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.