CHAPTER SIXTY-NINE
It was a strange day, one in which Ana felt like she didn't sleep at all and yet experienced a short series of especially vivid nightmarish dreams in which she was first asleep and vaguely reliving a distorted version of the previous night's adventures in the hospital, then awake with the Puppet combing its long claws through what was left of her hair, asleep again to dream of David leading her through the grandfather clock and down a spiraling stair to the child's room where the Purple Man waited, then awake again with Freddy holding her up and helping her drink a bottle of water, then asleep and falling endlessly through static. One dream or many, she didn't know, and when her phone rang, waking her out of the last of them, she still wasn't entirely sure she wasn't dreaming, especially when she fumbled the phone to her ear and heard Freddy's deep voice.
"Did I wake you?" he asked.
"Yeah," she said, too confused and disorientated to say anything but the truth. "It's okay. Is it still today? What time is it?"
"It is 9:37."
"In the morning?" Alarm shot through her like a bullet, one more wound, bleeding out agony from the center of her skull. Wincing, she pressed a careful hand to the part of her head that hurt the least. "Shit. My appointment's at nine. I missed it."
"In the evening," he corrected her. "The evening of Thursday, November 19th, 2015."
The specificity cleared some of the cobwebs, enough to know she had to be awake and actually having this conversation, although she still couldn't understand why Freddy would call and not just come in and talk to her.
"Everything okay?" she asked, struggling to sit up. Her head and stomach swam in opposite directions. Pain dominated all her senses, making her vision throb in time with her heart. The security camera was on and each sliver of pure light that found its way through a tear in the purple curtain was a needle directly in her brain. Her eyes wouldn't focus. Well, her eye wouldn't focus; the other one couldn't even open. All things considered, it was not unusual that Freddy would want to check up on her, but why was he doing it this way? "What's wrong?"
A few seconds of silence pulsed in her ear.
"Forgive me," Freddy said at last. "I may have been misinformed. I had understood you were admitted to the hospital yesterday."
That made no sense. He knew damn well she'd gone to the hospital. He was the one who'd made her go. Blackmailing son of a bear.
Too late, Ana pulled the phone away and actually looked at it. It was Freddy's voice, of course, but the name on the screen wasn't F.F., it was F. Faust.
"I'm sorry," she began and then said it again, urgently, as a warning before she pitched forward and had a short ugly spat of dry heaves, nearly passing out with the force of them. The world slid sideways, dropping her into gravity's hands and gravity dropped her on the bed. She could only lie there for a second, gasping for breath through her sweat-damp pillow, watching the gold stars dance across the tattered purple curtains that closed her in.
"I'm so sorry," she managed at last, dragging herself up again. "I'm a little messed up at the moment. Yeah, I was, but only for a few hours. I got bit by a feral dog or something. It's not serious. It's the rabies shot that's really fucking with me. How did you find out? Or is that a stupid question? Did Shelly call?"
"If by that you refer to Mr. Shelton, he did attempt to call several times this afternoon, yes. I wasn't in the mood to indulge his histrionics and let him go to voice mail. I confess I haven't yet listened to the messages."
"Do me a huge favor and don't. Just delete them."
"All right," he said after a short pause. "May I ask…?"
"I was supposed to come into work today after not showing when I was supposed to come into work on Monday, and let me just add that he knew I wasn't going to be there on Monday because I made sure to call him on…what was that, Friday? Saturday? Whatever that was, I called, so while I admit I was a no-show today, I was not a no-show Monday, even if I wasn't there."
"I see."
"He wanted to see me grovel and I didn't, so he tried to lean on me a little bit and…hell. One thing led to another, and now I don't work for him anymore."
"He fired you," Faust said after a slightly longer pause.
"Not exactly."
"You resigned?"
"Not exactly. It's more like he was fired from having me work for him. That doesn't matter, the important thing is, somehow he got the impression that you'd get involved if he got obnoxious about the whole situation."
"I see," he said again after an even longer pause.
"I didn't want to bring you into it, believe me," she said with feeling. "I only wanted him to leave me alone and he was never going to do it just because I asked nicely. I had to hit him with a hammer and you're the biggest hammer in town."
"Understood. And agreed, for what it's worth. Shall I ruin him?" he asked, without menace, as if he were offering a cup of tea.
"Let's wait and see what he does, but no matter what, don't do anything this close to Christmas, man. That's just cold."
"All right. Will you allow me to assist you with your medical expenses?"
"I'm not proud," Ana said dryly. She had plenty of his money sitting in a bag somewhere in this room, but hospital bills were no joke and fifty thousand dollars saved was fifty thousand dollars earned. "Sure. I'll talk to the hospital people when I see them tomorrow, try to set something up."
"Please. And will you be needing another job?"
"No. I don't know. Maybe. Probably. I'm not going to worry about that yet. You still haven't told me how you even found out about this."
"I overheard Cook discussing the matter with Miss Stannick. As to how she knew, I could not venture a guess, however I feel it is safe to say even the least of your adventures are better known than you would like. You enjoy a certain amount of notoriety in our small town."
"Enjoy is not the word I would have chosen."
"One may as well. In fact, if I may make an observation—"
"And offer a word of advice," Ana guessed.
"Quite. I have a certain amount of experience with notoriety myself, Miss Stark, and feel that I am uniquely qualified to advise you on the subject. Over the years, I have developed the philosophy that we do not build the pedestals of our own reputations. They are built for us, by those in whom we inspire the strongest feelings. Not the warmest, mind you, but the strongest. And strong feelings do not require facts to build upon. Where there is no brick, the architects of your reputation will grasp at whatever mud and straw they can find, for their intent is not to create a sound structure, but to see you fall. Therefore, if you would be revenged, do not fight them. Struggle only destabilizes your position and splatters the mud about. Ascend, stand tall and compliment those who wallow in the muck of their own making on the glorious view they have provided you."
"Good advice," she said sleepily, smiling. "You always have the best advice. I've really missed you, you know."
"Thank you," he said and that was all he said for a while as Ana dozed with the phone in her hand, half-dreaming of people wallowing in mud who turned into pigs and then of Peggy Pigtails coming to life and running down the hall after her. Suddenly, speaking in the brusque manner of a man who knows full well what he was about to say will not be popular but will not be taking questions or entertaining debate, he said, "It is inappropriate to offer, so I apologize, Miss Stark, for any perceived impertinence. It is unavoidable, given the circumstances."
"What circumstances?" she asked, drowsing.
"I should like to send my driver to collect you and such of your possessions as necessary to allow you to stay here in my home until such time as you are sufficiently recovered."
She woke up a little more. "What?"
"Do not mistake my motivations. You needn't even see me. I shall retain a home health care assistant for you."
"No!" Ana said in something like horror. "Jesus, don't do that! What?"
"I suppose I could lend you the use of Miss Stannick," he said dubiously. "I can't speak much as to her qualifications, although I'm told they're quite good, and she might appreciate being put to her intended purpose. She's become rather disillusioned with her present duties, I think."
"Look, I know you're trying to do something for me," Ana said, making an effort to speak clearly. "I appreciate the sentiment, but it's way too much. Live-in nurse? All I need to do is rest and change my bandages once in a while. I'm fine."
He was quiet for a short time, then said, "Miss Stark, you place me in the uncomfortable position of having to choose between my admittedly anemic conscience and a relationship…a friendship I very much value."
"No, you don't. Have to choose, I mean, not value my friendship. I know you do, I do too, but seriously. I'm okay."
"I freely acknowledge you have survived a great deal without my interference. I am…I have always been an unnecessary element in your life."
"Oh hey. Come on. Don't say it like that."
"No, no. It's quite all right. You would prefer to be alone and I should respect your wishes, yet I hesitate, given the description of your injuries as understood by my cook."
"She was exaggerating."
"Perhaps. She did not see you, after all. I cannot see you. But I can hear you. I can hear the pain in your voice and in your silence. Never loudest than in your silence. I understand broken things very well," he said in the same detached way he said everything, "but pain is difficult for me. I can fix a broken machine. I can do nothing for a hurt child. I cannot even see how badly you are hurt this time."
"I don't want you to see me right now." She sighed and rolled onto her back, more conscious now of all the little grimaces and groans with which her body protested movement. "Believe me, I don't want anyone to see me, but if it helps, you should know I'm not alone. I'm not even at home right now. I'm staying with friends."
"Are you indeed?"
"Yeah. Although it's not really 'staying with,'" she said dryly. "More like 'held captive by.' 'Grounded.' He used the word 'grounded'. I was today years old before I was ever grounded. I feel like an essential chapter of my childhood was finally written."
"Forgive me, from your tone it's difficult to know whether I should offer my congratulations or commiserations."
She thought about it and huffed out a little humor. "Congratulations, I guess. I'm not mad. He thinks he's got good reasons and its definitely coming from a good place. And he's not locking me in the closet or anything. He put me to bed and is managing my medications and making sure I get enough to drink. He'd probably tell me a bedtime story if I asked. Although it sucks. He won't let me do anything to take the edge off. Prescriptions only and only as prescribed. Not even exotic butter for my morning English muffin. But I'm in good hands. They're wrapped around my neck at the moment, but…good hands."
"I see. I'm glad to hear it, Miss Stark. I shall not insist upon your acceptance of my invitation, then. Neither shall I withdraw it. If you should reconsider, do call. A room shall be prepared at any hour, should you require a place of rest."
"Thank you."
"It seems rather like a bad joke, but apart from the unpleasant episode of your homecoming, how was your trip?"
"It had its ups and downs," she admitted. "But my friend is back on his feet and walking, so I have no complaints."
"That's very welcome news. I can hear you're tired and in pain. I shan't keep you any longer."
"Wait, are we still on for the Tree Lighting?" she asked, adding with a self-conscious chuckle, "It's okay to say no. I'm going to be real ugly. I swear, every time you see me, I look worse and worse."
"Every time I see you," he said in his distant, halting manner, "I am gladdened and grateful. My driver is scheduled to collect you at six on Saturday the 28th, if that's still all right."
"I'll be there," she promised.
"It was good to hear your voice. I look forward to seeing you soon, Miss Stark. I extend my sincerest hopes for a speedy recovery."
"Thanks. It was sweet of you to call. Sorry I couldn't be more coherent."
"I'm sorry I couldn't be there," he replied. "Yet you're not alone and that is some small comfort. Good day, Miss Stark."
"Goodnight."
She heard something as she thumbed the end-call button, a slight scratching or scraping sound, no louder than a bug scuttling across the floor. She looked in the direction she thought it came from, but there was nothing there except Babycakes perched on the corner of her dresser, its creepy human eyes seeming to glow as they reflected the faint light from her phone. Its open eyes? Had they always been open? She was sure the freaky thing closed its eyes when it was dormant, but she was having trouble remembering when she last saw the cupcake's eyes shut. Maybe its eyelid mechanisms had broken when she threw it out. It wasn't giggling or singing at her, so it couldn't be awake.
Whatever. It was quiet and that was good enough for her.
She shut her phone off and let the hand holding it drop wherever gravity wanted them. Her eyes scraped shut. Pain pulsed in time with her beating heart. She could hear it, feel its weight like shovelfuls of earth filling in a grave. And she, like every body in every open grave in the only movies she ever watched, eventually rose and walked.
It was early yet, only ten o'clock, but sunset was long past and the restaurant had shut itself down for the night. Everything was dark and still. The show stage was empty, although the camera came on soon after Ana limped into the dining room. She couldn't even lift her left arm to shield herself against its piercing light, but on the other hand, her left eye couldn't open enough to be blinded by it. She went to the kitchen, where the camera couldn't follow. Even the thought of food made her want to vomit, but her mouth was so dry and her body had no moisture of its own to give it. She took a water bottle from the fridge, dropped it. She tried to pick it up, but her head felt like it was going to explode when she bent over, so she just kicked it out of the way and got another one.
The camera was waiting for her, faithful as an old sheepdog. It half-followed and half-herded her up the East Hall, past the crossroad where Peggy stood motionless and all the way to the security office.
She could hear him before she saw him. Electronic slaps and grunts, some thrilling midi music, and the subtle tapping sound of some mad button mashing.
"You keep saying how much you hate violent video games," she heard Bonnie say, "but I can't help but notice you're kicking my ass. Are you sure this is the first time you've played?"
"Don't be such a sore loser," Chica said primly as a guttural undervoice bellowed, "Get over here!"
"I'm not sore, I'm just curious if there's something you're not telling me. Like is this the first-first time you've played or just the first time you've played two-player or the first time you've played today or what? Shit! Yeah, yeah, 'Flawless victory,'" he said along with the game. "I think my controller's broken."
"I'll trade you."
"Come on, leave me a little dignity here. Let me blame the controller."
"We can go back to Street Fighter if you want."
"You kicked my ass at Street Fighter."
"Bonnie, I'm going to kick your ass at everything," Chica said matter-of-factly. "Stop keeping score. We're just spending time together and having fun."
"I'd have a lot more fun if you weren't constantly kicking my ass," Bonnie grumbled.
"Get good, scrub. Now pick a platter so I can serve you up some more delicious ass. The secret ingredient is chain attacks. Oh, Ana's here!"
"Oh hey," Bonnie said, lifting his ears as Ana slumped into the room. "You're awake!"
"Unfortunately."
"Grab a controller," he offered. "I'll let you be Raiden."
"My hands are a little shaky," said Ana, which was like saying the Grand Canyon was a little big. "I thought maybe we could watch a movie? Assuming Freddy hasn't taken away my TV privileges on top of everything else."
"Don't give him ideas," Bonnie joked, but his ears shifted to betray some darker thoughts as he looked her over. "You sure you don't want to just go back to bed?"
"I'm sure." And she needed something to focus on, even if it was just a dumb cartoon, to help take her mind off the two hours between now and her next Percocet. And who knew? Maybe she could fall asleep after all. The restaurant was as bitterly cold in winter as it had been bitterly hot in summer, but his battery was warm and his fur would be so soft. She could sit in his lap where she perfectly fit and he'd put his arms around her and she could maybe fool herself into believing things were going to be all right…
"I'll go get Foxy," said Chica.
Right. Foxy.
Ana pulled her old canvas camping chair over and sat on it.
"What do you want to watch?" Bonnie asked, tossing the controllers into one cardboard box and rummaging through the tapes and DVDs in another. "Or should we let Foxy pick, since he's bound to bitch about whatever I put on?"
"He might like Goonies," Ana mumbled, rubbing her right eye, which didn't hurt, but she couldn't stand to even lightly touch the left, so the right would have to do.
"Goonies…Goonies…Here it is. Oh," said Bonnie, looking at the cover art. "More kids in danger. Freddy's going to hate it."
"At least we'll get to listen to more of Chica's dream theory pscyhobabble."
"There's something to look forward to. Stupid question," he said casually, putting the tape into the machine to rewind. "Are you okay?"
She shrugged her good shoulder, trying and failing to get comfortable in the chair. After some struggle, she succeeded in twisting off the cap of her water bottle and settled in with it, taking small sips to get her stomach used to the idea. Her lip was so swollen, she probably dribbled out as much as she swallowed. She was disgusting. "It is what it is. You?"
"Me? I'm good. Hell, I'm great." He snorted, shook his head. "That's so fucked up. I'm good and you're…"
Ana pretended to scratch at her scalp and pulled a little hair down to try and cover her stubble and stitches. "I'm fine."
"No, you're not."
"Bonnie—"
"No," he said softly, staring at the time stamp on the TV instead of her. "You're not. I'm not going to go off on how that happened. I can't…think too hard about that part yet. Right now it's the whole rest of it that I can't stop thinking about. The…unfairness. It's not fair, what happened. It's not fair that it happened the first fucking day we were back. I'm not even talking about how or…or whose fault it was. It's just not fair."
"Life isn't fair," said Ana, thinking how blue he looked in the light of the TV's off-channel screen.
"I know, I know. And when has that ever been a thing for us anyway? It's never been fair. Not one damn thing that's ever been done to us has ever been fair. I thought I quit caring about that a long time ago. It just…"
He trailed off, shaking his head a little now and then, but just standing there, silent. She could see his thoughts in his ears, could almost feel them inside her own head, like static when a channel doesn't quite come in.
"Getting mad doesn't help," she said finally, knowing he didn't need to hear that.
"Not getting mad doesn't help either," he shot back. "Nothing helps. No one helps. In fifty fucking years, you are the only one that ever tried to help and look what it got you. And I know you're going to tell me what a dumb way of thinking that is. You're going to tell me it could have happened at any time, to any one of us. You're going to tell me it's nobody's fault," he said, giving the last three words a special kind of edge.
"Are you going to tell me it is?"
He glanced at her, ears flat, and looked back at the TV. "No. Shit happens. I get it. It doesn't have to be somebody's fault just because I want somebody to blame."
"But?" Ana prompted.
"But it doesn't feel like an accident, you know? It feels deliberate, like somebody's idea of a joke, only it's not funny. Even if it wasn't Mangle, even if she never existed, it would have been something else. Because that's the joke."
"I'm not getting it."
"I was broken when you met me. Well, we all were," he amended, raking a hand over the top of his head. "We were…four broken instruments. And you came along, this…complicated melody that reminded me…us," he said. "Reminded us what music is and made us want to play it again. And we go all that way and go through all that trouble and we get cleaned up and restrung and brought back in tune, and there we were, both of us…all of us ready to play and…" He glanced at her, ears low and eyes lingering on the dark stains that showed through her bandages. Shaking his head, he faced the blank TV screen again. "Well, that's the song of my sorry life, isn't it? It'll never sound right because it was written to be played on broken instruments in the first place."
Ana gave that the respectful three-second silence it deserved, then said, "You serving cake at the pity-party?"
He gave her a withering stare over a crooked smile. "That's one of Foxy's lines."
"It's a good one. And you're just venting, I get that. You want to hear something funny?"
"Funny like I'm going to laugh or funny like I might feel worse?"
"A little of both," she admitted.
His ears shifted around, but came up at a darkly amused angle. "Hit me."
"Every now and then, it's like I forget that…you know. Someone died. And I start to make it about me."
Bonnie's anticipatory smile turned pained. "Yeah, but—"
"Specifically this," she said, pushing her hair back on the bad side to expose the stitches and stubble before he could tell her again how it wasn't her fault and she had no choice and all those other tempting lies that wrapped up Foxanne's bones so neatly. "They cut my fucking hair, Bonnie."
His gaze moved, sympathetic, but unsure.
"That matters because…when I was a kid, pretty much the only time my hair was ever cut was because I was in the emergency room and someone had to stitch up my head. They don't do the whole thing, of course, but when I'd go home, my mom would take of the rest of it off to punish me for humiliating her. And I'd have to go school like that, a little girl with a choppy buzz. And those were my haircuts."
"Ana…Jeez, I don't even…"
"I know. It's fucked up. Even as a kid, I knew it was fucked up. Fortunately, my hair grows like hogweed, but still, I have these vivid memories of being a kid and just—" She ran her hands through her hair, pulling at it, twisting and knotting strands around her fingers. "—as, I don't know, a way of telling myself that things were getting better. Because she was always going to yell and hit and throw things and lock me up, but if she was letting my hair grow out, it couldn't be that bad. And then, of course, it'd get that bad and the hospital would cut some of my hair and she'd cut the rest and I'd have to start over."
"When you say 'funny,'" he said, shaking his head.
"Yeah, I know. I'm getting there. When I was fifteen, my mom died. And I did have to go to the hospital for, like, pneumonia and some other stuff, but my head didn't need stitches, so they didn't have to shave anything. Still, when I got home, I took Rider's clippers and I shaved my head, right to the skin. Like…a eulogy, in some fucked up way. I looked at myself in the mirror and I thought, 'That's for you, you bitch. That's all you get. This is the end of you and the beginning of me and I'm never cutting my hair again.'"
"Oh. Well, that's good…right?"
Ana leaned forward so she could catch up the great messy length of her unbraided hair, wrapping it around her wrist so she could bring it all out into the open, dumping it into her lap and overspilling the sides of the camping chair, which sat low enough that the straggling ends went almost to the floor. "I hate," she said, smiling, "my fucking hair. It's way too long. It's hot, it's heavy and it's a bitch to keep clean. Plus, there's no controlling it, so I basically keep it braided all the time, and by the end of the day, it literally hurts my neck from lugging it around. But…" She picked it up again, pulling it through a loose fist all the way from her scalp to the tips. "But this is how long I've been okay. And on nights when nothing feels okay, I can still do this…and it helps."
She did it a few more times, then let that arm drop and reached up her other hand to rub her stubble.
"Aw hey," he said at once, reaching to catch her wrist. "Don't."
"Part of me just wants to cut it all off," she said. "That's the ritual, right? Time to start over, back to square one. But…But it's not that bad, is it? Or is it? And the nurse said I can just brush it over, which almost feels like giving me permission to still be okay, only am I? Or am I not okay and just hiding it? Which is better? Which is worse? Or is it—" She laughed, shaking her head. "—just hair? It's just fucking hair. And I should be thanking my lucky stars every minute of every day that the worst I lost was some hair and not an eye and an arm and some organs, but I…can't. They cut my fucking hair. No, not even, they cut half my fucking hair and let me decide whether it's half-on or half-off. Funny, right?"
He didn't laugh.
"So yeah, I get it. I get that thing where it feels just a little too personal to be random. Hell, way back when this whole thing started, I had a pretty good theory going about how everything wrong in the world today was because I didn't die in this town when I was ten, like 'the universe' planned," she said, with finger-quotes around the whole universe. "And that's just stupid. Not quite as poetic as the song of your life, but just as stupid. Truth is…the universe doesn't care. It didn't care about your face, it doesn't care about my hair. It's not out to fuck you or me or anyone else in particular for meddling in its plans. It doesn't have plans. It fucks us all indiscriminately for no other reason than just to get its dick wet."
Bonnie's low ears twitched a little higher at a crooked angle. "Oh, I cannot wait for you and Chica to start chairing Philosophy Night."
"You think I'm good now, just get a couple joints in me. Listen…It's not okay, okay? I know it's not. The next few days are really—" She stopped for a sigh and a laugh. "Really going to suck. But everything will be all right in the end. If it's not all right—"
"—it's not the end," he chanted along with her, rolling his eyes.
"I believe it," said Ana. "I really do. Do you?"
He shook his head a few times, then sighed and shrugged with his ears while his shoulders slumped. "I'm trying."
"That's a start. And in the meantime, I'm not cutting my hair. Believe me, I'm aware that every single day in my immediate future is going to be the worst and longest day of my life, but I'm hanging in there, and if I can—"
She heaved herself out of the awful chair to catch him by the hand. She towed him over to the wall and he let himself be towed. She kicked the chair out of the way and sat down, wincing, all the way on the floor, and he sat down beside her. "If I can, so can you," she said and bumped her bad shoulder carefully against his. It hurt a lot, but she held his hand and that felt pretty good. "We get to the end together or I ain't going."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah," said Ana and turned his little smile into a short, hard laugh by adding, "I will sink that fucking ship before I let it sail without me."
"You know, I do feel reassured, but I also feel slightly threatened."
"I'm sure if Chica were here, she'd tell you those are both very valid feelings."
Like saying her name had summoned her, the next thing Ana heard was the distinctive grumble-and-chirp of Freddy and Chica talking as they walked up on the office. Chica appeared first while Freddy moved off to check on the emergency exit at the end of the hall, her crest snapping up in a pink fan of surprise when she saw them.
"But where's Foxy?" she asked. "He was supposed to meet you here while I went to find Freddy."
Ana's swimmy state of mind gave her a good three seconds of confusion before she came to the conclusion that Foxy hadn't gotten lost on the way to the security office. He'd found it just fine, all right. He just hadn't liked what he heard when he got there.
Bonnie exchanged a glance of perfect understanding with her and discreetly released her hand. "I guess he wasn't in the mood for a movie," he said.
"Should I go get him again?" Chica wondered, switching on her eyes to peer fretfully down the hall.
"No," said Ana and took Bonnie's damn hand back, squeezing it once, defiantly. "He knows what we're doing. If he doesn't want to hang out with us, I'm not going to make him."
"Well…" Chica lingered in the doorway until Freddy came in (he went straight across to the other door to check out the employee's break room before reluctantly discontinuing his patrol), turning away at last with a low, sad curve to her crest. "All right. I just wish he'd come out of his room more often."
"Oh don't worry," said Ana sourly, switching on the movie as Freddy switched off the office lights. "I'm sure I'll hear plenty from him later."
It only took Foxy twenty minutes or so to come to terms with what he'd heard, if 'come to terms' was even the right word. There was no great soul-searching struggle, only a few quiet thoughts endlessly looping from his heart to his head and back again. What he thought as he sat on the edge of his bunk and walked his old doubloon across his new knuckles was what he'd already seen and heard, just revised some, like a script for a new act he was ironing out. And what he decided after twenty minutes of hindsight editing was that line about sinking ships, that was the perfect cue for him to walk in. 'Spoken like a true pirate,' he should have said, and sat himself beside her, maybe slung his arm around her, and then found something else to chat about for half-minute it took for Chica and Freddy to join them, and it could have been a fine night.
That's what he should have done, all right. Instead, he'd heard that line and heard Bon laugh at it, and the sound was so light and easy and unrehearsed that it more than anything the two of them had said had been the thing to push Foxy back. And by then, of course, Chica and Freddy were coming and, trapped between them, Foxy elected on the spur of the moment to duck into the arcade and wait for the movie to start, then to slink off back to the Cove alone because that was what a grown bloody man did with a moment's envious bad feeling.
And what was he feeling bad about, after all? What had they said, either of them, that needed an accusatory finger pointed at it? It wasn't like he'd caught them kissing and cuddling on each other, just talking. Not even romantic talk, just…talk. Soft words, coming from deep places rarely let out into the light, and he ought to be glad, if anything. Glad she'd opened up a crack instead of being 'fine' all the time, glad Bon was venting off some of that full head of steam he was always carrying around, glad they each had someone who could take their darkest innermost doubts and turn them into something that could be laughed away. Even if it wasn't him.
It should be him.
It wasn't the peevish, resentful thought that mere words made it out to be if they'd been written down instead of swimming around his head. Truth, he wasn't sure there was a word for the feeling knotting up his heartstrings, or if there was, then only Chica would know it. It wasn't even about what he was feeling at all, it was about Bonnie, not in a blameful way, but only how they were brothers and how brothers ought to be and how the distance between them now was too great to ever bring them close again. And yes, it was about Ana, but more in the ways she wasn't with him than the ways she was. He didn't know what to do about it, any of it, but as time ticked out, it became more and more apparent that he wasn't going to fix any of it sitting alone in his cabin.
'Can't fix it anyway,' he kept thinking, like a hammer coming down on all his other fluttery thoughts. 'Can't hold back the tide. Enjoy what there is for as long as it lasts and sail where the wind takes ye.'
He'd lived by those words all his life and lived fairly comfortable, all things considered. Like making a home in an abandoned building, you just learned not to look at the cracks in the walls nor listen to the rats scuttling about in the ceiling. You learned to love the dark, when you had no choice but to live in it.
Did he, though? That was the real question, and seeing as he had nothing else to do tonight but entertain philosophical nonsense, Foxy pocketed his doubloon and reached up to switch on the lamp that hung from the plastic chain beside his bunk. The light he got out of it had that dull yellow look that meant it wouldn't stay lit for long, and that was his own fault. He'd turned it on for Ana last night, so that when she woke from one of her many dreams of teeth, she could see where she was and know she was safe. He could have lit his eyes up for her, but somehow he didn't think seeing the glowing eyes of an animatronic burning out at her from inches away would calm her quite as much. The lamp did seem to help and he wasn't sorry he'd done it, but now its batteries were all but spent and when they were gone, all he'd have left was the sorry light he himself could produce—the baleful stare of a killing machine, never intended to quiet fears but only to amplify them. And eventually, those bulbs would burn out too. No light burned forever. Even the sun was bound to blink off some day.
Sooner or later, the darkness always won.
Coo, what was this mood he was in? How did a man go from failing batteries in an old camping lantern to the inevitable heat-death of the universe? And after all, what did it matter if the lamp burned out? Ana was no lily-livered bit of fluff to get herself in one scrap and then have to sleep with a night light ever after to keep away the dreadfuls. She'd sleep just fine tonight, no doubt. In her own room. Even if he were to find where Ana had the spare batteries squirreled away this time (never in the same place twice and she was getting creative with the hiding; it was almost like she thought someone was stealing them), she wouldn't be here to want the lamp on or off.
She hadn't been here for all the years he'd spent alone in this room before meeting her either, so why did the thought only sting now?
The question brought up a memory, so strong as to nearly be a saved file playing out in his brain. He was almost there again, sitting not in his bunk but in the back of the truck, just before all of this misery had come raining down. The others had all gone inside and left him alone with his thoughts and now those thoughts were turning back on him like some twisted mental feedback glitch. That fool's thought—inviting her to share his bunk, not for a friendly tussle (not that he'd pass the option if it came up), but for the whole night. Maybe for more than just the one. What a fine thing he'd thought it would be, to hold her all night as she lay sleeping.
It made a man think, didn't it? If nothing had happened, if Foxanne's box had never broken and she'd slept on under the frozen ground and Ana had never been bit, if things had gone fair all that day, he knew he would have been happy with the thought and never asked. But what happened, happened…and set in motion those events that ended with Ana sleeping under his arm after all. The world was a funny place. A man had to laugh.
Foxy looked at the threadbare mat that padded his bunk, deliberately choosing to see the dimpled place where her weight had rested and not the stains she'd left behind where her blood had seeped through her bandages. A sorry bed to offer her. Too thin to cushion much. Probably smelled bad. And far too small. She had to curl up on her side to fit in it at all and then he'd gone and squeezed himself in with her. Poor girl had been pressed right up to the wall, her fists and knees bumping the boards with every fitful shiver. And he'd felt them all, felt every twitch, heard every moan. He thought he'd held her close before, after all those spicy summer nights, but it was a very different thing to hold her when she slept, so close he could feel her chest move as she breathed. His arm had nowhere to go except around her and his hand didn't fit anywhere except over her heart, where he couldn't help but share its beating. He thought he'd worry about his hook all night, even with the point of it securely imbedded into the wall, but he'd been far more aware of her head pillowed on his bent arm, imagining he could feel her breath stirring his fur…or warm on his bare human skin.
And the bunk was so empty without her.
Was the movie still going? Probably, unless it was a cartoon. Or maybe they were all having such a good time without him that they'd put on another one. He should have stayed. He didn't like the way his room felt tonight, a revelation that only made him feel smaller and even more ungrateful than usual. No one else had a room to themselves. Chica had more or less claimed the Reading Room, but there was a difference between having a room that was yours and a room that no one else had any interest in visiting. Foxy had always had a place of his own, from the very first Fazbear's, even if it was just a closet with a curtain across it, it was still his. Over the years, as his act had become more and more popular, Pirate Cove got bigger and bigger. Now here it was, bigger than the dining room, almost a quarter-share of the entire building entirely devoted to him. And here he was, sitting in it, alone.
In the failing yellow lamp-light, Foxy looked around at the room he'd spent most of the last twelve years of his life with new eyes. Funny, how a man could live with certain things so long, he stops seeing them. He'd never noticed how much detail there was in the woodwork, all those skulls and crossbones and coins. There were little whales and sea monsters carved into the plastic map bolted to the wall, fancy that. And Freddy's face scrimshaw-style in the center of the compass. The fake bottles of 'rum' planted around the room had labels etched into them with names like Pirate's Poison, Liquid Gunpowder, and Hair o' the Dog. The hat hanging up on the wall beside his sword, with its fluffy red feather, part of Ana's housewarming gift to him, along with the rest of the costume and a fine selection of rum that had probably been as much for her as him.
Foxy's eye wandered, looking at and thinking of nothing in particular, but kept coming back to that silly hat. Had to pay extra to change the feather out, he recalled. Like he cared what color it was or even if the hat came with a feather stuck in it at all. But she cared. And she remembered that devilish little detail, carried it with her from girl to woman, and wrapped it up with a bottle of rum as a gift for him.
He'd never even worn it.
Well, he couldn't wear it, could he? No ear-holes, no Velcro to keep it stuck to his oddly-shaped (in human terms) head.
He'd never worn any of it. The hat had been hanging on the wall ever since he'd received it. As for the rest of it, he wasn't entirely sure where it had ended up. Not because he didn't care, he did. He cared enough to want to tuck it away where he couldn't accidentally kick it around. Just because he'd forgotten where he tucked it away didn't mean he didn't care.
Chica wore one of those aprons every day. She was wearing one now, in fact, the one with the heart, her favorite. And Bon was practically glued to that guitar, tickling at it every spare minute even if he never plugged it in and played proper. And although Freddy wasn't exactly phoning it up all day, he used the infernal machine. In every case, Ana knew her gifts were accepted and appreciated.
Every case but one.
No one was here to cast accusing glances his way, but Foxy felt himself bristling defensively all the same, and for what, really? It was supposed to be the thought that counted and he appreciated the thought just fine. He shouldn't have to prove it. Yes, he'd gotten used to britches and he'd be lying if he ever claimed he hadn't felt a wee bit unsettled without them while in Yoshi's workshop, but just because a bloke wore britches didn't mean he needed to truss himself up in full regalia on account of how it might make Ana happy to see him in it. It wasn't like he had anything to prove to her. Or anything special he wanted to say.
Foxy glanced down at the empty space behind him in the bunk where he sat, then got up and started looking for the stupid bloody costume.
The search took longer than he ever would have believed possible. He had only so many places to put things—two narrow cupboards above his bunk and four shallow drawers below—and it was surprising to open them and discover that not only did he apparently have 'stuff' after all, but he had a lot of it.
He found the shirt shoved in with the fancy cushions that used to round out the corners of his bunk and put it on, blousy and ridiculous, especially with the rest of him all bare. The boots were rolled up around their own hard soles and tossed in the birthday booty chest. He did his best to smooth them out, but the soft leather—if it even was real leather—was good and creased. Hopefully, the wrinkles would smooth out with enough wear. He couldn't find the britches and after his third turn through the cabin and an increasing awareness of the amount of time this was all taking, fetched Ana's old jeans instead, which had been curled on the floor by the cabin door like a faithful pup waiting for his return since the day he'd left. His new tail meant some surgical alterations were required to the back end, but once that was done, he pulled them on, tucked in his silly shirt, zipped up his crinkled boots (he had no idea what she'd spent on this get-up, but it was too bloody much if it came with zippers in the backs of your replica 18th century boots) and buckled on his sword belt. Now where in blazes was the coat? It was the hat and coat that made all this look like a pirate and not some loony git in a girl's blouse waving a sword around. He couldn't wear the hat, so it made it that much more important that he find the bloody coat. His cabin had only so many hiding places big enough to hold it and it was in none of them, so what the hell had he done with it?
Turned out, he'd folded the sleeves in and rolled it up, where the bars of gold thread on black cloth made it indistinguishable from the other gaudy mismatched cushions that used to decorate his bunk. He'd looked at the damn thing half a dozen times without recognizing it and it was only when he'd reached the point of yanking things out of the cupboard and flinging them around the room that it unfurled itself like a sail just to spite him. Without thinking, he hooked it out of the air as it fell, so instead of getting a little floor-dust on it, it now had a nice big hole. Lovely.
Ah well. If she asked, he could always say it happened in a sword-fight. And if he asked, maybe she'd spin him the tale. He'd invite her back to the Cove and maybe she'd come along and they could sit up a while and tell each other stories, and it could still be a fine night. Maybe.
'Never happen,' the dark heart of him whispered, but it might, and to prove it might, he took a moment to pick up all the kit he'd thrown around in his search and stuff it all back in the cupboards. If she came back with him tonight, which he knew she wouldn't do, but if she did, at least he wouldn't be bedding her down in a mess.
He dressed, wishing he had a mirror and grateful he didn't, both at the same time. The shirt was too loose and even knowing it was supposed to be did not make him feel better about it. He didn't like the way his toes were squeezed together in the boots and his equilibrium sensors liked it even less. The sleeves of the coat were too long, but that at least he could fix, after digging down through the booty chest for his old crossbones cufflinks (getting the right-side one on was a purebred bitch and a whole litter of pups). It all felt a bit flash for his liking, but he just kept that word—dashing—as a shield against that critical inner voice that told him he looked a right fool and she'd see right through this…this pathetic attempt to make himself seem better than he was by swanning around in his new clothes and his new skin like he wasn't the same old sorry shit underneath.
But now here he was, all dressed up and no one to see it. It wasn't like she'd come knocking on his door tonight with a joint tucked up behind her ear and that crooked smile of hers, wanting to pass the time in his good company. Maybe she would have, if he'd stayed to watch the bloody movie, but instead he'd gone off to have a sulk and she was leaving him to it as any sensible woman would. So if he wanted to see her tonight, he'd have to go out and find her.
He was tempted to sneak into her room and wait for her there, where no one else had to see him in this ridiculous get-up. Except the camera on the wall. The thought of the Purple Man watching Foxy make an overdressed ass out of himself tied knots in the stomach he didn't have, but Ana would never know that bit. She'd only hear her man talking love-words at her and maybe do some talking of her own and once they'd talked it all out…well, he didn't know what came next.
'Oh don't ye?' that voice in the back of his mind laughed. 'Well, I'll tell ye how it'll go, me salt, and to begin with, t'won't begin a'tall, for she'll come through yon curtain and see a man a'lurking beside her bed in the dark and she'll heave ye out on yer ass with a few blue words thrown after. Leastwise, ye'd best hope she does, for I'll wager yon blushing lass has a screwdriver or a hammer tucked away somewhere 'mongst those fetching curves and she'll whip it out and have it in ye to the hilt before even she knows she's done it. Ye sicced the Mangle on her—aye, ye did, as surely as if ye'd trained her to bite—and she'll ne'er be weaponless again. She'll see yer teeth, mate, a'fore she sees that frilly jacket. She'll see yer teeth first every time she e'er sees ye from this day on.'
He tried not to listen, but for once, the whisper at the back of his mind hid a certain kind of wisdom in its usual cloud of cheerful nihilism: Not in her room, then. A gentleman ought to wait to be invited in anyhow. Of course, he'd been invited in a hundred times before. Or, if not invited, at least welcomed. After the fact.
Well, he'd be invited this time. And until then, he'd wait in the hall.
'Like a gentleman,' he told himself and let that hateful voice inside him laugh, because it was funny, no matter how the rest of it felt, and when Foxy saw the joke in something, he just had to laugh.
Out to the West Hall he went and stood beneath the camera, where he couldn't be seen if it came on, and he waited.
It took some time, during which the camera remained dark. No doubt he was watching the security office from the hall outside the arcade or from the employee's break room, trying to steal a peek at Ana. Or maybe just listening to the movie. Even creeping on a pretty girl was likely to get boring after a while and the Purple Man hadn't seen a movie in at least twelve years. Granted, it was bound to be a stupid babby-movie, but it was one of David's stupid babby-movies. For a man who murdered children, the Purple Man could be oddly sentimental about his own.
But all movies end and eventually, the door to the dining room scraped open. Foxy straightened up, brushing down his collar and restlessly rehearsing his opening line only to have it lock up in his speaker when Freddy stepped into the hall.
While he didn't laugh (it took a lot to make Freddy laugh), he did come to a complete stop to look him over. Foxy waited, fighting to keep his ears up, hook down and tail from lashing under Freddy's scrutiny. At last, Freddy grunted and moved on, shaking his head slightly, but otherwise passing no judgment.
"What was the movie?" Foxy called after him.
"If you wanted to know, you should have been there," Freddy replied without looking back.
"What'd ye think of it?"
"I think it speaks to the inevitable moral collapse of our society that this man Spielberg can apparently spend decades filming a variety of imaginative ways to kill children and receive awards instead of prison time." Freddy checked the Emergency Exit's lock before heading off into the Cove, muttering.
Foxy went back to the difficult work of waiting, but it wasn't long before the camera above him snapped on, and if it wasn't following Freddy on his patrol, there was only one other person who could possibly be of interest to him. Sure enough, Ana soon appeared, holding one hand up against the beam already aimed at her.
"…always in my fucking eyes," she muttered and raised her voice to snap, "Oh fuck off before someone accidentally throws a crowbar at you!"
The camera did, blinking away into her room in anticipation of her next move. Ana lowered her arm, blinking, and saw Foxy.
"What," she began and stopped, taking a short step back to look at him again.
He'd planned for this, had a line prepared and everything, but looking at her now, he could not for the life of him remember what it was. All he could do was stand there like another Tux animatronic, tugging at his cuffs and waiting for the questions.
"Okay," she said at last, one corner of her mouth twitching up even as her brows did some frowning. "I'm listening."
"Eh…" Foxy kept his eyes on hers with some effort, wanting to check the camera above him even though he could see the light streaming around the sign on the Party Room door where the Purple Man was waiting for her. "Do ye fancy taking a walk with me, luv?"
"It's late," she began haltingly. "I just had my pills and they hit pretty hard. I don't think that's a good idea."
"It won't take but a tic," he promised her, backing up with one arm extended toward the exit door, holding out his hook to her invitingly.
Ana hesitated, touching the latch to her door, then came away from it with a sigh. She did not take Foxy's hook, but did walk with him to the end of the hall and followed him out into a cloudy night that was still somehow brighter than inside the building, as if the pizzeria had its own night, separate from the rest of the world's. He paced out into the parking lot, crunching over invisible sheets of ice that turned white and obvious only after he'd broken it, and looking back to see Ana huddled close to the building still, just watching and waiting to see what he wanted.
So? What did he want?
He threw out his arms theatrically and said, "How do I look?"
Her eyebrows pinched, puzzled, but she played along like a good sport, running her gaze slowly from his hatless head down to his boots and back up again. "I think it looks great on you," she said at last. "But you don't look very comfortable in it."
"Fits like a glove, luv," he assured her. "And even if it didn't—"
"I know," she said. "Comfort isn't really a thing for you guys. So…I guess what I really think is that you don't like it. And that's okay," she added before he could say anything. "That's on me, for getting a gift for the part you were playing instead of the man playing the part. You don't have to wear it just to be polite."
"Oh, I ain't no polite pirate. Yer thinking o' me twin brother, Percy."
She blinked her eyes in that way that meant she was trying not to roll them and she would have hid her sigh successfully except that the cold brought it out of her as steam. "Foxy, it's late."
"It is, aye. And I was thinking…" But he hesitated, distracted by the puff of her breath, then noticing the way her hands were tucked in under her arms, and lastly the fat grey flakes spiraling down out of the dark to get caught in her hair. All at once, the temperature shift his fresh sensors had recorded on his first step outside took on significance. "Ye cold?"
Her eyes went all squinty at him. "I mean…yeah? It gets pretty cold inside after the restaurant shuts down for the night, and it got a lot colder after you brought me outside into the actual wind and snow."
"Right. Well…Here," he said gruffly, shrugging out of his coat.
She stepped back, shaking her head. "I'm fine."
"No, I'm fine, because I don't feel the cold. Yer just bloody-minded and stubborn. Take it, there's a good lass. Just a loan, mind ye. Don't think for one moment I doesn't know how ridiculous I looks without it," he warned her cheerfully, tapping his hook against his furry chest where it showed at the deep neck of this silly blousy shirt, now flapping in the wind like a flag of surrender.
"You look fine," she said at once and scowled, picking her way carefully toward him across the icy lot. She took the coat and put it on, wincing as she pushed her left arm into the sleeve, but backing away when he tried to help. "Okay, I'm listening. But, and I'm not trying to be rude here, but your window of opportunity here is closing fast. If there's a point to all this, you need to get to it."
"Aye. Aye and I…lord, that's a lot o' ayes," he muttered, scratching his hook across the back of his head. "I thought I'd offer, is all…eh…mayhaps if'n ye'd like to sleep in me cabin with me, I could stand for it."
"I'm tired," she said and huffed out a sigh. "I know I've said that before and then not let it stop me from sneaking in, but this time I'm legit tired and Percocet does not fuck around. All I want to do is go to sleep tonight."
"Fair and I'm for it. I were only thinking ye might want to sleep in me cabin again." He paused, but she didn't immediately argue. He chose to take that as a good sign and pressed on. "In fact, I were thinking mayhaps ye'd like to sleep in me cabin from now on." Again, there was no reaction, which was feeling less and less like a good sign. "It's small, I know it, but ye seem to like sleeping in small spaces and I thought…" He stopped there, amazed by the prattle coming out of his speaker. Like sleeping in small spaces? There was a thing to say to a girl he knew damned well had been locked in a closet by the waste of living space that Fate had made her mother. "Bugger me thought. I could share yer bed, if ye'd rather, but I don't rightly reckon ye'd rather."
"No," she said at once. "Are you serious? That is not a two-person bed by any stretch of the imagination."
"Bigger'n mine."
"That's not the point!" she insisted.
"No, yer right, it ain't. Don't matter a whit where ye does the sleeping, so long as I'm with ye."
"Doing what exactly?"
"Nothing," he said, covering his uncertainty with a careless shrug. "Just being there."
"Staring at me while I sleep? Sure, that's not creepy."
"I'll close me eyes."
"So now you're, what? Listening to me sleep all night?"
"No doubt, luv," he said with a nervous chuckle. "Don't know if anyone's told ye, but ye has a snore like a chainsaw."
"I do not," she said crossly. "I breathe a little heavy since my nose got broke the last time and it's not going to bother you anyway because we'll be in different rooms. Good night." She turned around.
He caught her arm—the left arm—and although he realized his mistake almost immediately and let her loose, the hurt was done. She didn't cry out, but she staggered, hissing in a sharp breath and grabbing at her shoulder. Small spots appeared where she pressed down, almost black in the moonlight, but leaving red stains on her shaking fingers.
"Ye all right? Let me—"
"I'm fine!" she rasped, backing out of his easy reach.
"I'm an ass," he told her by way of apology. "Ye has a cute little snore. I loves to hear it."
"Knock it off."
"I ain't joking at ye. I want to be there, Ana. S'truth, I do."
"Be there?" she echoed. "For what?"
"For…whatever. For the things that matter to ye."
"Things that matter…? What the actual hell are you talking about? Nothing matters to me!" she snapped and then scowled as embarrassed color flushed up in her face. "I mean, you matter, obviously, but… Damn it, I told you I had my pills! I can't do this right now. I'm all fucked up and I don't want to fight."
"Nor I," he said with feeling.
"But you know it's going to turn into one!"
"Three sails there, luv," he sighed, "and sailing."
"Then let's just stop," she pleaded. "Okay? It's not a good time. That sounds like a cheap excuse, but sometimes, the timing actually seriously sucks and this is one of those times. I need to go to bed."
"So…come to mine."
"Foxy," she sighed. "Look, I'm sorry about last night. When a girl stumbles in and puts herself to bed in your room, it sends some signals and I can't blame you for thinking things had changed, but—"
"I been thinking it longer than last night. I couldn't find the right moment to ask is all. And then this thing happened with Fred and we all went away and…and everything else that happened when we come back."
Ana backed off some more, pulling a handful of hair over the left side of her head for the peevish wind to immediately blow back.
"I ain't trying to make ye come all over feelings with that," Foxy said. "I'm only telling ye how I been waiting a coward's age for the perfect moment to mention what I been wanting…and every single halfway-bright speck of 'em gets splattered up with Life's shite before I can. So I always end up waiting. And waiting and waiting and…and then ye come to me last night," he said, because the particulars didn't matter and the details of in whose arms she'd been carried when she'd come could only prove distracting to the matter at hand. "And in spite of all the misery that put ye there, it felt good, being with ye. I could close me eyes and pretend I was sleeping, and everything was small and quiet-like. Peaceful." He thought about it, looking at the pizzeria—the whole thing and not just the door behind her with her hand on the latch, ready to run. "I don't…I don't reckon I ever had a peaceful moment here before. Ye and me had some fine times in that cabin, luv, but peace sure ain't the word to describe them."
She huffed, almost smiling, almost scowling.
"I liked having ye there," he confessed. "Some pirate, eh? Even if I were the man all me stories make me out to be, I swear to all the Powers, I'd still trade the sea Herself to lay aside ye on a quiet night and wait for ye to wake up. It were a bitch of a night, mind ye, but…it were a good morning. For me, anyhow," he added with a lopsided shrug. "But I…I likes to think ye mayhaps felt a little better for me being there. Eh? A little."
She frowned and looked away into the empty night. "I guess so."
"I didn't know I wanted that until I had it, but I known for some time that I wanted…something."
Her eyes darted to him and away. "From me," she said, her voice lifting like a question as she stared stone-faced at nothing.
"With ye," he insisted. "That's what it comes to, at the heart of it: I want to be there with ye. For all of it and not just the bits we do in the dark. Not that I want those bits to stop," he added with a roguish snap of his tail. "Those are fine bits, they just…ain't all there is."
"And you've got to have it all, huh?" She stopped there and visibly reeled herself in. "Look, whatever I said or did last night to make you think…whatever you're thinking, you have got to understand that I was stupid drunk and high on painkillers. I don't remember crawling into your bed. I don't remember coming here at all. It just…" She cut herself off, swearing under her breath as she rubbed at her bruised face.
"Say it," he said and offered her a crooked smile. "We be pirates, ye and me. No quarter."
She shook her head, looked at him, then dropped her hand with an angry slap to her side and all but spat, "It just didn't mean anything to me! And I'm sorry if I sound like a huge bitch, but I also don't understand how it could possibly mean anything to you!"
And he couldn't exactly argue, because he didn't rightly understand it either. All he knew was, that had been the worst night of his life—
'Coo, go on and tell her that,' the dark voice laughed. 'Look her in the eye—I'd say eyes, but t'other one don't even open—and tell her how hard ye had it.'
All right, so he wouldn't tell her that. But it had been. The worst night, after near fifty years of torture and murder and Mulholland's parties, nights so bad that being abandoned in a rotting building was all the best he could hope for. The worst, because no matter how bad things had been, it had never been his fault on any other night. And last night, it was. His actions and his alone had brought Mangle and Ana together. With one bite, he'd managed to hurt everyone who ever gave a damn about him. Not just Ana, but all of them.
Foxanne, his pretty girl… Had she cried out for him, there at the end? He thought she had. And his being there might have calmed her some, instead of letting the mad static that gnawed her waking thoughts drag her into death with the taste of blood in her mouth and tears in her eyes.
Chica, who had always believed the best of him. Her sympathetic nerves were stretched out like a spiderweb through every inch of every building they'd called home, holding it—holding them together, and when she sensed even the slightest quiver of bad feeling, she'd come running to free them from it, wrap them up in hugs and reassurance until they had no choice but to be the good she saw in them. For all the years they'd lived together, she had never failed to offer a compassionate word, a friendly smile, a forgiving hand. Until tonight, when she'd come to the Cove and called his name and then just…looked at him for a while. And it was funny, because he could still easily see the Chica he'd always known in her new face, but she looked at him tonight like he was a stranger. Although she had invited him to see the movie with them, he had the feeling if he said no, she wouldn't try to coax him out as she'd always done in the past. And maybe that was why he'd said yes in the first place. Not to be with the family, not even to see Ana again, but because he was afraid to say no and see Chica just…walk away. And she'd walked away anyway, hadn't she? To go find Freddy, she'd said, but they could have done that together. She'd sent him on ahead because she had nothing to say to him anymore.
Freddy…standing on that frozen pool of Ana's blood, staring down at him. Damn you for that…You made me think about it. But he hadn't, really. No, what he'd done was so much worse. Freddy hadn't just considered killing Foxy, he'd lived it. For eight hours, while Foxy farted around the desert pretending he could still unmake his terrible mistake, Freddy had lived in a flipside world in which he'd killed one of his own, and not just once, either. He'd debated ways and means, polishing down possibilities until he'd come to the quickest, most painless and efficient method. And now Foxy wasn't family, not the way he'd been before. He was a decision that had been made, a decision that Freddy would almost certainly regret from time to time, whenever Foxy gave him a reason. And he would.
But at least it had been Freddy making that choice last night and not Bonnie. The only reason Bonnie wouldn't have ended him right there on the dock would have been because he wouldn't have waited for Foxy to come back in the first place. Bonnie would have come to find him, punched the questions right out of Foxy's mouth and stomped the life out of him while Ana's blood was still wet on the pavement. After that? There was a certain poetic justice in the idea of Bonnie kicking his mangled corpse into Foxanne's empty grave when he was done. And the look on his face when he did it would be the same as it had been last night, standing in the doorway between him and Ana. …Nothing you could imagine comes close to what I had to see…I left her alone, you son of a bitch…
And then he brought her back. Brought her right to him for reasons Foxy thought he understood at the time, but Foxy would be lying if he said he thought too much about the reasons. All he knew was that it felt good to hold her. She was his world, his whole world, and nothing else mattered. He had to tell her.
'Oo, aye, tell her,' urged the dark voice, showing its teeth. 'Tell her just that and show her the purple truth o' what ye are. Nothing else matters, eh? All this pain and ugliness that ye caused, that don't matter. The killing she done, the scars she'll carry, the nightmares she'll be having the rest of her life, none o' that matters because it got her into yer bed. They cut her hair, me old son. Shaved off fifteen years o' being all right and turned her out again, bare-headed on the port-side. Tell her that don't matter. Let's see what she says to that.'
Ana's challenge still hung in the air, only a few seconds old. He had to say something, but, "Last night felt good," was the best he could do.
The rising fire in Ana's eye died back (but did not fully extinguish) and she sighed out some of her steam. "Last night was different."
"Different ain't such a bad thing, is it?"
"No," she said and quickly added, "But you know what they say, if it's not broken—"
"What if it is?" he interrupted. "What if ye just never knew how broken it was? Or ye knew, but hell, wasn't like ye could fix it, so ye just learned to live with the cracks." He glanced at his chest, where, not so long ago, he'd have been able to see the glint of metal and glass showing through his crumbling skin. "And maybe carve a few yerself, just to prove ye don't care. And it ain't that ye don't care, really, it's just that when nothing can ever get better, all's ye can do is feel worse…or feel nothing.
"I can't feel nothing about ye, Ana," he said quietly, looking up at her again. "I don't want to feel nothing, never again. Ye made me a new man and I…I want to be a better one for ye."
She stared, and much as he would have liked to believe hers was a look of surprise about to melt over into romantical feeling, he'd run his sword through enough human hearts to know a look of horror when he saw one.
"For me?" she echoed. "For me?! No. No, don't you dare. Don't make this about me. You change what makes you happy, not what you think is going to make someone else happy, especially not me. What the hell do I know about how to make people happy? And who said you had to change anything anyway? There's nothing wrong with you. Just because I'm not in the right place to deal right now doesn't mean you did something wrong! You are who you are and I don't expect you to be anything but the man you want to be!"
'The only man I want to be is yours,' he thought, but he didn't say it because it would have to go through his stupid pirate translator first and no matter how much feeling he put into it, it could never sound anything but stupid. So he said, "Fair enough," and just sounded indifferent instead.
She stepped back, confusion and embarrassment rising purplish-pink in her bruised cheek. "Sorry," she mumbled. "Am I over-reacting? Everything…feels…really intense right now. I'm taking everything wrong. I told you I was too fucked up to be having this conversation."
"Yer fine."
"No, I'm not. I'm…really not. Look, I…" She sent a swift, shame-faced glance back at the waiting door, then visibly braced herself and said, "I'm detoxing, okay?"
He looked away, embarrassed by her embarrassment. "Ye don't have to—"
"No, you need to understand. When I say I can't deal right now, I mean I can't. And it's…it's going to get worse before it even starts to get better. I know I'm acting like…" She trailed off, scratching at her bandages and rubbing at her eye. "It's going to get bad. Yeah, it was…nice…that you were there this morning, but I don't want you there tomorrow! I don't want anyone there. I don't want to be there! You have no idea," she said with bitter resignation, "how much this is going to suck."
He nodded, knowing it was doomed, and still had to try. "I could help ye—"
"No, you can't! See, you don't get it, you can't get it. There's nothing you can do to help, all you're going to do is see it and I don't want you to see it!" Her rising voice cracked. She clutched at her throat, stealing another desperate glance at the door, and breathed herself quiet again. "This isn't something I want to share. I just want to get through it and I want things to be the same again when I come out the other side, okay? Things will never be the same if every time I look at you, I've got to remember that you saw…all the worst parts of me."
He opened his mouth to tell her she'd seen the worst of him, but closed it again. She hadn't. She'd found him abandoned in the back of some forgotten building, sure. She'd wiped the dirt off his eyes and hosed dead spiders out of his innards and helped him slip into a clean, new skin, and that was bad but it wasn't the worst. She'd never seen him sink his hook into the head of some feckless bastard and drag it, twitching, away from the security office to the Cove. She'd seen a hundred playful swordfights, even fought one herself (and won, if only because she was a shameless cheat), but never saw one that ended with human guts spilling through the ragged gash in a guard's shirt into cupped, disbelieving hands. She'd cleaned the blood off him when it was no more than old, black flakes embedded in his joints, not when it was wet and still hot with the life he'd stolen. She'd never seen it…and he didn't want her to see it.
"I understand," he said.
"I'm sorry."
"No need. Yer right. I knew I were rushing things and I just run ahead with it anyhow. But it ain't all about me," he said and nodded a few times, really driving that home, like a knife to the heart, hilt-deep. "Take all the time ye need, luv. Ye know where to find me if ye want me. Ain't like yer going anywhere."
"Not while I'm grounded," she said glumly. "Do not tell Freddy I said anything about…you know. How much the detox is going to suck. His DARE-Bear routine is hard enough to take even when he doesn't have a point. If he actually realizes how bad I let it get, he's going to be—"
"Un-bear-able?"
"—impossible to deal with," she corrected in a hard voice, but her stiff shoulders relaxed and there was a ghost of a ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth. "Are we done? I'm serious, I need to lie down before I fall over."
"We're done," he said. And then, since he hadn't yet made all the mistakes a man could tonight, he kissed her. The sensors in his mouth were all wired to his jaws, intended to prevent accidental bites and augment deliberate ones. He had none at the front of his muzzle. All the same, her lips were soft and warm and sweeter than rum. He could almost taste her breath mingling with his, he who had none. He closed his eyes and fell into that lying moment and for as long as it lasted, it was fine.
Then the dark heart of him whispered, 'Take her to bed now, mate. Don't ask, just take her hand. She won't fight. Not long, anyhow. She'll heel ye like a pup wheresoever ye leads and she'll stay where ye lays her down. Just do it. She'll come around.'
Foxy broke the kiss.
"Go to bed, luv," he muttered, looking at the thickening snow and the graffiti on the boarded-up windows and everywhere but at her. "We'll talk again when yer storm blows over."
"We will," she promised, already retreating. "Just let me work through some shit first and get my head on straight."
"Aye."
Now at the door, she hesitated. "Aren't you coming?"
Foxy shook his head and clasped his hands behind his back as he turned away. "Lovely night. Think I'll go for a walk. Leave the door unlocked for me, luv." He glanced at her. "That's all I'm asking tonight. Just leave the door unlocked."
She touched the latch like a promise and went inside.
Foxy did not go for a walk. Bloody miserable weather and nothing to see anyway. He stood in the parking lot and watched the snow fall until it started coming down thick enough to stick, then headed inside. Ana had surely kept her promise, he never doubted it, but Freddy had been by in the meantime; the door was locked.
Foxy laughed. You had to laugh, didn't you? Then he picked the lock and opened the door anyway. The West Hall was dark and empty, but his coat was there, folded neat and laid over the motionless Tux-animatronic's shoulder where he'd have to see it so he wouldn't have even the slimmest excuse to go knocking on her door. He put it on, telling himself he wouldn't have knocked, late as it was, and then he took himself back to his cabin, which was also dark and empty and really too small for two people to share anyway.