You can't hate yourself too much, you try to insist internally as herolls off of you the moment it's over with that trademark dancer's grace. How much is too much, though? Too much is… too much. Which means you can still hate yourself a lot because goddamn, you loathe your boss' guts and yet here you are cleaning his friggin'... robot juice stuff off yourself.
You can feel your eyes all but bulging, and you can't tell if it's because of how hard you're staring at the curve of his back or how badly you want to melt into a giant hairy puddle of regret. Then again, 'regret' implies a lack of enjoyment. Which certainly wouldn't be an item in your review. And that only serves to make you grit your teeth harder, as you wonder (whilst sweating up a small storm) if that scientist could have done to maybe make his legs a little less. Y'know. Completely irresistible.
Whilst it still stands that he has the personality of a rectangle, he sure doesn't have the face of one any more, that much can be said.
You tear your eyes away long enough to stuff a cigarette in your mouth (is he gonna ice you for smoking? Wait, he can'tice you for smoking, this is your own goddamn room, all he can do is glance over his shoulder and give you a sneer that's making you feel more than a little satisfied) and toss the pack to the floor, too busy trying to get your wobbly hands to light up to notice that he's snooping through your stuff, and you don't double take until a few seconds later when he's already smugly pulling one of your sweaters over his head.
"Hey, wait, what are you-"
But he's already admiring himself in the mirror, throwing your reflected look of horror a smarmy glance as he smooths out the fabric around his hips.
"Oh, well don't I just look cute as a button. Lovely."
"You… you're a robot, you don't need a freaking sweater," you grind out as you scramble to your feet with all the calm you can muster, feeling perhaps a little more bold than usual thanks to the day's prior activities- but he's already shaking his head at you with that way-too-familiar air of condescension. The same one he'll give you when you tell him that freezing diamonds into ice cubes is kind of a dumb idea.
"Oh come now, you know that's no way to treat a houseguest, sweetheart. In a minute you're going to have me believing you've learned nothing of hospitality in my employment - unless you're angling to sit in on another politeness seminar."
So now you've not only banged the rectangle, but you're now standing idly by as he robs you of your knitwear. And the day's not even over yet.
"...not really, sir, no," you eventually groan, feeling your shoulders sag a little under the scrutiny of his sharp pink gaze.
"Ah, good. I thought not," he chirps, and the sweetness in that smile makes you feel like you want to throw up in your mouth a bit, along with an intense regret for every decision you've ever made in your extensive life. Why have you done this? How have you done this? What the hell kind of scientist even gives a freaking robot a sex drive? Or… parts, for that matter? A weird one.
Naturally, in the time it's taken you to have that brief reverie, he's slipped off again - this time out of the room. Muttering a curse under your breath you yank your secondfavourite sweater (thank you, Mr. Thieving Hunk of Metal) over your head and bolt out of the room.
For once, you're almost glad for the ridiculous level of theatricality that comes as part and parcel of being around Mettaton, because you hear him singing the moment the door's open and heave a brief sigh of relief that he isn't wreaking havoc elsewhere before skidding into the kitchen.
You're irritated but not especially surprised to find him rifling through your fridge, idly swaying his hips to the rhythm of whatever it is he's belting out as he forages lower and - ok, that shelf isn't that low, there is definitely no need whatsoever for him to be bending over like that.
You cover your mouth to clear your throat, leaving your paw hovering around your face for reasons definitely unrelated to the fact that you know that you've gone that special shade of red that's so intense it practically glows through your fur.
"A-Are you, uh…. are you gonna be goi-"
Your voice cracks when you speak, and you hear him snort before he cuts you off.
"Do you have soy milk?"
"...can you even drink?"
"Almond milk?"
"I- no, I-"
"Hmm."
Mettaton's apparently decided that that's the end of that conversation, if the fact that he's turned his attention back to the fridge with a haughty flick of his hair is anything to go by. You huff quietly, channelling all your suppressed rage and general thoughts of how great it'd be to throw your boss out of a window into tugging at a loose thread in the sleeve of your sweater. Half the sleeve shrivels with a single pull. It shrivels and you decide that no, that's enough, this is the last straw. Besides, you're not at work. You're not breaking any rules. What can he do?
You take in an enormous breath.
"Hey! Could... could you… uh… could you quit rifling through my stuff maybe?"
...that would have probably sounded a whole lot more assertive if you hadn't taken in way too much breath and ended up sounding something like all the air suddenly escaping from a balloon. And the words themselves were of about the quality of the sustained farting sound one would make too. So you're basically just a balloon now. Which is practically a promotion. Balloons probably have more rights than you. Why are you still even thinking about balloons? You need to stop thinking about balloons.
...you stop thinking about balloons as soon as Mettaton turns around. In fact, you don't just stop thinking about them - you expel every thought you've ever had about balloons ever and shrivel up just like your stupid sweater sleeve.
"Well, isn't this a twist? Assertion! We're just all surprises today, aren't we, sweetheart? My my... whatever next?"
The saturation of mockery in his tone makes your blood boil, all thoughts of getting into shit dissipating from your mind - because if that would have been bad, this is infinitely worse. Spurred on by mortification alone, you don't back down. And it feels good! And only a really tiny bit like you're gonna piss yourself.
"Yeah, well, I, uh… exactly. Whatever next? You might be rich and famous and hot, but... you can't know that, can you?"
His lips twitch and something (that you hope for his sake isn't amusement) flashes briefly through his eyes before he leans back against the fridge, long fingers drumming on his hip.
"Well no, of course not. You've got me there." His tone feels more than a little like he's maybe yanking your chain more than a little bit, but hey, he, uh… he looks pretty damn hot all of a sudden, and you're instantly less compelled to care. "I suppose you'll have to just come over here and show me just how assertiveyou can be, hm?"
Holy shit. Holy shit, is he seriously offering round two, here? You're not sure your ears have ever perked up so fast. You remind yourself that he's an ass and you hate him, but simultaneously find yourself wondering how many people can say they've done the horizontal tango with the Underground's biggest (and hottest) superstar not once, but twice.
A hot flare of excitement surging through… uh, a place on your body of the 'quite low down' variety, you lurch forward and slam your hands down on the fridge either side of his head to box him in so hard that he has to brace himself. Which is… kinda more awkward than hot. And you're also reminded that he's, like… more than a head taller than you. Which is also awkward and makes you feel a lot less assertive and a lot more like… a weird little monster with stubby legs and a face that's kind of too small for your head who's trying to pin someone literally handcrafted to be the most attractive creature in existence to a fridge. Which, to be fair, is kind of exactly what you are. Well, speaking vaguely, anyway. Literally speaking you're… actually, you have no ideawhat you are. Jeez. You literally don't know what species you are and you've never even thought about it until now but there's nobody else around who looks like you and oh my God maybe you're some kind of mutant.
You feel yourself start to sweat a little more and Mettaton clears his throat which makes one of your hands slip and nearly has you headbutting his chin. You risk a glance up and yeah, he doesn't look impressed. You need to pick this up, stat. To do something really impressive. Something that'll sweep him off his feet.
Unable to break eye contact and all but wheezing from the unspeakable pressure, you withdraw your shaky hands for a moment, before gritting your teeth and rather gracelessly grabbing an enormous handful of his ass.
There's a beat of what must be the most tense silence you've ever been party to, before Mettaton lets out a sudden, barking guffaw of laughter that's probably the most uncharacteristically raucous thing you've ever seen him do. Your face then turns approximately the colour of the day-old pizza sitting on the counter (or at least, the tomato sauce under it), and only continues to deepen in hue as you're forced to endure the sight of your boss literally doubling over at your stupidity. You're surprised a robot can even laugh that hard. He's probably going to start crying oil or something in a minute. Or beeping.
Wait. No. Beeping's definitely not right.
"Oh. Oh- oh dear."
Mettaton's hysterics end almost as suddenly as they'd started, and he's suddenly prodding at his soul container with more than a little urgency. A red light behind the fluid surrounding the heart is flashing in rhythm with the pulsing beeps juddering from his speaker and he's rather frantically patting at his sides, his face falling further yet at the hollow sound his chest offers up.
"Ugh. I thought as much." You narrow your eyes in silent inquiry and he rolls his eyes as if you're meant to somehowknow what's going on. "My battery's at critical. And thanks to your incessant neediness earlier, I've left my charger at the hotel. You'll have to take me back."
Incessant neediness? Incessant neediness your ass.
"Or I could just wait for you to run outta battery and then you'll power down and fall on your face and I'll get to have the laugh for once in my life and-" you mutter through gritted teeth, and his steely glare is on you in a millisecond.
"Sorry, what was that, sweetie?"
"I... said I'm just getting ready to carry you back to the hotel!"
"Oh! Well, how devoted!" he simpers, and you kind of maybe want to just stand and scream for about twenty minutes, but you can't (well, at least, not until the boss is out of your hair), so you just shuffle over, feeling more like you're on your way to death row than anything else. He raises an eyebrow expectantly and you perform something that you aren't quite sure can be described as a smile as much as a painful stretching of the mouth muscles around the teeth as you back up a little and awkwardly open your arms. Mettaton doesn't look very impressed.
"Are you waiting for a hug, darling?" he asks scathingly, giving you a once-over that makes you kinda wanna run to your room and crap your pants, kinda wanna run to your room and nut to the memory all night long. Maybe both. No, no, that's gross and you aren't really sure why you would think that. Then again, based on recent decisions, you come to the conclusion that you clearly aren't in your right mind anyway.
"I can get out your album, if you need a little motivation."
Your 'smile' stretching into overdrive, you tentatively place a shaking, slightly sweaty hand (one of the few situations in which fur is a blessing) on his upper back. You're clearly not working fast enough, though, because you hear the muffled sound of the opening chords of Imagine a Promotion - Now Cry Because You Aren't Ever Getting One starting to waft from the speaker on his chest. You're not sure you've ever scooped someone up so fast in your life. Then again… you're not sure you've ever scooped someone up at all in your life.
"There we are, see? There's the efficiency I'm looking for. Pity you can't manage that at work, isn't it?" he all but gigglesas he slings his arms around your neck, and you're already very, very tempted to just dump him on the floor. At least he's made of… something lightweight. You'd had awful visions of you teetering over the second you picked him up, opening the hellish door to a brand new reason for him to make your life a misery.
"Off you go, then, pumpkin. Mush mush."
He hasn't stopped grinning at you, and all you can really think about as you start your awkward plod out the door of your little flat is how close his face is to yours. He doesn't seem to be exhibiting any inclination towards looking away any time soon, either. You're, for once, kind of glad that you're such a short walk from work - sure, it means that you can feel the heat radiating from the bubbling cauldron of doom and despair that is the resort's kitchen all the way from your bedroom (or at least, you're pretty sure you can), but at least it means this whole... thing is going to be over sooner, because if you stay like this longer than a couple of minutes, you might just explode. Or implode. You're not picky. All you know is that the fact he's so close that you can sometimes feel the tickle of his (admittedly ridiculously long) eyelashes against your cheek reallyisn't helping with the whole sweating situation.
His thigh is soft and slightly warm against the pad of your paw, and you're hit with the random urge to just kind of… knead it. Like biscuit dough. You're not really sure why. Would that be weird? Yeah, that would definitely be weird. Not to mention a one way ticket to hell. Jeez. You're starting to think you should write a book - 'How to Probably Get Fired in Ten Steps or Less'. Maybe that can be your big break.
"Ahem. Not getting any less drained here, darling."
Right. Shit. Yeah. Mettaton.
You pick up the pace a little, not sure if you're glad or kind of disappointed that nobody's around to see this.
"Not that fast!" he snaps mere seconds later, and you have to bite your tongue to keep from screaming. "Anyone would think you're trying to break me in half."
You inhale heavily through your nose, trying to think of something else, anything else. Like how badly you still really want to do that kneading thing.
Wait, shit, no, why the hellare you still thinking about that? It's weird. So, so weird. But you don't even want to do it as, like, a weird thing. You just feel like it'd be nice, somehow. Maybe if you're really, really subtle-
"What are you doing?"
Great. Nice. Fantastic. 10 points for subtlety. God, you hadn't even meant to do it! One second you were just thinking about it, then the next, your paw just sorta-
"Oh, do excuse me, am I on mute?"
And just as soon as you'd finally stopped sweating, a fresh wave of dread juice beads on your forehead as you grind to a halt, your throat feeling like it's closed up shop for the foreseeable future.
"I, uh… I-I was…"
"Were you kneading my leg?"
"...I mean… a little."
"A little."
"...y- uh… yes. Yes. I was. Sir."
Maybe, if you're really lucky, the sealed-for-as-long-as-you-can-remember mountain might spontaneously open up, and then a bunch of humans will come pouring in and maybe beat the shit out of you so you don't have to be in this situation. After a few tense moments of staring, though, you realize that that's unfortunately not going to happen - so you instead squeeze your eyes shut and await your impending verbal slaughter. You are ready to embrace death.
"Hah!"
You crack one eye open. Gingerly.
"Isn't that just adorable," Mettaton half-coos, half-cackles, apparently so tickled that he feels the need to kick out a leg so suddenly that you both almost tip over. "I mean, it's embarrassing as anything too, of course, but… so adorable."
You allow yourself to breathe again (well… wheeze inwards) once it becomes apparent that you're not dying today, and hesitantly resuming your walk of shame, feeling somewhat like a blob of embarrassment with legs attached.
Mettaton laughs all the way back to the resort, and that brings you relief and irritation in equal measure. Because on the one hand (well, unless he's doing that awful laugh that he only does when someone's about to get murdered for ratings), it means that your life isn't in danger. But on the other hand, it's making you feel kind of like an idiot. Which hurts. Or, y'know, would probably hurt. If you weren't totally dead inside at this stage.
You go in to awkwardly elbow the hotel door open, but Mettaton intercepts you with a patronizing pat on the head.
"Ah-ah. No vandalizing my doors, now. Besides, I'm sure I'll manage from here. Wouldn't want people talking, now, would we?" he chuckles, and that kind of makes you want to recede into the neck of your sweater, but the tactical bastard plants a kiss on your cheek before you have the chance. And then just lets himself down with that stupid (read: really hot) grace as if nothing's happened. As if you aren't sizzling like bacon on a hotplate; a prisoner of your own slowly roasting flesh as you incredulously reach up a paw to touch the lipstick stain he's left on your fur (shit, does this mean he's got hair in his mouth? He's probably got hair in his mouth), but he catches your hand on the way with a condescending chuckle.
"Aww. Such sweet little paws. Rather unlike the rest of you, hm?" He grins, with about the sincerity of someone telling a Jerry they're a valued member of the group, and throws you a wink. "Well, it's been fun, darling. Maybe if you're lucky, we'll do it again. Until then, you're probably going to have to do a lot of burger flipping to make up for the time you spent slacking on the clock. So I'd hop to that if I were you. Ciao ciao!
...yeah. You've been here long enough to have seen that coming. And actually, you think, reaching up to prod at the phantom warmth on your cheek once more - maybeyou can live with that. For now. Of course, it's only seconds later that warmth turns into an itch and you remember that you're allergic to lipstick; so actually, fuck that guy.