To preface this chapter, I'm really sorry it's taken me so long to get this done. Truth be told, I'm really not sure I'll be able to finish it the way I was doing it before.
This chapter is going to be a couple of snippets, but the intention was that the emotional core of this story was going to be between the drifter and Flowey, finding kinship with one another as the only entities without a soul.
A man his age, the drifter knows he should be embarrassed to be guided by the hand like a child. He's perfectly capable of walking on his own, but on the other end, he's never known such a loving touch before.
During their trip, Toriel makes conversation with him. Some questions strike him as odd, such as "Do you prefer cinnamon or butterscotch?" Of course, only knowing what one of the two is, he answers "cinnamon". Ingredients to cook with are a luxury he could never afford in his life on the surface. Not that he should tell her that. To burden her with the strife he's known all his life would be too heavy an ask for someone who barely knows him.
While she asks him questions, he does so as well. The kinds of questions he always wanted to ask people, yet never got close enough to. How has her day been? Does she like to read? And does she like bugs? The answers to those questions being that her day has been well, she does like to read, and she does like bugs! He's got a lot more questions, but he'd like to make a good impression on her. Don't be overbearing with the questions.
Just as they reach the end of a long hallway, Toriel lets go of his hand. She gives him a strange device which he knows to be a cell phone, based on observing people on the surface. With an impatient, excited smile on her face, she asks him, "Could you please stay here? I would like to surprise you with something at home, but I don't want you getting lost."
Nowhere has the drifter ever felt at home, but there's a glow of hope in his heart at the idea that he'll find this to be a place where he belongs. A safe place where no one will wish him harm. Graciously removing his hat, the drifter replies, "No need to worry, Madame Toriel." With that, Toriel thanks him and rushes away. The drifter lingers, at peace for the first time in ages.
That is, until he feels the familiar sensation of eyes sizing him up. But when he turns, there's nothing there. Just a faint flash of yellow seeming to sink into the floor. How odd. Where would a burrowing creature go without soil to dig in?
??? : * A very big human looking creature. Does it bleed like one too?
Shaken up, he wonders if he was too quick to trust Madame Toriel. Maybe, he thinks, he should roam on his own. He's used to it anyway.
When the nameless arrives at a large tree in front of a cozy looking home, he pauses to take in the almost idyllic scene. Stopping in front of the tree, its leaves all fallen atop the overgrown roots, he wonders how this tree ever grew leaves at all without sunlight. Looking over to the house, though cozy, he feels an overwhelming sense of loneliness seeing it set apart from the city he saw in the distance on the way here.
His musings are interrupted by the device Madame Toriel gave him buzzing and ringing once again. After all the phone calls she'd made while he was making his way through the Ruins, he wasn't sure how to feel about her leaving him behind. Reaching for his pocket to pick up the phone, he lifts his head only to see her coming out of the house with hers in hand. Neither says a word as they approach one another because their apologies are in their eyes, she for testing him and he for letting his faith in her waver.
She escorts him inside telling him warmly, "It's not much, but it's my home. I had a room ready in case someone fell down here, but it may take longer for it to be ready for you than I thought. Come inside, if you like."
"It is more than what I had up above, Madame Toriel," he replies gratefully. "Thank you. Even if it is not ready, it would be wonderful having somewhere to rest my head." He scans his surroundings again while following her in, making sure he has some avenue of escape in case he truly cannot trust her. Upon entering, he is struck by a sweet scent he doesn't entirely recognize, the air stale otherwise.
The room she mentioned having ready was clearly set up for a child, and he wonders how long it has been since anyone older than twelve has slept here. There's children's shoes neatly put away, and he's unsure how long it's been since anyone has opened the dusty toybox. Still, when he sets his travel bag down and folds himself up on the much too small bed, he feels safer than he ever did resting under whatever empty overpass or patch of wilderness he could find. It's so comfortable even as he's folded up so unnaturally that he falls fast asleep within an hour of laying down.