Ace in a Hole: Collaborative Shenenigans

Chapter 11

Sans really hopes all of hell isn't shutting up about the obnoxious friendship bracelet he gave to Alastor, because all of his friends will not shut up about Alastor.

All it took was one call, one single fucking call, and Papyrus' excitement spread like wildfire. Everyone was so eager to meet this mysterious human that caught Sans' eye to the point where they had a sleepover. Sans wasn't a guy who really did those sorts of things, so it made sense that people were tripping over themselves to ask about it. The questions aren't annoying, and Sans doesn't necessarily hate involving Alastor in his private life much anymore, but he's not a big fan of constantly telling people that he was a serial killer turned demon and everyone just decided to brush it off in one easy stroke. A bit annoying, but hey, what could he do about it?

Slowly but surely, Alastor becomes a common sight in Sans' home. He swears he looks away for one second, and suddenly the man is a very familiar presence in his life.

If he didn't constantly tell Sans wild tales of people in hell, he would assume the guy had no life outside of him. Sans isn't sure of the limitations of the crystal Alastor apparently swallowed to teleport up to Earth, but the guy was up there at least twice a week. At least. Sans isn't necessarily complaining. Even though he's busy with the wedding, Sans doesn't really see his friends much. Driving out over an hour daily to just talk over things that could be handled with a text was stupid, and Sans liked to think he wasn't that stupid.

Still. It's a bit unsettling how easily Alastor just slips into Sans' life. Especially with how often he seems to do it. Sans teases Alastor for not having a life, but the demon seems much too content to skip out on his life in hell and join Sans on the surface.

He wants to think it's the surface that drives the demon, but that's a filthy lie if Sans has ever heard one. Alastor, of course, likes returning to earth. He eyes the scenery and loves to brush his fingers along the green blades of grass whenever they go out there for picnics or any other fun little excursion away from the people of the town. But the earth was second to Sans.

Sans isn't an idiot. He knows Alastor. It's why he loves hanging out with him so much. Sans doesn't understand every facet of him - there's a very thick line between a serial killer and a non-serial killer that Sans personally thinks would inhibit his ability to do so. Nonetheless, they still have a very distinct understanding of one another that seems to ignore that fact. They were raised in different times, different species with vastly different sets of morals and goals, and yet, Alastor was Sans' bestie, and he's irreplaceable as that.

"He seems to be helping you overcome your internalized fear of humans."

That's what his therapist brings to their next appointment. As much as Sans despises such a discussion, very much comfortable with talking about literally anything else, she doesn't let him quite forget that. Which he understands. Sans lives in a human-only town, and he needs to be able to work and talk to them to be able to exist.

Across his therapist's neck, in an almost jagged sag from mishandled beads, is a very obvious homemade necklace. The kind with split string, beads as plastic as they are cheap, and colors that spoke of obnoxious brightness instead of any cohesion. That, Sans likes to think, is love. The kind of love that drives a parent to wear their kid's silly toys, or the kind of platonic care that drives Sans and Alastor to wear their equally shitty bracelets of ownership. The very bracelet that tightly dangled from his left hand, the dominant one, always reminded him of a specific demon who stunk of old radio parts and the forest.

"You think?" Sans asks. The computer fizzles for a second, as if static was beginning to creep up the side of it.

Alastor. God damn that man. He's going to show up soon, and no doubt that was a warning for him to wrap up. Therapy be damned. Sans is sure that if he offered, Alastor would flip on some glasses he wore in his living era and would strut up to the couch, ready to be his therapist at a moment's notice. A demonic parasite is more of a fitting species to call him over humans.