Alright, so this kinda took a while longer than I wanted, but in addition to other things happening (not to mention my short attention span sometimes), I also had to go through a few drafts on some of these scenes before I was satisfied.
Oh, and yo, guess what? I managed to get ahold of most of the run of the Darkwing Duck comics as physical copies (Definitively Dangerous Edition and Vol 1-2 of the Joe Books revival), and just need to get the ever elusive "Dangerous Currency" for it to be considered a complete set. How lovely. Yay.
There's just some nice about having physical pages to touch and turn, y'know? Anyway, I got more comments to add, but I'm putting them at the bottom of the page here.
Enjoy chapter two. :D
"You're a bit quieter than usual, Mr. QuackerJack."
He looked up from the notebook at the weasel lady, his psychiatrist, Ms. Mustela.
"... I just don't have much to share, it's only been a couple weeks since the last session." He said. "And please, call me 'Jack'."
"How are you doing since that head injury last week?"
"... I... Did... Did I tell you about that? I don't think I've said a word about the incident..." QuackerJack was confused. "Yeah, I'm absolutely sure that I haven't said a thing about that..."
"It's in your medical records." Ms. Mustela said, flipping through the folder of papers. "It was honestly a good thing that you went in for that check up; concussions can often turn nasty if there's no monitoring or follow up."
"To be honest, the only reason I went in was for what turned out to be a sinus headache. But, of course, because I got hit with a Magic 8-Ball there, everyone was concerned that that was the cause." QuackerJack shrugged, looking back at the notebook and scribbling in it with a pen. "The sinus pressure was unrelated to the concussion; it's just seasonal allergies to pollen. The trees are just dropping the stuff everywhere, and the wind is just blowing it all around. Nothing a little antihistamine can't help manage."
"How did you manage to get hit with a Magic 8-Ball?" Ms. Mustela seemed incredulous. "That's such a specific item, and certainly not one that you'd expect to get hit by."
"... I tripped."
"Into... a Magic 8-Ball?"
"No, no, I tripped and it led to it falling on me." QuackerJack closed the notebook and stuck the pen in the spiral ring. "Actually, it was more like I stepped on some metal jacks I left on the floor, and I jumped back, tripped over my chair, landed in a red wagon that hit the wall, jarred a bunch of shelves, and the Magic 8-Ball was the last thing to roll off and it hit me square in the head, right here." He tapped two fingers gently on the space between his eyebrows. "... I have a very packed cubicle of stuff." He added, seeing her baffled look.
"Goodness."
"I'll say. I've moved the thing to a much lower shelf now, so I don't plan on doing that again anytime soon."
"Well, as long as you're alright, that's what's most important." Ms. Mustela shook her head lightly in an action of amazement. "You've brought along a notebook this time, I see."
"Yep."
"And you were just adding to it."
"Uh-huh."
"... Any reason as to why you've brought it along?"
"Mostly just to see if you'd ask about it." There was a hint of teasing in his tone of voice.
"Jack."
"I'm kidding. Mostly. It's still a secret, though." He laughed. "Actually, I meant to leave it in the car, but I forgot it was in my hands and by the time I realized it, I was already halfway across the parking lot, so here we are."
"Fair enough." Ms. Mustela sighed inwardly. "So, who is this 'Claire'?"
"Bah?" QuackerJack dropped the notebook in surprise. "How did-?"
"You have a phone number and name scrawled on the back cover of your notebook."
The duck snatched up the notebook from the floor and flipped it over as if he needed to confirm that, and yes, in his messy penmanship, he did indeed scribe the name and number on the cardboard backing. He honestly had forgotten that he'd done that, but he had wanted to be sure that he did not lose her number.
"Oh. That. She's a friend at work." He knew his face was blushing again, and he hated that. "She was the one that drove me to my apartment after I got hit with that Magic 8-Ball."
"A friend? That's nice, I'm glad to hear that."
"Hey, I have other friends over there. There's Rick and..." QuackerJack started before he paused and stuck his tongue out playfully. "You almost got me talking about stuff, sneaky, sneaky."
"That's my job, Jack. I'm supposed to get you to talk about yourself." Ms. Mustela laughed.
"And you've been trying ever since I came here the first time."
"Anything from you is considered progress, I hope you realize that."
"I reiterate: Sneaky."
"So, what about Claire? You have her phone number written down, so she must be something."
The redness in QuackerJack's face seemed to deepen to the shade of a raspberry.
"She's just a friend from work!" He squawked defensively, but his body language gave it away that he clearly felt something a bit more than that. "She brings the mail to my floor, and I see her every day, just a friend!"
"Okay, then, she's just a friend."
"... You're really not going to question that further?"
"My job is to listen to you when you want to talk, not put words in your mouth."
"... Alright, then, that's all you're getting out of me."
"Okay." Was the simple answer from Ms. Mustela.
"... I can't help but feel like this is some reverse psychology thing to trick me into talking more."
"And what makes you say that?"
"There!" He clapped his hands once as if he just figured out what was going on, and pointed accusingly. "That's the sort of thing I'm talking about! You're doing that thing again!"
"And yet, you seem to be talking more than you intended..."
"..."
"..."
"... Sneaky."
"Jaaaaack, buddy, hey, good to have you back!"
"... Thanks, Rick."
"You really have to stop scaring us like that, y'know."
"It was just a sinus pressure headache, it wasn't like I was dying." QuackerJack said in a mildly affronted tone. "You all worry too much about me; I don't think anyone else around here gets as much attention as I get."
"Because no one else trips over half the stuff you do." Rick shrugged. "You have to admit that you have a tendency to not be mindful of your surroundings, I mean, this wasn't the first time you didn't pay attention to what was behind you."
"But, it was the first time I've been attacked by a Magic 8-Ball." QuackerJack countered.
"See, that's just the thing, Jack. That had some real weight to it; you could have been hurt way worse."
"But, I wasn't, so it's all fine now." QuackerJack turned a little in his chair.
"I'm just saying, maybe it wouldn't hurt to clean up your workspace somewhat, it's clearly a bit of a safety hazard." Rick said, scratching his head. "Yeah, you got out of it alright this time, but maybe next time won't be so lucky?"
"... My workspace is fine, Rick." QuackerJack was beginning to feel personally attacked, and he wasn't sure why he felt that way. He inhaled carefully and added: "Alright, then, I'll pick the jacks up from the floor, but the wagon stays. Everything stays. Don't touch anything."
"Alright, alright. Just be more careful next time, then." Rick seemed to be able to tell that QuackerJack was feeling backed into a corner, and while he knew that QuackerJack was working very hard at maintaining a handle on his low tolerance for frustration ("anger management", if you will), Rick also knew he shouldn't keep poking QuackerJack with a stick. "Y'know, a lot of people around here do care about what goes on with you, Jack. I don't know if you noticed how many of us were crowded around the couch, but at least half the floor. The rest were waiting outside the break room for updates, because we couldn't fit everyone in there."
"... Oh." QuackerJack said quietly, dropping his gaze to his feet, which he was kicking idly. "... That... That is a lot of people."
"So, anyway, how'd it go?"
"... How did what go?"
"You got to talk to her, right?"
"I had a concussion." QuackerJack raised his eyebrows in surprise. "There really wasn't much talking beyond introductions and her insisting that I go to the hospital to get checked out further."
"Didn't she give you her number?"
"Yeah, we swapped because she was adamant that she could at least check on me after all this."
"So, she likes you, then?"
"What?"
"You swapped numbers, she's gotta like you, then."
"... I... wait ... what?" It hadn't really occurred to him that she might have liked him back. The whole idea was so foreign to him, and he couldn't grasp the concept that someone could reciprocate the sentiment. He blinked and blinked and blinked. "... That has to be a... a mistake..."
"Oh, my goodness, Jack, you've really never been infatuated before now, have you?"
"No!" Was the emphatic answer the buck toothed duck gave, as if he'd explained so more than enough. "I don't even understand it! Is it good, is it bad, why is this happening to me! I don't like this, it's so confusing! Is-Is she planning something! Should I be worried! Why would she be interested in me!"
"Whoa, slow down and breathe, first up." Rick held up his hands. "Second, believe it or not, you're very likable. She probably likes you because of that."
QuackerJack blinked several times, eyes darting around the room, practically trailing everywhere except actually staring Rick eye-to-eye. It was clear that he was having trouble processing that information, and that fact alone was distressing him.
"... I... That's a lot to... I... uh... I think I'm gonna be... I need to lie down..." QuackerJack's voice got shrill in the way one's voice does when the wind gets knocked out of thier lungs. He appeared to be on the verge of an existential crisis, and it didn't take him long to slide out of his chair and under his desk, knees to his chest and arms wrapped around them, eyes wide and teeth chattering.
Rick peered around the corner the moment QuackerJack disappeared from sight and clenched his teeth awkwardly as he put a hand to his head, wondering if he said the wrong thing.
"That's not a bad thing, you know?" He offered as QuackerJack looked up at him the moment he said something. "I mean, I wouldn't mind if someone was interested in me like that; as much as QuackWerks works us to the end of the shift, I hardly have the time or energy to have that kind of luck, much less go around flirting with everyone until I find a catch."
"... That's the thing, Rick. There's so many working on this floor, why me out of all of them?"
"You're going to have to ask her, I know about as much as you, maybe less."
"... I think I'm gonna throw up..." QuackerJack squeaked, with a very uncomfortable expression crossing his face, shudering and looking a bit pale.
"Yikes, okay, I'll get the wastebasket for ya." Rick said in such a tone, one might assume that this wasn't the first time he'd done this for his coworker. "Gee, that's really got you in a bundle of nerves, doesn't it?"
Rick took the fact that QuackerJack had his mouth clamped shut so tightly, that his prominent teeth weren't visible, as a sign that the possible answer was "Yes."
"Alright then, but before you lose it in the trash can, try those breathing exercises first, you might be able to get yourself to calm down enough that you won't need it, Jack." Rick advised, still handing QuackerJack the wastebasket anyway. "Because otherwise, you know our supervisor is going to force you to take the rest of the day off, and we all know how much you hate missing a day at work."
There was a bit of silence before QuackerJack took a steady breath and counted to himself quietly, eyes closed. It must have worked, because after a couple of minutes, the color came back to his face and he opened his mouth to take a particularly deep breath before he eased his eyes open.
"... I honestly forgot about that trick..." He mumbled, giving a shaky grin. "... Thanks, Rick."
The sensation of falling and the sudden jolt of a floor making contact with him jarred him awake and QuackerJack stared ahead in a state of confusion as his brain buzzed with thought after thought.
The first thing he noticed was that he was on the floor beside the bed, and was laying on his front, in an awkward sort of position in which his left foot was in the air and the top sheet was wrapped and twisted around it as if ensnaring him. If he could have thought clearly at the moment, he might have considered the possibility that he had merely rolled over one too many times and got wound up, but his mind was still in a half-asleep daze, and instead, he perceived it as some sort of restraint or whatever (it's hard to really decode what goes on in that head), and he screamed shrilly, clawing at the floor in a panic.
A handful of carpet flooring gripped tightly in his hands and a quick pull launched him forward and headfirst into the nightstand that was hardly a foot from him, and the sudden thump on his head rudely jarred him completely awake. Holding a hand to his head, QuackerJack frowned to himself as his eyes trailed to the top sheet wrapped around his ankle. He huffed and pulled it loose, borderline disgusted with himself for having reacted as such.
You're an absolute mess sometimes, you know that?
"... Oh, shut up." He mumbled to no one in particular, and stood up from the floor, realizing now that his jester hat, that he wore practically every waking and sleeping minute, had slipped from his head and was laying on the bed.
He had honestly felt like there was an unusual draft on his head, and he'd glimpsed his reflection on the glass screen of the television, which was why he'd even realized it. He couldn't explain it, but he always disliked how odd he looked without his hat. Maybe he was so used to wearing it, that he just wasn't used to seeing himself without it anymore...
His messy head feathers at the moment had that sort of look when oils, and what-have-you, made the barbules separate and gave him an unkempt texture in his head. Well, then, looks like it was time to shampoo stuff again... This humid St. Canardian summer made this happen more often than he liked.
You might feel better if you get that grime off you.
He would have ignored that thought if not for the fact that it was a fair point. He wasn't necessarily "filthy", but some extra preening than usual couldn't hurt. Especially when the unusually warm summer air was making him sweat by midday.
Within a half an hour, he was now walking back into the main room of the apartment, ruffling his head feathers with a towel. He wasn't intending on any particular way of preening, as he was just going to slip his hat back on soon enough anyway.
Perhaps it was worth mentioning that he certainly hadn't forgotten his rude awakening, and he was actually trying to push it to the back of his mind.
"... Bananas don't scream..." He muttered under his breath, tossing the towel over the shower curtain rod to dry.
QuackerJack continued to repeat that to himself as he went through his morning routine, following the directions scribbled on his strategically placed sticky notes.
He froze suddenly and stared at one in particular that was bent at the corner and was scrawled on in very messy penmanship, and sat on the top of the bedside table. The words had clearly been written while the paper was stuck to the surface, as the pen marks bled off the small square sheet, as if it had been roughly scribbled on without much care or proper pen holding.
Help Jack
This almost made his med pill stick in his throat when he inhaled sharply before he had finished swallowing, and he coughed and quickly snatched the adhered paper off the surface, and balled it up into a tiny crumpled mess, trying hard to not think about it or what it meant or why it was there or how to interpret it. Whether it was a statement, a request or a plea, he didn't know nor did he want to care.
He threw it in the wastebasket, then pulled a container of cleaning wipes out from under the sink and scrubbed the stray pen marks away. He found a discarded pen on the floor that had rolled under the bed, and he threw it across the room, barely caring that it was now behind the TV stand.
"Not doing this, not doing this, I'm just going to go outside and I'm going to go into town and maybe I should go to the store, do I need anything right now, what was in the fridge again..?"
He was in denial. He wasn't willing to believe that he'd been able to hold a pen and write something while he'd been asleep. He did not want to think about what else could be possible without him being even aware he had done it.
Strangely enough, that's not necessarily an indication of being crazy, if you'd believe that...
"... I'm not believing that because I'm just talking to myself, and I'm just hearing what I want to be told." QuackerJack huffed to himself, pulling the blinds open on the window to let in some light, as if hoping that the sunshine was going to dispel any bad vibes lingering about. "That's what happens when I spend too much time by myself here in an apartment in a complex filled to the brim with noisy neighbors and I start trying to drown everyone out!"
He was almost shouting now. Once he realized that he was likely overreacting, he took a deep breath, held it, and exhaled slowly.
"... It's nice out, I should be outside, this is cabin fever setting in, is all..."
Now, there's a good idea.
It wasn't. It honestly wasn't.
He shoved his door open roughly and slammed it shut before he fumbled with the lock and put his back to the door and slid down to the floor, gasping heavily as he buried his face in his hands. He was shaking and felt as if he'd been emotionally suckerpunched in the stomach.
To be quite frank, it had all started out just fine. It was nice outside. A little humid, maybe, but it was sunny, bright and abuzz with activity with many, many lively people.
He couldn't place exactly where it went wrong. But he assumed it was either the sudden overwhelming anxiety that had arisen from overhearing people recognize him, or maybe it was that he'd seen a child carrying a banana shaped doll (it was a simple banana shape, no legs or arms, but it was still a banana with a goofy face) that had been won in an arcade crane game.
The very sight of a plush plantain had triggered such an overwhelming sensation of misery and guilt that he just had to get out of downtown shopping district before he made a scene, as he had felt that he was incredibly close to screaming.
He felt like he was drowning, but he knew it was strange to think that because he wasn't even in the water.
... You gave it a good try, though.
He calmly stood up, crossed the apartment, grabbed a pillow from the bed, inhaled deeply, buried his face in it and screamed.
Feel better?
"... I'm just asking myself, I don't even know why you're bothering telling me anything I don't know yet..." QuackerJack said before flinching, as he pulled the pillow from his face. "Aaaaaand I'm talking to myself again."
No response. Maybe he was overreacting, maybe it was just him thinking aloud. Normal people do that, right?
He felt his phone suddenly buzz and beep in his pocket and he jumped, startled. He'd forgotten that he was even carrying it, so he dropped the pillow in his hands and cautiously retrieved his phone, wondering who'd even be bothering to contact him, especially at this time.
Taking it out with shaky hands, he unlocked it with a swipe and look of utter confusion on his face as he stared at the screen.
It was a text message.
Hey, Jacky, it's Claire. Are you alright? Saw you run by, you looked upset.
He continued to gawk at the screen, his mind starting to reel. Oh, no. No. No no. She'd seen him, and he'd been in a less than stellar state. He hadn't even seen her, oh man, where had she been, he could have practically been right beside her for all he knew, when was this, was this before or after he frantically shoved his way out of the busy crowd in a panic?
He bit his lip and felt a whimper get caught in his throat. What was wrong with him? Why was he even getting this upset, it was just a text message, she could have simply seen him closer to the apartment than the shopping district.
Besides, the tone the message seemed to imply was that she was just concerned about how distraught he must have appeared.
He responded truthfully. After all, he had no reason to lie.
No.
He waited, beginning to regret touching the "send" button as the seconds passed. Maybe he shouldn't have said anything, maybe he should have just brushed it off and said he was fine. Though, he supposed the positive thing about talking through texts is that no one could hear the distress in his voice...
The phone buzzed in his hands again, and it took him more than a second or two to realize that he was hearing the ringtone (which was the default) chiming as well.
She was calling him.
He wasn't prepared for this, he had no idea what he was supposed to do or say. His head felt like it was spinning from vertigo, and he dropped himself heavily in a slumped sitting position on the bed as he stared at the phone like it might blow up in his hands if he didn't respond soon enough.
Hesitantly, he pushed his finger against the screen and slid it across, unlocking it so he could answer. He held the phone to his ear and could only breath in and out in a mildly concerning rhythm as he squeaked out in a low voice: "... Huh... Hello..?"
"Jacky, are you alright?"
It took him about half a minute (during which, the question was repeated with some variance at least twice), but he finally managed to speak again.
"... Honestly, no... I've been having a terrible day..." He mumbled, rubbing at his tired and irritated eyes. "Just terrible, everything is terrible, I feel terrible, today just started out terrible, it's just a terrible, terrible day..."
There was some silence, and he wondered for a moment if perhaps he'd unloaded far too much information to what essentially equated to a workplace acquaintance to him. He was surprised by the response he gotten once she recovered.
"... You want to just talk?"
"... Huh?"
"It doesn't have to be about that, even. We could just chat." Claire clarified. "You sound like you need a friend right now."
The fingers on one hand tightened around the phone as he involuntarily reached his other hand for his chest when a brief pang shot through it. Brief, but strong enough to knock the wind out of his lungs. He was grateful that he was already sitting down, because he was almost certain his legs would have given out from the shock of that immediate, overwhelming sensation of misery.
He gave a weak cough to catch his breath and responded once he recovered.
"... You have no idea..." His voice was unusually soft, and sounded almost wobbly, if that was possible. He fell backwards on the bed and looked up at the ceiling. "... You really don't..."
"Try me."
"... What?"
"Just talk, I'll listen."
QuackerJack had to take a moment to switch the phone over to his other hand, as the one gripping it was beginning to cramp from holding it so tightly.
He pondered to himself as to how exactly he'd be able to explain to someone like her about his intense emotional attachment to a sawdust filled doll, and that he was practically still grieving over the loss of his beloved doll. How would he even begin to explain that the reason he was so upset right now was because some random toy stirred up some deep emotional trauma he had been shoving on the back burner for weeks and weeks instead of properly dealing with it?
"... I... I had a friend..." He decided to give it a try anyway. "... He was a doll I had made, and... Oh, this is stupid, the more I say it out loud, the more crazy I sound!"
He slapped a hand to his face and heaved a sigh and before he knew it, he had launched into a sort of small scale rant as what was heavy on his mind spilled out.
"I can't even properly mourn losing him because 'Oh, Jack, he wasn't real.' or 'That's a bit silly to be that attached to a doll, don't you think?'" He couldn't stop, and there was a building dread in the back of his head that he was certain that he was ruining any chance he had to befriend this lady duck by talking about how emotionally damaged he was for having his toy banana ripped from him. "He was real enough to me! I-I wasn't ready t-to let him go; he was taken from me! Just thinking about it makes my chest hurt, ah-and-! And-!"
He was now painfully aware that he was the only one talking, and a horrible sick sensation stirred up when he considered that he perhaps had said too much.
"... I-I'm sorry, I shouldn't have said anything, I..." He stammered, grateful at least that she couldn't see the absolute distressed mess he must have looked like at the moment. "I... I, uh... Bye!"
QuackerJack panicked and wrenched open the bedside table drawer, then dropped his phone in it, realizing a bit too late that he hadn't even hung up before he shoved the drawer closed. There was a muffled chatter, then a beep, then brief silence before the ringtone chirped through the wood. She must have hung up and called back.
He tried to ignore it.
Silence. Then the ringtone again.
He turned on the TV, to any noisy channel, and pressed down on the volume control on the remote to try to tune out the phone.
It just kept ringing.
After what felt like forever, it finally stopped. Part of him almost wanted her to keep trying, but like everyone else, it seems like she gave up on trying to reach him.
He didn't want to open the drawer just yet, so he just stared at the TV with the utmost concentration. He snuffled, then wiped at his eyes, knowing he wasn't too far away from turning his face into a hot mess of tears.
A sudden series of knocks at the apartment door made him jolt with a strangled shout, and he stared at it with a dumbfounded expression.
"Jacky?" It was Claire. More knocking accompanied more words. "Are you in there? Are you alright? Talk to me!"
He continued to stare at the door as he slid off the bed and hesitantly crossed the room, listening to her knock at the door and call out to him.
He could very well just stay quiet, and wait until she gave up and left, but he figured that would be difficult when he had the TV cranked up to such a loud enough volume that'd it'd be rather difficult to feign that the apartments was deserted.
He cautiously peered through the peephole of the door, although he really didn't know why he was bothering to confirm it was her on the other side when it was so clearly was.
She was at his door. She was here in the apartment complex. She'd most certainly must have ventured across town to get here. She'd been calling his phone repeatedly. She had texted him to begin with.
For him. She was concerned about him. All this was just to be sure he was alright.
He reached for the door chain and slid it off the track, then twisted the deadbolt to the side to disengage the lock. He stepped to the side so he could pull the door open, and he simply stared as Claire stopped in mid-knock, hand still in the air when she realized that he'd finally opened the door.
"... You probably shouldn't be in the hall by yourself; I'm not the only ex-criminal living here, and not all them are polite..." Was the first thing he mumbled, and he awkwardly signaled for her to step in.
"You stopped answering your phone, I got worried." She took the invitation and followed him as QuackerJack pushed the door closed, but he didn't bother with the locks this time.
"Why?" He was genuinely curious as to why she'd find that an issue.
"I told you; you sound like you need a friend right now."
"I don't see the correlation to me not answering my phone." QuackerJack was mildly confused, but he was going to work hard at trying to keep his voice level, mostly because he was on the verge of losing it. He sat on the bed, and looked down at the floor. "... I shouldn't have said anything, it's nothing you need to worry about."
"It's clearly eating you up inside." Claire said, taking a seat at the chair at foot of the bed, scooting it a bit to face him. "You said you had a doll that was your friend. And you said you lost him. That sounds like it was traumatic."
"... The more I hear that said aloud, the more insane it really sounds to me." QuackerJack lifted his head and narrowed his eyes. "... It wasn't like I had him as a kid, you know? I made him before my company died, and he was my most favorite thing ever until about a year ago, when... he... he was..."
QuackerJack started shivering, and he threw his head back in an overly dramatic gasp, which he held with puffed cheeks, as if trying to physically stop himself from talking.
"... You didn't just lose him, someone took him from you, didn't they?"
Somehow, QuackerJack managed to choke on just plain air. He wasn't even sure how he'd done it, but it might have been almost impressive if he wasn't feeling so miserable.
"*hack* How do you-?" He managed after a brief coughing fit.
"You kind of said that over the phone before you freaked out and hung up." Claire shrugged. "I said I'd listen."
"... And... The idea of me talking like he was alive when he was really just a doll doesn't creep you out..?"
"... Let's just focus on your problems right now, and talk about mine later."
He just stared at her, clearly confused.
"So, tell me more about your doll friend?" Claire added sheepishly, most likely having not expected that sort of response.
"... Why do you want to know?" He said quietly. There was now a clear defensive tone in his voice. "... No one has asked me that before."
"Really?"
"I mean, I'm a guy who dresses like a clown and talks to a doll, it probably scares them." He said, before swiftly correcting himself with a hand to his head. "Talked. Talked to a doll."
"It's certainly... different, but everyone has thier quirks."
"... Sometimes, he talked back." QuackerJack added tentatively, as if testing how far he could get before she'd effectively bail on this attempt to interact with him. "At least, I thought he did. Like... You know how ventriloquists do that thing? Like that, but half the time, I forgot I was the one making the noise. He was there when I went bankrupt and lost my mind for a while. He was always there, and would always listen because I knew he'd listen..."
"Does this doll have a name?"
"Wow, nothing is going to make you run the other way, hmm? I'm seriously talking about talking to a doll like it was alive, and you just want to know the name?" QuackerJack couldn't help but snort aloud. This entire encounter seemed so unbelievably improbable, he half considered that maybe he'd worried himself into a catatonic state and was just daydreaming this all as a defense mechanism against the emotionally traumatic event that happened earlier. "I said the doll talked back to me. He was made of cloth and sawdust; that's not supposed to happen. I'm nuts. Crazy. Insane. A lunatic. A real cuckoo bird. Surely you've heard of some of the things I did a few years ago? Those got a lot of news coverage."
"You seem fine now. You wouldn't have been put to work in a toy department if they thought you were going to snap again, right?"
"Honestly, I don't know why they put me there. You'd think that'd be the last department they want me in."
"But, really, is there name for your little friend?" Claire asked again, seemingly undetered.
"... Mr. Banana Brain." QuackerJack finally said, realizing he could not remember the last time he'd actually spoke the name out loud. "He was... a banana. Actually, he was like a doll with a banana shaped head. A peeled banana, so the peel bits were kind of like hair. And he was a bit walleyed. And had a goofy smile. But, then he was... He was..." He blinked, and stared at the floor, clenching his mouth shut as a bitter taste made itself known.
Claire noticed the sudden change of demeanor, particularly when QuackerJack had brought his hands to his mouth in a cupped, self silencing gesture, eyes wide and watery. He seemed to just wilt, and his gaze started to look more unfocused as the seconds passed.
"Jacky?"
He stood up from the bed without so much as a word, and didn't acknowledge her. He stepped across the room and to the desk beside the TV stand. He pulled open the bottom drawer and grabbed a fair sized stack of papers, then sat on the floor and started to rip each leaf of paper into handmade confetti, littering the floor around him.
"... Are you alright?" Claire wasn't sure what to make of this odd behavior. It seemed harmless on the surface, but he also seemed to have forgotten that she was there. "... Jack? Mr. QuackerJack?" She tried other names she'd known him to answer to, hoping he'd look up from his paper shredding activity.
He paused in mid tear of what was probably the twentieth page and stared before he finally looked up. It took a bit longer for him to snap out of the trance and he gasped and jumped up with his hands in the air, shielding himself and looking absolutely startled. The papers he had sitting on his lap were flung and were now spread across the floor.
"Wha-? How did-? When did you get here!"
"... You let me in, remember?"
"I... I did, didn't I..?" He said in small voice and put a hand to his head, appearing disoriented. "... I'm sorry, I... Um... I forgot for a moment... What... what was I doing before I..?" He rubbed his hand along the side of his head, scrunching his face in a brief expression of discomfort. "... Oh, man, that's definitely a headache..."
"Do you need anything? I could get you an ice pack or an aspirin or something."
"Thanks, but it's going away now..." QuackerJack blinked again, this time rapidly, as if trying to clear his sight. "... I'm sorry, this is probably going to sound really odd, but I'm having a little trouble remembering what what we were talking about before now." He frowned as he thought about it. He pointed to the bed. "... I know I was sitting over there before I zoned out, so that's something, at least."
"Is that normal for you have memory lapses?" Claire said cautiously. Considering that QuackerJack had been concussed earlier in the month, she wondered if there was something that had been overlooked.
"That depends. I'm not sure entirely, because I'll only really know if someone told me, but there's a possibility." He shrugged.
He looked a little more alert now, so maybe it was an isolated event? In the confusion of everything, Claire had momentarily forgotten that he'd been both upset and defensive about this particular banana doll he seemed to be so attached to.
Once that crossed her mind again, she almost asked for more information, but thought against it when she considered that it might trigger another trance-like episode. Maybe he just wasn't physically ready to discuss it with anyone, and without realizing it, he'd repressed the memory of it while speaking about it...
Still, Claire had come to his apartment to check on him after she'd seen him in some sort of emotional panic, and he'd tried to avoid speaking with her over the phone, texting or otherwise. At the very least, she should let him know that she was here because she was concerned about him.
"You were having a bit of a bad day, and weren't answering the phone, so I came by to check on you." She said truthfully, and he tilted his head quizzically as he looked at her. "How are you feeling now?"
"Honestly? I'm not very sure." His face started to blush as it seemed like the awkward shyness that he usually had around her made itself known and reminded him how to respond. He seemed to be easing back into his usual behavior, which was a good sign. "... Oh, gee, you're actually here in my apartment, and it's a mess in here, paper everywhere, when did you get here? What time is it?" He glanced at the digital numbers on the clock radio and flinched. "... I've... kind of forgotten a whole two hours. Actually, more like I forgot most of it, I still remember some of it..." Then he added under his breath, which Claire barely heard: "... I'd expect that from Megs, aye-yi-yikes..."
Claire paused, then thought very carefully about her next move. It was very clear to her that this was certainly a strange duck, but it was also clear that whatever happened to him just before his (mandatory) employment at QuackWerks had been traumatic enough to him that he was actively trying to push that as far to the back of his unconscious mind as possible.
If anything, he seemed more wary of her then she probably should be of him, as evident by the constant attempts to inform her of his unusual "quirks". Yes, he was odd, and she was certainly aware of his prior "occupation" by now, but he seemed so well liked and friendly around the office that it was honestly difficult for her to visualize him as the insane havok wreaking toy making clown that he had the reputation of being before being employed.
He was clearly trying to turn over a new leaf, and it was obvious that he was positively paranoid about preconceived notions based on his past.
He was damaged.
Someone had hurt him, maybe even by doing so with this particular doll that seemed so intertwined in his past.
He really just needed a friend. Not just the coworkers that he spent most of the week with during the daytime, but a friend.
"The day's still going, you want to do something, like get a coffee?"
His face flushed a lovely shade of cinnabar.
"... Actually, I don't feel much like going outside right now..." He mumbled, absentmindedly reaching for the dingle dangles of his hat with both hands, tilting his head down to stare at the floor. "... When did you get here, again? I don't think you actually answered that..."
"I don't think it's even been an hour, to be honest." Claire said. "I'm sorry to hear that you haven't been having a very good day. But, when you feel up to it, maybe we should do something?"
Now that blush in his face was practically vermillion. A goofy sort of giggle escaped him, the sort of laugh one does when they're nervous, and he quickly clapped his hands over his mouth with an apologetic stare.
He seemed just so awkward and skittish. While he appeared to be very good at conversing in the workplace, it was almost as if his social skills outside of the office was so underdeveloped that he had no idea what to do when he wasn't working on a task. Probably didn't help him at all that outside of the office, he still had a prior reputation. Claire couldn't help but wonder if that was a factor in why he'd been so upset earlier, but she had no way to know, because she hadn't asked and she decided that trying to pry was really none of her business.
"I-I'm sorry! I just-! Sometimes I just laugh without warning!" QuackerJack shouted, as if he thought he might have startled her by the sudden fit of giggles. He looked like he was on the verge of tears, as if he was just absolutely mortified. "I don't know why I do that!"
"It's alright, really." Claire tried to reassure him. "Lots of people laugh at wierd times. It just happens."
He mumbled something to himself, and shook his head, as if he didn't really believe that.
"Are you going to be alright by yourself, Jacky?" Claire figured to not keep prodding at him if he was adamant at staying in his apartment. She couldn't really do much more than just suggest that he'd join her in company. "If you need anything, don't forget, you can call me."
"... Why do you keep calling me 'Jacky'?" There was now a curious air on top of his apprehension. "N-Not that I don't mind or anything, but... No one else calls me that, and you... Well, you started doing that almost right away."
The sudden change in his nervousness to being very curious was honestly a bit baffling, as if it was difficult for him to be both at the same time.
"You just seem more like a 'Jacky' to me than a 'Jack'."
"... It sounds way more friendly." He finally managed a small smile, which was the first one he'd done during this whole encounter.
A smile just seemed to fit perfectly on his face.
If it was her laugh that had made him smitten with her, then it was his smile that had her reciprocate.
And so we close up chapter two.
As a few notes:
1. I wanted to clarify that QuackerJack is likely experiencing PTSD after Mr. Banana Brain was shredded. I don't really think he'd just ease into life while working at QuackWerks without some sort of emotional pain, considering how pivotal Mr. Banana Brain is to him. As I establish later in "White Noise", QuackerJack feels like Mr. Banana Brain was "killed". He's trying to function without him now, and it's not particularly easy.
2. I also doubt that QuackerJack probably ever gets regular sleep because of how active his brain seems to be. Compound that onto his current issues here, and he's probably had some wierd rude awakenings.
3. You have no idea how many things I had to either cross reference or draw from my own experiences to be able to write a semi proper nervous wreck, oh my gosh.
4. Would you believe that this chapter was mostly brought to you by a continuous loop of some classic Britney Spears songs that were strangely relevant?