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Your whole face feels sore, sinuses swollen and eyes stinging from the hours of sobbing you’d been doing. You look the mess too, lips dry and cracked, face stained with old, runny mascara and tears. The knotted mess your hair is in isn’t much better.
The sound of metal scraping against marble brings your eyes from the mirror to the old pair scissors being pressed hard between your hand and the kitchen sink. Staring at them makes your mouth twist into a harsh scowl.
Your hair tugs slight where he pulls it, and you glance over at him with a questioning hum.
He grins at you, eyes full of loving mirth. “You’re growing your hair out, it looks good.”
Heartbroken rage swells in your gut at the memory, and you take the scissors and a hank of your hair and shear it off with uneven chops. You watch as the strands drop to the sink in the moor, angry tears starting anew. Taking in the uneven hack-job, you snarl and repeat the process on the other side.
Fuck him. You hope he chokes on his regret.
When your hair is as short as you’re willing to risk, you drop the scissors into the sink with your hacked off hair and leave the bathroom.
Only to stop in your tracks, surprise making your face go slack. Your cheeks and forehead tingle at the new expression, but you ignore it in favor of staring at Papyrus standing in the middle of your living room with his hands on his hips.
His eye lights sweep over you, sharp teeth pulling his neutral frown into a downright scowl. Insecurity grips at you suddenly, and while usually you’d brush it off you’re too sore from the recent betrayal to do anything but sink into your shoulders.
“You Look Like Shit,” he comments, and the words feel like a shard of glass in your heart. It doesn’t take much to recover (to break even further) so you do the first thing that comes to mind.
You grab the vase sitting on the hallway table (that hasn’t been filled with flowers in a long time— he hasn’t given you flowers in so long you should have seen this coming—) and chuck it in Papyrus’ direction with an enraged cry.
“Shut up!” you shout, indignation and despair swelling when Papyrus just side steps the vase so it shatters on the wall behind him. You reach for something else— this time a picture frame on your wall (one you were going to take down anyway, it has him in it—) and throw it at Papyrus as well.
“You shut the fuck up, you don’t know anything!” you scream, a snarl of frustration forcing its way out of your raw throat when Papyrus side steps that too.
You’re about to pick up something else— a gorgeous, fake fabergé egg that your mother had gifted you years ago— but red-gloved claws are wrapping around your wrist and pulling the decor out of your shaking hand.
Papyrus’ grip is strong but it’s gentle. He’s not handling you like glass, but he’s taking care because you are fragile right now.
So fragile, in fact, that you take one look at his soft, understanding expression and you feel the feeble hold on your heart fumble. And then your heart breaks fully, ruined sobs shattering from you as you collapse into the skeleton. You’d been crying for hours already, so you’re not really sure where you find the energy or tears to sob into Papyrus’ chest but it’s not like you can control yourself.
He holds you through all of it, one arm settled across your shoulders while his other hand rubs gentle circles over your shirt. It’s more comfort than you’ve had since you found out Ron was cheating on you, and it absolutely wrecks you.
By the time you’ve fully worn yourself out, you’re hiccuping into Papyrus’ shirt, fingers aching at the joints with the tight fists you have resting on his chest. You stare numbly at them, breath shuddering for a second when your thoughts wonder to your boyf— your ex.
The silence rings in your ears, and you consider pulling away from Papyrus for only a moment before he’s doing it himself. The devastated whine that pulls from you is humiliating, but you don’t think you could have stopped it if you tried.
“Hush,” Papyrus commands, placing his hand on your cheek so he can guide you to look him in the face, “I’m Going Nowhere. I Came Here To Assist You, And That Is What I am Going To Do.”
You sniffle, but nod your understanding. Papyrus searches your face for a moment before he’s pulling you in for another hug. You wilt a little into it, but you don’t fight it when he finally releases you and steps back.
“Let’s Start With Your Hair, You’ve Done A Number On It,” he says, and you wrinkle your nose.
“He liked it long,” is your only, croaking comment. Papyrus gives you look you can’t really decipher right now, but nods as he gestures you to follow him back to your bathroom. You’re sitting on the toilet before you even really have a chance to process the change of scenery, Papyrus’ careful fingers gripping your chin and angling your face this way and that.
The make up wipe pressing to your cheek suddenly makes you jolt, but Papyrus doesn’t comment on your surprise and continues cleaning your face. You take the moment to watch him, all the little shifts of his teeth while his eye lights are zeroed in on what he’s doing. He huffs, and you feel like if he had a nose, his nostrils would be flaring right now.
“What Happened? Two Days Ago You Were Telling Me About The Vacation You Were Planning With Him, And Then An Hour Ago I Get A Message From Your Mother Asking Me To Reason With You.”
You grimace at that, brows knitting together as your lips tug down into a scowl. Papyrus tsks at you, patting your face until you sigh and let the expression go. He tells you to look up, and you do while he scrubs at the dried mascara under your eyes.
“His side piece walked up to me while I was at the store,” looking for a swim suit for that vacation, “and decided to rub it in my face that I ‘couldn’t hold down such a hot piece of ass’, his words.”
Papyrus pauses, the dirty wipe sticking unpleasantly to your skin where he’s pressed it. You chance a look down to get a read on him. He looks stony, his eye lights barely-there pinpricks and the tops of his sockets angled harshly down in a mockery of what your eyebrows were for you.
You feel like it’s a solid minute before he shakes it off and doctors his expression to be carefully neutral.
“Look Up, What Else?”
He’s back to cleaning your face, you obliging the repeated command with a roll of your eyes.
“I told the guy to fuck off, because I trusted Ron and I wasn’t gonna believe some jealous asshole over him. He—” You stop, throat closing up as the memory plays in your mind. Distant but all too present heartbreak making you want to start crying again.
Papyrus doesn’t say anything, just lets you gather yourself to avoid messing up his efforts to take care of you.
“He had a picture pulled up of him and Ron, at—” you swallow hard, “at that cute coffee shop down on sixth.”
Where you and Ron met, you don’t say, but with the way Papyrus’ hand twitches against your cheek, he picks it up anyway. He sighs, tossing the wipe in the trash by the toilet. You watch as he examines your face, letting him move your head around easily.
“You Need A Proper Shower, But It’ll Do Until I Fix Your Hair,” he says, and your heart clenches a little. You’re not really sure what he’s thinking, and that drives you to stop him before he leaves the bathroom for whatever he needs.
Papyrus stops, looking down at where your hand is clutching his wrist then looks to your face. You’re staring at each other, and then Papyrus is sighing and kneeling in front of you. He’s readjusting your grip so he can hold your hands in his, and you just continue to stare it him, eyes burning with unshed tears.
“I Am Sorry You Were Hurt This Way,” he starts, gently squeezing your hands before his thumb starts stroking at one of your palms, “What Ron Has Done To You Is Unforgivable, And I Will Not Be Brushing It Off When It’s Affected You Like this.”
He pauses, eye-lights dropping to your hands and watching his own thumb tracing the crease lines in your skin.
“You deserve better.”
Papyrus is so much quieter than you’re used to, his voice almost a whisper that sends a shudder down your spine with its novelty.
“I’m Going To Help You, If You Let Me,” he finally finishes, and you nod. There’s a second for him to pause, and then Papyrus is leaving the bathroom, likely grabbing the little hair styling kit you keep stashed for moments like this. When you’re upset and willing to ruin your hair just for some kind of change to take the hurt from your shoulders.
You’re feeling… not better, but definitely calmer by the time Papyrus has you cleaned up. Your hair is shorter than you’ve ever let it be, shaved down at the sides and the top in an un-styled mohawk that makes you giggle whenever you shake your head and it flops everywhere.
Papyrus just smiles at you whenever you start goofing with it, rolling his eyes when you stick your tongue out at him. He’s making you dinner now, having found out you haven’t eaten since the afternoon before.
“You’d Fall Apart Without Me,” he had said, and when you shrugged and agreed his cheekbones had been decorated with a pretty red blush that got you snickering.
Falling apart is easier when you have Papyrus with you, you think. He’s at least willing to help you pick up the pieces. Plus, who else is going to ask how you’d like to metaphorically rip your ex’s balls out?