A/N: For this story, I have tried to replicate W.D. Gaster's unusual speech by modifying the text. To keep it simple, I gave him his own line of text when speaking, separated from the rest of the story to make it easier to read. And while the site won't let me use the actual wingdings font, I think this bizarre font will work nicely. Just a little trick I learned from my travels in the void.
Sometimes, when the hour was late and the laboratory was empty, Dr. W.D. Gaster would turn on the radio for some subtle background music. He claimed it helped him focus, keeping the volume low while he sat at his desk, the persistent beats mingling with those of his boney fingers tapping against the keyboard.
Every now and then, he would rise from his desk, looking over his research notes before going to make another cup of coffee. It's not as though he got much sleep these days anyway. Not since the birth of his first child. He wasn't entirely sure, but it seemed as though Sans enjoyed the music too. The doctor would place the toddler in his playpen in the corner of his lab, next to the table with the radio. If he was lucky, the music would help soothe his son, quieting the child so he could continue his work in peace.
Today wasn't one of those days. For whatever reason, Sans was being fussy and refused to settle. He kept babbling in his father's robotic speech, mimicking the odd chirps and blips he heard. Ignore him for too long, and the toddler would start throwing his toys at the walls of his playpen. Gaster knew his son's behavior all too well by now.
The doctor sighed, looking up from his computer and glancing at the clock on the wall.
.
"H̴̟̜̻̹̭͍̓̊̓̑͌̕̕ợ̴̢̝͔̇̀̀͆͋̿̑͘͝ṅ̴̠͚ë̷̼̯́͑̐̂̿̀̀̒͆ş̸̳̬̥̐ͅt̷̢̢̼̬͙̖̟̳̠̃̀͌̋̔͆̋̔̕l̵̢͇̝͕̳̣̳͖̝͋͜y̷̲̭͇͂,̸̹̠̥̂̎̈́̊̒̿̃̌ ̵̧̡̰̙͖͔͙͓̣͓̒́̒̚̚S̷̙̯͔̰͠ą̵̛̖̻͊̂̔̒̚n̷͍͌s̶̛̘͌͝ͅ.̵̨͝ ̸̥̩̈́͌͊͜W̶̯̰͈̭͓̖̅͆͒̾͆̕͘͜͠h̸̨́̉̾͠ḁ̸͍͎̘̞̘̮͖̠̌̎ẗ̸̢͖͓̯̳̰̙̬́̓͂̿͛̋̅̽͘͠e̸͔̝̣̲͍̤̞̜͓͑̑͂̓ͅv̵̫̝̩̾͛̀͑̾e̵̩̺̙̦̦͊̑̒̒̏͠ȓ̷̢͙ ̷̜̐̂̂͋͗͌͛̀a̷̜̳̥̝̜̝̩̖͉̿̎m̴̡̥̭̞͕̻̻̎̅ ̸̨͕͇͓͖̓̓̓̄̀͑͂͝Ī̶̮͛͂̑̇͊̏̂̽ ̷̡̙̟̗̯͑͗g̶̣͉͓̹̣̪̫͐̊͗͆̕o̵̱͔͚͔͔͉̻͓̘̒̈́͠ͅį̶̨̫͎̮̯͗͒̌͒̔n̵̩͙̟̺̂̋̈́̓̾̚͠g̶͖̙͍̫͖̤͖̫̓ ̵̢͍͔͍͔͙̭̜̗̎͑͜ẗ̷̡͓̪̰̰̽o̷̘̰͍̣̫̻̩̍̚͝ ̶͔͑̆́́͝d̵̩̼̫̤͓̉̓͘͜o̸̜̟͗̍̉͂̆͠ ̵̨̺̖̗̻̬̠͍̯̋̂̈́͑͑̋̕͜͝w̸̹̼̲̤͕̘̃̒̒̈́̉ͅi̷͚̱͂͛̍̐͠t̷̝͉̼̝̲̰̏̌́̆̈̈́̚͝h̶̥̹̼̹̝̞͊̾̍͝ͅ ̸̛̤̎͛̍̑͝y̴̛̞̫̪̽̀͂ͅò̵̜͕̐̀͂͘u̸̠̦͌̊̈?̷͉͌͂̉"
.
He really should have gone to bed hours ago. But his research was calling, the shadows beckoning from afar. He was so close to a breakthrough, or so he told himself, typing endless calculations and strings of numbers. He finally decided to take a break from his research when the tiny skeleton grunted and hurled a stuffed animal across the room, striking his father in the head.
.
"Y̸̨̭̱̯̮̳̲̻͍̣͂̀̏̆̉̍̚o̷̰̘̠̍́̈́̀̓̊͋̚ṳ̶͕̜̈̆͂̑̓̇́̊'̴͎͈̫̻͔̬̝̗̱̝̔̂̅͛͆̈́v̶̡̛͓͇̺̱̈́̈́͑͐̈́͗̊͘̚ẻ̸͎̼̟͈͌́̀ ̸̢̧̝͇̳̈́̾͒ǵ̵͆͂̾͊́̀̿ͅơ̵̘͛͌̃̓̈̚͝ẗ̵̻̤͍͚̺́͑ ̴̗̥̪͎̣̯̦̜̼̟͗̀̉͌̒́͛̈͂̚g̷̡̧̠̦͔̣͎̀̈́́o̸̧̨̝̹̠͕̭̟̰̺͌̿͛́̈́̔ö̸̡̰̠́̓͊͋̕d̵̫̱̾ ̵̨̼̋̅̂̄ḁ̷̜͔͎͉͉̖͐̈́͋͊̈́̐̒ḯ̴̡̩̪̳͖̝̖̤̓̈́̈́̾̄̊͘͝m̵͔̻̬̅̾̒̉͝͝,̸͔͓̻̔̏͊͐̌ͅ ̷̢̯͕̠̤̥̹̐̎s̸̤̗̠̮̃̎̍͒ö̷̧̟͓̫̦͇̿̌͊ṇ̸͉̳͈̠̓̑͒̈́͆̾̏̉͜.̵̞̀̇͘ ̷̘̬̩̉̒͗̈́͛̋͆Ĩ̴̞̥̙̦̈́͠͝'̵̡̢̹̭̼͔̈͋̀̈́͗͋̈́͑ľ̷̩͆̕l̴̨̗͇͚͎̜͆̒͜ ̴̛̲̳̬̄̈́̆͐̑͊͑͊ĝ̴̮̥̣͖̤͎̱̝̣i̵̙͓͎͚̿͋͑̑̾̂̿̕v̷̳̥̺̳̣͚̥̩̺̆̆̔̑͋̎̋͜͠e̴̡̮̳͍̥̟̭͆̏̅̾ͅ ̸̏̈́̉́͜ẙ̷̡̝̝̟͈͊̐͂̔̿̀̂͗̕o̶̟̜̭̝͍̠͗͌̊̌͂ų̵̫͇̳̈͆͛͌̏͝ ̸̛̠̦͙͇͘ẗ̶̢̢̩͈̞̟͚̖͎͎h̷̲̹̟̤̹̔͑̊̀̒͑̔̚͘ȧ̸̙̭͙̜̬t̷̬̲͛̂̐̄̑̌.̸̧̖̮̺̙̣͇̺̪̆̈́̉̿̓͊̋̈̀̾͜"
.
There was a faint smile tracing his features as he spoke. He got up from his desk and retrieved the toy, which had landed at his feet and managed to tumble under the desk. This particular toy resembled a plush turtle, with the first three letters of the wingdings alphabet embroidered on its belly. Dr. Gaster reached for the clip attached to the toy's head, dangling the plushie in front of his son. His crooked smile widened when Sans reached for the toy, bouncing and babbling in that strange speech once more.
He dropped the toy into his son's hands, but it wasn't enough. The tiny tot then tried waving a hand at the radio, whining and trying to get his father's attention.
.
"E̷̛̱͂͛̃̓́͝͝h̴̗͎̮̽̓̊?̴̣͎̦̜͚͚̻̈́̽̿̈́̂ ̸̗̚Ỷ̷̡̛̠͙͓̝̫̲̌̾ͅo̸̡̢̝̹̘͔̳̗̲̾̌̔̆̌ṳ̷̡̝͇̏͛̉̂͗̓̃ ̷̠͖̭̪̊̃̇w̷̡͙̥͔͉̻̿̈́á̵͈̪̖͎̮̥͉̻̊̿̍̈́̉̍͜͜͝͝n̵̯̬̙͒̑̂ṯ̵̩̠̯͚̩͗͗̈́́̉̈́̿̓̚ ̷̣̭̣̺̫̾̓͒m̵̧̢͔̱̪̟͓̽̓͜ͅe̶̯͙̭̹̺̠͎̔̇͆̓̈́̓̀͌̚ ̴̼̥̣̠̈́̂͊̊͘t̵̪̫̀ô̷̹̘̤͐ ̷̛̝̭͕̘̯̐̿̈̔͝ț̷̢̢͓̮̟̣̈́̍͊͜ͅu̶̥͙̗͚̦̱͍͉̭̮͐̌̐̂́̅̃ŗ̷̡͙̫͚͔̬̳̇̓͋̎ͅn̴͚͋̍͐̽̅́͆͘͝ ̴͙̙̖͉̝͈̮͈̻̠̅̋̈̎͗̇̍o̵͍͉̮͗͑̐͑̄̕̕͝n̸̨̟̯̻̩͎͙͜͠͠ ̴̧̛̭̱͓̭̲̬̪ť̶͎̯̤̈͒̓͌̀̀͑̉h̵͇̪͕͗e̵̪͕̟̗̞̞̝̿̌̓͂̋͘͝ ̷̧͍̦̰̭̘̈̿̄̈́͗̆͂͘͘͜͠r̵͕̗̫͇͚̆̀̌͗͐̑͐͂â̷̮̱̪̖͇̗ͅd̵̥̬̖̣̰̞͊̄̆̎̚ǐ̶̜̝̪̔̍̍͑̏̌̈́̏̚͜o̸̢͕͉̫̹̠͐́̽̉̇̿͘?̸̢̧̯̫͓͍̼̀͐͊͋̑͆͘͝"
.
When his son didn't quiet down, the doctor sighed, tilting his head and reaching for the knob on the radio. However, this didn't appear to be enough. Sans was still babbling and bouncing on the balls of his feet. His father couldn't help but smile, amused by his son's behavior. It was almost like he was trying to put on a show.
It was then that the doctor realized what he had to do. If his son wanted a performance, then a performance is what he would give him. The lab was empty anyway. Everyone had gone home for the night. It's not like anyone else would see him.
He turned up the volume on the radio, picking up signals from somewhere far away, perhaps beyond the Underground. It started with a series of rhythmic nods, keeping time with the beat. Gaster began to move his hands first before moving his feet, incorporating various gestures and signs into his dance. Surprisingly, the doctor was quite skilled in the art of dancing, modifying his battle moves and reaching towards the ceiling as though he were summoning his blasters. He did a quick heel turn, pointing to the floor with his right hand, and then the left, right and left again, spinning on point as his lab coat twirled about his waist.
Sans was bouncing happily now, cheering his father on. Little did they know that Gaster's assistant Alphys had returned to the lab to collect her notebook that she'd forgotten earlier in the day. She heard the music coming from upstairs, her curiosity getting the better of her. Quietly, ever so quietly, she crept up the stairs, a clawed hand covering her mouth as she approached the door at the end of the hall.
A streak of pale light spilled across her face, the rest of her features concealed in shadow as she peeked inside. She gasped at the sight, watching as the brilliant scientist put on a performance for his son. It was simply breathtaking, a work of art in motion. Who knew that Gaster had moves like that?
.oOo.
Several years later...
Sans was sprawled out on the couch next to Papyrus, the television flickering in front of them. Never one to miss a show, his brother had tuned into Mettaton's latest program to watch his performance. In his new EX form, the fabulous robot could now bust a move on the dance floor, leaping and spinning as the spotlights lit the stage below.
"uh, hey, papyrus. does something about this seem familiar to you?" Sans pointed at the screen just as Mettaton raised his hands towards the ceiling, splaying his fingers and waving his hands at the multicolored lights. But try as he might, the robot couldn't quite pull off the complex hand movements that had been programmed into his system.
Papyrus studied his movements carefully, lifting a hand and rubbing his chin. "COME TO THINK OF IT, IT DOES FEEL LIKE I'VE SEEN THIS SOMEWHERE BEFORE. I CAN'T RECALL WHERE, BUT IT DOES SEEM FAMILIAR."