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the last goodbye.
It's a beautiful day outside.
Probably, anyway. Not that there's much of an outside down here, given that they're being slipped from place to place by the gods, or parasites, or whatever it is people call 'em these days. Don't matter much, in the end. His sockets are atypically heavy, today, a weight unspoken mantled across his shoulders, weighing heavily in the back of his skull.
He's tired.
Not tired enough to Fall Down, but there's a peculiar static tingling in the air, clinging to the tips of his phalanges, coating his SOUL in an oil slick of something like sickness.
It's a beautiful day, and he's tired. The scent of the pollen, the way the motes swirl, suspended in the air - there's a certain appeal to that, even down here. His gift wasn't a hit, but it wasn't a complete miss. And consequently, the golden flowers that blanket sections of the orchard now have come something of a favored spot of his.
He settles down at the base of one tree. He sits.
Hard to believe it's been over a year since he ended up down here. Over a year, and there's a heavy burn that itches across his ribcage, a long, diagonal slash where the blade of a Knife bit into him and reduced him to dust. A parting laugh, a bright streak of red across his front, coating the floor, and he'd aimed one last wry, low blow as he shuffled off his mortal coil. Linearity was distressingly difficult as an adjustment, and it still is, some days.
He tries not to think of what's changed. Only, like he does with most things he attempts, he soon gives up. The effort necessary ain't worth it.
So he thinks of a lot of people.
He thinks of Newton Geiszler - malnourished, scarred, brilliant, who had an ease of laughter and of so much worse. He thinks of Hermann Gottlieb, with his xeric disdain and his profound, scathing exasperation and his profound ability to consistently apply a couple hundred words to a problem that only required ten. He thinks of Arya, coughing up blood, scared for her life, trembling as he tried to ensure that, at the very least, she wasn't alone when she lost her mind.
He thinks of Emily, of Faith, of Crow, of Miriam, of Nick Rivenna. People who liked his jokes, who rolled their eyes, who shook their heads in exasperation, or simply knew how to laugh. He thinks of Tina, who'd disappeared with barely a whisper. He thinks of Warrick, with his artificial heart and his apparent faith in Sans to be better than he, for all intents and purposes, had the capacity to be. He thinks of Asriel, a talking flower that was guilty until proven innocent, and he thinks of the leaden shackles that must have tied him to his sins, right up until the very end. He thinks of Undyne and her undying optimism to her fierceness, her very nature. He thinks of Camille, the dimples of her smile and her chirpy call of "bluebird!" He thinks of Connor, his wry humor and his cold refusal to accept and excuse the murder of a child. He thinks of Andrea Quill, her ironclad bent. He thinks of Jacob, and of Ned, and their streaks of humor miles long.
He thinks of Papyrus. Always, he thinks of Papyrus.
They're gone now. All of them, long gone.
His sockets have slid shut. It might be psychosomatic, that ache running down the length of him. It might be vaguely fatidic.
It's a beautiful day outside.
Sans chuckles to himself, and he smiles.
And soon, the patch of flowers is empty.
--
Upon searching Sans's room, one may find that it's not truly empty. The racecar bed is still there, as is the beanbag chair Sans has been sleeping upon since Papyrus vanished. But beneath the bed is a collection of small parcels and notes, each labeled by name.
Someone else will have to deliver them. Sans was...entirely too lazy, you see, to see them forwarded through upon the event of his departure.
Thank you. He'll say goodbye now.
Probably, anyway. Not that there's much of an outside down here, given that they're being slipped from place to place by the gods, or parasites, or whatever it is people call 'em these days. Don't matter much, in the end. His sockets are atypically heavy, today, a weight unspoken mantled across his shoulders, weighing heavily in the back of his skull.
He's tired.
Not tired enough to Fall Down, but there's a peculiar static tingling in the air, clinging to the tips of his phalanges, coating his SOUL in an oil slick of something like sickness.
It's a beautiful day, and he's tired. The scent of the pollen, the way the motes swirl, suspended in the air - there's a certain appeal to that, even down here. His gift wasn't a hit, but it wasn't a complete miss. And consequently, the golden flowers that blanket sections of the orchard now have come something of a favored spot of his.
He settles down at the base of one tree. He sits.
Hard to believe it's been over a year since he ended up down here. Over a year, and there's a heavy burn that itches across his ribcage, a long, diagonal slash where the blade of a Knife bit into him and reduced him to dust. A parting laugh, a bright streak of red across his front, coating the floor, and he'd aimed one last wry, low blow as he shuffled off his mortal coil. Linearity was distressingly difficult as an adjustment, and it still is, some days.
He tries not to think of what's changed. Only, like he does with most things he attempts, he soon gives up. The effort necessary ain't worth it.
So he thinks of a lot of people.
He thinks of Newton Geiszler - malnourished, scarred, brilliant, who had an ease of laughter and of so much worse. He thinks of Hermann Gottlieb, with his xeric disdain and his profound, scathing exasperation and his profound ability to consistently apply a couple hundred words to a problem that only required ten. He thinks of Arya, coughing up blood, scared for her life, trembling as he tried to ensure that, at the very least, she wasn't alone when she lost her mind.
He thinks of Emily, of Faith, of Crow, of Miriam, of Nick Rivenna. People who liked his jokes, who rolled their eyes, who shook their heads in exasperation, or simply knew how to laugh. He thinks of Tina, who'd disappeared with barely a whisper. He thinks of Warrick, with his artificial heart and his apparent faith in Sans to be better than he, for all intents and purposes, had the capacity to be. He thinks of Asriel, a talking flower that was guilty until proven innocent, and he thinks of the leaden shackles that must have tied him to his sins, right up until the very end. He thinks of Undyne and her undying optimism to her fierceness, her very nature. He thinks of Camille, the dimples of her smile and her chirpy call of "bluebird!" He thinks of Connor, his wry humor and his cold refusal to accept and excuse the murder of a child. He thinks of Andrea Quill, her ironclad bent. He thinks of Jacob, and of Ned, and their streaks of humor miles long.
He thinks of Papyrus. Always, he thinks of Papyrus.
They're gone now. All of them, long gone.
His sockets have slid shut. It might be psychosomatic, that ache running down the length of him. It might be vaguely fatidic.
It's a beautiful day outside.
Sans chuckles to himself, and he smiles.
And soon, the patch of flowers is empty.
Upon searching Sans's room, one may find that it's not truly empty. The racecar bed is still there, as is the beanbag chair Sans has been sleeping upon since Papyrus vanished. But beneath the bed is a collection of small parcels and notes, each labeled by name.
Someone else will have to deliver them. Sans was...entirely too lazy, you see, to see them forwarded through upon the event of his departure.
Thank you. He'll say goodbye now.
chara.
Funny how things shake out, huh? We both show up down here and I'm thinking we're about ready for round two, no quarters.
That was the first time you really surprised me. Wouldn't be the last. I'm no good with words, you know me. I'm no good with things like goodbyes and hellos, or much of anything. I'm no good with apologies, or wondering why a kid figures they should climb a mountain. So we're doing a lot of firsts down here, I guess. First time for everything.
You're a good kid. And coming from me, maybe that sounds like a joke. Wouldn't fault you for that, I suppose. I'm a real funny guy. But I think maybe sometimes good people do bad things. Real bad things. I think sometimes good people hurt other people because someone else hurt them first. And I think a lot of people don't always feel like the need to ask why it is that people do bad things.
You finally got me asking why.
I owe you for that. Don't think I can ever pay you back any, but you deserve to know.
You deserve a lot more than you got.
So whatever happens, if I'm not giving up back home...don't give up wherever you are, ok?
[There's something else written here...but it's been scribbled out.]
- sans
[And inside the packaging, clumsily wrapped as it is, is a sheath: a fine thing, crafted from dark, glossy leather. For the event in which they feel as though they need not keep a blade always drawn.
It's optimistic, for him. But maybe he's just paying it forward some.]
frisk.
Sorry I never asked your name before. Sorry for a lot of things, actually.
You're a good kid. You've made mistakes, but so have the rest of us. You don't have to be hard on yourself, ok? Feels like the rest of the world has got that covered. I should've done a lot of things better than I did, looking after you. But you gave me more chances than I earned.
Maybe you're right, and I'd be better off with another version of you both. But you're it, kiddo. You and Chara. For a lot of reasons. But there's a little bright thing you got called "determination" that helped me learn something I never thought to ask before.
Sorry I never asked sooner.
But for whatever happens next, I'm glad it was you.
- sans
[And in the poorly-wrapped gift...a small package of butterscotch flavored candies, and a bundle of cinnamon sticks in a jar. It's not quite the same, but it's the closest he could get.
Thanks, kid. You got nothing else to apologize for.]
alphys.
Sorry that I wasn't much of one to start with. Or to finish with. I know things were tough down here, and back home. I don't know if you understand how brave you have to be to keep going despite all that. You didn't have a single person keeping your back, at home. And I'm sorry for that too.
You're the smartest person I know. I think you're actually the smartest person I've ever met. You've made mistakes, but so has everyone. I mean, look who's talking here, right?
I don't wanna end up leaving you behind down here. But in the case that I do, I don't think it'll be my choice. You already know how I feel about going 'home'.
Thanks for being who you are, Alph. Ain't nobody in the world like you except you, and I was damn lucky to be someone who knew you.
- sans
[Most of his miscellany he's left to her: the healing serum, notes regarding healing glyphs as he's learned from Carlisle, any and all ephemera that have been lying around since his departure.
Her gift, however, is a bit more personal than that. It's a sweater - a wide, baggy thing, entirely too much cloth, undeniably one of those ugly Christmas things. And there are words awkwardly painted across the front in round, lower-case script:]
know what that means?
[And on the back:]
[And there's...huh. Something else at the bottom. A little scrap of paper, all creased from how often it's been folded and unfolded. If she unfurls it, it'll become apparent that it's a photograph.
Everyone's smiling.]
asgore.
I never really asked a whole lot about when you came from. I guess it's for the best you got to see your kids again. I think Frisk is pretty happy you have you here now. They deserved someone who could look after them like a dad could. They all did.
I know you made mistakes. But I'd be the wrong guy to drag you through the mud for them. Ain't like I been much better.
If I'm not the worst person out there, I don't think you are either.
- sans
[Asgore's parting gift is a complicated one, an array of crushed petals and leaves gathered from the flowers Sans persuaded Sorrow to add to the orchard. Ground and sprinkled with whatever spices he could find in the shops, then bagged and sealed - and voila, you got some rudimentary tea bags.
It's not the same golden flower tea that he'd have back home, but maybe it'll do in a pinch.]
napstablook.
Take care of those cats of yours for me, ok? Brot is gonna need someone to look after him so he doesn't get into trouble. Don't worry - he's pretty chill for a fox.
Don't sweat it, buddo. You're doing great.
- sans
[Encased in Napstablook's gift is a selection of collars - one for each of their strange feline entourage. Each has a nametag, should they feel up to labeling them for convenience.
He also leaves for them the paltry music library he had kept in his phone: mostly stupid soundbytes and frilly renditions of memes from the early 2000s, though there's a few quiet mixes in there.
He figured if anyone could appreciate them, Napstablook would.]
mettaton.
Wish I could be of more help to you. But half the time, I don't know what it is that needs doing.
Whatever it is you're dealing with, just don't get the kids involved in it. They've been through enough.
Hope I wasn't too bad a roommate.
[There's no gift, it seems, for Mettaton. Not at first. Not until he realizes that his note is taped to the racecar bed, and underneath - ]
He'd want you to have it.
- sans
wade.
Sorry I skipped out on you. Wasn't anything to do with you. I kinda messed things up with the doctors when they were around. It was hard to go back. But I'm still
reliehap[Here, a long line of text has been thoroughly scratched out to the point that it's been rendered unreadable.]
When I'm not around anymore, can you do something for me?
Take a break, Wade.
You've earned it.
- sans
[To Wade he's left all of the belongings that Hermann left behind, that Newt didn't have on his person, as well as his moped. Take good care of it, buddy.]
ushahin.
You've done good stuff for people. Even good stuff for me. Kinda never thanked you for that. Figure I should've.
So, thanks.
- sans
hannah.
Sorry about your sister. It's rough losing someone you built your whole life around. But you're not just her sis, yeah? You're a pretty good kid on top of everything else, and I think you should know that.
Turns out I'm real miserable with words. Who knew?
Take care of Brot for me. Ok?
- sans
chris.
Sometimes they don't always all make it out. But you gotta remember that there's a world out there where they do. Sometimes that's gotta be enough.
- sans
shadow.
The contents of this note have seen scratched out so thoroughly that they've been rendered illegible.gren.
So take care of Wade, you got that? Or I might just end up haunting you with every horrible joke known to monsterkind. And that would be a "grave" mistake.
- sans
carlisle.
Thanks for teaching me everything you did. Left all my notes and glyphs and things for you. Figured you'd be just about the only person who could make use of them. You didn't have to help, but you did.
I owe you for that.
Guess you'll just have to settle for an IOU.
Sorry.
- sans
[Sure enough, attached, beneath the flurry of papers, failed glyph sketches, and every note Sans made during those lessons and the like, is a shitty little post-it note. And written in Sans's crooked, childish, comic sans script:]
iou 1 healing lesson
rey.
Leaving only the last two words:]
sorry
- sans
marian tenebris.
Go easy on any skeletons you meet down the road, ok? They can't take it like I can.
- sans
maketh tua.
We've all done things we regret. It's what we do down the road that matters.
- sans
nick valentine.
Sorry I could never say it to your face. What can I say? It's a flaw of mine.
- sans
ellie.
Can't imagine the way things have been for you. The way they're gonna keep being. Sorry I can't stick around longer. There's just kind of an inevitability to these sorts of things, you know? Don't turn out the way you want them to.
I should've done you better. I'm sorry.
You're a good kid, and you don't deserve to have lived through what you did.
Talk to Dr. Rosen sometime, ok? I think you and him have a thing or two in common.
- sans
[Attached is something wrapped in foil. Unwrapping it will reveal - a hot dog. Slightly squishy, but unable to spoil. It's magic, see. Eating it will recover a good 20 HP, imbue you with a little strength to keep going.
For emergencies.]
dr. lee rosen.
I've done you a couple bad turns, I know. Kinda new at this whole open and vulnerable thing. You took it like a champ, but you deserve a hell of a lot more than some old bag of bones like me can offer.
You look after the kids, ok? There's not many people down here that will.
Sorry about your kid. She seemed like a decent lady.
You're a better person for giving a damn than you know.
Don't forget.
- sans
[To Rosen, Sans entrusts the last possession he has to give: the magic compass he won from Confusion's hedge maze, a million years ago. It has three uses still, fully intact. In case Rosen needs to find something that isn't yet lost.]