future.

Papyrus was, frankly, exactly what Alastor had expected. His voice followed his mannerisms to a tee, too high maintenance to be productive. He carried himself like Charlie did, to an almost frightening degree. It was barely tolerable for that night alone—after all, Papyrus had a side gaze all but glued to Alastor for that night. As if he couldn't fathom Sans actually having a friend without his unneeded approval.

Something horrifying to linger on.

Because now Papyrus and Sans' other friends knew who Alastor was. And they wanted to meet him. Not the simple meet where they had done at the wedding, quick nods and discussions that barely held against the tidal waves of life. They wanted genuine bonding. Whispers of hopes and dreams, sitting around campfires and building the type of relationship Sans and Alastor shared. The explanation of their intent came from Sans, looking warily at the text threads the group chat had about including Alastor on future hangout sessions.

From what Alastor gathered about this particular friend group, the lot of them had been rather close since the end of college. So well past ten years of history at this point. Toriel had met Sans right when he was twenty-two and on the cusp of graduation. Alphys herself became another assistant for a man Sans seems antsy to talk about, and the two had grown close ever since that man disappeared. Grillby lived near Sans and Papyrus and owned the bar Sans frequented. Undyne was Alphys' crush and began training Papyrus. Sans, Undyne, and Alphys all worked for Asgore. It all neatly fit together, a bit disjointed but very cared for by the group.

The group that was protective of its people, and now wanted to include Alastor in their mix. Anyone important to Sans, Papyrus had texted in between honeymoon activities, was important to him.

How kind. And how annoying, since Alastor was not very keen on joining another group. Quite the opposite, in fact. His obsession with Sans was a pit that could never quite fill, expanding and demanding more and more until he practically consumed the man whole. In that expanding need for everything Sans was and would be, the knowledge that Alastor had a finite amount of time to spend with him became increasingly apparent. As was the recognition that even if Alastor was Sans' bestie, he still had to compete for his time whilst in the midst of battling his own schedule.

Acknowledging them as equals was something Alastor would never allow, not even in his lowest moments. What he and Sans had was special, unique in a world full of rampaging, disgusting lust and desires and sappy romance neither would partake in. They had the purest form of friendship, of commitment. It was damn near insulting to be invited by them, and yet, elating all the same. To have others acknowledge his role and its importance in Sans' life, even those who resided around him for so long.

Every time Alastor thought he had a hold on his deep want for Sans, he found it slipping further into the trenches of obsession, wanting more all at once. This is what he got for opening himself up one time to someone too similar to himself before he could properly digest such an idea. Now he was sickly obsessed in ways even he could not comprehend. Then again, the feeling was much too delightful for him to care. If he did find worry toward notions of right and wrong, he wouldn't be in hell in the first place.

Alastor wasn't sure how long he dwelled on his thoughts, but when he came to, it was Charlie who interrupted him. Per usual nowadays, Alastor was lying in his bed, head buried into the pillows as he contemplated his favorite living skeleton and his least favorite living skeleton. If madness were a train barely on the tracks, he assumed it was long since derailed by now. Alastor himself was barely holding onto the dysfunctional ride, too disoriented from the suffocating emotions to grapple much on.

He spent two and a half weeks practically glued by Sans side, and yet, it wasn't enough. At this point he was going to end up just kidnapping Sans away just because he wanted to, effort be damned.

When Alastor heard the door creak open, interrupting his session of dwelling on needs and wants (both of which were horribly intertwined at this point), he wasn't shocked to find Charlie. The hotel therapist, in broad and empty words. Self-assigned therapist, he needed to mentally note. Alastor's time had therapy done with shocks and lobotomies. There was no way in any level of hell that Alastor was going to willingly attend such a thing. Yet Charlie persisted, peeking into his room and knocking as she entered, as if that didn't unravel the whole point of knocking.

Blonde hair swayed as she entered the room. The Princess of Hell, the title unsuited to her intense smile and anxious-riddled endeavors. A shame, really. She could have long since accomplished her goals by now if she rose to the crown her birthright gave. Blood really was useless in the grand scheme of things.

"Alastor?" She asked, her voice timid. Unequipped to be the next ruler of hell.

"Charlie." He lifted his head, resting it upon the crease of the pillow case. "What brings you here at this hour? It's quite early."

The princess nervously rubbed at the back of her neck, looking rather put off by standing in his room. She clasped her hands together, smiling at him with an awkward tilt to her lips.

"You're usually up and around at this time, but you haven't left your room yet. After you were sulking last night, I got a bit worried."

Right. Alastor supposed, in a broad sense, he did in fact 'sulk.' Sans had gone to bed for the night and waved Alastor goodbye, as the next morning Papyrus would be arriving at his home to go into detail about his honeymoon.

"I've just had a bit of a tiresome time

last night, Charlie, no need for you to fret over it. Every man does need his beauty sleep after running around all day."

Alastor quickly rose from his bedding, patting at his swept bangs. Alastor didn't particularly hate hell; he found it rather amusing when people gave in to their temptations and give him a show. One simply didn't realize how much they're drowning in loneliness until they got a fresh breath of companionship.

It really was lonely in hell without Sans. His bestie who deserved nothing but absolute attention from Alastor. And now he was going to be with Papyrus all day while Alastor had no choice but to sit around and wait for Papyrus to leave.

(And perhaps, in the corner of his heart, a jealous little feeling squirmed about. One that reminded him of the many years that passed since he saw his Mother's face, and the constant, ridiculing knowledge that she would have no tolerance for the killing shenanigans he got into throughout his life. Sans, at least, had a family that would accept him no matter what.)

(In a way, all Alastor had left was Sans for closeness. Sans, however, was not in the same boat. It's suffocating to acknowledge that.)

"Are you sure you're okay, Alastor?" Charlie breathed out slowly. "I can—"

"It's fine, dear. Just exhausted."

He'd rather not tell her much of anything about Sans. Or anything at all. Charlie was much too nosy and too much of a tattle to trust with any information. Alastor really didn't comprehend what Vaggie saw in her. Or what Charlie saw in Vaggie. Charlie was a loose-lipped woman, and Vaggie was prone to violence. How disgustingly suited they were for one another.

But Alastor knew that if there's anything Charlie persisted after, it was relationship drama. The kind of woman who just had to fix anything between people. Ever since Alastor had let himself wear the bracelet and spill small hints of Sans across hell, she'd been sniffing after the scent like a dog. It really was a fortune both she and Papyrus were not attracted to the opposite gender.

Combine Alastor, who was very obviously mentally tired, and Charlie, who was looking for reasons to pounce on Alastor, and you get this mess. Intruding into his room, looking nervous and eager all at once. She wasn't going to go away for the foreseeable future until he gave her something. Like one of those old-time door-to-door salesmen, who managed to just barely get their damned foot jammed into your door with that speech they recited to the other luckier bastards who were faster with their own doors.

Which Alastor despised. But Charlie was a useful person to have around, so giving the breadcrumbs to the candy house was a price he was willing to pay if it meant being able to keep the princess of hell in his back pocket.

Alastor drew a breath, careful and calculated. Shoulders cracked as he moved to sit on the edge of the bed, resting his chin upon the palm of his hand. The Princess of hell waited, expression taut.

"I suppose I've just been a tad bit jealous lately, regarding me and the person I've been going out to see. It's difficult to see them when they have a lot of other relationships with people I don't particularly like."

Corners of Alastor's lips tugged, tempting his smile to drag further at the thought of complaining about Papyrus to a Papyrus clone.

"Oh, I get it!" Charlie said quickly. She pressed her hands together. "You want to spend some more time with them, right? Try talking to them about it; you guys can figure out a schedule."

"I will."

His lips opened, the air warm as he inhaled. He wanted all over again. An ache that craved for Sans, something the dark, inhumane part of him demanded and twisted about. An addiction far sweeter in temptation than drugs or sugar.

"Sooooo," Charlie giggled, leaning towards him. "Who is she? What's her name?"

"No one you will meet anytime soon, if I have any say in it."

Legs dragged Alastor to stand, preferring to not linger around Charlie and her insistent questions. He was suffocating all over again, the broken part of him platonically swooning for the only friend who could quell his aching need for company at that moment. Alastor knew he was further slipping. Sans was a siren that grasped its prey and dragged them into the depths, suffocating in the bitterly cold water while it whispered sweet songs to Alastor, sucking the warmth from him. Alastor, the crazy bastard his victims attested to, only found a pleasant smile on his lips at the thought.

He didn't care. He never did, Alastor realized. If Sans was a siren, Alastor was the sailor who jumped into the water willingly to steal the creature away as his own.

Charlie really was so meaningless. Everything was compared to him. Alastor loved his hobbies and his entertainment, but it all became so dull in the face of twisted, imperfect perfection.

If there was a second hell, he wanted to sink down into the depths of it. Just him and Sans.

"I do suppose I could just force myself to hang out with him and his friends," Alastor mumbled, a moment where his judgment lapsed.

Charlie was hopping around in seconds, squealing out the gender of the mysterious person, while Alastor settled upon forcing himself onto Sans' friend group sooner. He had originally planned on withholding for a bit, but that wouldn't do. Need was such a strong word, and still did not fit what he felt for Sans. Craved was more of the appropriate word. He craved, needed, desired this man in every sense of platonic closeness.

Straying away from Sans just because he despised the annoyance called Papyrus wouldn't do. Alastor was reaching an obsession that was starting to impede every thought that crossed his mind. All he did was think about Sans, be with him, or linger on their memories.

A fire with fuel he eagerly scooped in.

"It's a boy, it's a man, oh—Alastor, I'm so happy for you! What's his name? Who is he?"

Alastor forced his attention back to Charlie. One problem at a time. He had to deal with his own intrusive company before he could contemplate how to deal with Sans'.

"You'll find out one day, Charlie," Alastor promised falsely. "Come along now, don't you have a group activity planned today?"

One last thing crossed his mind as Alastor stepped away from Charlie, guiding her toward the door to let herself out. It was a thought from the same area of Alastor's mind that spawned his more mischievous and unaccepted form of activities.

(Sans only had so long with Papyrus until he was Alastor's forever. Thinking about Papyrus realizing in heaven what had happened, and that he couldn't come and save Sans, sent a pleasant shiver down his spine.)

Ah, fuck, Alastor had that look again.

Magnified. All intense and possessive and suffocatingly focused on Sans. Alastor always had that look, but a single day with Papyrus after the honeymoon had Alastor coming back with a vengeance. Alastor-look™.

The day before had been quite lovely. Papyrus came over for coffee and a chit-chat, and afterward Sans had therapy again. It was nice. Got some solitude for a bit, something he enjoys in controlled doses. It was good to be alone at times, but not good to start to retreat into those habits. He made sure to try and keep a cap on those times, to make sure slipping into retreating habits wasn't bound to repeat once more.

Mental health. Always good to keep an eye out for that.

Sans was woken up smack-dab in the morning by Alastor's arrival, who decided to simply slip into his bedroom. An intruder at heart. Hooves clicked against the floor, soft enough to not startle Sans but firm enough to begin to rouse him. By the time an eye socket opened, prime for groggy staring, Alastor was standing over his bed. Red eyes glowing. With that damn fucking look that did weird things to Sans, making his logical side a bit nervous but his soul flutter with gooey emotions of importance.

"Ain't a TV show, bud, stop staring," he mumbled. A hand blindly snatched onto a nearby pillow and smacked it into Alastor's face, with enough force to challenge the strongest of infants. It did nothing to deter the man, naturally, who tanked the hit in pride.

"How charming, attacking a guest," Alastor whispered. His voice was that natural silky smooth that it was meant to be, not filtered through radio static and whatever else Alastor tacked on to sounded more announcer than person. Sans fucking loved that voice. Tickled the right part of whatever made satisfying videos so good to watch.

"Ya ain't a guest at this point." He rubbed at his eye sockets. "Practically live 'er. Now let'me sleep."

Alastor's whole body shivered at that statement. Right. One of those moods. Sometimes Alastor just became more... needy, on certain days. If Alastor were a man of sex, he would've probably gotten off from just seeing Sans on those days.

Was this an asexual orgasm? A non-sexual euphoria? Fuck if Sans knew. Alastor was weird in general. Could be.

Sans contemplated to himself for a moment. He glanced at the blankets, as cold as his bones, and then over toward the hell demon standing beside his bed. A battle won in a moment, as Sans began to make small, grabby motions at Alastor. Platonic cuddling was great. Platonic cuddling was awesome, and Sans would fight to support that. Especially when it was a cold morning and he couldn't naturally produce heat.

The sheets shuffled as Alastor moved onto the bed, easily snatching an arm around Sans and rolling the skeleton's skull to rest upon the fat of his thigh. Something sharp and finger-like rested upon the groove of his cheekbone, following the curve before dropping back down to begin the journey anew. Each touch took a few seconds at most, but was comforting all the same. Just knowing someone else was there with him was comforting in general.

"This filling whatever you need?" Sans asked. His voice drifted in and out of focus, exhaustion the main drain for his ability to, as Alphys put it, 'word.'

Alastor hummed, almost like a show tune. "Yes. Very much so."

"Good." A yawn escaped. His jaw tugged from the movement. "Don't touch my ass, and we're good."

Distantly, he felt a pillow immediately smack against his bottom, and he snorted.

"Asshole."

"As far as I'm aware, Cheshire, I hit yours, not mine. Now go to sleep. I don't mind watching."

At that statement, Sans cracked open his eye sockets and stared up at the demon who admitted to enjoying watching him sleep. The offender in question only shrugged, looking just as guilty as charged.

Sans didn't say anything. His eye socket flared with magic, and a pillow smacked against Alastor's butt before Sans rolled over and fell back asleep.

When Sans woke up, they spent the first half hour of being awake just brain rotting. Sans idly scrolled through his phone, still tucked against Alastor's thigh, as Alastor pet him and read one of the books Sans bought for him over their two-week hangout session. It was nice to have distractions for Alastor if Sans needed to take a call from Paps. He'd rather not have Alastor waltzing into another conversation uninvited, the prick.

There was no snow to the air despite it being January, only a bitter chill that was likely to grow into a pleasant warmth near the end of the day. Sans was quite content with the temperature he found himself in, a perfect combination of the room air with Alastor being a mini-furnace. A fireplace of crackling flames and snarky grins.

A murmured hum eventually picked up from Alastor. Neither men talk. They didn't need to. It was a pleasant morning.

Sans tapped and scrolled on his phone, slow and complacent as he watched post after post filter by. Alphys found a new show she really is enjoying. Papyrus and Grillby were picking up on posting their honeymoon photos now that they were back. Undyne and Asgore went camping in an odd not-Father-and-not-Daughter-but-basically-Father-and-Daughter bonding trip. They caught a good amount of fish, and Undyne tried to suplex a boulder again.

The group chat they formed dinged with a notification, the transparent box dragging itself across the top of his screen. Toriel was the one in question who sent the message, with sobbing emojis as she presented a cake Frisk made and ruined. Frosting splattered out across the blurry counter like bloodshed, yellow in color yet red in spirit. It was a crime scene, not a baking attempt.

Frisk had never been great at baking, despite having the best teacher as a parent. Maybe it was just to spite the woman. Or she sucked in all baking skill within proximity, thus leaving Frisk with nothing but determination left.

Determination was good. Great, in fact. It just doesn't substitute talent.

A smile tugged onto his face as Sans replied with a cake pun, one just as bad as the cake in question. Per usual, Toriel sent laughing emojis, Papyrus gave a side-eye one, and Grillby redirected the conversation back to the original image in question. Alphys and Undyne were silent in the chat for the moment, likely busy with either chores or an impromptu date they turned their notifications off for.

"Look at the cake Frisk made," Sans said. He lifted his phone up, and Alastor cupped his hand as he steadied it to look at the enlarged photo. Despite how much room there was to hold the phone, he settled for sharing space with Sans anyways.

"Quite sweet of them to make that," Alastor replied quickly.

"Heh, that's what I said in chat."

Alastor had the gall to act offended. "You stole my joke before I could even say it." Grabbing a nearby pillow, the deer demon hastily smothered Sans' face with it. "Plagiarizer."

"You're the one who copied me!" Sans said, laughing as he pawed at the material. When Sans was halfway free, his more dominant sighted side out in open air, he tugged at a nearby pillow and tossed it into his friend's face. A warm, giddy feeling flushed through his system as Alastor's ears tugged back. Game on.

There were only two pillows to battle with, as Sans' bed didn't have much for it, the bare bones of minimal needs for a man who rarely if ever shared his bed. Just two thin pillows that hit with the force of a piece of paper rather than an actual threat. Regardless, the two equipped their weapons and struck, a flurry of rather empty blows hitting one another as they snorted and laughed until voices went hoarse.

Alastor had an advantage over Sans, who had shorter arms and less experience with weaponed combat. For every two hits Alastor got on Sans, Sans obtained one in between those blows. A desperate attempt for more hits had Sans halfheartedly throwing himself against Alastor, the weight of him suddenly knocking the man over. Sheets puffed up around them as Sans wrestled Alastor's fluffy weapon from his grasp, and once duel-wielding, smacked the man until he was red in the face with laughter.

Alastor really was a sight before him. Hair splayed out, face red, voice dry. His outfit was all wrinkled and disorganized, his neck stretched to the side as he cackled. A side of Alastor Sans never saw outside of the private interactions they had, the usually prim and proper man seeing no need to pretend around him. Static poked at the interior of his skull, the sensation dull and quite familiar.

Now settled onto Alastor's chest, the man free of pillows for the taking, Sans crossed his legs and grinned down at the demon. The intruder in question narrowed his eyes at Sans, poking out his tongue at him.

"Okay, okay, I concede. You win. Set me free, Comic Sans," Alastor said, poking at Sans' leg.

Sans hummed for a moment, looking thoughtfully down at Alastor. After some careful deliberation, Sans grinned. "Nah."

Another poke. "I'll kill you."

"Then I'll go to hell and become best friends with Vaggie. And I'll tell her alllllll of your secrets."

Alastor's nostrils flared, and the corners of his persistent smile flinched. Seeing this, Sans paused and leaned forward a bit.

"You know yer the only one for me, right?" Sans mumbled, his taunting tone dropping entirely from his voice. Alastor was in a worse mood than he originally thought. "What's up? Thought you liked the two weeks we practically spent inside of one another after the wedding."

Alastor made a face at that comparison, scrunching up with disgust. It brought a laugh out of Sans, one that rumbled in his ribcage and had him perching his head upon his hands. Even if he found sex quite unpleasant and undesirable, joking about it was pretty damn funny. Especially to Alastor.

"I did," Alastor grumbled, turning his head to the side. "You just hung out with Papyrus right after. He's... he hogs your attention and time."

"If anyone hogs it, I think it's you. I see you more nowadays than him."

Alastor grumbled again. His bottom lip became the victim of light gnawing.

"I hate it. I've been debating just taking you and locking you up. It's driving me mad."

Sans breathed. Alastor didn't. His chest Sans was perched upon was hot to the touch. A burning inferno of want.

Damn. Alastor really was somehow going even crazier for Sans. Sans hadn't thought it was possible, but he supposed Alastor loved to keep surprising him.

"Alright, I'll indulge you."

The words were filthy as they left his mouth, and he instinctively knew these words only further sealed his fate and cast him further into hell. As if the temptation of sin itself whispered in delight at Sans' words.

That was the only outcome this relationship could have, though. Demons only know how to allure people towards fire, not from it.

Alastor's eyes sharpened, pupils fixated upon Sans.

Jealous little shit. Sans really shouldn't like it as much as he did. Yet, the mere mention of being jealous for even losing a day of his time to someone else had Sans' chest light and his fingers tingling. The skeleton almost wanted to squirm from the sudden onslaught of delight, giddy joy over being wanted this extensively overhauling his system. Static burned against his spine, crawling up until his head felt almost dizzy and full of thoughts about Alastor.

Stars, these red flags sure as hell were looking damn pretty. Like a bouquet of roses, all sharp. Yet the brilliant red of blood the thorns plucked from him looked just as exquisite as the petals.

"Not for the whole kidnapping and locking me up part," Sans said quickly. Fingers tapped against his jawline, and his palm was cold against his chin. "I mean, maybe for a day or something. Later, though. Another time."

Alastor's chest rose with a breath, and his eyes positively brimmed with desire. Sans shot him a look.

"Not unless I give ya permission, bud, alright?"

"But it's not a no. I'm surprised, Comic. I thought you'd be too above that."

Sans thought he was too. Sadly though, he was a man who craved attention, who wanted to be someone's number one. It was difficult to look for that type of relationship when you were so thoroughly against romance, when the emotion just wasn't right for you. It was a weird middle ground Sans resided within, where he wanted something close to what he couldn't obtain.

But Alastor had been teaching him so much lately. One of the things Alastor taught him was that Sans loved being the sole object of his attention. A disgusting enabler, a demon who tempted Sans with those looks and utter focus. Sans really shouldn't be as into it as he was.

Alastor was slipping further into insanity, but he's got a grip on Sans' ankles. They were both drowning, both sinking further because neither could quite let go. It was maddening in its own right.

"I dunno. It's just... not a terrible thought."

Come on, it's a fantasy a lot of people have. Be taken away by someone madly obsessed with them. To be important and special, taken care of. After so many years of managing everyone else, when Alastor swept into his life with a relationship of platonic joy and insane obsession, Sans couldn't be blamed for finding a thrill with it.

Well, he could. But Sans was just going to ignore that self-doubt, because he liked feeling special.

"Another time, though. I'd rather not get kidnapped right now," Sans said quickly, trying to ignore how his pulse quickened at the thought of it.

The adrenaline of the situation. The thrill. Sans hadn't realized how much he'd want it until he met Alastor, but now that the man brought it up, Sans couldn't quite get it out of his head. That sort of situation was typically reserved for Alphys gushing over characters from television, her cheeks hot as she frantically typed down erotic fanfic ideas on their old anime binge nights from his early workdays. Sans had always brushed it off as some sexual fantasy that he would never endure, as the loss of control and needy obsession seemed to go hand in hand with the sexual part of it.

God damn Alastor for proving him wrong yet again.

The same jittery excitement Sans felt was the same he got when he was about to win or lose everything in a poker game, or when he was tense in his seat during a climactic scene of a fight in a movie. To quell this newfound interest in something Sans really shouldn't partake in, Sans pressed his fingers against his bone tighter and then tugged out his phone.

"For now, let's settle on having some type of event," Sans said. "My friends have been talking about going to a beach recently—they're less crowded in winter, and Undyne loves swimming, so she's been antsy to get to a beach with fewer people—and they wanted to invite you. Want to go?"

"Yes." It was such a fast response that it almost shocked Sans. Almost.

Maybe it would have if Sans didn't just shock himself by agreeing to be kidnapped briefly in the future. This is what he gets for being friends with Alphys. Her weird interests were contagious.

"I'll let them know we should hold it sometime soon."

Sans eventually did relent and roll off of Alastor with a light poke again, and Alastor took his time to smooth out his red suit while Sans informed the group chat that Alastor was down for the theoretical beach trip. Immediately, Sans' inbox was flooded as the group all jumped onto the idea and began to organize the visit. Before Sans even had time to open his mouth, the date was set and the beachside cabin booked.

Welp. That was fast.

"Guess we gotta go swimsuit shopping," Sans said.

"I suppose you do, Sans," Alastor chastised. "I myself have a perfectly fine, functional swimsuit in hell."

Sans paused. "So it's made out of hell materials? You want to wear that up top—Alastor, do you want your ass to bubble?"

Alastor paused, his eyes flickering back and forth. After he had a very intense moment of contemplating basic temperature logic, he burst out laughing, the back of his right hand pressed against his mouth.

"I do suppose you are right, Sans," Alastor said. "I doubt tossing anything warm into a cold body of water would bode tell. I will buy something from Earth."

"Exactly," Sans said, lazily rolling off the bed. "Breakfast and clothes shopping then? On me, since you're so broke all the time."