Lights Like Stars (Sans x Reader)

18 - There Shall Be War

In which the title is somewhat misleading, and pancakes are far more fun than they should be.

You

You wake slowly, warm and comfortable but heavy-limbed after far too much sleep. By the light coming in Sans's bedroom window, it looks like it's about noon.

You've somehow breached the blanket barrier and the comforter is wadded up in disarranged plush hillocks on top of you both. You're snugged up against Sans's chest and in his sleep he's thrown an arm around you. One of his legs is hooked over your thigh. His breath teases your hair. You sigh, closing your eyes. Oh, god, you like him so, so much.

But your bladder is full and you've barely been out of bed today. Even more than the need to visit the bathroom, you're filled with the need to get up and move.

You extract yourself from the sleeping skeleton carefully, so as not to wake him. Of course, Sans is such a heavy sleeper that it's not difficult to remove yourself, but as you pull away he mumbles some meaningless syllables and blindly reaches after you. He ends up grabbing the comforter and cuddling with that instead. You chuckle.

After a leisurely shower you head for the kitchen to put together something to eat. There's a plate of cold pancakes on the table, along with a note from Papyrus: SIBLINGS, PLEASE ENJOY THESE HIGH-QUALITY GRIDDLE CAKES. (Y/N), THANK YOU FOR TAKING CARE OF SANS. SANS, DO NOT CAUSE (Y/N) TOO MUCH TROUBLE. I LOVE YOU BOTH AND WILL SEE YOU AFTER WORK. FRATERNALLY YOURS, THE GREAT PAPYRUS. You read the note three times, giggling harder with each read-through. The fact that he thought it necessary to sign it, and so formally, really tickles your funny bone.

Heh.

You consider for a moment the unpleasant possibility that puns are contagious, like a virus.

You check the coffeepot: it's still full. Papyrus generally just has orange juice in the morning, but Sans needs his coffee and you need to make sure that Sans has what he needs. You put the kettle on for yourself and drop a bag of blackberry sage tea into your favorite big ugly mug. While you're reheating the pancakes, the kettle whistles, and you start the tea steeping. As that's going on, you dress the pancakes: extra butter and cinnamon sugar on Sans's, raspberry jam and powdered sugar on yours. You admire your handiwork for a moment. They're on paper plates, but they still look pretty good. You put cream and sugar in your tea, pour a mug of black coffee, pop everything onto Papyrus's big serving tray, and head back upstairs.

Sans is still asleep when you reenter the bedroom, but his peaceful repose has twisted itself into what has to be a nightmare of epic proportions. He's sweating profusely, breathing rapidly and scrabbling at the blankets. A whimper squeezes itself out from between his clenched teeth. You quickly set the tray down and kneel by the bed, stroking his skull gently. "Sans? It's okay," you whisper. "It's okay."

He twitches and grunts, then startles awake with a gasp. This startles you in turn, and you jerk backwards, falling off your heels and landing on your backside.

"shit!" Sans rubs his face, wiping the sheen of sweat off, trembling in the aftermath of whatever dream he was having. He lowers his hand and looks at you.

"Ow," you complain. You think you've bruised your tailbone.

"shit, sorry," Sans apologizes, looking down at the floor as if embarrassed. His voice is shaky and weak. "sorry, didn't know you were there." He rubs his face again and glances at the calendar on the wall through his fingers. For a second, an incongruous expression flashes across his face: you're not sure, but it looks like relief.