Time marched forward.

More sleepovers, more beach visits, more radio shows, and all other types of shenanigans take hold of his time. Papyrus and the others eventually settle into a full acceptance of Alastor. The type of acceptance more so born from need than desire.

Alastor spent half of his days on earth and the other half in hell, managing the hotel and his reputation while ensuring he spent time with his partner. Alastor always came up with new fantastical stories to share, eager to sit down with Sans, a good drink in hand, and chatter away until the moon rose and the stars demanded slumber.

The steady beat of time continued.

Undyne and Alphys finally got married, two years after Sans had first met Alastor. Sans sometimes wondered if the leisurely pace was a result of Alastor's reveal of the afterlife. Undyne and Alphys, in turn, took their time getting comfortable with their bills and jobs and housing until, finally, Undyne popped down onto one knee on their anniversary and gave the words.

Alastor was Sans' plus one, again, and the demon had swayed on the dance floor and captured the hearts of all of the older folks who pinched his cheeks. It was quite a sight indeed.

Six weeks after Undyne and Alphys' wedding, and one week after they came back from their honeymoon, Maurie passed away.

Sans, unfortunately, had been the one to find her. Her heart had given out in the midst of watering her plants, the watering can still clutched between her fingers when Sans received the worried text from her eldest child. And when Sans came around to check under their babbling request, he had found her and called the authorities.

Somberly, Sans had watched Maurie's body be rolled away under a white sheet. That night, he had crawled into Alastor's embrace and stayed there until morning.

His knowledge of the afterlife couldn't stop grief for another, or the way his soul ached when the children came to gather her things. Crestfallen, puffy eyes, and wobbly lips as they had slowly gathered her things into boxes. One of them had come to Sans on the sunniest of mornings in the summer, their hair plastered to their sweaty forehead from the blistering summer heat. Her Mama had encouraged her to enter art as a career, despite the icky instability of the field, and she had flourished and had several paintings in the art museum. Maurie loved to brag about her, about all of them.

Sans invited her in for tea, and she accepted. They spoke about Maurie, about everything. Maurie had been ever so pleased to have a new neighbor when Sans moved in, especially one who had been a monster. The eldest of her loved children spoke gingerly, words stapled together like the neat package she had presented to Sans.

Maurie wanted her to have her cookbooks—all of them. He flipped through one of them that night, when sleep didn't come to sweep him away, and found the recipe she had made for Sans and Alastor's first visit.

It was bittersweet. Knowing there was an afterlife but watching her children grieve. Sans attended her funeral, and even gave a short speech. It was near enlightening to discover she was his only friend when he first moved just like how she had been his. A mutual loneliness both had unknowingly cured. Sans never realized it until she was being buried, her children and grandchildren weeping softly as they watched a beloved woman descend into the ground beside her husband.

Alastor had held Sans through those weeks. Even if the afterlife was set and proven, the proof itself holding him, the concept of death was still saddening.

"She is in heaven, you know," Alastor had mumbled against him, his eyes soft and his hands pliable. "I did a quick sweep of hell after she passed, and no new sinners anywhere near her fell that morning. She's in heaven."

That had been good news. Very good news. It still didn't remove the sting of the funeral, or of the children that wallowed in anguish before timidly approaching him. Asked if he had stories to share, if their Mama had been doing as well as she claimed all on her own. The youngest was the most stricken by guilt, and wallowed by her grave as they apologized for not insisting she move to a retirement home.

Sans tried not to feel guilty about it. He never did find out if Maurie could have survived if he had found her sooner.

Frisk entered high school easily, and Toriel and Sans had begun their friendship once again. Albeit, with more distance than before. Sans saw no reason to close the gap, and Toriel seemed to be thriving under therapy and new friendships she made at her school, so it worked.

That was the year Papyrus and Grillby adopted, and the year Sans became an Uncle.

It hadn't been planned. Some kid had wandered into their restaurant on the cusp of the fourth of July, their hands stuffed with candy from the parade and their eyes full of curiosity. Sans only heard about the tale after Papyrus and Grillby had called him later that night. The kid had run away from their social worker after being taken away, confused and scared, and had gotten rather attached to the nice skeleton man who kept an eye on him while his husband called the proper authorities for a missing child. Getting attached easily was a feat Papyrus always boasted, and something that had served him well that particular day, because the two had asked if adoption was an option.

Shockingly, after a few tests and questions and meetings, it was. And so Papyrus and Grillby became parents to a half-japanese, half-american boy with big, doey green eyes and a lisp. Makoto was a bright, curious little thing that had waddled up to Sans on their first meeting with a smile that matched Papyrus'. Sans loved the little squirt, as silly as Papyrus yet as sharp-witted as Grillby. Somehow the kid matched them to a tee, another test of fate interfering to ensure the proper people met.

Frisk babysat when Sans wasn't in town, and Sans did when he was. Alastor never did, not unless Sans was also there. It was odd to see Papyrus as a worried little parent, but it was also refreshing to see. Papyrus really did suit being a parent; loved his little boy to death. Makoto, in turn, adored his parents as well. And Papyrus was good. Mature in the right areas yet fun and lenient in the others. Grillby fully dove into it as well, with his son's drawings all but glued to the fridge with pride.

Sans took over the parent-teacher conferences with the school, along with joining the parent-teacher association. Papyrus was far too nice for that environment, and Grillby was far too quiet to be listened to. Sans, though? He had single-handedly raised Papyrus, he knew what to expect from those meetings of other entitled parents and brats who didn't know up from down. Much to his shock and delight, Papyrus had allowed for Alastor to join him as well.

Alastor didn't particularly care for Makoto—in much the same way he viewed everyone else. But it was an extension to Sans' family, so it was an extension to people he paid attention to.

Sans and Alastor would never raise a child, but being able to drive down to the monthly meeting and tear into the bitch of a woman named Helen?

Oh, what a team they made. It was glorious.

Asgore and Lilac got engaged despite Asgore's hesitation to do so, ever so nervous he would make another repeat of his previous marriage and implode his new one as well. Lilac, though, persisted. She really was better for Asgore. Their personalities meshed well, and Lilac had the firmness Asgore sometimes needed with the gentle hand to ease him through it. Their wedding was an outdoor one at a park, all pretty and stuffed with greenery. Makoto was able to attend, dressed in a cute suit and watched by Frisk while the adults drank at the afterparty.

Butterflies flapped their wings. Seasons changed.

Sans kept getting older.

He reached forty when he officially retired from his days as a comedian ghostwriter, preferring some more free time to laze about with Alastor. Occasionally, Alastor would come up to the surface with some letters from Charlie or the rest of the hotel residents. Charlie always asked how he was doing, how his brother was doing, how the earth was doing. Angel Dust had written a letter in neat cursive, thanking Sans for helping both him and Husk escape the chains of captivity.

On his forty-first birthday, Sans had received a care package from Nifty—nothing but beetles.

Never change, Nifty. Never change.

Frisk graduated from high school with the declaration that they intended to, with full seriousness, take on every single major in their local college. Frisk wanted it all. Alastor had been the only one stumped by their declaration, while the monsters all congratulated them and wished them the best of luck.

"How would they even manage such a feat?" Alastor had asked, befuddled.

Sans gave a grin. "Trust me, ya should've seen them underground—they're determined. They can do it."

Frisk did. No one but Alastor doubted them, and the man had been humbled rather quickly. It only made sense that Frisk would settle for nothing less than the best. They were that kind of proactive.

Lilac gave birth to the next monarchs of monsterkind, a pair of twins. Both girls. Aster and Azalea. They were the cutest little bundles of vines and flowers, with horns jutting out of their heads and a bright giggle whenever Asgore nuzzled them.

Aster had been born as a boss monster, and Azalea had been born with the judge gene. Sans wasn't the only one in the monster population anymore.

Sans never figured out how he felt about that.

He did adore them, though, just as much as he adored Frisk and Makoto. The last baby he ever held had been Papyrus, and it was refreshing to be caring for a little bundle of joy once again. Two of them as well! Twice the amount of fun.

Though, Sans could say with confidence he didn't quite enjoy the diaper aspect of it. Skeletons never had to deal with pesky potty control. Flower monsters did.

Undyne wasn't able to help at all. Gerson, her Dad, had passed away. He had survived well past his expected time, but his ailing age had come swiftly in the night. She was still grieving by the time the children had come around, and so Sans stepped up to help Asgore and Lilac more.

When Sans was forty-three, he had to make a decision. Regarding housing.

Staying in the building where he met Alastor, where Alastor's haunted radio system rested, was intoxicating. But it wasn't feasible. Not when so many of his friends were beginning their lives as parents, not when Sans wanted to be a part of their lives. He had grown to love New Orleans, but Louisiana was too far from where the rest of his life was. And Sans wanted to live that life, wanted to be the Uncle that could be there every weekend if needed. Wanted to go to Undyne and Alphys' career milestone celebrations, wanted to help Makoto with his science homework, or see how Frisk was doing with their goals to become the leader of the human race.

He wanted. So he had to make changes.

Alastor hadn't been upset. Times had changed; lives were developing. Expecting to rot away in the same home without chasing his happiness was pointless. It was bittersweet, accepting an offer from a local museum to buy Alastor's haunted radio station for a display regarding Louisiana's most prominent serial killer. Sans could still remember the weight of the checkered floor against his knees when he first dug into the old wiring, could remember the satisfied joy he felt thrumming through him when he had clicked it on and the thing roared to life.

Sans made Alastor promise not to torment people with it. He was only allowed to haunt it a moderate amount. The two men had settled that Sans was content with Alastor using it only when one person was in the same room as it.

Oh, the poor night guard was about to get the scare of his life.

Instantly, once the haunted piece of technology was gone, the wildlife roared back into existence. Sans had forgotten about his invisible barrier to the outdoors until the crickets sang next to his windows and deer wandered up to peer through windows. And stars, the cicadas.

A month after Sans sold the connection that brought Alastor to Sans, Sans moved out.

He had found a lovely home only a ten-minute walk from Papyrus and Grillby, with a balcony and a window that allowed for him to crawl out onto the roof for a beer if desired. Alastor and Sans did a walkthrough of it, and both agreed it was a fine home to be bought. Alastor himself was rather intrigued by the basement, with a giddy excitement to him when he realized the house had one. Sans didn't fully realize how rare basements were in New Orleans until Alastor had a damn near fit seeing he could have one.

Moving out went just as moving in did. Papyrus and the others hauled ass down to New Orleans with empty moving trucks and happy grins as they all worked together to strip the radio station of the homely stuffing Sans had worked years to develop. Makoto worked with Grillby with dismantling some of the equipment, Papyrus worked on neatly organizing everything to fit, while Undyne and Asgore handled the heavy stuff. Asgore used some of his powers to help, which prompted Makoto to drop everything and whisk over, asking question upon question upon question.

Definitely Pap's kid. They even annoyed Alastor in the same way. It was quite amusing.

And just like that, Sans was moved out. He watched from the passenger seat as his brother's car pulled out of the long and crooked driveway so many people had a hard time finding for the very last time. He watched as Papyrus finessed the car down the awkward dirt road, past Maurie's empty house, stripped of her garden and the lingering scent of her baking. He passed by people going to hunt for gators, past the very first restaurant he had tried gumbo at, past the old decrepit church, and past the creek he and Alastor had rolled around in.

He watched each and every one disappear from the rearview mirror. And he remembered them fondly.

Time continued.

With the tender age of fifty came the realization that Sans wasn't what he used to be. A heavy hitting-fact that spoiled his mood. Magic was untouched by age, but his physical body was not. Moving too fast made every joint ache. Reaching up suddenly caused him to throw out his back, and made Sans lounge about on the couch for the rest of the day, wallowing in his pain while Alastor cackled at his stupidity.

Sans only had bones, though. He didn't have a lot of things to worry about as he grew older.

Some others weren't so lucky.

Asgore's vision had started to fail him, so the man had to apply for glasses, lest he be forced to squint at all the papers his job required him to sign. His hair, too, had begun to grey out. Undyne had lost the vibrant blue colors of her scales, and Toriel had begun to depend upon hearing aids.

Age struck Alphys the worst and the fastest. She had never been the best at taking care of her health, always did prefer a more recreational lifestyle filled with anime and instant ramen. It had begun with aches, groans, and pains and a sudden loss of weight. Several checkups came and went, and with a resigned expression, Alphys had learned her heart was failing her.

Asgore and Toriel were older, but they were boss monsters. Their bodies held on longer. Alphys, sadly, was already a mess of genetic health issues and other worries her Mother had ignored when she was younger.

He thinks Alphys and Undyne would have taken it worse if Alastor had never swept into his life. But Alastor had, so the two of them had announced to the group that, sadly, Alphys only had a few more years to live. Lizard monsters needed specific donors, and Alphys had been one of the last of her kind. Healing magic could only do so much.

She lived two more years before her body shut down. Sans received the news over a phone call at three in the morning. Alphys had passed away.

Sans hadn't cried at Maurie's funeral. But he had cried at the news of Alphys' death, his friend he had met in college who had become his coworker, and friend. Someone he loved and cherished deeply, who adored anime and odd interests, who was smart and cunning and funny and stuttered and laughed and lived.

Alastor had done what he did before, and carried through hell to look for any new arrivals that carried Alphys' anxious words. Alphys knew what Alastor's demon form looked like as well, so it would have been easy for her to rush up to his familiar face to reassure Sans and Undyne.

No one. Alphys was in heaven. Unreachable for a time, but thriving in her happy afterlife and eternal paradise, no doubt. Undyne had sobbed at the news, happy and relieved but still hurting all the same. The funeral was bittersweet, full of beautiful words from everyone as they remembered the thriving life Alphys had, the contributions she gave to the scientific community. Mettaton had been as quiet as a mouse that day, staring near blankly at the urn of dust Undyne tenderly held. She was spread out, per her wishes, into the ocean where she and Undyne had gotten married.

Even with the absence where Alphys once was, the group continued. Undyne began to journal, to remember all sorts of wonderful stories she could recount to Alphys once they met again.

Time marched on and on.

Grillby's parents passed away next. Sans' brother-in-law shut down the restaurant while he grieved, but he had declined Alastor's offer to see if they went to heaven or not.

"I have faith," Grillby's wobbly voice had spoken over the phone. "That, if they did end up down there, Papyrus would help them come up to heaven."

Sans attended their funeral, in tears, with Alastor by his side once again. Always.

Makoto grew into a splendid young man, while Azalea and Aster had begun preparations for their judge and kingdom management training alike. Asgore readied himself to step down and retire from the Kingdom, only once Aster was ready to fully take it over. She had grown into a confident young adult, ready to help monsters and humans fully achieve peace with Frisk by her side. With Frisk at the head of the human race, and Aster at the head of the monster race, Asgore was confident the monster war would be a thing of the past. Sans was sure of it as well.

The hellfire of age once again struck. Toriel had passed on the verge of the new year, her remains found by the mailman who always struck up a conversation with her. Grief was odd with her. It was difficult to fully sob over the complex relationship he and Toriel had, especially when Alastor had arrived, on the cusp of a full-blown grin.

"You know, in hell, we had a fine new arrival today," Alastor had announced, before he delivered a neatly folded letter to Sans. "This one's for you—she wrote one for Frisk as well."

It was much easier to grieve with Toriel. The others he had no direct line of communication with, nothing to help ease his sorrows at their funerals. Sans had known Toriel to be dead for less than four hours before he had gotten a written assurance that her existence simply carried on elsewhere. Even if that reassurance was muddied with the realization that she had damned herself to hell, somehow. Sans tried not to dwell on it.

Her letter started with a pun—the very first pun he had told her. It continued on, thanking Sans for their years of friendship and admitting that she was glad he found a friend whom he could depend on, even if it wasn't her. It was a bittersweet read, frankly.

Sans pinned it to the fridge, next to pictures of Grillby's parents, Alphys, and Maurie.

They were dead. But they weren't gone forever. Alastor and Toriel's letters were proof of it. All of hell was proof of it.

One morning, a few days afterward, Alastor had come up in a cold sweat. He fretted over Sans briefly, glad their connection hadn't fizzled out.

"The radio station," he explained, his voice chipped. "It burned down."

And so it had. Half of the museum had been caught in a nasty lit cigarette accident, and valuable items had been burned to useless ash. Alastor's haunted radio station had been a part of that. His last object connection to the world, destroyed. Sans had found it quite ironic how easy it would have been to rid Alastor from his life in those earlier days.

He had only Sans left to access earth. The moment Sans passed from it, so did Alastor.

Sans reached sixty. Things really were bothersome around that point. His joints awkwardly popped, and he found his eyesight thinning. Glasses were a solution for it, a solution Sans particularly detested. Skeletons had no ears to perch them onto; he had to fucking tape them. Papyrus had helped with his more steady hands, laughing the whole time.

Sans got promoted. Senior lead at his job, one of the most well-known quantum physicists out there. Occasionally Sans would have to swing down to the department to give speeches, or had to fly out of the country and give presentations elsewhere, but he was still kicking ass from his stay-at-home work. On one of those trips he flew down with Makoto, who had run around the streets in awe and dragged Sans to every sight there was to see.

Toriel occasionally wrote Sans letters. Alastor had set her up with an orphanage job down the block from the hotel, for souls that had been abandoned or separated from their parents in the afterlife with the promise to not bother the demon unless it was to communicate with Sans. It was fitting. She adored the job, adored the kids, and sometimes did trips down to the hotel to help them learn to become better people. And, in turn, Toriel became better as well. She learned why so many people had killed, and even spoke in one of her letters about a man who had killed his wife to save his daughter. That complex relationship with taking a life had opened her eyes to it, and she issued a proper apology to Asgore about how she had left him to fend for the entire monster population alone.

Unfortunately for Sans, he never got to deliver that apology.

Asgore's death hadn't come from age, or health issues, or political issues. It had come from an accident, from a group of rowdy teenagers who had been on the way back from a party. Thought they could drive tipsy, with the windows down and their songs blaring. They hadn't seen the stop sign, and Asgore hadn't seen them.

Oh stars, those poor kids. Sans had watched the court case, had watched their hollow, pale faces as they accepted their sentence of accidental manslaughter. Four of them. Three guys and a girl who had ruined their lives in a moment of negligence. The boy who had been behind the wheel had begun to sob on the stand, apologizing again and again until his voice was hoarse and his voice shook. The kid really hadn't meant to. He was just a bit too young, too stupid, to realize his narrow view of the world's safety could be shattered so damn easily.

Lilac had forgiven them and invited them out for tea once a month. They attended each meeting without fail.

In the back of the courthouse, Sans had thought about the kid whose hand he permanently disabled. The kid who was a bit too high, too stupid for his own good. Who thought he was all that and then some, and had to be carted away for medical attention and accept a defeat in court.

Sans wondered what the kid had done since then.

Sans was the one who conducted the inauguration for Aster and Azalea, officially stepping down from his Judge position to let the new generation take over. Their faces were hardened with age, faces struck with grief and determination alike. Aster had bowed to Sans, the crown heavy upon her, while Azalea had lunged forward and tugged him into a deep hug.

Asgore failed to end up in hell. Sans was happy. Lilac was happy. His sweet twin daughters were happy.

Lilac was younger than Asgore, but she wasn't a boss monster, so she had been the next to be swept away by age. The funeral was just as regal as Asgore's had been, having stepped up to the Queen mantle for thirty years. It was no surprise the flowers at the funeral had been her namesake.

Lilac, also, never landed in hell.

When the seventies hit Sans, so did his age. The full impacts of it, where everything was so damn loud, and exhausting, most foods tasted foul, and his calcium requirements rose. His face had developed sharper cheekbones, his back was bent in a horrific posture, and long walks just weren't viable anymore. Even though being a skeleton had given him so many privileges, it couldn't hold back the tides of time. Even skeletons decayed and aged, until his bones were fragile twigs and his eyelights were hazy.

An incident regarding Sans, the stairs, and a broken wrist had Papyrus insisting he relocate to the one-floored home with accessibility in the bathroom. How embarrassing that was. Sans never had to resort to a bar just to stand after a bath or sitting shower, but the slippery porcelain tub could result in a broken skull and the dust of a man named Comic Sans if he dared to test it. Alastor could only help with so much.

No doubt it was odd, to the casual onlooker, to see Sans and Alastor. Alastor's body hadn't aged a bit, nothing more than a skinsuit replica of his mortal life. Despite how Alastor had around ninety-four years over Sans, he looked so much younger than Sans. Yet, that never seemed to bother Alastor. Sans was still Sans, even if his bones thinned and his exhaustion expanded. Alastor helped Sans when needed, all too trained from his previous excursion with his Mama. Alastor helped Sans out of the car, went to go fetch groceries if he was too tired, and helped deal with the maintenance Sans no longer had the dexterity for.

Sans bought a cane when he turned seventy-six. He didn't need it. He just wanted to have an opportune weapon to whack Alastor with.

Sans planned for his death, of course. Now that it was a closer certainty than a distant dream, he had to. Sans went over funeral plans with Papyrus, went over plans about how he wanted his dust to be handled.

Sans wanted to be buried in an unmarked grave in New Orleans, Louisiana.

He wasn't sure why. It was a foul fate any human would detest doing, yet there was a calming peace with the idea that he, too, would be another burial alongside Alastor. In the middle of the woods, in the middle of nowhere. Would Papyrus be lucky enough to somehow bury Sans' urn somewhere close to Alastor's unmarked grave?

No. It was damn near impossible.

Sans just felt bitter about leaving Alastor buried alone. If Sans joined him, adrift in the earth, at least his long rotted body would be kept company.

It wasn't just that, though. Sans had no ties to any particular place he'd prefer to be spread. Asgore had been spread upon his flowerbed Underground, and Toriel had been buried in a grave, with Alphys in the ocean and Grillby's parents turned into necklaces. They had organized these plans ages ago, with purpose. Sans didn't particularly care about any location. His old home had been turned into a haunted house, ironically without the one possession that was truly haunted. The Judgement hall underground was a decrepit concept now, one that deserved to rot away without another soul roaming through it.

He was perfectly fine with his dust being buried without a marker to his name. Sans never needed one anyways.

Sans and Alastor discussed plans about him arriving in hell, while he and his brother went over the finer details of what to expect in Sans' final years. The years beyond death ultimately depended on getting heaven to be willing to, at the very least, hear Charlie out. What they could control was the now, so Sans had. Constant meetings with his brother filled his schedule until, inevitably, it was done. Sans had organized his dust dispersal, his funeral, his will, and had retired nicely into a suburban home with Alastor by his side—when the crystal permitted it.

Sans finished everything he needed to do.

His life had been a full one. One Sans never had expected to have, on that bathroom night so long ago. It was ever so odd, looking back at that moment. To know he almost could have missed all of this if Papyrus hadn't come home early that particular night. Sans was the top of his field, surrounded by wonderful people, with a partner that suited his needs right by his side.

Sans found himself mulling over his picture books a lot in his final days. He enjoyed the opportunity to linger over memories, when he was bright and innocent to the world. When all his and his brothers' concerns were finding the pesky human that fell underground, the latest puzzle, and spaghetti. Sometimes Alastor and Sans would reminisce about when they had first met, when they had hated one another. Stars, Sans despised his husband at first. Wanted nothing to do with the annoying little demon who crawled his way into his life.

Sans once went over his memories with Makoto, who had swung by after work to keep Sans some company. He recounted countless stories about Papyrus' early days, the way he had waddled and misspoken and always insisted upon wearing his cool armor. Makoto watched the pictures flick by, a sorrowful expression on his face as he listened to the life Sans had led.

"It's not fair," He choked out, his face stained with tears. "You shouldn't have to go just because you're old—it's not fair."

Sans gave him a deep, bone-crushing hug that day despite his ailing strength. He had never thought about it, like that. Before he had met Alastor, Sans had imagined it was a one-and-done stop. The privilege of life was more so the lottery than a right. People were born because others said so, and died in much the same manner. To be alive was the final goal, but age was the natural limit to such bliss. Just as life was, a bittersweet culmination of what it meant to be a person, so was death.

But Sans knew of an afterlife now, tender and sweet and waiting for him. Perhaps life was a test given from the force that created their existence, a way to see what creatures with their mindset could do with the restriction of age ticking them down, every second of every day. Perhaps the afterlife was a reward and punishment for having to endure the confusion of existence itself. Maybe it was nothing but the whims of a bored entity no one could fathom.

Sans would never know. But what he did know, sitting on that couch hugging Makoto, was that Sans had people waiting for him in the afterlife. That he had overstayed his welcome in his mortal existence. His curtain call was ringing, though, and his performance had to be put to an end.

Even the best of comedians had to leave the stage at some point.

Sans was never any different.

"Take care of your Dads for me, alright kiddo?" Sans had asked.

Makoto sniffed into his hoodie. Even with age, Sans could never part with them.

"I'm not a kid anymore," Makoto had said.

Sans ran a hand through the boy's messy hair. "Yer always gonna be a kid to him, and me. That's how it works."

Sans was seventy-seven years old when it had become clear he wouldn't last for his next birthday. Everything had become too exhausting, too drainful, too much. Existence itself was a hassle. Sans was all but bedridden in his final month, his legs far too weak to even bother to hold his lackluster weight.

To think that he had once been the Judge of monsters, and had taken down a human that lusted for blood.

How ironic.

Thankfully, things like dementia or any other mental instability never came. Sans was still as sharp as a whittle, even when he was bound to his bed. Alastor responded easily to all of their banter, as familiar as it could be. Sans sometimes wondered if it was Alastor's previous experience with his Mama's failing health that led to his ease when dealing with Sans'.

Sometimes Alastor and Sans summoned the chains that bound them together. They never did anything with them. Just let the heavy, translucent metal sit coldly against his bones while they sipped tea in silence, or chatted about new, useless news the mail had delivered. Alastor had begun to be Sans' primary caretaker, and when he would inevitably be forced down to hell for a recharge, Papyrus had taken over.

It was during Alastor's time that Sans realized, with bitter relief, that he wasn't going to last until the end of the week. Sans wasn't sure if others had felt that in their final hours, but he had. The fact his body was pressing into his weak and feeble skull was quite clear. The next few days were all he had left in him.

Alastor hadn't needed to be told. He had simply swept into the room, his greeting fallinh flat with a grimace taking hold.

"I'll let Papyrus know," he said.

Papyrus' last hug had been the biggest Sans ever received. Even with Papyrus' age, his health was sharp and potent. He had another solid twenty years to him, compared to Sans' few sacred hours.

"I love you so much," Papyrus said, his forehead pressed against Sans'. "Thank you for being my brother."

Undyne had visited as well, after Grillby and Papyrus had left. She had Frisk in tow, both gentle and quiet with their presence. Undyne had become the sort of gentle person Asgore had grown into, especially after Alphys had passed. Asgore's kids had swept into the room as well, Aster with a sad reveal that she was with a child Sans would never get to meet. Makoto seemed antsy at the discovery that Sans was officially in the final sprint, lapping around the room until his parents finally ushered him off to bed.

And, finally, it had been just Alastor and Sans.

"I don't think I'm going to make it to the morning," Sans announced. His smile, a perpetual part of his expression, strained. "I think tonight is it."

"Ah." Alastor said, his voice ever so timid, like a small, withering child all over again. He set down his tea cup and settled onto the edge of Sans' bed, a lavish plush thing to hold him in his final hours. "Is there anything you want to do?"

"Tibia honest? I've done everything."

Sans had. His final goodbyes were given, debts settled, will organized and triple-checked. There was nothing left for him; not anymore. His body knew it, too, the final embers of a seventy-seven-year-long voyage finally petering out.

His fingers tested the bracelet that had always clung around his wrist. Ever since Sans had received them, originally a joke born from a skeleton who couldn't tell the limits of his new obsession, he never took it off.

Gently, Sans pried it away from him and placed it into Alastor's hand. The ring followed, cold against his fingertips.

"Give those to me once I get into hell; I don't want them covered in my own dust," Sans said, his voice a hollow idea of what it once was. Deep, but brittle.

Alastor tucked the two priceless artifacts into his breast pocket.

"I think it's time for me to go to bed," Sans had said.

And Alastor obliged. He brushed Sans' teeth, wiped at his face, watered the flowers on his bedside before Alastor ducked underneath the covers and drew Sans into a hold, per the skeleton's request. There were never any words spoken, because Sans didn't need them. Alastor would hold him until he passed. It was a simple fact.

Sans wondered what he would look like in his final moments. If his face would scrunch up in his sleep, or if it would relax one last time in blissful slumber. He wondered what it would feel like to Alastor, to feel his best friend's bones dust away within his arms. He wondered if there would be a light or not, or if he'd open up his eyes once again and simply be in hell.

Sans didn't wonder anymore after he closed his eyes.

Comic Sans died at the ripe age of seventy-seven at 11:14 on a tuesday night in the year 2071. Alastor Augustin, his husband on paper, had been marked as dead in 1931. It was an odd little contradiction that spurred some people to ask questions. Those people had been dissuaded by a well timed payment from Frisk.

Papyrus mourned, of course. He had known what had happened the moment Alastor walked out of the room, his smile a bare wobble of strength. He knew, logically, this meant that his brother had entered the next stage of his existence and would begin it elsewhere. It still hurt all the same.

"How long do you have left?" Grillby had asked Alastor, in another room while Papyrus sobbed inside of Undyne's arms.

Alastor gave the faintest of upward-tilted lips. "Not much at all. I'm staying behind since this will be the last time any of you will see me for a while."

Grillby hadn't cried that day, but he had cried the next, and the next after that. He knew how to delegate when someone had to be the one to sweep up the dust into a jar.

"And you'll be in hell with Sans again," Grillby confirmed, nothing more than to ease his own building grief.

"Yes," Alastor said. "He's likely just landed, or is about to. I'll be gathering him up and taking him to the hotel soon. And I expect you all to meet us again, one day. For both of our partners' sake."

Grillby had stolen a look at Papyrus through the crooked door. He had every ounce of faith that his husband would see to it. Grillby was, arguably, the second most well-versed in their relationship other than the brothers themselves. While Alastor had received exposure since Sans was thirty-one, Grillby had known the two of them since both were fresh in Snowdin.

Stars, Grillby still remembered meeting Sans. His hands were nimble and he had all but successfully managed to weasel gold from the regular poker players without a flinch from his eye sockets. Thought the guy was odd, a bit kooky, but fun overall.

That had been years ago. Now, Sans was dead.

"We will be, I'm sure of it."

"Disgustingly so," Alastor agreed. "I'll be seeing Papyrus, and then I'll be heading down to hell to gather Sans."

"Right, it'd be best if you do that," Grillby complied.

Alastor kept his word. He all but glided into the living room to give a final goodbye to those who lingered within it. Everyone knew what the goodbye had meant. Their final confirmation of the afterlife was going to be swept away to go care for Sans during his.

Papyrus made Alastor promise to take care of Sans, no matter what. Alastor agreed easily, his words tantalizingly sweet. It was easy to see why he was a demon, with honeyed words despite their full honesty. If Grillby hadn't watched the poor of the afterlife, he would have fallen for it right away.

Grillby simply allowed himself to wave Alastor goodbye, and swept his son and husband into a hug.

None moved for a very, very long time.

One day, in the future, angels would meet demons again. They would begin plans with Charlie to expand the hotel, to help aid demons who wanted to become better with the path to do so. Charlie would meet with Papyrus, a representation of the demon belief group, and would spend countless nights helping millions of souls eventually work their way up into redemption. And Alastor and Sans would inevitably be within that group, when Alastor would be finally willing to make himself a man worthy of being called his Mother's son. And Sans would meet Papyrus, would meet the rest of his friends, and would be swept into a hug as Papyrus wept and Sans sobbed.

That was a future Alastor and Sans could look forward to, one day.

In the meantime, Alastor set forth to find a certain annoying little thrill he had decided to call his husband. It took him no more than thirty six minutes to find Sans, because his darling of a best friend was so easy to spot on sight.

Sans had the gall to look utterly baffled by his new appearance, with a harsh glare sent toward the mirror he had managed to scrounge from a nearby building. Old age wasn't always a factor in what form one would take in hell, but their personalities and living experience would.

Sans looked just as he did when he was thirty one. The same day they met, in the same bright blue hoodie and basketball shorts that sagged over his unkempt tennis shoes. It was poetic, in a way. Sans was always so simple, and in turn, he would forever remain as a simple concept.

Then something had flicked against his skull, something swayed behind him, and aha.

Shadows gave way to light. Sans gave way to violence, throwing a half-chewed cigarette from a nearby trash pile at Alastor because he dared to laugh at the characteristics Sans' life with Alastor had inflicted upon him.

A skeleton Cheshire cat. With the ears and tail to boot. What a charming visual.

"I think this," Sans had said, tongue sharp as ever as he gathered his beloved bracelet and ring and slotted them back into place. Then he took a step back, gesturing toward his everything with an expression of both relief and utter confusion, "Is so stupid. I'm a skeleton cat."

"Ever so charming indeed," Alastor had said, and outstretched an arm for Sans to take. "Now both of us can shed across my room, you bothersome little thing."

And Sans, when he cackled? Oh, what a marvelous sight indeed. His partner for eternity tilted his head up, skull and blue-tinted ears captured by the light of the pentagram as he howled and snickered alike. His tail, a blubber of an appendage, wagged excitedly while his ears flattened against his skull.

Sans pressed against Alastor, bitterly cold to the touch. A perfect harmony to Alastor's smoldering warmth.

The first thing they did in hell, just like the first thing Alastor had done on earth, was simple.

They both went off to go get some coffee.