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You breathe out your nose, eyes fluttering again. It was fine and all, hanging out with friends, but within three hours your energy was completely drained.
You'd decided to come to Grillby's to calm down. Jazz music, a crackling fire (the bartender), idle chatter.
You should have known that it hasn't been like that for a long time. Grillby set his restaurant up a bit later than the rest, so it wasn't quite as busy. However, after some popular "influencer" had stopped by during their trip to Ebbott, he hadn't gotten a break.
He hadn't stopped by as much, which of course was chalked up to him being busy, but you were still worried. With Gaster being back, it had stirred up… quite a bit. In Grillby and Sans, especially.
Sans could cope. He could distract himself, and he'd been pestered (Alphys and Toriel) into hiring a therapist's help. But Grillby, sometimes… seemed ignored. Not by Sans. But the rest of the group.
Frisk had mentioned some issues they'd seen with Grillby's moods, but were largely ignored. Waved off. And Sans wasn't always taken seriously, if he said anything at all.
Sans had explained to you Grillby's mood swings. He never was quite happy, not for long periods of time. He stayed anxious and gloomy. Occasional near-manic episodes of quiet, giddy joy. But it never seemed to stay, Sans had said.
But sometimes it got bad.
You'd noticed the decline, maybe even before Gaster. But, with Grillby's lack of trust in you, you'd decided to stay silent. You didn't quite know him well enough, just yet.
Finally, you'd decided to ask. After a nice trip to the strip mall with half a dozen monsters, that is. And you'd used up all your energy.
The need to ask was nipping violently at your heels as Grillby set a smoothie beside you, ever so silently. But your movements were sluggish and you were halfway to sleep. Every loud chuckle from neighboring patrons was worsening the tightness in your chest.
"Would you… like to sit in the back?" You barely recognized the voice. It took raising your head and several heavy, slow blinks to realize who was offering what.
You'd heard his voice before, but each conversation had been very clipped, and nearly felt scripted. A rough, gravelly voice. The same European accent as Gaster, but much less intense. They'd both been stationed in Europe during the war, apparently.
You nod, and make to grab the smoothie he'd set in front of you, but he already has it. You're slow as your vision pulses, the sound too loud and blocked out at once.
Clumsily climbing from the high bar stool, Grillby opens the door to the kitchen for you. You pause before going behind his counter (it doesn't feel right) before hurrying to keep him from waiting.
The quiet is glorious as the door swings shut. Grillby gestures to a futon shoved in the corner of the kitchen, next to a dozen hooks covered in stained aprons.
His hand hovers behind your back to guide you to it, and as much as you'd like to lean into the warmth, you know better. You tense instead.
He moves his hand.
You sit down heavily right as he places down your drink on the small table beside you. You watch as the condensation fades and study the melted section of the drink.
Grillby shakes his hand as soon as he is no longer in contact with the cup, and you grimace.
"He told me that condensation feels like needles." Gaster had told you soon after meeting, in one of his daily rants on Grillby.
"Sorry." You mutter, your mouth feeling too slow.
Grillby shakes his head, bending slightly to better face you. He goes to hold your shoulder, and ends up with his hand hovering just above your skin instead. "We can… talk about this later." He pauses, then adds, "if you'd like."
You frown and shake your head. "We don't have to."
Grillby is taking no arguments as he retrieves something from the counter. "Rest, drink," he says, and then is out the door.
You spend the next few hours on his futon, studying the fibers and dozing.
He's oddly quiet for cooking, but you're not quite sure of the noise level in his kitchen on a daily basis.
At one point you've fallen asleep, your head balanced on your arm. As you wake up (by Grillby, muttering a few words that you can't quite make out) you can't help but fear the giant dark blotch it'll leave on the side of your face. Possible jaw pain, as well.
"Better?" He asks, and you notice your cup is gone. Probably cleaned and put up. You feel bad for not drinking more. Wasting it.
You hum, and sit up. It's a lie, your vision still swims and pulses. Body like lead and mind racing yet weighed down.
"I am. Thank you." Your voice is rough, mouth dry. You swallow a few times, attempting to fix it. It does nothing.
You watch as Grillby moves, confused as to what he's doing. Outside seems completely quiet. Is he closing up? Cleaning? Should you leave?
Instead you see him grab a freshly cleaned glass cup from a rack, slip on elbow-length rubber gloves (baby blue, well used but clean), and he fills said cup. You feel the need to object. You know the water's not for him, and the last thing you needed was him taking care of you.
Alas, the glass is already half way filled. And it continues to fill.
He sets it down beside you on the counter. Despite your discomfort, you grab the cup and take a deep gulp. You thank him after.
He puts the gloves neatly by the sink, head sparking as he touches some water. You hear the sizzling for only a few moments, a pot overflowed, and then silence.
And then he sits. Directly beside you. It's not quite what you expect, and you jolt ever so slightly.
He sits, hands clasped in his lap and back hunched. With a large sigh and a tapping foot, he asks if you're okay.
"I was. I was here to ask you that, actually."
He himself jolts, and you can see his eyes narrow. Not quite in the way they do when a patron is being particularly rowdy. You can't quite put a read on exactly what his reaction is until his flames break out in small tendrils of green.
You catch some blue, as well.
At his now slightly widened eyes and nearly dumbfounded expression, you speak.
"You've been bad. Like, very obviously not okay. And I don't— I feel like I don't know you well enough to say anything? And I guess you don't have to be honest, but I'm worried, I guess?" You must be feeling at least a bit better, words are coming easier.
"I know shit all about monsters, obviously. And, like, your customs and manners. But, sometimes when things hurt, humans like to know that someone cares? Even if they aren't willing to talk about it? Like, they just want someone to notice?" You put your head in your hands, scrubbing at your face. "I don't know, man, sorry. Just… I care, I guess is what I'm saying? And I don't know how to help, and I don't think I have the energy to help. But I do care. And if I'm wrong? I. I don't know."
He lets you speak, paying rapt, polite attention. You almost wish he'd interrupt, save you from the rambling, awkward, caring mess that you are.
Instead he stays quiet for a few moments. The anxiety builds in your chest and each possibility shoots through your mind. In mere moments you've thought of every possible way to leave the room. Imagined scenarios of him politely rejecting your sentiments or even yelling. There were even a few thoughts of hugging him.
Of him kissing your forehead and telling you that Gaster loves you, too. Telling you that you're self-destructive and shouldn't focus on the person fucking up your relationship.
"Thank you." It's light, and sounds more genuine than anything in your mind.
You wish you could sound that genuine. You wish you didn't have to rant or stumble over words to let someone know how much you love and care about them. You wish you knew where to put the emphasis, and how to soften your voice so people would just… understand.
Why does Grillby have everything? Why can't you have some of it?
Why are you helping him?
"I… am struggling. We all are. Especially those who have gained back their memory of him. I appreciate you checking on me." You nod, expecting that to be the end of the conversation. A thanks, vague explanation, and you leave.
"But I am… worried about you."
You don't expect that. God, you do not expect that.
You must seem startled (you nearly give yourself whiplash from turning so hard, your "what?" strained and rough) as Grillby's shoulders tense, and he glances away.
"You don't show up to your own apartment. You disappear and don't participate in conversations. You don't talk to Gaster nor myself, from what I've noticed. Yet you seem comfortable with the rest of the… group. Even then, you don't seem to trust them fully. Your intentions towards them are not negative by any means, nor self-serving. Just… not completely genuine."
You blink. He doesn't stop.
"You show up at my bar damn near falling asleep on the counter. You've talked to me now longer than I ever believed we've had a conversation. And even then, I don't… understand."
You swallow, take a sip of water to give yourself time to think.
"I'm aware there's a relationship—"
"There's not." You interrupt, and Grillby sparks again. This time almost violently, angerly. You correct yourself. "Not what you and Gaster have. It's small—"
"That does not make it any less important. That does not make me any less of an intruder—"
"I am the intruder. I knew you were alive damn well before I told you or Gaster or Sans! I didn't say anything for what? Weeks? I'm just jealous and that's it!"
Grillby is sparking a lot faster now, but his posture is relaxed.
His flames have dimmed to a dull orange, streaks of red tinting the dark room.
"It's understandable that you're jealous, you both have a romantic relationship that I brought myself int—"
"I shouldn't be jealous. You two were damn near married. He died. He didn't break up with you, he died. I'm having a fit like some child when he's your boyfriend— fuck, no, your fiancé."
Grillby breathes deeply. It's the only sound you hear in the quiet room.
Oh wait. No.
You're breathing, too. Hard, jerky, sectioned breaths that refuse to come out in one go.
And your eyes burn. Fuck, you can't cry in front of him. You can't cry in front of Grillby.
"I don't… I don't know how to convince you of what I believe. I don't even know if doing so would help." He finally says. Your breaths are still jerky, and you're sipping slowly at the water.
The tears are coming, they shouldn't be.
This is embarrassing. You're just asking for attention— if you cry he'll feel bad— he'll take pity on you, give you what he thinks you want— it won't be fair.
You're using it as a party trick.
To get your way.
God, you're so fucked up. Manipulative. What are you doing?
"I…" your words come out in a high-pitched, shaking breath. You mutter an apology, for crying, of all things. "I do care. About how you're doing. That is why I came here." Your voice cracks, and you curse yourself. Shame yourself.
His hand is warm on your back.
He's unsure, and he waits for any reaction. When you have none, he pulls you to his chest.
You don't face him. More sizzling as your tear-wet face presses against his forearm.
"It's going to be okay." He says, and you're surprised at the comfort you find in him.
"I'm supposed to be comforting you." You mutter, and you feel him shake his head.
"You need it more." His voice is so calm now. He never raised it, but the usual edge and awkwardness is gone.
"That doesn't matter." You insist, but he runs a hand through your hair.
"Yes. Yes, it does."
You don't argue, as much as you'd like to. The adrenaline has passed and your vision blurs again, with tears and exhaustion.
After your breaths calm, and you wrangle your tears (you still feel the need to sob), you speak.
"I need a tight hug." You mutter. You can feel Grillby's nod against your head, his chin jarringly hard.
You turn and shift, half in his lap, and he's quick to pull you back to his chest.
His near seven foot height (damn monsters and their ability to reach the top shelf) usually henders any interaction you both have. However, sitting down, you can fit your face perfectly in between his neck and shoulder.
Instead of giving you a quick, hard squeeze, he lets his arms sit around you at an even pressure. It's nice. Between that and his warmth, you're nearly asleep.
"I don't know what to do now." You mutter, voice slurred and hindered by the pressure on your jaw.
Grillby pauses his movement along your back. "He's romantically interested in us both, and I am interested in getting to know you."
You pause. "Okay." There's no harm in trying. If it doesn't work out, you'll be able to break it off.
And then you don't know what you'll do. Do you just hope it all works out.
You pull back, wipe at your face, embarrassment curling in your chest.
"How are you feeling?"
Grillby… rumbles? Makes some weird noise in his chest that resembles a grunt. Your eyebrows crease. "Still… worried about you." He says, static in his position.
You realize his troubles immediately and smile. It's lopsided and half-hearted, but you hope it works. "I'm okay. And not upset with you. Just… Gaster is bothering you. Erm. Not Gaster, the situation. Yeah?" Grillby nods.
You breathe deeply and continue, as Grillby continues to search for your point. "You want to… "bond". Gaster is the most obvious," you flap your arms around, looking for a word. "Common interest. Or issue. Positive issue!" You pause.
"What I'm saying is, if it's bothering you, we can talk about it. Bond… starting with this? If you're comfortable." You sniffle, wiping at your nose, leftover from the tears.
Grillby nods.
"I just… talk?" He asks, and you smile at him. It's a bit less lackluster, a bit more genuine. He's awkward, in a weirdly comfortable and charming way.
He shifts. He doesn't seem as comfortable now, and you don't quite know how to fix it.
"I didn't know I was… with him."
You freeze. "Oh."
Grillby nods. "I knew he made and raised Sans and Papyrus, and that I took care of them sometimes. But I didn't… remember him. No one did."
You squint. "Then how the hell did Sans get him back? Was it a mistake?"
Grillby shakes his head. "We had his research. His belongings. His pictures… but his face… mmm. It was… interesting. Sans described it as face blindness."
You nod. "So you just found out that…"
"...that I forgot someone I'd been with for years."
You breathe. "Fuck."
You're both quiet for a moment. You let your thoughts flood and then settle. Well, settle as much as they're able to.
"You just… suddenly remembered him?"
Grillby nods. "We all did. I just so happened to be asleep."
You lean forward, hands braced on your knees. "You remembered him when you woke up?"
He shakes his head. "He was in my dream. I don't dream."
You breathe, hoping the sympathy you're feeling bleeds into your expression. "Do you know what it was like for the others?" Seeing Grillby affected has you feeling guilt, but curiosity overtakes it. What did Gaster go through with the others? How did they react? Are they okay? Were they surprised? Or angry? So, so many questions.
"Toriel." He starts, then wrings his hands together. "She… took care of him? In a sense? And she was devastated. With Asriel still in Ebbott, she'd… lost another child." He pauses again. "Papyrus was the worst of it."
You don't need him to elaborate. You know. Undyne had very… unsavory things to say on the actions of W.D. Gaster.
You nod, and give a helpless smile. "Will Papyrus ever forgive Gaster?"
Grillby nods, colours brightening. "He's more… focused on the fact he has a father, again."
You nod. "That's good." It comes out with a yawn. "What time is it?"
Grillby stiffly hikes up his sleeve, pursing his lips at the time. "Nearly 1."
You click your tongue against the back of your teeth, looking out the door of the kitchen.
"Stay."
You frown. "Can't. Gaster's at home."
"I already let him know you were here. I told him I was unsure of whether or not you'd be back at the apartments tonight."
Your teeth clack together when you close your mouth, and Grillby eyes you anxiously.
"You can stay if you'd like. If you believe it's safe for you to drive home, then that is fine."
You smile. "I've never heard you talk this much." You hum. Gaster and Grillby on the ratty green couch, sharing stories. Grillby had spent hours filling Gaster in on every single day the skeleton had missed. "Except for when you're with Gaster."
Grillby pushes both his hands into the plush futon, adjusting his position. "I… don't tend to talk this much. It's tiring."
A few more moments of quiet. "If you really don't mind me staying here. I have to be at work by 8, so I'll probably be up and leaving by 6? If that'll wake you up too early?"
"It won't." He reassures you. "Is that enough sleep for you?"
You shrug. "No choice." Your awkward laugh is met by his grim laugh and him standing, gesturing to the door of the kitchen.
You follow him outside the kitchen to the stairs situated near the bar. There's a chain and a no entry sign in front. You know people decide not to pass it out of pure respect.
"You can sleep on the bed. Will you need—" He pauses, posture stiff before he goes up another step. "Will you be needing clothes to sleep in?"
You laugh. "No, I'm okay! And I don't want to take your bed—"
"Don't worry, the couch is perfectly fine—"
"Dude, you're like, what, seven feet tall? How the hell are you going to sleep comfortably on a couch?"
"My couch fits me just fine, thank you."
"'Fits you just fine' what about your two feet of legs dangling over the edge?"
As he opens the door to his living space you pause.
It's a cozy room, brown and green and the occasional yellow. Simplistic and clean, but it feels more like a cabin than a dentist's office.
In the center of the room there's a large couch, almost disproportionately long, green and old. There is no coffee table, but there is a T.V. stand, piled with remotes. Some are dusty, others are melted at the edges. It's a strange sight to see, but makes complete and total sense.
The last thing you notice is the glass case by the window. You can't quite see what's in it with the lights off, but you'd assume china, or some fancy decor. Maybe old memorabilia.
"I wanna sleep on the giant couch." Is the first thing you say, walking over to it in awe.
It takes a lot of nagging and reassurance, but you're soon under a blanket on his giant couch.
"You're sure you're comfortable?"
"Yes." You say again.
He's in a loose, gray, u-neck t-shirt and loose shorts. He seems very out of place in his own living room, stiff as a statue. You'd pass him off for an ex-soldier any day with his posture.
He wings his hands together, and nods.
"Goodnight."
"Night!" Is your enthusiastic response.
"I." His voice is quiet, you look up. "...am glad we discussed everything. I think, given time, I could… value your time greatly."
You don't really know what to say, so you smile, and agree.
He says goodnight once more, and then enters his room, closing the door behind him.
It's only when you wake up that you realize the glass case doesn't house decor. The case isn't completely glass at all.
It's netting. And the flaming fucker is raising finches.