Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

He may as well be in space for all the good his screams do. The ocean licks at his ankles, thrashing and leaping up his body with white, foamy teeth. Sucking in a breath to scream again, the water finally fills his lungs and he feels nothing. There is no burn of his body begging for air. The thrashing of the waves stops and there is no sound (but of course; sound doesn’t travel through water, not the way the bubbles do over his cheeks).

A fog rolls over his body. He stares ahead with two blank eyes, gone far away. What was he doing again? The water around him reflects his face; he reaches out and feels cold glass walls all around him. At his feet there will be an opening. Beyond that, a needle.

He is inside a syringe.

The syringe is in his hand.

His mouth tastes like blood.

He sucks in a breath.

Joey wakes up and his shirt is soaked in sweat. The window lets in a draft that feels like needles on his damp skin; the icepick of a hangover stabs through his skull. Had he been drinking again? He didn’t remember.

Staggering arms push him up from the bed. He fumbles for his glasses, the room still dark around him. The frames brush his fingertips and fall to the ground, clinking against something glass. Probably an empty bottle; whether from this week or last was anyone’s guess. He’d have to find them before he stepped on them.

Well, he’s up now, might as well work.

What was he going to do today?

Something.

Now he’s standing, blazer draped over his shoulders, glasses resting on his nose. His shirt is in his hand, still wet. He whips it aside, where it lands on the floor with a wet plop.

Now he’s seated before the computer. He hardly remembers leaving the bed. Did he even move? If it weren’t for the headache throbbing, he could swear he was still sleeping from the ghostly un-feeling of his limbs. Arms and fingers move of their own accord. What worlds could he peer into today? He could make a game of it, these idiots in their little bubbles.

Johan

Joey Drew licks his lips. Dry yet unbroken, unbitten, unmarred. His mouth tastes inexplicably of blood.

Chapter Text

He smiled like their creation: all teeth and lines where the face crinkled. Henry could feel Joey’s smile in his own skin, stretching it uncomfortably taut. There was no mirth in that smile. There was nothing in that smile. It was all a ruse to please the crowds, the investors. Henry knew that. Everyone at the studio knew that. The fact simmered bitterly in his stomach like acid; when had the man become so cold? No, cold wasn’t the right word. Joey still had plenty of warmth in his heart. It just happened to be the warmth of a hundred and ten degree summer day, much like they’d seen that August.

August was such a Joey word. August. Grandeur. Imposing.

Henry flicked the ash from his cigarette into the balmy night air. Working overtime was slightly more bearable in the summer nights. That way, at least, one only battled exhaustion, and not the freezing cold. Speaking of overtime, he mused to himself, he stubbed out his cigarette and gave a stretch. It was still early enough that the sky was light, the sun yet to pass the horizon. Joey would be cross if he took too long a break. And besides, he told himself, they needed him. Anyone could draw Bendy, but no one could give them quite the same spirit.

Joey smiled like his creation: all teeth and unreadable. The inky being before him wiggled and lurched, staying upright with a delicate balance. Joey clenched his jaw, smile threatening to tear the skin of his lips. If he stopped smiling he would go completely off the rails, and he couldn’t afford that right now. Too much was already off-schedule. He blinked deliberately and turned to the mechanic.

“Thomas, what is this? I was promised results.”

Tom felt a shudder up his back. Joey never used a full name, unless he was planning to fire or maybe kill someone. The glint in his eye suggested either was possible. Steadfast, Tom shrugged off the aggression.

“This is the results. I only said the machine was functioning at full capacity, I never said it would be perfect on the first try.”

The inky figure cocked its head to the side. Tom noticed this from the corner of his eye and cocked a brow. Joey caught the falter in his attention and brusquely jabbed the man’s chest.

“Look at me when I’m talking to you! I need our models to be on-model! I give you full control over the machine project and this is what you give me? Give me one reason I shouldn’t—”

Tom grabbed the man’s jabbing fingers and Joey froze.

“Don’t you ever. Touch me. Again.” Tom enunciated, pushing the shorter man away and into the wall. “If you want anything from me you’re going to cut the high and mighty shit and give me the respect I am worth. Capisce?”

Joey swallowed, eyes wide and face distorted with rage. Tom took it as an agreement. Tom took a deep breath before he continued.

“The alpha model’s body can be worked on. We’ll increase the ink output on the machine and adjust the output settings accordingly. But for the dancing, the singing,” the personality, he kept from saying, “That you’ll have to figure out yourself. Best I could do for you would be a robot with a music player attached.”

Joey stumbled over his words, still shaken from the man’s stand. “If I wanted a robot I’d go to that Piedmont guy. I want an artist, I need the model to come alive!”

“Well mister Drew, I’m no theologist, but if you really want it alive , it needs something more. A soul, divine spark, whatever you want to call it. And I can promise you, I ain’t a god.”

Several emotions flashed over Joey’s face. A blank stare. A furrowed brow. Widening eyes and a smile— that damn smile .

“So we give it a soul!”

“...Excuse me?”

“Give it a soul! I own hundreds of ‘em!”

That smile was back, and the teeth seemed to sink into Tom’s own soul. An inkling in the back of his mind seemed to whisper in his thoughts: there was nothing under that man's skin. Whatever kind of soul could make him say that, he was afraid to ask.

Chapter Text

Give in to me, Sammy , the voice says like a hymn. Lie with me here in the garden .

Kisses like nectar pepper his chin, his neck, and he returns them in earnest. He throws his arm around the other person, and the sweetness of honey floods his mouth, trickling down his throat. Thorns from a vine pierce his skin, but he doesn’t so much as twitch. The wounds pour ink instead of blood, pouring down the greenery. The vine seems to multiply, thorns sticking him in place like a butterfly under glass.

“Where...where am I?”

You’re in the land of the dead, Sammy .

The words swallow him like a suffocating embrace.

I can send you back, for a price .

The kisses still taste of nectar, but he knows the lips they belong to.

Just a drop, Sammy .

Blood pools with the ink, cold and acrid in his mouth.

“God, please,” he sobs. Blood continues to spill, his own, he can’t tell from where.

Just a little drop .

Flowers blossom from the wounds in his skin. Sammy chokes. His body feels detached, floating away into infinity.

Give yourself to me .

“Sammy!”

He starts. He’s lying in bed, sheet draped over his waist. A hand gently strokes his hair. He knows that voice. His head rests in Joey’s lap.

“Bad dream, songbird? Looks like you scratched yourself in your sleep.”

Sammy looks to his arm where Joey points. Thin red lines stand out below his shoulder, as if he’d scratched an itch too hard. For a second Sammy thinks flowers are going to sprout from them. He looks back up to Joey.

“I didn’t wake you did I?”

“It’s alright, I worry about you.” Joey takes Sammy’s hand and kisses it; Sammy nuzzles his cheek into Joey’s leg.

“Come up here.” He lies back and holds his arms out, and Sammy eases up into them like he was made to be held by them. Joey’s hand continues to stroke his hair in a soothing rhythm; Sammy determines to write a lullaby for it. He’ll spill no blood this night, or any other night.

Chapter Text

Some months after running into the Kraken, Stan and Ford found themselves approaching a familiar shore.

“Land ho, ya scurvy sea-nerd!” Stan shouted over the wind. There was in fact no wind to shout over. Ford, standing two feet away from him, grimaced and rubbed his ringing ear.

“First of all you don’t have to shout, I’m right here. And second, you’re holding the telescope backwards you nincompoop.” He swiped the tool from his brother and flipped it over. Stan looked through it again.

“Land ho again! Hitch the main sails and keelhaul the tide! Full steam ahead!” Ford looked at him like he’d grown a second head. No, he’d seen things with multiple heads while in the portal, and those were easier to explain than whatever the hell Stanley was trying to say. Stanley eventually noticed the other man’s stare and gave an equally confused look.

“What? I know how to dock a ship, I just never learned the lingo.”

Ford rubbed his temples, unsure if a headache was building or if the headache was just standing next to him.

“I’ll be thankful if we get to land.” A realization lit up his face. “Rats, I forgot about the docking fees. We’re gonna have to hide her somewhere for the time being. It’s another hour or so but if we go a bit further south there should be an opening in the cliffs to a cave system. The tide’s low enough, we should be able to just squeeze in there—”

“Or, we could skip all that and use one of my credit cards.” Stan cut him off and opened his wallet, an absurdly long photo pocket unfolding from it, showcasing an even more absurd number of cards: bank, credit, IDs. At a glance, Ford could pick out multiple banks that he wasn’t aware even existed. Further inspection revealed several he was almost certain didn’t exist. Then again, he had been gone for a significant time. Then again, this was Stan.

“I don’t know what I expected.” Was his deadpan reply. He took the telescope again and peered through it, to get a better look at the docks. Ford’s heart sank.

“On second thought, let’s skip this town. There’s another port in the next city over.”

“What? Oh, come on, I thought we were over the whole fake identities thing—”

“Look.” Ford cut him off and held the telescope out for him. Stan cocked an eyebrow and took it. “Now look about this far to the left.”

Stan adjusted his angle accordingly and landed upon a sign over the docks. He couldn’t make out the smaller words, but the blocky print he could make out read “Welcome to...Jersey!”. They were in New Jersey already? Felt like only yesterday they were in Greenland punching a sea monster in the beak. Though blurry he could make out “Lass” on the sign. Damned cursive fonts, and their scrunched-together letters. He adjusted the focus a touch more, and a lump settled in his stomach. Stan was suddenly very nauseous.

“Stanley?” Ford barely laid a hand on his brother’s shoulder when he gave a grumble and shrugged.

“Eh, let’s keep sailing.”

Ford opened his mouth to speak, but promptly closed it. This wasn’t a topic he wanted to push, and even if they did eventually have to talk it out, it could wait until they were on land.

“Aye aye, captain.”