#pumpkin jack

You feel a tug on your shirt, and while you'd normally ignore his antics, you don't want him to end up ripping this shirt to get your attention as he'd done with your other clothes before, because you're just too tired to deal with that right now.

So you turn to face him, giving him a levelled stare that you hope is convincing enough to practically scream "I'm being totally normal at this hour of the night and not struggling in any way at all."

“What is it, Jack?” You say, your breath frosting in the cold air and yet you barely shiver.

He doesn't like that look on your face. There's dark circles under your eyes where he doesn't think they're supposed to be, and your brows are furrowed like you're in pain and you just look so miserable. He can deal with your anger, had been the cause of many of your frustrations, could always wipe your tears on the days you miss home and say something that'll make you laugh and forget about it all. But this? He doesn't think he can fix this. He doesn't know much about humans, he'd never cared enough to learn. But this isn't right, and now he's left grasping at straws to figure out what he's supposed to do now.

He's so busy stewing in his own thoughts he doesn't even realize you're expecting an answer.

Er. He's just staring at you, his expression locked in that irritatingly bright smile, except it looks flat in a way you can't explain. His unusual silence unnerves you, but you suppose even overenergetic scarecrows need to appreciate the silence of the night every once in a while.

But when you start to turn back, he almost startles and grabs your wrist in a panic, because he can fix this, he can, just needs you to give him something to work with—but then you flinch in surprise and he feels those rakes that work as his fingers dig into something soft and he tears his arm away like he was the one hurt, and not you.

You grip your wrist tightly and try to pretend it doesn't hurt, because Jack is acting weird and the last thing you want to do is upset him. The pain is sharp and persistent, though, and you feel your fingers on the scratch tremble as something warm starts to ooze onto your cold skin. You really, really hope his claws can't cause tetanus.

“What do you need, Jack?” You ask, voice sharp and you pointedly don't look at him, because you're tired and he's definitely not helping.

“What do you need?” He parrots the question back, leaning his head close to yours, and you fix your eyes upon him to level him with a frustrated glare, but something about his expression makes you stop. If you didn't know any better, you'd almost say his eyes look.. dimmer than usual.

'What do you need?'

And you hadn't expected that question.

Your go-to response would be sleep, it's the one thing you haven't had in so long, but you'd tried sleep and it just wouldn't come to you. So maybe—maybe you do need help, even if you can't admit it to yourself. But would he understand that? Pumpkin Jack, the obnoxiously endearing scarecrow that you swear can be compared to a stray cat? Yet he seems to placative right now. Quiet. There's a tension in the air that you're not sure how to tread in.

“I need sleep,” You start, “But I can't. I've tried, I just can't.” He's silent as you speak, simply observing you and cocking his head ever so slightly as you avert his gaze again. "There are... ways others can help me, though. Humans are fickle like that."

Has never needed sleep, but enjoys pretending he does, to just close his eyes and let the world pass around him. He finds it silly that humans need to do it just because, that they can't function properly without it. But this is you, and you need his help, and he wants to fix that stupid expression on your face that feels wrong in every way.

Even without looking at him, you can tell he's interested, and you hear the familiar metallic clang of his claws tapping together, an odd habit he's developed when his attention is fully captivated on something.

“Maybe if you,” You're fidgetting, voice nervous as you twinge your hands and fingers together, almost afraid of looking him in his glowing eyes as a feeling of shame burns in the back of your neck. “-held me?” You lilt your voice, stupidly hopeful.

Hold you? He can do that. You sound so sure, and isn't this all he's ever wanted? For you to trust him enough for this? He avoids looking at the wrist you're still weakly holding, because it doesn't matter now.

He's greedy, he'll take whatever you'll give him, and this? This is a great one.

Hm. You don't like that look on his face right now, that growing grin and those upturned eyes, and you wrinkle your nose at him. “Don't get any bright ideas, loverboy, you're only a last-ditch attempt.”

“Me? Ideas? I'd never,” And this he can work with, banter coming like second nature. Loves likes that goodnatured smile on your face like you're both trying not to laugh and huff frustratedly at the same time, even if he'll never admit it.

And you almost want to take your word back, but you're already warm inside the shack, and he's here. For you. (You hope, anyways.)

The cot creaks beneath your joined weights, and you exhale slowly as you lower your head to rest beneath his, simply attempting to relax as his arms wrap around you, slow and careful like he's almost hesitant, or maybe scared. But then you feel those rakes for hands reach up and start to card through your hair, and all goes quiet for a moment.

Pretends he doesn't feel something as your warm breath hits the vines sprouted from his neck, and instead focuses on that soft feeling of your hair, a feeling he frankly doesn't think he experiences often enough. Perhaps he could convince you to do more of this, some time? And you're so quiet, maybe this is like your shut-up button. Not that he minds the sound of your voice, either.

“This is nice.” You whisper, voice small and faint as you feel sleep darken your vision. You pretend to not notice the small vine slowly growing from between your floorboards and snaking around your ankle almost possessively, or perhaps comfortingly.

“Fall asleep, pumpkin.” He rasps, pressing his mouth against the top of your head in a pseudo-kiss.