A Bitty of Trouble

Teeth Marks

You watch Sans impressively devour three slices of pizza at your favorite pizza parlor, the bitty sittinng sprawled on the booth table. This wouldn't be as impressive if he wasn't the size of your hand and the slices didn't make up seventy-five percent of the pizza. At least you made sure it's quality pizza. Your wallet is grumbling, but so is your stomach. You snatch a slice of pizza as you work.

Your fingers fly over your phone, contacts and notes open to report the situation to a friend in the precinct you'd made in a cat rescue group three years ago.

"Hey, Sans?"

"Mmph?" He grunts questioningly, cheeks bulging with cheese and delectable crust. The pepperonis he's putting down is almost as big as his face, yet the black hole that is Sans' mouth somehow manages to shove everything in. You're momentarily distracted at the truly magical feat before his adorable glare shakes you back to the task at hand. You keep your tone professional, a bit serious but not so severe as to prevent a possible panic attack.

"The police is asking for visual evidence. Would you mind if I snap a couple of pics?"

"Fuck no! I 'ate cameras- shit, is this for tha' fucker?" He wipes clumsily at the smears of oil on his face, scowl back on his tiny face.

"Yeah." Your lips thin into a harsh line, disliking the invasiveness of the matter. But you know that Ebott police were often unwilling to move without concrete evidence. Helpful in some places, terrible in others.

"Shit... yeah, fine, whateve'."

You quickly snap some pictures, years of catching cute pictures of hyper active cats for rescue and adoption posts making you a regular pro. You capture the cracks on his skull and chips on his ribs. In your pictures, you also notice he's missing a significant chunk from his femur.

"Fucker threw meh a' th' wall." He grunts, noticing your stare. You nod and zoom in, blood boiling and mind seething at the abuse your new friend had been subjected to. Once you're done, you send your friend the pictures and the context behind the femur picture. You silently promise yourself that if this didn't get that asshole arrested, you'd castrate the fucker with a rusty spoon and help Sans escape.

Your friend sends some officers over and assures you that the paperwork for the bitty will be sent to you by the end of the night. Responding with a thumbs up, you click off your phone and turn your attention back to Sans.

"It's being taken care of. You want anything else to eat?" You ask the oddly silent bitty. Sans jolts out of whatever thoughts he's having and glances at the rest of the pizza.

"Nah, ahm good. 'Ere, yeh can have it." He grumbles, looking away with the red glow on his face that you're quickly becoming fond of.

"... Thank you, Sans." You manage to keep the quiver of the gut wrenching urge to pinch his cheeks out of your voice and cut the remaining quarter pizza in three. You hand him a thin slice and a packet of mustard. He lights up and practically dives in. 

"Would you like some pizza with your mustard?" You tease.

"This shit's good shit." He grins at you, teeth smeared with yellow and red. He looks like a ketchup and mustard packet exploded on him. You'd despair about the clothes, but he's too adorable to care. You roll your eyes at him and eat your pizza.

As you clean up your table, he stands uncertainly on the tabletop.

"So... now wha'?"

"Now we go back home. Maybe we'll see that asswipe get arrested and have good dreams tonight."

You hold out your hand once more and he lights up, clambering on and pretending he wasn't excited. You roll your eyes and lift your hand up, careful and smooth. You curl your hand lightly once more, just in case he needs legitimate hand-holds. You nod at the servers as you leave, bitty in tow.
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