Trigger warnings: implied sexual assault, emotional manipulation/gaslighting, emetophobia

Chapter 7 – Rebuilding from the Ground

Mettaton didn't have to leave so early for work on Sunday. He didn't have to go anywhere at all, really, but he wanted to stop by the fashion studio, see how everyone was doing, and maybe start on a few new clothing designs.

He was able to say goodbye to Napstablook and Alphys before he left and stop at a drive-thru for breakfast. For once, he didn't have to practically inhale it before starting work. It felt kind of nice.

Now there was just one more thing he needed to do before he went to the studio.

Mettaton drove all the way to an empty lot he'd bought months ago to see how the construction on his new resort was going.

This resort was meant to be a sort of replacement for the MTT Resort in the Underground that had been shut down when everyone left. When it was finished, it was supposed to have over 2500 suites, three heated outdoor pools, an indoor pool, four tennis courts, a five-star restaurant with a dance floor, a gym, a full day spa, an ice rink, a movie theater, a large garden, and a casino, as well as several amenities for children like playgrounds and arcades to make it family-friendly. The lot was right on the bay, so guests would have ocean views and direct access to the beach. It would be a truly exquisite vacation spot once it was finished.

Construction was supposed to have started in February, right around the time Mettaton had started his tour. He didn't expect it to be finished yet—it was only June, after all, and this resort was a huge undertaking—but he was hoping the frame of the building would be long finished and the inside started on.

Unfortunately, when he got there, the frame seemed barely three-quarters finished. The site managers scrambled with clipboards and paper as Mettaton got out of his car with some disdain.

"G-good morning, Mettaton, sir!" one of them exclaimed, smiling tightly, probably praying he wasn't about to get fired. "How-how was your tour?"

"Hello, James," Mettaton said evenly, completely throwing the man off with the casual use of his first name. "It was lovely. How has the building been coming along?"

"Ah, yes, the building." James swallowed. "It's—been coming. I'm afraid we had some weather trouble back in March—direct hit by a tropical cyclone, see. Pretty rare, but it happened. Flooding and wind, couldn't work safely at all—"

"Of course not," interrupted Mettaton. "I wouldn't have expected you to. Do tell me what else happened."

"Well…" James seemed far more comfortable since Mettaton wasn't throwing a fit. "We had to wait until the water went down to start work again, which wasn't until almost April. And we've had a lot of wind in general over the past few months. So we've had to work more slowly than usual. But the pace has been picking up now that it's winter and the wind's died down. So," he said with a more genuine smile, "hopefully we should have the frame finished by the end of next month!"

Mettaton pursed his lips as he glanced around the site. There didn't seem to be any reason to doubt James—the men seemed to be working hard, other than a few who were goofing off, but that wasn't out of the ordinary. But he still wanted to ensure that the job would be done. "Tell you what," he said, pulling out a little pink glittery notebook and pen. "I'm going to raise everyone's paycheck by fifty percent. Have the entire exterior done by October, and you'll all get to keep that raise."

"Fif—fifty percent?" James choked.

"That's what I said. Unless you want less?"

"No, no! Not at all. Thank you, sir." The poor man still looked like he might have a heart attack; then again, a raise was usually not what one expected to get as a reward for delayed construction.

"Hopefully that'll be enough of an incentive to keep everyone working hard." Mettaton closed the notebook and snapped it back in his handbag. "I'll be checking back sometime next month. Do call if you have a problem between now and then."

"Of course, sir! Have a nice day!"

"And the same to all of you."

Once he got back in his car, Mettaton banged his fists on the wheel angrily. He was glad he hadn't totally lost it out there, like he'd been tempted to do. He didn't even know why he was so upset over this. So what if his resort was finished a few weeks or even a few months off schedule? It wasn't like he even really had a set schedule for it. And clearly everyone out there was working hard, and they certainly couldn't control the weather.

Perhaps that was the problem. Control. He'd lost control of his little project for a short time and now his dramatic personality was spinning things out of proportion.

Alright, Tonnie, time to calm down, he told himself. It's not the end of the world. Just go to the studio now. It'll all be fine.

He forced himself to breathe in and out evenly as he drove. Eventually the anger faded away into total apathy. Who cared if the damned resort ever got built and opened. It would just be yet another thing for Mettaton to worry about.

I care, he reminded himself. I never would have started building the thing if I didn't care. And I like worrying about things—or having things to look after, anyway.

Suddenly, Mettaton was very tired. Looking after things, designing clothes, filming, everything else he did—parts of him demanded he do them all incessantly so he wouldn't get bored, so he wouldn't think about things, but the other parts of him seemed to be running out of steam to do them. Maybe Alphys was right, maybe he did need a long break from everything. Moneywise, he could certainly afford it.

But the idea of sitting around and doing nothing productive really scared Mettaton.

He kept driving, all the way to the fashion studio. Surely once he got there and saw everyone, he'd find the energy to keep working.

He didn't really look around as he pulled into the parking lot. It was only once he got out of his car that he saw the worst possible thing, the very last possible person he wanted to see ever, let alone when he was already feeling upset.

He was waiting for Mettaton in front of the building.

Mettaton began to tremble all over. He didn't even know why; if it came down to it, Mettaton was far stronger physically and magically, but his fear seemed to put a tight stopper on the magic, and he didn't know if he could stop shaking enough or even find the willpower to fight properly.

For a wild moment, he considered getting back in his car and driving as far away as possible, or perhaps making a break for the building.

But he was already coming over.

Leave me alone, Mettaton begged in his mind as he started briskly walking toward the building, deliberately not looking at the man making a beeline straight for him. Please…

"Mettaton!" the man cried, smiling brightly and putting a hand on his arm.

Mettaton felt bile, or the magical equivalent, rise in his throat. The man looked and seemed just as Mettaton remembered him—fair skin, short blond hair, bright blue eyes, his touch gentle—no, it wasn't gentle, not the way Mettaton used to think. It was as if he was holding a precious object, one that he desired with no inhibition.

The robot took a few shaky steps back. "Devon." His voice was barely a squeak.

Devon's eyes—god, Mettaton hated those deceiving eyes—became sad. "I see you remember."

"Of course I remember—" Mettaton was still whispering. "How could I forget—" The way you grabbed me and ignored me as I cried and begged you to stop. The way you made sure I couldn't fight back. The way you left me—

Mettaton didn't know if he could throw up, but he sure wanted to.

"Mettaton, look, I—" Devon put up his hands. "I messed up. I know I did. I—I should have listened."

That's the understatement of the century, Mettaton thought. But he'd lost the courage to keep responding out loud.

"I get it, why you're scared of me," Devon continued. "But I won't do that again. I'm sorry. I promise."

Mettaton still said nothing. He wanted to run away, but his legs wouldn't move.

"That said, it would be helpful if you would communicate clearly in the future." Now those eyes were admonishing. "You were flirting with me all that night, and you acted like you wanted something from me. You even said you did at one point. I was only giving you what you said you wanted."

"I never—" Mettaton's throat finally opened enough for him to speak. "I never said I wanted that."

"I'm almost certain you did," insisted Devon. "I mean, I know you weren't quite all there—you probably don't remember, you had a lot of wine that night. But I'm really quite certain that you did say you wanted it."

Except you were the one who gave me all that wine…

Mettaton's memories were fuzzy, but giving explicit consent to anything at all was definitely not sounding familiar.

But maybe Devon was right… maybe that was just one of the things he'd forgotten.

"I still said no later," whispered Mettaton.

"I didn't hear that. And if I had, I'd have probably thought—I might have thought maybe that was part of your hard-to-get act."

"My what?" When had Mettaton ever played hard to get?

"Well—for a couple of months, you'd been flirting with me, and when I flirted back you pretended you hadn't," Devon explained. "If you'd been loud enough that night, I'd have probably thought you'd dropped the act under the influence, realized it, and were trying to get back into it."

The excuse sounded very flimsy to Mettaton, but his memories of the night seemed more jumbled by the minute. Maybe he hadn't really been crying… maybe it had just been the alcohol. Maybe he hadn't said no loud enough for Devon to hear, in which case this might be just a big misunderstanding.

But then why did he feel so broken now?

And there was one other thing…

"So why'd you leave me on the street, then?" Mettaton hissed. "After it was all over? You could have at least taken me home…"

"I saw you were passed out…" Devon's eyes searched his face imploringly. "I just—panicked. I realized you'd probably be a right mess when you woke up and I just—didn't know what to do. You know I have anxiety problems," he added, a hint of a whine in his voice, "They make me do things I normally wouldn't. But I did at least try to set you up comfortably before I ran. You must have fallen over."

Mettaton seemed to remember waking up in a painful, crumpled heap in a parking lot the next morning, but Devon seemed so apologetic… maybe he was remembering that wrong, too. "And where did you disappear off to for all that time before I even left?"

"I had some money stashed away—I had to think about some things, so I quit work and went away for a while," said Devon quietly. "I was lucky to get my job back when I returned—and I was surprised to find you weren't in the country. Then again, I hadn't really been paying attention to what you were doing.

"But now that we're both back—" He tried to take Mettaton's hand. "Please, can't we forget this all happened? I know I screwed up—screwed up badly. I make a lot of mistakes on impulse like that, you know I would never mean to hurt you. Can't we start over? Be friends again?"

Mettaton removed his hand from the man's grasp. Almost his entire being screamed no, get away from me, never talk to me again, but one small but persistent part of his mind thought that maybe Devon really was sorry, maybe he did deserve forgiveness, maybe he should let the man into his life again.

"I'll think about it," he replied, trying to keep his voice from trembling.

Devon smiled brightly. "I understand. If you ever need me, just call, and I'll be right by the stairs at the film studio in the mornings five days a week, just like I used to be!" he said, patting Mettaton's shoulder.

Mettaton waited until he was sure Devon had driven away before he went inside the fashion studio. The designers and their models swarmed around him.

"Mettaton! How lovely to see you again," an older man rumbled.

"I saw you were with Devon just now, does that mean you've made up?" one of the models asked coaxingly.

"M-Made up? What do you mean?" stuttered Mettaton. How much had Devon said about their falling out?

"He said you guys had a bit of a fight and you didn't want to talk to him for the longest time. But we just saw you out there talking to him now, didn't we, girls?" she said, turning to the other models.

Mettaton stiffened. "Yes. Well. We did… have a fight… and I didn't like some of the things he had to say," he got out. "He was just trying to apologize to me. I told him I'd think about forgiving him," he added, knowing what they'd all ask next.

"Well, I definitely hope you forgive him! You guys looked so cute together, we were all just waiting for you to become an official couple until all that. He's so nice, you know? Soft. I think he'd be good for you," the model fawned.

Mettaton couldn't listen to any more of this. "Excuse me. I need the restroom," he said, worming his way out of the crowd.

As it turned out, Mettaton could throw up.

He was sick in a toilet for nearly ten minutes straight, in fact. He felt like he was coughing up his entire soul.

Afterwards, he leaned on the counter in front of the mirror, wiping the ectoplasm from his mouth, shaking just as hard as he had been earlier.

Devon Hart was back in his life, as sudden as a thunderbolt out of the blue. And he had everyone fooled.

Or did he? Mettaton didn't know if he could trust his own memories anymore. It had happened quite a while ago, and he'd been more than just a little tipsy that night.

Clearly something bad had happened, but if it was just a mistake… if he really was just pushing someone away who cared about him, yet again…

Maybe he should make up with him. After all, it wasn't all Devon's fault… Mettaton did recall being pretty flirty that night… perhaps this was all because he just didn't know how to tell people straight up what he wanted.

In that case, Mettaton was obligated to at least apologize. Maybe even give being friends again a try.

Things had to go back to normal eventually, right?

And then he wouldn't feel bad anymore.

But paranoia won out.

He decided he wasn't going to call, or seek Devon out, or have anything to do with him for the time being. It was just too painful, even after all these months.

When he came out of the restroom, Mettaton was completely composed. He smiled as one of his fellow clothing designers said, "It's really fantastic to have you back, Mettaton. Things have been rather boring here without your dramatic flair."

"I don't doubt that," he agreed. "So, I was thinking about this new dress design I came up with on the way over. Let me draw you up a sketch, I'd love to see what you think."

Ω

Papyrus was up early again on Sunday, though not as early as usual. He was excited to continue the project he had waiting in the garage.

After inhaling some toast, he changed into an old T-shirt, denim shorts, and sneakers, then went outside and took in the crisp morning air before pulling up the garage door and backing his car out onto the driveway.

Finally, he pulled a large, heavy something, covered by a white tarp, toward the middle of the garage. He whipped off the tarp dramatically to reveal the frame of an old Buell XB12R Firebolt motorcycle. The engine, wheels, lights, seat, handlebars, and other parts were all scattered about the garage.

It was Papyrus's project, his 'baby' as he'd taken to calling it around the house. He'd gotten it cheap off one of his coworkers, who was trying to get rid of it. It was a 2095 model, just over a decade old at this point, and though the paint had long worn off the plastic parts and the old engine no longer worked, it had still been in pretty good condition for all that.

Papyrus was taking it upon himself to rebuild the engine from scratch, and soon he hoped to replace the headlights, taillights, leather seat and handlebars, and several other things. Then he'd put the whole thing back together, shine the metal parts, and paint it the color of his choice, and it'd look good as new.

Then he'd get to ride it. There was no doubt in his mind he'd be the coolest guy on the block, zooming around on a sleek, shiny racing motorcycle.

Not that he actually knew how to ride it yet. But he'd learn.

Papyrus had to work slowly and carefully in order not to aggravate his chronic pain, but fortunately finishing the engine wasn't particularly vigorous, and he'd taken apart and rebuilt so many car engines before that this one wasn't really difficult to build, either. Of course, it worked differently, since it was a different kind of vehicle, but learning the differences was hardly a problem for him.

He'd been working for a couple of hours when he heard the door to the house open.

"Mornin', Pap. You still workin' on that engine?"

"Good morning, brother! I was just finishing it up, actually, see?" Papyrus moved aside so Sans could look at it on the floor, old and spare parts scattered around it. "I just need to make sure I screw this together right—and done! Now I can put the whole thing back in the motorcycle. I have to fix some of the framing before I do that, though," he said thoughtfully. "That means I need the welding torch. You have to go inside or put on a mask, it's very bright and dangerous."

"Throw me one of those, then, would ya?" Sans held out his hands and caught the mask Papyrus tossed at him. "Thanks."

Papyrus pulled on a pair of heavy gloves and picked up the welding torch.

"Sure you can handle that by yourself?" Sans asked from behind his mask.

Papyrus gave him a look before slipping on his own mask and beginning to weld some of the framing of the bike back together.

He had to bend over a fair bit to do the work, and bolts of pain shot through his spine as though it were protesting. Should have taken another pill this morning. But it wasn't overwhelming, so he ignored it until he was finished.

Sans didn't miss when his brother pressed his hand against his hip and leaned back. "You okay?"

"I'm fine. The torch is just a bit heavy," said Papyrus shortly. "So that's done. Now it has to cool down before I do anything else."

"Okay, well, your back looks like it's bothering you. How about you come inside and rest a little—"

"Nonsense, Sans. There's too much work to be done!" Papyrus started counting on his fingers. "The clothes need to be cleaned and ironed, the dishes need to be rinsed, I want to get a crack at tidying up your room, and my car could use a wash—I think I'll do that now, since we're already outside. And who knows what else could use a cleaning around here."

"Didn't you just wash your car last week?" Sans was mentally reeling from everything Papyrus wanted to do today. "And I keep telling you, leave my stuff alone. If I want it to be clean, I'll do it."

"Sans, you know darn well you wouldn't. I really don't understand why you're so protective over garbage and boxes of papers. Honestly, what need do you have for hundreds of outdated CORE documents?" Papyrus rolled his eyes. "Those should have gone straight to the Monster Archives. And I'm still waiting for an explanation on how that trash tornado followed us up from the Underground."

"Papyrus, stop." Sans rubbed the bridge of his nose.

"Stop what?" Papyrus seemed almost offended. "Trying to keep our house in order? Making sure you can actually live in your own bedroom? Brother, really, I—"

"No, I mean—you're always goin' a hundred miles an hour, trying to find work to do or whatever, and you never take a break. It's like every minute of your day has to be filled with something… I dunno, meaningful," explained Sans. "It's not good for you, it's why your bones are hurting all the time. You're really gonna do some irreparable damage if you keep goin' like this, dude."

Papyrus sighed. "You just don't understand, Sans. Just like I don't understand how you feel the need to sleep all the time. We are just very different monsters." He smiled. "You don't need to worry about me! I like keeping busy. Though perhaps you're right," he admitted, "I could maybe use a little break every once in a while—it would definitely allow me to spend more time with you! So if ever you find some fun activity you think I would enjoy, please, do not hesitate to tell me about it!"

"Alright, bro," Sans chuckled. "Just take care of yourself while you're doing everything."

"I will, Sans. You say that to me almost every day!" laughed Papyrus. "For such a lazy, apathetic person, you are quite a worrywart."

"Hey, without you, I got nothin'," said Sans seriously. "We're on the surface now, Frisk isn't gonna—" He broke off and cleared his throat, like he'd said something he shouldn't have. "I just—have reason to worry."

Papyrus wanted to ask about what he was going to say regarding Frisk, but he'd long ago learned that Sans wouldn't say anything if he didn't want to. So he let it go instead. "If you say so. Now, I am going to wash this car, and then I am going to reinstall this engine in my motorcycle. And then—! I don't know what then."

"Okay. I'm gonna go inside. Let me know when you're ready with that engine, it looks heavy and I wanna try to help."

"That's… very kind of you, Sans. I'll let you know."

"Promise?"

"Yes, Sans, I promise!" Papyrus huffed exasperatedly. "Now go and laze around until I call you!"

Papyrus couldn't help but laugh as his brother went back inside. Sans could be so silly sometimes. There's nothing to worry about, he thought as he pulled out the hose and a bucket to wash his car. I'm doing fine! I didn't even need my medicine yet today! And I've made huge progress on my motorcycle—maybe we can celebrate a little tonight.

Yes, Papyrus was sure he was doing just fine. There was no reason for Sans—or anyone else—to worry.

oooooooooo

A/N: finally! another chapter.

my beta reader said it was obvious to him what was going on, but I just want to make this very clear, in case someone doesn't get it: Devon is gaslighting Mettaton. Google gives the definition of gaslighting as "manipulating (someone) by psychological means into questioning their own sanity." You can replace "sanity" with "memories" or "reality" and it's the same deal.

Gaslighting is a tactic many abusers use to fool their victims into believing they aren't being abused, and it's pretty effective. If you are in any kind of relationship, and the conversation in the story sounds familiar to you, it's possible you are being manipulated and/or abused. If you believe you are being manipulated, you ought to seek to end the relationship, find help, or do whatever you can to make yourself safe.

That's really all I have to say on this chapter, except that it's a very important chapter in relation to the rest of the story.

I'm working on another little Papyton story for a friend's birthday, so it'll be a little bit before either this story or my Underfell story (if any of you are reading that) updates.

I appreciate reviews, and I read every one of them fondly even if I don't know how to respond!