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“Daddy’s home, Dings,” Grillby shouts, kicking the door to Gaster’s house shut behind him. He expects to hear an exasperated groan in response to his awful, awful greeting, or at the very least a despondent sigh, but only silence greets him. A tad more warily, Grillby makes his way into the kitchen, offloading his armful of groceries (they’re making cake tonight) and shoving his keys into his pocket. “Dings? Are you here? I swear to god, if you jump out and scare me I’ll snap every goddamn vertebrae you’ve got.”
He creeps into the living room, his flames dimming with uncertainty. The house looks as it always does—clean, orderly, controlled. There’s no sign of a struggle, no sign that Gaster has been hurt or taken, and that comforts him some. Perhaps he only went out to meet someone, or to grab something from the lab? Still, that irritates Grillby. Couldn’t he have at least texted first? Now Grillby is going to have to wallow around and worry until he gets back. Pathetic.
He pokes his head into Gaster’s workshop, just in case—he doesn’t fully expect to find anyone there, so he has to pause and blink in surprise when he sees Gaster hunched over his desk, scribbling frantically onto a blueprint.
“Dings?”
Gaster just about falls out of his seat, shrieking and leaping towards the other end of the workshop. He whirls around to face Grillby, his eyes wide and frantic. “Grillby! Oh my god, what the fuck?”
Grillby holds his hands up, palms out. “In my defense, I did shout when I got here. Did you honestly not hear me?”
“I was thinking!” Gaster says, as though that’s any kind of excuse. It...worries Grillby, sometimes, that Gaster can think so loudly. What would have happened if Grillby had been someone dangerous? If Grillby had been someone who wanted to hurt him, to take him, to use him? His startle response was quick, and that’s something, but what if it’s not enough? There aren’t many things that catch Gaster off guard, but give him a goddamned science project and everything else ceases to exist. It’s fucking terrifying. “When did you get here?”
“Just a minute ago. I came looking for you—I was worried when you didn’t answer.” He slips into the room, jamming his hands into his pockets and listening as Gaster begins to steady his breathing again. He looks over the blueprints on the desk, giving the skeleton a moment to compose himself. “I brought food. You still wanna help me bake?”
“Oh, damn.” Gaster rubs the back of his neck, then smooths out his shirt. “Of course I want to, but I just have to get this done first. I’ll let you bake, er—whatever it is you’re baking, and then I’ll eat it with you.”
“Cake,” Grillby says.
“What?”
“Cake. We were supposed to be baking cake. You know, for your birthday? It’s tomorrow? Kind of a big deal?”
“My birthday!” Gaster’s eyes widen. “Gods, I’d forgotten.”
Grillby’s mouth twists unhappily. “Right, you can finish this some other time. Come spend time with me. You need a break.”
“A break is the last thing I need,” Gaster assures him, reaching for his pen. His hands tremble, and concern festers sharply in Grillby’s chest. “I’m on a roll. I think I’m really getting somewhere with this.”
“Just write down whatever you need and come back to it later. You’re the Royal Scientist, you’re not exactly pressed for time. If anyone rushes you, kill them.”
Something dark flickers through Gaster’s eyes, but he laughs, shaking his head. “Oh, sparks, I wish it were that simple. Listen—” He loops his arms around Grillby’s shoulders, nuzzling their noses together. “You know I love spending time with you. As soon as I’m done with this project, you can come and spend a couple of days with me. I’ll make it worth your while, hm, big guy? But right now, I need this time.”
“Why?”
“So I can finish.”
“Why do you have to finish right now? Why can’t it wait?”
Gaster’s eyelights skitter away, and he traces his fingers idly along the back of Grillby’s neck. “I—I just don’t—ah. I just need to have this done by tomorrow, that’s all. People are waiting on me.”
“Wingdings. Something’s wrong. What is it?”
Gaster’s eyes refuse to meet his. “You worry too much, you know that? Everything is perfectly fine. I—”
“No,” Grillby says, cutting him off sharply. Gaster’s got a silver tongue, and he can talk circles around Grillby. If he starts making excuses, if he starts lying, Grillby knows he’ll be pulled into that wretched web until he can’t tell what’s real and what’s not. He’s learned not to let Gaster get that far. “It’s not fine. Since when have you tolerated being rushed?”
“I just have to get it done.” Gaster jerks back, glaring at him. “Stars, what are you running, a prosecution? I didn’t ask you to come here.”
“No, I offered, because it’s going to be your birthday and I wanted to make you happy,” Grillby snaps. “You’re working yourself too hard.”
“Better that than the alternative.”
“What alternative? Actually taking a break? Actually getting to rest?”
Gaster snorts, flopping back into his office chair. “Nothing so benign. Look, I appreciate your concern, but I think I’m capable of taking care of myself.”
“Then why won’t you just do it?” Grillby demands. He rakes his hands through his headflames, beyond frustrated.
Gaster reaches for his pen. His hand shakes. “I am doing it,” Gaster says, voice clipped. “But I don’t expect you’d understand that.”
Grillby fights the urge to snap something back at him, taking a deep breath and struggling to settle his flames. Gaster is fraying at the edges, even if he’s doing his damned best to look like he’s not—but seeing what he’s not saying, well, that’s a fucking life skill, as far as Grillby is concerned. Gaster makes his feelings quite obvious, if one only takes the time to look for them, and right now?
Right now, Gaster looks terrified.
It isn’t much—only the slight tremor in his hands, the hunched curve of his shoulders, the defensive bristle of the spines running down his vertebrae—but for someone as rigidly-controlled as Gaster, it’s like screaming. The last thing he needs is Grillby blowing up on him, although that’s exactly what Grillby is sorely tempted to do, because Gaster is a stubborn little fuck and a solid tongue-lashing might do him some good.
...maybe next time.
This time, Grillby closes his eyes and breathes for a moment. Then he takes a step forward, setting a hand on Gaster’s shoulder as the skeleton hunches over his worktable with a fervent sort of desperation. Gaster flinches at the touch, but doesn’t push Grillby off. He scowls over his shoulder, but his eyelights are far, far dimmer than they should be. “What?” he demands.
“Nothing,” Grillby says. “Keep working.”
“What about your cake?”
“I’ll make it in a little while.”
Gaster eyes him suspiciously, but doesn’t push his luck, clever thing. He turns back around, huddling over his blueprints with an eerie amount of focus. Grillby brings his other hand to rest against Gaster’s shoulder, too, then leans down to nuzzle against the back of his skull, peering down at the blueprints. He can’t even begin to fathom what Gaster is working on—the notes are all written in his strange, symbolic font. Well, it doesn’t matter. Nothing is worth Gaster working himself into the ground like this.
Grillby begins to kiss Gaster’s skull, gently. Gaster murmurs halfheartedly at him, but he isn’t snapped at or pushed away, so he continues. He mouths carefully, letting his flames lick lovingly across Gaster’s bone. This close, he can feel Gaster’s magic humming from his soul—it feels ragged and thin, and Grillby’s own soul aches for him, for this stupid, stubborn fool of a skeleton.
Slowly, he runs one hand up and down Gaster’s left arm, careful not to jostle his writing. His other hand squeezes against Gaster’s shoulder. With his magic, he reaches out to Gaster’s, trying to coax it towards his hands. A massage may be impossible, seeing how Gaster has no muscle to speak of, but encouraging his magic to flow through his bones accomplishes much the same thing. That magic, right now, is cramped tight and nervous against his soul; if Grillby can encourage it to relax, he hopes it might help Gaster to do the same.
When Gaster continues to very much not shove him away, Grillby moves to nibble at the vertebrae of his neck. Gaster sighs softly, tipping his head to the side, and that’s all the invitation Grillby needs. He makes himself quite at home there, in the crook of Gaster’s throat, sucking leisurely against the bone as he rubs his hands along Gaster’s arms. Slowly, wearily, Gaster’s magic begins to uncurl and greet him. A few invisible sparks of it chase after Grillby’s hands, and he guides them through Gaster’s shoulders, down his spine, trying to ease the stiffness there.
“Grillby,” Gaster warns.
“What?” Grillby asks, nuzzling against the crook of Gaster’s jaw. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Just relax. You’re still getting your work done.”
“You’re distracting.”
“I couldn’t distract you when I was shouting at the top of my lungs, but this does it for you? Honestly, Dings.” He pushes Gaster forward, wedging himself into the office chair and tugging Gaster into his lap. He wraps his arms around Gaster, slipping a hand beneath his shirt to trace one palm slowly along the front side of his spine. “Just do your work.”
Gaster takes a deep breath, then hunches back over his blueprints, steadfastly doing his best to ignore Grillby. Grillby kisses his way along Gaster’s shoulders, the top of his spine, drawing Gaster’s magic along with his mouth and hands. His little skeleton’s soul begins to burn more brightly, magic pulsing eagerly after Grillby’s touch, and Gaster’s writing slows. His breathing begins to pick up pace, and Grillby grins just a touch wickedly. Damn, is he good at getting his boy riled.
Leastways, that’s what he thinks until Gaster’s bones begin to rattle.
“Dings?” Grillby pulls back, alarmed. Gaster rattles very, very seldomly—and it’s never a good thing. It’s an out-of-control, terrified, no good awful very bad thing. “Shit, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“Not your fault,” Gaster says immediately, setting his pen down. His wraps his arms around himself, and the soft rattle of his bones cuts off sharply. His magic curls into itself again, cold and controlled.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Obviously something is wrong. Come on, I may not been an evil genius, but I’m not stupid, so do me a favor and stop making me feel like it.”
“I’m not—” Gaster exhales sharply. “You’re not stupid.”
“Okay, cool. So you’re making it pretty obvious that something is wrong. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, whatever, just say so. Stop saying you’re fine when you’re not. Lies insult the both of us, little devil.”
Gaster groans, scrubbing his face with his hands. “You’re insufferable.”
“Don’t I know it.”
“It’s just—” Gaster glances back over his shoulder. His eyelights are unusually dim, flickering uncertainly. Grillby sets his chin on Gaster’s shoulder, humming encouragement. “I want to spend time with you, I do. You’re a very good distraction.”
Grillby cracks a grin, although it’s half-hearted. It’s surprisingly difficult to feel cocky when Gaster looks so...not himself. “Why, thank you.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.” Gaster reaches for his pen again, rolling it between slender fingers. “I want to spend time with you, I want to bake a shitty cake and stay up playing board games and I want to kiss you and I want to fuck you and I want spend my dumb birthday with you, but I can’t, and it upsets me.”
“Why can’t you?” Grillby asks, frowning. “I mean—yeah, I know, you need to finish this, but what’s the rush?”
Gaster’s fingers tighten around the pen, and a little clickity-clackity shudder runs through his bones. His magic shivers, tightening defensively around his soul. “The king wants it done.”
“Oh.” Grillby is cold, suddenly. He’s very, very cold.
“I mean, it’s fine,” Gaster adds hastily. The way his hands shake assures Grillby that this is another damnable lie. “I can get it done. It’s not unreasonable. I just have to do it now. I’m sorry you had to come over just to sit and watch me work; I know that must not be very exciting for you. You’re free to go. Perhaps we can celebrate another day, or—”
“No.” Grillby buries his face against the crook of Gaster’s vertebrae, taking a deep breath. Anger burns along his chest, sears his throat, and he hugs Gaster tightly. Gaster squirms in discomfort, but Grillby doesn’t loosen his hold, and his little devil doesn’t protest. “I want to stay.”
Gaster falters. “I—don’t know that I’ll be able to focus, so long as you’re here.”
Grillby falls silent, his flames snapping and curling as his fury grows. He stands abruptly, swinging his leg over the chair and moving back, before he singes Gaster’s clothes. He takes a deep breath and gulps his anger down as best he can—it feels like swallowing acid. Gaster glances back at him, and his shoulders slump. He looks so very tired.
“I’m sorry,” he says, his voice weak. He should never sound like that. He should never sound so weak. “I’m sorry, love. I know it isn’t fair.”
His voice cracks in exhaustion, and—well. There goes the last of Grillby’s self-control. “No!” he snarls, his flames lashing savagely as he begins to pace. “No, of course it isn’t fair! He shouldn’t be able to push you this hard, he shouldn’t be able to force you to do things like this. Gods, he doesn’t have a smidgen of respect for anyone, does he? I ought to go over there and—”
“No, no no no—” Gaster surges to his feet, presses into Grillby’s space. He reaches up, wrapping his fingers around Grillby’s tie and yanking him down. “You are not to go absolutely anywhere near him, do you hear me? I won’t tolerate it. If I find out you’ve done anything, if you’ve so much as fucking thought about doing anything to him, I will not forgive you. Do you understand me, Grillby?”
Grillby snarls, baring his teeth. “He deserves it. That motherfucker deserves it. Treating you this way—I should kill him, I should hang his head outside the house like a fucking Gyftmas ornament , I should—”
“You should listen to me,” Gaster hisses. “You’d be a plaything to him. He could extinguish you with a flick of his wrist. I don’t care how much of a badass you think you are, you’re nothing compared to him.”
“I could kill him.” Something wicked and bright and sour curls in Grillby’s soul, and his magic flushes his flames higher. Heatwaves smolder across the room. Smoke roils through the air, acrid and bitter and thick. “I could do it. I could make him stop, I—”
Gaster yanks him down and bites his mouth, which is every bit as unpleasant as it sounds. Grillby growls low in chest, curling himself over Gaster and snapping back. Their teeth clash, and Grillby’s flames lick posessively at Gaster’s jaw. His hands roam furiously over Gaster, trying fervently to reassure themselves that Gaster is here, he’s safe, he’s where he belongs.
“You’re not his,” Grillby growls, digging his fingers into the small of Gaster’s back. He refuses to let up with his bruising kisses, speaking in fragments as he rakes his teeth across Gaster’s. “You’re not his, he can’t tell you what to do, he can’t hurt you like this—you’re mine, and I get to decide when you hurt, not him, not him—”
“Enough,” Gaster says, and his voice is stronger, now. He sounds right. (He doesn’t sound weak.) It’s like a splash of cold water, and Grillby shudders to hear it. “Enough, Grillby, that’s enough. Stop it. Now.’
Grillby’s words blur into unhappy growls and savage snaps of flame, but he pushes no further. Gaster feels steadier, now. His hands are sure and strong where they cup the back of Grillby’s neck, hauling him down for kiss after kiss. His teeth are hard and sharp where he bites. He’s strong. He’s safe.
“I am going to be fine,” he says firmly, drawing back after another moment. Grillby presses after him, unwilling to part. He mouths possessively at Gaster’s chin and jaw as he speaks, hands roaming hungrily across his chest and abdomen. “No one is going to hurt me. I’m going to finish this, and everything is going to be fine. Alright?”
Grillby grumbles low in his throat. Gaster cups his face and forces him back, eyes narrowed. “I don’t like it,” he says.
“I know. You’ve made that quite clear,” Gaster says, wry. He smooths his thumbs across Grillby’s cheeks, sighing softly. “I don’t like it either, but it is what it is. All of this fussing isn’t going to fix it.”
Grillby leans into Gaster’s hands, miserable. For a moment, words fail him, and he’s left floundering and feeling very much like a toddler, with emotions too big for his soul and no way to express them. Gaster waits patiently, leaning their heads together and closing his eyes. His magic has curled tight around his soul again, and Grillby knows he won’t be coaxing it out for quite some time now.
“Can I come visit you tomorrow, at least?” Grillby asks quietly, when words start making sense again. “For your birthday?”
“I’ll have to present the project to Asgore tomorrow.”
“After that?”
“After that,” Gaster agrees. “I’ll call you as soon as I’m home, and we can bake together, and we’ll play whatever shitty board games you want.”
“‘kay.” Grillby nuzzles against his face one last time, then draws back with a heavy sigh. “Then I’ll see you tomorrow, Dings. Good luck.”
“Thank you, Grillby. Good night.” Gaster folds his arms behind his back and straightens up, sharp and powerful and just the way he should be. There is no hint of fear in his eyes, now, no rattle in his bones. Grillby has driven his weakness far from him.
It is a job well done.