Just a Happy Ending

Learn To Run

Henry's eyes snapped open and a shout escaped his throat. It was replaced with a groan hissed through clenched teeth. 

His arms hurt. Rather, everything above his waist hurt.

He figured out why pretty quickly. He was tied to a post, that was normal, but his hands were stretched above his head. Well, at least Sammy wasn't here, so he didn't have to listen to the monologue again.

Wait.

Where was Sammy?

Shaking off the last of the vision and the ringing in his ears, Henry managed to wriggle into a position that allowed slack on the ropes and let him see what he was doing. It took a frustrating five minutes, but finally, with a tear and a groan, Henry lurched forward and landed heavily on the floor. He clambered to his knees, rubbing his chafed wrists.

Thump.

Henry wheeled around, his heart leaping into his head and ready to sprint out of the room. His sudden tension dissolved instantly into shock and concern.

"Sammy!"

The ink man must have been tied up on the other side of the post, released when Henry was. Except, unlike Henry, Sammy was out cold. He'd fallen to his side with his back to Henry , his legs still kind of curled around the post.

Henry scrambled to his friend's side, "Sammy?" he turned the ink man over, "Can you hear m-!" He pulled back.

He had a face. 

Sammy had a face. 

Circular indentations for eyes, a slight raised ridge of a nose, and two thin, drawn lips. Sharp cheekbones defined a more angled jawline. Henry blinked hard a few times just to make sure he was actually seeing what he thought he was seeing. "Uh... You have a face," he commented to the still very unconscious ink man.

Henry sighed, sitting back and rubbing his temples. "I need to just... start rolling with all this." His hand dragged over his face. He took in Sammy's unconscious form, then glanced over to the side room.

The door was open. And no one else was going in.

So Henry went in.

It was rather unremarkable. Very small. Just a table with a microphone and a few dials on a soundboard. A shelf was mounted on the wall with multiple collections of music. A quick perusal of the titles prompted a cocked eyebrow. Build our Machine, Can't be Erased, Gospel of Dismay, Rivers of Mayhem, Amen, and a few others with inked out titles. There were several pages scattered over the floor.

Henry picked up the banjo leaning against the wall beside the door. Sammy favored this instrument. Henry smiled at the memories of the late studio; Sammy plucking away at all hours, pencil tucked behind his ear and papers strewn across the floor of his office.

"Sammy?"

A discordant twang, and Sammy slapped his pencil down. "Henry! I have one rule! No interrupting me when I'm composing!"

Henry raised his hands and shrugged, "I thought you might want to know that it's two a.m."

"... No, it's-" Sammy glanced at the Bendy clock on the wall. It wasn't ticking. "Oh. ... Well-," the next word was a vulgarity that could get a man fired back then.

Henry gave a playfully disapproving eye roll, clapping Sammy on the shoulder, "Hey, if you chew on some soap, I'll give you a lift home."

Sammy scoffed, "Nah, I'll sleep here."