[Mettaton helps to guide Emet-Selch's hand more thoroughly over the wadded pillowcase with a small smile, pressing both of his hands firmly atop his as though to impart his strength into him. He keeps his hands there, smiling at his wakefulness and pleased that Emet-Selch has the wherewithal to try, for as soft as his touch seems to be. He hopes all will be well — and he doesn't feel any danger in it, though his senses have failed him before, apparently. (They failed him tonight, having not noticed anything coming until it was already happening...)
Gingerly, he lets go, and pats the Ascian's hand for good measure, an expenditure of energy. The hand he's had pressed to the cloth is bloodied, though it's all dry at this point and it tries to stick to fabric as he trades places. Released from his duty temporarily, he nods at Emet-Selch.]
I'll be back before you know it. Just watch, and hang in there.
[Fondly, he gives him another soft caress of his cheek, another peck to his forehead — a lingering look, as though to ensure that Emet-Selch will really be fine.
But Mettaton figures the best he can do is be quick, so he hops to it.
The most unfortunate thing about a big house: having to go distances to get from place to place. Not that Mettaton's caring much for that, even though he dislikes being pried from his Bonded. For the most part, he's pleased to be fetching something for his sake, and he takes as many shortcuts as exist by dropping off the banister instead of using the stairs (too confident in himself to imagine that he could sprain an ankle now that he has any muscle at all) and skipping steps on his way back up. Water is easily obtained without distraction. He thinks to make a detour for medical supplies, and realizes that... they don't have any.
This is a house with a skeleton and a robot as the permanent residents. And unless Emet-Selch spontaneously decided to stock the place with medical supplies, they are likely to have absolutely nothing. Mettaton doesn't bother looking, choosing instead to head straight back for the room. (He'll have to make do with fabric or something, he thinks.)
Upon entering, he quickly sets a pitcher aside (thinking ahead: reducing trips to the kitchen for water, in case Emet-Selch should want more than a glass), Mettaton brings a completely nondescript glass of water (free of nitroglycerin) to the bed, sidling up next to him and offering it in a trade. He does this as he analyzes Emet-Selch's condition, thinking about his weak grip, the way he's lying down in such a way that drinking would be the same as upending water over his head...
The Puca hums.]
Do you need help, Hades, darling?
[Already, his other hand moves to prepare to assist, fingers hovering around his neck and shoulders. No matter what he needs, Mettaton will do it. He seems so weakened, after all... Could he sit up on his own? He doubts it. Could he hold a glass in his grip? He's not sure, but he'll be here to help: Emet-Selch has nothing to hide from him, after all. Mettaton softens some more, ears dropping a degree.]
no subject
Gingerly, he lets go, and pats the Ascian's hand for good measure, an expenditure of energy. The hand he's had pressed to the cloth is bloodied, though it's all dry at this point and it tries to stick to fabric as he trades places. Released from his duty temporarily, he nods at Emet-Selch.]
I'll be back before you know it. Just watch, and hang in there.
[Fondly, he gives him another soft caress of his cheek, another peck to his forehead — a lingering look, as though to ensure that Emet-Selch will really be fine.
But Mettaton figures the best he can do is be quick, so he hops to it.
The most unfortunate thing about a big house: having to go distances to get from place to place. Not that Mettaton's caring much for that, even though he dislikes being pried from his Bonded. For the most part, he's pleased to be fetching something for his sake, and he takes as many shortcuts as exist by dropping off the banister instead of using the stairs (too confident in himself to imagine that he could sprain an ankle now that he has any muscle at all) and skipping steps on his way back up. Water is easily obtained without distraction. He thinks to make a detour for medical supplies, and realizes that... they don't have any.
This is a house with a skeleton and a robot as the permanent residents. And unless Emet-Selch spontaneously decided to stock the place with medical supplies, they are likely to have absolutely nothing. Mettaton doesn't bother looking, choosing instead to head straight back for the room. (He'll have to make do with fabric or something, he thinks.)
Upon entering, he quickly sets a pitcher aside (thinking ahead: reducing trips to the kitchen for water, in case Emet-Selch should want more than a glass), Mettaton brings a completely nondescript glass of water (free of nitroglycerin) to the bed, sidling up next to him and offering it in a trade. He does this as he analyzes Emet-Selch's condition, thinking about his weak grip, the way he's lying down in such a way that drinking would be the same as upending water over his head...
The Puca hums.]
Do you need help, Hades, darling?
[Already, his other hand moves to prepare to assist, fingers hovering around his neck and shoulders. No matter what he needs, Mettaton will do it. He seems so weakened, after all... Could he sit up on his own? He doubts it. Could he hold a glass in his grip? He's not sure, but he'll be here to help: Emet-Selch has nothing to hide from him, after all. Mettaton softens some more, ears dropping a degree.]