Doesn't Know What's Going On

He couldn’t unsee them. Fading white pinpricks permanently burned into his mind, sockets a little too calm. Error had held his left hand, Papyrus gripping his right and pleading, pleading for him to stay. The big skeleton had curled up in bed like a baby next to his big brother— in a way, he was just as much Sans’s kid as Gumball was— raised from a baby with just as much love and care as the little girl would be— or would have been. 

Error held his hand until it wasn’t a hand anymore, cried until all it did was make the dust into weak sludge. Papyrus hadn’t gotten up from the couch in three days, not that Error knew— he hadn’t gotten up from the covers except to numbly, as if on autopilot, feed the baby when she cried. 

The house became cluttered, the food in the fridge spoiled. Money was tight, getting groceries delivered wasn’t cheap. The little girl had lost a good bit of weight. She was getting quieter, as if she noticed the smothering blanket of the house’s grief. She, really, was the only thing Error got up for anymore.

Old plates of spaghetti had piled up— Papyrus’s stress cooking was over the roof— and a few flies buzzed around the room. The blankets were sticky with sweat and tears. The pillows left marks on his bones from sleeping for too long. His vision was declining from a lack of glasses. And worst of all? The baby was crying.

She wants her dad, he thought, and immediately considered bursting into tears. God, why couldn’t he just be a parent? Sans would’ve been good at this. He really would’ve. 

Gumball stopped. And instead of bringing Error a moment’s respite, white-hot panic shot through him. Did she suffocate under the blanket?? Did she have a seizure?? Did she strangle herself by accident with her strings?? Oh, god—

“you’re so sweet!! aww, don’t eat my finger.” 

Error stopped short, his back aching from sitting up so fast. He yanked down his shirt, which had rolled up in his… sleep? zone-out? rot?… and pressed his skull to the wall to hear the nursery. It couldn’t be, could it? 

“yeah, i bet you’re hungry. don’t worry, i know where your food is!”

Ink.

He creaked open the door— tearstained, unshowered, sweaty, probably completely disheveled. Had his pants twisted backward in bed? Was he even wearing underwear? Whatever the case, Ink didn’t care. He simply set little Gumball down, then bounded over. 

“hey!! i heard about your husband-thing. papyrus let me in, he’s super nice, but he’s really sad, so that’s not good. i was about to feed the baby cause he gave me a lil tour and i lived in your vents for about three hours to see the layout of your house.”

Error blinked and caught about half of it, probably less, the brain fog making him feel like he was drunk. He stumbled forward, caught himself on the crib, and scooped up the little bundle… the last fragment he had of Sans, really, She had his eyes…