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Falsi Meets His Harem

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It is 3 AM, and Falsi is awake again. He tries to pretend he isn't for a little while, but six feet of nervous fidgeting is hard to ignore. He gets out of bed, wandering out of the bedroom and down the stairs with a nostalgic silence.

Sans knows the drill by now, and so it is impossible for him to go back to sleep. He gives it a good ol' college try anyway, figuring the delay his failure makes is enough time for Falsi to have his legally mandated pity party. Sans doesn't rush. He doesn't have to. He knows- trusts- Falsi isn't going far.

When he's finally heaved his depressed butt out of bed, Sans finds Falsi on the couch, flipping through his phone. Sans knows what he's looking at, looking for.

"more won't magically appear, buddy," Sans says softly from the top of the banister.

"Yes, I know," Falsi agrees without looking up. He's wearing his plague doctor mask again, making his voice distort in a soft, muffled way that Sans finds oddly appealing.

Sans comes down the staircase and sits next to him. He reaches between the cushions and pulls out a spare hoodie, pulling it over himself to chase away the chill. "i need to get a sweater; snowdin's too cold for tshirts..." It is a poor attempt at changing the subject, but Sans doubts very much any wit or whimsy would make Falsi feel better.

If anything happened to Papyrus, Sans knows damn well he'd be inconsolable too.

It is a long moment of double-elephant-stuffed silence, with extra awkwardness and pity. Sans figures his attempts failed, but Falsi's voice eventually flits into the air between them. "Why do you think I wear so many layers? The cold is a plague that even I can't cure, and I am a very good doctor."

A joke; or at least what applied in a joke-adjacent direction; Sans smiles. "shame. i'd take your treatment any day."

Falsi closes his phone, tucking it into his shabby coat pocket. Sans keeps waiting for a chance to help the guy mend it, but Falsi hasn't been in a good mood for leatherwork since falling out of the cave ceiling like some eccentric stalactite knocked off with TNT. Sans gets that: his own lab coat is still fucked up from his last experiment gone wrong.

"...Do you have any yarn?" Falsi asks. "Knitting needles maybe?"

"uh, no," Sans admits. "never did learn to knit. but i saw the store has some white yarn on sale? might have the needles too..."

Falsi checks the clock, then leans back. "If you get them, I'll make you a nice, warm sweater. And mittens. I can't have you freezing your tailbone off, Softie."

Sans feels a little bit of extra warmth at the nickname, and leans in to hide from the rest of the chill under Falsi's arm. The shop won't open for a few hours yet, which means there's plenty of time for a nap.