Sans wasn't too sure what happened to him and Alastor after the guy randomly called for his attention on a Wednesday afternoon and asked, in a slightly strained voice, about being aromantic and asexual. That certainly had not been on the itinerary.

If anything, Sans would've thought the serial killer was all about sex. Some of them tended to be. Got some sort of demented thrill from it, he saw on forums. Alastor, though, sounded almost like a confused kid who was poking at their toes asking about what an adult term meant. And that did something to Sans, more than he would like to admit. Because Sans was once that very kid, confused and scared and not really sure why he couldn't understand what everyone else seemed to.

So he helped. Was genuine and open with his experiences. And surprisingly enough, Alastor was genuine right back. Jarring, in his mind, was the correct term to coin the experience. The kind of odd that shuffled about within him, but something he gritted down and continued through. All the while, he had to remember that Alastor lived in a time and place where concepts of any acceptance toward that stuff weren't quite there yet.

Sometimes he found the whole movement to be a bit much, in the way that Comic Sans didn't like much at all. Sure, he took to the titles just fine, but pride parades and intense flags had never done it for him. Sans could recall finding himself annoyed at the overzealous teenager he had passed the week before, who had been cheering about his best friend finally coming out. Thought that it shouldn't be a big deal.

Sometimes, he nearly forgot that being able to say that openly was still a recent luxury people were afforded to have. And he atoned accordingly.

In a time when anything other than a white straight man was frowned upon, he couldn't imagine what Alastor must have gone through. From the pictures Sans secured online, Alastor donned darker skin and had begun a tirade of straight hair near the end of his days. The kind of hair that matched his more white-leaning coworkers in those company photos.

It must have been agony holding that sort of confusion close, unable to go ask anyone about it for fear of being outcast as gay. Already clawing his way up a systematic ladder bent against his skin color, Alastor had to bite his bottom lip and just brute force dates and fake crushes just to appear more normal. Sat in a closet with some Juliet girl in eleventh grade that stunk of cigars, pretending to be entranced by her kissing just so the other kids wouldn't throw him into the creek out back if they found out.

It left a vile taste in Sans' mouth. Especially since he knows that Alastor's father was the first victim of his. It didn't take a science degree to figure out plenty of plausible reasons why Alastor would target him first. Parent issues were typically a major cause of bad habits down the road.

No wonder Alastor depended on that damn smile of his. Just like Sans, it was a survival technique.

Sans didn't go out of his way to pity the man. He's still the bastard who spat out jazz ripe in the morning to wake him up and purposefully liked to egg him on for a reaction. And, of course, he was still a demon serial killer. The worst possible combination for Sans to stumble upon. Alas, Alastor had managed to weasel his way into some type of mutual understanding with Sans, one foot firmly stuffed between the door of his inner circle. So Sans relented and allowed it.

Things changed after that. They had less heat behind their petty insults and began to slowly creep up to more personal topics. The connection between the two of them being aroace opened up a path neither were quite expecting. No second-guessing any romantic or sexual interest between them. Nor were there any smiles they couldn't see behind or any lies they couldn't prod at. The terror was, somehow, reassuring.

They didn't really stick to the weekly schedule like both had originally agreed upon, mostly settling for a call whenever one of them was feeling particularly talkative. Sans was mostly the initiator, since he was stern about not wanting to hear random jazz music interrupting him. Alastor could answer from anywhere, while Sans had to be home in order to realize Alastor even wanted to talk.

Once they put that foot through the door, Sans started even having more fun with the discussions. Alastor was a genuinely interesting person, despite his many, many flaws. Good with puns and charisma and had wild tales of hell to weave into the mix if the conversation stagnated.

It's a weird frenemy relationship that the two walked. A thin tightrope that the two bickered upon while, at the same time, grasping at each other's hands to stay upright. Sans knew, logically, he should shove the guy off the rope and call it a day, but he clung on anyways. Because, despite being a crazy bastard, Alastor was...

Sans wasn't too sure. As much as Sans wanted to wring his neck, he also wanted Alastor to be a presence within his life for a bit longer.

It's complicated.

Soon enough, Grillby and Papyrus' restaurant was fixed right up, and the gang made another trip down to Sans' house for a weekend excursion. He's so fucking thankful to have them around. Other than Alastor, the house was rather starved of any sort of sociable aspect, and it'd been more draining on Sans than he would like to admit. Sans issued a warning to Alastor to keep the jazz down, with a very stern glare toward the console as the demon cackled. Sans didn't really want to have Papyrus witness any bloody handprints, thank you very much.

The night was a blast. Undyne and Papyrus arm wrestled out back, Alphys and Grillby made a show of swooning, and the four ended up eating this homemade concoction Grillby had been drumming up for weeks.

Eventually, the evening gave way to night, and Sans was finishing up a few dishes in the kitchen on his own, with a soft tune playing on his headset. Since he and Alastor still hadn't delved into the more personal territory yet (Sans wasn't even sure if they ever would), they've been mostly sharing more broad topics with one another. Puns, of course, were a common factor. Though recently Alastor had been introducing Sans to some older music he thought the skeleton would like, and Sans had been sharing some of his hot dog creations he designed when bored at his station Underground. From what he did know about the guy, he used to eat parts of his victims, so Sans figured some of his disgusting outcomes might tempt the man.

And, well, Sans supposed Alastor was good at his job because the guy had good taste. The music recommendations were good and had a flair of individuality to them that made them stand out, with clear passion in every beat and lyric. One thing the two could agree on was that a lot of modern music was mass-produced for a quick buck. He should introduce Alastor to Napstablook's music sometime; he'd probably like it. Maybe get Shyren to send over one of her debut albums.

"Sans."

Sans glanced over his shoulder, tugging on the Bluetooth wireless headphones as Grillby lingered nearby. The flame elemental was wearing a loose white t-shirt that was neatly tailored to his exact size and a firm pair of black khakis he didn't think he'd ever seen the man part from. In his hands he carefully balanced several dishes caked in scraped food and utensils for Sans to wash.

"Oh, thanks, Grillb's," Sans said. "You can add 'em to the pile."

Grillby shuffled forward, setting the dishes onto the intended pile. He lingered for a moment, his fingers dragging across the rim of the bottom plate, before he glanced over at Sans.

Sans stared. "What's up?"

A quiet plea for a nicer conversation coiled within Sans' mind. He'd prefer for Grillby to not be the messenger of an overanxious brother.

Papyrus had spent the first ten minutes of the visit fretting over Sans' mental health and checking in to make sure his brother was alright. Sans couldn't dare object to his concerns, not when he knew why they were founded in the first place. But he answered plenty of questions already. Even if things were lonely, he had a serial killer upstairs he could talk to.

Fuck, maybe he should get some more new friends out here. Saying that sentence in his head did not make it sound good.

"I wanted to... to talk about me and Papyrus' relationship with you," Grillby said carefully.

An ache of fuck alarms rose up Sans' spine as he dropped a bowl into the filthy dishwasher, trying not to flinch as the waves soaked up his sleeves. Well, shit. If this was about a breakup warning, Sans wasn't sure what he would do. Grillby and Papyrus were two peas in a pod. Was there something he didn't notice?

"I want to ask him to marry me," Grillby said, and oh, how unexpected. How welcome.

"Abso-fucking-lutely." Sans said, spinning on his heels. "Approved."

A flicker of flames warmed the air, and Grillby gave one of his rare, full-faced smiles that always melted Papyrus' soul. "He mentioned once a while back that he actually shared a list regarding rings with you. I was wondering if we could go ring shopping sometime next weekend."

Sans couldn't keep down his grin. "Yeah, I got it. I know a few styles he'd really like. I got you."

He was so excited that he couldn't help but push aside the chair he had propped up against the radio room and slink in after everyone else was firmly passed out in his living room. Because, holy shit, his sweet little brother was getting married. To someone Sans very much approved of. His entire future would be set; kids may be a possibility if they want it, just—holy shit.

"Hey, hey, Alastor," Sans whispered, tapping a finger against the console. There's a brush of light to signify Alastor's response, and after a few seconds, a shuffle of a wheeled chair creaking as Alastor sat down.

"Ah, Sans! My little monster associate, who's anything but lovely. How are you doing? I thought you insisted on no calls tonight. What's got you in such a tizzy?"

Sans grinned until his face threatened to split. "My brother's going to get proposed to."

"Oh, well, I suppose congratulations are in order. Though that certainly is a trivial thing to try and wake me up over. I was just in bed."

"Huh, guess being startled so rudely sucks, doesn't it?" Sans picked at his phalanges with a bubbling in his chest he couldn't press down, all gooey and warm. "But sorry, I'm just... excited, ya know?"

He could practically hear the confusion. "I suppose, though why are you so excited? It's just a proposal."

"It's my brother," Sans said in a matter-of-factly tone, waving his hand. "It's my little brother. Anything that's good for him is good for me. I, uh..."

He paused, looking down at the console as the excitement began to slowly ebb away, like a leaking faucet. How would he approach the topic with Alastor? The man had already been upfront that he killed his father, had no siblings, and wasn't too keen on any particular friendships.

"Yer Mum..." Sans drew out slowly. He could feel the way bristle in the console, as if invisible hands were dragging down his back in a warning. It sent a very unpleasant, tingling chill into his spine. "Do ya love her?"

"I'm not sure what this question has to do with the conversation."

"Just..." Sans sucked in a slow breath. It wasn't ever hard to remember Alastor's past when he talked to the man. The way he twisted his words and seemed to take every conversation with the same approach was... indescribable. There was always that sense of urgency, of danger, lurking in his tone. Like Alastor himself didn't want anyone to forget about it. He wondered if that's how the man sounded when he was alive, over his radio broadcasts. Taunting the town that didn't know he was the one behind their recent disappearances. "Just go with it for a second. Do you?"

Another bristle in the static coated the air, and Sans worried he may have pushed too far. Even if they managed to converse thus far with blatant insults and jabbing remarks, it was still a tightrope the two walked side by side. One push, and it was over. Both sides would lash out. Sans couldn't exactly blame him; if Alastor pushed Sans in a similar way about his brother,

"Of course I do." There's an ache in his voice that nearly startled Sans, an ache he didn't comment on. Instead, Sans simply nodded and leaned down against his crossed arms.

"Yeah. I love my bro. Love 'em so much." Sans rested his cheekbone against the crook in his elbow, feeling a phantom smile tug at his teeth. "Even if I don't get it, it makes him happy, ya know? I'd do anything for him. Do you ever feel that? When they smile, the whole world just gets a little better."

A pause from Alastor was near deafening. "Yes," he said, slow and steady. "I get it."

"Yeah," Sans snorted.

They didn't talk much for the rest of the night, but they didn't hang up the call, either. The silence was blissfully mutual, the kind Sans tried not to acknowledge.

The night passed, and so did the moment, but Sans was sure it stuck. Just a bit.

They dove back to the usual topics after that. It wasn't much in the grand scheme of things, especially since Alastor was very much detached from Sans' brother and Sans wanted to keep it that way, so the excitement was pretty one-sided. Soon enough, though, the next weekend came, and Sans drove up a few hours to meet Grillby at a town square and look through some engagement rings. It took them a few hours, but they found the perfect one he's sure Papyrus will absolutely cry over. He gives Grillby a mini umbrella in case of an emergency of sudden, intense tears. Alastor was dismissive of the news, as anticipated. Despite that, though, the demon did put forth some effort to go along with Sans' unwavering optimism. He even initiated questions about it for the sake of indulging his lively conversationalist.

Grillby ended up proposing on the following Tuesday over a candlelit dinner at Mettaton's new resort. Somehow, in some amazing spectacular show of connections, Grillby managed to reserve surprise tickets for the two to attend the opening night's show and dinner. Now that was a place for a proposal. Sans sat eagerly on his phone throughout the night, legs swinging back and forth, waiting for the inevitable swarm of messages Papyrus would send. They came, all right. Full of emojis, hearts, and pictures of him wearing the engagement ring and his face stained with happy tears. Sans literally couldn't refrain from pacing back and forth in the radio room, reading out the messages to the radio demon, who seemed more amused over Sans' reaction than the situation.

Because holy shit, Papyrus was engaged.

Engaged. Going to get married. For real.

To someone amazing. To someone that looked at Papyrus like he was the whole world. Who treasured and adored him. This was actually perfect. Sans was so fucking happy for his little brother. It felt as if a weight had lifted off his shoulders, because now...

Not that Sans would ever stop being an older brother, but it meant his brother was going to be okay. That despite their fucked-up childhood, he did Papyrus right. That Papyrus was going to have a long, happy, healthy life in front of him before he no doubt ended up inside of heaven.

Papyrus was going to be alright. This was good.

Alastor and Sans, of course, continued their conversations. Sans should've tried to drop the haunting serial killer soon, considering how life was twisting around, but he didn't. He knew he should. He knew he hated this fucker, but also didn't, because he's a damn killer and a human and a demon, but he gets Sans in ways Sans didn't and couldn't articulate. One hand was shoving away the man while the other was desperately grabbing onto the front of his stupid bow tie to keep him close.

Maybe it was the confirmation that Papyrus had someone, and Sans didn't. That Papyrus was about to bind himself in marriage, about to find a partner committed to his entire being, and that Sans wasn't. That Sans is still Sans the skeleton, alone in a radio station without anything but the quiet hum of wildlife and a single demon or a sad, lonely old neighbor to keep him company.

Because while Alastor is everything Alastor, he's also Sans' little verbal pen pal. One call away.

And somehow, it was stupidly reassuring, so Sans kept at their conversations. His therapist was all for it, believing that interacting with Alastor was a step in the right direction towards Sans' slow-building trust towards the human race as a whole. Sans didn't think so, since Alastor literally embodied everything about them he despised. At least, he didn't think so, until talking to others became a little bit easier because they surely couldn't be as bad as Alastor was.

It's ironic how much Sans had been trained to kill serial killers and fear them, yet he so desperately clung to Alastor even though he despised him. Self-destruction sure was addictive, he supposed.

The wedding date was officially announced around the end of the month, with a very obvious plus one printed onto Sans' invitation in Papyrus' not-so-subtle attempt to push Sans to bring a friend. He knew his brother was horribly anxious about Sans not having any local support system, and nor was he wrong, so Sans sent back a guarantee that he would and hoped he could find someone quickly enough. They were aiming for a winter wedding, since there's a lovely skating rink only an hour from Papyrus and Grillby's restaurant, and the two were very fond of Snowdin. It's a cute idea. Sans was excited to go, even more excited when he agreed to be Papyrus' best man.

Life was so, very good.

Of course, life got busy with wedding preparations. With enough time to not scramble last minute for wedding preparations, the group had decided that running amok earlier was the ideal condition. It was enough work to warrant divided attention and more conscious efforts to balance his workload. More driving, too, due to how far out the venue and shops were.

Alastor got busy as well. Angels apparently were cutting the extermination time in half (which was terrifying to think about in the grand scheme of the universe). The hotel Alastor half ran was beginning to get ready for the attack with plans to fight back, and Alastor seemed excited about the whole ordeal. Finally getting in his entertainment. Their conversations eventually dwindled in number due to their conflicting schedules. Full of quick, stuffed greetings that left Sans more unsatisfied than he had previously anticipated.

Sans just wished them the best of luck and went on scrolling through the decoration banners Papyrus sent him. Papyrus settled on orange, eventually. Due to no desire for either of them to wear a dress, the two had allocated the extra time to instead focusing intently on the decorations. And by God, was it focused.

They were going to have the wedding prepared probably two months before they even needed to, at their rambunctious rate. Pairing Grillby and Papyrus, two of the most efficient organizers and workaholics, together for organizing an event was destiny for it to go smoothly. Especially since Toriel was helping and Asgore was pitching in a bit, per Sans' cashing in of a favor or two. That favor had concluded with Sans guaranteeing that yes, Toriel was going to be there, and yes, Asgore had plans that conflicted.

He swore they were the worst example of a breakup. Thank the odd lord above that Asgore finally slinked away into therapy.

In the meantime, Sans had snippets of conversation with Alastor and tried to look around town to find any reasonable plus ones. There's no way in hell he'd invite Alastor, and even if he did, how the fuck was he going to drag his demon ass up here? And, not to mention, plan terrible idea. The weird conflicting experience of Alastor wasn't something Sans felt particular toward involving his brother with. Even if he did tell the group chat, on multiple occassions, that he was talking to a demon. All he would get was smile faced emoji's and a swift change of topic.

So, no. Sans did not have a plus one just yet.

It was a work in progress.

When Alastor stared down Adam, the air thick with the stench of demon and angel blood, he thought about his mother's cherry pie.

Alastor used to get into scuffles in his early childhood. Bloodied knees, aching fists, those sorts of things. He wasn't quite as good at controlling his urges back then. However, Alastor was quick to catch on how to lie as sweet as the cherry pies his mother made him after he got injured. A very basic recipe their neighbors gave after they heard some shrill arguments about the house shrines between his parents, a recipe they slipped into his mother's hands as a you aren't alone gesture that helped ease her burdened shoulders.

Either way, cherry pie was a staple of his childhood. Alastor's sweet tooth rotted away eventually with age, so he didn't quite return to it, but there was always that slight twinge of cherry coating his tongue whenever he found himself staring down another obstacle soured with blood. Sometimes he would be chasing away a squealer through the alleyways after dark and remember how brittle and buttery the crust was.

So when he bore down on Adam, the self-proclaimed "dick of all dicks," he thought of that cherry pie. Every word carried that sweet, syrupy center that always oozed out of the crust.

And yet, when his chest was gaping and he crawled backwards, blood oozing from his chest, he found himself thinking of his mother. Of the woman who held that pie, who wiped crumbs from his cheeks and held him close and called him her sweet little gentleman.

How pathetic. Alastor mused to himself as he tugged himself into his radio tower. How fucking pathetic was he to be on the verge of death and calling for his mother? To want to crawl into her arms like the pathetic child he once was, to run her slightly chubby fingers through his hair, and to promise everything would be alright.

Of course, she didn't, because she'd been in heaven for well over one hundred years and probably had long since discovered her sweet little boy was the deranged killer of New Orleans. It's a thought he cast aside because he didn't, couldn't, fathom how much she probably despised his being. She still lived in his mind as memories, and knowing she was being pampered in heaven was enough for him. At least, until now.

Now? Now he wanted her to come down, to do what she always did whenever he was stressed or scared before.

Alastor hadn't ever ... faced death. He was shot through the skull on earth before he even could process the barrel of the gun, and only realized he was dead after everything was said and done. In hell, no one had really gotten close to killing him. The closest was probably that bitch of Charlie's mother after he and Vox had a spat, but Alastor managed to squeeze away without selling his soul to her. And all she gave him were demon injuries that would heal in time. This? Oh, this was agony. The kind of wound inflicted by a true angel, with enhanced angelic powers woven into every fiber of his attack. Stripped through Alastor's chest like paper.

Alastor was, for the first time in his life and after, facing the concept of death so real and close. It was terrifying.

And he was all alone.

Alastor heard a hum of a noise, and all but threw himself onto the console, staring forward as his vision blurred. He knew it was stupid, pathetic, and sad, but all he could think was the aching need for his mother to make things all better. The only person he ever reliably counted on, who loved him despite his odd quirks and weird fascinations.

"Ma?" Alastor choked out, like an idiot.

Of course, it wasn't her. If his mother were to somehow answer now, he doubted she'd be anything short of horrified by him.

And yet, it wasn't her. It wasn't anyone Alastor had been expecting. Out of every voice in the world to call back toward Alastor, it had been the single soul that knew.

"Dude, what the fuck is happening?" Sans grumbled, clearly tired and strained. "I just got back from the city and fucking heard your static from the driveway."

Ah. He must've been playing it subconsciously as a reaction to his injury.

"My apologies," Alastor said, trying to force his normal voice, but it was in shambles. "Just a little spat, that's all!"

"Uh huh. Why'd ya even call me... Never mind. You sound like shit. Did the battle not go well? Get yer ass kicked or something?" Sans asked, his voice a perfect balance between sleepy and alert.

Alastor felt his ears droop as he tried to stand, but he heaved out an ugly clump of blood as he fell back to his knees. If anyone else saw him like this, he'd kill them. As much as he wanted to reach forward and squeeze Sans' neck until it popped, he couldn't. He was stuck being vulnerable with this man he didn't like, who seemed to know his fake smiles and false words over a radio connection.

But at least he wasn't alone.

"Okay, yeah, that sounded bad..." Sans said, "Ah, fuck, I can't really do anything. Um... stay in there?"

"Why, I haven't thought of that! How captivating!" Alastor snarked because everything hurt and he wanted his mother, and she wasn't there, and she will never be there again.

"Okay, first off, shut the fuck up. I don't have to be here, you know."

"Why are you here?"

A brittle silence coated the both of them. Followed up by Sans' meeker, somber voice.

"Why haven't you hung up?"

Neither answered each other's questions, but they both knew the silence spoke for itself. It's a new feeling this whole situation caused in Alastor, one he was not familiar with. One that ached at his heart worse than the blood loss and one he really didn't want to dwell on yet.

"Will your injuries kill you?" Sans asked suddenly.

"... yes. In due time."

"Then fucking grab a med kit if there's one nearby. You know how to apply first aid to yourself?"

"Of course I do. I don't need you to hover over my shoulder while I do it."

It's a mostly quiet shuffle of grunts from him as Alastor managed to tug it out from the floorboard he ducked it underneath, working on stitching up the gaping wound and applying a basic bandage over it. A straightforward process, one that left Alastor tossing away the materials once death wasn't a guarantee. Agony grips his chest as he watched the plastic red and white bundle of items bounce away, splattering the leftover materials against the floor. His chest, now open for the empty radio tower to see courtesy of his claws, was red with blood and awkward stitches.

How pathetic. How utterly pitiful. He hates it all.

"I'm fine now. All bandaged up. You can leave now," Alastor grumbles out.

Sans, dreadfully, was silent for longer than Alastor could enjoy. Alastor hated it. He had figured Sans out, yet he hadn't. Having someone who could poke him apart that was unreachable to Alastor was unpleasant.

"Why are you so insistent on shooing me away?" Sans asked.

Alastor growled, his ears flickering down against his head. Because he didn't do whatever the hell this was. Never in or after his life had he ever allowed someone to see him like this other than his sweet dead Mama. He died so quickly that Alastor didn't even have to deal with people seeing him weak and injured, either. And the seven years he stowed away after his fight with Val and Lilith were in solitude to build his strength so it could never happen again.

And yet, and yet, it happened again.

"Because no one needs to see me like this," Alastor replied curtly. "I don't do this, I don't—"

"Well, it's a good thing I can't fucking see you." Sans countered, his voice so stern and 'done with your shit' that Alastor found his own faltering. "I don't know how injured you are, and fuck, I'm literally in my house with a green tea that I got at a gas station that kind of sucks. What the fuck am I going to do with this information? Go tell my brother, who doesn't even believe me? Or maybe I'll die tonight so I can walk around hell and tell people how you got your ass handed to you, and they'd believe some random-ass guy that showed up yesterday."

Alastor sucked in a breath. Sans paused at the sound, tense in his chair, before he continued.

"Just fucking... If you want to be alone, I can leave. I will. But I'm extending an olive branch over here, bud. I know what it's like to be on the ground, in your own blood, alone and fucking scared and empty and—"

"I'm not scared."

"You were fucking crying for your mother two minutes ago."

Alastor nearly halted the connection at that second, a flare of static coating his eyes and teeth as he barely held the grin he'd been clinging to all day.

"We don't have to talk about anything big. It doesn't need to be any heartfelt confession about how scary dying is or some childhood issue or whatever. I just... I've been there, on the floor in blood, wishing that anyone would talk to me. I get it." Sans paused again, sucking in a breath. "If you want, I can leave, but I'm okay just talking about anything random you want to. Doesn't have to be serious. Just something. Then I'll go downstairs and throw out this shitty green tea, and you can go do whatever you need to once you're able to move around again."

What Alastor wanted to do was burn down this radio station until the uncomfortable itch crawling across his skin stopped. What he wanted to do was hunt down the monster through the forests of New Orleans and rip apart his flesh before eating it as he dusted.

He licked his lips, and tasted cherry pie, and knew his mother was never going to make it for him again.

"Have you ever had cherry pie?" Alastor asked quietly. He didn't bother trying to reach out for that voice filter he always uses, instead settling for letting his posture relax against the station behind him. Wound openly weeping. "The good kind, though. Not store-bought, mass-produced. The kind where you mix up the dough with a fork and cold water and pluck the cherries from the tree out behind your neighbor's house and smell it in the air across the living room."

There was a soft shuffle from Sans as he leaned back, seemingly getting more comfortable once he realized Alastor wasn't trying to chase him away. "No. Didn't have a lot of cherries underground. But we did have snail pies."

If Sans were anything like Charlie, Alastor didn't think he would have opened up. She had this charm to her that sent him in the opposite direction. If she wasn't so entertaining in her stupidity and uselessness, he would have run for the hills. Having someone with her personality trying to help him during a time like this would have made him snap his teeth at them.

But not Sans. He was good enough to call out Alastor's thick lies but also gave him the stick and told him to draw the line wherever he wanted, just as long as Sans could stand on the very edge of it. If there was one thing Alastor hated, it was pity. And Sans didn't give him that.

"That sounds... actually enticing. Send me a recipe later," Alastor said. He chuckled dryly, staring up towards the ceiling. "My mother used to always make me cherry pies whenever I got injured as a kid. I used to roughhouse with the others down by the creek whenever my father was a bit rough that morning. I'd come home with scraped knees and bloodied knuckles, and she would send me out back with a little woven basket to pick cherries from my neighbors trees."

"Oh, sounds fun. Ever steal a few of them to eat before bringing them back?"

"Sometimes. I didn't eat too many, though; she didn't like me plucking them off and eating them without rinsing them. Was worried about accidentally swallowing a caterpillar or some small bug. I always had to fill it just past the rim before I would bring it back and help her cut them up and make the sauce. Once it was made, she'd pull it on the windowsill to cool and would sit on the rocking chair out front with me. I'd tell her whatever silly thing I and the other children did, and she'd tell me to play safe with the other kids. Then we'd go back inside, slice up a few pieces, and eat them while listening to the crickets chirp and cicadas sing. Are they still out there? The cicadas?"

"Hm, yeah. I hear 'em every time I run down the road."

"I never thought I'd miss them. Down here, there isn't much wildlife like that. Not in the ring sinners are bound to, anyways."

"Want me to catch one? I can bring one over another time. There's one that's been bugging my neighbor lately. She likes to bake—actually, she might teach me how to make cherry pie; I'll try that sometime. But anyways..."

Alastor let his head tilt back as the thrum of Sans' voice, low and calming, washed over him. Even if there was a bristling annoyance at the vulnerability, the hum of static over their connection and the distant whirling of the pentagram in the sky were enough to keep his breathing steady.