Watching Papyrus' SOUL dissipate into the dank, slimy air of the lab corridor, Sans feels nothing. He rubs his chapped fingers over his final two pills. He can't remember the last time he felt anything for Papyrus. Before, there was anger, irritation and pain. Hell, before then, there was even love. He looks down at the crumbled bones and cocks his head. The act has given him clarity - as if he had taken another tablet - and he sees the future laid out clearly.
He inhales the rush, rolling it around his stomach and feeing it creep up the base of his spine. It had been only an hour since he swallowed the last dose and yet his fingers itched and his breathing was restricting.
He feels another hacking cough rip through his body, but tries to muffle it. The effort sends him slumped against the corridor wall, and he hunches against it, protectively. His acting was superb, he admitted to himself quietly. Papyrus was fooled by his anger. Even he was fooled by it - but the death had shown him perspective. There was only one thing left to do.
Two pills. Clack-clack.
He needs another, he can feel it. He tries to cough, but the phlegm has crusted onto the base of his throat and his tongue feels like rotting paper. He can feel his knees beginning to shake and the past minutes clarity begin to fade.
He estimates. Only thirty minutes left.
Two pills. Clack-clack.
He'll use one of them to get to the lab. The other, he told himself, he must save.
He waits a breath, allowing a second of preparation, before pinching one of the white casings in his brittle fingers. He raises it to his lips and jerks his head back. The force of the movement caught him off-guard and he stumbles against the gritty, wet stones. Digging his greying fingers against the wall's edge, he steadies himself.
And finally, the convulsions begin. He knows this is his final taste of the pill and he relaxes into the swirling vortex of pain, amnesia and pleasure. His mouth opens slightly in wonder - each time, the experience overwhelming him.
He curls up against the wall, his small frame pushed against the darkened corridor walls, shaking.
One pill left.
YOU ARE READING
Handplates - Pills -
FanfictionTwo white pills sit in front of Sans. They're white, whiter than his chapped bones, and they're round and smooth. Where did they come from? Certainly, he never saw the Doc making them, and they haven't been out on his desk... So, by all logic, they...
