It's a couple of hours before they get a response. When they do, it's in the form of a photograph. It's a clumsy shot of a room that was once Papyrus's, now unoccupied (definitely unoccupied; the beanbag chair he's dragged into it and finds himself sleepin' in more often than not definitely don't mean anything, no sir). The frame ain't wide enough to take in the entire bed, but it should be clear just from the frame and the sheets that it's Papyrus's racecar bed.
Atop it is a collection of objects you could really only call keepsakes, even if you're someone who blithely insists you ain't sentimental. A skull-print sweatervest. Somethin' that looks a little like some head of an android or another. A hot dog truck. A plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations. An eclectic assemblage of things left behind by the people that ain't here anymore, and the people who've stuck around long enough for him to know they're too important for him to lose.
At the centerpiece is the sheaf of papers that comprises their story.
[It's not something he has to respond to at all, and certainly, what little response is received doesn't get responded to in kind. It's not even something they see straight away; not until the end of the day, when they've delivered everything they need to- spread little seeds of hope about the city as much as they possibly can.
So it's not seen until that night, when one small, tired child has shuffled their way into their baggy sleeping shirt, checking their phone out of habit prior to turning out the lights.
It's not something he had to respond to, and certainly, what little response is received doesn't get responded to in kind. But they look, and they know that bed, and they know that hot dog truck. The plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations.
Just like they know those sheafs of papers.
Which is to say - they don't doubt at all he treasures it. Not even slightly.
When they turn out the light, and go to sleep, it's with a thrumming warmth in their chest, that feels a little bit like being loved.
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It's a couple of hours before they get a response. When they do, it's in the form of a photograph. It's a clumsy shot of a room that was once Papyrus's, now unoccupied (definitely unoccupied; the beanbag chair he's dragged into it and finds himself sleepin' in more often than not definitely don't mean anything, no sir). The frame ain't wide enough to take in the entire bed, but it should be clear just from the frame and the sheets that it's Papyrus's racecar bed.
Atop it is a collection of objects you could really only call keepsakes, even if you're someone who blithely insists you ain't sentimental. A skull-print sweatervest. Somethin' that looks a little like some head of an android or another. A hot dog truck. A plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations. An eclectic assemblage of things left behind by the people that ain't here anymore, and the people who've stuck around long enough for him to know they're too important for him to lose.
At the centerpiece is the sheaf of papers that comprises their story.
Which is to say - he'll treasure it.
And then, a text.]
thanks, frisk.
no subject
So it's not seen until that night, when one small, tired child has shuffled their way into their baggy sleeping shirt, checking their phone out of habit prior to turning out the lights.
It's not something he had to respond to, and certainly, what little response is received doesn't get responded to in kind. But they look, and they know that bed, and they know that hot dog truck. The plastic tomato. A couple books. Two books of constellations.
Just like they know those sheafs of papers.
Which is to say - they don't doubt at all he treasures it. Not even slightly.
When they turn out the light, and go to sleep, it's with a thrumming warmth in their chest, that feels a little bit like being loved.
They did a nice thing, today.
Did the right thing.]