#illegalsekrit

            He blew up on Thursday at three in the afternoon. I’m usually in the back around then: washing the morning crowd’s dishes and checking to make sure the kitchen is in order for our afternoon rush. That snafu starts at four when the kids get out, and Grillby starts serving dinner. By then, it’s my second shift, and I’m out somewhere in the swamps being harassed by an overstuffed pissbaby or bullet sweat McGee. Three O’clock, on the other hand, means I’m at work on break. In house. As is our only customer that shows up in the dead hours of the day. Or more like… sticks around into the dead hours, I guess. We at Grillby’s have devised a fail proof Sans prediction system: if the day ends in “Y,” he’ll visit. Four times. At least. The longest stay is usually from six onward which I guess counts as a visit for the next day as well? Whatever. Point is: Sans was there on that fateful Thursday at three in the afternoon, and he must have said SOMETHING to set the boss off because next thing I knew—

        “GET THE FUCK OUTTA MY BAR,” my cool-headed boss bellowed at his best customer.

        I literally jumped out of my body.

       The burst of heat from behind the bar managed to singe the kitchen air as I struggled to re-adjust. Heavy, unstable footsteps thumped out across the dining room. The front door slammed, bells going haywire. A glass shattered. Less than whispered cursing. It took a moment for me to notice that the sink was nearly running over.

      “Fack.”

       I managed to scramble up the step-stool just in time to jam the handle back. When your boss is living fire, even a few drops of water on the floor is a hazard. Especially when he appears to be… fuming. Just as I was wrangling the sink, Grillby stormed in, the kitchen door slamming and rattling the pyramid of clean dishes and glasses. He nearly set the broom on fire as he yanked it off the wall hook.

      “Careful there, hothead.”

       He (metaphorically) froze. In retrospect, it was sad how well I could read him.

      “You forgot I was back here, didn’tcha?”

        He groaned, flames dying down a bit, though his head was still shot with licks of white. Readjusting his glasses with his index finger, Grillby turned to face me.

       “How much did you hear?”

        “Just the yelly bit. And here I thought my kind had a monopoly on jump-scares.”

        “I scared you?”

        “Startled,” I hopped down from the step-stool, “what the fresh heck happened with Sans? Did he insult your mother?”

              I followed Grillby out into the dining room where shards of broken glass glittered unsurprisingly on the floor behind the bar. He ignored the question with one of his characteristic silences as he swept glass into his dustpan. When he finally spoke, it was like the steam being released from a kettle.

            “Why is that your go to?”

            “Ah so it was a lover’s spat then.”

           He stopped sweeping, “No.”

           “Because you’re not lovers, right?”

           Long sullen silence. Now he was just sulking.

           “Charlie-“

           “I’m not going to talk about it. If you have deliveries to do, you should do them.”

           “Ok. Just… don’t set the place on fire any more than it already is.”

           And at that, I left him alone to stew in his bitterness and guilt.

          When I got back from my rounds much later, Grillby was working the bar with no visible change in his demeanor from the usual.

          The end stool stood empty.

—–

           Sans didn’t come to dinner that night.  When our normal hours came and went without even a glimpse of the skeleton in the window, it was as though a balloon of tension had quietly deflated. I even caught the boss humming as he flipped patties.

              But of course…

          There was something unnerving in the absence. In retrospect, the humming was probably a coping mechanism. Healthier than his other ones at least. At the time I was too relieved that the tension had apparently dissipated to notice. Or, more likely, I noticed then pretended I hadn’t. As one does.

         We lingered outside the bar for a long moment after closing. Grillby started walking in the wrong direction. I let him catch himself and played bind as he turned around and joined me in walking west toward home. The crunch of snow made for an oddly melancholy soundtrack.

         “First time we’ve gotten to close before midnight in a while,” he mused to me.

         “Yeah. It’s weird.” I paused for a moment to gaze up at where the cavern ceiling must be hidden “I almost feel like we should have waited.”

          I regretted that admission pretty quickly. He halted a few feet ahead of me: personal light distorted in the streetlamp’s weird electric glow.

          “No. Our hours are on the door. If we make an exception, we’re just pandering to his dependency. He needs to grow up and realize that other people have lives… and maybe fucking learn to live his own.”

           Sparks sizzled on the ground’s icy crust. An ember landed on my nose. I brushed it off

         “Quoth the kettle,” barely more than a mumble.

          I felt his gaze settle on me… even as I tried my hardest not to meet it.

         “That makes you the kettle’s kettle, ‘Doggi.’”