The lobby spared no expense when it came to grandeur, gold flecking its every gilded surface.
Large china vases withheld canopy after canopy of pearl-hued wildflowers— oh, a thousand pardons- this isn't where we left off, was it? Let's see... You were swerving down Apex Avenue, Sans steering through with the mad glee of a getaway driver. He cackled as he jutted inwards and outwards through the New York traffic, wheezing as the Roadster drove smoothly along the cobbled road. "Ahhh..." He sniggered, phalange brushing mildly past the side of his skull as he worked himself down easily. "Heh... ah, ya know bub, ya never told me what'd make ya say yes to me." He mused as he kept his socketed gaze ahead, the rumble of the engine almost coveting over the sound of his own voice. You were still staring blatantly out the window, set in a glare. "I did tell you. 'Leave Grillby alone.'" "Mm, somehow- I don't think that's the only answer, bub." You swivelled to frown at him, his grin spreading. "I'll leave it alone, I'll leave it alone. Fer now—"
You huffed, rotating back to the window. "Can I just say something, Mr Sans?" "Sans. Just Sans is fine- that is, unless you wanna call me somethin' more imaginative..." He leered to which you scowled at, gaze still drifting over the blurred scenery. "There's nothing 'just' about ya, and there are a million things I could call ya, but I ain't. I can promise ya, I'll be resistin' ya every second—!" You spoke bravely- boldly— He cracked at this, clutching the steering wheel as he threw his skull back, roaring with mirth. "Ya do that, sweetheart-!! Just makes it more fun! Heh... besides," he calmed himself. "yer cute when ya do it, tryin' to act like a big Bruno! Ha!" You sank, feeling much alike a child dismissed as you wrapped a loose arm around your waist. In many a way, he was righ—
The Roadster suddenly lurched forwards juttingly as it halted, flinging you flat against the windscreen with a yelp as Sans roared, fuming at the single-file line of cars in front. "AW-!! THE HELL-?!! MOVE IT YA SHMUCK-STAINS!!" He growled, slamming his bony fist down, jamming it against the horn furiously, the Roadster letting out a series of honks that matched Sans' wrath. "I fuckin' hate these traffic lights!" He spat sulkily, slumping against his seat as he laxed under the tension, jaw still set. You sank further down as Sans started verbally abusing the congregation before him before the Roadster puttered forwards at the green signal, Sans hunched over the wheel, grumbling under ragged breath. The scenery started to blur voraciously by again, children blending in plastered backgrounds, men into women, trains into— "... Mr. Sa— Sans. Sans, if you're taking me to France then ya kinda missed the train station." You pivoted, a wry grin plastered against his skull.
"I know."
You blanched. "Just where are we going?" You frowned accusingly, him chuckling. "Gotta get ya all cleaned up. I'm takin' ya back to mine." "I'm already dressed though. I don't wanna drag this out." You shifted, frown still etched. "Yer not goin' in that." He admonished, gesturing to your work dress. "C'mon, it'll be like that... whaddya call that human fairytale? ....Help me out here, sweets- it's on the tip of my tongue!" You flailed for a split second before he clicked his phalanges in recognition. "'Cinderella'- that's it." He slapped his phalange against the wheel, looking almost relieved. "While that's very kind of you, if ya think some flashy dress is going to make me magically forgive your tresspasin' well, you're wrong." He sneered at this disdainfully. "I'm not askin' ya to forgive me-!" "Then what are ya hoping for outta this?" "Hell, you humans have to have everythin' explained? Is it a crime to go to a nice place with a cute chick?" "When you're avoiding my question! Now tell me! Whaddya want?"
Oh, that fire again. He loved it. It was then he turned, with a gleam in his sockets that you couldn't quite approve of-
"You'll see when we get there."
—
You had pulled up along the sidewalk, ripping the door open before Sans could have his 'gentleman' way with you. A figure, tall in the shade of the shadows that had watched you arrive sniggered, watching keenly as irritation sprawled across Sans' features, locking your arm in his as he led you inside. Most peculiar... it noted with a hint of intrigue as it dissipated in a thin line of filthy red smog, a trace of a harrowed grin still playing upon it's— The doors to the lobby were thrust open by a moody Sans, elbow squeezing taut against yours as he strode through. It wasn't long before eyes fell towards you, but instead of disgust- these were the subtleties of fluttering lashes, twirling hair, airy laughs, giggles of the surrounding women. The not-so-subtle subtleties of coy glances that were rather thrown, baseball-pitched— not at you, but him. And he loved it. It was to be expected you supposed. People could be anyone so long as the dangling bill (specifically the hundred) fit them. He reciprocated easily, winking with a broad grin as he got caught in the crossfire of blown kisses. You didn't mind- you were just another woman to him.
What you did mind however, was that arm of his still around yours. In what you thought was nothing short of a miracle, his arm shifted- only to be brought around your shoulders, settling like a dead weight. You were herded into the copper cage of an elevator, the latticed metal latching, closing you in as Sans held you to his side, beaming like a goon. The bellboy, timid in stature next to Sans dressed smartly in pressed uniform trembled unwillingly. "W-What floor, boss?" He questioned, queasy gaze ahead. Your heart ached at the quivering sight. "Take us up top, hombre." The boy's hand shot towards the hall call button*, pressing it in a clumsy strike, the elevator lurching upwards, Sans steadying your form with a small frown of concern. "So uh- how're ya doin' boss? H-Hittin' on all eight**?" The boy piped nervously, attempting small-chat only to have Sans grunt in an off-handed way. "Yeah, I'm good, kid." He spoke stiffly, his phalange resting against the small of your back gently.
"That's a relief- the Eastern buttons*** were around Westside, bunch of buttons were all chilled off****— paperboy said they was hit with Chicago Lightning***** yesterday in Lark street warehouse 'round the same time ya left yesterday, ya should thank your lucky stars ya weren't there— that's one helluva way to blow em' down******." Sans went rigid. It was then he noticed the off smile of the bellboy, eyes set ahead storing a twinkle of knowledge that shouldn't belong— wouldn't belong to a youth such as. This was a single OP no doubt. Hazardously thrown stealth wouldn't suggest a vigilante- but a lil' vendetta in honor of the police squadron. Cute. He almost had him too. A glimmer of a barrel was shifted from the bellboy's side- Sans' gaze flickered— You were about to move Sans' hand from you before he pulled you into his side by your waist, ivory grip strong. "Have ya met my cute date? Ain't she a dish******* Nark********?" The bellboy cocked his head, watching your face fill with fluster from beside the skeleton.
With no response from the statuesque bellboy, the doors came unlatched, finally arrived at the top floor. Sans guided you out, lingering at the entrance of the hall. "Just walk down a lil' further till' ya reach one 'o' seven. I'll catch up in a sec." He rumbled lowly against your ear, phalange lagging lightly as it dragged away. You turned to him, brow cocked. He only stared down at you, a silent dare to defy him. Your gaze stalled before you turned, stalking down the carpeted hall. He waited, watching till you rounded the corner, revolver cocking effortlessly with a blunt bang. He finally glanced at the mess he made; an avant-garde explosion of brain matter and blood desecrating the corner of the wallpapered interior. With a satisfied grunt, he threw the smoking barrel towards the bellboy's side, pressing the ground's hall-call. It'd take care of itself once it made the bottom, suicides happened all-too often around here. He watched the cage descend— as a mighty scream was unleashed.
—
"—HUMAN!!! MON DIEU!! KILL IT!! KILL IT!! KILL IT NOW-!!!" An accented voice shrieked, the sound of shattering plates rattling behind the doors of Room 107. Sans almost broke the handle trying to fumble it open, shouldering the doors like a self-made barge. It worked for the most part. He ducked, a plate whizzing over his skull and into the corridor as he stormed in. "Fuckin' hell—!!" His place was in shambles, pieces of porcelain, china— all smashed, coating the floor like a fine-chipped snow that could potentially cut your foot open mercilessly. You had taken cover under a pool table, chipped from the onslaught of plates thrown by a spider-esque woman- maid— you couldn't exactly tell what she was.
What you could tell- was that Sans was barely holding it in, the spider-woman taking quick notice of his arrival. "Master-!! There's a— dieu, there's a human in your—!" "A'right, calm the hell down, no need to get your knickerbockers in a twist— ya can get up bub." He left you in the open as he hung his hat and coat at the doorway leisurely, the ticking silence eating you whole. There was no way you were standing up while she was still armed. You ducked down further, Sans watching you from over his shoulder. Sans crossed over to you wordlessly with a scowl, offering a skinless hand as he crouched to your cowering level. As much as you despised him, you wouldn't be so quick to turn down protection from the spider chick. You grasped his hand, warm for someone flesh-less, rising with him as he stared the spider down calmly, something you thought to be impossible for the thug. "This." He pointed. "Is my date, Muffet. Yer gonna be cleaning her up all nice for me." He said as he prodded you towards the monster, clicking her pincers with a certain wariness. She glanced up at him, not chancing to argue further. She hesitantly took the crook of your arm, leading you lightly out of the plated heap, leaving Sans shaking his head, scuffing his shoe along the mess.
--
She led you into a hazily lit parlour, more than happy to let go of your arm as she rubbed the length of her two forearms anxiously.
"Let's begin, shall we?"
--
You were still adamant about all this. Even fifty layers of expensive creams and light perfumes in, you were still adamant. Though your hands were miraculously soft- credit is where credit is due. You were asked all sorts of forced questions till she was particularly invested in how you met Sans. "You work in Monsieur Grillby's cafe, non?" "Uh, yeah." "Is that how you met the master?" "...Yup." "Oh, forgive my earlier actions, madame. The humans of this city are wretched creatures, I was expecting your harshest. Oh, I feel so silly now-!" She cupped her cheeks in shame. "It was only out of defense-!" "It's alright, some monsters down at the cafe are a bit weary- I suppose that's to be expected after being on the streets." You mused in understanding. Seemingly warming up to you slightly, Muffet resumed brushing your hair with a small fang-lined smile. Ever the romantic, she was laser-focused on your current predicament, one you were trying to forget as to your impending doom. After the game of twenty-thousand questions, she swooned.
"--Like something out of a novella-! Tres romantic!" She sighed dreamily as she fitted a white silk dress around your waist, rippling material resting down the backs of your calves. Your eyes bulged, laughing. "No— not romantic at all!" "You do not like the master?" She asked curiously, stepping back to admire her work before shaking her head, adjusting the dress. "I can't say I do- he forced me here." She frowned. "That sounds so unlike the master... you must be of importance to him." She cupped your chin, inspecting your face. "You need but little rouge." She trailed off, fetching an engraved powder box, setting it down in your lap as she fussed with a tightly-screwed lipstick. Finally finished after a torturous thirty-minutes, Muffet beamed.
"You're ready."
--
Sans' phalanges skimmed over his suit collar, turning slightly in the mirror, a full-view of the black and red pinstripe suit. He didn't have the time to stand around- much less ponder upon why he was doing this, rather, his feelings towards it. All he knew for a fact was: He had to get out. And quick.
The buttons would be here soon. Donning a plain black fedora, he strode out of the room where he was met by your scowling vision in white, sockets trailing down the plunging neckline, diving down to your hips before snapping back up again. You looked good- he could say that much. "We ready to go, sweets?" He found himself grinning, offering his arm. You took it. Very. Very. Begrudgingly, head turned to the side haughtily, true to your promise. Sans only grinned, the only expression he seemed capable of making before turning to Muffet, her head bowed modestly, courteous. "There's gonna be 'guests' coming- keep em' entertained for me would ya?"
Muffet's gaze rose, alight. "Of course master." She curtsied, turning on her heel to prepare for god knows what as Sans whirled to you.
"Hold on tight, bub."
—
The door to the apartment was barged open by the brunt of but two shoulders, uniformed men traipsing through the dark in organised fashion. It was there she waited, hungry... silent as the officers wandered through the crosshairs of her fine shimmering webs- like glimmers of purple threading. There she sat, at the heart of it all.
"Bonsoir monsieurs..."
The doors slammed shut with a clench of her fists, the entanglement of webbing beginning to pulse with light.
"Let us dance!"
For the utterly confused:
* Elevator button.
** Doing well, in good shape.
*** Police.
**** Killed
***** Gunfire.
****** Kill them.
******* Pretty woman.
******** Snitch. In cahoots with the police.