Chapter Text
March 19, Tuesday, Freddy Fazbender’s Pizzeria, 9:30 PM
Jack, while scraping gum off from under a table in the dining room, cursed every toddler in existence.
He’d never understand how so many wads of watermelon-flavored chewing gum found themselves under there. He laid on his back and chiseled away, the occasional plink of another ancient piece chipping off into a tray.
It was Phoney’s idea of a punishment for waltzing off to Vegas without telling anyone. Now Jack was assigned the crappy tasks every day after closing. Well, not just him.
The back door slammed open. Jack heard a familiar set of footsteps ambling over to where Jack was, and a grinning purple face craning down below to face him.
Dave tilted his head. “Hey. You still doin’ this?” he asked, tapping a table leg.
“Yeah.” Another wad of gum fell off the table. “Still don’t know how you finished so goddamn fast.”
“I just moved the clean tables near the front door.” At Jack’s silence, he went on. “What, ya think Phoney would check all of them? Nuh-uh. Dude’s minimum effort, maximum profit.”
“Huh.” Jack thought about that. “I guess. You know, when you’re not acting like a complete idiot, you’re actually kind of smart, Dave.”
“I know. Thanks.”
“No, really.” Jack glanced over to his giant pile of already-removed chewing gum wads.
Dave wrinkled his nose in mild disgust. “Well. Anyway. Get out from under there, I wanna show you somethin’. I stopped by a drugstore, got some photos made of our Vegas trip.”
The Vegas trip. That hazy week of drinking, gambling, hookers, bright lights, and that horrid floor-to-floor carpeting in every damned casino.
Jack, generally, had a good time.
The weird patterned wallpaper in their hotel did get to him after a while. But it was Dave in comparison who had been absolutely enthralled with every part of the trip, always smiling and always grabbing Jack‘s arm as he dragged them both off to another tacky gift shop.
Jack realized— after they’d practically been dragged back to the pizzeria by the ears by Phoney— that whenever he thought back to the Vegas trip, he mostly thought of Dave: his excited eyes in the Vegas lights, or the way he grabbed Jack’s hand when he won in poker, or his sleeping face when they eventually collapsed in their hotel bed and Jack just watched him for a while.
But of course, all of those were totally normal thoughts. And if they weren’t, Jack didn’t quite want to unpack any of it.
“Pictures? Of our trip?” he asked. Dave never did anything like that.
“Uh-huh. C’mon, Old Sport, I got a whole stack here.”
Jack got out from under the table, only realizing when he was already up that Dave had been offering a helping hand. He quickly pulled it away.
A fleeting, slightly embarrassed moment passed before a thick manila envelope was shoved into Jack’s hands. “Didn’t take you as the sentimental type,” he said with a smirk, opening it up.
Dave stuck his tongue out. “Don’t take me for a sap. I was just thinking we can stick them up in the storage room, remind us of the good ol’ days. Keep us going, yeah?” Dave prodded him with his elbow.
Jack hummed in reply as he slipped the stack of photos out of the envelope. He thumbed through them with a growing smile.
Dave peeked over his shoulder and looked over them along with Jack, looking proud like a kid showing off his artwork.
It was as expected: photos of the two of them in casinos, all varying levels of drunk and hastily smiling at the camera Dave had shoved into some poor suckers hands.
“Are you kidding?” Jack said to him. “These are great.”
The photos were pretty cute, in all honesty. Real memories captured. Dave and his genuine smile, all laughter in every picture.
He had his arm around Jack in nearly all of them.
But one photo in particular stood out: bright pink text haphazardly typed out on top of a photo of the both of them, the two caught mid-laugh as Dave put a hand on Jack’s shoulder.
“‘Thanks for the help, Old Sport’?” Jack read the text directly from the photo. “‘From Davey’. That’s cute. Think the heart’s a bit much?”
Dave froze, smile dropping momentarily before he snatched the photo out of Jack’s hands. “Stupid store. Fucked up my photos.”
“Right.”
“No, no, really,” he fumbled for a lie, clutching the photo face-down. “Those drugstores are always screwing ya over, I swear. Wanting me to go back and spend more money than I already did. They charge ten cents a photo, did you know that? Insane.”
“You’re rambling.”
“Let me ramble, Sportsy. Ten. Cents.”
Jack didn’t push further, he just rolled his eyes with a little smile. “Tsk. I’m gonna want that photo, though.”
“What photo?” Dave feigned ignorance as he slipped the picture into the folder.
Jack flipped him off as he threw out his tray of collecting gum. “C’mon,” he said, stepping back over to where he was folding away the envelope. “It’s literally addressed to me. I’m Old Sport.”
“Well. Maybe I know other Old Sports,” Dave offered with a shrug.
“Like hell you do,” Jack said, looking up at the clock warning him of the evening traffic. “Shit. It’s late. I’m off. You need a ride?”
“I’ll manage,” Dave said, packing the rest of his photos away in a surprisingly neat stack back into the envelope. “G’night, Old Sport.”
“Alright. Goodnight…”
Jack, mid-sentence, was still thinking about Dave’s fumble at the nickname, his embarrassment at the photo. And at that point, Jack had a brilliant thought. (Not to say that Jsck’s thoughts weren’t all brilliant. Except for that Thursday night in Vegas.)
(They didn’t talk about that Thursday night in Vegas.)
And so, Jack decided to be an asshole.
“…Goodnight, Davey,” he drawled out with a smile.
Dave’s eyes snapped up to his, hands fumbling around the envelope, mouthing a shocked ‘what?’
Jack then turned on his heel and practically skipped out of the restaurant, hearing Dave fumble and curse behind him as he dropped his photos.
–
March 20, Wednesday, Freddy Fazbender’s Pizzeria, 12:00 PM
“Please, Fredbear! One more magic trick!”
“Don’t go!”
“Fredbear, c’mon! For the party, please!”
Jack, standing in the dining room in the hefty Fredbear suit, leaned to get a better view over the crowd of pleading kids. He wasn’t paying attention to them, not really, he was focused on Dave. He had hobbled off the stage in his Spring Bonnie suit, drops of blood seeping out onto the edges of the leg.
Springlock failure. Nasty thing.
Jack hadn’t even realized it’d happened onstage; Dave had just gritted his teeth and told Jack what happened in the quietest voice he’d ever heard him speak in.
Thankfully, it was just two small springlocks that failed, both in the leg. Jack knew he’d be fine, with his cockroach-level resilience against death, but was worried nonetheless.
When Dave eventually stumbled toward the hallway of the saferoom, he wrenched off the Spring Bonnie head. He looked up and gave Jack a weak smile and a fatigued look before pushing the door open and disappearing.
Jack sighed, and got ready to tell the kids that he— er, Fredbear— needed to go. He wasn’t about to tell them he needed to check on his springlocked coworker.
“Please-e-e!” a girl whined to him, snapping Jack out of his concerned thoughts. “Can you sing to us?”
Jack, already off the pizzeria stage and trying very hard not to jostle the springlocks, held his breath as a handful of kids clinged to the Fredbear suit.
He really, really wanted to end it here. The suit was starting to feel heavy, and he would be all alone up there anyway, seeing as how Dave was… out of service.
Jack tried as best he could to uncurl the kids hands from the legs of the costume, but the children were relentless.
“Please. Mr. Fredbear, sir,” one little girl asked. “Could you sing a song? For me?” She was wearing a birthday sash.
Jack paused, sighed, reassured himself that Dave would be okay for a few minutes more, and nodded to the kids tiredly. The children cheered and laughed as Jack wobbled back on stage.
——
The kids begged for a second song, but Jack was already off the stage and waving his goodbyes.
He already had the Fredbear head removed by the time he made his way down the hall. He couldn’t care less about Phoney’s rules at this point, since he was tired and worried. He just wanted to get the rest of the springlock suit off and, after checking on Dave, take a nap. Reaching the saferoom, he pushed open the door and caught sight of Dave, smiling lazily as he lay sprawled out on the armchair. An icepack was tied around his foot. Guess it wasn’t as bad as he imagined it to be.
“Hey, Fredbear,” he crooned. “Nice performance back there.”
Jack rolled his eyes and tossed the Fredbear head back on a shelf. He felt his face flush as he remembered how worked up he’d gotten over Dave, how worried he’d gotten. He got to work fumbling with the springlocks around his neck as he said, “I know, I know.”
Dave hummed in acknowledgment. “Hey, did I hear singing o’er there?”
Jack's hands stilled around the costume. “No,” he lied.
“Ah, don’t screw with me. I know I heard it,” teased Dave, who would have leapt out of his armchair if he could. Instead he just gave a wide smile and pointed at Jack. “But, ya never sing. At least, not when I’m up there with ya. Why not?”
“Think you just answered your own question,” huffed Jack as he carefully removed the chestpiece. He moved on to the legs. “It was a today-only thing.”
“Awwwe…” groaned Dave. “But you’ve got such a nice singin’ voice…”
Jack, for the second time in the last five minutes, stumbled while undoing the springlocks. Dave was literally going to get him killed here.
“Ack. Shut up,” Jack said, hoping Dave couldn’t see his blush. “It was just Happy Birthday.”
“You’re really gonna say that to me?” Dave feigned a sad voice as he clutched his chest dramatically. “I’m injured, and you’re saying this to me.”
“Barely. You’re literally fine. Think you just wanted an excuse to slack off.”
Dave pointed to the icepack tied round his foot. “Injured,” he insisted.
Jack rolled his eyes as he peeled off another leg piece. Now he just had his arm left.
“I’d still wanna hear you sing,” said Dave, who was now picking at the seams of the couch.
“And I still want to see those Vegas pictures,” Jack put in, lifting his eyebrows.
Dave raised his hand, probably to give Jack the finger, before he lowered it, thinking. “Maybe,” he said thoughtfully. “One day. If you’re nice.”
“I’d like that.” Then Jack remembered something with a smirk. “Davey.”
Dave choke-laughed. “Don’t start with that, I beg of ya. I’ll call you something worse.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know.” Dave went quiet, thinking. The corners of his lips then curled up into a smile as he said, “I’d have to think of somethin’, love.”
Jack’s fingers slipped in shock, and he felt the springlocks under his hand shift in the entirely wrong direction. He gasped at the sharp jolt of pain in his thumb before seeing the first tinges of blood seeping into the costume arm.
“L— Old Sport?” called Dave from his spot on the sofa, his voice taking on a concerned edge.
Jack was too focused on wringing the arm piece off. It clattered to the floor as Jack turned his hand over and assessed whatever the fuck just happened. Damned springlocks. Two of them sliced the back of his hand, just enough to draw blood. A relatively small cut, but it hurt like hell.
“What happened?” Dave asked, whose voice sounded a lot closer this time. Jack turned around and yelped in surprise at Dave standing there over his shoulder, eyebrows furrowed, balancing the icepack on his foot.
“You’re supp— Sit down! You’re supposed to be, like, resting!”
“‘S fine. Is it your hand?” Dave pointed. “Can I see?”
“No!” Jack said, exasperated, and push-guided Dave back to his sofa with his non-bleeding hand. Dave just stuck his tongue out at him as he fell back onto the couch.
“Fine, jeez. Sitting, see? Now show me your hand.” Dave pointed to the bleeding fingers that Jack was clutching. He sighed but obliged and held out his hand.
Dave took it and looked it over with a carefulness usually only reserved for when he tinkered with machinery.
Jack held his breath, for whatever reason. With Dave’s hand on his own he didn’t quite know what else to do. The look-over seemed to continue on for way longer than necessary for Dave’s eventual flat diagnosis: “You’ll live.”
Jack pulled his hand back and cradled it. “Gee. Thanks.”
Dave shrugged and assumed his previous lying position on the sofa, legs hanging over the armrest. He swung a hand to point across the room. “I got some bandages to wrap it in, it’s in my employee locker.”
“M’kay, doc,” Jack mused.
Crossing over to the metal lockers, he frowned in front of Dave’s: #987. He looked over to him. Jack could only see the back of his head from where he was standing. “I dunno your combination,” Jack called. “Come over here.”
Dave remained where he was and pointed a hand up as he recited, “It’s… oh, thirty-one, nine, seventeen…”
Jack listened and thumbed in the right numbers. The lock gave way and he unhooked it, opening the old metal door.
It felt weirdly intimate. This was Dave’s locker, after all. They never did this. And Dave had certainly never seen the inside of Jack’s.
(Author's note: he definitely has.)
Jack just eyed the contents of the locker for a moment, surprised that it was actually somewhat clean. He noted the purple rainjacket hanging on a hook; on the shelves was a comb, keys with way too many keychains, lip balm, a chocolate bar, and lots of candy wrappers.
It was void of any decoration or hangings. Except, of course, the printed picture carefully taped on the inner door:
The two of them in Vegas, colorful lights dancing around them, both of them laughing and drunk, Dave’s arm around Jack.
Jack realized he’d been staring when he heard Dave’s voice call, “Ya find it yet?”
“Uh.” Scrambling, Jack found some old first-aid kit near his keys and took a spool of bandaging cloth. It was purple, of course. He closed the locker and replaced the lock before crossing over to Dave.
“Ah. Good,” Dave said when he saw Jack unwrapping the spool.
Thinking ahead, Jack realized this wound was going to be rather difficult to wrap, seeing as how his dominant hand was indisposed and sort of bleeding out.
Dave must have noticed his struggle and said to him with a wave of his hand, “Give it here.”
Jack, again, obliged and gave him the spool as Dave took his hand.
He wrapped it carefully, as Jack watched in a sort of quiet fascination. He’d never seen Dave so… gentle. He was so focused on this fact that he didn’t realize that Dave was all finished and looking at him with a confused smile.
“What?” Dave asked with a smirk, when Jack still hadn’t pulled his hand away. “Want me to kiss your boo-boo?”
He yanked his hand away with wide eyes and scrambled to say something. “I saw the picture. In your locker.”
“Mhm?” Dave prompted, propping his elbows on his arms as he faced Jack. “It’s just us in Vegas.”
“Yeah. But, I just didn’t know you, I dunno, thought back on that trip. In that way.”
Dave tilted his head. “Was the best goddamned trip I ever went on. Why wouldn’t I?”
“Really?”
“Honest, Old Sport,” Dave said, and noticing that Jack was serious about this, he sat up a bit straighter to meet Jack’s eyes. “I wouldn’t lie to ya. Not about that.”
Jack blinked down at his feet. Huh.
“That’s why I printed out all those pictures. To remember it.”
“Your ten cents,” Jack remembered with a smile.
Dave laughed, and it brightened the room with just the sound of it. “Yeah. Yeah. Four fuckin’ hours at Walgreens,” Dave mused. “All those dimes, all for us.”
Jack watched Dave shake his head and look him in the eyes, face evening out into total earnest.
“To be completely serious with ya,” started Dave, and though he never was, Jack had a feeling he really meant it this time. “I really like spending time with you, Old Sport. You’re… my Old Sport.”
Jack realized he was still standing very close to Dave, from when he had stepped up so that he could wrap his hand.
He was standing so close, that he could see the sincerity in Dave’s eyes, hear his breathing.
He was standing so close, that he could see his lips part, saw his hand reaching to cup Jack’s face, could see Dave start to lean forward…
And Jack, lost in the moment, almost, almost did too, when he realized what the fuck was happening and quickly stumbled backwards, shifting his gaze away. Jack swallowed before saying, “Um. Phoney’s probably looking for us.”
Dave blinked, and leaned back in his chair. He seemed almost disappointed. “Yeah,” he agreed quietly. “Should probably get back.”