So, I've been reading a lot of squigglydigglydoo's Toon Henry AU, and I'd read the response to a question about toon anatomy, and–to cut to the chase–this idea wouldn't leave me alone.
Skin Deep
Henry's life was full of terrifying moments—up until entering this hell-scape of a rotting studio, many of those moments were tied to that period of his life he did his best to think of only as 'The War'. The catalogue of terrifying moments was growing by leaps and bounds now that he was here at Joey Drew's Studio thanks, in no small part, to Bendy's attempts to 'make him pay' for 'abandoning' Joey and the toons here. After witnessing Sammy's death via mallet (a scene that would no doubt replay in his nightmares for years to come, assuming he lived that long), Henry was in no hurry to put his own body to the test.
If he had to die here, he didn't want it to be because Bendy didn't understand that a safe to the head or a stick of dynamite or other toonish gags would be fatal, and not in the cartoony way where Henry got a harp to play to go along with his halo and wings.
The latest terrifying moment, however, had nothing to do with Bendy and the fear of becoming an inky stain on the floor.
He'd glanced down at his gloved hands as he'd been walking, the errant thought that at least he'd retained all of his fingers during his transformation into a toon crossing his mind, when he found himself wondering what his hands actually looked like beneath the gloves.
As an animator, he'd always been proud of his hands. When he'd stopped animating, when he'd stopped drawing after 'The War' because he'd used his love of art to keep himself sane and found he couldn't pick up a pen later without thinking of what he'd seen there, his hands had served him well for all the other pursuits he'd put them to.
According to Sherlock Holmes, you could tell a lot about a man by looking at his hands. Before he'd come here, his hands had been somewhat gnarled with age, but still flexible and strong. Calloused fingers with trimmed nails which he did his darnedest to keep clean.
What did they look like now?
Henry's eyes swept the abandoned hallway. No immediate signs of danger. From the sound of things, he was alone for the time being. Satisfied that his indulgence was safe enough, he leaned the axe against the wall and pulled off the glove on his right hand.
Or, rather, he tried to. It was as though the glove were stuck to his skin. The minutes that followed were full of increasingly desperate and increasingly painful but futile attempts to peel the gloves away from his hands. After a final, savage tug, he gasped, and not just because the action had hurt.
The realization washed over him like a bucket of icy water. The gloves weren't stuck to his skin, as he'd originally thought. No. He held his gloved hands up in front of his face, digesting the fact that his hands weren't inside of the gloves: they were the gloves.
Henry felt like he might start laughing. He felt like he might start screaming. He fought back the urge to do either, certain that, if he started, he might not ever stop.
After what seemed like a very long time, he lowered his hands. All right. All right. All right. He was a toon, after all. He shouldn't be surprised: unless a toon was going to throw down the gauntlet or something of that nature for a bit or a gag, there was no expectation that a toon would ever be drawn without gloves on. It was just part of the design. No doubt the rest of his clothing was the same. He wasn't going to test that just now, but he had no reason to doubt it.
He wouldn't want to be off model, would he?
Henry shook his head sharply. If he could handle being a toon, he could handle the rest of what that entailed. Later, if he lived long enough, he could have an existential crisis. For now, the important thing was to keep on existing. And his best bet of doing that was to keep on moving forward. Thus decided, he picked up his axe and did so.