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The first time it happens, Gaster is not there.
He feels it, through their unique connection; feels the clenching of tight fear and distress around the missing parts of his SOUL. The feeling is foreign and unwanted- seemingly unwarranted. He’s asleep when he feels it, and it seems to jolt him awake so suddenly that a small gasp hitches in his throat. The sheets of his bed are warm around him and the room is dark- for once in his life, there seems to be enough time and comfort for him to sleep properly. It's ironic when you think about it, since the Surface World is teeming with Humans but…he hasn’t had a bad dream since he..came back.
Until tonight.
But the glowing beneath his shirt, the quiet thrum of white from his incomplete SOUL tells him that it was not his. Aftertimages of the short apparition flash across his vision, in the dark. The impressions of faint screams, a pleading sob, something akin to phantom pain across his right palm, the expressionless guise of a face leaning over a child. It is not a feasible fear of his, it is not a memory he has-
He halts his trail of thought, pushes back the sheets of his bed and sits up, glancing down at his hands (feeling the air in their gaping centres) and clenches them into fists. That is a lie. He has lived through that memory. The expressionless guise of a face leaning over a child- those are…memories he has always known.
There's another jolt in his SOUL and that feeling of connection extinguishes. Cold air hovers around him and Gaster is still. He screws his eyes shut, and takes a deep breath, and a memory floods back of a laser through his palms and the feeling of his SOUL ripped apart. He bows his head, guilt washing over him, but it’s hopeless now.
The whir of the drill in his palms, the vibrations of the machine beneath his hands, the trembling of a thin wrist in his other palm, the cries- God; those wretched,
heartbreaking,
cold cries- the stern set of his jaw as he…
If he focuses long and hard enough, he can still feel the engraved initials of his sins on smooth metal. He can feel the rough, painful conjunction of screws in bone. He can feel the violent rattle in delicate, fragile bone and the way it shakes with each scream and struggle.
The voice that pleads is lowly and high, teeming with pain but no resentment…
Gaster closes his eyes against the storm hiking in his mind. He gives a resolute shake of his head and glances up at his window, away from his hands, trying to distract himself with the thought of the time instead. He slides his legs off the bed and throws off the covers, standing and stepping quietly over to the window.
When Gaster draws back the curtain, moonlight streaks in- pure and unfiltered white, like the wings of an angel- and trails a long beam across his bedroom floor. The shadows curve concave into the room, and whatever is not touched with glittering light, is left silent in the perpetual darkness. He stands at the window, blacks out a part of the ground, and leans his arms on the window sill, the cold condensation of winter night seeping into his forearms. It’s quiet outside, the world is still and a few stars twinkle in the air. Distantly, the low rumble of nighttime traffic whispers through the window.
Gaster lets out a small frown, and opens the window for the frozen, tinkling air to spray in. The light pollution of this small town dims the stars far above his head and he can maybe make out the last, scattering lights of a quiet constellation. He wants to take Papyrus stargazing, one day, and teach him the names..Gaster guesses he would like that. He’d have to scout out a nice, cosy hill sometime, and make sure the stars could actually be seen and make sure they weren’t going to freeze to death but… he finds them little inconveniences in return for Papyrus’ beaming smile and soft little “Thank you”s each time Gaster does something too small to even deserve recognition, something expected of any good fath-
His breath hitches and he steps back from the window ledge as if it had burnt him, eyes torn away from the peaceful sky and the moonlight slipping in. With irrational fear, he pulls the window shut and the curtains back over the glass- the room falling to complete darkness and the spotlight off him and his…actions. Something low and wailing rings in his ears but that is all.
He lets out a shaky sigh, feels the shudder in his chest and turns away, back to his bed. The mattress creaks slightly beneath his weight, as he lays his head back down on the pillow and pulls the sheets back over himself, screwing his eyes shut to block out images of two little boys behind flared electric bars, hide the cracks in his SOUL from the rest of the world and forget for a moment just how atrocious he really is. It doesn’t work.
He reminds himself everyday. Maybe he doesn't deserve to even rest at night.
Gaster sighs, hands bunching lightly in the sheets.
It’s useless trying to get to sleep- he lies awake till dawn, trying (and failing, always failing) not to think about shattered bones and screaming kids.
//
The next day, when the sky is grey and the grass is slippery with frost, he slips out of his and Asgore’s front door, carrying in his hands a small box.
His hands hang heavy in front of him, as he shuffles down the pathway. Around him, pattering with the wind, the town is awakening. Things have changed much since the Monsters’ elimination to the Underground, and much more yet since his…rebirth(? Is that the correct thing to call an awakening from the half-dead?) and their collective break to the Surface World. So much so, that when Gaster drifts through the new town they’d built some hours away from the summit of Mt Ebbot, he finds that there is little resemblance to his…childhood.
He doesn’t have much of a right to reminisce, considering how far away those memories are, and how far away he is from…that little boy who had no idea where he’d end up, who wanted to help people so desperately-
But all he really ended up doing was hurting everything and everyone that…he ever loved, or ever loved him. He has no right when he thinks subsequently about what he was willing to give up to get here.
Papyrus had a nightmare because of him…they both probably have so many nightmares because of him. Who is he to want what is good and be okay again? That is not his right.
Gaster sighs, and the frost on the ground pulls a little on the underside of his boots as he progresses down the pathways to his-to Sans and Papyrus’ house. In his hands is a small box of his most recent attempt at a butterscotch cinnamon pie- Papyrus had asked, last time he saw him, if they could try together one day- and who was Gaster to deny him such a beautiful, mundane request?
Especially after all that hurt-
With resolute regret, he gives an imperceptible shake of his head- as if to rid himself of those thoughts, like if he doesn’t remember them, then they never happened- and lifts his eyes from the path before him to the distance. Not too far away, the sparkling, pretty lights of Sans and Papyrus’ house dance across the edges of the rooftops. He pulls the coat around his shoulders further, unsure exactly how they’d feel about seeing him. He finds himself speculating about this a lot, when he goes to visit them, or when he’s with Papyrus or when he’s struggling through a tense conversation with Sans.
He’s always speculating how they can still look at him and not writhe in disgust every time. How they’d looked at him and seen anything good at all. The day that this began, the day that he made a conscious decision to do all the atrocities that he did to them, was the day that everything good in him died, and the day that any thing that was ever remotely innocent about him went to them instead.
There is no righteousness and justice and patience and love left in him. It is gone and it will never come back so he is not even half sure what he is doing here, trying to prove otherwise. He’s so certain that, at any moment, he will stumble back to the dark and fail at whatever this is so violently that it might just hurt.
“The second part of ‘I’m sorry’ is usually ‘how can I make it up to you.’”
But then, he always remembers, it is not his decision to make. He is not the one who decides whether his forgiveness is worthy or not, whether he is good enough or not. Gaster guesses he gave up that intuition of knowing good (to be able to, therefore, see it in himself) the day the horror story began. Besides, he is not here to prove anything, he is here to amend for his actions- to truly amend for his actions and let everyone affected by them heal.
Some reprehensible part of him hopes that everything will continue to grow and change and move, and maybe he can be forgotten all over again so no one is ever hurt anymore.
Maybe, if there ever is the light of reparation for him and what he has done, then he will expend it all for them, burn it away until it extinguishes into fulfilment and some semblance of payment, until the soft smell of the ashes soothes whatever rotting despair he rooted into them. Until it is all theirs- taken what he took back and healed every inch of the scarred mess he gouged out.
Then, all will be well in the world, and he still won’t be forgiven- he’ll never be forgiven- and that’s ok. He doesn’t deserve it. They deserve everything he has to give, they deserve a lot more than him, and he doesn’t deserve anything but dark, bloody hell.
He raps the surface of the brothers’ home with the cold edge of his knuckles and…waits.
He isn’t sure what he is expecting, at that gesture. Nothing besides quiet happens, for a while. It is just him and the box and the calm (and those weird, incandescent feelings roiling in his mind). Then, the small murmurings of two voices, and the shuffle of movement sounds behind the door. Gaster takes an uncertain step backwards, and lets the thin conversation sputter into existence and back again. He holds his breath.
“it’s probably Him.”
“I- oh….”
“do you want me to let Him in?”
“I…don’t know.”
“do you think He will be angry?”
“Why…have we done something wrong?”
“you said you felt a new connection last night. the only person it could’ve…”
He feels something halt in him again, like his SOUL has splintered into dust, or his bones have crackled dry from life. For a very long, painstaking second, Gaster feels wretched and evil and dead.
And he is, arguably, all of those things, all at once, and he might always be. But it doesn’t make bearing those truths any simpler- he has caused major, irreparable debilitation. And nothing he does, no apologies and attempts at reconciliation or repentance or damage control, will ever erase what his two hands have borne.
His mistakes are permanent with the gasping scars in his palms, his mistakes are permanent with the cracks in his SOUL. His mistakes are permanent with the cries through the door.
It creaks open, to reveal one glaring blue eye, a stern face (which he surely must’ve inherited from Gaster himself) and a not-at-all freakish smile. No, that’s not his thought to think, that- it’s not meant to be insulting but there has always been something so inherently strange and different about the boy (not a boy, not anymore) standing before him. It’s not Gaster’s place to delve into that, though, and it never will be, so he does not.
Instead he clears his throat and regains his composure and is sure he’s about to explain himself before Sans cuts him off, mouth slightly agape. “you need to leave.”
Behind Sans’ silhouette in the doorway, the room is glowy with the light of the fireplace. There, sat bundled under a blanket on the couch, head half showing so Gaster can barely make him out (but he will always know who he is, always see him and recognise him and convinces himself he can always love him) is Papyrus. His lips are upturned in a half-hearted frown, and he doesn’t look anywhere near the doorway, like he is afraid something there will pounce at him. For a moment it stings, but then Gaster reassures that it’s a perfectly logical, reasonable fear.
Something clenches tight around his SOUL for an elusive, single moment.
And then it is gone, and bright eyes gleaming with hurt are turned away from him, and cool protectiveness stares back up. “Right, I- Sorry.” He shakes his head, and the door closes with a short thud. One second passes and another, and Gaster just stares ahead, at the wood of the door, face blank and processing his thoughts towards this.
He finds he’s not too hurt- it was a stupid idea to come here after last night, it was a stupid idea to stay at all- and they had every right to turn him down no matter what. He lets out a weary sigh and realises he’s still holding the box of pie.
But he pays it no mind, turns and walks back down the path, ho- towards his house.
//
The next time it happens, Gaster is there- and God, does he wish he wasn’t but subsequently wishes he will be there every time it happens in the future.
It is raining outside. The patter of rhythmic dripping against the rooftops was supposed to be calming- he loved it, once. He still loves it, he supposes, but sometimes…it’s ominous. He blames paranoia. There was nothing but the rain and the quiet.
It was perhaps fortunate or unfortunate that he got caught in the rain whilst he was visiting the brothers, moreso that Papyrus insisted he stay the night (because he cared too much, cared when Gaster didn’t deserve one drop of it). For what happened, Gaster can’t decide whether it was a blessing or a curse.
Around about halfway through an extensive, thorough assessment of the ceiling, in the dark, Gaster first feels it. The grating stab of dark, invasive fear through his SOUL. It startles him and tears and pulls and grips, instilling only an inky, whispering alarm. A connection flares to life, and he pushes himself up, blanket falling around him, and frowns.
He glances around through the dark, and can’t help the worry rising in his mind at the humming glow of white beneath his rib cage, and the pulsating anxiety received through the connection. Gaster listens through the silence, and catches the faint sobs through the wall. In an instant, everything drops, and his thoughts are confirmed. Someone is having a nightmare, again. The sounds are coming from Papyrus’ room.
He ponders for a moment what to do, whether or not he should move and see if he could help but, knowing him, he was probably the one who caused the nightmare in the first place. Carefully, he reaches out over the connection and closes his eyes.
Simultaneously, the scenes of the dream flash behind his eyes, a million fraying shards of hope and dust. It is black, everywhere and there is a hand in his. Startlingly, he realises that it is his own- he is seeing the dream through Papyrus’ eyes, and there they stand together, in the Void. The…Void, huh. He’s- something feels wrong inside him, and he’s sure it’s connected to the dream (it’s not, it’s his own nagging dread, his own guilt rising back to choke him all over again because he really should’ve fucking stayed dead- ). The scene shifts, and there is a distorted yelp; it cascades like ice down the Void and then the hand in his is gone, and he is cold, and a beast looms over him.
He is gone. M̵̧̜̤̻͙͎̲̗̣̙̺̿̀̈̈́̈́͋͐̌̈́̋̔͘͝y̵̮̪͎̠̤̪̩͇͈̯͔̪̙̋͋̐̒̂̈̌̅̒̽͝͝ ̵̧̧͇͉̱̳̲̈́͐̒̑͗̔͗̇̆̐̋͛̚͝f̷̡̢̞̦̠̼̟̜͚̹͖͓̫̩̊̋̓͛̀̒̍͗͗̈́̅̇̔̓̕ă̶͖̭̹̻̫͚͚̹̎̿̽t̶̨̮̣̝̯͈̩̪́̊h̸̡̨̠̠̺̻̝̪̜̲͎̰͕͕͗̄̀̓̽͌̔̓̌̀̊̓͠ë̷̢̧͙̖̻̝̘͖̜̰̮́͊̃́̀̃̏̕͝r̶̤̃̐̉́͆̊͘͝ ̴̢̢̡̛̲͇͚̻̫͓̰̰̈͌̂̅͜ͅi̸̧͖͖̩͓̭͈̠̮̠̘͠s̴̠̝͔͊̆̾͆̀ ̶̣̓̂̇̌̏̽̅́̆́̌̅͘͝ḏ̷̙̗̬̜̭̼͂̂̌͒̈̀̅͋̄̌̽̆͜ͅͅȩ̶̡̨̧̛͓̭̖̤̲̠̠̔̀̏̑̽̿̆a̵͖͕̘̺͈͓͇̓̀͊͛̑̚͘͜d.
The connection breaks on a terrified scream, and Gaster gasps, jolting back into his own body, and clutching at his head for a single moment. The thought, invading, hopeless, was not his.
He wants to…scream, shake Papyrus awake and tell him to stop fucking caring because it’s only ruining him. He wants the ground to swallow him back into the Void, however dreadful that place might’ve been.
The sobs ring louder, and he is pulled back to reality. There is a child (he’ll always stay pure and innocent and like a child, he’ll always be Gaster’s ch-), sobbing in the other room. Gaster has a responsibility to fix this, no matter what- because he was the one who caused it to begin with.
He pushes himself off the couch, feet treading lightly on the soft carpet, and steps carefully through the darkened living room, feeling around gently with his hands until he reaches the staircase. When he is at the top, he knocks (doesn’t let himself hesitate) once, twice, like a whisper of reassurance, and carefully turns the cold metal of the handle.
Maybe he shouldn’t have.
The low, purple glow of Papyrus’ eyes wanders to him, illuminating maybe enough to see him stood in the doorway. The shaky breaths hitch for a moment, when Papyrus realises who he is. Gaster doesn’t know what to do. So he just stands in the doorway, trying not to look threatening or horrified, trying to find a solution to that awful expression on Papyrus’ face and the clenching of his SOUL in fear and the thought of his- Papyrus being afraid of Gaster’s death.
He could tell him he was being delusional, that he was feeling too much for someone like him, that he is undeserving of Papyrus’ tears. But, Gaster knows it would not make a difference- that Papyrus would still cry anyways, and this would still eat up his sleep because Papyrus is just too good, like that.
The least he could do is repay some of that goodness as best he can. So Gaster takes a halting step forward, hating the way he flinches slightly at a flicker of movement in the corner of the room, hating the way Papyrus seems to shrink away as he approaches, because it makes him feel like a villain advancing on an innocent child, it makes him feel cold and cruel and pathetic all over again. He stops, mostly because he doesn’t want to scare Papyrus anymore, partially because he can’t stand the feeling anymore either.
“I don’t want to hurt anyone, anymore…”
He hovers there for a moment, eyes struggling to meet Papyrus’ imploring gaze, brimming with something far too much like tears for Gaster to be comfortable with. “Are you…ok?” He finally asks, voice a hushed whisper, strong enough to be reassuring, quiet enough to be safe. If he could ever be safe to Papyrus.
He gives a halting shake of his head, as if uncertain; disbelieving what he is seeing. It must be a disorientating feeling- Gaster guesses. Especially since the dream was so vivid. But at least Papyrus doesn’t seem to be shrinking away from him anymore. “You…died.”
The darkness crowds in on them, a predator poised. Gaster feels uneasy and he can tell by the brightened glow of purple, that Papyrus is not faring well either. He steps through the dark again to flick the light on and turns back to Papyrus. The room flares alight and the purple is dimmed. It takes a moment to adjust to the new brightness but once he does, he can see hauntingly the expression on Papyrus’ face and he…something hurts.
“Well, I’m not.” Says Gaster, as gentle as he can be- though he still finds the fear absurd in their circumstance. He’d guessed the twins would be happy at the thought of his death. He’d guessed wrong. He walks back to the middle of the room, edging closer to the bed as if to test the waters, ensure he cannot hurt him all over again. Papyrus just stares at him, blinks tearily.
“I’m right here….” The words sound lonely, desperate. Gaster doesn’t think they should sound anything at all- he only wants them to sound sincere. “D-do you…promise?” Gaster frowns deeply, and refuses to meet Papyrus’ gaze for a moment, until he finally sighs and takes a seat on the edge of the bed. He looks back and finds wide eyes on him, the purple streaking down damp bone, lessening little by little. It still feels choked.
Gaster holds his hand out, offering it to Papyrus. Hesitantly, he takes it. “I am palpable. You can feel me, right?” One small nod. “I am right here in front of you. You can hear me, right?” another small nod, and something loosens in the tension surrounding them. “Then how can I possibly be dead, when I am right here, and you are holding my hand?”
As if on instinct, Papyrus’ fingers close slightly on Gaster’s palm, and if it was any other time, any other reality, Gaster would have flinched and withdrawn. But the contact is not unpleasant, and it feels like progress and goodness.
And, for a single, fleeting moment- there is everything warm and kind, and nothing is wrong. There is peace.
“get away from him.” There is only one voice to break the still moment, and draw Papyrus’ trusting eyes (god, what has he done to deserve this?) away from him. His own eyes wonder towards the doorway, where Sans stands, bewildered- though worry still glints in the glow of his eyes. Gaster’s sure he’s about to march right over and tear their hands apart, stand between the two of them so Gaster can never hurt Papyrus ever again.
It’s a reasonable reaction.
Gaster sighs, tilts his head down so he looks at neither of them and pulls his hand away (in some semblance of defeat- as it seems, he doesn't deserve a chance to even try). He is surprised when there is a resistance, the strong grasp of Papyrus’ hand on his. Dazed, slightly, he looks up with a puzzled frown and finds Papyrus looking at him with tears streaking down his cheekbones, something like fear brushing against the softness of his eyes. They’re glowing stronger again, accusatory- if Papyrus ever could be.
“Please don’t go.” Gaster’s mind halts for a moment, like it did after the shared dream, and he blinks in disbelief, brow bones pinching. Papyrus, stubborn as ever, grips his hand a little harder. “Oh.” Is all he says, all he does for a moment. He turns back, looks between the two brothers- Sans, who has walked over now, and the concern etched in every fearful line of his face; Papyrus, who is still holding his hand, and is still crying and is afraid of Gaster dying when he should not be because-
He’d like to convince himself that he’s torn, that Sans has the logical solution right now, and that him being there is doing more harm than good. But when he turns fully to face Papyrus, and sees that utter, trusting honesty with all its haunting goodness, he finds the words pulled from his throat before he can think to form them. He gives a small nod of his head, “Ok. I won’t go. I’m here.” and, his hand must be shaking a hint, because Papyrus’ grip steadies it, and some of that sadness clears from his face.
Just simple words, and it seems all of Papyrus’ problems are…gone. He turns to Sans. “It’s ok. He won’t hurt me. He’s here.” There is no purple mingled in ashen tears, and for all the calm, there still seems to be a hint of panic in Papyrus’ voice. Sans regards Gaster with a stern eye, but then relaxes at his brother’s words. “fine…but, I’m staying…just- only if you want me to.”
“That’s ok..”
Gaster cannot seem to take his eyes from their conjoined hands, or from the safe warmth this touch provides. He looks up, and Papyrus is looking at him again, a teary smile on his lips. Something in Gaster’s SOUL brightens. He runs his thumb gently over Papyrus’ knuckles,grip firm and careful. The moment is halting and warm, and maybe he wishes for a million more.
“You’re safe.” He finally says, meeting Papyrus’ eyes. And, if his- Papyrus- had looked away in that single moment, he wouldn’t have caught it. But Papyrus is observant- the two of them are- and he does see the small smile gracing Gaster’s lips, and the softening of his eyes. He catches it all.
If Gaster can help it, he will keep these two boys safe for the rest of his life.
//
Gaster is being unmade.
Every atom of his being, down to the rotting centre of his SOUL, is being torn to shreds mercilessly by bloodied, black fangs- and it seems that he can maybe scream once before something else shatters.
There is silence. It is dark.
Another phantom of searing, hot pain smothers his SOUL, grasping at something dead and empty, crushing in its grip the delicate whisps of sprouting mould in the centre of his heart. It breaks, and floods his senses with nothing but buzzing white noise, and an all too loud pain everywhere.
It should be impossible to feel this much without substance. He cannot even discern himself from the black around him anymore, there is no solidarity in him, no stable singularity to keep him anchored or sane. He is everywhere, all at once and yet nowhere.
And he feels it all, feels toiling emotions falling down on him like the shattered rain of red glass, clawing and screeching his SOUL apart, until there is nothing but the agony of too many thoughts and too many emotions and too many toomanytoomanytoomany-
He is alive and then dead and it is all a single breath, yet too long to be good. He cannot even cry despite the ghosts of old pain. His hands (how does he still have hands- he’s not meant to-) ache and something floods his SOUL.
Gaster startles awake on a sharp gasp, reaching for breath he thought he could not have. He wakes up, and it is frighteningly dark, and it seems for a moment nothing has changed but he can feel the bedsheets scrunched up in his palms, he can feel the ancient pain of his hands as they grasp for comfort and reassurance. It may be dark, but he can soon discern a trail of light breaking through his bedroom curtains and drawing a long line of thin, pale grey along the shadowed roof.
He breathes, because it is maybe the only reassurance he could have after-
After-
Gaster is suddenly aware of how cold and still he feels, like everything is still being torn out of him and away, uprooted like old trees and bringing up with their clogged roots the bloody, festering parts of his wretched SOUL. He shudders and recoils back beneath the blanket, screwing his eyes desperately shut as if the darkness could melt away the inky black seeping back into him all over again. He opens them, and tries to take a breath, loosen his grip on his bed, because this is so pathetic, and it is like trying to calm a toddler, but how can he even be sure this is real? That he’s not dead anymore- or worse? What if his mind is playing tricks on him and he never was saved; he’s still forgotten and in the dark and torn apart and-
You’ll never leave this place. Not in any way that matters.
Gaster was foolish for believing that he could ever escape; that he could ever be good or happy; that he could ever have something nice and painless and beautiful. He is sinful and cruel and ugly, and horrible people like him do not deserve good things, why would he even try to delude himself for a single moment?
He wants to tear his hands apart- fuck, he wants to tear himself apart and leave nothing to feel anymore, no real, rational thing- just so he could feel something real, just so he could trust enough that this is all real, that he is still him, still rotten and horrible and alive.
He pushes himself up, out of his miserable, self-pitying chrysalis of utter selfishness (and fairly warm bedsheets), and unfurls the horrors beneath them, with a gasping breath. If he closes his eyes tight enough, Gaster can imagine himself stepping away from the festering, sprouting mould of his old heart, distancing himself from the reaching, hungry feelings beneath his logic, eating away at him. It’s easy, how he snaps into the ancient habit, distancing himself from feeling and using solely rational purpose to justify his answers. Suddenly, he’s that same scientist pushed into that dark (escapeable) corner, trying to run from any attachment to his subjects, to the chemicals in the vial of his curiosity and calculations. It’s liberating.
It’s fucking dehumanising.
But it works. The storm in his head and bones settles to a gentle hum of unease, and everything loosens just enough for him to think normally for a second. All he really needs is a cigarette.
Gaster huffs a tired breath and pushes himself out of his bed. The room is dark, has been for the past few moments, and its shadows are too familiar and unpredictable. A change of scenery is in order, if he’s going to be thoughtful about how to approach this.
The wooden drawers creek quietly, miserably as he snaps them open, and roots around at the bottom of multiple, stacked, woollen turtlenecks (Alphys’ robot- Mettaton - had suggested a change of closet, but Gaster is too old, and stinky and afraid of change for that) for a single, definitely forbidden in every way, pack of cigarettes. Asgore had threatened him, multiple times, with drastic measures if he didn't quit this horrific habit. Gaster supposes that, besides forgetting who he was, nothing about Asgore has really changed. And nothing about nicotine has either.
He takes the pack, with a lighter, and slips out of his room, into the dimly lit hallway. At least moving provides some comfort that he is still a person, in a body, with material senses. The soft pad of footsteps is gentle accompaniment to the calmness of their house, but the light in the kitchen is on when Gaster reaches it. He frowns, a cigarette in his mouth, hands cupping it as he lights it. He pushes the door open, taking a puff of hot ash (which does, admittedly, burn him but-) and finds there Papyrus’ familiar figure leaning over the countertop, staring out of the window.
Gaster raises a brow bone and closes the door behind him, to avoid the invasive smell of burning escaping into the rest of the house. Well, at least he can breathe easier knowing that Asgore won’t terminate him for breaking his promise to quit smoking ....Actually, scrap that, cigarettes make it very hard to breathe easy no matter what.
For a while, they are both still, save for the tumbling of wispy smoke from the cigarette in his fingers. Then, Papyrus turns to face him with a sheepish smile. His eyes glow low green. Gaster is surprisingly…stunned. The image is unexpected but, he finds, not unwelcome.
“Hello.” Says Papyrus, tilting his head slightly. Gaster purses his lips, taking another drag of smoke. He comes to stand near Papyrus, close enough to talk, far enough away to not completely strangle him with the smoke. Gaster cracks open the window and the welcome winter breeze stalks in. “What are you doing here?” He asks, eventually, eyes aloof. The detachment right now feels…strangely grave.
Something in his irrational blood screams to feel.
Gaster leaves it for a moment.
“It was raining out. Asgore insisted we stay until the rain lightened up. Sans went home, after, but you…” Gaster hums, looking out at the sky. He feels Papyrus’ eyes on him. They should’ve both gone home, after visiting Gaster (Sans did so very reluctantly, mind you)…but he doesn’t find himself surprised that Papyrus stayed.
“But I what?” He prompts. The situation sounds obscene. What had happened tonight, involving him, that had meant Papyrus staying here? Something about the atmosphere drops. He’s imagining things, he’s been doing that all night, nothing feels any different-
“Well…you had a nightmare, didn’t you? I felt it over the…connection? You reached out. I saw it. Are you-are you ok?” Now he can definitely feel Papyrus’ eyes on him, and there is no real distancing himself from the…issue. The wind blows harsh, he’s uncomfortable.
The sickly screaming of a thousand voices screeching against the walls of the world. The strike of a million piercing needles through him but none of them feel too real. He reaches out, unwillingly, desperately, and feels the outpouring from his SOUL.
Oh. He’d…Papyrus had seen..that. If he forces himself to feel, his cheekbones are red hot with embarrassment. He can’t dare to look up at the boy standing across from him, eyes wide and still glowing; if he does, he will have to deal with the horror, and deal with Papyrus witnessing it and he just can’t-
“I’m fine.” He ends up saying, voice muted and painfully cold, just like it was before-
“Are you sure?”
… Papyrus should stop worrying about him so much, is the distressed conclusion he has come to over the past couple of weeks. The evidence all adds up and one answer is clear; when people care about him, when they try to interact with him in any way, the only thing that happens is pain. He wishes he could say for both parties but…Gaster is just so merciless and brutal and horrific that he barely ends up getting hurt.
Hurt.
That’s the word. For everything about them, everything about this. It’s only infuriating, relentless pain and it all seems to stem from him because he is so rotten to his core. He deserves every nightmare, every screeching thump of his SOUL searching for light that does not come. He deserves the haunting pictures and the pain and Papyrus- Papyrus deserves none of it but he seems to be the one receiving it.
Gaster guesses that he understands why Sans is so adamant about protecting him, now. It all adds up.
…Is he really protecting Papyrus if this is the way he treats him? With cold detachment, and an aloof stare? What has really changed? What part of his SOUL has stopped peeling and begging and clutching at that semblance of control or fear that had driven him so long ago? What part of him had finally stopped its cruelty if the end result would always be the same? No answer and a helpless child staring at him with horrified eyes…
The Void, it did nothing, it changed nothing, it healed nothing, it took nothing. They are still upset and afraid and he is still a broken record tearing at the seams of any living thing that so happens to entice his wonder. He is still determined for an ending he did not need. He is still the devil in a lab coat, taking and taking and never giving back.
The promise he made, his word, if it all rounded back to this, is just as vile as him.
And he is fruiting with hate and fear and fury if he does not change. He must change, he must change, he must- if things are truly better, then he must try to be too.
Gaster takes a long sigh, taps the ash gathering on the end of his cigarette. The dust flakes off into the sky. He turns to Papyrus. “I…am sorry, that you had to see that.” There’s a stutter, he thinks, in the time between his breaths. Gaster feels the uncomfortable, but not completely unwelcome, twitch of his eyes, as they start to glow. It’s been a while, he supposes. It’s been a long while.
He’s half expecting Papyrus to leave. To see sense that he is a hopeless case and turn away from his gore. But instead, he smiles warmly at Gaster and says in maybe the kindest voice he’s heard in a while. “It’s ok…it wasn’t your fault. Are you sure you’re ok, though? It was quite..terrifying?”
Oh god, he doesn’t deserve this. God, god, god, anything holy or right, he doesn’t deserve what Papyrus is giving him, he doesn’t deserve the kindness or the warmth or the acceptance despite all of-
Fuck.
The least he can do is answer honestly in return, give back the one thing Papyrus asked from him- only his effort to be better. If it starts with this, it starts with this. “I…will be. It’s all ok now, I am less disturbed about it than I was.” He turns away and takes another puff from his cigarette. The ash is cold and tasteless, and it does nothing to calm his racing heart. He stumps it out silently on the window sill and doesn’t miss the way his fingers shiver when he flicks the stub into the bin.
“You should have gone home, Papyrus.” He murmurs, everything muted and numbed to this one point. He feels the old pain in his hands, and a small sigh comes through his throat. “Aren’t you tired?” He looks up again at Papyrus, and finds those same, humble eyes on him. They’re still glowing.
If Gaster’s SOUL would thaw, the light is reassuring. It bats the dark away and mutes the ache. It makes him feel that little bit better and he doesn’t know if Papyrus intended that. Either way, he supposes, it’s nice.
“You were in pain. I felt it; I couldn’t just leave you.”
“….” Between a moment, the atmosphere tenses and Gaster holds his breath because the response is raw and honest and such a Papyrus thing to say. A million flashing pictures scourge his head and they settle on the same one. A little skeleton, merely a child, cowered in the corner of a cage, shadowed by a silhouette.
“Why?” Gaster asks. “Why couldn’t you leave?” The question is quiet, like a whispered confession to all the evil that wrecked him before (and maybe, stil wrecks him now). Papyrus pauses, as if thinking, then huffs exasperated, eyes starting to flower on hints of orange. The shift makes Gaster’s heart drop a little.
“Because, you’re my father and I care about you! We’ve had this conversation before…and, you wouldn’t have left me…”
One second ticks by. Words lodge in Gaster’s throat, stinging the tip of his tongue. He rubs his fingers together, repeating the action as he tries to think of anything besides the same, condescending “You care too much.”
He’d said the words aloud, let them free from their confines and bitten them out with harsh, cool syllables, if the flinch Papyrus gives us any judgement. Gaster finds himself searching desperately for the regret, and it stains him whole, save for the disgusting remainder of his SOUL that slips so easily back into the habit of mocking and berating and seeing no good.
He breathes and looks away shamefully.
“Do I?” Papyrus asks, voice hot, but quiet, and Gaster wonders if it will ever change, if he will ever change, or if either of them, standing under the night sky, ever will. No . He finds the answer and it is easy. Papyrus will not change, it is all evident in the things he is saying, the things he is doing, the way he watches Gaster with foregrounded care. It makes him believe that maybe, deep down, there is a spring of crystal reparation to fix them all. He could…harbour it…
Papyrus steps towards him, and the subtle movement is enough to make his SOUL leap, make him flinch out of habit of moving shadows. The fear is childish; settles his heart after a moment. Papyrus has paused, frowning deeply. He reaches out a hand to Gaster’s own, prodding the back of his palm gently. He watches, enticed, as he opens his palm instinctively and the warm, careful touch of his so- of Papyrus’ own- slips in.
His palms ache. He is a statue. “You know,” Papyrus says, pressed against his side (it reminds him painfully of a toddler walking with their parent, clutching at their hand for safety), warming the frozen parts of Gaster and making himself known like he has always existed, and always been part of the centre of Gaster’s world.
“Part of being better is this.” He sighs, and Gaster wants to scream at how tired but entirely calm and welcoming the sound is. He wants to curl up and cry at how still and right it makes him feel. Irrational thoughts, irrational feelings but… “This…” Gaster says, slowly, unsure. He’s been hesitating all his life at the good parts, and god, does he want to kick himself for doing that now, too. If only he’d-
“This,” Papyrus repeats gently. “The acceptance of yourself, of getting better. The acceptance of others accepting you and loving you, despite what you have done. Because, if you don’t, what has changed? You can try to be good for all the world, but if you are not good for yourself too, you will never find your peace or happiness. Just; let me have this. Let me make you happy- because I think my dad deserves happiness just as much as me and my brother do.”
God, who was Gaster to argue with that? There is…if he pauses, there is logic underneath all of Papyrus’ words and his tone doesn’t waver once off that gentle, ever-hoping sound of innocence. He was not broken, despite Gaster’s cruellest efforts.
Papyrus thinks. And that is all Gaster needs. Because Papyrus is right- the façade starts snapping, his eyes glow warm- Papyrus is good and pure and he does not change, so he is fundamentally right.
And Gaster is speechless. “You were always the better of us.”
“You can be better too.” His- his son smiles at him. It is possibly the most golden thing he has ever felt.
Gaster yearns to return the gesture, feels the small tug of his own lips upwards. He sighs, and closes his hand around Papyrus’. “I suppose, I can.” With you, I can.
The stars burn bright. Gaster pulls his hand away from Papyrus’ (regrettably, for a moment) and hovers. But no, he has always hesitated at goodness and he will not do so now, so- he puts his arm gently around Papyrus’ shoulder.
The embrace is welcome, Papyrus leans his head against Gaster’s shoulder. ‘ He’s grown.’ Gaster thinks, when he realises how easy it is, how little height there is left between them. His SOUL gleams, elated, and he might feel a slight wetness at the corner of his eyes.
He closes the hug, and Papyrus laughs, “This is a good step.” He sighs, leans into his father that little bit more.
This is betterment, this is the completion of his SOUL as it burns bright beneath the stars, in tandem with the purest child, the purest person he knows. Leave it to Papyrus to see the good in him and make it happen. A green tear drips down, onto Papyrus’ shoulder, and he feels a hint guilty (when doesn’t he?), and god, Gaster really is crying now. But it is not bad- no. For all this is, for all it took to get here, he finds it is worth it.
There is singing in his SOUL, and Papyrus’ gentle, wonderful voice, and goodness breathing to life around them all. They are free, they are free. And things will get better. The ache in his hands is a welcome reminder of that- despite the road to reconcile, despite the horror, there is light in the aftermath. There must be.
Gaster would be damned if he stopped now, if he could not find it.
Above them, framing the moment, the constellations gleam a million, winking hopes.