Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

When Jack Kennedy pushed open the front doors and walked into the pizzeria where he worked, the first thing he noticed was his phone-headed boss holding a shiny, new gold name tag. It was seven in the morning, and he blinked tiredly in his way of greeting.

“I don’t need a new one,” he told his boss flatly, who was readying the place for opening.

“It’s not for you. It’s for your new coworker.”

The tired look on Jack's face was replaced by one of confusion. New what?

The obvious question would be to ask who this new employee was, but since Jack Kennedy was a hater first and a snoop second, he quickly asked, “Did you finally fire Matt?”

“No,” Steven sighed. “I did not.”

Jack deflated. “Then I don’t really care.”

He honestly didn’t. Most of the other employees at this godforsaken pizzeria he didn’t even interact with.

He turned to leave, but Steven cleared his throat loudly, prompting Jack to stay put with a scowl. “Yes, you should, actually. He’ll be working alongside you.”

“Seriously?” Jack said, stopping to face him. “I work fine alone. You know that. Can’t you— I don’t know— dump him in the kitchen, or something?”

“No. He’s set to work the day shift crew, right next to you.”

Jack groaned and threw his hands out in exasperation. “Did you hire this guy just to piss me off or something? Is this about last week's token incident? Because I swear it wa—“

“—First of all, not everything’s about you,” Steven butted in, shutting Jack up. “And second, you could use the help— I could use the help.”

And before Jack could even get a word in edgewise, Steven rattled off, “You’re always talking to yourself, the kids don’t like your attitude, and you don’t even know our token to dollar exchange rate.”

Jack didn’t see his point. “So?”

Steven did not dignify him with a response. “His name’s Dave. Dave Miller. And he’s coming in later today, so be nice.”

Jack stared up at the ceiling and muttered, “I’m always nice.”

—

Jack Kennedy didn’t like change. And he definitely didn’t like the idea of working alongside somebody else.

This new guy— they would probably try to get to know him, or ask him questions like why are you orange, or make small talk, or— and Jack shuddered at the thought— try to become friends with him.

Jack was a loner and much preferred it that way. It was too annoying, too demanding to make friends or make an effort to act nice. Soon enough they’d start asking for favors or to hang out or— ugh.

He was doing his dutiful employee duty, scaring away children and wiping down grimy dining room tables as he occasionally glanced at the ticking clock. Six o’ clock could not come any faster.

Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a tall, purple, smiling man smoothly stroll up beside him. His hands were clasped behind him as he peered over to see what Jack was doing. He was hoping he’d go away after seeing that he was up to nothing interesting, but he did not.

“Hey there, Old Sport,” the stranger crooned, way too happily given the fact that he was in a gross pizzeria full of even grosser children.

Jack sighed and did not even turn to acknowledge the man. For whatever reason, he found himself getting hit on a surprising amount of times while working. He had no idea why. He was literally a rotting, orange corpse who had to haul ass to Sephora every week to buy enough foundation to cover himself with.

Getting called Old Sport was one of the weirder pickup lines he’d ever heard, but by far not the worst.

Jack didn’t look up to face the man. He continued on with his work and muttered flatly, “If I say I don’t work here, will you go away?”

He normally would’ve told him to fuck off right away, but his chat with Steven had compelled him to hold some semblance of a spine against this guy.

“Oh, but I know ya do,” the stranger went on—jeez, was that a New York City accent?— much to Jack’s disappointment. “I mean, you’re wipin’ tables. And not for free, I take it.”

“Maybe I’m just that passionate about cleaning random pizzerias,” Jack deadpanned.

“I guess it’s nice to have hobbies.”

This guy really could not take a hint. He was starting to piss Jack off.

Clenching his jaw, he huffed out, “Okay, seriously, you grape, go away before I call my boss.”

“Grape? Ya don’t even know me.”

Jack rolled his eyes— not even caring if this dude saw— and sighed. But the man did not leave.

“Oh— And, can ya, actually? Call your boss?” he asked sweetly. “I’m startin’ my first day today, and I dunno where to go.”

The accented words barely registered in Jack’s ears before he put down his rag and finally turned to face the man, getting his first good look at him:

Astoundingly purple, weirdly tall, and with a lazy smile across his lips. Standing just a bit too close to Jack, his eyes sparkling with a mischievous glint as he looked him over.

But what left Jack most speechless were the faded– although intricate– scar lines across his skin, snaking up across his arms and fingers, and peeking out along the collar near his neck.

Scars, just like his.

Jack knew he had gone without a reply for a long time when the man tilted his head curiously and said, “My eyes are up here, Old Sport.”

The nickname was jarring. Other than his name, he’d only ever been called jackass, cornflake, idiot, and pissboy.

He frowned, snapping his gaze up to Dave’s voided eyes. “What’s with the Old Sport? My names—“

“Shh,” Dave pressed a hand to Jack’s mouth. “Don’t ruin it. Ignorance is bliss.”

Ew. The only thing he hated more than strangers touching him was a weird, purple idiot touching him. Jack glared at him until he took his hand away from his mouth.

And it wasn’t like he was ever going to offer him his real name. He wasn’t stupid. Plus, he sort of always forgot what the most recent fake name he’d applied to work here was.

Jack tapped a finger to his badge. “I have a name tag. You literally just pointed it out.”

“So what?” the purple man teased, crossing his arms and leaning against the table Jack was trying to clean.

He put down the rag. “Okay. Let’s— Hold on,” Jack said, pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly. “You— You’re Dave Miller?”

“Uh-huh,” he said back, still grinning widely. He hated his smile.

“Oh, fuck me,” Jack complained with a groan.

“Well—”

Thankfully, whatever smartass reply Dave had readied in response to that was cut short when Steven appeared, nodding to the both of them.

“Looks like you two have met. That’s nice,” he commented dully, before turning to face the purple man directly. “Dave, I’m assuming? Well, you’re about five hours late, but I guess I’ll let it slide since you're new here.”

Dave nodded. “Right on.”

Steven tapped a foot. “I’m your boss, by the way,” he said, probably noting Dave’s too-casual reply.

He did not note his tone. “Cool.”

Steven snuck a momentary, confused glance over to Jack, who raised his eyebrows at his boss in a way that meant to say, “Where the hell did you find this guy?”

With a sigh, Steven picked through his pocket until he pulled out a shiny gold badge, and handed it over to Dave. “Name tag,” he told him. “Do whatever it takes not to lose it— I have zero spares.”

Jack rolled his eyes at the lie— of course he did, he just didn’t want to pay the engraving fee.

“Sure thing, phone-face!” Dave remarked, holding it up to the light.

Steven was showing as much annoyance as a phone head could. Which was a lot. “Don’t ever call me that again.” Then, to Jack: “Show him around, employee. Give him the tour, and don’t forget to tell him about the saferoom.”

Jack gave him a thumbs up, which he only considered switching to a middle finger about halfway through the act. With a final, weirded-out glance at Dave, Steven walked off and disappeared into his office hallway.

Dave was, for whatever reason, still swooning over his name tag. “Dave Miller! It’s engraved an’ everythin’— That’s so neat. I’ve never had anythin’ with my name on it.” He snapped his head up. “What’s yours say?”

A fake name I made up when I applied here three months ago, Jack didn’t say out loud.

He didn’t even get to form a reply before Dave stepped way too close for comfort to take a look at Jack’s badge. As he came near, Jack caught the whiff of something both sweet and coppery.

“The fuck, man?” Jack said, pushing the man away from him with one finger. “Personal bubble much?”

“My bad, Old Sport,” he said, standing up straight and still wearing that enigmatic smile. “Just curious about ya. September— that’s an odd name.”

Jack glanced away with a scowl– Right. He forgot he’d chosen such a stupid name at this restaurant. “Maybe stick with Old Sport then, huh?”

The man visibly brightened at the offer. Jack had no idea what he said that was so downright incredible, but, okay.

“Sure thing!” Dave then got to work on pinning his own badge to his shirt.

Jack watched him pathetically fumble with the name tag, wondering how the hell he was ever going to get along with him. Seriously, where did Steven find this guy?

But then his eyes tracked over the lightened purple scars along the back of his hand, and he couldn’t help but feel a twinge of curiosity about him. It was the exact same scar pattern…

Dave had successfully pinned the badge into his shirt, and replied back brightly, “Okay! Start the tour and lead the way, Old Sport. Assume I know nothin’ at all.”

Shouldn’t be too hard, Jack thought to himself.

—

Dave was a liar.

He seemed to know everything about the damn place– animatronics especially. It was like he built them or something, the way he lit up the instant he caught sight of the terrifying metal robots.

And the instant they’d stepped into the saferoom, Dave had pointed out something wrong with the SpringBonnie suit and happily bolted over to, quote, fix it.

“I can’t tell if you’re doing it really wrong or really right,” Jack observed, warily watching the weird purple man as he fiddled with the cables of the rabbit animatronic.

“I’m fixing it, like I said. And I’m almost done, anyway. I can’t believe ya were actually using this suit— it looked like it was five seconds from a failure.”

Jack said nothing, standing and waiting by the door, looking over Dave’s shoulder from a distance.

It was weird, the way his long fingers worked with the tangle of wires and circuits like it was second nature. All the while chattering in what might as well have been a foreign language—stuff about motors and gearboxes and hex nuts.

Jack had no idea what any of it meant. For him, repair work usually meant soldering wires together that made the smallest possible explosion of sparks.

“There ya go,” Dave voiced eventually, and stood, looking over the suit. “Now ya won’t get springlocked and die the second ya put it on. Wouldn’t that be a shame?” he joked, adding a wink that may have aimed to come off as charming, but instead prompted Jack to tiredly point at the bear suit behind him.

“That one’s mine. The rabbit’s yours.”

Dave’s smile momentarily faltered as he stared down at the animatronic. “Oh.”

“Good thing you won’t get springlocked and die the second you put it on, right?” Jack mused drily, clapping him on the back. “Thanks for doing my repairs.”

Dave, infuriatingly enough, only smiled brighter. “Oh, well. No problem, Old Sport!”

Ugh– his positivity was infectious, and it made Jack want to crack open this purple idiot's skull to figure out what the hell was up with him.

—

They continued their tour. Jack told him a bit about each of the rooms and their respective duties, offering his exclusive Jack Kennedy commentary along the way. He was even nice enough to warn Dave about Matt. He didn’t know why he did that— his shoulder angel was really pushing it today.

But all the while, Dave kept asking him questions. And for whatever damned reason, Jack was stupid enough to humor them.

“Can you do a backflip?”

“No.”

“Me neither,” he grinned. “I think I’m feelin’ some real chemistry here, Old Sport.”

The only chemistry that Jack could conceive of was what kind of pipe bomb to leave in Dave’s employee locker. But he continued on.

They were in the kitchen when Dave really decided to try and test Jack’s patience.

“What’s your type?”

Jack turned around to face him in an instant. “What?”

“Pizza type,” Dave said innocently.

“Oh.” Jack felt mildly stupid. They were in the kitchen part of the tour, after all. But, with how much he’d learned about Dave within the past two hours, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’d planned that misinterpretation.

“I don’t know. Don’t have one,” Jack uttered eventually.

“Don’t like pizza?”

“Stare at enough pies and you start to get sick of them.”

Dave’s smile widened slightly. “You’re funny.”

Oh, no. He did not mean to give him any ideas. Jack jutted a finger up and said sternly, “Don’t say that. Like, ever.”

“Okay. Can-do, Old Sport.”

Jack set his jaw and then reminded himself that it was almost closing time. The thought of going home and not listening to a New York-accented voice bug him with questions and jokes calmed him down quite a bit. He sighed the umpteenth time that day and resumed his spiel.

“Okay. Continuing on, this is t–”

“--How long have ya been workin’ here for?” Dave cut in.

Jack was about to start explaining the difference between the oven that could blow up and the one that leaked gasoline. He did not appreciate the interruption.

“What?” he snapped, turning around to face him. “What’s with all the questions?”

Dave shrugged. “Jus’ wanna get to know ya a little better. Seeing as how we’re gonna be workin’ together for the foreseeable future,” he said, pointing between the two of them as if they were buddies.

Foreseeable future. Jack could barely hide his grimace.

“Listen,” he said to him, hopefully coming off as stern, but seeing how short he was compared to the grinning man, he doubted it. “I’m not here to make friends. I clock in, I do my job, and I go home. Don’t waste your time getting to know me, and I won’t waste yours.”

The statement fell on deaf, purple ears. Dave tilted his head to the side with nothing but amusement in his eyes. “Aw. Our first argument– in a kitchen, too! How domestic.”

“Shut up.”

Dave gave a playful punch to Jack’s shoulder, and quipped, “Oh, I’m just jokin’ with ya, Old Sport. I get it– I won’t ask any more questions, if it pisses ya off that much.”

That… sort of completely turned everything he knew about Dave on its head. Actually taking a hint and backing off? What a shocker.

“...Good,” Jack finally spoke, though a bit uncertainly. Somehow, he didn’t feel like he won this argument in the slightest.

—-

They’d reached the last stop of the tour— the animatronic’s performing stage— when Jack shifted his weight from foot to foot and concluded, “I guess that’s it. It’s almost closing time, so you have it easy for the rest of the day.”

“Cool,” the purple man murmured, busy looking at the stage lights.

Jack stood and just watched him, trying to get a read on this guy, like he’d been trying all day. This weird, tall, detail-obsessed lanky man who seemed way too cheery to be working at a gross pizza restaurant.

But then again, why did Jack care? He had a job to do. This new guy didn’t change anything. In fact, he didn’t know why this took up so much space in his head.

But it was probably because of one main reason: Dave was an odd person to pin down. And Jack liked it when he could get a read on someone as soon as he’d met them.

Steven was his tired hard ass of a boss, Matt was the unblinking weirdo, Jimbo the anger-prone chef.

But this purple idiot was like in a realm of his own.

“Can I level with you, Dave?” Jack asked.

Dave, meanwhile, was still toying with the lights. He’d even managed to somehow turn one of them pink— Jack had no idea that was even possible.

“Sure, Old Sport.”

“What’s up with you?” he asked, and then realized he might have come off as too harsh. “I mean, why are you working here? It’s… not like it’s the best place to work, or anything. So. What’s your deal?”

Dave turned and looked at him with an odd smile, which, maybe for Dave, wasn’t that odd.

“Well, why are you?”

Jack said nothing. He saw Dave’s gaze flicker over from Jack’s scarred hands back up to his eyes.

“That’s what I thought,” he concluded.

Jack didn’t know what that meant, exactly. And he probably would never scrape up enough courage or care enough to ask.

“You don’t know anything about me,” Jack bit out, mostly pissed that he was being seen through like glass. Even Steven didn’t comment on his scars.

Dave faced him with another cheery smile.

“Listen, Old Sport. Or September, or whatever your name is. Ya think you’re such a tough cookie, it’s kinda cute. But I think we can still get along real fine.”

Jack furrowed his eyebrows and averted his gaze. This guy was confusing him to no end.

“We’ll see about that,” he mumbled.

Chapter Text

For a short, blissful moment when Jack walked inside the restaurant the next morning, he held a brief hope that Dave hadn’t shown up to work that day.

Alas, he was wrong.

“Hi there, Old Sport,” Dave greeted, popping up beside him in the back room of the pizzeria. The room held a dull looking couch and a few crappy lockers that the company had graciously decided to give their employees.

Jack was in the middle of hanging up his jacket as he frowned at him. As was the usual greeting reserved for Dave.

“I was lookin’ around the place while I waited for ya to show up,” Dave went on, not caring about or acknowledging Jack’s total silence towards him. “How come ya never told me that we have a work computer?”

“Does it matter? Only the boss uses that thing. It’s barely got enough memory to play chess,” he said to him. It was true— once, he’d tried to download Tetris on it. Keyword being once. The screen had started smoking.

Jack decided not to comment on the whole ‘waiting for you to show up’ thing.

“Wait, but… that thing is in Steven’s office. How do you know about it?” he questioned, catching Dave in the act of peering into the inside of his locker, and promptly shutting it.

Dave raised his eyebrows and played it off. “Well, I could ask the same thing ‘bout you. How do you know about it?”

“I’m… a seasoned employee,” he explained, albeit hesitantly.

“Sure,” Dave replied back with a smirk. “So. What are we doin’ today, Seasoned Sport?”

“First of all, no. Secondly, it doesn’t matter. Just do what you want, dude. Boss doesn’t care, so long as we look busy.”

Dave’s casual demeanor melted away in an instant. “Dude?” he repeated excitedly. “Did ya just call me dude? Am I your dude now?”

“That’s— no, it’s not like… No,” Jack began, and he didn’t really know why he was rushing to correct him. “I call everyone dude.”

“Not me,” Dave pointed out. “Not before today.”

He was right. Not that he would say it.

Jack shrugged, and tried to explain himself, “Steven’s dude, and Matt’s dude, and the kids are dude. Everyone’s dude to me. You’re not special.”

“Give it time, Old Sport!”

Eugh. Jack realized that Dave’s nickname for him was becoming a constant. Maybe he’d ask him about it one day. But then again, maybe he wouldn’t. Because he didn’t care. Jack huffed a sigh and left to go officially punch into work.

—-

The rest of the morning went by easily enough. Jack’s days at work were usually the same every time, with the exception of an occasional birthday party to attend to or whatnot. Though now he had a purple shadow following him with a smirk and a joke for any given moment.

But, really, as long as Dave didn’t get in the way, he didn’t care what he did. In any case, he was one stubborn, purple man. He stuck by Jack’s side like a rat in a very reluctant glue trap, and Jack could honestly do nothing to stop him.

—-

“Who’s the new guy?” asked Matt, who was in the running for being Jack’s most-hated coworker.

Jack, meanwhile, was making sure kids didn’t get too close to the trashpile animatronic, only mildly tuned in to whatever Matt was saying to him. “Dave,” he replied, uninterested.

“What do you know about him?”

“Nothing at all,” Jack stated, and regretted placing himself so close to the prize corner.

“Do you think he buys fireworks?” Matt asked from behind the counter, propping his chin in his palm, staring ahead. “I think he looks the type.”

Jack followed wherever Matt was looking— Dave was near a foosball table, which made Jack wonder why the hell they even had a foosball table— and watched the purple man smack the side of a broken arcade machine rather ungracefully.

“I dunno,” Jack lied, mostly because he did not want to continue this conversation with Matt of all people. But in all honesty, he could perfectly well see Dave buying fireworks in bulk and lighting them to piss people off.

“Just asking because, you know,” Matt went on, “I’m always expanding my business horizons. Speaking of which, orange man, if you ever need any more of those fireworks, then—“

“I don’t,” Jack interjected flatly. “It was one time, virgin.”

“Just saying.”

It then dawned on Jack that he’d been talking to Matt for longer than thirty seconds, and he realized he needed to get the hell out of there before he asked him any more questions.

Without a further word, Jack strode away from the prize counter and into the kitchen. He guessed it was as good a time as any to take a break. In the back, there was a door leading outside, which emptied out into a parking lot. Good for avoiding a phone headed boss, or for taking a smoke break. Usually it was both.

Jack leaned against the wall beside a dumpster. He lit a cigarette from his pocket and stuck it between his lips, already feeling exhausted from the day. Honestly, he just wanted to go home, drink a redbull or something.

His peaceful moment of silence was broken when he heard the sound of the restaurant door squeak open and shut.

Dave appeared beside him, skipping down the steps to lean against the wall Jack was also against. When he said Dave stuck to Jack like a rat in a glue trap, he really meant it.

“What do you need?” Jack asked, blowing out smoke in a sigh. He distantly assumed Dave had broken an animatronic or something, but honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he’d come out here just to annoy Jack.

“Nothin’. Just wanted some air.”

Theory confirmed.

They sat in silence for a while, with Jack burning through his cigarette and Dave watching the cars pass by the restaurant. A few of them even parked and entered the pizzeria. Jack almost felt bad for them.

He turned his head to face Dave. “I’m not giving you a cigarette, if that’s what you want.”

“Oh, no thanks, Old Sport. I don’t smoke.”

Jack frowned at him but did not ask why, then, Dave was willing to stick around the parking lot near a dumpster to spend time with a brooding orange man.

Dave had leaned his head against the wall and crossed his arms, eyes closed and with a thin smile across his lips. He was an odd person to describe, but, really, at the same time, perfectly easy to detail. Take a lanky frame, add lots of eye contact, an odd accent, and a never-ending stream of smartass jokes, and you had Dave Miller.

“You’ve been here a while and Phoney ain’t even lookin’ for ya,” he commented eventually. “Guess he’s pretty laid-back compared to the other Phoneys, huh?”

“Not really. He just doesn’t know where to find me,” Jack replied. “And what do you mean, other Phoneys?”

“I’ve worked at other locations before this one. Obviously. And they’ve all got the same layout and everything.”

“What?” Jack snapped. “Then why the hell did I give you a tour yesterday?”

Dave smiled. “Ya seemed like you were having fun. I didn’t have the heart to stop ya.”

Jack stuck his cigarette back between his teeth. “Jackass.”

“I mean it! I really liked the tour, Old Sport,” he responded earnestly. “Ya should consider booking it outta this pizzeria and become, like, a tour guide or something.”

“A tour guide?” he retorted, unconvinced. “For who? Who the hell books a trip to Utah?”

“Plenty of people. And you’d be there to help ‘em out, ‘n see the sights.”

“There’s no tourists here. Not one.”

“Sure there are,” Dave insisted, persistent as always. “I’ll find ‘em for ya.”

“Good luck,” Jack reacted sarcastically, idly fiddling with his cigarette. “There isn’t shit to do here but look at the desert and die.”

Dave huffed in laughter. “Okay, fine, then. You can move someplace else if ya hate it that much. Let’s see,” he said, kicking a pebble before an idea dawned on him. “Nevada– now that’s a good tourist spot. Close by, too.”

“Nevada?” Jack questioned, taking a drag from his cigarette. “What, like Vegas?”

Dave nodded. “Oh, yeah. Think about it, Old Sport. There’s crap tons of honeymooners and gamblers and everything. And you’d be there, giving them the inside scoop.”

The idea of lights and intrigue in place of springlocks and moldy pizza sure sounded nice. “I guess.”

It took Jack a minute to realize that he was talking to Dave. Like, having a normal conversation with him– now that was odd. Jack dropped his cigarette and grinded it with his heel before he could think about it too much. “Mkay. I’m off. I don’t think I ever gave table four their soda cups, now that I’m thinking about it,” he said, pushing himself off the wall.

Dave got up as soon as Jack did and dashed to the door, holding it open with a smirk as Jack reluctantly walked through.

“Right after you, Old Sport,” he heard him coo.

Like he said. Jackass.

—-

Dave had disappeared somewhere while Jack returned to the dining room. He wasn’t too sad about it.

He was trying to do his job when a whiny kid tugged at the hem of his shirt and asked, “Mr Orange Dude Sir, is there really a party in the safe room today?”

He usually ignored kids and their weird questions and their grabby hands. But this one irked him— he turned to face the confetti-covered boy. “What are you talking about?” he asked. “Who told you that?”

Jack normally wouldn’t have a problem if an idiot kid wandered into the forbidden saferoom of their own volition and springlocked their fingers off or something. But this just sounded off. Almost like somebody had been talking to this kid.

The boy said back, “The bunny man. He said there’s a party in there, with a cake and a piñata and a clown and a lemonade machine and ice cream and a…”

But Jack had long since tuned out the boy's ramblings. He was busy staring at the hallway leading into the safe room with a light frown.

He set down his serving tray and said nothing more to the kid, instead crossing into the hallway. There, it was a lot quieter compared to the dining room filled with screeching and laughing kids. The hall was empty, but the safe room door was slightly cracked open, with the measly lightbulb from within spilling light outside.

Jack pushed the metal door further in and peered in.

Dave, his most significant bother, was standing there, looking over the storage wall and tapping his foot. As if he were waiting for something. He was holding something metal in his hand as he looked over the shelving– it was hard to see from his angle.

Now, Dave never scared Jack, not ever– but in that moment as he stepped into the room, as he saw a glimpse of the manic eyes and stiff posture that was emblazoned on his frame, Jack considered booking it right out of there.

Then he remembered who this was.

“Dave?” Jack uttered, still standing by the door and confused more than anything.

In an instant, Dave spun to face him and jammed his hands behind his back, keeping whatever he was holding out of sight. “Old Sport! Hey!” he exclaimed, clearly taken aback. “Wha– Whaddya doin’ here? Thought you were, ah, workin’ the dining room…?”

Jack slowly looked around the safe room. It looked normal enough, except for the obviously nervous purple man and the Spring Bonnie suit folded away in the corner. On second glance, he noticed it was clumsily off to the corner, as if recently worn. And with the sheen of sweat across Dave’s face, it seemed like he’d just been wearing the heavy suit.

Hm. Interesting. Jack had no idea what this combination of factors meant, to be honest, but he could only assume it was something annoying at worst and stupid at best. As was the usual with Dave Miller.

“Old Sport?” Dave prompted again, when Jack still hadn’t said anything.

“Just checking. Have you been wearing the suit?” he asked, pointing a thumb to the rabbit costume.

“No.”

Jack stepped closer to him. “Are you lying?”

Dave looked away. “Maybe.”

“I’m… not even going to ask. Mostly because I don’t want to know. But just…” Jack sighed. “Whatever you’re doing, stop. Steven’ll blame us both.”

As he spoke, a look of confusion and relief passed over Dave’s face. Like he was expecting a harsher berating for whatever he’d been caught doing. In all honesty, Jack didn’t really care what he was up to. In fact, maybe seeing Dave get fired for messing with the Spring Bonnie suit would make up for his otherwise crummy week. But he brushed that off, rationalizing that it’d be funnier to see what other, more stupid stuff Dave would surely get himself into in the coming days.

“If you’ve got nothing to do,” Jack shared, and he had no idea why, “Grab a tray and help me wait tables.” Dave straightened a bit at that, one of his smiles back on his face. He still had his hand behind his back, though. “Really? I can work with ya?”

“We both work here for a paycheck, so, uh, yeah,” Jack said dully.

“So, you’re not gonna snitch on me and tell Phoney?”

“Tell him what?”

“That I’m… in here?” he asked, a bit of nervousness in his voice. “When I’m not supposed t’ be?”

“I don’t care what you do. Like I said.”

Dave’s stiffened posture relaxed at that. “Oh. Thanks, Old Sport!”

Once again, Jack had no idea what he’d done to deserve the gratitude. It was like Dave had never been given an ounce of distantly positive attention before. And, to be honest, it wasn’t like Jack was being nice to him, he just wasn’t being mean. Out loud, at least.

And as much as he irritated Jack, he didn’t think he’d ever really be able to. Sure, the confusion and irritation that Dave had brought unto him ever since his first shift yesterday was immeasurable. But there was something so distantly bizarre about this man that made Jack want to stick around to see what he’d do next.

Maybe Dave’s weird moments were worth it for the rare moments of variation in Jack’s otherwise dull restaurant work life that Dave seemed to effortlessly provide. Like, for example, hiding out in a dark saferoom and lying to kids. Jack supposed that they had the latter in common, though.

“It's nothing. Let’s just get back to work,” he muttered eventually, more to himself than Dave.

He was trying to hate him. He was really, really trying.

——

As per usual, Jack didn’t wave goodbye to anyone when he left work that night. He only stopped by his locker to grab his keys and jacket. But afterwards, with a swing of the front doors, he was gone. Maybe he’d heard Dave start to bid him a goodbye, but Jack didn’t stop around to hear the end of it.

He was worn out from the whole day. Normally, he could go an entire shift without talking to anyone, but it seemed like that was a thing of the past now.

A short drive through the empty nighttime roads later, and he was home. Jack flopped down on his couch and flicked on the TV set, not even bothering to change out of his work clothes or to take off his badge. He was totally, utterly beat. He rubbed at his eyes, orange makeup smearing off on his knuckles. Whatever.

And he felt himself drift off to sleep right there on the living room couch, lights dimmed and the hum of the TV program making for a comfortable setting. Jack turned his head to look at the wall of photos nearby.

It was like muscle memory at that point. Every night, he forced himself to look at the array of picture frames.

His sister. His brother. To look at their smiling, static, photographed faces every night reminded him what he was doing at that damned restaurant every day. The sole reasons why he ever stuck around at the pizzeria– it wasn’t for the money, or the location, but so that he might stop whatever happened to them from happening to anyone else.

It brought him some comfort to know that he was doing it all for a reason. And comfort was in such short supply for Jack Kennedy these days.

He fell asleep before he even knew it, head still angled toward the wall of photographs.

Chapter Text

Jack didn’t sleep much.

Oh, he tried, but it was usually a useless endeavor. He would toss and turn, and maybe drift off for an hour or two before his alarm went off. That was about it.

He supposed it was just a natural thing for corpses such as himself to be plagued with nightmares and insomnia every time he tried to get some shuteye. He could ask the only other dead guy he knew about it, sure, but he didn’t quite feel that he and Dave were at the discussing sleep habits stage of coworker talks. Not that he really wanted to talk to Dave about anything other than work– it felt weird.

Because of his generally nocturnal habits, Jack graciously always offered to open up the pizzeria for the morning shift. He was usually awake well before sunrise anyway– now he just spent his mornings at work. That meant it was just him.

That meant he had peace and quiet.

No phones, no kids, no boss, and above all, no worries. It was one of the nicer moments in his day— being able to punch in, sit in the back room, breathe, and not have to deal with anyone for a while.

Before a stream of kids whirled through the doors at opening time, of course. But before that, he was free.

—-

Matt, being the lazy punk that he was, didn’t show up to work that day. Normally a joyous occasion, but unfortunately it just left Jack to pick up the slack and work the prize corner. Alongside Dave.

Even though the pizzeria was moderately packed, the kids paid little attention to the prize corner. Maybe that was an upside of hanging out with Dave: children tended to get freaked out by the two of them whenever they were paired together. Jack could live with that.

They were busy restocking the prize bins. At least, one of them was. Dave was talking while busy sliding the plastic rings from the restock shipment onto his fingers as he leaned over the counter.

“See, that’s why iguanas are just the best pets. Mine lived ‘til he was, like, really old. I’d get another one,” the purple man blathered on, digging through the bin of cheap rings. “I remember. I fed him a lotta grilled cheeses.”

Jack hummed in acknowledgment. “I’d get a goldfish.”

Another new development— he was starting to tolerate Dave enough to have conversations with him.

“Pfft. What the hell’s a goldfish gonna do for ya? Swim and eat flakes?”

“Exactly, they’re low maintenance. And it’s— it’s about the company, alright? It’s nice to have someone at home.”

Dave raised his eyebrows, a coy smile on his face. “No goldfish needed, Old Sport— that can be arranged. I’m low maintenance.”

Jack looked away with a scoff. “Oh, shut up.”

But, as always, Dave didn’t mind his snide replies. Maybe he just assumed he didn’t mean it.

Jack continued his work, unpacking box after box of cheap plastic toys and pouring them into their bins. He picked up the newest one and squinted at it— a small rubber cupcake eraser. Four hundred tickets for this?

“Old Sport. Hey, look at this.”

Jack obliged with a sigh and looked up. Dave had his hands up, fingers wiggling as they each had at least four sparkly multicolored rings on them.

He rolled his eyes and jammed a thumb over to the boxes. “Cute. Could you actually help me unpack these, now?”

Dropping his hands, Dave huffed, “Only ‘cause ya asked so nicely.”

They actually fell into a nice rhythm, Jack handing him a box and Dave putting the prizes into the right bins. He had just passed him a box of skateboard toys that Jack was 99% sure were dug out from the dumpster when Dave paused.

He didn’t take them immediately. Dave looked at him and spoke in a surprisingly normal tone, “Ya got nice hands, Old Sport.”

Jack froze. “The hell does that mean?”

“It means ya got nice hands.”

Jack stared down at his hands for a while and tried to see what was so nice about them. Not much. They were his, all right. “Is this some weird pickup line of yours?”

He smiled. “Jus’ being nice.”

“Well, don’t be.”

They got back to work. And Jack sort of regretted mentioning pickup lines, because now he felt weird standing so close to Dave.

He didn’t seem to notice any difference. “Honestly, I’m surprised Phoney hasn’t jacked up the prices for some o’ these things.”

“Don’t give him any ideas,” Jack muttered, taking another box.

With a smirk, he began, “Oh, it’s not like he wouldn’t th—“

Then, all of a sudden, Dave’s words cut off and the color drained from his face. He wasn’t looking at Jack anymore, his eyes were glued at the front door directly behind him. An empty smile was on his face, the pure dread in his eyes overriding it.

Jack, confused and mildly alarmed at this shift in tone, began to turn to see what he was staring at. He caught a glimpse of a man toward the front, then flinched in shock when Dave instead firmly grabbed him by the shoulders and steered him into the hall.

“Wh– What are you doing?” Jacked asked, almost frantically, literally being pushed out of the dining room now, Dave’s hands firm on his shoulders.

Now, Dave never used force against him. In fact, Jack didn’t believe he ever had the strength for it. He was too busy thinking about this to realize that he could’ve easily tried to stop the man.

“Dude— Dave?”

They were in the hallway now— Dave had barely stopped to push open the saferoom door before he shoved him into the dark room. Jack stumbled inside and barely regained his balance and his wits in time to snap, “What are you—?”

“Sorry!” Dave interrupted, flicking on the light switch and promptly slamming the door shut. Leaving him in the saferoom. Alone.

Jack blinked. “Wh…?”

He just stood there for a while, trying to get a hold of what just happened. He’d never seen Dave so worked up like that before.

He shook the mildly uncomfortable feeling in his stomach, then straightened out his shirt and sighed before opening the doorkno—

Nope. The doorknob did not give way, instead rattling uselessly. It was locked. Dave had locked him in here.

“Are you fucking kidding me…” Jack muttered, continuing to try the doorknob to no avail.

He slammed on the door, pounding his fist against the metal before realizing no one would likely hear him among the noise of the restaurant. Looked like his best bet was to wait for Dave to haul his sorry ass back over here— after all, he was the only one who knew he was in here.

Because he was the one who’d locked him in, Jack reminded himself.

Now, Dave was a generally unpredictable guy, but Jack seriously had no idea why he’d do something like this. Someone must’ve walked in— someone he didn’t want Jack to see. But who?

He sat down on the grimy saferoom floor and waited, angling himself so that he wouldn’t have to stare at the springlock suits.

——

He had been waiting for a long time in that musty room when he finally heard the doorknob turn and the door open. Jack turned his head up to face Dave, a scowl growing on his face.

“What the fuck was that?” Jack snapped, getting to his feet.

He had to fight to keep his voice up as he noticed the odd look on Dave’s face— almost scared, the way he was biting his lip nervously, eyes wide.

“I’m sorry, Old Sport, really. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing,” he rattled on nervously, “It’s my bad—“

“Your bad? You just shoved me in here— locked me in here... You think I wanted to be in here with that?” he practically shouted, pointing an angry finger to the springlock suits. “What was this about anyway?”

“Old Sport, calm down,” Dave explained, palms up. “I swear, I was doing it for ya!”

“Oh, cut the shit,” Jack went on, stepping near him, his voice rising in volume. “Who was that?”

Dave must have noticed his tone and quickly went to shut the door. “Listen,” he said, facing Jack again, “I’m sorry, but I can’t tell you.”

He stepped closer. “Why?”

“I just can’t,” he continued on, hands up in nervousness. “I'm sorry I put ya in here, okay?”

Jack had balled his fists, and at that moment realized just how close he was standing to Dave— he could see the unease across his face, his heavy breathing. Jack quickly decided to back away.

“Fine. Be a prick about it.”

He stormed over to the exit, shoving Dave’s hand off the doorknob and giving the handle a good, angry tug.

It did not budge.

Jack dropped his hand and did not turn around.

“You just…” Jack said flatly, “locked us in here.”

He knew he should’ve fixed that damned door.

He heard Dave mumble out, “Oh. Ah, shit, Old Sport, I didn’t mean to…”

And then Jack turned to face him, a whole spew of angry cusses in his mouth that he wanted nothing more than to deliver.

But Dave already looked like he was beating himself up over it. And he wasn't about to berate him for making just as stupid a mistake as Jack would’ve made. Not when he already looked so miserable.

So Jack just bit his tongue and instead settled on biting out, “Okay. Shit. Fine. Guess we’ll just wait for someone to come and open the door.”

“How long is that gonna take, ya think?” asked Dave, looking around the room.

“I don’t know. Steven’ll look for us eventually.”

With a sigh, Jack retook his seated spot against the wall, and Dave sat beside him.

Maybe it’d be nice to get away from their work for a while. Though, Jack still had a whole lot of questions. “Who was that you saw back there? Like an ex-girlfriend or something?”

He thought he wasn’t going to get a reply for a second, before Dave leveled him with an unamused look. “Seriously?” he asked drily. “A girlfriend, Old Sport? I thought ya knew me better than that.”

Okay. Jack didn’t know what the fuck that meant in the slightest. Well, maybe he did. He just didn’t want to unpack it.

“Alright, well, uh. Then, who was it?”

“Nobody,” he replied, a little too quickly. He was avoiding Jack’s eyes. “Jus’ someone I knew.”

“I’m only asking because, like, you looked real freaked out about it.”

The look on Dave’s face was looking more and more stressed, and Jack felt a pang of guilt for prying so much.

“I was jus’ happy to see them.” A lousy lie. Even Jack knew it.

But he knew better than anybody how strained family could get, so he didn’t push. He owed him as much.

“Okay, dude. Sorry,” he uttered quietly. “I’ll back off.”

Dave threw him a sympathetic look. For the first time, he wasn’t cracking any jokes or smiles.

Now that he was sitting beside him, Jack noticed that he looked absolutely exhausted. Bags under his eyes and everything. His eyes were shut as he leaned back against the saferoom wall. He didn’t say much else.

They sat. And waited. Jack didn’t know what time it was, but it felt like forever. They didn’t speak to one another; Dave was unusually silent and just sat there.

Honestly, he assumed that Dave would be thrilled to have a reason to talk Jack's ear off while they were stuck in here. But he was quiet. It sort of freaked Jack out, the way he kept staring ahead, looking lost in thought.

He had a feeling that if he asked him if he was okay, he would’ve brushed it off. So Jack decided to try and nudge him out of his glum silence through conversation.

“I’m surprised you don’t know how to pick a lock or something.”

“No. Sorry, Old Sport. I forgot.”

It didn’t really come as a surprise to Jack that he used to be able to pick locks.

He wrung his hands as another question popped into his head. “Why do you… call me that?”

Dave turned his head to face him; tired, blinking eyes on his. It looked like it took him a while to figure out what Jack was talking about. “Call ya what?”

“You know. Old Sport,” he provided, and it felt weird saying his own name. Or, nickname, really. He hadn’t realized how synonymous the phrase had grown with himself.

“What, ya don’t like it?”

“It’s just weird, you know. Like, why that? Why not something like— I don’t know— my actual name?”

“What, September?” Dave retorted, drawing out the word with a small smirk. Seemed like he was feeling a bit better. “Oh, don’t roll your eyes at me– it’s not like I don’t know ‘bout your fake names.”

He pointed at his name tag to make his point. Jack looked down at it and sighed.

He didn’t want to tell Dave his name, but at the same time, he almost… did. But it felt too foreign, because he never told anyone about himself like that. He never spoke about his life, or his family, or what he did after work, or, yes, even his name. That’s just how much Jack Kennedy locked himself away from other people.

“See?” Dave spoke, after Jack still hadn’t responded. “Guess we both have our secrets.”

“...I guess,” he conceded. “But why Old Sport?”

Dave leaned his head back against the wall. “I read this book once,” he began.

Jack was about to make a joke like, did it hurt?, but kept his mouth shut at this rare moment of authenticity.

“I was called, I think, The Great Gatsby. That’s where I first heard it. This character, he called everyone Old Sport. So I started sayin’ it, too.”

“Oh. So, what, is that your favorite book or something?”

Dave shrugged his shoulders. “It was so-so.”

Jack scoffed. Still just as weird as the day he’d met him. “Okay, well. Why me? You don’t call Steven that, or, like, anyone.”

“I like ya. No homo. I think you’re a weird guy, and, hey, we’re both kinda fucked up. Aubergine and tangerine, right?”

He felt that the no homo was kind of obvious, but, okay.

Jack was saved from having to reply when he heard a digital ringtone start to go off somewhere in the room.

Then Dave rummaged through his pocket and pulled out a flip phone, silencing the call.

“Those damn telemarketers.”

“Wait. You– you had your phone this whole time?” Jack sputtered out.

“Well, yeah,” Dave replied back casually.

“And you didn’t think to, I dunno, call for help?”

“Call who? I don’t have Phoney’s number. And with the way ya were talkin’, ya made it sound like he was coming to get us any minute.”

Jack dragged a hand down his face. “Okay. I guess. But, listen, now we can call my phone– I left it in the back room, Steven’ll definitely hear it. We can tell him we’re stuck in here.”

Dave obliged and handed him his phone, only after a moment's hesitation. Jack noted the crack running along the screen as he punched in his own phone number and waited as it rang. It felt odd holding something of Dave’s.

“Hello?” came Steven’s voice. He picked up quickly because, well, obviously.

“It’s me,” Jack spoke into the phone. “I’m stuck in the safe room. Can you get us out?”

“What do you mean, “us”? And– why are you in there, anyway, employee?”

“Don’t ask. Just come get us. Me and Dave.”

Jack ended the call before he could say anything more. He held out the flip phone back to Dave.

He didn’t take it immediately. “Can I keep your number?” he asked, looking from the phone to Jack.

With a raise of the eyebrows, he sighed out, “Would you even delete it if I asked you to?”

“Nope,” Dave said cheerily, and he took the phone from him. With a telltale beep of the phone, Jack knew he’d saved him as a contact.

Okay. Great. Now it looked like he could expect messages from Dave whenever he felt like it.

Both of them snapped their heads up as the door to the safe room opened up, and their phone-headed boss stood in the doorway, a hand on his hip.

“How in the world did you two manage this, huh? We’re backed up on orders in the dining room and here you two are, sitting ducks and calling people on your little flip phones. What is this, a sleepover? Did you two do this on purp–?”

“–Phoneface, jeez, shut up,” Dave graciously interrupted, on his feet already. “The hell took ya so long, anyway? You leave all your employees to rot in locked rooms?”

“Just the ones I don’t like,” he said flatly. “Now get back to work.”

Dave and Jack just exchanged a look. And Jack didn’t quite know how to feel knowing that he and Dave now had a mutual look to share whenever their boss was acting annoying.

—-

Dave never did call him, which was a bit unusual for someone as clingy as him. Not that Jack was complaining, of course.

But with every notification or ping or beep that he got from his phone, he expected it to be Dave, and was forced to question the slightly disappointed feeling he felt when it wasn’t. He was his coworker, and he wasn’t supposed to be thinking about work on the weekend.

Actually, scratch that. Jack forgot he worked on the weekends.

He was taking one of his unofficial work breaks, smoking a cigarette and tapping the ash against the wall when he heard the door swing open.

Dave scampered down beside him and Jack was feeling nice enough to actually nod in greeting.

“How many hours late are you? Like, three?”

“Four,” he stated with a grin.

Jack clicked his tongue. He had no idea how he got away with such tardiness, honestly. He’d have to teach him one day.

Dave cleared his throat. “Sorry that I, uh, locked you in a saferoom the other day.”

A week ago, Jack would’ve said something snarky like, You should be.

But he didn’t. That irritated, annoyed feeling that usually brewed when he thought about Dave was slowly getting replaced with something else. And the worst part was that Jack didn’t know whether or not to like it.

“It’s fine,” he said instead. As if you could forgive someone for locking you in a musty room for an hour. But honestly, when it came to being stuck in saferooms, that was one of the more milder things that could’ve happened to him.

Jack sighed, pulled a cigarette out from his pack, and casually held it out to Dave.

The purple man, in reply, quirked an eyebrow and said, “Old Sport, I thought I told ya, I don’t sm–”

Jack glared at him. Still couldn’t take a hint.

Finally, Dave must’ve recognized the moment for what it was– a reluctant peace offering from Jack’s side– because he took the cigarette from him without further hesitation.

They stood there, skipping out on work together, until they heard a band of kids inside yelling. They exchanged a look, sighed, and mutually decided to not head back inside.

Chapter Text

Dave watched as his Old Sport lazily leaned against the outside wall and smoked, tapping scarred fingers against his cigarette, sending ash down onto the curb.

Dave had barely even touched his own cigarette— the one Old Sport had just given him. It was lit and all, sure, and it burned his fingers a bit, but he hadn’t moved to take a single drag from it.

Old Sport didn’t comment on that. He blew out a cloud of smoke and put up a hand to shield his eyes from the sun, the other hand checking his watch. It was a nice watch. Suited him.

“Damn. Late as hell. I’m off,” his Old Sport spoke, pushing himself off the wall. He dropped his cigarette and ground his heel over it.

“Okay,” Dave breathed out, not moving an inch. “I guess I’ll see ya tomorrow, Old Sport.”

He nodded back at him. “See you, Dave.”

Three words— three simple little words, but Dave had already committed the timbre and sound of them to memory, to turn over and think about and remember for the rest of the day.

He watched his Old Sport turn around the corner and get in his car— it was a nice car, suited him— and drive off, until he disappeared down the road. Then Dave stared down at the spot where he was just smoking, and considered picking up his cigarette. Old Sport’s cigarette. But he eventually decided against it. He had something better.

There was no need to say goodbye to any of the others at work— he didn’t care about them in the slightest.

The whole walk home, Dave walked with one hand in his pocket, the other turning that cigarette he was given over in his fingers, all the while with a light smile on his face he couldn’t help. It was a good day, all things considered. Actually, only if he didn’t consider one specific moment. One person that showed up.

But he didn’t want to think about him right now.

Dragging out the route so he wouldn’t have to arrive too quickly, Dave continued his slow walk, with that stub of a cigarette in his pocket. He would’ve thrown out any other one hours ago— but this was a gift from his Old Sport. Less of a gift and more of a hesitant offering, but still. It was his. And he gave it to Dave. Just like that.

He just couldn’t stop replaying the moment in his head— Old Sport just held it out, for him to take. To keep. To hold.

And then— even better— he held out his own lighter to light it for him. Oh, Dave had barely paid attention to the act; he was too busy staring at his Old Sport’s focused expression as he struggled to keep a flame going, one hand shielding the lit end from any wind.

Dave finally arrived home, still feeling those butterflies in his stomach from that little moment. He should’ve felt stupid for feeling so happy from such a little thing— but he couldn’t find it in him to care.

He tucked the cigarette— Old Sport’s cigarette— into his pocket as he fished out his house key, turning the lock and stepping inside.

It was a moderately big place, with nice floorboards and window frames that held an outmoded sort of glass that kept the rooms mildly dark no matter what time of day it was.

Remnants of a smile still on his face, Dave carefully stepped around the boxes and suitcases littered around the house. Neither of them had bothered fully unpacking yet. He began his trek up the creaky staircase, still feeling a bit light from his day.

How stupid of him.

A voice from behind him cut through his happy thoughts like a bone saw.

A voice that was sharp, bloody, low— it always reminded Dave of a whole lot of unpleasant memories he tried very hard to smother every night. It was the kind of voice that kids heard before they were murdered. It was the kind of voice that killed all the butterflies.

“William,” Henry’s voice drifted out to greet him.

The pure, animal fear that took over him back at work— when he saw that silhouette in the doorframe staring right at him— it came back to him again.

Dave willed his hands to stop shaking and swallowed hard. He turned around from where he was standing at the base of the stairs— there was no need to look him over. Henry always looked the same.

“Oh, um,” Dave began, looking anywhere but into his burning eyes, “I didn’t know ya were…”

“William. Where have you been?”

Dave bit his tongue. This was weird— he couldn’t understand why Henry was even asking. He knew perfectly well where he’d been. He even saw him earlier that afternoon.

Dave never liked how Henry was so slippery when talking to him. He could never understand what he was truly getting at— it always sent him into a panic, trying to think a step ahead to keep a berating at bay.

“Uh, work. I thought ya knew that…”

“Right,” Henry cooed, falsely bright, as if he were speaking to a toddler. “I paid you a visit today, but you only seemed terrified.”

“It was jus’ real unexpected, is all.”

Dave was always tall— but now, he spotted his shadow slinking away in parallel with himself as Henry stepped closer.

“Why were you afraid, William? What did you think would happen?”

He never said he was afraid. But Henry just knew him too well. He began sputtering out apologies.

“Okay, I’m sorry— I didn’t lie or nothin’, I jus’ got spooked, and I was already stressed anyway, and I didn’t see ya coming in, so I didn’t— don’t, don’t do anything to me tonight,” he piled on pathetically. “Please.”

But Henry hated beggars. Dave should’ve remembered that.

“In my study.”

And with that, Henry turned and left. Even though it didn’t sound like a command, Dave recognized it as one.

He followed him into the room, not daring to take his time in case Henry lashed out at him for taking too long. The door was already open when he stepped inside.

Henry’s office was a small but appalling place. Dave never liked being in it— too many memories. The stench of them weighed heavy on his shoulders as he walked further inside the place. Henry sat at his desk, probably already setting up tools and scalpels, if the clinking sound of metal was any tell. He spotted a blank notebook page at the ready to record any observations, as usual.

He really just wanted to get tonight’s study over with. Dave sat in his respective chair, willing his breath to even out and trying not to think about what he’d do this time.

“I can’t even begin to imagine why you work at that place,” Henry grumbled as he continued to prepare his workstation. “It’s a disgusting mockery of our dream.”

“It’s nice t’, uh, pass the time,” Dave replied meekly.

“You only take time away from our meetings.”

Meetings was a pretty tame word for it, Dave thought.

—-

It hadn’t hurt as much today, but it did leave Dave exhausted and sore. He knew he couldn’t move away or flinch or anything, so he had just stayed put and waited for it to be over.

At some point, Henry had found the cigarette in Dave’s pocket. He sent him a look and wrote something down, then tucked it away into his desk drawer. Dave had wanted to sob. That was Old Sport’s…

But Henry hated tears. Dave remembered that.

So, all the while, through all the scalpels and vials and blood, Dave had thought of his Old Sport. Thought of his dry jokes and wrinkled tie and monotone voice and…

It was over soon enough. Henry was nice enough to drag Dave to the door of his bedroom, leaving him slumped against the wood paneling of the door.

He said something curt to him before going back downstairs to his study. Dave didn’t hear what it was; everything was one big blur. He dragged himself to his feet and felt like sludge as he moved into his room, sparing one last bit of energy to push the door closed.

His room was simple. A bed, closet, some posters he’d found. There was carpet he tried to keep clean but always found itself littered with bandages and food wrappers. Dave was so worn, he collapsed onto his bed with a groan in an instant, though he was careful to avoid the fresh scar along his shoulder.

He couldn’t imagine what Henry could possibly be learning from screwing with him like this. Every incision and prod and injection only felt rough and brought pain for days afterward.

Oh, but he knew, generally, why Henry was doing it. He could almost thank him for it.

He was shaping Dave up to be as wonderful and genius as he was-- and Dave knew perfectly well that tough love was best. It would all work out in the end; Dave could persevere through a few harsh years if it meant he could be just like him.

Dave would say he forgave Henry, but there was really nothing to forgive him for. Certainly, he could get through a few rough hours if it meant he could see his Old Sport the next morning.

Because Old Sport saw him; he listened to him.

Sure, he’d cross his arms and huff and groan at everything he did, but sometimes— a rare moment like sunlight breaking through clouds— he could catch a smile on his face that he would try his damndest to hide.

So, it was no wonder that Dave talked to him a lot. Told a lot of stories, a lot of jokes. All for a chance to see him happy-- like throwing darts at a board and hoping one of them stuck. Just the thought of it helped quell the ache in Dave's shoulder. He really was wild for his Old Sport…

Dave took his flip phone out of his pocket— taking care not to move his shoulder too much— and took note of the late time.

He just stared at the glowing screen of his phone, wishing his hands would stop shaking so damn much. A singular contact stared back at him— Old Sport. No photo, just a name and a number.

He desperately wanted to call him. He just wanted to hear him talk in that soft, bored voice of his, how it always sounded like he was halfway through an indifferent shrug. He was always so collected, so distant, always a dull joke and a roll of the eyes at the ready.

Dave knew he wouldn’t answer— it was too late at night. But he sighed and dialed him anyway, hoping he’d get sent to voicemail and hear a scrap of his voice telling him to fuck off. As was the usual. It would almost be comforting.

He never got to hear it. Because after a short while of ringing, someone actually picked up, and the line clicked to life.

Startled, Dave brought the phone to his ear, and heard a staticky “Hello?” crackle through the speakers.

It was unmistakably his Old Sport. Dave hadn’t expected him to actually pick up at all— he quickly scrambled to sit up in bed and form some sort of reply.

“Oh, wow— I didn’t expect you t’ actually answer, Old Sport. Hi. It’s me. Davey.”

“Dave?” he asked, not sounding nearly as upset as Dave would’ve expected. Somehow, he didn’t sound very tired, given the time of night. “Of course it’s you. The hell, man, three A.M., really?”

Dave relaxed at the sound of his voice, the ache of his shoulder almost instantly forgotten. He reclined against the ratty pillow of his bed.

“Three A.M., sure, but hey-- Ya picked up! And, anyway, would ya expect any different from ol' me?” he asked with a smile.

“No, to be honest.” Dave heard a shuffle of fabric on the other line. “I kinda expected that you’d call eventually. You don’t steal my number for nothing.”

“Steal! Now, that’s givin’ me too much credit. You're the one who put the number in my phone,” he stated, feeling lightyears away from the coldness of Henry’s study. “I did nothin’ but save it.”

Old Sport clicked his tongue. “Sure. Hey, why do you sound like that? You just now wake up or something?”

“Uh, yeah,” Dave lied. Guess Old Sport was more perceptive than he thought. “I can’t sleep.”

Old Sport hummed before replying. “So the first thing you thought of was to call me. At fuck past midnight. On a Wednesday.”

“Well, sure,” Dave replied. “I was thinkin’ of ya.”

“It sounds like you’re always thinking of me.”

Dave wished he could see his Old Sport’s face. He just smiled and said back casually enough, “Funny. Maybe I jus’ am!”

There was a silence on the line that could’ve meant anything.

“Do you… need something?” Old Sport asked.

“No. Jus’ wanted a chat," he said honestly, because that was always the case. He never got to talk much, let alone to anyone who would listen. "And, I think the question is, why’d ya pick up, given that it’s three A.M. and all that?”

Old Sport paused for a moment, as if he were deciding whether or not to be honest. “Well, I dunno. I guess I can’t sleep, either.”

“What, ya got like, insomnia?”

“Something like that.”

Dave toyed with the hem of his pillow, thinking. “I guess I can understand that, Old Sport. What are ya doin’ right now, then?”

“Staring at my ceiling.”

“I see. You’re all tucked in then, huh?” he mused. “Want me to tell ya a bedtime story?”

“Oh, fuck off,” he said, but Dave could tell he didn't really mean it. “You’re the one who called me.”

“And still haven’t hung up yet,” he pointed out. “Honestly, ya don’t seem very surprised that I called in the first place.”

“I don’t seem surprised at a lot of the stuff you do.”

“You’re real sweet,” Dave commented sarcastically. Though maybe a part of him meant it.

“Am I really?” Old Sport asked drily.

Well, in comparison to Dave’s other company, it was true.

"Mm-hmm," Dave hummed out, keeping an eye glued to the hallway in case Henry's shadow cut through his bedroom's doorway.

“Pfft. Okay. Well, I think I’ve had enough of this three A.M. conversation.”

Dave pulled the phone away for a moment to check the time. “Right on, Old Sport. Go on an' get your beauty sleep. Call me back if ya still need that bedtime story,” he said coolly.

He heard a huff from the other line, but after it— if he wasn’t hallucinating— he could almost hear a hint of a smile in Old Sport’s voice. “Yeah, right. You wish. Bye, dude.”

“Sweetest of dreams, Old Sport,” he purred out, and didn’t care if it was overkill.

The line clicked off. Dave slowly peeled his phone away from his ear and laid back down, forced to listen to the absolute silence of the house he and Henry shared.

Chapter Text

“I’m assuming you know about the springlocks,” Jack said to Dave one afternoon.

They were both in the safe room, as per Steven’s orders. There was a birthday party just outside waiting for an (in)famous appearance by their two favorite vaguely animal-shaped animatronic friends. Jack was not excited about it.

Holding a hand crank, he looked over at Dave, who had not been paying attention much the entire day. More than usual, as least. He kept rolling his shoulder oddly, or checking the front doors every once in a while.

Jack didn’t ask, since, well, that was all kind of normal for a Fazbender's employee. Insomnia and general hatred for potential customers were natural qualities they all tended to pick up. Except for the shoulder thing. That was kind of weird.

Whatever. His eyes kept falling back onto Dave, who was currently poking at a costume head, and had raised an eyebrow when Jack had mentioned springlocks.

“Do I know ‘bout springlocks?” he joked dryly, looking up. “Old Sport, take a good, long look at me an’ guess.”

With the way he said it, Jack knew he was referencing that time he’d gaped at Dave’s scarred forearms from the day they first met. It wasn't like he did it anymore, or if he did it’s not as if he was obvious about it, and… uh, actually, Jack didn’t understand why he was getting so very defensive over this all of a sudden.

It was an unrelated enough detail to recall, but Jack remembered that was also the day he first thought Dave was a stranger hitting on him. Honestly, he probably was. It wasn't like Dave ever stopped his vaguely flirtatious demeanor from that day since.

Jack didn’t really care. At least he was always original with it.

“Alright, asshat,” he scoffed, but judging by Dave’s smirk, he probably knew by now not to take his pouts too seriously. “I’m just making sure you won’t die on the clock or anything.”

With a dramatic hand over his heart, Dave crooned, “I’d never let it happen, Old Sport. I know ya wouldn’t be able to bear it.”

“Mhm. Sure. You’re real funny today,” Jack responded dryly.

“I know.” Dave smirked and nodded to the springlock suits. “So. Bunny’s mine?”

“Uh-huh,” he gave in reply. “Go change.”

Dave picked up the suit and glanced it over, not looking nearly as disgusted as most people tended to be with the matted fur and odd odor. Jack’s eyes scanned over Dave’s springlock scars again, the ones snaking along his arms and fingers. They matched perfectly with the suit, perfectly symmetrical with every joint of machinery.

Dave’s voice snapped him out of his thoughts.

“What is this, a peepshow?” he teased with a raised eyebrow. He was still holding the suit, and clearly waiting to put it on. “Ya jus’ gonna stare?”

He looked at Jack with a tilt of the head, which reminded him that he still hadn’t responded. Screw Dave and his distracting springlock scars.

He huffed and spun around to face the wall, going over to his own bear suit and reluctantly putting it on.

The suit was heavy and hefty, but didn’t smell too badly. The springlocks sat a menacingly small distance away from his skin, all along the inside of the suit. As usual, Jack tried not to think about it. After all, they both had a show to put on. For minimum wage.

—-

Dave had no damned idea how to handle a crowd. The whole time, he kept accidentally cussing and saying things out of character, or almost falling over entirely.

Unfortunately, the springlock suits were too thick for Dave to feel Jack’s constant kicks at his shins to hint that he should stop whatever he was doing. On the other hand, though, they provided just enough mobility for Jack to roll his eyes whenever Dave did something stupid.

Their “show” consisted of some construction puns and a failed magic trick. The kids seemed too horrified by the rotting fabric peeling off their endoskeletons to care.

One of the more horrifying aspects of it all was the SpringBonnie voice that Dave put on for the show. He somehow managed to disguise his New York City accent with a perfectly typical American one instead, which only left Jack to stare blankly at him for their first few moments onstage.

With the children properly traumatized and the adults thoroughly confused, Jack and Dave ended their shitshow and ended up back in the safe room.

The show had stretched on for a bit too long— Jack watched the clock warily as he wrenched off his costume's head and set it aside. He never liked being in the suits more than recommended. The machinery only held for so long. He knew he should’ve cut those crane operating jokes.

Dave, though, seemed rather comfortable in the suit and didn’t look like he was in a rush to get out of it anytime soon.

“Just take it off already,” Jack reminded him, working on his own leg pieces. “We’re done for today.”

“Oh, I dunno, Old Sport,” he crooned back, standing nearby. “Think it kinda suits me! At every other location, the costumes are al…”

But Jack was not paying attention to the spew of words coming from Dave’s mouth. He had paused, and was listening for the very faint, telltale sign of the springlocks around Dave’s neck clicking their fatal way unloose.

Jack worked on pure instinct. He bounded over to Dave as he was mid-sentence and snatched the SpringBonnie head right off of him, dropping it onto the floor just as the springlocks activated in a cacophony of clicks.

They watched in silence as the last of the machinery in the piece failed, the very last snap leaving an echo still fresh in their ears.

“Oh, shit,” Dave muttered eventually. His voice sounded shaky, and he still hadn’t moved to step away from where Jack had rushed over beside him. “Wow, uh. Good save, Old Sport.”

He was still standing real close to Dave. Jack saw him reach out to pat him on the shoulder before recoiling his hand and staring at the suit.

“Yeah, uh,” Jack gulped, reading his dazed expression. “Let’s maybe get the fuck out of these things already.”

—-

They changed quick enough, leaving the costumes in a heap on the floor and not daring to touch them any more than needed.

“I'm not puttin’ that deathtrap on ever again,” Dave huffed, boding surprisingly well for almost having died. He was staring at the suit with only a mild distasteful expression.

“Seemed like you were just getting comfortable in it.”

“That was before it tried to kill me,” Dave tacked on, looking less shaken up than before. “But, jeez, ya got some great reflexes. The hell ya workin’ at a pizza joint for?”

“The pizza joint gave me the reflexes.”

“Ah.”

“I’m gonna tell Phoney about this,” Jack sneered, shaking his head and going for the door. “Stingy fuck can’t afford decent machinery for his employees, I should yell at him to cough up some cash for a first aid kit, at least.”

“Yeah, I guess, he’s a rea— Wait.”

Jack stopped, and out of the corner of his eyes, he watched the rest of Dave’s tense features melt away in an instant. “Wait— What’d ya jus’ call him?” Dave asked, an awed smile on his lips.

Jack frowned. He couldn’t understand what he was referring to for a while before it hit him. Phoney.

He never called his boss Phoney. That was one of Dave quirks; and the idea that the purple man’s mannerisms were rubbing off on him was a weird thought.

Jack ran a hand down his face with a groan, and his realization only seemed to bring Dave greater joy.

“Oh, ugh,” Jack retorted, and turned to face Dave. “Okay, listen, it’s a natural nickname. He’s a phone guy. Phoney just makes sense.”

“But ya never called him that before I did!”

Jack stared up at the ceiling with a worn-out look on his face. “Maybe I should springlock you myself.”

“Ah, don’t say that— I mean, see? We’re such good pals already, you’re pickin’ up my slang and everythin’!”

“Don’t… think about it too much, man. You’ll hurt yourself.”

“Aw. See? You’re funny too, Old Sport.”

Jack hummed in half-reply and opened the door, leaving the safe room and not even bothering to check if Dave was following. The man was always at his heels.

—-

Phoney— no, Steven was nowhere to be found. Probably holed up in his office, if anything. He tended to do that around scheduled animatronic performance times. Whatever. The less boss the better, in Jack’s opinion.

Neither he nor Dave knew what to do next, so they stood off to the side of the chaotic dining room and made sure grabby kids and stupid parents were finding their moldy pizza alright. Matt stayed in his godforsaken corner with his plasticky smile stuck on his face.

“Old Sport,” Dave spoke, leaning over to be better heard over the noise. “Ya ever get tired of this?”

“Shit, only all the time. But, what specifically? The kids or Wednesdays?”

“I mean, the job. Don’t ya ever think of leavin’?”

“Leaving?” Jack repeated, frowning. “I… can’t.”

Dave laughed and tapped a finger at Jack’s badge. “Why, the engraved name tag cost that much?”

“No, it’s— it’s, uh, something else. Family thing. I don’t… know, okay?”

Dave hummed and seemed somehow satisfied with the answer. “I guess I can get that.”

They tapered off into silence after that. They just stood, side by side, watching a group of kids carrying a crumpled pizza box and throwing it around like a football. How the hell did a bunch of toddlers garner the strength to bend a pizza box like that?

“I might quit,” Dave confessed out of the blue.

“What?” Jack blurted out, way too quickly, and so unprepared that he’d let genuine shock seep into his voice.

He couldn’t just leave— who else would be there to confuse and irritate Jack all damn day? He’d be so bored.

He looked over, and Dave was smiling at him, smirk tugging at his lips. “Got ya.”

He’d been duped. Of course. Jack snapped his head to face forward again and rolled his eyes. “Oh, fuck off.”

At this point, fuck off was such an integral part of his vocabulary that it did nothing to deter Dave anymore.

“Don’t worry, Old Sport, I'd never leave ya. Not if the very idea worries ya so.”

“It’s not like that…” he grumbled out, crossing his arms. A futile effort; Dave only smiled at Jack’s attempt at an angry expression.

“Though, I do think it’s sweet that ya care that much.”

“I don't care…” Jack voiced. “I mean, just the required amount. We’re coworkers, I barely—“

At that moment, a kid ran up to them and started cutting him off with a question before both Jack and Dave both turned and said, in perfect unison, “Scram.”

Jack turned back to face Dave: “Like I was saying. We barely know each other.”

Dave rolled his shoulder, as he’d done for the umpteenth time that day. “What would it take?”

“What?” Jack asked, a bit too focused on wondering what the hell was up with his arm.

“To get to know me,” Dave explained further.

“I don’t… know?”

“Okay, then. How ‘bout this? Ask me something,” he offered. “Anything. Get t’ know me.”

Dave had his hands folded behind his back, looking at him expectantly.

Jack thought for a short while before a question came to him. Now, since he was a pretty simple guy, the question he most currently wanted an answer to was an easy one.

“Okay. Sure. I’ll ask you something,” he replied, “And don’t bullshit me.”

At that, Dave’s eyes had crinkled in humor, probably ready to crack a joke like “Yes, I am available,” or something like that. Not that Jack’s mind was wandering anywhere near that topic, thanks very much.

“What’s up with your shoulder?” Jack asked, pointing to the side he kept moving weirdly. “You looked like you messed it up— you hurt yourself with the suit back there, or what?”

As he spoke, Dave watched him with an odd, unplaceable expression, and a small, flat smile. His posture stiffened as he quickly began his defensive reply.

“That’s your question? Ugh, Old Sport— No, I’m fine, it’s all good. And that’s a boring question. Quit pitying me with those pretty eyes o’ yours and try again.”

That was one way to try and change a topic.

“Pretty wh—?”

“—Ask me somethin’ else,” Dave cut him off. Maybe for the best. “Something easier.”

“Easier? Okay, fine. Let me think.”

And he tried. He really did. And when he couldn’t come up with a question after a while, he looked over at Dave and tried to think some more. In response, the purple man just smiled and made his usual intense eye contact.

“Take your time, Old Sport.”

“I’m thinking,” Jack shot back.

His thinking was promptly cut off when, all of a sudden, a child’s scream rang throughout the pizzeria. All heads in the dining room whipped around to the play structure, where a few ball pit balls rustled.

“Trashpile bit a kid again,” Jack deadpanned. He recognized this sequence of events.

Dave seemed like he cared just as much as Jack. Which, was to say, not a lot.

“Oh,” he said after a second. “Ya think that’s what that kid was tryin’ to tell us about before we told him to fuck off?”

Jack nodded. “Probably.”

The adults were already grabbing their kids by the arm and packing up their bags and rushing to their parked SUVs when Steven rushed out of the hallway.

“What in the name of—?” He stormed over to where Jack and Dave were standing. “Employees, darn you both, you were supposed to watch the kids. Make sure they don’t die?”

Steven stared them down. God. It was like he was born to be an intimidating fast food restaurant boss.

“Where’ve ya been?” Dave asked him casually, as if a kid hadn’t just been screaming bloody murder in an indoor playground ten feet away.

Steven looked away. “I was… in the bathroom.”

“Did ya fall in or somethin’? The hell took ya so long?”

“Quiet. I’ll ask the darned questions. Just… herd the customers out of here. We’ll probably… have to shut down for the day,” he rattled out nervously. “Or week… I’ll just… call the janitor.”

—-

They flipped their signs to closed, the customers left in angry herds, and the ambulance came and went. Everyone forgot that Trashpile had its teeth conveniently replaced with kitchen sponge a few weeks ago. Thus, the screaming child suffered nothing more than experiencing a rude shock and a reluctant tour of the inside of Trashpile’s gaping jaw.

To be honest, Jack was hoping for something a bit more permanent. Maybe it’d incite a criminal investigation and the pizzeria would get shut down— though he should’ve known that Jack Kennedy would never have such good luck.

Steven told all the employees they could go home for the day. Logical enough given the circumstances. And the empty parking lot. The public needed the rest of the day to forget the almost-murder.

In order to minimize sharing the same breathing space as Matt, Jack had left through the back door, and pulled out his keys as he went down the steps to his car. He couldn’t wait to go home.

He was about to open the driver's side door when Dave appeared across from him, leaning over his car hood with his hands resting in his palm.

“Does this happen a lot?” Dave questioned, seeming genuinely curious.

With a shake of the head, Jack replied, “Not as often as it should. Altogether, a good Wednesday.”

Dave didn’t seem to share the sentiment. He glanced around the empty parking lot. “Well. What now?”

“What do you mean?” Jack asked, feeling confused. “We all have the day off. Go home.”

He wasn’t sure what, exactly, he’d said to earn the distant look of dread that etched across Dave’s face, but he didn’t comment on it.

“Oh. Right,” Dave nodded, staring ahead.

Now, Dave was literally the one and only person that Jack held somewhat tolerable conversations with at work. He’d just saved his life today. This man had his phone number. All against his will, sure, but still.

And here they had the afternoon off; so, something in Jack’s reluctant conscience told him he owed him something in return for this weird pseudo-friendship. Friendship with Dave Miller— now that was a horrifying revelation.

But what the hell could he offer? Jack didn’t do much after work besides (literally) rot at home or go to Blockbuster. Nothing that anyone would be particularly willing to partake in alongside him. And, anyway, did he want to hang out with Dave, or did he just feel that he should?

Jack shifted his weight from foot to foot awkwardly when Dave spoke up and made his decision for him.

“Okay, Old Sport. I guess I’ll jus’ see ya tomorrow,” he mumbled, straightening.

Jack blinked. “Okay. Yeah. Alright. See you, man.”

Before getting into his car, he watched Dave as he began his walk out of the pizzeria parking lot and onto the street.

He had no idea why this man was making him think so much.

—-

Jack’s afternoon off sounded nice in theory but was boring in practice. Any minute not spent at the pizzeria was a blessing, sure— unless, of course, you had nothing better to do at home. Jack mostly sat on his couch and watched reruns of Ice Road Truckers.

Lying on the sofa, watching a particularly long episode and somehow almost blessedly falling asleep, a ringtone suddenly blaring from his phone had him digging for the device in an instant. So much for trying to fall asleep.

He was expecting Dave, and almost greeted him as so, when he instead heard the grating voice of his boss.

“Employee,” Steven greeted simply, as he always did.

Jack stared at the TV screen, one hand propping the phone to his ear with a scowl he hoped was audible. “What?”

“Just letting you know that we’re opening again tomorrow, since the kid is fine and all. And I wanted to kindly remind you that you’re scheduled to work the early morning shift tomorrow.”

Jack groaned and pulled his phone away from his ear long enough to read the time. He’d have to be at work in just a few hours. Jeez, did his boss sleep?

“Okay, yeah. Sure. I’ll be there,” he replied dully.

“Good.” And he hung up.

Jack closed and tossed the phone back on the couch cushions with a sigh. Maybe he should’ve tried to get some sleep before his shift, but knowing himself, he knew that he wouldn’t be able to catch a wink after that interruption.

Dave didn’t call him that night, which Jack didn’t care about, of course. But he just kept a mental note of it.

—-

The sun was just barely over the horizon when Jack pulled into the dusky parking lot. He trudged over to the front door and fished out the pizzeria key that Steven somehow trusted him enough to keep.

He liked the early morning shift, all things considered. He could hum ABBA songs where nobody could hear him and steal root beers from the kitchen fridges.

But objectively the best part of working so absurdly in the morning was being able to laze around in the backroom with nobody to bother him. The couch was lumpy and the windows nonexistent, sure, but it was a few hours that he had to himself— no phones and no virgins.

After unlocking the front door, turning on the arcade machines and doing his job somewhat decently, Jack crossed into the hallway and opened the door to the backroom. Though, he could only blink at what he saw.

Lying lengthwise along the couch, sleeping with his arms crossed and eyes closed, was Dave Miller. Wearing yesterday's wrinkled clothes and snoring softly.

Dave was sleeping. Here. On the couch that was unofficially Jack’s. He couldn’t begin to imagine what he was doing here, or how he got here, for that matter.

Jack’s initial shock melted away into confusion as he stepped over with a hand already lifted to poke him awake with.

But as he got closer, he hesitated.

Jack realized that his cold, dead heart was neither cold nor dead enough to really wake him up. Who was he to steal a few hours of sleep from Dave? Especially considering the fact that he’d mentioned he had been having trouble sleeping. A problem Jack could relate to. And he seemed pretty comfortable already.

Eugh. Jack mentally recoiled at all this compassion he was showing and made a beeline out of there before anything sappier happened. If Dave wanted to sleep, so be it. At least he wasn’t awake and bothering Jack. He shut the door behind himself after he left the room with a sigh.

—-

A while later, Jack was seated at an empty dining table, pirating ringtones for his phone when he heard a door creak open.

He silently watched Dave take a few groggy steps into the room before he stopped and stared at Jack through slow blinks. He looked pretty disoriented, hair all mussed and his name tag half falling off. Must’ve been a deep sleep.

Jack could only smirk at his appearance. “Hi.”

“Sport— What… uh,” Dave managed to say eventually, finding his voice still sounding tired. He scrambled to smooth out his shirt. “What are you doin’ here?”

“Working.”

“So early…?” Dave questioned, looking around, trying to get his bearings.

With a nod, Jack replied to him, “What, you thought nobody would be here to open up?”

“Sure, yeah, but I assumed Phoney, or a janitor. Not… you.”

Jack shrugged. “Surprise.”

Dave crossed over and slumped into the dining chair opposite Jack.

“I jus’ didn’t expect it. And, wait— Ya saw me sleepin’ back there and didn’t do anything?”

“What was I supposed to do? Wake you up and give you breakfast in bed?” he mused.

“Well, I’d do the same for you,” Dave quipped back, surely joking. Awake for less than five minutes and already cracking jokes. Typical.

“Yeah, sure,” Jack scoffed lightheartedly, leaning back in his chair.

“So instead ya just watched me sleeping all snug as a bug?” Dave mused out loud.

Maybe for a bit. “Don’t flatter yourself,” Jack said instead.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Dave rubbed at his eyes before Jack silently pointed to his crooked name badge. He got to work on fixing it as Jack watched him with muted interest.

“Yesterday you told me I could ask you any question and get an answer. Here’s one—”

Dave waved a free hand in dismissal. “—Don’t bother. I know what it's gonna be: Why the hell am I conked out on a couch in a pizzeria?”

“Uh-huh. Go ahead.”

“Simple. I couldn’t sleep.”

“So you… Snuck into a restaurant after hours and fell asleep on the first grimy couch you saw?”

“Yeah. Pretty much,” Dave shrugged, still trying to re-pin the badge correctly. He wasn’t sure if Dave was faking his fumbling just to prompt Jack to get close and help him, or what. He was not going to fall for it either way.

“Why didn’t you just call me or something?”

“What, you wouldn’t mind it?” Dave asked, and even though his head was still angled down as he fiddled with his badge, a smile was audible in his voice. “My late night calls?”

“Just saying.” Jack crossed his arms. “You’ve done it before.”

“Hm. I guess I’ll consider it next time,” Dave concluded. He finally got his badge straightened out and beamed. “Finally.”

Then Dave drummed his fingers on the dining table and asked, “Um. So. You’re not gonna tell anyone?”

Jack would never not be confused at Dave’s odd behavior, but this was one of the weirder aspects of it. He seemed wary of pretty much everything he did.

“What is this, preschool?” Jack initially joked, before realizing Dave was being serious and decided to tone it down. He sighed. “I told you before, man. I don’t really care what you do. It’s your business.”

“Okay,” Dave said, seemingly more relaxed. He nodded. “Right on.”

They spent the rest of the morning shift at that dining table, talking until the customers began to pour in and it was time to start yet another day.

Chapter Text

Jack never really saw Jimbo, their weird janitor, clock in (or out) of the restaurant, but somehow he could always be found in the bathroom. Maybe he just didn’t leave. Jack had no idea because he never talked to him.

But, today, Jack needed information, so he knew just where to go for it.

It wasn’t originally his plan for the day. He’d been watching Dave try to fix the springlock suits when he realized that he didn’t really know much about the guy. At all. And instead of sitting beside him and talking to him like a normal person, he headed straight for the men’s bathroom.

He barged into the bleach-dank place and pointed squarely at the janitor, who was unenthusiastically mopping the grimy tiles.

“You. Jimbo. I need some information,” Jack ordered, crossing over to him.

He just looked up and steadied himself against his mop. “On what, orange man?”

Jack looked around to make sure nobody was listening in. “The… purple man.”

“Oh,” Jimbo said in reply, and clicked his tongue after a second of thought. “William?”

Jack paused, a bit confused. “Uh. No? Dave. Dave Miller.”

Jimbo just raised an eyebrow in response. “Oh. That’s new.”

“Okay, stop trying to be funny,” Jack snapped. “I don’t have time for this. Do you know anything about him or not?”

Jimbo dipped his mop into his bucket. “Like what?”

“Just… anything,” Jack continued, looking around the room warily. Again. “I know you’re a nosy person, you’ve probably got dirt on everyone here.”

“So, you want the gossip on Dave?”

Jack, trying to rationalize this, said, “Not gossip–

Well, I guess. I just need, like, information. About him.”

“That’s not even hard to get. Why don’t you ask him yourself?”

The most frustrating part was that this damned janitor was right. But Jack wasn’t about to stoop as low as to bond with Dave. He had dignity. Oh, he could only imagine the teasing he’d get for it if he started asking Dave icebreaker questions so far along their… acquaintanceship.

My favorite color? Old Sport, don’t say that you’re getting soft for lil’ ol’ me…?

Jack’s mental rendition of a smirking Dave was enough to get him to snap back to reality, and also helped him realize that he should really hurry up with this whole bathroom-janitor exchange. Dave would probably start wandering around the restaurant like a sad, lost cat when he realized Jack wasn't around.

He hated that he knew that.

“Don’t make this any more embarrassing than it already is,” Jack said in exasperation to Jimbo, crossing his arms with a frown he hoped conveyed that he was serious. “Are you gonna tell me anything?”

“Maybe if I’m adequately compensated,” he replied casually, and continued mopping.

Of course. Jack groaned and dug through his pockets for a few spare tokens. Jimbo’s hand was already out and ready to take them as Jack handed them over with a huff.

“Okay, then,” the happily bribed janitor said, pocketing the coins and resuming his mopping as he listed: “He doesn’t live alone, makes pizzas by sprinkling the cheese first, hates avocados, knows Morse code but will lie if asked, and is weirdly obsessed with you.”

Admittedly, there was a lot to take in. Jack paused for a moment, combing through the list of generally useless factoids he’d just learned.

“Okay, hold on– Obsessed? And…” Jack shook his head. “Wait, he doesn’t live alone?”

“No,” the janitor stated simply.

“Who does he live with?”

Jimbo stared at him like a dead fish. With another sigh, Jack rummaged through his pockets for a few more tokens and handed them over.

Jimbo happily took them. Then he replied, “I don’t know.”

“Asshole,” Jack bit out. “That was half my paycheck.”

Not that he wasn’t surprised. He was actually disappointed in himself that he hadn’t seen it coming.

But he’d barely learned anything useful about Dave. Pizza-making habits and his tendency to lie about Morse code were not exactly interesting. There was that one detail about not living alone... And the whole obsession thing. But he sort of already knew that.

Jack didn’t actually know what kind of information he was looking for, in all honesty. Maybe an excuse to hate him, but those reasons were becoming few and far between, annoyingly enough. Maybe Jack had to start considering the fact that he possibly had a friendship situation on his hands. Eugh.

“Okay. Cool,” Jimbo yawned, sounding bored. “Now, get out. I’ve got stuff to do. And the boss is right outside.”

All he did was continue mopping. Jack knew there was no use arguing with the man. It was an unstoppable force versus an immovable object type of thing.

“No need to lie,” Jack sighed. “I’m going already.”

He walked out of the bathroom, taking care to slam the door behind him as hard as possible because he felt he deserved as much. Among the chaos and noise of the dining room filled with customers, nobody noticed or cared. Except for one person.

He saw Steven standing by the front doors, and he motioned stiffly for Jack to come over. He did, but not without a sigh and a roll of the eyes to let him know he wasn’t happy to be talking to him.

“What?” Jack huffed to him.

“What?” Steven repeated, looking pissed. “What do you mean, ‘what’? The heck have you been doing in the bathroom?”

“Guess.”

Steven was not having his jokes today. “Talking to our deranged janitor, I bet. Listen to me. I pay you to work, not gossip in men’s bathroom stalls.”

“I wasn’t in a stall.”

“It doesn’t matter. Can’t you do your job, employee? You used to be somewhat productive.”

Jack looked around them, feeling bored. “Were you watching me?”

“Employee—”

“Fine. I get it. Whatever. I’ll get back to baking pizzas, or… something.”

“Good,” Steven scoffed, and he turned and left, heading back into his office. Probably to leave fake good reviews for the restaurant.

And then Jack proceeded to not do whatever he just promised he would. He left the noisy dining area and stepped into the safe room.

He expected Dave to be there, right where he left him, but he wasn’t. All that remained was the sprawled insides of an animatronic lying on the floor. Jack nudged the pieces aside and crossed to the shelf, leaning against it and instinctively taking out his pack of cigarettes. He needed to think. And to forget about that weird chemical-y bathroom smell.

Jack turned a cigarette over in his hand. Normally, he’d have already lit it, even inside. But this time, he hesitated, glancing over to the animatronic repair work on the floor. Dave would be back from wherever the hell he was eventually, and he said he didn’t smoke. He wasn’t used to the smell, then, and he wouldn’t like it if Jack smoked.

Hold on. Why did he care, exactly?

That slip of compassion occupied so much of Jack's mind that it was only when he turned to pocket the cigarette that he finally took notice of a tall, purple figure standing beside him.

Jack jumped in shock and fumbled with his cigarette pack, almost dropping it entirely as he faced Dave with wide eyes.

“Jesus, man. You scared the shit out of me.”

He hadn’t even heard him come inside— either he was being really quiet or Jack was too horrified by his own growing morality to notice. Dave was staring at him, an unfamiliar sort of emotion in his eyes as he dropped all humor in his face. Though maybe it was just the general dimness of the safe room.

“Did Phonefuck do somethin’ to ya?” he asked, holding a more intense eye contact than usual.

“I don’t— What?” Jack faltered, just now getting back his bearings.

“Did he?”

“Uh. No. Maybe. He was just being an ass— as usual. Dude, relax. You look nuts. How did you get over here so fast?”

Dave looked between Jack’s mildly bewildered expression back to the animatronic for a moment before he dropped his steeled look.

“Sorry. Jus’ overheard a thing or two. I’m such a snoop,” he rolled his eyes, features melting into a familiar smile. And then Dave sat back on the floor, resuming his repair work.

“Okay…” Jack replied, with a bit of uncertainty.

He hoped Dave hadn’t overheard him asking Jimbo all those questions. Now that he was thinking about it, it really was embarrassing to pay off a janitor to find out more about his coworker.

And, anyway, he seriously just could’ve just asked Dave directly. Yeah, he’d make fun of him for it, but he wouldn’t lie to Jack.

Ack… But it would feel weird, that maybe by asking Dave about himself, Jack would be dropping that nonchalant mask he’d so perfectly shaped all these years.

Jack couldn’t understand, exactly, why he cared so much— enough to do all of that. He stood there, leaned against the shelf, and watched as Dave worked on the wires of the bot. Dave kept throwing the occasional glance up to Jack, like a check-in.

“So, what did Phoney do to ya, exactly?” Dave asked, and only then did Jack realize that he’d been watching him assemble a gearbox for the past few minutes.

“Well,” Jack continued on, “He was pissing me off. As usual.”

Dave hummed as he continued working. “Seems like a lot of stuff pisses ya off.”

“That’s sort of obvious,” Jack mumbled. “I don’t like people.”

“You like me.”

“I tolerate you,” Jack added back quickly. “Don’t overthink it. You’re just…”

Jack really thought about his next words. He didn’t know where she was going with that sentence, and desperately tried to find an end for it. There were always a lot of ways to describe Dave: a nuisance, a constant joker, a bother, good company. Jack stared at that paradox of a man and sighed.

“You’re different. Way different. And weird. I guess I can respect that.”

He looked at Dave, gauging his face for a reaction, but only found that he’d only looked up and smiled wider.

“So, the boss pissed ya off so bad that you’re gettin’ all poetic on me?”

Jack huffed. “Sure.”

“That’s real sweet,” Dave replied, swiping at his eyes in a mock tearful expression. “I think I’ll cry, Old Sport.”

“Oh, shut up. Or I’ll leave again.”

“Now, don’t say that or I’ll really cry,” he joked back, smiling nonetheless.

Jack angled his head down to cover his smile. Piece of shit could get funny. Sometimes.

“So,” Dave began, definitely noticing but choosing not to point it out. “What’d the guy do to ya? Walk in while ya were takin’ a piss?”

“No,” Jack was quick to reply. “He was just… being annoying. Generally.”

“Mm. Okay.”

The nice thing about Dave was that when he wasn’t being an overwhelmingly nosy snoop, he actually knew when to drop a topic. And Jack thought it was nice that he had someone to rant about his shitty boss to.

“Alright, so, then, what?” Dave asked, motioning to him. “You’re acting all broody and it’s makin’ my shriveled-up heart all sad. I can get back at him— Do ya want me to put My Little Pony stickers on his receiver?”

Jack turned his head to face him and mused, “Only if you have any left over from decorating your lunchbox.”

Dave raised his eyebrows and chuckled, “You’re so snappy today.”

“You just said I was broody.”

“You can be both. And ya usually are.”

“Pfft,” Jack huffed. “And what did you mean by, “get back at him”? Why do you care, anyway, if I’m broody?”

“Well, ‘s like I said. I don’t want ya looking so pissed and sad. Doesn’t suit ya at all.”

Jack looked away. Dave could switch his act up so quickly it gave him whiplash.

“Do you need me to tell him off, or somethin’? I can smash his headlights?” he offered. Tempting.

Jack wrestled with that fuzzy feeling of gratitude as he looked at Dave.

“No, don’t. He won’t actually fire me or anything.”

Dave deflated a bit at the decline. “If ya say so.”

Fiddling at the hem of his shirt, Jack asked, “Even if he did, what’re you so worried for? What are you possibly going to do about it?”

“Take care of it.”

“Take care of—?” He huffed a small laugh. “Yeah, right. I handled myself just fine before you got here,” Jack pointed out.

“Sure, but…” Dave began to say, and instead settled on a more pleading tone. He even put down his screwdriver. “Oh, come on, Old Sport. Let me do something to him.”

“You already left banana peels on the front door steps today,” Jack reminded, pointing to him. “I saw you do it. Didn’t that get it out of your system?”

“No,” Dave said, exasperated, looking up at the ceiling. “That was, like, nothin’. Nobody tripped. It was barely fun.”

Jack shrugged and didn’t say anything. Seemed like not much would satiate Dave’s need for violence. He was beginning to learn that— no janitor needed.

He heard a huff come from Dave, and he must’ve realized he was not being very convincing. Dave then added on, in his most pleading voice, “It doesn’t even have to be violent! Totally injury-free, just somethin’ to piss him off. How ‘bout it, Old Sport?”

The bastard knew what he was doing. Facing Jack right on, with a smile and his head tilted.

He wouldn’t fall for it. “Ask me later,” Jack replied back, and pushed himself off the shelf. Maybe he should get back to work. Getting caught chatting with the janitor and Dave was probably pushing it.

“Fine,” Dave sighed, defeated. “I’ll be here. Thinking of an aubergine-man certified plan to get back at our boss.”

“You do that. I’m going back to work.”

Jack left the safe room, vaguely remembering that he promised Steven he’d make pizzas. Or something like that.

—-

Contrary to how it felt, Dave and Jack didn’t work together for every shift at the pizzeria. Though, the times where Jack had to work alone were far less interesting. Not to say that he missed or enjoyed Dave’s company— he could just appreciate the way that the shifts seemed to fly by when the purple man was there to inject his infectious humor into every aspect.

Anyway.

Jack was busy sliding pizzas into the oven, wiping his brow with his wrist as he looked over to the orders feeding into the kitchen. Not that there was much of a variety— the frozen cheese pizzas were pretty much the only thing anyone ordered.

The kitchen had a pretty typical system. The food orders from the dining room were written on a slip of paper, and then pinned to the line that fed into the kitchen for the poor schmuck working the oven to cook up. Today, that poor schmuck was Jack. Their chef had left early today, for reasons unknown. Probably something to do with the last health inspection.

Looking at the line of papers, Jack frowned as he saw that the most recent handful of orders had devolved from coherent writing into scraggly hearts and smiley faces. In purple marker.

Jack heard the kitchen door swing open, and didn’t even have to turn around. He greeted him flatly while checking the oven temperature. “Hi, Dave.”

“Hiya, Old Sport,” he heard an accented voice speak brightly. It came from somewhere behind him. “How’d ya know it was me?”

In response, Jack just pointed up to the most recently doodled order paper. It had hearts and spirals and purple flowers all over it.

Dave had strolled up beside him and was eyeing the pile of papers. None of them were real orders, all of them were filled out with purple ink, and most of them were from the last five minutes.

“Aw,” Dave cooed, going through the stack. “You’re keepin’ them.”

Jack was putting topping on a frozen pizza while he quickly explained, “Like hell I am. They’re just lying in a pile here.”

“Yeah,” he pointed out. “And ya haven’t thrown any of them out.”

“Trash can’s too far away.”

Dave nudged at the garbage bin right beside them. “Trash can’s right here.”

Jack was really digging himself into a hole here. He realized the only way out of this was to change the topic entirely and pray he went with it.

“I— Aren’t you supposed to be—oh, I dunno— working?”

“I’m jus’ visiting,” he drawled out innocently. “I fixed the bot. And now I’m bored like hell. Wanna go somewhere?”

“Go somewhere?” Jack questioned, and wondered if Dave remembered who he was talking to. “With you?”

“Uh-huh. Do ya?”

Jack threw him a look, then got back to making his pizzas.

“Come on, Old Sport. I'm bored.”

He kept following him around the kitchen like an ant.

Dave leaned directly into his line of vision and said, “Oh, c’mon, Old Sport. Let’s book it! Blow this popsicle stand! Dip outta here! Don't tell me ya wanna stick around this kitchen, wastin' a perfectly good afternoon.”

“Maybe I do,” Jack mumbled, and went back to work on his pizza orders.

He really didn’t. He’d definitely rather hang around with his estranged coworker than stare at any more freezer-burnt pizzas. Dave sure made for a compelling case, but Jack wasn’t about to admit it so soon.

“Okay, wait, hold on,” Dave drawled out, and paused to lean against a cabinet. “My fault. I remember. Do ya need an excuse, Mr. ‘I’m not here to make friends’?”

He was a little surprised that Dave had remembered that. And he more than a little regretted ever saying that.

“Lemme think. We can... think of a way to get back at Phoney. Or Matt. Or, hell, both of them.”

“What’s Matt ever done to us?”

“Did ya seriously jus’ ask me that?”

“Right.” Jack put down his serving tray and faced Dave with a shrug. “Okay, fine.”

He saw Dave blink blankly at his reply. “Wait, what?”

“I said, okay, fine. Let’s go. Where did you want to run off to, exactly?”

Dave clasped his hands in front of himself and puffed out a breath. “Um. I dunno. I didn’t think ya’d actually say yes.”

“Well, I did. So where are we going?”

That prompted Dave to start looking around the kitchen. For ideas, probably. Then his eyes settled in Jack as his whole face lit up.

“Dinner!”

“Sorry?” Jack spluttered out. That was not what he had in mind. He was expecting Dave to make a Dave-like suggestion, something along the lines of watching anthills at the park or going dumpster diving.

“Let’s go to dinner,” Dave repeated, his smile wide. “Right now!”

Dinner? Like, at a restaurant with a reservation and everything?

Jack tried to imagine Dave in a suit. The idea frightened and fascinated him.

He didn’t want to attempt to put that into words. “Uh...” was all he managed to say, looking Dave over.

“No, you’re right, too sensual,” he replied, rescuing him from his wandering mind. “How about breakfast?”

“I… didn’t say that, but— I mean, did you say breakfast?” Jack threw a sideways glance at the clock in the kitchen. “It’s almost two.”

“So? Don’t let the funny numbers on the clock control your life like that.”

Jack shook his head, feeling another traitorous smile coming on. “The funny numbers tell me when it’s time to go home,” he shrugged, and began stacking empty pizza trays.

“Oh, the funny numbers don’t matter. We can have breakfast right now, who’ll care? Let’s go already,” Dave urged, placing a hand on Jack's shoulder as he put in his final piece: “Phoney hates ya anyway!”

Jack sighed and rolled his shoulder, pushing Dave’s hand off of him. “Fine. Okay. Only so that we can discuss how to get back at him.”

He wanted to get out of this greasy, gross kitchen anyway.

Dave flashed him a thumbs up in nothing short of pure excitement. “It’s a date, then, Old Sport!”

Jack looked away and snapped, “It is not—“

“Oh, I’m jus’ joking,” Dave teased, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “Don’t hate me for it.”

Jack got to work on untying his company kitchen apron. “We can call it a brunch.”

“Exactly. See? You’re so good with words.”

“Yeah,” Jack grumbled. “I have some choice words for you right now.”

“All nice ones, I hope,” Dave mused. “I’m takin’ ya out to brunch, after all.”

“As if you’re going to actually pay,” Jack stated sarcastically, setting down his apron. “Here are some more words for you: When do we get out of here?”

Dave only paused for a moment. “Right now.”

—

And that was how Jack, somehow, had a long enough lapse in reason to sneak out of work with Dave. They had walked maybe ten minutes down the street before stumbling upon a diner spot. Good enough.

So, Jack found himself in a diner, in a booth, seated across from a very smiley Dave. He looked nothing short of delighted to be sharing a mealtime with his Old Sport.

Oh, jeez. Did Jack just refer to himself as Old Sport? What was he becoming?

“So,” Dave asked him, and ended his roaming thoughts. He had one elbow on the table, the other hand propping up a menu as he chewed on a complimentary toothpick. He hadn’t even eaten anything yet. “What are ya orderin’?”

Jack looked down at the selection. “I dunno. Steak?”

“Steak for brunch?” Dave repeated skeptically.

“Why not?”

“Get a frittata,” Dave suggested, not looking up from the menu. “You’ll like a frittata.”

With a scoff, Jack responded back, “You don’t know what I’d like. Maybe I hate frittatas.”

He looked it over on the menu anyway. After reading the description, it actually sounded somewhat decent to him.

“Comes with jack-cheese,” Jack noted. “That’s funny.”

Jack must’ve forgotten who he was talking to. “Why?” Dave asked, lowering his menu.

“Um. No reason.”

Right. Dave only knew him as Old Sport, and maybe September. Though he’d made it very clear that he didn’t believe Jack was named after a month. In all honesty, who would?

They ordered their food (two frittatas, go figure) and Jack sipped on his water as Dave looked over the cocktail menu.

The nice thing about Dave was that there was never an awkward gap in conversation when it came to him. Something was always bumbling around his brain.

“So-o-o,” he drawled out, putting the menu away. “What do ya think we should do to Phoney?”

Oh, yeah. Jack sort of forgot that the entire point of this meeting was to find a suitable revenge against their boss. What had he done, again? The details were blurring. Maybe this was just an excuse on Dave’s end to go somewhere with Jack. He couldn’t remember or care— so long as he wasn’t at work.

Jack unpinned his name badge from his shirt as he replied, “Something that we can blame on somebody else. Preferably the virgin.”

“Matt? The guy’s straight as a ruler. Phoney’ll never believe that such a goody-two-shoes would do something heinous to him.”

“He sells fireworks and meth to toddlers,” Jack deadpanned, pocketing his badge.

“Hm. I’ll have to look into that.”

“Okay, you do that. But we’re getting way off topic. What can we do to him?”

Dave had begun trying to balance his cutlery on his napkin. “Jeez, I dunno. I was hoping you’d have some neat ideas.”

“Not really.”

Dave glanced up at him through his fork-and-knife tower. “Well, there’s always the stickers on his receiver.”

Jack had slumped back into his seat with a sigh, just as a waitress came by with their food. She set their plates down and Dave instantly forgot all about whatever they were talking about. Jack too, in all honesty. Their food looked halfway decent for a random local diner.

After a few, silent minutes into the food, Dave said between bites, “How come we’ve never thought of this before?”

“Revenge on our boss or trying out diners?”

“The diner thing.”

Jack shrugged. “I kinda hated you before.”

“And what have I ever done to you?” Dave nudged him from under the table. “Other than locking you in a safe room and making fun of you?”

Jack shot him a glare as he sipped at his water. “Don’t take it personally.”

“Well, this is kinda neat, in any case. Lunch with Old Sport. Romantic.”

Dave had a tendency of doing that. Turning every interaction into some kind of innuendo. Jack assumed he did it just to piss him off, if the way he grinned every time he did it was any tell.

“First of all, it’s brunch,” Jack pointed out with his fork back in hand. “And, second of all, it’s just brunch. No homo.”

Dave put down his cutlery and wiped his mouth. “No homo or full homo?”

Jack sighed. “No, no homo.”

“No no homo? So, homo?”

“No. Homo,” Jack sounded out for him. “Jeez. If it were homo— which it isn’t— I wouldn’t take you to a damned breakfast diner.”

“No?” Dave asked, tilting his head innocently. “Then where?”

“I’m not telling you. It’s no homo.”

“Just in theory, then. Hypothetically. Where would ya take a date?”

Jack had no damned clue why he was even humoring this conversation topic. “I don’t know. Someplace nice.”

“How nice?”

“Damn it, I don’t know,” Jack hesitated, and stared at his plate. “It’s not like I would tell you.”

They lapsed into silence as Jack poked his food with a fork. Typical diner music played overhead.

“Applebee’s,” Jack eventually said. Reluctantly.

“Really? You’d take a chick out to Applebee’s?”

That didn’t sound right. But, whatever. “Yes,” Jack nodded.

Dave raised his eyebrows in response. “We can go to Applebees.”

Jack glared at him. Then, it must’ve been the margarita talking, because he went on to say, “If— if you were a chick— like, a purple chick in a dress or something— I’d take you to Applebee’s. And only then.”

Jack then promptly remembered he hadn’t had a margarita. Why had he said that?

A small silence passed that felt like an eternity. Dave propped his chin in his hands and looked at Jack. “I can wear a dress,” he offered sweetly.

Jack made the mistake of imagining Dave in a dress, and almost choked on his frittata. “Uh. Nah, that’s okay.”

“Just let me know if ya change your mind, Old Sport.”

Jack prayed to some silent god that their waiter would pull up eventually with the check, glancing around their booth. “Shut it.”

——

The time passed by easily. They’d eaten and talked about a weirdly vast range of topics over the course of the last two hours. Jack had finally (and reluctantly) admitted that he indeed liked the frittata Dave suggested.

“This was fun,” Dave began, after they’d finished eating. The waitress had already taken their plates away and replaced them with a check. “We should do it again sometime, Jack.”

Jack, meanwhile, was busy writing a fake credit card number on the bill. At the sound of his name, he fumbled with the pen and looked up at Dave, totally confused. “Wh— what?”

“Did I get it right?” he asked, eyes lit up as if he’d won the lottery. “That’s your name, right?”

“How did you…”

“I’m not stupid,” Dave emphasized, tapping his fingers on the table. He looked about ready to leave, for whatever reason. “Saw how you reacted to the menu thing. Imagine being named after a cheese.”

“Oh.”

Having Dave say his name was weird. Weirder than weird. He continued writing and hoped this wouldn’t become the norm.

“But that is your name, right? Jack,” Dave recited again, trying out the syllable.

“…Yup,” he replied, and couldn’t quite understand why he was so entranced by his name.

“Why’d ya keep it such a secret? It’s not even an embarrassin’ name.”

“For… privacy purposes. I guess. I don’t even know.”

Dave shrugged in acceptance. “Huh. Okay, well, it’s neat. Suits ya. Anywho, I gotta dip,” he said, moving to get up. “Doctors appointment.”

“Doctor’s appointment?” Jack questioned, setting the pen down. “Really?”

Jack had just signed his (fake) name on the check under his (fake) credit card number, while Dave had already stood up from the booth. “Yeah,” he responded simply. “Gotta get goin’.”

Jack was about to remind him that they still hadn’t come up with any plan to get back at Phoneface— the whole point of this brunch— but decided to drop it. Dave looked oddly nervous about something. “Okay, well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, Dave.”

“Bye, Jack.”

He suppressed a groan. “Don’t call me that.”

“Gah, fine. Bye, Old Sport,” he corrected smoothly. And with a swing of the diner doors, he left.

Seemed like he was rushing to get home.

Chapter Text

Phoney never mentioned anything about their whole skipping work to go to a random diner escapade, other than a stern shake of the head as they came in the next day. Oh well. So long as they still had their salaries and employee parking spots.

The days passed by, and Jack fell into a somewhat normal rhythm at work. Though, not a mundane one— nothing was ever boring with Dave around. He was always stuck at Jack’s side, whether he was working or smoking out back or hiding from Matt.

Dave was inching further and further into his life and days, and Jack could only reluctantly let him do so. Well, he was letting him.

Dave always texted him at odd hours. Early morning, late night. Usually, it was just cat pictures. Sometimes, he actually had something rational to say. Jack always responded back.

He wasn’t going to be an asshole. And he still didn’t sleep very much at night, anyway.

The winter season was always a busy one for the restaurant. The weather was getting too chilly to spend outdoors, so all the kids and families clamored inside the pizzeria to spend their days. Good for business. Bad for Jack, who liked lazy days where kids weren’t around to ask about his orange skin tone or weird eyes.

Jack was cooped up in the arcade, trying to fix a game one wintry afternoon. He grabbed some tools that looked halfway right for the machinery and started fumbling around the insides of it.

Yeah, he didn’t know what he was doing. But it seemed right and he looked busy.

“Hi,” he heard someone behind him greet.

He thought he was alone in the arcade— Jack flinched in surprise and turned to the sound of the voice; of course, it was Dave. Only one person around here stepped as quietly as he did.

“Jesus, you scared me,” Jack huffed out, pointing at him with a screwdriver in some sort of pathetic excuse for a weapon.

“Sorry,” Dave apologized, though the smirk on his face didn't make him seem very sorry. “How long have ya been workin’ in here, Jack?”

Right. Now, Jack regretted a lot of things, but accidentally reading the description for a diner frittata out loud was a new one. He should’ve known that once Dave learned that little tidbit of rare information about Jack, he wouldn’t let go of it.

“Uh. A while, I guess.” Jack turned back to the mess of wires in the game cabinet. “Can you quit calling me that? Whatever happened to Old Sport?”

Dave pointed out, “I thought ya didn’t like that one.”

“I preferred it. I didn’t tell you my name for a reason.”

“So I should… pretend like I don’t know it?”

Jack considered that idea as he clanked around the machinery. “Yes.”

“And why’s that?” Dave asked, still standing behind him and watching him work. “Ya know my name, and call me by my name. I don’t even have a nickname!”

“Because you don’t have one. Simple as that.”

“I’ll think of one, then.”

Jack sighed and squinted through the mess of wires. “No, Dave.”

“Pookie?”

“I’m not calling you fucking pookie.”

“Fine,” Dave sighed in a resigned tone, as if he’d actually expected Jack to entertain the idea. “Fine then, Old Sport. I don’t know your name. I’ll pretend I never heard it.”

“Good. Now, shouldn’t you be doing something productive?” he asked, picking at the arcade wires.

“Nah. Phoney retired the springlock suits after my brush with death ‘n all that.”

“How very kind,” Jack replied sarcastically. “Then maybe you should help me out instead of just staring at me while I work?”

He didn’t even have to look up; he could hear the smirk in Dave’s voice. “Why should I? I mean, you’re such a jack of all trades, it doesn’t look like ya need any help.”

Jack could only suppress an eyeroll at his word choice. “Real funny.”

“What? It looks like havin’ such a great employee is a real jackpot for the company.”

He set down his tools and turned around to face a very smug Dave. “Is this gonna be a thing now?”

“I dunno what ya mean,” he objected back with a shrug. “I’m not saying jackshit.”

—-

“Okay, fine,” Jack sighed, after he’d heard the millionth jack-related pun and wordplay of the day.

They were standing around the kitchen during a lull in orders. Jack leaned against a counter with his arms crossed.

Dave only feigned ignorance as he pretended to read the ingredients on a pack of cheese. “What?”

“You can call me by my name. But not at work. Not around Phoney, or… anyone else.”

“That’s a real nice offer, but I don’t even know your name. Isn’t it just September?” Dave said innocently, a wide smile plastered on his face.

He pointed at him and squinted. “Don’t play dumb. You win. I’m Jack. You're a huge pain in the ass.”

“No. I’m Dave.”

The thing about Dave was that he was pretty much never genuine about anything unless Jack stared at him in silence until he got the hint.

Dave put down his pack of cheese in resignation. “Okay, fine. It’s a deal.”

Jack nodded, glad that they came to an agreement as he got to work thawing out their moldy pizza dough.

—-

Jack actually said goodbye to Dave when he went home for the day, now. It was a rather shocking advancement considering his generally reclusive nature.

He was used to coming home to his empty house, dropping his meager keyring onto his counter, changing into the only change of pajama clothes he had. If he was feeling an appetite, he’d cook up a freezer-burnt TV dinner he had. Maybe tidy whatever mess he’d made in the morning getting ready for another dreary day at work.

But usually he laid on the couch with his lamp and TV on, and tried to relax. Like tonight.

He knew how this evening would go: he’d watch a mind-numbing amount of nighttime television, feel himself get tired, then move over to his own bedroom, where he’d stare at the ceiling until his alarm went off.

Another evening crossed off a calendar. As Jack laid there, tired but not enough to fall asleep, he traced his eyes over the cracks and was struck with a very distant but very real feeling.

He was horribly, sickeningly lonely.

—-

“I knew ya’d follow me, Old Sport!”

Jack had indeed followed Dave outside, not that he'd want to call it that, where he found Dave leaned against the brick wall with his arms crossed. Jack hadn’t even brought his cigarettes to fake a smoke break. Maybe he was following him.

“I’m not, I'm just… checking in,” Jack refuted in defense.

Dave raised his eyebrows. “Ya don’t seem to check in on anyone else.”

That was a question he didn’t feel like answering or even considering the answer to. “Why are you even out here? You don’t smoke.”

It was like Dave hadn’t heard him at all. He pointed lazily over to the parking lot. “Nice car. Let’s go somewhere.”

“What?” Jack asked, looking between him and the car. “Skip work, you mean? We just got here.”

“Why not? We’ve done it before.”

“Well,” he considered, kicking a rock off the curb. “Exactly. I don’t think the boss is gonna like it if we flake on the job so much.”

“So?”

“He signs my paychecks. And yours, too, if I can remind you.”

“Meh. He won’t fire us. He can’t afford to lose such upstandin’ employees.”

Jack frowned at Dave’s attempt to nudge his shoulder and mulled over the offer. The idea of going back to sweep the arcade floor or ending arguments between toddlers seemed… less than appealing. And Dave was right. Phoney couldn’t afford to fire employees, even ones that barely did anything on the clock in the first place.

But it was mostly the way Dave was looking at him, smiling in anticipation, mouthing please please please as Jack stood in silence. Dave never asked him for anything. He might as well…

And it was this stupid, mucky, fluffy feeling that smoothed over all his logic. Maybe it was friendship. Now, that was horrid to think about. In any case, Jack knew he wouldn’t be able to say anything other than agree.

He was finding it more and more difficult to say no to Dave.

He sighed. “Where do you want to go?”

—-

They had piled into Jack’s car and driven off, hoping that nobody noticed their departure among the noise of the restaurant. Jack wasn’t sure if their decision to leave during the busiest time of day was a good or bad one.

Dave had promised him with a rather unconvincing smirk that he knew, quote, “just where to go.”

As he inspected every compartment and surface of his car, Dave gave Jack directions on where to drive. Only half an hour into the car ride, he’d found all three of Jack’s lip balms (and tried on two,) retrieved all the quarters from under the passenger seat, and read his car registration’s papers. Twice. Out loud.

All the while, he kept promising that it was a good lunch spot, and only smiled silently in reply whenever Jack asked where the hell they were even going.

They’d been on the road an hour— which didn't feel like it given the constant stream of talk and conversation— when Dave announced, “Here! We’re here!”

Jack pulled into a parking lot and leaned forward to read the sign through his windshield.

“You… memorized an hour’s worth of driving instructions so we could go to Applebee’s?”

“This is the only five-star rated Applebee’s in the area. The absolute best!”

Jack blinked at Dave in shock. If he weren’t totally surprised at his weirdness, he could almost admire his persistence. And general insanity.

“It’s… Applebee’s,” Jack repeated, putting the car into park. “I don’t think there’s a difference anywhere.”

“We’ll be the judge of that.”

“Okay, but, hold on. Why this place?”

Dave said nothing, and all of a sudden pretended to be very interested in his seatbelt.

Jack sighed. “It’s got nothing to do with what I said last time?”

“I dunno what ya mean.”

“I said something along the lines of, I’d take a smoking babe to Applebee’s.”

“Aww, Old Sport! You’re too nice— I always thought I was just so-so!”

“Prick. You know what I mean.”

“I think you’re just snappy ‘cause ya haven’t eaten,” Dave shot back, opening the car door. “Let’s jus’ go inside already, yeah?”

—-

It was only when they had been seated with their menus and complimentary bread basket that Jack realized that this was all very unlike him.

Sure, he hated his job, but skipping out on work for the second time in recent time? To hang with his generally obnoxious and vaguely flirtatious coworker? At an Applebee's? He could not understand why he kept doing this. But here he was anyway.

No, wait, he knew why.

It was because before Dave, he couldn’t remember anything that he did last year, or the year before that, or the year before that. The days all blurred together at that damned restaurant. Go to work, go home, watch TV. Toss and turn, then scrounge himself up for work again. Repeat. For years on end. It was numbing.

It was not until Dave had showed up that Jack got thrown off his feet entirely. Here was this unnerving but stupidly entertaining idiot to break apart the dullness of his days with stupid antics and even stupider jokes. Simply put, Jack could not tear himself away from the spectacle that he offered every day. Offering to go to Applebee’s at 11 in the morning? Almost getting springlocked and killed the first week of work? Who did that?

Dave was mixing together the salt, sugar, and pepper packets in his water cup as Jack mulled over this realization.

“Don’t drink that,” Jack warned, though to no avail.

Dave seemed to think over his words, staring at the glass before he took a sip. Because of course he did.

Recoiling a bit at the taste, Dave cringed, “Wow. Gross.” He then promptly turned around in his seat to pour the mixture into a potted plant behind him.

“I don’t know why I even bother,” Jack muttered tiredly.

With a nonchalant shrug, he said to him, “I’ll just get a margarita.”

“Do you even know what time it is?”

“Time. Pfft. It’s all jus’ funny numbers,” Dave just alluded to with a smile.

Jack shook his head in acceptance, looking around the restaurant. Very typical interior for an American restaurant chain— though, significantly more well kept than their pizzeria. Maybe because they actually let their health inspectors leave the building alive.

“I haven’t been to an Applebee’s since, like, jeez,” Jack reminisced, “My eighth birthday, I think.”

“Aw.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Not really. I was kind of an asshole of a kid. Had a summer birthday and begged to go to a waterpark instead.”

“Well, most kids were assholes, I'd think. Don’t take it t’ heart.”

“You've got such a way with words,” he mused back drily. “Well, when’s your birthday?”

It seemed like an on-topic question to ask. But it prompted an odd look from Dave, and his eyes shifted away from Jack. “Uh,” he said eventually, and his voice sounded flatter. “I dunno, actually.”

Jack almost dropped his breadstick. “You don’t know your own birthday?”

“No.”

“Is this a bit or something? Really?”

“I’m not kiddin’. I have no idea.”

“Oh,” Jack mumbled, and leaned back in his seat upon realizing he was serious. “Okay. Damn. Sorry.”

Dave didn't seem to find it nearly as disheartening. He shrugged. “Birthdays are overrated to hell anyway. I can go to a water park and eat shitty cake whenever I feel like it.”

Yeah, that was typical of Dave— always spinning a rather depressing conversation into a happier one.

Jack felt himself smile as he tried to think of something to talk about. Not that he was worried they’d end up in some awkward silence; that was never the case around this guy.

“How’s your shoulder?” Jack asked, still rummaging through the breadstick basket.

Somehow, Dave seemed very taken aback by the question. “My— what?” he asked with a small laugh.

“Your shoulder. Still hurts?”

Dave opened his mouth to say something, then closed it again. He still looked very surprised at the mention of it. “Uh. It’s okay. Gettin' better.”

“Okay. Good. Cool.”

In reality, Jack really wanted to ask about how he hurt it in the first place, but knowing Dave, he’d avoid the question entirely. Jack settled on sliding a menu placard toward himself and thinking of what to order.

A glance up, and Jack could see that a small smile had appeared on Dave’s lips. “You’re actin’ funny, Old Sport.”

“I am not,” he chided back with a frown.

“Yeah, ya sure are. You’re actin’ all nice and stuff.”

Jack scowled. Maybe he was right. Blame that stupid, fuzzy feeling. He scrounged for some words to spit back before he got any ideas. “Alright, shut up. Dick.”

“See, that’s better,” Dave chirped with a wider smile. “Welcome back.”

“Alright, enough. I’m just trying to be nice. Where I come from, it’s expected to ask questions. That’s how a conversation works.”

“Well, that’s not how Jack works.”

He shot him a look. “Don’t make this sappy.”

Dave hid his smirk behind his menu as they both quietly looked over their order options. Jack only realized after a while that he hadn’t even scolded him for the use of his real name. If that was a sign of something, he didn’t want to think about it.

“Where do you live, actually?” Jack asked him after some time had passed. He’d been wondering about it for a while. And if he was going to be dropping Dave off later on, he’d need to know it eventually.

But as he looked up at him, he could practically see how bad that question was to ask. Dave’s smile flattened and his glance flickered away for a moment.

He doesn’t live alone is what the janitor told him. He remembered.

“Uh,” Dave responded after a while. “Around.”

“You live alone?”

“…No,” Dave said after a moment. Then he tried to salvage the conversation into his own direction with a tiny smile. “Sorry to break the news, Old Sport. Not lookin’ for any roommates.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “That’s not what I meant.”

“Sure,” he said, and before the conversation could sink into silence, he pointed out, “Hey, they haven’t given ya a soda refill in a minute.” And he instantly waved a waiter over to amend that.

This seemed like more than Dave’s usual shared obsessiveness over details and Jack– he was clearly trying to change the topic. Very sloppily, but still.

“You’re deflecting,” Jack said to him after the waiter gave him his drink and left.

“Deflectin’ how?”

“You can just tell me to back off. I get it.”

Dave shook his head. “I said what’s true. I don’t live alone. I live near the pizzeria,” he stated simply. “Now, what are ya orderin’ for main course?”

Jack noted the second attempt at redirecting the conversation but did not comment on it.

He looked down at the menu. “Salmon looks alright,” he said, and soon forgot all about that odd conversation.

—-

They’d talked and eaten, and, all in all, had a nice lunch. Their waitress rolled around eventually. She set a bill on the table and said to them, “Your check, sirs.”

As soon as she was out of earshot, Jack grabbed it and sighed as he looked it over. Jesus, why had Dave ordered so many damn breadsticks?

“From the look on your face,” Dave noted, “I’m guessing it’s not a good number.”

“No.”

“Well, since we’ve both got no money,” Dave added, like it was obvious, “I say we jus’ stiff the bill and scram out of here.”

Jack shook his head. “No, it— Wait, how did you know that I’m broke?”

With the way Dave shrugged in response, Jack knew he’d never get an answer to that question. Whatever. He was coming to accept his morally ambiguous ways.

“I don't wanna stiff the bill— I like this spot,” lamented Jack. “And if I leave without paying, they'll tell all their waiters to not serve the orange man.”

"And the purple one," Dave added.

"Sure, yeah, exactly," Jack agreed, staring at the bill and thinking. "Maybe I could write another fake check?”

They sat in contemplative silence. Dave looked off into the distance, chin propped in his hand as the other one tapped thoughtfully on the table.

Jack knew that he'd come up with a plan after a couple, holding hands, passed by their table, and Dave brightened.

“I’ve got it,” said Dave, as Jack sipped on his lemonade. “I’ll pretend to propose.”

Jack practically choked on his drink. “What? Propose… propose what?” he repeated, thinking he misheard.

“Propose marriage. Duh.” And he flashed a smile to tack onto the statement. As if it helped to clear anything up.

Jack stared at him as if he’d just grown a second head. “How is that going to solve any of our problems?”

“Just for pretend. Think about it, Old Sport. Whenever someone proposes at a restaurant, the boss and all the waiters come out and go nuts. Free food, free desert. All that jazz. Ya think they’ll let a happy couple pay for this bill?” he asked, tapping at the check still in Jack’s hands.

Jack just stared at him.

“C’mon,” Dave went on, annoying him as he did best. “Works every single time, too— I mean, it happens at every restaurant.”

“This is… not a restaurant,” Jack protested weakly, glancing around their booth. “It’s AppleBee’s.”

Dave threw his hands up. “All the more reason! It doesn’t happen every day. They’ll pull out all the stops for us.”

Jack felt his mouth go dry. “We’re not even… they won’t believe it,” he said, desperately trying to rationalize against his plan.

“I’ll be very convincin’,” Dave insisted with a wink.

“You’re— you’re crazy,” Jack denied, wondering where that fuzzy feeling in his stomach was coming from. “I don’t even know why I’m still listening to you. We’ll find some other way to deal with this.”

Dave said nothing. The smile on his face was answer enough.

“Oh, jeez, Dave, really, don’t—“

Too late. Dave instantly got to his feet and placed a dramatic hand over his heart, angled toward Jack like an actor on a stage.

“My one an’ only!” he announced, loud enough for the whole dining area to hear. Everyone stopped picking at their mediocre appetizers and looked up at the purple man. The place grew considerably quieter.

Jack just put his head in his hands. Oh, god.

“From the day I met ya, Old Sport,” Dave began, announcing his nickname like it was the most important thing in the word, “My heart aches. Your enchantin’ image has captivated me from the very beginnin’, and I cannot imagine a world without ya in it.”

Jack looked up long enough to mouth, ‘I’LL KILL YOU.’

Dave smirked at the words. “Old Sport,” he went on, and this time it sounded just like how he’d say it at work— no pomp and no dramatics— “Will ya take my springlocked hand in marriage?”

Oh, lord. The place was dead quiet. Jack peeked through his fingers and saw Dave was still standing there, patiently waiting for his equally bullshit reply, with all the eyes of the restaurant-goers wide in anticipation behind him.

Shit, okay. He’d give in to Dave’s stupid little plan if it meant he didn’t have to pay this outrageous check.

“…Yes, fine,” Jack muttered out eventually. Everyone exploded in a round of applause and congratulations, all sharing happy but slightly confused looks. They were probably wondering why any rational person would choose AppleBee’s for a marriage proposal.

Dave took his seat across from Jack while the applause continued on.

“See? Easy peasy.”

“I hate you.”

A waiter scrambled over to their table. “Oh, wow, you two, congratulations,” the woman wished them, swiping the bill off of their table. “The boss says not to worry about the check. And, uh, I’ll get some desserts out for you two. Congratulations.”

“Thanks!” Dave beamed cheerily as the woman left.

Dave turned back to face Jack. “Ain’t I a goofball?”

“I’m seriously gonna kill you, Dave,” he said quickly, not even sure if he was joking. Christ, he wondered if that feeling in his stomach would ever go away. “Now everyone at this goddamn restaurant thinks we’re…”

“A happy couple? Who’re gonna lock lips in the parking lot?”

“Shut up,” Jack quickly cut him off. “This is just embarrassing.”

“That’s why we drove an hour out, Old Sport. Don’tcha worry. Nobody’ll see us after today.”

“I just cannot believe you fucking– did that! I…” Jack argued, not quite having the gall to look at Dave directly.

“But, lookie. No more check to pay,” he pointed out. “It’s very economical. And, anyway, it’s not like ya had to do anythin’. I did all the wooing.”

“I didn’t want you to woo me,” Jack grumbled back.

“So you’re sayin’ it worked?”

Jack glared at him in warning. Hopefully it made up for the blush on his face. “You’re really pushing it today, purple man.”

—-

They stayed later than they thought: they ate their extra breadsticks and mutually ignored the heart theme on all their free desserts. The owner was even feeling gracious enough to give them some free drinks, which Jack of course had no problem with. Maybe he’d be able to drink enough to forget all the sappy stuff Dave had said in his little speech.

I cannot imagine a world without ya in it.

Every time another line of it re-entered Jack’s memory, he downed another mimosa and tried to avoid all eye contact with Dave. Not that it was difficult– he kept a healthy one-sided conversation going all about garlic bread while Jack silently pondered when, exactly, that feeling in his stomach would go away. Dave hadn’t meant any of that little speech, obviously. He was just doing it for the act.

Obviously.

It got later and later, and only after drink and more drink had they finally agreed it was probably time to leave. As they headed out, they thanked all the oblivious people wishing them a happy marriage. Jack elbowed Dave at every single congratulations they received on the way out.

Not quite drunk but not at all sober, they stepped into the cool air outside. Seemed like evening had bled into night– apparently, time flew right by when you were faking marriage proposals and talking over the $10 for 2 appetizers.

Jack was squinting tiredly at the parking lot, looking for his car, when he realized Dave had gone a bit still.

“It’s night?” Dave spoke quietly.

“Yeah,” Jack said, trying to blink away his exhaustion. “Time flies, huh?”

“It’s night?” Dave questioned again, like he’d barely processed Jack’s words.

He only frowned in response, trying to recall how many of those damned mimosas the two of them had ordered. “Dude, how much have you had to drink?”

“I don’t…” Dave stared at the steps of the restaurant solemnly. “I was s’pposed to be home…”

Jack didn’t quite know how to respond to that, or even what he was talking about. But it looked like neither of them were ready to get in his car just yet, so he stepped over to the curb, and it was only when he’d begun moving that Jack realized he wasn’t exactly as sober as he’d thought. The parking lot was spinning and he had to step carefully so as to not topple over.

He began to think that he shouldn’t be driving. Damn that bottomless mimosa deal.

Jack lit a cigarette and looked over Dave’s worried posture as he took a drag from it.

“I’m sure it’s fine. I mean, I’ll drop you off right now,” Jack responded. “It’s Friday, anyway, man. Everyone’s out partying and crap.”

“Yeah. I guess,” Dave responded, though he didn’t sound very convinced. Jack expected him to sit beside him on the curb like he always did at work, but he didn’t. He began a pace around the parking lot, though still staying within earshot of Jack.

That was sort of concerning. Jack wanted to ask about it, but eventually decided that it would probably prompt a conversation that neither of them wanted to have and both of them would probably be too drunk to remember.

Jack continued his smoke in silence as he watched Dave. He could appreciate that they didn’t have to talk to enjoy one another’s company.

Ew, wait, enjoy one another’s company? Where did that come from? Damn those mimosas again.

After a while, from the restaurant's front steps, Jack heard a door swing open and closed. He craned his neck up to the angry host staring down at him incredulously.

“Are you drunk?” the man asked Jack, voice hardened with anger.

He took a long drag from his cigarette. “Why?”

The man didn’t even wait for a reply. “Is that your car?” he asked, pointing a finger over to what was indeed Jack’s car.

He threw a lazy glance over to it, just for the sake of the conversation. “Why?”

“It’s parked in a handicapped spot.”

“I don’t see anyone else clamoring for it,” Jack retorted, and didn’t stop to consider that arguing while drunk to a clearly irritated host was not going to go in his favor.

“I’ve been trying to figure out who’s damned car that is for hours– damned tow truck never even showed up. Move it already.”

“Why?”

“It’s illegal, jackass. Move the car or I’m calling the cops.”

Jack sighed and rubbed at his temples. “Dave,” he called out, raising his voice just a little.

He spotted his shadow step up onto the curb beside him. “What?” Dave asked, sounding less despondent. Sometimes all you needed was a little pace around an AppleBee’s parking lot to feel better.

Jack pointed a thumb silently over to the man, who huffed in disbelief at the whole interaction.

“Oh,” Dave said, understanding the dilemma. “Is he being annoyin’? Jus’ tell him we’re newlyweds.”

Clearly not enough. Jack spluttered out, “We are not fucking newlyw— No.” He sighed and got to his feet, putting out his cigarette and facing the pissed-off man. “Okay, listen. Fine. I’m getting out of here right now. Don’t call the fuzz, that’s kinda overkill anyway.”

The man crossed his arms and hardened his glare. “So, go already.”

Jack reciprocated the glare and tugged at Dave’s sleeve, who was still standing beside him and watching the whole situation unfold. “Fine.”

They walked across the lot and to his car, which Jack only found after his second attempt of searching. Yeah, he was still feeling a bit off.

“Are you drunk, Old Sport?” Dave asked, letting himself get tugged along.

They finally reached his car and Jack pulled out his key, unlocking his car and huffing out, “I am totally fine,” although the way he slurred his words was anything but believable. “Let’s get out of here already.”

“Should ya even be drivin’?” Dave questioned him, getting into the passenger's seat anyway.

Jack didn’t reply to that, because the answer was a definite ‘No.’

The parking lot was mostly empty, and thank god for it, because as Jack pulled the car out of its space he would’ve totaled every car in the vicinity. Yeah, he definitely should not have been driving.

Dave sat in silence as Jack drove the car, somehow, into the street. It wasn’t going very well.

“Maybe you should drive,” Jack offered quietly, after he forgot which pedal was the brake.

“I can’t drive.”

“You can’t?” Jack repeated, and he wasn’t sure if he was shocked or if it was the alcohol talking.

Dave shook his head. “No.”

“No birthday and you can’t drive. Fuck. Well,” Jack grumbled out loud, and tried to think.

“Jus’ pull over in some parkin’ lot for now. And maybe not the handicapped space this time.”

Tried and drunk and he could still crack jokes– yeah, that was Dave. “Oh, shush,” Jack scoffed as he drove over a curb.

After a few minutes of searching, he came across an empty building, probably some old convenience store. Its lights were out and a ‘For Sale’ sign hung out front, which explained the empty parking lot. Jack pulled the car into something loosely resembling a park.

Jack sighed and tapped at his steering wheel, still feeling lightheaded. “Okay, so I’m sort of plastered, you can’t drive, and we gotta get home,” he said, outlining their current situation.

Dave was quick with an idea. “Call a taxi.”

“With what money?” Jack mused, tapping a hand on the steering wheel. He was feeling a headache coming on. “And it’s not like you can pull the proposal card to a taxi driver.”

“We’ll just make a run for it?” Dave offered, even though they were both realizing the idea was not going to work out.

“I can barely find the gas pedal, let alone outrun a freaking cop.”

“I can--”

“You’re not carrying me.”

They lapsed into another drunken silence. The parking lot was devoid of any other cars, and the street only had the occasional truck pass by the shabbily lit roads.

“Can't we jus' sleep in the backseat?" Dave offered.

"What?” Jack asked, feeling his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“We can sleep in here and ya can drive us back tomorrow mornin’.”

“Here?” Jack asked, looking around the lot. “In my car?”

"Why not?"

In sync, they both craned their heads and looked to the backseat.

—--

Jack was too drunk to argue with it. At least, that’s what he kept telling himself.

Sleeping in a car was uncomfortable enough; but in his minorly drunk and majorly exhausted mind, anything made for a good enough bed. Insomnia be damned, he felt like he was going to fall asleep any second.

He leaned back in his seat and leaned his head against the window, arms crossed, and snuck a glance over at Dave, who was (as promised) staying on his respective side. Jack had made him keep a distance.

“Don’t try anything funny. I don’t wanna wake up with you drooling on me or something.”

“I’m stayin’ right here, Old Sport,” he promised.

“Good.”

“Good night, Old Sport.”

“‘Night,” Jack huffed back, and closed his eyes. Despite his usual chronic insomnia back at home, he drifted off to sleep easily enough.

—-

Jack blinked awake to the dusky, blurred early morning light coming in through the car windows. Looked like morning already. Time for another hour-long drive back home.

Jack, still feeling stupidly tired, sighed at the thought. He didn’t want to get up just yet. He was warm and it still seemed somewhat dark out.

Warm? Jack didn’t remember ever fixing the busted heating system in his car.

But, no, he’d definitely woken up to something comforting at his side. He wasn’t angled to look out of the window anymore, in fact, he had shifted over. Way over. Shifted… right next to Dave.

Well, that was sort of an understatement. He was leaning right against him, tucked into his side and with his arms wrapped around Dave in a koala hold.

Jack looked up at Dave’s sleeping, calm face— he’d never been so close to him— and noted that he was leaning against the car window with his arms folded, eyes closed and sleeping soundly, very much unaware of Jack literally fucking melting into his side.

He had indeed, and as promised, not moved from his spot; it was Jack that had somehow moved flush beside him in his sleep.

Well. This was sort of mortifying.

Jack still hadn’t moved to get away, for some reason. Probably shock. And also because he was groggily trying to figure out how this could’ve happened. That, combined with the fact that he was still very, very tired. Dave was obviously asleep, anyway.

But, really? One of the best night's sleep and it was in the backseat of a car? With Dave?

Nope, nope, he was packing that away to never, ever think about again.

Dave had begun to shift in his sleep, and Jack took it as a sign to shuffle away and back into his seat by the opposite window.

Dave blinked awake and attempted a stretch in the cramped seat. Jack watched him through the reflection in the glass as he silently panicked for his delayed departure from Dave’s side. Hopefully he hadn’t noticed.

Then, Dave turned tired eyes over to his side, where Jack had just been sleeping like a goddamned baby mere seconds before. The gears in his brain were definitely working. He must’ve felt something. Or remembered.

Jack finally turned around to face Dave and could only stare in mild horror at what he’d noticed.

In powdery traces along Dave’s shirt, on his shoulder and side especially, his orange makeup had rubbed off.

Fuck. There was no playing that off.

“Probably from… from yesterday, when we were leaving the restaurant,” Jack faltered, finding his voice and trying to play it cool.

More like tried and failed to play it cool. Dave shifted his gaze over to him, and Jack only quickly replied, “Don’t look at me like that. I just woke up, too.”

“I didn’t say nothin’,” Dave mumbled, voice still very much sleepy. That alone sent that stupid, fluttery feeling back into Jack's chest.

He blamed it on the hangover, realized he’d been staring, and then quickly opened the car door to get back into the driver's seat.

It was going to be an awkward drive back home.

Chapter Text

It was still nighttime in the parking lot when Dave woke up in the backseat.

Panic gripped him as he realized the time outside and the foreign interior. Instinctively, he even clutched at the car handle in shock before realizing the weight at his side.

Dave looked down, and his breath hitched at the sight. He stayed absolutely still.

The streetlights outside let in just enough light for Dave to see his Old Sport right against him, breathing softly, his hands drunkenly wrapped around Dave, fingers buried in the fabric of his shirt. He looked… calm. No snark and no sarcasm, for once, and just the quiet, even sound of his breathing.

Dave could only blink at the sight. Here he was, Old Sport— er, Jack— sleeping so close to him. With how much he’d drank at the restaurant, it was no wonder he was out like a light. He could hardly blame him.

As he watched him sleep, the dread wound tighter in his stomach as he thought about what Henry would do about all this.

The only thing Dave wanted was to lean into the embrace, brush that piece of hair from his face, something— but he willed himself to stay put. Old Sport could wake and he’d lose this delicate balance of tolerance they’d built. This was just a drunken exception. He needed to remember that.

But this, right now, was nice. Dave felt his eyelids weigh down in exhaustion, although he really didn’t want to fall asleep again. He wanted to stay awake, memorize this feeling, and watch his Old Sport sleep beside him so calmly.

Dave still didn’t dare to move or touch him. He focused on both the sound of Jack’s even breathing and the feeling of his hands wrapped around him until he fell right back asleep again.

——

By the time Dave woke again and found that it was morning, his Old Sport had already long shifted away from him.

He acted as if nothing happened at all, and soon enough they’d moved back to the front seats and fell back into a rhythm of normal conversation. No mention of what had just happened the night before. Not that they could ignore it— the orange makeup traces were hard not to take note of.

Old Sport still looked tired and like he was grappling with a mild hangover, but by now he definitely seemed more capable of driving a car.

Though, for Dave, the peace of the night before had melted away completely and he just couldn’t let himself relax. Yesterday, their long car ride was exciting; this time, it just built up the feeling of dread.

Henry would not like any of this.

Henry would ask him where he’d been. Henry would ask him what he’d been doing. Henry would be angry that he’d missed a meeting. Henry would be upset that he had nobody to bleed in his office.

Henry would—

“—What day even is it, Saturday?” Jack asked, tapping Dave out of his thoughts. He would never have any idea what sort of spiral he’d just knocked him out of.

“Uh,” Dave said, looking over to him. “Yeah. Saturday.”

“Any plans?”

“Sleep,” Dave replied in earnest. Then he glanced down to the shirt sleeve he hadn’t realized that he’d been fidgeting with, which was the same one with the orange makeup smudged against it. He still thought that it was pretty cute. “And maybe goin’ to the dry cleaners,” he tacked on with a small smile.

It felt nice, more normal to get back to using his joking tone with everything. That’s what he liked about his Old Sport. He could exist more easily.

What was even nicer was the charmingly puzzled look he’d had on his face as he asked, “Dry cleaners? For wh—?” He quickly glanced over, saw his shirt, and sighed. “Oh. Yeah. Uh. Listen, I don’t know what you… think happened, but—”

“—I get it. Don’t worry, Old Sport,” Dave interjected, and enjoyed the flushed look on Jack’s face in turn.

“You… get it?”

“I think I get enough.”

“Okay,” he replied back quickly, gripping his steering wheel just a bit tighter. “Well. Add it to the list of things we’re just not ever gonna talk about.”

Dave shrugged but mentally added it to the list of things he could tease Jack about.

After a few silent minutes of driving, he asked Dave, “So, where do you live?”

It was a simple thing to ask, but Dave had been dreading this particular question since yesterday night. He prayed that Jack wouldn’t question his reply.

“Jus’ drop me off at the restaurant,” he answered him, putting a casual tone into his voice.

“Restaurant?” Jack scoffed. “Place is closed— nobody’s gonna be there.”

Dave realized he was tapping his foot and willed it to stop. “It’s fine,” he assured him. “I’ll walk home from there. It’s okay, Old Sport.”

He was silently pleading for him to drop it. He felt nothing but more panic as he spotted his Old Sport’s eyebrows only further furrow in confusion.

“Oh, come on. I’m not gonna be an ass,” Jack insisted, and Dave just felt awful. “Just tell me where you live and I’ll drop you off, no problem.”

It hurt like hell to decline at his Old Sport’s rare politeness. But he couldn’t risk anything.

“Pizzeria’s fine.”

They had reached a red light. Jack turned to look over at him, an unreadable tension in his shoulders but a concern in his eyes he seemed too hungover to try and hide. He stayed quiet, but the look on his face showed honest confusion. He knew something was up.

“Please, Jack,” Dave then begged, quietly, and the genuine pleading in his voice looked like it startled his Old Sport a little.

After probably reeling from the use of his name for a second, he turned to face forward again and let out a sigh. “Okay. Fine.”

——

He’d dropped Dave off at the pizzeria’s front steps and gave him one last genuinely worried look, which only made Dave want to get right back in the car again just for the sake of not being alone.

And with just the sound of tires crunching on asphalt, he drove off. Dave silently watched his car go down the street until it disappeared around a corner. That was the last of his Old Sport that he would get to see until after the weekend. And the fact hurt.

At least he had his phone to call him with. Unless, of course, Henry decided to take the battery again.

Recently, the temperature was beginning to drop outside. And the cold wind that followed Dave home only underlined that feeling of dread occupying every corner of his mind. He wanted to be upset, but… didn’t know who to blame.

Henry, for his strictness? No. He did it for him.

Old Sport? No, that was a laughable idea. He was perfect.

Dave himself, for staying so late? Yes, he was probably the most reasonable person to pin this on. He should’ve been keeping track of time.

He took his time walking home, but was faced with the same old wooden front door soon enough anyway. Dave stared at the keyhole for a long moment, just breathing and trying to tie away that feeling of guilt as best he could. Which was not very well.

He pushed the door open and stepped inside, hoping for… something. Or maybe hoping against something. He wasn’t sure himself.

He wished he’d never had to leave his Old Sport, he wished he could’ve stayed in his car forever. He wished he could never leave his side. Because he never had to sneak around Old Sport, or wonder if he was going to be mad at him for something.

He saw him, he knew him, and he… was okay with him. That meant something.

It was still pretty early in the morning, so Dave softened his footsteps even more than usual as he made his way to his room. He had it down to an art by now.

Heel, step, heel, step…

But it didn’t matter.

Because then Dave heard a creak against the old floorboards, a noise he was sure he wasn’t the cause of. He slowly turned and at the end of the hall stood Henry, eyes darkened with anger and standing unnaturally still.

“William. Where have you been?” he spoke, a thick impatience evident in his voice.

Dave swallowed hard and gathered his words. “Well, uh, ya know, they needed me a bit later yesterday at work, so then I stayed the night too,” he explained meekly, and took exactly one step further up the stairs when Henry spoke again.

“Come back here.”

He knew he wouldn’t get away with this.

Dave did as he said, turning and stepping back down the stairs, trying not to let any sort of emotion show on his face. He knew Henry hated that.

“Don’t lie to me. You know I don’t like it.”

“I’m not,” Dave lied anyway, trying to keep eye contact.

And, oh, jeez, what was he doing? He never lied to Henry. It never, ever ended well.

But it was an instant reaction on Dave’s part— keep Henry and Old Sport separate. He could understand everything that Henry did for him, but for whatever reason, he simply refused to let Henry encroach between him and Old Sport. Not the one good thing in his measly life. The one thing that brought him happiness. And he did not want to hear his Old Sport’s name in Henry’s chilling voice— it would probably ruin it forever.

So, yes, he lied. To his face.

“You’re not?” Henry repeated.

Dave shook his head. Lying again.

“I’m not sure I believe that, William. Where were you yesterday evening?” he asked again, each word deliberate and low.

“I was at work.”

Henry stared at him for a long while, and for Dave, it felt like staring up at a guillotine blade. Then his pink face broke into a dull smile before he turned and walked in the direction of his study room.

Dave wasn’t sure what to do. Was he free to go? Would he be coming back?

“Are you dense?” Henry’s voice eventually snapped. “Follow me.”

Dave was at his heels in an instant.

—-

Why did he stay with Henry, despite it all? It was really simple.

Every time he looked at Henry, for a single, fleeting moment he saw him as he was before– the protective ringmaster who took him in as his own, who washed his plate after dinner and let him work on the animatronics alongside him.

When Henry first took him in, he was something close to kind. He would tutor in engineering, circuitry, bionics. He showed him what it meant to have big dreams, to make magic happen, to build and to make something special. To have joy in creating. And to a kid like Dave, an orphan no less, it was the most amazing thing.

He still stuck by his side, after all these years. Even after every drop of spilled blood and every sharpened blade and every other bloodied thing they’d done together, Dave could forgive him. He always did. He was shaping him into something better than he could’ve ever become on his own.

Henry had sat down at his desk.

From across the room, Dave saw the cigarette Henry had taken from him before, lying on his tabletop. Old Sport’s cigarette; the one he’d given to him that day. Dave wistfully realized that it’d never be his again.

Right beside it sat a new piece of machinery, shiny and new. It looked like something from an animatronic endoskeleton suit, or at least just the sleeve of it. That vaguely unsettled Dave.

“Come here,” Henry demanded briskly.

As soon as he had walked within reach, Henry grabbed his forearm tightly and, with the other hand, measured the metal sleeve up against it.

“Uh,” Dave stuttered, instinctively leaning away. “Hey, wha… What’s this?”

“Springlocks,” Henry stated plainly.

He got to work opening up the sleeve, and put Dave’s arm— which was starting to shake— stiffly inside of it. He gave a firm tug when Dave wouldn’t stop flinching away.

“Um, I won’t— I wouldn’t ever question ya, but, is this, um,” he stammered through his words. “Safe?” He hated how thick his accent got when he was scared.

Henry sighed and continued picking at the metal sleeve, which was wrapped all around his forearm now. “I’m testing this model. They will get set off at the slightest movement, so stay still.”

He flinched anyway, trying to steady his shaking arm.

“Don’t move, idiot. Did you not hear what I said?”

“I’m— um, sorry,” he mumbled, the words only half formed.

He wanted to inch away from Henry as far as possible, but his hand was firmly locked in the sleeve. He mumbled more stupid apologies but stayed put.

He was no stranger to being a tester for Henry’s machines, but this felt off.

“Listen to me, Willy,” Henry began. “You know what I told you all those years ago, don’t you? When I found you, a pathetic girl on the streets? I said to you, stick with me, and only me, through everything, and we’ll be stars. Do you remember?” he said, holding onto his hand even tighter.

Dave nodded slightly, wondering where this was going but too afraid to consider any reasons. “‘Course I do…”

“I need you to be very honest with me here, Willy. Just like you always are with me.”

Dave just couldn’t stop his eyes from flicking between the springlock sleeve back to Henry.

Then, slowly, Henry reached back over to his desk and plucked up the cigarette, holding it in view for them both. “Where did you get this?”

He didn’t like where this was going. “It’s mine?” he said, lying again.

“You do not smoke,” Henry instantly shot back. “You hate the smell whenever I do it. Who gave this to you?”

It was terrifying, the way he could gather all that from a single cigarette. “I bought a pack, before work one mornin’,” Dave muttered out, still very aware of the fragile metal around his arm. “It’s— it’s mine.”

Lying again. Henry only squinted slightly at him before pulling Dave closer by the sleeve.

“You seem awfully busy these days,” he said to him, voice steeled. “You come home later than usual. Or not at all. Is there somebody else who you’ve been spending your time with? Somebody you’ve been sharing smokes with?”

The pure dread in Dave’s eyes seemed to be answer enough for Henry, because he smiled.

Dave felt the color drain from his face as he stammered through a thick laugh, “No. I mean, hah, what? No— No, that, that’s crazy. I work m’ shift and go home, Henry, like I always do.”

It was like Henry didn’t hear any of his words. “I cannot have you losing your focus.”

“Focus? I’m focused, I’m always focused, I know how hard ya work, how hard we work, and… What— what is that?”

Henry didn’t look down, but Dave heard the springlocks slowly and quietly click their way unloose. He knew he heard it. They both did.

“What’s that sound?” he asked in a small voice. His eyes burned with tears. “Henry? I swear I’m tellin’ the truth, please, I swear—“

“Shut up.”

Any second now.

——

Dave bandaged his arm in his room alone.

He tried to call Jack, but his hand hurt too much to work the buttons.

——

…

——

“I don’t get it,” Jack said bluntly, talking to Dave as he worked on unlocking his employee locker in the back room. “You get hit by a bike, and all you have is a… fractured wrist?”

Lying to Henry was bad enough. Lying to Old Sport felt like torture.

Dave was only distantly aware of his skeptical question. He was much too focused on how the corner of Jack’s eyes crinkled in concern whenever he got worried, like they were right now. He remembered how his eyes had widened momentarily in alarm when he first caught sight of Dave’s bandaged forearm.

And his bandages– yes, sure, Dave could admit he did a shoddy job. It was the only few rounds of gauze he’d managed to wrap in his dizzy state of mind that night. It still hurt horribly, but at the very least it was covered.

It was early in the morning at the restaurant, and Dave knew his Old Sport would’ve been here, working the early shift as he always did. And he also knew that he’d notice his screwed-up hand eventually, so he decided to get this whole talk over with already. Plus, it gave him an excuse to get out of the house earlier.

“What can I say, Old Sport? Watch for those rogue cyclists,” Dave replied casually, leaning against the door and watching him as he poked through his locker. “Some punk on a bike jus’ drove right through me.”

Jack sighed. “I can’t believe you. ‘Look both ways before you cross the street’— ever heard that piece of advice? In kindergarten, maybe?” he teased, hanging up his coat in his employee locker.

“Must’ve slipped my mind.”

“And you didn’t even call to tell me,” he added instead, closing the locker and turning to face him.

Dave buried the urge to tell him he couldn’t and mused back, “What, did ya want me to?”

To his surprise, Jack cocked his head to the side, staring at his hand. “Kinda,” he heard him say under his breath.

That was… new. And an odd show of honesty in the usually emotionally absent person that was Jack.

Dave deflected the only way he knew how to. A joke. “I’ll make sure to stand in traffic next week and call ya up, then.”

“Well, aren’t you just hilarious?” Jack responded sarcastically. He shut his locker and faced Dave with his eyebrows raised. “Ever consider a career in comedy?”

“Magician would suit me better, I think. They’re not just spittin’ jokes into a dead crowd.”

Old Sport laughed a little at that— it was a nice sound. “Let me know how it goes.”

“Well, then, maybe ya could join me,” he teased with a smile. “Be the magician's assistant.”

He scoffed in reply, working his locker's padlock. “The magician's assistant doesn’t do shit.”

“‘Course not. They’re just there to be distractin’ eye candy— you’re perfect for that.”

Old Sport had been trying to lock up his locker, but then his hands fumbled at Dave’s words. That was fun to see.

He turned to glare at Dave with a flushed look on his face. “Scratch the magician career. You should look into writing sappy Valentine’s Day card greetings.”

Dave smiled. “You’ve heard all my best stuff already.”

—-

Dave didn’t think Jack would point out his bandages or his supposed ‘bike injury’ again, except to tease him or maybe scare kids in the pizzeria into behaving.

And he did do that, but mostly he stayed quiet about the whole thing. Dave could catch him staring at the bandages every once in a while, though. Dave was trying his hardest to ignore the pain, so his ever-constant reminders were not helping much.

Dave was looking over the dining room, debating on slipping outside to take a break, when Jack grabbed him by the shoulder and pulled him into an empty party room. Dave looked at him, confused by the suddenness of it all. He shut the door behind them.

“What?” Dave asked, genuinely confused.

“Be honest with me here. When did this happen, exactly?” his Old Sport questioned, pointing at his bandaged forearm, careful not to touch it. “And how?”

Oh, no, here it was— he knew he was lying, and was finally calling him out on it. Dave felt panic rise up in his chest, but responded in what he hoped was a natural tone of voice.

“Biker drove into me, Old Sport,” he assured, doubling back down on his lie. “Like I said.”

“When you were walking home?”

“No?” Dave replied, staring at the hand still on his shoulder, making it up as he went, because he’d never stopped to plan out the exact details of his lie. “It was, um, yesterday.”

Jack looked away, a mixture of relief but confusion on his face. “Oh.”

“Are ya gonna let go of me so we can go back t’ work or…”

“Um,” Jack said back quickly, letting go of his shoulder. “I actually thought, for a while, that it was my fault… uh, I thought that maybe, when I dropped you off at the pizzeria all hungover to walk home alone, that you got hit then.”

“Oh,” Dave breathed, grappling with the fact that his Old Sport was apparently concerned enough to care or even ask.

“But I guess not,” Jack restated quickly, probably anxious to move on from the misunderstanding. Then he looked down at his arm. “Also, you’re bleeding.”

Dave looked down at the drips of blood, and before he could say anything in reply, Jack returned with a first aid kit. He began rummaging through it for more gauze.

They kept the kits in every party room, since accidents were– unsurprisingly– very common. Especially in rooms where the animatronics performed.

“Here,” Jack said, handing over the gauze. “You good on wrapping this yourself?”

“Yeah, ‘course,” Dave nodded, taking the spool and sitting down at a chair, getting to work. He felt Old Sport watching him for a few moments, arms crossed and clearly with something he wanted to say. Probably to critique how badly he was working the gauze.

But then Jack got up and began tidying the room, straightening out tablecloths and such; because if he had to stay in here with Dave then he might as well do something mildly productive. Though, Dave couldn’t help but wonder why he stayed in the room anyway. This wasn’t his problem, not even a little bit.

Caught between his thoughts and a painful hand injury, Dave’s wrapping was not going too well. The bandage kept falling off, and he couldn’t get a right angle.

“Just let me do it.”

Jack had appeared next to him.

Dave wished he had some joke or quip for the moment but came up with nothing.

“Fine,” he mumbled, and handed over the first aid supplies to him. Jack took them and pulled up a chair beside him.

“You could act a little nicer about it,” Old Sport huffed back as he worked, though Dave knew he was just teasing. “With all the gauze you were using, it looked like you were gonna mummify yourself.”

“And you could do better?”

“At least I’ve got two hands that haven’t been run over by a toddler on a tricycle.”

He liked that his Old Sport was even comfortable enough to joke more around him, and that fact made him forget about the stinging in his forearm for a moment.

As Jack tore off new pieces of bandage, the edges got stained with his orange makeup, just a little. Barely notable, unless you were as close to Dave as Jack was right now.

“Sorry. Shit gets everywhere, I swear,” his Old Sport muttered, tearing off another piece.

It was fine, Dave wanted to say. And he kept staring at the traces— it was like real, visual proof that his Old Sport cared. At least a little.

“At least I’ve got a matchin’ shirt at home,” he joked.

“Ugh. Are you still on that?”

“Maybe a bit.” And Dave continued watching him wrap his forearm in silence.

Oh, he was slipping. Definitely. Which was not a good sign, but something within him argued back, and, and…

Being treated gently felt so good. And he wasn't sure if he ever wanted it to stop. He had just watched in silence as his Old Sport replaced the bloodied bandage with a new one, and he felt a million miles away from Henry.

There was no doubt that his Old Sport had noticed the weird pattern of the injury; there was no doubt that he knew this wasn’t from a bike accident. But he didn’t say anything except to glance up at Dave in confusion once.

Dave didn’t want to tell him anything about that. All he really wanted was for Jack to hold him close and tell him it’d be all okay, or tell him something like, of course he could get through a few hard years with Henry, of course he was so strong for enduring this, of course Henry was proud of him. Only then would he maybe believe any of it– maybe if he heard Jack say it.

But he could not reveal too much. God forbid he blurt something out or overstep, bewilder his Old Sport, fray their odd genre of friendship…

His pathetic little mental spiral was exposed as one when his Old Sport finally spoke. He’d finished wrapping his forearm, with his old bandages totally replaced with a new one.

“Good?” he asked him, letting go of his hand.

Dave looked over the bandages and nodded; that seemed to calm out the worried look on Jack’s face, at least a little.

Ah, Henry was right. He was definitely losing his focus, because not being around his Old Sport felt like dying.

Chapter Text

“So. Health inspection tomorrow, employee.”

Steven was probably saying something important to him; Jack couldn’t find it in him to truly pay attention or care.

He kept an eye on the security screens in the office, which were diligently displaying the current time in blinking numbers. Just a few more boring hours and he could leave.

It was only boring because Dave had left work early again today. Another doctor's appointment, apparently.

His arm was still bandaged up these days, and given how weird Jack remembered the injury looking, he was honestly grateful that he had that appointment. He’d practically pushed him out the door when he said he had to go.

Of course, as soon as Dave had left, Jack was faced with the mildly miserable prospect of having to get through the rest of the day all on his own. Flipping off Matt and telling kids there were bugs in the soda fountain just didn’t feel as fun without Dave.

And that included getting pulled aside by Phoney for some one-on-one meeting.

“Health inspection?” Jack repeated. “Okay. Cool. Tell Matt, he’s the only biohazard around here.”

It was as if Steven had ignored every word of what he’d just said, which, in all honesty, he probably did.

“You're fired!" Steven exclaimed cheerfully.

Jack’s eyes snapped over to him. "What?"

“Just kidding. I’m not… really firing you, employee, as much as I think you deserve it. It's just for a day."

"I bet that was fun to say,” Jack muttered under his breath.

“It was. Anyway, because of the inspection, and since I think it's morally and federally wrong to have a corpse serving pizza to kids, I thought the best idea was to get rid of you for a day. What do you think, employee? A nice, fun, unpaid vacation day?"

Jack mulled through the logic. Well, duh he’d be fine with a day off. But his thoughts wandered to another detail.

“What about Dave?" he asked.

Steven tilted his head and gave him a look.

“I was getting to that," he added, dial turning slightly in his equivalent of narrowed eyes. “This applies to him, too. Call him in here and I’ll tell him.”

“Uh,” Jack stopped, looking around the room. “He’s out.”

Steven shrugged his words off. “I don’t care if he’s smoking or dying, get him in here.”

“No, like, he left.”

“For heck’s sa–” Steven half-cussed, before looking at him sternly. “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

Jack shrugged innocently.

Steven must’ve been growing skeptical, because he asked, “Did he pay you to say that, employee?”

“No?”

An oddly long silence enveloped them.

"You seem to really be getting along well with him,” Steven noted eventually.

Weird. Vague. Jack didn’t like his tone. "Why do you care?"

"I don't," Steven defended, crossing his arms. “Just observing.”

“Isn’t that the point, anyway?” Jack countered, feeling oddly defensive. “You said you hired him to help me out around here.”

“Sure. Help out the restaurant. That’s what everyone’s here for.” He turned slightly to look at the security screens. “Well, where’d he go?”

“I dunno,” Jack said, lying mostly for the sake of lying. “Isn’t it your job to keep tabs on employees?”

Steven chose to ignore his snark. “Just get back to work, alright, employee? And tell Dave about tomorrow. And lose the attitude.”

That was too much to promise. At that point, Steven should’ve been grateful whenever Jack didn’t burn down the place after every shift.

“I won’t,” he huffed out. Just to piss him off.

Because then Jack left the room and immediately took out his cellphone to call Dave.

He was walking back into the dining area, phone pressed to his ear as he sent glares to the screaming, unsupervised children running by. He tucked himself away into a quieter corner and listened as the line rang and rang.

Nobody picked up. He got emptied into voicemail. Jack frowned at the small screen and dialed again, waiting for that telltale click sound that signaled someone had picked up.

It never came. The line just kept ringing until it went to voicemail again.

Jack was forced to face that feeling of mild disappointment as he stared at the idling screen. He’d sort of wanted to complain about Steven to him, too. The whole day, really.

He didn’t have the energy to lie about it to himself anymore; He liked, no, wait— tolerated Dave’s company. Enough to notice his absence. That was all. He kept things interesting, and saying that was as far as Jack would be willing to cut it.

Dave wasn’t the only person he talked to, anyway. Jack could have a normal conversation with other people. Duh. He’d go and prove it right now.

He had just ended his last attempt at a call when a grating, annoying voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Sounds like the line got disconnected,” someone said to him.

Jack looked over and– oh, great– the ultimate test had just presented itself: Matt, in his prize corner, looking at him with a plasticky smile. Eugh.

Jack groaned and snapped back, “Oh, shut up. Don’t eavesdrop on me, virgin.”

“I’m not. You’re standing right there.”

Jack hadn’t really realized he’d been standing near the prize corner, but in all fairness, Matt stayed so still most people forgot he was there. Usually a blessing. Until he started talking.

“Shut up,” Jack shot back again. It was the usual reply reserved for conversations with Matt.

But then he remembered he was trying to prove to himself that he could be nice to other people. He rethought his words and said again, a bit more nicely, “I mean. Um. What’s up?”

Matt hadn’t reacted to his insults before, but now he looked downright horrified. “What?”

“What are you… up to?” he hesitated. The words almost made him physically sick.

Matt looked around them as if he was about to be the recipient of some prank. “Do you, um, need something from me?”

“No? I’m just talking.”

Matt still looked terrified. “You’re scaring me.”

It sort of hit Jack what he was doing, exactly, and he felt pretty much equally horrified. What was he doing? One day without Dave and he’d resorted to talking to Matt? God, he really was attached.

“Oh, jeez,” Jack mumbled in disbelief, mostly to himself. “Fuck this.”

Matt kept looking around warily, probably wondering if Jack was high or playing some elaborate joke on him. “Where’s Dave?” he asked somewhat nervously.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“Because you’re his Old Spo–”

Jack literally recoiled at the sound of Dave’s nickname in his voice. “--Do not fucking call me that,” he snapped, interrupting him.

Matt put a hand up in confusion. “Huh? How come I can’t call you Ol–?”

“Don’t say it,” Jack snarled, cutting him off again.

Matt went quiet and seemed to rethink his words. “How come Dave can call you… that… and I can’t?”

“Because I don’t like you.”

Their conversation was reaching a level of grossness Jack was not able to handle, so with a final roll of the eyes, he made an immediate beeline right outside. And he didn’t even cuss Matt out as he left, which was not a display of his kindness but rather just how much he despised him.

Jack shut the door behind him and suppressed a groan. There was a biting chill in the air, but at least he was alone. It looked like his plan to prove that he could hold a conversation with other people went totally sour.

Though, it was weird to think that Dave had wedged his way into such a position in his life. He hadn’t even realized how it happened, or when.

As Jack took out his cigarettes, his mind roamed.

He kept thinking back to that afternoon in the party room, after his curiosity got the best of him and he’d asked Dave about his injury.

And while Jack had steadied his arm and rewrapped the injury, trying to keep his thoughts in a straight line— pun intended— what he really wanted to do was ask what had really caused it.

Bicycle was a pathetic excuse.

But what did it matter if Dave had lied about it, anyway? Jack lied to him all the time. Like about his name, or his… Well… Huh.

Jack didn’t want to consider the idea that something about Dave compelled him to be honest in a place where he otherwise fabricated every aspect of his personality.

But even days later, he still couldn’t get Dave’s stupid face out of his head. Watching Jack in awed silence as he tore off strips of gauze and wrapped his forearm. He’d kept staring at him like he’d hung the stars.

Jeez, it was just wrapping a new bandage around his arm— it wasn’t like he proposed marriage or anything. Only Dave had ever done that.

—-

Dave still hadn’t responded to any of his calls. After a while, Jack just resorted to leaving a voicemail telling him about the inspection.

—-

The end of the admittedly very long day finally came. It was a cold, quiet walk to the parking lot for Jack.

He got into his car, stared at the spot in the backseat where they had slept for a totally normal amount of time, and then drove home.

Another evening of watching reality TV and… well, that was about it. But even that was proving difficult: all the channels these days were sappy Christmas rom-coms. ‘Tis the season, he supposed.

He instead opted to go to sleep early, and by sleep he meant stare at his ceiling and try to drift off. And fail, of course.

He almost called Dave again, and he’d barely picked up his phone when he brushed off the idea completely. This was starting to look way too desperate on Jack’s end.

—-

The next day was not any more thrilling. Jack ended up at a mall, shopping for panini presses, because he literally had nothing better to do. The idea of spending another afternoon at home had felt less than appealing.

And he needed a new one, anyway. Jack wasn’t really picky when it came to panini makers— was anyone?— so once he found the cheapest one he could afford, he hauled it onto the register counter.

“Welcome,” the cashier greeted lazily. “Is this all you’ll be checking out today?”

“It’s all I put down, so, yeah,” Jack responded, only half-listening as he pulled out his phone just to check if anyone had called him.

“We’ve got a store-wide deal on panini presses. Two for one.”

“I’m not interested,” he replied flatly. He was no stranger to underpaid workers trying to make customers accept weird sales offers— he was one of them.

“Are you sure? It’s a good deal. Two panini presses for the price of one.”

Jack frowned at the dude. “I don’t care. I don't need a second one.”

The cashier blinked. The way a lizard blinks before it licks its eye. “It's two for one.”

Jack narrowed his eyes. “I have one panini press here. One. I’m not a two. I’m a one. What’s not clicking?”

A familiar, accented voice piped up behind him. “Well, I think you’re a solid ten, Old Sport!”

Jack barely had to turn around— sure enough, it was Dave– who had strolled up right beside him wearing a big, lopsided smile.

Jack could only blink in shock at his sudden appearance. More oddly, he felt something like relief. Relief, of course, that Dave was not dead in a ditch and ignoring his calls.

Dave’s typical purple work uniform had been replaced with a more casual outfit, with no badge. He had long sleeves on, but peeking out along the cuff of one he could spot the gauze.

His arm still had the exact same bandages that Jack had wrapped on them a few days ago. At least the orange had faded somewhat.

“Hi,” Dave greeted brightly, when he still hadn’t said anything back.

Meanwhile, Jack was still reeling at the fact that he was here, somehow. “What… are you doing here?”

Dave clasped his hands behind his back and beamed, “Shoppin’!”

“Shoppin’?” Jack repeated, imitating his accent. Then he shook his head. “Alright, well, hi, I guess. Did you… get my calls?”

He nodded. “Don’t worry, I heard your cute little voicemail. My phone, though— it, uh, had a dead battery,” he explained apologetically. “Sorry! Anyway, what a coincidence! I saw ya from across the store!”

“You saw me? We’re in a whole mall, and you saw me?”

Dave tilted his head to the side, smiling as if running into Jack had been the highlight of his day so far. “You’ve got a recognizable figure.”

Jack blew air out of his nose. “Sure.”

Gosh, it actually felt nice to be talking to someone he actually halfway liked as a person again— Jack didn’t even realize he was smiling.

The moment didn’t last long, though, since the cashier interrupted and dashed through the conversation.

“Excuse me? Are you two paying together or something?”

Jack turned back to the guy. “What? Oh,” he stumbled. “No.”

“Yes,” Dave cut in, pulling something out. He nudged Jack with his elbow. “Watch this, Old Sport. It’s like burnin’ money.”

He plucked a pen from the cashier's side and began writing on something from his pocket. Jack tried to get a better look at what, exactly, he was doing. “Is that…?”

“Phoney’s checkbook? Yeah.”

“You’re…?”

“Gonna write this off as a company expense? Yeah.”

“But, it’s a… panini press…”

But with nothing more than a quick once-over, the cashier took the check, put Jack’s purchase in a bag, and flatly wished them a good day.

Wow. He was really surprised that it had worked. Looking over at Dave with a mild look of disbelief and picking up his shopping bag, Jack huffed, “You’re nuts. You don’t think he’ll notice eventually?”

Dave shrugged and smoothly slipped the shopping bag off of Jack’s arm to carry it for him.

They were walking out of the store together. Jack resorted to throwing him a tired look that just said, ‘Really?’

“I haven’t seen ya all day,” he simpered in reply. “Let me be nice. And I think I’ll be the first to say it, Old Sport: Yes, I did miss ya.”

Jack looked up at him and sighed. “I wasn’t gonna say anything.”

He pointed at him with his free hand. “You smiled when ya saw me.”

“Sun was in my eyes,” Jack defended.

“We’re inside a shoppin’ mall.”

Jack just smiled. “Still.”

“Oh, I see. Blinded by my good looks, right?”

Jack wrinkled his nose in a sneer at him, though with no real malice behind it. Dave only seemed to only find it funny.

“Oh, and I wanted to ask,” he began, putting a casual hand on Jack’s shoulder. “Where do ya wanna go for lunch?”

Jack frowned. “Who said anything about..?”

“Aw, come on. I came all this way!”

Jack thought it over. He eventually shook his head in resignation. “Okay, fine, I guess. But, again?”

“Last time was dinner, and the time before that was brunch,” he explained helpfully. As if that cleared anything up.

Jack just stared at the hand still on his shoulder, still not shrugging it off. “We seem to be hanging out a lot.”

“And yet I don’t hear ya complainin’, Old Sport.”

Guess he was right. “Well. Fine, then. Not like we have anything better to do.”

“We sure don’t!”

—-

And that was how Jack found himself at another restaurant. Sharing a table with Dave Miller and a panini press. Naturally, it was an AppleBee’s.

Jack didn’t order anything, since he wasn’t hungry to begin with. But as he watched Dave scarf down his food, Jack told him about his dreary day at work. Dave had scowled and shook his head accordingly. It felt nice to talk.

They lulled into a shared silence after a while, just sipping at their drinks and such. Jack watched as Dave held his fork awkwardly, trying not to move his bandaged forearm so much.

Jack hadn’t even said anything about his arm, but Dave looked up anyway and must’ve known exactly what he was thinking.

“It’s fine. Getting better,” he insisted, before going back to his food.

“I didn’t…” Jack mentally shook that off and took it as a sign to bring up a different conversation topic. “Um. What brought you here, anyway? To a mall?”

“Bored. Needed to distract myself. And look how perfect it all turned out— I ran into you!”

“I distract you?”

He hadn’t even realized what words had come out of his mouth until Dave’s features melted into one of slight surprise.

“Sure ya do, Sportsy,” he cooed. “In the very best way.”

Sportsy?

Something thin and quiet snuck over them; it was that feeling, and as Jack looked at him, he couldn’t think of anything to say as he struggled to grapple with the amused expression on Dave’s face.

And before Jack could find his voice again, Dave glanced away and resumed normal conversation. About the economics of burrito bowls, naturally.

He could tell something was exchanged in that heartbeat of a moment, but just couldn’t place what. Jack tried to pretend that it never happened.

Dave finished his meal eventually. “Good shit, Old Sport. I swear, we should become food critics or somethin’.”

“The only place we ever really go to is AppleBee’s,” he pointed out to him.

Dave didn’t let that dash his dreams. “AppleBee’s critics. It’ll be our niche. And every day we’d have an excuse to eat somewhere new. Ain’t that jus’ cute?”

“Adorable,” Jack deadpanned. He knew there was no use in trying to defend from Dave’s vague statements anymore.

“I mean it, though,” Dave said to him. “One day, we should totally quit.”

“Yeah? Well, I’m not gonna quit my job,” Jack stated. “And you just barely got here, anyway.”

“Still. I dunno how ya do it all this time. I mean, really, how come ya stick around?”

He’d asked him this before.

“I’ve got… a connection to the company. I guess.”

“Oh?” Dave questioned, wiping his mouth. “What, Phoney’s got dirt on ya or somethin’?”

“No, nothing like that. It was…”

He paused and debated whether or not to tell the truth, and how much of it. This was always a sore subject.

Jack was always naturally distant. People caused problems, so he stayed far away— that was his motto. But here, he was already talking to Dave about something he never told anyone about.

It was unsettling to have his usual logic interrupted by something, someone no less. Dave was starting to become a lot more than just a coworker he could bounce jokes off of. That was scary. But also, not so bad.

But what finally convinced him to keep talking was the sincere look on Dave’s face he saw when he eventually looked up again.

“It’s my sister,” Jack started. “She… died at one of the locations. I mean, they didn’t say that, but everyone knows it. Ever since, I’ve been trying to find out how and why she died. I thought maybe, if I worked here, I could figure it all out.”

Dave was unnaturally still. Jack hadn’t even used the murder word. But he supposed this wasn’t the most usual conversation topic in the first place.

“Ya never told me that.”

“Never had any reason to,” he mumbled back, picking at the edge of the table. It was true.

He couldn't place what, exactly, compelled him to tell Dave about any of this. But with the way he was looking at him, patient and quiet, it just came out.

“What about the police?” Dave asked.

“No help. I could see why, I guess. It’s sort of a lost cause anyway. Dead end is the better word for it, maybe. I really don’t want to say I’ve… given up, or anything, but the company’s such a damn cesspool, and Phoney doesn’t even let me on the computer. It’s just–” he cut himself off, running a hand through his hair.

He looked up, and it was such a small motion, but Dave nodded for him to go on.

“It’s rough,” he concluded. “That’s all.”

It felt good to tell someone about that. At least a bit.

“What was her name?”

That was the last thing Jack had expected him to ask, and he hesitated with his reply. This was… a big step. He’d never told anyone about any of this, her name especially.

Though, he’d come this far. “Her name was D—”

“--Oh my goodness, it’s you two!”

A very happy woman's voice cut right through his words. Seemed like their waiter had finally rolled around. “I thought I recognized you!” she went on, despite Jack’s shocked look. “From– oh, what was it? A few weeks back, I think— yep, at that other location! Oh, it was just the cutest thing, and the news spread so fast! How’s it going for you two?”

Right. Their impromptu proposal.

“Amazing,” Jack answered to her flatly, sending Dave a death glare. Seemed like the universe just wouldn’t let him catch a break. Dave, meanwhile, had cracked an unwavering smile at the whole thing.

“That’s just so lovely to hear. Really.” She set down the bill between them and said with a smile, “Here’s your check.”

Dave watched as the woman left. “Not a day goes by where I regret having done that,” he cooed through a smile, before turning back to face Jack. He seemed to remember something, and asked, “Oh, um. You were sayin’?”

“Never… nevermind,” he dismissed, all of a sudden remembering all the swoony stuff Dave had said to him last time they ate together. “I’ll tell you later.”

With a vaguely dejected look on his face, Dave nodded.

Jack didn’t even want to look at the amount on the check. Whatever it was, it was probably too much for either of them to pay. Jack had half-planned on shoplifting his panini press, anyway. And he didn’t even have to ask if Dave was broke or not.

He sighed at the amount. “Maybe announce our divorce this time?” he joked.

Dave shook his head as he plucked the check from his hands. “They won’t believe it,” he mused back. “Here, we’ll just let our good friend Phonefuck take care of this.”

And with that, he pulled out his checkbook again.

—-

“Your arm’s still busted,” Jack noted, as they left the restaurant.

“They tend to do that when ya get hit by a car.”

Jack frowned. “Thought it was a bike.”

Dave shrugged. “Same thing.”

“Not really. You know what I think? I think you’re a shitty liar around me.”

Dave turned to face him with a cautious smile. “What?”

“How’d this happen? And don’t say bike, or a car. I saw the scars.”

“Don't worry about it,” Dave said, very unconvincingly. “It’s gettin’ better.”

“It’s not about that, dude. Did you do it to yourself?”

Dave looked at him oddly, eyebrows furrowed but still smiling.“No?”

“Did someone else do it? Were you in a fight or something?”

“It was just an accident. Damn, you’re a stubborn shit, Old Sport, and usually I love that, but this ain’t the time.”

“Be serious,” Jack insisted, since he starting to lose his patience. “Tell me what happene—”

Dave pressed a finger to his lips, but Jack yanked his arm away. “That’s not gonna work on me.”

“Not today? Gosh, Old Sport, you’re so hard to romance.”

He knew Dave was desperately trying to change the topic in the only way he knew how to, but it was still frustrating. And Jack wouldn’t let this go.

“Quit deflecting. Answer the question.”

Dave looked away and sighed. “Okay.”

“I’m waiting.”

“Here it goes,” he breathed, still very obviously not answering. “Here’s the answer.”

“Stop stalling or I’ll—“

The rest of his words were drowned out by the shrill sound of an alarm. Jack looked over and, yep, Dave had pulled the fucking fire alarm. Instantly, the sprinklers above activated, sending streaks of cold water down across the mall floor.

Even though the shock of the cold water took the breath out of his lungs, Jack still was able to turn to Dave and snap, “You sack of sh—“

Through the sheets of water, Jack felt Dave grab him by the shoulder and steer him toward an exit, big smile on his lips all the while.

—-

“It’s ruined.”

After some commotion, they had ended up sitting on a bench outside, drenched in water, listening to the distant sound of fire trucks pulling away.

It was still afternoon and the sun was starting to dip away— those damned short winter months. It was cold out, but the one good thing about being legally dead was not having to worry too much about weather forecasts.

Jack had taken out his panini press from its soggy cardboard box and was staring at it glumly. As soon as he’d opened it, a cascade of water streaked out of every crevice. He set it on his lap and looked it over.

Dave, of course, pitied his dilemma and let him sulk in silence for a while before he assured him, “Ah, I bet it’s not ruined, Old Sport. Give it here.”

Jack let him reach over to take it from him. It was a piece of scrap metal now, anyway; he could let Dave fool with it.

He had opened up some panel and was messing with something inside it, while Jack squeezed water from his shirt hem and quietly watched him.

Fire alarm. Jack just couldn’t understand why he’d done that— jeez, it wasn’t like he’d get angry at whatever answer he gave. Unless, of course, that wasn’t the reason he’d done it.

“Listen,” he began, prompting Dave to look up to face him. “What happened to your arm is… not any of my business.”

Dave said nothing in response, except for a quick nod in thanks before resuming his repair.

Jack sat there, watching him work, intermittently glancing up at Dave’s focused expression.

Dave was always the one to jump at a chance to help his Old Sport, so he was diligently working on the panini press as if he were defusing a bomb. The wet hair splayed across his face and his shoes full of water did not stop him in the slightest, and in fact added an charmingly unfair dorkiness to his whole appearance.

There was that feeling again, the one that smoothed out Jack’s logic and… Well, it was just new. And the worst part was he didn’t even recoil at the feeling. Jack chalked it up to not having seen him all day.

As they sat there, Jack realized he really had no idea what to call the two of them. Friendship seemed too fast and altogether not right at all.

Maybe that’s just who they were. Dave’s whole persona was built on unpredictability and quick smirks with distracting winks. Touchy and clingy, with a vulnerability that he hid as quickly as he could flash a smile. He walked too quietly and spoke too fast, he was weird and off-putting and a huge liar, but also…

That was Dave. One big paradox. One big “but also” that kept trailing endlessly in Jack’s mind.

“All done,” Dave said eventually, closing the panini press again with a cheery ‘ta-da!’ gesture.

Jack looked back at him, “It looks the same.”

“It’ll work.”

With nothing more than a skeptical look, Jack mumbled out a thanks and packed the panini press back into his shopping bag. Dave was resting his arms along the back of the bench.

Jack wouldn’t be surprised if Dave tried to snake an arm around his shoulder or something, but he didn’t. And Jack felt mildly embarrassed that he’d been expecting it. Dave was really getting into his head.

They sat in silence for a few minutes, watching distant cars stream in and out of the mall’s parking lot before Jack asked, “Need a ride back?”

“Yeah.”

“Pizzeria?”

“Yeah.”

The usual.

“Hey, Old Sport,” Dave then said, “Can I ask somethin’?”

“Not like you to ask permission,” he joked. “But, uh, yeah, shoot.”

Dave had opened his mouth to say something, but snapped it shut as soon as the blaring sound of a ringtone went off. Coming from Jack’s pocket.

“My bad,” Jack mumbled, taking it out to wipe the water off the screen as he read the caller ID. With one hand answering and the other pushing Dave away from trying to peek at who it was, Jack greeted with a flat, “Hello?”

“It’s me, employee. Um,” Steven began to say, uncertainty in his voice. “I don’t know if you heard, but the inspection has been prolonged, basically.”

“Oh?” Jack said, raising his eyebrows at Dave.

“Don’t come into work tomorrow again.”

“Sounds great.”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m sure. Tell Miller, too.”

He looked over to where Dave was sitting beside him. “Yeah, I think he already knows.”

Jack hung up the phone and shut it with one hand, facing Dave again.

“Did you have anything to do with that?”

“What?” Dave asked, feigning ignorance but dropping the act when Jack just stared at him. Then he sighed out a simple, “No.”

Jack believed him, funnily enough.

“Should’ve known,” he mused. “You never do anything nice.”

“I do lots of nice things. I ooze niceness. I bought you your panini thing.” He snapped and pointed at Jack as if he just remembered something. “Oh— I once bashed in a car's headlights for somebody!”

“How very sweet of you,” Jack grumbled sarcastically, neither impressed nor surprised at the admission. “In a twisted sort of way.”

Dave grinned. “I’m glad ya think so.”

Jack remembered the phone call again. Since it was another day off, and he didn’t have any other kitchen gadgets to buy or steal, he asked him, “Well. Wanna do this again tomorrow?”

“What, fix appliances together on benches outside?”

Jack glared at him but nodded in a way that conveyed, “I guess?”

“Maybe not the appliances part,” he said. “And no fire alarms.”

“Awh! Old Sport–!” Dave sang in mock affection, dragging out the name. “Ya missed me that much today?”

Jack glared at him and said in a deadpan banter, “I’m dropping you off at the closest dumpster.”

Chapter Text

Jack was having a shitty day. Since yesterday, really. And no amount of paninis he made could quell it.

On their second day off of work, Dave had totally flaked on him. Didn’t show up, didn’t even call. They probably would’ve gone to another crappy AppleBee’s anyway, but still!

He was just starting to come around to Dave, but the guy just had to leave him in the dust. Jack finally understood the embarrassment of pacing around outside a pizzeria for hours, kicking gravel and waiting, all for a guy who was a chronic liar.

It was not a feeling he ever wanted to experience again.

The restaurant was— as usual— totally deserted that next early morning when he stormed through the front doors, flakes of snow still on his head as he muttered to himself. There was a mess across the floor: Evidently, someone had tracked snow into the restaurant, though it was less snow and now just a scattering of puddles along the tiles. Yup, Dave was here, all right. And Jack wanted nothing more than to give him a piece of his mind.

He could let a lot of things slide, but yesterday was more than just forgetfulness. It really wasn’t much to ask. A simple phone call, a text– ‘Sorry, Old Sport, I can’t make it.’

Though, maybe something urgent had come up. Jack considered the possibility, sure, but more than anything, he wanted to be angry. He didn’t want to consider that something truly bad that happened to Dave yesterday. Again. It would just be another thing he’d lie to Jack about. At least if Dave simply forgot, Jack knew he’d be honest about it.

Jeez, he was really overthinking this.

He tossed his jacket off with a bit more force than necessary and marched over to the backroom, mentally planning out his confrontation.

But as soon as he pushed open the safe room door, his anger wavered. The angry words he had prepared vanished, and he snapped his mouth shut at the sight before him.

Dave was lying asleep on the couch, looking utterly drained. Arms crossed, dark circles under his eyes—he seemed completely exhausted.

Jack paused in the darkened doorway and sighed as he looked him over— Dave must’ve been here for a while, with his hair a tousled mess and his clothes rumpled, like he hadn’t moved in hours.

The sight of it all made him momentarily forget what it was that he was so angry about.

Because Dave was… just sleeping. Lying still on the couch, his breathing steady, while Jack stared at him from the entrance, hand unclenching from the doorknob.

Yet again, he didn’t have the guts to wake him up. And for what, anyway? Just to yell at him? From the looks of it, he clearly needed the sleep. He hadn’t even stirred when the door was opened.

Jack shut his eyes as he sighed again.

“Damn you,” he whispered to the sleeping man instead, anger draining from him by the second. He did not understand how or why he threw all of his logic out the window for this guy.

And Jack left before that stupid feeling could take root.

——

He got back to work. Usually, he liked the early morning shift for its solitude, but now the silence only left room for him to think himself stupid.

He was still very much pissed, but seeing Dave so worn out just… diluted that feeling. Back when they first met, Dave seemed to tick him off at any given moment. Why was it so hard to stay angry at him now?

Well, now it wasn’t anger. It was worry. As much as it pained him to admit he was worried about a coworker.

Jack tried to brush all that off. He got to work polishing the tables, picking deflated balls from the ballpit, making sure the stage was clean. It was all muscle memory, though– he kept thinking of what to say to Dave when he awoke.

He was cleaning game cabinets in the arcade, wiping down the plastic controls when he heard someone quietly speak from near the entrance.

“Um, Old Sport,” Dave greeted in a small voice. He sounded like he just woke up. “Hi.”

Jack set down his rag and turned to face him, no smile on his face. He hadn’t heard Dave enter at all, but that was pretty typical of him.

As Jack looked him over, it seemed like he had made some attempt at tidying away his exhaustion. But Dave was still blinking tiredly, his wrinkled clothes looking hastily smoothed out as he stood in the doorway unsteadily. He probably realized Jack was here and bounded over to get his apologies out.

“Got hit by another bike yesterday?” Jack asked sarcastically, though he wasn’t really joking.

Dave tried for a halfhearted smile. “The same one, actually.”

“Don’t be funny,” he urged flatly. “Where were you?”

He was trying to sound angry, to feel angry, but his voice mostly sounded sad.

“I was…” Dave began, and it almost seemed like he was going to tell the truth for a moment before he backtracked entirely. “I tried. I wanted to be there. Really! But somethin’ came up, and I couldn’t make it. I’m sorry, I’m such a–”

Jack cut right through his excuses. He stepped closer to Dave, trying to read that numb look on his face. “—Do you know how much this pisses me off? How you don’t tell me anything?”

At his rise in tone, Dave looked away and fidgeted with his sleeve, a sense of detachment in the movement as he muttered out, “I’m sorry. That's all I can say.”

That was weird. He’d honestly expected Dave to laugh this entire thing off the second Jack brought it up.

“It’s not that you missed yesterday. It’s that you won’t tell me what really happened.”

“It’s for your own good.”

“My own—? I don’t believe that,” Jack prodded curtly, clenching his fist in pure frustration. “I want to know what happened— what’s been happening.”

Dave went very, very still from where he was standing in the doorway. His eyebrows creased slightly as he looked over to Jack and carefully asked, “Are you angry?”

“Am I–?” He scoffed. “A little, I guess. But, jeez, is it so hard to just tell me the truth, Dave? For once?”

At that point, the previous exhaustion in Dave’s face had chipped away almost entirely. And in its place, he was staring numbly at Jack’s fist, which was still clenched tightly.

In an empty voice, he asked him in a near-whisper, “Um, you’re… are ya gonna…?”

“What?” Jack asked, his anger replaced with plain confusion.

He slowly followed Dave’s line of vision, and saw that he was staring, eyes steeled, at his clenched fist. They were only a few steps away from one another, and Dave had leaned away from him somewhat.

Oh. Oh shit. Jack’s stomach dropped as a sickening realization dawned on him, and he instantly unfurled his fist, looking down at his hand in silent horror.

It didn’t quell the panic in Dave’s eyes, nor did it prompt him to tear his gaze from his fists.

“Jesus, man, I’m not gonna…” Jack hurried to explain, “Dave, what the hell? I wouldn’t…”

There was a blank look in his eyes. “Oh.”

They both seemed to be mortified with themselves.

Jack was desperately trying to figure out the reasoning behind all this. “Why would you think that I’d…?”

But he couldn’t finish any of his words. This just didn’t make any sense– to think that Dave assumed he would hurt him physically was just a sickening thought. Sure, Dave got on his nerves, and he lied so much, but Jack would never do anything like that.

A step away from him now, Dave shot back, breathing quickening, “--No! I knew that! Jus’-- forget what I said. I’m still… really tired, I got confused. Don’t… I’m sorry.”

Jack had gone rigid in shock. No, he was not going to forget any part of this.

A part of him, though, couldn’t help but blame himself for his reaction– Maybe, just maybe, he treated Dave much more horribly than he thought…

The pure fear in Dave’s eyes had dumped this entire guilty realization on him, and Jack, with wide eyes, put his hands up in apology, feeling his mouth go dry.

“Look, Dave,” he began carefully, watchful of Dave’s wary expression, “I know I’m a piece of shit to you sometimes— a lot of times, but I’d never do anything to you, I swear. I can’t believe I’ve ever made you think th—“

“—I know that!” Dave hurried to interrupt, and in a blink he had grabbed Jack by the shoulder in an attempt to get him to listen. “Old Sp— Jack, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean t’ say that… It’s— I mean, you’re so nice to me, of course I knew you’d never do somethin’ like that. I was jus’ tired, and— Look, it’s not you, it’s me! I’m— I’m sorry.”

That… didn’t make any sense. Why would he react in that way, then?

Jack faltered. “But you…” he began to ask, painfully aware of the grip Dave had on his shoulder, “Why would you even think I’d hurt you?”

The question hung in the air like poison. The restaurant really did get quiet in the mornings.

Dave stared at him, and when he finally spoke, he sounded as if he were reciting something.

“Well, I… I missed a meeting… So for a second, I jus’ thought…”

What?

A concerning choice of words, but then again, his whole demeanor was worrying. Jack had never seen him look so distant from himself.

“A meeting?” he asked, confused, and thinking for a moment that this was some weird joke of his. “So… So what? You thought I’d get that pissed? Enough to, what, hit you or something?”

Dave turned his head, looking away as he snatched his hand back from his shoulder. “I know. I’m stupid. Forget I said any o’ that, please.”

“Who the hell let you think that?” Jack asked him quietly.

And Dave he did in response was crease his eyebrows slightly in confusion. He continued staring at the floor.

Jack’s mind was working a mile a minute. Then his eyes fell on Dave’s bandages. And something fell into place, at least a little bit.

“Your arm,” Jack spoke slowly. “Did… someone do that to you?”

There was a distantly agitated look on Dave’s face, his eyes snapped up and he tensed as if he were about to leave the room. “I thought ya said what happened to my arm isn’t any of your business.”

Yes, Jack did say that. And he regretted it, because what was going on with Dave– whatever it was– only seemed to be getting worse and worse. And if he was getting hurt, enough to think that even Jack would stoop that low…

Jack fought with his words for a while, thinking about how to phrase this. He was tired of Dave’s lies, but moreso, he was scared of what he was lying about, exactly.

“I’m– It… Look, it’s just that… When you show up to work bandaged up, or I find you passed out on a couch, or you don’t call me… You know, it just… freaks me out.” I get worried.

The feeling, that damned feeling– Jack didn’t know what it was half the time, but it was behind every word of what he’d just said. And whatever reply he just stumbled out, it seemed to reach Dave somewhat, because he went still again.

“It’s– I… I care, okay?” Jack continued, and the words didn’t struggle as much on their way out. “And don’t try to make a joke about it or anything.”

Dave said nothing in response. His eyes were locked onto Jack’s, tired but steeled. He seemed confused, maybe relieved? Surprised? His face was an unreadable slate. But he did look miserable.

Dave had moved away from him before, so now Jack stepped over to make up for the distance. It was his own way of testing the waters, and when Dave didn’t back away, he came even closer. His breathing was choppy, his eyes still hollowed with exhaustion.

They stayed silent for several long moments, facing one another and both wrestling with what to say or not say.

Jack actually didn’t know what compelled him to step so close. It was to the point where he could feel Dave’s breath, uneven and panicky before but evening out now. Not that either of them seemed to mind the proximity. Everything just seemed to slow down.

And right now, Jack didn’t know what to say, didn’t know what to do. And he had no idea how he could fix something that Dave would not even tell him about.

That was Jack— always wanting to fix, to save. As much as he did not want to care, he did. He always did. And facing Dave right now, eyes tracking across his mute features, he realized he cared a lot more than he thought.

And for whatever reason, Dave tried his damndest to let it all remain a big, silent, tangled mess of questions and injuries unanswered.

Jack tore his eyes away from his crestfallen expression, and—

Dave’s name tag was crooked.

It was a simple, deliberate gesture: Jack reached to align the metal again until it was level again, his fingertips brushing against the fabric of Dave’s shirt in the process. It was the least he could do.

Dave didn’t move away, didn’t make a joke about it, didn’t say anything. He just let him, with his head angled down slightly as he watched in silence.

Jack really couldn’t remember the last time they stood so close. Maybe at the restaurant, but, no— this was definitely closer.

And even after he was done fixing the badge, Jack didn’t pull his hands away. There was something honest about the moment he didn’t want to step away from too soon.

He ran his finger over the name engraved on the metal. He noted the irony, how the first thing Jack lied to him about was the only thing Dave was honest with.

“Jack.”

He looked up, where Dave was inches away from him, exhaustion still etched on his face but searching Jack’s eyes like he was trying to figure out a million things at once.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered, voice infinitely quiet.

And Jack felt himself sinking into something. Maybe it was that feeling. Damn, it sure felt like it— he couldn't bring himself to step any further away, and the downturned corners of Dave’s lips didn’t bother him so much until this moment.

He decided, slowly, that if he couldn’t help him, at the very least he could make him believe he cared.

Given their proximity, he didn’t need to raise his voice much to make it carry.

“Go back to sleep,” Jack spoke to him quietly, looking away as he returned his hands to his sides.

With a knitted brow, Dave replied, "No, I'm gonna help ya. I'm alrea—”

“—Shut up. Please,” Jack urged, staring at the floor. “Just go back to sleep. You’ve got time before everyone shows up.”

Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Dave nod, slowly, but he didn’t move.

Whatever look on his face would probably be the death of him. Jack stepped away before anything else happened, returning to his arcade cabinet and picking up his polishing rag.

The next time he turned around, Dave was gone.

Good, he thought. He really did need the sleep.

——-

The morning went on. The customers began coming in, the arcade machines started blaring, pizzas were getting served. And before Jack knew it, another typical day was in full swing.

Dave looked more awake, at least a little bit. And throughout the rest of the day, he fell right back into their familiar groove of banter and jokes. It was like their morning had never happened at all.

Except, of course, during those times whenever Jack would glance across the room. His eyes locked on Dave’s every single time. And there was something unplaceable and new in his gaze, something softer.

——-

“I want these fixed,” Steven was instructing them both, later that same day in the saferoom.

He was warily nudging the two springlock suits with his foot, which had been out of commission ever since Dave’s brush with death. A very understandable reason, in Jack’s opinion.

Steven went on, “It’s been too long since we’ve had a show, and the inspector said it’s not safe to have out-of-code machinery in the restaurant, or whatever.”

Dave mused back, “Even fixed, Phoney, are they ever safe?”

He only got a dial-based glare in response. “Plus, it gives you two something to do other than going around scaring the kids,” their boss added, looking between the two of them.

“But it’s fun,” Dave put in.

“I’ll pretend to ignore that. Just get it done, employees.”

With a reluctant nod, Jack watched as Steven left the saferoom. Dave, meanwhile, had crossed to the suits and was looking them over. He always was the more experienced one when it came to the machinery.

“They’re both pretty fucked up, Old Sport,” he said after a moment. “I dunno how we’ll fix ‘em, to be very honest.”

Jack had stuffed his hands into his pockets and leaned against the shelf of tools. “I’m sure you’ll figure something out.”

“Me? You’re helpin’.”

Jack nodded vaguely to the suits. “I mean, I know next to nothing about these things.”

“How? What’d ya do all those years you’ve worked here?”

Jack shrugged. “Winged it.”

“Well, c’mere and help me out anyway. You’ve got two hands and a brain, that’s enough.”

“I'll be no help. I’m going to the kitchen,” he stated, and began to walk toward the door. He honestly would rather stick around the pizza ovens than fiddle with a robot's insides.

Dave, though, was quick to try and convince him otherwise.

“C’mon, don’t leave me here with a weird robot,” Dave pleaded from behind him, though Jack already had a hand on the doorknob.

“It’ll keep you company,” he joked.

Dave must’ve realized he was losing this, because then he quietly said, “Old Sport, my arm still hurts.”

That got Jack to pause. But when he glanced over his shoulder, Dave was only smirking. Bastard.

He sighed through a small smile. “Are you seriously gonna use that against me?”

“A little.” And with a hex wrench in hand, he motioned for Jack to come over.

Fine. Whatever. He obliged and sat opposite Dave, throwing a glance over the suits. It’d been a while since he’d seen them– for the past few weeks, they mostly just kept them piled up in the corner.

“Pass me that?” Dave asked, pointing to a screwdriver.

And just like that, the two of them fell into a nice rhythm of repairs. Well, Dave did all the repairing, while Jack helped him in his own way– passing tools, organizing bolts, boldly critiquing his soldering work. As if he even knew what he was doing.

But mostly he just watched Dave work, hands propped up on his cross-legged knees as they talked.

It was sort of hypnotic, how Dave handled the machinery so expertly, even while holding a conversation. He knew where to hold the metal, how to twist a wire, how to position the gears. When he got to fine-tuning the springlocks, Jack did notice a certain shakiness to his hands. But he supposed that everyone felt unnerved working that aspect.

“I feel like you fake your accent,” Jack blurted out at one point, their hands brushing as he passed another metal piece off to him.

“I do not,” Dave retorted.

“Well, then, you play it up. There’s no way— It’s just so weird. Like, New Yorker in the Midwest? What gives?”

“I dunno what to tell ya.”

“I dunno what to tell ya,” Jack mocked back, and it did nothing but amuse Dave as he cracked a smile at his rendition.

“Old Sport, I know ya don’t get out much, but other people, other states? They do exist,” he smirked, resuming his repair work.

“That’s…” Jack rolled his eyes. “Oh, don’t get smart.”

“It’s the truth. Because, me, on the other hand, I’ve gone all over the country. Been to states I can’t even name. This accent keeps me connected to my roots.”

“Oh, sure. What were you, a circus monkey?” Jack teased.

Dave didn’t even look up. “Yeah, actually.”

For a moment, he thought he misheard. “Wait, what? What do you mean? You were in the circus?” Jack asked, trying to tell if he was joking.

“Uh-huh. For a pretty long while, actually.”

“No way.”

“Way, Sportsy.” And he winked.

Everytime Dave called him that, something in his heart jumped. Though, this time, maybe it was just the wink.

Even if Jack wanted to question it, he’d never be able to find his words in time.

“But, yeah,” Dave went on, still working his machinery. “Ever since I was a little tyke, I would travel with ‘em. Guess they took pity on me. But I earned my keep, learned the ropes. And when I got older, o’ course, I got my own little role.”

“What, scooping the elephant shit?”

He waved a screwdriver at him. “I dunno what you’re imaginin’, Old Sport, but our circus was not like that. We gave a show. We were all about dreams, and showin’ the unreal. Not jus’ magic tricks, but… robots that looked like real people, machinery that acted alive.”

Huh. This was an interesting tidbit. But not all that far-fetched, knowing Dave.

“That’s where I’m assuming you learned how to do all this?” Jack asked, raising an eyebrow at the machinery splayed between them.

“Uh-huh. From the ringmaster. He liked me best– taught me everythin’ I know.”

And with that, Dave looked up to face him, unblinking, as if he were testing him on something.

Jack tilted his head to the side and simply decided, “Well, he sure sounds nice.”

Dave’s response was instant. “He’s the best.”

“...But you left.”

“No. Not… really. I dunno how to put it. We moved on to, um. Other stuff.” His hands went still. “Hey, pass me that bolt, will ya?”

Jack did, but as soon as he passed it, Dave just set it aside. Okay. Weird. Evidently, he was just trying to quell the current topic. And combined with Dave’s growing odd demeanor– Well, Jack could take a hint.

“Well,” he continued, moving away from that subject. “That must’ve been fun. You wear a lot of tacky bowties?”

Dave smirked behind the metal plate he was tinkering with. “Jus’ the required amount.”

Right as he said it, a loud snap noise came from the animatronic, and the two of them flinched away.

“Dude,” Jack asked. “What was that?”

It seemed to be a shoulder joint that broke. Dave turned it over and noted a disfigured line of bolts. “Shit. I broke somethin’.”

“You broke–? Can you fix it?”

“Well, it’s… jus’ a little piece,” Dave sighed. “Could probably fix it with a wrench. Do you…?”

Jack looked around for one to no avail. Then he remembered something with a groan. “Oh, the inspection. I think they confiscated every tool with blood on it.”

“Well, I’m surprised he left the robot.”

Pfft. So was he, to be honest.

“A wrench, huh.” Jack thought in silence for a moment before he remembered something. Again. “Eugh, wait. I know where we could get one.”

—--

“You actually want to buy from me?” Matt asked, eyes flicking between the two of them.

Jack and Dave had both cornered Matt in his… well, his prize corner.

He looked nervous from where he stood behind the counter. “Is this a sting operation or something?”

“No,” Jack spat dully. “Just give me a wrench.”

It seemed to Matt that business was business. “It’s gonna be 150 tokens.”

That… was an amount Jack didn’t have. No matter– he slowly turned to Dave and looked at him expectantly.

“Um. What?” Dave asked, upon seeing his look.

“Oh, c’mon. You owe me, anyway.”

“For what?”

“Yesterday!” Jack reminded him.

“Oh. You’re still on that?”

Matt interrupted with the subtlety of a marriage counselor. “Hey? Uh, are you going to pay or not?”

With one last, resigned look to Jack, Dave rummaged in his pocket for a while before dumping out a handful of coins.

He slid them across the counter. “Don’t mind him,” he said to Matt. “He’s jus’ mad I missed our date yesterday.”

Jack shot him a death glare, hoping his flushed face looked more like anger than anything else. Which it was, thanks very much. All Dave did in reply was smile in amusement.

“Uh, okay,” Matt mumbled, and he dipped below the counter to look for the wrench.

With Matt ducked out of view, Jack seized his opportunity. He jutted out a hand to grab Dave by the tie and yanked him down to eye level. And Dave, meanwhile, only seemed completely charmed by the act.

Jack chose to ignore all of that.

He was only an inch or so away from his face when he scolded him, “Watch your mouth. I don’t need the janitor selling rumors about us.”

Dave didn’t skip a beat. Still smiling, he asked, “You can buy rumors from the janitor?”

“Um. So I’ve heard.”

“Well. Sorry, Sportsy,” he muttered quietly, an unplaceable sparkle in his eyes. Jack felt it– that feeling again, creeping up on him, but still did not back away. He swallowed, hard, looking over Dave’s features and looking for something to say.

“You’re… insufferable,” Jack breathed out eventually, and hoped it didn’t sound like anything else.

He was standing very close to him. Close enough that he was able to see the scratches on Dave’s badge. Only if he were looking there, of course, which Jack wasn’t. His eyes never left Dave’s.

“Um.”

Jack let go of his tie, and they both whipped their heads around to face a very bewildered Matt, who’d probably been watching them for a while. He was holding a wrench.

Jack grabbed it from him and bit out, “Yeah, okay, it’s been a pleasure.” Then, to Dave, he said, “Let’s go.”

Glad to be done with … all of that, Jack didn’t even need to look back to know Dave was following.

—--

The rest of the day passed by easily enough. Even with their new wrench, it seemed the animatronics needed a lot more work done then they could’ve possibly done in a day, so they set them aside for tomorrow.

Near closing time, Dave was hurrying out the door– as usual– and struggling to put on his jacket as he argued with Steven. Jack leaned against a nearby wall and listened in silence, because watching his boss and Dave bicker was always better entertainment than whatever slop was on TV at night.

“Jeez, Phone-face, where’s your Christmas spirit?” Dave shot back as he put on his jacket.

“I don’t like you leaving so early,” Steven clarified sternly. “You still have half an hour on your shift.”

“What can I say? I’ve got bigger ‘n better things to get to.”

“You do this every time.” Steven just stared him down, arms crossed. Then he jerked a thumb to Jack. “Don’t you want to stay and help your coworker?”

Seemed he knew just what to say to get him to pause. Because he did.

Jack, who was just standing off to the side, suddenly had two sets of eyes on him. He held an innocent look on his face as he shrugged.

Turning back, Dave wagged a finger at Steven. “Now, that’s just mean, Phoney. Leave him out of this.”

Maybe he realized that letting Dave leave early was a good thing, because Steven sighed. “Okay. But tomorrow, I need you to actually finish those repairs, employee. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

“Sure thing,” Dave spoke, swinging open the front doors to leave. “Sayonara, Phonefuck,” he called out, and then he softened his voice somewhat when he said, “Bye, Sportsy.”

It was just a joke. Just a thing he did. Obviously.

Jack had lifted a hand in his version of a wave as he left. He and his boss watched the doors swing shut behind him.

But as soon as he was gone, Steven spun to face Jack and quickly asked him, “What the heck was that?”

He blinked at his question. “What was what?”

Silence. Then Steven just turned his head to the side. “Nothing.”

—--

Everyone at work was being weird or annoying, so Jack was relieved to finally be going home. What he didn’t like was actually being home, bored. Though, he got an idea soon enough.

If spring cleaning was a thing, surely winter cleaning was?

Whatever. The logic had seemed solid enough to Jack. So there he was, home alone, going through shelves and drawers and trying not to stop and get distracted by every third thing he found. He wanted to clean some stuff out for a while now.

He made halfway decent progress. Even moved a coffee table over two feet. Which was a big change in hindsight, really, because every time he flicked the living room lights on in his house he wavered at the sight. He hadn’t changed a single thing since… well, since everything.

When his brother lived here, everything had its place. They even had a little bowl for their keys. They were a somewhat functional family like that.

Before everything went to shit, of course.

Jack had just hauled another box up to the attic when his phone rang from the living room.

And, honestly, he was grateful for the distraction.

He picked up the call and put his phone to his ear in time to hear Dave greet, “Hi, Old Sport.”

Right. Because who else would it be at such an hour?

With his phone still propped between his shoulder and his ear, Jack leaned back to glance into the kitchen. The clock read that it was way past midnight.

“Can’t sleep?” he asked, working through a packed bookshelf he’d been meaning to tidy.

“Nope!”

“Right, well, I’m not doing anything interesting,” he shrugged, and held up a particularly old photo frame that made his heart wrench. “Uh. Just cleaning.”

“Oh, well, cool. Hey, Christmas is soon. You got a tree up?”

Jack looked around his living room, which hadn’t seen any sort of holiday decoration in years. He always pawned that job off to his sister. “No.”

“Yeah, me neither.”

They fell into a conversation after that, about nothing in particular. Dave really seemed to enjoy chatting about anything and everything after work.

In the back of his head, Jack thought about why that was. Dave apparently didn’t sleep much at… wherever it was he lived, if his late night calls were any clue. But the weird thing was that Dave slept just fine in the backroom. And in the backseat of Jack’s car.

Now that he was thinking about it, he only saw Dave sleeping whenever he himself was around.

Huh…

“Oh. I think I’ve gotta bounce,” Dave said after some time, bringing Jack back to the present. He was still going through boxes of old stuff.

“Bounce to do what?” he asked.

“Replace my bandages. Get a soda.”

“Try actually going to sleep, maybe?”

“Oh, what’s with you and gettin' me to sleep?”

“You clearly need it. Look like a sack of shit every morning.”

The smile in his voice was totally audible. “Well,” he drawled out, “Maybe if you were here to join me…”

Jack snorted. “Oh, shut up.”

He was so used to his constant jokes that his response was automatic. He was also very relieved that Dave was only a voice on the other line and not there to see him nearly drop a box in shock.

“Look who’s talking, anyway. Cleaning at two in the morning.”

“Shush.”

“Pfft. Well. Goodnight, ‘Sport.”

“Goodnight.”

And the line clicked off.

Chapter Text

Christmas was always a sordid affair for the Kennedy’s. Or, rather, Kennedy. Jack hadn’t bothered to put up a Christmas tree or even buy a funny nutcracker.

At least he had a few days off. Steven would’ve dragged him to work if not for the fact that literally nobody was interested in throwing a pizza party on Christmas Eve.

Currently, he was nursing a beer as he sat at his dining table, staring at each of the empty chairs and trying to remember the people that used to sit in them. Not the most merriest way to spend a Christmas Eve, but he couldn’t quite scrounge up the spirit for much else.

Somewhere across the house, probably in his room, he heard his phone's ringtone go off, and he let it.

As the ringing ended, Jack set his head down on the dining table, shutting his eyes and trying to figure out when these cheap beers would start to come around with their buzz.

No, he didn’t like Christmas. The only way to avoid the drown of memories on holidays like these was to drown himself in alcohol first.

Then the phone rang again.

Jack sighed and pushed his chair out to get up and answer it. He answered on the last ring, biting out a sharp, “What?”

“Oh! Hey, Old Sport, did I, uh, catch ya at a bad time?”

It was Dave. And he sounded like a kicked puppy. Jack regretted answering so aggressively without even checking the caller ID.

His voice softened when he replied back, while rubbing at his eyes, “No, it’s— it’s fine. Sorry.”

Silence settled between them, and Dave didn’t say anything in reply for a while. The base of static was all he heard.

“Um. Merry Christmas, Old Sport,” he heard him say.

Jack had walked back to the living room with his phone still pressed to his ear. “Oh. Um. Thanks,” he said back. “Is that… all you wanted to say?”

“I guess so, yeah.”

Despite the answer, neither of them hung up.

Jack picked at the label on his beer bottle. It was a pathetic idea he’d just come up with, and the only reason he even voiced it was because of the (admittedly meager) amount of alcohol in his system.

“Wanna do something?”

“Like what?” Dave asked, surprisingly with no tease and no hesitation. “It’s almost midnight.”

Jack glanced at his kitchen cabinets. “I’ve got a few bottles of shitty gas station wine here.”

A silence followed. Dave was probably trying to figure out what Jack was hinting at here. He was much too proud to actually admit he wanted Dave’s company.

“Oh,” he said after a while. “You wanna get filthy drunk with me at your place?”

That wasn’t how Jack would’ve worded it, but he sighed out, “Kinda. Maybe. If you want.”

He heard a laugh from the other end. “Wow! Is this an actual invite to Old Sport’s? Of his own free will?”

Jack just blew air out of his nose. “Is that a yes or a no?”

“Oh, I dunno,” Dave mused. “I think I need to hear ya say it.”

Jack pulled the phone away just so he could glare at it. He could only hope Dave received the mental message from… wherever it was that he lived, exactly. Then he huffed into his phone, “Do you. Want to. Come over.”

“Yes. Was that so difficult?”

“More than you think.”

——

Dave was due to show up any minute now, and Jack was pacing around his living room as if he were waiting for a prom date. It was sort of ridiculous. It was just Dave, after all.

His eyes fell on his wall of family photos, and a thought struck him as he stopped in front of them. Maybe he should take those down. He didn’t want Dave asking questions about his life that he didn’t want to answer, especially not during Christmas.

But he hesitated. Jack was always on Dave’s case for lying, and wasn’t this just a few steps from outright dishonesty? Hiding things from him? It sure felt like it.

He looked over the happy, frozen faces of his siblings, and felt a twinge of guilt. If Dave were to ask about them— and he definitely would— Jack just wouldn’t be able to handle it. Resigning himself to a bit of hypocrisy, Jack took the frames off the wall one by one and set them aside in a spare room, out of sight but most definitely not out of mind.

The wall looked bare now. But it hurt less to look at. A small compromise for ensuring what was supposed to be a laidback evening.

——

Dave had shown up eventually, all smiles despite all the snow jammed in every edge of his jacket. He was shivering slightly, a plastic bag in hand, though his eyes lit up when Jack answered the door for him.

“Dave. Jeez. Did you walk all the way here or something?” Jack greeted, noting how out of breath he was, combined with the snow in his hair.

He’d meant it as a joke, but blinked in disbelief when Dave chirped back, “Wasn’t so bad!”

“Well. Sure took you a while.”

Dave waved his words away. “Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and all that.”

A small smile flickered across Jack’s face. If Dave was being this insufferable sober, he didn’t want to imagine how he’d act after a few drinks.

“I don’t… Alright, just get in already.” Jack stepped aside and let him come in. “What’s in the bag?”

“Oh? This?” he said, lifting up his plastic shopping bag as he began to take off his jacket. “Well, you said all ya had was some gas station wine.”

“So, you—?”

“—Went to another gas station and got some more gas station wine, yeah.”

He wasn’t very surprised. “With what money, anyway?” he asked as he locked the door. “Thought you were broke.”

Dave waved off the question. “Oh, don’t worry, Old Sport, I took plenty from the register.”

Jack blinked at him and wondered vaguely how much he had to drink already.

“Kidding!” Dave said, with a playful punch to his shoulder. It wasn’t too convincing. “Anyway. Nice place!”

After hanging up his jacket and unpacking his (strangely varied) selection of cheap wine on the kitchen counter, Dave snooped around his living room, commenting here and there. He didn’t question the empty spots on the wall.

It was always odd seeing Dave out of his work clothes. The only thing that remained the same about him was his bandaged arm.

Actually, scratch that– It was odd seeing Dave in general, in his house of all places. The whole situation was more than a little foreign to Jack, since he never had company over. It felt weird to watch Dave bumble around his living room, commenting on his nonexistent interior design choices and peering out of windows. Though a part of Jack wanted the company.

He always tolerated Dave’s late phone calls. Maybe this wasn’t any different, he supposed.

Huh. Jack really was lonely.

Dave, meanwhile, was basically oblivious to the initial awkwardness of the situation. He seemed totally content to be at his Old Sport’s, flopping down on the couch after a while. He even, somehow, managed to learn to work the TV remote.

They put on a movie, because Jack assumed that was the sort of thing friends did when they came over. Dave was still on the couch, completely ignoring the movie to instead watch Jack in the kitchen as he dug through his alcohol cabinet.

“How come ya invited me?” he asked after a while.

“What?” Jack prompted.

“Why’d ya invite me over?”

“Um. I mean,” he said, opening another cabinet. “Not like there’s anybody else I could invite.”

“Well, that’s cute,” Dave teased, much to Jack’s eye roll, “But I mean… why? You’ve never asked me over before.”

Jack thought about that. The real answer was because he was embarrassingly lonely and already mildly drunk when he’d picked up the phone. Though, it was very odd to think that he actually had someone to call when he was feeling that way.

“Because,” Jack began, choosing his words carefully, since if he was going to be all gross and genuine he wanted to get it over with already. “You know. The holidays and stuff… It gets too much. I don’t like to be alone this time of year, and I’d rather be with…” He sighed. “Someone.”

It didn’t hurt as much as he thought to admit that.

From where he sat, Dave blinked. Whether it was the late hour or if Dave genuinely couldn’t believe the weird display of honesty, Jack couldn’t tell. He seemed to parse his words, though, because he smiled and cooed out, “Aww, Jack…”

Despite all of his scolding on Dave calling him that, he always sort of liked the way his accent wrapped around the name. It felt warmer, more familiar.

And it wasn’t like they were at work. He could say it.

“Don’t make me take it back,” Jack mumbled, loud enough for him to hear.

From where he sat, Dave made a show of crossing his heart with his finger. “I won’t tell a soul.”

“Good. ‘Cause I’d have to kill you.”

Jack found a second wine glass, and began going over the different wine bottles that Dave had brought. Or, more likely, stolen.

“Hm,” Dave cut through the silence, looking around the room. “But I never thought ‘bout it that way, Old Sport. You. All cooped up in here. Alone.”

“Rub it in, why don’t you?” Jack mumbled.

Dave tilted his head to the side innocently. “Is that why you’re always callin’ me at night?”

“That’s—!” Jack spluttered, turning to face Dave and onto finding an accomplished smirk on his face. “You’re the one always calling me.”

Dave’s smile didn’t falter as he pointed out, “But you always pick up!”

“Alright, enough,” he said, choosing a bottle to bring over. “You really are insufferable.”

Jack came back into the living room eventually, with his glasses and bottle in hand. Taking a seat in his armchair, Jack had poured them both a drink to the brim, because the night seemed to call for it. He’d picked his up and was about to take a precarious sip when Dave put a finger up in the air and quickly interrupted.

“Wait! We’ve gotta toast.”

Jack blinked tiredly but decided to humor him. “What the hell could we possibly toast to?”

Dave shrugged. “Like hell if I know, Old Sport. But we’ve gotta. So, think.”

They both stared at their full glasses and indeed thought.

“What do people usually toast to?” Dave asked after a while, looking up.

“I don’t know. Life?” Jack suggested, a hint of a wry smile forming. “Good health?”

They both looked at their scarred hands and snorted in laughter.

“To death,” Dave said, with an exaggerated seriousness. “To worse health.”

“Why not?”

They clinked glasses, red wine going over the rims and spilling slightly on the table. Jack didn’t care.

—---

Jack kept track– it was only after two glasses that Dave showed his true colors as a sappy drunk. It was unexpected but, at the same time, not all that surprising.

Dave had melted into the couch cushions, watching the TV screen.

“I jus’ realized how nice this room is,” Dave commented idly.

“Five minutes ago you said my house was shit and my curtains didn’t match.”

“Speakin’ of nice rooms,” Dave said, pointedly ignoring his words. “Are you an angel? Because heaven is missing one.”

Jack looked at his ceiling tiredly. “Well. First of all, that didn’t make any sense, second of all, that was a really bad pickup line. Even for you.”

“But are they workin’?”

“Not any more than usual,” he mused back.

“So-o-o, perfectly well, then?”

Jack felt a flush on his face he hoped he could blame on the alcohol. “You wish.”

Too late— Dave noticed. “There! See?”

Jack stuck out his tongue at him and said nothing else. They settled back, watching the TV for a while and sneaking glances at each other whenever they wanted a refill on their glasses. Which was sort of often.

At some point, he saw Dave open his mouth, seemingly about to say something, before he closed it. He frowned. “Huh. There was somethin’ I wanted to say. I forgot what.”

That tended to happen a lot after Jack broke out the red wine. “Something charmingly stupid, I bet.”

He looked over to Jack. And with the way he tilted his head alongside a smile, Jack knew some sort of drunken train of thought had just arrived.

“I really like this,” Dave said.

He genuinely didn’t know what he was referring to. “What?”

Dave pointed a finger between the two of them with his eyebrows raised.

Jack just blinked at the vague gesture. “Use your words.”

“Just… us!” Dave said, exasperated but still smiling. “This. The two of us. Hangin’ out. Being buds.”

Huh. He just sat back in his armchair and turned his glass over in his hands. He searched Dave’s face for a moment, trying to tell if it was the booze talking.

At that, there was some more Jack wanted to ask, things like, Do you get that feeling when we’re together, too? Do you sort of not hate it?

But he didn’t. Obviously.

“Buds? You’re a sap,” Jack eventually said, breaking through the quiet as he did best.

“I am not.”

“You are,” Jack insisted. “A big one.”

“Okay, well,” Dave began with a huff, “Better a sap than a broody, crabby, stubborn, orange…”

Jack shot him a look.

Dave seemed to get his hint and he hurried to salvage his sentence. “...Cool, really awesome guy. Of course.” He tacked on an innocent smile.

Jack huffed a laugh. “Good save.” And while Dave reached to refill his glass, he asked, “Do you remember what you wanted to say, before?”

“Oh. Yeah,” Dave replied, pouring the bottle. “I already did. Like I said, I r’lly like this.”

Sap, like he said. Jack sipped at his drink and said nothing more on the topic.

—-

He wasn’t sure when they got drunk, exactly. He had a feeling it was sometime after Dave had somehow managed to unlock the cooking TV channels but definitely before he began his ramble on Greek food.

They had been laughing for the third time over about something that had happened at work the other day. Dave was lying lengthwise on the couch with his legs draped off the armrest. It didn’t seem comfortable in the slightest, but he continued to tell his story with such fervor that it clearly didn't bother him. Jack listened from the armchair beside him.

“Yup,” Dave was saying, “An’ I jus’ marched right the hell outside— wham! Crowbar to the fuckin’ headlights! It was awesome.”

Jack realized that he liked listening to him talk. Especially while drunk— Dave’s hands would gesture wildly, and he stammered over his words, cussing and making sound effects as he spoke.

“And it’s like, how come nob’dy called the fuzz?” he went on, waving his glass around so much it almost spilled. “I mean, I’m not gonna complain, but still.”

At some point, Jack wasn’t sure what he was saying at all. He sipped from his glass and let Dave’s voice wash over him as he sat back in the armchair.

Normally, he got drunk alone. Normally, he only had one glass to clean up after in the morning. Normally, nobody was lying on his couch and leaning over to refill his glass with a focused, drunken smile that made Jack’s heart hurt.

But despite all that, here he was, listening to this pretty idiot from work, and… Wait, what?

Jack lifted up his wine glass to stare at its contents numbly as Dave’s voice drifted back into his focus.

“—completl’y shattered, like, uh. That crystal candy. The sharp thing. Umm,” Dave trailed off, and tilted his head to Jack. “Sportsy, what’s that called again?”

Jack had regained his bearings somewhat. “Huh?”

“The…” He made some sort of gesture. “Candy. It’s, like, on a stick. Like glass. What’s it called?”

Jack thought for a second. “Rock candy.”

He snapped. “Yes! Yeah— Jus’ like that. Rock candy.” He paused. “Wait, what was I sayin’?”

“Something about headlights.”

“Oh. Well, yeah. I did that. Fun times.”

Dave sat up and swiped at the bottle of wine, making a pout when he tried to refill his glass and saw that they’d run out.

Jack moved to get up. “I’ll get another one.”

But Dave shot out of his seat and nudged him by the shoulders back into his armchair. “Nope! Nope! Don’t move, I’ll get it,” he said, and ambled over to the kitchen.

“Don’t get lost,” Jack called out, only half joking, given Dave’s sobriety. Or lack thereof.

From where he sat, he could hear Dave clink around in the kitchen, pulling open drawers. Probably looking for a corkscrew.

He must’ve found it eventually, because there was a pop sound followed by a string of cusses.

Jack craned his head to see that Dave had spilled some wine all over his front in the process of uncorking the bottle.

“Well, aren’t you graceful?” Jack mused. “Bathroom’s down the hall. On the left.”

With a quick thumbs up, Dave trailed down the hall, one hand tentatively reaching out to steady himself against a wall.

Jack heard the water run and a few more muffled cusses come from the bathroom.

While Dave did that, Jack sipped at the last of his wine, which was also running low. He set it down on the coffee table as he heard Dave’s voice pipe up again.

“You got a lot of makeup in here,” he heard Dave call out from the bathroom.

Oh. Yeah. Having lived alone for so long, he never felt the need to put away his collection of orange tints in jars and bottles.

“Oh, ignore that,” he called back.

“Hard not to!”

“Don’t touch any of it,” Jack warned, after a suspicious silence had passed.

“Nah, more for you, Old Sport!”

Dave came back eventually, all cleaned up, taking the opened wine bottle with him as he slumped back into the couch. Jack watched him struggle to pour the heavy bottle into his glass before cutting in.

“Jesus, man, don’t bother. You’ll spill it again. Just drink it straight.”

Dave only seemed to think it over for a few drunken moments before obliging. He took a drink directly from the bottle before setting it back down.

“Good shit, Old Sport,” he said, smacking his lips. “Say. Why d’ya wear so much of that makeup of yours, anyway?” He gestured to Jack.

“Scars,” he replied flatly.

In reply, Dave tilted his head and shrugged. “I’m sure you’re jus’ as pretty without it.”

“Shut it,” Jack mumbled. Dave was probably trying to kill him.

He raised a hand in surrender. “Just sayin’!”

Looking for a change in topic, Jack motioned for the bottle, and Dave handed it over. It was only halfway through his drink that he noticed something that sent a jolt through him: Dave had drunk from the exact same bottle.

A strange thrill surged through him. The idea of sharing an indirect kiss with Dave was exhilarating in a way he couldn't really explain.

… And he didn’t want to unpack what that could’ve meant, so he took another swig of wine and blurted out, “I, uh. I heard they got a new appetizer’s menu. At AppleBee’s.”

From where he laid on the couch, Dave shifted to face Jack better, resting his chin on the armrest as he asked, “But you never order appetizers?”

Jack blinked. “Maybe now I want to.”

A pause.

“Alright, okay,” Dave agreed softly. “We’ll try it next time.”

“Yeah. Next time,” Jack repeated.

“I’d like that. Pass the bottle?”

He did, and even though he tried his damndest not to let their fingers brush as he handed it over, they did anyway.

There was something going on. The feeling was back, sending his heart quickening. Jack very pointedly stared at the carpet, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to handle another one of Dave’s drunken smirks if he looked up.

“Pass the bottle?” he asked, looking up.

Dave handed it over. He must have noticed that they were sharing it by now, or the implications. Though, considering his drunkenness, maybe not.

“Well then, I guess, thanks,” he said to Jack. “Not like I had plans this Christmas, anyway.”

“Yeah. ‘Course.”

“No cute holiday decorations, though,” he added, looking around the living room. “Sucks.”

Jack sighed and turned the bottle over in his hands. “Didn’t have any.”

“Couldn’t even get some mistletoe?” he purred.

Jack squinted at him. “You’re not very subtle.”

“You know me,” he said sweetly. “Phoney, though— at least he decorated the pizz’ria.”

A second after he said it, Dave sat up from his lying position, clearly with a bright idea. “Hey! I could’ve stolen somethin’ from work for ya!” he said. “Whaddya think of that?”

“I’m trying to think of a much stronger word for no.”

“Nah, listen. A big Christmas tree right there, I think,” he said, pointing to an empty corner with a very unsteady hand. “Cover up that empty wall.”

Oh. It was the same wall that Jack had taken all his family pictures off of.

“Nah,” he said, willing his voice to even out. “The stuff at work is ancient, anyway. I think the tinsel Phoneface puts up predates Christmas.”

Dave hummed in acknowledgment, then slung a hand over to gesture for Jack to pass the bottle over. He did.

“Y’know,” Jack began, “Last year, ‘round Christmastime too, they actually tried to get me to find a whole tree to put in the damn dining room, but I told… uh.”

Jack had trailed off, seemingly without realizing, watching as Dave loosened his collar with his free hand.

“Hm?” Dave prompted, sitting back along the couch, bottle in hand.

“Nothing,” Jack replied, though it took him a second to remember what he was saying. Geez. It was just one button. “Um. So, obviously, I told Phoneface that it wasn’t gonna happen.”

“Great goin’, Old Sport, you robbed the kids of their Christmas spirit,” Dave teased, taking a drink.

“Oh, bite me. Can you imagine telling kids to not touch the tree? Getting cheese and confetti out of the branches every day? No. No, thanks.”

“Hm. I guess.” He went quiet for a second. “You really should put somethin’ up on that wall, though.”

He brought it up again. The blank wall. It wasn’t blank this morning.

Jack turned in his seat and looked over to it, blinking tiredly. He could remember the outlines of each frame that hung there. And at that, he felt a pang of guilt. He’d hidden the pictures away— the only memory he had left of them— and for what?

It was probably the alcohol amplifying his emotions, but he couldn’t stop thinking, Why did he do that?

“I took them down,” Jack muttered quietly, and he could feel his chest tighten.

Dave threw a concerned look at him.

Jack didn’t notice it. His eyes were glued to the now-bare wall that previously held all his framed photos. His sister, his brother. Himself. All gone.

“I took her pictures down,” Jack whispered, voice cracking. “Everyone’s pictures. Why… Why did I do that?”

“Sportsy?”

He was blinking back a wetness in his eyes now. “Why did I do that?”

“Uh, Jack?” He sounded concerned.

But Jack barely heard him. “I’m supposed to remember them,” he breathed, feeling his heart go heavy with guilt.

And he could feel Dave’s eyes on him as he unsteadily pushed himself off his armchair and began walking to the wall, as if drawn by a magnet. He didn’t know what he was doing, didn’t know what he was thinking. He just felt horrified with himself.

But Jack had only managed a few steps when Dave reached out, wrapped his fingers around his passing wrist, and gently tugged him back onto the couch beside him.

“Oh, ‘Sport,” Dave said pitifully, when he was down on the couch beside him. “Ya always get so gloomy when you’re drunk?”

Jack was right next to Dave, shoulder to shoulder, much closer than he would have ever chosen to. Still quietly blinking back tears, he barely realized their closeness at the moment.

He angled his head down and stared at the sight; Dave’s hand was over his, set on his lap, still holding onto Jack’s with a grounding presence. Before now, he never took notice of other people’s hands. Especially not Dave’s.

When Jack eventually remembered to reply, he mumbled back, “Usually nobody’s here with me.”

Dave’s voice had gone dizzyingly gentle, and the edges of his words were tinged with a drunken smile. “You’ll only stress y’rself thinkin’ like that. Listen, listen. You’ll feel better in the mornin’, yeah?”

Jack mumbled something in the affirmative. Everything felt very hazy.

He was still trying to calm himself when Dave’s thumb brushed against the back of Jack’s hand, smoothing circles across his skin.

Jack would hate a hug, he’d pull away from almost any physical contact— but this was okay. It was almost nice. And it was weird to think that Dave knew him well enough to find a balance.

Hm.

This was probably a bad sign. A very bad sign.

Damn that stupid feeling, because he could feel Dave’s warmth at his side, could feel every horrible feeling washing away, could feel Dave trace those comforting circles onto the back of his hand.

Jack looked up at Dave, at the pitiful smile on his face. and it dawned on him that he’d never seen him from this close. Before he knew it, Jack was tilting, tipping closer. Maybe Dave was, too. He didn’t know what he was doing. It seemed like the right thing. It seemed like something he wanted, though his heart was beating out of his chest.

Jack’s brain caught up to him just as his and Dave’s faces were barely inches apart, and his breath hitched. It was only when he tore away from him that he realized just how close they’d gotten.

In a heartbeat, Dave had turned away, too, until they were both staring straight ahead, still sitting shoulder to shoulder. It had gone very quiet, only punctured by their breathing. Dave had let go of his hand at some point.

There was… much to think about.

Jack wasn’t sure what would’ve happened if he hadn’t pulled away. The lines in their weird pseudo-friendship were blurring faster than he wanted to admit.

He hoped neither of them ever talked about this again.

He made a quick, fleeting glance to Dave, who was looking similarly lost. Did he get that too? The feeling?

“Um.” Jack sucked in a breath, hurrying to find something to say to end their silence. “Uh, how’s your arm?” he finally asked, because he didn’t know what else to bring up.

“My arm?”

From beside him, he could feel Dave tense, and when he looked over to him, his features had melted into one of panic.

Something must’ve dawned on him. “My arm. Oh. Oh— I shouldn’t b’ here so late, really… um, I’m—” he trailed off into nervous mutterings, pushing himself off the couch.

Jack’s hands reacted before his drunken mind did. He grabbed Dave by the sleeve and held on tight, and it was only when Dave turned around, clearly confused, that Jack realized what he was doing.

“Um. Uh. Do you?” he stuttered quietly, and let go of his shirt. “You should stay— I mean, look at… look how dark it is outside.”

They both turned their heads to look out the living room window. It was pitch black, with only the occasional glint of Christmas lights from the neighbors. Not even a car passed by. Whatever the time, it must’ve been late. Too late for him to walk home alone.

“I can’t,” Dave urged anyway, though he was standing unsteadily. “I really should be home. I’m sorry.”

His eyes were tired, but focused in something like fear. Was it because of what Jack did? Did he go too far, too fast?

“But— you’re drunk,” Jack reminded him. “You can’t go home like this. Just stay the night, it’s— You’ll feel better in the morning.” He then realized he was echoing exactly what Dave said to him earlier.

But Dave was still shaking his head and going toward where his jacket was hung up. “No, no, because the mornin’ is when—“

It was only when Jack stood up, too, that Dave quieted down and faced him again.

“You’ll take the couch,” Jack urged firmly.

“But I…”

“C’mon,” he pleaded. “Let me be nice. For once in my life.”

Dave stared at the couch for a long, long while, but it was only when he glanced back over to Jack that he nodded in silent resignation.

Without another word, Jack left to go get a blanket and pillow. When he returned with them in tow, Dave was sitting on the couch, blinking away his exhaustion.

“You’re a lot nicer than ya think,” he added glumly as he took the blanket from Jack, mumbling something in thanks.

“Okay. Uh. Now,” Jack said, crossing to the lamp and dimming it low. “Don’t come into my room unless you're… dying, or something.”

Dave was unfolding the blanket from its square, squinting in the low light. “I’ll try my best.”

Jack shook his head. “Just go to sleep.”

“Goodnight to you, too.”

“‘Night,” he sighed out, and began making his trek to his bedroom.

He changed. He got into bed. And even lying there, very drunk, late at night, he couldn’t get himself to fall asleep, not even a little. It didn’t make any sense. He just stared at the living room light leaking into his room from underneath his door. The air was thick with silence.

Dave was right— Jack got stupidly gloomy when he was drunk. And it was definitely the ungodly amount of cheap wine in his system, but the loneliness gnawed at him.

Maybe, Jack thought, he shouldn’t leave Dave alone tonight. He should stick close by in case… in case…

Yeah, he had nothing. He was definitely grasping at straws here. He had zero good, logical reason to go back.

He didn’t understand it, but he definitely couldn’t ignore it. Jack sighed, tore the covers off of himself, and grabbed a blanket before heading back into the living room.

For a second, as he squinted through the dimmed lights, he thought Dave was asleep. He sure looked like it– lying on the couch, blanket draped over him, shoes kicked off.

But his eyes had cracked open as soon as Jack had walked in. “That was quick,” Dave greeted, not sounding very tired.

“Quiet,” Jack muttered back, his voice sounding heavy with sleep despite his lack of it. He laid down on the armrest and tugged the blanket he’d brought over himself, arranging a pillow beneath his head.

Dave was watching him. He didn’t question his return. And when he saw that Jack was settled, Dave shut his eyes again and said, “Well, goodnight.”

“You said that already.”

“And I’ll say it again,” Dave retorted, and even in the dark he could spot a tiny smile on his lips. “Ya know, I’ve never been able to say goodnight to you in person. I jus’ realized that.”

Jack paused. That was a good point. He’d only ever heard him say it at the end of phone calls.

“‘Cept for that night in your car,” Dave added, and yawned. “That was cute.”

Jack internally groaned at the memory. “Don’t tell me you were awake for… that.”

“Oh, well, sure I was,” Dave admitted, way too casually.

“Just… go to sleep,” Jack insisted flatly, before he had the chance to say anything else.

“Fine. Okay,” he agreed eventually. “Goodnight.”

“That’s the third time you’ve said it.” Though Jack could sort of admit he liked the repeated goodnights. It was more than he ever got in a night.

Oh. He really had drunk a lot, hadn’t he?

“Aren’t ya gonna say it back?” Dave asked quietly, a bit of amusement in his voice. He was probably getting a kick out of this.

“Goodnight.”

Bastard, he thought.

——

Dave seemed to fall asleep before him. Jack saw his breathing even out and his body relax into the couch. And Jack just stared at him, because that seemed to make his drunken mind happy.

Sleep came to him easily enough.

——

Jack woke up, and the first thing he realized was that there was another blanket draped on top of him. The same one he’d given Dave. Okay. Odd. It took him a moment to even remember why he was sleeping in his living room, anyway.

He turned his head, and there was his second realization— Dave had left. The couch was empty, save for the pillow Jack had loaned him the night before. It was just him alone in the living room.

And Jack didn’t know why he was disappointed. Really. He sat up in an instant, which was a mistake, because a headache hit him like a truck. The memories were trickling back in from last night, slowly but surely. Every scene that replayed in his mind was hazy, and his hangover didn’t help.

He didn’t have the energy to think. Jack was still exhausted like hell. It was Christmas Day, anyway, and he always slept in on his days off. Too tired and hungover to trudge back to his own room, he dragged a blanket over to the couch that Dave had occupied all of last night, and laid his head on the pillow that Dave had slept on.

Oh, what the hell was wrong with him?

Maybe last night could be seen as a totally friendly, platonic, totally normal Christmas.

And even if it weren’t, maybe they didn’t have to talk about anything that’d happened. They were drunk. Dave was evidently very good at lying. And Jack could bury any memories with ease.

Yeah, it’d be fine.

He was not prepared to uncover some deep revelation about Dave Miller of all people.

Because he was really afraid that one day this whole balance of jokes and banter and mutual concern would tip over into something else. Something new and warm and unknown and did he mention new?

He didn’t like change. Not the kinds of change he couldn’t predict or see coming. He’d had enough of those for one lifetime.

But… even while horribly hungover, questions kept rattling in his head: Why did he leave? Why did he leave? And where? Home? Where was home, exactly?

Too many questions. Jack couldn’t really reason through it very well, not with his blaring headache.

Maybe he went too fast? Too far?

No. Not possible: Dave was drunk, it was only natural that he offered to let him stay. If he sent him walking home, the damned idiot would probably get hit by a car, or another bike, or he’d get lost or…

Oh. There was that feeling again.

Chapter Text

Early mornings were always cold. Abysmally so.

Jack, driving his car with the busted heating, only took mild notice of the chill. Instead, he was trying to organize his wandering thoughts as he approached the pizzeria. And mostly failing, as he had been for the past few days.

Now, as far as his memory went, Christmas never happened.

It was a weak moment. That’s all it was. Just a stupid, drunken night with lots of wine, haunting memories, and thinking about how nice Dave’s hands were.

Well. Hm.

Neither of them had called each other the day after. It felt a little strange. Jack missed him, but he was so caught up in the new feeling of ‘missing Dave’ that he didn’t have the guts to pick up the phone. And he knew he’d see him at work eventually, anyway– he was always sleeping in that back room most mornings.

But, really, Jack really couldn’t tell if he actually wanted to see the guy or not. He had no idea what to say to him.

That was new. Jack was never at a loss for conversation.

He pulled his car into a park and got out, lightly shuddering at the chill in the air and moving at a brisk pace to the front door. And he’d just barely reached for the handle when it opened from the inside. Caught by surprise, Jack looked up, only to find Dave leaning casually against the doorframe propping it open with one hand.

“Hey, Old Sport,” he greeted coolly, his breath misting through the cold air.

Seeing him made Jack go all numb. The last time he really looked at him, he was about an inch from his face, filled with enough alcohol to kill a bear, and thinking about how nice his smile was.

Sort of like right now. Except for the alcohol. Though, Jack really damn wished he had some at the moment.

“Dave,” he nodded back in greeting. Then his gaze fell down to Dave’s unbuttoned shirt– as one’s eyes do– and he frowned. “Don’t tell me you have a hooker back there,” he said incredulously. And only half-joking.

“No way!” Dave said brightly. “After Christmas? I mean, we’re practically exclusive.”

Jack’s stomach knotted. It pissed him off how easily it happened. “Wishful thinking,” he mused.

Dave tilted his head to the side and smiled wider. “For me or you?”

Upon Jack’s subsequent sneer, Dave pulled the door further open for him to step through. With the better view, that’s when he spotted it: A jarring soak of blood on Dave’s collar. Instantly, it overrode all his flusterings, and Jack stuttered out, “What– Are you bleeding?”

Dave looked down, seemingly just remembering this. “Um. Oh. Yeah. I got hurt,” he stumbled, and when Jack’s eyes widened in alarm he quickly tacked on: “Jus’ a scratch! Really.”

Jack barely heard him, instead trying to get a better look at what had happened. No doubt about it: there was a hint of a gash behind his collar, too hidden to tell the extent of. The most alarming part was all the blood that had already visibly seeped through the fabric.

“It’s fine,” Dave insisted, fruitlessly trying to wave off his concerned look. “I’ll go clean it up some more, an’-- Uh.”

No time for more questions; Jack had grabbed Dave by the wrist and began steering him into the back room, barely pausing to kick the front door closed and muttering under his breath all the while.

“I can ‘preciate the concern, Old Sport,” Dave teased, clearly trying to lighten the mood, “But I was doin’ just fine before you got here.”

“Bullshit,” Jack mumbled.

Then he mostly ignored him, too focused on getting him into that back room. True to his word, Dave had made some sort of an attempt at tending to the wound, if the mess of bandages and wipes from the first-aid kit were any hint. But generally, he clearly didn’t know what he was doing, because when Jack glanced from the kit over to Dave, he only shrugged sheepishly. God knew he never took the time to learn his way around any of this stuff.

He realized he was still holding onto his wrist. “Sit down,” Jack ordered, letting go of him to sort through the scattering of supplies.

Dave dutifully sat down on the couch and said nothing more, instead cautiously touching at his collarbone, looking almost confused when his fingers came away with blood.

Jack sat down flush beside him and steered his hand away, trying to get a better look at the bleeding. Dave winced slightly as he peeled the fabric from the wound to get a clearer view.

It was a weird injury– straight and consistent in its mark, perfectly parallel to the bone under it. Jack didn’t even want to consider how the hell that could’ve happened, and his eyes flicked a concerned look up at Dave.

“Should I even ask?” he huffed out, voice tight.

Dave’s voice had gone quiet. “I’d rather ya not.”

There was a lot more Jack wanted to ask about, in all honesty. Because Dave’s skin was covered in scars, all in varying stages of healing, but most scarred over in faint lines. Nicks, scratches-- some even looked like burns. They were striking against his skin, combined with the pattern of the springlocked scars, and they all made Jack’s heart clench. He glanced over to Dave’s forearm, still wrapped in bandages, too.

And it was only with his hands hovering so close to Dave’s neck, touching his skin, did a weirdly warm realization come to him. With the way he was sitting right beside him, legs touching, he was incredibly close. Not even on Christmas had he been so close.

…Was he seriously going to start comparing everything to Christmas, now? Well. He supposed it was a pretty good benchmark.

“I really coulda cleaned it myself,” Dave added after a few moments.

“Oh, shut it,” Jack mumbled, though there was no bite to the words.

He unbuttoned the shirt some more and, with a wipe from the kit, began cleaning the blood off his skin and where it had trickled down across his collarbone. Jack was vaguely surprised that Dave didn’t make any joke about undressing him, and almost felt the need to make one in his place. Dave really was getting in his head.

The room was dead quiet, with just the sound of their breathing and the shuffle of supplies between the tin of the first-aid kit. Dave must’ve been back here a while, since the room had been a slight mess when they stumbled in. Jack hadn’t noticed that before. Much too caught up in another one of Dave’s mystery injuries.

Why did he jump so quickly to help, anyway? Dave could’ve gotten it done. Hell, he even found the kit, and insisted upon doing it himself, anyway. Jack couldn’t quite place why he instinctively dropped his thoughts to sit him down and tend to it for him.

“How the hell did you not notice you were bleeding?” Jack asked eventually, cutting through the thick quiet.

“Dunno. Lucky you did.”

Dave was staring at Jack’s hands as he worked over the wound. And he could practically feel the weight of his gaze, which was really not helping him focus in the slightest. But there were no jokes; no teasing on Dave’s part. He kept his hands still on his lap and quietly let Jack fuss over his bleeding.

Leaving Dave of all people speechless was quite an accomplishment, Jack thought.

“Why’d you leave?” he asked pretty much out of the blue, and he didn’t elaborate. They both knew exactly what he was referring to.

Dave glanced down at the couch. “Wow, um, right t’ the point, huh, Old Sport?”

“Uh-huh,” Jack flatly replied.

“Um. But I tucked ya in and everythin’?” Dave meekly reminded him, trying for a lighthearted remark.

Jack scoffed, not allowing himself to get distracted. “I mean it. Why’d you have to do that?”

“Shit, I… I dunno. Didn’t…” He winced as antiseptic hit the wound, but continued talking. “I don’t…I jus’ felt like I needed to be home.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “So, you’d rather haul yourself back home, hungover, then wake up in my house?”

The words seemed to really hit Dave- he looked like he was about to jump out of his skin with hurt. “No! No, ‘course not. Don’t even joke.” His hand lightly touched Jack’s knee– touchy as always. “Don’t tell me that’s what you thought happened, Old Sport…?”

Huh. At his switch in attitude, half of Jack regretted ever saying that. But the other half remembered what it felt like to wake up to that empty living room. “What was I supposed to think?” he replied bitterly.

Dave sighed. “It was… I’ve…” With his pause, Jack could see the muscles in his neck stiffen. Every subsequent word sounded like it hurt to get out. “Look, I had… Someone waiting for me, where I live. So I had to hurry back.”

He said it in such a cold, detached way. Where I live, he said. Not home.

“A sibling?” Jack asked tentatively, ready to forgive Dave for everything he’d ever done. He could relate to having to rush home to tend to his little sister after work. He missed the feeling.

Dave stared at the first-aid kit. “No.”

And he didn’t elaborate.

A few moments of silence passed. “Alright,” Jack said after a while. And he really meant it– because that’s all that he was after. An answer that wasn’t a total lie. And he didn’t press for detail. Not yet, anyway.

As he got to work looking for something to wrap the wound with, Dave seemed equally satisfied with the answer he gave. He shifted, leaning back on the couch and still seemed to be thinking.

Jack had found some thin bandage and unwrapped a piece. “But I can’t imagine you didn’t have a killer hangover to deal with.”

“Well, sure,” Dave answered distantly. “Worse than that.”

Jack shook his head, ready with the gauze, trying not to think about how he had to press against Dave’s skin to get the bandage to contour to his collarbone. “Should’ve called me, then,” he muttered.

“Next time.”

“Next time?” Jack repeated. “Who’s to say there’ll be a next time?”

“What, I don’t make good company?” Dave teased, cracking a rare smile of the morning.

Jack’s sarcasm was evident as he smirked, “Yeah, I really loved it when you spilled wine across my kitchen counter and snooped in my bathroom cabinets.”

“Didn’t have t’ snoop very hard to find all that makeup,” Dave retorted. “And, anyway, I brought wine.”

“Gas station wine,” he corrected. “Did you rob that, by the way?”

It was something he’d been wondering since that night. A bag full of wine and no wallet– Dave wasn’t very discrete. And it seemed that they both knew the answer to that.

“Would you be mad if I said yes?”

“Only if you got caught.”

“Well, I didn’t,” Dave emphasized, and sounded proud of it.

“I’d kinda be disappointed if you did,” Jack added through a smirk. “It was a gas station, after all.”

“Like you’d know the first thing about the art of thievery.”

“You’d be surprised.”

“Oh, yeah? What, do ya rob your makeup?”

Jack tried to imagine shoplifting all those tubes and jars out of a store discretely and smothered a laugh. “No.”

Dave thought for a few moments, then asked through a smile, “You sure?”

Jack couldn’t help it— mid-laugh, he looked up at Dave, and turned over that warm feeling of just being able to joke with somebody, and he tried to file that feeling into memory.

They sank into comfortable silence eventually, and Jack found that the wound was basically wrapped as well as it was going to get. But he didn’t move away from Dave. For some reason.

And from Dave’s angle, he didn’t even know.

He cut into his thoughts eventually. “Hey, was that really botherin’ you, Sportsy?”

“You criticizing my makeup supply, or you leaving without telling me on Christmas?”

“The… second thing.”

Jack thought for a moment. “Little bit,” Jack admitted, pretending to dig through the first-aid kit.

“Poor thing,” he pitied, though at least he sounded earnest. “I really am sorry.”

Jack hmph’d in reply.

“Invite me over more often, then. I’ll make it up to ya.”

“Who knows how long you’ll stay this time?” Jack mused drily.

“As long as ya want,” he grinned back.

“I’ll consider.”

“Good enough. And, hey, are ya done with this yet?” Dave looked down at Jack’s hands along his covered wound. “Not that I don’t mind it,” he said smoothly.

Jack felt his pulse quicken. Was there an easy way to say “Yup, I finished five minutes ago, actually, and just didn’t want to move away so soon”?

Hm. Yeah, no. Not really.

In the midst of his thoughts, Jack had realized something, among all his other realizations of the morning. He moved one hand, letting the back of it press against the center of Dave’s chest, trying to feel for his heartbeat through the fabric of his shirt.

“Um,” Dave croaked out, clearly confused but not tearing away.

The idea of flustering Dave was almost laughable. But his face had gone slightly pale with the way Jack’s fingers lingered. And he kept his hand there, feeling his eyebrows crease in confusion when he felt nothing but the rise and fall of his Dave’s breathing.

“No heartbeat,” Jack noted quietly, the words hanging heavy in the air. And in that detail, he remembered that Dave didn’t tell him about a lot more than he let on.

Dave stayed quiet, but probably finally realized what he was up to, and what he was searching for. He still didn’t move away.

Jack didn’t, either.

“Oh. Well. Hah. Almost forgot what that old thing sounded like,” Dave joked weakly, though it fell completely flat.

Time passed, stretching until it seemed the moment would last forever.

Almost forgot what that old thing sounded like.

Jack, with his hand still on his chest in a decidedly non-platonic way, was not able to articulate a single thought except for one: Fuck it.

He took Dave’s hand and guided it until his palm rested on his own chest, right over his own heartbeat.

For a split second, Dave just blinked numbly in shock before the steady beat of his heart seemed to reach him, and a tension in his shoulders eased. “Huh,” Dave murmured under his breath.

Confused, maybe shocked, mostly curious— his face was pretty unreadable as he stared at his hand. Dave shifted his hand, then again, and again, as if trying to hold onto more of the feeling.

Jack just let him.

And then Dave’s entire expression stilled. Then, without warning, he pulled his hand away…

…only to lean forward and press his head to Jack’s chest.

Jack froze, breath caught in his throat, as Dave pressed closer, holding onto his forearms, listening for the heartbeat now just inches away.

Damn it, was there even a heartbeat for him to hear? Jack’s pulse was probably through the roof with how close they were.

“Um. Dave…” he breathed out, the words getting all stuck in his throat.

But Jack sat there, arms hovering awkwardly in the air, not sure whether to push Dave away or pull him closer.

Well, he thought. Guess he couldn’t say he didn’t basically initiate this.

There was that feeling leaking from every part of him. It wasn’t even cute and fluttery anymore– It made him want to jump out a window. He could hardly bear it. So he did the impossible and put an arm right around him.

Yeah, Dave definitely didn’t mean it as a hug, but Jack sure as hell wouldn’t have initiated one in any other universe. One hand followed the other, and soon he had both his arms wrapped around Dave in…

Yeah, something like a hug.

It was odd. Weird. New. Warm. And, somehow, not unwelcome.

The two of them sat there, Dave angled to listen to Jack’s heartbeat in that silent room of the restaurant, rolls of gauze and bloodied rounds of cotton beside them.

----

They didn’t talk about it. Which was fine. But it didn’t make the moment leave Jack’s memory in the slightest.

The rest of the day was not any less weird. Lots of questions flitted through Jack’s mind as he mopped, waited tables, yelled at kids, and the like.

For one: was Dave always so touchy? It seemed that he took every chance to set a hand on Jack’s elbow, loop an arm around his shoulders, or nudge at him to crack some joke. Every brush of skin sent him reeling.

Thankfully, or maybe the opposite, Dave had been split off into the safe room to finish repairing the springlock suits.

And so Jack was cleaning off tables, making sure the little salt and pepper shakers were restocked at every dining table. When the fourth birthday-party brat ran past him and threatened to topple his tray, he seriously considered flinging pepper at the kid's eyes.

He was dutifully restocking napkins and sneaking glances down the safe room hallway when he instead came face-to-face with his boss. Steven had a hand on his hip as he stared him down.

Jack rolled his eyes and got resumed replacing the napkin dispensers. “What’s up, dial-up?”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped back flatly, as if by instinct. “And I need to talk to you in my office, employee.”

“What for?”

But Steven didn’t stick around to listen. He trailed down the hall and didn’t even wait to see if Jack was following.

With a sigh, he set down his work and followed him.

In the security office, Steven was already seated, half-facing the security screens with a stack of papers nearby. Jack leaned back in his seat as much as it allowed and got ready to tune out Steven’s incoming speech about ‘respecting customers’ or whatever it was this time.

“I’m having trouble working through my finances, employee,” he explained, voice slightly seething. “And I’d really like you to help me out here.”

That wasn’t what he expected him to bring up. At all. And at his fresh tone of voice, Jack shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Um.”

As soon as Steven had busted out the sarcasm, he knew he’d screwed up royally. He searched his memory and still didn’t know what his boss was referring to, exactly. There was a lot he managed to get away with during restaurant hours.

“Did I do something?” asked Jack, who had done many, many things.

“Yes,” he said simply. And he pulled out a piece of paper from the stack. “Could you explain, maybe, why my bank called me the other day, saying fraudulent checks are being written under my name?””

Ah.

“Maybe because fraudulent checks are being written under your name?” Jack replied uneasily. Maybe playing dumb was an option here.

Steven ignored his words, as he was evidently very good at doing. “Panini press. AppleBee’s. Wine. Antiseptic,” he listed. “I’m not sure what the heck you two get up to after hours, and I don’t really want to know, but with my money? Really?”

“Um,” Jack muttered, again.

“And the nice thing about checks is there’s a nice little memo line for writing a note.” Steven picked up one check, brought it up to his dial, and read it aloud. “30% tip— enjoy it. Love, me and the Old Sport.”

Damn Dave and his oddly scrupulous finances.

“Well,” Jack started, searching for a way fo remove himself from all this. “You should probably be figuring out who this… ‘Old Sport’ guy is, and ask him instead.”

Steven set the paper down. If there was any way for a dial to look tired of someone’s bullshit, he was doing it.

“There’s only one person Dave would take out to restaurants,” he deadpanned.

“What does that m—?”

“—What I’m saying is, I’ve caught on.”

“Um, listen… sir,” Jack started, because this seemed an appropriate time to bring out the polite sir, “He… we were just… Well, we didn’t know it was your checkbook.”

“It has my name on it.”

Jack looked around, trying to think of something to say, and eventually came up with, “If you fire Dave, you’ll have to fire me, too.”

“Oh, the horror.” And then he waved his hand dismissively. “I wasn’t going to fire him. Or you, for that matter. In fact, I’m in a bit of a dilemma, because even if I wanted to fire you, I couldn’t. Work shortage, and all that.”

Jack wasn’t sure where this was going. “Uh-huh?”

“So, instead, I’ll assign you both the absolutely worst job as punishment. Does that sound nice?”

“Not in the slightest, no.”

Steven tapped a hand against the security desk. “Trash duty for the next month. You two. Sounds nice?”

Jack grimaced. “Still a no.”

As much as Dave’s company made time fly by, there probably wasn’t much he could do to make hauling trash enjoyable.

“That’s precisely what I wanted to hear,” Steven exclaimed, sounding happier by the word. “Well. Get to it, employee!”

“No, no, wait,” Jack hurriedly said, not about to accept this. “Sir. Shouldn’t you be hounding Dave about this, too? I mean, why the hell am I the only one here?”

“Because he’s a new employee, and I wanted to keep up the facade of being a nice boss for a little while longer.”

Jack rolled his eyes. “Oh, give it up already.”

“Fine,” Steven sighed, and deflated. “Get him in here, then. I can yell at the both of you.”

Jack instantly shot out of his chair and further down the hall, toward the safe room. Hopefully, Dave would have some brilliant blackmail or argument tactic to fight against this.

He opened the door and Dave was working on the bots, sitting on the floor but looking up to greet him. “Hey, ‘Sport,” he chirped, “I jus’ started workin’ on the servos—“

Jack honestly wanted nothing more than to sit and listen to his ramble about engineering jargon away from his boss, but instead he interrupted. “—Cool, okay, but, dude, listen. Phoneface is about to put us on shit duty for a whole month.”

Dave looked confused. “Oh?”

“He found out about your checkbook fraud.”

“Oh.”

Dave set down his tools and they both left the safe room, trailing back down the hallway. Jack made glances over to Dave as he nervously walked toward the office door.

“Hell yeah!” Dave beamed, clearly not very concerned. “Getting sent to the principal's office with Old Sport!”

Jack nudged him with his elbow. “Be serious. I don’t wanna haul garbage bags for a month.”

“Oh, don’t worry. I’ll figure somethin’ out an’ fix things.”

For whatever reason, he believed him.

——

Dave had made Jack stay outside as he went into the security office to, quote, fix things.

So, he leaned against the door outside and tried to listen in on whatever Steven and Dave were discussing inside. Though, he couldn’t really hear much through the walls and general chatter of the restaurant.

He was toying with his name tag when Dave swept open the security office door and beamed a big smile.

“And?” Jack asked expectantly, trying to read his face.

Dave shut the door behind him and pumped his fist in triumph. “I’ll be accepting my thank-you, now!”

“What’d Phoney say?”

Dave looped an arm around his shoulders and brightly said, “Not important. I managed to convince him with my suave voice and irresistible charm.”

“The hell did you do? Seduce our boss?”

“No way. I save that for you.”

Jack rolled his eyes, but the quick flutter in his chest betrayed him.

“Kidding, by the way!” Dave tacked on.

“Right.” Jack tried to ignore the rush of warmth and forced out a scoff.

“Anyways,” Dave moved on, “Damn those AppleBee’s employees, huh? Snitched us out like that.”

“Too bad. I didn’t get to try that appetizer menu.”

“Aw. You wanted to?”

“Uh, yeah. I even told you,” Jack said. But Dave still looked puzzled, so he added, “On Christmas.”

Realization dawned Dave's face as he snapped his fingers. “Oh, shit, yeah, I remember.” He paused. “Huh. Jus’ how hammered was I on Christmas, exactly?”

Jack thought back. “Pretty hammered.”

“Did we kiss?”

“What?” he yelped, and he whipped around to face Dave, who pulled his hands away in surrender and said nothing more.

Jack blinked. “No,” he quickly replied. “We did not.”

“Ah. Okay.” Then Dave put his hands behind his back and began to ask sweetly, “At any point during that night, did you want t—?”

Jack put a hand up and shut his eyes tiredly. “—I don’t know where you are going with that sentence, but do not finish it.”

“Alright, fine.”

“You don’t remember much from that night, then?”Jack asked as he looked him over cautiously.

Dave smiled sweetly. “Oh, only the important bits.”

Jack sighed. “And remind me again how you convinced Steven to overlook actual bank fraud for us?”

“Oh, yeah. That reminds me. I got him to dump garbage duty on Matt instead. Let’s go break the news for him, huh?”

“Hey, that’s fun.”

“Right?”

—

The two of them pulled up to Matt’s prize corner, Dave leaning against the counter and looking down at the prizes behind the glass.

“Hey, idiot,” Jack greeted.

“Hello, September. David.”

Dave wrinkled his nose at the name. “Ew. Anyway, listen up. Phoney wanted me to tell ya that you’ll be hauling the trash bags for a month, starting, like, tomorrow.”

Matt’s smile didn’t fade, not even a little. “Good to know.”

“Thank god for it, huh?” Dave said, exchanging a knowing look to Jack. “People will be able to see less of your creepy face. At least a little.”

It was really nice that Dave had already figured out that Jack loved to bully Matt when he needed cheering up from his otherwise shitty work days. “Oh, you’re mistaken.” Matt smiled wider. “Everyone loves me. I work at the prize counter. I’m Matt.”

“It’s nice to have an active imagination, pal,” Dave said brightly.

Matt’s smile didn’t crack. “Would it hurt to be a little more loving, David?”

“Whuh? I’m the most loving guy you’ll ever meet.” He nudged Jack. “Sportsy, tell him how loving I am.”

Jack, distracted by some prize erasers behind the counter, mumbled, “Very.”

“See?” Dave grinned, satisfied at his answer.

Matt shook his head. “I’m not convinced, but okay. Will you be buying something now?”

Dave frowned at his wods. “Buy? Buy what? Crappy plastic prize toys?”

Matt said nothing more. He only continued smiling.

Jack tore his focus from the erasers and, at that moment, remembered that he never told Dave that Matt sold morally questionable wares at discounted prices. And, on second thought, there was probably a reason for that. He remembered how keen Dave got to suggest bashing in people’s headlights during the noon rush.

“Um. Hey,” Jack began to say, and grabbed at Dave’s sleeve. “This was real fun. But we’ve gotta go, since we’ve got stuff to do, so–”

Dave didn’t budge. “Woah, woah, hold on. What’s this buying thing you mentioned?” He looked between him and Matt. “Have you two been in cahoots or somethin’?”

“God, no. I…” Jack trailed off, letting go of him to motion vaguely to Matt. “He… Sells stuff. I guess.”

Dave didn’t seem any less confused. “Like what?”

Matt tilted his head to the side and finally decided to cut in. “Tools, guitars, licorice, fireworks…”

As he listed on, Dave’s eyes lit up and reached out to grab Jack’s shoulder in pure excitement. Mildly endearing, sure, but Jack still rolled his eyes.

“...firecrackers, tasers,” Matt finished. “Is there anything you want?”

Dave looked absolutely thrilled with his options. “Holy shit! Matt, old pal, forget everythin’ I said before,” he gushed out, pointing at him. “Show me those firecrackers.”

Jack rubbed at his temples. “Great. Just great.”

He didn’t expect Dave to notice, nor did he expect him to face him and quietly ask, “Ohh, pretty please, Sportsy? Won’tcha let me just take a look?” And when Jack still remained unconvinced, he reminded him: “It’s firecrackers.”

He searched his face, trying to find a good reason to say no and finding plenty. But he couldn’t quite open his mouth to voice any of them, not with Dave’s pleading look. No way could he say no. It would’ve felt like kicking a puppy.

“Fffine,” Jack agreed reluctantly. “We can stick around a little while more.”

He was also about half sure that Matt would come back to haunt them if they refused. And also because Jack was starting to find it increasingly more difficult to say no to Dave.

And with the way Dave’s eyes lit up and he squeezed his shoulder in thanks, it was sort of already worth it.

Chapter Text

He remembered meeting William.

Though, maybe that was the wrong word for it. Henry didn’t meet William, he didn’t find him— he created him. That was the only phrasing for it, because the child Henry met all those years ago was indistinguishable from the man that he’d melded him into.

It was fascinating to see what had changed– and what hadn’t.

The way he came running to Henry’s office at age six, ten, twelve, eighteen– the same eyes every time, the same loyalty rooting deeper and deeper until it was blatantly obvious there was no swaying this one.

Henry, did I do okay?

Henry, will you read to me?

Henry, what’s this dream of ours, exactly?

Henry, why’re we goin’ in so late tonight?

Henry, do I have to do it alone?

Henry, she’s jus’ a little kid?

Henry, are you sure about this...?

And yet, no matter how much he pinched and prodded and ordered and pushed, William remained. A tree that never toppled. A house that never burned.

His most perfect machine.

——

Henry spent most of his days in his office.

There were memories attached to everything within it, and the story behind each of them remained nailed and pressed into every single object. From the weathered documents from his years in the circus, to the little mechanical gadgets he used to let a younger William tinker with.

The only part of his office that stayed in the present was his work desk. On it, he had laid out a tidy pile of blueprints, papers, sketch paper. Dimmed light from his lamp spilled across it.

He was trying to logic through a problem. Sitting back in his chair, with an elbow on his desk as he took his glasses off and set them aside.

“William,” he called out, barely having to raise his voice.

There was the sound of footsteps descending the stairs, then the creak of floorboards in the hall.

“Come in here.” Henry didn’t even look up as William entered. “And take off that ridiculous badge.”

After a few seconds of silence, he heard the clatter of metal onto a table. Henry finally looked up to the sight of William, hovering tiredly in the doorway, hands at his sides. Still dressed in his work clothes. Henry could only frown at the sight.

“I’m studying something,” Henry baited, turning in his chair slightly. “What do you remember of inverse kinematics?”

It was such a rudimentary question— definitely a familiar topic for him. But there was nothing William liked more than feeling important.

“Keeps the animatronics movements realistic,” William recited, glancing around the room as he spoke as if the words were second nature to him. “Equations set the joint motions along the path.”

Henry nodded. “And of the chassis?”

“The frame that holds all the robotic parts in place.”

“Good,” Henry said, and though it pained him to praise William for something so elementary, he knew he needed to keep him at his heels. “One final question. If the devices within a machine weren't working quite right— not following their programming, let’s say— how would you fix it?”

He could audibly hear William’s breath hitch as he suddenly looked up to Henry. “What– What are you sayin’?”

Curious. He was nervous about something.

“Nothing at all. Come and fix this,” Henry instructed instead.

And when William dutifully approached, Henry just tapped at the springlock sleeve lying on his desk. The same one that he’d snapped around his arm a few weeks ago. The springs had all remained stuck into their locked positions. He’d cleaned it off, at the very least.

Standing beside his desk, looking down at it, William asked weakly, “What’s there t’ fix?”

“Much,” Henry stated, and left it at that. “I need it for a project, and I have no spares.”

As he watched him pick it up and begin to turn it over in his hands— thin, shaky purple fingers across the metal— Henry found that he liked the irony very much.

William, still staring down at the springlock sleeve, turned to leave the room to go and fix it on his lonesome.

He seemed to do that often. Between his job and his insistence on going off to be alone, Henry saw much less of him nowadays.

“Stay here,” Henry ordered instead, stopping him in his tracks.

William bit the inside of his cheek and crossed back into the room to stand beside Henry’s desk, leaning against the wall as he tinkered with the sleeve. He kept glancing over at Henry periodically.

They sunk into silence. Only the sound of the metal clicks from William's sleeve and the rustle of paper from Henry’s desk echoed along the room.

There was a distantly unpleasant look on William’s face as he switched and toyed with the springlocks and inspected his work every so often.

"Is there something on your mind, William?" Henry asked without looking up from his work. "You've been more distracted than usual lately."

William hesitated, his hands freezing for just a moment before resuming their work. "No, it's nothin’," he murmured, his voice barely audible.

"Good," Henry replied, a hint of satisfaction in his tone. "Keep your focus.”

Then a phone started ringing, a few shrill notes that continued looping. It cut through the thick silence like a knife. The ringtone was muffled, and it came from William’s pocket.

Curious. Henry always wondered who he called late at night.

He looked up to face William, who had gone completely still. He didn’t move to answer the cellphone in his pocket.

“Won’t you be answering?” Henry asked, voice low. This was curious.

William blinked but took the phone out of his pocket, amplifying the sound. He glanced at the screen but still didn’t pick up the call, instead looking over to Henry uncertainly.

“Answer it here,” Henry prompted, more of an order than a request.

The phone kept ringing, echoing its tone throughout the room. William still said nothing, thinking, glancing between the phone and Henry.

Then, with one unsteady hand, he hit a button. The ringtone stopped. He set it down on the desk beside him with a nervous glance to Henry.

“Telemarketer,” William explained dully. A lie.

A thick, thick silence that could’ve gone on forever spanned between them. William returned to working his springlock sleeve absentmindedly, clearly unnerved.

Henry shattered the silence. “How can you test a connection to another person?”

As soon as he said it, William looked up, sleeve forgotten. “What?” he asked genuinely.

“I’ve said it plainly enough. How can one scientifically determine the extent of two people's connection?”

William stared at him numbly for a few seconds, panic creeping into his features as he tried to grasp Henry’s intent.

Henry realized he had to cut in. “I am not talking about you,” he shot back through gritted teeth, patience wearing thin. “Can’t I discuss simple science with my own partner?”

William blinked. “Oh, I… The… social sciences are jus’ not somethin’ I imagined ya to be researchin’, to be very honest.”

“And yet curiosity strikes nonetheless. Humor the question with me.”

He went quiet at that. Henry watched him glance at the floor, deep in thought. “Shared experiences. Trust? Mutual respect.”

Henry leaned back in his chair, shaking his head. “That’s hardly scientific. I was looking for something more concrete. Measurable.”

“Like what?”

“Tests, studies,” he said with an impatient edge to his words. “How far can a connection be tested before it snaps? Is there a specific moment? At what point can compassion turn sour?”

William’s frown grew deeper, and he didn’t break his eye contact from him. “I don’t think somethin’ like that can be measured,” he answered flatly.

They sat in silence, mulling over the words exchanged.

William was pushing back. At least a little. Curious.

Henry narrowed his eyes slightly as he turned back to his work desk and continued on.

“In any case, this is a rather convenient track we’ve gone on, William. I’ve begun research on a new topic that can be studied.”

William looked over to him and waited for him to continue, albeit a bit nervously.

“Organizing all the cables and motors to fit within the chassis of an animatronic can only get so perfect. And there already exists a perfect example for me to study: the human body.”

William went still. Good– it seemed he wasn’t as dense as Henry had been led to imagine. It was interesting, that despite however many times he’d cut into William for research, that horrified look on his face told Henry that he never got used to it. Curious.

“A small step towards perfecting the connection between the organic and the synthetic,” Henry continued. “I want to replicate the complexities of human physiology in robotics.” He pulled out his notebook, opening to a blank page and smoothing it out. “And, naturally, I’ll conduct a small procedure on you to test my hypothesis.”

William stared at him for a while, eyes dragging over his desk before the words seemed to reach him. “Again?” he asked, a hand drifting to pick at the edges of his bandaged arm.

The bandages.

Henry still had no idea where he got them. On the arm, and the collarbone; tidily wrapped along the skin. It was illogical to think William wrapped it himself, they were much too neat.

It was someone else.

“Yes.” Henry continued staring at his wrappings as he spoke. “Another contribution to science. It won’t be like last time, I promise you. And you shouldn’t worry, it’s purely exploratory. Nothing permanent.”

William was holding the sleeve down by his side, haggard eyes dragging up to meet Henry’s as he tried to steady his breathing.

Henry just paired his words with a small smile. “I still don’t know why I have to reassure you after all these years. After all, you trust me, don’t you?”

“Yeah,” Dave spoke in a hushed tone, voice threatening to crack. “ ‘Course I do.”

“Then let’s get started.”

——

‘Unsuccessful’ is all that Henry jotted in his notebook with a bloodied hand following the operation.

He could hardly take note of anything this time around, instead stitching up William and resigning the procedure to be a failure after a mess of incisions and scalpels.

The blood was always the worst part. It dripped and dried and pooled in dull stains everywhere. Cleaning his tools afterwards would be such a mess.

In any case, it was over soon enough. Though, the sun had long set by the time Henry finished the procedure and finished working the stitches.

Henry didn’t have to drag William back to his room after each procedure, nor did he particularly want to, but it was his way of sparing breadcrumbs to keep him right at his heels. A necessary dole of compassion— No matter how small the act was.

It was only when he’d dumped a dazed William outside his bedroom door did he recall that the motion probably ripped open his stitches. The darkened stain blooming across his lower shirt confirmed the theory. Untapped blood flow post-operation– Yes, that was something to take note of.

Henry had just let go of William’s collar when the latter reached with shaking hands to weakly hold onto Henry’s wrist. It stopped him from turning and leaving. William lolled his head up to face him.

“Did… Did ya get all y’ needed?” William asked breathily, still looking disoriented.

In response, Henry eyed the grip he had on his hand. “Hardly. Your writhing made it difficult.”

William was blinking hard, trying to focus his eyes. “I’m–” He coughed, the breath wheezing on its way in. “Go again. Please. Do it– let me try again,” he pleaded, ever desperate. “I… Didn’t mean t’ ruin it.”

“You’ve done enough. Thank you, William.”

There was nothing to thank him for. But Henry knew how much he clung to praise.

He firmly tore away from William’s grip on his wrist. With one last once-over for any development to note away, Henry left him, going back into his office so he wouldn’t have to hear his inane whimpering.

—-

Henry sat in his armchair, scuffing the dried blood off the sole of his shoe against his desk as he thought about the operation. Outside, the sun had set and nighttime had long settled, quiet and still. It was a shame that it had turned out to be rather inconclusive.

His notebook’s entry was disappointingly curt— William’s endurance was draining by the day, if today's procedure were any proof.

And Henry thrived on proof. There was a growing pool of it regarding William. He was slipping, clearly.

…And why was that? Why was he so terribly feeble lately, in mind and spirit?

Maybe Henry was pushing too far. But then again– No, that couldn’t be possible. Henry knew his limits, and he never miscalculated. Precision and practice were his religion.

Though, every once in a while, he did push a machine too far out of its capacity— cranked the gearbox a cycle too fast, set a charge too high, activated a switch too quickly. Perhaps today was evidence of that.

But that never happened before.

Therein lay the problem— William’s splintering mental state was throwing their entire dream off. If Henry couldn’t research with him, he had nothing.

He knew William was faltering the day he decided to keep working at that damned restaurant. He knew how clingy William could get—maybe someone there was giving him too much attention. He couldn’t have that.

A distant sound broke him out of his thoughts.

Henry heard a thump. Then another. The sound of slow, dragging footsteps paired with labored breathing was audible through the office walls. Henry turned his head to look past his office’s doorway, where he could see a sliver of a view to the darkened entrance hall, lit only by the light his office spilled out.

William, clutching at his abdomen and panting, was forcing himself to walk down the stairs and toward the front door.

Curious. He had shown no sign of anything other than complete exhaustion the last time Henry saw him. Despite this development, Henry didn’t get up to stop him; he just observed from his study.

From his office, he could see William’s slouched figure lean against the doorway, doubled-over and undoing the door’s locks with weak fingers. Muted sniffles accompanied with the clicks of the locks, until soon enough the door opened and shut, and William’s slumped posture left the house without another word, disappearing into the night.

No, Henry thought. Maybe someone was giving him too much hope.

Chapter Text

Dave couldn’t remember how long he’d been stumbling down the empty roads. He couldn’t remember if he was even alive. He couldn’t remember if he was always bleeding this much.

And above all, he couldn’t remember what it felt like to not have such agonizing pain shooting through him at all times. It started in his midsection— where blood was seeping at a dizzying speed through his shirt— and radiated to every other part of his body.

Every step threatened collapse, every distance gained only increased the ache tenfold. The cool night air did nothing at all for the sting. Dave kept a hand pressed against his torso, trying to stop the bleeding, and he had to walk in an awkward, half-hunched way because of just how much the pain blared through him.

Eventually, the roads he was stumbling along turned into a familiar asphalt parking lot, and Dave numbly registered that he was finally at the pizzeria. He just wanted to sit down, he wanted to call his Old Sport.

He practically collapsed against the front doors, a bloodied hand weakly reaching for the handle and slipping against the metal. He gave a push, and panicked slightly when the door didn’t give way at first. No, no, not possible— Old Sport always kept a door unlocked now that he knew Dave was sleeping back here most nights.

Old Sport. He wished he were here, so badly, with his quiet concern, and he was always gentle, always careful, not at all how Henry would be with him…

To his relief, after some more effort the door opened inwards and Dave limped inside. There was just enough light from the street lamps seeping in for Dave to see the linoleum tiles and the blood he was tracking in. What a mess.

He wanted nothing more than to collapse right then and there, but he spared energy he didn't know he had to walk unsteadily over to the back room. The handful of steps felt like an eternity.

He stumbled down the hall and onto the weathered couch he always slept on, wincing as the movement ripped pain through his midsection. He exhaled shakily and let his eyes adjust to the dim room.

After a while, he made the mistake of pulling his hand away once to check the damage on his torso. His hand came away slick with blood, and all he could do was suck in a breath and press his hand back. It looked… bad, to say the least.

And Dave just couldn't understand why Henry was doing this to him. It was probably because he ruined the procedure— But he tried to lay still. He tried to be good. He was always trying...

And he could barely even stomach thinking about it anymore. He really wanted his Old Sport. He could help. He always did. And it was the sheer thought of him that prompted Dave to twist– biting his tongue at the pain– and reach into the back pocket, feeling for his cellphone.

Nothing. He tried the other. Also nothing.

Oh. Right. It was lying in Henry's office.

The thought alone made him freeze, breath caught in his throat. He didn’t want to think about what Henry could be doing with it, what thoughts could’ve been running through his mind as he went through the contacts—no, contact.

For a stupid second, he considered that maybe Henry hadn't noticed it, but who was he kidding? Henry noticed everything. He always did. And even thinking about his name made Dave want to curl in on himself.

He didn’t want to think about this any longer. And he didn’t want to feel so miserable anymore.

Dave didn't so much as lay down as he did pathetically crumble into the weathered cushions. He couldn't move if he wanted to– only sparing the strength to press a hand to his torso, trying to stop the bleeding.

He didn’t know if it was the blood loss, the exhaustion, or the pain that made him eventually pass out.

—

He could hear something. Slow, padded footsteps, and then a door hinged open.

Slowly, his brain caught up to his senses, and he tried to shift before being unfortunately reminded that the pain in his abdomen had not dulled one bit. Each blink was a struggle, and Dave barely managed to lift his head to realize that someone else was in the room.

Or, more specifically, standing right over him.

Old Sport. Still wearing his jacket, numbly looking over Dave’s bloodied torso with wide eyes. For just a second, he couldn’t tell if he was dreaming or if Jack really was there.

The corners of Dave's mouth tugged into a ghost of a weak smile, genuine despite his searing pain. “Hey. Sp’rtsy,” he mumbled out, voice barely a whisper, but the words carried all the relief he felt.

“Dave,” Jack said, voice terrifyingly low. He moved closer and knelt beside the couch. “What the hell…”

Dave’s reply came out as barely a whisper, since it hurt to even breathe. And, really, there was too much to explain. “I tried t’ call.”

And he tried to sit up. Unsurprisingly enough, as soon as he failed with a wince, Jack quickly reached out to rest a hand on his shoulder and guided him back into a lying position. “Don’t,” he said, gentle but firm. Then, a bit more hesitantly: “What happened to you?”

When Dave didn’t reply immediately– much too focused on the feel of the gentle touch against his shoulder– Jack's eyes flicked down to his bloodied torso. Dave’s hands were still weakly pressed against his stomach.

“Can I?” Jack asked, and in all honesty Dave was too disoriented to even comprehend what he was agreeing to. But it was Old Sport, and he was speaking so gently, so he just nodded distantly.

Jack’s fingers brushed over Dave’s as he slowly pried them away from the wound. He noticed, dimly, that the blood on his shirt and skin had dried somewhat. He couldn’t remember how long he was out for. It hurt to think.

Jack hesitated before he peeled his shirt up to expect the damage, mumbling an apology when Dave winced at the motion. Dave hadn’t checked the damage before— he didn’t have the energy or the courage— so he kept his eyes on Jack’s face instead and quietly asked, “That bad?”

Jack said nothing. He just blinked in numb shock.

“Don’t look so scared, Sp’rtsy,” Dave murmured, trying for a joke. “It’s jus’ a scratch.”

Jack didn’t smile. He pulled the shirt back down and kept his hands on Dave’s torso, and it would’ve felt a lot nicer in any other context. “That’s not funny. You look awful.” Then he paused, still looking over Dave’s condition, taking in every fleck of blood. “Hospital,” he said suddenly. “I should call a—”

He was already moving to get to his feet, but somehow Dave had scraped enough energy to grab him by the wrist and hold on with a weak grip. At least enough to make him stop and face him again. The thought of being sent somewhere cold and foreign made him feel sick.

“No,” Dave croaked out. “No doctors.”

Jack blinked in disbelief, glancing at the meager hold he had on his wrist. “Have you seen yourself?”

“Don’t do it,” he pleaded.

“Dave, you’re—”

“—Or I’ll never talk to you again,” he threatened, pouring as much insistence into his voice as he could muster. Though he really didn’t mean it.

There were already stains of Dave’s blood on Jack’s fingertips from when he’d checked the wound. And while still holding him by the wrist and still kneeling beside him, for a few seconds Jack just looked at him pitifully. “I’m trying to help you.”

“Please, Old Sport.” Dave’s voice was shaky. “I jus’ trust you more.”

All of Dave’s previous stupid flirts, his cheesy jokes, his terrible pickup lines– they all paled in comparison to Jack’s genuine reaction to that admission. Jack never showed a scrap of emotion unless he meant to, and as Dave watched him, he saw his eyes soften, looking him over for a really long while.

Finally, he quietly asked, “Can you stand?”

Like hell he could. The thought of getting up sounded impossible. Dave could hardly take a breath without pain tearing right through him, let alone stand. Nonetheless, he screwed his eyes shut and nodded.

Jack was already moving to support him, looping an arm around his shoulders to lift him up off the couch. Despite how gentle he was, the pain hit Dave as soon as he rose, and it was excruciating. Almost blinding. He hissed through his teeth as he blinked away white spots in his vision. Jack had started saying something to him, but all he could make out was a comforting murmur of his voice as they clung to each other. He never got this close to Jack, and this time he really wished it were in different circumstances.

Despite leaning heavily against each other the whole way outside, there were a handful of times where Dave stumbled off-balance, though Jack caught him around the waist to support him every time. The cool morning air hit Dave the instant they made it outside, and they started hobbling over to the only car parked in the lot.

Jack squeezed him by the shoulder lightly, grabbing his attention again. “When we get home, you’re telling me what happened.”

“Home?” In all honesty, Dave was much too focused on trying not to pass out to form an answer. He didn’t even stop to think. “Henry r’lly won’t like that,” was what breathed out in reply, all the words slurring together.

Jack didn’t respond to that at all, only holding onto him impossibly tighter– which probably should’ve been Dave’s first hint that he’d just let something slip.

In any case, it was too late to comprehend his slip, because his vision started to blur again as they approached the car. He gave up the massive effort to stay conscious as soon as Jack had guided him into the passenger's seat.

——

Dave remembered floating in and out of consciousness, vaguely aware of a dim light and the smell of antiseptic each time. A dull ache in his torso greeted him every time he drifted awake, no matter how briefly. Though, he could never focus his fuzzy mind long enough to take note of anything.

—-

The first time he really came around, he was lying down in a dimmed room, on a couch, staring at a ceiling. For a second, his stomach dropped and he thought that he was back at Henry’s.

He instinctively reached a weak hand to press against his torso, which was still aching badly, only to meet another hand tending to the bleeding. He glanced down and tried to focus his eyes, really, but all he could make out was an orange blur.

“Ow?” he muttered groggily, feeling a sting as something pressed against his wound.

“Sorry,” he heard a familiar voice whisper. Old Sport.

He blinked. And he wasn’t sure if it was exhaustion that pulled him back under or just the comfort of knowing it was only Jack.

—-

The second time he came around (or maybe it was the third? Fourth?), he was still lying in that room. Someone was holding his hand, wiping the blood off his palms with a cool washcloth. The same orange blur. Unmistakably Old Sport.

Dave didn’t say anything that time, he just shut his eyes again and drifted off once more.

—-

Dave didn’t know how long he was out that time. But at some point– slowly, eventually– Dave cracked open his eyes to that dull light again. His eyes were focused enough to know it was a floor lamp in a living room.

That was the first thing he noticed. With the curtains drawn shut and the TV quietly murmuring in the background, he was lying on a sofa that felt faintly familiar. Old Sport’s.

The second thing he realized was that the pain in his midsection had subsided somewhat. Not gone, but at least not excruciating. Though he still felt sore all over.

There were pillows arranged under his head and blankets tucked around him, among them being the same one he slept with on Christmas. Right– That was the last time he was over here.

Too tired to really move, Dave let his gaze wander around the room. He spotted Jack almost immediately; sitting in an armchair pulled closer to the couch Dave was on. His face was illuminated by the soft glow of the TV as he watched whatever was on. He didn’t seem to have noticed that Dave was awake yet.

He looked pretty tired, sleeves rolled up as he sat back in his armchair. Dave stared at him for a long while, just trying to come to his senses and gather his thoughts.

He couldn’t remember too much, aside from Old Sport finding him in that back room and helping him out.

It felt good to be at his house again. Really. And Dave could almost ignore the nagging thought at the back of his mind telling him that this wouldn’t last, that he needed to leave soon. Though, that was the thing with Jack: Dave could always breathe a lot easier around him.

Vaguely, Dave realized there was a tightness around his waist, and he nudged through the blankets enough to peek under his still-bloodstained shirt. He saw the white of fresh bandages wrapped around his midsection. The edges of the bandage were unmistakably stained slightly orange with makeup, and as much as Dave was confused as to how Jack even managed to tend to him when he was barely awake, just the sheer detail made Dave want to melt.

“Don’t touch that.”

Jack’s voice cut through the quiet. He’d turned his head from the TV screen over to Dave, watching him with something like relief in his eyes.

Dave’s voice sounded hoarse. “What?”

“Don’t touch your bandages. Took me forever.”

He swallowed, trying to shake the roughness from his voice. “I don’t remember that.”

Jack just nodded with a tiny, knowing smile on his lips. “I guess you were out like a light. Probably for the best, too, since I’m shit with a needle and thread.”

Instinctively, a hand flew to his torso.

“Kidding,” Jack assured him, moving to sit more upright in his seat, angled toward the couch. “I think I did okay. Though, um, I guess you’re the judge. Are you feeling… y’know, better?”

He did feel moderately better. Or, at least, he thought he did. As a test, Dave tried to move into a sitting position, but he regretted it as soon as a wave of pain rolled right over him. He fell right back down on the couch with a groan, feeling like he’d just been stabbed in the stomach.

Jack was on his feet and at his side in an instant, a hand on Dave’s shoulder as he leaned over him. The warmth of his palm cut through the pain, just for a second.

“Dude—take it easy, seriously.”

Dave was still blinking stars from his vision, trying to steady his breathing. “Ow,” he mumbled.

Jack rubbed a thumb over his shoulder for a moment, thinking. He probably didn’t even realize how soothing it felt. Then he asked, “You want more painkillers?” and didn’t even wait for an answer before he went to go get them.

Dave didn’t have the energy to sit up and watch him cross into the kitchen. He lay there and tried to sort through his fuzzy memories. “I took painkillers?”

“Yeah, you did. A couple hours ago,” he heard Jack say. “God, you were so out of it. All you kept saying was ‘Ow’ and ‘Old Sport’.”

Sounded about right.

Soon enough, Old Sport came back with a bottle and kneeled on the floor in front of Dave. He took him by the hand and placed the pills directly in his palm, as if he was afraid he’d drop them otherwise.

“Here,” Jack told him, picking up a glass of water and guiding it into his hand. Dave was honestly startled with how attentive he was— even remembering he was left-handed.

Dave downed the pills with water, squinting as Jack still didn’t leave his side.

“You’re makin’ me feel real pathetic,” Dave huffed behind his water glass.

“You kinda are,” Jack smirked. “But, hey, it’s better than a hospital, huh?”

“I dunno.” Then he squinted. “Did I say anythin’ stupid while I was bleeding out?” he asked, thinking maybe he had acted deliriously affectionate enough to warrant such a jarring change in Old Sport.

“Not really.”

Dave glanced around warily. “How the hell did I get in here, anyway?”

“Picked you up,” he stated simply.

And the mental image of Jack carrying him bridal-style into his own house was… not unpleasant at all, actually. He just sort of wished he were awake for it.

“Oh.” Then he paused. “What the hell time is it, anyway?”

Jack gave him a final squeeze on the shoulder. “You’re asking way too many questions. Don’t worry about it,” he said, and took the glass from him to set down on the table. “Go to sleep.” He rose and crossed back to his armchair.

“Slept enough.”

Jack just huffed in response and sat back in his armchair. Then they lapsed into silence, watching the TV program that was going on. Or, rather, Jack was, because Dave’s vision was much too muzzy to focus on the screen. He could catch his Old Sport occasionally glance over and frown when he saw that he wasn’t sleeping. But he didn’t say anything.

Dave lay there, picking at the fringe of his blankets, squinting at the television, or staring at Jack. His eyes tracked over the things on the coffee table: a rag, vodka, bandages, the TV remote. He half-expected to see his cellphone, before numbly realizing he’d left it behind. And he still couldn’t believe he was stupid enough to leave anything behind with Henry.

And he desperately did not want to think about him, not when he was in a place that was otherwise supposed to be comfortable and quiet. He looked over to Jack, totally unaware of his spiraling thoughts.

And Dave realized something: Lazing around, waiting, resting? That was not like him. He needed to leave; he didn’t even fully understand why Jack had hauled him over here instead of just wrapping him up back at work. And he was getting tired of waiting for the painkillers to kick in.

With a determined breath, Dave braced one hand on the couch armrest and tried to push himself into a sitting position. It hurt like hell, and swinging his legs off the couch sent a sting to his fresh wound, but he managed.

Jack definitely heard his struggle, because once again he was beside him in an instant, a hand on his forearm in alarm. “Woah, woah, what are you doing?”

“I wanted to sit,” he said tiredly.

“Then ask for help. Christ.” He sat on the free spot on the couch beside him, searching his face while still holding onto his arm. “I mean, shit, dude. What’s the rush?”

Dave slumped back into the couch, sore from the effort of moving. “I really shouldn’t be here.”

“You’re kidding, right? Just this morning you looked like you tried to hug a lawnmower.”

Dave leveled him with a look. “Ya wrapped me up, and for some reason, ya brought me here. I appreciate it, I do, but I really cannot fuckin' stay.”

“Why not?” Jack asked, the bluntness of Dave’s own words going right past him.

He sighed out, “I need to be back.”

“Back,” Jack repeated flatly, skeptically. “Listen to me. You’re tired, and you’re in pain, and I am asking you to stay.”

“I know– I mean, I want to, but I really…” He swallowed, hard. “It’s not that simple.”

Jack’s hand, throughout it all, was still holding onto his forearm. And he softened both his voice and his grip when he spoke again:

“Is it about… Henry?”

That was a name that never should’ve come out of Old Sport’s mouth, for the sole reason of them being so distinctly separate in Dave’s mind that it was just plain horrifying to hear.

He always kept them very detached. Work and home, Henry and Jack, cut and touch. But now they were overlapping in a very painful way, all thanks to a stupid, delirious slip of the tongue this morning.

“You have no idea what you’re askin’,” he said, voice tight.

“Because you won’t talk to me,” Jack replied, and there was a very rare and real worry in his voice. “I want you to tell me about him.”

Dave just shut his eyes tight. “No.”

“I had to look at that cut. I had to stitch it,” Jack reminded him, leaning closer slightly.

Dave still said nothing.

“And I want to know what’s going on. You– You seriously scare me, man,” he added, dropping his hand lower to brush a finger against the bandage of his old arm wound.

Dave exhaled in resignation. Jack’s worry and pity was seriously going to be the death of him– Stubborn as always. And Dave slowly looked up at the same ceiling he first woke up looking at, trying to melt further back into the cushions. He sighed. “Then, just… Not now. I’m still tryin’ to figure it out myself.”

“Okay,” Jack said quietly. “Alright.”

—-

He eventually agreed to try and get some more rest. But any sleep he got ahold of was short and fitful. When he inevitably woke up, windows still dark outside, he mostly just lay there and listened as Jack shuffled around the kitchen or living room.

It really didn’t take long for Dave to realize that the guy was practically nocturnal.

Jack didn’t seem to sleep, or even go into his own bedroom. For the most part, he hovered near Dave and occasionally asked to check on his bandages.

At some point, Dave had insisted on taking a shower. He was seriously tired of feeling all grimy on that couch. Jack, of course, served as his crutch as he helped him shuffle into the bathroom, hands firm but careful as he guided him. Dave’s midsection still ached badly, but he could manage to stand. At least for a while. Mostly, he just couldn’t stand being on that couch any longer.

Jack had dropped Dave off at the bathroom with a towel and spare clothes. His own, of course, which felt weird to borrow.

Dave was standing beside the shower, holding onto the edge of the sink counter to steady himself as he listened to Jack’s worried spiel.

“But seriously, dude, if you need anything…” he started to say, hand on the doorknob, about to leave.

Dave waved him off. “No, really. Please. I’ve got it.”

Jack left and shut the door behind him. Dave listened closely but didn’t hear any footsteps trail down the hall. He realized with a sigh that he was probably waiting just outside the door— and as endearing as the gesture was, it was really jarring to see this side of Jack.

Though, not so bad.

Dave kept his shower as brief as possible, because damn it, it really did hurt to stand for so long. He stepped out of the tub with a wince, dried off, and got dressed.

But he didn’t leave the bathroom yet. He stared at his own tired eyes in his reflection. He looked down at his sore, wrapped torso. And mostly, he was thinking about how he was dressed in Jack’s clothes, in Jack’s bathroom, with bandages that Jack had wrapped. He remembered when his hands were coated in blood, pressing against the flow. Now, though, there wasn't even any blood under his fingernails. Jack had washed it all off.

And Dave was realizing something.

There was a light knock at the door. A soft reminder that Jack had probably gotten concerned that it’d gone all quiet after the water stopped running. “You okay in there?”

Dave didn’t even bother with words. He just opened the door and barely caught sight of Jack– standing there with a relieved expression– before stepping out and pulling his Old Sport into a hug that was long in the wanting.

His arms naturally found their place around him, as tight as he could without hurting his torso, and he buried his fingers in Jack’s shirt fabric, pressing his face in the curve of his neck.

“Thank you,” Dave whispered, his voice muffled against the shoulder he’d buried his face in.

For a split second, Jack was just frozen in his arms. Then, slowly, gently, Dave could feel his hands drift up and wrap around him just as tight.

He could feel his Jack’s heartbeat grow faster, which was the most endearing feeling imaginable.

They’d held onto each other this morning, sure, but this time, Dave made sure to commit every touch, every second, every breath to memory.

He could feel the thrum of his Old Sport’s heartbeat, could feel where his hands clutched at Dave’s own fresh shirt, smell the shampoo he washed his hair with– the same one he just saw in the bathroom. Neither of them said a word.

A while passed, way longer than any hug should’ve possibly lasted, until Jack breathed out a very quiet, “Oh.”

Chapter Text

There were a lot of things running through Jack’s mind as Dave pulled him into the tightest hug of his life.

The first one being, Damn it, he’s going to rip his stitches.

The second one being, Wait, this is nice.

Jack wasn’t entirely sure how he was processing any thoughts at all, given that he was now so close to the man he’d just spent the better part of a day worrying over as he slept in his living room.

But he didn’t think about that. He just looped his hands right back around Dave, standing in that hallway, feeling his lingering warmth from his shower, clutching close with no intention of pulling away anytime soon.

Sure, they’d gotten close to one another like this before. Sort of. But there was always a reason behind it.

It’s cold in this car, or I want to listen to your heartbeat, or can you bandage my arm, or it hurts too much to walk.

This, though— it felt a bit different. And whatever it was, Jack wasn’t quite ready to fall into it.

Then he felt Dave mumble a “Thank you,” against his shoulder.

Jack was confused. Thank you?

What was there to thank him for? He did exactly what Dave would’ve done.

That feeling used to always be at odds with Jack, constantly ticking him off. But now that he was buried right to the crown of his head in it, all fuzzy and warm and mind reeling, it hit him. This was something he really, really wanted.

But that was the funny part, because Jack Kennedy never let himself want anything.

And yet, he really wanted this. He really wanted Dave— dare he say his Dave. His to fuss over, his to take to random restaurants. He wanted to hold him and laugh with him, he wanted to smother him in all the care and love that this stupid Henry never bothered to show.

Wait, love?

"Oh."

In the end, there was no big realization, no sudden shock of truth– just the unweaving of a feeling really long in the making. It was still just Jack and Dave, holding onto one another in the hallway of his house.

He really had no idea how to process any of these emotions. He didn’t know what to say. At all.

“You want a panini?”

Well. He thought it was as good a start as any.

And he could feel Dave lift his head up slightly from where it was buried in his shoulder before mumbling back a quiet, “Yeah.”

—-

Jack was still stressing over Dave walking and moving around too much, so he made him sit on the sofa while he ate.

He’d served the panini on his best chinaware, since now that he loved him and all, he supposed he should probably upgrade from a paper plate. Dave looked too tired to comment, and only threw a confused glance at him before he started eating.

Jack sat in his usual armchair and watched.

Maybe love was crappy sandwiches on porcelain. Maybe love was stitching up the gaping wound under his ribs. Maybe it was running to the pharmacy for painkillers at six in the morning and praying he didn’t wake up in the meantime. And maybe love was tucking him in with the blankets from his own bed.

Maybe, just maybe, love could be wrapping his hands around this loser Henry’s throat and squeezing until—

“Old Sport?” Dave asked, cutting across his thoughts. He’d set his sandwich down and was looking at Jack, concern etched in his tired features.

“Hm? What?” Jack asked, blinking.

“Are you okay?”

That was a funny thing to ask, when Dave was the one who’s entire torso was wrapped in bandages. His voice still sounded rough around the edges, too.

In any case, Jack hadn’t meant to zone out like that. “Yeah. Duh.” He was quick to point to Dave’s panini before he asked any more questions. “And don’t tell me you’re done with that already. You barely took two bites.”

Dave looked down at his plate. “I’m not really hungry.”

With all that he’d gone through, and all the exhaustion evident on his face, Jack wasn’t too surprised. He could hardly believe he was awake in the first place.

“Oh. It’s okay, then.” He reached to take the plate and set it down on the table. “Try to get some sleep.”

But Dave only slumped further back into the couch cushions with a groan, lolling his head to the side. “How long have you been awake?”

“Don’t think about me.”

“Well,” Dave crooned with a smirk growing on his face, and Jack knew exactly where this was going. “Hard n—“

“—Hard not to, yeah, I know.”

Even when bandaged and hopped up on an absurd amount of painkillers, it seemed like he could still crack jokes. Hiding his own tiny smile, Jack got up to fix the couch blankets, which he had rumpled and messed up in typical Dave fashion. Most of them were not even on the sofa.

Dave watched Jack as he picked up and smoothed out all the blankets. Then, careful of his stomach, he guided Dave by the shoulders to lie back down. He tucked the blankets around him and tried not to focus on the intrigued look blooming on Dave’s otherwise tired face.

“Wow. Ain’t this somethin’, Sportsy? Tuckin’ me right into bed.”

It wasn’t the first time Jack had done this, not at all, but he still couldn’t help rolling his eyes at the words. Though, he kind of preferred it when Dave was out cold– only because then he could brush the hair from Dave’s sleeping face without anyone calling him a sap.

“Just go to sleep, Dave. Make me happy.”

That seemed to work, because he happily shut his eyes and settled further into the cushions. Before Jack could return to his armchair, though, Dave turned on his side, tucking his legs in, leaving room at the end of the couch in a silent invitation.

He figured, why the hell not? He could keep a better eye on him from closer, anyway.

Jack slumped down into the corner of the sofa, resting his legs out on the coffee table. Then he threw a glance over to Dave, lying beside him. He’d already happily closed his eyes and tucked his blanket up to his nose.

Good. As long as he was resting.

—-

For a few days, Dave was mostly confined to the couch. Walking was tiring, and if he had to, it was always with Jack’s help. Mostly he just slept, because even when awake, he wasn’t quite his usual self; probably because he was still in pain, as much as he tried to hide it. Which was why he didn't object to all of Jack’s worry and his fussing.

At the very least, he was heeding Jack’s advice and taking it slow: he happily watched whatever slop Jack put on the TV, he ate all the paninis made for him, and he didn’t tear his stitches even once (Which was a bit surprising, in all honesty.)

And Jack, of course, was always nearby.

There was a sort of satisfaction that came with tending to someone like this, especially since he did not offer his house or his care lightly. And yet, with Dave here, Jack found that it came to him so easily. So much so that it caught him off guard. It unnerved him a little.

But he did his best, or so he hoped. He kept the living room tidy, he nudged him awake every once in a while to change his bandages, and he made sure he was eating. He let him sleep for as long as possible, though, because no amount of time could wipe the terribly bloody memory of when he first found him. Dave deserved this rest, and Jack made sure he got it.

Most nights, Jack would sit at the end of the couch Dave was sprawled out on, just watching him sleep as the TV went on in the background.

It was a little terrifying to know that someone trusted him so much. Whenever Dave inevitably startled awake for one reason or another, all it took was a touch on the knee or a hand over his for him to calm down and drift back asleep. That was probably love, too.

Even after however many nights Dave had spent asleep beside him just like this, Jack still hadn’t gotten over the urge to do something whenever he sat beside him like this. Sometimes, he wanted to shift closer, or fluff his pillow, or to tell him something as he slept, just something to let out the feeling tugging at every goddamned heartstring…

But he didn’t. He let him sleep. Like he always did.

It was dark in the living room tonight, seeing as how all the curtains were drawn shut to let Dave sleep better. And it was quiet except for the hum of the TV on low. Jack kept watching the screen, though as time went on he realized he was mostly just listening to Dave breathing softly as he slept. Knowing that he was doing okay calmed Jack down. And maybe that was love too, he thought.

Jeez. Now that he’d gotten ahold of the word, he threw it around so much. He’d been alone for so long it seemed like everything was love now.

It was new. And before now, he always thought love was something big and grand and important, not just sitting quietly with someone who trusted him enough to fall asleep beside him.

Love was supposed to be big, grand, important. It was supposed to be a feeling you could pin down and understand in an instant. Right?

Like a wedding.

He remembered Peter’s wedding.

Jack really didn’t get it at the time, and the memories of the day had mostly blurred together with age, but he remembered some parts. Mostly things like elbowing his sister the whole night and giggling every time the bride and groom kissed or danced and whatnot.

Everyone talked about how perfect those two were for each other, how inevitable it all seemed. They were always meant for eachother. Jack was happy for his brother, of course, but tying the knot didn’t seem as big a deal. Him and his wife were in love. The ceremony didn’t make any more of it. It was always there to begin with. It was something that grew day by day.

Without really thinking about it, Jack looked over to Dave. He was still sleeping soundly, curled up in the couch cushions. He seemed much more relaxed these days– after he got used to being woken gently for his food or bandages, after Jack agreed to sleep near him.

And that was a pattern. Maybe it was just that they were around each other. And it was so small, so simple, but maybe that was love, too.

Oh, this was nothing but confusing. Because when he looked at Dave, he could understand weddings and candlelit dinners and carving initials on a tree and putting locks on bridges. But they were doing nothing objectively grand or big or important.

It was confusing, sure, but it was nice, and moreover it was terrifying and new.

There was a time he’d talk to his sister about this sort of thing. Despite her age, she was full of snark and wisdom that always felt older than her years.

So maybe he’d say something to her like, “I’m screwed.”

And she’d just smile knowingly at him, head tilted. “What is it this time ?”

“I don’t know what to say to him. That’s how this goes, right? Now I tell him? But I’m crap at words, I always am.”

“No, you’re really not,” she’d say back casually. “Not when it matters most.”

“When it matters most? That’s— but… When it comes to him, doesn’t it always matter?”

“Does it?”

“Christ, I don’t know. It feels like it.”

She’d toy with the fringe of her scarf and still be smiling up at him, puzzled. “Then I don’t think you have a problem here.”

“No, no, I do,” he’d insist in the face of her frustratingly sound logic.

“Really? Then what is it, Jack? You love him, right?”

And Jack would stiffen, because no matter how many times he heard the word, he wasn't quite used to using it. “Well, I mean… Yes, I think. But I’m not good at stuff like this.”

“Just tell the truth. It’ll make him happy. It’ll probably make you happy, too.”

“I don’t know. He’s… different. He’s everything.”

She’d wrinkle her nose. “Oh, now you’re just being cheesy.”

“Oh, god. I am?”

She’d nod sagely. “Very much so, Jack.”

“Well. This is a bad sign,” he’d say, jaw tightening. “Or maybe a good one. See, this is why I hate feelings.”

“You don’t need to be scared with him. I mean, nobody has it all figured out.”

“Peter and Caroline did.”

“They did not. Not at first.”

“It definitely looked like it,” he’d insist, stubborn as always. “Two lovebirds.”

“I'm sure they had their awkward stage. Like every other couple.”

Feeling bitter, he’d say, “Then how come I don't know about it? I'm his brother.”

"Was," she’d correct bluntly. "They probably didn't tell you because you were too busy drinking."

He’d go quiet. “You know I’m not proud of that.”

“I do know. And this time, I know you’ll do things right.”

“I’ll probably mess it up.”

“Boom– exactly! And you try again! That’s love!” she’d exclaim.

Her enthusiasm and hope would be infectious as always. “Well. Nice to know I’m totally fucked.”

She’d smirk. “You kiss your boyfriend with that mouth?”

“Funny,” he’d muse drily. “But, honestly, he seems to be perfectly fine with the way things are.”

She’d hum as she thought it over. “He told you that?”

“Well. Um. No.”

And then she’d tilt her head knowingly. “You’re being funny, Jack,” she’d laugh out loud. “You weren’t always this funny when I was alive.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” He could imagine it perfectly well: she’d sound completely sincere.

”But I am sorry. And I don’t drink that much anymore,” he’d blurt out.

…

“Really.”

…

“Don’t go, please. I’m not done talking.”

…

“I want to keep talking.”

…

“I miss you.”

His phone was ringing.

Jack startled awake and blindly reached for the phone, hurrying to mute the sound. He hadn’t even realized he’d fallen asleep. And, honestly, with that bittersweet feeling still lingering, he remembered why he didn’t let it happen often.

Funnily enough, he didn’t even check who was calling him— his eyes snapped right over to Dave to see if the noise had woken him up.

And it sure had. Right beside him, Dave was sitting totally upright, looking like he’d just bolted awake. His eyes were wide, his breathing heavy. Almost impossible to tell he was sleeping ten seconds ago.

“Who was that?” he asked, voice raw, and still blinking the sleep from his eyes.

But the cellphone was totally forgotten in Jack’s mind. He felt bad for waking him when he looked so bone tired. He let his free hand drift out to rest on Dave’s forearm. “Relax, it’s my fault. I should’ve muted the stupid thing earlier.”

And yet, he didn’t sound any less uneased. “But… who was it?”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know, dude, but don’t worry about it. Are you feeling okay?”

Dave wasn’t meeting his eyes. “Can you check, Sportsy?”

Confused but willing, Jack let go of him to see who the missed call was from. He flipped the phone open and squinted at the screen, almost doing a double-take at the late hour.

“It’s just Phoneface,” he read off of the phone screen. “Probably wondering why we weren’t at work. Don’t sweat it, though, okay? I’ll talk to him later.”

But even as he explained, the fear in Dave’s face wasn’t waning, and that only unsettled him more.

Jack lowered the phone. “Who’d you think it was?”

Dave didn’t reply at all. He slowly leaned back into the couch cushions, shoulders still taut with stress.

Something fell into place, and Jack had a feeling that knew what this all meant. He set the phone back down.

“He’s… not here,” he assured, reaching to rub a thumb against Dave’s wrist, pulse point absent as usual. He was still trembling slightly. “You’re all good and safe, okay? It’s just us. You can go back to sleep.”

His blinks were really slow, tired. But he nodded once.

Jack still wasn’t satisfied. He leaned a bit closer. “Does… Does anything hurt?” he asked, ready to go fetch the painkillers if needed.

Dave’s voice sounded distant. “Um. I dunno.” He was still staring blankly at the cellphone over on the table, and still breathing much too quickly. “I jus’ really thought that it was, well, him. I got so freaked out.”

Him. That dick Henry, no doubt. Even from what little he knew, Jack felt total anger simmering for this piece of shit; for every scar he had to wrap and every bloodstain he had to clean off Dave’s skin. But he knew full well that Dave didn’t need anger right now, not with that unfocused look still in his eyes.

For a while, all Jack did was continue brushing over Dave’s wrist in what he hoped was a soothing motion. He never was good at this. But he wanted to try. His dream was in the back of his mind when he asked softly, “Do you want to listen?”

They both knew what he was talking about. He watched as Dave blinked once, twice, and then gave a weak nod.

Neither of them had to say anything more. Dave tilted sideways to lay back down along the couch, this time resting his head against Jack’s chest, his ear right over his heart. They were both turned to face the TV— though neither of them were paying much attention— and Dave pulled a blanket back over himself, nestling in the warmth.

Jack, meanwhile, just about felt his bones turn to liquid at all this touch. He could feel the grounding weight of Dave against him, could feel the rise and fall of every steadied breath he took. He probably wouldn’t get used to this in a million years.

Dave stayed quiet: just listening, just holding on. Jack didn’t fully understand what drew him to his heartbeat like this– maybe it was just an excuse to get close. Or maybe, hearing something rhythmic like a heartbeat when you didn’t have one yourself would naturally be comforting. Either way, he really didn’t mind humoring it. So long as it appeared to relax Dave from the sudden phone call.

Though, Jack could admit this was something new on his part. Dave was always the one to flirt the line, to hug, to touch– He was always the one to say or do something that reminded them both that their whole dynamic went mostly unspoken and unlabeled. Jack never knew what to do in those moments.

Feeling more bold, one of Jack’s hands found itself drifting to Dave’s hair, fingers threading gently through it. Below him, Jack could hear his breath go still at the very touch.

And at that, he pulled his hand away. “Too fast?” he whispered.

But as soon as he said it, Dave reached up, grabbed him by the palm, and steered his fingers back in his hair. He only let go once Jack resumed threading fingers through his hair, this time with a tiny smile he wouldn’t be able to see.

And it was like that for a long while; fingers moving gently through his hair, with Dave nestled against him, going so still and so quiet that Jack assumed he’d fallen asleep long ago.

But he broke through the fragile quiet after some time had passed.

“He cuts into me,” Dave breathed out.

Jack froze, feeling his blood run cold at the words. “What?”

Each word came out unsteady, like he was unraveling all of this right alongside Jack. “He says it’s to learn. To research. And I don’t even say no— he makes me not want to. It’s been like that since him and I met, back when I was jus’ a kid. He always had big dreams, and he wanted me to be a part of ‘em.”

Jack was trying to connect the pieces. “The… ringmaster.”

“Yes,” Dave uttered after a hesitant second, as if he were surprised that he’d remembered. “He was so good to me. He taught me everythin’ he knew. He treated me like his son.”

Christ, it hurt Jack to hear him willingly say such nice things about this scumbag, but he stayed quiet.

“But… the circus didn’t last long,” Dave said. “And when the business changed, he changed with it.”

Jack continued combing a hand through his hair as he spoke. He didn’t dare to interrupt.

“They had to shut down. And then we had no money, no business, nothin’. I thought for sure he’d kick me out on the streets again. But Henry was so stubborn– he said he was gonna make it work, and that he wanted to keep dreamin’. With me, no less.”

There was a pause, and then his voice took on a confused edge. “But then he made me do things. I didn’t ask questions at first. Whenever I did, he lied to me about what we were doing, and why. I thought that, well, we were… trying to find the… joy.”

“Joy?” Jack asked, confused.

But Dave didn’t dwell on it. “I know how it sounds,” he responded quietly. “And he really has done some bad things, I know. But, sometimes— sometimes he’s not all that bad.”

Jack’s mouth twitched. “What?”

“He cares for me.”

Like hell he does, Jack wanted to bite out. He kept his voice as calm as he could, but the words caught in his throat. “With all he’s done to you?”

“It’s… it’s real complicated, Jack.”

“No, it’s not,” he added, voice low but firm, and his hand still moving through his hair. “He hurts you, man.”

“He saved me,” Dave corrected. And with that, he suddenly raised himself off of Jack’s chest but didn’t move away, sitting up so that his face was inches from Jack’s. “You’ve no idea what he’s dragged me out of— so much. Throughout my entire life, Sportsy. He’s been there.”

They were sitting really close. Dave didn’t seem to care— he was always lenient when it came to proximity— but Jack could feel the breath of every word he spoke as those eyes bore into his.

Mostly, though, Jack was looking at him while trying to understand how this prick Henry could hurt someone this broken, someone this lost.

“Why defend him?” he asked Dave, nothing sharp in his tone. “I mean, just–” He took a deep breath, shaking his head slightly. “How can you explain what he’s done to you?”

Dave didn’t waver. “It’s different. It’s love.”

“No,” Jack insisted, cutting through his sickening logic. “Christ, no, it is not. I would never do that to you.”

Dave looked at Jack. Jack looked at Dave.

And, well… That was about as close as Jack would get to saying what he really meant. Neither replied, and they both let themselves sink into silence, letting the words hang in the air.

After a long while, Jack felt it was time to tear through the silence.

“Listen,” he said, voice thick. “When I first found you in that backroom, for a second I thought you were dead. And I mean this when I say that I was terrified.”

Something softened in Dave’s face. His eyes flickered with something new. Awe, maybe. Shock, definitely. It was as if he was trying to make sense of Jack’s words.

“You don’t deserve to stick around him,” he said in the face of his continued silence. “Okay?”

Dave always paid attention to him, he always followed his every word and hung on every little thing he said. Jack knew this, and he hoped that this especially got through into his brain.

“Y’know,” Dave began, setting his jaw. “I never tried to leave because I didn’t think there was anythin’ better for me.” Then he paused. And he looked away, but despite the angle, Jack could still catch a strange, blank look coming over his face, as if he’d just realized something. “I don’t think Henry is very good to me.”

Jack leaned closer to him, feeling so relieved that he was getting it, to some degree. “No, he’s not.”

“But that means I’m jus’ as terrible,” Dave whispered, voice cracking.

“No, you’re not.”

Dave’s eyes flicked back to Jack’s, something raw and unreadable behind them. Something that looked almost like an apology. “Jack, he’s made me do things…” he trailed off, and there was a desperate tinge to his voice, as if trying to reason against all this touch and all this reassurance.

Jack shook his head. “So then it wasn’t you.”

He didn’t know who moved first, or when. Dave buried himself in Jack’s chest as hands found themselves wrapped around each other. It could barely be called a hug— just a desperate clinging to one another.

And Jack’s brain was firing in a million different directions at all this, but he could only hope that Dave felt so far away from Henry that he could almost convince himself he wasn’t real.

From his angle, Jack could see scars creeping along the back of Dave’s neck and throat. Faded lines littered across his skin, and, of course, no heartbeat to be heard. Living proof that someone treated him like garbage.

“I’ll kill him,” Jack whispered to Dave, burning with affection by now.

He could feel Dave’s hands stiffen around where he was gripping his shirt, but still he said nothing. Before long, he lifted his head and pulled away far enough to look Jack in the eyes.

His expression was always hard to read, always covered with a smirk or a humorous light in his eyes, but it was entirely gone now. Now there was just a quiet relief.

“You are not going back to him,” Jack stated firmly.

Dave’s reply back was a focused whisper. “I really didn’t want to.”

The past few days, they were almost always near one other. Neither of them talked about it. It was just natural. It was as easy as breathing.

Their faces were now just inches apart from each other, and it felt just as natural, even though something different was in the air between the two of them.

By then, Jack had been thinking this over for far too long for it to be considered an impulse.

If he could just lean forward, just a bit, and…

The moment was shattered with the shrill sound of a phone ringing. They both flinched back, Jack quickly reached for the phone with a flush, and whatever was just between them melted away in an instant.

Jack answered the phone by biting out a bitter, “What?”

He almost forgot to listen to the reply, much too distracted by whatever tension had just been interrupted.

The strident voice of his boss responded, “And just where the heck have you been, employee? Remind me again how many days it's been since you’ve clocked into work?” Jack huffed. This was just about the last person he wanted to talk to. “What can I say? Stuff happened.”

“Stuff? Well, it doesn’t matter, since this is your job, and you need to— you know— show up.” He sighed. “And where the heck is Dave? Have you spoken to him?”

Jack poured as much indifference into his voice as possible. “No idea where he is,” he lied, glancing beside him. Dave seemed to be trying to listen in on his phone call, as usual.

“When you finally decide to show yourselves, don't expect me to treat this… vacation kindly,” he said, voice low and angry.

Jack rolled his eyes. “Well, that sure gets us excited to go back to work.”

“‘Us’?” Steven asked incredulously.

“‘Me’,” Jack corrected quickly. “Get your speakers checked.”

Without another word, he hung up and tossed his phone back on the coffee table. The room fell back into silence.

“Okay, then.” Jack sighed, and didn’t even bother summarizing to Dave, since he knew he just eavesdropped on the whole thing. “Good to know they miss us at work. I’m a little surprised he didn’t comment about all your blood out in the back room.”

“Back there?” Dave scoffed lightly. “There was prob’ly just as much to begin with.”

Jack turned and almost asked Dave what that bastard Henry did to him that night, what could’ve warranted all that blood and all those tears. But given Dave’s tired frame and slow blinks, he decided against it.

“Yeah,” Jack agreed quietly.

Then they tapered off into silence again, sitting beside each other enough for their legs to touch. They stared ahead and said nothing.

Without another word, Jack motioned with his fingertips for him to come closer.

And the rest was automatic– Dave shifted close and leaned into him, resting his ear over Jack’s chest, tucking himself against him like it was second nature.

—-

And just like that, they fell into another unspoken habit. And the strangest part was that they melted into it so easily.

They didn’t ever talk about that interrupted moment before the call. And Jack tried not to think about what would’ve happened if he actually remembered to shut his damn cellphone off.

Every night, he’d put on some TV program, and forgo his usual seat in the armchair to sit on the couch. And Dave would tuck close and bury himself in his arms, listening to that heartbeat, and neither of them would get to soak in the moment before inevitably drifting asleep.

—-

Dave was getting better, surely enough. He still slept more than usual, though nobody could blame him, since there was nothing much to do but eat paninis and watch How It’s Made reruns. A lifestyle that only Jack was used to.

Evidently, Dave was still in a good amount of pain. He cussed under his breath every time he had to move around, and he went through painkillers like candy.

Jack didn’t let him laze around all the time, though. He had him stand and move around occasionally, just to keep the muscles moving. Dave would whine and complain the whole time through.

And that was probably the clearest sign that Dave was getting better: the return of his usual personality.

Jack was tidying the house when he passed through the living room, where Dave was sprawled out on the couch– probably conked out from his painkillers. Without thinking about it too much, Jack leaned over and brushed the hair that had fallen in his eyes as he slept.

As he did, he saw Dave crack a teeny smile.

Jack huffed and pulled his hand away. “Ah, fuck off, you’re not even sleeping.”

He peeked his eyes open. “What’s the difference if I’m asleep or not?”

“Big difference,” he drily replied, though a smile was tugging at his lips.

Dave kicked the blanket off and propped his head on the couch arm, grinning. And to think he was sleeping a minute before. “Hey, I’m bored, Old Sport. Let’s go somewhere.”

“Go somewhere? You can barely walk to the bathroom yourself.”

“I can too,” he objected, and stood up uneasily to prove his point. He smiled through a wince.

Jack almost feels bad for him. “I don’t know, man. I think it’s still too soon.”

“But I’m fine,” he insisted, despite his slightly hunched posture. “I’m practically all better.”

Jack eyed him warily. “I’m not convinced.”

“Listen, it doesn’t have t’ be anythin’ crazy. How about… we skip the paninis today? Go get breakfast somewhere?”

“Breakfast?” he said skeptically. “It’s three in the morning.”

“And look at us! Both awake!”

Jack sighed. “Wait, don’t tell me you’re sick of my sandwiches already, Dave,” he teased, mostly joking. “I bought that press-machine thing for a reason.”

Dave put his arms out, exasperated. “Obviously I love ‘em, I mean, you make ‘em. Also, I technically bought it. Well, Phoney did. But, uh,” he stopped, realizing he was getting distracted, “Whatever! C’mon, ‘Sport. I’m jus’ a little tired of bein’ cooped up in here. Not that you’re shit company or anythin’.”

Jack said nothing for a while, thinking as Dave kept up his pleading face. It was only natural he got antsy after spending so long in a living room.

Dave could tell he was coming around to the idea, because he kept trying to convince him. “We’re gonna be sitting the whole time, anyway!” He paused. “Unless they got, like, a karaoke machine or some shit.”

“Karaoke machine–?” Jack parroted, and didn’t even try to smother his laughter. “Okay, well, wherever we’re going, I’ll make sure it doesn’t have one of those.”

Dave dropped his arms back down. “Bummer. And here I thought ya liked me.”

“You don’t know the half of it,” Jack replied back, and this time it was Dave’s turn to blink at the implications. “But, okay. Fine. I just have to rewrap your bandages before we go out."

"Oh, so now we're ‘going out’?" Dave teased, waggling his eyebrows.

“Dude. You’re the one that suggested it. Now, sit down.”

He did, and Jack crossed over to sit beside him on the couch.

Instead of saying anything, Jack pointed to some of his older bandages. “Hold on. Your arm,” he said. “Let me see?”

It seemed like forever had passed since he had first wrapped that particular injury up, in that party room at work. Dave seemed a bit confused, but held out his bandaged arm nonetheless. Gently taking him by the wrist, Jack found the end of the gauze, slowly unwrapping it from along his forearm. Eventually, the skin underneath came into view.

Jack had seen the injury when it was fresher— a springlock accident, no doubt in his mind— but now it had healed almost entirely. All that was left were faded, pale lines atop his older scars.

“That was him, too,” Dave said quietly as he studied the skin alongside him.

Jack assumed as much. Still holding his forearm, he turned it over, making sure it was all healed. He looked up. “Why’d he do it?”

Dave furrowed his eyebrows slightly at the question. “It’s, uh…” His words trailed off, and with that sad look on his face, Jack felt a twinge of regret for asking. Dave shook his head slightly. “I don’t really wanna talk about it.”

Jack could more than understand. Dave told him more than enough, and, really, Jack found that the more he asked about this dipshit Henry the more he hated him.

“It’s alright,” he assured, and he meant it. “At least that one’s all healed. Lie down?”

Lying lengthwise along the couch, Jack got to work pulling up Dave’s shirt the millionth time, wishing at least one of those times it would be under some different circumstances.

By now, he should’ve been used to being close to Dave, touching his skin, feeling the raised lines of all his scars. But he wasn’t. Jack was hyper aware of every brush of skin, and it sent his heart reeling.

They’d done this so many times– unwrap old bandages, clean the skin, wrap new bandages. Usually, Dave was asleep or close to it. And today he was not.

“I know I’m a shit nurse, but your staring is not helping,” Jack mused as he worked, tearing the gauze from its spool.

Dave seemed genuinely appalled at the words. “Hey, you’re not shit. Jus’ the opposite, I think!”

“Seriously?” he asked skeptically, reaching over the table to grab a new spool of gauze.

“Yeah. Whenever I do any first aid myself, it looks like crap.”

The thought of Dave attempting to wrap his own wounds just made his heart sink. “Well, now you’re just making me sad.”

Dave gave a small smile, which just made Jack’s heart skip a beat. “Aw. Well, don’t be! I’ve got the world's best shit nurse with me now!”

With a huffed laugh, Jack peeled off the last of the previous bandage.

He saw Dave lift his head to take a look at the process. As soon as he caught sight of the stitches— which were healing nicely, in fact— he grimaced.

Jack caught his expression. “It’s a lot better these days, Dave,” he assured him.

“Mm, sure.”

“Really. I mean, compared to what it was when I first saw it?”

“All thanks to you, Sportsy,” Dave admitted smoothly, setting his head back down. “I know I said it already, but, seriously, thank y–”

“--Don’t start,” Jack cut in with a tiny smile before the moment got any sappier. “I know.”

“I bet ya wanna know why he did this t’ me.”

Jack swallowed. “A little,” he muttered. In fact, he’d been dying to know how he got such a gash from the day he found him bleeding out.

Dave sighed. “Research is what he told me. Somethin’ about… learnin’ from my physiology, and how to better design machines. I don’t remember much apart from that.”

“Jesus,” Jack muttered under his breath. With every new thing he learned about this jerk Henry, he only wanted to punt him harder.

Dave hummed in agreement.

The wound still looked a bit terrifying, though— a big scar running right under his ribs. The stitching was a bit uneven– could you blame Jack?-- but it was tight and it held. From where Jack had hitched up the shirt, he could see his other scars, symmetrical but sad against his skin.

“You’ve got so many damn scars,” Jack noted, mostly just thinking out loud.

A hum from Dave. “Look who’s talkin’.”

Jack didn’t talk about his own springlocking, and Dave didn’t ever ask. He almost preferred it that way.

“I mean, other ones, too.”

“Whoops.”

“That’s all you can say? Whoops?” Jack mused. But then he sighed and dropped his amused tone. “Are they all from that lowlife?”

Dave buried the instinctive that came whenever Jack used his more colorful language when referring to Henry. “Not all of ‘em. A lot are from my own fuckups.”

Jack pointed to one scar along his ribcage. “What’s this one?”

After a quick glance down, Dave replied, “Glass bottle.”

Another. “This?”

“Research,” Dave replied sullenly.

He hiked his shirt up further, pointing to more. “This one?”

“Bar fight.”

“Liar,” Jack countered with a smirk.

“Okay, fine. It was a raccoon.”

Jack was, somehow, not very surprised. He reached a pair of scars under his chest when Dave cut in, “Oh, those aren’t—“

“—Ah. Yeah, I know. I’ve got the same ones.”

While Dave blinked at his reply, Jack pulled the shirt back down more and resumed wrapping the gash with new bandages.

Dave watched and waited patiently. It was good that the process didn’t hurt anymore– all the fussing around such a sore area. Or, at least, Dave had gotten good at hiding his winces.

Jack was almost done applying the last slips of gauze when Dave sat up a bit to check in. There were touches of orange staining the bandage, as per usual.

“Sorry about that,” Jack mumbled to him as he worked.

“Don’t be.”

Unconvinced, Jack only shook his head in reply.

“Nah, really!” Dave insisted. “It’s proof that ya helped me, right? Like some beautiful, orange angel…”

Jack’s mouth twisted into a smirk. “You make me sound like a Cheeto.”

With so much practice with reapplying bandages, it was over soon enough. Jack pulled the shirt back down and watched as Dave sat back upright, moving gingerly at the tightness of the bandage around his waist.

“So,” Jack said, putting the spool back on the table. “Any ideas on where you wanna go, exactly?”

“Nope,” he chirped brightly, and then he smiled. “Anywhere with you!”

Chapter Text

Dave watched out the car window as they drove down mostly empty roads, looking for someplace to eat.

He could hear Jack tap at the steering wheel as he drove, looking for any spot that was actually open. A pretty hard feat, considering the late hour. But Dave didn't mind the drive.

He kept picking at the edge of his seatbelt. Glancing down, he could see that there were still bits of dried blood on the inner side of it. Seemed like Jack didn't get all of it out from Dave's most recent ride in here.

Despite the lingering pain in his sore midsection that flared up every time he moved too quickly or sat up for too long, he felt better. A lot better.

And, well, why wouldn't he?

He had his Old Sport. He hadn't had any nightmares in days. His scars actually had time to heal. And, for the first time in what felt like forever, he could definitively say that he felt happy.

And even if he ever woke up on the couch and saw that Jack wasn't at his side, he only had to listen for a few seconds to be assured he was just rummaging in the kitchen or whatnot.

He used to take comfort in Henry being far, so it was odd to be comforted in knowing that Jack was close.

But it was very easy to get used to.

From the passenger's seat, Dave turned to face his Old Sport, light from the passing streetlamps illuminating the profile of his face occasionally.

And Dave was still picking at his seatbelt when he mused out loud, "D'ya think if my stomach wasn't all stitched up, that all the food I ate would jus' fall right outta me?"

Jack took a total of five seconds to process his words before he laughed, and the car seemed to warm at the sound. "Wow. You really are feeling better, huh?"

Dave grinned. "It's amazing what sleepin’ on a couch and taking lethal doses of Tylenol can do for your health."

"I knew I was doing something right."

"Where'd you learn to do all of this first-aid stuff, anyway? Just from work?"

"From work?" Jack repeated, as if it were the funniest suggestion ever. "As if our cheapskate boss would ever spend the time or money to train us. You know he only left me a cassette tape about the springlock suits—? That was literally it. I almost died on my first day." He huffed a dry laugh.

Dave glanced over his scars, not letting his mind wander before returning to his original question. "Then, where'd ya learn all this from?"

Jack sighed, and it sounded like he was trying to decide whether or not to explain further. “It… was my sister, you know. If she ever got sick, usually I was the one taking care of her.”

"Aw,” Dave cooed. “Hey, that's cute. But did that include stitching up gaping injuries?"

"Nah," Jack said, turning down a street. "I learned that off YouTube."

The thought of Jack performing the equivalent of back-alley surgery in his living room on Dave was pretty badass. He enjoyed the image for a few more moments before breathing out an awed, "Cool."

The car turned down a road, and when Jack spoke again it prompted Dave to look up.

"Hey, look," he pointed out. "Denny's."

The car slowed as they neared the chain diner. The place had clearly seen better days, but its sign was lit and the inside lights were on. The parking lot in front of the entrance held only a few, lonely cars.

Jack looked over at Dave with a tilted head. “Pretty sure it’s about the best we can do. How about it?”

Dave didn’t think he’d mind any spot. “Why not? Beats a panini.”

Amused, Jack just rolled his eyes and pulled into the parking lot. “They are not that bad.”

They parked. And much to Dave’s quiet delight, Jack offered him a hand in getting out of the passenger's seat. The act was so endearing that Dave almost forgot to grit his teeth against the pain of moving. Almost.

Jack seemed to have noticed his grimace with a light frown, but didn’t say anything more about it. He just held onto Dave’s hand a few moments longer, right until he’d blinked away the stars in his vision and regained his balance.

After a quick nod, Jack let go and they started making their way to the entrance.

Dave hadn’t expected his pain to flare up so badly, but with all the moving he’d done, it wasn’t surprising. All of Jack’s fussing over his bandages and his stitching could do little for the reality: he was definitely not fully healed yet.

His pained steps slowed until they came to a stop, and Jack noticed right away, hanging back to stay at his side.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” he asked quietly, a hand drifting out to his shoulder. “You wanna go back?”

Dave shook his head, forcing a smile. “Nah, no, no. Jus’ catchin’ my breath,” he assured, though his voice had gone thin. “Can we stay out here a second?”

Jack nodded and scanned the area before leading them to the curb. They both sat down on the edge of the parking lot, elbows touching. Jack didn’t shift away or stiffen at the closeness, and neither did Dave. Weeks ago– hell, even one week ago— they never had dreamed of this sort of silent proximity.

But Dave had been so starved of this for so long that he didn’t even bother with being shy. He supposed it was true for both of them.

The two of them continued looking across the parking lot. The lights from the restaurant reflected across the asphalt and the metal of the cars. There was something peaceful about the moment, even if it was a dingy parking lot.

“That reminds me," Jack spoke up, his chin in his palm, elbow propped on his knee. "Guess we’ll have to go shopping for you one day or another."

Dave looked over to him, confused. "For what? More meds?” he teased, smiling a bit. “I’ve got enough painkillers to knock out a bear.”

Jack waved his words off. “Not that. I mean…” His eyes caught his, and he paused, as if picking his words carefully. “You told me that you didn’t want to go back to that dick. Right?”

Dave winced, the way he always did upon hearing Jack’s colorful language with Henry.

But of course Dave wanted to stay with him.

Each morning, when he woke and realized his pain had subsided more and more, he first felt relief followed by a pang of dread– because maybe one day he’d be well enough to go back. To Henry.

Because day after day, as Jack carved out more of his life and home for him— so easily, too— Dave thought he was dreaming. Because living with Old Sport didn’t hurt at all.

He nodded, and Jack seemed quietly relieved at that silent reply.

“Good. That’s… good, Dave.”

Jack kicked at a pebble on the lot before nudging him slightly with his shoulder. “So then, if you're gonna be staying, obviously I’ll have to get you all the stuff you need, like a toothbrush, pillow. Clothes, since my shit’s too big on you. Uh. Hairbrush." He paused. "Shit, I don’t know. What else?"

But Dave was still stuck thinking about a life without Henry and didn’t even realize he hadn’t replied, mostly just sort of staring at Jack with a small smile.

“Oh, what?” his Old Sport scoffed, laughing lightly, his face a mix of nervous humor as he looked him over. "I’ve never done this sort of thing before, okay, man?”

“No, I know,” Dave added quickly, setting his hand on his Old Sport's knee to make sure he heard this part. “And it sounds really nice, Sportsy.”

His Old Sport stared at his hand with that soft, amused light in his eyes. Then he looked up and pointed at Dave, finger close to his face. “Oh, damn it, I know exactly what you’re doing,” he taunted through a smile.

“What?” Dave questioned innocently.

“Don’t you dare start with… this. A Denny’s parking lot is not the time for this kind of mushy talk.”

Dave shrugged but said nothing else. He didn’t take his hand off his knee, and Jack didn’t brush it away.

In fact, he leaned a tiny bit closer. “But, like, you do want to stay? I mean, if you don’t wanna deal with seeing my face every morning, we can figure something else out.”

Dave’s grin widened. "I wouldn’t mind seein' it every morning."

Surely Old Sport must've known he'd set himself up for that one.

Jack blinked all the same, taken aback for a second before he shook his head with a smirk. “Pfft. Okay, yeah, you too, whatever. Just… answer the question.”

Dave tilted his head. “Well. 'Sport, if the offer's open, then of course I'd wanna stay.”

That was seemingly the right reply, because the tension disappeared from Jack's shoulders. “Good. Okay. Because I’d really rather you be with me.”

They sunk back into silence.

They were sitting very close. Every part where Jack’s shirt brushed against him made his skin tingle.

After a few moments, Jack must've realized what he said before, because he cussed under his breath. “Damn it. Made it mushy.”

Dave could only smile, tapping his thumb against Jack’s knee. “Funny how that keeps happening more an' more often, huh, Old Sport?”

He'd turned to face Dave, and as he rolled his eyes with his own smirk, said, “Yeah, yeah, I know. Now, do you wanna go in yet? I’m starving.”

Dave cracked a wider smile. “Yeah. Sure.”

He was garnering up the strength to push himself off the curb when Jack— already on his feet— offered him a hand. As he stood and wavered unsteadily at the change in position, he felt Jack’s hand drift out to the small of his back, keeping him steady as they began to walk.

Dave was about to make some quip about buying him dinner first, but then remembered that both of them had gone out to eat too many times for that to make sense.

Which was saying something.

—

The Denny’s was— surprisingly— not totally empty. A few other patrons sat at tables and picked at their late-night hashbrowns.

Jack basically vaguely threatened the waiter that they sit near the window, which was a nice gesture. In the reflection of the glass, Dave just stared at the sight of him and Jack sitting together at the table.

Meanwhile, Jack was flipping over his menu placard and already deciding on what to order. Seemed he was tired of the paninis, too.

“What’re you getting?” he asked, eyes scanning the choices.

Dave snapped his eyes back over to the menu. And his reply was instant. “Waffles. With chocolate chips.”

Jack smiled slightly at his choice. “I guess you‘ve earned them.”

“Hell yeah I have, Old Sport! I can walk five whole steps without collapsing into a heap.”

“Proud of you,” Jack mumbled sarcastically .

And he probably meant it as a one-off joke, but something soared in the space where Dave’s heart should’ve been. He continued looking over his menu card. “Do ya think they sell drinks here?”

"Drinks?" Jack looked up at him with a huff of disbelief. “Dude. This is a breakfast diner.“

“So?” he countered with a shrug. “They’re open at two AM— that’s prime drinkin’ time.”

Jack thought about it for a moment before rolling his shoulders. “I guess. Maybe. Anyway," he stopped, motioning to him, "I thought you weren’t supposed to mix medicine and alcohol.”

“But that’s jus’ for antibiotics.” He paused before adding on, “I think.”

But Jack didn’t look too convinced. “Let’s not risk it.”

“Nah, I would.”

“Let me rephrase— I’m not gonna risk it,” he corrected with a tiny smile. And upon seeing Dave’s expression slump, he went on. “Don’t look so sad. I’ve got a whole liquor cabinet back home for when you’re better.”

Dave brightened at the thought.

Jack's words must've caught up to his brain as he tapped a finger on the table. “Actually, now I regret telling you that.”

“As if I'd get drunk without my Old Sport. I promise, I won’t touch a drop.”

Jack smiled. Dave liked seeing him smile. “Like I trust that," he joked.

“Well, that’s jus’ mean. What have I done to convince ya I’m anythin’ but an angel of a roommate?” he asked sweetly.

“Angel, really?” Jack laughed through the word. “All you’ve really done is sleep on my couch and hobble down the hall for the bathroom.”

“Exactly. I’m low maintenance.”

Jack laughed, and at that moment, a waitress rolled around to take their orders. She looked very tired. Understandable, given the hour. After a dull greeting, she had her notepad out and waited for them to say their orders.

“So. He’ll have the waffles,” Jack started up the order, motioning to Dave.

“With chocolate chips,” he reminded him.

“Yup, yeah, with the chocolate chips.” Jack looked over the menu and hummed. “Actually, make it two. Oh, and two lemonades.”

Dave put a hand over his chest in mock affection at their identical orders. Jack stuck his tongue out at him.

The waitress, though, didn’t comment on it. She continued scribbling the orders away in her notepad. “Mmkay. Should be out soon,” she replied dully, taking their menus back. “Will that be all?”

“Actually, miss,” Dave began to ask as nicely as possible, much to Jack’s skeptical look. “You sure ya don’t have any beer?”

She blinked once, as if to make sure she was still awake. “This is a Denny’s,” she reminded him. And then she left.

“I knew you were gonna ask that,” Jack sighed, shaking his head slightly. “I told you, I’ve got stuff at home.”

Dave slumped back in his seat, and regretted it when he felt a sting of pain from the motion. He hoped Old Sport didn’t notice.

“Oh!" Jack perked up, setting a hand on the table. “I just remembered. I need to find you an actual place to sleep.”

That was interesting. Dave slept totally fine on the couch, which he always found interesting considering sleep never came easy to him before.

No doubt it was the company.

He always wondered why Jack never slept in his own bedroom, but he didn’t dare to ask. Whatever they had between them, it was way too fragile to risk asking questions about. And he knew just how averse Jack was to any, quote, mushy talk.

Dave couldn’t imagine not falling asleep beside him. It really was intoxicating. And no more nightmares, either— Old Sport was a goddamned miracle worker.

“No need, Old Sport. Couch is fine.”

“Like hell it is, man,” Jack responded with an unamused look. “That was always gonna be temporary.”

Dave ran a hand along the tabletop, really not enjoying all this fuss over him, especially over an aspect that he’d prefer to keep the same. “Ack, come on, I like the couch. Easy access to the TV an’ the kitchen. Plus, I’m used to it.”

Jack tilted his head to the side. “You do realize that’s the point? You deserve a decent place to sleep.”

“It is decent!” Dave tried to explain, coming dangerously close to just blurting out that he desperately wanted to sleep by his side. “I mean it.”

“It’s a couch. A crappy one.”

Dave couldn't say he didn’t agree, but he could hardly take dancing around his real excuse for wanting to keep the couch.

“Old Sport, is this your way of sayin’ you don't exactly like our…” He looked for the right way to put this. “Current sleepin’ arrangement?”

Dave had spent so many nights listening to Jack’s heartbeat that he could almost feel it quicken at the question.

“What?” Jack faltered breathlessly, tearing his eyes from Dave’s. “No, no, no, I’m just saying, it’s… a couch. And you deserve something better. I’ll find someplace else for you.”

He wouldn’t push it, then.

With a hum, Dave added, “I’ve slept on way worse, anyway.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “What, like a lawn chair? Shitty air mattress?”

And he didn’t really know what compelled him to blurt it out, but he did.

“The street,” he said with a tiny smile.

Jack froze slightly, and there was an uncertain smile on his lips, like he didn’t believe him. “What?”

“Used to be homeless."

“What?” Jack choked out, “Are you messing with me?”

“No. I really was. When I was a kid.”

“Dude,” he uttered, blinking in shock. "Seriously? For how long?”

“Whole childhood, I s’pose.” Then Dave grimaced, and he knew Jack wouldn’t like this part of the answer. “Up until Henry found me.”

Dave knew him so well— he watched as Jack gruffly set a fist on the table. "That piece of shit fuckbag. Goddamn it, I wish I met you earlier.”

He was approaching dangerous levels of mushiness, but Dave wasn’t about to point that out.

“You don’t owe that scumbag anything,” Jack continued, and he pointed right at him, as if to really drill it in. “Not even from this. Remember that, Dave.”

He cocked his head to the side. It was really jarring to see his Old Sport, usually so resigned in everything else, be so invested in Dave's wellbeing.

"You're doin' it again," Dave pointed to him. "Mushy."

"I—" Jack seemed like he was about to say something before he snapped his mouth closed again and sighed. "Ugh. But I mean it."

They sunk into thoughtful silence for a while before Dave broke it.

"But— hey, listen, livin’ out on the streets wasn’t so bad. Made me thick-skinned, vigilant! I remember those days— drinkin' rainwater, sleeping wherever it wasn’t wet,” he rattled on proudly, grinning. “Really toughens a kid up, ya know?”

He’d never told anyone about this chapter of his life before. And he expected Jack to be in awe of his former life, to see him as some toughened, hardened suave guy, having lived life right on the edge.

But Jack was not even smiling. He only looked heartbroken.

And in a very deliberate and quiet tone of voice, he said to him, “I’ll clean out a spare room for you tonight.”

And Dave realized he never looked fondly back on those days, anyway. He looked away and grappled with that feeling of gratitude.

Thankfully, he didn't have to put it into words. He heard Jack suck in a breath before speaking up again. “Homeless orphan. Jesus. I mean, you think you know a guy.”

Dave tapped at the tabletop, grateful that he tried to lighten the mood somewhat. “Aw, come on. It’s nothin’ crazy. Everyone’s got their sob story.”

Nobody else would have noticed it, but Dave saw Jack’s hands still slightly. “Not like that."

“Ya wouldn’t have wanted to know me, anyway. Believe me. I was such an annoyin’ little shit. Always stealin', always breakin' into places.”

Jack smiled a little wider at that. "Yeah?"

—-

And so, in that crappy diner, Dave told his Old Sport more stories, and he listened on.

He liked that he didn't have to pick and choose when talking to Jack. He could say what he wanted, no lies, no fear of being called stupid.

There was one aspect he didn't tell him about, though.

He didn't tell him anything about Henry. One, to avoid seeing that sad look that always crossed Jack's face; and two, because he didn't want to talk about Henry. Simple as that.

Their food came eventually. The tired waitress had set their orders of waffles down in front of them and left. He hadn’t realized just how hungry he was until now.

“Hey, lookin' good, Old Sport,” Dave cooed to Jack when he got his plate. “And so does the food.”

Jack huffed and picked up his fork. “Well, how sweet,” he said sarcastically, but there was a softness in his voice that wasn’t usually there. A bold departure from his usual dismissive replies.

The food was about as much as one could expect from a Denny’s. And he didn’t know what compelled Jack to order lemonade at two in the morning, but at this point, Dave’s pretty sure he’d do anything for him, anyway.

Dave picked at his plate of food. "Ya know, Old Sport, I think I've slept more in the past week than I have in my entire life."

They both knew perfectly well why that was the case. Measly phone calls— and hearing his Old Sport’s voice through a cheap cell phone speaker— were nothing compared to falling asleep tucked against him, real and warm at his side.

"Yeah?" Jack replied, seeming to think about that through bites of his waffle. "Me, too."

Dave hadn’t expected him to actually admit that. “Huh. Ya know, you’re always so difficult to read, Sportsy.”

Jack set his fork down and raised his eyebrows, looking directly at Dave. “You think?”

“Yeah.”

“Guess I could say the same for you. For a while, I never thought you’d actually drop the suave act and tell me about…” he trailed off, instead vaguely motioning to Dave.

Well, he got the point. And he agreed, too– He never thought he'd be telling anyone about Henry like this.

And Dave was thinking a lot about Henry these days.

Dave used to take pride in the fact that he was always working, always designing, always tinkering, always on edge for another of Dr. Miller's lessons.

And it wasn't until he woke up in Jack's living room— sore, tired but free— that he realized not everything had to be cold and painful. And there was finally room in his head when it wasn't clouded with dread. Room to realize that Henry Miller was not all that good to him.

There, Dave could breathe, could relax, could say no if he didn't want something— And, best of all, he could trust that he could ask for things when he needed them and not be berated for it.

There wasn't much he needed to ask for, anyway. Mainly, he just wanted his Old Sport near him. But Jack stayed close regardless.

Dave really liked that those sorts of things went unspoken between them. And with him, it was easy to realize there was something better waiting for him.

And it was a strange sort of feeling to experience it all for the first time—the help, the quiet, the painless touches, and the nights with no scalpels in sight. Because living with Jack was so easy, and he offered it so effortlessly.

But Dave didn’t say any of that.

“Ya really think I’m suave?” he questioned instead.

Jack laughed as he wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Pfft. Sure.”

Dave wasn’t able to ask anything more when Jack slid out of his booth seat and stood.

For a stupid second, Dave felt a jolt of panic, and quickly asked, “Where are you goin’?”

Jack paused, glancing down at him. “Relax. Just gonna go take a leak,” he assured. “So don’t do anything stupid while I’m gone.”

“Like what?”

“Stand. Leave. Follow me,” Jack listed. “Stuff like that.”

“Oh, Sportsy, ya know I won’t. Cross my heart.”

Jack snorted. “We both know that doesn’t work for you,” he mused before heading off to the bathroom.

Dave knew he’d reached a good stage with his Old Sport when they could freely joke about traumatic surgery experiences.

As soon as he was alone at their table, though, Dave slumped back in his seat and sighed. He tapped his fingers and looked around the place warily. Having been at his side for so long, it felt a bit odd to be without Jack now.

Plus, the crummy diner seating wasn’t exactly comfortable. The pain in his stitches was starting to get unpleasant.

The waitress eventually rolled up to the table, and seeing how Jack was gone, faced Dave when she asked, “Time for the check?”

“Er. No. I dunno. I’ll have to ask my, uh…” he stumbled for a word, then pointed to Jack's empty seat. “Partner,” he finished with a smile.

He saw an opportunity, and he took it. Simple as that. And it did give him a bit of a thrill.

The waitress nodded dully, totally unaware of the entire thought process behind that simple word of an answer. She left.

But it was true, right? They were partners on every level. They did so much together, and for each other. It was the only label that fit them.

He never called Jack his friend, because that word didn’t stick right. Friends didn’t do the things that they did, didn’t orbit each other like they did, didn’t share the same talks or the same moments. Friends were fleeting and even temporary.

When it came to his Jack, that was practically an inconceivable thought. Old Sport wasn’t temporary. Old Sport was everything. And the idea of him ever leaving made him feel plain sick.

Speaking of which— Dave twisted in his seat to make sure he was still out of sight before wheezing out a breath and rummaging through his pockets for the bottle of pills he’d stowed away. It really did hurt to sit up like this for so long. The pain in his stitches was growing by the minute.

He felt a twinge of guilt for not telling Jack, but he just didn’t want him to worry. He’d already done the absolute best he could, and he really did deserve a break.

Dave had barely popped two pills in his mouth when, to his left, he heard a familiar voice bump him out of his thoughts.

“Dude.”

Quickly turning his head, he saw Jack, staring him down with an unamused but mostly concerned look. He hurried to hide the bottle under the table, wincing at the audible sound of the pills rattling.

He forced a smile. “Jeez, Sportsy, warn a guy before ya sneak up like that,” he huffed, hoping he didn’t notice anything. But Jack could read him like a book. Narrowing his eyes slightly, he reached over. His fingers found Dave’s wrist and brought the bottle out into view.

He looked between Dave and the painkillers for a second, as if waiting for an explanation. None came.

Jack sighed and he let go of his wrist. “You should’ve told me,” he frowned, voice dropping into something a lot softer. His eyes flicked down to Dave’s torso, as if he could see the stitches underneath. “How bad does it hurt?”

“It’s…” Dave began scraping for a lie, but that was before he caught Jack’s look and decided against it. He sighed. “Kinda bad. I guess.”

And Jack, still standing, looked around to wave down their waitress before sliding back into his own seat.

“I’m not going to get pissed at you if you’re in pain. It’s okay, man.”

It was always a little odd just how hard it was for him to even attempt to lie to Jack.

Dave nodded and pocketed the pills again. “We’re leavin’?”

“Yeah.”

“But–”

“Because I’m not gonna carry you out of here if you pass out on me.”

“I…” Dave huffed, and thought about that for a moment before asking, “Can I get a dessert first?”

Jack blinked. “What? No. We’re going home.”

“Pretty please, Jack…?” Dave pleaded, knowing full well that using his real name had a softening effect on his Old Sport by now.

It worked. As always.

Jack sighed out, “Damn it, fine. But quick. Pick something out before the waitress lady gets here.”

Happily, Dave snatched up the dessert menu placard and looked over the options. The waitress, soon enough, strode up to their table and looked between the two of them.

“Dessert?” she asked Jack. “Or just the check?”

“Dessert,” he mumbled, and pointed to Dave, who happily ordered a slice of cheesecake. After that, Jack asked for the check.

Only a few minutes later, she returned, placing a slice of cheesecake between them, two forks, and the bill on Jack’s side.

Jack stared at the setup for a moment before scoffing. “Just what the hell is this?”

Dave, all smiles now, said, “Cheesecake.”

“I meant the forks.”

With an innocent look, he asked, “What? Ya don’t wanna share with your good pal Davey?”

"Ha. Well, especially not when you call yourself Davey.” And with one finger, Jack pushed the plate all the way over to his side before picking up the check. "Enjoy."

Dave dug in, and as he ate, watched quietly as Jack read through the bill, picking up the pen.

Old Sport kept glancing after the waitress, still looking a bit baffled. “Two forks… Why the hell would she assume that, anyway?” He jerked his head back to Dave. “Did you tell her something?”

He took a bite of his cheesecake. “No.”

And since Jack only looked more skeptical, he added on, “What? Maybe it’s a reasonable assumption to make.”

Jack blinked at him slowly. “No. It’s not.”

“Oh, what’s the big deal, anyway? There’s a whole Applebee’s out there that still thinks we’re married.”

“God. Don’t remind me.” Jack shook his head slightly. “And that’s not what I mean, anyway.

“Then, what? Is it so unreasonable for her to think we’re a couple?”

“Yes,” Jack snapped, though combined with the horrible blush on his face, the word had no real bite to it. “Couples hold hands and shit, and call each other sweetie, and fight over who gets to pay the bill, and–”

“–Are you temptin’ me with a bucket list, Sportsy?” Dave purred out.

Jack pointed at him with the pen he was writing with. “Quiet. You are really gonna be the death of me.”

But when he looked down and returned his focus to the bill, anyone could have seen the unmistakable smile on his face.

Dave then realized something. “Hold on. Are ya actually payin’ the bill?”

Jack didn’t look up. “Sort of. I just want to get us home without any trouble.”

The one thing sweeter than committing a crime for someone was pulling out all the stops to not have to commit said crime.

“Aww,” Dave crooned with a smile.

“Don’t start,” he mumbled.

Jack had pulled out his wallet and rifled through an inordinate amount of credit cards, before he picked one and stuck it into the bill. Probably an expired one, just to throw off the waitress long enough for them to book it out of there. Dave felt a twinge of pride that his Old Sport was so good at this.

Then, Dave quietly reached over with his free hand and took the wallet, flipping it open. Jack gave him an unimpressed look but said nothing else, letting Dave have his moment.

The leather wallet was worn and creased, with random business cards and various— mostly expired— credit cards shoved into the pockets. A few, lone tokens in the main compartment. Dave plucked his driver’s license out and skimmed over it as he continued eating his cake.

“Wait,” Dave paused. “Are your initials seriously JFK?”

“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”

“Sorry, mom,” he joked.

“Pfft,” Jack rolled his eyes, capping off the pen and closing the check. “But at least it’s better than David.”

“Whaddya mean by that?” he retorted. “I’ve got a perfectly good name.”

“Is it?” Jack hummed in half-agreement as he tapped on the bill absentmindedly, and then casually said, “The janitor once told me your name was William— now that’s worse. Think he got confused.”

Dave felt his mouth go dry. He looked up as his hands stiffed around the wallet. “What?”

“Yeah,” Jack went on. “Weirdo. But, as we know, the dude’s probably out of his mind on meth the majority of the day.”

“Ha. Right,” he chuckled dryly, and did not like how terrifyingly close his past was catching up to him. “Uh. Why were ya talkin’ to the janitor about me, anyway?”

Jack pressed his lips together. “...No reason,” he muttered, voice going a lot smaller.

Before Dave could shoot back some smart reply, Jack’s hand quickly reached over to take the wallet from his hands.

“Aw,” Dave lamented. “But I wanted to look at your pretty driver’s license picture.”

Jack raised his eyebrows. “You’ve got the real thing right in front of you.”

“Oh. Right. ‘Course. Sometimes I forget I’m not jus’ dreamin’.”

“And sometimes I forget you’re such a romantic,” Jack quipped, a tiny smile on his lips. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

Dave indeed stood up, and even if he didn’t have the stitches in his stomach, he would’ve toppled over thinking about Jack’s words anyway.

Swaying slightly as he caught his balance, stomach stinging, he was still comprehending the pain when Jack appeared at his side.

Even though Dave didn’t really need any help, he quietly walked him all the way to the car.

—-

The house looked exactly as they left it– the couch with all its rumpled blankets, the coffee table with all its first aid supplies and mugs.

Dave sat on the couch, taking the time to mull over just how tired he’d gotten. Whether it was the late hour or just the dragging pain of his injury, he couldn’t really tell. He watched with tired but smiling eyes as his Old Sport brought him his fresh change of sleeping clothes, as he did every night.

Once he’d changed, and Jack crossed back into the living room, Dave was leaning over the couch armrest to flick off the floor lamp when a hand was set over his.

“Nope, nope,” his Old Sport tutted, waving his hand off from the lamp. “C’mon. No more couch.”

Dave sat back on the sofa with a wary look. “I was really hopin’ you’d forget.”

“Well, I didn’t. C’mon.”

Yet again, Dave didn’t need any help walking, but yet again he didn’t complain when Jack set a hand on his forearm to steer him down the hallway. They emptied out into a room he’d never been in before.

It was a small-ish room, with a bed, dresser, rug, some pictures he was too tired to focus his eyes on. It seemed too lived-in, too specific to just be a guest room. Dave’s tired mind was still trying to make sense of it as he sat down on the bed.

Jack nodded. “Okay, then. Goodnight.”

Something fell into place, and Dave’s breath caught in his throat. He blinked. “Uh. Hold on.” He looked up. “This is your room?”

“Yup,” he replied back, voice going very quiet, still standing in the doorway. “‘Night.”

He flicked the lights off, plunging the room into darkness.

Dave quickly sat up. “Wait,” he hurried to say.

The lights flicked back on, and Jack was standing in mostly the exact same spot. “What?”

“Where are you gonna sleep?” he asked, confused.

“Living room,” he said simply.

Dave looked up at the ceiling as he mulled something over. He didn’t know why he was feeling so bold– bold enough to quietly breathe out, “I’ve got a… suggestion.”

With the way Jack’s eyes flickered to the other side of the bed, Dave knew he didn’t have to elaborate any further. They were both quiet for a really long time, not meeting each other's eyes. It was just the sound of the ceiling fan in the living room that scored through the silence.

Eventually, Jack sighed, running a hand through his hair. “You drive me nuts,” he muttered softly, though there was something much warmer in his tired voice now. “Fine. I’ll be back.”

He didn’t move until Dave had settled onto the bed again, watching his every move, as if making sure it was okay. Then he shut off the light once more, this time leaving the door open as he left.

Once he was gone, Dave fumbled with the edge of the covers and slipped beneath them. He could admit, it was nice to go to sleep in an actual bed again. But his stomach flipped over at the thought of Jack coming back.

He couldn’t believe he actually said yes. Dave didn’t think he knew, exactly, just how much he needed him, and not just his heartbeat. Even being alone in this room made his stomach twist.

Coming from the hallway, Dave could hear a door shut and then footsteps pad into the room, pausing for a second before wordlessly heading to the other side of the bed. The covers lifted slightly and then the mattress dipped as Jack laid opposite of him.

The distance between them felt very small and very vast.

Even though he couldn’t tell in the dark, he could feel Jack staring at him. Exactly the way Dave was looking over at him, trying to make out his outline in the pitch black. He could only hear their overlapping breathing.

Neither of them said goodnight. Neither of them could muster the courage to say anything they really wanted to.

Dave came close enough to it. Quietly, eventually, he cut through the stillness and asked, “Are ya not gonna tell me to stay on my side and all that?”

Jack didn't say anything for a long while. And Dave thought that maybe he’d already fallen asleep before he heard him breathe out a very simple, “No.”

Well. To Dave, it was basically an invitation.

He shifted close without another thought, all the way over to Jack’s side, until his head was tucked snug against the side of his chest. Jack snaked a hand around him, careful of his stitches even in the dark, and pulled him in even closer. Dave wasn’t sure what made them both so brave tonight, but he didn’t care.

Because right now, he could feel his heartbeat overlaid with his breathing, and he realized that this was a million times better than the couch. Safer. Warmer.

He didn’t want to ever move. He didn’t ever want to think about his missing cellphone or Henry’s office ever again. And when Dave finally plucked the word love out of all the things flurrying through his mind, it wasn’t even surprising. He felt a smile tug at his lips as he drifted asleep, too fast to memorize how his Old Sport was holding onto him just as tight.

—-

He had a nightmare that night.

Chapter Text

The roads are slick with rain, pelting down in hard sheets against the windows of the car. Dave sits in the passenger side, looking out of the window. Not that there's any sort of view– it's night, and the rain doesn't help with the visibility. There's a lot on his mind.

Anxiety– or maybe it's anticipation– pools in his stomach, and every bump on the road makes him feel sick with dread. Dave turns his head slightly to the side. He swallows hard before quietly asking the man driving the car, "Why are we goin' in so late tonight?"

Henry doesn't turn his head from where he sits in the driver's seat. As he responds, his voice sounds as flat and calculated as ever.

"I've told you this, William. It’s the last birthday party of the day. It’ll be busy. No one will take notice of us.”

He knows he’s asked that same question before, but going over the familiar grooves of their plan usually calms him a bit. Evidently, not right now. He keeps staring out of the window, because he knows he won't be able to handle the collected expression on Henry's face. That feeling continues to bubble in his chest. Maybe, he thinks numbly, it's just fear.

The road empties off into a main street, and Dave knows they are close to the restaurant. He wishes the trip lasted longer, to prolong the inevitable by some degree, but it's a pointless hope. They'd get there eventually.

"Henry," Dave begins to say, still lingering on his previous words. And it was only when he started speaking did he realize how pathetic the question on his mind was. He asks anyway. "Do I have a birthday?"

It's quiet, save for the rain pattering against the glass of the window. The tension is thick. And Dave tenses, since he knows he must've asked something stupid again to warrant such a silence.

"I’ve no idea,” Henry says curtly. “Stay focused, William.”

Dave nods, and as soon as he does, he orders curtly, "Recite it to me again.”

And so Dave turns his head to face Henry, who doesn't do the same.

"Name, common ground, saferoom," he lists from memory.

Henry only nods once. And it's as close as he'll get to praise, Dave knows that by now.

And he hardly has time to turn back to the window when, in a blink, he's inside the restaurant. Despite the cold outside, the place is alight with warmth and life. Kids are running around, laughing; arcade games are blaring their sound effects, and party decorations are strung across every wall. Dave is standing in the center of it all, watching, waiting. He tugs at his stiff shirt collar, the one Henry gave him for special occasions at the restaurant. He hasn't worn it since opening day.

Time is stretching oddly, and every motion seems too slow and too fast. He turns his head, and watches a father slice cake for his excited kid. He looks across the room, and sees a smiling mother brush confetti from her son's hair. It's happy in here.

Dave knows that Henry is in the saferoom hallway, he knows that he's giving him the signal right now. But he really wants to stay in this sliver of life some more. Just watching. Not interrupting.

The sudden, dreadful thought of another wrench cracking against his jaw pushes him to glance around the dining room. After a few moments of searching, he catches sight of a little girl across the dining room. She's sitting at an empty table way off to the side, a thin frown tugging at her mouth as she sits in her seat politely, hands folded on her lap.

Alone, unhappy, away from the other kids. Yes, Dave numbly thinks to himself, she checks all the marks.

His legs practically feel stuck to the pizzeria tile, but he makes his shaky feet go over to her anyway. And it's when he's standing right beside her, flashing the best showman's smile he ever faked in his life, about to say the words, that he bites his tongue.

Now that he's closer, he can more clearly see that her pink dress is clearly well-loved with how faded it is. In her hair, there's a shock of a red bow that matches her scarf, the one she's toying with absentmindedly. She's so young. She has no idea.

But Dave pushes all that away. Name, common ground, saferoom— That's what Henry drilled into him. It's familiar, and he keeps to that memorized mantra.

So he smiles wider.

"What's your name?" Dave asks her, hands behind his back, mostly to hide the shaking.

The girl pauses, lets go of the edge of her scarf, and tilts her head up at him. She looks rightfully wary. "Who are you?" she shoots back, sidestepping the question.

"I could be a friend.” He says it cheerfully, exactly as Henry taught him to. "I always feel bad seein' a kid sitting all on her lonesome at the pizzeria. Whaddya doin' sittin' all alone here?"

"It's my birthday. I'm waiting for somebody." She's very direct, Dave notices.

His smile doesn't falter. "Ah. Your birthday, huh, kid?"

She presses her lips into a thin line and nods hesitantly.

"What is it, today, then? The big double digits yet?"

"I'm six."

"Oh, hey, that's a good one, kid! Savor it. And, hey, listen, my birthday was jus' a few days ago, too," he lies. Common ground. "And, believe me, I know how much it can hurt to have nobody there. What is it? Your friends all flake on ya?" He tilts his head to the empty table.

"Not my friends," she corrects, and picks at the edge of her scarf as she continues speaking. "My brother. He said he'd be here soon."

"I see," Dave hums, and he taps his foot as he pretends to think. In reality, he's mentally running through the next horrific words he knows he has to say. "Well, listen, kid. How 'bout you wait in this room I know out in the back? Lot better than stayin' out here." He winks. It hurts. "At least it won't stink like pizza grease."

She smiles at his joke.

"I'm Dee."

Saferoom.

The room shifts again, and this time Dave is in the office. Henry has shut the door, muffling the sound of the party just outside, and choking out all the bright lights. Here, it's just the fluorescent bulbs in the dingy room that illuminate a pale, deadened light across their faces. Dave feels like he can hardly breathe.

"Henry," he starts to ask. He's staring at the security screens, eyes glued on the single camera that's blacked out. "Do I have to do it alone?"

"Yes."

He’s standing across from him, so horribly calm.

"Now, but, listen,” Dave starts to bring up shakily, and trails off before he can finish. “I thought you said they didn't have any families..."

He hopes Henry knows what he's referring to. And with the way Henry looks at him, it's as if Dave was a toddler asking a stupidly simple question.

"They don't,” he states plainly.

"One of 'em's got a brother…"

Henry cuts through his words. And he's not even talking sharply; Dave is just used to letting him plow over his own voice like this.

“And it's your mistake for talking to her for so long. Listen to me very closely, William. She's miserable,” he spits, and he says it all so plainly that almost anyone would've believed it's true. "She has no family. A lot like you, in that sense. Only, you are lucky that I was there to save you. She does not share the same fortune. She never will."

Dave makes the mistake of showing the uncertainty on his face, because soon Henry's voice drops, and by now it's dripping with measurement, cold and still. "Wouldn't you have liked to have avoided all that pain, William?"

Out of the corners of his eyes, Dave sees a glint of metal in Henry’s hand. He still doesn't speak. He doesn't think he has the voice to say anything at all, really.

"Do her a favor.”

“But, Henry, she's jus' a little kid…?” he pleads, and it's only toward the end he realizes that he's making a mistake. There is no room for doubt when it comes to Henry.

“I made you exactly what you are,” Henry snarled, circling around him like a cobra around a rabbit. “Don’t forget that. I taught you everything I know. You have my son’s name, my surname. My mind. You will never be anything but an afterthought of my own choosing. And so, believe me when I say that I know exactly what you want. You want this."

He didn't answer his question directly. Maybe he knows he'll scare Dave off with any real answer.

And when Dave finally looks up to face Henry, there's a look of such pride on his face unlike he's ever seen before, and his eyes are gleaming with trust and anticipation. Dave would do anything to keep that look on his face. He's holding out the blade for him, the sharp edge pointed away, and it’s like an invitation. The thrilling feeling bubbles over him, and he reaches out for the knife, right up until the security screens do their usual flicker and he's shot back to reality with the reminder.

They're waiting for him.

Dave's fingers have just barely brushed the metal when he hesitates and pulls back. "But, Henry," his voice cracks out, "Are ya sure about this?"

His expression only hardens. Each word is like a knife against rock. "You know I am. This is our dream, William. Take it. Grab it. Choke it. Don't let it go." He's sweeping one hand towards the exit like a showman, now. Dave knows it's just a few short steps into that saferoom.

And by now, he'd clearly left Henry without a reply for too long. So he should’ve expected it when he was taken by the wrist, a knife shoved roughly into his hands, cutting the skin slightly. Dave winces and fumbles to hold the blade properly, angling it so he wouldn’t face his own reflection.

Henry stares at him, right through him, unflinching fury on his face, and bites out, "Do it. For the Joy.”

The scene shifts again. And the girl is there.

Her scarf looks crumpled under the dingy saferoom light.

—-

Dave was shoved awake from his nightmare— skin clammy against bed sheets, his stitches hurting like never before, and in his eyes a familiar wetness.

As soon as he realized he was in a dark room, he screwed his eyes shut again as tight as possible— terrified that the horror and the blood had followed him here. He felt like he couldn't move or breathe, and he didn't even dare to try.

Because for a horrifyingly long second, he fully believed that he was alone, lying in his bed, and that Henry was just down the hall, and he needed to shut up his sniffling before he heard him, and his footsteps would be coming soon, so he had to stay quiet, and still, and…

And— he had reached blindly for the covers out of pure panic when his hand brushed against something. He angled heavy eyes downwards, and saw the sleeping outline of his Old Sport, and his hand solidly snaked around his chest as he leaned his forehead against Dave’s side in his sleep. Breathing softly, with that heartbeat felt in Dave's very bones.

He blinked down at the sight, and came to his senses mostly all at once. They were both angled toward one another, as if the idea of not facing each other— even as they slept— was unthinkable.

And he could only lay there and stifle back a sob as he realized that everything was fine, that this whole time Old Sport was right next to him, with real hands reaching out, not meaning to hurt or to scare. Dave sunk back into the mattress, hoping Jack didn’t wake from all his panicking but at the same time, sort of wishing he did. He could always use his ever-dry spoken advice and sympathy.

But he remained asleep. Evidently, Jack slept like a rock, which was good, since Dave could look him over all he wanted as he tried to calm himself enough to go back to sleep.

If only that worked. Which it didn’t.

And it wasn't any fault of his Old Sport's— he was sleeping blessedly serene as usual, heart beat and all, a free hand tucked in the space between Dave's neck and pillow as he slept. It was all the fault of Dave's mind wandering back to his nightmare.

He always hated that one. If there existed just one moment where Dave could pin the shattering of Henry's previous persona, it was that. He did not like that feeling of being pushed against everything he thought wrong, and then getting praised for it. It felt wrong. And he tried not to think about that day.

Every new detail he remembered felt like someone ripping out his heart all over again, leaving in its place pure, liquid dread. Dread that the person willing to go through all that bloodshed was still inside him somewhere. Right next to Jack.

Dave knew it was irrational, he knew it was stupid, but his thoughts kept racing with memories of that blood on the saferoom tile anyway. And not even Jack’s rare, unconscious affection would have calmed him enough to go back to sleep.

Was that what it was? Affection?

Dave couldn't help but wonder if anyone else had ever seen Jack like this; so peaceful, so open. Or maybe his Old Sport only let his walls down for him.

Which was why it hurt like hell when he carefully guided Jack’s arm off of him, tearing from his warmth. Jack barely stirred, only letting out a sleepy hum. Once Dave was sure he’d stay asleep, he pulled the covers off of himself and swung his legs over the edge of the mattress, trying to steady his racing breaths.

He didn't know why he was still freaking out. It was just a nightmare. And it was just the two of them. It was just Old Sport— and it was everything he'd ever wanted.

Clearly, he really needed to walk, to breathe. Stare out a window. Just something to chase away that sinking feeling still in his stomach. If he didn't calm himself now, surely he'd inevitably wake his sleeping Old Sport as he tossed and turned anxiously.

So, he pushed himself to his feet and staggered out of the room, sparing one last backwards glance at Jack, who was still fast asleep. Hopefully, he didn't wake up in the meantime.

Dave walked through the empty house, crossing down the hall and into the kitchen. He winced at the harsh light he flicked on, and winced again as he clinked loudly through cabinets looking for cups. Evidently, his hands were still shaking terribly.

He hadn’t had a nightmare in weeks, and there was really no reason for one to strike especially badly tonight.

Maybe, Dave thought, he just couldn't let himself believe that Henry was truly gone from his life.

In a sense, it was true. Throughout the day— sitting on the couch, watching the panini press— he often sank into spirals of his own horrible imagination, panicking about the idea of Henry showing up here, or calling Jack, or some other horrible thing.

And it was always his Old Sport that had to snap him out of it.

Dave had filled his cup and was sipping at his water, though not even that could chase away the dry feeling in his mouth. Jack was right, of course, and there was no way Dave ever wanted to go back to Henry. But he’d stared at his own scars enough to know that that was barely the problem anymore— now he just couldn’t convince himself he deserved this. Any of it: a home, care. Old Sport. He stared at the dishes in the sink. And it hit him that he was really, truly living with his Jack.

And now Dave really wished he were awake to say something soothing to him, but he also knew that he wouldn’t have woken him in a million years.

His stomach was still stinging, and paired with the still-lingering horror from his nightmare— well, he just felt plain miserable.

Still in the kitchen, Dave’s red-rimmed eyes tracked over the darkened living room, illuminated only by the kitchen light, falling on a wall that he’d never been able to see from where he’d usually lay on the couch.

He quickly recognized the outline of family portraits on the wall and made his way over to it, smiling slightly at the idea of seeing his Old Sport in any of them. Maybe he’d even catch a smile. Something to change Dave's mood.

Once he was standing right in front of them, though, he frowned. There were a few different people in the various photos. Jack among them.

And it took Dave a few moments to understand why the red scarf in one of the pictures made him so uncomfortable.

A little girl. A small smile. Red scarf. Pink dress.

“Oh,” Dave muttered numbly, and it was a pathetic word, and it did nothing to summarize this nightmare realization in the slightest.

Except it wasn’t a nightmare, even though every single part of himself fully expected to see Henry slink right beside him and put a choking hand on his shoulder; and he’d be smiling with pride at all the photos on the wall, and his voice would go sharp, bloody, low; right next to his face:

These are not memorials, William, he’d tell him proudly, But trophies. Look at all the work we’ve done. You and I.

Oh, God.

All the joy, the care, the peace he’d felt these past few days was ripped right out of him as he stared into the photo– the crinkled, smiling eyes of Jack’s dead sister.

And Dave wished he never left the bedroom, he wished he never walked into this house, he wished he never had to look at this wall. Because, now, the cup in his hand was close to slipping, his breaths were stuttering horribly, and years of buried morality was cracking at the seams. He kept convincing himself this wasn't real, before being slammed back to the truth all over again as he tracked over the girl's smile, identical from his memories.

Because this was the same girl he slaughtered so many years ago, the sister of the same man who shared his life with Dave so easily.

He felt his legs go weak. Because, God, she… used to live in this house, didn't she? She would've walked the same footsteps, across the same floor as Dave did, and sat on the same couch, and watched the same TV and eaten from the same dinner plates and talked to the same Jack…

Jack.

He didn't even know. Maybe it was better off that way— Dave wanted to scream at the idea of telling him any of this, he wanted to scream at the idea of Jack bandaging the same skin that was once splattered with his sister's blood. He didn't want to imagine the look on his face if he ever found out. He didn't want him to.

Dave ruined this house. He didn't deserve to be here in the slightest, did he? Not with his Old Sport. He hurt him before he even met him.

Even through wet eyes, Dave kept staring at the pictures. And he was just waiting to wake up, he was practically begging to— but nonetheless his mind remained disgustingly awake and scarily clear.

The worst part was that she wasn't special. Not in the slightest. He didn't even remember her name among all the other limp bodies.

God. Dave stared down at the carpet and wanted to throw up.

He’d dropped his glass on the floor long ago— not even remembering when, exactly. And he watched as the water soaked through the carpet, damp and dark. It sort of looked like blood.

And the empty space in Dave’s chest was working overtime to reason with all this. Nothing sane ever came, nothing at all, except for the clear and sharp realization that nothing good ever lasted so long as William Afton was there to fuck it up.

And he always did.

“Dave?”

He flinched— it was his Old Sport, voice rough with sleep and confusion.

Just for a second, he flicked his eyes up to Jack, and it was a horrific mistake, because as soon as he caught sight of him standing in the hall— with all those scars along his arms and skin— a sickeningly new layer of guilt was dumped onto him. He still remembered every joint of machinery and where it dug into flesh. He could mentally match up every scar of his Old Sport's to his very own. Oh, God. It didn't stop at his sister, not at all.

Jack had crossed over at some point, and was standing right in front of his bowed head. Dave was too numb to register it.

"You good, Dave?" he asked quietly, his back to the pictures. Those goddamned pictures. "Something hurt?"

And Dave never did get used to how difficult it was, exactly, to hold back tears.

"No," he replied, in a voice that surprisingly only sounded tired.

He looked up, and he must not have done a very good job at sweeping all the horror from his face, because Jack tilted his head and gave his sister's murderer a small, confused smile. “Did you get wrecked on painkillers or something, man?”

Dave couldn’t focus on his lighthearted question. Not with his ears ringing and his eyes failing to blink away the memory of the girl's wrinkled dress. He couldn't stop looking over at the pictures behind Jack.

And his Old Sport must’ve noticed his pale look— god, of course he did— because he'd furrowed his eyebrows and had begun to ask something, before his words were cut off by a desperate hug around his middle.

“I dropped a cup,” Dave breathed out quickly, and he tightened his fingers in the fabric of Jack's pajama shirt. “Spilled a buncha water. I'm sorry.”

After some stillness, he could feel as his Old Sport shifted his head to look down at the carpet, probably noticing the spilled cup. Still sounding very much confused, he wheezed out a weak laugh and patted at Dave’s shoulder. “It's… fine, man, it's just a cup. Shit, you’re kinda freaking me out. How much Tylenol did you take? Or did you watch some fucked up horror movie without me?”

Dave wasn’t listening to his words again.

Because as he held onto Jack, a very terrible but very alluring concept had come to him— a concept of a world where Old Sport never knew the terrible things he’d done. To him.

He couldn't tell if he was more angry at Henry or himself. Henry made him do all these things, but on the other hand, he didn't fight back very much, did he?

When Jack processed what was going on and started running a hand up and down his back, Dave realized he couldn’t ruin this. He couldn’t bear to take the one good, decent person in his life and wreck him with the truth. Maybe, with Jack, he could live as the better Dave. Dave, not William. And it wasn't lying if he didn't tell him anything at all, right?

It was a beautifully ignorant, selfish plan.

And he’d barely realized that Jack had gone quiet, too. It had blended into just another desperate hug in the hallway.

“I’m jus' tired,” Dave breathed out shakily, words barely above a whisper. And he really did hate how heavy his accent got when he was scared.

Another small laugh from Jack. "Uh, then let's go to sleep, yeah?"

He'd torn away from the hug, ending the touch, but Dave was not so ready to let go of that warmth so soon. He reached out and clung with both hands to Jack's wrist as he began walking away.

Jack dropped his smile and stayed where he was, right in front of Dave.

He looked so worried, so concerned, and the way his eyebrows drew together made Dave just want to tell him everything that was wrong.

Jack's voice brushed through his thoughts. "Is this something about Henry?"

Through all of his fuzzy panic, a feeling of surprise cut through— surprise that Jack was able to take all of his vague ramblings and weave them into some sort of coherent narrative.

"What? No," Dave lied, and loosened his grip on his wrist when he realized that his Old Sport was staying. "I jus' couldn't sleep."

Jack nodded in sympathy. Dave dully memorized the gesture.

All the while, his eyes continued to lag over to the picture frames behind Jack. And eventually he just couldn't hold any more of this sickening feeling within him anymore.

“I’ve…" He cleared his throat. "I've never seen these pictures before, Sportsy."

It took a second for Jack to realize what he was talking about. An unplaceable look crumpled across his features, and he slowly turned to drag his eyes over to the frames, as if it hurt. Dave watched his eyes intently as they tracked over every frame individually, as if seeing them for the first time.

“Well," Jack said quietly, side-by-side with him now. "I didn't have them up before."

Dave said nothing.

Jack swallowed and kept his eyes glued to the pictures, neat and even along the wall.

"They're all gone, you know. One way or another. Mostly my fault." Then he angled his head slightly to the side, as if trying to look at the wall from a new angle. "No, pretty much entirely my fault."

They stared, and continued staring, for a long time. Shoulder-to-shoulder. Grappling with their own guilt.

“Ya don’t talk about them,” Dave commented eventually, not meaning for his voice to slip into something so distant. Everything felt numb.

Jack only had to lean slightly to rest his forehead against Dave’s shoulder. “I don’t like to,” he admitted tiredly.

That was something he could more than understand.

And yet, Dave pointed to the girl he killed, feeling his blood run cold yet again. "Your sister?" he asked, every word as fragile as glass.

Jack didn't even look up, didn't even turn his head. "Yup," he answered dully. "Dee. My sister."

Dave felt his stomach drop at the name. He hadn’t realized that he had begun fidgeting with the hem of his shirt sleeve until Jack absentmindedly set a hand over his to stop it. Still holding onto his fingers, he sighed and then gestured a free hand up at another photo, to a smiling man beside Jack.

"And that's my brother. Peter. Fucked off to California after everything… happened." Jack sounded angry, but his voice probably didn't sound as hardened as he wanted. After some silence, Dave felt Jack run a thumb over his knuckles as he asked, "Can we go back to sleep?"

But Dave didn't even move his eyes. He spoke slowly: "Can ya tell me more about them?"

Jack lifted his head from where he was leaning against Dave, with a confused look in his eyes. "What? Them?"

"Yes."

"You seriously wanna know?" A very hollow laugh. Like he couldn't believe it. "My sob story?"

"Please."

In all honesty, learning more about the family he directly and indirectly destroyed was the last thing Dave wanted to do right now. He'd much rather curl up against his Old Sport in the bedroom, fall asleep, and forget that any of this ever happened. He let himself imagine the moment before swatting it away— no, he needed to hear this. He needed to know what he did, and the truth of it. If not from Henry, then from his Jack. In all honesty, Dave expected much more resistance. Neither of them really wanted this. But Jack just drew out a long exhale before motioning to the living room, where light from the kitchen had illuminated just enough to light up the room dully.

Dave understood the invitation and sat on the couch in his usual spot, picking at the blankets he used to always sleep on. The feel of them against his skin didn't soothe him as they did before— no, right now, he felt like he was on death row.

He heard rummaging noises from the kitchen and turned his head. It was sort of obvious what Jack was doing— digging through his alcohol cabinet, picking through bottles. Dave stayed quiet about that.

"Hey," Jack asked him at one point, as he was glancing over the label on a bottle of whiskey. "You sure you're good?"

"Yeah," he replied back, probably too quickly for it to sound convincing. "Fine."

And Jack definitely didn't seem convinced. "Um, listen," he started to say softly, not meeting Dave's eyes, still rummaging for a glass. "If you want to keep sleeping on the couch instead, I get it. Just tell me."

Dave could only go still at the idea— no way Old Sport thought that was the problem. "Sportsy," he said, and huffed out a small laugh, mostly in disbelief. But it felt horrible to even be laughing at all. "No. Jeez, no, that's not it."

Then what is it?

A silent question, but obvious all the same on Jack's confused face as he crossed back into the living room, glass and bottle in hand. But he didn't say anything.

Dave watched as if it were a show. Jack sat in his armchair, opening the bottle with his palm, holding the glass still as he filled it a disconcerting amount. Didn't cap the bottle. Brought the drink to his lips and downed the whole thing in one swig. Then he leaned back, glass still cupped in his hands.

And he started to talk.

Chapter Text

There was one thing that Henry never taught him– how to lie. Dave had to teach himself that one.

And as he sat there, watching Jack slump deeper into his armchair, downing drink after drink, wiping his eyes with the palm of his hand, Dave realized he was never as good at it as he thought.

It was bordering on impossible.

Every time Jack looked up mid-sentence, searching for something in Dave's eyes, Dave had to force himself to glance away. Because the only honest words of comfort he could possibly offer was the fact that she didn’t cry much while it was happening.

Dave stupidly assumed he had enough practice from Henry to know how to hold back tears, how to bury any guilt.

But when Jack told him about his sister's kindergarten graduation, or the birthday cards she'd draw for everyone, or the book she’d always dreamed of writing, Dave could only stare at the edge of the coffee table. He couldn’t say a single word.

Jack's whiskey bottle only kept getting lighter and lighter with each story. And with it, his voice got softer, more slurred. The stories poured out a lot easier than it would’ve when sober. Dave could understand that.

And he’d be lying if he said he didn’t understand why he was doing this to himself– why he forced himself to listen to Jack’s stories, why he chose to sit on this couch and commit every word to memory. It was because Dave needed to feel the full sting of the guilt he’d so stupidly pushed away all these years. A punishment he knew he deserved.

The only words he ever said was when he’d softly murmur out Jack’s name if he ever inevitably zoned out mid-sentence. It pulled him back every time. Jack didn’t even scowl whenever Dave used his real name anymore.

And he wanted so desperately to pull his Old Sport onto the couch beside him, wipe the tears from his eyes, hold onto him, hear his heartbeat, make him stop talking– but he didn’t.

Another punishment for himself.

—-

He stared silently as Jack propped his legs up on the coffee table, visibly looser and with a slight clumsiness to his movements. Dave was about to tell him to ease off on the alcohol again when he bit his tongue. If this made it easier for his Old Sport to talk about something so achingly raw, then he’d let him.

Jack rambled on. His stories, at one point or another, stopped losing their order and cadence, and he instead started switching between tangled years at random.

“It took forever to get all the bullshit legal stuff sorted out,” he was explaining with a sigh. “I won, even though I went with a public defender. And not because there wasn't any evidence that I didn't do it, but because there wasn't any evidence that– that she was dead.” He screwed his eyes shut and brought his glass closer to himself. “But I know she is. You just fucking know.”

Dave nodded numbly. The armchair Jack was sitting in was still pulled close to the couch– a leftover change from when Dave slept here during his initial pain. So now, when Jack suddenly leaned closer, hand on his armchair, it was almost startling.

“You ever planned a funeral?” Jack asked distantly.

Dave didn't say anything. He shook his head, because that was an easier reply than saying, I don’t want to think about how many I should’ve.

Jack didn’t seem to mind his lack of an answer. "I have. Twice now. And it doesn't get any easier, trust me. Dee’s was probably the saddest. Though, I guess, my dear old parents would probably kill me for saying that."

Jack was halfway through a dull laugh when he glanced up, paused, and shook his head slightly. "Right. Car accident," he explained.

God, Dave had to look away before he let anything show on his face. Jack had really lost everyone. And Dave had either killed or estranged the last two people he had left.

The silence stretched on, interrupted only by the sound of Jack clumsily pouring himself yet another glass. Eventually, Dave steadied his voice enough to speak up, "So it's jus' you and your brother."

Jack squinted at his drink, his response flat. “Yup.”

"Are you two still…?"

With a scoff, Jack picked up right where his words trailed off, sarcasm dripping from his voice. "Pfft, oh, what, do we keep in touch? Do we call on Sundays and shit? Visit?" He scoffed, and brought his glass to his lips as if on instinct. "As if we'd have something to say to each other. No, I haven't called him in fucking forever. Not even Christmas."

Dave didn’t know what to say. And that terrible, suffocating feeling crept over him again—the realization that no matter what he did, there would never be any atonement. It was done. He couldn’t undo any of it. But unlike the relief he felt when he finally left the diner on that day so many years ago, this time there was no comfort.

Jack, though, had drifted into his own thoughts, his voice going distant. "Not even Christmas," he repeated flatly. He had been staring off into space, fingers tightening around his glass when his eyes widened. "Oh, fuck, I'm the worst. I gotta…"

His words broke off. While shaking his head and fumbling around like he’d forgotten something important, he started patting his pockets. The whiskey in his glass was threatening to spill with how much he was moving around. Probably looking for his phone. And, well, Dave knew where his cellphone was— he kept a mental note in case there was any sort of call— but he wasn't about to tell him anything yet. He just watched in wary confusion.

Jack had just barely gotten to his feet when Dave quickly stood up too– damn his mental promise to stay away. And as his Old Sport continued glancing around with tired eyes for his phone, Dave crossed over to stand right in front of him. One hand took his whiskey and the other cupped around his waist to steady him.

"My phone…" Jack mumbled, frowning and still swaying on his feet.

"’Sport, do ya even know what time it is?" Dave asked, leaning down to look him in the eyes. "What day? It's too late for a call, let alone a Christmas one."

Jack’s voice broke as he slumped a little against Dave. "Not— Not Christmas, man. Her anniversary.”

“Oh,” Dave exhaled. “Oh.”

And he didn’t know what else to do– so he just set down the whiskey glass on the coffee table and tried to steady Jack’s increasingly downcast posture with two hands on his shoulders.

“I’m the worst brother,” he continued mumbling to Dave, sounding mostly unintelligible as he ducked his head. “I’m the worst everything.”

“No, no, you’re not.”

Jack shook his head, his hands fumbling upwards to hold onto Dave’s shirt collar. “I can’t even visit her grave. Because I fucked it up, did you know that? I ruined it,” he slurred, and he was rambling now, leaning so close to Dave that he could smell the sharp whiskey on his breath. “Did I ever tell you that?”

It was hard to tell if he even understood what he was saying anymore, whether he was too far gone or just trying to drown himself in the memories.

Either way, it was killing Dave to see him like this. He took Jack’s hands and moved them off of his shirt, trying to guide him back down into his armchair. “Jus’– Jus’ sit down, okay?” he urged.

Jack wordlessly refused, instead holding onto Dave by the wrists, desperate fingernails digging so deep it almost hurt. It felt good– raw and necessary.

“No. Wait. Please,” Jack breathed out, voice cracking again. His eyes, dull and bloodshot, were focused entirely on Dave, full of this pleading vulnerability that left him feeling sick. “Don’t sit so far away from me.”

Here was Jack, so open and so totally despondent that it was horrifying. He’d never seen him like this. With just a few drinks, he was unraveling before his eyes, and it was all Dave’s fault, wasn’t it?

For now, he’d allow himself this bit of comfort, then; for Jack’s sake more than anything. With a shaky breath, Dave took Jack’s hand and let him lean against his side as he led them both to the couch.

Jack seemed majorly relieved at that. Especially since he wasted no time sliding close and breaking the small space Dave left between them on the couch, until the sides of their thighs were touching. As if he couldn’t bear to not be as near as possible, not even for a second.

They sat in silence for a while. And Dave was very glad that Jack was leaning against his side, because that way he couldn’t make himself turn and look at that wall of photos again.

Old Sport was trailing a hand along the grooves of Dave’s knuckles, shaky breaths steadying out into something calmer. A week ago, Dave would have killed for this comfort. Now, he barely comprehended it.

His own thoughts were trailing off again. Because, before, the living room was always a good space, warm and comforting. But now everything dug into him and reminded him of what he didn’t deserve. He couldn’t begin to imagine how to explain to his Old Sport that he’d wrecked the very family whose home he’d been swept into as a guest.

Who was more at fault, though? Henry? Dave? William? Were they all the same person?

He was the only person who remembered how fast blood could spread across saferoom tile. It was him.

Dave sucked in a breath and quickly looked down– Jack didn’t even know. Everything about this felt so very wrong; even the parts that should’ve felt right, like Jack’s rare affection and touch. He was the one to break the silence eventually, clumsy fingers still not tearing from Dave’s hand.

“He blames me for everything,” Jack mumbled, words blurring together. “But he is right. As usual.” Even from his angle, Dave could see Jack’s face slowly lose its grief and his lips curl into a frown. “Oh, my perfect fucking brother with his perfect fucking…”

“Jack,” Dave interrupted. He didn't know what comfort he could possibly offer if he, himself, felt like he was getting his ribs ripped out of him with every shaky word Jack spoke. “Breathe, okay?”

He did, shakily, if only for a second. But then he buried his face into Dave’s shoulder and went on, “He hates me. Because I’m god-awful.”

“No, no. If… if you were anythin’ like who I know now,” Dave reassured him slowly, “Then you were the best.”

His words seemed to have the opposite effect. “Oh, god, Davey. That’s the whole damn point. I was the worst.” His hands stilled, and Jack’s voice sunk into a whisper when he added, “I told her I’d be there.”

And it felt like some sort of trial, except Jack didn’t even know that every word he was saying only cut Dave deeper.

But there was absolutely nothing he could say. Or do, really, because the idea of Dave running a hand through Jack’s hair felt like a disgrace.

Eventually, Jack mumbled to him, “I’m sorry. I just r’lly hate talking about… it.”

And Dave let himself say what he’d been thinking all night: “I shouldn’t have asked ya about any of this.”

“--No, no!” Jack added quickly, voice frantic with insistence, and his hand wrapped around his wrists again. “You– You can know, because I want you to. And, because– because, you’re you, and… You’re the… only one…” His voice cracked. The same voice that used to shush Dave’s jokes or sigh in indifference– it was now so raw and honest and real. His head was still ducked away, forehead pressed against Dave’s shoulder, but he kept going. “You’re all I got.”

Dave stared down at this unusually honest Jack tucked into his side, still holding onto his hand.

“Ya mean all that?”

In that second, Jack moved his head to face Dave straight on. His lips were parted as if he were deciding whether or not to reply.

It was as if the words finally caught up to him, because then his eyes darted over to the coffee table, and in a quick, clumsy movement, he reached for his whiskey glass. He missed once, and on his second try Dave was the one to slide the glass further away from him.

Sitting up straight, Jack threw a pitiful look over to him.

"Hey. I don't like it when ya drink, Sportsy,” Dave remarked, choosing not to comment on Jack’s previous words. “You get all sad."

Jack just blinked slowly, smoothing a hand through his ruffled hair. “Mmh,” he hummed out, and Dave couldn’t really tell if he was agreeing or disagreeing.

“I mean, c’mon, ‘Sport. Between the drinks and your cigarettes? Give yourself a break.”

“No,” Jack interrupted, almost proudly. He stuck a finger up in the air. “Mm-mm. I don't smoke anymore, 'cause you don't like the smell.”

Dave was fairly certain he never told him that.

And then, oh, God— Dave realized he was smiling at the simple fact that Jack had noticed such a small detail. Smiling inside of the very house of the man whose sister he killed. The audacity of it made him want to pinch himself.

Naturally, as soon as his smile faltered, Jack noticed. Even in his drunken state. Dave could see him mentally trying to piece together what could possibly be the matter.

“Oh, God, does something hurt?” Jack quickly asked, going all serious despite the amount of whiskey in his system.

"No, it's ju—"

But Jack was already prepared to check on the bandages at a moment's notice, hands drifting out to the edge of Dave’s shirt.

Dave caught his fingers, holding onto them gently. "Really, Old Sport. I'm fine."

"Promise?"

"Yes, sure, promise," he insisted, and yet again he couldn't help himself from smiling slightly.

And that didn’t make much sense, because he should've been drowning in guilt. There should’ve been no room for smiles or affection brimming within. But here he was, with his Old Sport so close and still holding his hand, and punishing himself seemed so much harder in the moment.

“Sportsy. Do ya wanna jus’ go back to sleep?” he proposed quietly, because at least the bedroom was dark enough to cover any more emotional slips in his expression.

“Mmph,” Jack mumbled again, and the way he curled in closer toward Dave was answer enough, his head resting against his shoulder.

And Dave almost smiled again, because for a second he forgot he had his sister's blood on his hands.

“No. No, wait,” Jack insisted, and he straightened a little as he went on. “Wait. I still wanna talk.”

It wasn’t like Dave would ever say no. He’d listen on.

——

“…I always found it funny how m’ clothes fit you,” Jack mumbled out of the blue.

It seemed he’d reached the level of drunkenness in which he just blurted out whatever was on his mind. He was still on the couch, tucked against Dave, and had just barred through a story abruptly.

“Too big. I’ll get you some new ones, one of these days. Yeah? Hm?”

“Okay, Sportsy,” Dave agreed, because what else could he do but humor his drunken whims? His Old Sport let out a little hum of acknowledgement.

And Dave remembered it very well— the first time Jack gave him a change of clothes, before his shower. It was a simple T-shirt and sweatpants, but Dave had stared at them and wanted to cry in some strange mix of emotions. Gratitude and relief. Two feelings that were both very foreign to Dave.

And it was just some clothes, but it was proof that someone cared for him. And Dave was taught to thrive on proof.

He really couldn’t fathom losing him. Jack was the one good thing in Dave’s life.

Even though Dave was all the bad things in Jack’s life.

Maybe he could ignore it. That was plausible.

Jack was averse to any kind of emotional conversation unless he was absurdly drunk, and Dave was much too afraid to bring it up himself. They were always holding hands and not talking about each other. So this could be no different, right? This could work. Maybe.

Dave was still wondering if he could learn to live with that choking feeling of guilt wrapped around his throat when Jack spoke up.

“Dave. Davey,” he breathed out, and he sat up to face Dave. It was the second time he’d called him that. Dave could smell the whiskey on his breath again, more sweet this time; and he could see the wrinkles in the collar of his pajama shirt. “Do y’ ever get that feeling?”

Dave froze. He knew what he was talking about.

Don't do this t’ me, Jack.

Not now.

Not when I can’t make myself say anythin’ back to you.

“What?” Dave asked anyway, stupidly desperate to hear the words– some sliver of proof that what he was feeling with Jack was indeed mirrored.

Old Sport tilted his head to his side, trying to focus. “It’s like…”

His words broke off, a drunken haze around them, his eyes searching the ceiling as if the right words were floating somewhere up there. Dave stayed absolutely silent.

“…A good feeling,” Jack eventually finished, eyes settling on Dave’s again, not tearing away in the slightest this time. “I get it with you.”

And Dave just kept looking at him, trying to figure out if he was sober enough to realize what he was saying. “You get it with me?”

"Uh-huh," Jack nodded, but his voice was very detached from his movements. And he was leaning close, insanely close, until he went right over the unspoken line they'd always kept between one other. One hand found itself brushing against the side of his jaw, and where all his other movements were drunken and sloppy, this one was gentle and precise.

He had this look in his eyes— serious but not stern, sympathetic but not pitiful. Slowly, gently, he ran a thumb down the side of his jaw. “Dave,” he whispered. “It makes me wanna, sort of, kind of…"

Jack was squeezing his hand slightly, as if prompting Dave closer. He did, of course he did; he’s sure he’d do just about anything if Jack looked at him in that way. And their noses were almost brushing, and he could see the last smudges of makeup under his eyes, he could see the stained trails of his dried tears from before.

And Dave could almost pretend that the empty space in his chest wasn't, in fact, empty.

Jack made him feel alive. Jack made him feel like he could forget.

But just as his head tilted ever so slightly, the weight of reality slammed back into him:

You killed his sister.

Dave froze, pulling back from the heat of Jack’s breath before time could stretch on any further, before any number of mistakes could’ve been made. And the tension dissolved as soon as it had appeared.

It was only then that he saw Jack's expression shift—first confused, then tinged with disappointment. His hand dropped back down.

"I didn't pick up the cup,” Dave quietly blurted out.

Jack’s voice was hoarse. "What?"

"The one I dropped." He turned his head to the spot, back over to the pictures, which only made his breathing hitch. "I never cleaned it up.”

Jack said nothing. He stared at him with that heart-wrenching look on every part of his face.

And when Dave somehow found the guts to get up, legs feeling weak, nothing could have compelled him to stay in that moment other than Jack’s hand, which had weakly reached out to wrap his fingers around Dave’s wrist, freezing him in place.

Steeling his breathing, he turned to look down. And the sight stabbed into him– Jack looked just plain miserable. He was blinking quickly, trying to remove the tears from his eyes, which were all shiny and reflecting the living room lamp light.

“You really don’t want this, d’ you?” Jack asked wearily, eyebrows drawing together. His shoulders were slumped dejectedly. “Me?”

Dave swallowed. The word tumbled out of his mouth. “What?”

But Jack didn’t seem to hear him. He let go of Dave’s wrist, shutting his eyes as he spoke, slow and deliberate, as if every word weighed him down. “Just tell me,” he mumbled, head dropping. “If you don’t want this. I get it– I’ll get it, I promise I’ll get it…”

In an instant, Dave dropped back on the couch next to him, both hands moving to cup his Old Sport’s face and trying to search his crestfallen expression. “No, no, no, no, Sportsy, it’s not you. I swear on it, it’s not you.”

It was like talking to a wall. He didn’t say anything in reply. And all Dave could do was desperately wipe at the tears trailing under his Old Sport’s eyes, some makeup smudging off onto his fingers in the process. Seeing him like this was worse than seeing any wall of pictures. Everytime he sniffled, it felt like a gunshot to Dave.

“Sportsy? That… Listen to me, c’mon,” he pleaded, and he tilted Jack’s head up to meet his eyes. His crestfallen look, however alcohol-induced it was, was killing him. “Where’d ya ever get that kind of idea?”

“Y’ can’t be serious,” he replied back lethargically. “You know ‘m messed up. I’m the worst. I just told you all about it.”

Dave processed his words for a very long moment. Then, without even thinking, he moved his hands to wrap around his shoulders. Jack was practically limp, so it was no trouble at all to pull him in so that his head was soundly tucked underneath Dave’s.

“It doesn’t matter to me,” he explained. “I get that feelin’ too, okay? I do, I really do.”

From under him, Dave could hear the pure confusion in Jack’s quiet question. “Why don’t y’ ever say it?”

To that, he didn’t give any reply, because Jack probably wouldn’t remember this conversation in the morning. And that was maybe for the better. Jack didn’t say anything more, either.

They just both sat there, Dave rubbing his thumb at the nape of his Old Sport’s neck, both silent on the couch.

But… Jack didn’t deserve to be held or hugged by him. No, someone as good as Jack didn’t deserve to hear anything comforting from someone so awful. That was probably why he said nothing.

“We should go t’ sleep,” Dave quietly offered to him, even though it felt like he’d never be able to fall asleep again with all this running through his mind.

“No. ‘M sorry,” Jack muttered, and Dave didn’t think he ever heard him spew so many apologies as much as he did tonight. Which was stupidly ironic, because Dave was the one who owed him a lifetime of sorry’s. “Let’s talk ‘bout something better. Something happy. Tell me something happy, Dave.”



“Like what?”



Jack paused for a moment, and his hands tightened around him. “Tell me about Henry.”

Dave didn’t like how easily the name left Jack’s mouth, or even that he said his name at all. “That’s…” his words broke off completely. “Jack, that’s not happy.”

“No, get it? It is,” he insisted, words still slurring together despite his focus. “Because you’re better now, right? Here? So, ’s like…” He paused, gathering his words. “It’s as if ev’rything that he did to you… it doesn’t even count.”

Dave wished he could share in that naive hopefulness. He wished it were that easy.

Jack didn’t understand. Not really. Though, maybe it’d be better if he never did. And with the way he was still looking at Dave, it was clear he really did want to hear about this.

And so, Dave tried to think. All the memories that came to mind were not ones he’d share with Jack in a million years. He tried to recall something with much less blood and much less tears.

He loosened his hold on him a bit, just enough to look down and gauge Jack’s expression. To stop the story if he realized he’d chosen the wrong one to tell.

“Remember that day at work– way back– when I shoved ya in the saferoom, told you to stay there?”

Jack nodded, his eyes not leaving Dave’s.

“It was ‘cause I saw him. Henry. He wasn’t supposed to show up, but he did. And I didn’t know what else t’ do except that.”

He remembered how angry his Old Sport got, how cruel it was that Dave couldn’t explain the truth to him that day. It would’ve been too much.

“And then when I went to go talk to him,” Dave went on, “It was as if he already knew everythin’. And I promised I’d go see him later, that I’d do whatever he wanted, just to get him t’ leave.”

Instead of replying, Jack’s mouth just twisted into a frown, and his eyes flicked down to his stomach, as they usually did when the topic drifted to Henry. “Oh.”

“I know, I know. But you don’t get it,” Dave defended. “He’s barely a person, it’s like… he’s…” He sighed. “Oh, what am I doin’? I can’t be tellin’ ya about this. You’re drunk. And… sad enough as is.” With another sigh, he got to work uncurling Jack’s fingers from his shirt. “We’re goin’ to sleep.”

“Mm-mm,” Jack hummed in the negative, staying absolutely put.

Jack was usually the stronger one, but all that strength just went down the gutter when he was this hammered. Dave, after wrapping one arm around Jack’s midsection, got up off the couch with him in tow, despite the blaring pain in his own torso that flared from the movement.

“C’mon,” he urged. “Lean on me.”

A sigh from Jack. “Fffine.”

And he thought that was the end of it until Jack’s head tilted down and he stared directly at Dave's shirt, where his ribs were.

“Bandages!” he blurted out suddenly, like it was the one coherent thought in his brain. He quickly turned to the coffee table, leaning out of Dave’s hold to grab some random first-aid kit tool. “I've gotta change your–”

Dave gently took him by the wrists. “Jack. Leave it. You’re goin’ to sleep.”

With a few blinks and a rather exaggerated groan, Jack dipped his head once in his drunken equivalent of a nod before leaning himself against Dave. He walked him all the way down the hall, past the pictures, past the spilled cup of water, and into the bedroom.

—-

The room, lit by a lamp, was just as they left it. Both sides of the bed sheets crumpled from when they’d both gotten up in the night. Dave carefully guided an equally drunk and tired Jack down onto his own unofficial side, pulling the blanket right up to his shoulders. He just watched him with heavy eyelids and slow blinks.

As soon as Dave crossed around the bed, he came face-to-face with the dresser. With all the pictures on it. It was nothing but dread-inducing to pick one of the frames up with shaky fingers, looking over the photograph behind the glass.

A smiling Jack and his smiling sister.

Dave’s eyes flickered over to Jack, who thankfully was turned away from him and lying on his side. Dave could hardly recognize him from the photo, just from his scarred skin alone. It made him feel like throwing up all over again.

Trying his hardest not to look at the picture frame, Dave set it face-down on the dresser before lying down under the covers. With one lean over to click off the lamp, the room sunk into darkness.

The guilt barely had its moment to claw into his gut when, almost instantly, he could hear as Jack shuffled closer. He slung an arm around his torso without another word. With how drunk Jack was, Dave had honestly assumed he was asleep already.

Stupid of him to assume, though, when clearly he couldn’t sleep without one of them holding onto the other.

But then he heard Jack whisper a question to him through the quiet of the room.

“How do y' think I should do it?”

Dave’s eyes had adjusted to the dark enough to make out his face, angled to face him. “Do what, Sportsy?”

Jack’s voice softened at the nickname as if it was the first time he ever heard it, and he jutted a pointing finger out to his mouth as if to highlight it. He underestimated the movement, clearly, and his finger butted into Dave’s jaw.

“Oh, I r’ly like it when y’ call me that,” he confessed. “Say it again.”

Dave took his hand and held onto it, smiling a bit at his delirious rambles. Even though smiling now hurt more than ever. “Sportsy,” he said quietly. “Answer the question.”

Jack smiled and leaned a little closer, eyes half-lidded from the alcohol. He was looking at him very differently. Dave could tell, even in the dark.

“Kill him,” Jack answered, breath hot, and the drunken smile creeping along his lips made it sound more than just an intoxicated whim. “How should I do it?”

Dave didn’t answer, feeling his smile fade. He was much too busy trying to figure out if his Old Sport was being serious or not. “Who?”

“You know who. I’ve b’n thinking about it,” Jack plowed on, and there was a very real focus in both his eyes and voice despite his slurred words. “A lot. So, so, so much. He can bleed too, Davey. I know it, and I’ll do it. Just for you."

Dave still didn’t say anything. Jack was searching his face, his eyes, all so intently. "I see you cry in y'r sleep. You won’t have t’ worry any more. I’ll do it, I’ll do it. I swear I’ll do it."

“Drunk,” Dave stated breathlessly. He was surprised he was able to say anything at all. “You’re drunk.”

“I wasn’t drunk when I thought about it last week. Or yesterday. Or this morning. I know what I’m saying.”

“I, um…” Dave stuttered, and did not like how much his voice was shaking. “Go to sleep.”

With how harrowing Jack’s revelation was, he seemed to drop it pretty quickly. That was either the fault of his exhaustion or the alcohol. Dave felt an arm tuck tighter around his center, fingers loose but secure. Jack curled into a crescent shape, angled toward him, forehead against Dave’s chest.

Dave could hear his heartbeat.

Though, this time, the rhythm of it only reminded him of what he took from his sister.

And it reminded him that he had no answers, he had no idea what to do. And as much as he wanted to ignore this and push it from his mind, this wracking guilt stubbornly remained in front of him.

Jack’s breathing steadied out, and it was clear he’d fallen asleep. He was such a heavy sleeper, even sober– there was no way he was waking anytime soon.

Answers. Dave needed answers. And he knew exactly who had them, no matter how bloodied or twisted they'd be delivered to him. There was only one man who did all this right beside him.

Chapter Text

Dave stared at the ceiling of Jack’s bedroom for a really long time. Mostly, he was just convincing himself that he needed to get out of bed and do this. That was a pretty hard feat in itself, especially with the way Jack tucked himself close like never before.

He was right against him, really, with his arms strewn along his bandaged torso. And, well, that was sweet but very new, because Jack never allowed himself to bridge any sort of physical gap between them, not unless he had an excuse or was desperately drunk. As he was now.

No matter. Dave would try and enjoy the exception, even if he didn't think he deserved it.

He knew he needed to get up, and he knew he needed to do this.

Convincing himself wasn’t the hardest part, though. Gently prying away Jack’s fingers from where they clung to Dave’s shirt? That was almost plain impossible.

Eventually, Dave was able to slide out from under the covers, getting to his feet as quietly as possible. Jack was still fast asleep, chest slowly rising with each breath, still curled into the same shape as if Dave were lying beside him.

He couldn’t help but linger and just enjoy the sight for a while. And only after what felt like forever did Dave finally leave— he knew that he was just delaying his inevitable exit from the same house he’d healed, cried, and rested in.

He was grateful that he had the idea to pull on a jacket as he headed out: Past the wall of pictures and past his spilled cup. The water hadn’t dried from the carpet yet, but Dave picked up the glass and placed it gently on the table before slipping outside, shutting the door as quietly as he could behind him.

Outside, the neighborhood was in total darkness, with just a few streetlamps dotting the roads. Jack’s car was parked rather messily in the driveway, frozen from their late diner trip.

A cool breeze– the last hints of winter, no doubt– hit Dave as he went down the front steps. Though, he barely comprehended it, since he was much too focused on other things swirling around his mind and memory.

The jacket did not do much against his tremblings. Jack’s jacket and Jack’s shoes and Jack’s pajamas– yes, the irony was hollowing him from the inside out. Dave sort of felt like a lion in sheep's clothing. Henry once told him that story.

He didn’t exactly start walking right away. His feet felt glued to the asphalt for a long while as he weighed his choices. That first, meager step out onto the street felt like ripping off a bandage.

He had nothing– no Old Sport, no phone, no prepared words. Just himself and the faint scent of Jack’s whiskey on his sleeve, where he’d buried his face just minutes ago.

Dave didn’t want to leave, but he needed answers. That, at least, he was sure of. He’d make one last stop at that damned house and never have to go back again.

He knew the trip by heart, unfortunately, because he’d made this walk before. But on that Christmas night, he was happily ambling over with that plastic bag full of wine clinking at his side. This time there was no joy, no excitement. And he didn’t like looking behind him every few moments and seeing the house shrink behind him as he walked further and further.

He didn’t remember walking all those blocks, and he definitely didn’t remember putting one foot in front of the other until he was staring at the splintered wood of the front door. Henry’s house.

Not his. It was always Henry’s house, and Dave just happened to sleep in it.

And Dave never really understood that horrible way Jack spoke about all Henry had done, not until he realized he’d been clenching his fists so hard they hurt. Well, just about everything hurt. This was the last place on Earth that he wanted to be tonight.

After willing his hands to stop shaking, Dave took a deep inhale– which didn’t soothe that tormenting feeling in the slightest– and pushed at the doorknob.

It didn’t budge. Locked. Dave was, unsurprisingly enough, relieved.

He could’ve left it at that– he could’ve turned right back around and walked all the way back home, back into their room, to burrow himself away into Jack’s arms. But with a sigh, he just folded those thoughts away and forced himself to walk around the back, along the concrete wrapping around the house, right over to the angled basement door.

He didn’t allow himself much hope for it to be unlocked, but it was. Unfortunately. With one good heave, the heavy door groaned its way open. Dave bit his lip at the pain– the sheer act of lifting it felt like a stab into his torso.

Well, that’s pretty damn fitting, he thought to himself numbly.

He walked down the steps that sunk him further into the basement.

Dave hated the basement. That was really the only word for it– hate.

With its bare, concrete walls housing all those terrible tools and blades. Dave unfortunately knew the feeling of every single one of them. The dim overhead light– which was, uncomfortably enough, switched on– cast long, sharp and foreboding shadows against every piece of equipment, all perfectly aligned and sterile. Everything had been cleaned, Dave noted to himself dazedly. Not a speck of his own blood anywhere. Not like last time.

He had never looked too closely at anything whenever he had the misfortune of being called down here. It’d just be one more clinging memory to haunt him when he laid in bed at night.

It pretty much all looked the exact same, Dave realized. Even the table. It was exactly the same from night when he stared up at the ceiling and felt the sickly flow of his own blood dripping along his ribs, and he had counted the cracks in the ceiling to try and forget it all sooner, he had thought of Jack and his voice and his heartbeat, but–

All of a sudden Dave found it very hard to breathe.

He quickly turned away from the table and toward a door on the other side of the room. He hated that door, too— he could perfectly imagine Henry walking through it at any moment. But he didn’t despise it entirely. It was the same door that delivered him out of this place every time. Usually bleeding, but at least free to stumble out and leave.

This time, he walked through it himself, no limp and no bleeding. Up the wooden stairs, hands on the railing— each smooth edge reflecting the dull moonlight pouring in. Dave had long ago learned to be light on his feet, so he hardly made any noise anymore. Though, he didn't mind making any noise anymore. However terrifying of a thought that was, he was finally here, by his own choice, and he wanted Henry to know that.

The door at the top of the basement stairs was propped open slightly. He pushed it open and was forced to look at the dreary interior of the first floor. The office, which was just a few steps away, looked darkened and empty.

Horribly enough, Dave realized that he still knew which doors stuck at the hinges, which floorboards creaked, and how every scuff mark on the walls had gotten there.

It disgusted him that he still remembered so much about this place. The only thing that sickened him more was the idea of never actually forgetting.

He walked up the stairs, starting to regret ever coming here, to be honest with himself. This was not a place where he ever had the courage to be honest with himself.

Now up the stairs, he went into the very first room on the left. His room.

Though, yet again, it didn’t feel right calling it his.

He remembered his last night here in a funny sort of way: the memories were blurred but the pain remained sharp in his mind. It had hurt terribly when he was dumped outside the door, it stung like hell when he had to drag himself inside, and it was plain agonizing when he’d peeled his shirt up to look at the damage. He didn’t remember much apart from a single, clear need to leave.

He clicked on a lamp– Henry really only allowed furniture with a function– and looked around the room dully, trying not to recoil. Unlike the basement, the bedroom was not at all how Dave remembered it looking.

His clumsy attempt at opening the first aid kit was cleaned away, the sheets were smoothed out, and there was no trace of blood anywhere. It almost looked like a normal room. Apart from the fact that there was little proof that a person truly lived in here: no photos, no pictures, no decorations, no knickknacks. Nothing real. Just hollow.

He looked over his meager dresser and thought about how different it looked from Jack’s. Dave really had no family, nobody at all, did he? Except for maybe…

A voice drifted out to greet him, the first one he'd heard aloud in his damned house. Henry's, firm but low.

“I was starting to think you would never come back.”

Dave startled and turned toward the door in an instant. He hadn’t even heard the door open, hadn’t even noticed Henry’d figure cut through the lamplight.

Dave just stared at him, at his smile and the glint of light against his glasses. Each shaky breath that he took seemed too unsteady and too loud, and didn't calm himself very much.

At some point, he took a deep breath and opened his mouth to say something, but Henry stole that second of silence before he could even get a single word out. “Have you come to apologize?”

And all the words that Dave had wanted to say, all the anger bubbling within him, it just crumbled away. “What?” he mumbled weakly, his deathgrip on the edge of the dresser loosening. He didn't remember holding on to that. “For what?”

“For your selfishness,” he explained simply. “In running off like that.”

Dave wanted to laugh, despite the fact that this was not funny in the slightest. “I… I left because I was dyin’.”

“You know I would not have let that happen.”

“And what, exactly, were you tryin’ to make happen?” The words were coming out bitter, cynical, but he didn’t even care.

“William, I told you precisely what the goal was. You couldn’t handle its demands.” He turned his hands palm-up, as if to say, that’s all I can offer you.

Before Dave could bite out anything more, Henry barrelled on. “It’s no matter, William. I forgive you.”

“Forgive–?” Dave turned his head away, blinking hard. “I’m… No, I'm not here for this. I’m not here about that, anyway. I want answers– answers for what you did to me all these years. And why.”

Henry, surprisingly enough, stayed deathly quiet as he continued on. Dave took one, brave step forward.

“Fourteen years ago,” he stumbled out, “You made me kill those kids. Made me do it alone. Why?” Henry just laughed. “I thought I truly raised you smarter than this. That is your question?”

Dave didn’t know whether to nod or cry or what. Henry didn't wait for an answer either way.

“Yes, I did ask you to participate in the Joy with me. And for fourteen years, you did not seem to have any problem with it.” He stepped forward, further into the room, toward Dave. “But does it really matter if it was fourteen years or fourteen hours ago, William? You still would have done it.”

He shook his head. “No. No, ya made me do it.”

Henry’s lips stretched along his teeth in some sort of a smile. It looked terrifying in the dark. “I never made you do anything you didn’t already want to do,” he said, infinitely calm. As if that made it any better.

The sharp ache below Dave’s ribs suggested otherwise. All he could do was just stare back at him as he felt his eyes start to burn with tears.

"You hurt me."

“And I do apologize.” Henry drew his hands together in front of him, smile softening. “William, we’ve both stepped over lines. You know this better than anyone. And yet, I don’t regret a moment of it. I just wish I had more time to prepare you for it all.”

Somehow, Dave found the courage to continue staring right into his hardened eyes, which were somehow still bright with amusement. “I don’t understand ya in the fuckin’ slightest, Henry.”

His reply was so simple: “Stop trying to.”

“I thought ya were makin’ me better. I thought one day you’d stop.”

Henry sidestepped his words. “I was trying to make you perfect. And now you refuse my gifts. You couldn’t even handle the mildest of my work– always running off, always bleeding.”

“An experiment," Dave spit out, stepping closer again, trying to understand that smile. "That’s all I am?”

Henry stepped even closer, until they were just a footstep away from each other. Dave never got this close, not unless he was being yelled at or something worse. He felt like a rabbit backed into a hole, the way he'd stumbled back against the dresser.

Henry shook his head, almost apologetically. “No, you are not my experiment. And I am so sorry that you ever even saw yourself in that light.” Then he leaned in closer, directly in parallel as Dave tilted away warily. And he was close enough to whisper out, “No, William, you were my greatest creation. My perfect machine.”

He really was nothing, to nobody; and if Jack knew Dave fully, he’d see him as just the same. He knew that.

Dave looked away, because he really couldn’t help it– he was crying, now. A single, stupid tear dropped onto the smooth wood surface of the dresser.

And he knew how much Henry hated tears, so he stared lifelessly at it and exhaled shakily, saying nothing. Out of the corner of his eyes, Dave saw Henry stare at the tear with mild distaste etched on his face. A contamination.

“I don’t believe you know yourself very well, William," he spoke slowly into the silence of the room. "Will you tell me, what prompted this jolt of morality? Is there something tugging at your heart?”

A twisted joke.

And this time, it was Dave's turn to ignore his words. “I wish I never met ya,” he choked out, somehow looking up to meet his eyes.

Henry looked entirely unaffected by his admission. Entirely unaffected by how much it hurt to admit that.

“How brave. Though, I suppose all rabbits must leave the burrow eventually.”

Dave could hardly keep his breathing steady. “Don’t… talk like that! As if… As if ya know me.”

All that earned him was the look of one, wide, terrifying smile on Henry’s face. And he just stared at Dave with this sick triumph in his eyes that froze Dave in place like ice.

It felt like a nightmare, the way Henry's voice dropped to a low murmur, into a kind that seemed to seep into every corner of the room.

“And you think he does?” Henry asked him carefully.

God— he hadn’t even said the name, and it felt like the ground was torn out from under Dave all the same. There was no knife needed for the sickly cold feeling suddenly pooling in his stomach. He tried to step away but only stumbled into the bedpost.

Because having Henry breathe out any mention of Jack in this cold, merciless house was all but quietly forbidden. He was supposed to exist untouched, separated, and uncorrupted by Henry’s voice. Not out loud, never out loud.

For the first time since walking in here, Dave lost his words completely. His stupid question tumbled out of his mouth like ash. “What?”

Henry slowly began a circle around the room, locking eyes all the while. It was as if he were watching, studying him. “You think I wouldn’t notice you dressed in somebody else’s clothes?" he shot back, voice thick with pure disdain.

Dave tried to step away further, but only backed further into the dresser backed against the wall. There was no way this was happening, no way Henry was talking about this so openly and so plainly. It felt worse than a nightmare, because he didn’t have the comfort in knowing that Jack would be there when he inevitably woke up.

Dave was awake, with Henry right here, and he was saying all the wrong words. The worst part was that they were all terrifyingly correct. And just like always, Dave couldn't scrape together a single word in reply.

Out of all the next things Henry could have said next, he suddenly asked something much worse:

“You don't seriously think he's impressed with any part of you?”

He hissed out each word so slowly. As if he knew. Dave never found the word evil as fitting as it was in this moment.

Evil, yes, but correct. Dave was nobody to love, no matter how much he tried. Something would always come back to kill it at the source.

And his weak reply fell out of numb lips. “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about.” Phone, his phone. That’s how he knew. God, he was stupid for ever leaving it behind.

And now that he knew where to hit, Henry didn’t back down. “You do. I don’t believe you should be squandering your potential like this. Hanging around your own splintered victims, letting yourself grow soft? That’s not the man I raised.”

But it’s the kid you broke.

Dave’s eyes were wide and his breathing was only growing faster. “Stop tryin' to get in my head."

“I’m not trying in the slightest. You wanted this. Why else would you come back?”

Dave shook his head slightly. It was all he could manage. “I came for answers. Not for you.”

“They are the same thing, William.” After saying that, he looked him up and down, letting it sink in for a while. Then he asked bitterly, “Do not tell me I'm wrong. Where have you been staying these past few weeks, exactly?”

Dave said nothing. A mistake. Because when both of them went silent, it meant Henry was about to act.

And act he did— in an instant, he finally took that one step that separated the two of them. The abrupt motion made Dave flinch. Despite the height advantage, he felt like a child caught doing something wrong.

He was right in front of him, now. And, somehow, Henry's voice dripped with sympathy, and for the first time in his life he spoke with something like pity in his words. "You are not cut out for this, William.”

That departure of his usual tone was more terrifying to Dave than any blade Henry could've held out to him.

“And you most definitely are not capable of love, or whatever you think you are feeling."

Dave stared at him in silence, with all the proof otherwise wrapped around his midsection.

“David,” Henry suddenly said, and by now his voice had truly melted into something paternal. The worst part was that Dave couldn't tell if it was fake or not. It felt like a magic trick, because at once, all of his focus centered on his next words, despite his skin crawling for him to get away.

Henry's hand moved up– slowly, deliberately. And Dave froze in place, somehow not flinching, though every fiber of his being was taut with confusion and fear. Henry cupped a hand to his cheek, rough skin touching his own in some twisted imitation of affection.

Dave wanted to shove away, wanted to flinch back, but he was trapped as usual. Trapped in the house with the man that shattered him beyond his own recognition. Unfamiliar and wrong was what this was. He could barely take in a full breath.

Dave's thoughts instinctively fell on the one person that could’ve ever saved him from the feeling.

He had the whole moment committed to memory– one of many.

Jack had that look in his eyes— serious but not stern, sympathetic but not pitiful. The alcohol really did soften his whole demeanor. Slowly, gently, he ran a thumb down the slant of Dave’s jaw, and he dropped his voice down to a whisper to speak, in a voice only ever reserved for them alone:

“Dave…”

Henry’s plain words slammed through his thoughts. “I want you to kill him.”

Dave got torn out of his own mind.

Because it was just Henry here, with the same hands that had been soaked with Dave’s blood more times than he had a good night's sleep, his expression as dead and smiling as ever. And there was no Old Sport, there was nobody to save him this time. All at once, he knew he’d made a horrible mistake coming here.

His blood had long turned to ice. The hand against his face felt like it was readying to kill him.

“Wh– What?” Dave quavered, words barely sounding real at this point.

Henry ran a thumb right along his skin. And Dave knew he was tracing one of his scars, all while looking him over like a butcher sizing up a portion. His smile was tugged and pinched in all the wrong places. His voice, worst of all, would not quit that softened tone.

Total, suffocating control. Henry pressed on. “He’s in your head. He is too close to you, to our secrets, and to our dream. You cannot say a word about what you did, and you cannot confess our greatest sin. And doesn’t that drive you mad? Is he not getting in the way?”

He couldn't bring himself to back away. “I don’t…”

“–And if something is bothering you, don’t you have the right to get rid of it?"

“It?” he mumbled, word barely an exhale.

“Remind me of what you’re here for, again? Answers?”

Dave didn’t even nod, didn’t say anything at all. Seemed he didn’t need to, because Henry was relentless.

“Here is the ultimate one: Get rid of what is holding you back.”

Surely he knew he wouldn’t be able to? Surely he knew he was asking the impossible of him?

Dave's eyes had blurred with tears again, and he ducked his head on instinct. Henry tucked a hand under his chin to firmly tilt his gaze right back into his own eyes.

“You’ve tangled yourself into a mess," he shot back, "And this is the way out. Truly, I want to help you. Just kill him. It will be no different.”

"That's no—"

"—You belong here, David," Henry murmured, not dropping his hand, hand still under his chin. Right by his neck. The weakest point, Dave noted. "Always have. Always."

Dave was lost beyond belief. He didn't want to be here, and in that muzzy state he let himself say something to Henry, something stupid, something that let him know just how badly he’d gotten under his skin. He let Henry know that he was winning.

“But I need him,” Dave pleaded, voice just a whisper.

"Oh, David,” Henry said dully. “It's not love. It's pity. It is the exact same pity I felt when I first found you.”

Dave felt too exhausted to argue it.

And Henry marched on. "I am the best thing to ever happen to you. All the work we've done, all the Joy we've collected. All the research. The operations. Especially the one you begged for.”

Dave didn’t want to, but he continued staring right into those hardened eyes, somehow still smiling. "You hurt me."

And it felt like no matter how much he said it, Henry wouldn’t really understand the extent of it.

Yet again, and just like he had been doing his entire life, Henry ignored his words.

“This can be over. Just trust me, David– go and get it done. You will feel so much better when this whole nightmare is over. No attachments. No worries. Nobody driving you mad; nobody getting in the way of our dream.”

Whether he realized Dave’s visible unraveling or not, he went on some more.

"What if he realizes just how stupid you can get? You’ve let him get too close to this beautiful thing we’ve built."

What beauty? Dave could only ask himself dazedly. He found the courage, somewhere, to take one step back, then another. “I’m… No, I’m- I'm leavin’. I can't…”

“Don’t you want your clothes? Your drawings? Your designs?”

“I’ll make more. I don’t need you.”

“You’re still talking to me.”

He was right, and that was terrible. Dave’s shaky legs moved toward the door, but the movement stopped entirely when Henry's voice, even in its quiet tone, froze him in an instant.

“I have something I want to show you.”

Stupid as ever, Dave turned to face him.

And just like that, Henry knew he had him.

With a steady hand and an even steadier smile, Henry had reached into his jacket and slowly uncoiled a long, red cut of fabric from the inside pocket.

The scarf. Jack's sister's scarf.

“You…” Dave's voice sunk along with his stomach.

“Do you seriously think I don’t remember the night guard we pinned it all on? Kennedy?” He didn't break his gaze from Dave, and he held up the scarf like a trophy. "I think it's a rather nice coincidence."

Damn that phone. The same phone that saved him from so many painful nights was killing him all over again.

Dave had long passed despair— fist was balled in an instant, his eyes narrowed at the sound of Jack's name in Henry's voice, which was thick as blood and paired with a smile like never before.

But then he noticed Henry's eyes staring at his fist. Smiling wide, eyes aflame. Still holding that scarf.

"Do it,” he ordered to him triumphantly, teeth gleaming. He looked insane. “Hit me. Give in to the feeling.”

Dave realized what he was doing in an instant, and quickly loosened his hand, reaching out to steady himself against the wall. "T—" He somehow scraped together the guts to stutter out, mouth dry, “Jesus, fuck, what did ya do to me?”

Henry tilted his head to the side like he was noting away a detail in a study. “Nothing new.” Then, he stepped closer to him again, close enough to cut, and very softly, he said, “Filth teaches filth, William. And you are exactly as I taught you.”

Correct again— and that was the worst part. Every single word he said to him tonight was true.

Henry reached forward and hung the scarf around his neck in the most gentle way.

Dave felt like throwing up.

He wondered before— in the dead of night when he couldn’t sleep— if there ever existed a time where Henry hesitated. He wondered if there ever was a time when he felt mercy or remorse right before blade dipped under Dave’s scarred skin. Now he was completely sure. Henry had killed that hesitation— if it ever even existed— long ago.

Dave stared down at the scarf and wanted to sob. "I… I don't want this, y—!" His voice collapsed, and it hit him that he was only playing further into Henry's twisted game.

He turned and ran. He ran out the bedroom door and down the hall, right down the stairs and the basement steps and up again until he was struck with the outside air. Cool on his clammy skin but stabbing into him like pins. He hardly took a moment to draw in a breath before he half-stumbled, half-ran back to his house.

—

Desperate was the only word to describe his mind.

Dave ran and ran, right until his shaky hands made contact with the doorknob of the house, and he didn't even peel off his jacket before he bolted right to the bedroom. The moment Dave saw Jack, still peacefully asleep in that mess of blankets, he finally felt like he could breathe again. Jack was okay, untouched by Henry, safe and just… here.

With one hand holding onto the doorway and the other pinching the bridge of his nose, Dave stifled a sob.

Jack wouldn’t wake up from the noise. That, he knew. He'd gotten much too drunk, and was much too tired. Especially after all those nights fussing over his sister's murderer.

Dave caught a reflection of himself in the glass of a picture frame and froze. It reminded him like a gunshot that he still had that damned scarf wrapped around his neck.

With a shudder, Dave ripped it right off, and then wracked his mind on where to hide it. He turned the fabric over in his fingers as he thought, and after a moment went back into the living room to hide it under a cushion. It was good enough.

As soon as he stowed it away, he realized with a shock that tears had been trailing down his face the entire time. He furiously wiped away at them and shed his jacket— the last evidence that he was ever at Henry's house.

He didn't really remember finally stepping back into the bedroom. He was much too focused on tucking under the covers and pulling his Old Sport close until he was right against his chest, holding on as if he were going anywhere anytime soon. He laid a still-shaky hand directly over Jack’s heartbeat and tried to bring back that reassuring feeling he used to always get from it. It never came. Jack, meanwhile, made no noise other than a sleepy hum— the best thing Dave had heard in the past nightmarish hour.

Kill him? God. Never.

Chapter Text

Jack was used to waking up with either a hangover, headache, or just plain exhaustion. This morning, it was all three.

With half his face still mashed into the pillow, he eventually stirred awake to the bits of sunlight peeking in around the edges of his bedroom’s curtains. He stifled a groan at the brightness, which was not doing any favors for his pounding headache.

He rolled over, and was forced to mull over this weird gap in his memory where he knew he should’ve expected something there but didn’t know what.

His memory was trickling back to him, slowly but surely enough. He traced his hangover back to all that whiskey he drank last night. Right. With Dave.

It was only after blinking once, twice– and while staring distastefully at the bits of makeup staining his pillows– that Jack suddenly remembered with a jolt that Dave had slept here last night. And was now not here.

Jack sat up in an instant, his headache flaring at the sudden movement. Despite his bones weighing like lead, he scrambled to yank the bed sheets off of himself before getting to his feet. Another mistake– he stumbled over himself, his hand quickly reaching out to hold onto the bedpost. He cursed under his breath while blinking away the spots in his vision.

Panic was seeping in– Did Dave leave? Did something hurt? Did Jack do something stupid last night? Had he gone too far, too fast? He couldn’t think; he could hardly remember.

Then he heard the door open, and all his wariness melted away. With bleary eyes, Jack looked up and found Dave standing there, already moving toward him with wide eyes.

“Oh, thank God,” Jack heard himself mumble aloud, without even realizing. He couldn’t blame himself, since all he could feel– even past his hungover state– was pure relief.

Dave was beside him in an instant, guiding him to sit right back down on the bed with a gentleness that he still wasn’t used to.

“I swear I was gone jus’ for a minute, Sportsy,” he assured Jack with a half-smile. One of his hands was resting on his shoulder as if he’d topple over.

Jack barely heard his words. He fought against all his fatigue and managed to stare right up at Dave, who was standing there in front of him with that uneasy smile. He was dressed in a change of day clothes, and by the look of things, had been awake for a while.

“I swear, you were out like a light, Sportsy. How ya feelin’?”

“Like shit,” Jack muttered, voice rough with sleep. “For a second, I really thought you left.”

His words seemed to have some startling effect on Dave, causing him to rush down on the bed beside him. “Uh. No. No, I’m here,” he reassured quietly, and the way he was still looking at Jack’s face made it seem like he hadn’t seen him in forever. “Why would I, anyway?”

“I dunno,” he shrugged.

Then Jack furrowed his eyebrows slightly, because something felt different with Dave, more muted. He blinked, and then something in his memory caved in.

“Bandages,” he remarked suddenly, already moving to push himself off the bed to fetch them when Dave quietly took him by the wrists.

“Sportsy,” Dave prompted, a small smile on his lips. He didn’t have to say anything more than that; he just squeezed his hands slightly.

Jack sighed but dipped his head once in a nod. He slumped back down into a seated position. Truth be told, he really did feel like garbage, but was much too exhausted to argue otherwise.

He heard Dave ask, “Ya wanna get up yet?”

Before, Jack was always the one tending to Dave, so this was a pretty ironic reversal of roles. Jack let out a half-groan noise and let himself tip forward into Dave’s shoulder, shutting his eyes as he buried himself there, because every point of light irritated him.

It was only after a second that Jack found a familiar feeling of comfort in tucking against him like this. Another familiar trickle of memories came in— he must’ve done this last night.

Dave, noticeably, did not do anything in return, like setting his hand on his back or even leaning in closer. Feeling too tired to question it aloud, Jack dropped it. At least for now.

He really should have scraped together the energy to ask if Dave really was okay, or if he slept alright. But for every second since he woke up, he just felt more sickly. This headache, for one, made it feel like nails were drilling into his skull.

Dave, evidently, had taken notice of his state. “Are ya gonna hurl or somethin’?” he quietly asked, pairing it with a weak laugh.

Jack took a second to answer. “Maybe.”

With that, Dave took him gently by the shoulders. “Okay. Up,” he prompted, and tried to nudge Jack into a standing position. “We’re gonna go to the bathroom, have ya freshen up. Yeah?”

“Meh,” Jack grumbled, because that was just about the last thing he wanted to do.

But he stood anyway, keeping his head bowed away from the irritating light, while also making sure he didn’t fall over as he walked. Dave still had his hand on his shoulder as he guided him out of the room. The touch felt strangely distant, though, and not very characteristic of the endearingly clingy Dave that he’d fallen in love with.

Jack had to remind himself to breathe as that train of thought crept in. It was still a startlingly new word for him.

—-

It took a weary second for Jack to realize that he’d made it to the bathroom. Dave eased his hold on him, hands still hovering nearby as if he’d fall over. Jack leaned against the sink and grimaced at both the light and Dave’s concerned look.

“I’m sorry, man,” he muttered quietly, shutting his eyes. “Really.”

Dave was rummaging through a drawer, probably trying to find a towel. It was always cute to watch him try to find his way around Jack’s house. “For… For what, Sportsy?”

“I didn't mean to sleep in like that. Or to get that hammered, or– or, you know. Everything.”

“It’s okay.”

“It’s not,” Jack shut him down, and it was the first firm word he’d said all morning. “I’m supposed to be… there for you.”

“You are, I swear,” Dave replied back in a terribly soft tone of voice, dizzyingly soft enough to not agitate his headache. “You’ve got no idea.”

Jack looked down at the tile floor, his head still pounding. “Why… Why can I only talk about the important stuff when I’m drunk?”

“You’ve said plenty in other ways.”

Jack tossed him an unimpressed look. Damn this man and his stupidly simple way of thwarting his own self-loathing.

With a smile, Dave just set a folded towel down on the edge of the sink. “I’ll be right back. I’m gonna go an’ get ya some clothes.”

With that, he went back into the hall, leaving Jack alone in the bathroom. He stared up into the mirror, letting out a heavy sigh at the sight: he must’ve either cried his makeup away or gotten it rubbed off as he slept, revealing the scars running along every part of his skin. His hair was a mess, and there were circles under his eyes. Not a very good look. But Jack’s thoughts were wandering elsewhere.

Love. You had to tell the person on the receiving end of it at some point, right?

And you can get those words out of your mouth when it counts, right, Jack?

The only reply back he got was the silent stare of his own reflection. Broken and hungover. His natural state.

He shut his eyes from the harsh lights of the bathroom, hand gripping the ceramic of the sink. After a moment, he heard Dave enter again. He watched as he set down some folded clothes down on top of the towel.

“Um, I had to dig around a bit, but here,” he said with a light huff. “Might I say, you’ve got a real… minimal wardrobe, Old Sport.”

He hardly heard him. At that moment, Jack blurted out just a sliver of what he’d been meaning to say for ages. “Dave. Dave, you’re great.”

Dave went still and raised his eyebrows. “Thanks,” he breathed quietly.

“No, no, I really damn mean it. I didn’t think I could ever hang around one person for so long and not get sick of them.”

A tiny smile from Dave. “Well, then, thanks for not getting sick of me, Old Sport.”

Jack exhaled, frustration building with how hard it was to form the right words. “No, no. I mean… That’s not it. Not totally. I’m trying to say that I really… really like having you here. With me. In this house. A lot.”

It was not the most poetic way to go about this, and it just barely scratched the surface of the truth. Jack wanted to just kick himself as he heard each clumsy word make its way out of his throat.

He watched as Dave just stood there, patiently waiting for him to go on.

But Jack just couldn’t find the right words, let alone say them aloud, so he sighed in defeat. His eyes darted away. “I’m not very good at this, huh?”

Dave tilted his head with that small smile ever-present. At least he was honest.

And Jack still couldn’t make himself meet his eyes. He stared at the sink faucet and asked quietly, “But you do get what I’m trying to say?”

It was only after a second that he replied back, “I do. ‘Course I do.”

In the corner of his vision, Jack could see Dave hovering near the door. “If ya need anythin’ at all, jus’ say the word. Okay, ‘Sport?”

“Yeah. Thanks,” Jack mumbled, his voice just about to crack with all this concern and care. Over the years, he’d lost count of how many times he had to trudge through a hangover alone, with nobody around to talk to or to call on. This was really nice.

Dave softly shut the door behind him as he left.

—-

Jack took his hot shower, not caring about how long he spent under the water. The last remains of his makeup ran down the drain, alongside some of the grogginess of his sickly hangover. He had no idea why his first instinct last night was to reach for the hard whiskey.

After some time, he got out and dried off. He didn’t bother reapplying any of his makeup. Dave knew enough about him, anyway.

Jack turned to the clothes set on the counter. The stuff Dave picked out was fine but endearingly gaudy in color. Seemed like he just snatched up the first comfortable thing he saw. Cute.

Once dried off, he really did feel better. At least a bit. He exited the bathroom, making his way down the hall, grateful that his headache had subsided somewhat. Though, not completely.

He stepped into the living room. Dave, it seemed, had graciously cleared away the glass and whiskey. No proof of last night at all. The living room had a view into the kitchen, where Jack saw Dave messing around the cabinets. Ingredients and utensils were strewn about the counters. Seemed he was trying to make something.

As soon as Jack stepped into the space, Dave turned to him with a big smile on his lips.

“Well, that’s quite a look, Sportsy,” he greeted, reaching to run a hand through his messy hair. Jack hadn’t even bothered to brush it after clumsily drying it off with a towel.

Jack sighed. “Oh, whatever.”

“Not that you’re not makin’ it work,” Dave added on. Jack hummed in amusement but ultimately brushed past his jabs. “Ya hungry?”

“Not really.”

“Too bad,” Dave shot back with a grin. “Finally figured out your damn panini press.”

Jack stared at the machine on the counter, lights blinking. “You’re telling me you knew how to fix it but not how to use it?”

“Resetting the heat capacitors is one thing,” Dave pointed out. “Makin’ an edible sandwich is another.”

Jack made an impressed hum before shaking his head. “You’re smart in such a weird way, man.”

“Thanks,” Dave beamed. “Now, sit down already. I’m still kinda worried you’re gonna topple over like a bowlin’ pin.”

Bowling comparison aside, maybe he had a point. Jack still felt pretty exhausted. It wasn’t so bad, as far as hangovers went, but it definitely sapped him of much energy. So, he obliged and slid into a stool by the breakfast counter, propping his head up with his hand as he watched Dave.

“I’ve been tryin’ to figure out where everythin’ is,” Dave said to him as he pulled open a drawer. “Make ya somethin’ to eat. Be a good guest, ya know?”

“Not a guest,” Jack corrected.

“Ack. Ya know what I mean. A good… somethin’,” he worded it instead. And, well, that was as good a name for it as any. It wasn’t like Jack had a label for it, either. Roommate seemed too impersonal, and any other word made Jack forget how to breathe.

He watched as Dave continued preparing the meal– a sandwich. He worked so methodically, so carefully. Every movement had its neatness to it, every motion distinct. Jack had watched him do the repairs on the bots before, and there was something strikingly similar here, too. For Dave, there seemed to be no difference between working on machinery and making something as mundane as a sandwich.

Dave eventually had it all assembled, placed in the panini press. He shut the press down before proudly spinning around with a smile.

“Look at you,” Jack commended from his stool.

He thought about it: Was Dave even used to doing something as small as making food in his own space? It made Jack feel an odd sort of way– sad, really, but mostly lucky that he was the one to give Dave this chance. A chance at living normally, with nobody’s hands in his life.

He heard Dave pull open the medicine drawer– it seemed that he learned the location of that one by himself– and took out a bottle of painkillers with a rattle. As he picked out the pills and a glass of water, Jack noticed his cellphone set on the counter nearby, and leaned over to grab it.

“Someone call?” he heard Dave ask carefully, setting the medicine down on the counter for him.

“No.” He couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. “Nobody calls me except for telemarketers, phone-face, and you.”

Dave smiled, but there was something off about it. “Well, not me. Not anymore.”

Jack shrugged. “Mm, I guess. We’ll get you a new one eventually, though.” He set down his phone. “And, well, you stick close anyway.”

Dave slid the glass of water closer to him. “As if I’d want it any other way, Sportsy,” he said with a gentle look.

Jack smirked back and downed the painkillers. But then he noticed that Dave had gone mostly still, tapping at the countertop mindlessly. “What if… I went back for mine?”

He drawled it out slowly, and set his eyes on Jack even more carefully. As if gauging his reaction.

“What?” A very dry laugh from Jack. “Uh. You’re joking, right? You’re not going back there. You don’t ever have to.”

As if nothing ever happened, Dave's face broke into a smile once again. “‘Course.”

As Jack tried to understand what that all meant, Dave just turned back around to check on the panini.

That was… odd, admittedly, but not something he wanted to prod at right now. Jack took one last look at the phone screen before shutting it off entirely. “I still cannot believe I slept in so damn late,” he groaned, sipping at his water cup.

“What’s the big deal?” Dave said as he fiddled with the press. “You drank a ton. Cried a ton, too. I think it’s only natural.”

“You sure lay it on thick,” Jack murmured. Those were not details he was very proud to remember.

“Am I wrong, though? ‘S the whole reason why I didn’t wake ya up.”

“How cute.”

“You know it. Feelin’ any better, though?”

“Mildly,” he admitted. “I don’t feel like a sack of manure anymore, at least.”

“Hey, that’s a start!” Dave pointed out optimistically, pointing to him with his butterknife. “Wait, more fluids– that’s what they all say ‘bout hangovers, right? Gotta drink more water.”

Jack raised an eyebrow. “Who’s they?”

“I dunno. The alcoholics, I assume. Who else would have the experience?”

Jack snorted in amusement before bringing the glass back up to his lips. “You’ve been hungover before. Christmas, right?”

“Oh, sure.”

“What’d you do that time?”

Dave tilted his head to the side, biting his lip. “Slept,” he said curtly.

For Dave’s sake, he didn’t say the name out loud. “And he really just let you?”

“Pretty sure he knew I was drunk. I’d have been no use.”

Jack nodded in understanding. Dave turned back and rummaged around the drawers some more before Jack helpfully pointed out, “Spatulas are on the left.”

“Oh, thanks,” he nodded, glancing down and finding the correct one. Then he paused, looking back at Jack with a hint of hesitation. “Uh, listen, ‘Sport, do ya remember much from last night?”

Jack set his water glass down and thought it over. He knew that he’d talked about his family, which was a first for him. And then there was something about Dave. And… then there was a lot of crying into Dave’s shoulder, mostly.

“Yeah. Sort of. Uh, not all of it, I guess.” He rubbed the back of his neck and asked, “Why? Did I do something stupid last night?”

Dave made some sort of dismissive noise as he shrugged, very obviously not meeting his eyes.

Jack stared down at his water glass for a while. He was starting to remember some of the finer details, even past his headache and his general fatigue. There was something he said to Dave right before falling asleep.

“Oh, I get it,” his voice softened, more memories falling back into place. “Is it because of what I said about– y’know– Henry?”

After all this time, he had hoped that Dave wouldn’t freeze at the name anymore. Maybe some memories were more deeply rooted than others; maybe some habits took longer to kill. But Jack still noticed each one of Dave’s– how much he startled at every sudden noise, how he couldn’t sleep alone.

“Did… Did ya mean it, though?” he asked Jack, a weak laugh at the end.

Yes, Jack was about to say. He knew perfectly well what he said, and he knew how deathly honest he was being about it. But at that moment, he’d gotten too distracted by the panini press, which was starting to give off a rather burnt smell. He pointed wordlessly to it.

Dave followed his finger before rushing over to the machine, pulling up the press to a puff of black smoke. Even from his stool, Jack could see the charred, blackened remains of what might’ve once been a decent sandwich.

“Crap, crap,” Dave sighed out. “My fault.”

Jack really saw no problem with it. “It’s alright. You need help?”

“No, no,” Dave stumbled to say, waving away the smoke. “It- It was supposed to be for ya. Sorry.”

“It's fine,” Jack repeated, this time with a small laugh. Genuinely not sure what the fuss was. “I promise. It’s not like you killed me or something.”

As soon as he said it, Dave let the top lid of the panini press drop right down onto itself. Jack jumped at the noise, startled.

He straightened, a rush of concern flooding in. “Dude, what– Are you okay?”

Dave spun around instantly, wide-eyed. “Fine! My hand slipped. Sorry.” He turned back to the panini press, already grabbing a spatula and frantically trying to scrape away the burnt pieces. “I’ll try again, make another,” he rambled on, almost too fast. “Jus’ let me try again.”

There was this weird sort of urgency in his voice– he sounded almost panicked. Something was off. Without a second thought, he slid off his stool and went to Dave’s side, leaning to get a good look at his face. His eyes had gone all glassy, his motions stiff.

“Dave. Dave, it’s fine,” Jack reassured him quietly. “Honest. I’m not mad or anything.”

He stayed frozen all the same, still staring down at the burnt sandwich. “Sorry,” he whispered again.

“Nothing to be sorry for. Here.” Jack gently took the spatula from his shaky hand. Dave watched numbly as he scooped the burned chars right into the trash bin. Dave’s hands had returned to his sides, all bunched up in stress.

“All good, see?” Jack emphasized, shutting the trash bin. “You’re fine. I mean, do you know how many times I fuck up in the kitchen?”

Dave said nothing.

Jack meanwhile, took Dave’s hand and squeezed it reassuringly, saying, “Let’s just try again, yeah?”

He let go so that he could step over to the fridge, but had barely reached for the handle when Dave appeared beside him. He was quick to grab onto his wrist as he urged, “Wait, but- but it’s supposed t’ be for you!”

Jack met his eyes with a tiny smile, still trying to read that expression of his. “Dude. Man. It’s alright, I swear. Don’t act all noble, now,” he teased lightheartedly. “We’ve got our whole lives for chivalrous sandwich-making.”

Dave blinked and let go of his wrist. His eyes looked more tired than usual– Jack hadn’t noticed that before.

“Did something happen?” Jack asked.

Dave was very quick to shoot that idea down. “No. What? No, nothin’ happened. Why?”

“You look off,” Jack prompted. And he knew Dave wouldn’t answer such an open-ended sentence, so he added on, “What, couldn’t sleep?”

“Uh…” Dave leaned back against a counter, seemingly much more focused on inspecting his hands than meeting Jack’s eyes. “Yeah, not really.”

Jack nodded dully, and tried to leave it at that. That was a bit of a failure, because as he got to work bringing out the ingredients for another panini, he found that he just couldn’t end it there.

“I told you before,” Jack started to speak quietly, as much as it stung. “You can take back the couch if you want to. Or… I’ll clear out that spare room for you.”

Dave quickly looked up, shaking his head. “Nah, no, it’s not that, Old Sport. I think it was jus’ me. New space an’ all that. To be honest, I’d much rather sleep near ya.”

Jack hadn’t realized that he’d gone still and quiet until Dave took him by the hand and led him all the way back to his stool. “Now, sit down already, Sportsy. I got this.”

And with that, he returned to making his second round of paninis as Jack watched from his seat.

It was only after a while that Dave broke the quiet, still setting up for the new sandwiches. “Which room would you have given me, anyhow?”

Jack had just barely broken out of his thoughts. “Hm?” he hummed, hands flat on the countertop.

“Ya said that you’d have cleared out a room for me. Before.”

“Yeah, well, you know,” he said, tapping at the counter. “I’ve got a bunch of spare rooms. I could’ve cleaned out any one of them out for you.”

Dave glanced over to him. “Like who’s?”

Jack opened his mouth to answer, and found that any name would’ve felt wrong. He never went into their rooms, honestly. It was easy to offer it up– he’d have done anything for Dave– but the thought of actually entering those untouched rooms felt weird. He wasn’t sure he’d have the heart to clear out any of their rooms.

“I’ve no idea,” Jack admitted eventually. “But I would have done it.”

“I trust that,” Dave replied, his voice genuine. “But, hey, now ya don’t have to!”

Jack nodded. “Yeah. Now I don’t have to.”

—-

Eventually, Dave triumphantly had two plates of paninis all served and ready on the dining room table. A little burnt, and rather interestingly assembled; but it was all there. Paninis were a bit of an odd breakfast meal choice, but Jack didn’t truly care.

Once they were seated at the (usually unused) dining room table facing across one another, it almost felt nice. Normal.

“Domestic,” Dave commented jokingly. Though, the more Jack thought about it, the more it seemed less of a joke and more of a really good, relieving reality.

Jack smirked and just started eating. It was only after a few moments of silent eating when he stopped to ask Dave, “Wait. How’d you know what the hell I liked in my sandwiches?”

“It was easy. I jus’ extrapolated your favorite ingredients from all our dinners,” Dave replied easily between bites. “Figured it out from there.”

“Right,” Jack rolled his eyes sarcastically. “Of course.”

—-

Toward the end of their shared breakfast, a particularly bad wave of hangover-induced headache passed over Jack. He paused in between eating, blinking hard. And here he thought the worst of it had already passed.

Dave noticed quickly enough, and the quiet look of concern etched across his face made Jack quickly assure him, “Fine, it’s fine.” Hurrying for some other conversation topic, he asked Dave, “How are the stitches?”

He shrugged and swallowed a bite of his sandwich. “Fine. Awesome. Hell, I’m practic’lly all better. Are, uh, you better, though?”

“Yup,” he brushed past. It was easy to fuss over Dave; it was not easy to be on the receiving end of all the fussing. “Will you let me take a look at it? I never redid your bandages last night.”

“My–?” Dave shook his head with a smile before somewhat reluctantly agreeing. “Sure, okay. Whatever makes ya happy.”

They continued eating in silence, though Jack still found something off about Dave today that he just couldn’t place his finger on. As he ate, he noticed Dave watching him with that faint crease between his brows, in a way that told Jack he had something on his mind but wasn’t about to say it.

“I’m still trying to figure out if I did something stupid enough yesterday to warrant that look.”

Dave looked back down at his panini. “What look?”

“C’mon, you know what I’m talking about. That look you get when something’s up and you won’t tell me.”

A twitch in Dave’s smile. “I swear to ya, Sportsy, nothin’s up. You’re the one that’s all hungover,” he reminded him.

Hm. Maybe Dave was right, and his fatigue really was just getting to him.

“But I mean it. No more whiskey, no more drinks. Or, at least, I’ll have to put a cap on it.”

As much as it hurt to promise it, he mumbled, “Fine.”

“I mean it. You were real gloomy, and I don’t want ya feelin’ all sick like today. Look... listen, you can tell me things even when sober, ya know that? I won’t think any different of ya.”

Jack hummed and stared down at his now-empty plate.

Dave added on, “It’s not like ya haven’t seen an ugly side of me.”

“No side of yours is ugly.”

Dave seemed pleasantly surprised at that remark. “Ditto for you, Old Sport!”

Seeing as how they'd both finished eating, Dave promptly got up and collected both of their empty plates. He took them into the kitchen, just a few steps away, and ran them under the kitchen sink faucet.

“Ugh,” Jack groaned at his own memories of last night. That was a pretty ugly side, all things considered. He put his head in his hands when he groaned out, “Maybe we can just pretend last night was all a dream.”

“Or a hallucination,” Dave offered, shutting off the tap.

“Well, I think I would hallucinate you any day.”

Now that was the second time Dave flustered at Jack’s frankly very uncharacteristic quips. Even Jack was surprised. God, Dave really was rubbing off on him.

“O-o-okay, ya know what I think?” Dave cooed sweetly, crossing back to him and pulling his chair out. “I think you’re still pretty tired, and ya should tuck yourself right back to bed to sleep this hangover off. Yeah? Better yet, I’ll tuck ya in.”

Jack looked up with a light frown, hands at his sides. “Well– hold on, I’ve still gotta check on your bandages. You promised.”

Dave deflated a bit. “Gah. You’re gonna hold me t’ that?”

“Yes,” Jack insisted. He got up, headache aside, and motioned to the living room.

He couldn’t tell why, but a brief look of alarm flashed over Dave’s face when he looked over to the couch.

—-

It was a familiar scene for the both of them– Dave was lying lengthwise on the couch, reading the ingredients on a bottle of painkiller, while Jack knelt beside him and unwrapped the gauze.

As soon as he pulled off the previous bandage, though, he froze at the sight. There was a good amount of bleeding around the stitching, mostly already dried over. It didn’t take Jack long to figure out what might’ve happened– he’d somehow tore the wound open, at least a little.

“Some of them got torn. Shit,” he cursed, before glancing up apologetically at Dave. “Uh. Not… Not that it’s your fault. It’s okay.”

Somehow, Dave didn’t seem very surprised. He didn’t even look to meet Jack’s eyes. “No, it was prob’ly me. Movin’ around too much. Sorry.”

Dave didn’t say much for the rest of the time it took to re-wrap the bandages with a fresh spool. Neither did Jack, mostly because he didn’t know what to say.

—-

Once it was all wrapped and clean again, Jack reclined back on the couch and sighed tiredly. He had barely sat on the couch cushion for just a minute when Dave’s eyes widened and he quickly offered, “Hold on, uh, Old Sport. Don’t ya wanna go back t’ bed, instead? It’s darker there.”

That would’ve been better for his headache. Jack looked up at him. “What, our room?”

Dave blinked. “If ya… wanna call it that.”

He offered a hand up, and Jack took it.

Once in the ill-lit room, Jack found that he was so tired he didn’t even bother tucking under the covers– he just laid there with his hands folded over his stomach, already feeling that deep-set exhaustion. Dave was right: with the curtains drawn shut, the room really was darker, and in turn did wonders for his headache. The only light came from the window in the hall.

In the dark of the room, Dave patted his head– which was new, but okay, cute– before murmuring a goodnight. He watched as Dave’s silhouette moved toward the doorway.

“Where are you going?” Jack questioned, voice quiet as he looked over to him.

Dave paused. “I dunno,” he replied. “Probably t’ go an’ read the panini press manual so I don’t almost burn the kitchen down again.”

Jack didn’t say anything to that. He just blinked at him in silence and hoped Dave would receive his telepathic message.

Loud and clear, apparently: Dave, with an amused sigh, crossed back over to his side of the bed and lay down right beside him, arms touching.

Good– Jack didn’t have to put it into words. And thank goodness for it, really, because even now Jack didn’t have that sort of guts.

Though… he couldn’t quite understand why that was. They slept on the same couch, and now the same bed. They lived together, for all intents and purposes. Surely the lines were blurring fast enough for Jack to find the guts to ask Dave for his own company?

And yet.

Jack contently settled further into the mattress, nestling in the warmth of Dave beside him. He thought back to what he thought to himself in the bathroom mirror. No, he’d probably never scrounge up the courage to say what he wanted.

Or do, for that matter. Jack fully realized the irony in how he couldn’t bring himself to show any of that brimming affection unless he was drunk or in darkness. But he'd gladly take his opportunities.

Dave cut through the quiet after a little while. “Is this really our room?” he asked, voice low.

Jack looked to his side, but it was a bit too dark to fully see Dave’s expression. “Yeah. I want it to be, at least," he said. "Did you have your own room, before?”

A small laugh from Dave. It sounded hollow. “Was hardly mine. Jus’ slept in it.”

“Did you leave behind a lot of your stuff?" he questioned, curious. He was thinking back to his cellphone, and how he’d left it behind, too.

“Not really,” Dave admitted quietly. “Never had much t’ begin with. I kinda miss my badge, though. Had my name on it.”

Jack thought back. “What, your work badge?”

“Yeah.”

“Huh.” He stared up at the ceiling. “You know, I am kind of dreading going back to work.”

“When are we goin’ back?” Dave asked warily.

“Well– Definitely not now, but, I mean… Once you’re feeling up to it. And when you’re feeling safer.”

“Okay, yeah.” Dave seemed relieved at the answer. He then went quiet for all of five seconds before nudging him gently and pointing out, “Hey, wait a second, you’re supposed t’ be sleepin’.”

“Meh,” Jack mumbled, but he did try to drift off to sleep after that. Turning onto his side, he leaned his forehead softly against Dave’s shoulder, shutting his eyes.

He didn’t know what any of this meant, exactly, or why he was giving into all these fuzzy urges; but in all honesty, he didn’t have the energy to care. And that was pretty typical of him.

All this warmth, all these quiet moments: Jack knew it’d be easy to get used to.

“Jack,” Dave said softly after a while, and the rare use of his name alone made him open his eyes slightly. “Y’know I’d never do anythin’ to hurt ya, right?”

It took Jack a tired second to parse through his words. “I know that,” he mumbled back sleepily. “‘Course I know that.”

Dave said nothing more. And Jack drifted off easily enough.

—-

He fell into a dreamless sleep, thankfully. When he eventually stirred awake, still on his side, he graciously enough found no pounding headache to greet him. The room was pitch black, and he found that Dave was still lying flush beside him, breathing steady. He must’ve drifted off, too. At some point, Dave’s hand had come to rest on Jack’s, palm warm on his.

He lay in the quiet, punctured only by their breathing, for a long moment. Then he tried to tell how long he’d slept by the light in the hall. Long enough to melt away all his hangover, apparently.

The one downside of taking naps in the afternoon was that Jack had no idea what time it was when he woke up. The room was too darkened to tell, and with how late it was when he fell asleep in the first place; it was truly anyone’s guess.

Jack sat up in bed with a stifled yawn before turning to look back at Dave. Even in the darkness, he looked… Well, pretty. He always had been. It just felt weird to admit it before. And, still, he probably wouldn’t admit it to anyone beside himself. Certainly not Dave.

Getting out of bed slowly, he aimed to go and fetch himself a glass of water. He wouldn’t dare try and wake Dave– no, he’d let him sleep. It was his bed, too.

That felt odd to say. But in a good way, Jack supposed. Was it their bed? Their room? Their life? Their house, even?

Jack certainly wasn’t used to giving up his space very easily. Though, in all honesty, it didn’t feel like he was giving up anything. All those years of staring up at bedroom ceilings alone felt, well, really good to leave behind. And he never understood the feeling of really, truly needing someone before now.

Crossing back into the living room, he saw that everything was as they left it. Time seemed to have melted into evening, and the sunset bloomed into saturated colors across the sky. Jack sipped at his cup of water and watched it through the windows.

He had the urge to go outside and have a smoke, to enjoy the sunset if anything.

Knowing it was still cold, Jack looked for his jacket, eventually finding it in a different spot than he remembered hanging it up before. He chalked it up to his hangover-screwed memory.

The cool weather outside was almost refreshing. Jack sat down on the front steps and took out both his pack of cigarettes and his lighter. He lit one, cupping it against the light wind, before taking a long drag.

Dave seemed a lot more fidgety today. Either hesitant in his motions or too flighty– there was no in-between. He still couldn’t put a finger on why that was. Maybe he never would.

He'd only been outside for a few minutes when he heard the front door open and shut. He turned around, watching Dave as he walked down the steps and over to him. There was a light smile on his lips as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

“Oh, hi,” Jack greeted, pulling the cigarette from his lips. “I didn’t wanna wake you up.”

“That’s sweet.” Then, he must’ve noticed Jack’s momentary panic upon remembering how he felt about smoking, because he told him, “Don’t put it out, Old Sport, it’s fine.”

Jack nodded in quiet thanks. Dave sat down on the steps beside him, wearing no jacket but a thicker sweater of Jack’s. Shoulder-to-shoulder, they watched the streets and the sunset slowly sink into night by the minute.

“My sister and my brother used to play in this yard all the time,” Jack spoke eventually, breaking the comfortable quiet. “We’d set up a pool in the summer, and then those tacky inflatable snowmen in the winter.”

“Cute,” Dave said, a bit thickly, while still looking out across the lawn. Or at least what was left of it from all the cold weather.

“Yeah,” Jack huffed, taking another drag. “What’s that saying, again? Something about… Never knowing you’re in the good old days until they’re all gone.”

Dave hummed. “Who said ya can’t make more?”

Jack smiled and took another drag from his cigarette. Dave had this sort of maddening talent of saying exactly what he needed to hear, when he needed to hear it.

“Speakin’ of which,” Dave began to say, butting Jack out of his own thoughts. “I jus’ got this brilliant idea. A plan. Call it a nap-induced stroke of divine genius, Sportsy.”

Jack raised his eyebrows expectantly and took another drag from his cigarette, waiting for him to go on.

“Vegas,” he blurted out, sounding breathless.

Jack practically choked on the cigarette smoke, coughing and quickly asking, “What?” “Vegas!” he repeated, a full smile on his face now that he’d gotten the idea out. “Let’s go t’, you an’ me, Jack and Dave, right now– How ‘bout it?”

A weak chuckle from Jack, who was still trying to figure out if Dave even knew he was awake yet. The cigarette in his fingers was basically forgotten. “Wait, wait? What’re you talking about, man?”

“I want us to go off somewhere, together,” he gestured with his hand. “Away from work, away from Henry– away from everythin’.”

As soon as he mentioned the name, Jack just stared at him with a worried look, sitting up straight. “What–? Henry? Dave, did something happen?”

“No! Nothin’!” He quickly shook his head, grabbing onto Jack’s free hand to hold right in front of him. “I jus’ don’t wanna think about him. I wanna think about you. I want to be with you.”

Tender words aside, Jack tilted his head in quiet confusion. Through his unsure smile, he said to him, “Dave. You’re kind of rambling.”

“But think about it, Sportsy. We both deserve to take a load off. We can, uh–” He paused just for a second to think, eyes snapping right back onto Jack’s– “Get totally drunk out of our minds, an’ review every casino in the city, an’ share hookers, or go swimmin’ in some fancy resort pool, an’ eat at all the Applebees’ we want, an’, uh, count all the neon signs!” He leaned closer, and with his eyes all alight with excitement, said, “Whaddya think?”

And Jack, mostly wide-eyed with this flurry of ideas, just stared back. “What do you mean we’re gonna share the hookers?”

“I– Okay, fine, we can scratch that part. But whaddya thinkin’? You an’ me, out on the Vegas strip?” Dave intertwined their fingers together, still warm from his time inside the house. Their house.

Jack was most definitely not prepared for this sort of derailment in thoughts.

“Um,” he muttered, watching their interwoven hands on Dave’s knee. “Hold on. Let me get this straight, man. You want me–” he gestured to the two of them with his free hand, cigarette and all– “to drive a fuckton of hours just so we can fool around some touristy city for a weekend?”

“Yes!” Dave beamed, like it was the best plan ever. “We won’t have to spend a single second thinkin’ about anythin’ else.”

Jack still had zero reply to this– it was very much out of the blue. He just smiled, baffled, and tried to understand what part of Dave’s brain this all spawned from.

“Dave. Where is this coming from, exactly?” Jack asked genuinely.

He huffed out a breath, though his excitement didn’t seem to wane one bit. “I’d… jus’ like a change of pace, at least for a little while. I think you deserve it, too, with all this frettin’ over me and my… everythin’."

Jack thought about it, and was mostly wondering why he was even humoring this. Las Vegas? It was insane.

But then again, Dave could be very convincing, especially when he had that sparkle in his eyes. Like right now. But maybe he had a point.

“I don’t know, man…” Jack admitted, though Dave was definitely starting to win him over. He glanced down to the bottom of his shirt. “What about your stitches and all? I mean, you just tore them.”

“I’ll be real careful– promise. And I’ll stick to your side like glue. We can share a room, no problem, and pack all the bandages we need.” There was a real, genuine tone to his voice. Like he knew the extent of Jack’s quiet worry, and knew he needed to reassure him on this.

“Las Vegas is pretty damn far,” Jack reminded him.

“We can take rest stops!”

“God,” Jack huffed, turning his cigarette over in his free hand. He shook his head in disbelief. “You’re serious, aren’t you?”

“Dead serious,” Dave swore, squeezing Jack's hand. “Jus’ you and me. No one t’ bother us. We could do whatever we want.”

Jack looked down at their hands, fingers intertwined like it was the most natural thing in the world. “You’re telling me you’d go to Vegas just for the hell of it?”

Dave nodded wholeheartedly.

“You’re… nuts. Seriously.”

Dave knew him too well– he could tell Jack was considering it. “Is that a yes I hear?” he teased through a grin.

Honestly, with that look on Dave’s face, Jack would’ve agreed to just about anything. He sighed at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, putting his cigarette back between his lips. “Fine. We’ll go to Vegas.”

Dave let go of their hands just to pump his fist into the air. “Hell yeah!”

Jack felt a smile of his own widen upon seeing Dave’s pure, unbridled joy. There was something contagious about it. Their eyes met, and before he knew it, Dave had plucked the cigarette right out of his mouth and stuck it between his own lips. Jack rolled his eyes with a light feeling in his chest as he watched him take a long drag.

“I thought you hated smoking, man.”

Dave purred through a smirk, “Didn’t take it for the cigarette.”

With that, Jack could feel his heart beat a little faster, and he fought the urge to look away.

He supposed Vegas could be more romantic.

Chapter Text

“Fifty more miles,” Jack mused, glancing over to the passenger seat. “Don’t tell me you need another bathroom break.”

Dave was sipping at the remains of whatever soda cup he’d siphoned from their last gas station stop, while also leaning over the center console slightly to check the time. “Nah. I’m jus’ checkin’ how far we’ve got left.”

“Not too long, now. Maybe an hour?”

Vegas was a pretty far drive, but the hours flew by like nothing at all. Just this morning, as soon as they’d woken up, the two of them had crammed as much of their belongings as they could think of– which was easy, considering they shared clothes and a whole bunch of other things– and hit the road.

Hours and hours on the endless highways to Vegas seemed to collapse into almost nothing when Jack was with Dave. He always had something to say, something to compliment, something interesting to point out that they passed by. It was pretty fascinating, in all honesty.

I could probably watch paint dry with you and die of laughter, Jack had joked to him a few hours in. Dave, for whatever reason, didn’t find it too funny.

In any case, Jack was in good company. They both were.

Dave especially seemed to brighten with every mile they drove toward Vegas– or, maybe, it was every mile they drove away from home. Either way, it was nice to see Dave settling back into his typical jokes and smirks. The injury had done something to him, something beyond the physical. He seemed a lot more willing to let Jack know– in a number of ways– that he was the one he trusted.

And so the trip dragged on. Even the times where they did fall into silence were comfortable, underlined just by the hum of the engine or whatever radio station Jack tuned in to. And during Dave's rare silences, he was usually either watching Jack as he drove or trying to figure out their wrinkled up map. Jack found both endlessly endearing.

And he pretended not to notice. Most of the time.

At any rate, not too long of a stretch ever passed before they inevitably glanced over to one another and fell right back into easy conversation.

It was nearing sunset, so it was either the occasional blur of headlights on the highway or the lit billboards that provided them light. Other cars sped by beside them on the interstate road.

“Any specific plans for Vegas?” Jack asked Dave at some point.

Dave shook his soda cup, setting it down in a cup holder after finding it empty. “Not a one, Sportsy.”

“Really?” He raised his eyebrows. “Kinda surprised at that. You’re the one who offered we go.”

“What’s that got t’ do with it?”

“I mean, you’ve got no plans? Nothing in mind?”

“Not much,” he shrugged, stretching in his seat. “Spontaneous trip calls for spontaneous plans, nah?”

“I guess.” Jack tapped at the steering wheel. “Well, no matter what, I’d do just about anything with you.”

Dave pointed a finger right over to Jack, butting him in the shoulder. “Now, would ya look at that?” he marveled. “Gosh, Old Sport, I didn’t think ya were capable of sayin’ such nice things t’ me.”

Jack huffed and swatted Dave's hand away lightheartedly, catching a glimpse of his smile in the process. “I tell you nice things all the time, man.”

“Nope,” Dave doubled down, taking back his hand to instead gesture vaguely between them. “Not out loud.”

“Well, th…” Jack began to say, before his words broke off completely with a sigh. Maybe he had a point. But he always assumed he showed his nice-ness enough in other ways. “What, do you want me to start?”

“No. Jus’ pointin’ it out. A little Jack mannerism of yours.”

It was certainly interesting to think that Dave thought about his quote Jack mannerisms. Enough to point it out, at least.

Jack decided to try something. “Well, what would you want me to say?”

“Huh?” Dave asked, equally taken aback. “Ya want me to suggest somethin’? What happened to lying down the ol’ Jack charm yourself?”

“Oh, what charm?” Jack scoffed, smothering the urge to roll his eyes.

“Shit, ya got plenty of it. You ooze it.”

“Ooze?”

“Ooze,” Dave insisted, the corners of his mouth twitching up in a grin.

Jack shot him a look. “Are you getting a kick out of this?”

The answer was an obvious yes, with the way Dave just smiled innocently. “Jus’ as much as usual, yup,” he joked. “Hey, does this thing recline?”

Not sure what he was referring to, Jack glanced over, and saw Dave blindly leaning to reach the side of his seat. It took a second, but Dave evidently found it, because his seat pitched back an inch or two. He shifted in place to get comfortable, obviously pleased with his accomplishment.

Drily, Jack said, “I don’t think I'd let anyone else screw around with my car like this.”

Dave snapped a hand up to point at him. “Charm! There it is, see?”

Jack lightly pushed Dave’s hand away but otherwise kept his eyes on the road. Despite that, it was hard to avoid catching Dave’s smirk from the corner of his eyes.

“Are you really gonna choose to take a nap now?” Jack asked. “When we’re almost there?”

From beside him, Dave nodded. “Ya said we’ve got an hour left. That’s a whole hour of beauty sleep before we hit the casinos, or the bars, or– y’know–” he rambled, crossing his arms as he shut his eyes. “–Whatever it is we’re gonna do.”

Jack scoffed lightly, a faint smile tugging at his lips. “What about my beauty sleep?”

“What about it?” Dave teased, smiling through closed eyes. “C’mon, Sportsy, ya wake up gorgeous anyway.”

How typical. Jack exhaled a small laugh, letting silence fill the space, all the while just taking in the remark. He always admired the way Dave just threw those kinds of words out so easily, so casually. And despite all of his scoffing and eye-rolling, Jack didn’t ever really want to stop hearing it.

Eventually, Dave cracked through the silence to ask teasingly, his eyes still shut, “Are ya glarin’ or swoonin’ at me right now?”

Jack glanced over to Dave– taking in his arms crossed over his chest, the hair he hadn’t bothered to brush that morning, the lopsided smile on his lips– and mused back, “Take your pick.”

Dave let out a small laugh at that.

“You really that tired?” Jack asked genuinely.

“Little bit,” Dave replied, shifting in his seat again “Kinda.”

With his eyes back to the road with a slight frown, Jack thought about why that was. He couldn’t imagine why Dave was feeling tired– he always thought he was getting his rest, or, at least, he assumed he was.

“I honestly can’t tell how you sleep at night,” Jack remarked, thinking out loud. “I’m always the first to knock out.”

“That you are,” Dave agreed. And it reminded Jack of just how weird it was to share a bed with somebody. It wasn’t just some act of kindness, it wasn’t just generosity. It was this new level of trust that Jack had never offered anyone before. Unguarded. Based on all that he knew about Dave, it was probably new for him, too.

“But, do you?” Jack asked tentatively. “Sleep okay, I mean?”

“Of course,” he answered back at once, before quietly tacking on, “You’ve, uh, asked me this before, Old Sport.”

Tightening his grip on the steering wheel, Jack nodded, “I know. I’m just making sure.”

Dave cracked an eye open, more tired but focused. “Of what?”

“That you want this.”

The words hung in the air for a while. They both knew what he was referring to. The drunken but fearfully honest words he’d murmured out to Dave that one night.

Dave’s voice sunk into a warm tone that Jack wasn’t sure he deserved to be on the receiving end of. “Old Sport,” he started, angling his head over to look at Jack through his half-lidded, smiling eyes. “I’ll quote ya when I say that I’d do jus’ about anythin’ with you.”

And, for a moment, Jack might’ve said something just as soft back– something to slacken this feeling that hung in every part of himself, but all he did was spare a second to glance over with a soft look.

“Charm,” Jack teased with the tiniest of smiles tugging at his lips. “But on that note, I hope it goes without saying that I plan on booking a single room.” He looked over to Dave again as he explained, heart quickening. “For our hotel.”

In reply, Dave shrugged from his reclined position, shutting his eyes again. “Sure. Wouldn’t want it any other way.”

“Right,” Jack breathed out, feeling some tension ease from his shoulders. “Good.”

A few moments of stillness passed by, and Jack watched as Dave settled further back in his seat. His eyes were shut and his arms were crossed once again; it really did seem like he was planning on knocking out for the rest of the ride. Then, Dave slung an arm across the center console to brush his fingertips at Jack’s lower arm, mumbling out, “Wake me when we get there.”

Jack hummed in the affirmative. Before Dave could pull his hand back– which he didn’t seem very intent on doing, anyway– Jack moved his arm to meet his. Slowly, carefully, he let his fingers slip around Dave’s and rested their hands together on the console.

Neither of them said anything; neither of them looked at each other. The only sound was the lowered radio spitting out some song. Jack let his fingers brush over Dave’s knuckles as they sat in silence.

Jack had always found it odd— abandoning one hand entirely just so it could hold onto someone else’s. But, as with many things that would’ve made his past self gawk in surprise, it didn’t seem all that odd now. That was just the maddening reality of hanging around with Dave Miller.

By now, he half-expected Dave to make some smart remark, but when he finally tilted his head to look over at his face, all he saw was a faint smile; accompanied by Dave’s breathing growing steadier and softer.

Jack sighed quietly, the hum of the engine filling the air. All this time passed, all this feeling– and they were still just talking and acting in between the lines of the real, spoken truth. He knew that they both realized this. Jack especially knew that Dave deserved to hear the words, the ones hiding behind all the things he ever said and did. The ones hiding behind what he was doing right now.

But whenever Jack even tried to sort them in his head, every word unraveled like yarn. Dave was dealing with so much, all at once– would it be fair for Jack to dump all this on him? All this sappy crap, all this mucky feeling business?

Probably not.

Jack realized that he must have been thinking for far longer than he thought, because the next time he glanced over at Dave, he was fast asleep. His other arm stayed folded across his chest while breathing softly, his lips slightly parted, hand still wrapped around Jack’s.

Jack, in turn, felt his chest tighten as he tore his eyes away from Dave and back onto the crowded road. It was well past sunset, now, though the highway hadn’t gotten less busy in the slightest. Cars still sped past, just a blur of headlights and a glint of metal.

“I can say nice things,” Jack muttered quietly, just to hear himself say it.

He glanced to his right: Dave hadn’t stirred in the slightest, and was still sound asleep.

Jack repeated it, just to himself. “I can say nice things.”

Silence filled in the space after his sentence, as if everything was waiting for him to go on.

Jack bit the inside of his mouth, just letting some words fall right out of wherever they were hiding away. “I want to say nice things, anyway,” he spoke into the silent car. “Like how I don’t hate a lot of things I do with you. It used to piss me off, like, severely. Not much of that anymore.”

He didn’t say it directly. He didn’t use the exact words. He settled for the inverse. Because maybe if he did it enough, it would crowd around the edges of the truth and reveal the outline of everything he otherwise never said. A negative space kind of loving.

So Jack just breathed out, “I think I’d go crazy without you.”

He tilted his eyes over to Dave, whose mouth had parted as he slept, each breath starting to take on the tinges of a snore.

With a huffed laugh, Jack brushed his thumb along the side of Dave’s palm. “Yeah, that’s a flattering look,” he teased quietly. Then he snapped his eyes back to the winding highway. “But, shit, I really do hope you’re actually asleep.”

Jack kept looking at him for the second or two he could spare. Dave, meanwhile, gave every indication that he was asleep: eyes shut, breathing even, legs sprawled out as much as he could manage.

And because Jack was still not totally convinced— which was rather understandable, given Dave’s history of being endearingly annoying— Jack leaned slightly closer to him and whispered out a single word, as a test: “Davey.”

Just like that, Dave’s rather impressive fake sleeping face fell apart as the corners of his mouth twitched up into a smile. The little shit was probably never asleep to begin with.

Jack slumped back into his seat with an amused huff, hand tightening around the steering wheel. A small part of him felt relieved that Dave had heard it all– but there was no way he’d admit that. Not now, at least. “Seriously, Dave, screw you.”

“Aww,” cooed Dave, who had finally cracked his eyes open, grinning wide, his previous state of sleep forgotten. That was, if he ever even was asleep in the first place. Jack finally let go of his hand, but that only seemed to encourage him. “Wow, Sportsy, and you said ya had no charm.”

“I don’t,” Jack mumbled, avoiding his eyes and trying to focus on the road.

“Yeah? ‘Cause I think I jus’ heard some.”

“You were supposed to be asleep.”

With a shrug, Dave sat upright again. And before Jack could stop him, Dave reached out and took his free hand again, wrapping both of his own around it like he’d been waiting for the chance. His palms were warm, and his thumb absentmindedly brushed over Jack’s knuckles.

Of course, Jack had to come to terms with the whole hand-holding thing for a second time before even thinking of replying. That understandably took a long moment.

But Dave, as always, did not let the silence sit for too long. “Crazy without me, huh?" he crooned as he started lightly playing with Jack’s fingers, with no hesitation. "Well, I go crazy when I’m with ya, so I guess we can jus’ be two lunatics together.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he scoffed lightly, and it took his brain a second to catch up to him. The softness creeping into his voice betrayed the bite that would’ve been there weeks ago. “I think I liked it better when you were pretending to be asleep.”

“Aw. Listen,” Dave said quietly, with a tiny, sympathetic smile still on his lips. “I don’t mean t’ bug ya so much, Sportsy. Honest.”

Jack shook his head at the inane thought it was. He looked over to Dave, squeezing his hand as he responded softly, “You do it best, anyway.”

Dave smiled, eyes beaming, the muted light of the highway reflecting across his face in a sort of dreamlike way.

Truly, he looked a lot more different these days. More healthy, more alive. More real. Jack didn’t know what, exactly, Henry had done to him to warrant all of Dave’s flinches and all the twitches he saw in his sleeping face at night, but he knew that he wanted to be there to overwrite every terrible habit he’d ever had to learn.

And with that, Dave leaned back in his seat, looking out onto the dashboard. He let out a tired sigh, and shifted in his reclined position. It seemed like he was getting comfortable again for another attempt at a nap.

Dave shut his eyes and was quiet for all of five seconds before he murmured out, “Ya gonna say any more cute stuff, Jack?”

His hand in Dave’s hold twitched slightly. “Quiet,” Jack mumbled back through a smirk.

Dave drifted asleep and stayed that way for the rest of the ride, that faint smile not leaving his face.

And Jack only poked him awake once that infamous Welcome to Fabulous Las Vegas sign came into view. All the sleep had disappeared from Dave’s face instantly, tightening his hold on Jack’s hand in a way that made him want to do the trip all over again.

——

One word to describe Vegas— bright. Stupidly so. Dave seemed totally captivated by every towering building and all those blocks of hotels; all the spires and lofty replicas of every famous building in the world. He practically kept his nose pressed to the car window the whole way down the Vegas strip, tapping at Jack whenever they came up to some Lady Liberty statue or a blaring casino building.

Swaths of people were just about everywhere— in the windows, lined up for restaurants, walking the strip. The whole place was, indeed, bright and busy.

Jack couldn’t quite understand why Dave wanted to be here of all places, but that was hardly a thought in his mind as he watched him gush at the lighting and all the sights.

——

The elevator up to their hotel room was absurdly long, and passed a huge amount of floors before it got anywhere near their own. Jack and Dave stood beside one another, Dave being the one holding onto their shared bag of their belongings. He’d insisted upon it. Just like the gentleman he is, Jack joked to himself.

As they waited for the accursed metal box to drop them off at their floor, Jack picked through the visitor brochure he had grabbed on their way through the hotel lobby. There was definitely much to do in Vegas– he couldn’t blame Dave for not knowing where to start.

Between flipping through pages, he saw Dave readjust his grip on the bag. Jack motioned with his hand for him to pass it over, mind instinctively wandering to the thought of Dave’s stitches. The last thing he wanted was them tearing again with any unneeded effort.

All Dave did was stare down at his gesturing with a thoughtful look. And with the way he was starting to smile, Jack knew he was taking it in a completely different direction. Before he could even say anything, Dave dropped the bag with a rather loud thump and immediately laced his now-free fingers with Jack’s.

Jack just blinked, hand tightening around his brochure at the suddenness of it all. “That’s…” He sighed and tried to smother his smile. “Okay. Sure. Whatever.”

They were almost at their floor, anyway. This was hardly enough time to hold hands– not that Jack thought very much about the proper amount of time to hold someone’s hand, thank you very much. It was just interesting to note that Dave jumped at every chance he got, no matter how brief and how small.

Jack threw his gaze over to him. Dave was otherwise continuing to stare at the metal doors of the elevator, smiling. He gave his hand a light squeeze and said nothing more.

—-

The elevator emptied them out eventually into a hallway with some obnoxiously patterned carpet on the floor.

The two of them exchanged wary glances but headed to their room. It was only when they got to their door that Jack let go of Dave’s hand to fumble with the hotel keycard. After a few attempts– which Dave’s teases did not help with– he finally got the door open.

Dave flipped on the light switch as they stepped in. It was simple– a bed, a dresser, a desk, armchair, and a television. The room wasn’t nearly as gross as the hallway, but it had an aged look to its furniture and drapes that showed it was long overdue for a decent cleaning.

“Home sweet rat-hole,” Dave mused out loud, dropping their bag onto the bed. He didn’t look all that concerned or even disgusted with the room, which was good.

The place did have a faint, stuffy smell of mildew, so Jack crossed over to a window and got to work trying to crack it open. The thing may as well have been cemented shut with how much effort it took.

Dave, instead of helping, casually stepped over, slipped the brochure from Jack’s back pocket, and had begun thumbing through it.

“Oh, jeez, you’re a big help,” Jack joked.

Dave seemed innocently appalled at the suggestion, a hand over his chest. “Sportsy? Ya want me t’ risk tearing my stitches? Again?”

Jack squinted at him. “You little shit.”

Dave gave an innocent smile and turned his attention back to the brochure, beginning to read off activities at random.

“Casino, casino, another casino…” Dave listed dully, before seemingly having found the good stuff. “Ah, here we go. Indoor roller coaster. Neon museum– Hey, that sounds fun. Oh, a ferris wheel. Ya scared of heights, Old Sport?”

“Uh. No,” Jack grunted out in reply, finally getting the stubborn window open.

Dave nodded. “It’s on the to-do list, then.” He kept reading. “Hm, I’d offer Ceasar’s palace, but I know how much ya hate salad. There’s the pinball hall of fame, gondola rides. Wax museum, traveling circus, shark reef. Shit, there’s a lotta stuff.”

Jack wiped his now-dusty hands on his pants. “I guess everything’s in Vegas.”

“There’s even a circus,” Dave pointed out as he flipped through another page. “Funny thing about circuses. The one I was in was supposed to end its route in Vegas.”

Jack mulled over the logic of that. “Wait, so you have been to Vegas before?”

“No,” Dave clarified, gesturing with the brochure. “It was supposed to end here. But it never made it, on account of, uh–” He looked over Jack’s puzzled look and continued, “Well, it was a buncha stupid stuff like safety protocol– borin’ legal shit like that. Had to shut the whole thing down.”

“Oh. That blows. Well, uh, maybe not– I don’t know, did you like the circus?”

Dave nodded once, not looking up from his brochure. “Hell, I loved it.”

His voice was very flat, but he did not elaborate. Jack didn’t push– if he didn’t want to share about his past, he wouldn’t force him. He knew enough of the gorey details to extrapolate the rest from.

Jack took a step over to Dave, standing over the activities pamphlet that was in his hand. “Oh, that reminds me: I think you’re about due for a bandage change.”

A groan from Dave. “Ack– screw the bandages, Sportsy!” he exclaimed, tossing the brochure onto the desk in order to grab Jack by the shoulders. “We’re in Vegas!”

Jack blinked at him. “Yeah, that doesn’t really convince me otherwise. I’m trying to keep you in one piece, remember?”

“Gah– you can fuss over me later. I don’t wanna waste daylight,” he waved him off, and jabbed a thumb toward the window. The sun was, indeed, taking on the beginning colors of sunset.

Jack sighed, and it must have gotten obvious that he was leaning towards agreeing, because Dave slipped his hand down to take Jack’s hand in his. Again.

“C’mo-o-o-on,” Dave drawled out, grinning wide, “Let me take my Old Sport out someplace nice. I’ll find some spot t’ order ya one of those stupidly cute drinks with the little umbrellas in ‘em. Yeah?”

Jack tilted his head, not able to hide the flush on his face. “There’s that charm,” he pointed out through a murmur.

“How ‘bout it, though?”

I’d do just about anything with you, Jack didn’t say again. He just nodded.

—-

After a rather long walk out of their room, across the hotel lobby, and down the boulevard, Dave steered them into the first casino that they saw. The place was enormous and totally sprawling with tourists, even despite the late hour. Every single empty space either had a casino machine set up or a waitress carrying drinks.

Dave wanted to stop and gawk at every sight, even stopping to ask Jack to take pictures of him posing next to the tastefully nude Greek statue replicas. That was probably why it took longer than they thought to finally find a bar.

Obviously, Jack felt duty-bound to allow Dave to be a stereotypical tourist all he wanted. He deserved as much.

Eventually, they found a bar that seemed to have a lull in customers, so they settled into stools propped right at the edge of the bartender’s counter. It provided them a good view to all the schmucks shelling out their boatloads of money on the various casino games nearby. It gave them a good laugh.

In any case, the place was nice, the atmosphere was reassuringly quieter than the rest of Vegas, and the drinks were good. If there was anything to be guaranteed from Las Vegas of all places, it was that last part.

Dave, as promised, ordered them both the fanciest little cocktails that came in all sorts of stupid colors. He even insisted upon ordering them with, quote, the funny little paper umbrellas. Much to the bartender's tired looks, Dave was obliged in his requests.

It was in that bar that they laughed and talked and laughed some more. Jack didn’t get tipsy in the slightest– not because the drinks lacked the alcohol, but because he was having too much fun just talking. He’d barely finished his first glass, even a few hours in. Maybe a part of himself just wanted to make absolutely sure he’d remember this night. Dave provided greater company than any bottle or flask, anyways.

Their legs brushed against one another under the counter, and each time it happened, neither of them said anything about it or made an attempt to move further away.

Dave had been attempting– and failing– to catch the maraschino cherries as he tossed them into the air when one particular miss left a red stain across the front of his shirt.

“Damn,” Jack joked as Dave frantically pulled at the shirt fabric, head snapping around to look for napkins. “You really do suck at this.”

“I suck?! You’ve no idea the skill it takes,” he mused back, glancing up at Jack with an accusatory finger. “Hell, ya haven’t even tried once!”

Jack shrugged. “I’ll leave it up to you. My nightly entertainment.”

“Nightly ent–?” Dave laughed halfway through saying his words, and Jack took the second to reach over the counter and grab a fistful of napkins. He didn’t even hesitate before taking the hem of Dave’s shirt and starting to wipe at the stain.

Dave watched with an uncharacteristic silence, just a light smile on his lips. “Well, shit. That’s not coming out. My bad, Sportsy.”

Jack tilted his head as he indeed saw that he was making zero progress with the stain. “It’s fine, Dave.”

“It’s your shirt.”

Jack shrugged. He never cared much about what he wore. “I wanted to buy you new clothes, anyway– not just have you borrow my old crap all the time. We’ll get you a whole new wardrobe.” He let go of Dave’s shirt, adding on with a smirk, “I’m thinking maybe some tacky ‘I love Las Vegas’ tee?”

Dave snorted out a laugh. “That only works for New York, Sportsy. ‘I love New York’– See, that’s the original.”

“New York,” Jack repeated with raised eyebrows. “That’ll be our next vacation spot– You’ll fit right in.”

Dave laughed.

The casino adjacent to them had not gotten any less busier in the time they’d gotten here. Jack checked the time on the bar’s many television screens and blinked at the late time before remembering he was in Vegas. Clocks may as well have not existed in a city as always alive as this one. Didn’t matter, Jack didn’t feel tired in the slightest.

“I still don’t get why you want to haul ass to Vegas, specifically,” Jack asked Dave, who was drumming his fingers against his drink glass.

“Hey, why not? It’s the second most interestin’ city in the world.”

“Really? What’s the first?”

Dave brightened at the question. “New York City, of course.” He intentionally gave a light knock to Jack’s knee under the counter as he crooned, “Ol’ Davey’s home turf.”

“Pfft.” Jack rolled his eyes at the self-appointed nickname and swore to himself to never use it on the man. “I guess I’ll take your word for it. I’ve barely been out of the state.”

“That’s a shame,” Dave replied, and he really did sound sympathetic. “I think I told ya before that I’ve been all over. But I was born in New York. Brooklyn, as a matter a’ fact.” He propped his head up to face him. “I ever tell ya that?”

Jack smiled as he tilted his head. That accent of his was always nice– as was anything relating to Dave. “Well, it wasn’t too hard to figure that out.”

With a long blink, he seemed to understand what he was referring to. “Ack. Yeah,” Dave huffed, a slight smile as he pointed to his mouth. “No speech therapist in the world coulda fixed this.”

Jack shook his head. “I don’t know if it needs fixing. I think it’s cute.”

Dave let out something that sounded like a cross between a laugh and a snort. “Oh, jeez, ‘Sport. You crack me up,” he beamed. “Can ya imagine me speakin’ normal ol’ American English, though?”

“Are you kidding?” In between his laughter, he caught Dave’s eyes, alight and crinkling in humor. Not quite able to bear the sight of it, Jack stared down at his drink, smiling. “God. No way. It’d be the death of me.”

The words had barely come out of his mouth when Dave set his glass down roughly onto the counter.

Jack blinked, startled. And when he searched Dave’s face in confusion, he saw a new stiffness to his features that wasn’t there before. His mouth was pressed into a thin sort of smile; his hands frozen around the glass he was staring dazedly into. He definitely hadn’t just simply lost grip on his drink.

Pure concern took root at the change in tone. “What?” Jack said quietly, finding his words. “Dave, what was that?”

Dave’s hands cupped the glass absentmindedly. “Nothin’,” he quickly tried to defend. “That’s on me, Sportsy. I didn’t mean it.”

“Hey, no, wait, what’d I say?” he asked worriedly, scooting closer without even thinking about it. “What’s wrong?”

Their eyes met, and it seemed that Dave was considering brushing it off before deciding otherwise. “Er, I guess I jus’ don’t like jokes ‘bout dyin’,” he admitted quietly.

He’d seen Dave joke about just about every topic under the sun– so suddenly having a sore spot was an interesting development. It prompted Jack to file through his memory, trying to figure out what it is he said that tipped him off like that. One word stuck out to him. Die.

When he looked up again, this time Dave’s eyes were totally frozen to his drink glass, breathing heavier. It was as if he was looking right through it.

Jack quietly said to him, “You do know I’m not going anywhere, man?”

He watched as Dave shut his eyes tight. He looked much more tired than he did five minutes ago. He seemed to hesitate before letting go of his drink glass entirely. “Can we go back t’ our room?” he sighed out quietly.

Jack blinked once before saying anything, because Dave sounded on the verge of… well, something, and Jack was still grappling with that fact when he finally remembered to reply. “Uh. Yeah,” Jack agreed quickly. “Yeah, of course, dude. We’ve been here for a damn long time, anyway.”

As Dave nodded in relief, Jack called over the bartender for his tab. As he signed the bill off– which he surprisingly paid with real, legal tender– he said, “It’s cool, we can go right to sleep. I know I’m beat from today. And– Oh, bandages, I can finally change your bandages. How about it?”

He glanced up in between his scribbles; Dave was watching him with a quiet but weak smile. “Sure, yeah, Sportsy.”

—--

It seemed that Dave was doing everything in his power to smother that whole moment back at the bar. It did nothing to erase the memory of his slip in composure to Jack, though. All the way back to the hotel, Dave held conversation and might’ve passed as okay to anybody else.

But he didn’t stop to gape at any statues or passed-out tourists, and that was how Jack knew he was still feeling off. That, combined with the weak smile that didn’t really reach his eyes.

—-

“Here we are,” Jack said once they stepped into the hotel room for the second time that day. “Home sweet rat-hole, as you say.”

He remembered he still left the window open, but decided to leave it open. For the fresh air, if anything.

Dave picked around the room’s many drawers– most of them stuck shut– as Jack zipped their bag open. The very first thing that he’d packed was the first-aid kit, which he got to work picking through for the gauze spool.

Jack glanced sideways to Dave. “You sure you’re good?”

“Mm-hmm,” he hummed in reply, finding the remote in a desk drawer.

Still unconvinced, Jack added, “You’re acting off, that’s all.”

“Maybe before. But I’m feelin’ a hell of a lot better now, Old Sport. C’mon. Let’s watch a movie,” Dave said, waving around the remote control with a small smile. “I’ll try to find some channel that isn’t pay-per-view.”

Typical of Dave to brush things off like this. Jack cut in to remind him, “May I remind you that I’ve first gotta re-wrap the gaping wound under your ribs?”

Dave shrugged, still picking at the plastic casing of the remote. “Mmh. Fine.”

“But– Hey. Don’t we dare change the topic. Seriously. Ever since we got here, you’ve been just a little bit…” he trailed off, searching for the right word. Dave was acting differently, and he just couldn’t place how.

“Useless,” Dave said dully, finishing the sentence for him.

Jack spun around to face him at once, eyes wide. “What?” he shot back, hands freezing from where they were picking through the kit. “Woah, woah, that is not what I was going to say. Dave. Don’t think that.”

Dave hardly seemed affected by his words. He put his hands out in exasperation as he rolled on, “Oh, c’mon, Sportsy. First I had zero plans for us in Vegas, then I ruined our first day here, and now I’m jus’ worryin’ ya with my own stupid shit.”

“It’s not stupid,” Jack insisted, stepping over to Dave and the odd, almost defeated look in his eyes. “Nothing about this is stupid to me.”

“But I am useless,” Dave shot back, gesturing to himself. “That much is true.”

Jack’s jaw tightened. Dave was not nearly as stubborn with most things– so why was he with this? It was infuriating to see him stick to something so blatantly untrue.

“No. I’m telling you that’s not true.”

Dave frowned. “What, so, I’m… useful?”

“That–” Jack cut himself off, trying to sort through this mess of words tumbling out of Dave. “It… It doesn’t matter. Not at all.”

Dave still looked pretty damn confused, miserable even. Jack didn’t know what else to do. Any idea of what to say was falling right out from under him.

“Dave,” he breathed out, almost pleading, wanting nothing more than to end that pitiful look on his face.

With one deep breath, Jack opened his arms in what could hardly have been seen as an invitation to anyone else. Anyone but Dave– who instantly moved into them. His arms wrapped tight around Jack, betraying the lethargy of all his previous movements. He set his hands between Jack’s shoulder blades, gently bunching the fabric of his shirt there.

Jack hadn’t realized that his eyes had slid shut, and for a second he forgot who was comforting who. One of his hands wrapped around Dave’s upper back while the other settled on the nape of his neck.

He quietly asked, “Did he say that kind of stuff to you a lot? About being useless?”

At a volume Jack wouldn't have heard any further away, Dave mumbled in reply, “He did enough.”

Jack mulled that over, and tightened his hold slightly. “Because you’re not.”

Dave really did tower over him– a fact that Jack didn’t always remember unless they were as close to one another as they were now. It was a proximity that he was growing increasingly and oddly comfortable with. More than comfortable, even.

He didn’t know how long they clung to one another like that. It took a lot of effort on both parts to eventually let go and step out of the embrace. Jack still kept a hand out on Dave’s forearm as he spoke softly, not looking into Dave’s eyes, “Sit down? I’ll get the kit.”

With that, Dave sat down on the bed absently.

Jack went back to the first-aid kit and resumed digging through it, this new tension in the air unmistakable. He swallowed as he felt Dave’s eyes on him.

After a second longer of searching through the kit, Jack cursed. “Crap. I forgot the scissors. The ones to cut the bandage with.” He paused so he could think. After a second, he turned his head back to Dave and questioned, “Do you think the hotel would let me borrow some?”

Dave had picked up the TV remote again, running a finger along the buttons. “Hmm, who wouldn’t trust that pretty face of yours with a potential weapon?”

Jack exhaled a laugh at that. “Okay, you sit there, I’ll go and ask some bellhop. No harm in trying, right?”

Dave’s eyes looked up at him. “D’ya want me t’ come with?” he asked.

Jack shut the first-aid kit and shook his head. “Nah. Just sit there and be good ‘til I get back.”

As he was picking the keycard off the desk– scrunching his nose at the number of odd stains on the wood– he heard his phone start to ring from where it was stuffed into his pocket. He sighed and reached a hand to silence it, not even checking who it was.

“Who w– Who was that?” he heard Dave ask from behind him. He sounded a bit jittery, as was the usual when it came to Jack’s phone. For whatever reason.

Jack just gave a light laugh. “Well, I didn’t exactly tell our boss that we took an impromptu vacation,” Jack explained, trying to lighten the remark with a smile. “Ehh, but don’t worry, dude. I’ll sort it out. Put some TV on, I’ll be back soon.”

That seemed to put Dave at ease, at least somewhat. It was only when Dave laid back against the bed, remote in hand, that Jack felt okay enough to leave him. He felt Dave watch him the whole while as he unlocked the hotel room door.

Jack gave a final reminder that he’d be back soon and then left, shutting the door behind him. He noted with a frown that the hastily-glued number 9 on their room’s door was peeling off.

He looked up and down the hall and sighed. What a dump. Honestly. Jack hadn’t fully realized it when he walked down the hall for the first time, probably on account of all the hand-holding he was doing.

The occasional other person weaved in and out of rooms and down halls, but it was mostly barren. Jack heard the occasional crying baby or muffled argument through the thin walls of the hotel.

The hotel may have been a dump, but it was cheap and it was for the two of them. And, really, it wasn’t about where he was; it was with who.

With that, Jack ran a hand down his face at the mushy thought that otherwise would have had zero place in his mind.

He reached the elevator eventually, stepping inside after punching the call button. It was empty again.

Jack stood in the center, watching the doors slide shut with a groan before beginning its stupidly long descent down into the lobby. Jack tapped his foot as he waited, counting the wads of gum stuck to the floor. His hand twitched, seemingly already used to having someone else’s to hold. That damned feeling. There were all these blasted butterflies fluttering in his stomach– spotlighting this giddy, terrifying certainty that he cared for Dave more than he should.

Despite all his grumbling about it all, it didn’t seem to stifle the faint smile on Jack’s lips as he thought about him.

The crappy, cheery elevator music playing all the while was not helping, either.

Suddenly, said crappy elevator music was interrupted when Jack’s phone started blaring a ringtone. Again. With a sigh, Jack pulled the phone out and was mentally preparing for an argument with Phoneface when his blood ran cold. All he could do was stare at the screen.

It said Dave. Dave’s contact was calling him. Somehow. The same phone that Dave said he’d left behind on that one, bloody night.

The phone was still ringing in his hands, the sound seemingly growing sharper as he tried and failed to understand. Jack, completely confused, hesitated hitting that button to accept the call. He stared at those four letters and, ultimately, his curiosity got the best of him. He picked up and slowly lifted the phone to his ear.

"Uh. Hello?" he asked.

At that moment, a voice cut through his puzzled thoughts like a bone saw. A voice that was sharp, bloody, low— it reminded Jack of a lot of things, all bad.

It was the kind of voice that killed all the butterflies.

“Hello,” a voice drifted out to greet him.

Jack felt an irrational sort of unease. “Who’s this?”

“Is William around?”

He frowned at the unfamiliar name. “Well, uh, first of all, way to answer the question, old man,” he said bluntly. “Second of all, you’ve got the wrong number. I don’t know any William’s.” He was about to pull the phone away from his ear when he heard the other end continue on. The voice remained smooth and unnervingly calm, and every word seemed to demand his attention.

“No, I believe you do.”

“Uh-huh,” Jack dragged out tiredly. “Okay. Well, listen, I’m not interested in buying life insurance, or an extended warranty for my car, or anything like that, so don’t—“

“—I have information regarding your sister.”

No other combination of words could’ve grabbed Jack’s attention like those did.

“What?” Jack asked numbly.

“I know exactly who killed her.”

Chapter Text

Jack slowly and shakily lowered the phone down from his ear, staring into space.

He despised just how much every detail and every fact fit into place so easily, so perfectly. Numbly, he tucked his phone into his pocket, screen still warm from the call that had ended just a few moments ago. He was having trouble sorting his thoughts into any coherent order.

The elevator suddenly rang out a ding, signalling his arrival at the lobby floor. Jack could only faintly remember what his original intention in coming here was.

It took him one, shaky step to face the wall of grimy elevator buttons. He hit his floor number again. And as soon as the doors shut again, Jack leaned against the wall, because he knew his legs would not be able to hold him much longer.

And then he just laughed— a small noise at first before it piled into full-on laughter, tears dropping as he gripped his stupid cellphone tighter.

It was the absurdity of it all. The fact that he could almost believe it, the fact that it made just enough sense for it to be plausible.

His laughter stopped but his tears did not. He felt sick to the very center of his heart.

Surely Dave never did any of that. Surely he never met his sister. And surely this William Afton did not exist.

But a very faint, very bitter part of himself asked himself if it was logical to deny when Dave had already tried hiding so much from him.

“God,” Jack mumbled to himself, too weak to even wipe at the corners of his eyes.

—-

Jack faced their hotel room door, hesitant to open it. He could hear the TV playing through the thin wood.

If he closed his eyes, he could imagine this exact scene so many times before, and how it played out back at home: Jack would be reclined into the cushions as Dave lay against him, fast asleep in the glow of the TV screen playing some tacky reality show.

Jack would have to lean over to see Dave’s eyes, and if he were brave enough, he’d wipe at whatever tears inevitably gathered there in his sleep.

But that was not reality. Here in the present, Jack’s heavy eyes fixed down to the ground, where a sliver of the hotel room’s lamplight was spilling out from under the door.

He had no idea how he would react when he opened that door. Not a single idea.

For a moment, he thought about knocking instead of fumbling with the lock himself. Dave—or whoever this man really was—would’ve answered. But he didn’t.

With a deep breath, Jack turned the doorknob and swung it open, taking those short few steps into the center of the room. The TV was on. The lamp lit.

And by the time Jack lagged his eyes over to Dave, he’d switched off the TV and was already on his feet, crossing over. Jack must’ve looked much less put-together than he thought, if the warm worry in Dave’s voice was any indicator.

“Woah, woah, Sportsy,” he greeted, hands settling on his shoulders. “Are you okay? What’s up? I know those bellhops can be cruel, but— But, did something happen?”

His hands on Jack suddenly felt very wrong. Too firm. Too stiff.

Dave leaned down to look him in the eyes, asking through a worried smile, “Everything okay?”

Jack stared, and he just stared, because that’s all he could do. He searched Dave over endlessly for some hint that this was coming. He did not find it.

“You’re crying,” Dave pointed out.

“I got a call,” Jack muttered out quickly and quietly, brushing off those words but not his own tears. “From Henry.”

The name shattered the moment. With that, Dave’s voice and face cracked into panic as he straightened— Jack hated that he was the cause of it. “That’s… not funny, Old Sport.”

Jack didn’t answer.

“He was saying all this stuff about you,” he said numbly. “About what you used to do, back with him. Years ago.”

“That… What? No, no, wait, what’d he say t’ ya?” Dave insisted, tightening his hold on him. Jack didn’t know why, exactly, that scared him. “What exactly?”

Jack kept staring.

“Who are you?” he then mumbled out, voice rough, eyes stuck on Dave’s.

Ignored. “Tell me what he said.”

Jack could not quite find the energy to step out of Dave’s grip, no matter how choking it felt. He still felt doom coiling tighter and tighter in his stomach as he slowly explained.

“He said… It was first the circus, then the diner…” His voice dropped into silence, more focused on Dave’s expression than anything. It was in his eyes– it was that total, petrified look that looked to be carved into every part of his face. “He told me about the things you used to do…”

“Jack,” Dave interjected, and at the sound of his name he snapped his eyes up to him. “No, Jack, Jack, listen. He’s tryin’ t’ get under your skin. Do you understand? He’s tryin’ to ruin things.”

The words hardly phased him. “Who are you?”

“Why— Why didn’t ya tell me he called?” Dave asked, sounding much more frantic now.

Jack stumbled backward one step and finally spit it out, the words scraping within him since he first heard them in that cold elevator:

“He said you killed her.”

Out loud, it sounded so absurd, so ridiculous. Jack’s laugh was hollow, splintering at the edges. “But that’s not true, right? Everything he said was all bullshit, right?”

Dave said nothing. He pulled his hands away from Jack’s shoulders, a numb look on his face.

“Right?” Jack asked again.

Dave still said nothing.

His silence was answer enough.

Jack's heart either stopped or dropped entirely.

“Oh, my god.”

Blindly, shakily, he reached behind him for the doorknob, but Dave— or whoever this was— blocked him, one hand slamming against the door.

“L— Let me explain,” Dave pleaded, his eyes wide, raw with exhaustion and panic. “Please, please, Jack. Look at me.”

He felt his chest tighten with grief and anger and a billion other things. “No!”

“It was a long time ago,” Dave insisted, voice cracking.

“I don’t care! Jesus— Kids, Dave!” His voice fell into a snarl. “Kids! My fucking sister!”

Dave flinched at the sharp words, rising in volume as every choking grain of reality set in on Jack. His hands were shaking.

All of Dave’s face softened, and the arm that was blocking the door lowered slightly. “You’re cryin’,” Dave pointed out.

Jack snapped his eyes down to avoid his face. He saw the maraschino cherry stain still on his shirt hem and was reminded of blood.

“No fucking shit,” Jack bit out, still not looking in his eyes. “You killed her.”

Fresh grief was ripping through him from head to toe, mixed with a whole other array of emotions he never thought possible.

“I was a kid,” Dave said. “I was stupid— stupid enough to follow along Henry in everything he did. I never wanted ya t’ find out this way— I swear to God, you have to believe me.”

“I don’t,” Jack affirmed flatly.

“I never meant for you t’ find out like this, not ever.”

“Then when were you going to tell me, huh? Before we got here? After? Or maybe never?” Jack stepped closer, close enough to kiss. “Do you realize how fucked up it is that I had to find out from him?”

“I was scared. I was terrified, Sports–”

“–Do not fucking call me that,” Jack snapped back darkly.

Dave snapped his mouth shut again, and then took in a ragged breath.

“You think I don’t know what I’ve done?” he asked dazedly. “Don’t forgive me, don’t you dare forgive me; but jus’ know I’m tryin’. I’m tryin’ every day. But Henry doesn’t let things go, okay? And you’ve seen what he’s done. To me. That day, I was young and stupid, and I regret it every fuckin’ day.”

Jack’s eyes narrowed. “My sister died because you were stupid?” he seethed, his voice soaked in dark sarcasm.

“Please, please, be logical and listen t’ me.”

The word shot through Jack like a knife. “Logical? Logical?! Look around!” he yelled. “Look where I am! Vegas! Oh, I am never logical when I’m around you!” His fists bunched at his sides, and it took all his strength to not undo it when he saw Dave stiffen at the motion. “You should’ve stayed far away from me.”

“Jack, I didn’t know— I didn’t know it was her! He jus’ told me to do it!”

“Like that makes it any better, William?”

Dave froze. “What?”

“That’s your name, isn’t it?” Jack demanded, his breathing shallow, wetting his lips. “Your real one? Couldn’t even be honest to me about that.”

The words lifelessly fell from Dave’s– William’s lips. “I… changed it.”

Christ. Jack shut his eyes tight, trying to understand what he was still doing in this room.

Maybe, just maybe, he was dragging out the silences because he was hoping to find something worth forgiving in between it all.

“God damn it all,” he spat eventually, every word tearing out of him like acid. “I’m such a fucking idiot. And I think this is the worst possible time to say this, Da– whoever the hell you are, but for a while there, I think that I really, really did…”

The words were there, but Jack did not say them. He did not finish that sentence. Not ever.

Because there it was— settling right between them as if it was the first time—that damned feeling, paired with that damned look in his eyes, in this damned hotel room, with this damned silence, standing across this damned–

–Monster was what he wanted to say. It would’ve been the most cathartic word to call him, but when Jack looked at him, really looked at him, he still only saw Dave.

Just Dave.

The same man who ate dinners with him in his own house, the same man who slept in the same bed as him, the same man who nursed his hangover and bled on his hands and the exact same Dave who Jack…

…needed to kiss.

Two angry steps closed the distance between them.

It was rushed, it was rough, and it was messy. Jack’s hand found itself behind Dave’s neck, yanked him down, and mashed their mouths together.

Dave— or whoever this was, but for this singular moment Jack could pretend that this was Dave— froze for a split second, startled, before he leaned into the kiss, his fingertips digging into Jack’s shirt fabric and clinging to him like a lifeline.

The worst part of it all was that kissing Dave was easy. After all this time and all those close calls, Jack was finally as close to his Dave as he’d always wanted to be. It was miserable and it was miraculous.

Hands brushed against necks, time slowed into an endless trickle, and suddenly Jack felt this overwhelming need to stay. To stay with Dave, to stay in this room, to stay here with this unplaceable warmth roaring through his veins.

But the moment passed as soon as it came. Reality crashed in on Jack, and he all but shoved Dave off of him before any kiss or thought could wander, stumbling backwards against the door.

Dave stood across from him— the same hands that held him now trembling, the same face that kissed him now completely unreadable.

Silence strung and tangled between them, total silence except for two pairs of heavy exhales through their stung lips.

Every thought and every emotion fought for space in Jack’s mind, tangling into a ridiculous knot of anger, betrayal, and something softer that just refused to die. He hated him. He hated Dave, or William, or whoever he just kissed. But he probably hated himself more.

“Don’t go,” Dave whispered, reading his mind.

Jack searched his face, and it was unbearable. “I need to think.”

Maybe Jack meant for it to sound mad. It sure didn’t come out that way, not with how fragile his voice sounded, or how shaky each word came out.

Jack had no idea how he willed himself to walk out of there, but he did.

Head bowed, he turned and rushed out the door, into the hallway, chest aching in ways he didn’t know were possible.

Dave didn’t stop him that time.

Chapter Text

Don’t go.

But Jack did.

Before the door to the hotel room could even swing shut again, Jack had marched right out the door and down the hall, fists clenched so hard it hurt.

Jack did not look back, instead blinking hard as he felt his thoughts trail endlessly over that stupid, selfish kiss.

——

In that damned elevator again. Alone.

His breathing was ragged, uneven. For the first time since leaving the room, something inside him finally cracked. With one quick, angry motion Jack kicked the elevator, leaving a dent in the metal, twisting the reflection around it. He didn’t care. He was pissed.

Or, more realistically, he wanted to be pissed, but all he felt was a flurry of blaring emotions of which he could pin down none. Anger was not the one at the forefront, surprisingly— it felt like confusion, or shock. Maybe grief.

Grief.

He never truly had time to grieve his sister’s death, back then. An empty casket and a broken family made that difficult.

All this thinking made Jack want to throw up.

He hadn’t let himself think about Dee like this since that late night at home, where he’d gotten drunk out of his mind and let loose every sorry detail of his life to Dave. The only difference was that every pinch of emotion felt painfully sober, and there was no Dave tucked at his side to tell him anything was going to be alright in that accented voice.

Jack shut his eyes and swiped at the tears that were still burning down his face. This time around, the cheery music in the elevator seemed to only taunt him. Somehow, Vegas was still the same, everything was still the same— even when Jack felt like his own life had just been completely smothered.

The only sound he could get himself to focus on was the muffled scrape of the elevator as it slid down to the lobby. Breathe, breathe— he could hardly take in a full breath. His heartbeat was pounding in his ears.

Dave used to find that heartbeat of his to be comforting.

Jack shut down that soft train of memories as he snapped his eyes to the floor, still blinking hard. He was still thinking circles around what, exactly, compelled him to kiss Dave.

That delicately angry crash of his mouth against another; one last mark before he left.

If he were drunk, he’d blame it on the alcohol. But it was real, he was frustratingly sober, and everything remained rooted in reality. Jack had wanted to do it, and by God did he.

The worst part was that it got him absolutely nothing.

His lips still stung. He could still taste the whiskey from a drink he did not order.

The elevator stopped. Jack's mind and tears did not.

——

Night had fallen in the meantime. The Vegas Strip was, by all means, the most alive it was going to get. Lights shone, laughter and conversation echoed up and down the curbs, and it seemed no spot of sidewalk was left without a drunk tourist, bar sign, or taxi cab.

It certainly came as a faint shock once Jack realized that he’d been wandering aimlessly, eyes frozen ahead of him and focused on nothing. The whole city was his pacing ground.

What a wreck. He was barely even thinking, really.

He’d long walked off the main Vegas Strip, the skyscrapers still in close view but the blare of the main traffic more subsided. Tourists, neon signs, and clubs lined the sidewalks. Here on the off-streets it was less crowded, but still— Vegas was huge.

The sidewalks were huge swaths of concrete, the sides of the hotels and casinos stretched into the sky, and so many people.

It was easy to get lost in the loftiness of the city.

Off the strip, down a promenade, and past a sickly amount of gift shops, Jack found himself emptied out into the back of a resort.

Maybe motel was the better word to describe the place; the busted lawn chairs and overgrown shrubs sure felt like a good representation of how Jack felt at the moment.

At the very least, it was quieter here, except for the ever-present but thankfully distant buzz of chatter on the nearby streets. Some people were lounging around the pool, all either too drunk or newly-broke to really take notice of Jack.

Fine by him. He wanted to be alone anyway.

The pool water’s blue glow cast its color onto everything, including Jack's shoes as he walked further from the pool edge and over to the bar, where a small handful of people were sipping drinks on stools.

Sitting away from all of them, he stared at his hands against the bar counter, finally unclenched and less shaky.

Not that his mind had calmed in the slightest.

It felt very wrong to be alone right now.

He never did change Dave’s bandages, Jack numbly noted. It felt awful to be away from him at all.

Now all that Jack was left with was this terrible, gnawing loneliness that scraped impatiently at his very being.

—--

His whiskey sat untouched on the table beside him. He’d ordered it out of habit but didn’t feel like drinking. Not yet.

Grief.

He felt choked in this new and foreign grief for two different people, one alive— broken beyond belief, sure, but alive— and one long dead. The memories of the both of them tangled and knotted in Jack’s mind.

He missed her terribly, and to know that the reason behind all that grief had been living with him. Wearing his clothes. Eating his meals.

The truth sank and dug into him like ink, it stained his thoughts black and crimson until he could hardly focus his eyes on anything but that damned glass of whiskey in front of him.

To think that this whole time…

To think that he could’ve met Dave years back in that stupid diner. If only he weren’t so drunk. If only he’d tried just a bit harder to be a decent brother.

To think that while he was busy drinking, Dave was bumbling around that diner with some foreign name and at Henry’s heels– What disgusting luck.

That asshat Henry. He only ever existed, in Jack’s mind, as an effect and a consequence. A scar on Dave’s skin, a shaky-breathed story told in the late night.

Jack had only ever held a faint image of him in his mind. But now, he seemed very much real.

Was that the same cold voice that Dave had to endure for years on end? The same flat tone with the same life-ending intent? For his whole life, that was Dave’s one source of humanity and paternity?

Jack stared at his whiskey and all the light reflecting through the glass, and he tried to imagine who he could’ve been back then. He could still only picture his Dave. Nobody any different.

Even knowing the reality of that distant year soaked with blood, even with the truth staring right at him, he still couldn’t picture his Dave as anyone other than who he grew to know.

So many nights of bandage changes, so many dinners, so many laughs and tears and whispers of each of their own secrets; it was painful to think that Dave could’ve been anyone else at any point in time.

Every time Jack’s mind roamed into an inevitably warm memory that they shared, guilt slammed down to meet it. This was the man that killed his sister. So, surely he could not take comfort in his voice or his nicknames or his words. It was almost sacrilegious.

Jack wished she were here. Dee would’ve laughed and propped her chin up with her hand on the counter, she’d look at Jack with a small smile, and she’d say something like–

…

No. He had absolutely no idea what she’d say.

He wanted to drink, but still did not touch his glass.

—--

Jack set his forehead on the counter, feeling the cool marble against his skin. It helped with nothing.

Wouldn’t it be so easy to down that glass in one, familiar go? Wouldn’t it be so easy to dull the edges of what he was feeling?

I don’t like it when ya drink, Sportsy, Dave said to him once, and Jack could only hardly focus on the memory through the fuzziness of his then-drunken state of memory. You get all sad.

Ironically, here he was, sober as ever and sadder than he thought possible. Jumping into the nearby pool didn’t seem like the worst option right now.

But he didn’t dare take even a sip, torn between Dave and Dee.

Dee, poor Dee, who was dead because Jack found a bottle more worthwhile than his own flesh and blood. To tell the truth, Jack blamed himself for her demise more than he did Dave. Even now, even when he had the objectively correct person to blame.

He couldn’t tell if that was a testament to how much he loved Dave or how much he hated himself.

It felt good to sulk. It felt good to sit and agonize over how much he wanted to drink this glass of numbing whiskey. It felt good to do all that rather than face the awful truth: he and Dave still needed each other very much, and Jack’s departure did nothing but break them both. Guilt was running rampant, probably for them both.

The only thing Jack was doing right now was wasting time reminiscing.

He needed to think.

That was exactly what he’d told Dave. Jack barely understood the words himself as he mumbled them out, lips still stinging, eyes stuck on Dave’s for the last time. Somehow, he just couldn’t get himself to say anything close to a goodbye. He didn’t dare it.

Even when he most definitely had the absolute biggest reason to say it.

In a twisted sort of way, it felt good to feel so angry, so hurt. Nobody had ever made Jack feel so alive. Nobody could have ever pissed him off like this. Nobody could’ve ever gotten as close to him to hurt as Dave just did.

So, no, he didn’t remember much of what Dave was saying to him in that hotel room, no matter how much he should have listened. Just two words stuck out, clear as glass:

Don’t go.

He hadn’t asked for Jack's forgiveness. He had asked him to stay.

Jack let out a big sigh and let that feeling wash over him like flames.

He still did not touch his glass of whiskey.

—-

Night seemed to fall more slowly alone.

No stars to be seen within the light pollution of Vegas. Jack had meant to bring that up to Dave on their first walk to their hotel room. He’d probably nudge him with his shoulder, making some joke.

What are ya so worried ‘bout stars for, Sportsy? I don’t really get the fuss, I don’t think, since they’re jus’ a buncha dead things on fire up there. Look around, Vegas is brighter; Vegas is real. An’ I think real is better than pretty.

Jack sighed. He certainly was not an emotional person, so he couldn’t quite understand why he wasn’t already in his car, halfway driven back home.

Something kept him stuck here and he’d be stupid to deny who it was.

If only Dee were with him.

Jack still did not touch his glass.

——

The other people at the poolside bar had long left and cycled into a fresh batch of faces, and Jack was still as disgustingly sober as when he’d first sat down here. The glass of whiskey didn’t even taunt him anymore– it disgusted him.

Jack angled his head to the side so he wouldn’t have to look at it, instead watching the leaves and grasses of the overgrown shrubbery spill out along the walkway leading to the pool.

Jack was thinking back to Henry, now. That twisted root of it all.

Jack never saw Dave act as distant from himself as he did when he spoke about Henry. That man broke him nearly beyond recognition, but not beyond repair.

And now Henry had to toss this disgusting truth in their faces, just when everything was finally settling into something better.

There were sprinklers stabbed into the grass near the path, so small and basically unnoticeable to anybody else.

Jack continued looking them over, and within a blink they all ticked on in sync, water spraying from their nozzles. Water fell across the tile, the leaves, the grass.

Comfortably distanced away from the mist of water, Jack watched and thought.

The sprinklers were just doing what they were programmed to. They didn’t think; they couldn't help it. They couldn’t, anyway, and those perfect little machines certainly weren’t programmed to care if anyone was caught in the midst of their work.

Jack watched as the sprinklers switched off, with the last of the water droplets falling in a splatter along the walkway tile.

In the wet reflection of the stone, he saw a tiny glimpse of himself, on that stool, and he looked miserable. The exact same genre of misery that looked back in his bathroom mirror whenever he woke up hungover, after a night of promising himself that each subsequent glass would be his last.

And now, terribly sober he remained.

Jack sat there a few minutes more with the faintest hints of a plan buzzing around his mind, tearing through the inkiness of his other thoughts.

He faced forward again, thinking. Then he turned to the empty stool beside him.

Jack could imagine Dave sitting here next to him, smirking, elbow propped on the counter as he leaned close, letting loose some playful joke, and he’d call him Sportsy—

—Aha, there it was, that feeling. Before, it only existed to confuse and belittle Jack, while now it was the only thing he was sure of, the singular emotion he could pin down and name. He still loved him, and it would've been excruciating to sever the part of himself that let him grow close to Dave in the first place.

He was worth it. They were the only ones in the world that could untangle themselves from this mess.

Jack didn’t understand what he wanted to do, not totally, but he wanted to try.

So, with that same courage he used to kiss Dave with, Jack got up from the bar, leaving his untouched glass behind.

—-

He saved the worst for last.

Gas. Car. Dave.

A dingy gas station in a strip mall opposite of a pothole-riddled parking lot was the last place he wanted to be, and yet it was where Jack found himself.

He breezed past all the vacant pumps and squinted past the LED signs, walking into the station store. A typical array of product shelves and drink machines stood stacked against the walls while the artificial neon lights above buzzed. Jack eyed the place with a mildly wary look and a sigh.

Unfortunately, he didn’t see what he needed on the shelves, which meant he had to actually talk to another human person.

From his dry mouth alone, he realized that he hadn’t said more than a word out loud since leaving that hotel room.

Talking used to be such a chore, ruined by his job and all the shitty customers he’d inevitably run into. Dave was really the first person to provide him with conversation that was worthwhile– something better than the solitary of his mind that Jack had otherwise grown so very comfortable with.

He was new and weird, and had hooked Jack the instant he heard him open that stupid mouth of his, funny accent and all. It was laughable to think that Dave had nudged himself into Jack’s life so easily, until the things that Jack had assumed to be a cemented part of his personality were flipped and made new whenever he was around Dave.

If only he were here now. In the silence without Dave, Jack realized that he’d hung around him long enough to fill in the blanks with an imagined hint of the rambles he’d usually let loose. Not that his own musings ever come close to what his Dave would say– that was the endearing thing about him: he was unpredictable.

Look at this cute ‘lil trinket, Sportsy– it says 'I survived Vegas.' Kind of a bold statement for a magnet, don’t ya think? Might as well say, 'I walked through hell and only got this stupid piece of plastic.' Shit, why not get one? Hell, ya know, for the memories an’ all that. I know there’s room on your fridge.

Heaving a sigh the likes of which were only ever reserved for Dave and Dave-related matters, Jack strode up to the counter.

He glanced past the lotto tickets for sale and over to the tired man, presumably the owner. Jack instinctively glanced down to his shirt, looking for a nametag and finding none. Just a faded shirt and a lethargic look on the man’s face.

“Do you have any of those gas canisters?” Jack asked him, almost leaning against the counter before noting the stains and deciding against it. “I, uh, need a bunch of ‘em.”

The man replied, “Welp, I’ve got a shit ton, yeah. How many you need, exactly?”

Jack considered that for the first time since coming up with this plan, which probably said a lot about the plan itself.

He tried and failed to think up an estimate.

“Like… a bunch.”

“A bunch,” the man repeated flatly.

Jack nodded, choosing for some reason to stay awkwardly vague. “Yeah.”

The man blinked, once, and seemed to take a good look at Jack in all his heartbroken glory when he eventually asked, “You here alone?”

“What?” Jack asked, confused.

“You good, bud?”

Jack bit back the shock at this guy's bluntness. Apparently, he wasn’t doing a great job of masking the storm of emotions churning inside him. Damn it all, Dave left him weaker than he thought.

“...Yes?” Jack answered skeptically, eyebrows drawing together. Now, look, I’m trying to do business with you, man, so will you get me my plastic so I can pay and go?”

He might as well have not spoken English.

“Alone?” the man repeated, only looking puzzled. “Hey, now, nobody’s in Vegas alone. Always with some posse, some group a’ people. What, are you here for a bachelor party?”

“Pretty much the opposite, now,” Jack mumbled under his breath.

“Oh? Divorce?”

Jack squared his shoulders and huffed out, “Listen, man, can I just get my shit?”

The man, finally surrendering, put his hands up before disappearing into the back room for the canisters. Jack stared at the weathered counter and waited.

He couldn’t remember the last time he acted so cold to someone.

At work it was a daily occurrence to act as blunt and distant to customers as possible, sure, but Dave was the first to nudge him into a new routine of concern and care. Hell, now he was always tipping the Applebee’s waiters.

Jack found that he didn’t ever have to watch his tone around Dave, because being and acting softer around him came so easily in the first place.

At the very thought of Dave, he felt his heart flip.

He’d make a joke about this owner, definitely.

The fuck’s with all these questions? Who put that massive stick up his ass, huh? He may be the fuzz, Sportsy. Way too nosey. Let’s dip outta here already, I think we could scrounge up some quarters off the street to gamble away, eh?

He brushed away that meandering thought, trying and mostly failing to keep his focus on the matter at hand.

Jack scuffed his shoe sole against the battered tiles, wondering what Dave would think of this plan of his– this plan that was born of anger and love and frustration, and mostly a stabbing feeling of justice calling on him. Guess he’d find out soon enough.

The man reappeared from the back room, holding three sizeable, red, plastic canisters meant for gasoline in his hands. He set them down on the counter with a thump and leaned around them to look at Jack curiously.

“Here you are,” he said. “Three o’ your empty cans to fill with whatever your heart desires.”

He told him the price, prompting Jack to dig through his pockets and take his wallet out, ignoring how awful it felt to still have his phone on him after that call.

Thumbing through the wallet for his cash, Jack felt his heart crack as he glimpsed that picture of his drivers license, the same one Dave had pointed out to him last time they were out.

As much as it hurt to admit, he was doing this for him.

With a quick exhale, Jack looked up and remembered something.

“Can I also get some money on pump number three?”

—-

Gas. Car. Dave.

That was one down.

The second part of his pre-plan was arguably the easiest, though he didn’t like how much empty room there was in between all these steps. Too much time that only let Jack sink into a deeper spiral of overanalyzing.

The walk to Jack’s car was, surprisingly enough, not one that drew any attention to him, even with what he was carrying, gasoline sloshing against the sides of the heavy containers.

He’d parked his car in a lot under the hotel. He remembered their first, earlier trip down here, with Dave joking the entire time, reminding him of an action movie, stopping to point finger guns and make fitting sound effects at every single car and person. Mostly just Jack.

Jack felt the faintest of smiles tug at his lips at the memory, then instantly let it drop.

He reached his car and drew in a deep breath, letting it out through his nose before he opened up the empty trunk, setting down the gas canisters.

Just a twinge of reality set in on Jack as he took a moment to stare at the containers, side by side, dead center in his car trunk. He could not imagine going through all this effort for anybody else in the world.

He shut the car and distantly remembered the time he’d fallen asleep against Dave in that backseat. It was a mistake, truly, though it was funny how these days, he couldn’t imagine not sleeping near him.

It was only now, when he was without Dave, that he realized just how much he hated being alone now.

Jack shut the trunk with a curt sigh and left the parking garage.

——

Gas. Car. Dave.

Just one more to go.

Vegas never seemed to let up with its crowds and lights.

Jack walked down the winding promenades and blaring music, mulling over what words he could possibly say once he opened up that hotel room door. None of them felt quite right.

A new, panicked thought set in as he entered the lobby of his hotel— what if Dave had left the room entirely? Jack didn’t exactly blame him, considering how he left things.

The elevator trip this time only further reinforced that restless feeling, pinpricks of worry stabbing into every thought that passed his mind.

The walk down the hallway to his room— their room— was even more gut-wrenching. Balling and unballing his hands into fists as he made his way over to that door he’d stormed out of.

Every thought and vision seemed to pull toward that single hotel room door with the faded number 9.

Finally facing it, Jack stared at that door for a very long while before raising his hand to knock. The air itself seemed thinner, now.

Two knocks was all he allowed himself, a barely audible rap of his knuckles against the wood. As the only person in the empty hotel hall, even that small sound sounded deafening to Jack.

He drew his hand to his side and waited, listening for any answer or for a hint that somebody was in there. Looking down, Jack could see a slip of light spilling out from under the door. Feeling his pulse quicken, he saw a shadow from the other wise cut through the light before stopping.

It felt like forever before both the doorknob turned, and Jack swore his heart turned with it.

For him, it felt like coming back to a movie he’d abruptly paused. Dave stood there, somehow looking more pitiable than when he last saw him. It made Jack’s breath catch.

His mouth was pressed into a hard line, jaw clenched, eyes hollow. One hand gripped the side of the doorframe as if it’d collapse on him.

And there, in Dave’s face, there was something else cutting through all that joylessness– something that almost looked like disbelief.

“Dave,” Jack breathed out, because he was relieved he was still here at all. “Look, um…”

He was staring at Dave’s fingers on the door frame, trembling slightly. And some dumb, distant part of Jack wanted nothing more than to take that single step forward and bury his face in Dave’s chest; to sob, to get close. He did not.

Jack lightly cleared his throat and threw his eyes down to the tiny space where the hallway ended and the hotel room began.

“I just want to keep my promise,” Jack said, hoping to sound firm, but the words only fell out like a plea. “You know the one.”

Jack looked up again, and he would not have noticed the shifts in Dave’s face if he weren’t studying him so intently; first, the corners of his eyes crumpled in confusion, then they widened slightly as he remembered what he was referring to.

One, tired word in reply: “Why?”

“Why?” Jack repeated dully. “For her. For you. Maybe me, too. But after we’re done, I think this is it. The last thing we do together.”

Dave’s grip on the doorframe loosened slightly, his hand sliding down as if he might reach out, as he always loved to do. Jack wished he did.

Instead, Dave asked, “Are you okay?”

An unexpected but painfully fitting question, given everything. Jack shut his eyes tight and felt his eyelids burn.

“No,” he said quietly, honestly. “Just please say you’ll come with me.”

Dave went quiet for a long while.

“Okay.”

—-

Jack didn’t comment on the fact that the room was already half-empty when he stepped inside– Dave had evidently already begun packing. Jack had furrowed his eyebrows at the sight but said nothing about it.

They worked in tandem, packing their shared clothes away again, with Jack all the while making a conscious effort to not brush a hand or sleeve against Dave.

He watched Jack very carefully– maybe they both were– as if trying to read something in each other’s every motion.

Dave only said one thing to him in the room, quiet except for the zipping of bags. “You’re not drunk.”

“No,” Jack had mumbled in reply.

Jack was the first one out the door again– silently noting the spot he kissed him in– with Dave following behind him. He was trying his best to keep his movements curt and deliberate, avoiding any outward sign that all this was killing him. Though, that was painfully impossible.

He had no idea how to act around Dave in a way that wasn’t gentle and careful; to speak bluntly and move coldly hurt in a million ways.

Walking side by side now down to the elevator, Jack kept his eyes snapped forward, not able to stomach looking at Dave– not when everything tugged at his chest, right down to the borrowed clothes he was wearing.

—-

There was still some orange makeup smudged along the back of Dave’s neck.

Jack saw it first in the elevator, when there was no risk of making eye contact, because Dave only sullenly stared at the doors of the elevator for the whole trip down into the parking garage.

Their silent trip gave Jack all the time in the world to think about the way Dave’s hands framed his face, the faint wisp of whiskey between them– that perfectly terrible moment where his heart was fast and time was slow.

—-

Their walk to the car was silent, terse.

Once their bags were settled in the backseat, Jack didn’t get in the car immediately, instead standing by the trunk. When he saw Dave reach for the passenger’s door handle, he stopped him, “Wait.”

Dave looked up before quietly stepping over. Just like Jack, he seemed to be mindfully keeping a foreign amount of distance between them. Side by side, they faced the car trunk.

As Jack opened it up, his eyes were stuck on Dave's expression, watching that same face which he had seen so many times before in sleep and laughter and sadness. A face he knew better than his own.

Dave was smart– Jack knew that better than anyone– so, naturally, it didn’t take long for his initial puzzlement to taper into quiet shock as he put the pieces together, staring at those filled containers.

“I wasn’t lying,” Jack said quietly, sparing Dave from having to say anything.

“I knew that,” he replied quickly, almost defensively. “But, Christ…”

Dave looked over to him, and they locked eyes for a beat longer than they should’ve, because within that choking silence Dave breathed out two simple words:

“I’m sorry.”

Jack said nothing. Dave said nothing. They broke eye contact and made their way into the car.

Chapter Text

Silence.

It poked and pierced and pressed itself into every part of the car. Hours passed without them saying a single word to one another.

Though, whenever Jack or Dave glanced over to spot each other’s tired profile illuminated in highway headlights, they would inevitably lock eyes.

Jack never said a single word, but Dave’s lips twitched each time it happened, like he was deciding whether or not to say something.

He never did. They never said anything. They only left themselves whirling in that silence.

There wasn’t any point, anyway; Jack’s whole plan was to do this one last thing and then never see one another again. There was no point in reconciling.

——

The radio stayed off, the inner lights dimmed to nearly nothing. Night kept the interior dark.

Dave was increasingly glancing over to Jack, either at him directly or up into the rearview mirror, likely looking for him to say something.

For miles and miles, Jack did not, as much as that inaction rammed guilt into his chest with every second that passed. As they drove, Dave kept picking at his shirt, tugging the hem of it slightly away from his skin— which only earned a wary glance from Jack.

There once was a time when he would have stopped the car at the slightest hint of discomfort or ache. A time when he would have sat Dave down, made sure his ribs were wrapped properly, made sure he could breathe without pain, made sure he was comfortable.

Now he did nothing. He never did get to change his bandages. The spool and first-aid kit stayed packed away in the duffel in the back seat, waiting.

Even if they did talk, Jack would have had no idea where to start. All possible topics seemed foreign for the two of them— the murder or the kiss.

Under a toll they passed, momentarily dipping the car interior into a harsh flood of lamp light. As they merged back out onto the highway, Jack caught the most fleeting of glimpses at Dave, nothing but hollow eyes and a pinched mouth.

Jack glanced at the clock. They’d been driving for an hour now, maybe longer. All of it spent in aching silence. He took a deep breath, not quite able to take it any longer.

Dave had his head leaned back against the car seat rest, one hand quietly resting on his lower ribs as he looked out of the window. The passing headlights caught the edges of his face as he stared out into the highway— but clearly at nothing in particular.

“Why did you do it?” Jack asked him, and found that his voice sounded more pleading than anything.

He, himself, wasn't sure if he was referring to his sister, the lie, or something else entirely. It didn’t really matter– whatever answer Dave would give, Jack knew he would have to sit with it in grief.

He saw Dave shift in his seat, and his voice had slipped into something so drained that it didn’t sound like him at all.

“I wish I hadn’t.”

“Not what I asked,” Jack muttered curtly, though his tone was softer than he intended. He didn’t have the heart to make it any sharper.

“Sorry.”

It only made Jack’s heart tighten. Hearing him apologize cut deeper than any argument might have come close to.

The tiniest of movements from Dave– his hand tightened around his own shirt before he continued speaking. He seemed detached for a long moment before continuing, his voice low and uneven.

“He told me…” Dave began to say, before the words fell into silence. Jack couldn’t tell if it was the lighting, or if his eyes had gone wet.

“Dave?” he called out quietly before he even knew what he was saying.

“He told me we were helpin’,” Dave cut in quickly, sucking in a deep breath and continuing on as if nothing had just happened. “He sat me down and explained it all t’ me. Said we were givin’ them somethin’ better than life— immortality.”

Jack’s grip tightened on the steering wheel, still grappling with that fleeting moment of concern. He pushed it aside. “And you believed that?”

“I don’t know,” Dave mumbled, his voice so hushed that it sounded like another apology. “I think I really wanted to. Needed to.”

Jack couldn’t understand the thinking behind it in the slightest. Dave, his Dave, doing all that?

He thought back to the kiss— as he often did— and especially its shock of gentleness compared to their previous desperation, and how, in that pinprick of a moment, everything did seem okay. For just those few seconds, he understood. But not now.

“She’s dead,” Jack stated with total finality, and felt a lump form in his throat. “Gone. That’s not immortality.”

It was the right thing to say, but at the same time, absolutely wrong. Dave only seemed to sink further into himself, until he seemed no different to talking to a stranger.

“He made me think it wasn’t murder at all. He never used that word t’ describe anythin’.”

Jack didn’t say anything for a long while. Maybe he couldn’t.

“He was doing it all, too, then? Alongside you?”

“Yes,” Dave replied quietly. “It, um, used to only be him, doin’ it all. But that was before he found me. Took me in.”

“Family business.”

Jack regretted the words as soon as they left his mouth– Dave visibly froze. Another wrong thing spoken.

“I don’t want t’ see it that way anymore,” he deflected, almost hurriedly, before snapping his eyes to the side view mirror. “But for so long, he really was all I had. He helped me with my surgery, my name. I think I had an idea of what he was makin’ me do, after a while. But that was when he’d start t’ talk about legacy instead, and the way he would tell me about it…”

He paused and sighed, a kind of tired sigh that only sank each subsequent word into something brittle.

“It jus’... seemed like something I wanted. Needed, even. I had nothin’, and here we was, offerin’ me somethin’. He made me think that I couldn’t have anythin’ unless it was through him. With him.”

Jack set his jaw. “Do you still believe that?” he asked again.

“No.”

It sounded like the most confident thing Dave said all night.

Jack couldn’t think of anything else to add for a long while. Maybe he just couldn’t. He swallowed hard, and tried to keep his focus on driving. It was starting to hurt to realize that they’d strayed so far from their usual rhythm of easy conversations.

“I don’t care that you didn’t tell me your old name,” he commented, before adding. “But why does he still call you by it?”

From the looks of it, Dave seemed quietly confused at his words.

It was only then that Jack realized that among all the things he could’ve asked, a question on Dave’s old name seemed awfully contrasting to the tension; a backstabbing glimpse into what was really on Jack’s mind.

“Um. I don’t know,” Dave replied, his tone sounding pitiably earnest. “I first changed it to William. An’ then to Dave. I think… I guess… I jus’ never told him to stop.”

The confused look on Jack’s face must’ve been apparent, because he looked forward again and elaborated further.

“After a while, it jus’ didn’t seem t’ matter anymore.”

Before he could respond to that, Jack felt suddenly guilty for ever calling him by that name— a name he clearly hated— back in the hotel room when he was thinking with nothing but anger.

He, of all people, should’ve known about old names– he couldn’t quite understand what pushed him to invoke it in the first place.

“Guess you won’t have to hear it ever again,” Jack remarked, though it started out as a thought just for himself. “Not after tonight.”

Dave didn’t respond right away. When he finally did, his words were hesitant.

“I think I do have t’ be upfront about somethin’ with you.”

Jack genuinely couldn’t imagine what he could possibly have to admit now– not in the context of the past few hours. He glanced at him, wary. “What?”

“That night I tore my stitches— it was because I left the house. I went back to see him.”

Jack stupidly assumed, at the very least, that the nights where they both slept together and shared warmth and a blanket would be exempt from all the lies. A pang of betrayal rang through Jack’s chest– apparently not.

“What?” he breathed out, once he’d sorted through the initial shock. “But… What? Why?”

Dave still spoke in a flat and distant tone. “I recognized your sister from your hallway. I got scared. I wanted answers.”

“Christ,” Jack cussed aloud.”And your first thought was to go back to him? What if he’d done something worse to you? What if he kept you there for good this time? Did you even—”

He stopped mid-sentence. In the midst of his thoughtless ramble, he realized the underlying truth in what Dave had just admitted.

“Wait. You saw the photos? That’s when you realized?”

Dave nodded glumly.

“So…” Jack trailed off, furrowing his eyebrows. “You didn’t think to tell me.”

Dave was toying with the hem of his shirt once more, a distraction of sorts. “What could I possibly say? I was scared outta my mind.”

“Was Vegas just some daytrip for you? To run away from your problems? Try and get drunk enough to forget what you saw?”

His voice slipped into anger, but not a yell. No, he probably wouldn’t ever be able to yell at Dave, not even here at the brink of it all.

“No,” Dave insisted, and he’d even turned in his seat to face him. “No, that’s not it. Look, I don’t know what I was thinkin’– especially with what he was sayin’— but I wanted to be with you, an’ I wanted to… get away from him.”

“Him,” Jack repeated humorlessly, a bitter laugh escaping him. “It’s always about him, isn’t it?”

“It’s not that easy to just… move on,” Dave admitted, voice cracking slightly.

“I thought I made it easy,” Jack countered more quietly, and now he was really speaking with his heart rather than his brain. “I wanted you to live with me.”

Dave had turned back to face forward again, voice flat. “It’s not like I didn’t want it, too.”

Jack didn’t reply to that, instead focusing on trying to organize his thoughts. Curtly, he asked, “What did you do when you got there?”

Dave hesitated for a long moment, and when he spoke, his words were cold and detached. “He told me to kill you.”

Dave said it so flatly that it took Jack a second to process the words at all.

He froze, a flurry of thoughts rushing in as he tensely readjusted his fingers on the steering wheel.

“What?” he asked hoarsely, his lips numb. “Kill me?”

It finally sunk in what sort of person Henry was.

Stopping at nothing to save and then ruin Dave’s life. Reaching out to Jack just to deliver a poisoned truth.

A sickening new level of understanding shifted into place, and Jack remembered how he’d hung up the phone in that elevator and almost felt grateful for the truth.

Grateful— to Henry?

That was how Dave lived with him for so many years, then. Doling out just enough respect to induce loyalty before testing it to its limits.

Killing Jack, though— that must have been the breaking point.

He knew that Dave would have never considered the order. He may have lied or hidden things before, but Jack believed, deep down, that whatever existed between them was real. Whether that was a relief or the most painful part of it all, Jack couldn’t tell.

Dave had chosen Jack over Henry, even at the silent cost of it, and didn’t ever voice a word. He couldn’t imagine how long he’d been carrying that around.

Jack was still blinking back shock, and before he could fully untangle his thoughts, he heard Dave continue on.

“I think that was when I really realized it,” Dave explained slowly. “How much I’d grown t’ like how things were. I liked our room. I liked the way ya talked t’ me, and our mealtimes. The quiet. For the first time, I think I felt like… a person.”

Jack’s heart was about to burst.

Without a second thought, he suddenly pulled over onto a service road and slammed on the brakes, halting the car to a standstill. Dave had reached out to steady himself in the rush of the movement, eyes wide.

“What— what are ya doin’?” Dave questioned, his voice sharper. But never afraid.

Cars continued to speed past them, the sounds of the highway echoing through the now-silent car. It seemed deafening.

Jack was blinking hard, hands tight on the wheel, staring at his side view mirror to avoid Dave’s eyes.

“What do you want?” Jack asserted, voice hinging on desperation. “What do you want me to say? I’m not the one that ruined any of this.”

Dave was silent. The car was silent.

He drew in a long breath, still staring at that mirror, watching the cars whir past them on the road with a muted hum.

“Liked,” Jack repeated the word, letting it sink in the air. “You liked it. God, Dave. I liked it, too.”

He stared down at his lap, so as not to let Dave see how much that admission tore through him. That first, mumbled thank you in the hallway settled some ideas, but now he knew the full extent.

In the dimness of the car interior, he let his eyes run along the stitching in his jeans, just trying to breathe.

Jeans. His thoughts slipped, unwanted but maybe needed, to how every pair he owned was always baggy on Dave. Nothing fit him right. He could perfectly recall the day he went rummaging through his dresser for something to lend. Dave had laughed his way through trying on pair after pair, the fabric hanging loose on his thin frame, though Jack could only fake a smile in face of the sorriness of the moment.

Did he ever get to eat well, before? Laugh well? Live at all?

Distantly, he heard Dave ask him, “Will you look at me?”

Jack’s reply was weak, and weaker still went his hands, sliding off of the steering wheel and into his lap. “No.”

He didn’t push. He just kept talking.

“I can’t explain why I did any of it. He got to me, and knew how to do it. I think it’s jus’ very easy to fool me.” A pause from Dave. “I should have realized it sooner.”

Guilt slammed down on him— Dave was caught in the fallout just as much as anyone. Probably more. He didn’t want to feel sorry for Dave, not right now. But he always did.

Jack still stared down at his lap. “You’re not stupid, Dave.”

They sank into silence once more, but Jack still didn’t move to pull onto the highway, instead leaning his head back against the seat headrest. They sat in silence, but this time they both needed it.

Lonely. That’s what they both were, just lonely and thrown into desperation by two different measures— Jack only isolated himself further, while Dave had latched onto someone to give him purpose and let him fill space. It wasn’t stupid, it wasn’t a crime— it was human to want to trust someone. Jack understood that.

Dave drew in a shaky breath, soaking the silence with a whole lot left unsaid– memories and moments that Jack knew he’d never get to hear the details of.

Maybe once, Dave would have told him.

Would. Past tense and ugly.

“Listen, Old Sp–”

“–Don’t call me that,” Jack cut in to say, though not coldly. It was automatic— he had to shut down the twinges of affection he felt from hearing the name before anything worse bloomed.

Silence threatened to soak around them again, and Dave turned his head toward the window again, nodding once, slowly.

Jack put the car into drive and steered back onto the highway again, joining the stream of cars on the interstate.

—-

Long stretches of painful stillness had grown unbearable once again.

Jack hadn’t said anything for a long while. He let his mind wander someplace else.

“I forgot a lighter,” he scoffed quietly, mostly to himself.

Dave glanced over, but Jack knew by now not to expect him to say anything. He instead focused on tracking down a gas station and pulled off the highway to park in its parking lot.

In the midst of all his sulking and all his thinking, he’d neglected to buy a lighter at that gas station in Vegas. He’d been off cigarettes only for a few weeks now– likely why he didn’t think to bring one.

They were parked in the lot, Jack’s hands still gripping on the steering wheel. He gave himself a moment before lifting his hands away from it.

He reached to undo his seatbelt, pausing when he instead heard Dave’s click free.

“I’ll get it,” he insisted to Jack quietly, not meeting his eyes. Then he was gone, closing the car door behind him without a single word more.

Jack didn’t realize that his hand was still frozen around his seatbelt buckle until his eyes had followed the figure of Dave walking all the way into the gas station, disappearing behind the front door.

Not quite able to tell if this was some tiny act of kindness or motivated purely by guilt. Maybe he just wanted an excuse to leave the car— Jack wouldn’t blame him, not with all this silence poking and pushing them but into no direction at all.

Jack sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face, feeling the brunt of all those unkempt and tangled emotions brimming to the very edge.

For their whole drive, he really did try to keep it together. No tears, no hint of emotion.

The truth was, he could hardly put names on all that was happening within him. He was angry, he was furious, he was livid, he was… mostly just plain confused.

He assumed that keeping angry at Dave would be easier.

He thought of Dee. He still had no idea what she’d say, if anything, because more than ever, she just felt like his dead sister.

Jack groaned and slumped forward to rest his forehead against the steering wheel. Staying mad seemed simpler, and holding a grudge seemed like it would burn less. Anger— a convenient, if not naive, blanket to lay over everything between them.

Yet it didn't help, not in the slightest. He couldn't understand why it still hurt to stay away from someone so inherently painful to his own life. It felt like a betrayal to his own sister.

Jack still had his forehead tiredly pressed against the steering wheel when he felt a whoosh of air from the outside come in— the car door opening and shutting. Dave sat down with a plastic lighter in his hand.

“I got it,” he said to Jack, voice still just as quiet.

Within the cold between all his words, all Jack could remember were the times that Dave would follow up with an annoying joke, some smirk, and Jack would laugh back.

Now it was just quiet.

Dave must have noticed his fraying state of mind— because of course he would— his voice was tinged in worry when he began to ask, “Are you o—?”

Jack cut him off. “How did you do it?"

Dave paused, slowly setting the lighter down into the center console without looking away. “What?”

“How did she die?”

In an instant, Dave snapped his eyes to look straight ahead, that familiar guilt etching between his eyebrows again. “I’m… Um. L- Look, I’ll talk to ya, always, but are you sure you’re okay? Do ya really wanna know about this?”

Jack rubbed at his eyes, taking in a breath. “Closed casket funeral, you know. Yes, I want to know.” His voice cracked slightly on the last word. “Please.”

Dave went silent for so long that Jack began to think he wouldn’t reply at all. When he did breathe out that one word of an answer, it sounded broken at the edges.

Dave had tilted his head down. “Knife.”

That was all— he didn’t sugarcoat it, didn’t cushion it between apologies or lies. The air in the car suddenly felt very thin.

Jack tried and failed to meet Dave’s eyes.

“You were the last person to see her. Dee. Did you even know that was her name?” he asked, and didn’t wait for a reply, since he knew he’d never get one. “It was her own birthday party.”

Ever so slightly, Dave lifted his head up. “Her sixth.”

Jack shut his eyes tight, and what he wanted above all was to leave the car, and slam the door shut and just scream. Something was still stubbornly keeping him tied to Dave, to this car, to this promise. Something that he may have once had the guts to pin to a certain feeling.

“Yes.”

Dave quietly went on, “I don’t think I remember seein’ ya that night.”

Jack said nothing.

Instead, he shoved the car into drive, steering back onto the highway, hands trembling as he gripped the steering wheel.

That anxious tone had seeped into Dave’s words again. “Are you sure ya even want to be drivin’, Sp–?”

“–Don’t.”

It was not getting any easier to avoid meeting eyes with Dave.

——

The road stretched on, the scenery not changing in the slightest despite the fact that they must have left Nevada hundreds of miles ago. Silence still filled the car, not a single word exchanged for a long while, now.

Jack glanced at the clock on the dashboard. It was well into the night, though he didn’t feel tired at all. Neither did Dave, apparently, since he hadn’t drifted off like he had on their trip here. Before, when things were okay.

Without thinking, he stole a glance at Dave. He seemed distant as ever, silent as he stared out his side’s window, though Jack didn’t dare call his demeanor fragile. He’d endured and survived too much to be fragile. His shoulders were bowed, face turned away to an angle that Jack couldn't read his expression.

He couldn’t imagine that Dave was totally okay with this plan, though it spoke mountains that he was agreeing to come along with him on it. He bought the lighter. He wanted this, too.

It wasn’t revenge, as much as Jack remembered the fresh sear of anger he felt whenever he unavoidably glanced Dave’s scars. Above all, this was justice.

Even now, his bandages were all he could think about– how he never got to change them as planned. More guilt pooled in his gut as more time passed.

He tried to focus on the road, but found his mind slipping every time. Once again, they were saying nothing to one another, occupied by their own spiralling thoughts.

Subconsciously, he found himself scanning the side of the highway for a road sign, and was eventually guided off of the highway, steering into the empty lot of a small rest area.

Tires crunched along cracked asphalt as he parked in the deserted place, all the spaces empty with just their painted lot lines.

Dave didn’t question his stop immediately, glancing around the space before looking over.

“Why’d we stop?” he asked Jack, his voice hoarse from hours of silence.

His hands were still frozen to the steering wheel. “Can I re-wrap your bandages?”

His confusion this time was easier to catch– and rightfully so given the time, the tension, and the silence.

“What, now?” he asked with uncertainty.

Jack dropped his hand and didn’t meet his eyes. “Please,” he added on, making it sound like he needed this more than Dave.

After a moment, he caught a nod from Dave and silently, gratefully accepted it.

Jack reached up to click on the interior lights, finally lighting up the car for the first time in hours.

He got out of the car, wondering if his legs were always this shaky, as he made his way to the back row. He dug out the first aid kit, crossing over to the passenger side. It was a cold night, with the lightest of breezes passing through the otherwise still air.

As he picked up the kit, he realized that this was truly his typical self, wasn’t it? Jack, always wanting to fix, to save; even when he knew he shouldn’t even dare to try. At least it felt right, and much better than that dreaded silence.

The door opened to Dave, the movement making him stop fidgeting tensely with his shirt hem to undo his seatbelt.

Jack rummaged through the kit with a practiced ease for the usual supplies. He pulled out the fresh bandages and noted glumly that there were still no scissors. He’d have to settle for his teeth.

He set the kit atop the car and took a deep breath, crouching down to Dave, eyes focused on his ribs and not his eyes.

“Lift your shirt,” Jack said, his voice softer now, almost apologetic.

He did, bunching up the fabric and holding it up, the white of the dressings standing out against the violet of his skin. Jack had to shut his eyes for a moment at the sight— the bandages were stained, only slightly, but still darker than he’d expected. And here he thought Dave was close to healed.

You should’ve said something, Jack almost blurted out, but bit his tongue and instead got to work.

He peeled off the old bandage, his hands brushing Dave’s skin as he did. Jack silently noted that these past few times, he didn’t flinch or tense at all, not like the first time he wrapped the bandage around that sickly fresh wound.

Jack remembered that night so well. On the other hand, Dave was so out of it that he wouldn’t be surprised if he didn’t have anything more than a fuzzy memory of it. The same Dave, pale and barely coherent, slumped on his couch, mostly asleep.

Because of his state, Jack had been mostly left to his own thoughts for that first night. The time after he was cleaned up but before he woke up for longer than a minute was oddly intimate. Total dependency, total trust.

He could recall Dave looking so out of place in his usually empty house. All he could do was sit in his armchair and feel his heart jumping at any sign of discomfort— a shift in blankets, a quiet hiss of pain.

Jack didn’t know him so well, then, and certainly not enough to know what sorts of blankets he preferred or which lamps he liked on in the background. Not that Dave ever told him any of that directly– Jack figured it out himself.

It wasn’t like he had much use for all that knowledge now.

He was letting his mind wander.

Trying to brush all that aside, Jack sanitized and wrapped new bandages, knowing Dave was watching him.

It hit him that this was the last time he’d ever change his bandages, see his scars, be gentle. Though when it came to Dave, he really didn’t ever want it to be the last time for anything.

Feeling his throat tighten, Jack finished and leaned back on his heels, letting out a slow breath. He knew his voice would break with anything he attempted to say, so he settled on a nod to signal he’d finished. Dave caught its meaning and slowly rolled his shirt back down over fresh bandages.

Jack got to his feet and packed away the supplies, feeling his steps get weaker until he was sure he wouldn’t be able to stay standing much longer. He leaned back against the car and dragged a hand across his face, kit clattering off the car roof and to the asphalt, supplies spilling out.

Too much was piling on, too many contrasting thoughts and faces until he just felt sick. And the worst thought of all was that his first instinct was to tell Dave about this awful state.

The last time he’d have to use this kit on him, the last time he’d say his name, and then the last time they’d eat together, sleep together, smile.

The last time he let him listen to his heartbeat had already passed.

He must have been trying to catch his breath longer than he thought, because Jack didn’t realize Dave had gotten out of his seat until he was right beside him.

“Jack?” he asked softly, keeping a step away from him. “Are you cryin’?”

That was the second thing he didn’t realize.

He blinked teary eyes up, Dave’s shadow cutting across the yellowed lamplight as he stood in front of the open door. A single step was all the distance he allowed between them, and he still didn’t reach out, he didn’t dare come any closer.

In the reflection of the car window glass, Jack finally saw how positively miserable he looked. Less than a day without Dave’s jokes and smiles, and he’d already looked on the verge of death. More so than usual.

“Dave,” he said shakily, his voice cracking as he stared at his reflection instead of the man in front of him.

He heard him hesitate. “What?”

Jack closed his eyes. “You’re smart. You’re so fucking smart that it kills me. I’m still trying to understand,” he stumbled, voice wavering as he stared down at his shoes. “I can’t understand. How could you have done that? I- I try to picture it, I swear, but all I see is…” He broke off, swiping a palm across his wet eyes. “…you.”

Dave’s hand reached toward him like an instinct, before he stopped and pulled away.

Jack watched the whole guilty movement with a shaky breath. His eyes were locked on Dave’s hands, being held tense at his sides.

Now the tears were really coming down, trailing down in hot streaks down his face, feeling close to collapsing in on himself. His hands were shaking terribly.

“Please don’t,” Dave pleaded, his voice rough. Maybe Jack only imagined that he stepped closer. “Please, Jack, stop cryin’.”

Jack ducked his head and heard his voice break.

“Quit calling me that.”

It sounded pathetic. He never dare let himself sound pathetic around anyone else. He didn’t care anymore; something inside was fraying at the very core.

Dave’s voice never sounded so heartbreakingly quiet. “Sportsy.”

Just the nickname killed him. He never wanted to hear it for the last time. All he could do was shut his eyes tight, spilling out even more teardrops on his shirt.

It took a single glance up for the two of them to meet eyes and work in tandem— Jack stumbled forward, and Dave reached out to cup the back of his head, guiding him into an embrace. Jack pressed his face into Dave’s borrowed shirt as the sobs came, pressing close enough to feel the twinges of warmth emanating from his skin.

He cried for all that he couldn’t say. He cried because she was not here to tell him it was okay to feel these things. He cried because even he himself didn’t know what to feel.

He felt a hand rubbing gentle circles along his back, and it only made his heart hurt more.

Maybe Jack should have recoiled at soaking the shirt of his sister’s murderer with his tears; maybe Jack should have been disgusted with the idea of finding total comfort in his arms, with that hand still on the nape of his neck. But then again, maybe Dee would have just wanted him happy.

He mumbled the words brimming in his mind for years, now. “I miss her so much.”

Jack was usually the one holding Dave, back at home, on the couch or in their bed. Here, it felt all-encompassing and secure. All the loose, unraveling pieces and feelings he’d been struggling to keep together— he felt faith he could piece them together here and now.

“I’m sorry,” Dave whispered.

When he was younger, Jack used to believe in something like heaven, and even in his childlike innocence always imagined it to be a sort of miraculous place where every worry was somehow comforted for all eternity.

Now he was reminded of those moments of imagination. He felt himself brush against that feeling and know a bit of it to be true, no afterlife necessary.

He wrapped his thoughts around that I’m sorry, and felt total, absolute faith that Dave meant it with every part of his life.

He then felt Dave press a kiss to the crown of his head and melted entirely.

With a choked-out sob, Jack pressed closer, opting to say nothing.

The silence that wrapped around them this time was good, needed, and it was only broken by those stifled tears.

He could still smell the whiskey and the antiseptic off of him, it was so Dave, and it was better than any heartbeat.

The words tumbled out of his mouth without thinking. “When this is all over,” Jack murmured, “Please stay with me.”

He felt Dave’s hands tense around him in surprise, whether he was aware of it or not. “Stay?” he repeated.

“Please.”

The tiniest of confused laughs, followed by an attempt to untangle Jack from his arms to see his face. Instead, Jack only pitifully tucked closer.

Hands wrapped around him again, warm and secure against the night air. “God,” Dave breathed out, “I think you’re scarin’ me.”

“Please…” he only repeated.

Dave said nothing; he just shifted a hand further up, fingers threading through his hair. Maybe he found him too distraught to believe he was even thinking coherently. With how distant everything seemed right now, Jack didn’t blame him. His mind had already wandered someplace else.

The only thing that Jack, himself, felt real was Dave’s hold on him.

“I didn’t even tell her a happy birthday,” he mumbled, grief spilling into words. “I didn’t even… I don’t think I got her anything…”

“You were jus’ a kid,” Dave said quietly, hands still in his hair. “Ya couldn’t have known…”

He supposed that was true for the both of them.

Jack felt himself start to match Dave’s slowed breathing, his chest hitching less with each inhale. Dave was probably doing it on purpose, trying to calm him down. Once his cries subsided and his hands loosened their hold on Dave’s shirt, he pulled away slightly.

Instinctively, Dave cupped the side of his face and wiped away all his teary streaks with his hand. Jack’s tired eyes only found himself searching Dave’s expression, his eyes, his sad and faint, quiet smile.

“Why do I only wanna kiss you when I feel like shit?” Jack mumbled, still watching his face.

Dave’s hands stilled in their movement before his eyes easily softened. With his thumb, he wiped under his eyes. “Save it for when ya don’t, then.”

It was a good little kindling of hope; Jack was just relieved one of them had any bit of it in the face of this morbid plan. With every mile, they only came closer to carrying it out. Jack was honestly glad for this chance to stop time. At least for a while.

He stepped forward, trying to bury into Dave’s chest again but instead felt himself get lowered down on the asphalt, seated next to one another with their backs against the metal of the car. Jack’s temple leaned against Dave’s shoulder automatically as he heaved out a breath.

“Wait, but,” he mumbled suddenly. “We have to get going if we want to get there by sunrise.”

He watched as Dave’s hand lay on Jack’s arm, running up and down a small length of his forearm soothingly. He gave a very plain reply. “Ya can’t drive all sad n’ teary like this, yeah? I mean, we’re gonna get in a wreck.”

With no energy to reply, Jack only slumped further into Dave’s side, honestly relieved to agree.

With all that time spent in the car, it felt so good to sit and breathe, out here with no grating hum of the engine and a much better silence in its absence. It gave him room to think. It let him understand.

What he could understand was that there was little use suffering in guilt anymore. Time, they’d seemingly wasted so much of it, and now all they needed was to tuck close and keep living.

Dave never answered his plea, before.

Much too tired to think any more on it, Jack reached for Dave’s forearm, holding on with still-trembling fingers. With a quiet but clumsy insistence, he pulled Dave’s arm around himself, leaning fully into his side.

Dave said nothing but held him anyway, probably trying to wrap his head around this sudden and pitiful plea for touch. Jack was too much in need of it to even question himself. They just sat there, and the love must have really been there if he could comfort without speaking a word.

“I’m sorry,” Jack breathed to him quietly. “I don’t want to do this either, Davey, I really don’t— but I told you I’d do it.”

“I know.”

Jack still hadn’t moved his head to look at him. “Are you scared?”

In a silent answer, Dave squeezed his hand. “Jus’ a little.”

It sounded like a lie, though Jack would allow it this one time. In the meantime, they only sat there beside one another and listened to their breathing.

The car door was still open, and the first aid kit was still spilled out along the asphalt. They sat in the center of it all, thinking, waiting, understanding. Eventually, Jack spoke up.

“I think she would’ve liked to have known you.”

For the longest time, that was all that hung in the air.

Chapter Text

═══════

Even once Old Sport was okay, and the last of his tears had dried, and his hands had stopped shaking, they still didn’t move to get up.

They stayed on the asphalt for a long while, just breathing together. As he sat, Dave felt the breezes of the night pass over them, across Jack’s face resting on his shoulder, their hands resting atop one another’s, sweeping over the car behind them, down the road, all the way to the neighborhood he would inevitably have to go back to tonight.

Despite their plan, the fear in his stomach wasn’t as gripping as he imagined it to be. It felt different, like a preparation. Maybe it was Jack’s saintly ability to make Dave feel safe just about anywhere: like the backseat of a car, in the hallway of a house, in a bed he’d never slept in– And now even here, sitting on cracked asphalt, carving out a spot of solace when it seemed impossible.

Each time he moved, even slightly, to get up or to even propose the idea of getting going, Jack would notice and murmur back, “Not yet.”

With a squeeze of his hand, Dave would oblige. That left him time to think. With just the muted sounds of the distant cars.

For the first time, Dave slowly realized he didn’t have to let himself sink into his own spiralling thoughts. He unfurled them and admitted, quietly, “I think ’m scared.”

And Jack, still leaning against him, said, “Me, too.”

Somehow, that was more comforting than any advice he could’ve given.

Jack was still staring ahead as he continued to speak, eyes still puffy with previous tears, but with a more relaxed posture in his shoulders now.

With his eyes carefully on Jack’s, Dave asked him, “What are you gettin’ out of this?”

Old Sport glanced up, eyes still slightly red-rimmed.

“Gettin’ rid of him,” Dave clarified. “What’s in it for you?”

“Well, it’s for you,” Jack started to explain, a finger tapping Dave’s knuckle. “And me, too. My sister. As much as I want this to be about revenge, I don’t think it is. Not really. It’s closure.”

Dave stayed silent.

Following the silence, Jack’s eyes were back on him. “Why are you asking?”

Dave still said nothing. He still perfectly remembered the sound of the hotel room door slamming shut, and the even worse feeling that came after.

The same thought must have been on both their minds. With a sigh to himself, Jack spoke for him. “You think I’m gonna dump you off someplace as soon as we’re finished.”

Dave winced slightly. “It’s–”

“–Because I’m not. I mean it.” His voice was firm. “I never wanted to leave for good, I swear on that. I was just confused.”

Dave’s eyes were downcast as he sighed. “Really don’t blame ya.”

“Yeah. I think I’ve got a real shitty habit of leaving people when I was supposed to be there.” He exhaled. “But no more.”

Dave looked over to him. “Were you ever going to tell me the truth?”

“I didn’t realize who… she… was until after I knew how much it would break you. I couldn’t.”

Jack nodded, slowly.. Dave couldn’t quite read his expression, but he was still sitting here, with Dave, and that was enough.

“Do you think that was some fucked up plan of his?” Jack asked, his expression twisting into something recognizable now. The same bitter look whenever they brought up Henry.

Dave weighed the question. “It’s hard t’ tell the difference between his plans and bad luck anymore.”

Jack nodded at that, however pitifully. “I guess that’s true.” He thought for a moment. “Well, we’re here now, so, anything else you want to let out into the air?”

Dave settled on a truth that had been nagging at him since the car’s engine had started.

“I’m scared.”

The words must have come out worse than he thought, because Jack sat up straighter and took his hand. His eyes looked genuinely sympathetic. “I know.”

“For the first time in my life, I… there’ll be no legacy to follow. No research.”

Jack tilted his head to the side. “Is that bad?”

“No. I’ve jus’ never lived… apart from him. Not since I was a kid, and ya know how that went.” Dave’s voice dropped into something much smaller. “I just’ don’t know what’s gonna happen to me.”

Jack smiled slightly, shook his head; all in a sad sort of way. “Nothing’s gonna happen to you, man,” he reassured. “That’s the whole point. We have a plan. We’re together.”

Dave kept his eyes stuck down to his knuckles.

“For one,” he started, and took both of Dave’s and held them, tossing them off their nervous fidgeting. “I’m not going anywhere. Look how far we’ve come, I mean. We’ve been through way too much to just split off after tonight.”

“So, you’re stuck with me.”

Jack shook his head. “I want to be with you. That’s the difference.”

There was something warming about his stubbornness. Dave’s hand reached up to wipe away under Jack’s eyes, at the faint wetness of half-dried tears. He didn’t say anything, and neither did Dave.

═══════

Eventually, they got back in the car.

Dave told him exactly where to go. He gave directions with a quiet voice and pointed him down roads and exits.

The highway broke off into roads, the cars went their separate ways, and soon enough it was just Jack’s car humming down a street. Barely any cars and even less people roamed at the quiet hour.

At one point, Dave had slipped his hand to hold onto Jack’s wrist, barely needing to reach over with how much their hands always seemed to hover around one another’s now. He could feel his pulse.

The car engine hummed on. Cracked asphalt led down more unkempt roads until he could see it down the street, just a pinprick way down the road.

The house. It was never Dave’s, and so the word home never really came to mind. That is, nothing came to mind at all– his mind had gone blank into unease.

Faded siding and wood was what greeted them as the house drew closer. It was an old house, framed with desert grass and dirt and a road stretching in front of it. It looked sunken and dry. There was nothing decorative or welcoming about it: pure functionality with just enough faded detail to hint that it was once, maybe, someplace nice. Before Henry.

Jack spoke quietly, looking over the house with a more calculated eye. “I'll park us down the road, then we can walk the rest of the way there.”

Us, we— it seemed like he was hesitant to speak in any way that didn’t include the two of them.

Following Dave’s nod, Jack parked the car some distance away from the house, veering off the road and beside a brush of brambles, a spindly kind of grass that poked through the cracked concrete of the road. They had a good view of the house, small and off in the distance. It didn’t look as terrifying as it did when Dave thought about it late at night, and all at once, he felt minorly stupid for ever having such an adverse reaction to a house.

A shaky hand reached for the car door handle. The two of them exited and crossed to the back of the car.

The trunk clicked and Jack opened it upwards, revealing plastic containers lined up inside. It took Dave a second to recognize that they were filled with gasoline, and his mouth went dry.

He could only stare at them while Jack hefted one container out, placing it on the gravel of the roadside.

“Shouldn’t we, um, think through how we’re gonna do this?” Dave asked, before realizing he should step in to help.

Jack nodded his silent thanks before he answered. “We’ll pour a trail around the whole place. Quiet enough so the old bag won't wake up. Then light it and go.”

The lighter in Dave’s pocket suddenly felt heavier. He ignored the weight and got to work picking up the next canister.

Jack took the container from Dave’s hands and set it down for him, evidently weighing a question with that searching look in his eyes.

He seemed different tonight, as if he was searching for a sign that he was doing something right. And Dave so badly wanted to assure him that he was.

“This all sound okay to you?”

Dave nodded.

There was still skepticism in Jack’s eyes. “Look, I don’t even know if I should ask, but,” he stopped for a second, toeing the gravel, “is there anything in there you want to take back with you?”

“Take?” Dave asked, almost feeling a laugh coming on at the thought of it. “No. Nothin’.”

Jack nodded and closed the trunk after the last container was loaded out.

They stared at the house for a while, at the darkened windows reflecting nothing but the moon.

“Front door’s not the best way in,” Dave remarked after a moment’s thought. “We’ll go in through the basement.”

Another nod from Jack. But there was something else to bring up.

“Jus’…” Dave added on, “Look, Sport, Whatever you see in there, don’t say anythin’ about it. Because, believe me, whatever you’ll be thinkin’, I already know.”

He caught Jack staring at his ribs through his silent “Okay”, as if he could see the bandages even past Dave’s shirt.

And at that point, a more wary look had fallen across Jack’s features, though he didn’t pair the new expression with any words. Instead, he took the tiniest of steps closer to Dave— an extra touch of warmth at his side.

“We’ll start down there, then go up together,” Dave quickly added. “Douse it all.”

“Okay,” Jack nodded once more.

“And I’ll make sure he’s outta sight.”

“Do you think he’ll be…?” Jack trailed off. The rest of the sentence went unsaid but very much understood.

Dave hesitated with his answer, dragging a finger along the edge of one of the canisters. “I, um, think he’s definitely expectin’ me, one of these days.”

Both of them glanced up at the house.

“Hopefully not tonight,” Jack wished aloud, in an innocence that Dave wished he could someday achieve when it came to Henry Miller. “We won’t see him. We won’t have to. In and out— that’s how we’re gonna be.”

With those words, Jack tried for a smile, and though it didn’t reach his eyes at all, the effort was so earnest that Dave reached over and took his hand again.

“We’re almost done. Then we can go right home and never think about him again.”

Jack nodded again.

Dave looked past his shoulder and over to the house. Before that sinking feeling could settle in again, he felt Jack take him by the elbow and pulled him into a hug. Dave shut his eyes. His chin rested on the crown of Jack’s head.

Everything seemed to slot into place, and just for a second, he could make believe that he was back in that hallway back home, and not in front of Henry’s house.

“Never think about him again,” Jack repeated, still holding on. Whether he was making a promise or asking a favor, Dave couldn’t exactly tell.

═══════

The basement entrance was jutting out of the ground and sat against the wall at an angle. It was in the same state as the rest of the house— old, with paint cracking everywhere.

Dave hefted open the metal doors, and Jack hoped to quietly settle them open on the faded grass of the outside. All the while, Dave could feel Jack watching his bandages warily, probably wanting to say something protesting all the movement.

“I’m better,” Dave said quietly in reply, whispering now that the door was open. “Really.”

“Right,” Jack said, unconvinced. “Just, uh, take it easy.”

Ironic words of advice considering where they were about to go, and what they were about to do. They both stared down at the first concrete step for a while before going down, and though there was no way of telling, Dave knew they were thinking the same things. The same fears. Dave had to remind himself not to hold his breath as he descended, for the first time not alone.

═══════

They both winced at the click when Dave first flicked on the basement light switch.

Jack, as promised, did not comment on the trays or the tools or the sanitized tile of the lab. But it was impossible to not notice Jack glancing around the place, biting the inside of his mouth.

They worked in silence, and quickly. The gasoline pouring was the only sound in the entire basement, however quiet they tried to be.

The two went around the room, the sharp-smelling liquid pouring in trails. It was just the dulled sound of flowing liquid meeting tile. It pooled in trails along the floor, soaking rags and coating counters with no regard for where it spilled. Imperfect puddles over perfect tile.

And it was after when that last cap popped off the last canister that Dave realized he needed this, wanted this. He wanted to soak everything, wanted to change it all, until there was no proof he ever lived here. But still, he kept his hands steady and careful.

When Dave’s container was halfway empty– no, still halfway full– the worst possible noise cut through the air. A sound that did not belong.

A creak from above them.

Dave’s hand jolted upright to stop pouring the gasoline. One glance across the room confirmed that Jack had heard it, too. Equally frozen, wide eyes stuck on Dave. The question was plain in his face, the panic evident in his spine.

They both stood there, containers still, wide-eyed and motionless.

Another low creak of wood from upstairs.

Even the air seemed to go still. This was the same room where Dave had lost his heart. And now, for the first time in years, he felt it stop again.

Jack was the one to finally speak up, in a voice that was just a whisper.

“Is it…?”

Dave swallowed, eyes on the ceiling. “He’s awake.”

There came a similar tautness of fear in Jack’s shoulders, his eyes once again stuck to the ceiling as he listened intently.

“No,” Jack muttered after a while, voice dropping even more as he wrestled with the fact. “No. But…”

Another groan of wood from above.

Dave, who knew this house and its layout much too well, instantly knew what room upstairs the footsteps were trailing into. It all felt like a taunt.

Dave slowly, purposefully, walked toward the door, but another set of footsteps hurried ahead of him.

“What are you doing? Dave—”

Jack had stopped right in front of the door upstairs, staring up with wide, puzzled eyes. His voice was clearly fighting to stay in a whisper. “You can’t go up there.”

“Better me than you. I can talk t’ him, keep him busy in his office while you finish.”

“We need to leave,” Jack hissed.

“No.” Dave shook his head. “We’re not calling this off just because—”

“—He’s awake,” Jack snapped, in a whisper that was just a bit too loud.

Both of them froze, held their breath at the sudden rise in volume, and stayed quiet for a moment. No other noise cut through the silence, no footsteps.

The panic passed.

There was still that flighty look in Jack’s eyes as he released a sigh. His gaze still darted toward the ceiling.

Dave’s hands twitched at his sides. “He’s waitin’ for me, Sportsy.”

Jack looked tiredly unconvinced. “Please.”

Dave went on, voice still quiet. “Look, he has no reason t’ think that you’re here with me, too. I’ll go up while you sneak upstairs and finish the job. Quietly.”

Jack looked at him like he wanted to argue, but didn’t know how. “But it’ll just be you and him...”

“I’ve been alone with him most of my life, Sportsy,” he mumbled, and by then his voice had dropped into such a quiet whisper that Jack had to lean in closer to catch all the words.

He could see his eyes much better. Silent sympathy. Jack was good at showing it, even when he didn’t mean to let it show.

“I’ll be fine,” Dave reassured, hopefully with enough finality.

Jack found his own way to reply. One step, and Old Sport drew him into a hug. Dave stared at the door upstairs from over his shoulder before shutting his eyes tight.

He focused on the touch, because whenever affection found Dave before, it always had strings attached.

A smile from Henry meant something underhanded, a conversation always held an air of insult, and even a visit upstairs preceded shame. Not even a kind word stood alone.

He remembered how Henry dumped him off at his own room again after appointments, hands firm on his collar but never comforting; always handled, not guided.

It felt good not having to wince anymore, not with Jack.

“Make sure you get my room,” Dave whispered to him, still holding on.

He felt Old Sport nod in reply, drinking in the last of the contact before they eventually drew apart.

═══════

Years of habit allowed Dave to step quietly, one foot at a time. Each sound he made buried dread in his gut. He had told Jack to give a few minutes head-start before following him upstairs.

Whether that was a good or bad idea was debatable, because Dave's breath caught as soon as the stairs dumped him out into the hallway.

The dull light and scuffed floorboards were all exactly as he remembered. The front door stood quiet at the end of the hall. Dave remembered coating those locks with blood as he fumbled with the mechanism, shaky hands bumping along metal. The doorknob was clean now.

Some short distance before the front door, the hallway opened into another room. The office.

Dave willed himself to walk, but barely felt his feet touch anything solid. He reached the doorway, and could only stand there as he felt any last coiled-up confidence leave him completely. Any anger he had in that basement disappeared.

It hit him that he was alone. He walked into the office. Henry was seated at his desk.

Dave felt like a child about to be berated. He had taken just one step into the office, and it still felt much too close.

Henry was sitting, angled in a way as if he was expecting a guest. Smiling, glasses catching the low lamplight, his hands neatly in his lap despite the blueprints on his desk waiting for his attention. It didn’t seem like he was working on them.

“Welcome home, David.”

Dave had focused on being quiet for so long that the sound of his voice felt like a gunshot in the silent house. His fists clenched instantly.

“I assume,” Henry spoke on, not tearing his eyes from Dave, “that things didn’t quite work out between you two.”

A second of confusion– but not long enough to show on his face– overcame Dave before he realized what Henry had rightfully assumed.

He was here alone, for one. Then there was the phone call.

Henry had zero reason to think that anything following that phone call could have been salvaged. Moreover, he had no reason to believe Dave would come back alone again unless he had nobody to come with.

Of course Henry believed Jack was gone. With that realization came a twinge of hope; Dave could work with this.

He still hadn't said anything when Henry spoke up again.

“Why else would you return?” he asked, hands still on his lap. “I know you feel sick. Maybe guilty. Mostly sorry for yourself.”

Dave listened but still said nothing.

“But I won’t put words in your mouth,” Henry said, ironically enough. “How are you, David?”

The name curled into the silence of the room and sat there. Dave didn't look away from Henry when he replied flatly. “Confused.”

“At what?”

“You. Me,” Dave supplied, trying to keep his voice even. “All the things you made me do and think.”

He was purposefully keeping it open-ended, vague– he needed to keep him talking, like Jack said. Though, it was hard to scheme when Henry was just a few steps from him. He had always held an ability to choke out Dave’s logic just from being near him. Something about him dulled and dampened.

Henry looked as if he was watching something mildly amusing begin to unfold in front of him.

“You think I ruin just for the sake of seeing ruins,” he began, his smile audible. “Is that right, David? Because that isn’t it. When you think about it, I’m really the only person who ever told him the truth.”

Him. Dave didn't mean to freeze at the mention of Jack in Henry's voice, but he did all the same. “That wasn’t your place.”

A patient shake of the head from Henry, that smile still lingering. “Would you have ever done it yourself?” he asked rhetorically. “I was just cutting to the chase. The truth is, David, that I always think of you. Everything I do is for you.”

Dave said nothing. He just kept staring, thinking. And it was in that moment that he almost forgot who was distracting who.

Henry's smile was like plastic. “You’re still confused.”

Dave said nothing.

“Then it’s a very good thing that I am here to talk you out of that feeling. Yes?”

Still nothing.

“Sit with me.”

He did not.

Henry didn’t ask again, but Dave could tell it threw him off.

So he continued on. “I don’t think you ever planned to kill Kennedy,” he said very plainly, almost bored. “I don’t think you even considered it. So, I am trying to understand why you’re back home.”

Dave’s breath caught in his throat like dry cotton against a thorn, and he hurried for a lie. “Because it’s home.”

Henry’s smile turned into a pitiable one. “You don’t believe that.”

Dave’s eyes dropped, to look anywhere but Henry. He found himself holding his own hand in mock comfort, wringing it nervously, half-expecting to find a hammering pulse, the kind he’d heard so many times before with Old Sport. Now, he only found clammy and still skin.

There was nothing more he wanted to do than rush back down the hall and take the stairs and find his Old Sport— to be assured that he was still there. All he could think was: I want to go home.

“Confliction,” Henry began, taking on a tone that bordered on sympathy, “is a good feeling. A very healthy one. It represents a mind that’s working, weighing— one that’s not too quick to jump into a deep and naive hole.”

He paused.

“But it is not a mindset you should harbor for very long. It is always supposed to be temporary. A rest stop before total determination.”

Dave listened on with morbid curiosity, eyes now stuck on his desk, with its surface all flooded with lamplight. Jack must have been out of the basement by now, working on dousing the rest of the house. Dave smelled no gasoline, not yet, just wood and old carpet.

“Emotion,” Henry added slowly, as if he was talking to something inside of Dave rather than to the man himself. "I’ve tried to burn it out of you, David. I thought it would help— my plan, that is. Because to take a life is the biggest effect you can have on your own. In a sense, you’ve conquered your entire existence. You see things differently, don’t you? Everything is small to you now, isn’t it?”

Here were the inner workings of his mind, all laid out, explained, and Dave didn’t feel closure— just disgust.

“That was my gift to you,” Henry said.

Still, Dave couldn’t form any words, couldn’t bring himself to nod, couldn’t even put an expression on his face.

“I know,” Henry’s voice cut in. “Believe me, I know what you’re thinking. Dr. Miller makes no sense. Dr. Miller is a psychopath. Dr. Miller is insane. It’s what they all told me, a long time ago.”

Dave said nothing.

“I know you’re not thinking with your head, either. Human emotion is very, very unreliable. It is the single greatest illusion you and I will ever encounter. It gets in your way, it muddles your logic, it upends your thinking. Pride. Grief. Hate. Love.”

He drummed a finger against his thigh and spoke on.

“Here is a secret: No one wants love. They want to be understood. Remembered. It’s selfish, but it’s very good to admit, and that is the first confliction you must remove.”

Maybe Dave would never know what exactly happened, whether Jack misstepped or passed a particularly old stair, or the gasoline canister got too heavy.

But cutting through Henry’s last word, the worst possible noise cut through the air:

A creak from upstairs.

Dave was caught. But Henry only smiled.

And slowly, proudly, as if it were the answer to a question long in the computing, Henry said to him:

“You are not conflicted.”

Dave’s hands flexed at his sides. Something clicked into place. What he was feeling was not fear, but anger. Automatic was the only way to describe what he did next.

Two steps, and his hands locked around Henry’s neck, slamming him back into the desk chair. Fingers dug into his skin, his throat thrumming with a sharp pulse.

Even sharper was the shock on Henry’s face: new and foreign and twisting his features in a way Dave had never seen before.

It was a fleeting look. And it was horrific to think that this was what it took to surprise Henry, even for just a second. Redirected violence.

Worse, Dave had braced for a struggle— he had the firsthand experience to expect one— but Henry didn’t even flinch. Henry made no move to escape. He kept still, hands resting calmly on Dave’s knuckles like an anchor.

A manic smile slithered across his face— it was as if he’d overridden all natural instinct just to watch this final experiment unfold.

Henry’s voice was low, his smile wide, voice sounding almost delighted. “Did you come just to kill me?”

Dave didn’t answer. Something was stinging at his eyes, not able to be wiped away as his hands were shaking, still gripping Henry’s neck. Tight, yes, but not enough to silence or choke.

“Closer and closer, but never reaching it,” Henry murmured, the tendons in his throat moving under Dave’s fingers. “Infinity is what we are, David. Nobody else has ever, ever touched infinity.”

Dave never had the gall to look him so directly in the eyes before. The smile really was the worst of all.

“David,” he said plainly, calmly, pitifully, like a doctor giving a patient bad news. “David, I knew you were doomed. Conflicted. I wanted to see how far you would slip. What you would do.”

His words were inching toward something undefinable. Dave wasn’t sure what he was waiting for– maybe he was waiting for Henry to say something that would make him let go.

But his hands stayed firm. Firmer.

“When does compassion turn sour?” Henry quoted, and it was clear the words were getting harder to escape from his throat. “Do you remember the day I asked you that? I think I’ve got my answer now. Thanks to the unbreakable, eternal scientific method, David.” His voice cracked. “Partner. My perfect machine.”

The words were practically liquid, dripping along this damned office, and house, all the way down the street.

The flurry of names only sharpened Dave’s resolve into something ever clearer. Henry may have understood how to ruin him, but never anything more.

“Tell me I’m wrong,” Henry whispered, with that lightness dancing in his eyes, smiling as if he weren’t at the mercy of a simple tightening of Dave’s fingers.

Dimly, Dave tried to understand that smile. Maybe this was the thrill of it: for a man who thought himself above life to finally dance so close to it.

“Shut up,” Dave choked out.

But it seemed that Henry was feeling something sickeningly close to fun.

═══════

Jack winced when the floorboard creaked under his weight.

He was upstairs. By now, the gasoline smell dragged through the air well and through. The trail had been poured in a winding trail from the basement, now up the stairs. Twinges of conversation could be heard from the office somewhere below. Hopefully his misstep hadn’t given him away– hopefully the bastard downstairs hadn’t even heard it.

Dave’s room was where he was. And it was bleakly bare, though that could be said for every room in the house. He could only recognize it as Dave’s from the smell of antiseptic. A scent that Jack remembered from the night Dave leaned against him, half-conscious and bleeding.

Not that the room smelled like anything other than gasoline, now.

Jack strained his ears for more conversation, for more murmurs from downstairs, but the whole house had fallen silent again.

His stomach flipped over, and his mind caught on memories of blood. Something must have gone wrong. Henry must have done something.

Container in tow, he turned, left the room, and headed down the stairs for the first and last time.

═══════

Dave’s blank expression was the first thing Jack saw. The body was the second.

Limp, unthreatening. It didn’t look like the Henry that Dave always told him about.

And Dave was standing there, some steps away, hands slack at his sides, shirt soaked at the collar. Not crying, not shaking. The only acknowledgment he provided to Jack was a dazed glance.

Jack looked between Dave and the lifeless body in the chair, and when the truth of the scene hit-– that Henry was dead, killed-– it didn’t even feel like horror. Justice and cold closure both dripped into realization. He wouldn’t ever breathe again. Dave did that.

What was not a relieving sight was Dave himself and his motionless expression. Jack stepped close to him on instinct, his hand reaching to steady him by the elbow.

“Dave?” he said, to no reply.

The office had a few windows, and as dirty as they were, they let some light in through the old window panes. Jack’s other hand was still frozen around the canister he was still carrying.

Both of their eyes were stuck on the body, now. It lay there in the chair, eyes open and dull. Slumped like a puppet with its strings cut.

Jack was still trying to tell if that was a smile on his lifeless lips when Dave spoke, so suddenly that Jack’s heart jumped.

Every word was shaky. “You know the very last thing he said t’ me?”

Jack’s hand stayed around Dave’s elbow. Gentle, secure. Not a word formed in his mind or mouth.

“‘Do it.’ That’s what he said t’ me,” Dave mumbled. “And I did.”

Jack swallowed tightly, staring at him. “Are you okay, man?”

Dave’s voice still sounded like cracked plaster. “He jus’ sat there...”

“Because he knew it was over,” Jack tried to convince.

The puzzled look didn’t leave Dave’s face. “But then why…?”

“Do not drive yourself crazy. Please. Now, come on,” he urged, and tugged at his shirt sleeve gently. “We have to go.”

“But…” Dave muttered, and it seemed his eyes were drifting from the body to something on his desk.

Jack let the canister drop and caught Dave by the other elbow, steadying him with both hands. “Dave,” he urged softly, trying to meet his eyes. “We’ve got to go.”

The words, combined with the contact, seemed to reach him. He nodded.

Jack let go of him, though Dave kept staring at the spot where Jack’s hand had just been.

Without another word, Jack got to work finishing off the almost-empty gasoline canister, the very last drops trickling out across the desk. Jack didn’t stare for long, and didn’t watch the gasoline sink into ink and paper. And he definitely didn’t look at the body.

When he turned back around, he saw that Dave had already pulled out the lighter from his pocket.

═══════

They had kicked the empty canisters over to the center of the room and left them there.

Dave had thumbed the lighter's wheel, once, twice, until a blue flame sparked alive. The spark fell right into the puddle of gasoline.

He held his breath as a roar of fresh fire took place of quiet, dusty air. For just a second, the two watched in wordless wonder as flames took their root on the floorboards. It was pure chaos, no pattern and no predictability, just light and flame. It almost looked like show lights.

Jack reached out without looking, his hand finding Dave’s instantly. They hurried down the hall and to the front door.

With a free hand automatically positioned to release the door locks, Dave found the chain not in the place he expected. Blinking, he realized that the front door had been left unlocked the entire time. He almost laughed at the realization.

═══════

Dave had lived and walked these floors for so many years, and he’d never seen it like this. Once familiar and now slowly growing aflame.

Once the front door opened, the cold air outside hit him like a drop of cold water. Dave couldn’t stop looking back at the house, even once the front door was open. The flames hadn’t spread to the exterior yet– only the two of them knew what was to come.

Dave didn’t fully realize he was in the car again until he heard the driver’s side door shut. And as the engine started, he felt the childish urge to say goodbye to the house.

Not quite able to look away, he stared out the window. There was no feeling of sadness or bittersweetness, but a strange sense of finality. Like he was just now realizing what Jack’s plan entailed— a fresh start.

The car was already halfway down the road before any smoke began to funnel out of the house windows.

═══════

The house was quiet when they arrived.

Once the front door was locked, Jack crossed to the windows and got to work drawing the curtains shut, hangers sliding along the metal rod. It dimmed the room and seemed to quiet the air itself.

Any relief Dave felt at being home seemed to wash away— and Jack couldn’t tell why. He stayed standing in the living room, not daring to sit on the couch. He still hadn’t taken off his coat. Jack didn’t push.

Jack was tired beyond belief, and he couldn’t tell if it was the sort of exhaustion that could be remedied with sleep.

His eyes stayed on Dave as he leaned against the kitchen counter. “You wanna shower?”

Dave shook his head, absently. Then he muttered, “He seemed proud.”

“What?”

Dave sighed and shut his eyes as he explained, cautiously, if he wasn’t sure he was making sense. “He wasn’t scared. He looked proud, Sportsy. Like he got what he wanted.”

“Maybe he did.”

Dave still remained standing, now glancing around the house with his brows drawn together.

“Ya know, I never understood him, not even a little bit,” Dave admitted, and only then did he look up to meet Jack’s eyes. “Right ‘til the end.”

“Good thing you don’t owe him anything.”

Dave’s eyes didn’t look any less hollow.

A long pause stretched, and Jack wasn’t sure what the right words to say were to break him out of this. He settled on pushing himself off the counter and stepping closer.

Something in him tugged the words right out of his mouth.

“He left the front door unlocked,” Jack told him.

Confused eyes met his.

“You said it yourself,” Jack went on. “He was proud. He wanted you to… You know. End it.”

“But…”

“Didn’t you say he was expecting you? He waited. Because you were his last project, Dave. His final experiment. Never a person.”

Dave nodded listlessly.

“Based on all you told me,” Jack went on, “I think… I think he wanted to see what you’d become without him.”

By now, Dave’s hand drifted to his shirt hem, running a finger along it absently. His forehead was creased in thought. “He wanted t’ be understood. Remembered.”

A slow nod from Jack. “Yeah. He wanted you to carry that weight. Weight of his whole life. I don’t know if he wanted to die, but I think— I think he wanted you to do it.”

For a second, Jack was worried the words weren’t reaching him at all. Then, slowly, Dave slid down until he was seated on the carpet, back against the couch, knees close to his chest.

“Me,” Dave repeated, voice tired. “He wanted me to do it.”

For Jack, it was second nature to close the gap, and he didn't even think twice when he sat down right next to Dave, their shoulders flush.

Dave’s hollow attitude was more than expected given… everything, but Jack had to admit a feeling of helplessness at not being able to break him out of it. He liked the idea of a blazing plan that would fix everything. A fire as a cure. And, in a sense, it did fix everything, though the effects of all those years still lingered around Dave. It was so obvious in his posture, his silence. He was reeling.

It slowly trickled into realization that this was Henry’s plan, his last attempt to endure in Dave’s life. If Henry couldn’t own him, he figured he’d carve himself into Dave’s conscience instead.

It was a sickly thought.

So Jack reached out, quietly, and pulled Dave gently toward him, guiding his head until he could rest against his shoulder. Until there was no space left between them.

Dave used to resist closeness like this— in his own way, by staying stiff like he didn’t know what to do in a moment like this. By now, he relaxed into his hold each time. Easily. Like breathing. That change gave Jack a twinge of relief.

“Dave,” he murmured against his temple, not having to speak very loud to be heard. “That piece of shit… actually gave you a choice. Probably for the first time ever. And he didn’t even mean to. Do you get it?”

With that, Jack felt Dave’s fingers loosely bunch in the back of his shirt, unsure in their place. He mumbled a quiet, “Yes.” Then he shifted his head slightly to speak, voice still a whisper. “He wanted to be the thing I could never walk away from.”

“But you did.”

“That’s why he gave me the scarf,” Dave murmured.

Jack thought he misheard. “What?”

Silence followed. Dave’s next inhale was shakier as he slowly lifted his head off of Jack’s shoulder, his eyes cast downward.

Then he said, like a confession, “I have t’ show you somethin’.”

Dave, in fairness, had held a lot of secrets. And so few had he revealed of his own will. Jack wasn’t sure what to expect as Dave reached his hand under the worn cushions their backs were leaning against. As Jack watched, he straightened slightly, confused.

Then Dave pulled out a red scarf. Her scarf.

Jack stiffened. The color of the fabric alone sent his mind into static, trying to understand. He wasn’t sure if he wanted to.

“What?” he mumbled out, not daring to even touch it. “What…?”

Dave didn’t bother answering a question they both knew the answer to. “He gave it to me.”

Then he took Jack's hands, gentle, and even more gently set the scarf into his palms, careful as if it were some artifact. Jack's hands quickly closed around it, fingertips feeling the fabric, vision already starting to blur with pent-up tears. The vaguest of memories fell across his mind, something warmer and lighter, something happier. Her voice sinking into giggles before she could even finish telling a joke. Wind tugging at the ends of her hair.

“But… But,” Jack stuttered, “I don’t understand, Dave…”

Words tapered into mumbles. Jack kept staring numbly at the scarf, all its fibers and its color, not faded at all, even after all its years.

“I didn’t know what to do with it, so I hid it. Here,” Dave spoke. “He gave me a choice, right? And I don’t want any more secrets. This is yours.”

With eyes that wouldn’t quit stinging with tears, Jack stared at the scarf and knew that this was his last chance to blow up, to get angry, to tell Dave to leave and never come back. The very last moment to let grief win.

But something in him was tired of losing.

There were so many times that Jack thought about his sister, and what she would say or do. What she would think or joke about. But he never thought about what she would have wanted for her own brother.

Now he knew that Dee would have just wanted him happy.

And happiness was sitting across from him, with eyes teary and hands trembling. Waiting.

Dave’s tired eyes were caught between hope and wariness, all the while searching Jack’s expression. There was a silent plea written all over his face: Say something.

Even with his throat tight, Jack’s mind filtered out its words.

“Don’t go,” was all that could tumble out of his mouth. “Please, don’t go.”

Dave blinked, and whatever he was about to say in reply was cut off with a kiss.

Even when he tore away, he kept holding onto him, Dave’s own hands settling at the nape of his neck, and Jack found himself mumbling something over and over. He wasn’t sure if Dave would ever be able to decipher his rambles as a string of I love you, I really do, with all its equivalents. Surely and eventually, Dave would come to understand it— totally, unthinkably, definitely.

And maybe he already had, because he pulled Jack closer, the scarf still tucked between them.

Chapter Text

The woman behind the counter at the driver's license agency clicked and clacked at her keyboard. The drone of the office went on behind Jack and Dave, the latter of which was tapping his long fingers on the counter excitedly.

“Okay,” the woman said, looking up from the computer screen. “Now, Mr. M–”

“Jus’ call me Dave!” he butted in.

The woman gave such a slow blink that Dave thought for a moment her eyes would never open again. “Alright, Mr. Dave. Everything’s in order with your new driver’s license, but there is one problem.”

This time, Jack interrupted her. “Impossible. He passed the test, I swear. All legal and shit, too. I was watching.”

“That’s not it,” she sighed, waving his words away. “We have zero information on file about Mr. Dave, here. Probably a system error. So, we’re going to have to start from new.”

“From new?” Dave asked, puzzled.

“That’s right,” she nodded. A printer from somewhere behind the counter spat out a stack of papers. She stapled them together and placed them in front of Dave. “New file. Go ahead and fill this out, sir, to the best of your memory.”

Given that a lot of his life was undocumented, that presented a bit of a problem.

Dave didn’t take the paperwork right away. “What if I… uh, don’t know certain stuff?”

The woman shrugged. “Make it up.”

He didn’t need to be told twice. Sliding the paper toward himself, he couldn’t help but smile a bit at all the blank boxes.

“You hear that, Sportsy?” Dave asked, feeling a bit excited. A chance at a fresh start– legally, at least– sounded pretty good to him. “I can make it all up.”

“Only you could ever get excited at the idea of paperwork.” Jack leaned over to read alongside him. “What are they asking?”

Dave read the first question with the end of his ballpoint pen. “My name. Okay, that’s David Miller.” The last name still left a bitter taste in his mouth, but he moved on. “Next. Eye color. Height.”

Jack glanced up and blinked. “Black. As for height, uh… eyeball it.”

He did, then flipped the page. “Organ donor status,” Dave read off the paper flatly. “Pfft. Insensitive much?”

The rest of the paperwork went by quickly. Dave’s pen flew past pretty much every category, especially with Jack’s occasional help. But it was when he came across one particular box that Dave paused. His pen hovered over the blank space.

Jack noticed his hesitation and leaned over to check what the spot was asking.

Birthday.

“Just pick a date,” Jack chimed in. “And guess a year.”

Dave gave it a moment’s thought. “Can I have your birthday?”

With a lighthearted eye roll, Jack replied, “Oh, come on. Don’t you want your own? Imagine how lame celebrating a double birthday is.”

“We can celebrate it together.” Dave motioned between the two of them. “We could buy a milkshake with two straws and drink it all cute-like.”

Given the silence that followed, Dave almost thought that he had Jack convinced before he shook his head amusedly.

“Oh, please, we can do that any day.” Jack picked up the pen again and pressed it into Dave’s fingers. “C’mon, have your own birthday. It’s healthy.”

He conceded and supposed that he was right. These days, Dave was finally earning things that were his own– his own clothes, his own time, his own thoughts, his own license. It seemed only fitting that he got his own birthday, too.

“I like September as a month,” he said finally. It was a start.

A smirk from Jack. “Of course you do.”

“What’s that mean?” Dave questioned innocently, tilting his head.

“It means, stop being cute and think of a number.”

“Fine. Fine. A number. I’ll think o’ one.” Dave stared at the box and thought.

Jack teased, “What, forgot them all?”

In reply, Dave stuck his tongue out at him, then went back to tapping the end of his pen on the counter. A number. Something easy to remember, something meaningful.

“The second,” he finally came up with.

Jack nodded, but asked, “Why that day?”

“Just feels like a good day to be born.” He smiled and poked at him with the pen. “Ya feel me?”

Swatting him away and motioning to the paperwork, Jack said, “Nope. Not at all. And that’s the beauty of it. Put it down.”

Dave obligingly scribbled down the date with a smile. The rest of the questions were easy, even bordering on repetitive. Stuff he knew, like his address or his emergency contact. He finished with a grin, setting down the pen and flipping back to the first page. The lady across the counter had almost taken it back before something jumped out at Dave.

“Wait! Wait jus’ a sec, I wanna change something.”

Only with a dull sigh did the woman give him his paperwork back. Snatching up the pen again, Dave went to the very first box and crossed out his old answer. It left him with just enough blank space to scribble down a new one.

And he spared a quick glance at Jack before he wrote his name with no pause and with no hesitation:

Dave Kennedy.