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Jack was about three shots in before he decided on the plan.
It wasn’t nearly the first time he’d tumbled the thought in his brain, but it was the first time he’d done much to act on it. He passively blamed it on the bourbon stirring up the common sense left in his brain, though he knew it was a poor excuse. If he was busy throwing feelings off his chest and reveling in his own apathy, he didn’t have to acknowledge why he was doing this. He could pretend that he was moving on. Didn’t people do these sorts of things when they broke up with their shitty partners? Burn everything that made them think of the person that got away in a fire, never to be seen again outside of smoke clouding the sky?
The thought of forgetting that aubergine fuck for good made Jack’s stomach churn. That, too, he could blame on the alcohol. For good measure, he downed another shot before pulling out his phone. Warmth flooded his stomach and burned his throat. A good distraction from the searing pain in his heart.
Really, the fact his phone still functioned at all was a miracle. He swore he’d had this thing since before he died, though that entire experience had a hint of fogginess to it. He’d believe it anyway, since this thing was decades past its prime. It ran enough to get Jack through the day, though: a texting application, Tetris (for some reason), and – what was currently important to Jack’s mission – a navigation app. He could pull up the bus routes around here, and then from there, it was just a matter of picking the ones to get him where he needed to be.
Bakersfield, California.
Christ, it felt like it had been ages since he last saw the old place. He was certain it’d look different, nothing like its glory days – a term he used very loosely – back in ‘87. They hadn’t torn down the building, according to Peter. Apparently, they were still counting on possibly being able to reopen it if they needed to, using that as a loophole to get past the no more Fazbender’s law put in place after the Bite. Jack had kept up with the news, though. There was no chance in Hell that place had been used as anything but a grave for the victim of the same thing that ended Fazbender’s Entertainment.
The thought that Dave would be proud passed through Jack’s head for a split second. If he were any more desperate, another shot of alcohol would’ve looked appealing, but he chose to keep his head at least sober enough to make it out the door. The shot glass, decorated in a shitty outline of Breadbear, was haphazardly placed on the coffee table, Jack’s absent gaze returning to the grainy screen of his phone. A mix of the quality being complete shit on his device and his vision already being hazy from inebriation made reading a struggle, something his foresight should have told him and hindsight made him well aware of. With a grumble, he rolled from a sitting position onto his back, kicking his feet up on the armrest. His phone was shoved mere inches from his face just so he could properly type in where he was going and coming from.
He felt like an old man. Was he an old man? Sure, he’d died at twenty-two, and was arguably perpetually twenty-two – focus, Jack!
Right. He had a mission to do, which he simultaneously regretted getting drunk for and also likely wouldn’t have done without being drunk. Modern problems required modern solutions, and Jack’s solution equated to ignore it and do the thing anyway! It worked. Usually.
Once he’d finally punched in directions from Peter’s house – his and Peter’s house? It felt weird calling it his house when he wasn’t paying rent, and… oh, wait, off topic, nevermind – to the street the old Bakersfield Fazbender’s had been at, Jack scrolled through to find the quickest route. It looked like his best bet was around a day and some change, since he could just sleep on the bus. He’d stopped being paranoid about people being weird after becoming a corpse. Nobody pickpocketed from the guy who reeked of blood orange cologne and decaying meat. What a benefit!
Beyond that, it looked easy enough. Grab a bus ride, walk for some time, wait around, repeat. He sure as hell wasn’t driving in this condition, and a part of him feared that once he was sober, he’d give up and go back to rotting on Peter’s couch while waiting for something to happen. No. This promise took action, didn’t it? It took courage. It took a lot of things Jack wasn’t convinced he had, but by the Real Fredbear’s name, he could put up a damn good act. Wasn’t he always pretending, anyway? If the world was a stage, Jack could be the star of the show.
In a drive-by thought, Jack remembered Dave promising to make him a star. Hey, now you will. Guess we both get to keep our promises.
…He needed to stop thinking about Dave once he was sober. When he wasn’t downing shots, he couldn’t blame the pain in his chest and the way his stomach felt like it was slowly crawling up his throat on standard nausea. That’d make him remember the overwhelming guilt, the crashing desire to just say sorry, and that was no good. If he said sorry, they’d never move on. This was for the better. Fire would cleanse the sins of this pitiful man.
Jack wasn’t too sure if that referred to Dave or himself, anymore.
Only when Jack sat up off the couch did he realize how bad the armrest hurt his upper back. He hissed through his teeth, shifting his shoulders and using his free hand to rub along his spine. God, he really was old, wasn’t he?
“ALL THE MORE REASON TO GET THIS ALL OVER WITH.”
“Fuckin’ Christ –!” Jack jolted and instinctively backed against the couch armrest, his legs kicking away from the opposite side as he fumbled into a sitting position. One leg curled to his chest, the other straight out in front of him, as his eyes met the source of the noise.
Oh, fuck me. This asshole.
Right where Jack’s feet had been propped up moments earlier sat a familiar dog entrenched in shadow, the only bursts of color being a golden tophat and bowtie. Its paws were pressed together in a way that might’ve been adorable and polite if Jack had any particular affection in his heart for the creature – monster? Dog? Soul? He didn’t know what to call it, these days – in front of him. It stared – leered, rather – at Jack for a second, then snorted and tilted its head.
“ALL YOUR OTHER EFFORTS HAVE TURNED UP FRUITLESS. WHY, THEN, DO YOU TRY? AFTON HAS FORSAKEN YOU A THOUSAND TIMES. HE WILL DO SO A THOUSAND MORE.” Blackjack, a name it had picked for itself years ago when it yearned to divide itself from what it called the abomination, flicked an ear as if already dismissing whatever reason Jack was coming up with. “MONSTERS LIKE HIM – LIKE YOU – CANNOT BE SATISFIED.”
“This isn’t about me.” Jack waved a hand to brush off the minor dig at him, ignoring that this was, in fact, very about him. “Look. There’s still some loose ends to burn, right? Unfinished business. And nobody’s fixing that besides me. I’m the man with the promise, and hell if I’m letting it go now. I don’t know what makes you so upset about me trying to help someone!” He threw his free hand up, letting it fall back on the armrest once again. Judging by Blackjack’s still slightly cocked head, Jack’s speech was more slurred than he thought. Another point against the alcohol.
Whatever. He wasn’t sitting here and arguing with some pissy puppy. But, as if Blackjack already knew what Jack’s plan was, it hopped down onto the floor and blocked where his feet would land if he tried to stand now.
“THIS WAS NEVER PART OF THE DEAL. THAT, I AM CERTAIN OF.” Blackjack bared its teeth, talking without moving its mouth. Its voice always felt like claws inside Jack’s skull, a too-excited puppy slamming into his brain with every barked-out word. With how long he’d been hearing the same things, Jack wasn’t too sure when it’d stopped being obnoxious and grown into an idle annoyance. “YOU’VE GROWN SENTIMENTAL FOR THE MAN THAT RUINED YOUR LIFE.”
“That was more Henry, honestly,” Jack said as he tried to move his feet down in a way that wouldn’t kick Blackjack in the head. He hadn’t kicked a doggo yet, and he wasn’t about to start today… unless Blackjack didn’t count as a dog? It was a soul, right? So could he – nope, that’s the alcohol, do not kick the shadow doggo, Jack. “If you have an issue with it? Fine. Do whatever you do to get that out of your system. Just leave me out of it, for once. I know you don’t like hearing it, but I have a brain. Even funnier? I can make my own decisions with it! So just let me do this. If it doesn’t work? You get to say I told you so .”
Much as Jack hoped it would, that didn’t satiate Blackjack one bit. If anything, it seemed more irritated, hackles rising as it watched Jack slide over on the couch even though it didn’t follow. Seeing an opening, he swung his feet down and pushed himself up, immediately feeling his head spin. Right. He was still a far cry from sober and hadn’t stood up in hours. He blinked and rubbed at his eyes with his free hand, pocketing his phone with the other before he dropped it. Then again, that thing could probably survive Chernobyl, now that he thought about it. Safety for everything but himself first.
“YOU KNOW WELL THAT ISN’T THE PROBLEM.” Blackjack circled the coffee table, coming to a halt at the front door. Snarling and pawing at the floor, it backed up until its tail thumped against the door, the backs of its hind paws pressing on the wood. “YOU ARE FIGHTING A LOSING BATTLE. FIGHTING FOR A MONSTER.” Oddly, it almost seemed antsy, gaze shifting between the door it was shielding and the orange-painted corpse before it. Jack regained his balance enough to meet Blackjack at the door, standing in front of the soul in dog form with a blank stare. This was more of an inconvenience than anything, frankly. Still, Jack felt the persistent need to prove himself to the dog, despite the bit of rational thought sparking in his brain insisting there was no point. Blackjack couldn’t truly stop Jack.
Maybe it was just that a part of him knew to admit Dave deserved saving would be to say Jack, too, had earned a Happiest Day. Only one part of that was true.
“You’re not changing my mind. You’ve failed every time you’ve tried. Why would it be different when I’m dumber than normal?” Jack scoffed and gestured to the shot glass on the table, sat next to a half-drained bottle of bourbon. “I’m going to help him let go. You’re doing a shit job convincing me I won’t at least put an effort in.” With a step forward, Jack’s gaze hardened. “You’re going to move or I’m going to move you myself. Your pick, Blackjack. ”
Silence. Blackjack didn’t budge for a second, snarling softly. Then, its paws dropped off the door, and it moved aside, ears pinned back all the while. It hadn’t moved completely out of range from the door, but it was enough for Jack to move to the door handle without Blackjack gnawing at his ankles. He reached into his pocket to grab the house key, only to be stopped by that voice in his head once more.
“YOU CARE ABOUT AFTON. THAT’S WHAT DRIVES YOU. LOVE. BUT YOU HAVE NO SOUL TO MOTIVATE YOU SO STRONGLY. NO SOUL TO BURN FUEL. SO WHY…?” Jack looked down at the dog to see its expression had softened, inquisitively staring back with a frown. Its ears hadn’t shifted, though it seemed significantly less tense now. It was quiet in Jack’s brain for a long moment. An unfamiliar feeling. He would’ve cherished it if his heart wasn’t thumping in his throat.
“I care about the promise. Isn’t that enough?”
His hands grasped the keys. Good. The soft jingling of metal provided a welcome break to Blackjack’s “voice” as Jack fumbled with the lock on the doorknob, finally getting the door to open. He slipped out without another glance at the shadow dog, slamming the door shut with a relieved sigh. Another few seconds of searching for the keyhole and the door was locked once more.
With it, Jack could pretend Blackjack hadn’t rekindled an old flame in Jack’s heart.
Nostalgia was the enemy of progress. Jack had heard something along those lines from Blackjack, once upon a time. Standing in front of the abandoned Freddy Fazbender’s Pizzeria in Bakersfield, Jack came to understand exactly what that phrase meant. The twisting feeling of regret, of guilt, of remorse , all came to surface as Jack met eyes with the dirty bear head hanging by what looked like one single bolt above the once-bright lettering on the front of the restaurant. With a day having passed, Jack was far beyond the point of sobriety where he could pin his plan on whiskey and pipe dreams and had come too far from Denver to just ride the bus back.
No. This was it. He had someone to save, and who was he to back down from a promise? Even one made by himself, to himself. Even one made for Dave.
He had brought a couple things from home to keep himself disguised. A Fredbear mask he almost always kept on his person, just in the event that he needed to abruptly hide from the cops or a particularly pissed off parent, covered the majority of his face, only hollow sockets with white pupils revealed through the circular eye holes. He’d bought black knitted gloves as well, both to keep himself warm – he hadn’t realized how cold it’d be even in California – and to hide as much orange as he possibly could. A suit jacket he’d shoplifted some months ago and matching black slacks would do the work that the general darkness of the old restaurant couldn’t. The last thing he wanted after so much work avoiding anyone and everyone was to walk right into a problem!
Jack was the best at ignoring everything until the day he could burn with it all. Nobody was taking that from him. Not the way he’d been stripped of everything else, if he had anything else to render off his bones besides skin. If he had anything that was his at all.
Focus, Jack!
Right. His fingers tugged at the cuff of one glove, adjusting it until it lined up just right with the sleeve of his jacket, then stepped toward the door. The hand that wasn’t free to clench and unclench into an anxious fist hung onto a crowbar, rusted and chipped from misuse. He’d dug it out of a shed somewhere on the side of the road, not caring much for who owned it before or what they’d ever done with it. Jack was certain he’d done worse than anyone with a crowbar covered in bite marks. Let he who is without sin cast the first stone, Jack recalled faintly from early mornings in the church. Who had taken him or why he was there fell flat, but then again, he found most details of his childhood got lost in a foggy haze. Starch seeping from pasta and coating the water in a thin veneer…
… Fuck, he was hungry. He’d get snacks later. He was going to a fair after this, wasn’t he? They had cotton candy, popcorn, shitty soda from machines that hadn’t been cleaned in either of Jack’s lifetimes! It would almost be like having fun. There was just one missing piece. One aubergine-colored piece.
Jack turned past the door, practically ignoring its presence altogether as he approached the left-hand window. The door was more likely than not locked if the hinges weren’t rusted beyond function, and besides! He wanted to have some fun, horrors notwithstanding. Sure enough, the windows were locked, albeit not sealed by anything besides years of dust and grime. One foot braced against the wall, Jack twirled the crowbar into both hands and dug the claw under the edge of the window, pushing up. He hadn’t had to do this in ages, and a part of him knew he would inevitably be rusty, but how hard could prying up a window be? Especially with how shitty Fazbender’s locations were constructed, Jack would’ve been more surprised if the window didn’t pop up and take half of the wall with it.
Luckily for the structural integrity of the building, only half of that thought came true. With a bit more leverage, the window cracked open with a sickening snap, flying up and then thumping back into place on top of the windowsill. Score. Jack moved his crowbar into one hand, then pushed up the window with the other, hiking one leg into the building and letting the rest of his body follow.
WHAT A CRAFTY STRANGLER YOU ARE.
The sound of Blackjack’s voice – “voice” – grating on Jack’s skull made him sigh. His hand slipped to his side, the window shutting behind him. If only he could shut Blackjack out in much the same way, but that was one pipe dream he couldn’t pursue with the motivation of alcohol. Once I’m dead, old dog. Once I’m dead.
YOU WISH YOU WERE, SOME DAYS. IT’D BE EASIER, I IMAGINE. YOU ALWAYS RUN AWAY.
Jack didn’t dignify that with a mental response. Instead, he focused on surveying the interior of the restaurant. Beyond a thick layer of grime and dust that covered every conceivable surface, it was a terribly familiar layout. He’d climbed into the window to the right of the stage, giving him a proper view of the once fairly mediocre setup – the animatronic corpse of Toy Freddy sat on the stage, still clinging to his microphone like a lifeline, while Toy Bonnie’s face had been torn off. A fate no Bonnie could avoid, apparently. Figured. Toy Chica was nowhere to be found, which Jack supposed was for the better. He’d seen the horrors on the work computer. Spare that poor chicken.
SHE’S A DUCK. CLEARLY.
You can’t argue with the Fazbender’s Lorekeeper. Don’t even try .
I AM THE SOUL. IF ANYONE HOLDS THE LORE, IT IS ME.
Yeah, yeah, come back when you have a comprehensive timeline on Freddy Fazbender’s life. You can’t even make it. You have dumb paws.
Amidst Blackjack’s indignant yapping, Jack trekked deeper into the main dining area, swerving around old tables and photo booths. The smell of something rotting lingered no matter where Jack was, and he wasn’t even near the safe room yet! Whatever. He was only here to salvage one corpse. Whichever ones were stuffed inside the table cushions and behind the Prize Corner would just have to live with that… or – un live? Semantics.
The route to the safe room was a familiar one to follow. Jack pivoted on his heel, circled a few more chairs thrown astray by reckless toddlers, then stepped into the Fazbender’s patented Murder Hallway, 1987 edition. Peter had absolutely hated the mandated copyright on that. The murders don’t even happen in the hallway, they happen in the safe room connected to the hallway – if we had murders! Which we don’t! Nobody dies at Fazbender’s, it’s – it’s fine! Jack hadn’t felt much more than slight awe at the fact Fazbender’s embraced the copyright. Good for them, questionably.
But pondering Fazbenders’ ethics and what bright mind was making business choices these days couldn’t keep Jack from his goal. At the end of the hallway was somewhere not even the long-since broken cameras could observe. A place where dreams went to die and schemes came to boil. The place where it all began – and where it would end, if Jack had anything to say about it. The safe room.
It had been boarded up, as anticipated. Peter had already offhandedly mentioned boarding Dave off in the safe room before leaving, just in case he did manage to come back up. Jack knew better than to doubt that idea. Dave always came back, and even with the Real Fredbear’s influence, Jack had no reason to expect that childhood would keep Dave from crawling back up. That bear had really wailed on Dave, though…
YOU DON’T REALLY THINK HE’S GONE. YOU CHECKED OUT BEFORE IT COULD BE A THOUGHT.
Well – yeah, sure, when Dave had initially set off the locks, Jack remembered… Well, that was just the thing. He remembered almost nothing from the moment. Dave had talked to him in the safe room, said plenty of things that were mean but truer than Jack had heard from anyone else, that happened. And then there was just a hazy gap. Jack saw it happen. He knew he did. He dragged Dave back there, and then…
YOU FEEL GUILTY.
It didn’t matter. What’s done is done.
Today was another day. A day that Jack would take to redeem himself. I’m coming, you aubergine fuck.
Jack approached the metal door, the side of one foot pressed to the door frame. He flipped the crowbar into the palms of his hands, wool the only border from cold skin meeting colder metal, and started prying off the boards one by one. A perk of Fazbender’s being dirt cheap, Jack found, was that their nails were all crooked if they were nailed in properly at all. These had to be repurposed from some old sign from a shut down restaurant location. Or maybe they came from the Ball-Pit, that accursed hellhole. That pit of despair seemed to have just about everything except what Jack actually needed, which was usually a bottle of whiskey or a pack of cigarettes at any given point.
YOU CAN’T DROWN YOURSELF IN LIQUOR AND APATHY. YOU CHASE TOO PASSIONATELY TO FALL TO THAT. THOUGH, I WONDER… HOW DO YOU FEEL AT ALL?
A board came off. Jack winced at Blackjack’s words more than he did the force it took to get the wooden plank off. Sighing from between clenched teeth, Jack set off to work on the next one. We’re not doing this again. It doesn’t matter. I’m doing what I need to do. You don’t want more than that. I know you don’t.
I MEAN IT. MONSTERS LIKE YOU DON’T HAVE BEATING HEARTS. HENRY FEELS NO REMORSE – I INTEND TO SHOW THAT TO YOU. TO THE WORLD. HOW, THEN, DO YOU STRUGGLE WITH YOUR SLEEP? WHY ARE YOU HAUNTED?
I’ll have you know my heart beats –
Wait. Wait, wait, wait. Another plank came off, but the thunk of wood on tile fell on deaf ears. Jack stared straight ahead, then glanced over his shoulder as if trying to look into his skull and find the shadow doggo leering over his brain. He found only empty shadows. Close enough.
What do you mean, ‘I intend to show that to you’? What does that mean? You’re not bringing that fucker back from the dead, are you? You’re not that screwed up.
Silence. Deafening silence.
Blackjack –
I WOULDN’T BRING HIM BACK. HIS LEGACY IS DEAD. HE WILL BE FORGOTTEN, SOON. BUT I NEED HIM TO SEE THE CONSEQUENCES OF HIS ACTIONS. I NEED HIM TO SEE WHAT HE’S DONE.
DON’T YOU WANT THIS?
Jack stiffened. His hands clenched around the crowbar, which was part way through tearing down one of the last boards, just enough for him to feel the stiff metal pressing into the grooves where his fingers met his palm. For a second, he craved the jolt of freezing cold or the burn of crushing a cigarette to snap him out of this horrifying recollection, but nothing came. Just the same silence, accompanied only by the memory of a voice.
You wanted this, Kennedy. Look at the bodies of those you’ve hurt. Doesn’t it finally feel good, knowing you are not alone in your pain? Someone else will know what it is like to lose. You are a winner, Kennedy. And with this, you will become the one above them all. The one who came back.
Isn’t this what you always wanted? To save someone. Well – now you’ve saved yourself. You’re the most important person of all, aren’t you? The one who deserves a Happy Day, after all you’ve been through. And everyone having such a grand time… they haven’t fought for it. Not like you have. Not like you are. Look at their lifeless eyes. Now you aren’t alone, staring with a hollow gaze. You will never be alone, Kennedy.
As long as you follow me and keep your eye on the ball, you will find revenge. I promise. That’s one I can keep.
…
I don’t want this. What I want – the last board came off, and Jack didn’t even realize he’d taken the one from before off during his moment of disconnection – is what I’m doing right now. I’m going to keep a promise.
Mind your business, mutt .
It was strangely quiet after that. Blackjack had either heeded Jack’s warning – a wish, more than anything, given Jack couldn’t do much to his own soul – or lost interest when he didn’t give it the answers it wanted. Nonetheless, Jack purged thoughts of want and don’t want from his head and replaced it with need . He needed to do this, if only to sate the eating guilt that had made a home in his stomach and reached up to claw at his tongue. Plus, if Dave was free, no more children could be hurt! That was part of the promise. It was all just part of the job, wasn’t it? So it was okay. Everything was going to be okay.
Dave was broken, but Jack could put him back together.
One gloved hand settled on the handle of the safe room’s door knob. With a soft click as he turned it, the door swung open, stopping as it hit the wall with a soft thud. For once, Jack felt as if he was coming home. The urge to call out honey, I’m home! like in the television shows where people had someone to come home to at all crept up Jack’s throat and quickly dissipated the moment Jack recalled where he was and why. Business. Right.
The safe room was in roughly the same condition as the rest of the restaurant, covered in dust and growing black mold in the corners moist with rainwater. It reeked particularly bad of rotten flesh and blood in this room, though Jack knew full well why. At least he could find the source here. That… wasn’t as reassuring as he thought it’d be, frankly. Maybe it was just because the source was Dave, and Dave was always a mixed bag. Certainly no deeper feelings than that to address there, nope, no sirree – Jack was going to focus on everything except Dave, for a moment.
Moving to close the door behind himself, Jack noticed a note on the interior of the door. It was familiar handwriting done in ballpoint pen ink, but he couldn’t quite pinpoint the exact identity of the person until he looked over the paper – was that Fazbender’s brand paper? – properly.
Not-very-dear employee,
If you’re reading this, you came back! Congrats, I think? That’s genuinely impressive! But also, my condolences. Coming back isn’t really going to benefit you under these circumstances. You’re stuck here for the rest of time, or at least until you decide the world is boring when kiddies don’t get strangled in it…
I left you some crackers and an order of those buffalo wings you kept ordering on the clock. I memorized your order because you kept doing it. That isn’t a good thing. Not that it matters now, since, you know… you’re here forever. But you’re supposed to feed prisoners! Even if those prisoners should be getting the death sentence reinstated! I’m trying to be a cool boss, here!
Just… don’t try and leave, please. But now that I said not to, you probably will…
- Not in any particularly dear way,
Peter K
Phoney
…Huh. Sure enough, as Jack swiveled his gaze past where the animatronic suit – which Jack was very much not acknowledging yet, nope, he wasn’t mentally ready yet – sat, a half-empty box of Ritz crackers and a long-since polished off box of buffalo wings rested. The buffalo wings were in an all too familiar cheap foldable box, one that Jack recognized from too many nights out at a certain strip club with Dave. They did have some damn good wings. That, Jack couldn’t deny.
Not the point. Jack stepped away from the door and let it stay just barely ajar behind him as he made it to the center of the room, towering over the robot-slash-corpse-container he’d come to dredge up. White pupils met black sockets, a million feelings swelling in Jack’s chest like one of Balloon Boy’s shitty balloons. He wished it’d pop and leave him alone already to continue that metaphor, but found no such luck. It just… sat, in all its remorseful, disgusting, lovely horror.
Dave had a way of doing that, didn’t he? He always came back, and so did the crushing weight of whatever Jack felt for him. It didn’t matter. Dave would rest for good, and with him, Jack’s feelings would die. He could hope.
Slowly, Jack crouched down, hands resting on his knees as he evaluated the state of the suit. It had seen better days, which was saying quite a bit, given what the springlock suits had been through. Bugs littered the exterior, with holes dug through spots in the plaster around the eyes and mouth in particular. Tears and gashes littered the whole body, the grease from when Jack had helped orchestrate the entire incident that landed Dave here having worn down the metal endoskeleton slightly. It was nothing unfixable, but Jack would have to trust a different mechanic for that. Every second he sat here, staring at – admiring? God, no – Dave, was another chance for Dave to recognize him. All of Jack’s running would be for nothing, then. That wouldn’t do.
Still, he couldn’t help himself.
“Dave…” Jack raised his hands until they settled just over Spring Bonnie’s shoulders, Jack’s head tilting in a way that might’ve been affectionate if he let himself feel such a way. Behind the Fredbear mask, he felt his lips turn upward in a small smile. “...I missed you.”
Before Jack slipped his hands under the suit’s arms to drag it out, he swore he saw its mouth grin.