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

[voidster]

What a terrible time for him to be sick, then. Rotten luck. Because...

"Some. One. Must look atter you."

His mispronunciations might be funny, if it weren't so serious.

[dustless]

Shoulders stiffen--when did they start shaking?

"'M fine," they say automatically, slightly undermining their own point with a pathetic sniffle. "...'S not--not...bad. Right now."

[voidster]

A bony hand grips their shoulder, carefully--stiff as his fingers are, they might bruise someone with skin. (It's still better than molded goop, in his opinion.)

It's probably not very comforting... it's the thought that counts? But go on and cry, he won't tattle to anyone.

[dustless]

Sometimes, you gotta cry. It doesn't make you bad or a baby, it just happens. Grown-ups do it too. They've seen that before--maybe the food hoarding made them remember what they tried to discard, life before magic.

Right now, though, it all feels stupid and selfish. Frisk doesn't shrug off the grip; instead, they bury their face deeper to muffle the little whimpers that escape.

[voidster]

They are tucked in, his hand is on their shoulder so they know he is with them... not that it does much. They're sick, dying again, and he's literally unable to fight Her in the first place. Nothing he can do. He's not powerful enough...

He can't save them or himself. Not at all.