Handplates - Pills -

A lesson

Sans crouches over Gaster's computer, silent except for the clicking of the mouse. He's tense, coiled as a rabbit outside a fox's den. He scans through files, through underweb pages, his eyes flickering over search histories and the contents of computer's trash basket.

His shoulders relax slowly, as the seconds pour into minutes. If his palms could be sticky, they would be dripping with sweat now, and he can feel the beginnings of cramp running up one leg. Gingerly, he slowly lowers himself onto Gaster's chair, never taking his eyes off the screen.

He feels contact.

The coffee mug.

He lurches up, but the movement knocks it off the chair's seat.

It falls and hits the floor with a SMASH!, shards of pottery pasted with old coffee flying across the tiles.

Sans' breath comes in in a shuddery gasp.

He stares up at the door.

He waits.

"What are you doing?" Gaster's voice comes out so quietly, Sans almost misses it. For the first time since the pills, Sans feels real fear.

"WHAT ARE YOU DOING??" The doctor shouts, and he stalks over to the desk, each stride eating up the meters between them. A whimper escapes from Sans. Real anger simmers behind Gaster's eyes, black and murderous.

"WHAT. DO. YOU. THINK. YOU'RE. DOING?" Spit flies from his mouth, and he raises a hand over Sans, about to bring it down onto the small skeleton. Fury pours off him in waves, and all of Sans' nerves scream in united terror.

The doc pauses. He breathes in, and breathes out.

Sans opens his mouth: "please doc, i didn't mean it, i'm sorry i'm sorry i'-"

"Quiet."

One word. Enough to make Sans shake. He slowly looks up to meet Gaster's eyes, cringing like a puppy. He sees fire. He stares up at the hand, blocking out the white lights of the office. Two seconds pass, and then another two. Gaster speaks again, musing aloud. His voice is brittle and scratchy, and his arms shake with anger.

"What would be an appropriate punishment, hmm? Perhaps 2-P could take a little something in return?" He grabs Sans' chin and looks into his eyes. "But you don't care about him anymore, do you?"

A breath.

"Well, I can't say I'm sorry."

Gaster lunges forward and grabs Sans' left arm. Wrenching it over the edge of the desk, he swings forward and forces his body weight down on the bones. A faint crunch is heard before Sans reacts, an awful, agonised scream. He drags his arm back, eyes glued to the gaping break of his forearm. Hot, hot pain floods through him, and he curls over the broken limb. Moaning, he rolls into a ball and tries to block any more blows to come.

He waits in silence.