[Emet-Selch was the sort to leave people deliberately on read. And when he initially receives the text from Mettaton, that's exactly what he does. Reads it- all the way to its disjointed conclusion- and puts the phone back down. Exhales slowly into the evening air.
When he'd asked the Crystal for help, he hadn't known what to expect. His hopes hadn't been high, but his desperation had been increasing as the days passed. While Mettaton was technically in no danger of dying from his wounds, they were also alarmingly permanent, disfiguring. Inconvenient. And for all the cheerfulness his lover exhibited, the reassurance they both felt at being there together, there was no getting around that this wasn't how he wanted to be. For vanity and practicality both.
So once Emet-Selch was well enough to leave the cottage, he'd gone to the one possibility he knew about. And he asked, as politely- and genuinely- as he could. ...Of course, there had been no response, no sign that he hadn't been wishing it all to himself.
It was only when he'd returned to find one(1) Mettaton crumpled onto the floor of their modest abode that he had any sort of confirmation that the Crystal had heard him. This couldn't be a coincidence, and he felt first an exhausted sort of pique that this was his answer. His husband was made worse, because he'd dared to ask for anything (Though fortunately not dead, he could tell that much from the glow of his core. But unreachable, unresponsive, no matter what he tried.).
...He'd still carried Mettaton to bed, even though it wasn't as though robots could wake up with a sore back. He still muttered to himself about the dead weight he was made to haul around, as he tried to hold back his concern, his fears. Setting Mettaton up into a position 'comfortable', he set his severed arm next to him as it would surely be needed if it were going to... attach itself, somehow. He didn't know what to think.
Fortunately, it hadn't been long until he'd seen the first signs of change, if not of waking. A creep of silicone where there had been chunks missing; metal being filled in, thin layers at a time. Slow as it was, Emet-Selch first thought he was deluding himself, going completely mad over this new trial. But it was real. (He also took several photos to compare it, to further confirm to himself that he wasn't imagining things, and there were definitely changes. From hour to hour, things grew.)
Mettaton was healing. Bizarrely. Yet there was no sign of wires reaching out to reconnect to his old, mangled arm, but before Emet-Selch had the chance to worry that it wouldn't be included, he witnessed the birth of tubing curling out from under shoulderguards (which had also regrown from weird metal nubs into their normal dramatic shape). And from that modest nest... fingers. Mettaton was healing.
So Emet-Selch left their cottage from time to time, and this happened to be one of those times. And if he were wholly honest, he'd been sort of expecting Mettaton to rouse soonish. The last he checked, the damage that remained had been light, and it followed to him that it would all be concluded with a return to consciousness. Which doesn't mean he's not relieved to see the idol's message; he is, and his immediate delay in replying is partially due to that.
But it was also deliberate to chance not being there. And Mettaton's text justified that pettiness, to him. But he does eventually reply.]
An empty threat, you've no way of tracking me in your current form.
And I've done nothing. The air of this star must be good for you. Should I have disposed of the spare?
no subject
When he'd asked the Crystal for help, he hadn't known what to expect. His hopes hadn't been high, but his desperation had been increasing as the days passed. While Mettaton was technically in no danger of dying from his wounds, they were also alarmingly permanent, disfiguring. Inconvenient. And for all the cheerfulness his lover exhibited, the reassurance they both felt at being there together, there was no getting around that this wasn't how he wanted to be. For vanity and practicality both.
So once Emet-Selch was well enough to leave the cottage, he'd gone to the one possibility he knew about. And he asked, as politely- and genuinely- as he could. ...Of course, there had been no response, no sign that he hadn't been wishing it all to himself.
It was only when he'd returned to find one(1) Mettaton crumpled onto the floor of their modest abode that he had any sort of confirmation that the Crystal had heard him. This couldn't be a coincidence, and he felt first an exhausted sort of pique that this was his answer. His husband was made worse, because he'd dared to ask for anything (Though fortunately not dead, he could tell that much from the glow of his core. But unreachable, unresponsive, no matter what he tried.).
...He'd still carried Mettaton to bed, even though it wasn't as though robots could wake up with a sore back. He still muttered to himself about the dead weight he was made to haul around, as he tried to hold back his concern, his fears. Setting Mettaton up into a position 'comfortable', he set his severed arm next to him as it would surely be needed if it were going to... attach itself, somehow. He didn't know what to think.
Fortunately, it hadn't been long until he'd seen the first signs of change, if not of waking. A creep of silicone where there had been chunks missing; metal being filled in, thin layers at a time. Slow as it was, Emet-Selch first thought he was deluding himself, going completely mad over this new trial. But it was real. (He also took several photos to compare it, to further confirm to himself that he wasn't imagining things, and there were definitely changes. From hour to hour, things grew.)
Mettaton was healing. Bizarrely. Yet there was no sign of wires reaching out to reconnect to his old, mangled arm, but before Emet-Selch had the chance to worry that it wouldn't be included, he witnessed the birth of tubing curling out from under shoulderguards (which had also regrown from weird metal nubs into their normal dramatic shape). And from that modest nest... fingers. Mettaton was healing.
So Emet-Selch left their cottage from time to time, and this happened to be one of those times. And if he were wholly honest, he'd been sort of expecting Mettaton to rouse soonish. The last he checked, the damage that remained had been light, and it followed to him that it would all be concluded with a return to consciousness. Which doesn't mean he's not relieved to see the idol's message; he is, and his immediate delay in replying is partially due to that.
But it was also deliberate to chance not being there. And Mettaton's text justified that pettiness, to him. But he does eventually reply.]
An empty threat, you've no way of tracking me in your current form.
And I've done nothing. The air of this star must be good for you. Should I have disposed of the spare?