Cocktails and Beer. | Grillby x reader |

|Chapter 4| Chatting.

It seemed like I was deep in thought of the question that Grillby said before, of what soul type Y/N is, cause Grillby snapped me out of my trance.

"Wait... If Y/N has fallen down, does that mean that Chara or Frisk will not, fall down?" Grillby spoke his thoughts. My eyes sockets lit up.

"Maybe!" I spoke with unintended enthusiasm. "This would make life much more relaxing!" I lean back, and hold my arms out behind my head to make the barstool to be the invisible back-chair. This then makes the barstool to tip backwards, and then causes me...
To fall.

Luckily, Grillby caught me.

"Woah there!" He exclaimed. "That's why you don't lean back or tip on barstools." I chuckled.

"Yep. That made my adrenaline on fire." I winked at the bartender.

Grillby, in response, facepalmed.

"Agh Sans.. You and your puns." Though through his flaming hand, I could see a smirk. "Though then again, it's different than the same old puns you always say."

"See? I guess you can warm up to puns for once!" I smiled.

"Sans..." Grillby jokingly scolded.

"Sorry. That was unintentional." I smiled with the joy of not having dejavu. I then got out of my seat, and waved to Grillby and all the customers.

"Cya." I spoke, and got lots of responses before I closed the door shut.

Y/N's POV:

When I heard of the tall skeleton liking to cook, I expected brownies or cupcakes or something sweet and simple like that.

Not spaghetti with glitter, glue, and glitter glue.

Luckily I had volunteered to 'Help out the Great Papyrus with the art of cooking,' and soon I told him how to cook spaghetti the human way. Papyrus's sour look on when I told him not to add in the paper, was frankly, quite hilarious. His scowl of disapproval while being above 6 feet tall and being a narstistic skeleton, may have been diminishing, but I thought that being a grown adult should allow others to try their craft.

Good thing the spaghetti was made right, otherwise Papyrus wouldn't have trusted me ever again. He thought the dish was delightful, though I could tell that he's trying to hold back on his unwanted opinion about my cooking and saying that it was good, from himself.

BUT ANYWAYS,

this time down here in the underground is much nicer than the one of up above. Above, I had to worry over taxes, my job, how my job is ridiculous, and what not. Those people wanted me dead for some reason, and I have no idea why. Maybe because I was a Country-Renowned-Mixologist?

I don't know.

But my thoughts seemed to have escaped through my lips, because Papyrus heard me mumbling.

"Y/N WHAT'S A COUNTRY RENOWNED MIXOLOGIST?" He asked me while still slurping his noodles.

I looked up to him surprised, from my head on one of my hands, but then I looked back down and told him.

"It's where there's a contest, back on the surface, where you have to be the best mixologist you can be, and when you win, you get an award, and soon, you get more popular." The last word I uttered, seemed to have set a bell in Papyrus's skull.

"POPULAR?!" He exclaimed, and he dashed towards the kitchen.

"Uh, yeah. I get more customers that way." Papyrus then opened the fridge and realized something.