From War to Science {UNDERTALE}

Aftermath

Really, the healers said, he'd been quite lucky.

He'd ended up with several broken bones, but with a little healing magic, they had mended up like nothing had happened. He'd be sore, they warned, but only for a bit.

But then, of course, there was the issue of his hands.

The levers had gone straight through them, ripping out his capitates and a good chunk of metacarpals from each hand. With no bones to fuse back to, his hands couldn't heal the same as his ribs and legs, and it seemed there was no quick-fix for exposed marrow—at least, none that they knew. So they had no choice but to bandage his hands and let his body's magic heal the wounds. They'd take the bandages off in a few weeks.

With that, he was escorted from the hospital and dropped off at the big house in Snowdin, which was technically his, and he was too woozy from the blast and potions and being overloaded with magic to mention that he hadn't moved in yet. But he was in no state to walk back to Home, so he went inside.

And he stayed inside.

A week later, rumors started to rise. The Royal Scientist must have died from his wounds. Or maybe he hadn't actually made it out. Maybe he fell into his creation with the others.

As the monsters started to whisper, the Dreemurs decided it was time to intervene.

~

The knock echoed through the empty house. Gaster, slumped against a wall, groaned and covered his sockets with his bandaged hands.

"I said I do not want to talk, Asgore!" he snapped.

"Well, I would like to."

Gaster let his hand fall as he looked up curiously. That wasn't Asgore's baritone. "Toriel?"

"Will you please come out, my friend?"

Gaster scowled. "If I did not come out for Asgore, why would I come out for you?" He covered his face. "Just...leave me alone."

Toriel let out a huff on the other side. "It has been a week since you've been released, and I doubt you had enough food to last that long. Surely you must be hungry."

Gaster scowled again, this time looking at the bandages on his hands. "I am not like you. I do not get hungry."

Well, that was a lie, but it wasn't like he would be able to eat anyway.

Toriel was silent for a long moment. Gaster drew his knees to his chest like a child, praying for her to leave.

"Gaster, it was an accident."

Gaster grimaced and shook his head. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong! He buried his face into his bony knees.

"How many?" he finally asked.

"What?"

"How many?"

Another silence. "Seven."

The number pierced straight into Gaster's soul. Seven. Six interns—he could name them all, no doubt. One bright, organized assistant. God, he should have fired Erie. He should have let her go home, should have let them all go home. If he hadn't been so cruel and full of himse—