'To Build A Home'
Characters: Jak and Daxter
Rated: K+
This is a place where I don't feel alone.
This is a place where I feel at home.
Cinematic Orchestra
He's always reaching for something that's never there.
When they grab him by the waist to drag him from his cell and to the chair and he's crying out, voice opening and closing soundlessly, he throws out his hands in the hope that another smaller, rounder, furrier pair will catch them and squeeze them comfortingly - but they don't.
As they buckle the straps on much too tightly and he's struggling frantically in their grasp because he's doesn't want to spend another day, another second in this place, he prays that their will be someone on his side there, someone to unlock the cuffs and lead him out of the windowless room and back to the outside world where he can finally see the stars again - but there is no one.
And finally when the eco begins to flood his system and he's screaming, sobbing until his throat is raw as his body convulses on the chair, wrists and ankles digging into the metal cuffs keeping him down, he longs for another to be standing above him. He wishes he would open his eyes as he fades in and out of consciousness and see a smaller, orange form hovering over him, telling him that it was going to be okay, that he wasn't go to hurt anymore - but all the people that loom above him only laugh, and plot, and betray.
He always needs the comfort of someone who he believes to be gone, forever.
So one he sees a pair of orange paws and a friendly smile to match he doesn't believe it is his friend. Instead he lashes and lets loose an animal like scream, feeling no pain as he rips through the metal restraints as though they were nothing, letting the dark eco that once crippled him fill him with a power like never before. He raises his claws and wants to fight, he wants to kill, he wants the blood to spill and the heads to roll - but then he hears the voice he thought he'd never hear again and he halts.
"Jak? Easy buddy! It's your old pal Daxter, remember?"
And he does remember. Remembers bright red hair and cool, yellow sand days spent dreaming and looking at the clear blue sky. He remembers freckles splashed haphazardly across a pale face, and eventually orange fur that looked coarse but was soft beneath his fingertips. Jak remembers, and suddenly he feels the dark substance drain from his body, flowing quickly and painfully until he is himself- or what's left of him -once more.
Gripping his head in agony as the horns recede he looks almost in shock, and there is Daxter, as loyal as ever, waiting patiently by his side even as the seconds drag onto minutes as he tries to pull himself together, tries to rid himself of all the rage and the fear so he can go back to normal.
Daxter hasn't changed one bit, and he can't help but think about if he'll leave him once he realizes just how much he has changed.
And not for the better.
Night used to be peaceful for Jak, meant for sleeping soundly in the tall green grass, underneath the stars with his best friend. Now instead of taking comfort he takes heed of it, for it is filled with suffering, with terror, with agony - as he's forced to relive the darkest moments of his life, when his entire world was contained to a dirty prison cell, and the Mar damn chair.
He spends his nights in the same blood stained halls, same open room with the same metallic voice informing himself and others of just how much dark eco was injected into his bloodstream, and how inhumanely fast his heart was beating and that if they continued his entire body would explode-
It's more often than not he can't wake before the dream is over. Not for the first time in his life he begins to loathe his eye for detail, because he can recall everything: the feeling of cold, stiff metal behind his back, the needles as they plunged sloppily into his skin, their sick, disgusting laughter.
Time did not heal all wounds - it only seemed to make them worse.
But regardless he tries to tell himself it's just a dream, only a dream and it doesn't matter. Yet it never works, because it was real, and it would always be real - and the dark, dank walls of the Underground only seem to make it all seem worse. Not even when Daxter tells him can he believe anything different.
He can, however, forget about the pain and the horror and the nightmares as a small, fuzzy body moves to wrap itself in the crook of his shoulder, tiny, moist nose rubbing against the stubble of his chin.
He can ignore the ever present weight that refuses to relent on his middle, as long as there are small, orange paws stroking the back of his head and warm, ottsel breath tickling his cheek.
He spends so much time trying to be brave and stay strong, he barely realizes he is about to fall apart at the seams until it is too late. It is only at night that he could allow himself to break, the only time he can let himself cry for the loss of his home, himself, his sanity - but Daxter's always there to pick up the pieces.
And in those moments, Jak is almost complete again.
He has feelings, wants, needs, just like everyone else in the Mar damn city. But unlike them, he rarely ever achieves them.
Leaning against the wall Jak vomits, blood and bones and flesh emptying from his stomach until at last it is empty but his body continues to shake, as he wipes his mouth and looks up at the corpses that litter the ground. With shaking hands he tries to scrub the blood from his face, but to no avail - there's just too much to get rid of.
It's just too much to take in at once and he falls to his knees, staring emptily at the bodies of the men he singlehandedly murdered and most likely devoured the flesh and blood of, and not for the first time he wonders if Praxis was right - maybe he was a monster.
There are voices in his head but he doesn't worry because he accepted that he was losing his mind a long time ago. The voices tell him he is a monstrosity, they tell him he is an abomination, they tell him he is nothing but a worthless freak. That he deserves to die. And he believes the voices, too exhausted and too emotionally scarred to do anything else but agree.
He would pray to make them stop, so maybe he could have a moment's peace that isn't filled with the taunting voices, but he stopped believing in the power of the Precursors a long time ago.
But then there's another voice murmuring in his head, a softer, kinder, familiar voice with it's usual drawl, telling him that it was time to get up, that they had to get a move on or there would be more guards. It is this voice that he seeks out over everything, in the hopes that it will make the hurt go away.
More often than not, the pain is always there. But with that single, positive, reassuring voice it fades, if only for a second.
Reacting, no matter how slowly, he moves mechanically, more out of instinct than feeling. But the voice is still there telling him to turn left, then right, and straight towards a safe house so he can take off his boots and let his gun clatter to the ground then crawl under the covers and try to forget he is alive.
But Daxter- the good voice, his favorite voice that's always his and always will be -is there to crawl agilely under the ratty blankets with him, curl up on his chest, and reminds him that while he is alive, his isn't alone.
And Jak relies on that more than he will ever admit.
The transport door closes, and Jak knows that it's all over, that he already failed, that he's already dead.
He can barely move, rooted to where he stands from the dark, heavy thoughts, until out of the dust appears a small, orange form, and the hope swells in his chest. The weight that's usually in his middle evaporates.
Reaching out a hand, his friend scampers up and crawls along his back until he's perched on his shoulder, just as he always was. The ottsel's constant chatter fills his tired ears and he can't help but smile.
"Alright tough guy, you got us into this mess, so now ya gotta get us out!"
For the moment, Jak isn't alone. Because with Daxter, he's always home.
AN: Well, originally this was only going to be a tiny drabble, but my brain just took over and now you have this 1500+ word ficlet thing. (Figures, I get a ton of ideas for fanfics when I should be writing my novel for NaNo.) But to be honest, I quite like it. A lot.
So. Much. Bromance. You don't even know. I'm pretty sure I died and somehow came back to life because of it.
Read, review, enjoy.
~Leia