A/N: So many skelebros feels, so little time.

You don't lie very often.

But one afternoon, several years ago, you lied to your brother.

You remember this particular lie with almost startling clarity—you can probably count on both hands all the fibs you've told him in your entire life and still have quite a few fingers left over. You never have any reason to lie to Sans, who's always been caring and supportive of you—exasperating, sure, but loving enough that you've never needed anyone but him.

Even so, this certain lie stands out from all the rest, as harmless as it may have been. Sans had ambled out of his room (late) for work, tugging his hoodie on with a ginger slowness that made something in your empty chest cavity ache; that ache, along with Sans' sunken eyes when they met yours across the room, really only served to strengthen your resolve.

"I'm going training with Undyne today," is what you told him, "so if you can't find me, just call!"

But you weren't going to do that at all. Your brother leaves, and you go back to your room, and spend the next four hours on the computer. Absorbing as much information as you can about something you're entirely clueless about.

Because you may not lie to your brother, but you know he lies to you. And you love him for an infinite number of reasons, but if there was any one, tiny granule of his character that you would change, it would be the easy way he lies to you. He never does it out of darkness of heart—you won't believe for a moment that your brother has a mean bone in his body. The dishonesty comes from a good place! A trying-to-take-care-of-you place.

And yet…

"Did you sleep well last night?"

"'course I did. I'm so good at sleeping I can do it with my eyes closed, bro."

You were surprised at how much it hurt, to be looked at and lied to. And it wasn't even a traditional hurt, like bruises after a Dogfight or a Cooking Lesson! It was something new that weighed on your heart like a Blue Attack, squeezing tight every time you looked at all the shadows on your brother's face. It was so big it couldn't have been just one feeling, it had to have been a multitude.

Worry-hurt. Love-worry-hurt. Love-worry-hurt-fear.

Your brother very rarely sleeps well.

Sans woke up screaming. Screaming so loud it woke you up, too, and you can't remember a time you were ever more scared than when you burst into your brother's bedroom and found him the way you found him—wide-eyed and terrified, and looking straight through you. He didn't even hear you calling his name. He's never not heard you before.

You had to lift him up by the shoulders and shake him, faces so close together that you weren't sure if it was his tears on your face or maybe some of your own, and finally, after what feels like a whole forever, he stops screaming. Sinks forward against you like a ragdoll, a deadweight that alarms you even as you clutch him against your chest with all your might.

You're still crying when he lifts his head, and certain you must look every bit as terrified as you feel, because he wakes up quickly once he gets a good look at you; lifts his hands to rub the tears off your cheekbones and cradles your face, doing that thing where he looks right through you to see what's wrong.

He asks you, a lot of times, and you're not sure what to say. You settle for "It was a bad dream, I think," which isn't the truth or a lie, and understanding softens the tired lines of his body. You don't need an invitation to lay down with him, curling around your brother like it's you who needs looking after, because it's never as easy to put your arms around him when it's for his sake.

"s'okay, Pappy," he tells you hoarsely, half-asleep again already, and patting your arm with a gentle hand. "'m right here." You cling to him, and a new question joins the frenzied dozen already swimming frantically through your head, is this why you're always so tired, brother? but you don't ask. You feel wildly out of your depth. The only thing you can think to say is,

"Me, too. I'm right here, too."

Gentle hands on your arm startle you right out of your reverie; you look over, and then down, at your little human, where they sit beside you. Sans' latest episode woke them up, and they had lingered in the doorway with big, scared eyes for as long as it took you to wake him up and soothe him back to sleep.

Sans doesn't remember in the morning. You're glad for it for a lot of reasons, but you're especially glad, this time, that he won't remember Frisk sitting on the edge of his bed and holding one of his hands in both of theirs. He hates himself for too much that isn't his fault already, without hating himself for scaring their small, precious friend.

They're gazing up at you with a whole world of worry in their young face, and you begin to understand, in that moment, why Sans lied to you so much throughout the years. Why he shielded you so fiercely from all the Bad and Scary in the world for as long as he was able.

"Don't worry, little human," you tell them, smoothing a tender hand over your brother's skull where it rests in your lap. "He'll be okay."

You don't lie very often.