“so, uh,” Sans started, looking at your math homework. Don’t get him wrong, he cares for you and, if he’s feeling up to it, might actually do what you tell him to do. He’s known you for four (or something, he didn’t keep track) years now, and he’d say that you’re a good kid. Much better than 90% of humans, anyway. It was just a huge shame that you were at that phase of your life that entails a bunch of math he completely forgot how to do. Being old did that to him, he thought. If you were in high school maybe two years ago maybe he’d have the brainpower to actually help. “you’re supposed to do… what, now, to that parabola?”

Don’t blame him, his forte laid in quantum physics, and the stuff you were doing, was neither in his domain nor range. Get it? Domain, range. Parabolas. He had to let out a little heh at that, ignoring your weird look as he tapped one bony phalange on the desk you’d got from IKEA with him. The almost mind-numbing (or skull-numbing, in his case– he wasn’t really sure if he, y’know. Had a brain in there) tak tak tak of his bones scraping across your homework made you glare a little harder. Oops. The one thing he didn’t want was more berating from an obviously frustrated high school sophomore.

“welp,” he started, playing with the graphing calculator you’d shoved at him while you fidgeted with your pencil. He’d painstakingly written ‘I AM THE LEGENDARY FARTMASTER’ on the little glowy screen of the calculator, tapping out one letter at a time while you were on the verge of metaphorical death over homework. “maybe you should try taking a break. howsaboutit, kiddo? i don’t think parabolas are in either of our domains.”

See what he did there? He had to use it somehow. It was a good one.

But, apparently, only he thought so. Because you gave him the nastiest glare he’d ever seen. He swore he could feel his 1 HP halving at the weight of your stink eye. Welp. At least he’d tried.

“or, y’know,” he started, pushing your English essay forward. “you can do this instead. who needs math, anyway?”