tonight, on hoarders--

[voidster]

It's about three days shy of being a month since one W. D. Gaster has become a real, living skeleton again. And it was wonderful at first, being light on his feet and wonderfully magical, to eat and sleep and dress up nicely.

Not so lovely now. There's a sickness in his bones... because all he is is bones. So. Time to get busy, despite the fact that it feels he could sleep for twelve hours straight, and that his arm bones may snap if he lifts something too heavy... yes, he's felt the latter several times, split-second moments where he really has wondered if he's about to break a radius or an ulna.

He has things to do. He can't let it stop him. It's only going to become worse in the days to come, because no cure is coming. His life is not worth Judgement's death. And that's why he's chosen to spend the day stocking up on whatever nonperishable foods he can find, like he's lost his mind and decided to become a hoarder himself. After all, he'll still need to eat when he's feeling less like moving, even with shortcuts to aid him.

What happens when he can no longer walk, he wonders? Someone is going to have to deal with all this, he can't keep it secret forever...

Comments

[dustless]

Uneasiness crawls up their back. They know what he's doing, if not exactly why--they've done it before, and they used to do it all the time when they first woke up in the castle. Does Gaster know something they don't? Maybe they should get back to that, all they've got is maybe three or four boxes, something that wouldn't last a week and a half--

He'll feel them there, of course, but they won't react whenever he turns around to look at them. They're just standing there, staring forward and almost through. Thinking.

[voidster]

Odd. He's waved a 'hello' with a spare magic hand, and they didn't respond. Just. Stared at him. Something's up, once again.

"Frisk?" he says, not quite getting it right--not so easily, speaking to non-skeleton types. There's a reason he still chooses to sign.

[dustless]

What? You said something?

They take a step forward. Urgently: "What's wrong?"

[voidster]

A beat, because he's confused.

[I was going to ask you that--you look troubled.]

[dustless]

"You have a lot of food."

If something's wrong--if it's going to run out, if he thinks there's going to be some kind of problem with it--he'll have something to say about it, right?

[voidster]

Ah. Well, then.

[Yes, but not all of it. Don't worry, there will still be enough to go around.]

[dustless]

...So, not somehow running out in a way he knows. That's good.

They don't relax. "Why that much?"

[voidster]

[Simply making things easier on myself, now that I'm alive again.]

Yes, technically true--he wasn't quite alive before, now he is, and his eyelight has become a darker pink in the last month...

[dustless]

Frisk takes this entirely the wrong way.

"You died?" But they didn't feel him disappear!

[voidster]

A blink, and a beat. He sets what he's carrying down and switches to signing with his real hands.

[No, but neither was I truly alive before I became a normal skeleton again. I didn't need to eat or sleep, remember?]

You know. When he was goop and roaming around with no clothes on, technically.

[dustless]

They relax again. Barely. "You were too. Sorta. You weren't a zombie or anything." At least he didn't under their definition of it.

Frisk's feet tap across the stone, and they swipe up some of the food. "Where are you putting it? Bedroom?"

[voidster]

[Somewhat alive. In-between, I suppose.] Monster version of a zombie? Doesn't matter, because he's not now and there aren't any others stuck in that state...

Besides other Gasters.

[Yes. If you're going to help, shall we take a shortcut?]

[dustless]

In-between... "Stay determined." What, they didn't say anything.

More sharply, surprise instead of barely-held-back fear: "Shortcut?" What kind does he mean?

[voidster]

What does that mean--and what are they nervous about? Now he's a little hesitant.

[The kind Sans uses. Did he never show you?]

[dustless]

"Yeah--you can do that?" It's not fear, it's being utterly thrown off. They're so used to him not being able to do a lot--they shoulda realized Sans must've gotten it from somewhere. Or at least, some Sans got it naturally.

[voidster]

[I can now. It's nice--I missed it.]

Magic in general, really. At least he'd kept his ability to make hand-shaped 'bullets'.

[dustless]

Frisk nod and strengthens their hold on the food.

"Shortcut's easier." Half because they aren't sure where his room is from this particular hallway, and they can't exactly follow their senses to it when he's not even there.

[voidster]

[Exactly. Follow me, please.]

He's stepping forward as soon as he's picked up the rest of the food, and just like that, they're both in his room. The bed's actually been slept in lately, the desk is cluttered with books and papers, and this isn't the first load of food he's dragged in, clearly.

[dustless]

A weird-but-familiar feeling. They like it.

Frisk carefully sets it all down, then dances over to sit on the bed's edge. "Too busy to go to the kitchens an' stuff?"

[voidster]

He does the same and takes the desk chair instead. Well.

To spill or not to spill. They're going to notice soon enough, probably in a few weeks, and they've already experienced it all themself...

On the other hand, at least it would be a few more weeks of peace for them. And yet, hiding it is no way to lead by example, to show them it's okay to confide in others.

[It is... I'm simply preparing for things that may happen, regarding Judgement.]

Oops, there it is, signed out with noisy clacking fingers.

[dustless]

"What about--"

Pin drop.

It's not hard. He's alive enough, now.

"--you're sick now?"

[voidster]

[Yes, I think so.]

He doesn't say he feels it in his bones, that's inappropriate--but he's fairly sure Sans would have. Ha. Ha.

[dustless]

His eye is different. That's mainly what they notice, slowly looking him over from head to toe.

"...You don't have to breathe," they say doubtfully. That was the worst part, the coughing, the fluid in their lungs. Maybe he'd still be okay.

[voidster]

[I'm not sure what's going to happen next, myself.]

All he knows is that he's tired and there's a peculiar sensation bothering him that can't quite be called 'pain' yet. Details. More than he's willing to tell them.

[And so this is all just in case. There's plenty of food to go around.]

[dustless]

"I just--I know," they say grumpily, gesturing to the food. They want the subject off of their weird reaction now and to stay off it forever.

They add hurriedly, "Is anything different 'bout your magic? More different."