Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Wingdings was a man.

He was raised male, presented as male, and he was perfectly content with that. Everyone knew him as such, coworkers, friends, his boss, his partner—he was fine with that. The scientist had already built quite the name for himself as the head of his field and creator of the CORE, and he had bigger, bigger plans that pale in comparison to his own identity.

Wingdings was a man.

That’s what he was, and always will be.

So why was he, forty-three years old, having a crisis over a journal he kept when he was fourteen?

It began when Wingdings was finally clearing out his work desk. Ever since they lived together, Gabriola pointed out how much wasted space he had on and inside the drawers of where he worked. Admittedly, she was right. Both his professional and personal projects littered all over the surface—blueprints and unpainted wood carvings, hollow skulls of Gaster Blaster prototypes, and barely tangible sketches of future projects that may never come to fruition. The drawers must be worse. He’ll have no problem trashing whatever dried pens and crumpled drawings were left collecting dust in there for who knows how long.

Maybe if he’s lucky, he’ll find something valuable enough to shove into the storage closet behind him to collect dust instead, and if he’s very lucky, he’ll find something valuable enough to shove in the drawer of his nightstand so it can collect dust in there. 

Wingdings spent the next twenty minutes dumping whatever trash in a plastic bag and whatever he felt like keeping in a cardboard box. He’ll come back to these projects soon enough, if his brain capacity and schedule allowed him to. He was a very, very busy man, after all.

As expected, the drawers had nothing that piqued his interest, just some loose papers and sticky notes, a couple of pens, some erasers, some old sketchbooks, and literal garbage on top of that. He was almost done cleaning and was ready to move on with his day—he’ll never have to think about cleaning this space again until years from now, his dearest Gabriola will tap on his shoulder and go “By the way, your desk’s a mess again; you gotta fix that,” and that’ll be the end of it. He stuck a hand at the deep end of the drawer, palming to find whatever scraps there were lurking left untouched to throw them in. 

But oh, what was this? 

It was too dark for the socket on his hand to see, but it felt like one of sketchbooks, a journal perhaps? Wingdings pulled it out from the dark crevice of his drawer.

It was a journal, a lilac one, coated in a fine layer of dust. This was the one he kept when he was just a young boy, at the least fourteen. He stopped writing in it at sixteen years of age, if he could recall correctly. Wingdings wiped away the dust with his free hand; now he could make out the title—written with a black ballpoint pen, in wingdings.

“CONCEPTS FOR WHEN I BECOME SCIENTIST”
WINGDINGS GASTER

 He ran his hand over the pages, including the little flaps of paper sticking out. It was no wonder how he kept writing in it for so long; he kept adding onto it. He couldn’t help but reminisce of times long gone—back when he had all the the time in the world, back when the simpler things in life made him happy. This journal was a window to those days. Why did it keep it crammed in his drawer for years? He thought about opening it again; he wondered what early rough drafts were in there—he couldn’t wait to see them.

Wingdings opened to the first page. The first few pages were actually Gaster Blaster concept art. That was no surprise to him; it was the first idea he ever came up with. The sketches were rudimentary and crude; they looked like chicken scratch compared to how he drew now. It looked like he was interested in experimenting with several skull shapes, like he was now. There were several bird skulls; if he could recall correctly, the original Gaster Blaster was supposed to be a bird, but their bones were too hollow to sustain such a powerful laser. He scrapped the idea after testing a couple of prototypes.

The next pages followed the same formula—there were very old concepts of the CORE; they would’ve been physically impossible to be replicated. Fourteen year old Wingdings’ heart was in the right place though. He flipped through several more pages, observing many more drafts, some of which never saw the light of day. It turned out being Royal Scientist didn’t just mean one can tinker with machines and make flashy contraptions that shot lasers and made portals and teleported people.

After fifty pages or so, the drafts seldom showed up, being replaced by drawings of his characters—the first being Rouxls Kaard, one of his more comical ones. Rouxls Kaard was a slime-folk inspired by part of his species. He spoke in broken Medieval English, and was supposedly a jack of all trades, as well as a puzzle master. His puzzles were rudimentary at best, he was arrogant, and served no greater purpose if he wasn’t serving someone else, but he had a softer side, being a father figure to Lancer, another character of his.

This wasn’t Rouxls Kaard though; it was himself.

Before Rouxls became Rouxls, he was Wingdings’ manifestation of what he desired to be at the time; he even tacked on his full name to the character.

He had muted grey slime, a long diamond shaped nose, long fluttering eyelashes, a full head of white, medium-length hair, a lab coat, similar to one a cartoon mad scientist would wear, draped on him like a dress, heeled and black leather boots, goggles strapped on top of his head, and most jarringly of all, a pair of small breasts.

He should’ve expected that his younger self didn’t know how actual scientists dressed like; that outfit would’ve broke several dress codes. The lack of gloves was one thing, especially with those slimy hands this incarnation of him had, unlike the skeletal ones he had in real life. Those heels too were a hazard; he could easily trip in those. It would be less than conventional for him to wear that as a uniform today.

The next page was no different; there were several sketches of Wingdings’ old persona—headshots, him standing, him posing with the old Gaster Blaster prototypes before it attacked, holding cartoony syringes—like that’s what scientists do, he guessed. That, or he wasn’t skilled enough to draw him do anything else at the time.

It goes without saying that this incarnation of Rouxls Kaard was a product of his time. Back when a younger Wingdings was insecure about his appearance. He fantasied having those white locks of hair and the skinny, curvy body. Long skirts weren’t enough; he wanted sleek dresses and heels. It was he was meant to be, it had to be. Even at school, he would find himself mindlessly drawing him in his notebooks during lectures. If anyone asked, he was just a character he made, a feminine man who also happened to be a scientist.

Wingdings was content with how he looked nowadays. He found his lack of hair to be charming, actually, and while he could change his body to be whatever he desired, he enjoyed how it developed to be naturally top-heavy while the rest of him was slim. He was a child undergoing puberty at the time, it would’ve made sense he had second thoughts—all children do.

By the sixty-fourth page, Wingdings noticed a string of words not accompanied by pictures; it was like diary entry. He must’ve ran out of ideas for experiments, and started using the journal for practically anything he felt putting down on paper.

I HATE MY JOB SO MUCH.

I PICK UP THE MOP.

I PUT IT IN THE BUCKET.

I MOP THE FLOOR.

I PUT IT IN THE BUCKET AGAIN.

I MOP THE FLOOR.

I HAD TO CLEAN UP A WHOLE POND OF VOMIT TODAY.

TOOK ME TWENTY FOUR WHOLE MINUTES.

(I COUNTED).

I’M BEING PAID TO DO THIS.

I’M GOING TO QUIT MY JOB.

Ah, his days when he was a janitor at the ICE-E branded supermarket in the Capital; that was something he would rather keep repressing. At fifteen years old, he needed the gold to fund his Gaster Blaster prototypes, because the Angel knows that his orphanage wouldn’t give him the money. He didn’t quit his job the next day; that would’ve been foolish for him to do. In hindsight, he should’ve been grateful he wasn’t working retail.

He flipped to the next page.

GRILLBERT DIDN’T SEE IT COMING.

IT WAS 2:48 WHEN IT HAPPENED.

WE WERE ICE SKATING OVER THE FROZEN LAKE.

I WAS MORE INEXPERIENCED THEN GRILLBERT WAS.

NATURALLY, I FELL.

A LOT.

IT WAS TOO MUCH FOR THE ICE, SO IT BROKE BENEATH ME.

I LEFT THE ICE BEFORE I GOT WET.

GRILLBERT WASN’T SO LUCKY .

HE FELL INTO THE WATER WITH A HISSING SOUND.

I HAD TO PULL HIM OUT.

GRILLBERT SENOIR GOT REALLY MAD AT US TODAY.

I THINK HE GOT GROUNDED.

Wingdings smiled at the memory; Grillbert was always a dear friend to him. Maybe he’ll go visit him at the bar, he’ll show Grillbert the passage, and they’ll have a good laugh about it—well, more like a sensible chuckle from the elemental, but he loved that laugh.

The next pages followed with more journal entries—times he got in trouble from the headmaster, snippets of him playing with his friends, complaining about work, complaining about school, the occasional weird dream—like this one:

I DREAMT THAT SPAMTON WAS MY DAD

WF WENT TO THE MARKETPLACE TOGETHER.

AND BEAT UP RANDOM TODDLERS/

WE STOLE THEIR GOLD AND ATE FVGERS .

THFN WE WENT TO PUR HPME/

A TRASHCAN.

WE SLEPT IN THE SAME BFD

HE KISSED MF GOODNIGHT.

I WPKE UP IN A COLD SWEAT

He must’ve wrote that in the spur of the moment.

Wingdings flipped to the next page:

I CAN’T STOP THINKING ABOUT THAT DREAM.

MY SOUL FELT LIKE ME.

BUT NOT MY BODY.

I KNEW WHAT IT WAS WHEN IT BEGAN.

A GIRL.

I WAS AT WATERFALL.

SKIPPING ROCKS DOWN THE STREAM.

I PICKED ONE UP BY THE STREAM.

I SAW ITS REFLECTION.

IT WAS ME.

THAT GIRL WAS ME.

IT DIDN’T LOOK DIFFERENT FROM ME.

BUT IT FELT DIFFERENT.

IT FELT BEAUTIFUL.

I THINK I FELT IT TOO.

I WAS BEAUTIFUL.

THEN IT WAS GONE.

I WOKE UP.

I WAS IN MY BODY AGAIN.

Wingdings stared.

He forgot to count the minutes.

He ran a finger through each paragraph, going down, down, down, down—then back up again, then down, down, down, down—then back up again, then down, down, down, down…

“WINGS, ‘YOU ALRIGHT DOWN THERE?!” A shout brought him back to his senses. It was Gabriola.

How long has it been?

“I’M STILL BUSY,” he responded.

“OKAY!” She yelled from upstairs.

He was by himself again.

After rereading the entry for the—he lost count—Wingdings concluded that this was once again, an example of his younger self lacking self esteem and that seeping into his imagination.

Surely, it meant nothing.

The other pages were meaningless now; he kept flipping and flipping, not even bothering to read what they contained. All those pages had nothing that could interest him anyone, not unless they had—

I HAD THAT DREAM AGAIN.

He slammed the journal shut before he read any further.

That was enough reading for one day; he had to get this box in the closet, after all. Wingdings set the journal aside on his desk. With his legs, he hauled the cardboard box up with minimal effort and placed it in the back corner of the storage closet. Now all there was left was the plastic bag—he’ll throw it in the bin upstairs. Wingdings lifted the bag with ease and made his way out of the basement—

He couldn’t leave the journal there.

Someone could read it.

He wasn’t ready.

Wingdings went back to retrieve the old lilac journal and stuffed it in the inside pocket of his lab coat, which was draped on his chair.

Someday, perhaps he’ll discuss its contents with a friend or his partner, someday.

It wasn’t on his top priority.

The rest of Wingdings’ day passed without issue.

Even then, he wanted it to be over.

When he saw himself, in that little bathroom mirror, as he was getting ready for bed, he—

Well,

It was certainly his body.

Chapter Text

A week had passed since Wingdings cleaned his work desk. He had since completely forgot about the journal’s existence, much less that it was in his lab coat—the weight just faded as time came and went. 

That evening when he left the lab, a wave of relief washed over him. He must’ve ate something he couldn’t stomach, or maybe he slept on the wrong side of bed, or Hotland’s temperatures were particularly cruel to his slimy exterior—it just wasn’t his day. 

He could go for a calming cup of tea right about now, and what no better place to go to other than his dear friend Asgore’s home? Golden Flower tea would surely put him at ease, and it’s been a while since they had a proper conversation outside of the workplace setting. 

Wingdings pulled put his cell phone and texted Gabriola: 

WD GASTER: I WILL BE AT ASGORE’S HOUSE TONIGHT. I WILL BE LATE. I LOVE YOU. 

<3 GABRIOLA <3: What time are you coming back

WD GASTER: LATE. EAT OUT TONIGHT.

<3 GABRIOLA <3: K Ily :)

Now that was done, he left before the heat melted him into sludge, and walked to where the Riverperson was. The damp, misty air embraced him as he reached to them—that was better.

Wingdings hopped on the boat on its way to the Capital. On his request, it was a slow and calm ride to his destination; he wasn’t up for the excitement today. He absentmindedly put his distal phalanxes in the river, letting the cool water shoot through his phalanges. If he were a boy again, he would’ve begged the Riverperson to go faster. He didn’t care if he got wet, even when his own slime stained his clothes—he would’ve done it all again. Wingdings smiled at the thought.

He caught a glimpse of himself on the river. 

“Tra la la, gazing into the waters? What do you see?”

Wingdings raised a brow from that sentiment.

“MYSELF,” he responded.

The Riverman didn’t say another word.

The walk from where he was dropped off to Asgore’s house would talk no more than an hour. He had the whole route memorized since his youth—back when it was just Asgore and Queen Toriel. He missed her. He would die just to have her famous snail pies again, to hear one of her terrible slime puns, just for her to hold him again—

It was so long ago, but they used to pick snails at the Blook Acres Snail Farm. He remembered when they were finished, he would pretend to be sluggish from the humidity just so she could carry him all the way home, tucked into her warm embrace. As an adult, he wondered if she ever knew he was lying; most likely yes, he would imagine she would play along. 

He’s been reminiscing a lot recently, hasn’t he?

It’s been working because next thing he knew, Wingdings was knocking on Asgore’s door repeatedly. He must’ve been in the Judgment Hall. It was only a minor inconvenience. He’ll just text the Fluffybuns. 

WD GASTER: I AM AT YOUR HOUSE.

WD GASTER: FOR TEA.

Five minutes later, he wasn’t at the door.

WD GASTER: ASGORE.

WD GASTER: PICK UP YOUR CELLPHONE.

Wingdings dialed Asgore’s number. Thankfully, he picked up. 

“Wingdings?” He questioned.

“I’VE BEEN WAITING IN FRONT OF YOUR HOUSE FOR SIX MINUTES.” 

Asgore let out a chuckle from the other end, “Why didn’t you tell me you were coming over? I wouldn’t have left if you did.”

“I THOUGHT YOU LIKED SURPRISES.”

Asgore immediately knew that was code for ‘I forgot’—he let out another chuckle, “I do. I’ll be upstairs in a minute.” Wingdings couldn’t have come at a better time; after he was finished watering his golden flowers, he found himself slouched in his throne, just aimlessly watching the birds; he could use a friend right about now.

“THANK YOU.” 

Wingdings hung up.

Wingdings sure was something—eccentric to say the least. The moment that scrawny little boy came to him and Toriel with his lilac journal in hand and his imaginative ideas for solving the ongoing electricity crisis at the time, he knew he would be someone special, and he was right. 

As he walked up the steps, he caught a glimpse of his friend through the window. He was standing there, perfectly upright, like he just got there a second ago. A strange one—that Wingdings. 

Asgore opened the door, and just like that, Wingdings sprung into movement, preparing to embrace him. He didn’t hesitate to reciprocate.

Asgore always needed to be gentle whenever he hugged Wingdings, and it wasn’t just because of his size. His slime was so malleable that the slightest pressure would leave him incapacitated. It happened once before, and Asgore had to help him put his back in place because it was difficult for Wingdings to do it himself. He still profusely apologized to him no matter how many times the slime folk insisted he didn’t have to.

Asgore broke off the hug, and looked down at the painted eyes of Wingdings’ porcelain mask. “It’s been awhile,” he said. 

“IT HAS,” he agreed, “I THOUGHT WE COULD TALK OVER TEA.”

“That would be lovely; I’ll make ourselves some right now! Do get comfortable,” Asgore went back inside and walked to the kitchen; Wingdings followed shortly behind him before taking a seat near the dining table, his lab coat draped over the chair and his mask turned over on the table.

“So,” Asgore said from the kitchen, “how was your week? Besides work,” he clarified. 

“I HAVEN’T DONE ANYTHING OF PARTICULAR INTEREST.”

“I’m sure you’ve done something. How about your wife? What have the two of you done together?” he asked as he began boiling the water.

“SHE’S JUST AS BUSY AS I AM, BUT TWO NIGHTS AGO WE WATCHED SOME CHEAP THRILLER MOVIE SHE FOUND IN THE BIN AT ICE-E MART CALLED…COCAINE TEMMIE,”  he explained.

Asgore’s eyes widened, “Cocaine…what?” Surely, he must’ve misheard that.

“COCAINE TEMMIE.” So he didn’t.

“…What’s it about?” Asgore raised a brow; there’s no way this movie could actually be about that—it had to be a mistake or a marketing stunt.

“A TEMMIE SNORTS COCAINE AND IT CHANGES HER BRAIN CHEMISTRY SO DRASTICALLY SHE GOES ON A KILLING RAMPAGE ON THE LOCALS AND TOURISTS IN WATERFALL—WE GOT BORED FOURTY MINUTES INTO THE MOVIE AND WENT TO BED EARLY.”

His mouth was wide open. “Golly.”

Asgore was just about finished with the tea, he just had to let the flowers steep. “Wingdings I—How could a premise so absurd be considered ‘boring’? It sounds like the stuff of nightmares…” And that Wingdings was so nonchalant about it too? Wow.

“GABI THOUGHT IT WAS GOING TO BE HILARIOUSLY BAD, BUT THERE WASN’T ANY STORY TO GAWK AT, AND NONE OF THE ACTORS WERE PARTICULARLY NOTEWORTHY,” he explained, fiddling with his mask, “A GROUP OF CHARACTERS GETS INTRODUCED, TEMMIE KILLS THEM, THE CYCLE REPEATS. VIEWING THAT OVER AND OVER GOT GABRIOLA TO THE POINT WHERE SHE TOOK THE DISK OUT WITHOUT MY INPUT.” 

“I’m not sure if I could last a minute watching it,” he shuddered. Temmies and illegal substances: that was a reality he would rather avoid at all costs.

“IT’S NOT FOR THE FAINT OF HEART,” he said, “THE GORE IS EXCESSIVE.”

Asgore felt another shudder. Yes, it would be best if they left the conversation at that and talked about something else—particularly something more pleasant. 

“THE EVENT IT’S BASED OFF IS MUCH MORE INTERESTING.

“The what.”

Five minutes later, Asgore finally made himself present, walking out of the kitchen with two cups of Golden Flower tea in each hand. One for Wingdings, and one for him. He sat right beside him and already took a sip from his cup.

“MADNESS ASIDE,” Wingdings took a sip from his own cup; letting the drink’s warmth envelop him and put him at ease—he missed that, “HOW WAS YOUR WEEK?”

“I’m on the same boat as you are! I haven’t done much either,” he shrugged, but then his expression softened, “Actually, I did visit Rudy the other day; we went to that bar you like to go to. Grillby’s—is it?” 

“YES. GRILLBY’S…” 

Wingdings never knew Rudy all that well; he could barely recall any proper conversation he had with the reindeer when he did ever see him—besides them going through the motions. Rudy was much more Asgore’s friend than a family friend anyway. 

“We had a few drinks and…” Asgore held back a laugh, “he betted that he could finish the Inferno Meal in fifteen minutes.”

Ah, the Inferno Meal: a household name in the Grillby’s restaurant since Grillbert Senior founded it. Eat a football-sized burger in thirty minutes, and one doesn’t have to pay the hefty 40g price tag. Wingdings never seen anyone else complete it besides Big Mouth—which was a no brainer why. According to them, the patty was charred and was…uncomfortably crunchy. The next day on the local paper, they went on to say it was the worst food item and wasn’t worth the bragging rights. 

“THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE,” Wingdings said. 

“Oh, but he did it, and it was bigger than his head!” Asgore exclaimed. “I told him he was going to feel horrible afterwards but then he said ‘I’d rather die succeeding than a wimp!’—and then he scarfed down another mouthful,” Rudy was… something alright—that seemed to be a running theme in the people Asgore gets close to.

“DID HE NOTICE THE BURGER WAS CHARRED?” asked Wingdings.

“It was?” 

“GRILLBERT PURPOSELY OVERCOOKS THE MEAT TO MAKE IT MORE CHALLENGING. THEY NEVER MENTION IT IN ANY PROMOTIONAL MATERIAL,” he explained 

Asgore should’ve expected that. From the first look at the burger, nothing about about it screamed ‘Inferno’; he initially assumed it was just a catchy name meant to represent the challenge. Wingdings’ explanation made much more sense. “Rudy said he was too quick to even process the taste—let alone that it was burnt!”

The two of them laughed. It felt nice being together again.

There was a calming silence between the two men as drank from their cups. The only noises being those of their sips. Wingdings eyed Asgore, and then back at his cup; his mouth curled into a knowing smile. His hands fiddled with the cup before bringing it to his mouth and—

SLUUUURRRRPPPP

Asgore was in mid-sip when he did that, almost spitting out his tea, but he forced himself to swallow before he laughed. Full on belly laughing like he slipped into his Santa Claus persona. It was just so sudden—he had to let it out.

Wingdings chuckled then glanced down at the inside of his cup—empty. He didn’t feel like having any more tea. “ARE YOU FINISHED? WITH YOUR CUP.”

“Ho—Oh-Oh, yes—I am,” Asgore managed to say mid-laugh. 

Wingdings got up from his chair, cup in hand, and did grabby hand(s) with his free hand, gesturing to Asgore to give him his. 

Asgore had by now almost calmed down only a chuckled slipped out of him as he spoke, “You don’t have to wash them, Wing,” he said.

“I INSIST.”

Asgore rolled his eyes and smirked, complying with his friend, and handing over the cup. Wingdings walked over to the kitchen counter, set the two cups aside and turned the faucet. Wingdings’ cup was particularly dirty because of his slime; he was only slightly humiliated by the prospect of Asgore washing that one—slightly. “BY THE WAY,” he started picking out a washcloth, “WHAT TIME IS IT? I HAVE TO GO HOME SOON.” 

“…How long have we been talking for?” asked Asgore from afar.

“AT LEAST AN HOUR. I STOPPED COUNTING AFTER THIRTY MINUTES.” No wonder why their tea was so cold; they were that distracted. 

Asgore glanced at at his antique wall clock; just by once glance he knew it was late. He squinted his eyes. “Ummm, it’s…9:27.” 

Wingdings was now furiously scrubbing his cup with the washcloth, trying to exterminate every bit of goo staining it. “ONCE I’M FINISHED, I AM GOING HOME. I COULD USE THE SLEEP.”

“I might go to sleep too, after you leave,” Asgore agreed. He could go for being nice and snug in his bed right about now. Once Wingdings was finished, and he placed both cups in their rightful spot inside the cupboard, he popped his head out of the door frame. Asgore saw him and waved; Wingdings waved back.

The rest of his body came into view, arms outward and ready for one final hug as he walked toward. Asgore more than gladly reciprocated. Asgore’s hugs were always warm and fluffy, like hugging a bunny, a very big bunny. The hug didn’t last long, though. “It’s been fun,” Asgore said, barely above a whisper as he unfurled from the embrace.

“LIKEWISE. GOODBYE FOR NOW.” Wingdings began walking to the door. All he wanted to do now was get home and cuddle up with his beloved. 

Behind him, Asgore waved goodbye. Wait, is Wingdings just leaving without his mask and lab coat? He glanced at the dining table and both articles of clothing were still there. “Wingdings, you’ve forgot your things!” He grabbed his mask and yanked up his lab coat, but something hit the ground with an audible—

THUD!

Asgore looked down to see what fell. What’s this? It looked like to be Wingdings’ old journal, toppled over and with papers scattered across the floor. 

“Whoops, I-I’m sorry. I’ll go pick it up for you,” he leaned down, set aside the things he was holding, and started to pick up the journal and turning it over—

“WHAT WAS THAT NOISE.“ Wingdings turned around to see Asgore—

No.

Wingdings ran to him, panicked. How could he forget about the journal?! Was it there the whole time?! “ASGORE PLEASE—I CAN DO THIS MYSELF—I DON’T NEED YOUR HELP—PLEASE.” Wingdings’ shaking hands reached out for the journal, but he never was brave enough to take it out of Asgore’s paws.

Asgore caught a glimpse at the page the journal landed on. His eyes widened. He was never proficient in deciphering wingdings, but:

I THINK I WAS MEANT TO BE THAT GIRL.

IF IT’S MY VESSEL IN THAT DREAM.

THEN IT MUST BE WE WERE DESTINED TO BE ONE.

WILL THAT EVER HAPPEN?

I HOPE SO.

I LONG TO FEEL BEAUTIFUL AGAIN.

“Wingdings?”

He shuddered. 

Asgore turned to look up at Wingdings. Those shaking fists and that perturbed expression; Wingdings was afraid. His face softened, eyes drooping and him looking more remorseful. The silence was deafening for a long second, until Asgore finally spoke up:

“…Do you want to talk about this?”

Chapter Text

That deafening silence was there again as both Wingdings and Asgore picked up the stray papers the ground. Wingdings never answered Asgore’s question. He wasn’t sure if Wingdings did want to talk to him about his feelings; that face was puzzling, like he was staring off into the distance—those eyes were wide and unblinking, and his pupils were larger than usual. Maybe he should leave it at that; it doesn’t seem like Wingdings was ready.

A lot of the papers Asgore picked up were simple journal entires or old drawings of Wingdings’ characters—all scribbled in pen and lightly colored in crayon. Trivially, there was the elusive piece of concept art for one of the machines Wingdings’ wanted to make as a child. 

Come to think of it, Wingdings was always very secretive whenever he showed him or Toriel something from his journal. He was always uncomfortably close to either one of them whenever he did, always watching them with that unchanging porcelain face, or the wide, cat-like eyes under it. Asgore chocked up it to be one of his many eccentricities; Toriel on the other hand couldn’t help but worry. However, both of them mutually agreed that whatever he was hiding from them (if he even was), it was nothing of utmost importance, or maybe it was too personal for him to share.

It seemed like they were right about the latter.

Asgore picked up another piece of loose paper. This one was different from the others; the character drawn resembled one of Wingdings’ characters, the navy blue one with the white hair and guard uniform, except their colors were more diluted and had a lab coat.

“THAT WAS ME,” Wingdings finally spoke up, pointing at the piece of paper Asgore held.

Asgore turned around to face Wingdings; so he was willing to talk to him.  “As in—“ he paused, trying to find the right words, “a version of yourself?”

“LESS OF A ‘VERSION’ OF ME AND MORE LIKE WHAT I WANTED TO BE TWENTY NINE YEARS AGO,” he clarified, “I AM LONG PAST THOSE DAYS NOW.”

“It must have been important to you if you kept it in the pocket of your lab coat,” Asgore pointed out, “You would’ve discarded it if it wasn’t.”

…

He was right. 

“YES, BUT NOT EVERYTHING I WANTED TO BE CORRELATES TO WHAT I AM NOW, DOES IT?” he countered, “I COULD EASILY CHANGE MY APPEARANCE, BUT YOU DON’T SEE ME WITH A WIG AND CURVES.”

“What about the girl in your dreams?” he questioned, “are you comfortable enough to tell me about them?” before Wingdings said another word he spoke again, “we could stop right now, if you’re not ready.”

Wingdings glanced back to the floor and picked up the last of the papers, putting back in its rightful spot in the journal. Asgore handed over the paper he was holding to him, and Wingdings repeated the same process. That was the main purpose of carrying the journal around: to talk to someone. It was about time he finally did.

“I HAVE BEEN PUTTING THEM OFF FOR A WEEK NOW. THESE…FEELINGS. I CANNOT KEEP THEM A SECRET FOREVER, AND YOU ARE THE ONE I TRUST THE MOST. I BELIEVE I’M READY.”

Wingdings and Asgore both silently got up and went back to their respective seats. Wingdings set down the lilac journal on the dining table. 

“ABOUT THE GIRL: I HAD THE SAME VIVID DREAM ABOUT ME SKIPPING ROCKS IN WATERFALL, AND THEN GAZING INTO THE WATER AND SEEING…IT.” 

“ ‘It’ as in the girl?”

“YES. FROM THE MOMENT MY SOUL SLIPPED INTO THAT VESSEL, I FELT IT WAS AN ‘IT’ INSTEAD OF A ‘HER’,” he explained, “SOMEHOW, THAT FELT RIGHT. I LIKED BEING ‘IT’.”

“Wingdings…Have you ever considered that you were born in the wrong body?” Asgore asked; that sounded like what Wingdings was going through.

“IT’S MORE NUANCED THAN THAT,” he clarified, “THIS BODY ITSELF IS FINE, ACCEPTABLE EVEN,” Wingdings ran his hands over his ribcage down to his navel, “BUT WHENEVER I LOOK AT MY REFLECTION, MY BODY FEELS INCOMPLETE. IN MY DREAM, THE GIRL LOOKS IDENTICAL TO ME, BUT IT FEELS BEAUTIFUL,” Wingdings looked down to his hand, the eye socket in it saddened, “FOR THE ENTIRE YEAR I KEPT HAVING THAT SAME DREAM. I HAVE NEVER FOUND A WAY TO BECOME IT, AND WHAT MADE IT SO BEAUTIFUL. EVENTUALLY, I GAVE UP, AND I SUCCUMBED TO WHAT I AM NOW—WHAT EVERYBODY IS USED TO.”

Asgore put a paw on Wingding’s shoulder, engulfing it because of how big it is. He never heard of something like this before. What was he supposed to do? “I’m sorry that you felt like you had to give up on your dream. Do you still wish to be beautiful?”

“I DO, BUT I BELIEVE IT’S TOO LATE FOR ME. I’M TOO USED TO BEING ‘HE’ AND ‘MAN’ FOR ME TO TRY TO BECOME ‘IT’ AGAIN. THAT WAS WHAT MY PARENTS CHOSE FOR ME. THAT WAS ALL I KNEW,” he explained.

Asgore smiled softly, “It isn’t too late; it’s clear that you confiding in me is a step in the right direction,” he said. Admittedly, deep down, it felt weird knowing that Wingdings was only now confiding in him, specifically. Out of everyone he knew, he chose him; probably the most inexperienced to what Wingdings was speaking about. Was he able to do this? Could he even trust himself to say the right things?

“I SHOULD HAVE DISCUSSED THIS WITH YOU A LONG TIME AGO,” Wingdings admitted.

“Better late than never,” he chuckled with the slightest hint of nervousness, “but there is something that puzzles me.”

“AND WHAT IS THAT?”

“How did go about becoming the girl? You were very vague about the specifics earlier—in fact, there were no specifics at all,” Asgore asked.

“I NEVER DID ANYTHING EXTERNALLY—EXCEPT FOR DRAWING MY PERSONA MORE OFTEN,” so that’s what it’s called! “I DAYDREAMED DURING CLASS, I RECORDED EVERY INSTANCE I HAD THAT DREAM, WHICH WAS SEVENTEEN. I WOULD JUST THINK ABOUT BECOMING IT, BUT EVEN THEN I WOULD SEE MYSELF AS ‘HIM’. I COULD NOT BE ANYTHING ELSE BUT ‘HIM’.”

Asgore thought for a long while. With everything Wingdings gave him, it seemed like there was enough to formulate the explanation Wingdings needed. The fact that the girl always resembled Wingdings stuck to him. “I think I know what your problem is,” Asgore spoke up.

“AND THAT IS?” 

Asgore tried to find his words; sometimes he would open his mouth but close it again before he uttered a single word. But finally, after a long minute, he explained: “You were always that girl, Wingdings. From what I hear, you’re too accustomed to the preconceived notions of ‘you’ and what you are to accept yourself. I think that is why you feel incomplete. Going into denial is not helping; you cannot become what you already are,” he hoped that would help Wingdings; perhaps he was interpreting his dream incorrectly, but that’s what it sounded like to him.

Wingdings contemplated on the answer; one was hand on his chin and the other curled around said hand. His eyes were gazing at Asgore with those black, dilated pupils. 

He was correct.

But how does one come to terms with their identity?

Could he ever come to terms with his identity, and so late into his lifespan?

Would the people closest to him and the others that watch him from afar accept him for what he (supposedly) truly is?

“HOW DO I EVEN BEGIN ‘ACCEPTING MYSELF’?” Wingdings asked.

“Hmmm,” Asgore thought for a moment. Wingdings did say he liked being ‘it’, “Maybe we should start small, if you’re comfortable with that.”

“HOW SMALL?”

“A change in pronouns? You can finally be ‘it’, if you want to,” Asgore said. 

Wingdings hesitated; he really wanted to say yes, but should he? Would it feel as good in real life as it did in his dream? “COULD I PLEASE HEAR HOW THEY SOUND?”

“Of course— umm,” Asgore tried to think of a sentence;  “hmmm…um, ‘This is my friend; its name is Wingdings. …It is the most brilliant person I know’,” not his best work, but it was better than nothing.

Wingdings took another long pause. That sounded lovely; it made Wingdings feel fuzzy for whatever reason. 

It liked that.

“THAT SOUNDED BETTER THAN I EVER IMAGINED,” it said; its mouth curled into a slight smile.

“That’s amazing, Wing,” he said. The way Wingdings stared at him with those big black pupils—those deep voids—paired with that soft smile…he hasn’t seen it that happy in a long time, “I’m proud of you, I really am.”

“THANK YOU, BUT…” it paused, Asgore would not want to hear what it was about to say. Especially not after what he just said. 

“Yes?” Asgore asked. 

“I AM NOT SURE IF I AM CAPABLE OF GOING ANY FURTHER. THIS…” Wingdings placed a hand on its chest, “HAS NEVER GONE PAST MY DAYDREAMS. HOW DO I EVEN APPROACH THIS?”

“Think of it as—hm…an experiment!” Asgore exclaimed, paws once at the table now raised upward and blowing a puff of air into Wingdings’ face from the force, “you’ll ask your own questions, and try new things with varying results, and discuss your findings and feeling with people that are more experienced and have gone through the same process as you are going through now, and you’ll come to a conclusion that brings you closer to what you are.” He hoped his explanation made sense.

“OKAY. I GET IT KNOW, BUT I AM STILL HESITANT.”

Asgore held both of Wingdings’ minuscule hands in his paws, thumbing the sides of them, “I do not expect you to immediately accept yourself. From what I’ve heard, these things take time. I want you to go at your own pace. It’s fine if you are unsure of yourself; this is very new to you, after all.”

“THANK YOU, ASGORE.”

“It’s my pleasure. Even with my lack of knowledge, I hoped I’ve helped you even in the slightest,” Asgore said.

“YOU DID. TREMENDOUSLY.”

Apparently, it was 10 PM as Wingdings was about to leave. The journal was once again tucked away in its lab coat; it won’t be long until it showed up in a conversation again. Wingdings was in the main room of the house, and Asgore was beginning to say goodbye to it until it suddenly began walking to the left hallway.

“Wingdings, where are you going?” Asgore questioned.

“I FORGOT SOMETHING,” it replied.

Asgore chuckled; after that conversation, it definitely would’ve sparked something in Wingdings.

At the end of that hallway, there was a mirror. As Wingdings walked up to it, it could’ve sworn it saw that girl again—now a woman. 

Intrigued, Wingdings stirred closer, but it was gone as fast as it came. 

Even when it took off the mask, it didn’t appear.

This time around, Wingdings did not feel as incomplete, though.

Seeing it outside of its dream was invigorating.

It used to be just an old memory, and yet, that old memory is so close to be its reality. 

It was its body.

And it was beautiful.

Chapter Text

For the single day that passed by since it and Asgore talked, Wingdings has been considering the implications of its gender identity and expression. It spent at the last thirty minutes merely staring at its old persona and analyzing every detail of his design, and as it turned out, there was so much more that didn’t align with Wingdings’ ideal self now. 

Now that all these memories were resurfacing all at once, it could’ve sworn that the old version of Rouxls Kaard was supposed to have a high-pitched voice—similar to an adult woman’s voice, and he also had this tittering, maniacal laughter as well. Young Wingdings must’ve been insecure about its voice was getting deeper as it aged. Nowadays, it loved how smooth and deep its voice sounded.

Come to think of it, the only aspect of the old Rouxls Kaard design Wingdings truly wanted was breasts. It could easily make them with its slime, but it put the thought on the backburner for now. It imagined that they would annoyingly stick to its protruding rib cage like two overgrown tumors; it was near impossible that if it did had them, that they wouldn’t sag. 

That proposed an odd dilemma, however.

Its old persona was what its ideal body used to look like so long ago, a design so unbearably coded to be feminine, that Wingdings would have to clarify every time that he was a man every time someone caught it drawing him.

Now it seemed like the opposite was happening.

How ironic. 

When Wingdings will eventually come to terms with the reality that it was always the beautiful woman it thought it had to become, would outsiders treat it as such?

Even with a physique and voice that resembled a man’s?

Asgore was correct; it should seek out people who are going through or went through the same situation as it is right now. It won’t be difficult to find a local support group willing to hear its concerns. 

The next afternoon, Wingdings went on walking the streets of the Capital, hugging the nearest wall and glancing past every flyer it saw. Monsters in New Home paste these flyers to advertise their businesses and local events—along with the occasional ICE-E product. It couldn’t go anywhere in the Capital without seeing that uncanny ice block mascot.  

Annual Snail Eating Competition at the Capital Square
Winner gets 500G
Friday at 2:30 PM

NEW!! ICE-E Convertible PILLOW and STUFFED FRIEND
ENDLESS FUN and NEVER GETS WARM!
ONLY 35G!
AVAILABLE at YOUR local ICE-E MART

Whimsun Chorus Kids performing live this Sunday at 7PM
Hear them shriek in real time!

Nice Cream now comes in new cotton candy flavor!
Find me (the blue rabbit in the red tights) to buy it at just 15G

-Nice Cream Guy :]

Get this Dollar Duck figurine out of my sight I dont like how it looks at me
1G
I hate its big cigar and that smug grin it thinks its better than me

145th Purple Wall Road

It wasn’t until four more minutes into its search that it finally found what it was searching for—a flyer—right in between two ICE-E ads: 

Train Feathers Support Group
A place for monsters under the transgender umbrella to discuss everyday transgender issues or to just chat with new people!
Every Saturday and Sunday from 1 to 4 PM

162nd Red Leaf Lane

“Train Feathers”: an interesting name choice. Wingdings mentally took note of the address. It was one PM, so it should make it to the location in a timely manner before the group dismisses. Hopefully, this was what it needed.

And twenty two minutes later, it was in front of a building as grey as the other structures in the Capital, the only noticeable difference being the white feathers, placed in a jar, sitting on the windowsill. Peafowl feathers—that explains the name. The founder must’ve been a peafowl, it inquired.

Opening the door and glancing at the room, it was what Wingdings’ expected—with some minor exceptions: a handful of people sitting in folding chairs in an empty room. The walls were painted yellow and decorated with the occasional motivational cat poster. There was a bin beside the chairs filled with colorful plastic and rubber stress toys. Upon looking at the ground, it noticed a white rug in the vague shape of a peafowl feather where everyone was sitting.

The members didn’t seem to notice Wingdings’ presence, all of them deep in casual conversation. They were far too deep into it for Wingdings to understand, but it sounded like one of the monsters was going over a workplace story with the other members—a stout, impish monster with a single chartreuse eyeball and a row of carnivorous teeth. 

Wingdings took note of the other monsters in the group—wait, was that…Fritter Sweetooth? 

It was.

That green fur, that face shrouded in shadow, those sky blue eyes and mouth, that hideously bright yellow sweater—that was him alright.

Fritter was a long time worker at Royal Sciences LLC; since Wingdings took the role as the head Royal Scientist, the two of them have been closely working together. They were clumsy, anxiety ridden, and frequently made several impulsive decisions, at least causing half of the workplace accidents—if it wasn’t Wingdings already—but he was a kind soul under that edge, and was a joy to work with and have a drink with at whatever bar in Hotland.

It and their employees always knew he was transmasculine. In fact, they were witnesses to their transition. It could recall how blissfully joyous Fritter was when he announced that he was undergoing hormone therapy and was followed by everyone else celebrating and congratulating him. Fritter’s transition was practically seamless—just the blink of an eye, and he looked like a completely different monster.

Wingdings wondered if Fritter and the rest would act the same way to it.

There was a single empty chair under a ghost wearing a pink frilly cap; they wouldn’t mind if Wingdings sat there—they weren’t even using the seat. Wingdings walked up to the group without uttering a single word and sat down in the vacant seat. 

It was then it realized that almost everybody was staring at it wide-eyed and open-mouthed.

“HEY! That’s my chair! (ᗒᗣᗕ)՞” the ghost screeched, completely unfazed on the person who just walked in.

“APOLOGIES; I WILL GET MY OWN,” Wingdings got up and made its way to the stacked folding chairs and took one from the pile. It walked back and immediately plopped itself right next to Fritter.

Except for what the ghost previously said, and their whiny mumbles and nothings, silence still surrounded the room and the other members still remained flabbergasted. Until, finally, Fritter spoke up with a shout.

“DOCTOR GASTER?!” 

“WINGDINGS. WE ARE NOT IN THE LAB,” it replied. “YOU CAN STOP IT WITH THE FACES NOW.”

A leucistic peafowl monster was the second to speak up, “W-We’re sorry, Wingdings Gaster, we just—we weren’t expecting the royal scientist themself to just causally waltz into our little group, you know?” they strained, a nervous laugh coming out from their beak. 

“IT WAS A THIRTY MINUTE WALK FROM MY HOUSE TO HERE. I TAKE IT THAT YOU’RE THE FOUNDER OF TRAIN FEATHERS SUPPORT GROUP,” Wingdings inquired.

“What gave it away?” they said sarcastically, holding their wings out, “Train Feathers used to be a place for trans folk to talk about their issues, experiences and—we help them but, we haven’t had a new member since…months, so me and the friends I’ve made here just come in every weekend to—have an excuse to hangout,” they admitted.

“I SEE.”

“What are you doing here anyway?” Fritter asked, “Is it because of—”

“IT’S NOT BECAUSE OF YOU. I AM HERE FOR THE REASON THIS GROUP WAS ORCHESTRATED IN THE FIRST PLACE. ONLY RECENTLY I LEARNED I WAS A WOMAN THROUGH A JOURNAL I KEPT IN MY ADOLESCENCE—I’M SURE I STILL HAVE IT,” Wingdings went through each of its lab coat pockets until it pulled it out from inside the coat.

“READ IT IF YOU’D LIKE,” it handed the lilac journal to the peafowl.

“Thanks,” the peafowl opened the journal and skimmed through the pages until found they found something significantly interesting. There were consecutive pages of the same recounting of a dream, all written in wingdings. They picked up a bit of the cipher from Fritter—okay, okay the snowflake was the ‘T’, the flag was the ‘O’, teardrop was ‘S’, hand pointing left was ‘E’, hand pointing right was ‘F’…what was the peace sign again?

“You’re struggling with the cipher, aren’t you?” asked Fritter, cocking his furry brow.

“No…” The peafowl took another glance at the journal entry, “Okay, I am,” they admitted, their shoulders going limp.

“Lemme help,” he got up from his chair, and walked to where the peafowl was sitting. Fritter put a paw on the paper and guided them as they figured out the code together:

THREE TIMES I HAD THAT DREAM.

IF ONLY IT COULD BE LONGER.

I WANT TO SEE ALL OF THAT GIRL.

NOT JUST ITS FACE.

I WANT TO RELISH IN THAT REFLECTION FOREVER.

TO FEEL THE BEAUTY I LACK.

SOMEDAY.

SOMEDAY I WILL.

“AFTER THE KING DISCOVERED MY JOURNAL BY ACCIDENT, WE DISCUSSED MY RESURFACED FEELINGS TOGETHER—I HAVE NEVER FELT MORE COMFORTABLE IN MY BODY UP UNTIL THAT MOMENT, BUT I COULD NOT HELP BUT WONDER…COULD I HAVE A STRESS BALL?” Wingdings’ gaze drifted from the white peafowl to the whimsun with the red tie, who was sitting closest to the bin; their gaze currently fixated on their own stress ball which was the same color as the only of clothing they wore.

They stiffened when they realized that question was directed towards them. They glanced at the bin, then back at Wingdings. Leaning down, they picked up a blue stress ball and handed it to the imp monster. The imp nodded at them, and tossed the ball at Wingdings’ direction. It promptly caught it.

“Achille ain’t talkative to new people,” the imp explained.

“UNDERSTANDABLE,”  Wingdings stretched that ball to its limits, pulling it like it was a lump of slime and squishing back into place, “ANYWAY, I’VE REALIZED THAT MY IDEAL SELF DOESN’T CORRELATE TO WHAT CONVENTIONAL WOMANHOOD LOOKS LIKE. I DO NOT WANT TO CHANGE MY VOICE NOR MY BODY. I’M ACTUALLY QUITE CONTENT WITH MYSELF.”

The peafowl’s eyes widened under their square glasses. Perhaps it‘s issue was more uncommon than it thought.

“I AM…AFRAID THAT I WILL NOT BE PERCEIVED AS A WOMAN.”

“We’ll talk about this soon—Guys, can you believe we forgot to introduce ourselves to Wingdings?” The peafowl slammed the journal shut and gave it back to Wingdings, “I’m Anartia, my pronouns are she/her—you go next Sheen.”

“Sheen, they/it,” they glanced Achille, who shook their head ‘no’, “Achille’s is he/him.”

“Capstablook, a-and I go by it/its!”

Fritter giggled, “You already know who I am.” It does, but they never truly knew it until now, didn’t they?

“MY NAME IS WINGDINGS GASTER—AS YOU ALL KNOW, ‘HE’ IS ACCEPTABLE, BUT FOR NOW I SOLEY WANT TO BE REFERRED TO AS ‘IT’.”

Wingdings looked around to see all the other’s reactions. They were all smiling at it, except for Capstablook, who was pretending not to listen for whatever reason.

“It’s great to have you here,” Fritter said, putting a paw on its shoulder. He was genuine.

“THANK YOU.” 

“Actually, my partner’s getting burgers for all of us! I could call xem if you want anything,” Anartia offered.

Hm, the only other thing it ate today was a single hard boiled egg; it could go for a regular chain burger. “YES. PLEASE.”

“I’ll call xem,” Anartia pulled out her phone and dialed her partner’s number. Xe picked up almost immediately, “hey Bee—yeah, you won’t believe who just walked into Train Feathers—Gaster like, THE Wingdings Gaster,” she exclaimed.

Wingdings could hear a low and muffled ‘THE ROYAL SCIENTIST?!’ from the receiver. That incited a laugh from both Fritter and Sheen.

“YEAH I KNOW! Anyway, it wants something from Fi-Do Burger, are you on your way back? Okay, good,” she turned to look at Wingdings, “What do you want from Fi-Do?”

“…CHEESEBURGER.”

“Okay…Wingdings wants a cheese—”

“LARGE SODA.”

Anartia gave Fritter a confused look; they merely shrugged in response. “And a large soda—yeah, okay, I love you too—you too,” she hung up. 

“QUITE THE CELEBRITY, AM I?” It joked, nudging Fritter with its shoulder.

Fritter cackled at that notion, “Oh, fuck no!!” Thinking about his boss’ shenanigans as front page news was a terrifying thought, come to think of it.“The masses would be breaking down your doorstep with torches and pitchforks if they ever knew what went on in the lab!!”

It put its hands on its mask as it laughed, accidentally adjusting it to show a portion of its actual mouth peeking out. It caught a glimpse at Capstablook staring and it wide-eyed and enamored. It immediately looked away.

“You…You FREAK!! Why would I EVER want to look at YOU!?!? It’s not like I LIKE looking you or anything!!<(｀^´)>”

“(●__●) ?”

Chapter Text

Bee came with their food shortly after. Anartia clarified that Bee wasn’t a pet name and that was xyr actual name. Wingdings wasn’t sure to expect from a name like that, but when it took a look at the red, burly hornet that could barely fit through the doorframe, and challenged Asgore in size, wearing a frilly and pink crop top and long skirt—xe exceeded those expectations. Bee was a pretty woman.

The royal scientist was the first figure Bee caught in as xe walked in with two bags of fast food and two crates of drinks with xyr extra limbs. Wow—it was really it—in the flesh, or rather goop—and it wasn’t there to mess with Fritter like in their stories. “No way you weren’t joking,” xe mused.

“YOU MUST BE BEE,” Wingdings greeted. It should’ve worded that correctly; maybe it was just its voice and tone but it sounded like it was ordering Bee to ‘bee-bee’. Sheen was right; xe should’ve picked a better name.

“GIMMIE, GIMMIE, GIMMIE!!” Before Anartia was able to respond to Bee’s statement, Capstablook darted to the bag in search of the ghost chili cheese fries it ordered along with its ghost soda. It had its whole head deep inside the bag and was rabid like a kid on Gyftmas morning.

“Come on, Caps, I didn’t even take two steps from the door!” Bee complained, rolling xyr eyes, even the simple eyes.

“Yep, I wasn’t kidding,” Anartia spoke up and shrugged.

“WHERE ARE MY FRIES?! YOU FORGOT MY FRIES!!” Capstablook poked its head out of the bag and pouted.

“You sure it ain’t in the other bag?” Sheen pointed out.

“Oh. I KNEW THAT!” it stuck its head to the second bag and pulled out its ghost fries—“Yippie!!” then it gripped its transparent ghost soda and floated back to its seat. Bee sighed and shook xyr head.

Bee proceeded to pass everyone else’s meals, except for Capstablook, who was already engorging on the fine delicacy known as chili cheese fries. Achille was the first to get his food, being a veggie burger with a bottle of water—he wasn’t one for carbonated beverages or ICE-E slushies, and Fi-Do didn’t serve any juice or nectar options, so he opted for the taste of mineral water instead.

Anartia had plain fries and a medium soda, Sheen had a BBQ bacon burger with an extra large cherry ICE-E slushie, Fritter only wanted chicken nuggets and an orange soda, and Bee got xemself a double cheeseburger with fries and a blueberry slushie—of course, Wingdings got its cheeseburger and large soda.

The look on Anartia’s and Capstablook’s faces when they watched it shove the whole burger into its slimy mouth as it made a disgusting popping sound, its cheeks stretched to accommodate the size, and how it swallowed the thing without it chewing and choking to death was priceless.

Anartia’s beak was opened somehow even wider than when she saw Wingdings walk in for the first time—and Capstablook was somehow captivated by its way of eating, its eyes even sparkled and its cheeks flushed a hot pink. Strange.

“W-WHAT?! I don’t think that’s HOT. Why would you suggest that? (￣□￣|||)” Capstablook turned away.

“No one even…Forget it,” Sheen caught itself before speaking anymore; inciting an argument with Capstablook was like poking a wasp nest. “Does it always do that?” it asked Fritter.

“Yeah; it’s normal for hi—it…it. I’m pretty desensitized at this point,” Fritter explained. “You don’t seem too shocked yourself.” Unlike poor Anartia, who looked like she witnessed a murder.

“Not gonna judge,” it simply said. 

“Does it have to make those noises though?” Achille finally spoke up, his voice barely above a whisper as it talked to Sheen.

“I AM NOT IN CONTROL OF THE VISCERAL SOUNDS MY BODY PRODUCES. I UNDERSTAND IF IT MAKES ANY OF YOU UNCOMFORTABLE,” Wingdings said.

“It’s fine, it’s fine—We’ll get used to it,” Bee said.

Wingdings nodded and removed the lid of its soda. It just had the most amazing idea; a knowing smile formed on its face. 

“SHEEN EYEWALKER, COULD I PLEASE HAVE A DRINK FROM YOUR CHERRY SLUSHIE?” it asked.

Oh, no, no, NO! “DO NOT GIVE IT YOUR DRINK, FOR THE ANGEL’S SAKE—DON’T,” Fritter screeched.

Sheen squinted and raised their single eyebrow, “Is it tryin’ to pick on me?” 

“Not exactly, but—”

“I’M MAKING MY JUICE.”

“Juice?” 

“It calls it its… ‘juice’. It’s like this inside joke it and Sans had in the lab where they convinced me to hand over my soda, and then they proceeded to dump the whole bottle into Doctor Gaster’s cup…I’ve never screamed so loud in my life,” Fritter recounted.

Damn, how they hated that skeleton; the moment he came to work the first day, and they felt that stupid whoopee cushion between their hands, he knew his shifts were about to get so much worse. How the fuck was he an essential worker?

Sheen couldn’t help but smile—seeing this never before seen side of the royal scientist was certainly an interesting experience to unfold; it was like they were at the Eyewalker family reunion and watching the little cousins again, “Okay, but that’s actually kinda funny.”

“IT WAS.”

“ANYWAY—” Fritter eyed Wingdings, “It genuinely liked the ‘juice’ and started mixing its sodas together for fun. I don’t know why you like it, but more power to you, I guess?” There was a distinct reason Fritter liked Wingdings more than Sans. With Sans, it felt like every conversation with the guy was a set up for one of his bits. Like they would go out to dinner after work, and he would be there, on stage, recounting the time Fritter Sweetooth slipped on a chemical spill that he caused and he asked for them to clean up, just to end the whole thing with some stupid pun like “that guy got whiskered-away” or something stupid like that. 

With Wingdings, its strangeness was never a joke. Sure, it could get out of hand sometimes, but Fritter could sit down and have a heart-to-heart with it, no pranks or puns or anything. Wingdings’ eccentricities were what made it Wingdings.

“COULD I HAVE YOUR ORANGE FLAVORED CARBONATED DRINK THEN?” Wingdings asked.

“…Just drink yours already,” Fritter downed the remaining soda as a way to reiterate they weren’t “sharing” with it. Wingdings merely shrugged with a smile.

Everyone was finished soon enough, and Bee picked up their trash and went to dispose of it outside.

“I’m sorry if it felt like I was ignoring you. I needed time to think about what I read,” Wingdings heard Anartia say.

“I NEVER THOUGHT YOU WERE,” it assured her.

“Thanks but, I just—y’know, when I was reading those passages—and what you said earlier—it was like I was looking back at an old memory—memories that well-didn’t belong to me, but—” Anartia stopped herself, “What I’m trying to say is that I had similar feelings to you when I was coming to terms with my gender identity,” she explained.

“REALLY.” 

“Yeah,” She stood up from her chair, “Peahens don’t tend to have—” Anartia’s tail rose upward; she shook them open to reveal a display of pearly white feathers. Much to the dismay of Achille and Sheen, who were sitting next to her and had their faces smacked by them, “these.” 

“Put your tail down! I can’t see shit!” Sheen protested, blowing out the feathers on its face. She better do it before Bee comes back too; seeing xem all flustered gives the whole group second-hand embarrassment.

“Sorry—” she grimaced. Anartia deflated her tail, and sat back down, “ ‘just an example. Um, I was also afraid of not being seen as a hen because train feathers were something only reserved for peacocks. I was ashamed of what I was—and that I’ll never fit into the perfect box of what a peahen was supposed to be. But then I met Bee,” just when Anartia was about to elaborate, xe showed up, “Oh, perfect timing! I was just about to explain to Wingdings about how you helped me.”

“Oh really?” Bee walked over to where Anartia was sitting and put xyr upper arms on the top rail of her chair, “Back when we were just getting to know each other, Annie said somethin’ like ‘what’s the point of transitioning if I’m just gonna look like a peacock anyway?’, and I said something like—‘You look different, but that’s what makes you well…you. Embrace that, break the rules and make them your own. No one’s here to stop you.’ And apparently, that worked!” Bee laughed sheepishly.

“You were a great help,” Anartia put a wing on Bee’s arm, and gazed into xyr huge, beady eyes—and then turned her attention back to Wingdings, “What Bee said got me reevaluating myself, and eventually I started embracing my train feathers—if that wasn’t obvious enough. I redefined what they meant to me, and what they mean to me is individuality; I can’t imagine myself without my train feathers anymore, and I didn’t need to fit in the conventional mold of what a peahen should look like…Did you get all that?”

“YES.”

Anartia sighed, “Okay, okay—good. I guess my advice is…um, don’t let these imaginative rules of what a woman should be get to you, ‘cuz at the end of the day, um—god how do I explain this—okay, being a woman should be what it means to you, and not what it means to everybody else. …Does that make sense?”

“YES. I UNDERSTAND. IT WAS A LOVELY STORY, BUT I AM STILL SURE MY IDEA OF FEMININITY IS FAR BEYOND THE CONVENTION.”

“And? Look at us! There is not a single monster in this room that looks similar to one another! I would argue that there isn’t a convention!” Bee exclaimed, “That’s the beauty of the monster race—So are you going to let your incompetence stop you from being happy? I sure hope not.”

Wingdings didn’t utter a word. Was it making excuses for itself? “…I AM STILL LEFT TO WONDER WHAT THE MASSES WILL THINK OF THIS REVELATION.” Bee gave it a disappointed look.

Achille opened his mouth, but no words came out from it, except for a booming. “UH—” That garnered both Wingdings’ and Capstablook’s attention. Achille was sure Wingdings was willing to listen to the advice he was planning to say, but Capstablook’s stare…that blank stare and those glittering white eyes…

“Ignore it; jus’ take your time,” he heard Sheen say. This wasn’t the first time Capstablook stared at Achille to intimidate him, and it won’t be the last. What was so important for Caps to say before he does? “Okay…” he said, much more hush this time.

He knew the words, he knew what he wanted to say, but it was just so hard to strangle them out of his mouth and give them to Wingdings so it could make its own conclusions. It didn’t help that he knew Capstablook was about to pounce in and steal his spotlight. What does it see in it anyway? They’re not even the same flavors of weird.

Achille finally spoke up, just before Caps was going to but in, “The people closest to you should be the ones that support you. Don’t draw attention to the people that don’t. Fritter and the king already do, right?”

“DO YOU, FRITTER?” Wingdings turned to look at them.

“What ‘you mean? Of course I do, and I’m sure Budgie, and Retusa, and Sans would support you too—if you’re ready to tell them that is,” Fritter said. It took months after Fritter came out as trans to his mom to do the same for his coworkers, but there’s no way in hell they’re telling them that. 

“THANK YOU,” it nodded. “YOU’VE BEEN A GREAT FRIEND TO ME.”

“And you have too in your own…fucked up way,” Fritter said with a chuckle at the end.

“I guess my 2g in the whole advice thing is even with everythin’ we’re telling you, you gotta make decisions by yourself. You can’t just sit there and twiddle your thumbs; you gotta have some agency. This is your story, not ours,” Sheen explained.

“I REALIZE THAT. BUT I AM NOT THE MOST CONFIDENT YET,” Wingdings rebutted.

“You were confident enough to show your face here,” Sheen countered. Yes, it did do that.

“And you gave me your journal, that was pretty crazy to do for a person you literally just met,” added Anartia. That too.

“I WAS FOLLOWING ASGORE’S ADVICE,” Wingdings said.

“Sheen no offense, but you could’ve worded that a lot better,” Bee noted.

“None taken.”

“Taking the king’s advice was agency, because you also could’ve ignored him. Seeking advice from a support group was a great first step into your of self-discovery; what really matters is that you’re actually using the advice given,” Bee clarified. Okay, that made more sense now.

“ACTUALLY—” Capstablook butted in, blocking Wingdings’ view from Bee. “For the past TWO YEARS, I’ve been going around the dump every day to find the perfect body: a Concorde…humans stopped flying them two years ago ‘cuz they were too expensive to operate, SOOOOO…I’ve been trying to find one ever since!! Unlike the dummies my lineage traditionally uses as bodies, Concordes are slender, luxurious aircrafts that can travel at supersonic speeds!! They’re the first of their kind too!! Ah, imagine me, in my pink mob cap, soaring through the skies without a care in the world…I could be the first monster to see the curves of the Earth below me…(◕‿◕✿)”

“WHAT DOES THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ANYTHING.”

“It’s how Caps embraces its femininity!” Anartia shrugged. Since it joined, Anartia and the rest of the gang know more about planes than probably most monsters who were raised on the surface do—at least Concordes. “I’ll reiterate: being a woman is what you define it to be.”

“Y-YEAH! That was totally what I was going for!” It grimaced.

“AND. HOW SHOULD I GO ABO—”

“WINGDINGS OH MY GOD,” Fritter screeched, “How many times do we have to tell you the same damn sentences just so they can retain in your brainless head?!”

“Isn’t that a little mean?” Achille pointed out.

“Oh no, it actually doesn’t have a brain,” Fritter deadpanned. 

“HE IS CORRECT…” Was it missing something? What information did it not retain? Was it even ready? “GO ON.”

“Alright,” Fritter inhaled, “IT IS UP TO YOU TO DEFINE WHAT WOMANHOOD MEANS TO YOU!” Fritter took in another breath, “It is no one else’s responsibility! Update your wardrobe, look at yourself in the mirror, just do something! Transitioning is ugly sometimes, you’re going to be confused, you’re going to be disappointed, you’re going to be angry, and that’s okay!! You’re going to be happy eventually, you’re going to be beautiful for the rest of your life, and I don’t believe anyone that loves you is opposed to that! Sans, Budgie, Retusa, Asgore, your wife—that bartender you like—they would all want what’s best for you, and what’s best for you is your happiness! How many times do I have to yell at your face for you that to realize that?!”

Only once. 

Only once, Fritter.

That once seemingly unreachable daydream was closer than ever before, all it had to do was take those few steps toward it, but they felt painful—a body slowly collapsing in on itself each time it made contact with the ground. This wasn’t supposed to happen; it wasn’t supposed to actually live that daydream. The woman hides away every time it looked into that reflection. Was it ready for the pain? Was the pain even real? This should be so easy…

“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE TO ME.”

“Did I say something wrong?” Fritter asked. Wingdings merely held his paws. 

“I AM AFRAID,” Wingdings admitted.

Fritter sighed, their hands tightened around its own in a gentle squeeze, “And it’s okay to be afraid, too.”

This afternoon was meant to be a serious one for Asgore. He and Undyne were supposed to be discussing the recent “cryptid sightings” near Blook Acres—over tea, of course. Napstablook in particular has been reporting a “floor mop” mingling with the other snails and then disappearing when they catch a glimpse of it. They were incredibly distraught of that notion. 

Asgore would’ve been paying attention if that rectangular device in his pocket didn’t keep going—

DING

DING 

DING

“…It doesn’t pose a threat so—DO YOU EVER PUT YOUR PHONE ON SILENT?!” Undyne asked with a cackle.

“Only when I’m gardening,” Asgore replied, “I believe I know who’s texting me—I just need a moment,” and that person will not stop texting him until it gets a reply. Asgore pulled out his phone from his back pocket, and it was no surprise when he saw the name ‘Wingdings’ in the top of his screen.

Wingdings: ASGORE.
Wingdings: ASGORE LOOK.

Under those two messages was an image of Wingdings along with two other monsters, its coworker, Fritter, and a white peafowl. They were smiling.

Wingdings: I WENT TO TRAIN FEATHERS.
Wingdings: I FEEL BETTER.

If it weren’t for his giant fingers, Asgore would’ve typed out a more meaningful message, but this would have to do:

Asgore: Im glad :) u look happy <3

Chapter Text

Gabriola was dumbfounded.

She only just pulled out a dress she didn’t recognize from out of her side of the closet, and now Wingdings was staring at her like he was caught red-handed. 

What was there to worry about?

It began when she woke up that morning and noticed that Wingdings’ face was planted on the back of her skull. This would’ve been a tender moment if it weren’t for the fact that Wingdings is part slime, and if she woke up less tired.

Gabriola begrudgingly rolled out of bed and put on her glasses. She turned to look at the face of her husband, his features all jumbled up and smushed—it looked like he was flattened by a rolling pin, and even after that he was still asleep and making those soft gurgles as he breathed in and out. She barely held back her snickers as she watched.

She resisted the urge to touch the back of her skull—like she didn’t know there was already slime, and what was the point of dirtying her hands also with the sticky, almost phlegm-like substance. It was ‘bout time she took a shower anyway.

She walked to the closet the both of them shared; Gabriola’s clothes were on the left, Wingdings’ were on the right. Though, it was incredibly cramped, barely enough to fit everything they had. She only wanted to dress comfortably today, especially after it was raining in the Capital for the first time in months. She just had to churn out her latest poem idea before the day ended.

The pitter patter of raindrops on their roof, the chill water soaking her bones and clothing as she stepped outside and just—took it all in, the scent of wet asphalt, and all of that without the crowds the Capital usually had. It was just her and the rain: an intimacy that she had for as long as she could remember, and she couldn’t wait to put it on paper again.

Opening the closet, Gabriola picked out a plain white T-shirt and—where were the sweatpants.

She skimmed through her clothes, trying to find a single pair of sweatpants in her side of the closet. They couldn’t all be in the laundry bin, and she really did not want to wear jeans, or even her favorite orange pants—too snug.

Gabriola went to the very end of her side, surely there had to be something she shoved—huh? 

That’s new.

There was a dress at the end of the closet—a long, black dress—that ended at the tibias—with a frilly navy blue neckline and collar and puffy, medium-length sleeves. The price tag was still attached to it, but she never recalled buying a dress like that.

Hell, the dress wasn’t even anything she would wear; it was far too casual and far too desaturated for her to ever wear that for any special occasion (if she even did wear one), and the hemline was too long and loose for her to comfortably move around in it; she could see herself getting annoyed quickly—one closer look and there wasn’t even a hole for her tail to slip in.

So why was it on her side of the closet?

Wingdings bought it—there was no doubt about that, and it couldn’t have been a gift because he knew she wore no clothes like that. Was it possible that this was an attempt at hiding the dress from her? Maybe. It was certainly something he would wear.

But why would he even hide it from her? She’s seen him wear long skirts before, and he took pride in that. Was it because she said skirts were for girls when they were kids?! Has he internalized that twenty-nine years later?! Was that her fault?! Yeah—it would, but—no, wait no, that’s stupid; Wingdings had educated her so much since then; there was no way he would double down on something she said when she was fifteen.

Gabriola pulled out the dress from the closet and ran her hand through the fabric. She could confront him later, but that would be an invasion of his privacy, wouldn’t it? Whatever reason Wingdings had to hide it, it wasn’t too big of a deal for her to point it out to him—he might not even be ready to discuss! She should put it back in the closet and try to forget about it.

“GABRIOLA.”

“WINGDINGS!!”

Gabriola turned around, dress still in her hands. His face was still smushed, and she blew out a raspberry as she spoke up—it was never not funny—“How long have you been awake for?!”

“FIVE SECONDS.”

“Oh—um, I know I wasn’t ‘sposed to find this,” she said, eye sockets on floor. If she looked at Wingdings while he resembled a mud pie at this moment, she would not take him seriously and eventually cackle in his face, “Sorry ‘bout that.”

Wingdings parted its gaze from Gabriola and stared at the dress she held. It knew it eventually had to talk to Gabi about its newfound gender identity, but it’s been putting off that conversation for awhile now. Not that it never wanted to tell its wife, it was not its top priority—again, and it was dubious on what her reaction would be—considering that she’s known it as a man and kept perpetuating that it dressing feminine didn’t make it a woman when they were younger. Not that it wasn’t wrong; gender and gender expression is incredibly nuanced—it was just a little embarrassing.

“THAT DRESS SIGNIFIES A MUCH LARGER SECRET I’VE BEEN HIDING FROM YOU,” Wingdings blurted out. 

“Oh?” Gabriola went through all the hypothetical scenarios in her head; was he hiding more dresses like this one? No, that would be a too silly of a conclusion. If Wingdings was getting in touch with his feminine side more, he couldn’t be that embarrassed to not tell her. There had to be more that he wasn’t letting on. Could it be that he was…no, no—that had to be too far of a reach.

“I SEE YOU’RE PIECING TOGETHER WHAT COULD I POSSIBLY KEEP FROM YOU FOR SO LONG,” Wingdings pointed out. Even when her sight was on the carpeting, it could still make out the puzzled on her face.

“How long?” Gabriola cocked a brow.

“A MONTH,” he replied.

What was so important that Wingdings would keep a secret from her for a whole month? …Maybe her initial assumption was right, but that was too direct of a claim to blurt in front of him. And if she was wrong, that would be incredibly awkward. She’ll just ease into it right after they both get out of their pajamas and he(?)—they(?)—when Wingdings’ face is fixed.

“Do you want to tell me your secret?” Gabriola turned away from Wingdings and placed back the dress from its depths. Wingdings noticed the giant blotch of slime running down her occipital bone. “It’s a pretty dress, by the way,” she added, “I like the collar; it’s very…refined.”  

It shouldn’t keep Gabriola in the dark for any longer—she would be the third person closest to it to learn about its revelation of itself. It felt right that she was going to be the next person to know. 

“I AM READY. I ONL—”

“Wait, wait, wait,” Gabriola cut Wingdings off, repeating the same cutting hand gesture, “I think it’s smart if we both at least get dressed—I don’t feel fresh enough to think clearly,” she pulled out a pair of black jeans from the closet, and turned back to Wingdings; a hush snicker escaped from her mouth, “And you—,” she held back a laugh, “you know, you know. I’m gonna take a shower.” And like that, she walked away with clothes in hand, and she was gone. 

It was its face, wasn’t it? 

Gabriola was downstairs waiting for it, and Wingdings didn’t even change out of its fleece pajamas. The closet was still open, it could pluck that dress out and come downstairs wearing it…Gabriola does like it. 

This would be the first time it would ever wear something such as this. 

That intense aching in its chest was an indication that it shouldn’t, but simultaneously, that yearning deep within it was at its limit. It wanted to show all of it, to finally be the woman it always was—all it had to do was go downstairs with that dress on. 

All it had to do was take that single step, and reach out into the closet.

So who should it listen to? 

Would it be worth it?

Gabriola would never look at Wingdings the same way again, for better or for worse.

Would it be ready for such a change—to have someone’s perception of it—someone that spends every waking day with it—to be altered forever?

Hands—its hands stared back at it. Usually it never allowed those extra sockets to do that—to see all of it, but, today was different. 

It needed to see all of it.

A figure, tall and looming, stared back at those sockets. Perhaps it was the disfigured face—eyes too squinted, their lids melting over them, and a nose that far more closely resembled a nasal cavity.

The figure fixed that face; fingering its sclera back into its circular shape, and sculpting its nose the way it was before. It was itself again, but even then, this self was still inefficient—even after a month later. 

That sense to be whole still lingered.

Wingdings was taking an awfully long time upstairs. While Gabriola was waiting, she made use of those long minutes by scribbling down rough drafts of possible rain poems, taking breaks in between to chew on her ballpoint pen. Chewing always helped her think. The grays of New Home bothered her so much more than the purples of Home. New Home was somehow an even more homogeneous blur of color, but in those trivial moments when rain came to the Underground besides Waterfall, those grays finally became easier on the eyes with the darkened, desaturated atmosphere that came with the rain. She could write about that sometime.

Draft #1

Come back to me, come back to me

I won’t hide away in my bedroom

I won’t linger inside

I won’t sit my porch when you beckon me to come by

I won’t fuss about my clothes getting damp

I won’t clean my glasses when the air condenses 

I yearn to embrace you with all of my senses

Come back to me, please come back to me 

I can’t stand for unchanging days any longer

I yearn for the new and the exciting 

I yearn for memories past behind me

I’ll miss you, I’ll miss you

I won’t leave you alone

 I yearn for your return

It was a bit rough around the edges—the word ‘condenses’ didn’t flow as well with the first five lines. That was something that particularly bothered her, and maybe she could shorten that fourth line too. Gabriola took another frustrated bite from her pen—poor thing has seen better days.

Too lost in thought, she didn’t hear the door open from upstairs or the footsteps that came afterwards. It all became very clear when a dark figure appeared from the corner of her vision, standing still next to the couch she was lounging on. 

“GABRIOLA,” she heard Wingdings’ deep, booming voice. She put her pen inside the spirals of her notepad and buried the open page  into her chest. She looked up to see Wingdings, but far from the Wingdings she knew.

Wingdings was wearing the dress from earlier, along with an added belt to hug Wingdings’ waist, she guessed. Wingdings stared at her with that porcelain mask, white eyelights activated; she could only imagine what kind of nervous expression Wingdings had under that mask, and how dilated Wingdings’ eyes were. Arms were crossed over Wingdings’ chest, like Wingdings’ was still concealing something from Gabriola. Wingdings hands grasped those puffy sleeves, and those extra eye sockets were staring right into her.

A light blush formed on her cheekbones. Wingdings…

Wingdings was beautiful.

“I…I AM,” Wingdings paused. It should be so simple to take those next two words out of its mouth, but yet it still struggled, “A WOMAN…” it managed to say with a voice much lower.

Gabriola’s sockets widened. She somewhat expected this, but it was still so shocking. This was certainly a turn for their marriage, to say the least. “How…How long you’ve been feelin’ like this?” she asked.

“SINCE MY ADOLESCENCE,” Wingdings parted its vision from Gabriola, “I HAVE SUCCESSFULLY SUPPRESSED THOSE THOUGHTS UNTIL RECENTLY,” it explained. “WHEN I WAS CLEANING MY DESK, AND FOUND MY OLD JOURNAL, ALL THOSE THOUGHTS CAME BACK TO ME.”  

“Oh…why didn’t you tell me this?” Gabriola continued asking.

“AT THE TIME, MY YEARNING WAS NOTHING MORE THAN YEARNING. I WAS AFRAID, I BELIEVE—AND TRAPPED IN PREDISPOSED NOTIONS OF ‘HIM’,” and it still was afraid, but it couldn’t tell Gabriola that. “YOU WOULD NOT HAVE HELPED ME.”

“You’re right,” she said, “So you’re a woman now,” Gabriola stated.

“I ALWAYS WAS,” it replied, “ASGORE HELPED ME REALIZE THAT, BUT IT WAS DIFFICULT GETTING COMFORTABLE IN MY OWN SLIME AFTERWARDS. THAT’S WHY I WAS GOING TO THAT ‘SOCIAL GROUP’. I MET A VERY LOVELY GROUP OF MONSTERS THERE. FRITTER WAS THERE, TOO.”

“Wow…” Gabriola set her notepad aside on the coffee table, “This is a lot to take in. So you’re no longer a ‘he’, are you?” 

“I STILL AM. I AM FAR TOO USED TO THAT PRONOUN. I WOULD RATHER BE REFERRED TO BY ‘IT’,” Wingdings clarified. These questions were getting to it. What would Gabriola think of it now? Would they even still be married after the shock wears off? Wingdings knew about her attraction to the feminine form, but would she want to stay married with someone she knew as a man for the entirety of their relationship?

“Okay, okay, okay,” Gabriola repeated, each repetition being more hush than the last. “Is your name still Wingdings?”

“YES, I HAVE NO REASON TO CHANGE MY NAME,” was she done with the questions now? Standing in this same spot was straining. Did it make the right decision? Would Gabriola love it less?

“I-I’m sorry for bombarding you with all these questions. I’m still a little shocked, honestly,” she sighed.

“I SHOULD BE SORRY.” Wingdings blurted out, clenching its sleeves tighter.

“Sorry for what?”

“I DON’T…I DON’T…I…I SHOULD NOT HAVE TOLD YOU. I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY, I’M SORRY…”it repeated in that same monotone voice. 

Gabriola’s expression faded into one of sorrow for her lover. “Wingdings…” she got up from the couch, and walked towards it. She placed a hand on its’ hand; it was still clenching its shoulder. “I’m sorry if it seemed like I’m upset with you. I’m not. I love you, and what would it say for me to not approve of what makes you the happiest? I’m still bewildered but, I-I want to support you in any way I can.” 

“THANK YOU…” it drawled, “DOUBTING YOU WAS A MISTAKE.” 

“That’s not somethin’ I’m gonna drag you on about,” she said. She parted her gaze from Wingdings for just a moment, and her mouth curled into a toothy grin, “Actually, I do have one more question.”

“AND THAT IS?”

Gabriola cupped Wingdings’ cheeks; she could feel its face getting warmer from her gentle touch.“Does that make you my wife now?”

Wingdings’ arms finally moved out of its crossed position, its left hand covered that crescent shaped smile painted on its mask—phalanges gripping the porcelain, “YOUR WIFE…”

“Yeah, my wife—If that’s what you want.” That blush on her cheekbones was even redder now.

“I’D LIKE THAT. I’D LIKE THAT A LOT.”

“Then it’s official?” Gabriola chuckled nervously. 

“WHAT IS?”

“Uhh—what did I mean by that?” Gabriola mumbled, “You being my wife?” she shrugged.

“YES. I AM YOUR WIFE,” that felt nice to say lot loud. Very, very nice. Thank the Angel it was still wearing the mask; it was sure its face was melting from all this whiplash of emotion and romance.

Gabriola leaned in closer, “You make a pretty woman,” she complimented.

Wingdings went silent; it honestly never expected anyone to call it pretty, or beautiful, or gorgeous in this form—that felt like an impossibility, but Gabriola just said that in its face, and it felt right. It was pretty.

“I DO. I REALLY DO…”

And it never felt happier.