Walking around hell, with Alastor, was sitting in a clearing at night. Stars littering the sky, the moon blank and faceless, with only a thick fire to keep away the beasts around. And that fire, that protection that persisted, was Alastor. The only light in the vast nature, consuming and protecting all at once. Despite the groaning of the wolves and the gnashing of teeth, Sans pulled himself to the more familiar of dangers, and basked in it.

Sans switched from his more modern and plain outfit to something a bit more refined, courtesy of Alastor and Alastor's tailor. Whoever the tailor was, they worked fast. Sleep had come for Sans only for a brief hour and a half, and in that time, Alastor had managed to take Sans' sizes down to the tailor, let the genius work, and returned on the cusp of Sans escaping the bed to look for him.

The outfit was a more casual, stylish approach to Sans' typical wardrobe. Which Sans didn't mind too much. Alastor had seen to it that the clothes were comfortable.

Hell was the concept of red itself, as if the pentagram above constantly bled down its emboldened color until nothing was bold anymore. The hotel at least had the golds and whites to circumvent a headache, but outside had none of that. The few colors that came out of the red were so jarring that it made Sans' head spin; the colors primarily posted onto billboards or signs to draw people in.

It worked. The blues and greens always drew Sans to them, starved of other colors only a week into hell. Alastor's chest rumbled with laughter when he caught sight of Sans' gaze.

"They do that on purpose, you know," Alastor chimed in. "Overlords tend to hog the other colors and use them for advertisements. It tends to draw in new souls."

"So overlords control why it's all so red?" Sans asked.

"Red is the only consistent color hell has access to, other than white and black. We can sometimes get green from flower stems and blue from electronics, but red is the only color of dye we can grow consistently. The rest of the dyes are gathered from clothes and accessories sinners drop down with."

"Huh," Sans said. "So sinners that have more fun colors are probably prioritized, just like the colder ones, right?"

The two men crept along one of the quieter streets of hell, devoid of any travelers. Alastor had apparently managed to slip Sans out on the cusp of one of Vox's most popular show times onto unpopular streets, leaving only Sans and Alastor as bodies along the thin and chipped sidewalks. The few sinners that had dared to be outside gawked at Sans like he was a circus freak.

He wondered if it was obvious he was a mortal or not. Monsters would easily blend in here compared to a normal human—but Sans was a pure-blooded skeleton. He was nothing like the odd, heterogeneous people roaming about. A tall, thin lamp post with bright eyes, a short stump of a person with horns and wings. Anything that would even stick out amongst the monster population as unusual. Head smoldered against his bones as Sans watched the passersby sinners, mostly red or pink, bulge their eyes at the sight of Alastor and Sans together in stilted silence. The humor twinged at his chest, just as an uncomfortable danger did.

It was the first time in his entire life that Sans was entirely dependent on someone else for safety from others. The foreign feeling didn't quite fit into him right—a puzzle piece trying to stuff itself into an already complete puzzle.

"It's why Angel Dust is a bit popular—he's mostly white and a light pink; they're softer colors," Alastor said. "I've heard quite a few of his clients say he reminds them of angels."

"Ah."

"Though, if any of his competitors were cold, I doubt he would be ranked first anymore."

"Do you think I'd be a colder demon?" Sans asked, leaning his skull against the curve of Alastor's upper arm.

Alastor peered at Sans with a thoughtful expression. "Well, I'm not sure. You could be a lot of things."

A deer because he was shot like one, but bright and bold from his striking personality. Alastor was a representation of himself, the unshakable presence of someone who changed so many lives. A deer radio demon, with a body colored like a rotting corpse, and powers of all sorts of things.

Sans' fate would likely be a roulette wheel, spun with the force of god and with the outcome being whatever his twisted luck settled upon. He was a lot of things—and, at the same time, no category quite fit him. He wondered what box his eternal afterlife would try to stuff him into.

He wondered, briefly, what factors led to the bodies the other sinners inhabited.

"I hope I come out taller than you," Sans murmured, with a delighted little laugh amidst his cheeky expression.

"I hope you don't—I'd miss my armrest."

Surprisingly enough, the trip to Rosie's Emporium was uninterrupted. By the quirk of Alastor's grin, no doubt the sinners the two had passed were beginning to post or gossip about it, but the whispers had yet to embolden the ears of a few higher individuals. The quiet walk was enough to ease Sans' tight shoulders and rigid back, enough to where his bones ached from the tension once it melted out of him. And once the sweet air conditioner washed across his face in lukewarm waves, Sans was confident enough to relax his grip on Alastor.

The interior of the emporium was quite posh. The sheer quantity of goods was painstakingly organized into categories, subcategories, and then some smaller snippets of that with neat italicized signs, all hand painted. Whites and soft pastels coated the walls, as if Angel Dust had been stripped of his fur and become a tapestry upon the walls. Not an ounce of dust in sight.

"Rosie is way better at caring for her property than you are," Sans said suddenly.

Alastor's smile, somehow, brightened. "She is quite the excellent store owner, I assure you. Always so meticulous with care. Ah, then again, she does care for her property. As do I."

"Right," Sans snorted. "Hotel isn't your property."

"Bingo."

They found themselves near the main desk, an entourage of demons lingering about in nearby sections. All gave a wide, respectful berth to Alastor, just smiled and cooed at him with tooth-filled grins and empty-socketed eyes. The moment their heads cocked down to little ol' Sans, sitting neatly onto Alastor's arm, they stiffened before their bodies melted and they practically squealed and swooned at the sight.

"Oh, Alastor, I cannot believe you hitched yourself up with a man—what a fine thing he is; oh, he's like a little doll!" A woman, curls tossed over her shoulder, babbled. Her hands made grabby motions at Sans, to pluck the doll from the entranced child and sprint away with it.

The entranced child in question subtly shifted himself in between Sans and the cannibal demon, his posture tensed higher. A conniving cat. "I can assure you, he is anything but. If I wanted a doll, I would have visited my dear Rosie for one of her products."

Sans stole a glance around the room, lacking a single stuffed doll placed upon the shelves.

"I've never eaten someone made from only bones before, much less someone who could actually die in... so... long..." A nearby man heaved, leaning in and trying to rob himself into Sans' personal space. Alastor easily retook the area he had rights to, his slim body wrapped around Sans to keep away the prying cannibals. Sans quickly tamped down his bristling magic, but allowed it to tingle through his fingers. A security blanket, of sorts.

"Sans isn't up on the menu," Alastor announced to the group. "I just decided to bring my husband for a tour of the lovely cannibal town—do mind trying to eat him, won't you? He bites back just as fiercely."

"I certainly do," Sans lied in agreement.

His legs ached and groaned; the walk a basic but intensive process for his recovering body. Sometimes it stopped aching entirely—other times he moved, slightly too wrong, and his ribcage and back alike flickered with the embers of horrible pain. The pain was a gurgling beast, something Sans could mute out with well-timed music or attention from his brother or partner, but it wasn't something he could easily quell when he was surrounded by so many more. It was stifling to be surrounded by so many souls that might be on equal par with Sans, when Sans was at his best. Which was lacking at that moment.

Not that it would stop Sans. The bubbling excitement to see this all, to meet Rosie and carve his way into Alastor's life with his own two feet, was enough to dull the other senses.

"Oh, Alastor, do my eyes deceive me?"

A near singing voice rang out from the crowd, and through the lingering cannibals, a woman with stark height and frilled clothes pushed her way into the small circle gathered around the two men. She swayed and bobbed along, adrift in the sea of customers with a brilliant smile captured by her lips. Empty socketed eyes looked Sans up and down—a staple of a cannibal, it seemed.

"Oh my gosh, Alastor, you finally brought him in! And what a pretty little thing he is—oh, how amazing!" The woman who had to be Rosie gushed, her fingers stealing down upon Sans' rightmost cheekbone and tugging. "You have to be the marvelous Sans he's told me so much about—come, come, I can't insist you stand out here and be swamped by my customers. Oh, heaven's sake, where are my manners?" She gasped to herself, circling around the two men to push them forward toward the back of the store. "My name is Rosie, darling."

Before Sans knew it, he was sitting back in a small garden plush with all sorts of herbs and ingredients, a warm cup of tea perched in his hands and a plate of mini sandwiches set out upon the middle of the table. Sans didn't quite recall blinking, yet he missed the transition. Alastor sat within his seat, already made at home with a sandwich gathered into his hands; a red familiar liquid seeped into the underside of the near soggy wheat bread.

Gingerly, Sans pushed away his own plate of a sandwich and tried not to dwell on which organ was likely stuffed into it.

"So you run Cannibal Town, eh?" Sans asked.

Rosie positively beamed at Sans. "Yes, it's quite delightful! I love everything about it—old fashion, new ideas! We do try to keep it homely and maintained, but hell does love to chip away at our infrastructure, I swear."

Sans could easily recall the cracks and crevices that swept through the streets of Cannibal Town, of the dust that settled upon arches and the misaligned bricks in the red layered roads. Sans hadn't seen the rest of the ring sinners were kept within, shoehorned into back roads to avoid too many peeping eyes when Sans insisted upon his injured travel—but the cracks and red were the only similarities the two shared.

He sipped on his tea, and heat gathered within him that made him nearly squirm from discomfort. As if Rosie had ventured to a volcano for such a treat.

Something that wasn't even bubbling, either. The distant brother of green tea soiled the edges with a green smear when Sans sloshed it against the porcelain cup, and burned at his hands just as Grillby's flames did.

Different boiling points, he had to presume.

"Rosie does a marvelous job at keeping an eye on dust and other nuisances of invaders," Alastor added. He sipped on his tea quickly, not as nursingly as Sans was doing. "And she is such a delightful overlord, I must say! Quite a steady hand at keeping her people in line, and quite ruthless when she wants to be. An amazing woman, I must admit."

"Oh, Alastor," Rosie blushed, cooed, squirmed, and straightened all at once. "You are such a charmer—it's a wonder you took so long to get a ring onto Sans' finger."

Sans hummed against the rim of his cup while Alastor's face tightened.

Rosie continued to tug on Alastor's drawstring as she went on, until he was wrinkled as a raisin. "Oh, stars, Alastor was just so darn smitten with you! I clocked that man as such an aromantic little thing ages ago when I learned the youth began to coin the term, but I'd never expect for him to cozy up with an obsessive little friendship. You're all he ever talked about right after you met—oh, the stories! Sans this, Sans that, goo and slime and a rooftop with stars and a church and the rain and all sorts of fascinating tidbits. I was wondering when Alastor was going to settle down with you in some way. Never seen a man so smitten with a friend like that; it was so adorable. And stars, the way he cooed over how 'annoyingly wonderful' his skeleton friend was."

Alastor, red as the pentagram, swallowed. "Thank you for the insight, Rosie."

"Aw," Sans cooed. Skull on hands, whole body leaned forward over the neat tablecloth. "You bragged about me that much? How cute."

"Yes, I am adorable," Alastor resigned. "Also, Rosie, maybe you could find some alternative for Sans to eat? He's not too keen on liver sandwiches."

Sans eyed the bread and liver alike, while Rosie widened her eyes and shoulders from the realization that Sans's plate remained full.

"I cannot believe I was being so rude—dear me, pardon my manners, is it the bread?"

"I am watching my figure a bit—ya know, don't wanna get any fat on my bones. It's not supposed'a be there."

"A man after my own heart. Of course you have to watch your figure." Rosie suddenly rippled from the table, and swept aside to grab a nearby chilled box of food. "How about some nice, small pinkies?"

"Um... not really into eating flesh or people," Sans elaborated, placating hands held out. "I hope that's alright?"

Thankfully, Alastor's stories of Rosie's firm but motherly nature held true. She waved away both the sandwiches and box of fingers from Sans' table mat and instead drew forward a third box from who knew where. While Sans was trying to peer around the picnic table to find the origin of the mystery boxes, Rosie replaced the empty spot with a plate full of plain-6looking macaroons and vegan sandwiches.

"Of course it's alright! Anyone who's a friend of Alastor is a friend of mine, and anyone who is married to Alastor—" She paused, a finger pressed against her bottom lip, upticked in amusement. She and Alastor shared a glance at one another, an inside joke Sans wasn't privy to. "Is a closer friend of mine, dear. I wouldn't snatch him away—oh, heavens, imagine if I tried. I'm in no place to get another husband just yet, much less a married one."

"You were married?" Sans asked.

Every part of Rosie sharpened, as if he had run her through a knife sharpener. "I was," Rosie said, slow and steady. "Quite delicious he was."

"Ah, ate yer husband, huh?" Sans asked.

Rosie nodded.

"Respect."

Wasn't his place to say anything about that. He platonically saddled himself up to a serial killer cannibal just fine. And Sans was sitting all comfortable in hell—he couldn't expect everyone around to be anywhere near good. Sans would rather take a wolf comfortably grazing nearby over the hissing animals he had seen on the street, the empty bones yet somehow bountiful to them regardless.

Sans was just lucky enough that he had the presence of Alastor to keep them at bay. He's gone head-to-head against Alastor once, in a brief stint of beautiful adrenaline and wants, and had been thoroughly impressed.

But in prolonged fights, a mortal was always destined to lose against the immortal. Especially when they had both determination and powers to their souls, when mortal humans and monsters had to be more selective with their choosing.

Sans tried not to dwell on it repeatedly, but every facet of hell was subtly prickling at that sense of danger that had him heightened. A constant static that occasionally hummed back into existence, just to remind Sans of its presence.

"Oh, you charmer!" Rosie said, playfully slapping at Sans' shoulder before her hand rounded back up to his cheekbone, and went a second round with pinching. "I can see why Alastor cozies on up to earth so often nowadays. You're an absolute delight! Shame on the human flesh diet, though. I have so many great recipes I'd have to substitute with different meats..."

She looked away, longingly, and Alastor set down his teacup. "I believe I'll be covering Sans' meals for his stay now, and after he lands for a bit. I have so many things planned for when he lands that he'll barely have any free time! Plenty of time for you to adjust your food."

Sans held down a bubbling giddiness at what Alastor has planned. Alastor had always been rather secretive about what he had set aside for Sans once he died. A whole itinerary, just for Sans' entrance into his next stage of existence. And from the sneaky delight Alastor's face carried at the admission, he was just as excited as Sans was about it.

"Oh?" Rosie blinked, once, twice. Thrice never came, as she instead curled her head back to look at Sans with a curious tint of a smile. "You won't be having him visit again?"

"Probably not?" Sans asked. "I'll have an eternity afterwards, right? Forever after to bug Alastor."

"And forever after that to be bugged in turn," Alastor chuckled. "You can wait, Rosie."

Rosie giggled, nose flaring with a huff of amusement. "Of course I can, you silly thing. I myself would have just gone to hell earlier if I had known."

"You would have?" Sans asked.

"Oh, not killed myself by any means—" Rosie waved her hand, giggling and laughing as if this was all perfectly sane and normal. "But if I had a free easy pass to hell as a mortal, I would have taken it! No woes over skin colors or genders, a fresh start, and meat galore. It was such a hassle dealing with supplying my pie shop on the surface. And I do quite enjoy not having to worry about such things anymore. Not to mention, red is such a wonderful color."

Rosie spoke so earnestly that Sans could only gawk at her, drink and snacks forgotten in favor of searching her near doll-like complexion for any hint of deception. Yet, none arrived. Only a deep-seated joy in her smile, nearly reminiscent of the life she cultivated for herself.

Sans glanced over to Alastor, who didn't seem tipped into any respect or bridling annoyance. Tea emptied, sandwich consumed, a second making its way to his plate.

Sans thought to Alastor's insistence to ice, to how his eyes always drew themselves to the trees and blue sky when he got thoughtful. Hell had been something of entertainment to Alastor, but not a choice the man would make. It was almost odd to hear someone else so content with their eternal punishment a god bestowed upon them, after seeing how much Alastor ached for the trees and old town.

Sans wasn't allowed to judge. Not when he was drunken with delight as Alastor brought him down to the same fate.

So Sans planted his smile onto his face, chuckled, and moved the topic along elsewhere. A question to Rosie about the origins of her wondrous town. Alastor joined in, voice whipping forward in delight. And Sans settled for that, instead of the topic of a woman being delighted at having the sky and cooler air taken away in favor of human flesh and ambitious, like-minded people nearby, or over the lingering reminder that so many of the flesh-craving people were on the other side of the wall. And that if he wasn't with Alastor, or dressed up nicely, they would have eaten him alive.

Sans swallowed a macaroon, whole, to try and placate his rising anxieties. Fretted over the ashes of the flames he smoldered out, trying to be fine and cool with the decision he picked for himself. Sans was fine with it, when it was a concept he could murmur about to a half-drunk Alastor and move on with their night.

Wasn't too fine anymore when the concept became tangible, and he was living it.

Alastor watched him and, at some point throughout the conversation, linked their ankles together underneath the table. And shoved more macaroons in his direction, pistachio and lemon flavored. His favorites.

Rosie cooed and giggled over him while they spoke, the conversation jumping across all sorts of things. She seemed nice enough, and had that streak of crazy to keep him interested, but quick-witted enough to not drive him away. Whenever she reached over and tugged at Sans' cheek, there was a distant ping of an emotion. Unfamiliar, warm all the same. Like a foal nuzzling up against its Mother for the first time. Something Sans was dreadfully unfamiliar with. In much the same way Sans sought out Asgore to fill the bucket of care and guidance he was supposed to receive from his own parents.

No wonder Alastor likes her so much.

Not that Rosie seemed to mind. She was practically delighted, fawning over Alastor and Sans alike, in the same way Toriel carried herself with Frisk. Hunting down the surge of Motherly instincts by gathering orphaned people into her arms and tending to them. A mutually beneficial relationship, both receiving and giving.

Sans cut off their meeting when it became painfully evident that his chest and back demanded a fresh dose of painkillers. Rosie was quick to see them off when he pushed for it. Thanked him for his time, his presence, his existence, and hugged him close while she patted his skull. She was just as warm as Alastor—hotter, actually.

"Not a good meetup?" Alastor tested once they left.

Sans shrugged. "Nah, she was nice. Just the walk over, and then the cannibals swarming me. A bit much when I'm—" He reached up, plucked at one of the bandages against his ribcage so it flicked back against his bones.

Alastor's red eyes flickered to watch the movement. Enraptured. "I'm here."

"Yeah, I know. Which is great. But it's weird when I'm like this and other people are stronger than me. It feels safer when it's just you."

A shiver. A tightened hand. An obsessive fuck, who preened at the attention Sans spoon-fed him.

"Please, at your current state you can knock out any low-level demon or sinner that would try their way with your mortality," Alastor hummed, swinging his radio cane while he gathered Sans against his arm once more. "Anything higher than that, you can trust me to. I'll see to it."

Sans smiled against the fabric of Alastor's arm, light and airy. "Can you, though? You ain't wearing glasses right now."

The streetlights flickered and groaned under the weight of a sharp wind, one that knocked against Sans' smaller frame and made him clutch onto Alastor harder. Alastor simply watched, amusement coated across him as he anchored himself.

"Looks like some acid rain will be arriving soon," Alastor said. His eyes directed towards angry storm clouds in the sky, coiling underneath the pentagram in slow, angry pulses. "Best to get you back to the hotel faster."

Alastor really was so damn good at that—at making Sans feel good. The slow growth of anxieties that had only begun to blossom were stolen of their roots, left to wither away into nothing just by Alastor's few words and easy smile.

For Papyrus, it always took so long. Mounted sentences and constant assurances as Papyrus tended to the roots, each one dug out with careful precision. Alastor only had to step forward, and the feeling was crushed into a new hopeful one. Sometimes Alastor donned his gardening tools and dirtied himself with work, but other times he never needed to.

Sans really didn't know how Alastor managed to make being the only mortal in hell okay, but he did without too much effort. In much the same way Sans is sure he made it okay for Alastor to love, to be vulnerable and committed in friendship, marriage, and soul alike.

They two clung, more than held, to one another on their way back under the whirling winds and the building clouds.

When Sans first saw the television-faced man, he was half crumbled up onto Alastor's lap, chest, with one leg awkwardly thrown over his shoulder and the other dangling. A useless little thing. Certainly not the worst position anyone had seen the two of them in—someone had come to use the restroom after Papyrus' wedding, and had caught Sans fisting Alastor's hair while one of Alastor's hands was half shoved into his eye socket. Arguably, that had been worse than this position. The last one had been them wrestling around for the hell of it, to burn off that insistent need for one another that always trampled rationality. An ouroboros of a concept for the two, at this point.

The second position hadn't been a natural occurrence, more so a consequence of the two dodging a well-placed attack from a not well man. And there he stood, the opposite end of the lackluster back street, digital eyes gleaming with red and blue swirls. The culmination of Alastor's second obsessive watcher—the lesser of the two.

Instead of secondary colors adding to the red, the man had traces of red to highlight the blues of his complexion. Begging, look at me over and over in the red, hellish landscape. The unlegendary Vox, the miniscule bug of a person who followed around Alastor in hopes to have a crumb of what Sans stumbled into obtaining.

Sans wasn't sure how he felt about the guy. What he and Alastor had was intense, but it was built from the foundation of a lacking romance and deep-seated friendship built from a rapt need for one another. Vox wanting Alastor in ways neither Alastor nor Sans could comprehend, or even stomach. He lacked the mere beginnings of their relationship, which meant that he never had a chance to even cross the starter line. Yet chased after it, near religiously.

It was a lot of things. Annoying. Gruesomely satisfying, knowing Sans is special and this random guy isn't. Most of all, though, it was damn near pitiful. Sans could respect Vox, a kin of wanting Alastor to a degree that burned more than hell itself—but pitied him because Vox would never obtain the wonderful thing Sans had. Without meaning to.

Fuck, Sans could remember a time when a bucket of green slime dirtied both his wallet and radio station alike. Remembered a time when Alastor's ended communication had been a harbored desire. Then Alastor became someone Sans couldn't discard, and then he had become a physical thing there, pinning him to that damn roof and admitting the weird, budding interest was mutual.

Vox was what Sans would have turned out to be if Alastor had laughed at him and never sought him out again. A shadow of a person.

Then again, Vox wanted Alastor in the wrong way. Drove the wrong road. Walked the wrong hike. Took a right turn instead of a left. Wanted to get frisky when it wasn't part of the dictionary Alastor knew.

So Sans filtered a grin so wide it hurt his cheekbones as he settled against Alastor, as if their position was intentional and perfectly normal for their day-to-day encounters. Made a show of it, too, because Alastor and Sans were both the entertainers and audience of the show. "Hey."

Clouds angrily swept underneath the pentagram, thunder groaning in deep, warning tones as it continued to fester above them. Despite that, both Alastor and Vox continued to stand confidently outside. And windows and doors, which had been previously shut on nearby buildings, began to crack open. Curious faces peered out, a few with recording phones or murmured gossip drifting about.

Looks like Sans was going to be popular in hell before he even died. Not... a great outcome, but it wasn't like they could really do anything to him the moment he went back up to the surface.

And Vox wasn't as fast as Sans. Sans was able to dodge that, per usual.

Stars, he felt near pathetic with how a few humans managed to nearly kill him. It was nice to be slick with dexterity again.

"A mortal?" Vox breathed out, his whole body twitching with the occasional glitch. Processing. "You—you're married to a fucking mortal monster?"

"Oh, Vox, my annoying little follower," Alastor sighed. Wide and dramatic. Fixed his overcoat and Sans alike, steadied both upright. The leg dropped from the shoulder and met the other upon the ground. "I don't really think this is any of your business."

Vox bristled. "It is my business, you fucking dick, you—how the hell did you—why is he even—"

The man's neck cracks as his screen goes blue for a second, error messages appearing and flickering away in a moment. Sans could only watch in mild confusion and amusement as Vox regathered himself.

"You son of a bitch," Vox said, laughing forcibly while his back sickeningly cracked into a straight, tensed line. "You're just doing this to get my attention, yeah? Doing this so I can get pissed off?"

Alastor hummed. "No, I do believe I was going on a stroll with my husband. Where exactly do you relate in that equation? If I had wanted to piss you off, I would have had our wedding right in front of your tower. You go through so much effort to logo every inch of that building; it's not hard to find."

"A bit delusional to think we have anything to do with ya, bud," Sans snorted. "I haven't even met you before this point. Why the hell would you have anything to do with that decision?"

Vox stared at Sans like... Sans was everything wrong with the world. The ying to Alastor's yang. Like Sans was the reason tides went high, why storms brewed, why god created hell and why he was down there in the first place.

Sans didn't remember personally sending Vox down to an eternity of torment. Marrying Alastor must be equivalent to such a thing in Vox's mind.

"I would introduce you to this man, Cheshire," Alastor said, drawing out the name as if it were a pet one, "but we both know you won't need to know him. His fits fade into the background with enough patience. Do come now; we have to go get some dinner."

Pain medication, but Vox didn't need to be privy to such information. The newly tailored top of Sans' clung to him enough that his bandages didn't show, not unless he fiddled with it enough to drag down the top to reveal the red-stained cloth.

"I offered you everything!" Vox snarled and cried at Alastor, his whole body jittery. "We had a partnership that would have had us ruling over hell, and you gave it up for some nothing mortal?"

"I didn't give up anything," Alastor laughed. "I'm still quite a powerful overlord. I just found better company. I really don't see what the issue is."

Vox's neck strained, back arched, and he jumped toward the two men. His body soared through the air, fast, blue electricity brimming around him, but Sans and Alastor were both faster. Alastor scooped Sans up and jumped back, shadow-filled hands dragging them quickly out of reach. And Sans with a quick bone attack, fast and sharp and impaling. It tore through Vox's torso like butter, devastatingly quick and brutal.

In much the same way as attacking Alastor was, the same went for Vox. That breathless air that whooshed through him, as hard as the wind barreling through the tightly knit alleyway. Sans' powers clung to Vox's soul, plunging a hole through both his chest and life alike. And the whole force of mortality swept through Sans again, the reminder cold and brittle against the warm hellscape around him.

Attacking sinners was always going to be odd for Sans' abilities. To utilize their level of violence and twist it upon itself, a double-edged sword for the user. Against an immortal being with countless heads rolled by his own actions. His magic fizzled with confusion; the world fizzled with confusion. It left Sans reeling and Vox upon the floor, whole body twitching and convulsing. An attack and a victim that were never supposed to meet.

Sans swallowed bile as his magic snapped back to him, a wriggling mess of maggots that sat heavy in his gut. Disoriented, for a moment, before he managed to steady his feet once more.

Alastor's hands planted firmly onto Sans' shoulders. Sans lazily drifted up a hand to ghost over Alastor's. Over the warmth and familiarity.

So it hadn't been just Alastor being Alastor on that roof. It had been the attack Sans inflicted upon the man that disoriented him as well. In hindsight, the obviousness stuck out, purple-thumbed. He attacked a man who killed countless people, yet who couldn't die to the karmatic retribution. Sans had thought, aloof and dazed on that roof, that Alastor's constricting hands around his throat had been the cause.

It was just his attempt at playing god—attempt to kill the unkillable. Not Alastor entirely—and yet, not not Alastor either.

The hindsight grabbed at Sans, thumbs obscured and thick against his chest. If he had figured it out, on that roof, he would have chalked it up to that little scientific fact and might have blamed everything—obsession and all—on that alone. Might have even tried to continue banishing Alastor from his life.

Alastor's hands followed after Sans', desperate to be wrapped up again. And that little motion reminded Sans of everything he felt for Alastor, and the nothing he felt for Vox.

Even if Sans had figured it out sooner, he still would have been hooked by Alastor quickly. Alastor was just that type of person to Sans, too honeyed of a trap for him to stray from.

"You know, it's pretty funny that despite you having everything for him, and me having nothing for him, he still married me," Sans said. Quirked his skull to the side, because he felt like being a dick at that particular moment. "How pathetic do you gotta be to be beaten out by a person who's made of just bones? Kinda sad there, bud."

At that particular moment, as if god had briefly swept down to hell to aid in this guy's misery, that was right when the clouds cackled and rain began to trickle down. The stones and walls around them hissed when the liquid made contact, leaving small splotches where more cracks shriveled out and descended through the material. The cascading acid landed upon Vox nearly instantly, leaving the man to pathetically gargle out inconsistent static sounds and promptly teleported away into a nearby TV, before the television went blank as he fled through the cables.

A glance upward provided the reassurance that Alastor had already put forth a protective layer of a shadow above them; the dome curved like an umbrella.

"That was..." Sans lost his words.

"Pathetic?" Alastor supplied.

"Yeah. Didn't even do much to him."

"That's the type of man he is—pathetic, sad. Desperate. He flies high but gets knocked down just as quickly," Alastor said, and offered his arm to Sans. "It's why I left his little enterprise; I didn't feel like being the next incarnation of Icarus."

"When you warned me about Vox, I was expecting someone like this, but not to... that degree," Sans said, kicking at the road with the back of his heel. "Real fucking sad. I hope he gets a life sometime. God, it was like when Asgore couldn't get over Tori, but just... worse."

"Thank the heavens above I met you after Asgore moved on," Alastor grunted. "If that beach trip had featured a pining Asgore, I would have both found and thrown myself into an active volcano."

Sans stared, blankly, at the spot where Vox had once been. "You know, I was kind of anxious about being in hell. Worried that people were going to kill me since I'm mortal. Fucking hell, I can't believe I got all scared over nothing. And that's supposed to be an overlord?"

To think that he could have saved a few hours of panic. Vox was damn near pathetic. Went down with one attack and ran with his tail between his legs. Sans almost couldn't believe it.

"Trust me, the other overlords are not like that," Alastor said, his voice dipping down with a warning. "Vox easily gets distracted when I'm in the mix. Don't let him fool you about the rest."

"Right," Sans said, and looked up at Alastor. "You should carry me back. I wanna feel special."

"So demanding," Alastor tutted, yet swept Sans off his feet regardless. Not a single ounce of hesitation.

"I know, woe is you," Sans said dramatically, swinging his feet like a child on a swing. "Should I have to worry about any of Vox's friends swinging by later?"

"Hm?"

"Those people, the, uh... whatevers you said worked with him, or something. I think yer called them 'the betters he somehow managed to wrangle because of their shared letter'."

Alastor laughed. "Oh, the V's! I forgot I told you about them." A hop and a skip over a crack that overtook the middle of the street. "No, you won't. His girlfriend is always too busy looking at her phone. His boyfriend may swing by the hotel, but he'd be bothering Angel Dust over you."

"Angel Dust? How come?" Sans echoed.

"Angel Dust sold his soul to him. That's his employer."

Instantly, a disgust settled within Sans. Thick and oozing. It boiled hotter than the tea, brighter than the pentagram, angrier than the storm clouds. Sans thought back to everything he knew about Angel Dust—a porn star. He sold his soul to a man who recorded him having sex for money. Then, he thought back to the chain, the soul contracts he and Alastor had, the easy way fine print could dictate someone's entire life.

Sans thought back to the one impression he had of Angel Dust. A bit perverted, but stuck up for Sans and Alastor once he got a read on them both.

Sans decided, at that moment, he didn't like that at all. Not one bit.

Alastor must have noticed—god, he always noticed those kinds of things. Alastor's dictionary had added a neat little section regarding everything Sans-related after they had become intertwined, a constantly expanding novel of a book.

"Would you like me to fix that?" Alastor asked.

"Yeah," Sans said.

Alastor's grin thickened, the hissing of rain around them nearly drowning out the near purr Alastor's voice carried.

"Sure thing," Alastor said.

Vox was always a bothersome presence. One that had sullied each and every thought Alastor had when he tended to Sans, during those days of injury. When all Sans could do was lightly groan or whine when Alastor changed his bandages, when he was stuck with his own thoughts while Sans suffered in agony. Vox hadn't been the first worry that had crossed his mind, but he certainly hadn't been the last.

Only when Sans planted himself onto Alastor's lap, smug and content, did Alastor allow his worries to be placated. Sans upright, bright, and brilliantly off those damned meds, was a sign of good things. Sans being Sans was lovely, and amazing, and meant that Alastor didn't have to fret anymore.

Especially since Papyrus was very, very conveniently gone. Alastor found that quite nice.

Not that Alastor still wouldn't keep an eye on his favorite skeleton—Alastor would always keep an eye on Sans; it was an integral part of his being. Not looking at Sans was like a flower not basking under the sun. If Alastor were deprived of Sans, he's sure something around him would perish by his own two hands.

Alastor isn't sure what, or who. Just something.

Since the cat was out of the bag—or in this case, his aromantic partner was out of the room—Alastor had to take charge in showing Sans about. Hiding him would only cause problems in the future, as if he were ashamed of him. Something Alastor never would be, not a day (not a second) in his life. Sans had made it clear he wanted out, and Alastor was no person to decline to Sans.

Sans was, as expected, tense and rigid through hell. Everyone was, when they first landed. As averse as Alastor was to admit it, his first day had seen him hidden within an alleyway, pawing at his forehead and chest while he stared at the reflection in the window. Surrounded by beings he couldn't comprehend, with a new body and arsenal of abilities he had been thrust into.

Even though Sans was dreadfully mortal, his abilities were enough to chase away any lower sinners stupid enough to jump him. Any ability that hurt the victim the more they've killed was perfectly suited for hell. And Vox was the easiest of the overlords—the moment he had pounced, and Sans hadn't needed Alastor's help to dodge, he was confident in his platonic partner. Sans wasn't a fool; he carried himself just fine, and even gave a little jab that'd likely have the overlord crying himself to sleep for a few weeks.

Sans was so beautifully back, and Alastor could only bask in the wonder of it all. The sick thrill of having Sans dependent on him was triumphed by Sans thriving, and yet still seeking out Alastor's arm to perch himself on, still looking at Alastor with that cocky grin, as if he had it all.

The only worry that still had Alastor fretting over Sans was if one of the big shots of hell decided to try and get one over on Alastor. A majority of them wouldn't care for this, usually, but Carmilla has been having several run-ins with both her status and daughters as of late. Trying to weasel a meeting with Sans to reestablish herself over another overlord wouldn't be out of the blue.

Zeezi was an impulsive, brash woman who worked her way through her afterlife with the blunt end of words and actions alike. A hard hitter who conquered through sheer force and nothing else. Easy to trick, but easy to steamroll even that with her impulsivity. If she randomly decided that the rumors of Sans were a good opportunity, she'd rush over and try to throw him into a potato sack. And wouldn't have the foresight to try and exercise caution, regardless of his mortal status. As talented as Sans was, the moment he couldn't teleport would be the moment he became dust.

But oh, she was only his second concern. What Alastor fretted over most was if Zestial decided to get involved.

One of the few overlords older than Alastor, and one of the few that positively terrified the man. There were few people in the world Alastor couldn't beat—Lucifer, Adam, and Zestial were all guarantees. Alastor could stand his ground with Carmilla as an equal and could endure Zeezi, but Zestial outclassed him. In both power and secrets.

Alastor never knew what the man was plotting. Alastor had wiped out a good chunk of the previous overlords, but Zestial... he knew when he was outmatched.

Which worried him. Sans was very openly a mortal, and Zestial was subtly open about being interested in such notions.

Alastor didn't even know what Zestial's abilities were.

That was the only real terror that carried Alastor when he watched over Sans. Everyone else was an equal for himself, or could be handled by Sans. The rest wouldn't be interested in Sans, as angels were no longer sweeping down to hell for exterminations and Adam was long dead. Lucifer hated Alastor, but was too forgiving to consider trying to harm Sans in Alastor's stead.

Zestial didn't do very much. It was a very low likelihood he would go out of his way to even try to contact Sans, or follow him, or even look at him. He only ever left his secluded life for overlord meetings, or if some new hotshot decided to test their luck against him. Alastor was far too quick-witted to make that mistake, and hadn't suffered for it. Zestial had found it amusing that Alastor killed every other overlord beside him, and while they had the occasional pleasant conversation, that was it.

He really didn't like the idea of Alastor's public declaration of being married to a mortal bringing Zestial out of hiding.

So Alastor just had to hope the green-tinted overlord never showed his face.

At the end of the day, though, Alastor still had given Papyrus a part of Sans. All Alastor had to do was sweep Sans up into his arms and return him to earth with the crystal lodged in his stomach. If it did begin to get dangerous, Alastor would have to return Sans earlier than expected.

Which wasn't exactly preferable—Alastor was quite enjoying showing off hell to Sans, and liked being away from Papyrus for a bit. But necessity would decide upon that outcome, if it ever came to it.

Briskly paced, Alastor carried Sans back to the hotel. The acid rain had come in clutch, leaving the streets barren of nothing but newly formed cracks and the occasional corpse of a sinner who hadn't pulled themself together in time to escape it. Sans watched the buildings pass, quiet as he observed the architecture or the sinners peering at them between slitted windows.

This wasn't how Alastor had ever intended to show Sans to hell. He had every sinner landing spot carefully documented on a map tucked into the corner of his room, and when Sans' time grew close, he planned to go through and quickly sweep his bestie away into a grand adventure and tour alike. Take Sans to coffee, the same way Sans took him to coffee. Help the skeleton learn whatever new body he was tossed into, and whatever abilities came with it. And a plethora of other surprises.

At the very least, Sans was having a good time. He seemed content with the hotel residents, and liked Rosie. Which was good. Alastor quite enjoyed Rosie's presence, but he would toss her aside in a heartbeat if Sans requested him to.

Quite frankly, Alastor would carve out his still heart and give it to Sans if Sans requested it on a whim.

But Sans hadn't asked that of him. No, Sans asked for something far more interesting—freeing Angel Dust from an eternal, soul-bonding contract. A challenge Alastor would happily pick up.

In his free time in hell, when the hotel was slow and dull, Alastor had been working on some tasks on the side for Sans' expected arrival. A second home for them to move into, for vacations or in case the hotel and radio tower didn't last. An extra toothbrush, a custom bed (Alastor hated buying quick and cheap furniture). And, of course, a plethora of demon souls bound in contract to kickstart Sans into being an overlord. A surprise he had been steadily building for the skeleton, for him to do whatever he saw fit to them. Sans could even release them, if he so pleased, and Alastor wouldn't bat an eye. Sans just needed an initial boost to make sure no one tried to take advantage of him—whatever Sans did with the souls after that was up to him. Alastor trusted him.

But freeing Angel Dust's soul to Sans' command would be a fantastic introduction to owning a more conventional one-sided deal. With someone Alastor knew. And if Sans released him, Sans would get that satisfaction of saving someone's life. And be seen as a kind man to all of the hotel staff.

A win, in Alastor's book.

The party was, as expected, a grand event meant to over establish how much Charlie needed to insert herself into his life. In much the same way she did for everyone else. Sans was a partner of Alastor's, and thus, had become another mindless target for her shenanigans. Streamers, balloons, piles of food and soft music. Charlie welcomed them in, insisted he go join the fun games they had planned for the night.

Alastor set him down, bid him adieu momentarily, and set off to go fulfill Sans' request. A shadow on Sans (with very, very stern instructions to warn Alastor before Sans got injured). And with the rest of the partygoers being decent enough to not leave Sans out to dry if anything did happen. After that whole angel fight, they had become some tight-knit group. Sans would be protected by them. Even Vaggie, although she would loathe to verbalize such an idea.

Sans understood easily. And there wasn't any worry to be had about socializing either. Everyone in hell was removed enough from human features to leave the typical line in Sans' shoulders gone, and the recent run-in with Vox had been enough to deter any lingering anxiety over his own abilities.

But mainly, Sans was with Charlie. And as much as Alastor despised her bright optimism, she was the Princess of hell. She'd entertain him and be Papyrus-ish enough to make Sans smile all the while.

So Alastor carried himself across hell, bent into shadows and alleys alike, toward the epitome of overcompensation. In the form of a tower, their initials plastered across it as a desperate cry to be worthwhile.

It wasn't difficult to find Val's room, either. A poorly hidden agenda of a pervert who had a hard time being told no that also had a thing for soft, fluffy materials. The man was perched upon his throne of a makeup chair, typical heart sunglasses stripped in favor of tracing eyeliner.

Alastor drew him back and threw him into the wall. He didn't feel like many pleasantries.

Val barely caught himself while Alastor strutted forward, his dirtied shoes dragging mud and debris across the soft, plush carpeting.

"Val," Alastor hummed, arms crossed behind his back. "I need you to hand over Angel Dust's contract and sever it with you. Immediately, please. I have somewhere I'd like to return to."

Val spat out at Val. "Fuck no," the man said, as if it was a choice he could make. "Why the hell are you even asking me for him? Want him or something?" Eyes flickered up and down Alastor's form. "Couldn't resist, huh? Married life do that to you?"

The heel of Alastor's foot shot forward and kicked him down. That very same heel ground into the moth's throat as Alastor continued.

"You see, your very annoying partner decided to bother mine. I came to seek retribution for it, and so I'm bothering his. And since Angel Dust is your top seller, I think he would be a fair price for what Vox did to my husband today."

Val sputtered, tried to flick his wings to spread dust, or tried to snap Alastor's leg off of him. Meaningless attempts, frankly. He's fought the moth once before—and out of the V's, he knew Val was the weakest. He depended on picking upon the weaker ones that he already owned the soul of, where he could easily strike and not worry about anything else.

Alastor pushed his foot harder against the straining skin. Blood began to dribble out from the sharp curve of his shoe.

"You are very lucky I'm not demanding for all of the souls under your employment," Alastor said. "I did bring some exorcist weapons with me, so I will be taking your life if you don't comply. Which will automatically release them all regardless. So I'd recommend you pick the better of the two options."

Unfortunately for Alastor, Val had decided to be difficult, trying to spit up onto his face. Alas, Alastor wouldn't be returning to the party posthaste. Which meant less time with Sans, whose time and attention was an addiction Alastor could never get enough of.

But that would be fine. After all, Alastor had a willing participant underneath his shoe to take it out under.

And he could pretend it was Papyrus all the while.

How convenient.

Sans nursed a beer while deeply grieving how he was never much of a party person.

This? The streamers, the balloons, the constant booze and food and people trying to include him in everything? It was nice. Real considerate, from folks who didn't have to be. But it wasn't Sans' scene. He liked drinking, but more so the casual environment in the bar or the poker games that kept his interest. Not the dancing or, for fuck's sake, the grinding.

Just being within proximity of it had made him violently uncomfortable. Knowing someone could shuffle the wrong way and get him involved was rather unwanted.

This party, void of any grinding, instead had the insistent flirting (and bickering) of Husk and Angel Dust at the bar. An unstoppable force that drove the two men near one another, as if they had a naturally expiring time limit if one of them didn't comment on the other's ass, or dick, or mouth, or kissy face, or anything of that sort.

Sans busied himself elsewhere when that did happen. He was fine enduring it for Papyrus and his friends, but only in small doses. So Sans watched this snake guy brag about his weapons and complimented his engineering. It was leagues ahead of Sans, crisp and cleanly cut, and strong enough to damn near make his eye lights bulge. Sir Pentious blushed and hissed out murmured joy from Sans' praise, before he boldly asked Sans to move in and become his henchman.

Sans declined, regretfully. Being the coworker of something called an Egg Boy sounded like a dream.

Nifty found her way back to Sans again, and set forth on exploring his body—by climbing it, a mountain to be conquered by her tiny frame. Her fingers dug into his clothes like needles while she traversed him, sat on his skull, and wiggled her feet while she cozied herself upon him. Did so while he was playing poker with the group.

"Comfy?" Sans asked her.

"Mhm!" Nifty said, and peered down at him. "Your head is very round. And bald."

"Thanks. I do try to keep it, uh, rounder and balder."

Occasionally, throughout poker, Charlie showed her knowledge of the game. At one point, she had asked Sans if he had an ace, and he told her jokingly to go fish.

She did, and Vaggie had to quickly bring Charlie's arm back before she accidentally cheated.

Husk, unsurprisingly, smoked them all. Only one round did another victor appear—that being Charlie, who had a royal flush and had bid tokens because she thought it was, in her words, "Pretty cool, huh?"

The same move Papyrus would accidentally pull if he were thrown into poker. It made Sans' soul pulse with want.

It was nice. For all of the ways media had talked up hell and demons alike, everyone within the hotel was a relatively chill person. Eccentric in their own ways, but the same flavor of eccentricity his own friend group had. Familiar enough for Sans to roll with the beats, to enjoy them for what they were.

Well, except for Nifty. She was straight up crazy.

But he was married to crazy, so he kept rolling.

Out of everyone, Sans found himself dwelling with Charlie and Husk the most. Charlie for painfully obvious reasons, and Husk because—

Well, there wasn't any rhythm or reason to it. Husk was just fun.

It was during one of those Angel Dust and Husk moments that, when drifting elsewhere in the vast lobby of the hotel, he had stumbled into Vaggie. Someone who was on the road to learn how to have fun, with plenty of sternness and only half the wits to manage it just yet. She was pleasantly fun enough regardless of the vile hatred Alastor held toward her—a damn good competitive streak in poker that made trying to read her all the more fun.

Vaggie eyed him down and motioned for him to follow. Sans did, the flame following the moth this time round.

And when he did circle into the hallway, where muffled music petered off into death and where Sans had promised to plant a bullet into his husband, Vaggie sucked in a breath.

"Are you okay?" She asked.

Sans blinked. Before he could respond, she went off like a bullet.

"Look, I know Alastor feels like he has a lot of reach—but he doesn't, okay? I can help you out. I can get you back onto Earth with the help of Lucifer, and he—he can undo any soul bonds or deals on mortals if Alastor tricked you into one. And if you do end up in hell, you can hide under a new name and I'll make sure he can't hurt you ever again. Do you need my help?"

Vaggie looked serious at that moment. Ready to throw herself in front of the train known as Alastor for the mere chance of Sans getting away, if need be.

"You are a good person," Sans decided, aloud. Vocalizing his thoughts more so than telling her directly. "I can see why you got into heaven in the first place."

Vaggie blinked. The slight tension in her shoulders dissipating.

"I don't need any help, though," Sans said. "I don't need any of that stuff you're offering me—which is super nice of you to do. I know how scary Alastor can get, but he's not like that to me. And I'm not that to him, either. Alastor would rather get gunned down and tossed into an alleyway to bleed out overbeat me, or try to abuse me. He's good, and bad, for me. And I'm the same for him. And I like that, alright?"

"You... you do?" Vaggie asked.

Sans jammed a thumb over his shoulder. "Yeah. I mean, the reason I went down to the living room in the first place was because he pissed me off by taking me wrong. I kinda wanted chains—I, uh, sort of really like the attention he gives me. Really like it. And he's funny, and I can also hold my own against him. We're good." Sans sucked in a breath. "But, if anything does happen... I will come to you for help. I promise."

And Sans did. Wholeheartedly. He had full faith that it would never come to that. But Sans also knew that having a contingency plan for such ideas, even such unfathomable ones, was better than none at all. It made Vaggie feel better, it made Sans feel better, and it would make Alastor feel better, too. In the same way that Alastor knew he would never strike Sans down by his own hand, yet made Sans promise to pull the trigger if he did.

Vaggie's posture wilted. "Okay, that's good, I..."

"Nah, it's cool. I get it. I'm married to a serial killer that has admitted to liking to watch me sleep, so it's something I expected to get," Sans said. "I just really like all of that."

"Good to know, then," Vaggie said. "Just—let me know, alright, if anything that ever makes you uncomfortable happens. Or Charlie, she'd go through heaven and back to hell to help anyone she cares about. You're on the list now."

"Already?"

"She had a conversation with you that didn't turn out poorly, and you complimented her concept sketches for the hotel. You're in," Vaggie said, a chuckle to her lips and a spark of love to her eye.

"Cool. Glad about that."

They moved back to the main room, and joined in on a game of charades.

Alastor arrived shortly after, a present for Sans tucked behind his back. He swept into the room while Vaggie was doing a terrible impression of a happy-go painter, and gave Sans a bunched-up scroll that looked eerily familiar to Sans' own soul contract. Sure enough, unraveling it revealed a contract of ownership over some guy named Anthony for sexual services during the typical work day—wasn't hard to figure out who it belonged to.

"Sweet," Sans said, and quickly rerolled it. "I'm going to go give this back to Angel now."

Alastor didn't even so much as twitch. "Of course. It is yours now, do whatever with it that you so please."

Good to know Alastor didn't expect any of this weird soul ownership with Sans. That was another thing that made him uncomfortable. Sans already had the entire underground dependent on him for ages; adding more people he had to worry about wasn't a shining, desirable thing at all. It was ugly and gross and only made Sans feel worse, as if a terrible burden had shackled him to it, instead of the other way around.

Sans didn't have any dramatic speech or anything. Never was his type of thing to do. He only scooted over to where Angel Dust was, tapped his shoulder, and nonchalantly dropped the ownership of his soul onto his lap.

"I managed to convince Alastor to snag this for you."

Angel Dust stared at Sans, blankly for a moment before his four arms whipped forward and unraveled the golden parchment. Still as a statue, reading it, before all of his eyes glazed with tears and his arms began to shake. Only when Sans started to worry that the man was on the verge of a panic attack did Angel Dust spring forward, and wrapped his arms around Sans.

"Thank you! Thank you thank you thank you holy shit thank you—" He blabbered into Sans' shoulder, fingers digging into the new fabric.

"No problem," Sans said, despite not doing any of the work for it.

He just asked Alastor. That was about it.

Angel Dust's hands tore through the paper, through the sheet, and the chain around his neck appeared for only a moment, before it crumbled away into nothingness. Angel Dust hugged Sans, sobbed, and then hunted down Husk across the room and hugged him and cried tears of joy into his shirt.

It was all very sweet. Husk and Charlie both found their way to hug Sans, at some point or another. Alastor quickly replaced them one they were gone, erasing their warmth with his own. After Husk's hug, Alastor had lingered longer, staring down at Sans with a twinge of curiosity.

"Do you like Husk?"

"Hm?" Sans asked.

"You've been talking to him more than the others."

Sans glanced over at the cat demon. "Oh, yeah. He's fun. What, ya getting jealous or something? Trust me, his dick is screaming for Angel. Not a chance."

"Oh, none of that," Alastor laughed. "I was just wondering because I can give him to you as well."

"What, did you take his soul from Val as well?" Sans asked.

"No, I already own him. You can have his soul, if you'd like."

Sans could only steel his jaw in shock as Alastor summoned another soul scroll, this time with Husk's name scribbled across it for eternal servitude, and plopped it down into Sans' hands.

Sans stared. Alastor smiled.

Without missing a beat, Sans went for a round two.

Somehow, Angel Dust cried even harder this time, more than Husk did. At some point the porn star had begun to cling to Sans, a koala of a man, and had to be pried off by Husk when the party came to a close. The two freed men thanked Sans again until they were breathless, and eventually Alastor and Sans retired to Alastor's room. Partially because Sans was tired, partially because he still had a bullet wound, and being awake for too long sucked.

Sans did try for a round three when he discovered Nifty's soul was also owned by Alastor. Offered her that he could free her, just the same way he did for Husk and Angel Dust. Instead, Nifty frowned, kicked him in the heel, and insisted he didn't "get it."

Sans just went to go get ready for bed, after that.

Sans stole Alastor's toothbrush to brush his teeth and, for the first time in a week and a half, bathed himself. Something he quite enjoyed—minus the opportune moments of blowing bubbles into Alastor's face. Sans would miss that. He got dressed himself and carried on out to Alastor's bed, while the owner himself combed his hair and picked out new pajamas for Sans to wear.

"You should tuck me in," Sans murmured against the velvet sheet.

"I will smother you."

"Kinky."

Alastor pressed a pillow against Sans' skull, and dragged the blankets up. "You've officially hung around Angel Dust too much—I want none of that rubbing off onto you."

"Too late. I just auditioned. I'm gonna be featured on the porn channel," Sans said, peeling back the pillow smothering him. "Doing a Bible time class, and my pun stand-up routines. Super sexy, am I right?"

"That would quite drastically improve the porn channel. Though I would have to warn you, people would still likely masturbate to what you did on there—regardless of how sexual it was."

Sans made a face and reburied underneath the pillow. Alastor's laugh rang through the room, free and airy, before he fluttered over to the wall and switched off the light switch.