Sans greets each day with whatever enthusiasm he can muster. Usually, it means crawling on all fours out of a heap that consists of bristly husks of coconuts and his hoodie in whatever dusty corner of the cottage he decided to occupy that night.
But his reasons...
They're shaped like a man in red and black with a neverending arsenal of pop culture references on his deformed lips. They're shaped like the varied forms inked on a scientist's skin, a man who has more doctorates than Sans could ever dream of. They're shaped like a ramshackle cottage with holes in its roof, something Sans would like, on some small corner of his thoughts, to turn into a kind of home.
Something a vengeful queen can't take from him.
So he tells jokes to an unmoving door, just like old times. Maybe, just maybe, he thinks of the woman who isn't behind them this time. Who isn't behind any of them, because she had nowhere else to go when the Queen took another queen.
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But his reasons...
They're shaped like a man in red and black with a neverending arsenal of pop culture references on his deformed lips. They're shaped like the varied forms inked on a scientist's skin, a man who has more doctorates than Sans could ever dream of. They're shaped like a ramshackle cottage with holes in its roof, something Sans would like, on some small corner of his thoughts, to turn into a kind of home.
Something a vengeful queen can't take from him.
So he tells jokes to an unmoving door, just like old times. Maybe, just maybe, he thinks of the woman who isn't behind them this time. Who isn't behind any of them, because she had nowhere else to go when the Queen took another queen.
"Me," he answers.