Ace in a Hole (Undertale x Hazbin Hotel)

Chapter 4

There was a cruelty to the world that led Sans to the (bitter) realization that he and Alastor were similar. It was the kind of realization that crept up upon him after their first official conversation, where his tender smile bore a newer weight.

It's something Sans realized as he ended the call that day. The third time was the charm, he supposed. Well, technically, fourth.

In all aspects, they shouldn't be. From what Sans knew about Alastor the radio demon, he was a dick. A human from the 1900s who lived and died before Sans was even born. A human man in a species that outcasted its own people, who took on a radio job and was a serial killer before being thrown into hell.

Sans was the royal judge, whose job once was to kill people like him. To hunt them down through L.V. and stop them. A man who took a science career and was able to escape his intended damnation underground. Everything in Sans' life built him up to despise a man like this. And he did.

But... but...

Sans feels like he just spoke to a different flavor of himself. It's a realization that sat heavy in him.

Just in a few meetings, Sans could taste their similarities. Their shared love of puns. How they both smiled not because they wanted to, but because they felt the need to. How they can have a conversation, whipping insults back and forth, wasling their way under each other's skin in ways none had before. They kept their cards close to their chests, and yet, the cards were so easy for the other to anticipate.

It was disgusting enough to leave a vile taste in his mouth.

Despite that, Sans continued their conversations. Beneath all of the putrid annoyance and hatred toward the man, he found himself nearly looking forward to their weekly encounter. In the way people enjoyed the thrill of a creaky roller coaster, the kind of enjoyment left from breathtaking anticipation.

Sans knew he shouldn't. This was territory that Sans absolutely should not throw himself into. Alastor was a serial killer from nearly one hundred years ago with dozens of bodies to claim as his victims. The man had every bone in his body flaring with warning. A voice that made Sans want to set fire to the building just to rid himself of it. Sans should be trying to figure out ways to get rid of him.

On a base level, Sans could easily comprehend that this was quite the awful idea. It was as logical as any thought. The sky was blue. The grass was green. And talking to a serial killer was a very, very bad move.

But self-destruction was a comfort. So Sans opened his arms and let himself fall into the eye of the void. Let the wind tumble through his hoodie and let the darkness consume him whole, with sharp clawed temptation that whispered sweet nothings to him.

Oh, how Sans hated him. But that hatred keeps him chained to the idea of the demon, to rip apart the man who resembled him so much and so little. It didn't help that Alastor was the first person Sans had had a real conversation with in forever, and his therapist was practically telling Sans to throw himself at this man.

What Sans should have done was sit down with his therapist and drill in that the man was real. Record their conversations, and send her articles with his name and his kill count plastered onto them.

Instead, what Sans did was arrive the next week with a pot of coffee and a few scones from a local bakery.

They're lemon berry. Sans didn't mind lemon itself, but what he did mind was the taste of artificial, and holy shit, were they artificial. Every bite was akin to him eating the lemon-shaped foam display instead of the actual product. As fake-tasting as the lopsided lemon was. He'd offer one to Alastor if he could, just to have the man suffer by his own hand.