W.D Gaster and the Great Mistake

Local Drunk Skeleton Creates Life, More At 6

Gaster came to in a puddle of his own vomit. His head was pounding, his eyes didn't want to open, and the palms of his hands ached horribly. He was laid out on the lab floor, clutching a bottle of something, alone in the dark.
This wasn't the best place to be.

He groaned and pried his 'eyes' open, then sat up. He rubbed at his sockets and stopped suddenly. What was wrong with his hand?

Why the fuck was there a hole in his hand?
Oh god. What had he done?

The scientist stood up as quickly as he could, his head spinning, and looked at the bottle he was holding. Painkillers. Whatever he'd done while he was drunk, it was painful.

A thought came to him. What had he done with the piece of bone that wasn't in his hand any more?

There was one jar on the tabletop. One jar. One hole in his hands. The bone was probably in the jar.

He walked over to the jars as quickly as he could, ignoring his awful head (and hand) ache and vomit-stained clothes.

And he looked inside. And he screamed.

The bone was gone, replaced with the tiniest skeleton he'd ever seen. It must have been the size of a jellybean, but it looked fully formed, all its fingers and toes where they were supposed to be, everything looked normal about it. All it needed was a SOUL and some growing.

And he'd made it. He'd created this tiny baby, with his own hand. He wasn't alone any more!!

But now he had to be responsible. W.D. Gaster's days of complete devotion to his work were over. His nights of drinking to forget were over. He had to raise this baby, to devote his whole life to this little skeleton before him, that would one day be its own person entirely.

Could he cope with being a father? Would he be able to look after a baby? Hell, was he even able to look after himself? At that thought he chuckled dryly. He really couldn't look after himself; he lived off the vending machine on the ground floor, slept in the lab, wore the same clothes for weeks at a time, and used magic to clean himself off rather than showering like a functioning monster. Damn, he'd really have to step up to the responsibility.

But how? He didn't know how to care for a baby. He knew babies needed feeding, and they needed watering, and they needed clean clothes. But what else? Was there anything he was missing? Was there some book in the Librarby that explained babies?

If not, then who could he ask? The answer came to him immediately. Toriel. Of course. She knows how babies work, she has one of her own.
Two year old Asriel Dreemurr, the crown prince of the Underground, was a lovely kid, even if he was extremely timid and prone to tears. Surely Toriel had a part in that?

He nodded to himself and pulled out his cell phone. Quickly he texted Toriel.

Greetings, Your Majesty. Are you available at the moment? An issue has arisen that I would like your advice on urgently. Yours sincerely, Dr. W.D. Gaster

He fretted over the text for a few moments, wondering if he had been too informal- should he have added a longer introduction?- before he grabbed the jar and teleported to his house. From now on, the jar containing his child wasn't going to leave his sight for a single moment. He checked the jar to make sure the fetus hadn't been affected negatively by the teleportation, smiled in satisfaction, and abruptly stopped.

How long had it been since he last smiled?
Far too long. Stars above, this child was affecting him already.
Gaster quickly returned to what he had been planning to do, which was having a real shower for once (Toriel could tell when he'd just used magic) and changing out of his vomit-stained clothes into cleaner ones.