Chapter Text
Harry wakes up in ( Location 14, The Factory, bear., Jacks house, his house ) his hospital bed, the heart monitor beside him beeping just barely faster than usual as he carefully slows his breathing, one hand over his pulse on his neck as he feels it slow down. ( The whirring of fans in his mic is missing. He needs those, he'll overheat)
They shake their head, trying to wipe the odd feeling of something being wrong– they feel too human, finding some odd comfort in the few remaining wires hooked up to them that they hated just ( 58 years ago ) last night. They carefully run their thumb over their neck, almost expecting to feel a scar besides the long slit from that near-death experience when they were twelve. The one that creeps up onto their face.
He trails up it, the feeling of warm skin above his neck and not smooth plastic weird. But why? Why would he ever expect to feel plastic and not a head? Why does he feel like he's forgotten a life he never lived? The quickening beeping of his heart monitor snaps him out of the sinkhole of panic, and he returns to taking deep, heavy breaths until he begins to calm down again.
They look over when the door to their room opens, waving slightly at the nurse, who waves back and walks over to the side of their bed.
“Harry, it's good to see you awake. Another nightmare, I'm assuming?” He nods, finding himself silenced by an abnormal fear that someone else's voice will come out. The nurse looks momentarily worried by his silence, but he waves dismissively and smiles. She still seems worried, but sighs and shakes her head anyways.
“Alright, well, if it's your throat then be sure to grab a drink of water. Now– I came in here to let you know you're being let out today. Here's your change of clothes, remember to be very careful with your knee, use your cane, take your pain medication, and otherwise… well, goodluck. Your medical bills are paid off, but all of your family is up in Canada as far as i'm aware.” Oh. Yeah.
They take a deep breath, putting their legs over the edge of the bed and watching the nurse remove the heart monitor before she waves and rushes out. She probably has other patients to tend to– speaking of, Harry should really get moving, the hospital will probably want this room for someone else.
Quickly switching into the change of clothes he'd been given– some donation, probably– he lingers on the brace around his knee, feeling like it was too loose and tightening it. ( His brace is too loose, he can't walk without his cane, his leg buckles and he's suddenly surrounded by screams and blood and someone is holding him )
Whatever. They grab their cane and shove themself up, balancing on the thing and testing out everything for a moment before grabbing the pain meds and slowly making their way out. Where to go now? They're pretty sure they've got some extended family out in the US, but it's their pops sister, who they'd cut contact with a long while ago.
( Fredbears, go to Fredbears, you need to find Jack, you need to make sure Dee never dies, you need to get Dave away from Henry, you need– )
He’ll just wander until he finds a good place to sleep for the night. He has a bit of money on him, so he'll stop by a convenience store or gas station or something. Get himself a treat that isn't hospital food, MREs or whatever he ate while out there , or medication.
Which, they realize when a sudden stab of pain runs through their body, they forgot to take. Digging through their pocket, they realize they grabbed them, just didn't take them for some reason. How many were they supposed to take again? One? Probably one. They open the cap, leaning on their cane, and take one. If that doesn't work they'll take another, but it probably will.
What will he buy, though… he doesn't really know if his favourite candies are in America, so he shouldn't bet on getting any of those. Maybe just rockets. He does really like rockets. Not chocolate, anything but chocolate, just imagining it on his tongue makes him feel almost sick. He'll grab some trail mix– with chocolate chips, but only the not-melty ones, and he'll make sure there's cashews in there. Probably no raisins, too sweet compared to everything else, but the chocolate will make up for not having any sweetness.
They open the door to the convenience store, half-limping into the little building and going to look through the aisles. They find… rockets? Smarties? Why do they say smarties on them, that's a whole other candy, do Americans not get confused between the two? They pick the package up, and yeah, those are absolutely rockets. Bizarre.
Whatever, he grabs a few to eat over the day and goes to look through the other aisles. There's not any super good trail mixes, so he grabs a half decent looking one, alongside some banana chips and a good looking salted bag of cashews just to add more to the ones already in the mix before making his way to the counter and nodding slightly at the person working it.
They notice the man's eyes linger on their cane, trailing over their face with narrowed eyes. They shift uncomfortably, placing their items on the counter and vaguely motioning to them. They're well used to the looks thanks to their dark skin, but they still self consciously bring a hand up to fiddle with their hair and look down at the smooth wood countertop.
“How old are you?” The cashier asks, leaning against the counter and staring at him.
( Seventy-seven. )
“Nineteen.” They answer, not going against it despite how forcing words out makes him feel uncomfortably scared, that same irrational fear from before rising. They know they're not very welcome anywhere, but it's… fine. They just need a snack, and they'll find a decent place before trying to get hired. Though that's sure to be a struggle.
“ Nineteen? You don't look it. What's with the cane?” He locks his jaw, biting his cheek and tapping his finger on the handle of the aforementioned cane. He could just say nothing, put his stuff back, and leave, but he really wants a snack.
“I– I don't need to tell you that.” They mutter, pushing the food closer and keeping their head down.
“I guess you don't. This all?” He nods, sighing heavily and shifting uncomfortably, stuffing his hand in his pocket to grab whatever he has on him. The cashier looks over the stuff, rings it in, and slides it over.
“You dont look to be in the best spot right now, you can take these free. It's really not much, I'll pay it for ya.” Harry shifts again, looking down at his items and picking them up, if hesitantly. ( You don't get gifts, you never get gifts. Not unless it's a special day. Not unless he wants something out of you. )
“I don't want to look like I'm stealing, I have enough to pay, just let me. Please.” The cashier frowns, shaking his head and waving off their worries with a dismissive hand.
“Alright, be my guest.” The man says, shrugging and holding out a hand. Harry gladly hands over the money, waving slightly awkwardly and turning before he can see the others response, deciding on sitting in the little alley behind the store. His cane clicks against the ground each time he takes a step, a tiring reminder of the aching in his knee when he sits down, laying the cane over his lap.
That was so uncomfortable, fuck. They're never talking to people again. And they need to sort out whatever keeps whispering in the back of their mind, or what's making them scared of their own voice, or what makes that cashier so familiar, or what's telling them names they don't know and yet two of them feel so very close them, and just thinking of those names makes them want to cry and grieve and yet fills them with such an odd happiness at just the thought that they're ok now.
He mixes everything he'd gotten into the trail mix bag and flicks away any raisins mixed in, shaking the bag and putting it down. The “smarties” really are just rockets, the same weird texture and very slight flavour fluctuations that he remembers. He feels weird, for some reason, eating food. ( He hasn't had solid food in his memory )
There– that whisper again. They look around themself, startled at the sight of that cashier from inside, leaning on the wall by the corner with a raised eyebrow.
“Hey.” He greets, dark brown eyes feeling like they're staring through Harry, “You enjoying your smarties and trail mix?” He silently nods, both because he can't force words out of his mouth and because he doesn't want the guy here. To his dismay, the man walks closer, sitting down beside him and grabbing one of his rockets, opening the pack and tipping it up to eat the thing in one go, lazily tossing the packet away.
“So, you planning to just camp out in the back alley? It can't be all that nice back here. Also, some of those white kids from the local high school come back here to smoke, so this wouldn't be the safest spot for someone like you.” The cashier motions vaguely to Harry's face and their cane, and they shrink into themself, looking away and putting their cane on the side further
“Oh– no, no, I couldn't care less about the colour of your skin or if you're fucked up. If you're not a criminal or that Henry Miller guy, you're all good in my book.” He laughs, and Harry hesitantly smiles back, though his cane stays on the further side, clenched tight in his hand. The cashier sits beside him, looking vaguely annoyed by the dirty ground.
“So, what's your name? I'm Joe.” ( Joe Fawkes, the first of the five to die. ) The man slightly awkwardly holds out a hand to shake, which Harry hesitantly takes. Joe seems almost surprised by the roughness of their hands, looking up and staring into their eyes. It feels like he stares through them, right into his soul, and it makes them feel itchy and gross in a way that forces them to break eye contact before they go insane.
He doesn't feel like he can talk, still, so he takes his hand out of the others and hesitates before slowly fingerspelling his name, Joe furrowing his brows and staring at his hands. Harry does it again, and Joe stares at him with confusion. He sighs, snapping his fingers a few times and putting one fist against the ground.
They tap out the letters in morse code as they spell them, which the cashier seems to understand, slowly nodding and, after a moment, spelling out their name with them.
“H A R R Y, Harry?” The man confirms, his voice ticking up in a question, which Harry nods at, giving a thumbs up and smiling. Joe hums, reaching over to open Harry's trail mix and grab some, seemingly thinking while he chews.
“You can talk, though, can't you? Why are you doing that hand thing?” They bring their shoulders up, opening their mouth to try and respond. Nothing comes out, and trying to force it just makes their throat close up, only getting out quiet, slightly choked breaths before giving up and just making an X over their throat with their hands and shaking their head.
“So you can't talk? But– I definitely remember you talking inside.” Joe asks, and Harry just makes a vaguely annoyed sound before sighing and grabbing some trail mix, bringing his knees up to his chest and trying to think of a way to get what he's trying to say across. He pauses, before holding both hands out and miming writing, tilting his head. Joe snaps and finger guns at him, pushing himself up.
“Paper and pen, on it!” And off he went. Harry can't help a heavy sigh of relief, shifting and digging through his trail mix, half considering just leaving. But that whispery voice is pushing them to stay. They don't know what it is, but they can tell they need to stay, they need to stay and they need Joe to know them and they need to make sure he never dies.
He shoves down blurry memories of blood and phones, of rust on new endos, of his sheer joy when he'd said he was all he had left, and looks up at Joe when the man comes to sit beside him again, paper and pen in hand.
They gratefully take it, before pausing. Their head is telling them a term that they're not sure they've heard before, but somehow they can recall a perfect definition. If they aren't sure if they've heard it though, then Joe probably hasn't, so they think for a moment before scribbling something down.
“‘ Scared of my voice. Don't think it's mine. Irrational, but I just need time I think and it'll stop choking me. ’” Joe reads off, frowning, and Harry is suddenly scared he's going to think he's insane or something and leave him, which he can't have, because for some reason he needs Joe close, always.
They quickly grab for the paper again, writing down something, anything to keep Joe here until they get– get something. ( An offer to be the fifth manager, to have their spot in this little story, to be able to change things with knowledge they shouldn't have, to be able to convince Abel to follow them to a room nobody will see them and get their hands around his throat, watch the life drain from his eyes and read off every single thing he did to them and their family and those poor phones– )
“I won't leave, if you don't want me to.” Joe says, cutting through the fog in his mind and dragging him from the pit he'd begun to slip into, “In fact, if you haven't got anywhere else to stay, you can stay at my place. You're an interesting guy, Harry, and I might have a spot for a job for you in mind. Gonna ditch this old store soon, we've got this whole restaurant planned, run by a friend of mine, and it couldn't hurt to have a fifth manager to help out around the place.”
Harry smiles, taking Joe's hand and silently pulling the man into a hug. They can feel him shift, probably not having expected the hug, before they feel hands on their back and Joe carefully leans into them.
( never let him go. )
( never. )
Harry takes a deep breath, before hesitantly pulling away from Joe to grab his cane and trail mix bag, struggling for a moment with pushing himself up, still not quite used to it. The other is kind enough to help pull him up, supporting him until he gets his footing and just nodding when he mumbles a quiet ‘ thank you’ .
They can't guess why, but for some reason, they know who their fellow managers will be. For some reason, their mind scratches out one with blood red and gold and a fiery warmth that twists and burns. For some reason, the other three remain faceless, their bodies cut off at the neck and sluggishly bleeding.
He shakes his head, ignoring the odd look from Joe or how his body is cut open along every bone or how too much blood leaks down from his neck or how his voice sounds like it filters through static. He follows after the corpse–phone–person in front of him, his mind twisting his sight as it screeches in some incomprehensible swirl of joy and fear and warnings and names that he needs to know and yet slip from his grasp before he can hear them.
They need to sleep, they decide. Sleep will fix whatever's wrong. ( their systems will greet them when they wake and their code will take care of any errors, and they'll wake to the calming whirr of their fans )
He doesn't register the car ride, he doesn't even register getting in the car. His mind feels distant, caught between two times. The person beside him is an orange-skinned man, with soulless black eyes, and it accepts a loose deal to not ask about how he's taking care of himself. He's a regular person, with only the ptsd from the war and a bad knee. The person beside him is a tired cashier, with stark black hair against gently tanned skin, and he sings quietly along to the song on the radio. He's a mechanical nightmare, centuries of being manipulated and torn apart and put back together by a man that makes the oil in place of his blood boil behind him.
Harry Fitzgerald needs to sleep.
They don't remember stepping out of the car, or remember Joe leading them home , or remember collapsing onto the couch. They remember the worried look from Joe, though. The quiet questions that they hardly hear before they pass out. They’ll apologize in the morning, they had a horrible nightmare before they woke up in the hospital, so maybe that was it.
( it wasn't a nightmare, you need to listen, you need to listen )
( ... )
(
Harry wakes up in bear., the clock beside him ticking along and reading 6am. Another day of work– he hopes his boss won't notice the tiredness in his movements or the birthday party that goes past six tonight. Or maybe he can get its help– it would be appreciated, considering it'd take him far too long by himself with his sluggish movements, and that suit wearer can't help.
)