It was a calmer evening in the home, and the odd couple had it all to themselves for now. They nested themselves onto the sofa in the living room, watching some more of that confounded human media.
Something Void at one time had been completely against, but eventually warmed up to. The species certainly seemed to of grown obsessed with different forms of storytelling.
He and Wings were currently engrossed in one such continuing story of a human with a limp and a high intellect. Each episode seemed to follow a certain formula… Another human would fall ill. His team sprung for the ‘obvious’ solution while the main human suggested something less so. Ill human would get better for two minutes. Then fall deathly ill. Then get saved by the limping human in some unconventional way.
Still. It was quite entertaining.
“I wonder why they always suggest lupus… its never that,” he muttered quietly to his companion.
Falling, a never-ending cycle of darkness that kept going on and on. He wasn’t sure where he was, or where he would end up, but the magic from that Human had other plans. Though the darkness seem to break and he could barely make out what looked to be a structure of sorts and he was heading straight down towards it, picking up speed till a sudden CRASH came through from the roof.
The behemoth hit right onto the tiled flooring with the table broken in two, his large shape and tail knocking over many things in the kitchen. The more he moved and tried to get onto his feet however, a loud roar escaped his throat, the pain from his multiple injuries and wounds worsening.
His one good eye started to glow a bright red as he tried to make sense of where he was, struggling to get on all fours.
Only half of his attention was directed at the moving images before them (even if House was a close favorite of his) in favor of teasing his fingertips against the frayed sleeve of his boyfriend’s damaged sweater. Wings was half-sprawled on Void, careful of his injuries hidden in the fabric yet applying as much of his surface area as possible– like some sort of over-cuddly affectionate amoeba on a bacteria.
He was in the midst of formulating a response to the other’s comment when a slew of noises erupted from his kitchen on their right. His arms went to either side of Void, lifting his head over both his skull and the arm of the couch, stupefied by the sight of a literal boulder struggling atop a newly-splintered-to-bits kitchen table. And, he was wounded.
The skeleton was torn between an urge to run and assist or to keep the Gaster underneath him from making a mistake. He settled for a compromise of launching himself from the sofa to the kitchen archway, a hand touching the edge of the wood– situated between the newcomer and his television partner.
W. D. GASTER 