AN: A Christmas present for Chara-died-for-our-sins (which is where the title came from. Very original, I know vuv) And YES, before I am asked, I was requested to write deathfic pfft.
Grillby is quite often quiet; he doesn't like the sound of his voice, you know, even if personally you're a fan.
You do, however, appreciate his silence and the easy familiarity that settles over both of you when you come into his bar. He offers you something you can recognise as a smile as you sit down and flip open your art book, and you give him one back.
He was your favourite art subject, and you're thankful he doesn't mind you taking up space on his barstools. Then again, you think he may actually like you taking up space on his barstools, so there's that.
Your pencil meets paper, and you slowly start to sketch out the monsters in the bar, and – of course – Grillby himself. Sans is always fun to sketch on the times when Grillby is moving too quickly to capture on a page, and he's good for anatomy practice…
Even if he doesn't have much in the way of 'anatomy'.
The door swings open and, your hand demanding a quick rest, you turn your head to look. It's a small child – what appears to be one, anyway. You stare curiously, unsure if you've seen this person around before.
They come up to you, and smile. You find yourself hesitantly smiling back, and their smile grows even thinner and wider.
The only warning you get before you're challenged to a fight is Grillby's hands stretched towards you in panic, and San's mouth open in horror.
You try your best.
But this-
This is a human Determined to win.
Your HP declines, slowly but persistently, and you can see with no small amount of fear that Grillby hovers on the edge of your vision, hands clenched into sparking fists. You don't want to leave.
You don't want this to happen.
You hit zero, and the Fight collapses; as do you.
Grillby's hands are immediately under your body, and you know as soon as you can't feel his warmth that you're done for. He's gazing at you in completely worry, your name on his lips, breathless, and you let your fingertips graze his arm, watching as small blue flecks drift from his eyes.
Grillby's crying. For you.
Small tendrils of steam rise as the blue flecks evaporate, and then you can see him growl, mouth opening in a soundless scream of rage.
You don't really know what happens after that, slowly drifting, mind unravelling, but he comes back slowly, and tentatively picks up your sketch book. His fingertips burn little scorch marks through the pages, but you can tell he's trying to be careful and the thought makes you smile.
He was always trying to be careful around you. Always gentle and warm and wonderful…
Your notebook stays behind Grillby's bar for the rest of his life.
