Frail Reality - [Deltarune | Sans x Reader]

Chapter Two | The Lantern (Part 1 of 2)

          The first thing you see as you wake up the next morning is…

          You're not even sure, exactly.

          There's a shapeless blob for a stuffed animal over your chest – sort of like a Ditto, but not quite.

          Until you realize it's both backwards and upside down, and then it turns out to be the ICE-E plushie once at the corner of the bed.

          How it got here, you're not too sure of.

          "You're finally awake," Sans says, stepping into the room after a while of you looking around, and him returning from… what you assume is a shower?

          Because he has a towel wrapped around him, and you most certainly doubt having gone down any sort of spicy routes yesterday with what happened.

          "Started to think maybe you'd fallen into a coma, or that I failed as your doctor," he adds, chuckling. "Guess not."

          "Um…"

          When you've finished gathering a few of your bearings, every part of you hurts – your forehead, chest, arms, legs…

           Everything.

          "If you can't talk right now, it's fine."

          Sans retrieves a full set of clothing from the nightstand nearby, then throws it over his shoulder and steps back.

          "I can leave you alone for a lil' longer, if ya need me to."

          "It's… It's okay. But… Thank you." You sigh. "I shouldn't be like this – not being able to talk to you after you've done so much for me. I…"

          No matter your protest, words fail you as you try to overcome the tightness in your throat and the mess of your mind. You've no doubt overstayed your welcome since waking up yesterday evening and eating the full meal he'd prepared for you. Hell, you weren't even welcomed here, in the first place. You'd fallen ill at a near stranger's home, and he'd taken proper care of you until the next day. He's done more than enough, and quite beyond, too – a fact highlighted by your observations yesterday. One of these was coming to terms with a more than absurd reality you still refuse to accept: having had him undress you to deal with your comatose, feverish state, judging by the brassiere you'd seen hanging out and the fresh change of clothes he'd changed you into. Had he a partner or anything of the sort, you would be in dire need of explaining what you were doing, occupying the room like that and having him look out for you to such extents.

          But, then again, you're laying on a twin bed with colourful sheets, and that should be sufficient of an insinuation that Sans lives alone – or only with his brother, at least.

          You clutch the back of your neck and hide your face between your knees, huffing in an attempt at letting your chest loosen a little, and hoping to ease the unbearable sensation of having both old and new troubles press down on your thumping skull.

          "Thank you for taking care of me yesterday, Sans," is the only thing you manage to say after a while.

          "No problem."

          By the time you've said that, he's already dressed up.

          And that means either you waited too long to speak up, or that he was fast in returning to the bathroom and putting those clothes on; being so distracted with your doubts, it could even be both of these combined.