The painting is really bugging him. It looks like some kind of surrealistic interpretation, with swirls of colour that probably don't translate into anything sensible in most people's eyes.
But Papyrus isn't most people and he stares at it, sees the edges of a sun in the bottom left corner, clouds drifting across the ground. An upside down tree with roots stretching towards a gravely sky.
He wonders if a patient made it (probably) and he wonders where they're now (dead maybe) and what happened to his own painting from art therapy all those weeks ago (gone forever hopefully).
Most of all he wonders why they hung it upside down, why they failed to see the image portrayed in this cacophony of painted lines, and it bugs him.
So he stares at it and focuses on it and bounces his leg up and down in an effort to ignore Sans sitting in the chair next to him.
Sans was fine with talking to the doctor, he's always fine with talking, not so much with doing stuff practically, and that bugs Papyrus too but not enough to actually mention it. Not enough to spur him into some kind of action.
Things have rarely had that effect on him and as Papyrus looks at the painting, the painting somebody put up wrong because they couldn't see what he sees and it bugs him, he wonders why he never did.
In hindsight it will probably be quite amusing, but then again most things are. If he had brought any popcorn, Papyrus might even use the term 'entertaining'.
He didn't though. He doesn't even like popcorn.
He likes Sans sitting there with his arms crossed looking like a toddler that is getting scolded though. That's great.
He likes somebody else telling Sans that sure, things are not 'fine', but that is at least partly his fault too and he should take responsibility. Sans doesn't do responsibility, Papyrus could tell Doctor Burke, but refrains.
But it is refreshing still, after weeks of being told these are his problems, his issues, his denial, his diagnosis, his self-doubt, his, his, his...
Now it are his brother's problems too.
There's a silence, after what has mostly been a monologue so far, the doctor has done a lot of talking and Sans has done a lot of sitting around trying his best at looking like he is comfortable.
He's not as good an actor as he is a comedian.
And then Burke rests his elbows on the desk and looks at both of them as if they're children in a petty argument pointing fingers at each other.
"Tell me, how would you describe your relationship?" He says, and since his head is turned towards Sans as he does so Papyrus decides to keep his diplomatic silence going a little longer.
"We're brothers." The skeleton in question says and the doctor laughs.
"No, I meant... the state of your relationship. Would you say it's a healthy one?"
"Of course." Sans starts talking before Burke can even finish his question properly. "It's fine, we're fine."
Is there any clearer way to communicate they're not fine?
"I see." The doctor says, though they're not sure what it is he's seeing at all. He turns his head toward Papyrus, who coughs into his hands to delay having to answer.
"It could be better." He decides eventually, and Sans tenses in the chair next to him.
"Have you ever thought about getting any... professional help? You are in a complicated situation after all, it's not unusual t-"
"We don't need help." Sans blurts, and he is clenching his fists in a way that makes it clear to Papyrus he is angry now, feeling helpless.
Denial.
"Apparently I do." He almost mutters, but loud enough for his brother to hear, who whips his head around and glares at him as if somehow this is all his fault, always his fault.
"Right..." Burke says quickly, before Sans can respond, messing with the papers on his desk. "Maybe I could speak to Sans alone for a bit."
"By all means." Papyrus is half-way out the door in the blink of an eye, trying not to grin, caught between relieve upon leaving the loaded situation and regret he doesn't get to see this thing pan out.
Sans is still glaring at him, betrayed, as if Papyrus is throwing him at the wolves, but somehow he can't feel guilty about it.
He knows how it feels. Like being tossed into the deep end of a pool and have a bunch of people standing on the side yelling at you to 'just swim'.
While you can't do anything but sink.
He decides to go back to the unit proper because there's no use in waiting at the door like a lost puppy.
The painting is still there, right where they left it, and of course it is, because everybody is blind except for him.
Papyrus stares at it again and then, turning his head both ways to find the hallway completely deserted, takes it off the wall, flips it right side up and returns it to its spot.
Looking at it, it seems like such a tiny, insignificant change in the grand scheme that is the hospital, the world.
But maybe a tiny part of himself makes more sense now.
"Papyrus!"
It takes him a few moments to catch up and realize whose voice is calling out to him, so out of place does it feel.
Something not belonging on the PUUH.
But he turns around and there Doggo is, just outside the glass doors that face the parking lot.
Papyrus nearly runs over, barely able to contain himself at the sight of another familiar face, one that isn't Sans. He hasn't seen any of his old colleagues since coming here, now months before.
Hasn't actually seen much of them since coming to the surface at all.
But Doggo had always been a friendly face to him, was always up for a chat on his daily rounds through Snowdin forest. And Papyrus doesn't want to go back to the unit yet anyway, doesn't want to sit around thinking of whatever his brother is telling Doctor Burke.
Or is being told by him.
Doggo is standing just outside the doors, leaning against the wall, the air around him heavy with the smoke of burning dog treats, and Papyrus breathes it in with a smile, the nostalgia soothing away his troubled thoughts.
He can almost feel the snow in the air again.
"Hey kid, how you've been doing?" The other monster asks, voice even heavier than it used to be and Doggo always was the only one allowed to call him kid.
The only one who made it sound like a title rather than an insult.
"I'm fine." Papyrus says, before remembering his newest conviction and altering his stance a bit, wrapping one arm around himself. "It's getting better anyway."
Doggo exhales as some charred pieces fall of the treat onto the ground. "Glad to hear it." And he smiles through the scars on his face, the ragged lines across his cheek.
"What are you doing here?" Papyrus asks, unsure if he's genuinely curious or just wants to prolong the conversation, this normality of conduct.
This absence of medication and nurses and people tearing their hair out to stop the voices inside their head.
"Somebody needed to drive your lazy brother here, didn't they." Doggo answers, inhaling sharply. "He sure as hell won't drive himself."
The last part is added more as a mumbled afterthought, but Papyrus nods in agreement. Learning to steer one of the human's fantastical automobiles was one of the first things he did after reaching the surface. Sans on the other hand, was always looking to hitch a ride.
"You don't even like Sans." He blurts out, unsure why, maybe oddly longing back to those end-of-shift chats between snowy trees.
Everybody likes Sans, everybody loves Sans. He's funny and smart and good at talking to people. While Papyrus is just Papyrus, the goofy little brother.
Doggo never liked Sans and Papyrus likes Doggo.
"I don't." The dog monster confirms, grinning crookedly and his sharp incisors peek out from beneath curled lips. "But I like you and you needed him here today so..."
He shrugs it off as if it's nothing, but Papyrus feels oddly warmed by the sentiment. He opens his mouth to say so but his friend scowls.
"Don't mention it." He says. He throws the remains of his smoke on the ground and steps on it, extinguishing the lingering glow beneath his paw. "You're a good kid, but if you hug me I'll shank you."
Papyrus laughs and Doggo can't help but grin again.
"Still 11?" Papyrus asks. Doggo casts his eyes both ways to check if the coast is clear.
"12 now." He answers, skillfully making a thin knife appear out of the inside of his booth.
The glass doors slide open with a distinct sound and he quickly slips it back in place, but it's just Sans.
Humans don't really approve of weapons near their hospitals.
"You okay?" Papyrus asks at the vacant expression on his brother's face. Maybe doctor Burke broke him.
"I uh..." Sans looks from him to Doggo, back to him. "I think I have a shrink now."
He's holding a small, paper business card in his hand. Papyrus has seen them before, they're the kind the doctors give to people that signed up for outpatient care.
'Depression treatment and management' it says.
And Papyrus is unsure whether to laugh or to cry at that.
The recreation room is nearly deserted when he comes back, everybody but Marcus and the new girl, whose name Papyrus seems to recall is Barbara, up in art therapy.
"So who was that, your drug dealer?" Marcus jokes as soon as he sits down in front of his puzzle, a half-completed picture of a mountainside dotted with little houses in front of him.
"Ha-ha, you're so hilarious." Papyrus quips, naturally falling back into the habit of multitasking while he talks, keeping his hands busy. "You remind me of my brother."
"Ouch, that hurts." The man shoots back, equally sarcastic and holding both hands over his heart for dramatic effect.
He takes a seat on the table instead of a chair, planting his bum right besides the scattered pieces and Papyrus raises his eyes at him.
"You know we can tell those kinds of things, don't you?"
Papyrus recognizes a set-up when he sees one, but decides to bite nonetheless. "You can tell what?"
"The dealers, the junkies. Those that just do it for fun and those that are escaping their problems with a nice little trip to oblivion." Marcus bounces his feet against the skeleton's chair repeatedly, but he ignores it.
Instead, he rolls his eyes at him and turns back to his puzzle.
"It's true." Marcus says quickly, and stretches one hand to point at Barbara, hunched up on the couch looking like an injured little bird. Papyrus tried approaching her earlier, remembering how lost he felt when first coming here, but she had seemed unresponsive to his offer of help.
"Take her for example. Probably two or three years of abuse, kicked it like a good little citizen and gets launched straight into a depression the size of a continent. I'm guessing cocaine with a side of ecstasy."
Papyrus barely dares glance over his shoulder, feeling like somehow he shouldn't be having this conversation but curiosity piqued still. "Why do you think that?"
"Because I was here, once. Or like her, at least. She's a lucky one." The feet bumping against the edge of his chair stop and when he looks back Marcus has a faraway look in his eyes.
"We all start with one little smoke, one little drink, one little pill, because life sucks and there's some relief to be found in not being there for a short while." His fingers trace over his wrists, the white marks of scars and the black ones of ink. "One little cut, just to feel anything. And before you know it, you're lying in an alley in a puddle of your own puke and smelling like a deceased hooker."
"A what?" Papyrus asks and Marcus seems to startle, as if woken from a trance, grinning smugly as he pats the skeleton's head.
"I'll tell you when you're older." He says, jumping off the table to avoid Papyrus smacking at him. "Anyway, this place is dead as a door nail, so I'm out of here. Want to come with?"
Papyrus looks at his still unfinished puzzle, then at Barbara muttering to herself and the depressing tile walls around them.
"I'll come with." He echoes, leaving the pieces scattered as they are.
Papyrus didn't even know the hospital had a library until a few minutes ago. It's modest at best, more like the bookcases he had at home than the actual proper library Papyrus sometimes used to go to in town.
The books are worn and the edges are torn and the pages have creases, but a little kid on crutches clutches them to their chest as if they're the most treasured books in the world and Papyrus smiles.
Marcus stands leaving through a thick novel with a complicated name that Papyrus knows isn't English and he vows to ask him about it later, but for now his eyes are roving over the titles himself.
One section is labeled 'education' and the books beneath it look like the ones Frisk used for school, though maybe bigger and heavier.
Psychology, cognitive behavioral therapy, physiotherapy...
Books that teach you how to help others, he presumes.
Papyrus think of Eli, banging his wheelchair against a metal door over and over again. He thinks of the scars on Marcus' wrists and the way Emma scratches her arms. He thinks of Alex bending over a bucket and retching their gut out, of Barbara hugging herself and cowering from the world.
He thinks of Doctor Burke asking him if he knew what he wanted from life yet.
"Do you need a library card to get these?" Papyrus asks out loud, as his hands touch the tattered book spines.
Just one chapter this weekend, because my sickness continues. I'm sorry guys /3
Truly though, your comments and concern for my health is truly uplifting. Thank you!
