Chapter Text
Alphys sinks back into the couch and grumbles, "He finally gets it."
"My SOULmate. It's (Name)." Mettaton repeats breathlessly.
"I think we established that."
"My perfect match is (Name) and I accused them of lying about it in order to get into my pants."
"Yeah, you're pretty much a world-class douche," Alphys says conversationally. Mettaton can't even bring himself to snipe back. He just groans and buries his face in his hands.
After a while, he resurfaces and gazes dolefully at Alphys. "How do I make up for this?"
"Well, an apology might be a good start," Alphys suggests mildly, absentmindedly running her claws through Mettaton's synthetic hair. "But honestly I don't know beyond that. You really messed up, and that isn't something that just goes away."
"I didn't mean to, though!" he protests uselessly. "I mean, I thought—well—good things like (Name) being my SOULmate don't just happen! And Sebastian was there and I was just so angry and, and—" He stands up, pacing, then pauses as a thought comes to him. "They said their SOULmate didn't want them. That means they think—me? I don't?"
"Guess so," Alphys says dryly. She knows him well enough to know that he's stalling, trying to pick the situation apart so he doesn't have to go back and apologize yet. He's never been great at apologies.
"But—huh. Why? Why on earth would they think that? Have I been giving off—vibes, Alphys?" He looks down at his hands curiously as though he might find transmitters there, quietly emitting 'not-interested' signals. "I mean, who wouldn't want them? They're perfect."
"I guess that's something you'll have to talk with them about. When you go apologize. Like, right now."
Mettaton blanches. "Now now? Are you sure—"
"Yes, Mettaton," Alphys says exasperatedly. "The longer you wait the worse it'll be."
"Well, um, I mean, they might want—like, space, to process—"
"You don't want them to process this! You want them to not hate you! Now get out of here. I will drag you."
Mettaton raises a well-manicured eyebrow at that, looking derisively up and down at Alphys' diminutive stature.
"Fine, I'll hack into your motion controls and march you out this door myself, so help me!"
He edges towards the door, looking affronted. "I thought you said my firewalls were secure from attack."
"From everybody but me," Alphys hisses, shoving him over the threshold. "Go."
"Fine," he pouts, trudging over to his car. Opening the door, he hesitates and yells, "But—"
Eyes flashing, Alphys yells, "There will be no buts except for your own planted firmly in your front seat and driving over to their apartment! And don't think I won't know if you go anywhere else. Your chassis has an embedded tracker and we both know I have the ability to make your life hell." Scowling now, Alphys slams her front door, grumbling something about robots being more trouble than they're worth, she didn't sign up to be anybody's babysitter much less their relationship counselor, gods save her—
Mettaton shudders as he buckles in. Alphys can be awfully scary when she wants to be.
But she also gives the best advice, so he does as he's told and makes his way over to your apartment. And, yes, maybe he goes under the speed limit and two different people honk at him and one person flips him the bird, but honestly he's never been the best driver anyway.
Biting his lip, he climbs up the stairs to your floor and stands in front of your door for a few seconds before uncertainly ringing the doorbell.
After a moment, you open the door. Your eyes widen slightly, then narrow.
"I think I've told you before that you should check the peephole before opening the door," Mettaton supplies helpfully, then immediately winces. That wasn't what he meant to say. "Wait, um—"
You slam the door in his face.
Okay, he probably deserved that, he reflects mournfully, before knocking on your door again.
"Go away," you say, your voice muffled slightly by the door.
"But we need to talk—" he protests.
"No, we don't! You don't have anything to say that I want to hear."
"What about I'm sorry? To start?"
You don't say anything after that, so he knocks again, more frantically after you don't respond. Unfortunately, when he's emotional he still has difficulty controlling his strength sometimes, and he knocks a hole straight through the door.
He sees your shocked face through the new hole, before you stomp over to the door and open it, shouting, "What the frick, Mettaton?!"
He winces again. "Sorry. That, uh, that wasn't intentional, I'll replace it."
You cover your face with your hand and sigh long-sufferingly. Eventually, you drag the hand down, clenching it into a fist, and ask, "What do you want, Mettaton? You made your opinion about me pretty clear earlier."
"I was wrong," he says earnestly. "I went to Alphys and she explained—"
"It took Alphys to make you realize that I'm not the sort of person who would lie about something as important as this?" you screech incredulously.
He winces a third time. "I, um—I never said I was—particularly intelligent."
"No crap," you mutter, unclenching your fist to run your hand through your hair. Even knowing you're mad at him, he still wishes it was his hand touching you instead.
Clamping down hurriedly on that thought, he says miserably, "Look, I'm a jerk and you don't owe me anything, but I wanted to apologize. And to explain, maybe."
You stare at him, your expression indiscernible. After a few moments, you roll your eyes skyward and mumble, "Fine. Let the record show that I'm far too nice for my own good."
"The record's always shown that," Mettaton says, not even attempting to hide the unadulterated affection in his voice.
"Now is not the time for that crap," you say sharply, opening the door further to allow his entrance. You give him a wide berth, though, and his SOUL pangs. It wants to be close to you.
So does he, really.
But he realizes that he's getting a second chance he doesn't quite deserve, so he sits at the opposite end of the couch from you, as directed, and hunches over slightly. You've wrapped yourself back up in blankets, like earlier when Sebastian was over, and—
"Where's Sebastian, then?" Mettaton asks curiously, but a hint of bitterness creeps into his tone.
You glare at him. "Went home. You know, yesterday, when you left."
Mettaton nods, not trusting his voice.
You sigh. "He's a nice guy, you know. He doesn't deserve—whatever this is." You wave at him vaguely.
"I know. He's—probably better for you than I am, really." There's more than a hint of bitterness this time.
You look at Mettaton steadily. Finally, you say, "I think you're getting ahead of yourself. You promised an apology and an explanation."
"Right. Well...yeah. Sorry. I blew up at you for no reason, and I made a terrible assumption, and I betrayed your trust in me. It was just hard to believe, you know? Because I wanted—"
Your face falls. You clear your throat and eke out, "Look, I know this isn't—it doesn't have to mean anything. I know you like someone else, I'm not going to take that away from you. I mean, despite what you seem to think, I'm not a bad person. I would never force someone to be with me."
"I know that, of course you wouldn't—wait." The rest of what you said catches up with him, and he gapes confusedly. "Wait, what? Someone else? Who?"
You frown. "The person who wasn't at the party."
His eyebrows furrow. "No, seriously, what are you talking about?"
"Before that reporter interrupted, you and Alphys were talking about how you liked someone who had your word, and then they asked you if this person was at the party and you said no, and—"
It takes a moment for that to register. When it does, his mouth drops open and he shakes his head vehemently. "Wait, no, no, (Name). We were talking about you. I like you. I have for months."
Your mouth drops open in an echo of his own. "But—you said—"
"I didn't want them to come after you, there was a guest list, and…” Realization dawns over him. “Is this what you meant when you said your SOULmate didn’t want you?”
“Yes,” you mutter reluctantly.
Great. Another thing he managed to mess up. Softly, he asks, “(Name), how could you ever think I was anything less than completely yours?”
He was going for romantic, but your gaze turns flinty. “Well, I mean, the fact that your instinctual reaction to finding out about us was to inform me that I was just like all of your worst fans sure didn’t help. Actually, a better question might be what ever would have made me think that you liked me as more than a friend. Or if you ever even thought we were friends at all.”
Horrified, he protests, “Of course we were friends! Best friends, (Name), I can’t believe—“
“You can’t believe?! Yeah, well, imagine how hard it was for me to believe that my so-called best friend would rather think I betrayed our friendship in order to take advantage of his moment of vulnerability so that I could get with him than even consider for a moment that I might be his SOULmate! Imagine how I felt when you forced me to talk about something I very clearly did not want to talk about, by guilt-tripping me, by the way, and then decided that I was lying about the entire thing! And, while we’re imagining, how about we imagine you having to go to your other best friend and get a character reference before you’d believe that I’d never do that to you!” Angry tears are welling in the corner of your eyes, and you swipe at them aggressively. “I don’t know what kind of crap definition of friendship you’re operating under, but whatever it is, I don’t really know if I want to be a part of it.”
He shrinks into himself and stares at his lap. Guiltily, he whispers, “I assure you it was never my intention to make you feel that way. Any of that. I just…I wanted you so much for so long that when I finally got you it didn’t feel real. I’m still having difficulty comprehending, especially after all this, what I did to you, that the universe would ever think I deserved someone as wonderful as you.”
When he looks up at you, you’re staring again, but if anything you look thoughtful. “I…really don’t know how to respond to that.”
Mettaton sighs and says morosely, “It’s all right, you can just say that you don’t feel the same way and I’m an unadulterated douchenozzle and you never want to see me again.”
“Well, you’re definitely a massive robojerk,” you say, tapping your finger against your chin. “And I’m honestly not sure how I feel about seeing you right now. But I don’t know where you got the impression that I didn’t like you back.”
His eyes brighten. “You mean—you—?”
“Well, yeah,” you say, like it’s obvious. “Don’t think that means I’m not still pissed at you, though.”
He starts to reply, but you hold out a hand to shut him up. “No, let me talk. Look, I understand the insecurity, the whole how-can-they-be-mine-I’m-just-me-and-they’re-them thing. If there’s anything I get it’s that. And I assure you I’m also all over the whole incredulous I-thought-I’d-never-find-my-SOULmate-I-only-have-one-word-and-I-hear-it-all-the-time thing. I didn’t exactly…plan for this, you know? I didn’t plan for you. I didn’t even consider the idea we were SOULmates until I found out what your word was, and I never would have, I don’t think. And, I mean…I guess if I’m being generous I had some more time to deal with it than you did, and I’m also not famous and haven’t had to deal with being harassed about this the past few days. But.” You fix him with an intense gaze. “Even with all that, even though I understand, that doesn’t change the fact that when presented with a difficult situation, you didn’t even bother asking questions or thinking things through before accusing me of the worst. And that’s not something I can get over just like that. It’s not something either of us should get over, because I think it’s indicative of a bigger problem, and unless we fix it this can’t work.”
“…This?” Mettaton asks hopefully.
“You’re very good at picking up on only one part of a sentence,” you chide, but without any real heat behind it. “Yes, this. I mean, like it or not, we are SOULmates. We can’t just ignore that.”
He wishes he could hug you. He wishes he had responded any way but the way he did, so he could hug you now and kiss your temple and go to sleep and see you in the morning and make both of you lemon verbena and do whatever else it is new SOULmates do. Or, well, people who’ve just figured out they’re SOULmates after months of apparently mutual pining.
But he had done it, he had hurt you, and he has to pay for that.
Biting his lip—a nervous habit that Alphys hates, especially because she’s the one who has to do the repairs when he breaks the silicone—he asks, “So, what do I have to do?”
“I don’t know. There’s not really a how-to for this sort of thing. I don’t know how to make you trust me, and I don’t know how to make myself trust you again either.”
He beats down the kneejerk response that he does trust you, because even if it were true—and honestly, he’s not sure whether it is right now, he’s not really the best at introspection—he knows he hasn’t shown it well.
“I do know that I want you to apologize to Sebastian, though,” you continue, sounding like you’re thinking out loud. When you check on his reaction to that, his lips are pursed and you think his teeth might be clenched, but he nods reluctantly.
“Yes. I suppose that makes sense.”
“It definitely makes sense,” you correct. “He was only ever trying to help.”
“I knew that.” Mettaton rubs his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. “I…yeah. I knew that.”
You look at him, assessing. Slowly, you say, “He’s my friend.”
“So I surmised.”
“But…” You stop, searching for the right words. “He isn’t you. I wouldn’t want him to be.”
He feels like you just slapped him. Drawing back, he snaps, “I get it, all right? He’s all—friendly and, and—organic. And I’m self-centered and rude and everything good about me is artificial, and—“
You halt him in the middle of his rant with a gentle hand over his clenched fist. “Mettaton. I didn’t mean it like that. What I’m saying is that—Sebastian is great, and he’s my friend. But you’re already all I want.”
“Oh,” Mettaton breathes. “Oh. I—okay.”
There’s a semi-awkward silence, during which you blush and Mettaton tries to parse a world in which you want him. Finally, you say, “Besides, I’m rather fond of some of your artificial assets, if you catch my drift,” eyes crinkling in a smile, with an exaggerated glance at his posterior.
He’s about to waggle his eyebrows outrageously and make some kind of joke, but you interrupt him, the sincerity in your voice taking him aback. “And the best parts of you are the parts of you nobody could ever fabricate. Don’t sell yourself short.”
He chooses not to respond to that, at least verbally. He simply opens his hand to catch your own and squeezes it. You smile lopsidedly at him.
There isn’t a lot of talking after that, even though you both know there’s still a lot to say. You just start up a movie. Your hands stay entwined the whole time.
-----------------
The next week, Mettaton calls Sebastian up (with the phone number you helpfully supplied) to officially apologize. Mettaton offers dinner, and Sebastian accepts. The tabloids get a picture and start up an entirely new set of rumors about Sebastian being Mettaton’s rebound after he got rejected by the mysterious person who had his SOUL word but was not at his birthday party. Sebastian, who has an excellent poker face and a mischievous streak a mile long, waxes rhapsodic about Mettaton’s talent and accidentally-on-purpose lets slip that he frequents the blog dedicated to pictures of Mettaton’s butt.
(Only you and Mettaton know the truth, after he confesses. He actually created the thing. He cheerfully offers to make a blog dedicated to your behind as well, an idea which Mettaton supports wholeheartedly but you immediately shoot down.
They do it anyway. You pretend you don’t know.)
The next month, you, Mettaton, and Sebastian all go out to dinner together. You and Mettaton hold hands under the table. This time when the picture gets out on Chirper, Sebastian gleefully ‘helps’ by rechirping the photo and adding as a caption the dictionary definition of polyamory.
(Piled together comfortably on the couch later that night, Sebastian confesses he has two sets of words. The first, “There’s no good way of saying this, but you’re a little bit on fire,” and the second “Probably because he’s so hot, but I’m guessing the open flame right by your frankly glorious hair helped”. He curls in on himself and waits for your responses, but you just hug him and offer to follow him around with matches if he wants. Mettaton suggests his built-in flamethrower. Sebastian laughs with tears in his eyes and presses whispered thank-yous into your shoulder.
It takes him another two years to find them, on the set of a movie where he’s playing a scientist and forgets the Bunsen burner isn’t fake, and it takes another minute to put out his hair, but everything feels worth it when he chokes out, “This admittedly might be the smoke inhalation, but I think we’re meant to be with each other,” and their eyes widen and they take turns hugging him like they’ll never let go.)
A day after that picture gets out, Mettaton’s agency schedules a press conference introducing you as Mettaton’s SOULmate (and clarifying that Sebastian is a very good friend who, yes, has a thing for Mettaton’s butt). There's outrage and crying and a general fan consensus that you aren't good enough for Mettaton. This pisses Mettaton off, and it takes some wheedling to convince him not to respond to every angry fan with a personalized picture of his middle finger.
(You do, however, allow him to take a picture of himself, rumpled and scowling, with the errant finger extended, and upload it to relatablepicturesofmtt. You don't tell him about the other pictures you take and post, day after day, of him adorably grumpy after powering online for the day, of him crying about old movies, of him taking a power nap on the couch. Of, on occasion, you leaning down to brush a kiss against his temple. He downloads those ones to his phone for long shoots. Eventually, even the angriest of the fans are forced to admit you're a pretty cute couple.)
On the anniversary of your first meeting, you meet up together at the cafe. You sit down after procuring two cups of lemon verbena and kissing him on the cheek.
"So, I got you a gift," you say, presenting him with a package.
"Oh, you didn't need to. But gimme." Mettaton makes grabby hands for the lumpy package, and you hand it over, laughing.
Ripping into the package reveals a neon pink scarf. He examines the ends and finds a knitted version of your face, done up in the same style as his promotional scarves.
Tilting his head, he unravels the rest of the scarf. It's emblazoned with the word 'no' in black where his scarf had originally had his name.
He looks up to see you grinning and pulling out the scarf that started it all and winding it around your neck. "Thought it was fitting. We match, see?"
He feels a rush of love, seeing you in his ridiculous scarf with his name on you for all to see. "Yeah," he says softly. "We really do."
(Later that night, he'll start playing the video he's been working on for the past two months, the one with all of his fans helping him ask you to marry him, and he'll get down on one knee and hold out a ring and desperately hope you say the one word he's been waiting for.
But for now, he's perfectly content to just be with you, talking animatedly about your respective days and sipping tea. That's all he really needs, anyway.)