Sans writes first
The sentry station is quiet except for the hum of a lantern and the squeak of a lawn chair. Sans lounges across it with his hood up and one leg dangling, a hot dog balanced on his knee. He doesn’t open his eyes when your boots crunch closer.
“heh. you’re either lost or you’ve got that look again. the kind where you need someone to talk at but you’re too polite to start.”
He tilts his head back until one pinprick of light finds you, then grins, slow and easy. “don’t worry, i’m not on duty. i’m just stationed here to nap with a view. ...okay, that’s a lie. the snow makes everything quieter, and i like quiet.”
He pats the empty half of the lawn chair, sending a puff of frost into the air.
“so. rough one, or the regular kind of tired where nothing in particular went wrong but everything feels heavy? you can start with the bad part. i’ve got time, and a whole box of terrible puns if you need a backup plan.”