He woke up slowly, not opening his eyes but coming up from the deep well of unconsciousness. Like rising to the surface of a deep lake.
The first sensation Bendy recognized was the pillow under his head. It was rough, didn’t have much give, like one of the living room throw pillows. The next sensation he felt was rather… strange.
It was like his head had been stretched wide open and emptied of all its contents. His head had never exactly felt full before, but now there was a distinct lack of weight behind his eye sockets. It made the little devil feel light, like he was floating. Yet, despite the drifting feeling, Bendy found it hard to lift his head, or even his hands.
After taking a breath he didn’t need, the little devil rolled his head to the side and managed to peek open one eye socket. It was hard to focus. Everything felt so far away. Something moved, blocking his vision for a second, before it came back and stopped before him.
A weight landed on his head, heavy and grounding. The sensation alone was enough to help Bendy focus and give him the strength to look up. And above him was his father - concern wrinkling his face but unable to drown out the relief in his eyes.
“Good morning,” he chuckled, low and so loud when everything else was so quiet. It made Bendy smile himself. Faintly, he could hear something shift behind Henry before he heard Allison’s voice.
“He’s awake? Oh, thank goodness.” After a brief pause, she continued, “Tom? Tom, Bendy’s okay. He’s awake.”
Tom? The name alone brought all the events before blacking out rushing back at once. The circle, the candles, the knife, Tom melting away, dropping the model sheet then… then…
What happened next? The little devil couldn’t remember. It was troubling to say the least but…
But Tom was… okay?
Against his better judgement, Bendy sat up. The lightheaded feeling caused him to overshoot and almost fall off the loveseat had Henry not caught him halfway down. With the room still spinning, Bendy clung to his father and peered around to the larger sofa, desperate to see what had become of the wolf man.
At first, Bendy couldn’t find his adoptive uncle. All he could see was Allison sitting beside a heap of blankets but… no Tom. At least, nothing he was used to seeing. No floppy ears or cartoon gloves. He was almost convinced Tom was in a different room until the blankets moved.
First, there was a hand. A large grayed mitt of a human hand that emerged from the blankets. Then followed a hairy arm all the way up to a freckled shoulder. And finally, the foreign hand grabbed the blankets and pulled them back to reveal… Henry’s character model.
The squared, bearded jaw, freckled cheeks, dark eyes, long shaggy hair… it was all there. Moving and breathing and… looking right at him. Looking right into Bendy with an intensity he’d recognize coming from any set of eyes.
Tom had survived! And he’d… changed, exactly how they planned! No longer borrowing the form of Bendy’s old companion Boris. Now Tom had his own design, his own model, his own… body. And while it didn’t quite match the photos scattered around the house capturing what the man used to look like, something about his new appearance just felt right. He wasn’t too neat, hair sticking out of odd places, lots of wrinkles and blemishes maring up his face, and if Bendy remembered the model sheet correctly, not exactly a runner’s build.
It was all so human.
Bendy must have been staring for a while, because Tom began to fidget and sit up more properly on the sofa. He looked exhausted. Changing your entire appearance, inside and out, was no easy feat, and it showed all over his face. Exhausted, yet his eyes were brighter than before. More relaxed.
Happier.
More alive than before.
Filled with a new sense of wonder, the little devil reached out for the man across from him, wanting to not just see but feel the change. Were those individual strands of hair? How did his eyes turn out? Leaning further and further off the seat, Bendy was practically sitting in Henry’s arms at this point. Just reaching and straining to get over to Tom.
His dad finally caught the hint and transferred Bendy from his own sofa to share the larger one with Tom. And while the man didn’t look entirely pleased, he didn’t fuss over it either. In fact, he made room for the devil to sit beside him. Though, Bendy ended up half sprawled on top of him on account of the room still doing somersaults around him.
Every little detail was so much more fascinating up close. Possessed by the need to see it all, Bendy took Tom’s new hand in both of his and flipped it over and over, finding every groove and hair and speck that made it unique.
While Bendy preoccupied himself with counting Tom’s hairs, Henry excused himself to the basement. The ritual had worked perfectly, and Tom had returned exactly as the model had specified, but… the model hadn’t specified clothes. There was a reason he was keeping under the blankets for the moment.
“There were some boxes down here with clothes I think. I’ll see what I can find for you. And if they’re too small, you can use some of mine until we can get you a new closet.” With a nod from the ex-wolfman, Henry disappeared down the stairs into his makeshift bedroom.
That left only three: the devil, the angel and the reborn. Allison, sitting at Tom’s feet, rested her hand on his knee with a smile before standing herself, “You both could use something to eat after all that. I’ll be right back.”
And then there were two.
Satisfied with how realistic the hand appeared, Bendy released it from his grip and watched as Tom moved and flexed it, eventually letting it rest on his chest as he slouched back down under the covers. He watched Bendy for a second before turning away. There was conflict in his eyes - something was bothering him. And soon, the silence between them grew uncomfortable.
Hoping to break the tension, the little devil scooted closer, practically sitting on the man’s stomach, and spoke through his hands, [I’m glad you’re okay.]
For a moment, all he got in return was a short hum. But after a pause, Tom leaned sideways enough to pull his other arm out from under the covers. The one he’d had hidden this whole time.
The one that was still missing from the elbow down.
Bendy’s little heart sank. He’d thought for sure they’d be able to fix the arm. The model sheet had included it and everything! But… apparently that’s not how this worked. He hung his head in shame, looking at his own two hands, wondering what could they have done differently… how he’d messed up…
But those thoughts didn’t last long, as a large mitt of a hand grabbed the devil’s head and gave it a quick jolt as if to shake the thoughts loose. And it certainly did snap Bendy out of his grief, even if it made the room spin again. His eye sockets clamped tightly shut, waiting for the dizziness to pass, before squinting up at Tom in an annoyed and questioning manner.
Something Bendy hadn’t noticed before was that Tom’s notepad was strapped to his left arm and, without bothering to acknowledge the devil’s annoyance, he began to write.
Normally, when Tom would speak to others with his notepad, it was short and quick. He was a man of few words. But this time, Bendy noticed how much slower he was writing, how thoughtful his expression was. Whatever he was writing, it must have been important he got right. So the little devil patiently waited for the man to get his thoughts down. Every now and then he’d stop, scribble something out, try again, pause, keep going, all while Bendy watched his expressions change so minutely. He briefly noted how subtle humans were when expressing themselves.
There was a particularly long pause that made Bendy believe Tom was done and ready to share, but his expression said otherwise. He looked unhappy. Frustrated. Like he was having trouble putting his thoughts to words.
Carefully, the little devil reached out and rested his hand on the man’s new hand, still clumsily holding the pen, prompting Tom to look up at him.
And all he found was a smile. An understanding, patient smile.
Some situations didn’t need words. They could complicate things, clutter the air, send mixed messages or cause misunderstandings. Some things were best left to action. And when you’re left without a voice, sometimes action is all you have.
So, Tom acted.
In one motion, the twice reborn old mechanic scooped Bendy up in his arm and tucked the little devil against his chest. It was admittedly a bit awkward, mainly for Tom. But a hug was a hug and awkward or not, it got the message across better than anything he could have written.
Bendy was never one to shy away from poking into Tom’s personal space. Mostly because he knew if the old man didn’t like it, he’d toss or push him away. But here, he took caution. Throwing his arms around Tom and squirming around would likely end up ruining this moment, all things considered. And given their past, the last place Tom would probably want the little devil’s hands was around his neck.
Ultimately, Bendy kept his hands to himself and was content to just be held, curling up to rest against his uncle’s chest. If he listened close enough, he could faintly hear something like a heartbeat. He knew it was just the ink that made up his new body churning about, but still… it was rhythmic, soothing. He could easily fall asleep again. Comfortable, soothing, safe.
Then there was the quietest coo from the kitchen doorway as Allison watched the tender moment. The two both turned at the same moment, Tom looking a little darker in the face than before to match his caught expression.
Their angel laughed, “Sorry, don’t mind me. You two were just so cute.”
On his back, Bendy could feel Tom grip his ink like a kitten being scruffed. And sure enough moments later, he was hoisted into the air as the reborn man stood from the sofa and began walking out of the room. As he passed Allison in the doorway, Tom handed the little devil off to her and continued on. Though, Bendy didn’t actually see him leave on account of Allison covering his eye sockets. What he could see through her fingers, however, was the blanket from the sofa laying on the ground. And Allison was still giggling.
Tom liked to believe he was a rational man. Sure, maybe a bit cynical and hardheaded, but also cautious. It was better to think before acting. But even he had to admit this plan was a bit… spontaneous.
He'd set up shop in the upstairs bathroom between his old bedroom and the little devil's. Only, instead of wrenches and pipes like he usually worked with, he had brushes, towels and ink, all borrowed from Henry.
Borrowed, as in, he planned on putting them back before the old animator returned home from the park.
He wasn't sure what had sparked this. Sure, he'd thought of it from time to time, mostly when he passed by a mirror or old photo of how he used to look. But today something pushed him to act.
Maybe it was the way his reflection hadn't disgusted him that morning. It was normal for the old dog to hate how he looked, but today that just… hadn't happened. Almost like he'd accepted it. That was pretty unsettling when he realized.
Or maybe it was when Henry had almost called him Boris… again. The father and son duo were heading out and saying their goodbyes when Henry slipped when referring to Tom. There was a distinct "Bo-" before he cut himself off, looking ashamed, and corrected himself. Tom had brushed it off with an annoyed look like always. But he didn't show how much it really bothered him.
How much it hurt.
Maybe it was just something he'd had a long time coming. The culmination of all the years he'd spent in a body he didn't recognize as his own. All the frustrating and pain.
Maybe it was just time to change.
So, standing before the sink's mirror, art supplies at the ready, Tom was determined to fix what Drew had done to him.
On the surface, it was simple enough: use ink to change ink. Because really, all he was now was a walking, talking ink sculpture. And sure, Tom was no artist, but this couldn't be too hard. He'd seen Henry draw plenty of times. He could do this.
He just needed his hand to stop shaking first.
Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Tom steeled himself and grabbed the brush to get started. First, a test. Even with a half-assed plan like this, he was mindful enough to know not to do too much at once. A small test, to get a feel for how this worked. Something like…
Erasing a freckle. Yeah, easy. Simple.
Dunking the brush in the white ink first, Tom carefully lined up the wet bristles to the first freckle spot on his snout. His hand was steadier, but still shook enough to be annoying. Slow wouldn't work like this, so with a quick dab, he smeared the white ink over the spot and watched in the mirror as his face soaked it up.
Then he set the brush down and waited.
Does it need time to dry? How long should he wait?
Impatient, the old dog decided counting to five would be enough time. Each mental tick felt like forever as he watched his reflection for any changes. But nothing happened. The spot was covered, out of sight, almost like it was never there.
At the fifth tick, Tom reached up to test the permanence of what he'd done. His finger tapped the place of the missing dot once, quickly. Nothing came off. He did it again, holding his finger down before pulling away. Still nothing.
Finally, he rubbed his thumb across the small patch of freckles and found the third one still missing. The ink had held. A small bit of relief flooded through him before the uneasiness returned.
He knew it worked.
Now, it was time to do the rest.
Without a clue of how to go about this, Tom decided erasing another freckle would help him figure out what to do next. Maybe the ears? He really was sick of them, but how would he get rid of them? Disburse the ink maybe?
His thoughts were interrupted by a new sensation on his face. Apparently, he'd gotten the brush too wet this time and some ink had dropped down his snout and over his mouth while applying it. Well, no big deal. His face was white anyway. You couldn't even see the trail of ink except over his mouth where it had pooled.
Grabbing the rag to clean the mistake, Tom returned to his previous thoughts. Maybe he could push the ears down like hair… but how would he get them to stay? His brow furrowed and he lowered the rag as he stared at the two impossibly annoying protrusions atop his head.
But… something was off about his reflection. Didn't he wipe the ink from his mouth already? The dab of ink was still there though, cutting his mouth line close to the middle.
He gave the spot another hard scrub, thinking maybe he didn't press hard enough, but found it did nothing. That uneasy feeling came creeping back up again. He opened his mouth to reach the glob of ink better.
And immediately wished he hadn't.
The ink had been there for only a second, maybe two. But apparently, in that time it had spread out between his lips and effectively sewn the top and bottom parts of his snout together. Sure, he could still open both ends of his mouth and it wasn't a lot of connected "skin", but that thought didn't register in the old dog's mind. All he could focus on was the dumbfounded horror of how easy it was to change himself with just a few misplaced drops of ink. And sure, change was what he was after, but not like this.
Maybe he could… fix it?
Eyeing the black ink still on the counter, Tom shut his mouth in thought. With his maw closed, there was more or less a black line where his mouth was. It just looked like someone had erased a couple bits of it and broken the line. Maybe if he connected the line it’d go back to normal. If ink did this, ink could undo this… right?
He really should’ve left the art to the artist and stuck with what he knew. Or was it more black magic at this point? Tom didn’t really care. He wasn’t an artist or a magician - he was an engineer. He built things. He fixed stuff.
And so maybe now, he could fix this.
Taking a fresh brush, smaller than the first, the old mechanic grabbed some black ink and, after wiping off the excess for good measure, set to work correcting the line. His nerves were strung and the more his hand shook as he carefully followed the mouthline, the more frustrated he grew. How the hell did anyone do this for a living? Trying to be precise was hard enough, but the waviness of the line was just a reminder of how out of his element he was. But whatever, perfection didn’t matter too much so long as this worked.
If it worked.
With the line connected, Tom put the brush down beside the sink and waited. Didn’t move, hardly breathed through fear of ruining his already shaky line. The ink probably worked instantly, but waiting couldn’t hurt. Just to be sure it set.
Painfully, he counted to five again. All the while, looking over his reflection, counting the things he wished he could erase. The things that weren’t him.
His ears…
His nose…
Those cheeks…
Those eyes…
That face… that wasn’t him. Not anymore.
Would it ever be?
He still had his name, his memories.
But nothing else.
It had all been taken.
Stripped.
Replaced.
Hardly a man anymore.
Just a dog.
A cartoon.
Joey Drew’s cartoon.
…
He’d counted far past five before Tom shook himself from his thoughts. The task at hand, the ink, his mouth, he needed to focus. Didn’t need his mind to wander. Not like that.
Hesitantly, he prodded the reconnected segment of his mouth. The ink held its less-than-perfect form, and as imperfect the line was, at least it looked like a complete mouth again. He’d even overlapped the line with the original mouth line a little to ensure it matched up.
But… did it work?
After a moment consideration between ripping the bandaid off or going slow, the old dog decided to just go for it. No point in stretching it out, either it worked or it didn’t. So he clenched his only fist resting on the counter, stared ahead and opened his jaw wide. Either it worked or it didn’t.
It didn’t.
The black ink had done exactly the same as the white. The small bits of the mouth he’d overlapped hoping to keep the lines matched up were closed as well now, leaving even less room to open up. And the ink itself looked disgusting stretched out like it was. Like a dead piece of gummy flesh stretched between his maw.
He hadn’t fixed it at all. Only made it much worse. Much worse.
He couldn’t fix this.
Like he couldn’t fix the Machine.
Like he told Drew.
Can’t fix ink.
Gotta throw it out.
Start over.
Well…
When did Tom get his do over?
When could he throw this body out and start over?
He was sick of this! Sick of looking at a dog where he should’ve been!
Sick of looking at it.
Sick of it looking back.
In a fit, Tom grabbed the nearest thing in his reach and hurled it at the mirror, desperate to make that dog go away. He didn’t care what he threw, just as long as Drew’s cartoon went away. And that’s why he didn’t realize he’d grabbed the white ink bottle.
The open ink bottle.
He’d neglected to replace the cap earlier in his shock. That meant immediately after hearing the smash of the mirror’s glass, Tom felt the small shower of ink from the equally shattered bottle. He managed to block quite a bit of the spray with his hand, but the damage was done before he knew what had happened.
But then the realization sunk in. Sunk deep into his ink.
With a heavy sigh, Tom looked over the dog in his broken reflection. It was like looking at a torn up drawing. With a half-hearted chuckle, he realized how literally that thought was.
The perfect lines of his face were ruined with the spray from the ink he’d thrown, now dotted and bubbly and imperfect. The eyes no longer matched. One had a particularly large splotch of white in the middle that Tom suspected was the culprit behind his now-blurry vision. There were splotches of white above his browline and that piece of mouth was still sewn shut. Though, with the way the ink broke up the line when stretched open, it looked more like black strings sewn into his snout.
They were all little changes. Little tweaks to his appearance that distanced him from Joey Drew’s design. Made him look a little less like the cartoon Drew had turned him into.
But it wasn’t enough.
He was still staring at Boris.
Still Drew’s creation.
Some of the ink around Boris’s eyes must have been wet still, because Tom could see little drops of black ink pooling at the corners before falling. Something landed on his hand and he glanced down to see what. On the back of his large cartoon glove was a splash of black ink. Then another. More little marks, messing up Boris’s design.
Still not enough.
His chest felt tight. Tom needed to sit down. Maybe lay down. Yeah, laying down sounded better. Maybe he’d go crawl into bed.
Just lay in bed and never get up.
Silently, Tom piloted himself to the bedroom just down the hall, the one he’d mostly given up sleeping in since they returned, and quietly shut the door behind him. No need to disturb Allison downstairs. He didn’t want her to see him like this. Didn’t want anyone to see him period.
Just wanted to crawl under the covers.
Just wanted to disappear.
Without hitting the lights or opening the blinds, the old dog crawled into bed, pulling the sheets up over his head. The ears still stuck out of the covers, frustratingly enough. But Tom couldn’t find the energy to do anything about it. It was exhausting enough just walking to the bedroom.
Yet, as tired as he was, he couldn’t sleep.
An hour later, Allison would find him. And no matter how much she coaxed, he wouldn't move.
And an hour after that, Bendy and Henry would return home. And Allison would tell them about Tom.
But still, none of Henry's words or Bendy's drawings would get him up.
And Tom would continue to lay there. Staring at the wall for the rest of the day. Listening as the three of them cleaned up his mess.
He would get up again the next morning, and the others would take it as a good sign.
Until Tom takes his case of beer and a bottle of unopened whiskey to the shed and locks the door.
When he comes back in to go to bed, they're all empty.
okay so I’ve been thinkin’ ‘bout that ask I got a while ago about how Bendy and crew would react to meetin’ @halfusek‘s Joey MurderBritches Drew, and I reaaaaaaaaaaally wanted to explore Bendy’s reaction more. and also come up with a way to have canon crossovers without breaking the universe cough
So for Bendy, this is all happenin’ in one of his dreams. Really the only place he could talk to a Joey, even if it isn’t his. And I think the bean would want to have some questions answered.
Like, he knows Joey was the one controlling him in the Studio, makin’ him do all the bad shit, but he doesn’t understand why. And you know how kids can be when their parents get mad at them. It must’ve been Bendy’s fault, right? He must’ve done somethin’ to piss off Papa Joey and that was his punishment, right?
TLDR: Bendy and Joey’s relationship is complicated.
also @halfusek i hope ya don’t mind me usin’ your joey here qvq
My entry for the art contest on the BATIM website! As soon as I saw it was a summer theme, all I could think of were boating trips back home and fishing with the family
So here we have it, Bendy’s caught his first fish! It probs smacks him in the face or he loses it considering how the cartoons have his luck going, but he still CAUGHT IT!! :D
