32. Farewell

Summary: Dave goes in for the kill and fails like the true boyfailure he is

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Drops this and runs.

Sorry Abroski I lied they won't be rawdogging (today)

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Dave didn't handle rejection well. His diary had been bombarded with angry garbled text the moment he could get to it, vague threats made unrecognisable in an amalgamation of letters, few sentences standing out. I'm gonna fucking kill him. I'm gonna springlock him, I'm gonna skin him alive, he wrote in an anger induced fury, hand balled in a fist so tight his knuckles were a pale violent. Even when Jack had turned his offer down, he still couldn't seem to manage diverting his thoughts from old sport, elaborate plans unfolding in his mind only to be discarded as he came up with another. He was blinded with rage, on edge the entire day and particularly aggressive when his hands were wrapped around a toddler's throat.

He'd thought what they had was special. Vegas couldn't have been meaningless, not with what he saw of Jack back then; all his scars exposed, voluntarily bare and fragile. Back in Colorado he'd accepted with hardly any hesitation at all, Dave couldn't figure what had suddenly made him turn around. He didn't stop to consider that his anger might've come from a place of fear, scared that it was he himself who had repelled Jack instead of the prospect of murder. Angry that Jack had somehow grown to dislike him, that he had done something to warrant such a reaction.

It felt more like a personal rejection than anything. Jack didn't want to maintain the dynamic they'd carefully constructed through previous escapades, late nights in Vegas that felt deeply personal; he didn't want to continue their arrangement. Everything had indicated Dave meant something to him, and yet he chose their boss over him. It made Dave bitter, that spite that only began to build when someone you'd been greatly attached to rejected you, seemingly out of nowhere. It consumed Dave's every waking thought, which grew increasingly more gruesome with time.

Anger turned to fabricated disgust, a means to an end to make it easier on himself. I've grown sick of old sport, he'd repetitively told himself in a feeble attempt to make himself actually believe it. He devoted all his energy into trying to highlight every little negative trait he could find in Jack, telling himself that all the imperfections he had grown to adore in dim neon light were nothing but flaws. It hardly worked, only contributing to further devoting his thoughts to Jack; obsessive anger that had him glancing at his former partner during the day.

With Dave's unconventional intelligence and his constant eye on Jack, it didn't take long for him to figure out what he was doing. He was on a quest to save the souls, reverse Dave's hard work instead of enhancing it like the previous time. He'd spoken to their boss an awfully suspicious amount, not to mention the conversations with that damned puppet that seemed to have it out for Dave since the start. Not only had Jack personally rejected him; he now formed a threat to Dave's plan. He couldn't fulfill Henry's legacy with someone there to reverse his progress, no matter how much it hurt him to think that Jack would juxtapose him in such a way.

And that was how Dave found himself outside Jack's house in the dead of night, knife in hand despite his full intent to strangle Jack with his bare hands; better safe than sorry. All sorts of conflicting emotions raged through him, disappointment intertwined with hatred that nearly toppled into rage. He hadn't given himself time to reason with the plan at all, he knew it would all subside and be replaced with that same adoration he'd developed during Vegas if he did. He didn't want to hurt Jack, but he had to; just as Henry had taught him to do with every threat that crossed his path, so he let his brief hatred rage on while it lasted.

Finding his way into Jack's house was easy enough, it almost seemed as if he was inviting him in with the amount of windows he left creaked open. The lights were off, but that didn't stop him from being utmost careful as he slithered into his house. He'd learnt Jack was a slight sleeper in Vegas, easily awoken and struggling to fall asleep, he really did know Jack on an awfully intimate level. He shook the thought, thinking about the connection they once had was nothing but a hindrance now: Jack was a problem, and problems needed to be discarded.

After listening for the soft snores Jack elicited in his sleep, he carefully pushed the door open to find him asleep, tangled in a mess of sheets. Distant light from street lanterns filtered through the curtains, illuminating the room just enough to give him a good look at Jack's face, undisturbed and unsuspecting of the threat that made way to the side of his bed. Dave put the knife down on his nightstand, a backup plan he only ever brought to ease his mind; as per Henry's advice.

For a moment there was nothing but the calm observance as he watched Jack's chest rise and fall, soft breaths between parted lips. That same intimacy he had first experienced in Vegas, night where he would watch Jack with adoration instead of hatred. He couldn't ever imagine Jack betraying him in such a manner back then, pictured a forever life for them with confidence. It only helped reïnforce that sinking feeling of disappointed hatred in his gut; Jack deserved what was coming to him, he told himself as he tried desperately to tear his eyes from the face he hadn't ever wanted to see in fear.

The end justifies the means, Henry had told him that many times in a whisper behind him, encouraging him to lower the knife he had raised high. It was the same with old sport, even if he hadn't ever pictured hurting him; it was a means to an end. His thoughts were swarmed with the things Henry used to say to convince him as he tried to encourage himself to put his hands on Jack's sleeping body; go on, do it. Courage is not the absence of fear, but the triumph over it. It had taken him a while to understand that statement, he still wasn't entirely sure what it meant, but he knew it insinuated that he had to abandon his attachment to Jack if he wanted to triumph. Show me courage, Willy.

He was swift with it, always had been; ensuring he was given no chance to so much as wake up as he climbed over Jack. With his knees on either side of Jack's hips, he dug his fingers into the exposed flesh of his neck, squeezing with all the force he could find in his limbs. For just a brief second, in the silence before the storm, it seemed almost affectionate. Hands that cradled flesh that was loved, a power over the body beneath him which remained motionless, fabricated trust given involuntarily. It was a shame it had to be this way, he would've loved to be in this position if the situation had been any different.

Intimacy quickly turned to erotica as Jack jolted awake, body tensing with shock as his hips gave a roll into Dave's. He didn't give way under the motion, kept his hands wrapped tight around Jack's neck to wrangle a heated whine from the back of his throat. His eyes rolled right to the back of his skull, back arching off the same sheets his hands desperately tried to grab at. Blissful pain clouded the entirety of his body, leaving him with nothing but the instinct to buck his hips right into Dave, a shock racing through him with every breath he couldn't draw.

Deft fingers clutched sheets in a clueless attempt to save himself, resemblant of nights in Vegas where their position was all too similar. Something inside Dave still yearned for the past, it always seemed to do so; to relive nights where he was in absolute control, where it was earned instead of demanded. The same arch, out of love rather than hatred, it was terrifying to see how quickly they switched between the two. Despite that, though, he didn't budge as he had Jack's body pressed into the mattress.

He could only look at Jack's face, so horribly fearful and contorted it made him sick to his stomach; he recognised every little detail he'd studied during sleepless nights. One final look, the last moment of intimacy he would allow himself before eliminating another threat. The last thrusts of Jack's body in a feeble attempt to escape death, he was honoured he'd be the one to receive them. Not once did he tear his eyes away from Jack's; bloodshot and rolled back until only a hint of his pupil was visible, knowing he couldn't ever see them again.

It felt wrong to say goodbye like this. No matter how much he tried to convince himself that he hated Jack, despised every aspect of him in favor of making this just a little easier; he couldn't deny their shared past. Jack wasn't always a threat, he'd once been a friend and some vague semblance of a lover during liquor filled nights. No words whispered in such a heated situation would mean anything, and in the rush of it all he opted to bend forward and press a kiss to Jack's agape mouth; his final farewell.

He was so mesmerized by the sheer terror in Jack's face that he had failed to notice one of his hands releasing the sheets it clamped to scrounge his nightstand, finding the backup plan he had abandoned there. The blade cut into several of his fingers, held tightly in a fist which quickly overflowed with blood. Instinctive movements, his vision was periodically going dark already; blind lashes into the air until he struck a gash in Dave's cheek. He reeled back, both his hands reaching for the stinging sensation in his face, soaking in a deep red tar which spilled thickly.

Before he could comprehend his mistake, a fist to the face already had him from the bed to floor, landing with a harsh thud as Jack was thrown into conscious motion. Every breath he took hurt, happened with a squeak that emerged from within his throat. Both his hands were shaking along with the rest of his body as he switched the knife to his unaffected hand, wiping blood on sheets once so pristine. With his fist balled tight around the handle, he kept it outstretched towards Dave, trying desperately to calm himself before his panic made him powerless. Dave, nearly across the room with the force Jack had put behind his punch, picked himself up from the floor with a hand covering the wound on his cheek.

"Ya' should've left while ya' still had the chance."

He spat in a low tone, wads of saliva intertwined with thick blood dripping from his mouth and coating his otherwise yellowed teeth. He circled the room, posture low as if he were a predator approaching its prey; he might as well have been, with the way Jack was rubbing his throat in an attempt to comprehend what had just happened. The knife gave him an advantage, but he was far from having the upper hand as he had just been mere seconds away from passing out. Jack stood paralysed with fear, having made his way to the side of his bed, now with both of his hands on the knife stretched out before him as Dave slowly approached.

"Stay the fuck away-!"

He eventually managed, in a raw scream that tore at his vocal cords. Despite everything, something within Dave still felt hurt to witness his old sport so fearful of him. He really didn't want to harm him, but he couldn't let Jack reverse all that he had worked so hard for. Yet, in his attempt to prevent that; he had simultaneously reversed the dynamic they'd built themselves, no matter how much he told himself that it was Jack who'd done so upon refusing his offer. It seemed every mistake could always be traced back to Dave, but he was adamant on not making the mistake to let Jack roam free.

It was a terrifying sight: Dave, otherwise tall and lanky, now slouched in the dim lighting as he slowly approached, his face dripping with tar. He didn't remove his hand from the wound, Jack was near certain that he'd torn through the entirety of his cheek with how much panicked force he had put behind the movement. He'd always known Dave was dangerous, but seeing him in such a manner made him outright terrifying. When he denied the offer, he'd expected to be attacked by some mangled animatronic, but this; this was personal. He felt dubious he could ever drive that knife in Dave's chest if he wanted to, far too caught up in love-laced memories that tied them together.

"Dave- Please..."

He'd nearly backed into the wall by now, trapped between it and his nightstand, voice shaking just as much as his body was. For just a split second it seemed like Dave hesitated, a brief moment of reconsideration, before he reached a hand to grab Jack's wrist. He twisted it in an attempt to make him release the knife, but Jack's hand remained in a tight fist around the handle. Instead, he opted to push it against the wall, leaning in close to the petrified Jack to hiss words laced in a vague hint of pain:

"I won't let ya' get in the way of our legacy, old fuck-"

He couldn't tell if he was trying to convince Jack or himself of that, unable to look at the red imprints on Jack's neck without feeling his gut sink. Jack, growing better able to comprehend what was going on, raised the hand that had remained free in favor of Dave covering his cheek. In one swift motion he struck him in the side of his face, followed by a knee in the gut that ensured he released his wrist. Jack's first instinct was to run for the door, his body still weak as it forced him to go as fast as he could, nearly succeeding in shutting the door on Dave.

They stumbled into the hallway together, both of Dave's arms reaching for his waist as he forced them both to the ground, the knife clattering further ahead of them. With his face finally uncovered, Jack could see the full extent of the damage he had done; Dave's cheek was torn entirely from the lip until the cheekbone, his flesh hanging loose and exposing his sharp teeth; ready to bite. It was gruesome, any regular person would've bled out by now, he almost wished Dave would as he raised to his knees and reached for the knife.

Everything was fueled by adrenaline, the simple instinct in which no thought but your own self defense was present. Dave returned over him in an instant, and Jack barely managed to catch his wrist in time as he lowered it. A standoff, whoever had enough power to last the longest would be declared the winner. Nothing but silence embraced them, both their chests heaving and arms about to give out. This couldn't be the end, he told himself, not after everything he had done to make it this far; not after all they shared.

"God fucking damnit, Dave- Come to your senses-!"

His arm would give out soon, he knew it would. That wild look behind Dave's eyes, one of sheer and utter rage that he had rarely seen before, gave him every right to believe that it would tear right into his heart. With his last remaining strength, he threw his body to the side and Dave along with it. He didn't recover quickly enough compared to Dave, still breathless and only able to kick his feet along the floor as he tried crawling away. The moment he was about to crawl into his living room in hopes of finding leverage that would help him up, Dave was back over him with the knife directly to his throat this time around.

"Oh don't you worry! I did, long ago, and the only sensible option is to kill you-"

The knife remained resting against the rubbed raw skin of Jack's throat, the blade pressing into his adam's apple with every shallow breath he took. It was coated in the blood from his own hand, which remained motionless on the floor. If Dave wanted to kill him he could, undoubtedly; he had already gotten awfully close several times. All he could do now was accept his fate and go peacefully, or try to talk into Dave otherwise:

"Then why haven't you yet?"

Dave blinked at him, as if dumbfounded; confronted with the exact thing he had tried so desperately to suppress. He didn't want to kill Jack, he never did; he had simply convinced himself it was necessary to pursue Henry's legacy. Dave wasn't a killer, he'd been made into one and did as he was told, obeying orders even if the commander was long gone. It was all supposed to contribute to a greater good, it had from the start; he'd been told that every child which died at his hands was given a gift, that their role in Henry's work would renew the world as they knew it.

"I don't wanna harm ya', old sport-"

But with every order he followed, every step he set in the vague outlines of a dream that was hardly his own, he only seemed to leave a trail of blood behind him. He'd done well in ignoring it, all the children that died at his hands were nothing but muddy concepts of a childhood which he had grown to despise, but Jack was different. He shared a past with Jack, they'd been partners in crime mere months ago. Jack had seen him in his most fragile states, exposed for the first time since years as they lay in a mess of tangled limbs. The only other person who he'd had a remotely similar connection with was Henry, and he couldn't ever imagine having to kill him.

"I thought what we had was special, an' then- Then ya' go 'n betray me-!"

A droplet fell to Jack's face, one that he had presumed to be blood at first, until he noticed that Dave was crying upon closer inspection. Silent tears that ran down his face as he tried his best to suppress the contortion, droplets trickling along the gash of skin that hung from his face. What remained of his lips quivered along with the rest of his body; Jack could feel the shake in the knife against his skin before it clattered to the floor beside him. He brought his hands up to his face, furiously wiping at his tears in an attempt to hide even the slightest sign of weakness, resting his palm against his cheek again to hide those sharp teeth from sight.

"Dave, what the fuck are you doing-?"

Jack's voice was a mixture of concern and fear, a distant hint of anger as he quickly moved to pick up the knife. He didn't point it at Dave this time around, not when he was crying like a tall child. Blood, sticky and thick, dripped from beneath his palm, intertwined with tears to form a mixture that resembled his very being. Jack had to resist every instinct within him no to reach a hand forward and wipe his face clean.

"I- I don't know-"

He choked on sobs he tried desperately to suppress, unable to contain the harrow sadness he had felt from the moment Jack rejected him anymore. No matter how badly he wanted it to be; he wasn't courageous, especially not by Henry's standards. He was a coward who couldn't rid himself of his attachments, even if necessary, that's where you and I are different, Henry would've said. Looking into Jack's eyes, terrified and full of anger towards him, had been enough to make him reconsider everything. Dave, more than anything, feared being alone.

"I'm sorry- Oh God, sportsy I'm- I'm so sorry..."

He'd squeezed his eyes shut now, couldn't bring himself to look at the red marks around Jack's neck that would surely bruise. He didn't want to think about what would've happened if Jack hadn't struck him in the face, then again; maybe this was exactly where he had expected to end up when he crawled in that evening. His own twisted attempt to reconnect, closeness in the most unconventional way; the only way he knew. The entirety of his body felt numb with it as Jack slowly crawled out from beneath him, remaining slouched on his knees as Jack stood up.

"Get up."

Jack commanded, demanding Dave to look up at him with the tip of his knife on the underside of his chin to tilt it upward. He did as he was told, following behind Jack with legs that felt like they could give out any second. He could've jumped at Jack's neck again, made another attempt, but refrained from doing so as he followed his direction. In the end that was all he was good for; following commands. He had with Henry many times, getting on that awfully sterile table was second nature to him. He was fully prepared to walk out the door, had expected as much, but Jack stopped him:

"Sit down."

He was still angry, Dave noticed it in the way he spoke with minimal words, a stark contrast to Henry who would often insult him with complicated phrases only meant to demean him. He obliged regardless, taking place on his couch. Jack returned after a brief detour, the knife abandoned and replaced with an aid kit and a bottle of vodka. Dave was so accustomed to taking care of his own injuries, nights where he tried to stifle the bleeding of a stitch, that the idea of Jack tending to him after such an attack was foreign. The fact that Jack even had the littlest bit of trust in him seemed impossible, wondering if those Vegas nights did mean something after all.

"Drink, I'm going to stitch you up."

He handed the bottle of vodka to Dave, who quietly unscrewed the cap and took a gulp, spilling from the gash in his cheek. With every emotion raging through him, he hadn't even taken notice of the pain from his flesh being torn. He couldn't imagine he was worthy of any care, undeserving for good reason, and yet Jack sat beside him as if nothing had been done to harm his trust. Not even Henry had done that for him, and Dave had been utterly devoted to that man.

"Y'know ya' don't havta-"

"I do, but-"

Jack mumbled, opening the aid kit and rummaging through it. Late nights in Vegas, lost in conversation, one in specific coming to mind. His arms were around Jack, high off a blunt each when Jack asked him if he ever felt guilty. He gave it a brief thought, shaking his head even though Jack couldn't see with the way his face was buried in his chest. It stayed silent for a long time when he asked Jack the same question, and his voice was awfully fragile when he did answer. Dave wordlessly listened as Jack rattled on about how burdened he felt by everything, what they did and more, as Dave's shirt slowly grew damp.

"I can't let you go like this."

Jack continued, fishing a needle and thread from the box. Even despite what Dave told himself, Jack felt guilty about betraying him; what they had was still meaningful. And to think he'd somehow convinced himself to kill this man: for the first time he felt himself doubt everything Henry had taught him. Dave understood that same guilt Jack had learnt to live with now, he'd do anything to turn back time, but all there was left for him to do was to take a final swig of vodka before Jack stole the bottle away from him.

"Now shut your mouth and lay down, this'll hurt."

Dave obliged, couldn't bring himself to question Jack's medical abilities as he sat on his knees by Dave's side. It'd happened so often that it shouldn't hurt anymore, but every time the antiseptic or needle so much as grazed his skin he still found himself clenching his hands into fists. He worked swiftly, to the best of his abilities, eyes focused on every stitch he put into Dave's cheek. It stung like absolute hell, but he deserved to hurt, especially after his mistake. The hands that gently caressed his face in their wake offered a little bit of comfort, even if they were coated in blood from the wound he was at fault for.

Slowly, with a lot of pained whines and tears threatening behind his eyes, Jack stitched the gash in his cheek back up. The teeth which he had bared, the hostility of bite, carefully concealed again by the only person who still remained after he lashed out. The dog which clung to his leg with his teeth buried in pale orange flesh, devoted to his owner in such a manner that only violence brought him close enough. And yet, the owner caressed its head, bound by his attachment to the mutt at his feet. He remained unafraid of the teeth hidden behind torn flesh, no matter how aggressive.

"Alright- That should do it."

Jack concluded, pouring vodka over the row of stitches he'd finished. Uncaring for how it dripped onto his couch, he dabbed Dave's face clean of blood. He wasn't a professional by any means, but being springlocked in his entirety had given him enough of a skill to do a stitch or two. Plus, Dave wasn't exactly a typical patient, anyone would've had to give out under the pain of receiving more than one stitch in the face without anesthesia. With a gentle hand on Dave's back, he helped him sit upright.

"Thank y-"

"Shut it- You need to keep your mouth closed, or you'll tear them."

Jack interrupted Dave before he could thank him, he was almost certain he didn't want to hear how Dave was grateful. It was easier to resent someone for what they did than to try and understand their reasoning, Dave understood that better than anyone now. Jack pinched the bridge of his nose with the hand that was still bleeding, a crimson that emerged from a deep cut in some of his fingers, seeping between them. Dave wanted to reach a hand forward to look at it, wordless care, but Jack swatted it away.

"Words aren't going to fix this anyway-"

His voice quivered, as did his lips, now staring up at the ceiling above him in a desperate attempt to stifle the tears that already ran down his face. It was rare to see Jack cry, it had seemed as if he struggled to be vulnerable, either because he didn't want to or because he genuinely couldn't. That night in Vegas was the only time he vividly remembered ever feeling Jack's body shake with sobs, and even then he had refused to emerge from the safety that was Dave's tear-stained shirt. To think that the same person who had just tried to kill him had offered such comfort once upon a time seemed near impossible, for the both of them.

"Fuck- Might as well get this over with... C'mere-"

He wiped at his face, leaving a trail of blood in its wake which was soon distorted by another tear. With one hand he beckoned Dave closer, the other fishing bandages from his aid kit. Silently, he wrapped the stitches with a careful hand, trying to find a way to keep the gauze in place. It took a great effort to look anywhere but Jack's eyes, even though he was actively avoiding Dave's; a final attempt to hide the tears that kept building. When he finally tore them away from Jack's face, they inevitably landed on the handprints around his neck, fading from red to a distant yellow. Very carefully, he lay a hand on Jack's neck again, motionless and without force. Jack didn't give a reaction as he continued to wrap him up, but he could feel his body stiffen and jolt under the contact. The damage had already been done.

"There."

He concluded, shifting back to see the work he'd done. Dave's hand followed the motion, remaining still against the nape of his neck as if paralysed. Jack raised his own hand to wrap around Dave's wrist, forcing it away in a swift movement.

"And keep your filthy hands off me."

His voice was hardly even angry, stern with disappointment instead. There was a red smear of blood around his wrist where Jack's hand had grabbed it. Even after what he did, he still prioritized Dave over himself. It made him sick to think about what he had ruined, that this might very well have been the last time he ever received such care. Just as he was about to gesture to Jack's hand again, he took the bottle and poured some over the cuts, wincing against the pain.

"I've been beyond lucky to know you, but-"

His breath stifled, he couldn't bring himself to look at Dave as he now wrapped gauze around his own hand. Jack hadn't demolished anything when he rejected his offer, it was Dave's own destruction that was at fault for this. Maybe it always had been, his own chase for a legacy that hardly belonged to him was simultaneously annihilating him, ripping him of any chance at a connection.

"-I need this to be a farewell."

He still wasn't looking at Dave, the longer he stared at Jack the more he realised he didn't want to. Nodding sheepishly, Dave picked himself up from the couch and went wordlessly. It was the least he could do after everything, oblige by another order. The return makes one love the farewell Henry had once said, and Dave only found himself increasingly more doubtful of him as he turned back to shoot one last glance at Jack, face buried in his hands and his shoulders shaking. How he'd loved to be the comforting shoulder to lean on.

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[5091 words]