Chapter 2
The Dinner
Mettaton looked up and down the street as he approached the front door of the wooden bungalow where, as Papyrus had earlier informed him, the skeleton lived with his older brother Sans. The bungalow was typical of the houses that the monsters were constructing themselves in Ebottsville as they established themselves on the Surface: small, simple, but hospitable. There was little to distinguish Papyrus's house from any one of a half-dozen others in the town, but the presence of a garish red Mazda Miata with a tacky after-market trunk spoiler and a Jolly Roger bumper sticker instantly dispelled all doubt that Mettaton had come to the right place.
He adjusted the lapels of his magenta floor-length top coat—not strictly necessary, for the evening was mild and Mettaton's body was impervious to weather anyway, but he simply doted on the style—and knocked on the door. No one answered for a minute, and Mettaton knocked again; finally the door opened.
"Why, hello, darling, you've kept me waiting—" Mettaton began, but his opening patter ground to an abrupt halt when he saw that it wasn't Papyrus who answered the door but another skeleton about half his height, chunky in build, wearing dark blue trackpants and a stained blue hoodie. He grinned up at Mettaton.
"You're coming on awful strong considering we just met. Bet you say that to all the skeletons."
"Oh. Pardon me. You must be Papyrus's brother Sans."
"Pleased to meetcha." Sans offered his hand and Mettaton grasped it, only to be greeted with the sour "blat" of a whoopie cushion. Mettaton winced; Sans laughed. "Always a classic," he said.
"SAAANS!" screeched Papyrus, running up to the door. He was still wearing the Home Depot shirt partly protected with a much-splattered apron that also featured a Jolly Roger skull-and-crossbones, with the words "CAPTAIN COOK" printed underneath. "Mettaton is my guest and you will behave around him! I'm so sorry about this, Mettaton…"
Mettaton forced a laugh. "Oh, don't worry about it, Papyrus, I don't mind the occasional practical joke. Will your brother be, ah, joining us tonight?"
"Don't fret about it, Metty," Sans replied. "My brother asked for privacy and I'm gonna give it to him. I'm headed over to Grillby's." He turned to Papyrus. "First, though, mind if I have a private word or two with your date first? Just the two of us?"
"Well, okay, Sans, if that's what you want. I'll be in the kitchen."
"Thanks, bro." Sans watched Papyrus retreat into the kitchen; when his brother was out of sight, Sans whipped around. His smile, though still broad, now carried a hint of menace. "Now listen, Metty. TV star or not, you'd better treat my little brother right. Even if you walk all over him he'll never say a bad word about it but I'm not quite as forgiving. You understand?"
Mettaton backed up half a step. "Sans, believe me, I'm not here to 'walk all over him'. I really do want to show Papyrus a good time, honestly."
"You'd better not be kidding about this. 'Cause if I get back home and find out that my brother got a hard time off you…" The light in his eye-sockets went out and a note of distant thunder entered his voice. "You're gonna get a hard time off me. Get it?"
"Y-yes. Perfectly, Sans."
The light returned to Sans's eye-sockets and his voice returns to its casual, sardonic norm. "That's the only bone I have to pick with you for now, Metty. I'll leave you two to your date. Hey, Papyrus!" he called out toward the kitchen. "Done with my chat, so I'm heading out. Call me or text me or whatever when you're okay with me coming back, all right?"
"Of course, Sans, of course!" Papyrus ran back out of the kitchen, knelt in front of his brother and hugged him. Sans returned the embrace.
"I hope you have a good time, bro," Sans said, his voice gentle.
"Thanks, Sans. You're always looking out for your little brother, aren't you?"
"Always." Releasing Papyrus he shot a final glare at Mettaton. "Remember what I said, huh? I'll be seeing you around, maybe." With that parting shot he exited, shutting the door behind him.
Mettaton gave Papyrus a quizzical look. "Your brother can be rather...forcible, can't he?"
"Sometimes!" Papyrus replied, his voice bright and cheery. "Mostly though he's just silly and lazy. I mean, look at the state he leaves the house in!"
Mettaton looked around. The living room looked very neat and tidy to his eyes: the blue carpeting looked as though it had just been vacuumed, the green couch had gone threadbare in places but was otherwise spotless, and there wasn't a hint of clutter anywhere. The only signs of anything that could be called remotely messy were an open bag of potato chips on the coffee-table and a cardboard box on a small table by the front door, a box overflowing and spilling over with mail. Papyrus snatched up the bag of chips. "It's so embarrassing…" he lamented as he returned it to the kitchen, prompting Mettaton to smile to himself. When Papyrus reemerged from the kitchen, he stood there at the threshold for a long moment, gazing admiringly at Mettaton and unable for the moment to form words.
Mettaton treated Papyrus to his most fetching smile and a little wave. "Hi there," he crooned, causing the skeleton to blush.
"Mettaton. Gosh...you look...incredible," Papyrus stammered out. "That coat is gorgeous on you."
"Mmm, it is rather fetching, isn't it?" Mettaton pivoted about on one heel, pirouetting with his arms held up like a figure skater in the middle of a spin, swirling the magenta coat about himself.
Papyrus gasped and clapped his hands together. "So graceful," he breathed.
"I'm glad you like it," Mettaton said. "But I suppose I should disrobe before dinner. Do you have some place I can stow this?"
"Oh! Yes, yes!" Papyrus rushed over to a small coat closet near the front door. "Please. Allow me, Mettaton."
"Certainly!" Mettaton whipped off the coat off of his shoulders with a grand flourish, draped it over one arm, and with a gracious bow of his head he offered it to Papyrus. "Thank you, sir," he said.
Papyrus hesitantly reached for the coat, reverently picking it up in his tremulous hands. "It's soft…" he said.
"Ultrasuede," said Mettaton, as Papyrus hung the top coat up with infinite care. "Now you can tell your brother and your friends that only five minutes into your very first date you already succeeded in stripping me of all my clothes."
"Oh wow...you're...naked right now?" Papyrus covered his mouth with his hands. "Really?"
Mettaton chuckled. "Well, I suppose it depends on how you define 'naked' for me. There are a number of panels on my chassis that I can open up or remove if needed for certain...activities. But what you now see before you, gloriously unclothed…" Mettaton twirled again, completing his maneuver by coming face to face with Papyrus and gesturing his hands downward from top to toe. "...Is everything I was made with, and nothing more."
Papyrus goggled at Mettaton, mouth open in a soundless "wowie", but then abruptly he glanced down at his own body as if suddenly made aware of his food-splashed orange T-shirt and novelty apron. "Oh no," he said, his voice distraught. "I must look like a complete mess to you!"
"Darling!" Mettaton held up a consoling hand. "You have no reason to worry! After all, you are soiling yourself in the cause of fulfilling your promise of a home-cooked meal." His eyes strayed over to the dining table in the corner, which had already been set for two, complete with candlesticks. "What is on the menu tonight, may I ask?"
"I am treating you to something special tonight, Mettaton!" Papyrus grinned cheerily, his mood instantly revived. "Fettuccine alla carbonara from the kitchen of master chef Papyrus! And my brother provided me with a recipe for some sort of dessert quiche…"
"Ah! Sounds...interesting. When will it be ready?"
Papyrus looked nonplussed, then checked his phone for the time. Mettaton didn't think it was possible but somehow the skeleton's face grew paler. "I, um, let me check on that," he got out, and then he dashed to the kitchen. Clattering noises floated out into the living room, along with the occasional inarticulate sound of dismay.
Mettaton permitted himself a quick worried frown before taking his seat at the dining table. There was little question was to which of the two seats was meant to be his. Somehow, Papyrus had acquired two sets of tableware that were identical except in color: one set was red, the other set was fuschia-pink. The napkins, too, were red and pink to match. As if this weren't enough Papyrus had drawn up little place cards with their names on them, neatly lettered and ornamented: Papyrus's card featured a cartoon skull-and-crossbones, while Mettaton's card sported a pink heart.
"It will be ready soon," cried Papyrus from the kitchen.
"Take as much time as you need, darling!" Mettaton called back. A slight noise from the direction of the front door caught his attention for a moment, a muffled scratching sound. After a couple of seconds Mettaton heard nothing more, so he shrugged and returned to waiting for his meal.
"Dinner is served!" Papyrus announced, as he came back out of the kitchen carrying aloft in one hand a serving-bowl filled with pasta and in the other hand a bowl of grated parmesan. He set both down in the center of the table and Mettaton looked narrowly at the bowl of pasta. The dish presented a somewhat discouraging aspect for something that was meant to be eaten: the fettuccine had separated poorly during cooking and the ribbons of pasta were everywhere stuck together in little bundles; the sauce had a lumpy, curdled look, and to Mettaton's olfactory sensors there lurked a burnt smell underneath the smoky aroma of the bacon.
He looked up at Papyrus, who was smiling at Mettaton and at his creation with a slightly manic grin. "Looks good," Mettaton said.
"May I serve you?" asked Papyrus, gesturing with a pasta fork.
"You may serve me," Mettaton replied, and Papyrus transferred a generous helping of the fettuccine to Mettaton's plate. The operation, unfortunately, did not improve the appearance of the pasta. Papyrus scooped some onto his own plate and got halfway through sitting down when he remembered that he was still dressed in his stained shirt and apron. He looked himself up and down then jumped away from his chair. "I—Please excuse me, Mettaton—" He ran out of the living room down a corridor, and Mettaton could hear an unseen door open and shut.
Mettaton poked a fork at his helping of fettuccine while he waited. The noodles hadn't just stuck together; they were also overcooked and mushy. Then he looked up sharply from his plate, hearing again the scratching sound that seemed to be coming from the front door. Maybe there was a stray cat outside?
The unseen door creaked open again and shortly Papyrus came back into view. He'd discarded the apron and changed out of his Home Depot clothing into a creditable attempt at formal dress: blue dress shirt, black trousers, and a red tie. The shirt hung loosely and baggily indeed on Papyrus's skeletal frame, however, and because his belt didn't have a proper waist to go round the trousers looked to be in perpetual danger of falling down around his feet. Moreover, Papyrus had seen fit to add to his ensemble a finishing touch: wound about his neck was the inevitable frayed, worn red scarf.
"Well done darling," Mettaton said, even though his mind had gone into overdrive imagining a hundred different ways that he could salvage Papyrus's outfit, each and every one of those ways beginning with jettisoning the incongruous scarf.
"Thank you, Mettaton," said Papyrus, the most heartfelt of grins spreading over his face. (Argh! this would be easier if his smile wasn't so damn adorable, Mettaton thought.) "Oh, I'm forgetting something…" Papyrus fished out his phone and spent a few moments tapping. "Yes! I must play romantic music!" (Oh, dear, he's looking up online dating tips too…) The skeleton went over to the entertainment center, connected his phone to external speakers, and tapped some more; a peppy electronic tune began to play that sounded oddly like an arrangement of a Russian folk dance. "No! Sorry! Wrong one!" More tapping, and then Joe Cocker's arrangement of "Your Are So Beautiful."
A shudder went down Mettaton's spine at the first sound of Cocker's voice. "No, please don't—" he interjected, before he could stop himself.
Papyrus stopped the song and looked at Mettaton, his face falling. "You don't like it? Many people have recommended this song as one of the most romantic."
Mettaton sought refuge in equivocation. "Oh, no, Papyrus, you misunderstand me, darling. I just happen to prefer not listening to music while I'm dining." It wasn't quite true, but none of the music that Mettaton preferred would possibly fit Papyrus's notion of a romantic playlist.
Papyrus seemed mollified. "Okay! Um...oh, I need to light the candles too." He ran to the kitchen again and Mettaton heard multiple kitchen drawers opening and closing, and more dismayed sounds. Eventually he heard a relieved sigh; then Papyrus reappeared with a paper matchbook that said "GRILLBY'S" on it, with a picture of Grillby's flaming head. "I don't know why Sans brought this home," Papyrus said as he tried and failed to strike a number of the matches. "He doesn't smoke." Finally Papyrus got one to stay burning, lit the candles with it, and turned off the overhead lighting. "Now we can enjoy our romantic dinner together, at last," he said, sinking into his seat.
Mettaton looked at the empty glass that was part of his place-setting. "Do you have anything to drink, Papyrus?"
Papyrus's eye-sockets snapped wide-open and he jumped from his seat. "Gosh...I...I think I forgot!" He rushed back to the kitchen and looked in the refrigerator and the cabinets. "I forgot to get a bottle of wine or anything like that! All I've got is…" He pulled from the refrigerator a glass bottle of a radioactive-yellow fluid. "...some kind of soda that Sans likes to drink."
"Ah, not interested, I'm afraid," said Mettaton. "Water will be fine, then. Put some ice in it, though, if you have any."
Papyrus nodded, not saying a word as he retrieved the glasses from the table and got out an ice-cube tray. Mettaton's heart sank at the expression on Papyrus's face when he returned with the water. He was still managing to smile but Mettaton could tell that he was having trouble maintaining it. "Here you are, Mettaton," said Papyrus as he put down his water-glass. "Again I'm sorry."
"Please, don't apologize! I'm not especially devoted to the practice of drinking wine with a meal, in any case." That was more or less true. Mettaton would sometimes make a show of sipping wine for his cooking show but he was not overfond of the smell and taste, and in any case his body was incapable of getting a buzz from the stuff. "Thank you for the water."
"Thank you, Mettaton," said Papyrus, with a somewhat more relaxed smile, as he resumed his seat.
Mettaton returned his attention to the pasta in front of him. The numerous interruptions had done no favors to the dish, which was now lukewarm as well as lumpy. He tried an experimental sample, trying to keep his face neutral. His olfaction had not been wrong: there was a definite taste of burnt bacon. The pasta had no "tooth" left to it at all, and the sauce had begun to separate into a greasy mixture of bacon-fat and curds of egg and cheese. Still Mettaton forced down a mouthful, then another. Papyrus on the other hand ate his own helping with alacrity; he was halfway through by the time Mettaton was on his third forkful. His eye-sockets were aimed downward and he offered no conversation.
"So, Papyrus," said Mettaton, trying to change the mood, "I must say I'm fascinated by your red scarf. I've rarely seen you without it. It must be one of your most treasured possessions."
Papyrus looked up from his fettuccine at Mettaton, his smile natural now and unforced. "Yes, Mettaton, it is. My brother Sans gave it to me the first day that he let me come with him on his rounds as a sentry in Snowdin Forest." There was a faraway glow in his eye-sockets. "Sans didn't want me to come with him at first. He said I was too young, and the forest was too dangerous. But I begged him! I asked Sans, how was I get into the Royal Guard some day without learning what guard duty was like? So finally he said I could come with him and he gave me this, to protect me against the snow and the cold." Papyrus chuckled a little. "I think my lazy brother just didn't want me along because he'd always fall asleep and I'd always be waking him up again. But, Mettaton, it was one of the happiest days of my life, and I have this to remind me of it." He ran his bony fingers over the well-worn fabric. "I guess it's seen better days. Maybe I should just put it away."
"No! Don't do that, Papyrus. Not when you're wearing it out of love for your family." Mettaton lowered his gaze a little. "I haven't always been the best at that…"
"Mettaton! Are you sad?" Papyrus's eye-sockets were full of concern now. "Please, I didn't want to make you sad, Mettaton!"
"Oh, it's fine, darling," Mettaton replied, looking up and wearing, for Papyrus's benefit, his brightest smile. "A mere shadow from the distant past, nothing more. Mettaton is looking forward now!" He primped his hair. "There are new horizons, new stages on which to perform, new hearts to conquer!"
Papyrus blushed a little at those last words. "I think it's just great, Mettaton, that you're going to become an even bigger star now. All the humans are going to learn how…" He blushed more. "...How wonderful you are." Then his face fell again. "I wonder what I'm sort of future I'm going to have now. All I ever wanted to be, before we were free, was to be in the Royal Guard. I got to spend all those days with Undyne, training. But I never did get in, Mettaton. And now there is no Royal Guard, and Undyne's busy working with Alphys now…"
"What happened with the Royal Guard, Papyrus?" Mettaton asked.
"The human happened. Frisk happened. Nyeh heh heh…" The laugh faltered. "I kept training and training with Undyne but she kept telling me, 'You're not ready yet.' I didn't know what I was doing wrong. So I thought that, the next time a human came into the kingdom, if I was the one to capture them, Undyne would have to let me into the Guard after that." Papyrus rubbed a hand over his skull. "But then Frisk came, and I wanted to do my duty, really I did, the way a real Guard would. Like Undyne would. But...they were just a child! I watched them play in the snow and makes friends with other monsters and laugh when they solved my puzzles...I couldn't do it, Mettaton. Oh, I tried. I confronted them and even tried to attack them, but I would keep panicking whenever they got injured and stop the fight. I couldn't hurt someone who just wanted to be my friend…"
"I wish I could tell you the same," whispered Mettaton.
"Sorry, I didn't catch that, Mettaton. What did you say?"
Mettaton could not answer. When it had been his turn to confront Frisk, he'd had no compunctions about killing them. And Mettaton had come very, very close. Into his mind flashed a vivid image from their battle: Frisk's diminutive body, small even for a child their age, sprawled limply on the ground after one of Mettaton's kicks had sent them flying, blood pouring from multiple wounds, but somehow undefeated, somehow unyielding, somehow staggering back their feet to throw themselves back into the fray. Yet all that had passed through Mettaton's mind at the moment was that he was creating great television...
"Mettaton?" Papyrus was staring at him. "Mettaton, you've gone really quiet."
"Hm?" Mettaton snapped back into awareness. "I apologize, Papyrus, my mind was wandering for a moment." Suddenly he glanced toward the kitchen and sniffed the air. "Papyrus darling, do I smell something burning?"
Papyrus leapt up from his seat in shock. "The quiche! I didn't set a timer on the quiche!" He dashed into the kitchen. Mettaton heard the sounds of the oven door opening and of Papyrus crying out, "It's ruined!"
Mettaton got up from his seat and went to the threshold of the kitchen, where he saw Papyrus kneeling on the floor in front of the oven. On the rack which he'd pulled out sat a glass pie plate that may at one time have held a meringue pie of some variety, but the meringue had gone from white through toasty brown all the way to charcoal. A sulfurous miasma of burnt egg wafted up from the ruined pie. Papyrus opened the kitchen window in an attempt to air out the room, then sank to the floor, holding his head in both his hands.
"Papyrus, darling, it's all right—"
"It's not all right!" The skeleton leapt to his feet, arms flailing. "I wanted to give you a special night, Mettaton! I wanted this to be tender and romantic!"
"Papyrus, dear, I appreciate the effort—"
"Wait." Papyrus held up a hand for silence. "What's that noise?" Neither of them said anything for a few seconds, then they heard the noise again, a scratching and scrabbling noise coming from the living room, and then a muffled bark.
"No, not now!" With Mettaton in tow Papyrus ran out of the kitchen, looking wildly around the living room. From behind the coat closet door came the sound of more scratching. "The closet!" screeched Papyrus, flinging the door open. Out from the closet jumped a little white dog, wagging its tail and barking merrily. It ran to Papyrus's feet and tried putting its paws up on his legs.
"YOU DETESTABLE CANINE!" Papyrus screamed. "I'LL GET YOU FOR THIS!" Papyrus made a lunge for the puppy but it streaked off in the direction of the kitchen and, before Papyrus could collect himself to give chase, the dog had leapt over the windowsill and disappeared.
"What did you do?!" cried Papyrus, looking into the closet. Mettaton looked over his shoulder and winced. His beautiful magenta top coat lay in a heap on the closet floor, covered in white hairs and spatters of drool where the dog had been nesting on it.
Papyrus stood frozen in place for many moments, staring at the fallen coat. Mettaton struggled to find words that might alleviate the situation. Before he could speak, however, Papyrus turned away. Without uttering a word, making a sound, or even glancing in Mettaton's direction the skeleton walked out of the living room and down the corridor. The unseen door opened, then shut, and did not open again.
