Archive of Our Own ^beta

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         Alphys squirmed under your deadpan gaze. An impressive feat considering the massive pile of white fluff napping in her arms. A massive pile of white fluff that was supposedly your best friend’s brother.
         “That’s…”
         “Sans.” she confirmed, once again readjusting Her grip on what had to be at least thirty pounds of cat. Her workouts with Undyne must've been paying off. “There was an… accident in the lab. I can’t care for him and make an antidote. And with Papyrus out of town-”
         “You need someone to watch him.” You finished, pinching the bridge of your nose. Magic science (or at least an incident related to it) was going to be the cause of your death. You just knew it. You should've taken Papyrus up on his offer to join him on his 'friendship tour' as the monster mascot, spreading good vibes and increasing the positive views of monster kind in general. But noooo. You had work. You needed to pay bills. Now, you had to deal with the incarnation of inconvenience and laziness living in your home.
         While you adored your best friend, his brother, Sans, or Comic as he preferred to be called, had seemed to make it his personal mission to find new and inventive ways to harass you. From pranks (which were only funny when they didn't involve loud noises), to puns, to the most horrible knock-knock jokes on the planet. Papyrus claimed it was how he showed affection. You just thought he got a kick out of making your life difficult.
         You groaned with the exhaustion only a person who knew what it meant to file their own taxes could manage and returned your attention to the Maine Coon that was apparently the bane of your existence. “And just how aware is he?”
         Alphys snorted, “Well, he knocked three beakers off the counter, somehow climbed into the microwave to take a nap, and spent a solid hour tormenting our secretary, so I'd say he’s just Sans in a cat body.”
         You chuckled at her dry I-am-done-with-this-and-next-weeks-shenanigans-too tone and felt a moment of kinship pass between you and the mad scientist of a dinosaur-like monster. “Sounds about right.”
         You turned to take the massive house cat, only to find a pair of vibrant blue eyes already staring at you. Comic’s tail swished lazily as he blinked up at you. You gave him your most unimpressed expression and said, “You’re taking the couch. You pull anything and I’m dunking you in the tub and letting you air dry.”
          Somehow, despite his new feline features, Comic managed to portray the most blatant look of smug amusement you’d ever seen. He jumped down from his lab partner’s oh-so-tired embrace and stretched lazily, yawning wide. You sighed as he purred and started rubbing himself against your legs.

          You just so happened to be wearing black pants.

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           You thought you had been prepared to care for Comic. You'd done it before, when Papyrus was worried about his strained smiles and longer than healthy naps. It wasn't all that different from babysitting Frisk, to be fairly honest. You’d braced yourself for pranks. You’d anticipated all manner of catty shenanigans. Alphys had left you with several cans of boneless tuna and about fifteen of those lint roller things in preparation for the shedding storm that was likely to emerge.

        You had not expected, however, for Comic to be absolutely. freaking. adorable.

        You'd forgotten one very important thing. Comic wasn't his usual skeleton self. He was smaller, fluffier, and designed to make your cat lady brain short-circuit apparently.

         The minute the fiend had stopped shedding all over your work pants (which, while annoying was... fine. You had already finished your shift for the day and you needed to do laundry anyways), the fluffy terror had scampered onto your couch and fallen straight back to sleep. After changing, and calling your boss to explain the situation (thank the stars they believed you) you spent the next six minutes trying to come to terms with the sudden need to bury your face in the large bundle of cloudy white fluff that was purring loud enough to be mistaken for a motorboat.

         Resisting the urge, you instead snapped a few blackmail pictures and sent them to Papyrus before deciding to get started on something to eat before it got too late. You already had salmon in the oven to be the first half of your dinner. You pulled out some eggs and started the process of hard boiling them. 

        While you waited for your food to cool, you carefully heated up Comic’s tuna in the microwave, wincing every time the fat popped loudly. That was going to be absolute misery to clean. 

         Once the fatty fish was done cooking, you turned around only to almost jump out of your skin. Comic sat innocently on your dinner table, licking his chops and staring at you with the biggest blue eyes you’d ever seen. It was adorable. You half wished he'd stay like that forever. 

         Half of your salmon was gone.

         You took back everything you had thought about him being cute. He was evil incarnate.

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           You glared at your tv, willfully ignoring the pitiful wet mop sitting forlornly by your heater. Comic gave a theatrical shiver to pair with his most pitiful mew. It was almost impressive how he could fit all the tragedy of an opera into one single sound. You turned up the volume of the documentary you were watching, refusing to feel even the slightest bit of sympathy for the food thief. You loved salmon. He knew you loved salmon. He'd made fish puns for an entire day after learning of your love of sea food, never once reusing a single one. The only thing that kept you and papyrus from murdering him had been the sushi restaurant he'd take you both to after.

          He would be fine. You had warned him. It wasn't not your fault he didn't take you seriously.

          Besides, it wasn’t like he was a real cat or anything. He was just turned into a cat. By his own stupid experiment. With lots of fur. And flesh. Which meant that he could catch colds.

          Comic shivered again.

          You paused your movie mid way through a fascinating, in depth explanation on how black holes were formed and groaned, tilting your head back to glare curses at the ceiling. “Fine.”

          You marched back into the bathroom, careful not to step on the still slick puddles Comic had left behind when he’d bolted from the tub after his impromptu cold dunk of revenge. Rustling through your drawers, you found your hair dryer and went to find the ragged butt-munch of a skeleton turned cat. 

         He sat right where you left him, looking like something out of a cheesy tearjerker drama. Well, if he ever got tired of being a stand up comedian, he'd make a phenomenal actor.

         “Next time I won't be so nice.” You hissed at him, plugging in the hair dryer. You grimaced when Comic rubbed his still damp face against your hand, purring in thanks. You refused to believe he had learned his lesson. He hadn’t stopped harassing you after you teamed up with Papyrus to dunk an entire bucket of glitter on him. You doubted a little water would dissuade him.

        At least you had photos of both defeats. To look back on whenever the urge to strangle the fiend grew too strong to ignore.

        The hair dryer worked quickly, and you could only be grateful that Comic didn’t seem to have any snarls in his fur yet. You needed to get him a brush if he was going to stay like that much longer.

        You used your hands to rake through his coat as best you could, and while you weren’t sure if it was effective, he certainly enjoyed the ‘petting’ he received.

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Surprisingly, Comic decided to grant you a peaceful morning. His only crime: staring mournfully at your waffles while he ate tuna and half of your bacon. You rewarded him with front seat privileges while driving to work.

Naturally, the furball and general menace to your mental health had fallen asleep by the time you arrived and refused to wake no matter what you tried. You decided to just relinquish your dignity and carry him in. You were bound to get his fur all over your clothes anyways. And if anyone asked why you were being so nice to him, it was purely to keep him from willfully hacking hairballs into your shoes. 

Absolutely no other reason in the slightest.

Not three minutes into getting him settled into your cubicle, one of your work friends popped around the corner to say good morning.

She raised her eyebrows at the mountain of fluff curled up by your computer. “Who’s your little guest there, sugar?”

“Oh, that’s Comic, er, Sans.” You replied, “Paps’s brother. He got into a lab accident and poof, now he’s cat Sans.”

“Oh, the guy you’re always talking about?” 

You turned red. She didn’t have to phrase it like that! You rapidly looked back to make sure said guy hadn’t been listening before shooting her a glare. Out like a light. Good. “Yes. The guy I’m always complaining about.”

She shot you an entirely uncalled for knowing grin. What she was knowing, you refused to acknowledge, because she’d read far too many romance novels. “Yeah, sure. You didn’t spend half an hour telling me about how his last show left you in stitches so bad that you laughed yourself hoarse.”

You wheezed in indignation, “I appreciate a good joke!”

That came out louder than you meant it to. You glanced back again. Still sleeping. You turned back and hissed, “Besides, anyone would support their friend doing something they love.”

“Mhm,” She drawled, entirely too smug for someone who was going down a rabbit hole of fantasies and projecting them onto your reality. “You talk about him even more than your best friend, honey. And I used to think you were trying out for Papyrus's manager with how often you hyped him up.”

You grumble. Maybe you talked about Sans a lot, but you talked about all of your friends a lot. You barista was so invested in your retellings of Alphys’s mad scientist lab adventures that he got cranky if you missed a day. Your parents were halfway ready to adopt Undyne before they even met her. Your boss thought you were Frisk’s aunt after you spent a solid two hours boasting about their family tree project that you’d helped them with.

It was normal for you. Totally normal. 

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Comic was in heaven.

He laid comfortably on your spare jacket, feline great, and dozing off for the fifth catnap of the day. He had no responsibilities, no work, no stress. That lab accident was the best thing that had ever happened to him. He’d stay a cat forever if he could.

And, even better, he was staying with you. Sure, he’d gotten a little soaked wet after some mischief, but you’d dried him off right away. You always were a cat purr-son. 

Your bark was always worse than your bite. You never stayed mad at him long. Sometimes, the times he loved most, you’d even laugh along with him. 

Your house was much nicer than his apartment. It was like something out of a catalog. Not in the sense of value, but in the fact that you were very good at making your living space feel homey and lived in. His place, on the other hand, could be mistaken for a prison cell with how sparse it was.

On the more embarrassing side, you’d held him. Twice! 

He’d almost managed to pretend you were hugging him, rather than lugging him around like a spare sack of flour.

He’d been guilty for eavesdropping on your conversation for about six seconds before his name came up. Then he was eagerly listening with all he had. Curiosity killed the cat and all.

Your flustered corrections were absolutely hissterical. He rarely ever got that sort of reaction from you, so it was a rare treat.

Life was feline great.