[It's so sad to feel such flickering of him through their Bond, with his Bonded's otherwise remarkable soul... And at first, he feels he'd admit that it's better than the nothingness. At least it's something. But as the hours go by, he realizes that the pitiful sign he has of Emet-Selch's life felt through their Bond is indicative of a true lack rather than the connection just being shut down, as it did months back, and that thought terrifies him somewhat. How could that be better when it's that much closer to losing him? Which one is worse? He dislikes it all, never wanting to feel his soul fade.
There's no better option, he decides, except one of them could be immediately fatal.
Yet his heart kept beating. It's a relief every time, even when it's faint and struggling. He wondered at some point if he should be bringing him somewhere for proper medical attention, but he can't bring himself to move his hand, and he can't ever think of where to go. He wishes he knew who healed Emet-Selch before... They seemed to be good at it, he thought. Mettaton doesn't know anybody who heals. He wonders if the Coven could help, if he could only bring him there.
So he hopes this works. A part of him starts to make plans, just in case he doesn't rouse or it starts to look unstable, because he won't let Emet-Selch die, even if Mikasa were to tell him he was a lost cause — he's seen her give up before, and she was wrong. He feels like he could stop his death no matter what sometimes, and at others, he feels very incapable of it.
But he comes back. It's hard to tell at first, with his own voice smoothing over the gradual strengthening of Emet-Selch's magical signature, but evening's well into night. Mettaton's fingers are smoothing over his brow, moving to trace over his lips; running over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. And it's then that he speaks. Mettaton gasps, halting in his reverent tracing as he shifts impossibly close, overwhelmed with emotion.]
Hades...
[The Ascian's eyes open then. Mettaton catches his visage from the side, just as he has all evening, and it's dim in the room but he can see him quite clearly. The relief he feels may just overpower all else, seeing him stir to some manner of alertness.
The idol is the one to come closer, making sure that Emet-Selch doesn't have to. He keeps his hand pressed to the wadded fabric against his neck, moving so that his face should come into view without any further effort on his Bondmate's part — save for the trouble of having to focus on him at all. His free hand rests against his cheek as Mettaton smiles down on him, ears nearly back and brow knit in concern.
They couldn't really do what Mettaton wants, since TV doesn't exist. Movies don't exist. But having Emet-Selch return his words at all has Mettaton elated, desperately so. When he laughs, it's laden with emotion: the relief of hearing his Bonded after fearing for worse and worse situations. That he might never wake, or that he'd die... Any manner of scenarios cropped up in that head of his, extreme or not. He didn't know what to think.]
I'm glad to hear it... Really.
[Less that he might like his date fantasy, and more at the sound of his voice at all, no matter its quality. His thumb strokes over his cheekbone, thankful for all of the work his body's putting forth to recover. It's so much relief to know that he's alive (even if he'll only die when he returns home; Mettaton's thinking about this very moment over all else) that it weighs his very being down, a hope assuaging despair so thoroughly that the whiplash causes the robot to tear up. He can only imagine how Emet-Selch must be feeling: disoriented, aching, weak... But he hopes desperately that he doesn't feel alone or lost.
When Mettaton realizes too late that tears have slipped onto Emet-Selch's neck (the other, unaffected side), he gasps. Then, he hisses:]
Oh! Shit, no—
[He hastily wipes the tear from his neck with the blanket that covers him. ... His tears are perfectly benign, though Mettaton imagines that they must be acidic, proof of how infrequently he cries. (Proof that this robot can cry at all?) At least it snaps him out of crying at all. But Emet-Selch is fine, at least with regards to burning. Unless he can't tolerate robot fluid any more than he already does.
With that dealt with, Mettaton closes his eye and tries to pull himself together with a soundless sigh.]
Ah... How are you doing, darling? Will you... Are you all right?
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There's no better option, he decides, except one of them could be immediately fatal.
Yet his heart kept beating. It's a relief every time, even when it's faint and struggling. He wondered at some point if he should be bringing him somewhere for proper medical attention, but he can't bring himself to move his hand, and he can't ever think of where to go. He wishes he knew who healed Emet-Selch before... They seemed to be good at it, he thought. Mettaton doesn't know anybody who heals. He wonders if the Coven could help, if he could only bring him there.
So he hopes this works. A part of him starts to make plans, just in case he doesn't rouse or it starts to look unstable, because he won't let Emet-Selch die, even if Mikasa were to tell him he was a lost cause — he's seen her give up before, and she was wrong. He feels like he could stop his death no matter what sometimes, and at others, he feels very incapable of it.
But he comes back. It's hard to tell at first, with his own voice smoothing over the gradual strengthening of Emet-Selch's magical signature, but evening's well into night. Mettaton's fingers are smoothing over his brow, moving to trace over his lips; running over his forehead, down the bridge of his nose. And it's then that he speaks. Mettaton gasps, halting in his reverent tracing as he shifts impossibly close, overwhelmed with emotion.]
Hades...
[The Ascian's eyes open then. Mettaton catches his visage from the side, just as he has all evening, and it's dim in the room but he can see him quite clearly. The relief he feels may just overpower all else, seeing him stir to some manner of alertness.
The idol is the one to come closer, making sure that Emet-Selch doesn't have to. He keeps his hand pressed to the wadded fabric against his neck, moving so that his face should come into view without any further effort on his Bondmate's part — save for the trouble of having to focus on him at all. His free hand rests against his cheek as Mettaton smiles down on him, ears nearly back and brow knit in concern.
They couldn't really do what Mettaton wants, since TV doesn't exist. Movies don't exist. But having Emet-Selch return his words at all has Mettaton elated, desperately so. When he laughs, it's laden with emotion: the relief of hearing his Bonded after fearing for worse and worse situations. That he might never wake, or that he'd die... Any manner of scenarios cropped up in that head of his, extreme or not. He didn't know what to think.]
I'm glad to hear it... Really.
[Less that he might like his date fantasy, and more at the sound of his voice at all, no matter its quality. His thumb strokes over his cheekbone, thankful for all of the work his body's putting forth to recover. It's so much relief to know that he's alive (even if he'll only die when he returns home; Mettaton's thinking about this very moment over all else) that it weighs his very being down, a hope assuaging despair so thoroughly that the whiplash causes the robot to tear up. He can only imagine how Emet-Selch must be feeling: disoriented, aching, weak... But he hopes desperately that he doesn't feel alone or lost.
When Mettaton realizes too late that tears have slipped onto Emet-Selch's neck (the other, unaffected side), he gasps. Then, he hisses:]
Oh! Shit, no—
[He hastily wipes the tear from his neck with the blanket that covers him. ... His tears are perfectly benign, though Mettaton imagines that they must be acidic, proof of how infrequently he cries. (Proof that this robot can cry at all?) At least it snaps him out of crying at all. But Emet-Selch is fine, at least with regards to burning. Unless he can't tolerate robot fluid any more than he already does.
With that dealt with, Mettaton closes his eye and tries to pull himself together with a soundless sigh.]
Ah... How are you doing, darling? Will you... Are you all right?