Lights Like Stars (Sans x Reader)

23 - Complicated

In which discoveries are made, but not as many as you'd prefer.

You

You rest against Sans as the two of you watch daytime game shows. You'd started with soap operas, but that didn't last long. Even with the addition of constant jokes and heckling from Sans and yourself, "dumbest thing you can find" was too dumb. Papyrus has gotten a second job at a coffee shop down the road, more to channel his excess energy than anything else, and because he's closing tonight, you and Sans are alone for the afternoon. Paps has been calling every couple of hours to check on you. This might be the first time you've fully appreciated what a blessing it is having Papyrus in your life.

Sometimes you let your hand trace Sans's forearm, the smooth bone beneath soft cloth comforting under your fingers. Sometimes he rubs his thumb gently against your own arm where his fingers are resting. More times than you're happy with, he gets up to switch out ice packs. He's been intermittently icing your neck for you for most of the day. You don't like the cold and you don't like that he keeps getting up, but as long as you don't have to hold the ice pack, and as long as he lets you back into his lap when he returns, you can't find it in you to complain. Hours flow comfortably by.

You're the boss of Family Feud, but Jeopardy and Wheel of Fortune are his domain.

"Looks and brains," you tease at one point, realizing that your friend has racked up more Jeopardy money than any of the three contestants. He's not that great at things like history and culture, but he makes up for this lack with a profound knowledge of language and the sciences that borders on the miraculous. You've known for a while that his lackadaisical attitude hides one of the sharpest minds you've ever encountered: his basement workshop is a case in point, a chaos of circuitboards and wires, transistors and capacitors and tiny soldering tools and other things less identifiable, and none of it is organized. It's just sort of scattered, bits and pieces tossed into unlabeled boxes or kitchen bowls or simply allowed to lie on the worktable until they're needed. Venturing down there one night, you saw him tossing things over his shoulder as he searched for something else, muttering to himself in a low rumble. He was so focused he didn't notice your presence, and when you finally spoke up with a question, he startled and damaged whatever it was he was working on. He wasn't upset, but you felt bad about it, and since then, you've avoided bothering him while he's "fidgeting," as he calls it. Later he came upstairs with a tiny circuit that, when installed, allowed him to turn the coffeemaker on with his cell phone. You couldn't help but comment that he'd put an astonishing amount of effort into being lazy. He just grinned and shrugged.

But all that hypothetical Jeopardy money really brings home the point. For the first time, you feel a little sad that he's not sharing his gifts with the world.

"nice try," Sans responds, a slight blush fading into his cheekbones, "but we both know *you're* the pretty one." He's grinning, but for some reason you don't think it's a joke. Your happy smile struggles for a moment as you vacillate between pleasure at the compliment and worry at Sans's self-deprecation. You hear far too much of that kind of thing from him, and it makes you sad.

You pull the smile back onto your face and challenge, "Are you saying I'm not smart?"

"whoa, hold on, you can't be the pretty one *and* the smart one," Sans protests. "that's not fair."

"I guess you'll have to be the pretty one, then." You watch his face as you say it. There it is again, that flash of quiet hurt, quickly hidden. "You don't think you're attractive," you accuse.

Sans snorts and circumvents. "checkers, c'mon, you're the human. you *have* to be the pretty one."

You blink, train of thought derailed. "Are... do monsters think humans are pretty?"