Prompt: "Are you eating alright?" - Undyne to Papyrus
Warnings: Eating disorders, child abuse, Bad Gaster.
Today they finished early, their current cooking lesson miraculously causing less collateral damage than was usual for the two of them.
Undyne is busy scraping the remnants of the not-quite completely burnt sauce onto a healthy portion of not-quite soft noodles. By their standards, it looks positively delicious.
When he notices he has been staring, Papyrus blinks, trying to swallow but ending up slightly coughing instead. His fingers grip the edge of her counter tightly, bones against wood, and Undyne looks at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Something wrong?" she asks, her voice uncharacteristically quiet. A tone she only ever employs with him, as far as he knows. Maybe Alphys too. Worry? The thought makes him itch.
He doesn't like it when people worry about him.
The lump that seems to have taken up residence in his ribcage makes it hard for Papyrus to answer, so he shakes his head instead, trying and probably failing at looking casual.
There is a distinctly empty feeling at the center of his chest. The feeble cry of magic that needs to be fed.
With a small frown, Undyne turns away from him again, finishing up filling the plastic container with fresh, delicious, mouthwatering-
He mentally slaps himself, soul constricting tight enough to physically ache.
Bad. Stop. You don't deserve it.
That voice is still with him, even if the face has faded with time, and the name has been lost to the void.
The person is gone, but the effects linger. He only needs to close his eyes and he's there.
"You wouldn't do this to your brother, would you?" Commanding, conceited. Just the right amount of sadistic pleasure and cold detachment.
The child shakes his head desperately, hands clawing the floor until the fingertips are cracked and chaffed. Dust on the ground.
"Please, sir. Please." He feels empty, drained. There is barely enough magic left to fulfill even the most basic of functions, let alone what the doctor is demanding.
There are feet next to his head, inches from his face. Leather shoes.
You can eat leather, right? His mind almost wants to rejoice at the thought.
"12 more hours." There is almost pleasure in that voice. Almost pride. And a lot of curiosity. "Don't disappoint me, P-2."
The energy for tears is lacking, so he dry sobs instead. If this isn't what dying feels like, Papyrus doesn't know anymore.
"P-please. I can't-" His voice breaks, tapers off into pure agony. "P-Please... Dad-"
Something hits him between the ribs, hard. The shoe he might have been contemplating eating a few seconds ago.
The starvation has made the bones brittle, and one breaks under the pressure. Snaps clean in two.
There is only pain and hunger and cold then. Gaster's voice carries through the haze like it's echoing of the recesses of his sanity.
"This is an important test. Don't make me conduct it on your brother, since you turn out to be such a miserable failure."
His mind reels, screaming at him, tearing at the edges of his skull.
No, please, no. Sans wouldn't survive that. Sans wouldn't- PLEASE-
He feels sick, body consuming itself, and yet he clenches his hands and endures. Always endures.
"Good boy."
The praise sounds hollow, like it's just a tool the doctor uses to get what he wants. Papyrus craves it still. Good children get to eat. Being good feeds his brother.
He doesn't care about the hunger anymore. He doesn't care about the pain or the lightheadedness.
So long as Sans has food, he doesn't mind starving.
He sticks his own fingers in his mouth and tries not to chew too hard.
Dust doesn't taste like much. But the texture is enough to at least sate the burning in his non-existent stomach.
Just 12 more hours.
"Hey Papyrus?" Her voices drags him out of his memories. Undyne seems to be considering her words with a sideways glance in his direction. An assessing gaze. "Are you eating properly? You look... off."
His smile might have been more of a grimace by now, but he gives a casual shrug. "Oh, you know me. I've been busy..."
His magic protests, rolling inside him. He pushes it down harshly. It's only been 48 hours. It's nothing. You've had so much worse.
Besides, he can't eat know. He knows himself too well.
Anything that would go in now, would only come out half-consumed, glistening and wet and disgusting, as his body continues the ever-present struggle between the need for nutrition, and the self-hating thoughts consuming his skull.
He doesn't deserve it. He's not been good enough. He's-
You can't have any food if you cry. That's the rule.
"Here." Undyne is pushing the still lukewarm container into his hands, avoids his eyes discreetly. Like she knows he won't like what he would see there. "You did well today, Paps."
Papyrus isn't sure if he should laugh or cry. He ends up just staring blankly, trying not to break down completely.
"Thank you."
He'll probably eat tonight.
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