A horribly abnormal standstill was created between Sans and Alastor. The type of change that baffled him to no end, but the type of change that could only make sense between them. Because Sans crossed an aspect into Alastor's life that he's never quite let people into before. Even Rosie, his closest friend in hell, never obtained that sort of privilege. No one had ever seen Alastor hurt and vulnerable like that, and frankly, he wasn't sure how to react.

Alastor had friends while alive, of course. Work associates and colleagues that would further his reputation. Had friends in hell that he enjoyed the company of but kept firmly in a box.

Technically, Sans hadn't even been in that sealed box. He had been a toy in the same vein as the others, where Alastor smacked him around a few times for his own, twisted amusement.

However, Sans' intrusion into his life had warped that into a new reality that Alastor was out of his depth for. Out of everyone on earth that could have chosen to approach that building, it was Sans. The one man in the entire universe that somehow seemed to understand Alastor. He'd never met someone like that before, and might never do so again.

And oddly enough, it was comforting to know that. Because no one else could risk getting as close as this Sans person. Only him. That comfort itself was inherently confusing; confusing enough to loop right back to righteous, stress-riddled rage.

Alastor didn't like to leave things open or unfinished. When he ate, he always made sure to take care of leftovers. When he killed, he left nothing to his name. So he didn't like leaving this nebulous relationship in the air. Not quite friends, or enemies, or lovers, or haters, or anything that could be defined through a single word. And Alastor didn't like that. Rosie was a friend. Carmilla was a colleague. Charlie was a stepping stone, and Vaggie was in the way. Sans was Sans, and that helped define everything and nothing.

Alastor wanted to rip off his flesh. He wanted to throw him into the depths of an acid river and revel in the flopping limbs. He wanted to chain him to his side and tell him to keep talking. He wanted to own his soul so Sans couldn't even think about looking to anyone but Alastor and explain.

How infuriating.

No one could just waltz into Alastor's life and pick him apart, raw and vulnerable, uninterrupted. Alastor wouldn't allow that. Even if he was the one that let himself become open. Every inch of his skin burned with the knowledge that he let Sans in to that degree. Alastor hadn't even realized such a thing was possible anymore. People were always so firmly interested in sex or romance, easy to please with words. How was Alastor supposed to defend against his perfect opposite when he slithered in through the back door, like a damned snake offering the sweetness of an apple.

Sans had to be dealt with. Somehow. It's like a switch had turned, because Sans went from a silly little toy to Sans, Sans, fucking Sans. That damn man managed to somehow bypass Alastor's defenses (by his own hands, no less!) and firmly planted himself into an inner circle no one but his mother had stood in before. Sans.

Is this how Vox felt about him? No wonder that television was constantly running himself into power outages at the mere mention of Alastor's name. It's suffocating.

Unfortunately for Alastor, there wasn't much he could do in that regard. Sans still had a beating heart, and Alastor did not. Even with those fancy crystals roaming about the undermarket, a deceased soul simply couldn't step through a portal and call it a day. They were bound to hell just like how Husk was bound to Alastor. If hell could be left on a whim, sinners wouldn't be there.

Sans, though, seemed pretty convinced that was his destination when he finally croaked. The monster was very upfront about not answering questions, so it wasn't like he was necessarily hiding something; he was more so leaving the response blank. It was quite refreshing to see someone alive acknowledge they were not a good person. Living with Charlie had led to some... adjustments in his afterlife. No wonder he sought out contact with Sans more. Any good alternative he was bound to latch onto, he supposed.

It was almost ironically funny how much Sans understood him, while not all at once. Alastor couldn't decide if it's addicting in a good sense or a bad one. Like a car crash on a neighborhood street, where, despite themselves, nosy neighbors would creep up to idly watch from their porch. Alastor was drawn to the inexplicable pull of Sans' odd disposition. Someone with moral convictions that swayed yet never relented. The single blade of grass that somehow defied the lawn mower.

Alastor had met so many people. Those without convictions, those with too many. Those so easily swayed and those so stubborn they could be led astray all the same. Oddly enough, Alastor had not once met someone as convoluted and tempting as Sans. Someone who loved puns and his family, who smiled a fake, rigid mask to get through the days but also was soft and laid back all the same. Someone who shared the lacking desires that Alastor did.

And Alastor had no idea how to tackle such a foreign entity. It wasn't that he hated Sans—well, he hated Sans because he didn't. Sans was an enigma in that regard; someone Alastor found himself looking forward to meeting. Not in the Rosie way, for light tea and entertainment alike. No. Something deeper, and dare he say, more primal. The natural, human urge to form a true, meaningful connection. Something Alastor had assumed he was far removed from.

Alastor really needed this man to come down to hell so he could decide. Alastor usually was so patient, yet in typical Sans regard, he found himself running thin. There was an uneasiness that tensed his shoulders as he baked the snail recipe Sans gave him in the hotel kitchen, one that chilled at his veins as the oven beeped down the timer.

Sans was a monster. Mid-thirties. Shorter stature and a wide sort of smile. Reminded Alastor of the Cheshire Cat, almost. While Alastor wasn't too fond of the picture show nowadays, all fattened with soulless marketing with the obscure media somehow anything but obscure, there were a few classics he liked to enjoy from time to time. Alice in Wonderland was one of them. The first thing he associated Sans with was the Cheshire Cat, ripe with fur and lazing about on that chair as he grinned down towards Alastor. A cat monster was his best guess, but he couldn't sense any tail from him, so it was likely incorrect.

Sans was a monster with trust issues toward humans and a lazy disposition to his speech. He always sat lax but seemed ready and alert if needed. Left-handed. Smiled most of the time and loved stupid pranks and fun puns. In one sentence, he could say a pun, and in the next, he would elaborate on the quantum theory, explaining how it could possibly apply to the energy of souls in the afterlife that made Alastor's head spin. Alastor was good at school, but he certainly wasn't that good. Alastor was an entertainer. He wasn't a scientist for a very, very good reason.

The oven churned with noise, nearly rattling about as Alastor ran his fingers down across the apron he had tossed on. Ah. He had zoned out again. How bothersome. It had been a while since Alastor was caught with his own thoughts like that.

As his hands dragged out his delectable treat, Alastor let the train of thought continue. His mind warped back to their last conversation, full of fun chatter and banter that had left Alastor near breathless when Sans inevitably tittered away in favor of returning his brother's call. It wasn't a bad disorientation; no, no, it was good. Soft and fuzzy that churned about in his gut like drunken little butterflies. The simple discussions of recipes were pleasant, and for the first time in his existence, he found himself upset over Sans' need to depart. He wanted to spend time with him in a way that engulfed his being until his chest ached.

The way his mama had, once upon a time.

No one had ever come close to standing next to his mother in his mind, so deeply understanding and close that he could reach out and touch them. And it's not like Sans was that close, either. He just recently, through some miracle, crossed the border. But that within itself was too far, because no one has ever been able to break through that border. Sans waltzed in as if there were a door the whole time.

He loosened his grip when he realized the tips of his thumbs were beginning to dig into the top of the crust, and forcibly relaxed his shoulders. Right. Obsessing over this won't do him any good, even if he found it increasingly more difficult to refrain.

Alastor cut through a slice of the slug pie Sans had recommended. Interesting. Monsters really did have interesting recipes. Of course he wasn't necessarily a big fan of it, since he was more inclined to meat, but the sludge is a texture he found rather amusing. Especially when he delivered the rest of the meal to the hotel residents and got to watch, in glee, as they all attempted to enjoy it.

"Alastor went out of his way to make us something as a sweet gesture!" Charlie insisted, visibly refraining from squirming as she stared at the gooey green inside of the treat. "We should be thankful!"

"Are we sure it's not poisoned?" Vaggie asked. Such an annoying little thing. He despised her the most.

"Heavens no! Why would I ruin a perfectly good meal with rat poison?" Alastor asked. He may have been a serial killer, but he had standards. His mother taught him to never ruin a meal. And while it wasn't suited to his tastes, he still would indulge in effort.

Alastor never half-assed anything and never intended to. He really couldn't comprehend how Sans managed to do that with certain tasks. How he would haphazardly stuff clothing into drawers or throw a Tupperware into a cabinet that he knew didn't fit and then frantically try to stuff the door closed regardless.

Such a meaningless story. Alas, Alastor had found himself thoroughly entertained through all of it. Just because it was Sans talking.

Vaggie narrowed her eyes. "I didn't specify rat poison."

"Well, what else would I attempt to poison a rat with?"

It wasn't nearly as fun as arguing with Sans. Sans would've had a lovely remark back and would have been able to bounce off of Alastor so perfectly. Sans would have snorted and laughed, found it as funny as Alastor as he returned the gesture tenfold. Sans would've made a rat squeak, or a rat pun, or would've said something about how Alastor was somehow less funny than a rat.

Vaggie replied by hurling an insult that was as bland as her one-note military personality. And Alastor could only sit there on the couch, a crook in his eyebrow, as he tried to press down how he immediately thought of Sans all over again. A parasite of his attention span.

Alastor ended up giving the rest of the pie to Nifty, who was quite ecstatic over eating the rotted corpses of slugs. Nifty was amusing in her own right, twisted and downright mad. But not Sans. Maybe he should try to hunt down a demon with a soul binding to some object that could lead to the death of Sans. Not being able to do anything about the man except for occasional bloody changes to the room he sat in was infuriating. And those bloody handprints took some concentration to do.

But then Alastor glanced over. He wasn't looking for anything in particular, not at that second. All that was on his mind was the sickening new conundrum of how to deal with Sans and this weird, insistent need to think about him. Then he looked at Charlie.

Frankly, he's been saving his deal for an emergency. Having the Princess of Hell in his back pocket, waiting for him to eventually cash in a deal that could turn the tides of any situation was a thrill he very much liked. Alastor sometimes would glance over, catch her eyes, and see the slightest sliver of fear. By all accounts, that woman was more powerful than him, but power meant nothing if one couldn't properly use it. Charlie could have the hotel lavish with people if she applied herself past her own personal comforts, but she refused to. Alastor sometimes wondered what would happen if he didn't have a moral code he followed. Charlie proved what having too much of one could do to a perfectly capable individual.

And while it was rather fun to toy with Charlie regarding the unused deal, he is certain that the newfound plan that suddenly rocketed into his head would be an absolute delight.

Sure, it would be a tad bit of a waste for any favor from the Princess of Hell, but Alastor—

Well, no. Alastor found that as he dwelled upon it more, he found nothing but elation over the idea. Gaining more power in hell came naturally to him, so asking for the favors he had been debating about before wasn't necessary. But access to Earth again? To be able to stand in front of this mysterious Sans and see what he was like, to feel his pumping heart?

Ah. Indeed. He liked this concept much more.

"Charlie, dear, I need to cash in that favor of mine," Alastor called out to his little favor princess.

Charlie stilled, forcibly halfway through her slice of snail pie. She had a look on her face that looked like she just choked, but she forced out a smile on her dotted cheeks and tried to straighten her posture to look more authoritative.

"Now? Like— Charlie paused, her smile ever so strained as she waved about her fork. "Now? Now?"

Vaggie was forward in an instant, arms crossed. "Alastor, what are you planning? Was the pie a ploy? Are you going to try and—"

"Dear, please," Alastor hummed. "I'm not stupid enough to try and convince Charlie through such simple means of pie to break a soul-binding deal we both agreed to. No matter how much she loves the pie!"

Charlie forced a wobbly, half-balanced smile at his statement and shoved down another bite while pretending that she wasn't gagging. Her shoulders hitched from the taste. Vaggie rolled her single eye, and with a soft, love-riddled sigh, she stole away the plate from Charlie and tossed it into the trash.

"He's messing with you, babe; he knows you hate it," Vaggie said, before stealing another glare toward the radio demon. "What exactly is the deal, Alastor? And why ask now?"

Alastor pushed her aside, ignoring the repulsed churn in his gut from the touch in favor of flashing her a condescending smile. Vaggie bristled, more akin to a cactus than a woman at that moment.

"I believe our deal has nothing to do with you, Vaggie, but don't stress your little, pea-sized head over it. It's nothing concerning. I'm hurt, Charlie. I thought we had gotten closer over the recent months, after we fought against the angels. It hurts me that you all think so little of me."

Charlie looked so sad it was near pathetic. No, wait. It was pathetic. Daddy issues, he's heard.

Alastor supposed, in a broad sense, he too did have 'daddy issues.' But where Charlie faltered because of them, Alastor flourished. His father taught him everything he needed to know regarding his dark and twisted urges. His dear mother would never be to blame. She taught him love and manners and all of the good stuff. He would never dare to sully her name with his more nefarious deeds. That blame lay with his father.

"I just need help with transportation, you see," Alastor said. He leans slightly forward toward her, indulging in the sweet, tantalizing image of the near future in his mind. One he now very much wants to make a reality. "I have a friend I'd like to meet up with. I need your help to secure a consistent method of transportation whenever I desire."

Charlie's shoulders sagged so fast that she practically melted into the plush, red, velvet couch below her. Vaggie still remained as sharp as her spear, every part of her body tensed as she waited for the inevitable twist Alastor was sure to have.

Which, of course, Alastor made sure to deliver.

"I need access to Earth, dear."

Both Charlie's and Vaggie's shoulders hitched further up than they had been before, pressed up against their ears as both women tensed.

"You can't just go back to Earth, Alastor!" Vaggie said, jabbing a finger toward Alastor.

"I believe I can, actually," Alastor said. He folded his hands neatly behind his perfectly postured back. "After all, the only condition for Charlie's deal was for her not to help me harm anyone. I'm not requesting her to stab someone; I'm requesting that she grant me access to Earth—"

"To stab someone," Vaggie finished. "Not happening."

"I wasn't planning on that, Vaggie. I am quite truthful that I've met someone I'd like to meet face-to-face."

"Not. Happening."

Alastor's cheeks strained. "Oh, how unfortunate. I do believe that you've forgotten, Vaggie, that our deal does not include you. And that Charlie is quite obligated to abide by her end of the contract for the information I gave her earlier. Information that helped hell escape a genocide?"

Both Charlie and Vaggie wilted at that reminder. Alastor didn't need to point out that the information would have been easy for them to discover themselves if they put forth effort to try and figure it out. It wasn't rocket science.

Alastor himself had always had his assumptions, but never acted on it. He never needed to. He was content with the status quo before.

Now, though, he found himself running thin on patience. It wasn't a silly little request he was doing to try and see Sans—it was an instinctual, compulsive need to finally meet him in person. Alastor wasn't used to any of the new emotions Sans had thrust upon him, so Alastor was going to make the man take responsibility.

While dealing with Charlie and Vaggie was fun, he really didn't want to drag it on any longer. He had a monster to get to, after all. Foliage to see, to look at the earth's sky once more.

"I am completely abiding by the rules of the terms Charlie set out for me, so if Charlie doesn't, in turn, comply as well—" Alastor paused, tilting his head. "Well, I'm sure you ladies both know what happens when one party fails to fulfill a soul-binding contract. Hm?"

Vaggie grimaced, her teeth grinding together. Charlie's face went paler at the mention.

"Are you threatening us right now?" Vaggie hissed through her teeth.

"No, of course not. Just reminding you both of the terms of the contract. If Charlie didn't want me up on earth, she should have specified it during the contract. And I'm not asking for permanent residence up there—just permanent access to it. I'm sure she can handle that. After all, there are a variety of demons who do travel up to the surface. I'm sure Charlie could figure out something."

Charlie's eyes softened with defeat as she bit her lip and looked to the side. Gears in her head churning with thought, no doubt regarding ways she could get Alastor up there.

He wasn't lying. If Charlie had wanted to make sure Alastor wouldn't go up there, she should have said so previously. But the thought likely hadn't crossed her mind, in much the same way it hadn't crossed Alastor's. No sinner could go up to earth; it was almost impossible.

Unless, of course, someone like Charlie or Lucifer helped.

Alastor could barely believe Lucifer's daughter could be so gullible. If she hadn't been born into it, she would have no right to rule over people. People like Carmilla wouldn't be caught dead in a deal regarding that many loopholes.

After all, if one side failed to abide by the terms, they lost the right to their soul.

As Charlie and Vaggie began to murmur with one another, Alastor lingered and waited, patiently.

Frankly, this was Charlie's fault. She should have known better.

Alastor smiled.

None of his concern. If she was so eager to let people take advantage of her, Alastor would be more than happy to oblige.

Sans wasn't really sure what he felt that night Alastor called him, sounding very much injured.

Of course, Sans had been warned about the upcoming battle. But he didn't really think about it. Alastor was a self-proclaimed powerhouse of hell, and while the man was a liar in several regards, Sans could tell he wouldn't throw himself into a situation stupidly. Alastor managed to kill over sixty people and not get caught when he was alive. And even then, people still debated if it was him that did or did not kill all of those people years later. That took skill and an understanding of one's own abilities.

But Alastor got hurt. Sounded like he was coughing up blood and, if Sans was listening correctly, couldn't even stand. Had a self-described nasty injury from what was likely one of the more powerful angels. Alastor got hurt.

Sans should have been happy. Instead, he felt queasy when he spoke to the man. An uneasiness settled into his gut that didn't even exist. Alastor getting hurt was such an uncomfortable thought that Sans literally formed parts that didn't exist just for them to hurt. Go figure.

And then Alastor called him "Ma." Ma. Mama. Mama mia. In such a soft and broken voice, it did things to Sans he didn't want to admit. Gone was the overly thick radio filter that he knew had to be somewhat fake. Alastor was vulnerable. All bark and no bite, and then, no bark. Just a soft hum of his voice as he reminisced about memories he clearly cherished deeply. Alastor may have killed his father, but he loved his mother. Loved her so much. In the same way Sans loved Papyrus, so filling and suffocating all at once.

After that call, Sans called Papyrus to tell him he loved him. Just needed to hear his voice.

Sans knew, by that point, Alastor was something different to Sans. Something...

Fuck if he knew. All that he knew, for a fact, was that his therapist pushed for Sans to admit this was more than a simple rivalry. That Sans was too deeply invested to only hate the bastard.

Alastor and Sans had a shift in their conversations after that night. It wasn't like they suddenly started drifting apart, more so... neither of them really knew what to do with the shift. They didn't acknowledge it, of course, but they did fumble around each other. Sans got a very emotional piece of Alastor he didn't think anyone else was privy to. He doubted the demon even knew how to handle such a sudden reveal of intimacy. It felt like both parties had both shut back and sprung forward. If their conversations before were a field of landmines, this was a field of nuclear bombs.

And Sans? Well, he'd never really gotten close to a human before. Not like this. Was 'this' even technically close? Sans couldn't tell. He supposed it was, in a very broad sense. Sans knew a lot about Alastor.

Alastor was a serial killer that cried for his mother when he thought his soul was going to be destroyed. A serial killer that sat with an injury on a radio call with a skeleton and talked about cherry pie. And what the fuck was Sans supposed to do with that? With the man that thought like him, who laughed at his jokes and felt more alive than the people Sans talked to outside. It was almost terrifying to think about. Sans knew he was well past the acceptable boundaries of what this should be, but now he was in uncharted territory.

So he should have expected the guy somehow showing up on his doorstep.

The aroace fucker at the very least had the decency to knock. Sans thought it was his neighbor. Sweet old Maurie. Poor lonely Maurie. That would have made sense.

He opened the door and craned his neck up. And nearly turned around to flee the country.

There, standing in the most obnoxious red suit he'd ever seen in his life, was none other than Alastor. It had to be. He looked next to nothing like how he did in those old black and white photos. Thick red hair that poofed up into ears, dead gray skin, and bright yellow teeth that looked like Undyne's. He had a walking stick or something with a round end at his side and trained his red eyes onto Sans. Sans had never seen that man in his life and yet knew, instinctively, it could only be Alastor. The demon of his second floor. A dread settled into his gut, and yet, excitement thrummed through his fingertips. Might be the adrenaline, actually.

Oh, fuck, was he an adrenaline junkie now? Was that why he was so excited to see Alastor? Fucking damn it.

"You're much... shorter than I thought you'd be," Alastor hummed. "And a skeleton? Unexpected."

"Fuck you," Sans grumbled, and kicked open the door as he turned around to let him inside.

"Why, that's a first! Most people slam the door in my face," Alastor said, and all but invited himself inside. His heeled shoes clicked and clacked against the tiled floor behind Sans, in steady but broad steps. His cane tapped the floor in tandem. "Not that it keeps me outside, of course, but it's nice to see them trying."

"As they should—how the fuck are yer even up here? As far as I'm aware, this is the land of the alive and un-eternally-damned." Sans crossed his arms and leaned back against his counter, watching Alastor take in his makeshift living room and kitchen.

Red eyes, sharp and feral, sweep across his living space. Sans shivered from the gaze when it returned, feeling picked and plucked right under those intense pupils. There was a demon in his living room. There was a serial killer in his living space.

"Lucifer's daughter owed me a favor. And I figured I could cash it in to visit my dear monster friend! After our little discussion the other night regarding pies, I figured I had to drop in for a physical visit at least once." Alastor twirled his cane and made a show of it, too, which was such an Alastor move that it made Sans ache with familiarity.

Alastor was tall in person. Easily six feet. Sans never was sure what the guy looked like in hell, but that was only how the man could have looked. Suited him. Had that perfectly clean suit and posture, with a broad smile that never seemed to even flinch. Well-kept hair and nails, the edges black as charcoal. This was him. This was Alastor, the legendary radio demon of cherry pie.

Sans should have felt overwhelmed. Or whelmed. He found himself only underwhelmed, though. Maybe it was the shock? So much surprise that he'd become numb to it?

"What, visiting ol' little me?" Sans asked and made a show of fluttering his eye sockets. "Aren't I so special? What did I ever do to deserve such an honor?"

Sans knew he was shorter than most people, but did this guy seriously have to be over six feet tall? His neck was straining to look up at the bastard. Fuck him. And he was wearing heeled shoes. That was so on purpose.

Alastor grinned, his eyes flickering up and down Sans' form. The static that Sans had become used to roared, and he had to fight to keep his composure as it pounded in the back of his skull. Thick and suffocating. Like a sludge stuffed with nails that dragged across every bone on his body. And Alastor seemed to find Sans' narrowing eye sockets amusing, tilting his neck slightly with a horrifying CRACK that made him want to vomit.

Calling a demon every other day was one thing. Having him actively standing in Sans' living room was a very, very different thing.

"Don't do that," Sans said.

"Do what?" Crack.

Sans narrowed his eye sockets, lingering with an antsy need to bolt running through his body. Every single danger sense in his body was screaming with a shrill voice.

"How ironic it is that you're a skeleton! Why, humans typically associate skeletons with death. I had no idea there was a species of skeleton monsters," Alastor said. Sans tried to bite down the uncomfortable memories that rose at the thought of it. "Yet, now that I think about it, no other monster species would make sense for you. I suppose I should have expected this."

"What other species did you think?"

"A cat."

"Me-wow."

"Ever so charming, Sans the skeleton."

Sans should have, in theory, screamed. Fight back. Pull holy water out of his ass somehow and attack the bastard. Maybe he should've at least attempted to close the door on his face. And yet, Sans invited him inside. Because he was Alastor. Not because Sans was confident he wouldn't hurt him—Sans was so fucking confident Alastor would hurt him that his magic pulsed in his left eye socket, waiting.

Yet, yet, he didn't turn Alastor away. Because he was Alastor. And Alastor was someone Sans didn't think he could throw away. Not like that.

Sans thought he did deserve to see this man in person at least once, regarding how much they'd spoken about random topics over the haunted radio station.

"So, uh, deer demon?" Sans asked, gesturing to the getup Alastor was in. "Is it a conscious choice to look like that?"

"Well, I do choose to style my hair this way, and I do like to choose my own clothes. But much like on Earth, my DNA cannot be altered," Alastor answered, running a finger down his cheek. That finger caught an adrift piece of his side bangs, which Alastor gently twirled. "Sinners have our looks and abilities based off of how we died or lived, you see—but enough about me! I came all the way up here to learn more about you. And you haven't even offered your new guest any beverages! I would love to taste earth food again."

"Dirt's right outside," Sans said.

And then Alastor turned to look at the window. He had this strained, painful expression for a brief second as he caught sight of the dark forest and buzzing flies just down the parking lot. A soft, fluttering look that brightened under the edges of the fluorescent light above. Sans nearly choked on his breath at the sight and felt a familiar ache of watching Papyrus look at the sun for the first time.

Again, right when Sans couldn't think about anything other than how different they are, he was dragged back to reality.

"I'll make ya some tea," Sans said and glanced outside. "There's a really good view on the roof, if you wanna go up there. Can see the stars and half the forest."

Alastor pretended to think for a moment, and never tore his gaze from Sans. "That sounds lovely."

Sans had a demon in his home, and he was making him green tea. His fingers worked slowly as he brewed the water, and soon enough, the kettle was on as he turned to glance at Alastor.

Who was still looking at Sans.

It was a look that sent an uncomfortable shiver up his spine. Alastor really didn't stop smiling at all. He stood rigidly still, with an almost death grip on his microphone cane. Even though he had never been to Earth in ninety years, even though this was the first time this guy had probably seen this building since he died, he was still looking at Sans.

Alastor was just how Sans expected him to be in real life. Red suited his new look, all prim and proper. Alastor was just as intense as his voice sounded, with the slightest edge of silliness that seemed to linger. Though Sans hadn't expected the radio filter to just be a part of Alastor, it still fit.

He was also handsome. Sans didn't really do sexual attraction, but he could tell if he liked to look at something or not. Alastor was something to look at indeed. His anatomy definitely was a bit unsettling, with a longer neck than usual and broad shoulders with an unnaturally thin waist. His mouth took up far past the acceptable amount for a human, and his skin was colored like a corpse. But still. Sans always liked looking at people who looked a little off, so it didn't deter him. His outfit was well-coordinated, his hair neatly combed, and everything matched just fine.

"Like what I did with the place?" Sans asked, redirecting the topic from talking about themselves because he didn't want to. The look Alastor was giving him was one teetering between interest and utter bloodlust. A perfect balance he wasn't sure he could tip into his favor.

Alastor blinked at the sudden question and took a brief moment to glance around the room again. "Considering you had to live here, I say it looks as expected. It's a bit unusual to see this so long after my departure. Is a shame they decided to abandon the building instead of keeping it around."

"Ain't that yer fault, mister serial killer?"

Alastor's grin flickered. Sans' palms went clammy in a heartbeat.

"I think we both know it's because a colored man was the one who committed the murders. If it was a white one, they would have kept this place open," Alastor said, his voice as chipper as usual but the undercurrent of danger rolling through every syllable that left his lips. "If it was a white man who did it for the lord, they would have made this into a historical site."

"Yeah, why do you think they shoved a monster into here?" Sans asked.

Alastor chuckled. "Right. I suppose I can't complain considering your circumstances."

"No, don't fucking do that. Nothing ain't worth comparing if it's two piles of shit on a scale," Sans grumbled. He flicked the tea kettle off once it began howling its simple tune and shoved three bags of green tea into a cup with a chipped edge. "If we do that, we'll never fucking leave this room. Let's just agree everyone sucks and move on. Alright?"

As he finished his sentence, he shoved the now full cup of brewing tea into Alastor's free hand, who accepted it with ease. He made sure to purposefully steer his fingers away from accidentally brushing against the man.

Alastor was in his house, and Sans gave him tea. Sans was giving a radio demon a cup of intensely brewed green tea with no sweeteners as a passive-aggressive act while he invaded his living room.

What the fuck was his life anymore?

Alastor paused, glancing down at the cup of tea situated within his hands. Silence lingered from him for a moment, before he leaned ever so slightly toward Sans. On the cusp of broaching his personal space.

"Agreed," Alastor replied.

Alastor remembered how he found his first victim.

He'd heard people joke about voices, but he never had any problem with voices inside of his head. There had never been a whisper from an unknown subject regarding how lovely it would be to coat his hands in blood, because it always had been Alastor's consciousness giving such devious thoughts. Sometimes he killed people not because of who they were, but because they happened to be alone when he was feeling rather antsy. Half of the time it never depended on the victims at all. Just victims of luck.

But the people he did want to kill were very specific.

Alastor's first kill after his father was different. Alastor considered killing that man a prerequisite to his later hobbies. While the thought certainly had been there for years, his execution was sloppy, and Alastor barely managed to pin it on the cocaine-addicted teacher at school that always had an issue with every boy in their class. His father caught him on the way back from a party he was practically dragged to by his classmates, and he liked his social status enough to let them take him. He smelled of alcohol, of course, and his father took to beating him for having the audacity to drink what the man always reeked of. Alastor had snuck out a few knives from the other kids' house because he liked them, so the situation had been set. Simple as that.

Safe to say the weapons were utilized, and half an hour later, he jumped the fence and snuck into the school in the dead of night to plant a few of those knives into the teacher's bag. Teacher got arrested, his mother barely wept, and his hypocritical drunk of a father was gone.

His first real victim was when Alastor was twenty-two. Not out of necessity. The first person to successfully fill that itch he had ever since he was born. Alastor was sure his rotten genes came from his father. It made sense. The only reason his angel of a mother could have produced such a rotten boy of a son was because the man she let into her home and body. Not her fault, of course; it was that bastard's for ruining his mother's life. Alastor would never blame his mother, blinded by love.

The victim was a man with an awkward bowl cut and a breath that stunk of tobacco. Twice his superior in age with a rancid personality. Though the man had the charms of a moldy carrot, the man hadn't necessarily done anything wrong. Was loyal to his wife and children, always made it to work on time, and was one of the few white men that wouldn't spit in Alastor's face in the beginning of his career. Despite it all, Alastor had started to ponder.

What would it be like to kill this man?

And he couldn't stop thinking about it. Would his eyes stay shut or open? Would he squeal and blabber? How much blood would spill from his throat? Would a knife with a jagged edge or a pipe be better?

And Alastor kept wondering. Until it ate him whole. Until he began to take note of the man's schedule and of his hobbies, and managed to find him alone one night after a visit to town square. And Alastor killed him. Caught him so off guard, too. Quite amusing!

Alastor never thought he would meet someone that could recreate that feeling as intensely as the first had been. In hell, the feeling lessened, since everyone was already quite irredeemable and quite boring down there. Sometimes Rosie brought that feeling, but it was one he could set aside for later.

Sans brought something else out of Alastor.

Charlie had struggled a bit securing Alastor the ability to travel out of hell and onto earth willingly, but constant reminders of their soul-binding deal kept her and Vaggie trying throughout the few days that followed. One private whisper to Lucifer regarding a suggestion that 'getting Alastor up there will get him away from Charlie longer' had Lucifer practically jumping onto the project to help. Soon enough, Alastor ate a neat little crystal that bypassed hell's soul defenses and allowed him to traverse from earth whenever he so pleased. With restrictions, of course. The crystal bound itself to Sans so Alastor could only appear within proximity of Sans, and so that Alastor could never return to earth once Sans had passed into an afterlife. Smart of Charlie, admittedly. The crystal also had a recharge period, but the recharge wasn't long at all, and it was a natural setback all demons faced.

Alastor had already taken some time to himself to appreciate the surroundings of Earth before he knocked on the door. Of course he would. Hell had nothing but red rampant throughout the streets. Seeing the lush green of the trees and grass, and the dark blue of the star-littered night sky was enough for him to pause and stand on Sans' front lawn and stare.

Alastor always had appreciated nature, and he didn't realize how much he missed the singing of crickets until he was banished into hell.

And Sans was a skeleton. Who would have figured?

Sans was a little shorter than Lucifer, which was outrageously funny. Dressed in an oversized hoodie with sleeves that sagged and a thick pair of basketball shorts that looked slightly obnoxious on him. Not a man for good outfits, it seemed. But his skull was round, with large eye lights that made him look kind of cute. In a small, cute animal way, you wanted to squeeze until it stopped moving.

Half of Alastor's gutting fantasies regarding Sans were thrown out the window at the reveal of his specific monster species, but new ones quickly ignited when he realized what he could test out. Could Alastor break an unprotected skull in half with his bare hands? So many things to think about.

And it was so jarring to stand where he did once nearly one hundred years ago, to look around the building where he once worked, and to see how it aged. More cracks littered the walls than he last remembered, and the entire interior had been very obviously gutted and repurposed around someone living there. Gone were the lush mounds of papers and random graphs detailing user charts around useless topics. Instead, quaint, used but well-kept furniture was in their places. Where Alastor's own desk had been was a green cushioned couch with what he suspected was a ketchup stain smeared along the armrest.

And Sans stood in the midst of it all, so very much Sans that Alastor had to swallow his tongue to keep from breaking his neck on the spot or dragging him back down to hell. And by the way Sans looked at him, on guard and tense, he knew Alastor was debating it.

Alastor thought seeing Sans in person would finally get that insistent confusion off his back, but if anything, it had come back tenfold. Alastor so desperately wanted to kill him but couldn't bring himself to do it. The obsession was beginning to take root in his being, and now that he met the face of the lazy, pun-loving monster, he knew it was starting to ingrain itself into him. Like an infection.

And them interacting together? It was so horrifically domestic that Alastor wanted to cackle. Sans invited him inside and made him tea. If Sans had been all sweet and melty about Alastor's past racism struggles and his brief slip of a mask regarding the outdoors he missed dearly, Alastor probably would have snapped and killed the man. Sans was so frail. One snap of his fingers, and the skeleton's neck would crackle like Alastor's own.

And yet, Sans didn't. Sans did what Sans would. The only man—the only person in the world that could reply in a way that always amused Alastor.

Asking Charlie for this favor was perfect. Alastor couldn't think of anything better than this. He didn't know what he wanted from Sans, but this? This was good. He liked this. Even if the confusion was rather annoying and he wasn't fully comfortable with Sans being able to reside within his inner circle, Alastor still found himself enjoying that night. Especially since he got to pick up little mannerisms of Sans that the skeleton probably didn't notice. He always directed people he was talking to towards his left—he seemed to have a stronger sense of sight in that particular eye socket. He shuffled his feet when he walked, as if dragging himself everywhere, and was wearing obnoxiously bright pink slippers that reminded him of Angel Dust's. Fluffy and round. Too big for Sans.

Alastor wanted to kill him but didn't. Because killing him means he'd lose access to this man. That he'd end up down in hell and would probably have a different face and would probably change his name, like everyone else. And Alastor didn't think he could go back to annoying conversations with people like Vox, who thought they could even insult him in half the amount of fun that Sans does. Or worse, have to talk to Vaggie and try to work together with her. That commercial they made was infuriating. That woman cannot talk to anyone other than Charlie when it comes to work. While it was Alastor's first time making a commercial with video, it was far from the first time he made a commercial for a mediocre product he had to sell. She should at least have given him some respect. At least her reactions to teasing her were a little humorous.

Alastor quietly followed Sans with a soft humming tune throughout his house, asking appropriate questions here and there regarding the redecorations. Sans didn't have much art around, and there seemed to be some form of sock scattered about every room within the home. It was almost impressive how dedicated to sock placement he was.

Then Sans gestured to the ladder, told Alastor how he'd meet him up there, and disappeared in a soft pop of magic and wide, taunting grin. Alastor had stared at that spot for a moment, eyes nearly bulging.

Sans could teleport.

Alastor felt a bristling want begin to take hold. The thrill of the hunt. The thrill of whatever this undefined relationship between them was. A desire for more that burned at his chest and fingertips, that made his shadows ache to attack and maim.

So very, very interesting.