Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The house was half-eaten by time.

It leaned like it wanted to collapse but hadn’t quite worked up the courage. The roof had given up years ago. The windows were mostly boarded, mostly broken, and mostly useless. The siding peeled off in sheets like old skin. To most people, it looked haunted. To Dave Miller, it just looked familiar.

He stepped over the threshold, boots crunching glass and ash and things that might once have been letters or drawings or spilled-out secrets. The wallpaper—where it still clung—was warped and water-stained, curling off like it was trying to escape.

It smelled of rot. And something metallic. Something... sweet.

Dave smiled. He hadn’t been here in years, but his feet knew where to go. 

It had been a while since he'd visited his old house—the one he used to share with Henry. After all that happened, he'd been dreading to go back, but he thought: Maybe the way to kick his fear outta him was to fight it? It couldn't be that bad. And as for now, it wasn't.

He wasn't planning on staying there for long anyways. He just wanted to see some things. Why? He's twisted like that!

Down the hall. Past the scorched doorframe. Beneath the stairs. The basement door was still half-hinged, cracked open like a crooked grin.

Of course it was.

The staircase groaned with each step, as if it remembered what had happened here and really didn’t want to relive it. But Dave was already humming. That weird little tune he always went back to when things got strange in his head.

The basement hadn’t changed.

There were still some metal, sharp objects. They had grown rusty over time, unused after so many years. Dave's back felt a cold chill grow.

Then he looked at the shelves. There were still jars.

Some of them were broken—spilled, smeared on the concrete, dried into black rust. But others were intact. Sitting on warped shelves—Labeled in Henry’s neat little script. Some just had parts. Just pieces, carefully plucked. Others had fully intact organs, which owner he recognized. Obviously.

Dave’s breath caught in his throat when he saw it. The largest jar, thick glass, sealed tight. Floating inside, unmistakable, heavy and whole—

His heart.

Still red. Still soaked in preserving fluid. Still his.

He stepped closer, gently tracing a finger down the glass. He didn’t feel anything in his chest anymore. Hadn’t, for a long time. Dave looked at it for a few seconds, then laughed—soft, unhinged, fond.

— Well, he—llo beautiful!

He picked up the jar like a proud kid bringing home a trophy. Then he got an idea.

☆

Jack was half-asleep when someone knocked.

It was 2:04 a.m.

He was wearing pajama pants and holding a mug of instant coffee, prepared to yell at whoever dared to exist at this ungodly hour. When he opened the door, all that came out was a strangled wheeze.

Dave stood on the porch, completely normal except for the fact that he was holding a jar. And in that jar, floating like the world’s worst science fair project, was a heart. A real one.

— Hey, Sportsy! — Dave said, beaming. — Look what I gotcha!

Jack stared.

Dave held the jar up a little higher, like presentation would somehow make it more acceptable. — Ta-da.

— What. The FUCK. — The orange man said below his breath. He didn't know whether to throw up or scream.

Dave tilted his head, giving Jack a confused look. — Hey! I'm givin' ya a gift!

— Dave- — Jack’s brain stalled, rebooted, then flared in panic. — I would accept your gift if it were your badge. MAYBE even a strand of your hair. NOT YOUR WHOLE ASS HEART, YOU IDIOT.

Dave blinked. — It’s not my whole ass. Although... I could-

— SHUT UP. Do NOT finish, that- That’s not what I-! — Jack ran a hand through his hair like he was trying to dig through his own scalp. — Why?! Why would you do this?!

— Well, cuz, — Dave said earnestly, — you mean a lot t' me

Jack made a choked, feral noise.

— This is the most personal thing I own. Or owned! — Dave continued, tone soft now. — My heart. I figured... well, you can’t say I don' mean it.

— You’re right, I can’t, because I’m too busy trying not to throw up.

Dave gave him a look. — C'mon! It's romantic!

— ROMANTIC??? — Jack pointed at the jar like it had personally insulted him. — Romantic is—god, I don’t know—flowers? Letters? A dinner reservation that doesn’t end in blood or fire?!

Dave squinted. — That sounds borin', Old Sport

— That sounds normal!

They stood in silence. The jar squelched gently as the heart bobbed inside.

Jack let out a long, exhausted sigh. — Dave. Davey. Look. A romantic gesture is not giving your significant other a hunk of your wet, pickled anatomy. It’s—ugh—it’s a gesture. You know? Thoughtful. Sweet. Something you do to show you care without, like, legally implicating yourself.

— Like what?

Jack waved his arms. — Like a—poem! Or a mixtape! Or a walk in the park with ice cream! I don’t know, man, I read Stuart Little in second grade, and I’m pretty sure he did something nice for a girl mouse without handing her a kidney!

Dave tilted his head. — Would you prefer a kidney, Sportsy?

— NO! No organs!

Dave frowned thoughtfully, like this was an unexpected boundary.

— Okay, — he said slowly. — So... no body parts. What if I took you to a graveyard picnic and read you poetry?

Jack hesitated. — ...That’s... actually kind of sweet.

— See?! You are into me! — The purple man said enthusiastically, careful not to drop the jar.

— I am, and that’s the worst part.

Dave smiled like he’d just won the lottery. — So yer keepin' it

Jack groaned, already walking away from the door. — I’m keeping it so you don’t give it to someone else, you absolute maniac.

☆

Later that night, the jar sat on Jack’s mantel.

He’d tied a ribbon around it. Because somehow that made it worse.

Dave lay on the couch, upside-down, fiddling with one of Jack’s pens.

— You like it!

— I hate that I like it.

— You’re smilin'

— I’m not.

— You’re tryin' not to!

Jack gave the jar a long, withering look. — If I wake up and it’s missing, I’m blamin' ya.

— If it’s missin', — Dave whispered, — that means someone else has my little ol' heart, Old Spor—

Jack threw a pillow at him.

Chapter Text

Jack tried to sleep.

Tried.

But the jar was watching him.

It didn’t have eyes. It didn’t need eyes. He knew it was there. On the mantel. Just above the TV. Looming like some Victorian ghost child’s idea of a keepsake.

Every time he opened his eyes, it glistened in the moonlight like a wet meatball with aspirations.

Dave snored on the couch, curled up like a feral cat with a switchblade.

Jack switched positions and wrapped his pillow on his head. He whispered into the void, — I am too gay and too tired for this.

☆

By morning, Dave had made pancakes.

Sort of.

They were burnt on one side and raw on the other, but he served them with pride on Jack’s chipped plates. There was a single daisy in a cup next to them, which might have been picked from a neighbor’s yard or a cemetery. Hard to tell.

— See? — Dave said, sitting backwards on a kitchen chair like a guidance counselor. — Normal romantic gesture.

Jack squinted. — Is that truly syrup?

— Surprise element!

Jack sighed and took a bite anyway.

It took a while until one of them spoke again. The orange man lifted his gaze towards Dave.

— You’re not trying to replace your heart with mine or something, are you?

Dave blinked. — Can I do that?

— No. You may not Frankenstein me, Dave.

— But you’re so cute. I betcha'd keep it warm!

Jack stared him dead in the eye. — Say one more word and I’m calling the fire department again.

Then, the room was filled with soft demonic-giggles from the purple cryptid.

☆

It became a thing.

A bit, sort of. Except Dave was serious. That made it worse.

First, it was the heart.

Then came the poem. Scribbled in Sharpie on a barf bag from the backseat of his car. It read:

"roses are red

violets are dying

here’s a tooth I pulled

To stop myself crying."

He presented it to Jack with a lopsided grin and a box of Tic Tacs taped to an Altoids tin full of his childhood hair—Or so he claimed.

— Jesus CHRIST, — Jack said, holding the tin like it was radioactive.

— You said keepsakes were romantic!

— NO, I said mixtapes! MIXTAPES, DAVE!

— Ohh... —Dave nodded. — I’ll make one!

He did. It was just an hour-long CD of him humming Careless Whisper and making explosion noises.

Jack tried to counter it.

He bought flowers. Chocolates. A little bear in a sweater that said BE MINE (not legally binding) on its belly.

Dave stared at it, utterly baffled.

— Tis' sweet, but what am I supposed to do with this? — he asked.

— You... put it on your desk. Or, I don’t know, hug it?

Dave blinked slowly. — Does it bite?

— It’s not supposed to.

Disappointed, Dave offered Jack a jar filled with those folded little paper stars, each one written with a memory. One of them just said, the time we hid the body in the ball pit (fun!)

Jack clutched it to his chest like a gremlin. — Damn it. That’s actually kind of adorable.

— Aubergine man wins yet again!! — Dave said smugly.

One night, Jack came home to find the living room covered in candles.

Dozens.

Unlit, thankfully, but still. There was also a picnic blanket in the middle of the room, a cheap plastic rose in a Coke bottle, and—

— Is that... a rotisserie chicken?

Dave nodded solemnly. — I stole it from the gas station.

— ...Thoughtful...?

— AND romantic. I thought so!

They ate it on the floor, hands greasy, laughing so hard Dave accidentally inhaled a bone and had to be Heimlich’d.

Jack had never felt more alive.

☆

By the end of the month, the heart stayed on the mantel. Jack still hated it.

But he had started wiping the dust off it every few days.

Just in case.

Chapter Text

Jack knew he was in trouble the moment he caught himself smiling at the jar.

It was a Tuesday.

Rain fell outside like a badly written metaphor. He was doing dishes and caught his reflection in the greasy kitchen window—tired, worn out, apron stained with red sauce—and then his eyes slid to the mantel.

There it was.

Dave’s heart. Still floating. Still pinkish. Still horrifying.

Jack whispered, — I miss you when he’s not here.

Then immediately slapped himself. — Get it together, Kennedy. It’s a jar. A jar of human meat.

Still, he gave it a little nod. Just in case.

That evening, Dave came home through the window.

Jack didn’t even ask why. At this point, he was just glad the man hadn’t broken through the drywall again.

— I did somethin' for ya, Old Sport! — Dave announced, tracking mud across the carpet.

Jack tensed. — You’re not holding a new jar, so I’m scared.

— No jars! — Dave promised, pulling something from his coat pocket.

It was a ring.

Crude. Bent. Made from a molten, rusty spoon.

— I melted tis' myself in the microwave, — he said proudly.

Jack’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.

— I—Jesus Christ, I—why?

Dave looked at him, weirdly sincere. — Because I love ya. Obviously!

Jack’s brain was the blue screen of death himself.

— I—what? Dave, you can’t just—you can’t propose to someone with a microwave spoon!

— Why not?

— It’s not even round!

— That’s what makes it special!

Jack stared at the warped little ring. It had “SOUP” etched faintly into it.

He didn’t cry. He definitely didn’t cry. He just made a strange noise like a kettle giving up.

— Geez, you are weird, — he whispered, with an affectionate-like tone on his voice.

Dave beamed. — And yer sayin' yes!

— I’m saying maybe, after we talk about the part where you stole this from the hospital cafeteria.

Later, Jack would insist it wasn’t a real engagement. Just a “symbolic romantic spoon bonding moment.”

But he kept it on his nightstand.

Next to the jar.

Next to the mixtape labeled:

FOR SPORTSY: TRAPPED IN THE ARCADE WITH YOU VOL. 1

(subtitled: This Oen' Has Actual Songs, Probably!)

☆

They tried “normal” dates. Once.

Jack picked a quiet bistro downtown. Candles. Breadsticks. Wine. He even wore a button-up that didn’t have mystery stains.

Dave showed up in a trench coat and fingerless gloves, holding a paper bag that clearly had something alive inside.

— Well, this is a nice place, ain't it? — He said, sitting down, the bag squirming under his own movement. Jack only dared to stare.

— Dave, what did you bring.

— Oh, tis? I mean, well-

A waitress came to take their orders. The purple guy didn't even hesitate to ask:

— Is this allowed n' here? — He lifted the bag as if it would do any better. Inside, a rabid squirrel peeked his head out. It hissed.

They got kicked out before appetizers.

Later that noon, they ate cold mozzarella sticks in the parking lot and Dave kissed Jack’s greasy cheek with mozzarella on his lip.

It was the most romantic moment of Jack’s life.

Of course, nothing stayed peaceful for long. Not with Dave.

One night, Jack opened the pantry and screamed.

There, tucked between the flour and the rice, was a jar.

New.

Inside: a thumb.

Jack shouted, — DAVE!

Dave shouted back from the living room, — That one’s not mine!

— THAT’S NOT BETTER?????

He stomped in holding the jar like it had personally offended him. — Why is there a stranger’s body part in my soup shelf?!

Dave blinked. — I wanted t' surprise you!

— Surprise me with what? A lawsuit?!

— You were sad this morning.

— I HAD A HEADACHE!!!!

— And now you have a thumb. Equal exchange!

— THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS.

Eventually, Jack put his foot down.

— Listen. I love you. And you’re a walking cryptid. I’ve accepted that. But if one more organ appears in this house, I swear to god, I will bury every jar in the backyard and salt the earth.

Dave raised his hands. — Okay. Got it. Boundaries. I hear ya!

— You do?

— Loud n' clear, cap'tain!

— Good.

— ...Can I still write-cha a poem about yer spleen?

Jack sighed, but he smiled. — Fine. But only if it rhymes.

And so things settled, in their own terrible way.

The jars stayed (but no new ones appeared).

☆

It was night time. 

The multi-colored men layed on the sofa, resting on top of each other. Of course, their pride would never let them call this "cuddling", so resting it is!

The purple man rested his head on Jack's chest, stretched like an animal that was way too comfortable with his surroundings. He had long fallen asleep hearing to his heartbeat. The subtle ringing and vibrations of his voice, too, had soothed him to slumber. 

The room was silent except for the occasional breathing hums and the soft purrs of the aubergine cryptid.

Jack looked at him.

He wiped some purple strands of hair of his head, letting him see his face further. He looked peaceful—it was weird to see him so relaxed like this.

Down his coccyx, he could see a small lump moving side to side, covered by the fabric of his shorts. "Oh, must be his tail", he thought to himself. He did recall Dave mentioning having a tail before. He doesn't know the details of what happened.

He sometimes wondered what he truly was. His anatomy didn't make sense for anything, but then again, was Jack truly bothered about it?

He sometimes thought of him as a big cat. Surely that would explain his fanatism to hunt and bring Jack weird gifts. 

Jack didn’t move for the longest of time. Not because he was frozen or overwhelmed—but because he didn’t want to move. God, Dave had finally gone quiet, completely still in that half-wrapped-around-him way that somehow felt more honest than words ever could.

He’d stopped trying to understand him a long time ago. There wasn’t a textbook for Dave Miller. No manual, no biological logic, no universal constant. He was just... this: a strangely affectionate purple cryptid who hissed at ceiling fans and tried to flirt by gifting him someone’s stolen mailbox.

Jack exhaled softly through his nose. The purring vibrated against his ribs like a motor buried in Dave’s chest. His hand lazily traced patterns over Dave’s spine—cautiously avoiding the lump that twitched where his tail must be.

He wasn't sure what kind of tail it was. Reptilian? Feline? Something with feathers? He'd only caught glimpses under moments of chaos—a blur during a fight, a brief sway when Dave yawned and stretched in the mornings like he’d never evolved out of predatory instinct.

— Dumbass, — Jack whispered, not unkindly.

Dave’s ears twitched. Or maybe he imagined that.

In the quiet, Jack felt himself remembering things—books from when he was little. The ones with old fairy tales and boys who loved beasts, or creatures who gave their hearts away—literally.

A small chuckle escaped him. He grabbed one of Dave's limp hands and began fidgeting his slender fingers, tracing the tip of his sharp nails with his own fingertips.— You’d be one of those fairy tale monsters, — he murmured aloud. — The ones who live in a cave and fall in love with a village boy and try to show it by bringing them teeth and blood and… fucking tree bark or something.

Dave snorted in his sleep. A soft, barely-there thing.

— Yeah, that’s what I thought.

His hand settled over Dave’s head again, brushing through messy violet hair. It was still so bizarre to see him like this—peaceful. Safe. Not pacing the room. Not snapping his teeth. Not trying to convince him that tearing out organs was a “symbolic love language.”

Jack sighed, chest rising under Dave’s cheek. — You’re ridiculous, you know that?

Dave didn’t answer, but the remains of his tail thumped softly beneath the blanket.

Jack let his eyes drift shut.

He’d never say it out loud—not yet—but there was something warm in this stillness. Something quietly grounding. Something like… home.

And if he had to share a sofa with a snoring, purring cryptid who sometimes gifted him license plates and hearts in jars—well.

It wasn’t normal.

But it was theirs. As long as it should be.

Chapter Text

It started with a sneeze.

A loud, wet, cartoonishly violent sneeze that echoed from the bathroom and made Jack glance up from his book with slow, dawning dread.

Then came the groan. Long. Mournful. Like something ancient and cursed had been awakened.

Jack waited.

Another sneeze. A louder groan.

Then, a call that seemed to be made by the Devil itself — Jack.

He sighed and put the book down. — Yeah?

— I’m dyin’...

There it was. The end of the world.

Jack stood up and peeked into the bathroom to find Dave sitting dramatically on the floor, a crumpled tissue clutched in one hand, a blanket somehow dragged with him and pooled around his waist like a shroud. His nose was red, his eyes glassy, and he was already halfway through a bottle of cough syrup and had a cold compress on his forehead.

— …You dumbass, you have a cold, — Jack said flatly.

Dave squinted up at him. — A fatal cold.

— You’ve literally been springlocked before.

— An’ I walked away from it with a limp and a beer…

— YOUR HEART IS LITERALLY IN A JAR.

Dave wheezed. — This is different. This—this is biblical.

Jack rubbed the bridge of his nose. — It’s been four hours since you sneezed the first time.

— My bones ache.

— Good. Now you know how I feel.

— I need warmth. Nourishment. Yer love! — Dave rasped dramatically, grabbing Jack’s pant leg. — Carry me to the couch.

— You walked in here .

— That was a different man. — He paused, dramatically. — That man had hope!

Jack rolled his eyes so hard he almost saw god. — Alright, you absolute mess. Let’s go.

✩

Thirty minutes later, Dave was swaddled in every blanket Jack owned, surrounded by a graveyard of tissues and empty tea mugs. His hair was a frizzy mess. What remained of his tail kept twitching under the blankets like a pouting cat’s.

Jack set a bowl of soup on the table beside him and sat down.

Dave sniffled and looked at the soup with glassy-eyed suspicion.

— Yer… Yer not feeding me?

— Nope.

Dave blinked slowly. — I might die, Old Sport.

— Do it quieter, then. As far as I know, ye still have hands.

Dave groaned and sank lower into the cushions. — Tis’ is how it ends. Not with a bang, but with a honk…

Jack let his head fall back on the couch. — I cannot believe this is the same guy who used to wrestle animatronics barehanded.

Dave sniffled pitifully. — He died with dignity. M’ different now…

Jack sighed. And then, grudgingly, spoon-fed him the soup, because despite the theatrics, Dave looked like hell. He was burning up, too warm and far too cuddly for someone who claimed to be “rotting from the inside out.”

— You’re lucky I like you, — Jack muttered.

— I am lucky, — Dave croaked, leaning against his chest like a limp ragdoll. — And very brave.

— …You're literally crying because you sneezed.

— It hurt , Sportsy. It hurt so bad…

Jack just kissed his temple and held him tighter.

✩

They settled into the usual rhythm: Jack feeding him, wiping his forehead, dealing with his complaints. But somewhere in the way, things went different.

Dave got quiet.

Not sleepy. Not dramatic.

Just quiet .

Jack glanced over mid-wipe and saw something… wrong in his eyes. His breath hitched. He looked like he was watching ghosts walk out of the walls.

— Hey, — Jack said softly. — Talk to me.

Dave blinked slow. — This isn’t the worst I’ve felt, y’know.

Jack tilted his head. — Yeah?

— It’s just… being sick. Feeling weak. Reminds me of back then.

Jack set the cloth aside. His tone dropped. — Henry?

Dave gave a tight nod. — He used to like when I was sick. Said it made me malleable. Said it was easier to make changes when I couldn’t fight back. — He rubbed his arms like he could peel the memories off. — I was five. I had a tail. He said it got in the way. So he cut it off.

Jack froze. He had wanted to know about this for so long, but now that the truth was out, it just felt… wrong. — ...Jesus.

— I didn’t even cry, — Dave said with a bitter laugh. — I just... I remember not feeling like I was anyone anymore. Jus’ a project, maybe.

Jack pulled him into his arms. He stayed quiet, quiet for way too long. He couldn’t find the right words, he never could.  — You’re not his anymore.

— I know that, — Dave muttered, — but when I’m like this, I feel like he’s gonna walk back in and tell me I’m broken again. Like my body doesn’t fit. Like I should be fixed—

Jack grabbed his face, gentle but firm. — You are not broken. You are loved. Even with your freaky tail nub, even with your stupid colds, even when you’re unbearable.

Dave sniffled. — You love me like this?

Jack kissed his forehead. — I love you especially like this.

✩

Of course, Jack got sick three days later.

And Dave?

Dave immediately transformed into a panicking feral cat in nurse scrubs.

He wore gloves. Taped them to his wrists. He tried to cook soup and nearly burned the counter. He stared at the thermometer like it was a bomb.

Jack, barely coherent, blinked at him from the couch. — You’re… making this worse.

— I’M HELPING , SHUT UP, — Dave shouted from the kitchen. — I GOT YOU TEA AND VICKS VAPORUB AND A SHARP KNIFE IN CASE YOU WANNA ESCAPE YOUR BODY.

— What.

— FOR SPIRITUAL REASONS , OLD SPORT.

He eventually brought Jack half-warm soup in a measuring cup and panicked every time Jack coughed too hard.

Jack managed to rasp, half cough half chuckle, — You’re terrible at this.

Dave practically crawled into his lap. — I’m trying. I’m trying so hard.

And despite everything—the chaos, the panic,—Jack smiled and kissed his forehead.

— I know.