Archive of Our Own

For once, Sans wished everything about him wasn’t just a joke.

…Okay well. He’d wished that more than once, probably.

But this was different.

You were…

. . .

Heh.

There was no doubt in his mind anymore about how he felt about you.

Doubts about other things, of course, but…

Loving you wasn't one of them.

You made him feel things he didn't even know he could feel. Shown him colors he can't see with anyone else.

He didn't want to be just a joke.

A pun-loving skeleton who didn't know how to take anything seriously; to take himself seriously.

He wanted to be…

Yours.

…

It sounded really cheesy because of course it did. Sans is a cheesy guy.

I mean, he has holes.

There's no swisstaking his true identity as a cheese monster.

…

Yes, he DID just say he didn't want to be a joke anymore—BUT!! He was! Practicing! For you!

It was his first official date!!! (Ever!!!!) And—!!!!

Whoop okay nope Sans was.

This was fine.

This was fine!

He could be normal.

Maybe.

Possibly…?

He. Could. Be. Normal.

You'd asked him on a date in a very normal way, after all!

You had woken up hours after you'd finally let yourself get some rest, and stared at him in the darkness for a good five seconds.

"Y'okay?" he asked gently, reaching to brush his phalanges to your forehead. It still felt clammy to the touch. You were continuing to run a fever. But just as he was about to tell you to go back to sleep—

"Can I date you?"

…

"Uh." Sans chuckled, wondering (anxiously, a bit) if you could see his blush glowing in the dark. "You, heh… Already are, sweetheart."

Stars, the term of endearment still felt a bit strange from his teeth—but in a good way. It felt right.

You wrinkled your nose at him. Damn it he wanted to kiss you why were you so cute??? "No! Tha's different! I wanna DATE you!"

…Okay yeah you were delirious.

"Will you date me?" you asked, stubborn to let it go, apparently. "Sunday?"

Sans simply rolled his eyelights in amusement, but nuzzled a kiss into the palm of your hand.

"Yeah, sure, hon. I'll date ya starting this Sunday."

The next morning, he made you breakfast. He checked your fever again and thankfully, it'd seemed to completely go away during the night. He handed you some toast—advising you to take it easy and eat it slowly, given the current state of your stomach—and you munched on it in silence, staring holes into the window by the TV.

You didn't seem delirious anymore; and nowhere near as bad as you'd been yesterday. But Sans decided he'd spend another day with you, just in case.

(It was an easy decision, on his part.)

"What should we do," you suddenly muttered.

You did not elaborate.

Sans realized you were talking to him and not the voices in your head that told you to live your life on the edge.

"You need to rest, hon." The new term slipped out before he could help it. "You're still sick."

"No, I mean on our date Sunday," you said, "what should we do for our first official date?"

. . .

Wait what.

You'd been actually asking him out last night????

And wait— "Didn't we already have—"

"That wasn't an actual date!" you protested. "We weren't even officially together yet!"

"But we… Danced?"

"Yeah?"

…

"You don't know how romance works at all, do you."

"And you do?" he shot back. "Miss 'I've Never Done This Before Either'?"

"Okay but like— I've! Seen movies! And! Heard songs!"

"Uh-huh. Okay."

"You're supposed to do it like! By the book! Or. Whatever."

"You're sounding like my brother again."

"Yeah, HE has a good head on his shoulders. Unlike CERTAIN skellies."

"…Skellies?"

"I'm sick, shut up."

And that was that.

You didn't specifiy details until after your body had recovered (thank the stars because he would've had a bone to pick with you if you continued to ignore your body in favor of your own stubborness), and, well…

Here he was now.

It was Sunday.

…

. . .

Should he.

Should he go out and buy a tuxedo real quick? He didn't exactly have one—

Wait no you said just regular clothes were fine.

…

But were they?

What if you were just saying that to be nice.

What if you wanted him to dress up and look nice for once.

What if—

Sans texted you. Just to make sure.

hey just to double-check

you said regular clothes right?

You: Yep!!!

Just bring your cute self ;)

…

It was bad enough just the mere fact you were talking to him at all made his Soul race.

Why'd you have to flirt with him too???

Sans let out a too-high noise, burying his face in his palms—not that it made his skull glow any less.

He was going to die that night and it'd be all your fault.

(And, really…

What a way to die.)

*

The plan, according to you, was to walk from your house to Grillby's. Something about you dying to try the new chicken sandwich but honestly, Sans was 99% sure you picked it just because it was his favorite spot.

That epiphany alone had made him want to die (in a positive way).

(…He was in trouble, wasn't he?)

You'd be picking him up at seven, which gave Sans plenty of time to panic settle his nonexistent nerves about the whole thing. A good… Uh. Fifteen minutes. Yep, plenty of time.

…

To wait.

He waited for said minutes to pass, even if it nearly maybe almost made his Soul shatter from the pressure alone. He was a Patient skeleton.

For better or for worse.

And when you finally showed up at their house, he didn't run away! Because!! That'd be a very cowardly thing to do!!!

Hahaha. What a ridiculous idea, really. Sans? A coward? Scared to talk to you of all people? Laughable, really.

He heard your voice drifting from downstairs, locked in conversation with Papyrus. Stars, were you loud. How could you be so… Loud?

(He didn't mean loud.)

How could you just… Know things?

(Know what to do.)

How could you believe in yourself?

…

You were a mystery to him, and that was both the worst and best part about you.

By the time you were knocking on his door directly, Sans had to forcefully rip himself away from pacing a hole into the carpet. Luckily he'd gotten dressed mostly on time—and hey, he was wearing pants instead of shorts for once! Go him!!

And sneakers instead of slippers.

And… Somewhat of a fancy shirt. A sweater.

And he'd ditched his jacket for once.

And—

"Hey, boneboy! You there?" your voice drawled. "It's exactly seven on the dot!"

Of course it was. You and your punctuality…

He steeled himself, drawing in a breath he didn't need.

And then he opened the door, grinning up at you like the next thing you might say wouldn't make or break his entire being.

"Is it, now?" he hummed. "Woulda never guessed…"

Your smile back was blinding. It always was.

"Oh, shush," you shot back, "you need a reminder to be on time."

Heh.

Bold of you to assume he'd be late to anything that involves you.

. . .

Also.

Wow.

You looked…

Incredible.

…Way to say the sky's blue, Sans.

You were wearing transparent leggings and a short red dress, one that wasn't too vibrant or loud, and the style of it itself was more casual rather than fancy. Over it was a black leather jacket, making the look seem even more casual, but the sun-emblemed necklace hanging from your neck leaned in the other direction again, balancing it out overall.

Not that Sans knew the ins and outs of fashion anyhow. Or really cared how fancy you dressed. You'd look good if you were wearing pajamas.

You'd look beautiful in anything.

…Okay focus!!

"How's that my fault?" he managed, finally. Just a bit weakly. "Time flies when you're a skeleton."

You stared at him. For longer than normal. Crap, was there something in his teeth? Did he look somehow even more disgusting than usual? Did he—

"Uh," you, coughed??? "N-no. No it doesn't."

"Yeah it does."

"I don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Uhhh, maybe because last week you tried to convince me skeletons naturally secreet slime."

"And?"

"And Papyrus said that was only a you thing."

"What can I say, he's the one that started the rumor."

"So you admit you're a liar."

"Yesn't."

"Sans."

You were still smiling.

This carried on in much the same manner for at least five minutes, the two of you bouncing off of each other like a game memorized since childhood. It felt as familiar as that, too. Easy.

Sans almost forgot what at all to be nervous about.

"…Wait a minute," you muttered to yourself, suddenly—at which point you also moved off of the doorframe you'd been leaning your hip against.

(…Which. Was…)

(Hot—)

You gasped, pointing at him. "You've been distracting me!" you accused. "I can't believe you!"

Sans shrugged. "Sorry."

"We're going to be late for our date!"

His smile broadened. "I thought it already started?"

"It— Hasn't! Because! I…"

"…Because you…?"

But you were focused on something else.

You darted out your right hand, and you intertwined your fingers with his.

"Because I wasn't holding your hand yet," you said simply.

…

. . .

Sans squeezed your hand in response, eyelights darting to his shoes (not slippers, pointedly).

"Heheheheh, uh… Yup, that'd do it," he chuckled weakly.

You chuckled yourself, before bringing his hand to your mouth and pressing a soft kiss to his knuckles.

Heh…

He maybe could've melted into a puddle right then and there; and not regret it in the slightest.

Before starting up the truck, you flashed him a sharp grin. Not unlike one of Undyne's. Her influence was really rubbing off on you.

How fishy.

…

Okay now he was just being ridiculous—

"Hey," you all but purred, "guess what."

"Uh. What?"

"Open the glove compartment!"

…Uhhh.

Concerning?

But, Sans did it anyway. Not at all because your grin had softened into something much more giddy and vibrant, shining like a…

It fell open with a soft click and…

On the top of a stack of papers, a CD sat.

He picked it up, quirking a brow.

"A… Woman?"

Your smile got even brighter somehow.

"Not just any woman! It's Taylor Swift!"

Ah.

Naturally.

"It's her original second studio album, Fearless! Alas," you lamented, forlorn, "I only have the original edition, not the platinum one."

About all half of those words went in his earhole and out the other.

"Hmm," was all Sans said.

Then you were back to smiling (except your smile had never really left to begin with). "Look at the back!" you exclaimed.

He turned the CD around in his palm.

Sure enough, the name you mentioned was on the back, another picture of the singer-songwriter accompying it; and a list of names, presumably the songs in question.

He quirked a brow at the number of them.

"Thirteen songs?" he asked you, giving you a somewhat incredulous look. "Isn't that, like. The scary supernatural number."

You rolled your eyes, but not without snorting. "It's her lucky number."

"Her what?"

"Yeah, y'know, like… Yeah. She would draw it on her hand and everything."

"So it'd give her scary supernatural powers?"

"No—"

You scowled at him.

(Barely.)

Crossing your arms, you huffed (with a smile), "It's better than sixty-nine."

Sans laughed at that, because neither of you had a sense of humor at all.

"Heheh," he chuckled, soft. Fond. "I'm just teasin' ya, sweetheart."

Instantly, your "glare" softened in turn. "…Yeah, yeah…"

You huffed again before reaching out a hand, making grabbing motions for the CD. Sans chuckled again.

"Gotta hand it to you…"

"Oh my stars," you sighed.

"Might not get your taste in music, but I'm willing to give you a hand with whatever you hand-pick for your interests."

"Just. No, stop it."

"What, can't hand-le it?"

"Sans." You partially covered your mouth with your hand.

He beamed even brighter.

"Too much of a handful, am I?"

"Sans."

"These puns are hand-picked just for you, y'know. You really oughta hand-le them with better care."

"You already used that one."

"Biting at the hand that feeds you, huh, sweeth—?"

You grabbed his skull in your hands, and pressed a kiss in between his eyesockets.

He got your hint instantly.

Consider him thoroughly shut up.

You slid the disc into the CD player, practically vibrating with excitement—and the second the instruments began to play, a smile split your cheeks so wide, Sans feared you were about to break your own face.

Casually, Sans rested his arm on the door of the truck, leaning his head into his hand, watching the tap tap tap of your fingers on the steering wheel to the beat of the song.

He was definitely staring again.

Ten seconds in to the song, you caught him, your gaze wandering; and immediately your face burned bright red. You must have realized your mistake because you all but proceeded to yank the keys forward in the direction of turning the ignition on, and peeling out of the driveway like your entire existence depended on it.

Sans simply chuckled.

"Jerk," you muttered yet again.

"You're cute."

"Am not."

"Are too."

"…"

"The cutest human ever."

"Okay, nope, that would be Frisk."

"…Second-cutest, then."

You snorted.

"Yeah. Don't you forget it."

Heh. "I love you."

He said it without really thinking.

Not the first time.

And, he had a feeling it wouldn't even be close to the last time he ever said it. (If there ever were such a thing.)

And, when you processed those three words long enough…

Your smile softened.

"I know."

You restarted the song. The short kick of the snare, and then the drums and guitar began once more.

It… Admittedly, was growing on him.

He'd recognized it from a few weeks ago, from aforementioned "unofficial" date—the first song he'd danced to with you on the truckbed, clumsy footing and all.

The song was cheesy, if catchy. Definitely your kind of thing.

And now, you were fully jamming out to it, your hair tossing every which way, and Sans was a bit concerned you'd drive the two of you off the road entirely.

(Oh, what a way to die…

…

…Yyyyeah, he was definitely in trouble.)

Somehow, though, you managed.

As though you knew exactly what you were doing.

How could you be so dorky and so formiddable at once?

You were so cool.

And Sans was so Hopeless.

When it switched to the next song, you noticed him gazing at you again.

You quickly, sheepishly ran your fingers through your hair, trying to make it look less like a mess. "Uhhhh so how's. Things?"

Just dust him now why were you so cute???

"Uh." He cleared his… Throat? "Good. Good. How 'bout… Things with you?"

"Good," you nodded, absentmindedly. "Been, uh… Working. You know how it is."

"Yeah. How's Wally?"

You snorted, "You know he prefers 'Wallace.'"

"Right. Waldo. Where is he?"

You snorted again. Sans considered this an absolute win.

"Shut up. And he's doing fine! So is the missus! Their anniversary is next week, apparently, and they wanna take a vacation together so, uh," you laughed nervously, "I'll… Be the one holding down the fort while they're gone."

…

"That… Hardly sounds fair?"

"Eh."

"No— No eh, you shouldn't be— What about your coworkers? Wasn't there, like, that one guy…"

You immediately cringed at the mention so Sans trailed off. "Uhhh," you said. "David. Yeah. He's… Let's just. Say he's not really… The type? To help?"

. . .

Okay, what was the story there?

"I don't know, he just," you shook your head, "it's whatever. He's fine I just… We butt heads a lot. Is all."

"How d'you mean?"

You shrugged.

"He doesn't like me. Or, well," you interjected, "he doesn't like what I'm doing with my life."

"…Okay?" Sans frowned. "And, that's his business becaaause…?"

"I know, I'm— I'm sorry, I shouldn't be telling him—"

What?

Oh…

"No, no no no sweetheart that's not—" He brushed your leg with his hand, attempting to slow the racing of your brain. It made you glance at him, at least. "I'm not blaming you, I'm saying, why does he feel like he gets to criticize you?"

"Oh," you breathed. Your entire body seemed to sag in relief, and Sans kept his hold on you, gently rubbing circles into your thigh and side. "Yeah, I… I don't know. Some people are just like that."

"Yeah."

…

"I think… You're doing great."

. . .

"Heh."

As the song reached a close, you gave him a look.

"Thanks," you murmured.

The look was enough to almost send him floating up into the sun.

Something just… Unbearably soft.

Like you were looking at something important.

Something precious.

He didn't take his hand away after that.

You didn't seem to mind.

…But, you did all but freak out the second the third song started playing.

You announced this by squealing loudly enough for Sans to jump, and he sprang up in his seat.

"What! What's wrong!"

"LOVE STORY."

"What?!"

"LOVE STORY!!!"

Despite the racing of his Soul, an unbridled snort broke free from Sans's teeth. "Yeah no, sorry baby, that doesn't clear things up at all."

You opened your mouth again—likely to try again to clear things up—but, you stopped, glancing at him with a gaze he couldn't decipher.

"That's… A new one," is all you said, blinking, and…

OH.

OH

"UH— I don't, have to use that one, sorry, I just, it slipped out, uh, if you hate it that's—"

"NOPE! IT'S!" This time, you cleared your throat. "It's fine! I like it!"

"Cool. Okay. Cool."

"Cool!"

…

. . .

"Can I, um… Call you that too? Sometimes?"

Oh stars.

You calling him baby…!

"Yes! I mean, uhh, sure. Yeah. That's cool." His Soul was fluttering so loudly in his ribcage how was he supposed to LIVE like this???

"Okay. Cool."

"Cool."

Stop saying cool.

"So, uh… As you were saying? Life Story, or whatever?"

You barked out a laugh at that one, and Sans had to wonder if it was also a release of built up anxiety. (In which case yeah, mood.)

"NOOOO, LOVE STORY! Y'know, just, THE best song of all time?"

Oh.

Oh, this one was your favorite, huh?

Cool. Good to know.

…He said cool again.

Or, thought it, same difference—

The sound of humming immediately yanked Sans out of his mind.

He blinked, focusing on the sound, pulled far from the anxious thoughts roiling in his skull.

You were… Humming along to the song.

And, sure, it wasn't... Technically you singing, but, it…

…

Your voice was beautiful.

That… Was putting it lightly, really.

Even when you weren't humming, or singing. When you were just as you were. When you were simply you.

The peal of your laughter. The ringing of you trying to make him laugh, too. The clinking of half-assed jokes just to see him smile.

…

The soft ding of reassurance in a dark room.

The soft chime of whispers as you hold him, chasing his fears away.

Sans already loved you.

But.

He was falling even more in love with you with every moment.

And…

It was terrifying, knowing he'd be falling in love you with his entire life.

He tried to settle the thrum of his Soul at the notion, and simply listen to the song with you.

It… Was a nice song.

He wasn't sure he liked it as much as the first one. Probably not.

But, it was pretty up there for making you beam so much during it.

You beamed the brightest during the final chorus, and… Sans could understand why.

"You know what— What my favorite thing about it is?" you ask him, when the song is over.

Sans simply gazes at you with soft eyelights—at this point, it was futile to even hide the adoration in his expression. "What?"

"You know the actual story of Romeo and Juliet, right?"

"I'm familar, yeah. It bled into monster culture a bit." He snorted, "Mettaton did a musical based off it. You can guess how good that was."

You snorted. "Oh, I'm sure it was amazing," you said dryly. "…No joke, I would wanna see that."

"Papyrus has it on DVD."

"Oh cool, we should watch it next time I'm at your house!"

Sans nodded sagely. "We should. Anyway, you were saying?"

"Right, I— You know how it ends, right? They both die in the end?"

"Pffft, yeah. Bit dramatic if you ask me."

"Ohhhh yeah, like. Seriously? Juliet didn't have to do that! Girl did not have to kill herself because of him! I don't care if he's the love of your life, it's not that deep!"

It was Sans's turn to snort.

"Damn. You're cold."

"You just agreed and said it was dramatic," you shot back.

"Yeah but like. I dunno." He shrugged. "...Like. Story-wise, it's dramatic, sure, but…"

. . .

"I don't think it's. Entirely unrealistic. Y'know? If—"

…

He shrugged again.

You softened.

"I… Guess I could see it? Maybe?" you ventured, uncertainly. He could tell you were still skeptical—but, the fact you were trying to see his point of view at all made his Soul feel warm.

…

If he was being honest…

He wasn't sure he could live with himself if anything ever happened to you.

You cleared your throat.

"But… Yeah, about. That ending. It… It's depressing as all get-out. Right? And just—" You waved your hand in a indescript motion. Your voice increased an octave. "The fact!! She!!! Wrote a song fixing that ending is just!!!! I don't know!!!!!!" You moved both hands back to the wheel, shrugging vaguely, making an attempt to lower your voice again despite the positively delighted smile on your face: "It just… Makes me really happy!"

…Would it be too soon to kiss you?

Just… Right there? Out of the blue???

…

Yeah no, at the very least it'd be dangerous, you were still driving.

. . . But.

Stars.

Sans really, really wanted to kiss you.

You pulled in to your driveway halfway into the next song, and immediately looked bummed that you had to turn the car off.

Honestly, Sans was too.

Call him crazy, but listening to music with you—listening to Taylor Swift, of all things—was fun.

You made everything just!

Just!

A really good time!

To the point where he can't even word properly!!

…

He could not stand for this.

CDs be damned, you were going to hear the rest of the album.

The second he hopped out of the truck, Sans pulled out his phone.

"There's gonna be ads, sorry," was all he said as you rounded the back of the truck to join him. He chanced a glance at you, barely suppressing the wider grin threatening to split his face, and saw you were staring down at him in not-at-all suppressed confusion.

"Are you going to rickroll me again?"

"Wh— No????" He only scowled at you briefly. He was too excited. (Huh, that certainly was an emotion he never thought he'd feel again…) "Does this look like Rick Astley to you?"

"Top ten things I'd love to quote from you out of context."

"Shut up."

"Hey! That's not my name eith…"

You trailed off as soon as the beginning of… Whatever song it was playing started playing, eyes stretching comically wide.

Sans, to his credit, played it off coolly. Shrug and all. "Y'know, just. Figured, why stop listening to it while we're walking?" Another shrug. (Because your lack of response was starting to unnerve him) "I, uh, don't see why we… Shouldn't. Y'know?"

"I…" Your voice kind of just… Died. And, you had a weird look in your eyes.

Like you…

Immediately, Sans's hand was on yours. "Hey, you okay?"

You looked like you wanted to say something.

Then,

you shook your head.

"I— Y-yeah," you cleared your throat, "I'm, I'm fine. Sorry."

"You sure?" He wasn't sure he believed you.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're just…" You swallowed, looking… Again, like you wanted to say something. Something important. Something heartfelt. "…You're… So, so wonderful."

Sans's face lit up like you'd just exploded a blue-tinted glitter bomb in his face.

…Okay, well. Definitely not as pretty as that. More like a bath bo—

"And beautiful," you added, in a murmur, and Sans wondered if you meant to say it out loud.

Maybe not, based off last time you'd called him that.

Either way.

He felt lightheaded.

Was that normal?

Was that possible?

Was he insane?

(Yes. Yes he was.)

Were you insane?

…Yes. Yes you were.

And he loved you for it.

Your gaze darted down.

To somewhere on his… Face?

Was there something on it?

Were you just now fully taking in the absolute bonehead you'd started dating?

"We, uhhhh, let's— Let's. Go," you blurted, before he could blurt anything stupid, thank the stars.

He nodded stiffly in agreement.

You took advantage of his hand still being on yours, and intertwined your fingers with his, smiling at him in a way that made him want to swim in your gaze for all eternity. Even if he couldn't swim. Could he swim? He couldn't currently rememb—

"Honey?"

"Who?"

You snorted.

He adored that sound.

What was happening again?

"You," you gently swung his hand. "Sans. My honey."

Oh well just shoot him right through the Soul why don't you.

"Hey," you added, and you were suddenly smirking, and your voice was smug in that way it usually was when you were about to say something horribly shameless. You waited a moment, as though waiting for a specific part of the song to play. "I can't help it if you look like an angel."

. . .

…

STARS you're insufferable.

Sans covered up half his face, groaning into his sleeve.

"You're. The worst, you know that?"

"Always," you quipped back.

Your smirk only broadened during the next line of the song.

"I can't help myse—"

He stuffed a sock from his inventory into your mouth.

You didn't even falter, cackling as you threw it right back at him.

Sans… Found himself enjoying the album much more than he thought he would.

Granted, it was more so your reactions and you singing along he enjoyed more than anything, but…

The album wasn't bad.

It was… Nice.

Soft and romantic and sweet and just…

Nice.

There were sad songs on it, of course. (It was Taylor Swift.) But he didn't really mind those either. He wouldn't listen to them on a daily basis, but, they were pretty.

He was more concerned with how you reacted to them.

The fifth one being the first. You'd explained once that all her fifth tracks tended to be sad or something, so it being such didn't surprise him—you going completely silent while it played did.

He'd stopped in the middle of the sidewalk.

You just told him you were fine and that you two should keep going.

The second sad song, you did sing along to—but with far less enthusiasm than the rest.

The third, you were silent again. And the song before it, you had sang with such passion he thought it had somehow made you genuinely angry.

But, when he asked, you again just brushed it off, smiled, and laughed, "I just really get into them. That's all. Sorry."

(He… Regrets not asking you more about them. Not pressing it.)

(He should've. He should've cared more, he should've…)

(He should've known you were lying.)

He believed you.

The two of you made it to Grillby's before the eleventh song of the album, much to your evident disappointment—but Sans promised you you'd both listen to it in full afterwards, and you took his word for it. The restaurant owner himself led the two of you to a booth in the back, quieter than usual, and you were beaming as you thanked him. Sans watched you look over your menu; long enough for you to notice, glance up at him, and scold a cheeky, "Hey, your choices are on the menu, boneboy." He just rolled his eyelights fondly, not even bothering to open his, planning to order his usual.

Sans was never really one to prattle on about himself, so he was perfectly content listening to you ramble about this, that, and the other thing over the course of dinner.

…Well, even then.

Even if he were to be someone who saw himself as a worthy subject—like you seem to often think he is—it could never possibly beat the way you gestured animatedly your hands when you talk, the way your eyes shine; the way your face twists into different expressions, positive and negative and everything in between. The way you fiddled with something, anything as you spoke, like you could never and would never in your life sit still for a single moment. The way your eyes crinkled at the edges when you smiled.

The way you smiled, so, so very wide when you were talking about something particularly meaningful to you.

Everything about you was just…

Enchanting.

Maybe he's a fool and maybe he's gullible. Maybe he's just a pawn in the grand scheme of life's game of chess, and things can't last, and stars only burn for so long.

…

But,

you burn so,

so bright.

. . .

He did notice something… Weird? That you kept doing?

You kept just… Sneaking silent glances at him. Like you wanted to say something. Even in conversations where you were saying other things beforehand. Sometimes you'd open your mouth, seemingly think better of it, and pretend to be more interested in the wall of antiques beside the booth.

Sans waited to see what would come of it, but nothing ever did. And you probably wouldn't have said a thing if he didn't press you.

As you were ordering desert—or, rather, not, eyes flickering up to eyelights, to his smile more than once—he'd ended up snorting, the giddiness of the night emboldening him as he grinned and leaned his skull in his palm over the table to look at you. "What, am I distractin' ya?" he teased. "Too pretty to even talk to?"

"Well, yeah," you readily shot back, and he should've been expecting it but his arm faltered anyway and he had to quickly recover his balance. "But you're always pretty, so no. …Well," you pause. Then shake your head. "No."

…

Okay, what did that mean.

"If anything, I have, like. Nerves of steel, for putting up with you all this time," you rambled on, and it was a bit fast, and you were clearly trying not to dwell on… Whatever that was. You wield your fork like a trident at him, the "actual" butter knife having been discarded to the far end of your side of the table."You are really distracting, you're like a— Like a damn sun."

Sans raised a brow. "Y'can't stand lookin' at me?"

"No," you stressed immediately, rolling your eyes, clearly having seen that coming. "You're— Warm. And, brighter than anyone or anything else, you've made my— You just. Yeah. You're the sun."

It didn't escape his notice that you'd changed it to the instead of a.

Everything else kind of did though.

Not really but also yeah.

What kind of nonsense had you just said and how did he just know his skull was flaming blue at this point.

(You. That's how he knew.)

"Y-yeah, well," he spluttered, "you—"

"I'm a blackhole, I know," you quipped, twiddling the spoon between your fingers.

It was a joke. Your tone was joking, everything about you was joking, how could it have ever been anything other than that?

"No, you— You're a star," Sans blurted. "That's— You— You're…"

You laughed, "The sun's a star too, bonehead."

True, true. Technically speaking.

But…

"You don't shine like it," he murmured. "You're… Gentler."

Your smile instantly vanished.

"You don't need to be big, or a lot, like the sun. You just… Shine, 'cause you can. And 'cause you wanna." His everpresent grin softened. "You're… A light in a sea of darkness."

"Hah. Uh." You laughed again. It was nervous. "I— Don't— Know about that. Also, that's— That's way more romantic than I put it, are you trying to out-romance me?"

You were moving to a new thing, again. A safer thing.

"Maybe," Sans chuckled. "You're the one who organized all o' this."

"Excuse me, all I said was bring yourself," you scoffed, leaning back in your seat as you crossed your arms. As always, your smile was telling. "I didn't need to do a single thing. Just being here with you is…"

And, it softened like his had.

"It's… More than enough."

Heh.

Heheheheh.

"You're tryin' to kill me," he huffed, and he hid his dopey, too-big, too-bright beaming smile into his hands. Your laugh was real as you reached across the table and took his hands in yours, pressing a kiss into each of his palms.

True to his word, Sans continued the album—and then let you replay it from the beginning.

And then a third time.

And a fifth.

By the time the sixth iteration drew near, and the last few notes of "Change" slowed into a grandoise stop, and the drums blared their final declaration, you'd walked Sans back home (from your truck) to the front porch, and stopped just shy of fully entering the house with him.

As you both stood in the doorway, the song "Fearless" ringing out from within Sans's pocket once more, you leaned yourself against the frame.

Like you knew what you were doing.

Like it was easy.

Like you yourself had all the Bravery tucked inside you for all the world to witness.

Under it, Sans felt somehow small again.

Somehow anxious again.

"So," you hummed. "Hope it wasn't too bad."

…

Were you kidding?

You had to be kidding him.

His anxiety vanished, and the flat look he gave you was easy.

You giggled, "Wh— What? It wasn't anything like— Groundbreaking, y'know, like— Not like last time, with the field and the stars. It just—"

"Shut up."

"Rude?"

"No, what's rude is you—" Sans scoffed, "Nope, that's it. You. What's rude is you."

You touched the spot where your heart probably was. "Hurtful."

"It wasn't bad. Like, at all. I loved it."

"Really?" you mused. It was quieter. So was your grin.

So was his.

And, it got even easier.

"I love you."

You just smiled.

"I know," you said softly.

And your eyes did that thing again.

Flickering downward, just shy of his chest. Right where his own smile was…

. . .

Oh.

Oh.

"Well," you laughed, pushing off the doorframe. Behind you, the light sound of pattering rain began. "Guess I'll just— Head out."

You went to pull him into a hug.

Sans did something different than a hug.

Something that was very, very different than a hug.

As you leaned down to his level just slightly, just enough for him to loop his arms around your neck, he did do that. He did loop his arms around your neck.

And he also kissed you.

It wasn't , or careful, or slow. Music didn't Fireworks didn't appear out of the blue and shoot up into the sky or anything (no matter how much Papyrus insisted it would happen). Just a quick press of his teeth to your lips. Gentle. A bit hurried, a bit too Determined, like the moment would be gone too soon, like in tthe next instant his mind would return to his body and his Soul would stop puppeteering his every action.

"Sorry," he blurted, the instant he pulled away. His eyelights felt blown wide in his sockets, impossibly big, impossibly bright. His smile was frozen.

You were staring down at him like he'd imploded on you right then and there. Or exploded. One of the two. Your arms were stuck midair.

"Sorry," he said again, out of habit, more than anything. His voice was higher than normal.

Slowly, you moved your arms.

Slowly, but surely,

your hands came up to hold him in the palms of your hands, brushing against his too-warm cheeks, your fingers tracing over his freckles.

You let out a breath. It fanned hot against his bones.

And you kissed him.

Just as gentle, just as soft, if not even more so. Like you feared you'd break him if you used just a bit more Determination. Whereas his was somewhat rushed, yours is slow. Deliberate. Patient.

Like you had all the time in the world.

You stayed like that, just a moment longer.

.

.

.

And then you snorted a laugh against his teeth, breaking away with an all-around goofy smile.

Broadening even more so when you listened to the rain behind you.

Sans was very confused (and concerned) until you paused, letting the song play, and then parroted,

"'Cause I don't know how it gets better than this—"

He was shoving his hand against your mouth faster than you could blink.

The song just continued playing, unbeknownst to the chaos it'd just caused.

And the chaos it continued to cause when you dragged him out of the safety of his own home, and down the porch, all the way out into the street, cackling all the while. Sans was pretty sure he heard thunder overhead. Sans was pretty sure you were a madwoman.

And he was pretty sure he was a mad-skeleton for dancing with you anyway.

Truly, Sans did not understand the appeal of Taylor Swift.

…

But.

Maybe.

Just… Maybe.

He could appreciate some of her music.

…One song, at least.

…

Or two.

He rolled his eyelights up at the ceiling above, as though he was rolling them at you, and you'd just grin.

Sigh.

He still had the final chorus of Love Story stuck in his head.

Repeating a second, third, fourth fifth sixth, seventh time.

A natural loop.

. . .

The best kind of loop.

He couldn't help it.

Even he wasn't immune to the propaganda.

But, it figured you, of all people, would be the one to change his mind.

He grinned impossibly big to himself, shutting his eyesockets.

Quietly, from his teeth, the words drifted out on a whisper.

"Marry me, Juliet, you'll never have to be alone…"