A/N: Undertale has claimed me body and soul, and also- just for good measure- seems to have shredded my heart into something sort of messy and pulpy. I had to get some feels out of my system, so I wrote a long and winding, pretty pointless little oneshot. Though, I'll probably add to it as I go along.

Sans has a bunch of part-time jobs around the city, and somehow even more classes at the local human university, but he still always has all the time in the world for you. In that way he has, he's always around when you think you might need him—so when you and Papyrus come up with a Great Idea one warm Saturday afternoon, Sans is in the kitchen when you run to seek him out.

And at your request, his grin tilts a little into something more voluntary.

"hey, no problem, kiddo," like there's not already a hundred things he has to do today, and you're ready to burst with excited glee. Your expression coaxes a soft chuckle out of the shorter of two skeletons, and he adds, "your mom could probably whip somethin like that up for ya, tho. any reason you're askin me?"

"BROTHER, BE REASONABLE," Papyrus is quick to interject, standing tall and towering in their human-sized kitchen with its human-sized walls. His head almost touches the ceiling, but he won't take even that very reasonable excuse to slouch. "HER HIGHNESS MAY BE EXCEPTIONALLY GIFTED AT CRAFTING FUZZY SWEATERS AND SWEET EGGLESS QUICHES, BUT IT WOULDN'T BE RIGHT TO ASK THIS OF HER. SHE WOULD PROBABLY FEEL UNFAIRLY DISADVANTAGED FROM THE VERY START—AND WHO COULD BLAME HER, THE TASK OF EMULATING ME IN ALL MY GREATNESS WOULD BE DAUNTING EVEN FOR SOMEONE AS INCREDIBLE AS FRISK'S MOM!" He shakes his head, like it's all so obvious, gestures widely with one thin arm, and continues, "BUT YOU AREN'T DAUNTED BY ANYTHING, ESPECIALLY WHEN YOU'RE SUPPOSED TO BE. SO YOU HAVE TO DO IT."

You're giggling, and you think maybe you should point out that Sans already agreed to do the thing; but Sans is still grinning, with a soft, fond something to all the corners of his face that you really like to see, and Papyrus is on a roll.

"PLEASE, BROTHER? YOU'RE THE ONE WHO MADE MY CAPE—SO YOU HAVE TO MAKE MY HUMAN'S CAPE, TOO!"

And that's the part where Papyrus got his way, basically always. Sans chuckles again, promises to pick up supplies on his way home from work—

"no bones about it—"

"DON'T."

"—it's going tibia pretty awesome scarf."

"GOODBYE NOW."

But he made lunch for Sans yesterday, and grabs his brother by the hood before he makes it out the door; pushing the paper bag into Sans' hands with a stern lecture to go with it about how important it is that he takes care of himself, and you make sure to soften the scolding with a big kiss on Sans' dry cheekbone.

"jeez, you'd think i wasn't comin home till christmas." But he's smiling behind that skeleton grin as he goes.

Sans works a lot, and studies a lot, and all his mail gets sent to a P.O. Box that Papyrus doesn't have a key to. The mail looks like homework, because when he opens it all up he always has a calculator and a notebook, and sometimes he's up really early in the morning like he never went to sleep, bowed over torn envelopes and unfolded letters when you come wandering downstairs for breakfast. He never lets you see, just stacks them all together and runs a bony hand through your hair, and says something like,

"this ship ain't sinkin on my watch, buddy."

It's a nice ship, as far as you're concerned; a cozy, two-story bungalow, always strung with Christmas lights and filled up with laughter and noise. It's only a few doors down from Toriel's, nestled at the end of the street under the shelter of a bowing oak tree, with thick branches that spread over the roof like fingers.

It isn't the biggest house, or the roomiest; mom's house is bigger, Undyne's has a wider yard. But it's still the place everyone gravitates to for holidays and birthday parties. You have your own room there, and it's as lived-in as the room you have at your mom's. You have a key, too, hanging securely on the lanyard around your neck, and there are as many crayon drawings of yours on the fridge as there are of Papyrus'.

It rains, so you stay inside and watch movies with Papyrus on the couch, both of you sharing a big, worn-soft quilt. Mom texts once to check in on you, probably more out of habit than anything else—you know she trusts your brothers with the whole world if she trusts them with you—and you send back an affirmative, complete with a few too many emoticons just to make her smile all the way across town.

For a kid who started out with absolutely nothing, you sure have a lot that's yours now.

And when Sans comes home, dinner is waiting. Papyrus is pretty serious about dinner. And Sans must be tired—he was up early, doing class stuff on the computer Alphys gave him, and he looks like he's ready to fall asleep standing up as he kicks off his sneakers in exchange for the fuzzy house slippers waiting by the front door.

"knock knock," he says, his voice its usual cheerful timbre. He never needs to speak up, you can somehow usually hear him from any point in the house, and you beat Papyrus in the race to throw your arms around him in the foyer. Sans doesn't need to set his bag down to catch you, but he does anyway, his arms a welcome weight around your shoulders. "c'mon, kid, you're supposed to say 'who's there'."

You pull back, hands remaining fisted in the soft fabric of his favorite blue jacket. "Who's there?"

"annie."

"Annie who?"

"annie-one you like." And he beams that permanent grin, and Papyrus is grumbling as he comes around the corner, but you tap Sans' bony chest and fix him with your most Determined Look. You aren't good with words—talking too much all at once makes your stomach twist in knots, and it's okay, because your family is good at understanding you when all the words fail. You usually don't need to say anything at all.

But you think, sometimes, it's important that you do.

You think, sometimes, Sans likes to hear things out loud.

"I like you," you say, with perfect conviction, and it's just enough to tease something honest and pleased out of Sans, a soft bubble of surprised laughter that makes you laugh in turn, and then he's rubbing your hair in a way that makes it stand all on end, turning you around by the shoulders and frog-marching your further into the house.

Sometimes, the words fail Sans, too. But you're good at understanding him back.

And at the kitchen table, while Papyrus fills bowls with chicken noodle soup (he's branched out from pasta, has a respectable cookbook and everything, but it's progress best measured in baby steps and a recipe needs to call for some type of noodle for him to be comfortable) Sans sets his bag on the table. He stopped by the mall, it looks like, and he pulls out some fabrics in Papyrus red, and your favorite purple, and muted blue.

"wasn't sure what color you'd want," he admits, as you leaf through them. "so i got a few choices."

He could have just as easily bought a scarf at the mall instead, or bummed the materials off mom or Alphys, but instead he's keeping his promise the way he always keeps his promises, and he picks through brand new needles and thread while Papyrus continues nudging a steaming bowl towards him more and more pointedly.

Red, purple, blue—you're not sure he meant to, for all you know they were the only three colors at the store—but these are your colors. The three-of-yours colors. These are Papyrus, and you, and Sans colors.

And there must be stars in your eyes, because you can almost see them when you declare, "Stripes!"

"stripes?"

"STRIPES?"

"Stripes."

You're absolutely decided on this. These three colors belong together on this hero scarf your big brother's going to make for you, these three colors belong together period. And you must looked particularly Determined, because Sans' surprise gives way to an easy-going shrug.

"whatever you say, kiddo."

Papyrus is a pretty smart guy, and he studies the colors where they're laying together for a moment longer, and then you can see it when he catches on. He trembles for a moment, in that way that he does when he really wants to shout something really long and loud and passionate, and manages a quick, curt turn back to the bubbling pot on the stove.

No Shouting Right After Sans Gets Home.

(They have their own unspoken house rules, rules that eclipse all the other ones in a way that's okay, since they're just things about acting nice and polite and doing chores and being helpful. Sans would never boss them into being quiet just because he might be feeling tired after a super long day, because Sans is at his happiest when they are.)

"gotta ask, pal," Sans says, once soup has been devoured, and the three of them are a comfortable pile on the sofa. Frisk is mostly on Sans, and Sans is mostly on Papyrus, and Papyrus is mostly taking up the rest of the entire couch, head tipped back and snoring. Weekends with your brothers are the absolute best, always warm and happy and unchanging in the best way; like a pocket of the world that's forever, one that's good and yours. You make a soft sleepy noise, and somehow you feel it when he smiles. "sup with the scarf all of a sudden?"

"I want to be like both of you," you say, a little surprised you have to say it. You have an eyepatch like Undyne's, and a lab coat like the one Alphys wore Underground. Sometimes you wear your mom's long dresses around the house, sometimes your dad's heavy cloaks. "So, the scarf..."

"there's not much of me in that scarf, buddy."

He sounds amused by the whole thing, like you're just a little kid with little kid ideas that don't make any sense 'cause they don't need to; and you wish you could pinch him. As it is, you make a face he can't see, since you're tucked up under his chin.

"Yeah, huh, sillybones. It's a hero scarf."

The T.V. is flickering light and color in a way that reminds you of Waterfall. It's dark outside, and probably cold, but Sans' magic is heavy and sated, soft and solid like a sleeping cat on your chest. You fight a yawn.

"Me and Pap thought real hard about it. Heroes take care of people, and that's what you do."

He's surprised; it telegraphs in the way he goes still, in how he doesn't have an automatic comeback, no quick retort rolling off his tongue. The silence stretches into seconds and then a little farther, and you push a little closer to him, and let your eyes drift closed.

"'kay," you think you hear him say, in a soft, choked voice you're not familiar with, "thanks, kid."

Your dreams are red, and purple, and blue.