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trombonesAnother dream.
It had been a year since the surface happened. A year of changes for the better, good times, good memories - and the occasional nightmare Sans was just barely getting better at explaining to friends and family. He vaguely asked both Toriel and Frisk if they would help him sometimes, remind him of when and where they were and how long it had been since they came to the surface. Only Frisk would really understand why, but it helped to know.
The kid promised they wouldn't reset. That didn't stop Sans' bad dreams and occasional doubts, though. Even after a year, it was still all sinking in. It would get better. HE would get better. He already was by leaps and bounds, every day he woke up with the sun on his face and actual sky above him. But for Sans, it would be a long time going before it completely sank in that this was actually permanent. Before the back-of-his-mind paranoia that crept up sometimes would settle.
Tonight was one of the bad ones. He had dozed off on the floor at Toriel's place, near the fireplace and wrapped in blankets and pillows. Then, in his sleep, he started shifting uncomfortably, gritting his teeth through quiet groans and unintelligible murmurs. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, one eye glowing, and jerked forward with a sharp gasp.
His hand reached out like he was about to attack. It's about two seconds too late before he realizes his arm is in the fire. Dying, but still burning. Sans suppresses a yelp through his teeth and jerks away, cursing as he hurriedly patting at his burning sleeve. In the process, he kicks over nearby pokers, causing a clattering crash.
Sans kicks away, as if the distance will solve anything, until his back is against Toriel's arm chair, panting. His sleeve is thankfully out, but he can feel the burn in his hand. He hissed. Sans wasn't so delicate that a papercut could kill him, but at the same time? He didn't take injuries very well.
Well. That's one way to wake up.
It had been a year since the surface happened. A year of changes for the better, good times, good memories - and the occasional nightmare Sans was just barely getting better at explaining to friends and family. He vaguely asked both Toriel and Frisk if they would help him sometimes, remind him of when and where they were and how long it had been since they came to the surface. Only Frisk would really understand why, but it helped to know.
The kid promised they wouldn't reset. That didn't stop Sans' bad dreams and occasional doubts, though. Even after a year, it was still all sinking in. It would get better. HE would get better. He already was by leaps and bounds, every day he woke up with the sun on his face and actual sky above him. But for Sans, it would be a long time going before it completely sank in that this was actually permanent. Before the back-of-his-mind paranoia that crept up sometimes would settle.
Tonight was one of the bad ones. He had dozed off on the floor at Toriel's place, near the fireplace and wrapped in blankets and pillows. Then, in his sleep, he started shifting uncomfortably, gritting his teeth through quiet groans and unintelligible murmurs. Suddenly, his eyes snapped open, one eye glowing, and jerked forward with a sharp gasp.
His hand reached out like he was about to attack. It's about two seconds too late before he realizes his arm is in the fire. Dying, but still burning. Sans suppresses a yelp through his teeth and jerks away, cursing as he hurriedly patting at his burning sleeve. In the process, he kicks over nearby pokers, causing a clattering crash.
Sans kicks away, as if the distance will solve anything, until his back is against Toriel's arm chair, panting. His sleeve is thankfully out, but he can feel the burn in his hand. He hissed. Sans wasn't so delicate that a papercut could kill him, but at the same time? He didn't take injuries very well.
Well. That's one way to wake up.
