Remember the fluffy baby bones we had last time? Well... Time for more angst!

Warnings: Gaster the royal child abuser, starvation, emotional manipulation. Not inspired by Handplates but I did steal the names.


When the doctor comes to get them, he usually only takes one.

The other is left behind, in their empty, cold excuse for a room (a cell, really), waiting anxiously for their brother to return.

Never knowing how long it will take for them to come back.

Never knowing what state they'll be in when they do.

Not even certain if they will come back at all, sometimes.

And it's not clear which is worse.

Being the one that has to leave. Or being left behind.

Maybe both are equally terrible.


"I told you that's enough." Sans loses his concentration when he feels the doctor's hand slap against the back of his head roughly.

His magic dissipates hastily, eye radiant with pale blue afterglow. Gaster shakes his head in disapproval.

"So much magic potential, and yet such sloppy control." There is the sound of pen on paper, and Sans straightens slightly, ignores the dull ache in his skull.

He grits his teeth to avoid saying anything.

Gaster doesn't want them to talk unless spoken to.

So Sans sits quietly, clenches his fists nervously as a bad habit he developed recently, staring at the table in front of him and the almost random assortment of items strewn upon it, while Gaster paces behind him and finishes making notes.

Eventually, the child isn't able to stand the silence any longer. "How did I do?"

The doctor sighs, signaling he isn't pleased with the interruption but answers none the less. "Adequate."

"Adequate?!" It escapes him before he can stop it, a high-pitched noise of disbelief. "But I-"

Gaster's hand makes contact again, a bit harder this time, and Sans grunts in pain.

"I do not believe I have asked you for your opinion, did I, S-1?"

Sans feels one eye twitch at the name.

When he doesn't answer immediately, he senses Gaster come up right behind him, laying one hand against the back of his skull, grasping the uppermost vertebrae.

It's uncomfortable, almost painful.

"Did I?"

Sans persist to hold his tongue stubbornly, feeling the doctor tightening his grip minutely at his continued defiance.

"Do you refuse to answer me?"

Sans feels the corner of his mouth pull up in an involuntary grin at the doctor's annoyed tone. "And what are you going to do about it, doc? You can't hurt me."

Gaster lets go abruptly, comes around the table to face him. He is smiling in a most unpleasant manner.

"Taking advantage of your physical fragility in an attempt at emotional manipulation, I see. How clever you must think yourself..." The doctor looks down at him with a little smirk that makes Sans sick. "Too bad you must make life so difficult for your brother."

"Papyrus?" Sans braces his hands against the table, gripping the edge tightly.

"620 HP, was it? That should grant us quite a bit of leeway, don't you think?" Gaster stares him in the eyes, unmoving, and Sans knows he's absolutely serious.

The child drops his head, glaring at the surface of the metal table in front of him. "I apologize, sir."

"Very well." Gaster moves past him, shoes tapping against tile. "But do aim for more than mere mediocrity next time."


"How can I ever help you, if you fail to even grasp the meaning of these tests?"

"I'm sorry." He's not sure what he is apologizing for, but the doctor is mad at him and Papyrus doesn't like that.

"I don't need your excuses. I need results." Gaster is rolling his eyes, drags a hand down his face. "This is why I prefer your brother."

Papyrus swallows but doesn't look up. His legs are swinging to and fro, too short to reach the ground, and he watches them move in and out of view repeatedly.

The sight is oddly soothing.

"Can I try again?" he mumbles. The doctor doesn't like it when he talks, but seems to approve of his eagerness to complete the various puzzles.

And Papyrus does enjoy these tests, the ones with pen and paper. They're less painful than some of the others he's had to do before.

"There is really no point in trying again if you will only continue to disappoint me," Gaster huffs, thoughtful. "But maybe we might add some incentive for next time... How many questions did you fail to complete?"

"Three," he answers immediately, feeling his face heat up in shame at the confession. Papyrus really isn't as good at science as Sans and often finds himself wishing that he was.

Maybe the doctor would stop being so angry at him all the time.

"Three..." Gaster repeats slowly. "I'm afraid that means S-1 will have to skip the next three meals, then."

"What!?" Papyrus shoots up straight, despair tinging his voice. The doctor looks almost pleased with his panic.

"Maybe seeing your brother go hungry will motivate you to put in more effort next time."

"I do! I do put in effort. Please, sir, don't-" Papyrus feels a heavy weight in the back of his throat, making it hard to stop himself from crying.

The doctor always hurts him if he cries.

Gaster interrupts him with a quick hand gesture. "You are failing these tests, either because of a lack of effort or a lack of intelligence. And frankly, I do not conceive which is more depressing."

Papyrus stays silent, entire body shaking. He feels nauseous, and the back of his eye sockets sting with suppressed tears.

Gaster looks at him then, shakes his head. "Alright P-2. How about this..." He lays his hands on the table, gazes at Papyrus intently. "Either your brother skips three meals. Or you skip three days worth of food."

The answer doesn't even need to be considered.

"Interesting." Gaster pulls back, notes something else down. Papyrus frowns, unaware that this was still part of his test. But the doctor looked genuinely surprised at his answer.

For a second, the small skeleton child feels himself swell with pride. Maybe he had done something right after all?

"Another logical fallacy," Gaster says. "But at least you are only hurting yourself with your own stupidity."

Papyrus deflates. Scratches one hand across his ulna to ground himself.

"I shall escort you back to your room." The doctor gestures with his clipboard and Papyrus slides down from the chair, naked feet against the cold tile. "Your 72 hours start now."

"Yes sir." His voice is quiet, tiny, as he walks behind his father. Ignores the hunger already building in his gut.


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