Ace in a Hole: Collaborative Shenenigans

Chapter 8

Sitting on the roof with Alastor, peering up at the beautiful night sky, was somehow... fulfilling. It's like those oddly satisfying videos online. They shouldn't be, but they were.

That was Sans hanging out with Alastor in person. It's somehow just right, in every twisted sense of the word. Both of them bantering like usual, knowing that one of them was very, very dangerous but continuing on anyway. Sans can still feel that danger in every stare and word Alastor sends his way. That's why he showed Alastor he could teleport. Fucking try. Sans wouldn't be in the state if he did.

It's still bizarre the radio demon was now sitting two feet away from Sans, but hey, Sans' life is already beyond fucked. If it were to happen to anyone, it was bound to be him.

They're both cupping separate drinks as they sit, their legs dangling over the edge of the building. For a moment, the two had spent some time simply admiring the lovely night sky, twisted with stars dappled in light. Sans would go to sleep up here every night if he could. An oddly domestic scene that he finds himself not entirely objecting to. Alastor is just at his house now. That's a thing Sans has to deal with.

He's not stupid. He can tell that Alastor is debating killing him every time his eyes linger on Sans. No one looks at someone's neck that much unless they want to do something to it. Alastor wasn't kinky so that left the more likely option of something to do with strangling or snapping it.

Alastor looks over at Sans, his eyes sharp and focused. Funny how he took on a deer, probably the most commonly associated animal with the concept of prey. That had to piss off Alastor. The guy was forever stuck looking like an animal that was hunted for sport. Especially after the guy was shot by a hunter. Sucked to be him.

"So how did the injury turn out?" Sans asks. "Everything okay?"

"I suppose," Alastor answers honestly. He looks rather amused at everything as he tips his cup to the side, watching Sans with a gaze that never threatened to glance away, not for a second. "It did sting for a few days but I'm perfectly healthy now!"

"That's good. Sounded like shit over the phone so I'm glad it's better now. So if I have to kick your ass, I can do so guilt-free. Lucky me."

Alastor cackles, grinning wildly over at Sans. Again, that static took hold, but Sans was already so used to it he was beginning to be able to brush it off. "Oh, silly skeleton, you could certainly try."

"Nah. Too much effort. And what kind of host would I be if I did?" Sans asks, tilting his head.

"No, please, do enlighten me!" Alastor says, all but setting the cup to the side (neatly, Sans notices, being very careful not to spill it despite his sinister expression) as he fully turns to look at Sans. The beginnings of what seems to be some sort of stitches glow at the very corners of his mouth as he leans closer, and Sans has to bite down the urge to run as static tingles at his skull. "I would adore to see what you can do. Monsters have magic while alive, don't they? It would be so fascinating to see how you can try to -"

Sans wasn't someone to attack first. Not if he could help it. Sans would grit his teeth and let someone pass if he didn't have to fight. If he had a choice. Sans despised fighting. Too many memories linked to it, every single one worse than the last. And Sans wasn't prone to angry outbursts. If anything, he shut down instead of springing out.

But the one who attacked first that day was Sans. He couldn't help himself. The bristling static, the leering serial killer demon, those fucking eyes, all of it was too much. He could barely breathe.

It was exhilarating. He had to attack.

Being in person with Alastor brought their usual radio conversations to the forefront, ever so intense compared to their previous conversations. Sans was always pretty safe on the radio. Here, he was looking death in the eye with a smile, terrified and excited all at once. The guy that's everything he hates in humans, and yet is the only man Sans thinks he would allow himself to become this impulsive with. Alastor just had a punchable face. Instead of a fist, Sans lands a bone attack before jumping back from a mass of shadows that spring up from the ground. Squirming, wiggling shadows shaped like something that brings a snort out of Sans.