The warm glow of Grillby's Bar contrasted sharply with the cold air of Snowdin, but Mecha barely registered the change in temperature as he pushed open the heavy wooden door. The scent of charred wood, sizzling grease, and faint embers washed over him as he stepped inside, letting the door swing shut behind him.
A few familiar faces looked up from their meals, offering nods of acknowledgment, but Mecha wasn't here for conversation—at least, not yet.
Business first.
He walked up to the counter, standing before the ever-silent Grillby, the fiery bartender watching him with his usual flickering gaze. Without a word, Mecha reached to his chest, a faint whir and click sounding as a compartment slid open.
From within, he carefully removed a coffee machine, its newly polished surface reflecting the bar's warm light. He placed it on the counter with a solid thunk.
"There you go," Mecha said, straightening up. He gave the machine a quick pat. "The heating element was corroded, so I swapped it out. Also cleaned out the filter—don't ask me how much gunk was in there, I think it gained sentience at some point."
Grillby gave a slow nod, his flames flickering in what Mecha had long learned to recognize as silent approval.
Mecha crossed his arms. "It should last another three, maybe four years before needing another tune-up—assuming you don't push it too hard." He tilted his head. "You ever considered upgrading to something industrial? You run a whole bar, not a one-person café."
Grillby simply gave a slight shrug.
"Figures." Mecha exhaled, his internal fans giving a soft hum. He leaned against the counter. "Anyway, while I'm here—what's up with the fridge? You never actually told me what the problem was, just that it was 'acting weird.'"
The bartender slowly reached beneath the counter, retrieving a small notebook.
Flipping to a page, he turned it around for Mecha to read.
> "Keeps running too long. Freezes over."
Mecha's optics blinked. "Ah. Classic thermostat issue. Either the sensor's fried, or the compressor's pushing too hard." He tapped a metal finger on the counter. "Could also be a refrigerant issue, but let's not assume the worst yet."
Grillby gave a slow nod before flipping to the next page.
> "Can you fix it?"
Mecha let out a chuckle. "Grillby, I wouldn't be here if I couldn't fix it." He stretched his arms, gears clicking softly. "Alright, I'll take a look after I get something to eat. I'm running low on energy."
Grillby flipped another page.
> "You don't eat."
"…You know what I mean." Mecha rolled his optics. "Just get me something before I start using your bar as a charging station. Besides I still need something in me to get energy."
With a flicker that resembled amusement, Grillby turned to prepare a drink, while Mecha leaned back against the counter.
Finally, a moment to relax.
The moment Mecha sat down, a loud, unmistakable PPPPPPBBBT! echoed through Grillby's quiet bar.
Mecha froze.
His screen expression—previously relaxed—immediately flickered off, leaving a blank, neutral faceplate. The glow of his optics dimmed slightly, and for a few seconds, he just sat there, unmoving. Slowly, as if his joints had suddenly rusted over, he turned his head to the side.
And there he saw who the culprit was.
Sans the skeleton.
The short skeleton sat slouched in his usual seat, wearing his ever-present lazy grin. His hands were stuffed into the front pocket of his hoodie, and his glowing eyes were flickering with silent amusement.
Mecha didn't say anything. He just reached down under him, feeling the offending object. He lifted it up and stared at the whoopee cushion in his hand.
PPBBT.
Sans snickered.
Mecha crushed the cushion in his grip with a soft crinkle before tossing it onto the table. He let out a mechanical sigh, his vents releasing a short burst of air. "You really went for the classic, huh?"
Sans shrugged. "Hey, why fix what ain't broke?"
Mecha let his head clunk against the back of the seat. "You know, one of these days, I'm gonna glue one of these to your skull just to see how you like it."
Sans tilted his head. "That a threat, or a promise?"
Mecha's screen flickered briefly, displaying an unimpressed expression. "...Both."
The skeleton chuckled, leaning back against his chair. "Good to see ya, pal. How's life as the Underground's one and only walking toolbox?"
Mecha exhaled through his vents again, his shoulders sagging slightly. "Tiring. You ever get to the end of your day, sit down, and realize just how heavy your limbs feel?"
Sans' grin didn't falter. "Can't say I relate, pal. No muscles."
Mecha side-eyed him. "…Right. Forgot I was talking to a skeleton."
"Yup."
Mecha shook his head, placing his arms on the table. "Man, it's been a long day."
"That bad?"
"Bad? No. Just... a lot of work, and not enough rest." Mecha gestured vaguely with his hand. "Fixed a fridge, a coffee machine, a stove, a speaker system, spent the whole last night up fixing stuff that was dropped off a my place... You know, the usual."
Sans nodded, his grin never wavering. "Sounds like you're keepin' busy."
"Yeah, well, I gotta make a living somehow." Mecha stretched his arms, his joints letting out a faint whirr. "Speaking of which, you better not have broken that treadmill again. I just fixed it last week."
Sans waved a hand lazily. "C'mon, buddy, have a little faith. I ain't breakin' nothin'—intentionally."
Mecha huffed, shaking his head. "You really are a menace."
"Eh, you say that like it's a bad thing."
Mecha leaned forward, resting his arms on the table. "So what about you? How's the... uh, work been?"
For the first time, Sans' grin faltered, just for a fraction of a second. It was so brief that most people wouldn't have noticed. But Mecha wasn't most people.
Sans quickly shrugged, his usual lazy demeanor returning. "Same old, same old."
Mecha's optics narrowed slightly. He didn't press. Not his business.
Instead, he let out another sigh and leaned back again. "Man, I swear, some of these people don't know the first thing about maintenance. Do you know how many times I get called for stuff that could be fixed with just a little common sense?"
Sans smirked. "Lemme guess. Someone tried turning it off and on again, and it still didn't work?"
"Worse. They didn't turn it off at all. Just stared at it and hoped it would fix itself."
Sans snorted. "Ah, the ol' 'stand there and hope it works' strategy. Classic."
Mecha tapped his fingers against the table. "I'm telling you, if I had a credit for every time I fixed something that could've been solved with just a tiny bit of effort—"
"You'd have enough to move outta the Underground?"
Mecha let out a short laugh, but there was a dry, almost bitter edge to it. "Heh. Yeah. Maybe."
Sans' brow twitched slightly, but he didn't say anything.
There was a brief silence between them, not exactly uncomfortable, but heavy in a way that neither of them acknowledged out loud.
Then, Grillby walked over, placing Mecha's usual drink—a simple, synthetic oil mix—onto the table. Mecha nodded in thanks before taking a sip, his internal systems humming softly as the liquid cycled through him.
Sans finally broke the silence. "So, you got anything lined up for tomorrow?"
Mecha thought for a moment, his optics flickering as he pulled up his internal schedule. "Let's see… I got a furnace to fix in Hotland in the morning, then a washing machine in Waterfall, and then I need to check on Muffet's ovens again—again, Sans. Do you know how much sugar those spiders use? It gums up the burners."
Sans let out a low whistle. "Sounds rough, buddy."
"Yeah, no kidding. After that, I gotta stop by New Home for a generator check-up, then maybe, maybe, I get to sit down for five minutes without someone asking me to fix something."
Sans grinned. "And yet, here you are, fixin' Grillby's coffee machine anyway."
Mecha glanced at the machine sitting on the counter, then back at Sans. "...Shut up."
Sans chuckled, swirling the ketchup bottle in his hands. "Hey, I respect the hustle. Just don't work yourself into the ground, alright?"
Mecha scoffed. "Please. I'm literally built to keep going."
Sans' expression remained the same, but something about his gaze felt just a little more Knowing. "Yeah… I know."
Mecha didn't comment on it. Instead, he just took another sip of his drink.
For a while, they just sat there, the quiet hum of Grillby's bar filling the space between them. The occasional chatter from other patrons, the soft clinking of glasses, and the distant crackle of the fire in the corner all melded together into a comfortable atmosphere.