Save Point (Sans x Reader)

Chapter Four

“You really don't have to pay for it,” he intervenes, looking at you.

“It's fine,” you insist, smiling at him. “It's the least I can do after a whole month of you tutoring my son. His math grades went from D's to B's!”

Sighing, the skeleton gives in to your words, grateful Papyrus wasn't around to talk his non-existent ears off about how it was only fair to split the bill with you. Pleased you were able to convince him, you hand the cashier the payment for both your orders while she gives you your change back. You wait for your food to be handed to you by standing next to Sans, mentally summing up how long it would take until your ex finished taking your son out to the movies.

Your ex took him from you at around six thirty -- thirty minutes into the usual tutoring lesson -- and now that it was currently seven fifteen, there were only fifteen minutes left until the movie began. You figured they would be back home by ten, allowing you more than enough time to have a meal with Sans, run some final errands, and head back home without any complications.

“Sorry again for the unexpected changes,” you speak up, facing down slightly to meet with his eye sockets. “I didn't think my ex would be returning to see (S/N) during his school year.”

“That's fine and all, but how’re ya feeling?” he asks, arching an eye socket. “You didn't look too good when they showed up at your door.”

Embarrassment rises over the back of your neck and ears at that question. You shrug that feeling off, wanting to keep your conversation going with him.

“To be honest, I. . . I still miss them,” you reply, passing a hand through your (h/c) locks of hair. “Even though we're not together anymore, they weren't a bad (wife/husband). We just had to take different paths a year after the adoption, and that involved our. . . separation.”

You look down, still finding yourself unable to say the word 'divorce’. You loved them deeply -- enough to adopt a five year old (S/N) back then. Oddly enough, their attitude changed right after the adoption, and even to this day, you were unsure as to what were the reasons for those changes.

“It's been a year, but the memories are still vivid.” Catching onto how emotional you were getting, you take in some air, closing your eyes and letting it out slowly. “But. . . What about you? Any special someone you have in mind?”

Your words come off light, wanting to let him know you were joking and that he wasn't obligated to give a serious answer. To your surprise, however, he stuffs his hands in his pockets, letting out a pensive sigh.

“Never really thought about that,” he admits, honesty clear in his tone. “It's not really that different how monsters fall for someone, but we do have our differences. Since we can live longer than humans so long as our soul stays healthy, we don't need to rush into that kinda stuff.”

“If you don't mind me asking. . . How old are you, then?”

You thank another employee for handing you a tray with both your and Sans's orders on it. He helps you by holding onto the coffee cups, walking with you to the nearest, empty table you could find.

“I’m in my mid twenties,” he replies, placing the cups down on the table. “Twenty-six, if we're gonna be exact.” He gives you a subtle once over after saying that, the sudden attention thrown at you catching you off guard. “You?"

“Twenty-three,” you reply, setting the tray down next to the cups. “I. . . got married at twenty, and then divorced at twenty-two.”

You brace yourself for his next question, expecting him to ask the same one almost everyone asked when you told them of your age.

“I rushed into it and pretty much received an 'I told you so’ from almost everyone I knew back then,” you add, being quick to avoid having that interrogative brought up. “I don't regret it, but. . . I'm still trying to figure out what went wrong.”

You stop on your words, realizing you ended up rambling about your life again.

“Enough about me, though. How're things on your side?”

The skeleton takes a few sips of his coffee, gulping the hot liquid down before taking a napkin to his teeth. He wipes his face before speaking up, placing the coffee aside.

“For starters, I have a pretty cool bro that's a huge help around the house,” Sans explains, adjusting himself to the unanticipated attention brought upon him. “He works outside and all, but he still manages to have food ready by the time I get home. The guy's the definition of a hard worker.”

“I can understand why,” you comment, smiling at his words. “It can be pretty difficult to deal with that many things at once."

“The food he makes is kinda. . . still in the works, but I can't complain. If it were me, I'd just eat out every day.”

Before you know it, you keep talking with him until your coffee grows cold. The only things that manage to save themselves are the cold sandwiches you both ordered. The two of you break into laughter when coming across the fact that you both forgot about the food, even while speaking about his brother's cooking.

You both eat in comfortable silence as you munch on your sandwiches, savouring the flavour and letting the food warm your taste buds. A soft breath escapes your lips when taking a third bite of your meal, your eyes closed and body releasing the stress from a hard day of work, picking up your son, and having your ex show up at your house a few minutes into the usual Friday tutoring lessons.

“Woah.”

You're shaken out of those thoughts by the sound of Sans's voice, looking forward to see him staring at you with an amused expression painted as clear as day on his skull.

“Never seen someone enjoy food that much.”

Caught in your daydreaming, you glance down at the half-eaten sandwich in hand, a sheepish look crossing your face.

“I don't think I remember the last time I ate this type of food. It's either home-cooked or Burger Queen for us most of the time.”

He chuckles at your explanation, the sound airy and honest to your hearing. His irises flicker over to you, the ever-present smile on his face appearing freer to your eyes.

For a brief moment -- as you reach for your cup of cold coffee and he reaches for his own -- your hand brushes with his, the small slip up only making the situation more awkward for you to digest.

“Sorry about that.”

Expecting him to say something in response to your apology, you're surprised to have him remain silent. He seems out of it for a split second, though he soon returns to the present, a hint of tension present in the way he looks at you.

“Do you, uh. . . want me to go get some new ones?” he questions, his voice coming out as strained as the time your son brought up your divorce on his first day of tutoring. “I dunno about you, but cold coffee ain't my thing.”

“Sure,” you answer, your own voice faltering in that sole word. “Thank you, Sans."