The quiet buzz of static-laced dialogue filled the warm room, punctuated by bursts of exaggerated laughter from the television. The latest episode of The Mettaton Show blared proudly on the screen — all glitz, glam, and high-octane absurdity. Papyrus would’ve been glued to the screen if he were home. But for now, the house was peaceful.

Sans sat on the carpet, not because there wasn’t a couch — he just didn’t feel like making the climb. His back leaned against the base of the cushions, spine slouched in that signature boneless way he had. One leg stretched out, the other bent just enough to prop up a lazy arm. A half-empty ketchup bottle sat forgotten at his side, tipped over like a fallen soldier.

He looked asleep. Socket lids down, grin wide and motionless — as always. A soft, rhythmic snore rose from him, perfectly timed with the pace of a nap he may or may not have been faking. But one eyelight, faint and blue, flickered open from time to time beneath heavy lids. Not at the TV. At the kid.

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The little human was curled under a lumpy blanket just a few feet away, tucked in like a stubborn snowdrift that had refused to melt. They’d crashed beside him with all the exhaustion of a child who’d spent the afternoon trying to outrun snowballs and prank their skeleton guardian. Now they lay quiet, sketchbook beside them, arm still loosely wrapped around a crayon like they’d passed out mid-doodle.

Sans tilted his skull slightly, enough to glance their way without making it obvious. Not that Sprite would notice — they were out cold. The blanket rose and fell in time with their slow breathing.

He stared at them for a long moment. That expressionless grin never changed, but something softened in the way he sat, in the silence he didn’t fill with a bad joke or a groan.

He hadn’t expected this.

Taking them in hadn’t been part of some big plan. They’d just… stuck around after that snowy scuffle with the wild monster pack. He’d cracked a joke, they’d laughed, and then they were at his side. Always. Like some kind of... shadow with a heart.

Most days, he didn’t mind. They were a good kid — weird, but good. Funny, too. Not bad at drawing. Not too bad at pranks either, though they still had a long way to go before matching his level.

Sans leaned back a little more, adjusting just enough to make the floor less uncomfortable. The soft glow from the TV lit his skull in flashes, reflecting off the white bone as his socket drifted closed again.

“heh… sleep tight, squirt.”

Whether it was spoken or just a thought — even Sans wasn’t sure.

But as the snow kept falling outside, and the house settled into the kind of stillness only winter could bring, Sans kept his post on the carpet. Motionless. Relaxed. Listening. Watching. Not as a sentry. Not even as a comedian.

Just... as someone who, for once, had something to stay still for.