35. Uneasy nights

Summary: Dave has a nightmare that leaves him crying, Jack does his best to comfort.

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Sorry life got busy and I fell into everything block, but I did plan a book and become an adult in the meantime! Anyway, back with another chapter that has nights in the title. This is becoming a pattern.

Thank you to all who helped me brainstorm on this, special credits to Springlucked and Igottoo for some lines that are used in here!

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The world had never been quite this red. Crimson spilled anywhere he looked: from the floor on which he lay sprawled, to the metal that enveloped him, and finally; each and every one of his limbs. It gushed from his wounds incomprehensibly quick, failing to raise a hand to stifle the bleeding, instead met with a sharp sting of pain. Even the notion of moving seemed to hurt, mastering his body with the sheer throbbing of steel piercing his flesh, his vision momentarily going colourless before he nodded back awake by virtue of a sting of torment. It was as if he could feel every individual springlock pierce his skin and dig into his flesh, sharpened metal scraping his bone.

A gargled rumble emerged from his throat in response to his attempt to inhale, blood filling his trachea instead of air. His instinct was to cough, as if he was choking on something solid instead, sending tormenting shots of pain through the entirety of his body again as his struggle made him shake. A wad of crimson splattered against the metal prison that confined him, running down in streaks that only reminded him of how helpless he was to stop his own bleeding. Swallowing it back only polluted his mouth with even more of a metallic taste, he momentarily feared that he'd throw up and pass in a pathetic amalgamation of his own vomit and blood.

No matter how many times he'd already lived through this, it never got any easier; that feeling of sheer panic remained. Instead, he opened his mouth without making an effort to suck in a breath. He should've known he could live without oxygen by now, an objectionable surprise when he'd attempted to asphyxiate himself one unfortunate night. For a moment he merely sat there, helpless and alone, trying to find anything that would distract him from the sheer agony his body basked in when a door creaked open elsewhere in the room.

His attempt to turn his head towards the sound was quickly stopped by piercing metal tearing through his neck, keeping him secured firmly into place. Footsteps traced nearer, just out of his view; careful and calculated. He tried desperately to call to the presence, knowing few people came into the saferoom, but the labour on his vocal cord made agony race through him again. Torn, they must've been; Henry's name came out as nothing but another gabled sob in which he choked on his own blood. He dreaded bile would emerge along with the efflux of ichor again, something within him still feared Henry would see him in a disgustingly fragile state in a moment like this.

Silence, quickly disturbed by a deep and low laugh, almost as if to mock his helpless state. Maybe Henry didn't realise it was him who was trapped in the suit, he tried telling himself desperately, knowing that his purple skin was a stark contrast to the dirtied yellow of the suit. He tried moving his arm, tried to prove that he was strong enough to reach out, show his worth to Henry amidst his suffering. Metal tore further through him, tracing deep wounds along his flesh at the movement, a pain so sharp he feared he might just pass out as his vision swam before going colourless.

His arm fell motionless in his lap and laughing stifled to a silence, so heavy it was somehow worse than being ridiculed altogether. He dreaded the moment that footsteps would discard him, slam the door and leave him to helplessly rot here until he managed to pry the sharp impalements from the meat of his flesh. He tried calling out again to no avail, an indecorous apology that went unspoken and unheard, disrupted by a wave of bile finally crashing from his equally torn lips, scattering across the metal plating inches away from his face. It carried a penetrating stench that intertwined with his blood and tears, a gross mixture of which he couldn't even begin to imagine how it'd infect any and all of his wounds until they'd secrede a discoloured puss.

He blinked against the heaviness that weighed onto his eyelashes, crimson that seeped from his forehead and scalp, to no avail as he felt them slowly shut. The pain had demanded too much of his energy, and for a brief moment he stirred onto stained sheets instead, body slick with sweat as he turned around, arms slipping from the person beside him. The saferoom was empty when he finally opened his eyes again, he could feel the absence of such a prominent presence without having to look. The mixture of blood and vomit had dried across his skin, a sticky sensation that cracked with the littlest of movement.

He had to get out: prove that he was determined to live, committed to Henry and their dream. Groaning against the pain was fruitless, it only made the pounding ache worse, so without so much as a squeak: he raised a hand towards his chest. His entire body burned with agony, so much so that the additional movement hardly made a difference anymore. Through broken pants and sweat intertwining with the previous miscellany; he struggled with the suit's obnoxiously large fingers, trying to undo his chestplate. His limited sight didn't help either, and he swore he could feel a part of his finger snap off as he finally managed to pull the metal from his chest, the loud clunk that followed startling him.

It was for the better that he couldn't see how many of his injuries lay exposed, and he tried desperately not to think about the way an additional steel ribcage was merged into his flesh. Instead, he used the increased mobility to clasp his hands together, working on where the suit's glove was lodged into his wrist. Clicking the springlock back in place, he quietly prayed that his wrist would still be functional without the metal to keep it upright: it was his only hope to pry the springlocks from his body. He couldn't imagine what it'd be like to rot in that suit for years, helpless and alone as the two slowly merged into one, until he'd finally be able to function again as even less of a person than he was now.

The metal fell from his hand, and he was more than relieved to be able to stretch his fingers out. With a crooked smile, hindered by the metal that pierced his cheeks, he raised his hand before his eyes to see it; trembling and missing the upper knuckle to his ring finger, but functional regardless. He quickly used his hand to free the other, so blissful he momentarily forgot about the lingering ache, and raised them towards his head immediately.

The neck was the worst, it always had been, but he needed the suit's head off to be able to see all the springlocks below his shoulders. Along with that, he didn't want to suffocate in the pungent stench of his own barf, some of which had collected in a rancid puddle just below his chin. Drawing a deep breath that resulted in a cough against the blood that rumbled in his throat, he raised his hands up to the springlocks that pierced his already crooked neck. This'd be the worst and it'd only get easier after, he told himself repeatedly as he steadied his grip on the metal; just one firm pull and it'll be over.

Frantically counting to three in his head, he put all the force he had in his exhausted and trembling body into tearing the steel rods from his neck. The barbed end of it tugged on his flesh, pulling a painful chunk with it as it ragged roughly through his skin, making his mind go temporarily blank from the utter and relentless agony that hit him at the notion. A wave of air briefly hit his throat through the wounds, before blood clogged it again, erupting in spurts that gushed against his hands which held the springlocks he still hadn't clicked back into place entirely.

His arms were sore, aching and bleeding rapidly at the effort, and even gritting his teeth hurt beyond comprehension. In a split second, before he could so much as grasp how slippery his blood made the springlocks, his fingers slipped. The steel rods shot right back into the flesh of his bleeding and aching wounds, somehow faster and harder than before, and Dave swore he could feel it dig into the marrow of his very bone before his body shot up: breathless, slick with sweat and wide awake.

His entire body was trembling, breath shallow as he reached for a heart that should've been racing, clutching his fingers into the flimsy shirt that likely didn't even belong to him. He swallowed, as if the ability to do so proved that he was here instead of bleeding out in a metal prison, glancing towards his other hand which clutched stained sheets, where his eyes lingered on the stump that abruptly brought his ring finger to an end. He raised it towards his neck, tracing along the notably prominent scar on the side of it. The tissue had risen there, a wound so deep it hardly managed to heal on its own. He swallowed again; it did nothing to calm him down.

Jack still slept serenely beside him, his back towards Dave and chest slowly rising, a soft snore resonating through the otherwise quiet room. The way he lay there, unbothered and unaware of the past that haunted Dave, made him feel the overwhelming urge to cry. Weep about his own stupidity, the one that had ruined him; left him scarred and without Henry. He couldn't do anything but blame himself, his already panicked mind flooding with all the ways he could've made a change, the dream that he'd never quite achieve. His hand shifted from the cavity in his chest towards the bridge of his nose, pressing his fingers into the crease of his eyes as though to stifle his tears.

He wasn't allowed to cry, never had been: it was nothing but a bother. Incessant waterworks that showed weakness, a trait that should be yielded once it showed itself according to Henry. Dave knew he couldn't, no matter how much he tried, his emotions would become so overwhelming they'd get the better of him. Instead, he'd stifle them; wait until he was certain Henry couldn't hear before he'd break down in frantic sobs by himself, wait until he was safe. The way he had conditioned himself to only cry when alone was the last thing that prevented the tears from falling now that he had Jack beside him; he couldn't risk waking him and exposing his own vulnerability.

It worked the majority of the time, he'd put on a brave face no matter what Henry threw his way, and process it all on his own. Only on a few occasions had Henry caught him amidst a manic outburst of terror, but each was equally as memorable. He recalled trashing the saferoom when he thought Henry had left once, a mixture of unbridled rage as a result of an overwhelming sadness at his own incompetence. His face stained with tears that raised a blurry filter over the sight of tools scattered across the floor, suits dented in several places where he had kicked them aside. He'd barely caught his rapid breath when a voice spoke up behind him, so cold and chilling he immediately snapped back to reality.

"William."

He didn't dare turn towards the door, frozen in place as Henry paced around him. His face didn't even provide him with the littlest indication of his thoughts, and it momentarily seemed as though Henry was fully aware that this was a regular occurrence. He scooped up a wrench which lay on the floor just before William's feet, turning it over in his hand before resting the cold metal against the bottom of William's chin, just below the scar it had once left there.

"Straighten your shoulders."

He demanded, his voice as cold as his gaze, and the wrench forced his head up along with the rest of his body while William fixed his hunched posture. For the unbridled belch of emotions that had just ravaged both his body and the room, he was suddenly extremely aware of his every move, unable to do anything but stare at Henry's expressionless face as he slowly retracted the wrench. His fist balled around the handle, he moved both hands behind his back. It did nothing to calm William's nerves, he had learned that Henry struck when he least expected it, he was certain Henry could tell.

"This isn't proper behavior, Willy."

William swallowed in response, trying to stifle the tears that threatened behind his eyes. For a moment it felt like he was an infant again, called into the office to be told that he'd have to gather what little belongings he had to leave the orphanage, trying desperately to put on a brave face: he knew he'd need it out there as well. Henry clicked his tongue, something he'd do on occasion if only to get a reaction out of William, who practically shrunk under the sound.

"I need this room restored to its original state by midnight, understood?"

Henry asked, though it resembled a stark likeness to a demand. William merely nodded, eagerly, as if to show that he was utterly devoted to the task. Henry retreated back towards the door, letting his wrench fall to the floor with a clank that nearly had William jump in place, before sighing a breath of relief at the reduction of a threat. He quickly moved to gather the mess nearest to him, head only shooting up towards Henry when he lingered in the doorframe, speaking with a low but equally authoritative voice:

"You disappoint me."

Even now, years later, those words still echoed in his head. He'd stopped fearing death long ago, yet the very prospect of disappointing Henry made his eyes burn and his breath grow ragged, trying desperately to wipe tears from his eyes before he could allow himself to acknowledge that he was crying. Almost as if his throat was filling with blood again, he found himself struggling to breathe at the recollection of the memory, gasping for shallow breaths that only enhanced the sound of his sobs. He tried to stifle it with a hand over his mouth, the other still furiously wiping at the tears he couldn't hold back anymore, worriedly glancing through a blurry vision to check if Jack was still asleep.

He didn't want to disappoint Jack as well. He liked to think Jack still saw him as who he wanted to be: confident with a goal, a companion who'd grant him immortality; show him the joy of creation. Surely waking up to him weeping uncontrollably, seemingly out of nowhere, would shatter the image he had so carefully constructed for himself. Dave wondered briefly what his reaction would be: confused, angry, or maybe as demeaning as Henry could be at times? He couldn't quite figure out why, he supposed Henry's comments were made with good intent afterall, but the prospect of seeing Henry in Jack only made more tears stream down his face. Unable to stifle the noise any longer, he buried his face in his pillow, just a little too late as sheets stirred beside him.

"Dude, shut up, I-"

Jack spoke in a drowsy voice as he rubbed the sleep for his face, unbothered to do anything but turn his head towards Dave in response to the noise that had woken him. There was a hint of annoyance in his tone, one that quickly dissipated once he heard what the sound exactly was. Whatever comment he was about to make in regards to trying to sleep vanished into thin air, and he raised to support himself on his elbows. Dave's shallow gasps for breath interfered by equally frantic sobs increased once he noticed Jack was awake, unable to help himself from all that overwhelmed him any longer.

"Are you- Are you crying...?"

"No-"

Dave responded, with the most broken tone of voice Jack had ever heard him speak with. It seemed as though Dave was trying to make himself as small as possible, his back towards Jack as he curled in on himself with his pillow clutched to his chest, his face still buried within it. He attempted to steady his breath, trying to make himself invisible, but found himself choking as though those metal bars were lodged right back into his neck. Jack now sat up fully, surprised concern etched across his face as he rested a hand on Dave's shoulder.

"C'mon, don't lie to me. I can tell..."

His hand traced along Dave's shoulder in a manner that he hoped was soothing, his words uncharacteristically gentle. Dave had the occasional mood swings in which he'd suddenly grow incredibly upset, but he'd never seen him cry in such a manner. It was foreign and left him clueless on what to do, but he could tell that his presence was needed now more than anytime from the way Dave's body shook under his palm.

"M' sorry-"

Dave muttered, hardly audible over the sharp breaths he took. It wasn't uncommon for them to have disagreements, especially considering how often they were intoxicated, but Jack couldn't recall anything even remotely resemblant of that happening before they crashed into bed together late that night. Instead, he spoke with a gentle whisper:

"You have nothin' to be sorry for Davey-"

But Dave's mind was racing with nothing but all the things he had to apologise for, all the wrong he had ever done; from the little girl that struggled exceptionally at both his and Henry's hands, to the insignificant incidents like the beer he had spilled across Jack's shirt one night. His promise of immortality remained unfulfilled, and something within him couldn't help but fear Jack was only waiting around him for it to come true, that their friendship meant nothing at its core. Thinking about the flaws Henry had tried to warn him for only made him more upset, and he found all further apologies hitching in the back of his throat, lodged beneath the keloid on his neck. Moments passed, Jack remaining unmoving aside from the hand that was still tracing gently across Dave's upper arm. Only when it became apparent that Dave's crying wouldn't seize itself, did he speak again:

"You can tell me if there's something wrong, y'know-?"

Dave remained motionless aside from the soft shake of his shoulders that was courtesy of his crying, squeezing his eyes shut as if the darkness behind his eyelids could somehow hide the light lurking beyond the confines where simple observation merely couldn't reach. He said nothing, speaking around Henry had led him into slip-ups too many times for him to even so much as feel capable of opening his mouth.

"Look, if you're not talking I can't help you either..."

His voice was defeated, almost as helpless as Dave's own, disappointed that he didn't trust him with whatever was plaguing him to such an extent. Just as he was about to retract his hand from Dave's shoulder, gangly purple fingers reached up to latch onto him, a certain desperation within the movement. Dave's voice was breathless, as though it took him a great effort to speak those two simple words:

"Please stay-"

Jack halted in his movement immediately, unable to suppress a slight prideful smile at the prospect of his presence being wanted. He hummed a soft agreement, resting his palm on Dave's shoulder again. A moment more passed before Dave softened his grip on Jack's hand, giving Jack the opportunity to wrap it around Dave's waist instead. He laid down alongside him, arm around Dave's waist pulling him closer so that he was spooning him. With his face buried in Dave's hair, tangled and undone, he pressed an affirmative kiss to the back of his neck. For a moment the room was utterly quiet, and he swore Dave's sobs lessened as he felt his breath steady where his palm rested on the man's chest.

"S' a shame you're not talkin'- I like your voice..."

Jack murmured into Dave's hair, voice low with the knowledge that he was mere inches from his ear. His attempt to lighten the mood was successful, hearing a soft and breathless laugh emerge from Dave as he moved a hand to wipe at his tears. Jack hadn't at all reacted like he expected him to; he was surprisingly patient and gentle, trying to understand rather than telling him how to feel. The confirmative noise only encouraged Jack further, nuzzling deeper into Dave:

"Your accent, I like the way it curls around my name-"

It felt like more of a confession than reassurance, and Jack was more than glad that Dave couldn't see his face. He felt Dave tense against him, for entirely different reasons this time, and silence embraced them before Dave spoke, his voice hoarse:

"Oh, c'mon old sport..."

Jack was more than glad to hear Dave's usual tone resurface, his voice laced with that lighthearted tone he had grown to love. The room seemed to shift entirely, and Jack's voice also adapted to a similar joyful tone:

"See? Just like that-!"

"Ya' flatter me sportsy-"

"Hah, I'm sure you've heard that plenty of times-!"

The small smile on Dave's lips vanished just as quickly as it had appeared, and the momentarily illusion of normalcy fled the room with it. The accent had stuck with him ever since he was a little child on the streets; people found it adorable when he was young, commented on it before they'd toss him a coin or two if he was lucky. Integrated in his youth to the point where he hadn't been able to speak without it, something which became particularly obvious once he followed the circus out of the city. There people frowned upon it, thought him to be weirder than he already was by virtue of his purple skin and ragged clothes.

"Sorry- Should I not have said that-?"

Jack carefully asked, also having picked up on the abrupt shift, but his words went unregistered. Instead, he was stuck on another hazy memory, recollections so prominent he wasn't sure he'd ever be able to forget them. Henry had called him into his office, a place he was rarely granted permission to visit, for no apparent reason. It happened occasionally, but there was always a reason for it: a mistake he had made, prominent enough for him to realise it ahead of time. This volution left him grappling into the darkness for any possible explanation, the day had gone exceptionally well from his perspective.

"Ya' wanted ta' see me, Henry-?"

He carefully asked, pushing the door open as he remained standing in the doorframe, waiting to be granted permission inside. He'd learned not to presume anything when it came to Henry, always asking for permission before he did. Henry straightened his back from where he sat hunched over his desk, setting his pencil down with just a little bit too much force behind the movement. His chair creaked under the shift as he turned in it to face William, beconning for him to come further into his office. The door fell shut behind him, dim lighting enveloping him alongside a set of nerves.

"You've held your dialect for quite some time, William."

Henry began, folding his hands under his chin and eyeing William as if he was a predator ready to attack his prey; studying his every move and waiting for him to falter. He could shrink under that gaze, it made him feel as though Henry could see right through his very being and see how imperfect he was. Only when Henry gave him a few seconds to process his overtly faculty words, did he understand what he meant.

"The accent...?"

He fumbled with both his hands and words, voice far less confident than he had hoped as his hands toyed with each other in a manner he prayed wasn't obvious. Henry rose from his chair, making him appear more imposing despite William being the taller of the two.

"Tell me, why have you clung to it for so long?"

"Well, y'know- I was jus' kinda raised with it..."

His eyes darted to the floor, looking at Henry's was somehow worse than merely feeling that piercing glare burn into him. He really had no better explanation; it connected him to his roots, sure, but he was certain he wouldn't be able to get rid of it if he tried.

"You realise it unsettles customers, do you not?"

William hated how Henry always phrased things as questions when they were really direct statements, it tricked him into responding. He hadn't noticed an abundance of misgiving towards the prominence of his accent among customers; there was the occasional comment on it, or the quick question where it was from, but nothing more than that. Even despite that, he had learned it was for the better not to argue with whatever Henry inquired him about; a wrench to the face had proven as much. Besides, he didn't want to disappoint him.

"Yes, I'll- I'll try ta' hide it..."

But he never could. No matter how much he tried, practised into the deep hours of the night: the remnants of a youth spent on the streets of New York persisted. What had once been a trait he adored quickly turned into one he despised, a cancer attached to him upon which Henry would frown if he heard it grow particularly prominent. It was foreign to have someone openly adore it, when he himself hadn't been able to ever since that afternoon that should've been insignificant. He wiped a lone tear from his face at the recollection, trying to shake the memory as he turned to lay on his other side, facing Jack now.

"No, sportsy, ya'- Ya' say all the right things..."

His words were stifled by a breathless sob, averting his eyes from Jack's as though he was still afraid of showing vulnerability even when Jack had been nothing but patient and caring. As if he could see right into his thoughts; Jack raised a hand to cup his cheek, using the pad of his thumb to wipe away his tears before they could reach his jawline. When Dave finally met his gaze, his face was etched with concerned adoration, a look he wouldn't even have dreamed of seeing on Henry. He raised his own hand to lay his palm over Jack's knuckles, briefly relishing in the contact before Jack spoke again:

"Y'wanna tell me why you were crying now-?"

Dave drew a deep breath in response, finally able to do so, as he thought back on the nightmare that had left him so distressed. A part of him was still processing how that wasn't his reality anymore, how his scars had healed and how he lay in a Vegas motel rather than a puddle of his own blood. As if instinctively, he wrapped his arms around Jack's torso and pulled him closer, happily embraced by arms laced with matching scars beneath faded orange foundation. He buried his face into Jack's chest with a huff, relishing in the fact that he was real and tangible; a companion who was there for him and loved him for who he was.

"I had'a nightmare-"

It felt silly to admit it, he hadn't even done anything like that as a child by virtue of being an orphan, yet he felt safe while Jack gently threaded his fingers through his hair, undoing stray tangles. He briefly stopped the gesture to pull their sheets up to Dave's shoulders, making sure he was adequately covered before returning to comb his hair.

"About 'em springlock accidents..."

It was easier to talk when he didn't have to look anyone in the eye, when he had had the gentle contact of Jack's hand on his back and in his hair to focus on instead. Jack huffed an empathetic breath, and it seemed as if he hugged him a little tighter at the mention. Dave returned the notion, embracing Jack's body closely as if it would somehow allow him to absorb the body heat he himself lacked.

"I get those too, sometimes..."

Jack confessed, and from his tone of voice Dave could tell he felt it was equally absurd to admit such a thing. He couldn't help but smile a little at the notion, comforted in the knowledge that he wasn't alone, despite having felt he was for the near entirety of his life.

"Old sport, are ya' ever scared of it when you get in those suits-?"

"All the time."

Jack dreaded those suits: the metal encasing him, pressing up against his body and shooting loose with the slightest of movement. He'd expected it to hurt less now that he was practically a zombie, but the stinging agony of steel merging with flesh never seemed to lessen. They were nearly as bad as the sense of impending doom he felt when he remembered how much Freddy's had taken from him and his family, though he supposed nothing would ever quite surpass that.

"Really old sport? Ya' don't seem like it!"

"I know, I-"

Jack drew a sharp breath; he was getting uncharacteristically vulnerable, but then again, Dave had done the exact same.

"-I hide it, by joking about it, pretending I'm not terrified..."

It felt as though a weight fell from his shoulders by speaking that sentence out loud, concerns he had internalized for years suddenly coming to light. Contrary to his previous expectation, he didn't half mind Dave hearing them.

"Y'know what sportsy-? Let's never go back! Ya' ain't never gotta worry again-!"

"I'd like that Davey..."

It was a bitter lie, from the both of them. Dave had a legacy to fulfil, a dream to pursue and the vague notion of an image to build which would make Henry proud, while Jack knew he'd eventually have to reverse all that. But it felt nice to picture a life without Freddy's, where they could be happy together, if only for just a moment. Jack supposed Dave was one of few good things that Freddy's provided him with, he wouldn't have found an inkling of this comfort elsewhere, and for that alone he was thankful.

"G'night old sport, and thank you..."

Dave whispered after a moment of silence, his voice weighed with sleep as he nuzzled his face more comfortably into Jack's chest. Met with the same exhaustion he always seemed to experience when his limbs were intertwined with Dave's, Jack mumbled a goodnight in response before kissing the crown of Dave's head and shutting his eyes.

That night, for just a moment, they could dream about a shared future instead of a past suffered alone.

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[5215 words]

Scratches ass nonchalantly