It was the dead of night. Papyrus had long since gone to sleep and, though he usually never slept for more than two or three hours, he was still out like a light. Maybe his cooking lessons with Undyne had worn him out; or, maybe, his exhaustion had finally caught up with him. Either way, it seemed the tables had turned on the two skeleton brothers, for Sans, usually the one caught napping at various intervals of the day, found himself staring up at the ceiling with his one good eye socket.
He had been willing himself since eight O’clock, yet here he was, quarter to twelve, and he hadn’t slept a wink. Maybe his thoughts were running too wild. Or maybe it was the fact he had slept the day away, like he always did. That never seemed to stop him before. The small skeleton sat up.
Even through the darkness, he could see the messy outline of his cluttered room; piles of clothes stacked in one corner, and a treadmill both he and Papyrus had been unable to move taking up most of th