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Toby crashed through the mansion's looming double-doors, stumbling and nearly falling to his knees, his boots clomping heavily onto the hardwood floor. He sat forcefully down onto a beat-up sofa between the bases of two ominously curved staircases, the right of which was nearly completely caved in.
Toby's breathing was ragged. He was still reeling from the effects of having his consciousness torn from him against his will, the room's peeling wallpaper whirling around him; the edges of his vision unclear. He coughed. Once, twice, three times; spiraling into a fit that sent blood trickling down his chin and into the fabric of his mouth guard. He tore off his goggles and sent them skittering across the floor as a wave of nausea overtook him, iron-y liquid coating his tongue and threatening to spill over.
A moment later, the first of his three accomplices dashed in after him—Kate, simply known as 'The Chaser'; whose name he'd gleaned only from years of cooperation. She practically crashed into the sofa next to Toby, grabbing his left arm and giving it a quick once-over before draping it over her shoulders. She began heaving Toby to his feet as Tim and Brian—known by others as Masky and Hoodie, (though Toby knew they didn't like it)—finally arrived.
Tim rushed to Toby's unmanned side, wrapping his other arm around his shoulders to help lift him up. As Brian ran past them to the second floor, Toby stumbled to his feet, barely able to move his right leg.
"It's gonna be okay, bud. Everything's gonna be fine," Tim muttered, he and Kate guiding Toby as he struggled to ascend the stairs. His head still spun, and he nearly tripped and fell face-first onto the steps.
Toby yipped. "Sorry." His voice was slurred, his movements were sluggish, and he felt as though he was moving through water.
"Don't say sorry, Toby. We're gonna get you fixed up, okay?" Tim said, though it sounded like he was trying to reassure himself moreso than Toby. He hacked up a gob of mucus, spitting it down onto the stairs behind them. Toby wasn't sure whether Tim's coughing was from the Sickness or the cigarettes he smoked on the daily. Either way, could smell the tobacco on his breath.
"...Okay."
By the time they reached the top, Brian had cleared the desk of the house's makeshift sick bay: an big office with a desk up against one wall and some big cabinets and wardrobes full of whatever medical supplies could be scavenged. As Kate and Tim heaved him onto the desktop, Brian fumbled around in a large wardrobe, eventually pulling out a decently sized bottle of alcohol and some bandages. Toby's vision blurred; his head began to pound heavily in time with his heart.
"Get his clothes off," Brian commanded, pausing for a moment to cough into his fist. Toby lifted his arms as Tim tugged off his ragged hoodie. Tim sucked in a pained breath and swore at the sight of his torso. Toby waited until Kate had finished pulling off the rest of his clothes to risk a look—and fuck, it was bad.
His foot was twisted unnaturally to the right. Halfway up his calf and at his hip were bulletholes caked in dirt, and across his chest was a nasty cut where a hunting knife had gotten the better of him.
"Shit, bud. I shouldn't've let you take that bastard all by yourself, I-"
"Shut the hell up, Tim. If you're going to freak out on us, go do it somewhere else," Brian hissed, mask off; already working to extract the bullet in Toby's calf. Tim fell silent, and Toby felt a pang of guilt for making them worry. Giving Tim and Kate's hands a firm squeeze of reassurance, he finally allowed himself to succumb to the Sickness, blacking out and going limp in their arms.
Jeff casually strolled into the mansion he reluctantly called home for the first time in a week, tracking mud onto the already-filthy foyer carpet. After a moment of glancing around for anything lurking in the shadows, he made a beeline for the kitchen, his stomach growling like an starved animal as he opened the cupboards above the rusty stove. Jeff hadn't had anything filling to eat in days, so with any luck, he'd find something good; maybe some Vienna sausages or a tin of sardines.
Jeff reached in and batted around, giving his fist a victorious little pump when he retrieved a can of baked beans. He turned, tossing the can from hand to hand as he scanned the kitchen for a can opener.
As his gaze passed over the foyer doorway, a bright orange glint caught his eye.
Jeff tucked the beans into his hoodie pocket, curiosity growing in the back of his mind as he slowly walked back into the foyer. He crouched down, picking up a pair of blood-spattered goggles. He turned them over in his hands, inspecting them for any signs of damage—nothing, other than a few scratches across the lenses.
"So you're back."
Jeff's head snapped up to see Masky leaning against the stair's railing, namesake white mask pushed to the side to make room for the cigarette hanging from his lips. He was wearing only his rarely-seen tank top, his flannel tied tight around his waist and his regular jacket missing entirely.
"...Yeah," Jeff replied, tucking the goggles into his pocket, his knuckles brushing up against the cool metal of the can.
Masky fished a lighter from his jeans and nervously began tossing it from hand to hand. "Glad you're not dead, Woods. You've been gone awhile." Despite his fidgets, his voice remained flat.
"I had out-of-town business. You know how things are around here."
"Yeah."
Jeff and Masky stood in silence for a beat before Masky pushed himself off the rail, walking past Jeff to the front doors. He lit his cigarette, dropping the lighter back into his pocket. "Want a smoke? I've only got a few left."
Jeff shook his head. "No thanks, man. I'm good." Masky shrugged with feigned nonchalance.
"Suit yourself," he said, closing the mansion door behind him.
An incredible unease washed over Jeff, sending a shiver down his spine. Masky's fidgeting had set him on edge; he absolutely reeked of tobacco (more than he usually did, anyway), which meant he'd been stress-smoking. That definitely wasn't a good sign.
Jeff was jolted from his thoughts when Hoodie shoved past him and into the kitchen, urgently throwing open cupboards and muttering something to himself. For a minute, Jeff merely watched in fascination as Hoodie desperately scrounged around for food; his only spoils an almost-empty tube of saltines.
"...What're you doing?"
Hoodie slammed the last of the cupboards shut in uncharacteristic frustration, turning on his heel to face Jeff, who now stood in the doorway. "Trying to find something edible." Under his breath, he grumbled something about groceries.
"If edible's what you're looking for, I'm 99% sure those crackers don't count."
Hoodie rolled his eyes, shoving once more past Jeff and jogging up the stairs; he turned a corner, a door slamming forcefully behind him a moment after. Jeff stood in the foyer for a moment, a little dazed from the odd encounter.
Masky was restless and Hoodie was angry. Toby's goggles were on the floor. Kate was nowhere to be found.
What was going on?
Toby groaned, his vision slowly clearing. He felt...warm, wrapped up in surprisingly soft blankets. He tried to sit up, but his arms gave out from under him, a wave of outright exhaustion washing over him.
"So you're awake."
Toby blinked. The room around him was unfamiliar, with murky yellow wallpaper beginning to peel at the edges. He was in a rickety metal-framed bed, covered in a soft blanket that smelled freshly washed.
Sitting by the foot of the bed was Brian, a half-empty bottle of water and a nearly-empty tube of crackers in his lap. Crouched down and guarding the room's door was Kate, fiddling with the sleeves of her hoodie, which was tied around her waist.
Brian scooted his chair forward, offering the mediocre food to Toby. "Go ahead, take it. You need at least something in your system."
Toby reached forward and took the crackers from Brian, grunting with effort. He took one of the crackers from the tube and bit into it. They were stale and tasteless—but the growl in his stomach told him to take what he could get. "Thank you."
"Don't strain yourself," Brian said, gently pushing Toby back to sit up against the pillows. Toby cracked his neck and looked down at himself. He was wearing a plain white shirt much too big for him; his chest underneath wrapped in bandages. Below the blankets, he could feel that his jeans and shoes were completely gone. Draped over his shoulders was Tim's beige jacket.
Toby nodded quietly, whistling before beginning to nibble on a second cracker.
"You're lucky to be alive. Not everyone can survive two bullet wounds and a cut like that."
Toby hummed, quietly contemplating. "...How— How long was I out?"
Brian sighed, running his fingers through his hair. "Around four hours, maybe? Tim was so freaked. Probably still is. The man was smoking like a goddamn chimney."
Toby nodded again, taking a small sip of the water. His stomach growled loudly.
"...There's—" Toby yipped and clapped, "nothing else to eat?"
"Not a damn crumb. I sent Tim out for groceries, though. He should be back by tomorrow."
Toby sighed, sinking down into the blankets. He set the water and crackers onto the side table, wiggling around a bit to get comfortable. "I think I'll go back to sleep for awhile. M'tired."
Brian smiled gently. "Not a bad idea, considering it's late and you're all sorts of fucked up. Kate and I'll keep watch, okay?"
"M'kay," Toby mumbled, his head filling with a pleasant blur as fatigue washed over him once more, sending him to sleep.
Jeff prodded at the little fire before him, its light chasing away the looming night and bathing the evergreens around him in a flickering orange glow. Smoldering embers floated away on the breeze, dancing and twirling through the air like fireflies. Above the fire sat an open can of baked beans, resting on a rusty cooling rack acting as a makeshift cooker.
Jeff fiddled with the frayed edges of his woolen gloves, fingers long since torn off to reduce clumsiness. His skin was slightly chapped from his time out in the cold, and he shivered, warming his hands by the fire. His stomach grumbled gently, but he shoved the feeling down. He could wait to eat, there was someone else who needed it more than him.
Toby had gotten shot, Jeff knew; having gleaned snippets of conversation through the rotting mansion's thin walls. And, for a reason he couldn't fathom...he was worried. Terribly, terribly worried about the boy whose face he'd never truly seen, whose dark eyes enraptured him in their—snap out of it!
Jeff pinched his exposed arm, shaking himself back to reality. There wasn't any room for catching feelings in this horrible place—he needed to focus on the task at hand. The food was in exchange for a past favor, and that was all.
Toby meant nothing to him, he was merely an acquaintance; someone who was soft enough to help him when he needed and nothing more.
Jeff ignored the nagging in the back of his head that told him the truth of his feelings.
Before him, the beans had begun to gently bubble, their sweet aroma mixing in the air with that of the crackling wood in the fire.
The sky outside was inky black and starless when Toby opened his eyes.
In the corner of the room, Brian sat dozing on a folding chair, legs kicked out in front of him and his hood pulled over his eyes. Kate was nowhere to be seen—most likely keeping watch in the hall; Toby reasoned. With him so weak, there's no telling who—or what—would try and send him to the grave.
A gentle breeze tousled Toby's hair and nipped at his skin, whispering gentle songs to the monsters of the night and blowing moth-eaten curtains into a swirling dance around the open window.
Open.
It was closed just a moment before.
Toby was about to open his mouth to yell for help when a hand clapped over it, the shadow of a teen about his age looming over him.
"Hush. I'm not gonna hurt you, okay?"
For a moment, Toby struggled, trying to bite at the mystery hand. But soon, it dawned on him—he recognized that voice. He nodded, letting his guard down and relaxing slightly.
"No screaming?"
Toby shook his head 'no'.
"...Alright."
The hand was removed, and the shadows shifted to reveal the infamous Jeff the Killer standing before him, the sleeves of his usual white hoodie rolled up to his elbows.
Now, anyone with common sense and access to the internet would be horrified. Even without knowing his story, the scars gracing Jeff's face and the bloodstains on his clothes shot fear into the hearts of many. Luckily, though, Toby knew him a bit more personally. He reached out and punched Jeff lightly in the arm, his drowsiness returning full-force once the adrenaline seeped out from his system.
"You scared me, asshole," Toby said, keeping his voice low as to not wake Brian.
Jeff shrugged, the corners of his eyes crinkling up into a smile. Most of the creatures who lurked the Woods have long since learned to read Jeff's expressions through his eyes. Toby clapped.
"It was a sacrifice I was willing to make. Do you really think Mask Squad was going to just let me casually stroll in to see you? Especially after you got shot?"
"W—" Toby cracked his neck. "Well, no-"
"Exactly." Jeff sat onto Toby's bed with a slight bounce. Toby rolled his eyes, completely blasé to Jeff's unexpected entrance. "What was the deal with that, anyway?"
"Some redneck assholes and their adult sons on a— on a hunting trip, I think. The one I tried to take down had a pistol shoved down by his dick and a hunting knife, but that's all— all— all I remember. Rest is...fuzzy." Toby tapped at his temple. "Y'know?"
"All too well, man."
"So..." Toby said, yawning. "That all you wanted? My mega-lame war stories?"
Jeff scoffed. "As if—...You're hungry, right?"
"Mhm," Toby hummed in reply, too tired to do much else.
"Here, then." Toby watched as Jeff handed him a warm can of...something. Soup, probably. Whatever, Toby didn't really care what it was—it smelled really good.
Toby brought the can to his lips, slurping up a mouthful of its mapley-sweet contents. Its warmth spread throughout his body, leaving his chest and the tips of his fingers and toes feeling pleasantly fuzzy.
"Famk you," He said with his mouth full, gratefully swallowing the food.
"Don't mention it."
Jeff sat quietly while Toby ate, the only sound breaking the silence being Toby's occasional tics. When he finished, Toby set the empty can onto the bedside table, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He hummed drowsily, yawning.
Jeff snorted, smiling gently. "Tired?"
"Mhmmmmm..."
"...Go to sleep, then."
A frigid wind blew through the abandoned mansion, giving a groaning voice to the house as it settled. It rustled Toby's hair, blowing it into his face and tickling it annoyingly. Crinkling his nose, he brought a hand up to his face to brush it away. When it fluttered back, Toby huffed, tossing in the bed and covering his head in its comforter to hide from the wind. He shut his eyes tight and tried to go back to sleep, but after a few minutes of shifting in and out of consciousness, Toby decided it was a futile effort—he was already awake, might as well properly get up.
Toby sat up and pulled the blanket down from his head, where it had further mussed his naturally wild-hair. He blinked, stretching like a cat, his back popping loudly as a result. The morning sunlight shone in his eyes as he rubbed away last night's sleep with the sleeves of his—
Hoodie.
Toby blinked in surprise, sitting up and looking down at himself. Over the t-shirt from the night before was a once-white pullover hoodie, now dirty and spattered with faded bloodstains; frayed at the sleeve cuffs and aglets missing from their strings. Jeff's hoodie.
Toby felt a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. The hoodie was warm and fit him almost perfectly...which figures, as Jeff tended to wear clothes that fit him more like sacks than anything. Toby looked to see if Brian was awake, then brought the hoodie up over his nose, inhaling deeply. It smelled like woodsmoke, blood, and sweat—like Jeff.
As Toby buried his face into the thinning fabric, an odd, dangerous feeling bloomed in his chest. Jeff cared about him, at least enough to leave behind his favorite pullover. Which was nice, felt nice. Toby hadn't felt so positively nice in such a long time, it almost felt wrong, like he was a rat about to get snapped up in a mousetrap. But he'd been through so much, especially recently—maybe he could let himself feel good, if only for a little while.
When he lifted his head, a glint from the side table caught Toby's eye. Curiosity grabbed ahold of him, and he looked to see what else might've been left.
His goggles...and an empty can of baked beans, apparently.
Toby smiled gently to himself as he reached over and took the goggles, running his thumb over the scratches in the right lens. He yipped and clapped, jolting Brian from his sleep. Damn his tics.
"Mnh...oh, hey, Toby." Brian yawned and popped his neck, wincing. He'd been sleeping so awkwardly, Toby was sure he must've gotten a crick.
"Hey."
Brian rubbed his eyes. "...What's that on the side table?"
"B— Beans...?"
"Beans?"
"Beans." Toby whistled.
"...Cool. Hey, I'm gonna-" Brian yawned again, "-gonna go back to sleep. You good?"
Toby nodded, reaching behind him and tossing Brian a pillow. "Don't break your neck this time."
Brian chuckled, sliding down in his chair and putting the pillow between his head and the wall. "I won't."
It didn't take long for Brian's gentle snoring to fill the room. When it finally did, and Toby was sure he wasn't faking, he hunkered down into bed, swaddling himself in the hoodie. His thoughts wandered pleasantly to the burnt-and-bruised boy, the very same one who had been so kind as to give him a can of baked beans and his favorite dirty jacket.