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W. D. Gaster is a scientist. That much he always knows; it never slips away from him, even when his own name does.
So naturally his first instinct is to observe.
Observation: His hands are shaking.
No. Start smaller.
Observation: He has hands.
Those hands are wrapped around a teacup.
He recognizes the pattern on it. The royal wedding china. King Asgore is looking at him, gentle eyes shining with concern and and—
Stop. Even smaller.
Observation: The cup is warm.
He can feel warmth.
He can feel.
There are holes in his trembling hands, identical, cut straight through the bone in the center of his palms but no that doesn't make sense— Where is he? Is this a fragment of memory from before the war? It's so colorful and bright here stop it hurts and his eyes are stinging and he's crying and and—
Stop stop STOP!
The teacup shatters.
So does he.
Gaster does not open his eyes for fear of seeing the blinding light, or the unfathomable darkness of the void. Both are painful in different ways.
He lies as motionless as he possibly can.
Hypothesis: If he moves, then this dream will disappear.
He is too afraid to test it.
Observation: There are voices all around him.
No. Start smaller.
Observation: He can hear.
"SANS, HE IS EVEN LAZIER THAN YOU. ALL HE DOES IS SLEEP!!"
"heh. go easy on him, pap. he's kinda been through hell, y'know."
"He...will be all right, will he not?"
"Um. W-well, h-his magic levels have finally stabilized. He isn't in danger of Falling Down, d-despite appearances. But I've never seen anyone come back from their s-soul shattering like that b-before, so, um..."
"ya don't know, basically."
"...yeah. I'm s-sorry."
"that's ok. i'm pretty sure the only one who'd know is sleeping on our couch."
"WELL I KNOW, TOO! HE WILL GET BETTER. I BELIEVE IN HIM!"
Inference: It is a very, very wonderful dream.
It goes on like this for... well, time doesn't really exist for him anymore. It is something that happens to other people.
The voices remember him. A wonderful dream indeed.
"Sometimes when I try to help, I just make things w-worse. I don't want to h-hurt anyone else. But I-I wish there were more I could do for y-you, Dr. Gaster. There's s-so much I want to ask you."
. . .
"THE GREAT PAPYRUS HAS RETURNED ONCE AGAIN TO TELL YOU ALL ABOUT MY DAY!!! THE SUNRISE WAS VERY PRETTY. THEN I MADE SPAGHETTI FOR BREAKFAST, AND EVERYONE LOVED IT, OF COURSE! SO WILL YOU, WHEN YOU'RE READY FOR SOLID FOOD!"
. . .
"You survived the war, and everything after. Why do you think I asked you to be Royal Scientist? You are strong, old friend. One of the most determined monsters I've ever known."
. . .
"HEY, bony nerd! Wake up! No one worries MY friends and gets away with it."
. . .
"This one is called Snails Do Not Have Tails: A Scientific Refutation. I thought I would read aloud for a little while, if that's all right."
. . .
"hey, i'm not givin' up. so you can't either, ok?"
In the end, it's actually the human child who gets through to him. At first he thinks they are merely an odd choice for his desperate mind to conjure. They have no place in his memories, after all. Perhaps a manifestation of his guilt?
But then the child starts speaking to him. Sometimes audibly, their voice quiet. Often in tactile sign language, words pressed gently into his skeletal hand letter by letter.
"I know you're awake."
. . .
"Can you feel my hands?"
He can.
Observation: He can feel.
"You're safe here."
Of course he's safe. Nothing can hurt him; he does not exist.
"We're on the surface."
Impossible.
"In Sans and Papyrus' new house. I live here, too, with Mom."
. . .
"Do you want to see? Just for a second."
"...💧︎👍︎✌︎☼︎☜︎👎︎."
"I'm really sorry. I don't understand."
Of course they don't. It may as well be a dead language. But the other dream figures and hallucinations, being of his own mind, always understood him.
"S-C-A-R-E-D," he signs slowly, finger bones weak and unsteady. His hands do not feel like they belong to him.
"It's okay to be scared."
. . .
"You can stop if it's too much."
Stop. He can still feel their hand.
"I won't let go of your hand the whole time. I promise."
. . .
The human child eventually coaxes him into opening one eye, then the other.
"See?"
Observation: He can see.
"Not empty. Not dark. Not scary. Just a cozy house filled with skeletons and monsters."
A sound like a laugh or a sob scrapes from his throat. It hurts.
...Does he dare to hope?
"This is real."
This dream— reality does not disappear.
They are the savior of monsterkind, he later learns, who freed them all from underground as Gaster tried but never could. The angel incarnate. Ambassador to the humans.
But just Frisk, to their friends.
Once he adjusts to the light, Gaster finds that he cannot get enough of it.
He observes everything. The surface is so full of life and motion and color. He fills notebook after notebook with drawings. Simple ones at first, adding more detail as his hands regain a degree of dexterity.
Trees. Human machines. Sunsets. An umbrella. Flowers in King Asgore's new garden. Sans' smile—the real one. Plates of spaghetti. Stars. The ocean. A broken clock he finds at the garbage dump. Blueprints for things he might create if he still trusted his hands and mind.
It's not just drawings, either. He writes down his favorite passages from the books Qu— Toriel shares with him. Sans' best/worst puns. Papyrus' kind words. Observations. Reminders to himself. This is real.
This is real.
This is real.
Nothing is too small or not noteworthy. He doesn't want to forget a thing.
And maybe sometimes he feels scattered again. Maybe sometimes he isn't sure who he is, or where, or when. Sometimes he is still terrified that all of this will disappear if he doesn't hold onto it tightly enough.
But he is okay.
Gaster's first mistake—well, the latest in a long series of them anyway—is convincing himself that he's okay, that he no longer needs Papyrus' old nightlight or the magical tea Asgore gives him to ward off nightmares. He is a grown monster, after all. He is free and safe and loved. He should not be afraid of the dark anymore.
He wakes— Is he awake? Breathe. Observe. He is a scientist.
Observation: He is alone.
No. Start smaller.
Observation: It is dark.
Darker, yet darker...
He can't see.
He is choking on darkness and he can't breathe stop stop stop shadows cutting deeper no STOP and inference the human lied to him didn't they of course they did and where is his notebook oh god none of it was real and and—
"hey. hey. can ya hear me?"
Observation: Skeletal hands on his.
He can feel.
Inference: His mind is cruel in its attempts to comfort him.
"bad dream, huh. you know where you are?"
"✞︎⚐︎✋︎👎︎."
"could you, uh, repeat that? maybe in aster if you can. y'know, my 'dings is a little rusty."
"...VOID."
"ok. here. is this better?"
A soft blue light begins emanating from Sans' left eye socket.
Better. Suddenly, though, his voice fails him. He wants to nod but if he moves, Sans might disappear.
"uh. ok. let's try that thing alphys showed me. name five things you can see."
Observe.
"...L-LIGHT. YOU. BLANKET. MY H-HANDS? PAPYRUS."
The tall skeleton stands in the doorway of his bedroom, looking restless and worried.
"yeah. we heard you screaming."
I'm sorry, he thinks. He knows Sans needs his rest.
"WOULD YOU LIKE ONE OF MY SIGNATURE HUGS?" Papyrus asks him.
"soon, bro. he's gotta calm down a little more first. now, four things you can feel."
"HANDS. SOFT—BED. TEARS... FEAR?"
"eh. good effort, partial credit. three things you can hear."
"YOUR VOICE. MY VOICE. BONES R-RATTLING."
"that's 'cause you're shaking. tell me two things you can smell."
"BONES. C-CINNAMON?"
"yeah, me and tori made dessert earlier, remember? almost done. one thing you can taste."
"MAGIC."
"good. you did great. breathe, ok?"
He breathes. He can breathe.
"where are we right now?" Sans asks then. Unlike the others, whose pitying looks make Gaster wish he were dust, Sans asks that question each time like perhaps he needs to hear the answer, too.
"NEW OLD HOME."
"heh, yep. good ol' asgore."
He is on the surface. He is in only one place and time. He has one body and one soul. Scarred, but not broken.
"...THANK YOU."
Sans gives him an encouraging albeit tired smile. "don't mention it."
"I...WOULD APPRECIATE THAT HUG NOW, PAPYRUS."
W. D. Gaster is not okay.
But he will be.