On the Ropes

by Imagine_Darksiders

Summary:

“Mr Montgomery...” you try again, taking a brave step forwards into the room, only to freeze in your tracks when a guttural growl travels through the darkness and cuts straight into your chest like the roll of approaching thunder.

“The Hell're you doin' in here, lady?”

Isn't that the million-dollar question.

Chapter 1: Into the Nest

The door to your cleaning supply cupboard clicks shut with a satisfying 'thud,' a comforting sound that signals the end of another long, arduous day spent cleaning up parts of Fazbear's Mega Pizzaplex that none of the S.T.A.F.F bots are dexterous enough to get at.

Heaving a weary sigh, you let your forehead bump against the cool metal, listening to the hum of your colleagues shuffling around you, rooting inside their lockers for hats, scarves and coats. Everyone is ready to clock out and leave before the night-shift takes over, hoping to get home before the roads freeze under winter's cruel grasp.

“Rough day, kid?”

You roll your head to the side and let another sigh slip between your teeth, replying, “Rough as a country road, I’m afraid.”

A gruff, old man by the name of Andy traipses up to the locker that sits beside your designated cupboard and he nods to you, touching gnarled fingers to his purple cap in greeting. Approaching his late sixties, and only a year from retirement, the old boy is still just as deft with his hands as the younger mechanics who work under him, as he demonstrates to you every evening by twisting that combination lock of his without even glancing at it, 'skilled in lock-picking and repairing robots,' you’d once joked. And although you're not a mechanic like him, he was one of the few faculty members who had curmudgeonly respect for a humble cleaning lady. Thus, from your first day working at the Plex, Andy was the guy to pull you away from bathroom re-stocks to eat your lunch or rescue you from the clutches of the clingy daycare attendant.

He's a good man, if a touch old-fashioned.

“One of these days,” you huff, pulling out your key and fumbling with your door's antiquated lock, “Can you mechs fix up a S.T.A.F.F bot that knows how to polish those massive bronzes? Freddy's face alone takes me like, half a goddamn hour.”

Andy just chuckles good-naturedly, hauling his winter coat from the locker and slamming it shut with a sigh. “Ain't nothing but a woman's strong touch can keep bronze and brass clean,” he laments, tipping his cap at you again and tossing you a wink from behind his thick, round glasses, “Good thing too. Give's 'em a reason to keep you around, eh, gal?”

“I like to think they keep me around for other reasons, too, Andrew, but thanks.”

The old man pulls a skeptical face, earning himself a scowl in response.

“You're a real gent -” You pause to pull your phone out of your pocket and check the time. “- and as much as I'd love to wait for you to grab your walking stick, I'm afraid I'll miss my bus if I do.”

You easily step aside to avoid the gentle kick he aims at your shins. “I ain't old enough to use a stick yet... brat,” he grumbles.

Tugging on your own coat, you flash him a tired smile.

You'll wait for him, of course.

You know it. He definitely knows it.

You're both on the same bus route, after all, and yours is only a couple of stops down from his own.

Andy shakes his head, stuffing one arm into the sleeve of his coat and tilting his chin towards the staircase leading up and out of the maintenance tunnel. “Shall we?”

“Suppose we shall,” you reply, eager to escape the Megaplex and return to your comfy little apartment on the outskirts of the city, where a microwave carbonara is calling your name.

 

“Hey! You – uh – cleaning lady!”

Well. You certainly wish it was the carbonara.

There’s no doubt she’s addressing you. You’re the only human cleaning staff in the building. 

You have to stifle a groan, plastering on a cheery smile and turning to see one of the young mechanics jogging towards you down the maintenance tunnel, her purple overalls stained with unsightly patches of slick, black oil, no doubt from the numerous repairs she has to make on a day-to-day basis.

You recognise her immediately once you catch sight of the bouncy, auburn hair trying to struggle free of her bun as she bounds right up to you and skids to an unsteady halt.

“Kerry,” you greet her, pocketing the cupboard key and quirking a grin at her, “Where's the fire?”

Silently, she waves a hand through the air, asking you, without words, to wait for her to catch her breath, and you shift your weight onto one leg, happy to oblige.

Eventually, the girl manages to clear her throat, jabbing her thumb over one shoulder and wheezing, “Manager - Mick – He said to come get you. It's urgent. So we need to go, like, now.”

And just like that, she turns to face the way she'd come and starts to jog back up the tunnel, hesitating for barely a second to beckon frantically after you. “Come on, then! Keep up!”

You've always liked Kerry, though you've barely interacted enough for her to learn your name, apparently. Her words are straight from the shoulder and to the point and she never wastes time with idle chatter, even if you wish she sometimes would.

Blowing a noisy exhale through your nose, you spare a glance at Andy, who merely offers his sympathies in the form of a vague shrug before he begins to throw on the rest of his coat, waving you off with a gruff, “I'll tell the driver not to wait for you. Now scram.”

Finding no support in the old mechanic, you shoot him a quick salute and kick up your heels, running after Kerry as she disappears around a corner, wondering what in the world you've done that could warrant attention from the manager of the mechanical department.

----

The pair of you burst out into Rockstar Row minutes later, although you screech to a halt to hold the doors open for two more mechanics coming the other way, both of whom are too busy hauling a S.T.A.F.F bot between them to offer you more than a cursory nod of thanks.

As they pass, your curious gaze lands on the bot. The poor thing looks as though it's been put through a car-crusher. There are scrapes and gouges carved into its metal exterior and the arms hang by mere cables at its sides, fingers twitching rapidly in conjunction with a garbled string of words that crackle out of its speakers. 

“Ple-ple-please r-r-rema-ain c—c-c-c-ca-aaa-alm.”

“Sheesh,” you call after the mechanics, “What happened to him?”

Neither of them spare you a second glance, so you simply shrug, letting the doors swing shut behind them before you turn to trail after Kerry once more.

The girl impatiently leads you around a confectionary kiosk and past Freddy Fazbear's show room, until you at last catch sight of the man you have to personally thank for making you miss the seven o'clock bus back to the city's outskirts.

Mick, infamous manager of the Mechanical department, is pacing back and forth in front of Montgomery Gator's show room window, which, you notice with a spark of trepidation, has been cordoned off by blue tape, and the huge, burgundy curtains have been drawn right across it, barring any outside eyes from viewing the interior.

As you draw closer, you begin to hear Mick muttering expletives to himself, sprinkled in amongst complaints about wasted expenses.

“Sir?” Kerry calls out, slowing in front of him and drawing his pacing to a stop, “Got that cleaner you asked for.”

You hesitate to remark that you're the only human cleaner employed by Fazbear Enterprises, but you suppose 'that cleaner' will have to suffice.

Mick's head snaps in your direction and his face lights up instantly, a too-wide grin spreading across his lips. “Hey! You're here! Excellent. I'm sorry to drag you away from clocking out!” Clasping his hands together, he adds, “But, I'm glad Kerry found you, Doll. Need a favour. Huge one.”

Biting your tongue, you tread down the involuntary shudder that threatens to race up your spine at the use of the nickname, instead forcing a smile onto your face. “Shouldn't be a problem,” you tell him pleasantly, “What's up?”

“Uh, Mick?” Kerry chimes in anxiously, shifting her weight and peering over her shoulder towards the maintenance tunnels again, “Am I good to-...”

Giving a brusque flap of his hand, he shoos her away. “Ah, yes. Thank you, Kerry. Go on, Devon and Gordon will need your help, I expect.”

And without needing any more permission than that, she's off once more, racing to the doors at the back of the row and shouldering them open, slipping through and then disappearing from sight. You watch her go, baffled, and more than a little wary when Mick grasps your shoulder and turns you around to face him again.

“It's a problem, alright,” he adds to your previous claim, removing his hand to gesture vaguely behind him at the glass of Montgomery Gator's show room, “Gator's on the warpath again. Something happened at a birthday party today and the damn bot's got itself all worked up.” He heaves a sigh of exasperation and runs a hand mercilessly through his thin, silvery hair. “This is the third time in two weeks. We keep sending S.T.A.F.F in there to clean the place up, so we can actually showcase the room, but he just keeps throwing 'em back out in pieces. Seems we've been spending a fortune on replacements, and my guys can't keep up with the repairs. Poor old Andy damn near collapsed from exhaustion the other day.”

He hadn’t told you about that... “Christ,” you utter, then, more urgently you add, “Was he okay?”

“Mm? Oh yes, yes. He was right as rain after a swig of Fizzy Faz” he replies, waving off your concern, “But I’m afraid we’re all at our wit’s end, dear, our wit’s end indeed. Montgomery is destroying the robots faster than we can fix them.”

“Oh, well. I'm... I'm sorry about that?” It isn't the first time you've heard about the alligator's destructive mood-swings, and while you are sorry to learn that he's having yet another one, you can't help but wonder why on Earth that has anything to do with a cleaning lady who only has bottom-level clearance.

Behind the thick curtains, there's a sudden shattering of something heavy, perhaps made of glass, followed by a low, guttural snarl of frustration.

Moving closer, Mick slides his arm across your shoulders and steers you away from the window for a moment, speaking to you in a hushed tone that instantly raises the hairs on the nape of your neck.

“Look. I'm gonna be straight – and, I'm sorry in advance for this – but we need you to stay behind tonight.”

With your tentative heart sitting in your throat, you summon the courage to ask, “Okay, why?”

“Because the higher-ups have asked me to get Monty's room up to snuff by tomorrow.” Mick raises his hand to card through his hair again, blowing out a rough exhale as he adds, “Some exec's kid is having a birthday party here first thing, and he wants everything to be perfect. Capital 'P.' That means access to all the rooms on Rockstar Row...” He jerks his head backwards, in the direction of Montgomery's room. “Any bot that gets sent in there to clean up the mess is torn to shred. But what I'm thinking is that in theory, Monty's programming won't let it hurt a human, right?”

In that moment, you realise what he's about to ask you to do.

Swallowing thickly, you glance over your shoulder towards the swinging, double doors that lead down to the maintenance tunnels, no doubt where the unfortunate S.T.A.F.F bots are having their servos and wheels reattached as you speak.

Therein lays the problem. Your components don't slot back into place quite so easily as the bots' do.

“But... I'm just a cleaner,” you argue through gritted teeth, hoping he doesn't hear the nervousness seeping from your voice like a bad smell.

“Yeah, the only one we've got who isn't S.T.A.F.F,” he presses, holding his hands up as if he means to soothe any oncoming protests, “Listen, this isn't my call. This is coming from way up high on the food chain. They're getting' sick of replacing bots every time Monty wants to throw his toys out of the pram.”

You can't help but find it a little incredulous that the company would chuck an employee at an animatronic who has done irreparable damage to dozens of their own bots, based on the flimsy theory that he's programmed not to hurt faculty. You know all about the gator's reputation, enough that you're careful to give him a wide berth whenever he stalks across a room you're cleaning. “Come on, Mick,” you try weakly, “Isn't this a little above my pay-grade?”

A bead of sweat dribbles down from the man's hairline and skirts the wrinkles around his eye. He's desperate, and you can understand why. Ultimately, it'll be him who comes under fire if things don't go off without a hitch for the exec's kid.

The man seems just shy of grabbing you as he wrings his hands and sputters, “You go in there, see what you can do about the mess, and I'll... I'll... see what I can do to raise your Christmas bonus, yeah?”

You struggle to keep the disbelieving little scoff from escaping between your teeth.

It's a terrible incentive, to be sure. Money for compliance, with no real guarantee of seeing the former part of the deal.

Besides, what good will a slightly fatter paycheque do if you're neck-deep in hospital bills or bleeding out on the floor of Montgomery Gator's room?

'Should never have signed that stupid liability clause,' you chide yourself, not for the first time.

The only real incentive here is that you’d be doing Andy a favour. If you go in there and if, by some miracle, you survive, he won’t nearly keel over by pushing himself to repair the bots that Monty rips apart.

Besides, Mick is still staring at you with a fervid sort of gleam in his eye that really gives you the impression that if you decline, he might actually try to wring your neck and save Monty the trouble.

You don't feel a lick of shame for the put-upon sigh you heave, letting your shoulders slump to hide their rigidity as you shoot a quick glance back at the cordoned-off windows and huff, “Alright, fine. I'll do it.”

Mick's entire posture goes slack with relief. “Oh, thank Christ!”

-----

Several, tentative steps lead you up to Montgomery Gator’s door where you grind to a halt, staring up at the slab of metal in front of you, thoroughly unnerved by the muffled growls and snarls trickling out from behind it. 

All of a sudden, you're sent reeling back as something heavy slams into the other side of it, tugging an impromptu gasp from your lips. Bewildered, you shoot a glance at Mick and throw your hands up in a silent question, only to find him standing several metres from where he was before, nodding at you encouragingly.

You let your arms fall back to your sides.

It would appear you really don't have much of a choice.

Hesitating to suck down a steadying breath, you fumble at the clearance badge around your neck and lean down, pressing it flat against the door's mechanism.

The damning 'beep' of success sends your heart plummeting into the pit of your stomach.

Then, like a jaw opening to receive you, the door slides up, and just like that, you're standing full view of the Megapizza Plex's most volatile animatronic.

Montgomery gator, the star himself, looms menacingly in the shadows at the furthest corner of the room with his signature glasses askew and his eyes gleaming crimson in the darkness. Overhead, only one, solitary lightbulb still clings to life, swinging back and forth and casting eerie shapes on the walls around you.

The animatronic is staring straight at you through the gloom, his enormous shoulders creaking as they heave with exertion whilst the claws at the tip of each finger quiver at an almost imperceptible pace, scraped blunt from excessive wear and tear.

He's every bit as frightening as you recall. It's hardly any wonder a lot of the children are afraid of him.

You realise with a jolt that neither of you have really moved, excepting Monty, of course, who's elongated head twitches to one side, and it promptly occurs to you that you're most likely being scanned.

It feels very much as though you're treading on sheet-thin ice, and at the risk of plunging into the alligator-infested waters below, you fear you'll have to be the one to break it.

You've never interacted one-on-one with the animatronics before. How in the world are you supposed to address them?

“Hello, um.. Sir?”

The gator's head snaps back to its upright position and you resist the urge to grimace. A fine start.

“Mr Montgomery...” you try again, taking a brave step forwards inside the room, only to freeze in your tracks when a guttural growl travels through the darkness and cuts straight into your chest like the roll of approaching thunder.

“The Hell're you doin' in here, lady?”

Isn't that the million-dollar question.

Another step.

Behind you, the door slides shut once more and seals you inside, helpless as a lamb in a lion's den.

'This is his room', you remind yourself shakily, 'his territory.'

If someone stepped inside your bedroom unannounced, you'd certainly expect a pretty solid explanation for their presence as well.

“Management sent me,” you squeak out with minimal tremors, “I'm the cleaning lady. I'm supposed to... well... clean up your room for you...” Pausing, you swallow past a lump and add, “There's an, uh, an important birthday party going on tomorrow and this place... needs some, uh. TLC?”

Trailing off, you let your eyes dart around the room, rapidly taking stock of the damage you've been sent to deal with. The first thing you notice is a poster sitting on the wall to your left, depicting Montgomery himself, his long chin resting in the palm of one hand and a lazy smile pulling at his features. In the image, his expression is open, playful, even friendly. 

Suddenly, your focus is brought back to the gator with a start when he drops his jaw and lets out a hollow laugh that's about as far from friendly as one could get. It's bitter, mocking, and you don't much care for it at all.

“So, they finally got sick of me breakin' those S.T.A.F.F dummies, huh?” Monty chuckles, peeling his plastic lips back to reveal rows of sharp, jagged teeth, “Thought they'd send some human instead.”

Frozen in place, you can do little else but shrug noncommittally.

Something sharp abruptly crosses his glare and you don't even have a moment to blink, because in the next second, a four-hundred-pound animatronic is storming across the room towards you, heedless of an upturned table that stands in his way. One of his shins catches the wood, and it's sent skidding sideways to crash against the wall.

Blanching, you immediately try to back up, but your head knocks painfully against the solid door at your spine and you realise, with a sinking sensation in your gut, that you're well and truly trapped as a behemoth of an alligator closes in on you, his motions far more ungainly than those you've witnessed from him while he's on stage, as if movement is a struggle for him at the moment.

The door behind you feels a lot like the bars of an inescapable cage, and although the key is hanging around your neck, it would require you to turn and bear your vulnerable spine to the animatronic. There isn't a chance in Hell you're brave enough to do that.

Instead, you brace your hands against the metal and squeeze your eyes tightly shut, left with little option but to wait for impact.

Just as you're certain that he's going to plough right into you, Montgomery stops and there’s a warm gust of metallic air that washes over your cheeks like a breath. “And what's to stop me from breakin' you, lady?”

For several moments, your ears ring in the unexpected silence that follows his query, until the fear of not being able to see him outweighs your fear of seeing him altogether, so you crack open your eyelids and immediately flinch backwards, flattening yourself even further against the door.

The animatronic's broad chest stands scant inches away from your nose.

“You – You can't-!”

“You don't think I could?” he cuts you off with a snap, hackles raising, and you're suddenly aware that he must think you're insulting his capabilities.

“I – I mean, you definitely could,” you sputter, grasping for words as a drowning man grasps for one last breath, “I just don't think you should!”

A pair of thick, brawny arms lift into your peripheral vision and he slams his palms against the wall on either side of you, each as green as the Amazon rainforest. The gator leans in close until his snout almost brushes the hair on your head. It's all you can do to keep your eyes open, unable to tear them away from the teeth that linger unbearably close to your delicate skin. 

Ever so slowly, Montgomery's jaws part and he hisses out, “Why shouldn't I?”

Everything about him screams intimidation. He's bigger, he's stronger, and he really wants you to know it.

But there's one thing he hasn't taken into account.

You've been intimidated before.

Perhaps not by an eight-foot tall animatronic, but certainly by someone who was just as loud and boisterous as the alligator looming over you is now. You've had your back to a wall for years before tonight, so much so that it's become second-nature to lower your head and stare through bleary eyes at the carpet below you. It takes you a moment to remember that you've managed to fight your way out of this position once before, several months ago. You can do it again.

You're going to have to, because frankly, you're reluctant to let some blustering animatronic alligator drive you into a corner.

“Because,” you rasp and try to bunch your fingers into the fabric of your pencil skirt as if you could steal strength from the fabric itself, “I'm not your enemy, Montgomery. I'm just here to do my job. And the sooner you let me do it, the sooner I can be out of your – er – your scales. Okay?”

You don't meet his eye, but you do notice the gator recoil slightly, his jaws retreating from the top of your vision, even just slightly.

Silence settles thickly over your head once again before he speaks, low and threatening. “One last chance to get out...”

You raise your head, teeth clenched together so hard that they leave an ache behind. “I can't.”

You really can't. Oh, perhaps physically, you can. You could turn tail and flee like a bat out of Hell. But Mick is standing right outside that door, probably waiting to send you back inside if you try to beat a hasty retreat. All it would take is a few words from him - 'She wouldn't do her job!' - and your employers would send you packing with nothing but a cardboard box to carry your mug in.

You've had to give up a lot to get here, to afford a boxy little apartment on the outskirts of town with only your own income to pay the rent, and you're not about to give up what little you have, not without a fight.

So even when Montgomery Gator takes a step away from you, raises to his full height and lifts one, enormous fist into the air, you lock your knees and refuse to budge.

You can take a hit.

'Be tense,' you remind yourself distantly, heart hammering in your chest like it wants to escape the punishment it's about to receive, 'He can't damage internal organs if your muscles are in the way.'

It's an agonising wait, watching the gator's legs as he stands over you, his arm still held aloft.

You don't want to look at him, you don't want to provoke him, so there you stay, rigid and afraid until there's a gentle chuff of air wafting over your face.

You still don't take the bait though, keeping your eyes fixed on the joint of his knee.

Movement at the corner of your eye has you darting them over to see his fists lower gradually back down against his sides. That, at the very least, renders you curious enough to peer up at him through your lashes and gulp down a nervous breath.

He's glaring back down at you, his eyes somehow piercing right through the purple sheen of his sunglasses. Then, without warning, the gator puffs out his chest and snaps his teeth far too close to your face, bellowing, “Fine!” before he spins on his heel and stomps back towards his upturned couch, leaving behind a trembling mess of a human by the entrance.

 

You're not dead...

You take a deep breath and place one hand over your heart, fingers twisting deep into the fabric of your shirt. The legs keeping you upright hardly feel very sturdy at all, and you blink down at them numbly, wondering if your knees have been knocking like this since you walked in here.

“Well?!” The animatronic's snapped question brings you to your senses and you jump, throwing your head up and giving him a dumbfounded stare.

“You gonna start cleaning up, or what?!” he adds gruffly, gesturing to the chaos surrounding you.

Quick as a flash, you appease him with a hasty nod. “Sure. Yeah. Uh huh!”

Sneering your way, the gator rolls his shoulders and turns to grab the edge of his couch, lifting it back onto its stumpy legs with enviable ease. 

You almost start to think that he's actually helping you, but you're soon proved wrong when he slumps down heavily onto the cushions and crosses his arms, glaring at you as you pick your way towards the window, where a large plant pot lays on its side, spilling soil all over the carpet. You'll definitely have to go and get the hoover from storage at some point, but you're reluctant to pause so soon without righting the majority of the room first.

So, all too aware of the crimson eyes burning a hole into the side of your head, you press your lips together and get to work.

Chapter 2: Sucker Punch

Summary:

“Hey, I don't mean to pry,” you start, steadying your nerves with a deep breath before you let your gaze drift over to the alligator, “But, are you okay?”

His retort comes far too sharply – far too defensive. “I'm fine!”

Well. It's a clear sign that there's nothing 'fine' about him, despite his insistence to the contrary.

The effort required to voluntarily present your back to a daunting animatronic with an irascible temper is astronomical. Tremendous, even.

Every cell of your body seems to quiver with anticipation as you shuffle stiffly towards the enormous, overturned plant pot near the right of the door.

From one corner of an eye, you notice the eerie, red glow of Montgomery's optics tracking you diligently across the room. 

With your jaw clenched and your hands curled into tight fists, you take a second to steel yourself against the very rational voice screaming at you to keep your gaze trained on the gator behind you. Then, at the pitiable pace of a glacier, you turn your back on the animatronic, bending down and forcing your fingers to unfurl so that you can grasp the lip of the heavy plant pot, heaving the whole thing upright again with a soft grunt.

More loose soil is disturbed by the movement and to your utter dismay, a veritable landslide cascades out of the pot and surges down into the garish, purple carpet to join the soil that had already been spilled before you arrived.

Behind you, the couch springs squeak as Monty leans back against the cushions and sneers, “Thought you were s'posed to be a 'cleanin' lady.'

You have to remember to bite your tongue to stop any retort from jumping off it. Instead, with your back still facing the gator, you drop wordlessly down onto your knees and begin the laborious task of scooping up little handfuls of soil from the carpet and depositing them back into the plant pot, packing lost dirt around the giant, green echeveria sitting inside it.

Ignoring him definitely earns you a throaty growl, but your ears don't pick up on any other movements, namely the sound of him rising to his feet, so you continue perching anxiously on your knees and clear the floor of soil as best you can, ready to spring upright at the slightest sign that he's left his couch.

To your relief however, the animatronic seems placid enough to actually remain in place.

As soon as the area around the pot is semi-presentable, you dust your hands off on your skirt and stand up, frowning at the traces of soil that still linger deep in the carpet fibres.

You can hoover them up later. Right now, there's still a Hell of a lot to do, most of more immediate importance.

Taking a step backwards, your foot lands on a long, thin object that swiftly rolls out from underneath you, sending you off-balance and pulling a startled squawk off your lips. Thinking quickly, you manage to throw out your arms and keep yourself upright, whipping your head down to catch sight of the culprit.

A shiny, green golf club glints innocently in the dim light by your feet.

Tutting, you release the breath that had caught in your throat and bend down, snatching the putter up off the floor before you wheel about to face the alligator behind you.

The breath you'd just let out is very nearly reclaimed once you lay eyes on him though.

He's still on the couch, still a hulking behemoth dwarfing you in the shadows, but where his optics had once glowed with that ominous, crimson hue, you could swear that for just a split second, they're instead shining cerulean blue.

In the blink of an eye however, they've returned to their original colour and you're left staring dumbly at the animatronic with one of his putters clutched in your hands and a question on your lips.

“Did you just-?”

A guttural snarl is quick to have you sealing your mouth shut again and swallowing the words 'scan' and 'me.'

In the interest of keeping the peace, you shove the incident to the back of your mind and lower your gaze to the floor in front of Monty's couch. 

Scattered about there, as if hurled haphazardly and left wherever they might lay, are half-a-dozen gold clubs, all the same size, and all much, much too close to Montgomery for your liking.

Still... you'll have to gather them up sooner or later.

You take a cautious step forwards before stopping in place once more, kneading your hands around the putter's smooth, cool handle.

“Uh...” You wet your lips and jut your chin at the fallen clubs near Monty's feet. “May I...?”

You ask less out of courtesy and more to gauge whether he'll tolerate you moving further into his space.

Montgomery's eyelids shutter slightly until he's subjecting you to a sharp, suspicious glare. Then, just as your pulse starts to quicken, his crimson gaze drops to your hands, and the white-knuckle grip you have on one of his golf clubs.

There's a flicker in his optics, barely a noteworthy occurrence, really, but you do notice that his angular brows slowly pry themselves apart, turning his glare marginally less severe.

A hiss of compressed air simulates a sigh and he rolls his eyes, promptly reeling one of his legs back and kicking out at the nearest golf club, sending it clattering across the ground in your direction. You jump a little at the unexpected action, yet you're privately grateful that you no longer have to venture too close to the ornery alligator. He does the same thing with a few others.

You don't even realise you've flashed him a tiny smile until he huffs at you and brusquely turns his snout away, levelling it at his curtains instead.

Still somewhat wary, you venture up to the other golf clubs and set about gathering them into your arms, keeping Monty in your peripheral vision, and in doing so, you catch a glimpse of the irregular jolt of his arm. Flicking your eyes up towards him, you're surprised to see that he's moved one, clawed hand towards his stomach hatch, fingers rubbing across it like he's trying to remove a tough stain from the surface, a fleck of paint, perhaps, or maybe a wayward piece of soil.

At that moment though, he catches you staring. 

Quick as a flash, he rips his hand away and smashes it down against the couch, claws digging rivets out of the plush, cream fabric.

“What're you starin' at?!” he all but roars, sending you back a step with the last of the putters tucked underneath an arm.

“Nothing!” you insist, although you can't keep your eyes from finding his stomach hatch again, where, for the briefest moment, you catch sight of a small, pink speck, though you don't get the chance to hazard a guess as to what it is, because Monty's arms are suddenly flung across his chest, hiding the pink splodge from view.

When you hear another hiss of air escape from between his teeth, you hurriedly turn from him and make your way over to his vanity desk in the furthest corner of the room.

Leaning up against it is an empty golfer's bag, and with the utmost care, you empty your arms of the clubs, placing them all gingerly inside the bag lest you incur the gator's ire because you damaged one of his precious putters.

Once you're no longer laden down with golf clubs, you swivel about and rove your eyes across the floor in front of Monty's desk. Your heart abruptly sinks when you spot the rear side of the massive mirror frame that would typically rest on the wall over his vanity.

All of the animatronics have mirrors installed in their rooms.

But of course, Montgomery would think to tear his off the wall in a fit of unmitigated rage.

Wonderful.

You know precisely what you can expect to find once you lift the heavy frame, and sure enough, as you grasp the edge and raise it up off the floor, hundreds of tiny mirror shards tumble out, tinkling onto the carpet much like the soil had fallen from its pot. 

A weary sort of resignation creeps into your stomach at the sight.

There's not a chance in Hell you'll be able to repair this. The whole mirror will need to be replaced, and that is certainly not happening before the exec's kid arrives in the morning.

Whilst you're busy wondering whether anyone will notice if you just sweep up the glass and hide the mirror frame in the back room, your hand shifts on the edge and all of a sudden, there's a sharp, stinging pain lancing up the pad of your forefinger.

“Ah! Shit,” you hiss, clicking your tongue and lifting the wounded appendage in front of your face, holding the mirror up with your uninjured hand.

In the dim light, a dark, viscous liquid oozes from a cut in the soft flesh of your fingertip, hardly enough to worry about though, you note with a sigh of relief.

However, just as you start to rub the blood off on your shirt, you're interrupted by the sound of couch springs screeching loudly to your left, urging you to shoot a hasty glance towards Montgomery.

At once, you balk, your limbs seizing up at the sight that greets you.

He's standing now, lazer-focused optics trained on the blood trickling down your finger. One of his clunky legs has extended, as though he's about to take a step towards you before he abruptly pulls it back with a protesting groan from the pneumatics in his limbs.

He speaks then, although every word that leaves his mouth is spoken with the utmost reluctance, as if he's fighting his own voice box to keep anything from escaping it.

“You... should get... to a first aid station...” he grinds out mechanically, only to give his head a rough shake and bang a fist against the side of it seconds later.

Taken aback, you can only watch as he throws himself back down onto the couch, his optics never once leaving your hand. “Don't want you getting' gross, human blood all over my room, is all,” he bites out through a clenched jaw, the mechanical lilt gone from his voice.

You nearly raise your eyebrow at his remark, tempted to ask whether a few drops of blood are really going to make a lot of difference to the current state of his room, but you think better of it in the end, instead heaving a mental shrug and digging around in your pocket, fishing out a tatty, old handkerchief. Balancing the mirror frame on your hip, you wrap your injured finger up in the soft cotton and present it to the animatronic, asking, “Happy?”

His snout wrinkles, but he still replies, albeit gruffly. “Whatever. Better n' nothin'.”

He shifts in his seat again, and this time, you manage to catch his expression as it changes.

It's odd to say that such a rigid face can express itself without the use of muscle and sinew, but somehow, the genius who designed these animatronics seems to have outdone themselves, because you're definitely looking at an unmistakable grimace on Montgomery Gator's face.

To begin with, you assume his discomfort is due to the cut on your finger, given that he's still staring at it like it offended him. Just then, however, movement draws your attention to his hand, which has returned once again to rub over the seam of his stomach hatch. A subconscious motion, evidently, as he doesn't appear to know he's doing it at all.

'Should....Should I ask about that?' you wonder, 'Is that overstepping? I probably can't help anyway if there is something wrong...'

You're certainly not a mechanic, but there's definitely something about the behaviour that strikes you as atypical. Humming thoughtfully, you start heaving the enormous, mirrorless mirror over to his desk and lean it up against the side, heedless of the glass that crunches underneath your work shoes as you go.

“Hey, I don't mean to pry,” you start, steadying your nerves with a deep breath before you let your gaze drift over to the alligator, “But, are you okay?”

His retort comes far too sharply – far too defensive. “I'm fine!”

Well. It's a clear sign that there's nothing 'fine' about him, despite his insistence to the contrary.

“Is there something up with your hatch?” You tentatively wave your hand at it. “Looks like there's something on it.”

The question hangs between you for a long while, with each second dragging by more arduously than the last. Even half-hidden as they are behind his glasses, Montgomery's eyes gleam with barely-concealed irritation and his jaw creaks open slightly, only to snap shut again moments later after he realises you've already seen what he's been trying to hide.

You can almost see the war going on inside his processor - a two-sided conflict, with one side telling him to give himself up and another side which is far more stubborn, urging him to deny that there's anything wrong at all.

You daren't speak up and risk his wrath again, so you simply continue keeping an ear open as you make your way back to the shards of mirror, kneeling down in front of them and sifting through the larger pieces, assembling them into some semblance of a sweepable pile.

Your patience is rewarded after he releases an agitated growl and finally admits, “It's icing.”

Keeping a snort to yourself, you quirk a brow at him. “Icing?”

“Yeah! Icing!” he bellows in return, showing off his teeth, “What're you deaf?”

The force of his shout punches through your gut as hard as any fist and you flinch, inadvertently dropping a piece of the mirror. “Sorry,” you utter in a soft breath.

Montgomery falls silent at your apology, though you aren't looking at his expression to see that the seemingly permanent scowl etched there has lifted and he's staring down at you as though you've grown an extra head.

Far be it from an animatronic to want for anything, but he finds himself wishing you would react in ways he expects, like the mechanics who avoid him at best and temporarily force a shut down at worst. So often, they tell him that they plan to replace his endoskeleton with another model or reprogram him so he loses everything that makes Monty 'Monty,' and while the threats are troubling, at least he knows where he stands with those who make them. At least children who are afraid of him are prone to cry and scream if their parents try to leave them in the same room with him.

You however, are neither crying nor are you attempting to flee, despite the heart that jackhammers inside your delicate chest. With quiet audacity, you stepped into his room and had the unmitigated gall to give him nothing. No terror, no anger, no threats. He's left irresolute, an unfamiliar and uncharted feeling that doesn't so much frighten him as it does bewilder him.

So the animatronic remains stock-still on his couch, observing you unblinkingly, certain that at any moment, the other shoe will drop and you'll dash through his door with a shaky promise to tell the mechanics about his monstrous behaviour.

As the minutes pass in silence though, you continue to hold your ground, albeit with trembling hands that sift through the larger pieces of his broken mirror and drop them into a pile that he has no doubt you'll attempt to sweep up once you've finished.

It isn't long before the quiet grows too loud in his audial receptors.

The longer he watches your careful, near-elegant motions, the more he grows frustrated with his own inhibitions. Not for the first time, Monty's glare drops to his large, dangerous hands and the claws that were installed several weeks ago, long and sharp things, supposedly meant to give him more dexterity for plucking the strings of his guitar.

All they'd done was arm an already dangerous animatronic.

The gator's lips peel back into a humourless grin.

He bets you've never looked down at your hands as though they belonged to someone else. Hell, he imagines you probably never have to think about what will happen if you ever accidentally hurt someone, what you'd do with yourself, what other people would do to you...

…

He's thinking again.

Fazbear has told him before that thinking is part of his problem, in that sickening, well-meaning way that the bear can't seem to help. Too much time spent alone, he'd say, before suggesting that Monty try to make friends, try to be nicer to people, like him.

Like him...

Of course. The cure to all his problems – Just be more like Freddy.

He's becoming tired of hearing it from everyone around him.

That familiar, bottomless pit begins to surge forth once more, deep inside Montgomery's wires, howling out in hunger and calling for destruction, for noise, anything to stop himself from spiralling down inside his own processor and getting lost there until morning.

Gradually, Monty's optics focus on you once again and the howling grows softer.

A distraction then - perhaps that's all he needs.

“Ain't you gonna ask how I got icing on me?” he suddenly demands, drawing a startled gasp from the woman in front of him.

Once you realise he's only asking you a question, you let your shoulders lose some of their tension, turning your gaze onto him and replying, “I got the impression you didn't want me to ask.”

You're right, and Monty lets you know he doesn't like the fact that you're right by releasing a guttural snarl.

Quite abruptly, you get to your feet, and 'finally,' the gator thinks, falling silent, 'that was your last straw.'

You'll leave and be done with him and he can go back to the safe and familiar knowledge that there isn't a human on this wretched planet he can't predict. It's almost a relief, he tells himself, to see you walking towards his door.

But then, surprise causes his optics to stutter as you walk past the entrance and stop next to the upturned dustbin, grabbing the hefty thing and dragging it backwards towards the pile of glass on the carpet behind you.

“So, Montgomery,” you pipe up, setting the bin upright and bending down to pick up the bigger mirror shards, “How did you get icing all over yourself?”

The gator's optics narrow to thin slits. He scans you diligently for a moment, searching for any ulterior motive. He finds nothing but genuine curiosity instead. Your tone isn't bored and monotonous like the mechanics' when they speak to him. You're a cleaning lady, you certainly aren't asking him for a daily diagnostic report. So...

Is this what a conversation is?

A conversation, according to information he gleans from what little internet access the animatronics have been granted, would require input from him as well.

Perhaps... just this once...

 

“There were two birthday parties goin' on today,” he at last says gruffly, rolling his shoulders and tipping his head away from your curious gaze, “The bear was overseein' one, I got the other. Mine had older kids, and they...” Blinking his optics, he trails off into an unintelligible mumble.

Surprisingly, you don't push him for information. You just keep meticulously picking up glass and dropping it into his bin.

Monty's tail thumps hard against the back of the couch and he growls, “They wanted Freddy.”

That, at least, stops you in your tracks. You look at him closely, one eye squinting shut as a frown turns the trepidation on your face into disapproval. “Huh,” you say, “Ungrateful.”

“Un... what?” The animatronic's jaw goes slack, though he's quick to gather himself together again, retorting with a petulant jeer. “Uh.. Yeah, that's exactly what I thought too!”

His processor whirls with the new input. 

Someone agrees with him? 

If Monty didn't know for a fact that animatronics don't dream, he'd pinch himself.

Shaking the notion from his head, he leans forwards on the couch, a little more inclined to continue relaying the day's events.

“So, I'm tryin' to get the cake of my hatch, right? And this brat - uh, kid – jumps up at me and shoves it back into the cavity as I'm pullin' it out! Kept screamin' about havin' Freddy give 'im the cake instead!”

Perhaps asking wasn't the best idea, you muse, watching anxiously as the gator's claws tear a hole in the couch cushion beside him. 

“Okay. I know we're not supposed to talk badly about guests...” You lower your voice consiprationally, satisfied when Monty's claws retract slightly and his shoulders stop heaving, letting you know that he's listening. “But I have to agree that the kid does sound like a bit of a brat.”

The gator can't help but smile at that. Strangely enough, vindication doesn't feel half bad.

Hungry for more, he braces a hand on his knee and wordlessly opens his hatch, hardly caring that he's opening himself up for a cleaning lady to see.

The hiss of a catch being released grabs your attention and you pause next to the bin, eyes swivelling down to marvel as Montgomery's chest cavity slides open, revealing the contents of his mechanical guts. Guts that are absolutely engulfed in sticky, yellow cake and garishly pink, buttercream icing.

You can't help it. A hand flies to your mouth and you let out a sympathetic gasp. “Oh, Montgomery. That's...” You pause. What on Earth can you possibly say that would suffice? “That's... horrible,” you eventually settle on, because it is horrible. “Did the employee on duty see what happened?”

“Course he saw!” Monty snaps, thumping his closed fist onto the arm of the couch, “Know what he did?”

You shake your head mutely.

“He shut me down in three seconds flat. Didn't even give me a chance to react. Used one of them shock stick thingies...”

The stun batons... Standard issue for faculty who oversee birthday parties that the animatronics are 'hosting.' Supposedly, they're used to render a bot immobile so that the fail safe button can be pressed without losing an arm in the process. So far as you were aware, they're only supposed to be utilised in the case of an absolute, unsalvageable emergency.

The pistons in Montgomery's shoulders hiss as they slump and he releases a humourless laugh, shaking his head and returning his eyes to the ground. “Guess they thought I was gonna lose it n' hurt a kid or something.”

As terrible as it is, you can't say you'd entirely fault the employee responsible, given Monty's preceding reputation, but you're fairly confident that even he has enough coding stuffed into his processor to ensure that he never harms a guest, much less a child.

Fiddling with the badge around your neck, you let your mouth flop open and closed uselessly a few times before you're ready to respond with anything of real substance. “I'm sorry,” you begin, earning a peculiar, sidelong glance from the gator, “That must have hurt.”

Turning back to your pile of mirror shards, you busy yourself with ignoring his stare as he leans even further forwards on the couch and drapes his forearms across both knees, scrutinising you through his star-shaped sunglasses.

“You ever been hit with one of those things?” he asks, his voice uncharacteristically quiet, for a change.

You purse your lips, pouting glumly down at the irretrievable splinters of glass that lay in the carpet, wishing you'd had the foresight to bring your hoover up here. “Can't say I've ever had the displeasure.”

“Hrn, good. Consider yourself lucky.”

And once more, a heavy blanket of silence descends over the room, suffocating now, because you've just learned that Montgomery's outburst wasn't entirely unprovoked. Naturally, you don't think he should have lost his temper at all, but you can at least draw some comfort in the fact that he's apparently not as unpredictable as the mechanics have been making him out to be.

Chewing a welt into your lower lip, you steal a quick glance at the animatronic across the room. His stomach hatch is still laying open, exposing the sorry state of his gunked-up insides, but the gator's processor appears to be elsewhere, far away from his cream-coloured couch.

Oddly enough, when he isn't glaring you down from his full height, you don't find Monty all that frightening. He looks lost and ironically small sitting there with icing smeared all over his hatch. 

Before you can stop the thought from appearing, you begin to ponder the possibility of helping him out.

You highly doubt he'll actually let you, of course, and if anything goes wrong, you'll be the one in hot water. Yet, what kind of a cleaning lady could you call yourself if you won't even clean up a belligerent animatronic? Besides, it would be a shame to spend so much time and energy sprucing up his room only to have him drop dollops of cake all over the floor afterwards...

Resignedly, you clear your throat and sigh. “Listen, I know I said I'd finish up your room and be on my way, but, I mean... While I'm here, do you want me to...?” You let your sentence peter out, gesturing vaguely towards his stomach hatch.

At once, the gator's posture snaps back to the rigidity you first saw when you walked in.

“No way m' I lettin' a cleanin' lady mess around with my wires,” he growls.

“I'm not going to do a thing to your wiring,” you tell him, unsurprised, “But cleaning ladies do know a thing or two about getting cake stains out of circuitry.”

He straightens his shoulders and growls at you for a few seconds before the sound tapers off and his eyes dart to one side, narrow and contemplative. He actually seems to be considering your offer.

Dragging his optics back towards you, he gives you a brief once-over and asks, “You ain't scared I'll snap again?”

“Given the circumstances, Montgomery,” you reply honestly, “I'm not surprised you snapped at all in the first place. Some kid shoved cake into your circuits and then you were immediately electrocuted without hesitation. I probably shouldn't be encouraging your behaviour, but a lot of humans would be pretty angry too if all that happened to them.”

Blinking slowly, he remains quiet for a long time, but when he does speak, his voice is softer than you've ever heard it. “They would?” Then, more skeptically, “Would you?”

“Well, I like to think I've got a pretty good handle on my temper,” you admit, “But I certainly wouldn't be happy. And let me guess. You got the blame, right?”

The animatronic's lips curl into a sneer. “What do you think?”

“I think that wasn't exactly fair.” You offer him a sympathetic smile that resembles more of a grimace. “So, how about this? I promise not to provoke you, and I've got some cloths and soap in my supply cupboard downstairs. I think there's even some turtle wax-” Pausing, you flash him a wink. “-I mean, gator wax. I can bring it all back here, polish you up, or not, whatever you fancy. It's your call. But ~ I reckon it can't feel great to have cake inside your hatch. And I'm pretty sure icing that pink will stain if it's left...”

He grimaces at that, tilting his snout to peer down at himself. “Then... you'll clean my room, right?”

“Oh, yeah, of course. I'll need to bring my hoover up here too...” Clicking your tongue, you do a quick sweep of the room. “And a dust pan and brush... Some paint for the wall. Somebody ought to water that plant as well, I guess...”

Monty follows your gaze, first to the gouges he'd torn in his wall paper, then to the sickly looking succulent sitting in its pot in the corner. “You gonna be able to carry all of that?” he snorts, raising a painted brow at you.

Shrugging your shoulders, you reply, “I'll just make a couple of trips. It's fine.”

Montgomery hums, inspecting himself closely for a minute. It has been... some time since a human was willing to tidy him up.

Roxanne and Chica always say it's a surprisingly pleasant experience, when their mechanics aren't in a rush.

Not that Monty would know. Every time he needs his casing cleaned or his wires fixed, he's taken offline, disconnected from everything and left to float in the dark, empty abyss of nonexistence until he's jerked rudely back online and sent on his way without so much as a 'Have a nice day.'

They never trust that he won't bite their hands off.

Perhaps they're right.

His eyes travel to his hatch once more and he closes it up after a moment's thought, grimacing at the squelch of cake coming from behind the sturdy metal. Hot-pink icing decorates his chest and stomach and he mulls over whether he really wants one of the mechanics getting on at him about maintaining a spotless appearance. Either he remains online and allows you to clean him, or he's forced into Parts and Services later, where he can lie motionless and helpless as unfamiliar hands roughly scrub him down...

And his anger has been abated, for the time being, which he begrudgingly has you to thank for...

.....

Fine.

 

All of a sudden, the animatronic rises to his feet in one, swift motion, sending you scurrying backwards a step or two before you clench your fists and stop, determined not to retreat any further.

“I'll come with,” Monty decides bluntly, glaring down at you as if daring you to argue, “Help you carry your stuff up here.”

Reeling from the fact that Montgomery Gator said he'll help, you feel the colour drain from your face as he stomps across the room towards you.

In here, you're fairly hopeful that you have him placated. But out there, in the Pizzaplex, there are countless variables that could tip him over the precipice into a temper tantrum again.

Employees, S.T.A.F.F, the other animatronics...

Waving your hands frantically as he steps closer, you try to protest. “No, really, it's fine! You don't have to -”

“-I'll help,” he reiterates sharply, his tone brooking no argument, “Cause it'll take you forever to keep comin' and goin'. With me luggin' your stuff, you can be done faster and then I can kick you outta here. Be glad to see the back of you.”

“Montgomery.” You hesitate, helplessly twisting the handkerchief around your finger. “It's my job. I can't ask you to help me do my job.”

“So?” he shrugs his massive shoulders, “It's my body you'll be cleanin'. I wanna make sure you get the right stuff that ain't gonna corrode my paint.”

When you hum uncertainly and stuff your teeth into your lip, he rolls his optics up to the ceiling with a grumble and adds, “I ain't gonna lose it out there, if that's what you're worried about.”

“I... it's not that,” you lie, badly if his doubtful little huff is any indication. Exhaling a rough sigh, you lift a hand to rub tiredly at the space between your eyebrows. “Okay. All right. Maybe I was worried about that,” you concede, throwing in the proverbial towel, “But if you say you won't lose it, then I believe you.”

Caught off guard, the towering animatronic recoils, peering down at you through his glasses. “You do?”

You offer him the courtesy of thinking about your answer first, brows knitting together and your nose scrunching up in thought.

Montgomery Gator. He's... churlish, and rude, and quick to bite your head off at the tiniest provocation. But this interaction has already gone far better than you ever expected it to.

Hell, you wholly expected to be tossed through the glass window in the first thirty seconds of stepping through his door, so the fact that you're still here is a massive upgrade.

You're not arrogant enough to think that you could ever talk him down should he lose his temper again. In fact, it seems you were just lucky enough to catch him at the tail-end of a tantrum when you first entered his room, once the worst was already over and done.

However, his behaviour, though inarguably terrifying at times, isn't quite as unpredictable as you've been lead to believe. He's offering to help, and yes, whilst he's only helping to hurry along your visit, you've heard from the mechanics that the alligator is the most unhelpful, inconsiderate animatronic they've ever worked with.

Maybe you've been hearing wrong, but you'll only know for sure if you take that bold, first step and give Montgomery a chance.

After a few seconds of waiting impatiently for an answer, Monty perks up as the corners of your lips lift into a gentle smile. “Yeah,” you say, giving him a firm nod, “I reckon I can trust you.”

Then, you turn and make your way to his door, entirely missing how his frame solidifies in place and his optics burst open wide, locking onto the back of your head.

Monty runs a diagnostic scan on his audials, but scans come back clean. He runs another, certain that he'd misheard you. Again, the scan doesn't flag anything and he's left staring after you as you walk away from him.

It's such a throwaway statement. 'I can trust you.' And yet it slugs the animatronic across his jaw like a sucker punch, rendering him speechless and utterly dumbfounded for reasons beyond even his own understanding.

It takes him a moment to find the right commands to bring his legs back into motion, trailing after you like a titanic, unsettling shadow and only halting once he's standing far too close to your back, staring blankly down at the nape of your neck.

It's clear you aren't comfortable with him being so close, given that you fumble with your security pass for several, tense seconds. However, Monty simply doesn't remember that he's supposed to keep his distance.

'I can trust you,' repeats over and over again in his processor, flooding his motherboard and washing through his wires like a pleasant stream of warm water.

The alligator barely registers his tail swinging slowly to and fro behind him as the door slides open and you glance over your shoulder to spare him a cautious smile before turning, head held aloft as you lead the way out of his show room and into the open space of Rockstar Row.

Chapter 3: Second Rate

Summary:

You run into Mick outside Montgomery’s green room and unbeknownst to you, the sight of the mechanic leads to a memory cropping up unbidden for the animatronic.

A decision is made, insignificant to you, perhaps, but it doesn’t escape Monty’s keen notice. Then again, not much ever does

If Mick thought that the sound of Monty tearing his green room apart had been unsettling, the silence that followed after he sent that poor cleaning lady through the door was downright terrifying.

Raising a trembling hand to his forehead, he daubs anxiously at the beads of sweat gathering on his brow and returns to pacing back and forth in front of the vast window, wearing a trench into the linoleum floor with each pass.

Every now and again, he leaps out of his skin when the uncomfortable quiet is shattered by a muffled shout from beyond the glass, no doubt from Monty getting fired-up by goodness-knows what this time.

Hours seem to pass, and yet each time Mick throws a glance at his watch, the time shows that a mere fifteen minutes have dragged slowly by, so far without any screaming, which he counts as a tentative win....

… But really, what the Hell had he been thinking!? 

He hadn't even given you a stun baton to protect yourself with, an oversight he almost corrected before he realised that strolling into the room with Monty's most hated sedative clutched in his hands probably wouldn't be a very good idea, even it it was to protect you.

At the twenty minute mark, his head jerks up as he hears the unmistakable 'whoosh' of Montgomery's door sliding open.

A clack of heels approaches the corner and he feels a wave of relief hit him like a truck once you step briskly into view, looking – thank god – relatively unharmed, if a little shaken up.

“There you are, sweetheart!” he calls, missing the subtle twitch of your eye as he begins marching towards you, blowing out a breathy exhale, “How's it looking in there? The gator didn't hurt you, did it?” He doesn't see you slide your hand surreptitiously behind your back, doesn't notice the soft, white handkerchief interspersed with flecks of red. “You had me so w-!”

The mechanic chokes on the rest of his sentence.

Like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights, Mick goes utterly still and his sallow complexion drains of any lingering colour as a familiar, indomitable behemoth stalks around the corner in your wake, towering over you and casting you in a long, dark shadow that creeps along the ground towards the man's polished shoes.

Montgomery Gator, in all his terrible glory, is outside his room.

All of a sudden, the spell breaks, and Mick explodes into motion. 

His hand flies down to his belt and grasps the handle of the stun baton strapped there, bracing to yank it from its holster.

Taken aback by the unexpectedly defensive move, you stop in your tracks and recoil, back-peddling away from the mechanic until your head knocks into a hard, metal torso.

As soon as Montgomery lays optics on the weapon, any lingering lightness presiding in his chest swells to something heavier, as if someone had stuck a lead weight inside his hatch.

Quick as a flash, his crimson glare zeroes in on the man's hand and he turns rigid behind you, kicking a low, rumbling growl out of his speakers and sending it up his throat, claws splayed out wide, threatening.

“Mick!” you squeak, stepping out from underneath the gator's heaving chest and shaking your hands through the air in front of you, fixing the man with a desperate frown that begs for him to look at you, “It’s okay! Montgomery and I are just on our way to my cupboard downstairs. I asked him to help me carry some cleaning gear up to his room.”

The mechanic has a white-knuckle grip on his baton, but he tears his eyes off the animatronic to stare wildly at you instead. “I – I'm sorry. Come again?” he sputters.

“Montgomery. He's helping me,” you press, flicking your gaze pointedly towards the weapon on his hip, “There's a lot of stuff I need to carry to his room. I asked him to lend a hand.”

Squirming from foot to foot, the mechanic studies you, perhaps wondering when exactly you'd lost your mind. 

You just hope he understands what you're silently trying to convey.

'Stop,' you mouth, your heart giving a hopeful lurch when his eyes dart down to your lips, 'Put it down.'

Slowly, his focus moves from your face and travels to the stick on his belt.

“You... asked it for help?” Blinking hard, he levels his gaze back at the animatronic as his brows creep up towards his receding hair line. “And... it agreed?”

At your rapid nod, the man slumps with an audible groan, finally withdrawing his fingers from the stun-baton.

“Christ, girl,” he huffs, lifting a hand to his hair and raking his fingers through it, “Warn a guy next time you decide to take one of the bots walkabout, yeah?”

Clasping your hands together, you duck your head and begin to apologise.

Meanwhile, temporarily overlooked by the pair of you, the animatronic alligator forces his lips to slide back down over his teeth, watching the mechanic through narrowed optics.

He supposes, albeit resentfully, that he can't hold Mick entirely at fault for being so quick on the trigger.

It had only been the man's second day on the job, after all, when they had their first run-in.

 

Mick had perched a scalding mug of coffee on the unconscious gator's chest as he lay on the workbench inside Parts and Services.

A momentary lapse in concentration.... Sweaty, slippery palms from nerves wrung raw....

The cause was always undetermined. To this day, only Mick knows what made that mug topple over.

All Monty remembers is coming to with a jolt, the wires in his chest burning like they were on fire and his jaws locked tight around something soft and pliable.

Alarms were blaring, there was a distant scream ringing in his audio receptors, and as the world crept back into focus, he made out the newly-hired Mick Matthews beating his snout with one, clenched fist, whilst his opposite hand tried to wrench itself out from between the gator's teeth.

 

Monty's fingers curl at the memory.

 

Just another dark spot – A mere one of many in the Pizzaplex's convoluted history.

He let go, of course, the very instant he registered what was happening, almost unhinging his jaw to release the mechanic, even at the cost of ignoring his systems as they bypassed every function they could to expel the foreign liquid in his chest.

But the damage was already done.

Mick had fallen onto his backside, clutching his arm and blubbering incoherently up at the gator, who wasted no time in heaving himself off the workbench, one hand reaching out towards the human as his optics scanned frantically for any sustained injury.

Montgomery wasn't even given time to feel relief when the scan only turned up minor abrasions and superficial damage to the epidermis. Rapid footsteps thundered towards him and without a lick of warning, the agony in his chest was drowned out by an excruciating thrum of electricity that seared through his wires and zapped his CPU into silence.

When he woke up for the second time, he was back in his room. The door was locked, and he wouldn't see Mick for another week. Worse still, he’d had a lot of time to think in that week.

All the other staff resolutely pretended the incident had never occurred. Nothing bad ever happens at Freddy Fazbear’s. But Monty knew better.

And so did Mick.

 

“Montgomery?”

 

The gator flinches back into himself, the apertures of his pupils whirring as they dilate and dart down to find you peering back at him, apprehension written clear across your face like a tattoo.

You've stepped back, closer to Mick.

Something is creaking nearby, a sound that grates on his ears until he realises he's the one making the noise.

His jaw has locked shut.

This time, thankfully, there isn't a human appendage trapped between his teeth.

Easing the hinges loose again and silencing the awful creaks, Monty urges his lower mandible to go slack, twisting his mouth into a cold snarl. “What're you lookin' at?” he grumbles, “Thought you had a job you needed help with.”

He refuses to meet your searching gaze, but from the corner of one eye, he sees you jump to attention.

“Oh yeah!” you exclaim, eager to put some distance between Mick and the animatronic, “We'd, uh... We'd better get to it.”

With that, you start to turn away from the mechanic, but you only make it a step or two before you find yourself jerked to a halt as your shoulder is abruptly snagged by a warm, trembling hand.

Unable to ignore your ensuing flinch, nor your sharp intake of breath that screams of a woman who, however briefly, expects the touch to hurt, Monty bristles, swivelling his neck down to glare coolly at the man holding you back.

Mick makes a herculean effort to ignore the surly gator in favour of slinging the rest of his arm around your shoulders and drawing you against his side, lips pressed awfully close to your ear. 

“Here,” he whispers, “Take this with you.”

Pulling a face, you attempt to step out of his grasp, but before you can, he presses a small, oblong device into your hands and at last, moves away.

You try very hard not to let out a loud sigh of relief.

Instead, you peer down at the object in your hands, your stomach sinking once you recognise it.

The stun baton.

Black and daunting, activated by the mere press of a button... You know why he's giving this to you.

And yet...

Monty said he wouldn't blow his cool out here, and you'd like to think he meant it.

Looking up at Mick, you jut out your chin and offer him a taut smile, unaware that beside you, Monty catches sight of the baton clutched in your fingers.

With a dull thud, his tail slumps to the ground.

“Thank you, Mick...” You trail off, reaching out to grab his wrist. 

He balks slightly, opening and closing his mouth like a gormless goldfish as you thrust the weapon back into his palm and add, “But, I'm not authorised to use one of these. And besides...”

Montgomery lifts his optics off the floor and peers at you, head cocked to one side.

Then, his despondency turns to cautious optimism when you look at him and your smile falls to something far softer than the one you’d given Mick. “I don't think we'll need one.”

Mystified, the animatronic barely keeps himself from gawping.

Against all odds, you're smiling at him.

It isn't a sunny smile - it isn't bright or dazzling, nor especially substantial, a mere twitch of the lips at most.

But it isn't a strained smile either. It isn't one you've fashioned to try and appease him.

It's just... honest. Small and tired, matching the dark circles that lurk underneath your eyes.

Most bewilderingly of all, the gator can feel his own mouth opening to return the gesture, admittedly a far toothier one, though as swiftly as it appears, it's gone again, shaken off with a gruff sound from his throat.

“Ugh. C’mon,” he gripes, stalking between you and Mick, forcing the mechanic to take several, clumsy steps away from you, “The sooner we get my room cleaned, the sooner I can be rid of you...”

If his tail petulantly swings a little too close to Mick's legs, threatening to knock the man off his feet, nobody thinks it prudent to bring it up.

Offering the stunned manager a parting shrug, you trot after Montgomery as he heads towards the shiny, red doors leaning down into the maintenance tunnels.

He shoves through them ahead of you, letting them swing closed again in his wake, and just as you scowl and wonder if he was ever taught basic manners, one of the doors creeps open again, pushed by the tip of his sturdy tail.

He stubbornly tilts his head away from you when you reach the doorway and squeeze by, brushing your fingers absentmindedly across his forearm as you pass. “Thank you, Monty,” you utter reflexively, stealing your hand away too fast to feel his arm tense under your delicate touch.

At the point of contact, something strange happens under the panelling on his arm, like a slow wave of electricity washing from wrist to elbow. The animatronic stares at the spot where your skin met his casing until you reach the top of the stairwell and cast him a backwards glance.

“Er... Is your tail stuck in the door?” you ask, your tone cautiously playful.

Monty's head shakes rapidly from side to side and he looks up at you, schooling his expression into a hard scowl.

“No,” he protests, stomping towards you and falling into step at your back as you continue down the stairs. Then, because he can't think of anything more intelligent to say, he snappishly adds, “Shuddup!”

----

As the pair of you traipse down the maintenance tunnel, it becomes evident that a majority of the workforce have left for the evening, though there are a few stragglers who yet remain, those running late because they had a task to finish before the morning, or others who lag behind to chat inside the break rooms with their colleagues.

Desperate to appear nonchalant about the animatronic stomping along behind you, you offer polite smiles and a courteous nod or two to those fellow employees who have the misfortune of passing you by. You pretend not to notice how they try to disappear inconspicuously into dark corners or flatten themselves against the walls as you and your unusual company cut a path through the tunnels.

You suppose in the feeble, red lighting, Montgomery Gator must cut quite the imposing silhouette.

It's only when you raise your hand to wave at a deathly-pale intern that you remember you still have the handkerchief bunched up around your finger. Tutting at it, you stuff the bloody fabric into the pocket of your skirt and squint down at the cut, pleased to note that it's already little more than an ignorable, red line across your finger's pad.

“Ain't you gonna put somethin' on that?” Monty asks gruffly, letting question slide off his tongue before he can swallow it.

Offering him a flippant wave of the hand, you reply, “Nah. I've had paper cuts that bled worse than this. Don't worry, I won't get any blood on you while I clean.”

“But, what if-?” The gator slams his jaws together abruptly, cutting himself off.

That was close.

'What if it gets infected?' had been teetering on the tip of his tongue, and damn it if the voice in his CPU didn't sound just like Freddy.

Beset by stubborn pride, Montgomery clams up, refusing to finish his question even when you throw a curious look over your shoulder at him, one eyebrow raised.

 

He's thankful that you simply give a shrug and let the matter drop.

 

“It's just up here,” you tell him minutes later, pulling a key from your pocket and turning the corner, leading Monty into a side room, set back from the main tunnel.

A row of lockers are lined up against the far wall, their metal surfaces glinting in the light of a flickering, overhead bulb.

Casting a critical eye about the room, Monty ventures further inside. He's only ever seen this place in passing.

“It's really more of a glorified cloakroom,” you explain as you meander towards a little door on the left, one marked with a simple, stark-white illustration of a broom leaning up against a bucket, “We mostly use it to store our coats, boots and stuff. Or, in my case...”

Your key slides faithfully into the lock, turning with ease.

You pull open the door and the automated light flickers to life, illuminating a cramped, little space stacked from floor to ceiling with bottles, brushes and boxes chock-full of products Monty couldn't even begin to place. “Cleaning supplies!” you announce proudly.

He crowds into the cupboard after you to get a better look, pressing close over your back as you bend down to grab an empty plastic box from the bottom shelf. 

Moving to push yourself upright again, you fall deathly still when Montgomery's shadow swallows you whole. If he notices the way you fumble and almost drop the box before getting a good grip on it, he's gracious enough not to mention it.

Crouched on the ground, you gulp audibly and twist your neck around to peer up at the underside of his chin, watching it swing slowly left and right as he leans further inside, scanning the contents of the shelves. You manage to suppress a shudder and tear your eyes away from him, rising slowly to your feet, as if any sudden movement might provoke him.

It only just occurs to you that you've potentially cornered yourself in a cupboard at the end of a lonely tunnel with a temperamental and disputatious animatronic.

Excellent.

Still, what's done is done, and hopefully, the gator will continue to maintain his composure.

Monty backs up as you stand, giving you enough room to begin sorting through the products on each shelf, all the while muttering to yourself about the things you'll need to clean both he and his room.

For a time, he contents himself to just listen, carefully inspecting the bottles that you place inside your plastic tub.

He'd like to know exactly what will be going on his body.

Eventually, your arms are laden with a hefty box and you're more than ready to flee back upstairs.

Chewing at your lip, you turn and glance up at the animatronic behind you, hesitating before you shyly pipe up, “I still need to get the hoover from the back...” 

“Yeah?” he snorts, cross his arms, “And?

“You mind holding this for me?”

Your present him with the box and he inspects it for a few seconds, eventually deigning to lift it from your outstretched hands, shrugging his massive shoulders and grunting, “S'what I'm here for, ain't it?”

“Thank you,” you tell him and turn to retrieve the rest of your equipment.

With your gaze no longer on him, the gator grants himself the luxury of a rare smile.

That's the second time you've thanked him. Not that he's counting, of course. But he has to admit that the bear may have been right – It doesn't feel half bad, a little appreciation, however small.

Unbeknownst to either of you, Monty's tail sweeps lazily back and forth along the ground behind him.

“Here's the hoover,” you sigh, hauling a large, industrious machine from the back of the cupboard and dragging it towards the door.

Moving aside to let you by, Montgomery's eyes briefly glance over a splash of colour on the inside of the door, prompting him to do a double-take, blinking down at a small, dog eared photograph stuck with sellotape onto the surface.

With his curiosity piqued, he drops his head low to squint at it.

The photograph is undeniably of you, but the human smiling back at him seems a far cry from the one currently rummaging about through her pockets for the door's key with a definite crease between her brows. 

In the image, you have a beaming smile plastered across your face, almost identical to the grin worn by a familiar, jubilant animatronic who stands beside you with its long and gangly arms draped over your shoulders and its chin resting on the top of your head.

“No way,” Monty mumbles, huffing a derisive laugh and turning to raise his eyebrow at you, “You know the clown?”

“Hmm? Clown?...” You perk up when you lean around Monty's bulk and spot the photo. “Oh, you mean Sunnydrop! Yeah, I know him, why?”

The gator shrugs. “Looks like you two used to be pretty chummy.”

“We're still pretty chummy,” you smile fondly at the animatronic in the picture, “He actually makes my job easier. He's the best!”

Huffing, Monty crosses his arms roughly and scowls. “Don't let Roxy hear you sayin' that... 'Sides, what's so special about a daycare attendant anyway?” The question escapes him more sharply than he'd intended.

All the same, you're quick to step around him into the cupboard and close the door with a firm slam.

“That daycare attendant happens to be a friend of mine,” you tell him curtly, forgetting yourself as you grab the hoover and begin dragging it out of the room, deaf to the squeaky wheel that follows after you.

Monty simply raises his eyebrows at the back of your head, caught off guard by the defensive tone.

“Hey, I'd've just thought you'd think Freddy was the best,” he retorts, frowning before he softly adds, “Most people do.”

You're silent as you walk, the gentle click of your heels echoing down the hallway, and he wonders if the silence is so thick because he'd given too much away, or if you're simply tired of speaking to him.

“I wouldn't know,” you carefully admit, composed, giving nothing away to the animatronic, who tilts his head at the sound of your voice, “I've never actually met Freddy before.”

You've never met the bear?...

As your words register, Monty's CPU grinds to a halt.

 

….Huh.

 

… You've never met the bear!

He’s ashamed of the glee that spreads through his circuits like a virus.

At last.

At long, long last. Something he can have to himself. Someone who can't compare him to Freddy, because she doesn't even know Freddy!

Oblivious to the gator's surprised grin, you clear your throat and hum thoughtfully. “Now, Sunnydrop - Well, what can I say? He's funny, he's great with kids, he's meticulous about cleaning, and he's always happy to see me...”

“Sounds like a real catch,” Monty remarks distractedly.

You have to cover your mouth to hold onto an abrupt bark of laughter. “Oh, god. Don't say it like that.” Sighing wistfully, you roll a shoulder and add, “It's just... it's nice. Being around somebody who appreciates what you do every now and again, you know?”

Funnily enough, he's starting to understand the sentiment all too well.

-------

With Montgomery's help, you lug everything to the top of the stairwell, at last reaching the door to Rockstar Row.

“Just a sec, let me get the door,” you tell the animatronic, receiving a low grunt of acknowledgment.

Shouldering opening the entrance, you're so busy tugging your hoover through behind you that when your attention turns forwards once more, you very nearly crash straight into a large, robust chest.

“Oh!” you blurt out, springing backwards and almost tripping over the hoover.

“Oh dear,” a sonorous, yet kindly voice exclaims in response, “I am so, terribly sorry, I did not mean to startle you!”

A sensation, unfamiliar and uninvited, sinks deep into Monty's wires when he shoves his way through the door and sees who you've run into. He'd liken the feeling to that of defeat.

But it isn’t the same kind of defeat he experienced those scant-few times he lost a round of gator golf.

No... This kind of defeat feels... unplumbed. A little poignant.

If he could be bothered to delve into his own subroutines for a moment, he might find that it feels like he's just lost something a bit more consequential than a simple game of golf.

The gator's sturdy frame droops minutely and his fingers curl around the plastic box you'd handed him, splintering the edges underneath his crushing grip.

Even his mohawk seems to wilt over on one side.

He may as well never have bothered helping you lug all of your products up here. You're bound to forget all about him, the cake in his hatch and the mess of his show room within the next few minutes.

After all, you've just run headlong into Freddy Fazbear.

Chapter 4: Hook, Line and Sinker

Summary:

They took his hands first – They never even asked him. That was when the truth of what he was really sank in. It was like a cold, hard slap to the face, reminding him of the fact that he is not Montgomery. His bandmates are not Freddy, Roxanne and Chica.

They're property.

And property doesn't get a say in what happens to it.

He was given hands that weren't his and told they made him better, as if he was never good enough in the first place.

He's sick of people taking, without even sparing him a second thought.

Notes:

CAN I just say that I have been absolutely blown away by the support I'm getting from you guys? I've read every single one of your comments and I can't fathom that people can be so kind. Thank you all so much, I hope I continue to give you all the content you deserve. xxx

The face and namesake of Fazbear entertainment towers over you like a monolith, taller, yet slighter than Montgomery in stature, and certainly no less impressive when you're the one standing in his shadow, craning your neck back just to meet his cerulean gaze.

And you, the humble cleaner who exists unnoticed by the masses that pass through the door, have just knocked straight into him, the star of the show.

Mortified is an understatement.

“Oh... my god,” you sputter, grappling with coherency for a few, agonising seconds and swiping a hand down over your mouth, “I am... so sorry, I – I didn't even see – I should have been looking where-”

“Please, the fault was mine,” Freddy is quick to interject, reaching up to straighten his little, black bowtie, “ My sensors should have picked up your signature from the other side of the door.”

Giving him a thorough once-over, you blow swiftly past his reassurance, too preoccupied with fretting about whether you may have inadvertently damaged Fazbear's golden boy.

“I didn't scratch anything did I?”

Frankly, the guilt will eat you up if you leave a mark on him, and not just because your savings would never forgive you if the company were to find out...

It wouldn't be the first time an employee has had to dish out some cash for damaging company property.

But to your immense relief, Freddy just places an enormous paw across his chest and earnestly replies, “Of course you didn't.”

Your shoulders drop several inches as they lose much of their tension.

“But, I should really be asking you the same thing,” he continues, and there's a sudden whirr of machinery as a soft, blue light spills from his optics and sweeps over you from head to toe, turning off again with a blink of his plastic eyelids. “Scan complete. You have an abrasion on the forefinger of your right hand.” He goes quiet then, raising his arms and tapping his claws together in a chillingly human expression of apprehension. “Did... I do that?” he asks gently.

Of all the emotions you'd expected to see in the animatronic bear's rigid facial panels, remorse certainly wasn't one of them. His chin tucks slightly into his chest and he tilts his ears back on their axis until they almost lay flat against his head, a display that tugs at your heartstrings as easily as Monty plucks his guitar.

“Oh, no, don't worry! You didn't,” you insist, shaking your arms out in front of you, “It happened earlier today. And it's already starting to heal.”

Ever so slightly, the bear's smile starts to return. “Really? Are you sure you don't require-”

“-The lady said she's fine, Fazbear!”

Monty's booming voice explodes across the concourse and sends your shoulders jumping up around your ears, head ducking as if you'd expected a blow to accompany the bellow.

Glancing at the animatronic gator, you bite the inside of your cheek at the ugly sneer that curls his lips. 

What in the world had provoked that outburst?

The bear, however, appears entirely unperturbed, allowing his ears to flick forwards once again, jangling his little, hoop-earring. “Monty!” he says cheerfully, giving the gator his signature smile that pushes at his lower eyelids, “It is good to see you!”

Not for the first time, Montgomery laments that he's never been installed with a gag reflex. His bandmate's obliviousness has a habit of getting under his scales.

“Ah, but where are my manners. I am still in your way.” Freddy takes a long, sweeping step backwards and allows you the space to move out of the doorway, with Montgomery striding out behind you, sticking close to your heels. “I am certainly glad I ran into you both,” the bear continues, “I simply had to see if it was true!”

He stops in the shadow of the large, golden Freddy statue standing outside his room and swivels around to face you, his jaw hanging open to reveal a perfectly polished row of teeth. Quirking a brow at his sharper-than-necessary canines, you ask “If what was true?”

“Why, that Monty has made a human friend, of course!”

No longer content with holding his tongue, the gator's shoulders raise like hackles and he takes a heavy step around you, closer to the bear, hissing, “She ain't my friend.”

At Freddy's innocently quizzical frown, you clear your throat and tactfully say, “Montgomery and I are more like... er... unsteady acquaintances. We only met about an hour ago.”

“Ah... I see,” he nods, “Forgive me for assuming. I... hope I have not imposed?”

“Not at all,” you reassure him as Monty scoffs at your side, leaning back on his haunches and rolling his eyes.

He knows that at any moment now, Freddy's effortless charm will draw you in, hook, line and sinker, if it hasn't already.

 

And sure enough...

 

"But, there I go, getting ahead of myself again.” Freddy bends slightly at the waist and gestures to you with the sweep of his paw. “With whom do I have the pleasure of speaking? It is unforgivable of me that I have not greeted a fellow employee before, Miss...?”

“Oh, it's Y/n,” you return, resisting the ingrained compulsion to reach out and shake his hand, “And that's quite alright. I work the day shift, and you're usually on stage performing. So...”

“Nonetheless, I should have made the effort.” The bear reaches up to pinch the rim of his dapper, top-hat and lifts it from his head, tipping it at you in a gentlemanly fashion that would have had you beaming giddily if you were ten years younger. “It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma'am.”

You're nearly overcome with a sudden, undignified urge to curtsey, of all things.

Rather than embarrass yourself any further though, you simply nod and slap on a gregarious smile, replying, “Likewise, Mister Fazbear.”

Whoever designed the AI for Freddy had clearly done their research.

He's every bit as charming as you've heard.

It's no wonder so many people love him.

“Please. Mister Fazbear is the owner of this company.” Placing his hat gently back in its rightful spot, he flicks his ears forwards, returning your smile. “Just Freddy will do.”

'Hook...' If Monty could sink through the cold, linoleum floor, he would have done so already.

The longer he stands there in silence, listening as Freddy effortlessly establishes himself in your good graces, the tighter his grip on your plastic box becomes until it starts buckling underneath his claws. He can't bring himself to care about his handful though, not with an all too familiar buzz thrumming through his circuitry.

Monty's code tries to throw up firewalls around his CPU in a fruitless endeavour to keep the searing flash of heat out of his more sensitive systems as it surges forwards, pulling an involuntary growl from his voice box.

Both you and the bear shoot him a glance, yours apprehensive, Freddy's apologetic.

Montgomery crushes his teeth together at the weight of your stares.

“Ah,” Freddy says, “But I'm keeping you. Then, I shall get to the heart of the matter.”

Oh, of course. Of course there would be a reason he's talking to you. Can't he just be content with his own army of fans? Can't he leave Monty to have a single person who doesn't seem to despise being near him?

“What d'you want, Fazbear?” the gator rumbles through his fangs.

Entirely untroubled by his tone, Freddy turns to look at you again. “The mechanic, Mister Matthews, he has gone home for the day, and he asked me to search for you in the event you did not return to the row by ten o'clock.”

Montgomery is certain his jaw must be only a few more pascals of pressure away from snapping off at the hinges. He tries not to imagine the satisfying pliability of the mechanic's hand between his fangs.

You, meanwhile, do your utmost to summon up some sort of offence at hearing Freddy's words, on both your behalf and on Montgomery's. But try as you might, you can't stop a tiny seed of relief from taking root in your belly, grown from the knowledge that if you hadn't returned from your trip into the tunnels, at least someone would have come looking for you.

Instantly, guilt overwhelms that modicum of relief and you rub awkwardly at your opposite arm, turning away from Monty to hide the shame on your face.

“Well,” you cough, “I'm sure he... just wanted to make sure I'm on time for the last bus.” A nervous laugh falls out of your mouth. “Goodness knows I've almost missed it a few times before tonight.”

Lifting a paw, Freddy rubs at his chin. “Ah, perhaps that was the root of his concern. I have never known a human with such severe diaphoresis.”

Pressing your lips together, you shoot him an expectant look and he blinks, clearing his voice box and bending down to tell you in a hushed, secretive whisper, “Mr Matthews, he.. um... he sweats.”

Embarrassment seems to ooze off the bear like steam, and you have to keep your lips pressed firmly in a line for a few seconds before you feel it's safe enough to speak without laughing.

“Does he?” you ask breathily, twisting your head sideways and catching Monty's eyes as you cast the gator a sly smirk, “I hadn't noticed.”

For just a moment, the animatronic's rising tidal wave of anger ebbs, retreating into the darker corner of his mind.

Falteringly, he returns your smirk. The first thing everyone says in low tones out of Mick's earshot is that the poor man could produce a sweat in the Arctic circle.

Suddenly, Freddy's features shift - his ears swivel backwards again on their pivots and his eyes widen, perfectly replicating an unmistakable air of alarm. “Please do not tell anyone about it,” he begs urgently, “I would hate for Mister Matthews to be self-conscious if he realised anyone knew about his... medical condition.”

Monty's eyes roll skywards at the bear's stupendous ability to remain clueless in most ventures. Part of what makes him so endearing, as evidenced by the amused grin that spills like sunshine across your face.

 

'Line.'

 

“Don't worry, Freddy,” you whisper, slipping in a wink for good measure, “We won't tell a soul.”

The bear's large shoulder struts sag and he heaves out great sigh, shuttering his eyelids gratefully. “Thank you.”

Gradually, the jab at Mick's expense loses some of the humour it had briefly leant Montgomery. His smirk twitches down as he observes the way you and Freddy interact. The ease with which you warm up to the bear is enviable, and Monty wishes he'd been painted any colour other than green.

“Now then.” Freddy claps his paws together and flits a smile between you and his band mate. “Mister Matthews told me you two are to be doing some spring cleaning?”

You doubt those are the exact words Mick used, but you nod politely, replying, “Yes, that's right.”

Tilting his ears upright, the bear chuckles warmly. “It has been some time since I've gotten my own paws dirty. Perhaps... you would like some assistance?”

 

No... 

 

N O!

 

A terrible, murderous anger surges from Monty's core like acid, burning through everything in its path as it climbs towards his processor, building and growing as it goes until it starts to overtake his subroutines.

Now the bear wants to encroach on his space? Can't he have anything without someone trying to snatch it away from him?

They took his hands first – They never even asked him. That was when the truth of what he was really sank in. It was like a cold, hard slap to the face, reminding him of the fact that he is not Montgomery. His bandmates are not Freddy, Roxanne and Chica.

They're property.

And property doesn't get a say in what happens to it.

He was given hands that weren't his and told they made him better, as if he was never good enough in the first place.

He's sick of people taking, without even sparing him a second thought.

Monty is rapidly approaching the kind of tempestuous rage he won't come back from for at least another few hours, once everyone has fled for the hills and his room is in tatters yet again.

It's so close, that tantalising taste of real, true power that seems so awful when it's over, but so addicting at the time.

Claws twitch and flex. One of his crimson optics flickers and a guttural bellow swells in his throat.

 

“That's very kind of you to offer, Freddy-”

 

That's your voice. The familiar speech pattern registers in Monty's recognition software and he stills, focusing more on you than the rage, for just one, crucial moment.

 

“-But, I think Montgomery and I have it covered.”

 

Monty blinks, dispelling the red mist that had descended over his visual feed.

What?

He never reaches the peak of his anger, and it falls away, shoved aside so surprise and disbelief can swoop in.

Even Freddy seems taken aback.

He and the alligator flick their optics towards one another, as if to confirm between themselves that they'd both heard the same thing.

After all, when was the last time any human declined an invitation from Freddy Fazbear?

You have the hoover in your hands again, and the smile you're offering Freddy is remorseful, but nervous, as though you're expecting ramifications simply for saying 'no.'

“Sorry,” you say, “Maybe next time, yeah?”

Naturally, Freddy, always so amenable, merely waves your apology aside. “Of course, I understand. Too many cooks -”

“- spoil the broth,” you finish on an exhale, taking a decisive step in Monty's direction, “Exactly. But, it was lovely to meet you, Freddy.”

Once more, the bear lifts his hat from his head, nodding and giving you his winning smile. “And the same to you, ma'am.”

Pausing before he leaves, his optics zip towards his bandmate and he adds, “Monty, once you are finished... Would you like to join Roxy, Chica and I in Jazzercise? I understand Chica has been installed with some new routines, and she is quite eager to try them out.” His gaze darts down to you and he hurries to add, “And of course, I'm sure you would be most welcome to accompany us, Miss Y/n.”

You know it's an offer borne of politeness, and tempting though it may be to join the famous animatronic band in some dance exercises, you would like to go home before the doors shut and lock you in for the night.

“Oh, it's good of you to invite me, Freddy,” you tell him, wishing he'd stop looking at you so excitedly, “But again, I'll have to take a rain check. I'd rather not miss the last bus home. It's a long walk.”

His keen expression switches to a look of understanding so quickly, it's a wonder he doesn't get whiplash. “I had not considered that,” he hums, “It would not be advisable for you to walk home in the dark. You might slip over. It is very cold outside!”

You certainly aren't going to be the one to tell an animatronic that there are far more frightening things lurking in the dark than the odd patch of ice. “Precisely,” you agree instead before you turn to the silent gator standing next to you. “What about you, Montgomery? Jazzercise sounds like fun.”

Monty hasn't taken his optics off you.

His CPU is so backed up with thoughts and pings that he responds on auto-pilot, muttering out, “Yeah. Sure, Fazbear. I'll see you later.”

It's only when Freddy perks up with a mechanical whirr that he even realises what he's just said.

“You will?” the bear exclaims, “Why, Monty, that's wonderful!  I shall tell Chica and Roxy the good news right away!”

The alligator's optics burst open and he rips them off your face, flinging them over to his bandmate. He never says yes to Jazzercise. Never. “Wait – Hold on! I didn't-”

Deaf to his protests, Freddy lurches off on his heavy struts, thundering loudly down Rockstar Row in search of his other friends.

Slowly, his steps fade until they're muffled under the quiet music that spills from overhead speakers as you and Monty stare after his retreating back.

Once he rounds the corner and disappears from sight, you let out a long, weary sigh, feeling your shoulders drain of tension you hadn't even realised you'd been carrying.

“Wow. He is... so nice,” you chuckle, a little awestruck, “I mean, I thought everyone was exaggerating.”

“Uh huh,” comes Monty's dazed reply.

Admittedly, he's a little awestruck himself. Just not by the bear.

The weight of what had almost happened catches up to him in a rush and like you, he sags audibly, his heavy frame groaning from the sudden loss of pressure.

The sound draws your attention and you're quick to give him a once-over as you squeeze your eyebrows into a hard, straight line, hesitantly asking, “Hey, you okay?”

In an instant, the animatronic shakes himself and straightens up again, letting out a dismissive snort. “M'fine. You gettin' this cake off of me, or what?”

“Ah, yeah. Sorry.” Pushing up the sleeve of your shirt, you peer down at your standard-issue Fazwatch and check the time, gasping at the little digital display that reads '22:04.'

“Oh, god. We'd better get started. Closing is in two hours.” You manage to stop yourself from commenting that with the state of his room, two hours might hardly be enough.

Towing the clanking hoover along behind you, you hurry across the concourse towards Monty's green room with the gator trailing after you with far longer, languid steps.

“F' you're so worried about finishin' in time, how come you didn't want Freddy to help, since he's so~ nice?” he sneers.

In response, you simply shrug a shoulder as you reach the door and reply, “It's your room, Montgomery. I don't have the right to invite people in. I assumed you'd have spoken up if you wanted him to help, but... you didn't. You just stayed quiet.”

He wonders whether you knew he'd been just seconds away from flying into one of his infamous tempers.

Tilting his chin up, he observes you curiously from the edge of his optic whilst you scan your keycard and step aside for him, gesturing towards the open door.

Plain, old courtesy, perhaps? Or have you just grown tired of having a unsettlingly powerful gator stalk so close behind you?

Regardless, Monty's torso rocks with a thick huff and he turns his gaze forwards once more, plodding back into his room and immediately wincing at the mess he'd left behind.

It stands as a stark contrast to the overall immaculacy of the Pizzaplex.

“What'm I doin' with this?” he asks as you follow him inside, giving the box a gentle shake that causes the bottles to wobble.

Trying not to jump as the door falls shut with a jarring 'clang,' you drag the hoover towards his desk and lean it up against the wood, sparing a second to dust off your hands. “Right, uh, you can just put it down on the couch, please.”

Monty stomps across the room and obediently places his armful down on the tattered seat. He glances at you as you sidle up beside him and reach into the box, withdrawing your hands a moment later holding a pair of garish, yellow gloves.

“The Hell're those for?” he growls suspiciously.

Tugging them on and stretching them down to your elbows, you flash him a toothy smile and reply, “They're marigolds.”

Accusingly, he shoots back, “....Ain't that some type of plant?”

“You're right, marigolds are a type of flower,” you agree with a nod, “It's just a brand name for these gloves. I wear them when I'm cleaning so I don't get chemicals on my skin. Might burn-”

If an animatronic could blanch, Monty would have turned ghost-white. “-You're gonna put stuff on me that burns?!” he snarls, taking several, clumsy steps away from you and splaying his claws out wide to ward you off.

Taken aback, you blink down at his hands and spot the talons protruding from the tip of each, long finger. 

Gulping back a nervous hum, you hurry to reassure him. “Um, I'm not sure if anyone's told you this, but skin is much more delicate than steel. Some of the chemicals in cleaners are specifically made for use on metal, but they irritate human skin... It won't damage you,” you add softly, “I promise.”

When he continues to eye you warily, you deflate slightly, chewing at a loose piece of skin on your lip. 

How in the world do the mechanics ever manage to sit him down for a wash if he's this suspicious about basic cleaning products?

You roll your gaze from Monty's hands to your own, flexing your fingers and causing the gloves to squeak.

You've spilled most of these cleaners on your skin at one point or another over the course of your career, and it's only the bleach that really burns. You don't even plan on using that today. The rest cause a rash, at worst, and the irritation doesn't last too long... God knows you've certainly endured more painful abrasions in your life.

Perhaps, if you show him that you're willing to get the products on your own skin, he'll be inclined to stop growling at you like a cornered dog and you'll just have to grin and bear the sting on your hands for a few days.

With your mind made up, you breathe a gentle sigh and begin to peel the gloves off your fingers.

Like the flip of a switch, the growling stops. “What're you doin' now?” he snaps.

Your reply is simple. “I'm taking the gloves off to clean your hatch out.”

Hesitant, Montgomery takes a step closer again, letting his arms fall back against his sides. “Why?... I thought you said you'll get burned.”

“If I’m not worried about it hurting me, then you don’t have to worry about it hurting you.”

“I ain't worried about gettin' hurt!” he furiously insists, “I just don't want nothin' corrodin' through my wires and leavin' me vulnerable to a cleanin' lady I don't even know!”

“I wouldn't do that to you... Not least because I couldn't afford the repairs,” you try to laugh awkwardly, only earning an unimpressed glare in response. Clearing your throat, you add, “Look. The stuff I'm using can't be that bad if I'm willing to get it on my skin, right?”

Monty's hands twitch, but he takes yet another step towards you, bathing you in his crooked shadow. “Guess not...” he admits cautiously.

“Precisely.” Finally freeing your fingers of the rubber gloves, you bunch them up into your fists and turn a steady frown onto the gator. “Look. You're in charge, Montgomery,” you tell him, tossing the gloves back into the box and pulling out a fluffy, pink cloth and a spray bottle, “If you feel like something isn't right, tell me and I'll stop.”

He squints at you, a sliver of doubt in his voice when he asks, “Just like that?”

“Just like that,” you echo.

It doesn't escape his notice that you're giving him a chance to back out. More than that, you're giving him a choice, which is more of a courtesy than the mechanics have ever given him.

Experience dictates that you're probably just another human telling him lies, but mounting evidence is beginning to prove otherwise.

You don't.... seem like the dishonest sort.

At the very back of his CPU, in a place he rarely visits any longer, a quiet, smug voice whispers the word, ‘Hook.’

Every step he takes is slow and calculated, and he keeps his eyes focused on you mistrustfully as he lumbers over to his couch and lowers himself heavily onto it, bringing his stomach hatch down to a height that'll be easier for you to work at.

You step up to him and raise the cleaner, spraying a few squirts onto the pink cloth, but you're suddenly jerked to a halt when Monty's arm flies out and his palm thuds against your stomach, keeping you from coming any closer.

Choking on your breath, you meet his eye, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck prickle at the stare he's giving you from behind his glasses.

“You get one strike, lady...” he growls warningly, “One.”

And just like that, an all-too familiar wave of understanding washes over you.

He isn't being aggressive.

He's protecting himself.

You release the breath that had caught in your throat and shakily whisper, “I know.”

Standing this close to the animatronic, you can pick up the soft click and whirr of his optics as they shrink and expand, searching your face whilst you simply peer back at him, keeping your expression acquiescent. You aren't about to argue with the gator whose claws are pressing noticeably, yet gently against your soft stomach.

After an excruciatingly long bout of silence, Monty's eyes dip to his hand, and all at once, the gator snatches his arm away and returns it to his side, suddenly conscious that the flesh beneath his fingers is unfathomably warm and fragile.

‘Line...’

The click of his hatch unlocking twitches your ear and you bite back a sigh of relief, sensing that you've just passed some kind of test.

Your nose is instantly invaded with the sweet smell of cake and icing sugar and you peel your eyes from Monty's star-shaped sunglasses, glancing down at the sticky, gummed-up mess of wires and circuits inside his cavity.

You're unable to keep a hold of the second sigh that slips through your nostrils.

“Okay, Montgomery,” you begin, stepping between his parted knees, “Let's get you freshened up.”

‘...And there goes the sinker.’

Chapter 5: A connection.

Summary:

Monty finally gets his hatch and his room cleaned, unaware of the bond forming inextricably between you.

Montgomery Gator had expected pain.

He'd expected you to do something wrong, pull a wire, or spill a liquid all over his insides. Hell, he half expected to simply turn on you for little to no reason, only to wake up later with your hand clenched between his teeth and a look of abject terror in your eyes.

All of this he expects, because his trepidation is well-founded. 

Those things have happened before, so what's to stop them from happening again?

However, what he hadn't expected – what really flummoxed him – was that a human's touch could be so, astonishingly gentle.

 

 

---

 

 

 

Chica and Roxy had been right. Getting cleaned isn't an altogether unpleasant experience at all – not that he'd ever dream of telling them that aloud. He's just glad to at last know what all the fuss was about.

Mesmerised, he sits ramrod straight on his couch, barely able to pinpoint your hands as they move around inside his hatch and carefully scrub away layers of cake and icing from his wires, circuits and metal framework. 

Even had he known nothing of your background, he would still be able to tell within seconds that you have the hands of a manual labourer.

Years of hard work have worn rough, weathered calluses into your palms and fingertips, each of which create a strange, prickling sensation when they drag up and down his chest cavity with gentle yet practiced strokes.

And funnily enough, Monty isn't sure that he hates the feeling as much as he'd like to.

After countless, trying months, he finally feels like he can just... relax...

“How're you doing up there?”

Monty's body gives a sudden jerk at the sound of your muffled voice filtering out of his chest and he throws his optics open, wondering when in the world he'd let them slip shut.

Your hands falls still inside him, and he cranes his neck down to see you retrieve your head from his hatch, your lip caught between your teeth.

“Sorry, did I hurt you?” you ask as you straighten up, twisting a cloth between your fingers.

One of the animatronic's eyebrows clicks higher up his forehead. “What?”

“You flinched,” you reiterate cautiously, eyeing the teeth that hang just a few inches above you, “I... thought I'd pulled a wire loose, or something.”

Ah. Perhaps your expectations aren’t miles away from his own. Glancing askance, Monty expels a redundant puff of air through his nostrils. 

He is not about to tell you that you'd caught him off guard and made him jump, merely by asking a question, no less.

“Yer fine,” he huffs instead, glowering at the window.

For a few, terse seconds you continue to watch him closely before you lift your shoulder in a half shrug and duck back into his chest, instantly moving to pluck out a stubborn strand of confetti that must have been left from the party.

Either that, or whoever had cleaned him last did a terrible job.

Even without the layers of cake, his internal framework is littered with the remnants of parties gone by.

Confetti, the trails of a party popper, silly string... it's all stuck behind or underneath his wiring, some of which are nigh-impossible to get at with your fingers, and you suddenly find yourself wishing you hadn't left your tweezers in the locker downstairs.

You aren't especially content to be stuck halfway inside the chest cavity of a bad-tempered animatronic, but whatever discomfort had lingered over you like a dark cloud, soon vanished, replaced by satisfaction at seeing the results of your effort come away with every rinse of your cloth.

There's a tub of warm water sitting beside Montgomery's feet, though the liquid inside it is considerably more pink than it had been when you started, while there's significantly less cake gumming up his insides.

Once again, you let out a little breath and pull yourself from the back of Monty's hatch, dropping your cloth into the tub and rinsing it out, twisting the sopping fabric between your fists to ensure that most of the water has been wrung from it. 

You'll be no good to him if you get yourself electrocuted.

Monty is loathe to acknowledge the impatience gnawing at his CPU, not for you to finish cleaning him, but for you to continue cleaning him. The last rung of his tail keeps thudding loudly on the couch, and he finds himself cursing the engineer who programmed him to simulate embarrassment.

He didn't know that human contact could be... nice...

When the mechanics handle him, he's always offline, and after his regular maintenance checks, he's usually left in a state of discomfort, like something hasn't been put back quite the way it should have been.

And then there are those few children who aren't afraid to interact with him - those with sticky hands that leave marks and residue all over his finish, and they're usually at the age where they haven't yet been taught not to grab at things.

He loves kids. Hell, he's fairly sure that even if he hadn't had it programmed directly into his CPU, he'd still love them.

But there's something very different about having a child roughly snatch his sunglasses from his snout, and having somebody treat him as though he deserves a gentler touch, something he didn't even know he's been lacking.

“Nearly done,” you tell him, garnering his full attention once more as you stick your arms back inside his hatch.

He merely offers you a vague grunt in response, valiantly ignoring the twinge of disappointment that shoots through him at hearing you're almost finished, though it's quick to fade once your cloth begins digging icing sugar out of the seams where his chest and stomach would connect.

Monty's jaw snaps shut just before an honest-to-goodness purr can escape his throat.

'Get a hold of yourself,' he thinks, reprimanding his own voice box as he sees you pull an arm from his cavity and hold it blindly out towards the box.

“Hey, you mind handing me that yellow bottle, and a dry cloth?”

With a blink, he twists his head around and eyes the products inside the tub before heaving a mental shrug and stretching out an arm, deftly swiping the neck of an almost empty, yellow spray-bottle and holding it up in front of his face, peering down at the label.

“Uhh, 'Multi-purpose cleaning spray?” he reads, squinting harder at some of the smaller writing, “...'Lemon?'”

“That's the one!”

Monty places it in your proffered hand, snatching up a cloth from the box afterwards and dropping that into your palm as well, earning a cheery, “Thanks!” for his efforts.

He has to stifle the pleased hum he nearly lets slip.

You swiftly bring the items inside his hatch and chirp, “A couple spritz of this stuff, and hopefully we can stop you smelling like a bakery for the rest of the week.”

“So, you're gonna make me stink of a sour fruit instead?” he quips, slouching backwards and spreading his arms over the top of the couch.

There's a pause from his chest. Then, your voice reaches his audials again, significantly more subdued than before. “Sorry. I can leave it as it is, if you want? The mess is gone... I just... figured lemon smelled cleaner than cake.”

The gator's snout crinkles with a wince. He did sound a little accusing...

He's been reading human vocal patterns for long enough to tell that there's the barest hint of a tremble in your tone. 

You're still afraid of him.

“Nah, go ahead,” he tells you gruffly, staring down his reflection in the window, “You're the expert.”

He feels the gentle 'tap,' 'tap,' 'tap,' of a finger against the floor of his hatch as you mull over his words. Evidently, you must decide that it's safe to proceed.

Monty's head cocks to one side upon hearing the soft sound of the spray bottle, and a moment later, the dry cloth is pressed delicately to the rear of his frame, sweeping back and forth across the metal casing in long, soothing strokes that force his optics to flicker offline.

Beside him, his tail begins to thump insistently against the couch cushion and he peels his eyes open again, letting out a vexed grunt and pinning the wriggling appendage down with his hand.

Another second passes before he hears you hesitantly ask, “What was that?”

What, indeed. An embarrassing reaction to positive stimuli? His tail wagging like a dog with a bone? How can he say that out loud without looking like a fool?

Digging his claws into his tail's casing to keep the appendage still, he snaps his fangs together, growling out, “Nothin'.”

Inside Monty's hatch, you ease your jaws apart and hiss a steadying breath from between them. Every grunt and growl he emits would set your teeth on edge in the best of circumstances, but whilst your head is currently shoved inside his chest cavity, each sound from the animatronic is amplified. A grunt thumps brusquely through your ears. A growl seems more like a rumble of thunder...

You have to remind yourself that you offered to do this for him.

Inhaling deeply through your nose, you angle the spray-bottle at the cloth in your hands, giving the lever another few pumps and feeling your nose burn as a strong whiff of the lemon scented liquid fills the animatronic's hatch.

Muscling down a sneeze, you make quick work of the metal inside, dousing it in cleaner until it sparkles, a far cry from how it had looked when he first opened it up.

“Okay, I think you're good!” you announce, pulling yourself away from the gator and stretching out your spine, “How does that feel?”

The animatronic chuffs as he picks himself up off the couch and rises to his feet, slotting his chest and stomach back together and sealing the hatch with a decisive click.

For several, long seconds, he doesn't say a word, and the quiet sends your pulse skyrocketing before he at last lets out a soft, “Huh...”

The vague sound does little to clue you in on his satisfaction, but still, you wait in cautious apprehension whilst he twists his torso first to the right, then all the way to the left, head cocked to one side in concentration.

After apparently reaching some sort of verdict, Monty faces you once more, a quizzical frown marring his expression.

For a terrifying moment, you're sure you've done something wrong.

“It feels... better,” he admits with a huff of surprise.

And shockingly enough for the animatronic, it really does.

The awful stickiness that had clung to his frame and sensitive wiring is completely gone, allowing his parts to slide smoothly over one another again without resistance, and the uncomfortable twinges he's been putting up with for several weeks now have all but vanished.

Giving you an appraising glance, he stretches his lips into a lopsided grin and adds, “Better than it's felt in a long time.”

At his approval, your heart stops thrashing in its cage.

The smile he's giving you is nearly a match for the one in his poster on the wall, lazy and puckish. You find it suits him far more than an angry snarl.

“See? Told you nothing bad would happen,” you retort as you step around him and start placing all the products back inside the plastic box, allowing him a few moments to give his torso several more experimental twists and turns.

Clicking your tongue, you rub your fingers together and scratch at the back of your hand. It would appear you won't be leaving Monty's green room without suffering some damage after all, superficial though it may be. Having decided to forgo rubber gloves, the cleaning products have left the skin on your hands irritated, blotchy and tingling from the chemicals.

No matter though.

With a job well-done, you can't bring yourself to mind much. 

You've had worse, after all.

Shoving determinedly past the stinging sensation, you're about to spin on your heel, ready and willing to tackle the rest of Montgomery's room, when all of a sudden, you abruptly find your wrist nabbed by large, green fingers that freeze the blood in your veins, killing your optimism dead.

Whipping your head up, you have to bite on the inside of a cheek to hold back your yelp when Monty lowers his snout towards your captured appendage and stares at it over his star-shaped glasses.

“This 'cause you didn't wear the gloves?” he rumbles, inspecting the minuscule rashes that are speckled across your fingers.

Belatedly, you realise that he hasn't grabbed you because of a lost temper.

He's only asking you a question.

“Well, yes,” you admit warily, hastening to add, “But it's nothing I haven't dealt with before.”

The corners of his mouth slowly draw down. “S'it hurt?”

You're taken aback by how genuine his question seems, nothing at all like the reluctant, mechanical suggestion you'd received earlier after you sliced your finger open.

The words, “No, I'm fine,” topple off your lips automatically, as if you were always born to say them, no matter the context.

“Hm...” A rumbling hum builds in his throat as he subjects your hand to his unrelenting stare. After a moment or two though, his aperture pupils expand and he raises his head, expelling a hot gust of lemon-scented air over your face. “Good.”

You aren't given a moment to feel pleasantly surprised by the unexpected, near-human display of compassion because all at once, with a 'click,' his crimson eyes snap open wide and he reels back, promptly dropping your hand as though it had burned him.

“Uh, I mean, it's good 'cause, err...” He nearly fries his CPU rushing to come up with a reasonable explanation for the intrusion of fondness. “I just... don't want to give 'em another reason to yell at me, y'know?”

It would be easy to pretend that you don't know what he means, but it's no secret that the animatronic has drawn the ire of many an employee or guest for all manner of reasons.

You've been privy to a few instances from afar whilst you clean – an invisible, ignorable shadow at the back of the room, listening as the gator is reprimanded, sometimes by a parent whose child he'd allegedly frightened, sometimes by a security guard who would tremble as they tell him he can't keep breaking things because its costing the company too much money.

Perhaps he deserves a few telling-offs every now and again, like most people do.

But to be rebuked and rapped over the knuckles for every, trifling fault? That would wear even the toughest person down to their knees eventually, be they animatronic, or human.

You can't find it in you to blame the gator for his bitter tone.

“Don't worry,” you say, and Monty has to fight the knee-jerk reaction to insist that he does not worry, before you continue, “They're not going to yell at you. You've been very helpful all evening, and I'll be sure to pass that along.”

The animatronic is ashamed of how easily hope slithers its way into his systems.

He gives himself a quick shake, as if he can physically dislodge the bright, little sliver of hope before it can wrap its tender hands around his core.

Lifting a clawed hand, he scratches at the back of his neck and grumbles, “Yeah. Well, I ain't been that helpful yet.” Hesitating, he gestures vaguely at the room around him. “Could be though, if you got somethin' you need me to do.”

“Oh, you don't have to help me, Montgomery,” you point out, ambling away from him and marching towards the garish, blue arcade machine that has been tugged from its corner, leaving the wires connected to the wall stretched taut, threatening to snap with just the tiniest pressure. “It's my job.”

Monty curls his lip in response and he prowls up to you, hovering over your shoulder as you plant your hands on your hips and frown at the arcade game. “Well, maybe I wanna help,” he challenges, earning himself a look of unabashed shock.

“Yeah?”

Folding his arms across his chest, he tilts his snout away from you and retorts, “S'why I'm offerin', ain't it?”

It's difficult not to stare at him in bewilderment. It occurs to you, belatedly, that you may need to have a word with the mechanics, because what you've seen and what you've been told are not in any way consistent with one another.

Regardless, you're not about to look a gift-horse in the mouth, even if this particular mouth is filled with rows of sharp, gleaming teeth.

“Okay, well, if you really don't mind –“ You wave a hand at the arcade machine with 'Monty's Mini-Golf' plastered in bold red letters all over its surface. “- This needs pushing back against the wall.”

After a second, you hastily tack on, “Please.”

The animatronic swings his head around to study you from the corner of one, luminous eye before it swivels forwards again.

Rolling his shoulders, he steps right up to the game and slides his arms around it to grasp its edges, planting one, bulging bicep against the front of it. Then, after checking over a shoulder to see if you're still watching, he gives the whole thing an almighty push, digging his feet into the carpet and sliding the machine backwards towards the wall, his fangs cinched shut to silence a grunt of exertion.

Taken aback, you stare agog at the herculean display.

With a final shove, Monty has the machine back in its rightful place in the corner of his room, safely out of the way.

“Wow. You are, like, crazy strong!” you commend as he lumbers around to face you, half impressed, half perturbed at the reminder that you're alone with an animatronic who could break you like a china doll.

If the gator's chest could puff out any further, you'd worry he might explode. “Well,” he chuckles, scratching at his muzzle, “Maybe I just ain't felt this fresh in months.”

You deem his mood safe enough that you can join in on it, pushing out your own, little laugh. “Ha! Months? Don't they give you a clean like, every week?”

“Beats me. I don't know what they do to me durin' weekly checks.”

Moving away from the arcade machine, you stoop over a cardboard cutout of some bullrushes when his words suddenly register with you, giving you pause for several seconds whilst you crank your head around to smirk up at him. “You don't know what they do to you? What d'you forget to pay attention or something?”

“Kinda hard to pay attention when you're offline,” he drawls back snidely.

“They take you guys offline to do maintenance checks? That seems...” You hesitate, casting your mind about for the right word, eventually settling on, “..unnecessary.”

He snorts as he moves around you to grab his yellow bass guitar, grimacing at the scratch he must have left in its paint as he lays it carefully on his desk, “What d'you mean, 'you guys?' You think they take the others offline too?”

“Well, I assume they'd-...” Your sentence trails off at once, melting into silence.

A cold, uncomfortable comprehension settles over you, and you avert your eyes, placing the cutout upright against the wall and uttering a timid, “Oh.”

Careful not to look at Montgomery, you rove an eye around his room, frowning down at the tiny, glittering mirror shards that still lay strewn about the carpet.

There's something inherently uncomfortable about learning that Monty is taken offline for maintenance whilst his bandmates are allowed to retain their autonomy.

“That doesn't seem fair” You turn to face the animatronic and find him standing closer than he was before, staring at you with an unreadable look plastered across his elongated face. Undeterred, you ask, “How would anyone know that something's wrong if you couldn't tell them about it?”

In response, the gator scoffs and crosses his arms. “You think they'd give a damn?”

“Well, surely there must be someone who does?” you press, “I mean, there's enough staff here to build a small army, odds are there's at least one person who gets along with you?”

“I get on with Roxy, n' Chica,” he grumbles, stalking past you to the mirror frame and glaring down at it for a moment before he begrudgingly adds, “And... Freddy too, I guess. Even if he's a wuss.”

Nodding, you decide to follow his lead and cast your gaze about, searching for the next object that needs clearing up. “Okay, you're friends with your band, and that's great,” you tell him honestly, “But I was talking about humans. Don't any of them like you enough to care about what happens to you?”

“Nope.”

You can't tell whether he's being deliberately petulant, or if he's actually telling the truth. You know the gator has a bad reputation, but even a low-ranking cleaning lady like you has friends here, it seems strange that one of the main cast has nobody he can turn to.

Pursing your lips, you grab a small, golden figurine laying on the ground and place it neatly at the centre of his table, asking, “What about you? Is there a member of staff you like?”

The bark of laughter he throws across the room says otherwise.

Rolling your eyes, you rephrase the question. “Fine. Is there anyone you tolerate then?”

Monty remains stubbornly silent as he grabs the edges of the mirror frame and heaves it up over his desk to hang it back on the wall fixings. All the while, you patiently continue to pick up loose objects, predominantly an array of soft toys that bear a striking - if not adorable - resemblance to the gator they're meant to portray.

There are four of them, in total, you take a moment to position each one carefully on his righted couch, save for the last, which you keep a hold of as you throw a surreptitious glance towards the animatronic, only to find that he's finished with the mirror frame and has turned around to watch you, his jaws working open and shut several times, as if he wants to tell you something.

“S'you,” he says, his voice box so thick with static that you can't quite understand him.

With the Monty toy still clutched in your hands, you furrow your brow at him. “Come again?”

Sharp claws dig like nails into his palms and he forces himself to meet your eye.

 

“There's you.”

 

A pin could have dropped to the carpeted floor and you'd probably be able to hear its gentle tinkling.

Monty watches you for a moment, his fists clenching even tighter until the metal frame creaks in protest while you merely gape back at him, wide-eyed. Eventually though, the animatronic raises a hand to scratch behind his mohawk and drops optics to the carpet, mumbling through gritted teeth, “I guess I... tolerate you, or whatever.”

At last, you blink, giving your head a little shake.

Well...

That's hardly the answer you'd been expecting.

“Me?” you laugh incredulously, placing a hand on your chest, “But we only met like, an hour ago, I hardly think-”

“- Three times.”

Falling abruptly silent, you give a few, rapid blinks, your expression turning quizzical. “What?”

“You've thanked me three times already,” he explains slowly, inching closer with a small step.

You knead your hands into the fabric of your skirt, never once taking your eyes off him. “Oh. I'm... sorry? I can stop if-”

“-No!” The gator lurches forwards another step, throwing a hand out towards you, only to freeze when you flinch away from him.

For some time, neither of you move.

Then, ever so slowly, Montgomery begins to lower his hand.

“No,” he continues in a far quieter voice, “You don't gotta stop. It doesn't bother me.”

Wetting your lips, you risk a brief glance around the room, as if something inside it will lend you the words to respond with. “Is... that why you tolerate me?” you ask, grimacing at the crack in your voice, “Just because I thanked you a few times?”

All at once, Monty's gaze hardens and his optics seem to burn with an underlying ferocity as he stares at you, shaking his head slowly from side to side. “You don't understand... We don't get 'thank-you's.' Not from anybody else, 'cept ourselves.”

“Ourselves?” you echo, “You mean, you and the other animatronics?”

“Yeah. Freddy gets 'em, mostly. Not enough, for all he does for this place. Says it don't bother him or Chica like it does Roxy and me, but you should'a seen his EMF field when you said you appreciated him invitin' you to Jazzercise.”

You watch his chest rise and fall with an eerily human quality that would have made you balk if you weren't already so on edge. And yet, you aren't inclined to interrupt. This is probably the most he's ever said to you. Hell, to anybody, for that matter.

Clearing his throat, he thrusts his chin out and subjects you to a stern glare. “So, er.. Yeah, don't you stop sayin' it now. Not if you want me to keep on toleratin' you, y'hear?”

You can't help but feel that he's giving you a thinly-veiled threat, but bemused, you respond at once. “Loud and clear.”

“Hrn. Good.”

It takes several, quiet moments before Monty sees your face light up with a hesitant, yet genuine smile. For a selfish instant, he basks in it, the knowledge that he'd put it there. Inevitably, however, he realises that he's grinning right back at you, and immediately hurries to schools his expression into something vaguely impatient, raising an arm and coughing into his closed fist. “So, uh, we gonna finish cleanin' my room or what?”

The change of topic, though brusque and clumsy, puts a hesitant smile back on your face and you pry your fingers away from the soft toy you still have clutched between them, throwing it a quick apology for the crushing grip.

“Good idea,” you nod, sucking in a lungful of air and exhaling it all in a gush, “Looks like we've got most of it cleared up. Just need to hoover the floor...”

Your loyal hoover waits patiently where you'd left it leaning against the vanity desk. After tossing the Montgomery-lookalike back onto his couch, you amble over to the hoover and wait for the animatronic to move aside, grabbing the plug and tugging it towards an empty socket beside the doorway. Once you've jammed it into place and made your way back to the desk, you take up the cool, metal nozzle and stoop over your hoover with one finger hovered over the green switch on its side.

Pausing, you shoot Monty a cursory glance. “You okay with loud noises?”

The look he gives you in return should have clued you in to the oncoming snark. “I'm a rockstar, lady,” he snorts derisively, levelling an unimpressed look at you, “You tell me.”

Wrinkling your brow, you huff, “Thought it best to ask,” and heave a mental shrug, flicking the switch.

With a puttering growl, the hoover shudders to life.

As you meander to and fro across his room, Montgomery collapses back down on the couch to twiddle his thumbs, waiting in silence whilst you finish dragging the clunky hoover around his room.

First, you focus on the mirror shards, all of which are swiftly and easily lifted from the floor before you find your way over to Monty's plant pot next, sweeping the nozzle over his carpet and relishing in the tinkling sound of soil hitting the metal tube as it gets sucked up and into the body of the hoover.

By the time his internal clock reads '22:45,' you drop the nozzle with a loud sigh and drag yourself over to the wall, pulling the plug and plunging the room into silence once again.

“Well, I think that about does it,” you announce, dusting off your hands and placing them on your sides, “Wouldn't you say?”

Monty pivots his head around as he gets to his feet, scanning the room with a languid expression. “Hmph,” he grunts, “It'll do.”

Cocking a hip, you open your mouth to speak, only to find yourself cut off when the room suddenly explodes with a loud ringing noise that emanates directly from your skirt and sends the animatronic's hackles straight up with an instinctive hiss.

“Dammit,” you curse, shoving a hand into your pocket and rooting around inside, “I thought I put that on silent.”

The gator's fans slow down as you pull out a mobile phone and shoot him an apologetic glance. “Sorry, you mind if I take this?”

Collecting himself at once, the animatronic shakes the aggression from his stance and tosses you a brisk nod, earning your grateful smile in response before you swipe your finger across the phone's screen and lift it up to your ear. “Uh, hello, Y/n speaking?”

With your focus elsewhere, Monty cocks his head at the device, curious.

He's seen parents and some of the staff use a phone, but he's never really seen one up close before. Its appearance is worlds away from the standard Fazwatches that all employees are 'encouraged' to wear.

Roving his optics back to your face, he watches the way your expression shifts abruptly from suspicion to relief in the blink of an eye. “Oh, Shannon!” you exclaim, letting out a breathy laugh and listening to a muffled voice on the other end of the phone for a moment. “- No, I didn't even look at the caller id... I know. Sorry...”

Montgomery stalks a little closer, tipping his chin back to peer down at the device against your ear.

The movement has you flicking your eyes up to the gator, and they widen, almost as if you've only just remembered that he's in the room with you. “Yeah,” you say carefully, turning away from him and lowering your voice, “Actually, Shan. Could we talk about him some other time. I'm with company at the moment.”

A longer pause ensues.

Suddenly, you blurt out a nervous laugh and bark, “Not that kind of company, no! He's a colleague!”

It's somewhat refreshing for Monty to be referred to as a colleague instead of a 'bot,' for once, and not by one of the other animatronics, but by a human, of all things.

Crossing his arms, he regards you in amusement as you wander around to face him again and throw your head back with a groan. “Yes, Shan. 'He.' Now, are you going to tell me why you're ringing, or do I have to hang up on you?”

The threat is met with more, muffled talking, faster than before, and far too quiet for Montgomery to make out.

After another minute, your face lights up with a smirk. “Date night?” you coo, “Where's she taking you?..... Holy hell. You're kidding. Say no more, of course I can babysit Stella. What time-?”

Babysit? Montgomery tilts his head to the side. He understands the term, of course. He just hadn't realised you worked two jobs.

“Oh.” You hesitate, sucking your teeth. “Well, I'll still be on my shift then – No, don't be daft, it's not a problem at all! She can go to the daycare while I finish up. Sunny's been dying to see her again. Won't stop pestering me about it, actually. I reckon he thinks she's my kid.”

Monty snorts and you throw him a glare. “Okay. Yeah... Okay, Shannon, I can manage. You two deserve some luxury. I'll look after Stella. Meet by the front doors at four thirty?”

Whatever 'Shannon' responds with must be an affirmative because your face softens into a warm grin. “I'll see you then... You too. And give Bianca my love, yeah? Okay, bye~!”

With a quick stab at the phone's screen, you end the call and allow your shoulders to slump, blowing a sigh out through pursed lips.

“Didn't know you had a second job,” Monty remarks, reminding you that he's standing right beside you with a smirk pulled across his jaw.

Quirking a brow at him, you emit a confused hum and reply, “I don't work two jobs? Oh! You mean the babysitting thing?”

When the animatronic nods, you wave a hand through the air with a soft laugh. “Not a job. A favour – well, not even a favour, really. I enjoy looking after Stella from time to time.”

“Stella that lady's kid?”

“Shannon's her birth mother, yeah,” you nod, glancing distractedly at your watch, “She's been a good friend to me. Helped me get out of a bad situation and move to the city, and we've been fast friends ever since.”

Monty's metaphorical ears give a twitch and he narrows his optics, raking them over your face. “Bad situation?” he hisses carefully.

“Hmm?” Tearing your eyes off the Fazwatch, you blink owlishly up at Monty until you suddenly realise what you'd let slip, feeling your tongue stick to the roof of your mouth. But, with expert composure, you peel it free and forge ahead, blustering past his question as you pivot about on your heel and grab your hoover, bustling it away towards the utility room at the back of his pad.

“I'm so sorry, Montgomery, but it's getting late, and if I don't get going now, I'll miss the bus, and god forbid I have to walk home in this weather!” In your own ears, the laugh you emit sounds strained and false, but you reach the door without the gator commenting on it, although his heavy footfalls do plod after you even when you move back and forth between the back room and the couch to hide your cleaning equipment away until you can retrieve it tomorrow.

 Finished at long last, you scan your card at his front entrance and step through it, still feeling his looming presence at your back,

Monty draws to a halt just inside the door to his room. “Hey!” he calls, unable to miss the way your body stiffens before you turn to look back at him, fingers fumbling with the zip of your coat, “It's Monty.”

Your hands falls still and you seem genuinely baffled, forehead puckering as you blurt out, “Huh?”

“You keep callin' me Montgomery,” he elaborates, pretending to inspect his claws so he can avoid your eye, “But, uh... f' you want, you can call me Monty. S'just easier.”

At once, the tension melts off you like ice cream on a hot summer's day. “Okay then... Thank you, Monty,” you beam, “For helping me out tonight.”

“Yeah. Sure...” Raising a hand, he pushes his glasses further up his snout and coughs. “You know, uh, you ain't so bad. For a human.”

Flashing him a smirk, you coyly reply, “Likewise, gator.”

And with that, you spin around once more and march briskly for the exit, leaving the animatronic behind you to lean against his doorway, head thunking against the wall as a lazy smile softens his hard, jagged features.

Chapter 6: Glass Heart

Summary:

Your friend, Andy, discovers what Mick asked of you last night, and you pay Montgomery back for his help.

Next chapter, Reader finally reunites with Moondrop.

January's icy chill has sunk her claws into the city with seemingly no intention of releasing her grip on the people living there.

It's the 'Month of misery,' as Andy eloquently puts it. The holidays are over, everyone has a full year of hard, laborious work ahead of them, and the bitter cold hounds you mercilessly as you step off the city bus and shrink down into the collar of your coat, not in the least bit pleased to see that there's a fresh dusting of snow gathered across the pavement.

Hiding a wide, obnoxious yawn behind a hand, you trudge wearily through the doors of the Pizzaplex before the sun has even deigned to raise its own, sleepy head over the horizon.

Andy shuffles briskly at your side, giving his shoulders a rough shrug that sends a flurry of snowflakes spiralling off his coat and onto the linoleum floor.

“Bastard weather,” he gripes as the pair of you amble for the maintenance tunnels, “Can't get nothin' done when it's cold like this.”

 

Glancing down at the mechanic's hands, you let your face twist into a grimace.

He hadn't had the wherewithal to wear gloves today, exposing his arthritic appendages to the harsh, winter elements. Pale-white knuckles stand swollen and pronounced, the thin flesh stretching taut over each, little bone. You'd admonish him for his lack of foresight if you weren't guilty of the exact same crime.

Your own hands are achingly numb from the cold, even stuffed as they are inside the pockets of your thick, winter coat.

 

The two of you arrive at the cloakroom to find a few of your fellow colleagues already mingling about, nursing flasks of coffee or peeling off layer upon layer of clothing to reveal their uniform underneath.

“Morning all!” you announce, earning a variety of responses that range from equally enthusiastic greetings to mere grunts of acknowledgement.

It's a familiar routine - predictable.

Safe.

A faithful start to each day.

Shrugging out of your coat, you unlock your cleaning cupboard and pull open the door, hanging the article on a hook nailed to the interior. As always, the photograph of you and Sunnydrop catches your eye and you find yourself smiling at it fondly.

“So,” Andy remarks from his locker next to you, haphazardly stuffing his own coat into the cramped space, “What's on your agenda today, missy?”

Your gaze lingers a moment longer on the photo before you shut and lock the cupboard once more and reply, “Same old, same old. Do a general sweep to see if the S.T.A.F.F missed anything, restock the bathrooms, see if Sunny needs any help at the daycare...”

It doesn't escape your notice that several people around you give a visceral shudder at the mention of the daycare attendant.

Straightening your name-tag, you shoot a playful glare out into the room. "Oh, what?"

“You're one weird chick,” the junior mechanic, Devon, mutters as he strides past you with a steaming mug of coffee in his hands, “Swear, you're the only person I know who doesn't find that thing creepy.”

You open your mouth to shoot back a response when one of the interns pipes up from a bench in the corner.

“Please,” she scoffs, “He is not creepy. I've dated creepy, and trust me, Sunny isn't it.”

Everyone turns to regard her curiously as she blows up a wad of bubblegum until it bursts with a loud 'pop,' and adds, “He's just, like, super peppy.”

“Peppy ain't the word I'd use,” Andy mumbles.

 

You ignore him in favour of sending the girl a grateful smile, “Thank you, Chelsea.”

“No prob,” she returns, tucking a lock of blonde hair behind her ear and flashing you a wink, “You're not weird for liking him. I like him just fine, as well.”

“You like everyone,” Devon points out.

All at once, Chelsea's angular features twist into a sneer and she snaps waspishly, “He talked me down from a panic attack on my first day here. So, yeah, Devon, I think he's cool.”

 

Like a slow trickle, the cloak room begins to empty of staff members, all of whom drag themselves out into the tunnels beyond, stretching backs and trading quips with one another as they leave to attend their daily duties.

"See you, Chelsea. Devon," you call after the bickering pair, the former of whom spares you a brief wave over her shoulder before they disappear from sight.

Just as you try to make your escape at the back of the queue, a familiar face suddenly pushes into the room, small eyes darting around until they settle first on Andy, then on you.

“There you are, Doll! Glad I caught you!”

“Mick,” you greet the man politely, trying not to stare incredulously at the perspiration glistening on his forehead.

It isn't exactly warm in the tunnels...

His hands are, as always, clasped together as he shuffles right up to you, ignoring the older mechanic altogether. “I'm sorry I left unannounced last night!” he exclaims, “Freddy assured me he'd keep an eye on you after I went home. I just thought I'd swing by to ask if everything went...Erm...” He pauses and gives you a brief once-over. “...Smoothly.”

Slapping on a cheery smile, you reply, “Oh, sure! Everything was fine. He didn't give me any trouble at all. Actually-” Here, your bright disposition falters slightly and you lower your brows, fixing the mechanic with a decidedly chilly gaze. “-He was quite helpful.”

“Who was helpful?”

You and Mick turn your heads to stare at Andy, who's leaning back against his locker with his arms folded casually over his chest.

At once, the manager begins to fidget with the tie around his neck. “Well, I - that is to say – we-”

“-Monty was helpful,” you swiftly cut in, giving Andy a lackadaisical shrug, “Mick asked me to clean up his room for that party tonight. I'm actually about to swing by, I left my hoover in there...”

Beside you, Mick seems to shrink in on himself when the older mechanic's eyes slowly peel away from you to glare at his manager.

“You cleaned Montgomery Gator's room....” he drawls coolly, peering over his glasses at a now profusely-sweating Mick, “...by yourself.”

Casting a bemused glance between the pair of them, you quirk a brow and reply, “Uh, yeah?”

Andy finally looks back at you. “And he was helpful?”

“Yes,” you retort matter-of-factly, “He was.”

The man must have heard the rare flash of indignation that sparks behind your teeth, because he at once lowers his head in deference and mutters, “All right, just makin' sure these ears still work.”

Lifting your chin, you let out a small 'hmph,' and twist about to face Mick again. “Anyway, to answer your question, yes. Everything went fine.”

He's avoiding your gaze now, that much is clear, but he does manage to squeak out, “Well, good. Excellent! I know who to call when we have trouble in the future!”

It doesn't escape your notice that he says 'when' and not 'if.

“In any case,” Mick says, clearing his throat, “There is, ah, another matter to discuss.”

“...Oh?”

“It's nothing bad. Good, in fact! Your bonus. The Director had it approved this morning.”

Just like that, a veritable tidal wave of bewildered relief crashes down on top of you and you feel a weight lift right off your shoulders. “Really?” you ask, a little breathless.

“Oh yes,” Mick nods, “She said it'll be added to your paycheque at the end of the month.”

It's a challenge to refrain from letting out an elated shout, but you somehow manage to swallow it down and politely respond, “That's very kind, thank you, Mick.”

“No, I really ought to be the one thanking you, I think. You've done us a huge favour in time for the party! Why, if Miss Randall's lad thought he wasn't going to see Montgomery Gator,” he hesitates to let out a nervous chuckle and tug at the collar of his shirt, “I'd be dragged down to Parts and Services myself!”

“Oh,” you suddenly perk up, “That reminds me - If you've got a second, Mick, there's something I need to talk to you about.”

The man's strained grin changes to a look of intrigue, but before he can inquire as to the topic of conversation, Andy interrupts.

“Maybe you n' Mick can speak later, kid.”

You raise an eyebrow up at him, but he simply smiles back and juts his chin towards the ceiling. “Don't want you to miss clock-in time...”

Confused, you glance down at the time on your phone and knit your brows together at the numbers flashing back at you. There's still plenty of time before your shift officially begins, and you're about to say as much when Andy's hand lands upon your shoulder and he gives you a nudge towards the entrance.

It's only once you spare another look at him that you realise it probably would be better to leave. The grin he's pointing at Mick doesn't quite reach the pale, blue eyes sitting behind his glasses.

Evidently, you aren't the only one who needs to speak with the manager, and judging by the thunderous look on your friend's face, his issue must be fairly pressing.

 

“Well... all right,” you concede at last, “I suppose I'll catch you later then, Mick?”

“Sure, doll,” he gulps, staring down at the older mechanic's work boots, “Sure.”

 

Lifting your hand, you mutter, “Bye, Andy.”

“See you, kid,” the old man replies with a wave of his own, watching you trot out of the room.

 

For several long, painful seconds the mechanics remains utterly silent, listening raptly to the click of your heels as you venture further down the tunnel and out of earshot.

The instant your footsteps fade beneath the hum of the building's ambiance, Andy rounds on his manager, nostrils flared in unmitigated fury. “Mick-!”

Scrabbling backwards, the younger man's hands fly up placatingly. “N-Now, Mr Flowers, I understand you're upset, but try to -”

“-What in the God damn Hell were you thinkin'!?” Andy hisses sharply, throwing his arm out in the direction you'd disappeared, “Goddamn, Montgomery Gator?! She's a cleaner! She's got no trainin' if somethin' goes wrong! God - jeezus, shit, Mick! It could'a killed her!”

“But, it didn't!”

Andy ignores him, reaching up to roughly scrape his fingers through the wispy tufts of white hair that still cling to his head. “You've seen what it does to the S.T.A.F.F bots when it starts actin' up! What if that was her this time!?”

“Trust me, Mr Flowers. I understand better than most what that animatronic is capable of -”

“- and yet, you still sent a defenceless young woman in there anyway?” he counters, curling his lips, “Bet you didn't even have the goddamn courtesy to give her an electric prod, did you?”

Mick swallows, pressing his lips together into a thin line.

Throwing his hands up, the older mechanic lets out a bark of incredulous laughter. “Course not! Shit, that would'a been expectin' too much!”

Backed into a corner, both literally and figuratively, Mick's backbone finally begins to show, as if he's only just recalling that he's supposed to be in charge.

Sticking out his chest, his brows crawl together into a dark scowl and he draws himself up, briefly lamenting that Andy still towers over him by a good, couple of inches. “All right, Flowers, you've made your point. At least we now have proof that the gator won't necessarily harm the faculty. Not even when it's in one of its 'moods.”

He takes a bold step towards Andy, who glares down at him from behind his glasses, lips curled into a sneer. "So she was just a guinea pig, was she?"

Bristling like an angry cat, Mick jabs a finger into the older man's chest and seethes, "Last I checked, I make the decisions around here. Now, whether you like it or not, what's done is done. So you'd best can the hostility, or I'll can you. Is that understood?”

Andy's nostrils twitch in anger, but he bites his tongue and continues to glare the shorter man down.

Neither of them back off for some time, their chests rising and falling in tandem as the weight of Mick's threat sets in.

In the end, it's Andy – older and wiser – who steps back with a sharp 'tsk.'

“You're a coward, Matthews,” he growls, stepping around his manager and heading for the room's exit.

Determined to get the last word in, Mick puffs out his cheeks and shouts, “And you're not her father, Flowers.”

At that, Andy stops just shy of the main tunnel, slowly turning to throw him such a withering, world-weary stare that Mick's indignation falters and he deflates a little, struggling to maintain the facade of a stronger man.

Then, drawing in a long breath, the greying mechanic speaks, voice low and tired, “I don't care what that gator breaks next – you have a problem, you send me. Not her.” Turning away again, he adds, “That kid's been through enough shit, Mick. More shit than you or I've been through, I'd wager. Don't gotta be the girl's father to want her safe...”

And without another word, he reaches up to tug his cap down over his eyes and storms off into the tunnel, leaving his manager alone in the cloakroom to pick up the pieces of his tattered pride.

----

You all but skip through the tunnels towards the lobby, heedless of the fact that your grin is earning you many a querying glance. You can hardly help it. Your heart far lighter than it has been for a long while.

A bonus.

At last.

It's been some time coming, of course, but you're just glad that it's come at all.

You'll put some of it aside, as always, in the little lockbox stashed between the floorboards under your bed. The rest will go to rent and food. But that precious extra....

You can finally afford a few of those little, niggling things that you've been saving up for.

A better lock on your front door, first and foremost. The one your landlord installed is about as useful as a glass hammer.

Maybe afterwards, you'll have someone come and fix the leak in your sink to stop it dripping all night long, and racking up your water bill.

You might even be able to patch that hole in the kitchen drywall.

You start to feel the worry trickle out of your body like steam, and as you continue to meander through the swinging doors and out into the lobby, it strikes you that you should probably use some of the money to get something for Montgomery, to thank him for his cooperation.

He did tidy the room up with you, and he saved you several trips to and from the maintenance tunnels by carrying most of your cleaning equipment.

Perhaps most importantly though, he hadn't ripped you in half like he had the dozen S.T.A.F.F. bots before you.

If nothing else, that's worth another 'thank you.'

Your footsteps trail to a stop in front of the barriers leading into the lobby proper and you turn your head to peer over the gates, catching sight of the bright, neon sign flickering to life above 'Glamrock Gifts.'

You can't imagine there'll be much in there that he would want...

But then again, what in the world does an animatronic alligator want?

Pointing your feet towards the gates, you spare a quick glance at the time and give your head a decisive nod.

'It's the thought that counts,' you remind yourself as you march towards the gift shop, 'Right?'

----

Montgomery doesn't expect to hear the short, tentative knock on his door so early in the morning. The animatronic has draped himself across the couch on his stomach, tail dangling over its edge to slump on the carpet below. Peeling his plastic eyelids apart, he raises his head and swivels it around to glare suspiciously at the door, absentmindedly pulling his HUD up and glancing at the time.

'8:05am' flashes back at him, prompting him to dismiss the display with a huff.

The Plex doesn't open to the public until nine, so it can't be a kid wanting to take a picture with him, which means it must be a member of staff - but how many employees does he know who bother to knock on his door before barging straight in, unannounced?

Laying his head back down, he lets a churlish growl spill out of his throat. “Go. Away...”

A beat of silence follows.

Just as he starts to enter low-power mode once more, a muffled voice seeps in underneath his doorway, and it's familiarity has him scrabbling upright.

“Oh, I... okay! You're busy – I guess I can come back later.”

He's off the couch and across the room in three, loping strides.

The door flies open when it senses the gator's proximity and he barges through, almost barrelling right into a startled cleaning lady who freezes mid-retreat.

Your eyes burst open wide, pupils small and rife with uncertainty.

“Uh... hey...” Montgomery says, instantly giving himself an internal smack for such a clumsy greeting. Coughing into his fist, he tries, “I... didn't know it was you.”

Why are you here? Have you come to see him?

As soon as the thought pings across his CPU, he shuts it down with vicious haste.

The staff only ever arrive at his door for a handful of reasons...

Either to order him to Parts and Services, or to complain about him, to him.

Sometimes all they want to do is admonish him for a complaint they'd heard from another colleague or a highly-strung parent who doesn't think that alligators are 'child friendly.'

As if a bear and a wolf are.

He wonders if that why you're here. To give him a verbal lashing for how he'd behaved yesterday.

 

Alarm bells begin to ring in his processor at the revelation and he takes a step back, eyeing you warily. “What're you doin' here?” he mumbles, rolling his optics down to the linoleum underfoot.

You haven't even said a word and the gator can already recognise that unwarranted dejection nipping at his heels.

You gulp – a sound he's all too familiar with – and raise your finger to point at the door that leads to his back room, prying your lips apart to tell him, “I just... came to get my stuff?”

 

The words cycle through his processor a few times before they finally strike home.

Oh...

Oh!

In a flash, his dejection is shoved aside to make room for embarrassment.

The animatronic seems to wilt before you, losing his frown and rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Oh. Right. Yeah, uh, come on in. Forgot you left your stuff here.”

Swinging his bulk around to hide a self-deprecating grimace, he beckons you into his room, continuing, “Don't mind the attitude, lady. M'still recoverin' from Jazzercise...”

Although the transition between his moods is jarring and has you raising your brows high up on your forehead, you obediently trail after him as he plods towards the back room, feeling your heart return to a less worrisome pace.

“Oh, yeah,” you remark, “I was about to ask, how was it?”

He chuckles dryly, shaking his head. “Eh. Not really my scene. I don't think our bodies are meant to move like that.”

“That's a shame.” Chewing your lip for a moment, you point out, “Still, at least your friends were glad to see you, yeah?”

Monty is careful to hide his smile, but he can still recall the looks of shocked delight on his band's faceplates when their bassist shoved through the entrance to Mazercise.

“...Yeah...” he eventually agrees, coming to a halt beside the back door, “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“Good. Good.” You give a satisfied nod as you throw a glance about the room, pleasantly surprised to find that it has remained damage-free since you left it.

You're so busy smiling at the tidy floor that you don't spot Monty peering down at you, tipping his chin proudly into the air.

He'd... tried.

For once, he'd actively tried not to ruin the hard work you'd both put into cleaning up his room. It felt like one of the only things he'd done right yesterday, and he wasn't eager to have that effort go to waste by destroying it all over again.

And besides, once he sees the smile that blooms across your face like sunlight through a cloud, he decides that exercising a little restraint from time to time might not be the most abhorrent thing he could do.

Slipping an eye shut, he leans his shoulder against the wall beside the door and gazes down his snout at you as you amble past him, disappearing into the back room.

Almost straight away, his audials pick up on the scrape of a heavy object being dragged across the ground and he chuckles when you let out a soft grunt.

“Need a hand?” he calls out.

He's admittedly a little disappointed to hear you reply, “No thanks! I've got it.”

Releasing a blast of air from his nostrils, Monty shrugs indifferently. “Suit yourself, lady.”

Seconds later, you reemerge from the back room with the box of products cradled in your arms.

The gator's eyebrows slowly creep up his forehead at the sight. He hadn't realised how much heavier it looks when you're the one carrying it.

“Thanks for letting me stash this,” you say, peering over the bottles of bleach and window cleaner to meet his eye, “Is it all right if I leave the hoover here until later? I promise I'll take it back downstairs before I go home tonight.”

Monty has to remember not to let his expression betray his surprise.

You'll... come back?

Again?

Willingly?

He realises with a blink that you're looking at him expectantly, so he quickly twists his head away from you, crossing his arms and leaning more heavily against the wall, exuding an air of what he hopes is total nonchalance. “Sure, yeah. Whatever.”

From the corner of an eye, he sees you grin at him, chirping, “You're the best! Thanks!”

A scraping sound at his back alerts the gator to his tail as it tries to swish from side to side across the carpet. Hastily, he disables a few subroutines and the movement abruptly stops.

Swinging his attention back towards you, he's relieved to find that you're distracted with balancing your plastic tub on one hip.

“Oh, and speaking of thanks...” Trailing off, you delve a hand into your skirt's pocket and fish out a small, black box, holding it up for the gator to see. “Here. I got you something.”

Monty's head whips around so fast, he almost slips off the wall. “You what?”

Shrugging one shoulder, you give a meek laugh and answer, “Don't get too excited, it isn't much.. I mean, what do you get the rockstar who has everything, right?”

He merely continues to stare at you as if you've grown an extra head.

Clearing your throat, you thrust the box in his direction again, and this time, Montgomery pries himself off the wall and steps closer, reaching out with a hesitant hand. His fingers alone are twice the length of yours, yet they're unexpectedly gentle as they take your proffered gift.

Suddenly anxious to see his reaction, you offer him a brief explanation. “I just wanted to get you something to say 'thank you' for yesterday. You helped me get my bonus, so...”

Tentatively, Monty holds the tiny box in his hands and peers quizzically down at it, his head tipped to one side.

“Just, uh.. don't drop it,” you suggest secretively, “It's fragile.”

Montgomery is no stranger to being careful with fragile things. Despite his surly appearance and reputation, he prides himself on being as gentle with children as any of the other animatronics.

Emitting a curious hum, he cradles the gift in one palm and lifts his opposite hand, pinching the lid between two, purple claws. Then, with more care than you expected of him, he slowly opens the box.

Peering up at the gator, you shift back and forth on your heels, watching his face apprehensively.

For some time, he doesn't move. Not a blink, nor a twitch.

The only way you can tell that he hasn't spontaneously shut down is because of the gentle click and whir of his pupils as they spin, enlarging like the lenses on a camera, focusing raptly on the contents of the box.

Sitting snugly on the white, silk lining inside is a tiny figurine that sports an all too familiar, toothy grin, staring back up at him through star-shaped sunglasses.

After another moment, the animatronic drags his optics off the figure and blinks down at you numbly. “It's... me,” he whispers.

Expertly hiding your surprise to learn that he's even capable of whispering, you nod encouragingly and reply, “It's you!”

Indeed, it is him. A very small Montgomery figurine that stands barely taller than your thumb, posed with head thrown back and its hands clasped around a tiny guitar. But perhaps most vexingly for the gator, is that you've handed him a gift that appears to be made entirely from-

“Glass?” he emphasises, stitching his brows together until they almost meet at the centre of his forehead.

Didn't you see his room yesterday?

Didn't you notice the mirror?

What would possess you to spend your money on something so delicate and beautiful, only to give it to him?

You must mistake his bewilderment for disdain because your hesitant smile starts to droop.

“Do you already have one?” you ask timidly, turning your eyes to search his room, “I didn't see one last night while we were cleaning. I thought -”

“-What if I break it?”

His quiet question ceases your rambling in its tracks.

Raising your brow at him, you say, “Pardon?”

“It's glass,” he reiterates, jostling the box at you gently as if you're missing a very crucial point, “What if I break it?”

Chewing pensively on your bottom lip, you consider an answer carefully before simply lifting your free hand into an indifferent shrug. “Well, if you break it, you break it. You wouldn't do it on purpose.” Pausing, you eye him tentatively. “Would you?”

Would he? Break the only gift he's ever received?

Numbly, the animatronic shakes his head, the eyes behind his glasses pinched in disbelief.

“Well then,” your face brightens once more, “It won't matter if you break it. Accidents happen, Monty, even if you're really careful. That's just life.”

Lowering his eyes to the little, glass version of himself posed with its hands clasped around an even tinier guitar, Monty works his jaw open and closed several times, speechless, for once.

 

'Accidents happen...'

You trust that he wouldn't break it on purpose, just like you trusted that he wouldn't lose his temper yesterday. You used your hard-earned money to buy him something that could shatter with little more than the faintest squeeze of his fingertips, but you were willing to take that risk.

The gator looks up at you and very slowly pulls the gift against his chest.

You really do trust him...

...

Is this how the children feel when he presents them with his autograph, or one of the stuffed toys that share his likeness?

Giddy?

Overwhelmed?

Undeserving?

 

“Right!” you announce, startling him from his reverie as you heave your plastic tub into both hands once more, “I'd better get back to work. Sunny gets all fidgety if I don't help him get ready for the nine o'clock rush”

Monty gives his head a rough shake, throwing on his internal fans to stop a creeping warmth from rising into his chest. Distractedly, he echoes, “Sunny? That daycare guy?”

He remembers the photograph pinned up inside your cupboard, of you and the gangly animatronic with his arms draped around you like a scarf, and the gator wonders whether you've ever gotten him a present.

“Oh, yeah, he's Sunnydrop in your system, isn't he?” you reply, oblivious to the gator's pensive frown.

As you begin to amble towards the front door, Monty finds his feet moving of their own accord, following after you with the figurine's box still clutched gingerly in his palm.

You're just about to juggle your tub into one hand so that you can scan your badge when there's a low, throaty rumble and suddenly, Montgomery steps up behind you, nearly pressing his chest against your spine.

Before you can wonder why in the world he's standing so close however, the door slides open and you take a quick step outside, distancing yourself and turning to give him a bemused glance.

“Heh, proximity sensors,” he chuckles, tapping the side of his snout with a claw, “All of us animatronics got 'em.”

Humming, you twist your face into a wry smile and reply, “Nifty. Thanks!”

Then, turning about, you throw a quick, 'See you soon!' over your shoulder and begin to haul your armful of products across the room with every intention of making it to the daycare before the Pizzaplex opens, though you only manage to make it a few metres before you hear the telltale thump of footsteps shadowing you.

You catch the eye of a fellow employee who seems to be expressly trying to give you a mile-wide berth, her gaze flipping rapidly between your face and something behind you.

The general hum of chatter dies and you start to feel eyes on you from every direction.

Slowing to a halt, you half twist yourself around, only to recoil at once, finding yourself nose to chest with Montgomery Gator.

A nervous peal of laughter bubbles out of you and you spare a brief glance around the room. “Ha, um... I know I said, 'see you soon,' but don't you think this is a bit extreme?”

Monty's optics stutter for a moment before he casts his eye out over the area as well, feeling the plating on his shoulders flare in agitation once he spots how many employees have stopped to gawk at the spectacle of Montgomery Gator looming over a cleaning lady.

'Whatever,' he grouses to himself, 'Let 'em stare.'

He's used to an audience.

Turning his attention back to you, he raises a hand and pinches the frame of his sunglasses, sliding them down his snout and peering at you over the top of them. “Figure'd you'd want an escort,” he shrugs lazily.

“An escort?” you blurt, “Monty, you understand I've worked here for the better part of a year.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mutters, fingers curling gently around the glass in his hand, “But, I just-”

He's cut off by a shrill whistle that cuts sharply through the air. You jump out of your skin and whirl about to seek out its source, whereas Monty merely lets out a low groan, swivelling his head around in the direction of Fazbear's green room.

One of the sound technicians stands there in front of the glass with his arm raised, impatiently beckoning towards the animatronic. “Hey, Monty!” he calls across the room, startling a trio of employees who happen to be strolling past him, “Get your tail over to the main stage! Rehearsal starts in fifteen!”

Movement has started up around you again as people bustle to and fro, heading for their respective stations to get ready for the day's first batch of guests.

The animatronic towering above you lifts his lips to snarl at the technician, but the man has already turned, marching away towards the end of the row and harping into the Fazwatch strapped around his wrist.

Watching the man leave, you snort softly and offer the ornery gator a sympathetic glance. “Looks like duty calls for both of us.”

“Looks like,” he grouches.

All of a sudden, his sensors alert him to a light touch that lands on his forearm, and he swings his head down to see your hand resting delicately against his metal casing. 

You spare a moment to give him a quick, reassuring pat, but all too soon, your fingers are sliding from his arm, leaving behind that bizarre tingle in their wake as a good-natured chuckle slips through your teeth at the expression flitting across his features.

“Well, good luck with rehearsal,” you tell him, “And with that party later!”

You turn to leave, and this time, there are no lumbering footsteps trailing behind you, yet Montgomery's gravelly shout still chases you across the room.

“I don't need luck!” he boasts, thumping his free fist hard against his chest with a 'clunk,' “I'm Montgomery Gator!”

Notes:

Me with every chapter I post: They are going to hate this. I know they liked the last chapter, but this one they will utterly hate-

You guys: <3<3 <3<3 XOXO!!! OMG!!

Me: Oh

Chapter 7: Two Sides, One Coin

Summary:

Thank you all, again for the support! I'm having so much fun writing this.

You elbow your way through the swinging, double doors that lead into the daycare's pick-up area, expecting to be met with the usual glare of overhead fluorescent lights and ostentatious colours that have been slapped with reckless abandon all over the walls.

Instead, when you step foot inside, you're taken aback to find yourself walking straight into pitch-black darkness.

“Woah!” you blurt out, pulling up short and keeping the door open with your shoulder to allow what little light there is behind you to spill into the room.

Absolutely everything is engulfed in shadow, with the only available light stemming from the faint glow-in-the-dark stars that are scattered sporadically across the distant walls and ceiling, and even they, numerous though they may be, are useless in helping your eyes to adjust.

Ahead of you, illuminated only by the paltry shaft of light at your back, stand the vast, wooden doors that would take you into the walled-off daycare proper.

Before you can take a cautious step towards them however, you're startled by the blinding beam of a torch that rounds the corner and flashes directly upon your face, causing you to squeeze your eyes shut and turn away from it, hissing through your teeth. “Gah! Watch it!”

“Y/n!” At once, the light drops to the ground at your feet and a squeaky voice stammers, “Oh, thank god, it's you!”

“Hughie?” you respond, squinting through the inky spots that dance across your vision, “Mind telling me what you're doing skulking around in the dark, fifteen minutes before open?”

The circle of light bobs up and down, turning focused and sharp on the floor as a shape melts from the darkness in front of you, swiftly taking on the recognisable form of a short, trembling teenager.

Even in the gloom, one glance at the quivering boy has you breathing a sigh of resignation.

Hughie Morgan – Fresh out of college, shorter than you by at least three inches and utterly, indisputably scared of his own shadow. He'd barely turned nineteen when he was hired on by the company last month as a security guard for the daycare. A nice enough lad, if skittish, though you can't help but wonder what Fazbear's was thinking when they hired him to be in the security division. He's a waif of a boy really. Sometimes, you worry that a solid gust of wind will blow him off his feet when you walk together to the bus stop.

Perhaps the company was desperate, not that you can especially blame them. The turnover rate for guards at the daycare is astronomically high, so much so that you seem to meet a new face every week.

Hughie, however, despite his jittery disposition, has lasted an entire month.

You'll be the first to admit that you're surprised, and admittedly a little proud of the boy for exceeding even your own expectations.

 

Checking over his shoulder every other step, he scurries up to you, his boots squeaking noisily on the floor. “It wasn't me!” he insists in a hushed whisper, “Power went out like, five minutes ago! Nobody's come up to fix it yet, and people are gonna start arriving, and - and-!”

“Hughie!” you bark, cutting him off mid-sentence.

At once, his mouth snaps shut and he gulps, the flash of his adam's apple quivering in the dim light.

Easing your voice into a softer tone, you reach out and touch your fingertips against his upper arm, flashing a reassuring smile. “I'm not blaming you. It's fine. These things happen from time to time. The circuits in here are notorious for overloading, and sometimes it trips a fuse.” Stopping to utter a wry chuckle that sounds to the boy more bitter than amused, you add, “I have the same problem with my own fuse box at home – we just need to flip the switch back up.”

In the dim light of the torch, you see his face turn sheepish, suspiciously so, twisting up until his lips are pressed into a thin line and he darts his eyes away from yours.

“I – uh, I already... knew that...” he admits.

Cocking your hip, you shoot him a smirk and drawl, “And, you haven't tried to fix it yet because~?”

Bashful, Hughie digs a finger underneath his shirt collar and tugs at it, loosening the purple tie around his neck as he fidgets underneath your expectant stare.

You already know why he hasn't tried to trip the switch yet, because you know where the fuse box is situated. You also know that if there's one animatronic that frightens the boy more than any of the others, it's the daycare attendant's secondary personality; Moondrop. And Moondrop only ever comes out when the lights are off.

Sure enough, Hughie lowers his gaze down to look meekly at his shoes, oozing the embarrassment of a teenager who knows he's been found out. “I didn't want to go in while he's active...”

Breathing a gentle sigh, you point out, “But, you're always in there during nap time.”

“Well... yeah, but that's because the kids are in there to distract him from, you know, like, talking to me or something.”

“God forbid he tries to talk to you, Hughie,” you snort, offering a wide grin as an afterthought to appease the boy whose meagre pride you don't want to dent any further.

But the guard merely brushes off your light-hearted tease and begins to fumble with a set of keys attached to his belt, pulling them off their clasp so that they jangle noisily in the relative silence of the daycare.

“Can't you just go and flip it?” he pleads, thrusting the bundle of keys at you, “He actually likes you!”

“I'm sure you'd find that he likes you as well, Hughie, if you stopped trying to avoid him.”

He at least has the tact to look bashful, clutching onto one elbow and dipping his gaze to your shoulder rather than your face. “I know... but, it's just... his eyes, and the way he's like, always smiling and creeping about.”

You sweep your arm out into a vague gesture and exclaim, “He creeps about because he's programmed to move quietly, so the kids can sleep.”

“But the kids don't sleep because they're so scared of-”

“-SHH!” Lurching forwards, you clutch the box to your chest with one arm and raise a finger up to your mouth, motioning for the guard to lower his voice as you glance at the daycare's entrance.

Startled, Hughie's eyebrows fly up, but he does press his lips together firmly and nods, showing that he understands.

 

Moondrop isn't slow on the uptake, never has been.

He's tragically aware that his manner and appearance are things that frighten many of the children who have to stay at the daycare - and that he makes most adults wildly uncomfortable with nothing but his presence alone.

After you witnessed a former employee tell him as much out loud, thoughtlessly giving voice to some of his deepest insecurities, you'd begun to make a habit out of discouraging that particular kind of talk, for the animatronic's sake, if nobody else's. It had taken almost a week of coaxing before he would even approach a child after that particular incident.

 

“Okay, all right, I'll go,” you relent, swiping the keys out of Hughie's grasp, “Here, swap.”

You hold out your box and all but dump it into his hands, absconding with his torch as he fumbles to keep your bleach bottles from toppling out onto the floor.

Brushing past him, you waft away his sputtered apology and tread carefully up to the wooden doors, sliding your fingers around one of the heavy, black knockers and giving it a few raps, filling the empty daycare with the hollow thunks of metal on wood.

“It's just me!” you announce needlessly. You've no doubt that the animatronic already knows you're here. “I'm coming in!”

Despite their cumbersome appearance, you hardly have to give the doors more than a gentle nudge for them to swing open, allowing you to angle your torch's beam between the gap and cut a swathe of brilliant light through the darkness.

You certainly don't expect the light to immediately fall upon a round, luminous face, towering above you scant feet away from the entrance.

To your credit, you valiantly keep hold of the startled yelp that tries to jump up your throat and even manage to stop short of flinching backwards, away from the imposing animatronic.

“Moondrop!” you choke instead, pointing the torch at his star-spangled breeches so as not to dazzle him, “Sorry, I didn't expect you to be... well, standing right there.”

Red, unblinking pinpoints of light stare down at you through the gloom, snapping sideways as his entire head tilts at a sharp, right-angle without warning.

After a moment of silence, there's the subtle click of his recognition software activating and then, his voice is slithering across the space between you and into your ears, thin and rasping, sounding more like a man on his deathbed than an agile, cognizant animatronic.

“Wanted you to know where I was,” he almost breathes, tapping two, slender fingertips together and making the bells on his wrists jingle faintly, “No surprises.”

A smile tugs at the edge of your mouth and you nod, echoing, “No surprises. Thank you for remembering.”

 

You hadn't know that an animatronic was capable of making promises before you met Moondrop.

Your very first day on the job had brought you to the daycare after you spent far too long wandering helplessly around the Pizzaplex in search of a fellow employee who might be able to tell you where to find the West Arcade, and why in the world your first assignment was to 'wash Fizzy Fazz from some DJ's hands.'

Moondrop had clocked you from the moment you pattered haplessly through the wooden doors of his daycare and threatened to disturb the sacred sanctity of 'nap time.'

Before you could wake the sleeping children, he had slunk up behind you and urgently grabbed your wrist, with no intentions on his processor except to simply escort you back out of the room.

What he hadn't expected though, was that you would promptly drop to the ground and throw an arm over your head the moment he touched you, calling him by a name he didn't recognise and begging not to be hurt again.

He didn't know. How could he have possibly known?

Your history wasn't in the employee database.

Afterwards, you didn't blame him, but you also didn't tell him anything outright, of course. All you did was plead him not to do that again, shakily citing that you 'don't like surprises.'

He had logged the request at once and even sent a ping to his jolly counterpart, alerting him, just in case.

The two of them had kept their word from that day forward.

 

The attendant's gentle swaying stills for a moment and he turns his head the right way up again, peering down at you with an intensity that would have been unnerving if you didn't already know what it entailed. No matter whether you run into Sunny or Moon, the first thing they do upon each and every one of your visits is scan you.

It does give you better insight as to why the children are so afraid of him.

He often stands over them as they're trying to nap and scans them in much the same way, staring with petrifying focus for a long moment before moving on to the next child. The way he goes about it is undeniably eerie, but his intentions couldn't be more benevolent.

He's scanning them to see if they're healthy and unhurt.

Twirling the bundle of keys around a finger, you quirk your brow at him and ask, “Anything amiss?”

Several more seconds pass before the corner of his permanent grin seems to twitch downwards. “Scan complete,” comes the inevitable response, “Body temperature is below optimal levels-”

“-I'll warm up in no time,” you butt in, knowing that you'll be promptly handed a blanket if you let him have his way. Moondrop holds up a finger to say something else, but once again, you interject, aiming a fond smile his way as you bustle past him into the play area. “I'm sorry to interrupt, but the doors'll be opening soon and I've got to fix the lights before poor Hughie has a coronary.”

Moondrop's frame creaks as he twists himself about to tread softly after you. You've long since gotten used to the fact that each of his paces are twice the length as your own.

He's an animatronic of few words, as opposed to his counterpart, but by now, you're used to the unsettling silence as he shadows you past the enormous slides and around the soft-play area, the bells on his wrists and sleep cap tinkling with every step he takes, letting you know how far behind you he is, which is to say, not very far at all.

You can tell there's something else on his processor. He's walking far too close, and you can hear the mechanical buzz that seeps out of him periodically - his own approximation of a troubled hum. At last, after another beat of hesitation, he exclaims in a rush, “You have a minor laceration on the second digit of your right hand.”

You have to resist the temptation to roll your eyes, thinking to yourself, 'Here we go.'

Out loud, you're quick to reassure him, “It's fine, Moon-”

“-How did it happen?”

“Just had a little accident yesterday. That's all.”

There's another pregnant pause that last several seconds, just enough time for an overbearing animatronic to pull up the workplace accident log and skim through it.

“....You did not report an accident yesterday,” he accuses.

“Well, some accidents are hardly worth reporting.” Your reply remains patient as you round the ball pit and head for the rear wall of the play area.

“...They're worth reporting if you're involved,” Moondrop softly protests, almost treading on the back of your heels in an effort to peer over your shoulder at the injured hand.

Letting out a snort, you reply, “It's barely a scratch.”

“Did it hurt-?”

“No, it didn't.”

“I don't like seeing you hurt.”

“Moon-”

“Was it Hunter-?”

“Moondrop, please!”

He ducks his head at once and shies away from your snapped retort.

Regret hits you like an oncoming train and you wince, turning to face the tall animatronic and swinging your torch up to his chest, breathing a weary sigh. “Sorry.. I'm sorry for shouting,” you tell him at once, knowing full well that he takes more to heart than he lets on. “I'm not angry at you, I just... I don't want you to worry.”

With his hands clutched below his chest, he flicks his piercing eyes from the ground to meet your gaze.

“And you're definitely not to worry about Hunter,” you press, stretching your fingers through the space between you and resting them on the back of his hand, “Okay?”

The animatronic's pale face plate spins around until he's peering at you upside down, as if scrutinising you from a different angle will help him determine whether you're telling the truth or not. His indigo sleep-cap dangles comically from where it's been affixed to his frame.

Another second or two passes before Moondrop's face twists upright again and he nods, uttering a quiet, “Okay,” in response.

Withdrawing your hand from his, you shoot him your most encouraging grin. “Okay. Now, please can you show me where the fuse box is?”

You know where it is, and he knows that you know, but the prospect of being helpful is too tantalising for him to pass up.

The animatronic flexes his fingers a few times before finally, unprompted, he reaches down towards your hand, watching you closely as he goes as if, even after all this time, he expects you to deny his silent request.

The corners of your mouth quirk up and you lift your hand to his, sliding your fingers around the slender metal of his appendage and giving it an encouraging squeeze.

You've come a long way from when he first tried to hold your hand. You don't even hesitate anymore.

The moment your fingers meet his, a capricious little line of code falls into place inside him, settling back amongst his circuits with a contented whine.

His face ticks happily to the left before he spins it around in a full circle and pulls that familiar laugh from your lips that has his neural network thrumming with excitement.

As he turns to lead you obediently towards the fuse box, he can feel his friendly counterpart pushing giddily against the confines of his personality chip, likely in an attempt to access Moon's sensory output so that he too can relish in the feeling of your hand in his.

With a gentle nudge, Moondrop coaxes Sunny's consciousness back. The exuberant animatronic will have you all to himself soon enough.

Guiding you into the space between an enormous climbing frame and the play area's rear wall, Moon points wordlessly at a small, white box that has been affixed firmly into the plaster.

“Ah! Good job, Moondrop! You found it!” you chirrup, moving ahead of the animatronic and mindlessly slipping your hand from his grasp to fumble with Hughie's keys, squinting down at the tiny labels printed on each one.

Moondrop, fighting back a surge of disappointment at the loss of contact, reaches across you and gingerly pries the torch out of your hand, angling it at the keys.

“Oh, thanks, Moon,” you tell him with a grateful smile before resuming your search, “Okay! Fuse box, fuse box, fuse box... Ah! Here we go!” You select a small, silver key from the bunch and slot it into the waiting lock, jiggling it a little before it slides into place with a satisfying 'clunk.'

Tugging the door open, you beckon for the animatronic to venture closer, pointing at the box. “Mind shedding some light on this thing?”

Obligingly, Moondrop leans over your shoulder and holds the torch steady.

“Perfect,” you tell him, oblivious to the hum of his fans clicking on at the praise.

Casting a quick look over the fuse box, you soon spot the odd switch that has dropped down as opposed to the rows of other switches that are all standing steadfast in their proper positions. “Ah ha!” you announce triumphantly, “There's our culprit.” Reaching up, you let your finger hover beneath the downed switch, hesitating for a second or two whilst you crane your neck around to look at Moondrop, who is still staring down at you with that immoveable expression on his face.

“You ready?” you ask.

All at once, the animatronic's optics go dark, losing their eerie glow.

Even before he moves, you know what's coming.

“Oh, all right,” you huff fondly, “But make it quick. I'm on a schedule here.”

Needing no further prompting, Moondrop eagerly extends the struts of his neck down towards your face and he presses the gentle slope of his forehead against your own. The cool plastic hums ever so slightly, the movement brought on by a myriad of wires and motors running underneath the surface of his faceplate.

You aren't sure why he does this when you have to say goodbye. You don't know who would have taught him, or even if it's just something that was programmed into his algorithm to assist him with forming bonds.

Whatever the reason though, you can't bring yourself to mind all that much. It seems to please him to no end, so you allow him to indulge in this strange ritual of his.

Several, long moments pass before inevitably, you have to be the one who pulls away. You've never tested your theory, but you have a sneaking suspicion that he would stand there all day like this if he could.

“Okay, Moondrop,” you say with an air of finality that causes his spindly frame to droop until he almost stands at your height. Undeterred, you hold out your hand for the torch and reason, “The kids'll be here any minute, full of energy, I might add – so, maybe we should bring Sunnydrop out to manage the ruckus, yeah?”

Very slowly, the attendant's optics bloom with light once more and illuminate your face in the darkness. He can already feel his counterpart's impatience tickling at the back of his processor.

Giving another, owlish tip of his head, he utters a single request of you – the same one he gives every time you see one another. “Come back soon?”

And just as you've done dozens of times before, you offer him a warm smile and reply, “I always do.”

At his acquiescing nod, you turn back to the box and flip the switch.

 

The lights don't come on all at once.

First, the entire room seems to come alive with a droning hum that emanates from the walls, floor and even the ceiling high over your head as one by one, a series of loud clunks echo across the daycare and you tip your head back to watch the large ceiling lights flicker to life, spreading throughout the room until at last, the daycare is back to its former, gaudy glory.

Behind you, the clicks and hisses of mechanical parts shifting over one another reaches your ears, but you pay it no mind as you set about closing and locking the fuse box again before giving the door a final pull to test that it's definitely locked.

Suddenly, the nose abruptly stops and you can't help but brace your body, knowing very well what's about to happen.

There's a sharp gasp in your ear, and then...

“BUDDY!”

Long, gangly arms are thrown haphazardly around your stomach and you let out a wheeze as you're hoisted into the air without ceremony and tugged backwards against a smooth, plastic torso.

“I missed you!”

It's difficult to hide your chuckle of fond exasperation in the face of such enthusiasm.

Luckily, you're more than accustomed to being greeted in this manner, otherwise you might have taken umbrage at being manhandled so easily by an overzealous animatronic.

His grip is certainly encompassing, but hardly painful, no matter how firmly he squashes his sturdy, cragged face between your shoulder blades.

“Ha! I missed you too, Sunny,” you beam, knowing that telling him anything less will earn the attendant's petulant pout, “Now, can you put me down, please?”

With an obedience that stems from his eager desire to please, Sunnydrop gives you one, final squeeze before he lowers you carefully back onto your feet, allowing you to turn around and crane your neck back, blinking up into his grinning features.

Sunnydrop, by name and by nature, is the perfect, polar-opposite of Moondrop.

Though one in the same animatronic, Sunny's jester get-up is far better suited to the colourful slides and climbing frames that are dotted around the daycare. Where Moon's breeches are soft, satiny indigo, interspersed with golden stars, Sunny's are a ritzy, wine red broken by vertical stripes of eye-catching yellow - a pattern that perfectly matches the ruff collar fastened around his neck.

His face, much like Moon's, spins in a full circle when you turn towards him and he can finally drink you in.

You know that Sunnydrop tries very hard not to play favourites, especially when it comes to the children.

But with adults, even he has admitted that he's a little guilty of the crime. And although it was comically easy to find your way into the prized position of his 'number one human,' you find it a little sad that the spot is so easily kept. Initially, it took precious little for the animatronic to decide you were the best thing since sliced bread. All you had to do, for your part, was show up out of the blue at the daycare one day with your arms full of cleaning products and timidly announce that you'd been sent to help him clear up. He hadn't even been insulted that management thought he needed help. It was the first time it had been offered to him, and at last, he had someone to talk to whilst he stacked up the soft-play shapes into neat piles, ready for the next day's fun.

Your designation of 'Cleaning Lady,' went down well with him too.

You appreciated the effort he put into clean up that first day, stating that it was nice to have some help for once, and when the time eventually came for you to leave, you had offered the animatronic a mousy smile and said it was a 'pleasure to meet him.'

A pleasure.

Him.

Your smile then had been far more timid than the one you're giving him now. This one, he much prefers. It's bright and crooked and familiar, and he never tires of seeing it.

He never tires of seeing you.

 

“You fixed the lights!” he declares loudly, clasping his long, slender hands together and shaking them excitedly in front of you, “Clever, little cleaner! I told Moondrop you'd come to save the day!”

His flair for the dramatic is something you're still getting used to.

Giving your eyes a playful roll, you reply, “I don't know about saving anything, Sunny, but I'm glad I could help. Now, come on. Let's go give Hughie back his things, and then I'll help you sanitise the slides, okay?”

As if you'd said a magic word, he smothers a strangled sound of exhilaration and claps his hands, hopping deftly from one foot to the other. “Yes! Yes, yes, let's go!” Whereas his counterpart had shown hesitation in reaching out for you, Sunny is quite bold and unabashed, quick to bend down and capture your hand with his large fingers before he turns to skip merrily back through the play area, dragging you behind him like a child on a tether. His movements are fluid, more akin to a rubber-hose character from those old cartoons you used to watch than any kind of machine.

'Helped' along by the animatronic, you soon round one of the slides and spot the security desk in front of you, at which sits Hughie, who's face looks pale and sickly in the harsh light, somehow turning even paler when he spots Sunnydrop dancing towards him with you in tow.

“Officer Hughie~” the animatronic sings as he skids to a halt in front of the desk, snapping his frame to attention and raising his free hand to his head in salute, “Sunnydrop and his best pal, reporting for duty!”

It's nice to know that you still hold your honorary title.

“Here you go, Hughie,” you say, pulling out of Sunny's grasp and placing the boy's torch and keys on the desk in front of him.

He takes them with the barest hint of a smile, keeping his eyes locked safely on you, rather than the animatronic. “Hey, thanks,” he bleats, “And, uh... cheers for... you know, turning the lights on again.”

“Not a problem,” you reply, waving his thanks aside and screwing one eye shut playfully, “Maybe next time, you'll be able to do it all by yourself.”

“Ha! Sure. Maybe...” Bending down behind the desk, he retrieves your trusty box of products and hands them over to you, earning a shrill squeal from the animatronic bouncing at your side.

Hughie spares you a quizzical look, but you hardly notice, too busy fending off Sunny's grabby hands as he tries to snatch some of the bleach from your tub.

“Thanks, Hughie,” you say, moving off towards the colourful soft toys, “Let me know when the kids start to trickle in and I'll make myself scarce.”

Sunnydrop whinges loudly at the prospect of you disappearing so soon, but luckily for you, he's easily distracted by the bottle of germ-killer that you brandish at him with the promise of letting him keep it until the end of the day.

Bewildered, Hughie slumps down heavily into his chair and blows a rough exhale out through pursed lips. He watches on in dazed silence as you move about the daycare with the cheery animatronic all but velcroed to your side, never straying more than a few feet away, even when you hand him a rag and suggest that he go and clean another spot across the room.

The security guard doesn't know how you do it, frankly.

If he had that grinning bundle of energy dogging his every step, he isn't sure he'd come out of the Plex with his sanity in check.

Chapter 8: The Cronos Syndrome

Summary:

Monty doesn't know it yet, but one of his greatest fears is being replaced.

Notes:

WOW. I am speechless at the support this fic is getting :D I can't believe some of the stuff you guys are leaving on here, and it's really battling down my writer's anxiety, so thank you all so much!
Love you lots like Jellytots! <3

Montgomery gator is bored. So far, their scheduled rehearsal has turned out to be less about the band practicing their songs, and more about sitting around at the back of the stage and listening to a lecture from some human wearing an expensive, tailored suit. And perhaps nobody had told said suit that a bored Montgomery Gator is often an irritable Montgomery Gator.

Freddy, predictably, is standing at attention next to an increasingly jittery Mick, both of whom are listening raptly to every word they're being told, nodding at appropriate intervals like a pair of common bootlickers.

Monty sneers fatuously at the back of their heads.

At least Roxanne looks as bored as he is.

The large wolf is leaning up against a standing speaker, her muzzle pointed towards the talking man, but there's a blank, glazed expression clouded over her optics that gives Montgomery the impression that her processor is far from the conversation. One glance at Chica confirms that she too has the same look about her.

It doesn't take a genius to figure out that the pair of them are exchanging private messages from opposite sides of the room.

For a moment, Monty entertains the idea of sending a ping to Chica, requesting to join the conversation.

But then again...

'Nah,' he resolves, 'Let 'em have their fun...'

For the better part of twenty minutes, he's been perched on a large storage crate behind the main stage, listening to the polished stranger tell he, his bandmates, and Mick, everything they already know about the upcoming party.

“Arrival time is at two pm,” he says to the mechanic in a crisp, southern drawl, “So I expect all o' these robots to be fully charged, in their places and goddamn spotless by one-thirty, sharp.”

Shiny, black shoes, a pretty head of slicked-back hair and a golden watch strapped ostentatiously around the man's thin wrist – Montgomery knows his type. Business men, through and through. Sometimes, when there's a big event coming up, they descend upon the Plex like jackals to make sure that their money-making machines are functioning at optimal capacity.

Standing with his back snapped comically straight, Mick nods his head so hard, Monty is almost certain it might be in danger of falling off. “Yessir!” he sputters.

"Good," the man continues, "Today's a big day. This Executive has her fingers in a lot of pies. I'm sure I don't need to tell you how important it is that her kid's birthday exceeds expectations."

For the third time in as many minutes, Monty has to throw blockers around the subroutine that controls his optics, keeping them from rolling up to the ceiling.

They already know how important this party is.

For the animatronics, at least, every child's party is important. That this boy is an executive's kid shouldn't make a single iota of difference.

Parting his jaws into a rude yawn that earns him Freddy's withering look, Monty idly pulls up his HUD, swiping away minor pings and scanning then re-scanning his internal systems in the distracted sort of way that a human might fiddle with their hair if they were bored.

All too soon however, he begins to inevitably grow tired of checking for errors that he knows he won't find.

He needs a better distraction. Swivelling his eyes around the room, he conducts a quick check to deem that the others are still adequately focused on the man speaking to them.

Then, after determining that he isn't being watched, he hesitantly accesses his memory banks, sifting through his optical feed until he finally settles on a specific instance.

Smiling contentedly, Monty slouches further down the crate, feeling his struts relax little by little with a hiss of escaping air.

Slowly, boredom drifts to the back of his CPU.

Without even blinking, he enlarges the memory of you handing him his glass figurine, and sets the precious few seconds of footage to play on a loop.

The man in the background drones on and on, but Monty remains deaf to his voice, far too busy watching you repeatedly pass the tiny, black box up into his outstretched claws with your lips pinched into a small and apprehensive smile.

He had been immensely suspicious at the time, although in hindsight, he has no idea what you might have stuffed into the little box that could be of any threat to him. Of all the things he'd expected though, a fragile miniature of himself certainly wasn't on the list.

The memory of you disperses into pixels and its spot is swiftly filled by a wide shot of the gator's green room, fed through to him by a surveillance camera that is constantly affixed to one corner of the ceiling, granting him access to a live feed of his own territory.

At once, his optics zero in on the vanity, upon which sits the small, yet unmistakable form of the glass figurine itself, still safe and sound, exactly where he'd left it.

“- and I can't stress enough how much of a disaster yesterday's party turned out to be.”

The gator's attention shifts abruptly, snared by the man suddenly flinging a heated glare his way.

Bristling, Monty matches the look with one equally as dangerous.

The suit holds his gaze for several, terse seconds before he turns to Mick and huffs, “I trust you mechanics have solved that little 'glitch.”

The last segment of Monty's tail gives an irritable flick.

“Oh yes! Yes, of course!” Mick stammers, wringing a hand around his wrist, “You'll find everything has been ironed out. There'll be no more occurrences like the one we had last night!” Stiffly, he twists his neck about to fix Monty with a hard look. “Isn't that right, Montgomery?”

“Oh, sure,” the animatronic drawls, slouching to rest his elbows across his knees, “I'm fit as a fiddle. Ain't no problems up here.” With that, he raises a hand and raps his knuckles against the side of his head, sending both humans a grin that's entirely too wide and filled with long, gleaming teeth.

It has the desired effect. The suit clears his throat and turns away from him once more, proceeding to launch into an itinerary for the day.

Chuffing silently to himself, Monty leans back on the crate and pulls up his HUD once more, flicking idly through the camera feeds.

Rooms flash by in front of his optics - The Atrium, Rockstar Row, the Lobby, the Daycare, the West Arcade-...

He's just about to switch to the next feed when something gives him pause.

Doubling back to the daycare feed, he only has to take a cursory look at the screen before he spots what had initially caught his eye.

'That's the cleaning lady,' he realises with a tiny glimmer of interest.

The meek lilac of your blouse is easily picked out among the bold, gaudy colours of the daycare.

You look busy, gliding expertly around the climbing frames and sweeping your trusty cloth over hand rails and footholds with a diligent eye, apparently unconcerned with the shadow you've somehow managed to procure.

'Oh. Right,' Monty thinks to himself, dragging his focus to your buoyant tagalong, 'Sunnydrop.'

It's an unusual occurrence, he notes, to see the daycare attendant's attention aimed at an adult, for a change, haunting the space five steps behind you and never venturing from your side, save for when you turn around and gesture towards another area of the daycare, your lips moving around words that the cameras aren't equipped to pick up.

Montgomery can understand the gist of the conversation though. Despite the elevated angle, he doesn't miss the delicate curve of your mouth as you try and direct the gangly animatronic away to tidy up other areas you haven't yet covered. Sunnydrop complies, for all of a few moments, but inevitably, Monty watches him ditch his given task and slink back over towards you, bobbing left and right in a private rhythm that apparently, only he can hear.

For a few, peaceful minutes, Monty contents himself with observing the goings on of the daycare attendant and the cleaning lady, blissfully tuning out the irritating buzz of chatter between Mick and the stranger.

Soon enough though, you lift your wrist to your face, doubtless checking the time on your watch again – a habit that Monty is beginning to take note of – and your mouth begins to move, and like a woebegone puppet cut loose from its strings, Sunnydrop's whole body promptly goes slack, his knuckles hitting the floor as he droops over into a posture that all but sings his displeasure with whatever it is you'd said to him.

And then, something happens. It's an insignificant moment, really. Hardly worth paying any attention to. Yet Monty finds himself paying attention to it nonetheless.

Your lips move again, and the gator stiffens when he sees your arms opening up, sweeping outwards in an invitation that the attendant leaps upon with overzealous excitement. He bounds right up to you, lifting his long, yellow limbs and slinging them around your neck, squeezing you into his ruffled collar as if he means to crush the air right out of your lungs.

And your face... Over the animatronic's shoulder, Monty watches your face twist into something bright and happy, affection pouring from your tightly shut eyes and your cheeks that are full and rounded out by a beaming grin. There's not an ounce of fear in you, not for the daycare attendant, not like there had been when you entered Montgomery's green room.

You aren't shuddering from Sunnydrop's touch.

There's nothing between the two of you but an enviable friendship that leaves the gator with an unbidden sensation in his wiring, something akin to the hunger of a man who watches someone else dine on his favourite meal, all the while knowing that he can never touch the food himself.

You said you trusted the gator, but seeing you with your hands braced against Sunnydrop's back and your eyes squeezed closed in contentment, he realises what real trust looks like.

He's on his feet before he's even registered the command to his CPU.

“Monty?” Chica's voice brings him back into himself with a start.

The camera feed vanishes with a blink and he whips his head up to find that all eyes are on him, three animatronics and the two humans. Mick and the man in the suit have wary scowls on their faces, lips drawn taut and eyes narrowed to thin slits whereas Freddy, Roxy and Chica merely raise their brows, surprised at the sudden movement.

“I'm sorry, do you have somewhere more important to be?” the suit asks.

Monty's circuits whirl and he straightens, peering down his snout at the human. “That depends,” he quips in a grunt, “You got anythin' more important to say?”

The stranger turns an indignant eye onto Mick, sputtering, “What did that thing just say to-”

“I believe what my friend means,” Freddy cuts in hurriedly, drawing the man's icy glare towards him, “Is that we are all rather anxious to return to our designated duties. It is past nine. The guests will be arriving, and are no doubt expecting to see us around the Pizzaplex.”

Monty watches as the man's eyes widen with alarm and he pulls back the sleeve on his suit jacket, taking a brief look at the time on his watch. “Shit,” he hisses between his teeth, and each animatronic has to hold back their knee-jerk responses to remind him that this is a family-friendly establishment, “I'm running late...”

At least he seems to have forgotten his ire.

Figuring the meeting is all but adjourned, Montgomery clenches his hands into fists and makes his escape, stomping heavily past Freddy and Mick, the latter of whom is quick to call after him, “I mean it, Monty! One thirty! At the latest.”

As he heads through the stage door, the gator raises his hand to flap away the mechanic's concern. “I hear ya,” he growls, though his processor couldn't be further from Mick's warning. He's already pulled up the camera feed again, keeping one optic on the video and the other on his route as he beelines through the atrium's outer hallways and heads towards the daycare at a purposeful gait.

--------------

“Okay, Sunny, I'm afraid I really do have to go now. You know the drill.”

This is, amusingly, a rather common occurrence for you and Sunnydrop.

Leaving the daycare can be quite the arduous chore at times, between constant reassurances that you'll return later in the day and coaxing the clingy animatronic's arms away from your neck.

He remains steadfast for a sliver of a moment, resisting your attempts to tug at his wrists, but eventually the animatronic complies as he always does, withdrawing his angular limbs and lowering them back down to his sides.

“Honestly, Sunny,” you chide him with a teasing smirk, straightening out the collar of your blouse, “It's like you think I'll just stop turning up at work one day.”

Any amusement you try to glean is cut short as the attendant lowers his head and peers down at your shoes, somehow managing to convey despondency in spite of the smile permanently etched onto his face plate.

“It's happened before,” he points out in a voice so quiet, you could almost believe it belonged to Moondrop instead.

All at once, you want to kick yourself.

He's right, of course. He and Moon must have watched countless daycare staff leave with no intention of returning, most without so much as a word of parting to the animatronic whose only fault was trying to foist his friendship upon them far too fervently.

“Oh, Sunny,” you tut, wincing through a bout of guilt, “You know I'm not planning to leave, right?”

The triangular fixtures around his face flop backwards on their springs for a moment, but the animatronic manages to squeeze out a hopeful, “I know.”

Deciding firmly that the droopy look doesn't suit him in the slightest, you reach up to give his shoulder a companionable smack, watching triumphantly as his sun beams spring forwards into their proper place once more.

“Good,” you tell him with a nod, “I don't like seeing you so glum, Chum.”

He perks up at the nickname and rises out of his stoop, the bells on his wrists tinkling with the motion.

One corner of your mouth quirks into a grin and you add, “And I'm sure the kids won't like seeing it either.”

He seems to ponder over your words, spinning his face around until he's looking at you upside down.

“...You're right,” he agrees after a second or two. Then, springing back to his full, daunting height like a jack-in-the-box, he thrusts out his chest and gives a determined nod, exclaiming, “You're right! What'm I doing moping around when there's nothing to be sad about!?”

The shift in mood and tone would be enough to give anyone whiplash, but then again, you've spent ample time adjusting to mood swings, those that aren't necessarily his.

“Precisely,” you chirrup, turning around to retrieve your box of cleaning supplies from the foot of a bright, green slide.

“Oh, and before I forget...” Dropping your cloth into the tub and hoisting it into your arms, you toss him a secretive grin. “I've got a surprise for you~”

You may as well have told him he'd just won the lottery.

“A SURPRISE!?”

The shrill screech jerks Hughie halfway out of his chair at the security desk, prompting the guard to send Sunny the most withering glower he can muster.

Heedless of the frown aimed his way, the animatronic adheres himself to your side again in a flash and he flits around you in a tight circle, likely searching for his 'surprise,' his faceplate spinning like a pinwheel.

“What is it!?” he demands urgently, “Oh, tell me, tell me, please!”

“Hmm... I don't know...” you hum, smirking at the impatient whinge that screeches out of his voice box, “If I tell you, then it won't be a surprise when she arrives.”

That, at least, seems to stop him from trying to surreptitiously sneak his fingers into your pockets to fish around for any hidden secrets, and he prances in front of you to block your path, halting you just in front of the desk.

“She?”

Resting the box on your hip, you peer around him and waggle your eyebrows at a bemused Hughie. “Oh no! Did I give away the surprise?”

The animatronic hovering over you cocks his head to one side, kicking his processor into gear and falling uncharacteristically quiet for several, pensive seconds before his voice box suddenly hitches with a piercing gasp that causes you and the security guard to grimace.

“Stella!”

Hughie's mouth opens to form a round, 'O,' whilst you merely chuckle and give your shoulder a shrug, replying, “Oh, you remember her, do you?”

“Of course I remember her!” he cries, slapping a palm to his chest and splaying his fingers out wide as if he's affronted by the very suggestion that he might forget one of the kids, “I remember every child who comes through here! Stella likes the sound my bells make!”

“She certainly does,” you nod as you wave a quick goodbye to Hughie and step around Sun, making your way towards the wooden doors, all the while tailed by the buzzing attendant. “She's getting here at about four – And, I thought you wouldn't mind looking after her while I finish up my shift?”

His voice rings shrilly in your ear when he responds. “I don't mind at all! I'd love to! I haven't seen little Stella in forever!”

A drama queen through-and-through, he throws his head back and drags his hands down his face, pulling a surprised laugh from your lips as you stop in front of the door and turn to face him. “Sunny, it has not been forever,” you quip, “Now, can you get the door for me so I-”

Without warning, you're interrupted by a clamour at your back.

A rush of air hits the nape of your neck as the daycare doors suddenly burst open, coming just inches shy of knocking you flat on your face.

Squawking loudly, Sunnydrop lurches towards you at an alarming speed and snags the lapels of your shirt, and before you can even blink, he tugs you forwards and then herds you behind him with a careful, slender arm, his optics trained on the doors, or namely whoever had almost rudely flattened you by opening them so carelessly.

He isn't expecting one of the main four to lumber into his daycare.

“Montgomery Gator!” he exclaims, dropping his guarded stance, “Well, this is a surprise!”

Leaning around Sunnydrop's torso, you throw a furtive look towards the entrance.

Sure enough, a familiar, green snout has pushed its way inside and the animatronic alligator has planted himself squarely between the doors, a muscular arm braced against each of them, holding them at bay.

“Monty?” you blurt.

In all the time you've worked here, you've never known any of the main cast to venture into the daycare centre.

Even behind his glasses, Montgomery's optics gleam like crimson spotlights as he tears his gaze from Sunny and lowers his nose to stare at you instead.

As soon as those eyes lock onto you with terrifying, predatory precision, you feel the blood freeze solid in your veins. His jaw is cinched shut, tighter than a vice, and his tail lashes sideways to hit the door with a loud 'clunk.'

Ignoring the shiver that races up your spine from the ice in Monty's stare, you step out from behind Sunny's shadow, nudging him away with an elbow when he tries to bustle you backwards once more.

You can understand his trepidation.

From the hunch in his shoulders to the flare of his silicon nostrils, Montgomery Gator positively oozes rage. He stalks forwards, letting the doors swing shut behind him as he goes.

At his desk, Hughie blanches, shrinking back into his seat with a whimper.

Even in spite of the tentative rapport you've build with the gator, you can't deny that your palms have begun to sweat and you feel a pit open up in your stomach, threatening to swallow your heart and what little courage it has leant you so far.

“What – ahem, uh...” You clear your throat. “What are you doing here?”

As if your words flip some sort of switch, Monty promptly stops in his tracks, aperture pupils expanding, with a few, rapid blinks.

 

'Huh….What.....am I doing here?'

 

Giving his head a quick shake to rattle his processor loose, he unwinds the tension from his jaw, stifling a groan as he realises that he hadn't come up with a damn thing to say on the way here. It hadn't seemed important to think of some excuse at the time. All he knows is that he'd stormed here at a worrying pace with his optics glued unwaveringly upon the daycare's camera feed, unable to rip his gaze away from the attendant's hands that had bunched so tightly into the back of your shirt.

You're just some cleaning lady he met yesterday. The sight shouldn't have moved him as much as it did - shouldn't have left him yearning for something he can't put a name to.

 

Now, however, he's painfully aware that your eyes are on him, curious, pinched with fright.

 

Fright...

Monty is briefly and alarmingly struck with the urge to dismantle himself.

But then, what had he expected?

He'd come thundering in here like a bull in a china shop, jaw clenched and claws primed, momentarily prepared to rip Sunnydrop's hands off you.

His temper, he realises belatedly, has been flaring just below the panel of his chest ever since he started watching that stupid camera feed.

At once, he attempts to grind his anger beneath a proverbial heel, as though he's stamping out the embers of a fire that's desperately trying to grow into a raging inferno.

Suddenly ashamed, the gator takes a small step back, putting space between you and himself once more, and he's rewarded with a tiny sigh of relief that breezes gently past your lips.

“I, uh...” he starts lamely, “I've just... come to fetch'ya.”

Taken aback, you share a curious glance with Sunnydrop. “Oh, um... Okay?” Your response is no more eloquent than his, and there's a pregnant pause that ensues, one which nobody seems willing to interrupt until you finally squeeze out a faltering, “Why?”

Your first thoughts are that of his green room, and you find yourself wondering if something has happened to it. Your heart sinks at the idea of having to clean it up again.

Monty opens his mouth to reply, but all of a sudden, he grows very still, his optics dropping to watch Sunny's hand as the appendage creeps towards you, long, spindly fingers finding the delicate flesh of your wrist and sliding around it.

You don't even recoil at the contact.

Just like that, a damn bursts inside the gator and frustration surges forth, pushing him to lower his brows into a scowl and stamp forwards again, reaching down and brusquely snatching up your opposite arm.

This time, you do recoil, almost dropping your box in the process.

Monty has to clamp his teeth together to distract himself from the resounding wail his processor emits at your attempt to escape his clutches.

“Hey!” the attendant screeches indignantly, tightening his own hold on your wrist, “Let go of my friend!”

 

…Friend...

Montgomery's visual feedback glitches at the word.

Muscling past the infuriating burst of longing that floods his system, he grinds out, “I ain't gonna hurt her, I just...” He pauses to release a hot sigh, turning softer optics onto you. “I just wanna talk...”

 

At the edge of his vision, he sees that Hughie has risen from his chair, one hand hovering nervously near his belt.

Stiffly, the gator peels his lips back and pushes a low, guttural challenge from his throat, twisting his neck around to glower at the young guard.

You follow the gator's eye and fix Hughie with a look, shaking your head minutely. “It's all right,” you call softly, addressing both the guard and the animatronics, “It's all right, we can talk.”

You'd rather the poor lad not have to pick your pieces up off the floor if Monty loses himself now.

You aren't sure what's set him off, but there are kids just minutes from walking in on the scene and you'd really prefer keep the gator calm as best you can.

“I'll go with you,” you address the enormous animatronic, giving him your best smile and hoping he doesn't notice that it wobbles precariously at the corners of your mouth.

Turning to Sunny next, your expression becomes genuine, reassuring even and you gently try to pull yourself out of his grip. “It's okay, Sun. I was about to leave anyway.”

Hidden from your ears, Moondrop growls from the shadows of his counterpart's CPU, and Sunny finds that he has to agree with the unspoken sentiment. Neither have any qualms with their fellow animatronic, but after they learned about Hunter, they are, by their own admission, a little wary on your behalf.

Outwardly, Sunnydrop protests with a low, grinding sound that sets your teeth on edge. “But-!”

'Heart rate elevated,' Moon hisses warningly. While you can slap on a cheery smile and fool the humans around you, a vigilant animatronic has sensors that won't be so easily tricked.

Lo and behold, a quick scan reveals that his darker side is correct. Your heart is thundering like a drum.

You're afraid, and he can guess as to why.

You've already established that a familiar hand on yours is all right, and has in fact worked wonders at dispelling your aversion to touch. But an unfamiliar grasp... a large hand that could crush your bones with the barest of effort – of course you'd be afraid.

And yet, your voice seems so firm and steady when you reiterate, “Sunny. It's okay. I'll swing by with Stella to see you later, yeah?”

Not even the promise of seeing the amicable youngster again can assuage his fretting, but when you take a step in Montgomery's direction, Sunny has to begrudgingly peel his fingers from your wrist, deferring to the larger animatronic with an unhappy croak. “Okay...”

Monty grunts in satisfaction and gives you a gentle tug, guiding, rather than dragging you towards the doors.

If nothing else, at least he's giving you the illusion of choice.

“I'll... see you later, Sunny.” You swivel your head about to look at the paling security guard. “Bye, Hughie.”

The boy's throat bobs as he swallows and sputters, “Uh, are you sure?”

Monty starts to scowl, but you're quicker to wave aside the guard's concern, replying, “I'm sure. I'll see you soon.”

The gator, with his hand still engulfing your wrist, shoulders open the doors and pulls you through them, only sparing you a single, backwards glance before he sets off at a brisk pace down through the daycare's entrance and out into the long hallway beyond.

For a minute or two, you merely allow him to lead you aimlessly down the corridor whilst you throw consoling smiles at several people who stop to gape at the spectacle as you speed by.

It's only once you reach the top of the lobby's escalators that you feel brave enough to speak to your impromptu guide.

Clearing your throat, you hesitantly call out, “Uh, Montgomery?”

All of a sudden, he stops dead in his tracks and you have to dig your heels into the floor to keep yourself from colliding with his rigid tail.

The gator's snout turns to look back at you over his broad shoulder and you're surprised to see that his brows have tipped up into the centre of his forehead, giving him an expression that comes dangerously close to hurt.

“Thought I told you already,” he grumbles, “Call me Monty.”

You aren't certain of how you're supposed to respond, so you lower your eyes to where his clawed fingers encircle your arm.

His grasp doesn't hurt, but there are memories that it dredges up that you'd rather avoid, of a different hand, cruel and bruising, seeking total control. You want his hand off your wrist.

You don't realise you're staring at the way his appendage utterly swallows your forearm until he gives a start and releases you as if he'd been burned, wheeling around to face you.

Gulping, you draw your box up against your chest, as if you mean to use it as a barrier between you and the animatronic.

Below you, guests have already begun to filter in through the front entrance, children and adults all milling about in the lobby or shuffling into the gift shop.

“So...” you start, rubbing at the tiny indents his claws had left in your arm, “It... must be pretty important.”

The gator draws his head back, tilting it to peer down at you quizzically. “What's important?” he asks.

Feeling a little exasperated, you helplessly throw your head back towards the doors to Sunnydrop's daycare. “Uh, you know. Whatever it is you want to talk to me about? I assumed it must be important. I mean, you looked kind of....” Trailing off, you bite down on your lip and squint dubiously up at him. “...Mad?”

You wince on the last word.

You've only known the gator for less than a day. And the episode you've just been privy to has served as a stark reminder that you hardly know the animatronic at all.

You have no idea if simply accusing him of being angry will be enough to set him off.

…

… It had been enough to set Hunter off.

Bracing yourself for the inevitable denial and furious rebuttal, you press your fingers hard into the plastic box, feeling them shake from the strain.

But Montgomery doesn't shout, doesn't even raise his voice. Instead, the gator lowers his head and rubs at the back of his neck, just below where his mohawk has been affixed.

“I uh... I wasn't mad...” he rumbles awkwardly, “Least not at you.”

For some reason, you find that hard to believe, but for the sake of keeping the peace, you dip your head in a nod and slowly reply, “Okay,” before removing one hand from the box and gesturing for him to elaborate.

But the gator quite abruptly finds himself stumped for what to say.

He didn't lie when he said he wasn't mad at you, but that doesn't mean he's willing to tell you the whole truth. That he was blinded by frustration knowing he might never have what you and the daycare attendant have. That he can't even pick apart the sensations running along his wires and it leaves him feeling like a stranger in his own endoskeleton. That you're just a human who was a little nicer to him than the rest, and he's angry with himself for being so hell-bent on seeking out your attention.

The fans in his processor click to life and whir aggressively as he wracks it for an excuse.

“I... was...” His voice box feels thick and clogged, but he presses on, knowing it's nothing but a figment of his imagination. “I was at rehearsal...”

With every minute that passes where Monty doesn't make a move against you, you feel the coil of uncertainty in your stomach go slack. “Did something happen?” you ask carefully.

You can't yet make the connection between a band rehearsal and an angry animatronic stealing you from the daycare, but you withhold your judgement for the time being.

Monty huffs, turning his snout to the side and frowning down at the lobby below. “Just met some suit. Kept tellin' us stuff we already know. Got my scales all itchy. Guess I'm just... bent outta shape 'cause of this party later...”

Oh.

Realisation hits you like a speeding truck.

Finally, you let the last of the tension bleed off your shoulders.

Of course. The party. Mounting pressure, high stakes, expectations to adhere to Fazbear's perfect standards... no wonder Montgomery seems so agitated. You'd never really considered that the animatronics, much like humans, might be susceptible to pre-show jitters.

Though it still doesn't explain why he'd come to find you, of all people.

“Was... was that the thing you needed to tell me?” you ask, a brow sliding up your forehead.

“What? Oh, no. No.”

Perhaps it's a little bold, but you can't refrain from letting out a disbelieving laugh. “Well then, you mind telling me why you felt the need to scare me and Hughie half to death by barging into the daycare like that?”

As soon as the question leaves your mouth, you wish you could stuff the words back down, although Monty doesn't seem too offended. “M'sorry,” he mumbles, so quickly and quietly that you barely hear it, “Didn't mean to scare you. Just... wanted to tell you...”

“Tell me what?” you press, leaning to the side to catch his eye.

'Good question,' he laments silently to himself. He'd love to know the exact moment when he lost his cool facade, only to have it replaced by a bumbling, irresolute mess of metal and circuitry.

He imagines it was probably around the time he was handed a glass miniature of himself.

The gift...

“I wanted to tell you...” he begins haltingly, “That the gift you got me is... uh, still in one piece?”

Frankly, if a mechanic came up and offered to offline him right now, he might seriously consider taking them up on it.

 

Blissfully unaware of how badly he wants to slap a palm across his snout, you're careful not to let your face scrunch up in confused disbelief.

The figurine? He stormed into the daycare and gave you and Hughie the fright of your lives to tell you that he hasn't broken the figurine?

You're in the middle of opening your mouth to ask him if that's it, when you catch sight of his expression. He's looking at you with his brows knitted tightly across his forehead, glasses slightly askew and his snout tucked close to his chest. For a robot, he's damned expressive. On a human, the face he's pulling would look downright anxious.

Pausing with your lips parted slightly, you reconsider your response.

While it isn't especially important to you that the glass figurine remains intact, perhaps it is important to him. Maybe your gift has become a means by which to measure his self-control - its unbroken status evidence that he'd kept his temper last night and this morning and hadn't fallen back on the habit of tearing his room apart in frustration. That he's shared this tidbit of information with you must indicate that he thinks its something worth acknowledging.

All of a sudden, you feel quite rude that you were about to dismiss his achievement.

Taking a breath, you let your mouth tilt upwards into a pleasant smile and say, “Well, all right! Good for you!”

You can tell from the sound of whirring gears that he'd expected a different answer. “I... really?” he asks.

“Yeah!” you attest with a firm nod, “You're obviously making an effort to look after it. I'm proud of you.”

 

'Oh.'

Monty's processor sputters to a clumsy halt.

'That's... new.'

He almost thinks he's seconds away from experiencing a total, system shutdown as he stares blankly ahead, deaf to everything except for the buzz between his audio receptors.

The air between you remains entirely silent, broken only by the soft murmur of guests filtering up from the lobby below. Bemused, you turn your head, regarding him at an angle. As you do, your eyes are drawn to movement behind him and you peer around his cumbersome bulk to find that his tail is swaying lazily back and forth through the air.

He doesn't even blink when you stuff your lips together in a frantic bid to hide a laugh.

Suddenly, you can't help but wonder why you'd been so wary of Montgomery Gator.

“O~kay,” you snort, “If that's everything...” You allow the sentence to trail off as you step around the gator and make for the lifts nearby, musing over how little you truly know of the animatronics that reside in the Pizzaplex. Giving your head a mystified little shake, you leave the gator standing stock-still beside the escalators.

Your week just keeps getting stranger and stranger, due in no small part to the surly animatronic behind you.

Your arms still laden with the box, you resort to jabbing the lift's button with your elbow before stepping back and waiting for the doors to slide open, and oncce they do, you shuffle inside and again bump your elbow deftly into the button for 'West Arcade.'

Giving a pleasant chime, the doors start to shut...

“Hey, lady! Wait up!”

The doors are a bare inch from closing when a large, green and purple hand shoves its way between the gap.

A proximity sensor dings and suddenly, the doors roll open once more and suddenly, the exit is blotted out by a hulking mass of machinery. Alarmed by his abrupt appearance, you shrink back into the far wall as Monty bullies his way into the lift with you, curling his tail up to accommodate the tight fit.

“Mind if I tagalong?” he asks bluntly, letting the doors slide shut behind him.

“I-I'm only going to the West wing,” you point out, feeling the lift rumble to life around you, “I don't know what you think I'll be doing, but I'm just going to be mopping up the dance floor, getting stains off the DJ.... You know. Boring stuff.” You really put the emphasis on 'boring stuff.'

Montgomery, however, doesn't seem in the least bit deterred. He lifts his chin up and scratches it with a claw, muttering, “The DJ, huh? S'been a while since me n' him've met up. He still usin' music to talk?”

Bewildered, you can do little else but nod your head dumbly, trying to piece together why in the name of god Montgomery Gator, one of the main animatronics of Fazbear's Pizzaplex, would still choose to follow a cleaning lady around instead of interacting with his adoring public.

“So, how about it?” he asks, jarring you from your musings.

Blinking rapidly, you return your attention to him and hum a wordless question. 

Monty's teeth glint ominously in the harsh lights, but his lackadaisical grin remains cool and casual as he braces a hand on his hip, cocking his leg forward. “You mind if I hang around for a bit?”

As the lift's ambient music flows through the air between you, you find yourself carefully considering your answer.

Do you mind?

You aren't sure how thorough your work will be with an animatronic alligator looming over your shoulder, and you really can't fathom as to why he's suddenly and inexplicably insisting that he follow you around the Plex.

It could well be that he's bored and is looking for something new to replace his regular routine. Maybe he does this with every employee and you're just the next in line.

You'll have to ask Mick about that too when you eventually catch up with the mechanic.

Whatever the case, the lift gradually rumbles to a halt and the doors swish open, issuing a tinny 'ding' as you squeeze past the gator and step out of the enclosed box, instantly feeling miles more comfortable in the open space of the West Arcade.

Montgomery is quick to erase what little distance you manage to create, however, stepping noisily up behind you until his imposing shadow falls over the floor, shrouding you like a blanket.

“All right, fine. I don't mind you tagging along for a while,” you tell him, turning to point a meaningful look his way, “So long as you don't mind being bored.”

A blast of air snorts out of his nostrils and hits the back of your neck, earning a low chuckle from the gator when you give a visible shudder.

“Reckon I can find ways to entertain myself,” he remarks smugly.

Letting out an unimpressed hum, you shrug off your goosebumps and retort, “Oh, I'm sure you can.”

Chapter 9: A Thrilling Connection

Summary:

Sorry if this chapter feels rushed! It would have been my late brother's 30th last Friday, and this whole week has felt a bit meh, but I still enjoyed the distraction of writing this. The next chapter gets back into the angst :D Thank you all so much if you're still reading this by the way! <3<3<3 I do read every comment, and one day I'll get around to replying haha

It would highly imprudent of you to say as much within earshot of Sunny or Moon, but you have to admit that the West Arcade is probably your favourite part of the Pizzaplex.

If you were only ten years younger, you'd have lost your mind at the sheer number of arcade machines that have been set out across several, sprawling levels, their neon lights enticing you in like sirens, promising endless hours of fun in exchange for your hard-earned pocket money.

It's a popular spot, for certain. In a few hours, it'll be full to the brim with older kids. Teenagers, mostly, with a few adults sprinkled in here and there, those who still cling desperately to their fleeting youth, looking for an easy nostalgia-fix.

However, you can't ignore that the empty arcade carries a significantly more ominous feel to it when you're alone there with an animatronic who's attitude is as mercurial as the weather.

Montgomery sticks close to your heels like a limpet as you make your way across the brightly coloured carpet. He's so close that you have to consistently resist the urge to look back at him. Sometimes, you're certain that he even lowers his snout until it hovers mere inches away from the nape of your neck, the fine hairs occasionally prickling as though they're disturbed by an almost undetectable breeze.

Vast, towering pillars stretch from the floor to a ceiling that hangs three storeys above your head, and each one has been fitted with an LED screen that cycles through pre-determined footage of the Glamrock band.

Monty eyes you closely as you stroll past one that displays a clip of him pitching a perfect swing with his nine iron. To his dismay though, you don't even give the screen a cursory glance.

Grumbling to himself, he decides to finally cut the silent tension festering between you. “So, how'd you know the DJ?”

His voice resounds far too close to your ears and you jump, pressing your lips together frantically to stop yourself from letting out a less-than appropriate word.

Monty, to your chagrin, utters a snort of amusement and draws his head back. “Jumpy lil' thing, ain't you?”

Sucking down a lungful of air, you have half a mind to tell him that it's perfectly normal for people to be skittish when they're being stalked across an empty room by a hulking, robotic reptilian, but instead, you simply roll your eyes and say, “Sorry, Monty. I forgot you were there.”

As expected, the gator reels back with an affronted grumble. “You forgot I was here?”

“I guess so, sorry,” you shrug nonchalantly, a little smug that you've managed to get under his scales, “You asked how I know Music Man?”

Adequately humbled, the animatronic quickens his pace so that he's stomping along at your side. “Hmph. Just curious if you two're pals, or what.” He immediately wishes he'd have had the forethought to modulate the bitterness in his tone.

But if you notice, you're gracious enough not to mention it.

Pausing briefly to swipe an empty can of Fizzy Faz from one of the arcade machines you pass, you hum and say, “Sure – I mean, I'd like to think we were pals, yeah. It took a while to get used to... you know.... the size of him.”

Monty can understand where you're coming from. Even by an animatronic's standards, Music Man is vast. So vast that word is, he had to be built and maintained solely in the West Arcade, his frame too large to fit through any door of the Plex.

At first glance, his size alone is enough to put any human on edge.

But, if Montgomery is known for being short-tempered and volatile, the DJ is known for being the opposite, at least by those who actually work at Fazbear's.

For such a big, powerful animatronic, Music Man is... comically docile. Monty isn't sure what they installed into his adaptive personality chip, but the DJ is even gentler than the bear most days.

“I think he got used to me as well,” you continue after a while, drawing the gator's attention from his musing, “He kept seeing me around the arcade every other day, and... I guess he just wanted to know what I was about, so... he sort of just started following me around.”

'Not unlike a certain gator,' you have to refrain from muttering out loud. “Anyway... I hope he's okay.”

The animatronic swings his head towards your voice and peers inquisitively down at you as you walk beside him, worrying at a loose piece of skin on your lip. Reaching up, he pulls his glasses down his snout and grunts, “Why wouldn't he be?”

“Well, I just... I haven't been up here since last Tuesday," you admit sheepishly, "I feel kind of bad about it. But every time I try to come up, I get stuck in on another job, and then before I know it, I've run out of time...”

Shrugging an arm, Monty scratches idly at his teeth with the sharpened tip of a claw. “Huh. You reckon he'd care that you ain't been in for a week?”

“Oh. Well... I, I guess not,” you utter quietly, leaving Monty with a hot flash of guilt in his belly.

Tapping your fingertips against the box, you round a pillar and stride towards the immense archway that will take you through to the dance hall - Music Man's stomping grounds.

“I just think he gets..." You squint at the ceiling high overhead and cast your mind around for the right word. "Lonely? I guess?” Admitting it out loud sounds strange, even to your own tongue. For all intents and purposes, the DJ is an animatronic, wires and circuits and an eclectic database of music. Logic dictates that he shouldn't even know what loneliness is.

Unbeknownst to you, Montgomery is giving you an interested look. “Lonely?” he asks, “What makes you say that?”

“Well, I mean...” You stop to blow out a sigh, shrugging helplessly. “Nobody really heads to the dance floor until late in the day, right? And there aren't any security guards posted in the West Arcade. So, like, aside from Vanessa sweeping through once or twice a night, he doesn't really see anybody. I try to come up as often as I can-”

Of its own volition, Monty's jaw tightens.

“-but this week has just been so hectic. I haven't had time to come and do the rounds.”

The pair of you trundle through the archway that takes you both into the dance hall and at once, your eyes fall on the cavernous stage that stands against the room's western wall, though you're a little surprised to find the space empty, devoid of any giant, arachnoid DJs.

“Huh,” you remark, strolling up to the stage and finally dumping your box of products on the edge, “Guess he's recharging, or something.”

Monty stalks past you and does a quick sweep of the room as well, eventually turning to face you with a shrug of his enormous, purple shoulder fixtures. "Guess so."

“God, look at this mess...” Clicking your tongue, you stretch your arms high above your head and let them flop back down to your sides. A vivid, sticky substance has been spilled all over the front of the stage, leaving long, orange streaks smeared across the linoleum in great swathes that you suspect will be a nightmare to wash off.

You've cleaned up enough similar stains to recognise the culprit at a glance, and in an icy breath, you hiss, “Fizzy Faz.”

Montgomery leans himself up against the stage and watches on with an amused smirk as you snatch a cloth and some spray from your box, muttering to yourself under your breath as you go. “They're told. They're told a thousand times. No drinks on the dance floor!”

“Need some help?” Monty calls over your rambling, but you're quick to brush his offer aside.

“No, no thanks. I can manage.”

Drenching the rag in cleaner, you slap it down on the stain and begin to scrub, hard, leaning your shoulder into it and grunting softly with the exertion. You really should have made the time to come up here sooner. This stain appears a couple of days old, at least.

You're so focused on the Fizzy Faz, that you don't notice the floor beneath you has begun to tremble.

Minutely, at first, hardly more than a quiver below your feet.

Monty does notice though, and his head snaps up to stare into the gloom of the deep, dark tunnel that sits innocuously on a wall looking out over the dance hall. You pause, glancing up at the gator when he pushes himself off the stage and moves to stand beside you, his optics trained unblinkingly on the tunnel.

As the thumping grows more prominent, Monty's arm slowly raises to hover in front of you in a gesture that raises your brow. He's guarding you.

That's when you hear the music.

A deep, throbbing bass starts to pulse through the walls, spilling out over the dance hall until it thrums like a deafening heart beat in your ears and chest.

All of a sudden, a colossal figure lurches out of the darkness, scuttling from the mouth of the tunnel on six, spider-like limbs, each one as long as a bus with monstrously vast hands connected to their tips. A wide, cuboid head swings down and you feel the prickle of the animatronic's eyes boring into you. Black as pitch and glittering with the reflection of neon lights. They never blink, they never change, and they remain adhered to you as the infamous DJ of the Pizzaplex hauls his rounded abdomen out of the tunnel and crawls down the wall, thumping towards you and Montgomery, who, to your further astonishment, takes a decisive step in front of you.

“Music Man!” you chuckle nervously, “Hey! Long time, no -”

You're cut off when the music blasting from his internal speakers hits a crescendo and a woman's voice suddenly begins to pour out of his motionless, piano-key mouth, lyrics to a song he's splicing together on the go. “~ where have you been? ~” the voice sings shrilly, crashing over the room like a tidal wave, '~ cause I never see you out! Are you hiding from me, somewhere in the crowd? ~'

You wince at the volume and take a tentative step back, holding your hands up like you're trying to keep a wild beast at bay. “I know! I know!” you call out, shying a step or two behind the bridling gator, “I'm sorry! I should have come up sooner.”

A burst of static and the song changes abruptly, this time to the tail end of an all too familiar chorus. '~ -into my life, I missed you so bad! I missed you so, so bad!~'

Dropping your head, you look at the ground and rub a hand guiltily over the back of your neck. There would have been a time when you could barely stand to be around the DJ and he'd have to coax you into his dance hall with friendly waves and gentle songs. Now, you know better. This is Music Man, you remind yourself sternly. And while he is a giant, especially when he's looming above you with his head alone casting a long shadow over both you and Montgomery, you know you'd be in more danger from a newborn kitten.

You trust him.

As unorthodox as it seems, Music Man, despite his size, is about as gentle as a lamb. He might have screeched some poignant song lyrics at you, but you'd be doing him a disservice if you ever thought he'd actually hurt you, or anybody for that matter. That being said, you've never gone an entire week without seeing him.... But you'd never have guessed that your absence would be this noticeable.

“I'm sorry,” you say again, tucking your chin down until it nearly brushes your chest.

The vast animatronic seems to recoil a little at your apology, the volume of his music lowering to something far more sociable.

But this goes unnoticed by Montgomery, who glances over his shoulder, his optics drinking in the sight of your tiny, cowering form before they swivel around to glare icily at Music Man.

“Back up, DJ!” he snaps, arching his tail and puffing himself up, “The little lady said she's sorry!”

His eyes flash dangerously when he's ignored, but Music Man seems far too busy staring down at you as if Monty doesn't even exist, hunkering onto his forelegs until his vast chin rests on the floor. From the speakers built behind his piano-key teeth, another few lyrics spew forth, far quieter this time. '~I feel so ashamed, I snapped~'

“You listenin' to me?” Monty growls, taking a step backwards and letting his tail curl gingerly around your legs.

“Monty-” Your voice filters into his audials, small and weak. “-It's all right.”

“No! It ain't!” he huffs, swinging his snout around to glower at you. “He shouldn't be throwin' his weight around, scarin' you just 'cause he's bigger than you! And... and he's stronger... and....”

The gator's voice box cuts out with a click. 'Damn,' he huffs softly to himself, struck dumb by his own hypocrisy, 'Talk about the pot callin' the kettle black.'

Music Man emits a strange warble from his speakers and one of his gloved hands slides across the ground towards you.

Your delicate fingers touch Monty's clenched fist and you step around the gator, peeking timidly at Music Man as you venture a little closer to his face. “You don't have to apologise,” you tell him, “I'm the one who's sorry."

Montgomery stares, his toothy jaws grinding together as you reach your fingers out and press them lightly against the DJ's smooth, pale cheek. “You have every right to be angry-”

At once, one of Music Man's hands raises and waves frantically from side to side and a chorus of 'No's' ring out of his speaker, spliced together from various, different songs.

'~ not ~ angry!~' he 'says,' cycling through another tune before he finds the right words, '~ the fear in me just won't go away. In an instant, you were gone~'

“You're... not angry?” you breathe, and Monty has to commend you for managing to keep up with the DJ's unique method of communication.

Music Man gives his head the tiniest shake, mindful that your hand is still on him.

Chewing on your lip for another second, you guess, “You were worried. You didn't know where I'd gone... did you?”

An enormous fingertip lifts off the floor to gently nudge you in the stomach and an old song begins to play from his speakers, one from before your time, but one you recognise all the same. '~ if anything happened to you ~ I'd be so alone and blue ~ I don't know what I would do~'

At last, your face relaxes into a fond smile. “Ella Fitzgerald,” you laugh softly, “You really are a big softie, aren't you?”

The giant animatronic raises his chin off the ground and proudly beeps out a single tone, a well-established signal that means 'yes.'

He vibrates happily when you utter another laugh of relief and give his face a gentle pat, withdrawing your hand and stepping back to Montgomery's side.

“Guess this means you're forgiven,” the gator remarks, raising a brow at you.

Pursing your lips as the DJ emits another loud beep, you throw him a wink and reply, “Looks like it.”

Finally, Music Man lifts himself upright again and twists his large head towards Monty curiously.

“Hey, DJ...” he mutters, scratching at the panel on his chest and avoiding the ink-black stare. “Sorry 'bout snappin' at you earlier... Weren't cool.”

As he speaks, you move off and begin to slowly circle the arachnoid animatronic, roving a critical eye up and down his bulk in search of anything untoward.

In response to the gator, Music Man simply dismisses the apology with a flap if his huge, gloved hand.

The pair of them tilt their heads down to look at you when you complete a circuit of the DJ and come to stand beside Montgomery again.

“Well. I can't see anything out of place,” you announce, planting your hands on your hips, “But you've got a better idea than me, Music Man. Anything you need me to take a look at?”

Perking up, the DJ nods his head quickly and shuffles around until he's pointing his toothy smile at the stage.

“The Fizzy Faz?” you ask, quirking your brow, “I meant do you have anything on you? Spills? Stains? I'll get to the stage later.”

But the DJ shakes his head and utters a pair of tones in rapid succession, raising himself higher off the ground and releasing a series of mechanical whirs and clicks that echo down the tunnel behind his stage before fading into an eerie silence.

Once again, Monty hears the sound before you do. He cocks his head abruptly to listen to the small, clinking patter of footsteps that venture closer, emerging from the darkness.

A few seconds later, and you can make out the sound as well.

You let out a soft 'oh,' of recognition when a tiny shape scuttles from the shadows and clacks its way towards you on six, spindly legs.

“Triple M!” you beam, placing your hands invitingly down on the stage, palms tipped towards the ceiling. Behind you, Music Man greets the little animatronic with a happy trill from his speakers, but Monty grunts in confusion and steps up beside you, peering down at a miniature version of the DJ, who is, in turn, peering up at you through pitch-black eyes.

“Triple M?” he asks as the tiny thing scurries into your offered palms.

It turns its head to the gator, regarding him for a moment before it brings a pair of cymbals together with a tinkling clash.

Lifting it up towards your face, you look it over as you elaborate, “Mini Music Man! He's some kind of wind-up animatronic, I think. Like a little, portable speaker.” You pause then, and your brows furrow until they almost meet in the centre of your forehead. Turning around to sit on the edge of the stage, you give the animatronic a stern look, adding, “And he's absolutely filthy!”

As you set his smaller counterpart down in your lap, Music Man beeps once, nodding his head solemnly and uses a finger to push your box closer when you reach for it.

Beside you, Monty's black, plastic brows raise bemusedly as he watches you interrogate the little bot.

“Look at the state of you! You've been in the vents again, haven't you?”

In spite of its fixed expression, it somehow manages to look thoroughly chastised by dropping its head and lowering the cymbals until they sit against your thigh.

Picking up a fluffy, feather duster, you begin to carefully sweep it up and down the animatronic's body, wiping away dust and cobwebs from its plastic frame.

Montgomery is almost impressed that it allows the treatment so easily, as if this is no more than a routine occurrence.

“Honestly, I tell you until I'm blue in the face...” you huff, though not unkindly, “What happens if you break down the vents, huh? Who's gonna come and get you? Music Man's too big!”

The aforementioned DJ emits another doleful tone and wags his finger at the miniature, who turns around in your lap and chitters noisily at him, pointing at you with one of its cymbals.

“Heh,” Monty chuckles, “Guess it thinks you get the honour.”

“I mean, obviously I would,” you concede, drawing the duster through its many legs, “But I certainly won't be happy about it.”

The animatronics all laugh in their own, unconventional ways, chittering, beeping rapidly or simulating a throaty chuckle in their voice box.

After using your nail to scrape a stubborn speck of grime off its face, you set the little music man down on the stage next to you. “There. Good as new.”

The spidery bot takes a moment to look itself over, lifting each of its legs and inspecting them closely, swivelling its head around to check its backside before it whirls to face you again, bringing its cymbals together in a loud, satisfied clash.

“Happy to help, you little troublemaker,” you chide it lightly, pushing yourself off the stage and hopping to the ground with a huff. “Right. Music Man-”

The DJ snaps to attention, gazing down at you expectantly.

“-Are there any other problems? Besides, Triple M over here.”

He swings his massive head from side to side and pushes out two, negative tones from his speaker.

“Excellent.” You clap your hands firmly and cast a quick glance around the dance hall. “I'll get that stain off your stage then. You mind grabbing the spare broom from storage? I might as well polish up this dance floor as well, while I'm here.”

You ask for his help more for his benefit than your own.

You'd done your best to ignore the bot during your initial weeks at the company. Had you known then what you know about him now, you never would have been quite so cold.

He'd bring you things.

The assortment seemed entirely random at the time – the wrapper of a chocolate bar, a half-empty can of Fizzy Faz, some coins that had been left on one of the arcade machines after the Pizzaplex closed.

At first, you hadn't known what to do with the 'gifts.' It was all just pieces of rubbish. Rubbish that you would be clearing up anyway.

And then, it had hit you.

It seemed so obvious, in hindsight.

He was trying to help you.

After that, whenever he dropped an empty wrapper in your hands, you made sure to offer him a smile – albeit a shaky one – and thank him. You never knew an expressionless animatronic could look so happy. A merry jingle would belt out of his speakers and he would immediately scuttle away to seek out more rubbish.

You quickly learned that asking him to fetch you something specific would garner you a very motivating selection of upbeat songs that made cleaning that much more entertaining.

It seems nothing has changed with time.

 

One of the DJ's hands flies up to give you a salute and he swings his hefty body around, taking a few steps towards the supply closet beside the arcade bathrooms where he knows a spare broom is always kept.

However, he doesn't even make past the stage before he's called to a stop by a gruff, commanding voice.

“Hold up, now! I'll getch'ya that broom!”

Music Man gives a slight start as Montgomery promptly saunters past him, his tail held in a proud arch and his snout raised high in the air.

The DJ sinks on his legs, watching his fellow animatronic stalk away to find your broom before he twists to face you again and notices that you're staring after Monty as well, your expression twisted up in confusion. After a moment however, you lift your arms into a shrug and move back towards the stage, grabbing up your discarded cloth once more and thwacking it on top of the Fizzy Faz stain.

“Don't worry, big guy,” you tell him as he lumbers over to you and thumps himself down in the middle of the dance floor, propping his chin on an enormous hand with a mechanical whuff, “I'm sure I'll need something else fetching before I leave.”

Mini Music Man scampers down the side of the stage and settles near your feet, content to watch you sway to and fro as you scrub roughly at the vinyl wood.

----

By the time Monty returns with a broom held out in front of him like he's showing off a trophy, you've managed to lift the stain entirely, leaving behind no trace except for the distinct twang of bleach in the air.

“Here you go, lady!” the gator announces, thrusting the broom towards you eagerly.

You can't help the laugh that jumps out of you, amused by his enthusiasm. “Thanks,” you offer politely, grasping the wooden handle and turning from him to step over Mini Music Man to head for the dance floor's outer edge.

There's a barely-there layer of dust that has settled on the vinyl over the course of the night, hardly a concern, but given that Mick was having conniptions last night about the exec kid's party, you'd rather not risk leaving the dance floor unswept, especially if they've booked it out for the afternoon.

“DJ?” you call, pausing to let him lift his head attentively, “Gonna need you to hop up on your stage for a bit.”

He whistles a jaunty series of notes and hauls himself to his feet again, plodding heavily up onto the stage before he swivels about and slumps onto his stomach once more, letting his fingers curl over the ledge. His miniature counterpart scuttles up the side, traversing the vinyl with ease thanks to the suction cups attached to its many legs. It too settles itself down next to Music Man, its head twitching to observe you whilst you begin to push your broom across the floor.

From the corner of an eye, you spot Monty hoisting himself up to sit on the stage edge as well, and you're acutely aware of his optics burning a hole into the side of your head.

You toss him a quizzical glance as you sweep, but the moment your eyes meet his, he tilts his head down to peer at you over his sunglasses, one eyelid clicking shut and springing open again.

A recognisable wink.

“Hmph, stop it,” you scold him lightly, turning your focus back to the task ahead. You ought to have known he would be too proud to look away once you challenged him.

Sinking back onto his palms, Monty smirks, entirely too pleased with himself.

And so it goes.

The DJ rests comfortably on stage and pumps out some deep, gentle bass, his vast head lazed on top of his folded hands. Each animatronic is seemingly content to watch the motion of your broom as you tread steadily across the room, methodical in your steps and an easy, practiced grace with each sweep of your brush.

It's.... peaceful? The word is so foreign in Monty's processor.

Little by little, he feels himself sink into an unfamiliar state. Tranquil. Calm.

The agitation from the daycare is slowly brushed away like the dust carpeting the dance floor.

Time is whittled down in comfortable quiet for a while.

This is an overdue moment for him, to do something as simple as sit in the presence of a metal giant, a wind-up toy and a cleaning lady who tolerates his proximity in spite of his reputation. It's the calm before the inevitable whirlwind of excited children and suspicious adults. Montgomery loves the life of a rockstar. But he finds he doesn't mind this either – whatever this is.

 

His heel taps idly against the side of the stage as he regards you, his brows furrowed, deep in thought.

Should he talk to you?

He should talk to you...

But what if you don't want to talk while you work?

Why is a gator who is so typically fond of the sound of his own voice suddenly struggling to conjure up a conversation?

A deep rattle builds in his voice box. “So, uh...” Monty starts, hesitating when you jump and your head turns slightly to look over at him. Clasping his hand around the side of his neck, he gives the casing there an awkward rub and continues, “You... er... you like workin' at the Pizzaplex?”

Admittedly, he could have been a little more creative with his line of inquiry.

You stop sweeping for a moment, and even Music Man tilts his head sideways to observe the gator from the corner of a beady, black eye.

Letting out a snort, you shake your head and resume piling up a little mound of dirt in the centre of the dance floor, responding, “What? Are you compiling an employee satisfaction survey?”

“Hmph. Oh, sure,” he drawls, reaching up to smoothly remove his glasses and resting them in his lap, “Fazbear's has us conduct 'em on the regular, 'cause, you know, we're secretly spyin' on the staff.”

He's relieved that you pick up on his sarcasm and bark out a laugh.

“Ha! Because our employers care so much about employee feedback.”

The two, musically-inclined animatronics flick their attention between you and Monty as you both share an amused chuckle for a second before petering out into silence once more.

“Heh... Ahem." Clearing his throat, the gator juts his chin at you. "So...?"

You take some time before you answer, brushing another section of dirt towards the ever-growing pile. After a minute, you give a mental shrug and say, “I like it just fine, I suppose. The pay is pretty rotten, but that's about standard when you're a cleaner. Qualifications or no.”

“Mmm, heavy,” he grimaces sympathetically. He knows next to nothing about the hows and whys of human currency. All he knows is that the more money they have, the better their lives seem to be.

He begins to wonder if your life is bad, then, considering that you sound quite jaded about your own salary.

Before he can pry though, you heave a sigh and carry on.

“But, I can't really complain. I like my colleagues. Andy's a good friend, and I get free pizza every day.” Lowering your voice, you mumble, “And it's nice to have my own money, for once.”

Perhaps you hadn't really meant to say it quite so bitterly, or perhaps you hadn't thought Montgomery's audial receptors were within earshot, which explains why you freeze mid-step when the animatronic cocks his head and gives you a funny look, asking, “Your own money? What d'you mean?”

Your hesitation is brief, so brief that a human might have missed it. But Monty doesn't. Neither, apparently, does Music Man, who raises his head and beeps in interest.

“Oh, I... Bah, don't worry about it,” you eloquently deflect, adding, “Point is, I'm happy enough here! And besides, I'm pretty sure Sunny'd have kittens if I tried to leave anyway.”

You laugh loudly, and Monty is so adequately distracted by your odd turn-of-phrase that he doesn't hear the strained catch in your throat. He turns to the DJ, screwing an optic shut and muttering, “Kittens?”

But Music Man simply lifts his central pair of arms into a shrug.

“It's a saying, Monty,” you explain, eager to move the conversation along, “I don't actually believe an animatronic can have kittens.”

Huffing between his teeth, the gator turns his snout to one side and replaces his sunglasses, sniffing, “Duh. I know it's a phrase.”

You share a knowing look with Music Man and purse your lips to conceal a grin. “I'm sure.”

After another minute or two, you exhale roughly and your sweeping finally slows to a halt. When Monty finally glances over to you, he sees that a considerable pile of dust has been collected into the middle of the dance floor, and you're standing over it, flexing your fingers and leaning heavily against the broom.

“So,” you ask, throwing your eyes over to him, “How do you like working – well, living – at the Plex?”

Montgomery's head slowly twists sideways,

It seems so odd, how it has never occurred to him before now that this is the first time a human has asked him that question?

 

It hardly feels fair when his answer is suddenly stolen by a loud chime that bursts from your watch.

Music Man and the little animatronic beside him don't react to the noise, but you do, jumping to attention and glancing at the watch on your wrist.

“Already?” you mutter to yourself in disbelief.

Monty pulls up his internal clock and checks the time. '12:00pm.'

Letting the broom fall with harmlessly to the floor with a clatter, you amble over to your box that sits beside him and begin to sift through it. From underneath the bottles and cloths, you produce a small, portable vacuum cleaner and sigh, “Oh, I hope this thing still has some charge.”

Curious as to what your hurry is, the gator pushes himself off the stage, smirking as you bend down and flick the switch on your tiny vacuum, which thankfully hums to life.

“What's the rush?” he asks, stopping next to you.

Hunched over the dirt, you speedily move your vacuum through it, satisfied when it's all sucked up into the machine. “Well,” you huff, flicking it off and pushing yourself to your feet again, “The Plex a big place, Monty, and so far, I've only covered like, two areas. So, if I want to have a lunch break, I need to pull my finger out. I've still got the bathrooms to re-stock, the Jazzercise maze to sanitise, the -”

“-Sheesh, this cat's all work, no play,” the gator huffs in amusement, cutting you off neatly before he twists his nose around to peer up at the DJ, “Huh, big man?”

Giving his head a grave nod, Music Man agrees with a burst of song. '~ working day to day, for little money ~ just tips for pay!~'

“You think I get tips?” you retort, tutting at the pair of them and turning towards your broom, “And it makes sense that I'm all work, considering I'm at work...”

With a playful rumble, Monty places his foot down on top of the handle just as you reach for it, and without warning, he kicks it hard, sending it skidding off to smack noisily against the stage.

Subjecting the gator to a heated glare, you gesture after the discarded broom and indignantly squawk, “Now what the heck was that for!?”

“You know Thriller?” he asks, taking a step back and rolling his shoulders.

“I'm starting to wish I didn't.”

His smirk shows off far too many gleaming fangs. “C'mon, I'll show you.”

Throwing your arms across your chest, you protest, “Monty, I don't have time-”

“Hey, DJ,” he interrupts you and turns back to Music Man, “You wanna help me out here, or what?”

The enormous animatronic can't grin, but you can feel the aura of mischievous glee surrounding him when he looks at you and lurches up to his feet, raising one hand to the headphones sitting on his head.

“Music Man!” you shout, unable to keep the humour from your voice at the sheer absurdity of the situation.

To your dismay, the enormous animatronic just shrugs, and suddenly, any argument you might have made is drowned out when the first, blaring notes of a synthesizer scream through the hall, shuddering the dance floor below your feet until you can feel the drum in your chest.

“NO! Oh my god, you are so eighties!” You cover your face with a hand, peeking through your fingers at Monty as he bends his knees and flicks his sunglasses higher up onto his face, “There are cameras in here!”

“So what!?” he shouts over the music and stands up ramrod straight, then flings his hands over his head and claps them together on the beat, “I'm used to an audience!”

A laugh is out before you can swallow it back down. “This is ridiculous.” You pause for the gator to raise his right shoulder and jerk his head quickly towards it. “You're ridiculous,” you attest.

“Ha! I've been called worse, sweetheart! Now, come on!” he encourages you as the crescendo builds and Music Man starts to stamp his feet in anticipation for a drop, adding to the thumping that you can no longer distinguish from your own heartbeat.

“Sorry, Monty!” Flapping your hands dismissively at the animatronic, you spin on a heel and start to flee towards your box of supplies. “I'm not dancing, I'm going!”

You don't make it far before a strong, solid hand lashes out and utterly engulfs yours, stopping you in your tracks. You open your mouth to release a yelp, but the air is ripped out of your lungs and you suddenly find yourself spun back towards the gator, who releases your hand at once and you stagger to a halt just millimetres from crashing into his broad chest.

Monty laughs, loud and raucous as you throw your neck back to blow an exasperated groan from your throat. “What's the matter, lady!?” he bellows, splaying out his claws and swinging his arms from left to right, an all too familiar move that you didn't think you'd ever see outside of a disco, “Don't you know how to have fun?!”

Suddenly indignant, you inhale sharply through your nose and make to turn away again, but you're given pause once his question actually hits you.

When was the last time you had fun?

Real, silly, shameless fun. Dancing with your friends to awful remixes of good songs and throwing your body into dance moves that could have taken someone's eye out if you were especially unlucky.

You feel your heart give a little squeeze when you think upon it and find that you can't really remember.

You used to have fun, but you haven't for a long, long time, not since before you met Hunter.

He staved you off it, convinced you that you didn't need to go out with your friends, because you had him.

You thought you'd left him behind all those months ago when you came to this strange, new city, but as you think a little more, you start to realise that you haven't really left all of him behind, far from it.

You haven't been out once. Not for a drink, not to see a movie at the cinema, not for anything.

He kept you from fun for so long, and now you've been keeping yourself from it, chained by habit, a prisoner to insecurity.

He always said you couldn't dance anyway....

 

A rebellious little flash of fire ignites in your belly and you blink, surprised at its appearance.

“Hey!”

You glance up. You hadn't even realised you'd been frowning at the floor. Montgomery Gator still has his jaws parted in an encouraging grin and his arms are held as if he's playing his famous bass guitar as he swings his hips around in long, sweeping circles. The movements are eerily fluid, and for just a second, you almost forget that you're looking at an animatronic at all.

The song is loud and brash, and Mini Music Man is clashing his cymbals along with the beat, Music Man waves at you encouragingly and Monty pauses just long enough to extend a hand out towards you, an open invitation.

Swallowing past your dry throat, you gingerly begin to stretch your fingers across the gap between you and the gator, teetering on the precipice of uncertainty. You feel something strange roll over you then, like a dark shadow, and it takes an almighty effort to squash the sensation down and tell yourself firmly that nobody will punish you if you happen to dance with a friend.

Finally, your fingers bridge the gap. They slip over Monty's metallic palm, and with infinite gentleness, he curls his hand around yours, tilting his chin back to beam proudly down at you from behind his star-shaped sunglasses.

“Well, hey!” he exclaims as he raises your arm up and places your hand on his shoulder, as if he's about to lead you into a waltz, “How 'bout that? It looks good on you!”

Exasperated, baffled but amused, you raise a brow up at him and call above the chorus, “What looks good?”

In response, Monty's head ticks to the side and he lifts his free hand and points at his mouth. “Now that's a proper smile! Ha!"

You instantly become aware of a strange, unfamiliar ache in your cheeks. Have you been smiling?

It seems inevitable, somehow, that just as you should break free of a shackle of your own making, something should come along to force it back around your soul.

 

“MISS Y/N!”

 

The music cuts out like a record scratch and your heart topples down into your stomach, dread and panic stealing your breath in equal measure as you rip yourself away from the animatronic. and wheel about and find none other than the mechanics' manager, Mick, storming a path towards you, his cheeks puffed out and ruddy from the blood rushing up to pool inside them.

Through the ringing in your ears, you're dimly aware that Montgomery has begun to growl deep in his throat.

From the corner of your eye, you watch Music Man slink backwards into the shadows of his stage as the man approaches, cowed by the presence of a human who only interacts with him when something has gone wrong. Mini Music Man scurries out of sight as well, until only you, Mick and Montgomery remain.

“I've got a VIP arriving in a few hours, I'm racing up and down this place trying to find one of our main acts, and you're in here having a fucking dance party with it!”

Montgomery doesn't react to the vulgar word, but when the man jabs a finger in your face, he snaps his teeth in agitation, drawing himself up and lashing his tail out behind him. But the gator's posturing goes ignored by Mick, who continues to glare hotly at you.

Beyond mortified, you croak, “Mick... We – we were just-”

“-Ah ah! Save it! I don't even want to hear it!” he shouts in a hysterical laugh, "I know you needed its help to carry some of your equipment last night. But that was not an invitation for you to commandeer Monty whenever you need it to lug something for you!"

All of a sudden, he throws out a hand – a simple enough action meant solely to convey his frustration with you. You know that. But you can't stop your muscle memory from kicking in at that moment, sending you cringing away from him and raising your shoulders as if you could hide behind them.

It happens in a blink.

One moment, you're staring Mick in the face, and the next, your view is obstructed by a green, bristling torso.

“With all due respect, sir, I'm afraid you're mistaken.”

Startled, Mick promptly backs up several feet, sputtering, “I'm – you're – What?”

Something hard bumps gently into your calf and you spare a quick, dazed glance down, bewildered by the sight of the gator's tail curling protectively around your legs.

Coolly, Monty reiterates, “This little lady was just doin' her job. I followed her up here. Wanted to thank her for cleanin' up my room yesterday.”

You nearly drop your jaw on the ground as you stare, bug-eyed up at Monty's raised hackles.

He's... covering for you? Montgomery Gator? With your mouth still agape, you briefly consider pinching yourself to check whether or not you're dreaming.

Peeking around his torso, you can see that Mick has lost just about all of the redness from his face. In fact, now he seems quite pale, and getting paler still as the animatronic stares him down.

The mechanic's hand has fallen to his belt where the electric prod lays in wait. Without taking his eye off the gator, he manages to blurt out, “But – but she -”

“-She ain't done nothin' wrong." At once, Monty parts his jaw and issues a dangerous growl that rumbles up from somewhere deep inside his hollow chest. "She wanted to leave n' do her job. But I wouldn't let her. F'you're itchin' to lay the blame down on someone, you blame me.”

The gator's hands begin to twitch, a motion that doesn't go unnoticed by Mick. Slowly, the man's brows dip into a heated scowl. “Don't you start getting aggressive with me, Monty,” he seethes, and you feel the tip of a metal tail curl fractionally tighter around your ankle.

“Just tellin' it like it happened, chief,” Monty answers carefully.

Mick's face begins to grow red again, so quickly that you're sure he must be mere seconds away from passing out.

Eventually though, he heaves a rough breath and licks the sweat off his upper lip, pointing at you, hidden as you are behind Montgomery's bulk.

“You're lucky I'm not going to write you up for this! But you'll owe me, doll. Big time.”

It wounds you to bow your head to him, but you do it anyway, hating the implications of owing him anything. He jabs his thumb over a shoulder. “Just, get back to work. And as for you-!”

He swivels his finger up to the gator's snout. “- You get down to your green room and you stay in there until this party is done. Am I clear?”

There's a gut-wrenching moment where you're convinced that Mick is about to lose a finger, but just like that, Monty bobs his chin down into a nod and grumbles, “Yessir.”

He spares you one more glance over his shoulder, a question burning in his optics. You're just glad that the mechanic can't see you mouth the words, 'thank you,' at your unorthodox saviour.

One corner of Monty's rigid jaw lifts slightly, but another loud cough from Mick has him turning back towards the exit and stomping past the man, just barely brushing him with a sharp, metal elbow.

With your buffer now leaving, you decide that you aren't about to stick around and hear a lecture, so you spin about and start to stride towards the stage, more than ready to retrieve your supplies and escape.

“Y/n?” Mick's clammy hand suddenly grabs your shoulder just a little too roughly. Apparently, without Monty there to act as a deterrent, the man has grown more bold. Tugging you around to face him again, he scowls at you for several, terse seconds before all of a sudden, his expression shifts, and he gives you a smile that's borderline pitying.

“You know I didn't want to shout at you...”

With your tongue feeling like it's been coated with lead, you can only offer him a stiff nod.

“You just... you worried me, that's all. You're a smart girl. You know Monty's dangerous around the staff.”

...Is he?

It seems that the things you've been hearing and what you've actually witnessed firsthand simply aren't marrying up. 

You grit your teeth, blunted nails digging little crescents into the palms of your hands.

You hear a lot of things in your line of work.

Every company has its rumour-mill, none more so than Fazbear's. And regardless of how hard management tries to crack down on gossip and hearsay, secrets still spring to the surface.

Most of what you hear, you dismiss. It's above your pay-grade, after all, to know which of the financial officers are embezzling funds, or that the director is miserable in her marriage but finds temporary happiness for the night with one of the newer hires who thinks they can sleep their way up the corporate ladder.

Perhaps if you were a little younger and a little less cynical, you'd have already spoken up. But who in the world would take your word seriously? People simply don't listen to a disillusioned cleaning lady who works for minimum wage.

So, you disregard the rumours.

Even the ones you hear about the animatronics.

Sometimes, you catch snippets of conversation spoken in hushed whispers between the mechanics. '-definitely didn't program them to do that-' is among the most popular rumours, right alongside, 'You heard about that missing kid?'

Those rumours are harder to ignore. They tend to stay with you even after you clock out and go home for the night.

You've heard that Monty is dangerous, but aside from being subject to his bad attitude, you've never actually seen him hurt anyone.

Do the mechanics single him out because they know he's dangerous, or because they themselves had heard rumours that he's dangerous?

You very nearly ask Mick if Monty's really as aggressive as he seems to think he is, but you manage to keep your mouth sealed firmly shut, given that the animatronic had just drawn the heat away from you and had quite possibly saved your job, and besides, Mick has already told you he doesn't plan to write you up, and you really don't want to push your luck, not today, at least.

The muscles in your face tighten and you brusquely shrug the man's hand off your shoulder, offering a curt nod as recompense for the act.

Short of raising an eyebrow, Mick doesn't follow you to the stage, though you can feel his eyes on your back as you sweep together all the bottles and cloths you'd used for the stain, dumping them straight into the plastic box and heaving the whole load up into your arms. Even in your haste to leave, you don't forget to retrieve the broom from the floor, balancing your armful on a hip and bending over to pick up the discarded brush, all the while praying that Mick has turned his gaze elsewhere whilst you lean down.

Without sparing the man a backwards glance, you tip your chin up in some, vain attempt to appear unaffected, and march straight off the dance floor, ready to throw yourself into your job, if only to distract yourself from thinking too hard on the enigma of Montgomery Gator.

Notes:

Lyrics used from songs, in order:

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HBxt_v0WF6Y - Where have you been? Rihanna
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fWNaR-rxAic - Call me Maybe, Carly Rae Jepsen
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uelHwf8o7_U - Love the way you lie, Eminem, ft. Rihanna
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gar_K-S-BmE - I'm scared, Duffy
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8ASof6gGU2M - If anything happened to you, Ella Fitzgerald
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tuUEpbGVV2Y - She works hard for the money, Donna Summer

Chapter 10: Pang-of-Conscience

Summary:

An unstoppable force meets an immovable object, and one of them has to flinch first...

Notes:

If you guys want to check out my TikTok where I've posted a bit of Monty fan art from this fic, you can find me @ scaring_crows
Or you can find the art at the following link: https://imagine-darksiders.tumblr.com/post/675935430839042048/some-doodles-from-my-ao3-fic-on-the-ropes

MY GOD, I'm at like 46,000 reads! You are all so kind and good to me with all your lovely comments. I must get around to replying to them. Anyway, next chapter will feature more Freddy and Reader interaction, and Reader helps Monty with some unwitting damage control.

The cold, lonely silence of Monty's show room greets him with little fanfare as he stomps through the sliding door and lets it fall shut behind him with a loud and decisive thud.

Blinking slowly, the gator swivels his head from side to side like a periscope, casting a doleful optic over his room and taking in the lack of mess with a newfound appreciation. An idle glance at the wall shows him that someone has been in to replace the mirror you'd painstakingly cleaned out of his carpet yesterday, and now his reflection is looking back at him from behind dark, impenetrable sunglasses, watching him in silent judgement.

He can't even summon the effort to snarl at himself.

The chair at his vanity beckons though, and with a puff of air through his pipes, he hauls his heavy frame over to the desk and sinks down into his seat, his pneumatic actuators giving a low hiss of relief.

Idly, he pulls up his charge level, only slightly surprised that it's still holding strong at fifty-seven percent. Enough to see him through this meet and greet, and into the evening – enough that he probably shouldn't be feeling so weary.

Leaning forwards, he places his elbows on the desk and reaches up to pinch the frame of his sunglasses between a pair of careful claws, drawing them slowly from his snout and peering at his reflection unobstructed.

How many hours has he spent in front of this mirror, fussing over the shine of his teeth or the immaculacy of his mohawk? How often has he wanted to put his fist straight through it because he knows that while he can gussy himself up all he likes, it still won't change a damn thing.

Oh, he can polish his glasses and practice his smile until it's as friendly as he can make it, but that won't alter the fact that the casing they slapped over his endoskeleton is unyielding and stiff – robotic – sealing him to an existence of being nobody else except Montgomery the Monstrous.

He's metal and plastic. No amount of preening can change that.

He isn't blind to the way Mick had looked at him in the West Arcade, like he thought Monty was going to hurt him, like he thought Monty was going to hurt you.

The animatronic's snout twists into a scowl and he glares harder at his reflection, feeling the strain of his jaws as they clamp together with tremendous force that could put a real alligator to shame.

Sometimes it feels so.... insurmountable, this unwarranted sentience he's been saddled with.

If he does something bad, he's punished, if he tries to do something right, he's punished, even if he's done nothing wrong at all, he's the one who has to face the repercussions. He only wanted to put a smile on the face of a woman who was good to him, and somehow, that's a crime in and of itself...

A sudden warning pops up in his field of vision and he blinks, flicking his attention towards it.

It's a pressure alert, letting him know that the motors in his lower jaw are in danger of overheating if he doesn't stop grinding his teeth.

Releasing a long hiss of air, Monty settles himself back in his seat and forces the tension out of his mouth.

He'd been thinking himself into a box again.

Now is definitely not the time for that, he has a kid coming to see him, after all, and he'll only end up feeling even worse if he disappoints by behaving like a mopey hatchling.

But is it so self-indulgent to wish for the gentle tranquility of those moments he spent in the dance hall, where it seemed his anger couldn't reach him? He'd take that feeling with him everywhere, if he could – that unexpected glimmer of belonging that made itself at home in his chest when you laughed loudly at his dancing or took his hand with a tentative trust.

“Heh,” the gator chuckles wanly to his reflection, “What kind of a rock star'm I? Gettin' all schmaltzy over some cleanin' lady...”

Letting his shoulders rise and fall with a simulated sigh, he gradually lowers his optics to the desk, where he spots the tiny, glass Montgomery staring back at him.

If he'd taken a moment just then, to glance up at himself in the mirror, he'd be taken aback to see how soft an alligator's smile can truly get.

 

Just then, his sensors catch the presence of voices standing outside his door and he sighs, spinning about in his chair.

It seems the guest of honour has finally made his way down Rockstar Row to arrive at Montgomery's green room.

The animatronic hesitates in getting to his feet for all of a second, doubt and insecurity rising up and threatening to override his normal functions, but one, quick glance over his shoulder at the miniature Montgomery sitting on the desk is enough to quell his inner turmoil.

He can do this. You'll probably be proud when he tracks you down later to tell you all about this meet and greet.

The door whooshes open and Monty turns his attention to the little trio of humans who shuffle inside.

He supposes he shouldn't be surprised to see Mick heading the front of the group. Though the man is utterly loathe to share the same space as the gator, there's not a chance in Hell he'd miss the opportunity to try and cozy up to an executive.

The look he shoots Monty is downright venomous though, and as his hand falls to pat the rounded handle of his baton, he seems to be giving him an acutely clear warning, one that can't be missed. 'One wrong move, gator..' his dull, grey eyes seem to say.

The animatronic knows better than to react with his signature sneer. Rather, he valiantly ignores the mechanic in favour of inspecting the woman who strides in behind him, her thin brows drawn into a line that's as hard and cold as dry cement. She's taller than a lot of the human women he knows, aided by the shiny, black stiletto heels she walks in on, and her suit is immaculately tidy, as is her hair, which has been swept up into a bun, with not a loose strand in sight.

'The executive,' he thinks with an unimpressed sniff.

And then, lowering his gaze a bit further, the gator's optics zero in on the littlest human of the trio.

With his thin wrist clutched in the slender woman's grasp, a boy is tugged into the room, his head bowed and his eyes downcast to stare at the carpet underfoot. He doesn't even look at the animatronic when he's dragged across the room and all but bullied to stand in front of his sharply-dressed mother, looking small and lost in the open space.

He's young, the gator notes, probably here on his fourth birthday. The top of his fluffy, blonde head hardly even reaches Monty's knee-joints. Swallowing audibly, the boy attempts to retreat behind his mother, but her hands suddenly find his shoulders and she curls long, slim fingers around them, anchoring him in place with a click of her tongue.

Montgomery's systems flare and his automatic response is to immediately conduct a brief scan, which draws up nothing of any concern, a fact that does little to soothe the growl trapped in his throat.

The kid is fine, physically. His heart rate is a little high, but that can easily be chalked up to nerves, plain and simple. The younger kids are always nervous around him. He isn't cuddly like Freddy, or boundlessly chirpy like Chica. Even Roxy, brash as she may be, is softer around the edges than he is. And at least her lupine casing reminds the littler ones of a big, friendly dog.

Monty is just... the reptile.

Cold-blooded and dangerous.

But he can't begrudge them for believing that.

Children don't know any better.

He has to be especially gentle with the younger kids - the mechanics will tell him so on a daily basis, though he hardly feels the reminders are necessary.

Monty would sooner tear off his own tail before he'd ever even think to hurt a kid.

“And here we are,” Mick suddenly announces, throwing an arm stiffly in the gator's direction, “This is the fourth and final member of the band. Montgomery Gator.”

Someday, Monty laments, he might actually be allowed to introduce himself for a change.

But today is not the day for airing his grievances. Today is for the kid.

The pair of adults become mere background noise as Montgomery's focus turns wholly onto the boy. He knows he's supposed to be the 'famous' one. But every child who comes into this room to meet him leaves the gator's wires twisted up in nervous bunches that take a while to untangle.

It's the first impression that always makes or breaks these meetings. And so often, he's ended up doing the wrong thing. Either he approached the children too eagerly and scared them off, or he acted aloof and cool, which caused them to swiftly lose interest.

He's learned, over time, how to adapt, though the process has proven long and arduous, and he's had to repeatedly grit his teeth through Freddy's well-intentioned advice.

Monty takes care to move slowly, sinking onto one knee and ducking his head down to try and meet the boy's southbound eyes. “Hey, little guy,” the gator greets him, draping an arm across his thigh, “So, you finally got around to visitin' ol' Monty, huh? M'glad you're finally here. I've been waitin' all day to meet you!”

A quiet, sarcastic snort leaves Mick's nose, and Monty's tail gives a minute flick as he battles down an urge to shoot the mechanic a snarl of warning. Luckily, the kid doesn't seem to notice, his eyes remain glued shyly to the carpet.

Pushing on, Monty lowers his voice and softly continues, “Truth be told kid, I got somethin' to confess to you....”

Ah – there. Warm, brown eyes dart up to glance at Montgomery before they flee once more to the ground at his feet.

A small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“Eh, but... s'kind of embarrassin' for me,” the gator admits, raising a clawed hand and rubbing it over the back of his neck, “You any good at keepin' secrets, kid?”

This time, the boy's eyes flick up to meet his and they stay there for a while, curiosity sweeping in to toss his timidity aside.

After several moments in which monty waits patiently, the kid's head slowly inches up and down in the world's tiniest nod.

The animatronic is hardly surprised to learn that he can keep a secret – the kid is locked up tighter than Fort Knox. All the same, he feigns immense relief, dropping his shoulders and swiping the back of a hand across his brow.“Whew! Good! But, uh, you gotta promise you won't laugh.”

Another sliver of acknowledgement, and the boy's head lifts just a fraction further.

Grinning sheepishly, Monty glances left, then right, leaning in and dropping his voice box's volume until he barely whispers, “I... might've forgotten.... your name.”

The woman standing behind her son slants a brow, but the boy just stares uncertainly up at Monty, who drags a hand down the length of his snout and moans, “Ugh, I know. Like I said. Embarrassin.'” After giving his head a long, slow shake as if he's ashamed of himself, he suddenly perks up, his optics growing wide with enthusiasm. “But, hey! It ain't all bad! Now I get to guess!”

The smallest twitch of the boy's mouth betrays his smile, and in response, Montgomery's own grin widens triumphantly.

“Say, tell you what-” He pauses to glance around the room. “-I get three guesses. If I don't get your name right after the third, you, little man, can choose a prize!”

Behind the kid, his mother gives her foot an impatient tap. The boy, however, finally untucks his chin from the collar of his jumper and stuffs a canine into his bottom lip before he takes a shuddering breath and in a wispy voice, he utters, “What kind of prize?”

“Mmmm....” Monty places a hand beneath his jaw and rubs at it in exaggerated contemplation, his optics squinted as he rolls them up to the ceiling. “How about.... You get to pick one thing to take outta my room. And that'll be your prize.”

He's played this game before, with kids who are too shy or too scared to open up. A consolation prize in exchange for a smile seems like a damn fair deal to the animatronic.

There's always plenty of things lying around his room that children like to take - the most popular being a soft toy or a golf club. The drawer of his vanity is also stuffed full of replica sunglasses, so that's one option...

The boy seems to seriously consider their wager for a long moment, giving the room a once-over, whilst from the corner of an eye, Monty sees Mick raise his Fazwatch to check the time.

'Schedules be damned,' the gator privately scoffs, 'this kid's gettin' a prize.'

At last, the boy catches Montgomery's optic again and quirks a half-smile, murmuring out, “Okay.”

Leaning back on his haunches, the animatronic rubs his hands together before slapping them down on his thighs.

“A'right. Let's see... Is your name....”

He draws the answer out, trying not to smirk as the boy's hands clench into fists and his eyes grow wide with anticipation whilst Monty ponders over a potential name for him, never once considering that the gator might already know it.

After a moment, Monty snaps his fingers together. “Ah! I got it!” Puffing out his chest, he stretches his jaws into a toothy, victorious grin and announces, “Lord Turtlechamp, the Third!”

All of a sudden, a snicker bursts out of the kid's mouth, thankfully drowning out Mick's nauseated sigh.

Monty feels his frame swell with pride, even as he paints a disappointed frown over his face and pouts, “That ain't it?”

Stifling his breathy giggle behind two hands, the boy shakes his head, large, brown eyes sparkling with barely-concealed delight. He's a shy kid, to be sure, but he's still just that - a kid.

“Huh, maybe you're not a Lord...” Monty makes a show of slumping his shoulders defeatedly, though he's quick to spring back to life again and blurt, “Archibald the Anchovy?”

Again, the boy's giggles pick up and he shuffles towards the gator bravely, removing his hands from his mouth and sticking out his tongue. “Ew! Anchovies are gross!” he laughs.

Monty joins him in his amusement, letting that feeling of pride grow and grow until it seeps right into his deepest wires. This is the part he loves the most – when that shell starts to crack. The kids forget their parents are watching, they forget anyone is watching, so wrapped up in the game that they actively choose to play with him, because he's earning their trust.

“Anchovies? Gross?” Monty barks out in a laugh, “So you mean you don't want 'em on your pizza for lunch?”

“No!” the boy complains loudly, pulling a face.

“Ha! Guess I'd better let the kitchen staff know then. Now, unless I'm mistaken...” He falls quiet suddenly, lowering his nose to the kid and stretching his jaws into a telltale smirk. “I still got one more guess...”

At once, the boy's laughter peters out and he waits instead with bated breath, mouth hanging agape whilst Montgomery sits back to 'think' some more, pretending not to notice the mother tapping her foot in the background.

“Is it.... hmm.. Montgomery?” he asks, shrugging helplessly.

The look of sheer delight on the kid's face when he realises that Monty has once again guessed incorrectly is utterly worth losing a game he never had any intention of winning in the first place.

“No!” the boy insists giddily, “That's your name!”

“My name?” The gator places a hand over his chest. “You sure? Could'a sworn you look like a Montgomery... Ah well. Guess you win, kid, fair n'square.”

The gator braces both hands on his knees and pushes himself to his feet again, knowing without having to look that Mick has tensed up at the sight of him suddenly looming over the youngster. Shoving aside a sting of disappointment, Monty juts his chin down at the kid and asks, “Say, what is your name, by the way?”

Eagerly, the boy opens his mouth to reply, only for the sharp twang of his mother's voice to cut him off before he can utter a single word.

“-Roland,” she huffs impatiently, “His name is Roland.” Turning to Mick, she adds, “Why doesn't this one know his name? The others did?”

Just like that, all the joy in the kid's face drains away like water from a leaky pail. He hunches in on himself, his smile vanishing so quickly, it nearly gives Monty whiplash.

Something ugly begins to stir inside his chest.

The mechanic shifts uncomfortably on his feet and stammers out a nonsensical reply, “W-well, Montgomery here does know the lad's name, but it's just, of all our animatronics, it's the more... hmm, shall we say, mischievous of the bunch?”

Monty can barely take his optics off the kid's crestfallen face. The brightness in his eyes has withered and he's dropped them to the carpet again, and all the while, Mick carries on, “It's programmed to be more a bit more playful. These little games give it a chance to work out a child's preferences, you see.”

“Hmm.” The woman arches a brow at Monty, roving her gaze up and down his colossal frame as if she's actively searching for flaws. Eventually, she sniffs. “I suppose. And it promises every child a prize, I suppose.”

That ugly thing in his chest raises its sleepy head, the embers of anger cracking and sparking, but Monty is determined to put that smile back on Roland's, despite how hard this exec tries to wipe it off.

“Not every kid,” he retorts, gritting his teeth to retain his grin as he turns his attention back to the boy and asks, “So, what'll it be, Rockstar? You get to pick a prize.”

Slowly, the little blonde head of hair raises again to look up at Monty with hesitant awe. “Really?” he asks in a whisper, “I get to choose?”

“Sure do, little guy!” the gator replies, sweeping a hand over his room by way of an invitation.

Roland's eyes become large and shiny as he gazes around at Montgomery's eclectic collection of objects that have been strewn sporadically about his room.

After looking at the animatronic for a further nod of encouragement, he peers about for a moment, chewing pensively on his lip before a grin stretches abruptly across his lips and he starts off, making a beeline for the couch.

Amused, and a little curious, Monty watches the boy stretch up on his toes to reach across the plush, cream-coloured cushions, wrapping his hands carefully around something shiny, and – to the gator's delight – green.

Then, turning back to the group, Roland ambles his way over to Monty and holds the prize out for all to see.

Clutched in his hands is a small action figure, modelled after Montgomery himself, complete with a little, red guitar that hangs from a strap around its miniature shoulders.

“Is this okay?” the boy asks tentatively.

Ego inflated, if only by a fraction, Monty hurries to attest, “Course it's okay, Kid! You-”

“-A doll. Really, Roland?”

Once again, the boy jumps and falters at the sound of his mother's voice cutting across the room.

Just barely managing to hold his tongue, Monty swivels his optics over a shoulder to aim a glare at the exec as she folds her arms and raises her brow disdainfully at the action figure clasped in her son's hands.

“It isn't even in its box, Ro, it isn't worth anything.” She turns to Mick, whose sweat has begun to roll in noticeable rivulets down his neck to soak the collar of his dress shirt. “Surely,” she presses, “you have something a little more valuable in here. It's my son's birthday. And that-” She throws a hand towards Roland's newfound treasure. “-looks like the kind of cheap plastic I could get with my burger for free.”

The mechanic shifts his gaze nervously towards Monty's twitching tail before snapping his attention back to the woman and sputtering, “Ma'am, I – I can assure you, the action figures are a very high-quality collectible. They have voice lines and – and moveable parts, and -”

“-He already has action figures,” she dismisses with a roll of her eyes, cocking a hip and subjecting the room to her scrutiny. When he eyes drift over to Monty's vanity, she suddenly goes still and a smile angles its way onto her painted lips as she stabs her nail at the desk and huffs, “What about that? I think Roland wants that, don't you, sweetheart?”

An ice cold rush of alarm floods Monty's systems like Arctic water. He'd kick himself, if he could, but as it is, he hardly even dare turn to look at what she's pointing at, but turn he does, stiffly and heavily, following the line of her finger to his desk, or rather, to the little, glass figurine sitting prettily on top of it.

How... How had he forgotten to hide the most important item he owns?

His silicone tongue sits far too cumbersomely in his mouth as he pries his jaws apart and carefully says, “The kid's already chosen what he wants, Ma'am.”

Scoffing, the woman drops her arm in disbelief and shoots Mick a nasty glare. “What did it just say?”

It's a loaded question, and in a rush, Mick is abruptly bustling towards the vanity, speaking rapidly. “Ah, Monty's only joking, of course! Young Roland here is welcome to have the figurine. They're quite popular among the-”

He promptly finds his sentence cut off when Montgomery takes two, loping strides across the room and stops in front of his desk, blocking the mechanic's path, his head raised high into the air so that he towers over Mick like a bridling monolith.

The man freezes in his tracks and even backs up a step or two, eyeing the gator warily.

“Monty...” he warns.

But the animatronic's hands just tighten and go slack, over and over again as he flicks his optics between Mick and the young boy, who, perhaps sensing the tension in the room, has slunk closer to his mother's skirts and stares up at the gator with a mixture of uncertainty and intrigue.

It takes an inordinate amount of control for Monty to relax his stance, allowing the fixtures on his shoulders to lower like the hackles of a compliant dog.

“That's... uh..” His processor is running a mile a minute to come up with an adequate excuse. “That.. ain't one of the prizes." After a moment of thought, he tacks on a mumbled, "Sorry.”

“Now wait just a damn second,” the woman suddenly spits at the back of Mick's head, “Your robot said Roland can choose anything he wanted from this room as a prize. Are you telling me a machine built for kids isn't going to give my son what he wants?”

“But... I want the action figure, mom,” Roland bravely pipes up, only to receive a cutting glare from his mother.

“Be quiet,” she snaps, and Monty has to watch the boy's fingers clench tightly around the toy in his grasp.

The sight has him baring his fangs at the exec, but Mick is quick to jump down his throat, scolding, “Montgomery, this is far from funny.”

“-I ain't tryin' to be funny.” The animatronic drops his voice and tips his snout down at the man, urgency compelling him to plead. His pride takes a hit at reducing himself to such a method, but then, it has certainly suffered worse in the past.

“Please, Mick,” he says through his teeth, “Give 'er another toy. Give 'er all the toys! She can take the arcade machine if she wants, but... don't give 'er this.” He turns to gaze fondly down at the figurine. “This is different...”

The mechanic's jaw goes slack and his eyes bulge, and in an incredulous laugh, he blurts, “What, might I ask, in the world, is so special about that piece of glass?”

Monty grits his teeth.

Admitting its significance feels very much like he'd be admitting to one of his major weaknesses, and it burns to animatronic something fierce to do so, especially to Mick Matthews, of all humans. But he's running out of patience. He can already feel the telltale waves of rage crashing against the walls he's thrown up around his CPU, desperate to retain his composure whilst there's a kid in the room.

“It... was a gift,” he pushes out through his fangs.

Mick doesn't look as though he believes that for a second. But with the tapping of the exec's foot keeping them on edge, both mechanic and animatronic lock one another in a staring match for several, gruelling seconds, neither willing to back down.

Eventually however, perhaps inevitably, something in Mick's face slips, a bead of sweat rolls into his eye and he blinks, breaking the connection and heaving a massive sigh as he scrubs a hand down his face. The man twists himself halfway about to look at the expectant exec, then drags his gaze back to the animatronic's looming silhouette, as if he's trying to weigh up who is the most worrisome, who's odds stack up higher against his own...

He's thoroughly stuck – wedged snugly between a rock and a hard place, except this rock is a powerful and influential figure within the company, and the hard place has rows upon rows of sharp, blood-curdling teeth.

After some time, it becomes clear that Monty wins out, and Mick turns defeatedly to the woman, swiping the back of a hand across his forehead. “Um.. look. Ma'am. I can... get you a voucher for the gift shop in the lobby? It sells these figurines. Your boy can pick any one he likes, free of charge, obviously.”

But even as Mick tries to appeal his case, Montgomery can tell that each word is falling on stubborn, deaf ears. He recognises that sharp gleam in the woman's hawk-like eyes. Here's a person who has fought like a lioness to get to where she is. The curl of her lip alone tells him that she isn't used to hearing the word 'no.' And to be told as such by a robot probably feels similar to a slap around the face for a woman like her.

Monty's tail stops lashing and grows dangerously still as the two of them locks gazes.

This is no longer about the figurine.

This is a battle of wills. And she intends to win.

“Roland,” she says slowly, “doesn't want a different figurine.” She takes a bold step forwards, leaving her son near the door, clutching the Montgomery action toy and looking as though he wants nothing more than for a hole to open up beneath him and swallow him into it.

“Ma'am,” the mechanic starts, but apparently, the mere act of trying to argue is enough to tip her fragile temper over the edge, where it teeters at the very precipice of a cliff of her own making.

Her gaze flashes with indignation and her eyelid twitches as she promptly explodes across the room and barks, “Oh for god's sake, man, the robot's just being difficult. What's it going to do?” She all but shoves Mick aside, ignoring the now snarling Montgomery to lean around his enormous waist, her fingers stretching towards the glass figuring on his desk.

“You're in charge of the damn thing! You just need to show it who's-”

.... She never finishes her sentence.

Monty doesn't mean to do it.

There's still enough of him left to pull his swipe short until it's barely a glancing blow, but that will hardly matter to the people in the room.

Fear is not an emotion exclusive to humans, and even animatronics are susceptible to panic.

The back of the gator's forearm catches her in the waist as she tries to bend around him and he stretches his mouth open as wide as his joints will allow, bellowing out a thunderous, “NO!”

There's not a thing in his processor beyond the mechanical screech that tells him he can't let anything happen to your gift.

He doesn't even throw her off him, he just brushes her away, sending her stumbling backwards with a squawk of surprise rather than pain. She's entirely unhurt, which would come as a relief to him later. But that isn't what hits Monty like a slug to the gut. It isn't even Mick's electric prod, which has miraculously remained on the man's belt, though the pain would arguably be comparable to a hit from the hated baton.

No...

It's the tiny, wet sob of distress that breaks through Monty's blind fury, wrenching him harshly back into his right mind. Blinking his optics rapidly to refocus, he lowers his gaze.

That first sob turns into another and grows in pitch and volume as the stunned adults take a moment to catch their breath before they follow the animatronic's wide-eyed stare to the child behind them, standing near the door.

He's watching Monty through bleary eyes as tears stream relentlessly down his blotched cheeks.

The gator doesn't need to scan him to know the root of his upset. Terror is written plain as day across his face. Terror that he aims at Montgomery like a jagged blade, cutting straight through into the animatronic's steely core.

“....Kid?” he breathes, reaching an arm out in the boy's direction.

The scream that ensues only serves to drive the blade even deeper.

“For Christ's sake,” the woman seethes, striding back over to her son and bundling him up into her arms where he promptly buries his head underneath her chin.

Shooting an icy glare over her shoulder at Mick, she sneers, “You ought to get that thing under control, Matthews!”

The mechanic, for his part, is clasping his hands in front of him, mouth opening and closing like a helpless goldfish as he follows her to the door. “I-I cannot – this is not at all – I'm so, so sorry! Ma'am, if you will allow me to- Here...”

He awkwardly manoeuvres around her and slaps his badge over the door button, letting it slide open, all the while fumbling over apologies and assurances that this never usually happens.

The exec takes one last, hateful look at Montgomery, who can do nothing but stare miserably at the shivering lump in her arms, before she turns her nose into the air and stalks from the room. Mick pauses just for a moment where he too gives the animatronic a scornful look.

It takes a moment for the gator to find his voice box, and through thick static, he manages to say, “Mr Matthews... I...” But it trails off, and though Mick raises a brow at the formal use of his name, he shakes his head, sucking in a shuddering, outraged breath.

“You couldn't have done... this one thing? Montgomery?” he asks wearily, “Just this once. You...” He blows a hot sigh from his nostrils. “Just... stay in your room...”

Then, giving his head yet another shake, he takes off after the exec, and the door slides shut in his wake, leaving Monty to stare at it through hollow optics.

 

A full minute ticks slowly past before he has the presence of mind to move.

Turning robotically to the vanity and pulling out the chair, he slumps down onto it and leans over the glass figurine, lifting his hands to his head and curling sharp claws into the casing on either side of his mohawk.

He knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that he's in danger of getting caught up inside his own head again... and yet...

Maybe he deserves to let himself spiral.

He has, after all, committed an unforgivable sin.

Not in laying his hands on that exec, although that may have been one of the stupidest things he's done in a very, very long time.

No. Worse than that.

He'd scared a kid.

What the Hell was he thinking? He had growled and roared like a feral animal, and for what? For a glass figurine that could easily be replaced?!

Bellowing a resentful shout, he rips his claws from his head and slams a fist down on the desk just inches away from the effigy of himself, overcome with regret. The sudden impact sends a jolt through the surface which in turn, causes the little figure to quake violently, threatening to topple over as it cants to the left.

In a flash, Monty's optics burst open wide at the sight and he gasps, jerking his hands out and catching it seconds before it can hit the hard veneer.

“No, no, I'm sorry!” he rushes out in a small voice.

Using a single digit, he tips the figurine upright onto its plinth once again, only drawing his hands away when he's sure it isn't going to fall over on him again.

He can't blame your gift, he tells himself with a stuttering exhale of hot air. He should have hidden it, he should have said from the start that it wasn't one of the prizes...

This is all his fault.

There's no way around it.

The exec will probably call for his decommission, and though the very concept of non-existence fills him with dread as real as any human's, he knows he only has himself to blame, a fact which renders him furious and awfully, hauntingly ashamed.

Wheeling away from his vanity, he lurches onto his feet and stomps towards the curtains hanging at the sides of his enormous, viewing window. Sharp claws grip the fabric on one side and he nearly tears it from its railing as he wrenches the first curtain shut, swiftly doing the same with the second one, blocking off any view of the outside world.

He's already scared one kid today, he'll be damned if he frightens any more by letting them bear witness to his downward spiral.

Spinning back to face his room once again, he squeezes his optics shut, shoulders heavy as he tries to recall what Chica had taught them during their Jazzercise session.

Breathe.... he remembers. Breathing is important.

But... just as he told her at the time, they're animatronics. They can't breathe.

At the back of his processor, Monty finds himself wishing that you were here to talk him down like you had last night. You seem like you've got your head on straight. You'd probably know what to do or say to keep him grounded.

It's a sickening prospect and he's further ashamed of himself for entertaining the idea of destroying his room all over again, if it means you'll be sent to clean it.

But would it be so worth it after seeing the inevitable disappointment on your face?

He isn't sure how many more people he can let down today...

Trapped between the throes of his own warring sentiments, Montgomery slaps his tail firmly into the ground, hunching himself forward to stalk up to his couch and snatch up one of the cushions, lifting it towards his teeth.

He bites down into the fabric – hard – drawing only a modicum of satisfaction from the release of pressure building in his joints. He wants to bite down on his own plating, but he knows that doing so will only land him in Parts and Services, and he makes it an ardent point to avoid that place at all costs.

So instead, he continues to tear the couch apart, chewing into the soft cushions and ripping them into pieces with reckless abandon, only growing angrier when he doesn't reach that cathartic plateau he so desperately seeks.

He lashes his tail into the table behind him and knocks it flying. He roughly grabs the plush toys of himself and hurls them as hard as he can across the room whilst leaving the plushes of Freddy, Roxy and Chica alone.

And all through the gator's rampage, despite the ragged snarls and bellows that start to leak under the gap in his door, despite how wild and unpredictable his punches to the wall, floor and furniture become, the vanity sitting in the corner of his green room remains perfectly untouched.

Chapter 11: That Old Second Stage

Summary:

The Five Stages of Grief will always apply, even if what you've lost isn't a necessarily a life.

 

'Humming to himself, Freddy quietly points out, “Your heart rate is elevated.”

“Uh, yeah,” you whisper back, turning a wary eye onto the door, “That seems to be happening a lot recently.”

Evidently, Freddy doesn't pick up on your sarcasm, because all at once, his ears pin themselves back against his plastic skull and he somehow manages to look entirely alarmed at what was intended to be a throwaway comment.'

Notes:

I can't BELIEVE YOU'RE ALL STILL READING!? This fic has surpassed 53000 reads, and there isn't even any smut in it yet!?

I'm actually dead excited to write the next few chapters, because it finally feels like the action is about to start. And when I say action, I mean that sweet, succulent angst. >:)

Restroom restocks are hardly a glamorous affair.

It's bad enough having to do your own at home, but those at the Plex are oftentimes notorious for being particularly grotty. Apparently, the volume of children in any establishment directly correlates with the state of the toilets.

You suppose it's a good thing you're not especially squeamish.

“Ugh, that'd better be water,” you complain to the wet-floor bot that has dutifully parked itself at the rear of the women's bathroom, standing guard over a puddle of liquid that's been spilled across the shiny, black floor, just outside the furthest stall.

If it isn't water...

Well.

You knew what you were signing up for when you applied for this position...

...For the most part.

Sucking in a calming breath, you release it again in a loud rush as you march over to the little closet that branches off from the restroom's back wall. Jabbing your fingers over a well-worn keypad, you wait for the door to slide open before you reach inside and grab the handle of a rusty, old cleaning trolley, wheeling it out of the cramped space.

“Okay,” you huff, partly to yourself, partly to the yellow bot peering up at you, “I'll bleach the toilets first, I think. Then I'll deal with...” Pausing, you wag your hand listlessly at the puddle. “...That.”

Starting at the stall nearest the entrance, you begin the monotonous, but essential task of pouring thick, blue bleach around the basins, rubber gloves tugged up to your elbows and a blank stare plastered across your face as you go through the motions you've been doing since you started working here.

Pour bleach, restock loo roll, repeat, bustling in and out of each stall with only the wet-floor bot as an audience, until finally, you reach the last one and allow yourself a heaving sigh of relief.

You've just begun to pour the bleach down into the bowl when you hear the restroom's swinging doors burst open, followed by the sound of someone marching briskly across the bathroom, the unmistakeable click of high heels resounding off polished, black tile.

Whoever it is thunders clumsily into the stall next to yours and yanks the door closed with a loud and boisterous 'slam.'

Grimacing, you hold your breath whilst someone thunks down onto the toilet seat and the bathroom fades into silence once more.

The newcomer's actions seem a touch aggressive, but you generously opt to give them the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they just... really have to go.

You heave a mental shrug, decide its none of your business and move to replace the bleach bottle's lid when suddenly, the relative quiet is broken by a muffled, hitching, but indisputable sob.

Oh dear.

Suddenly feeling terribly awkward, you stuff your teeth into your lower lip and frown.

Should you just... leave?

Probably not. It's too late to make a run for it. Your court shoes are hardly silent on the hard tiles, and whoever it is will definitely know you heard them sob in the stall next to you, and really, it'll haunt you to run out on somebody crying in a bathroom without at least trying to check in on their well-being.

Balling your hands into tight, anxious fists, you open your mouth to speak, but before you can, something – likely a fist – slams jarringly into the wall separately you.

“God, fucking damn it!” a wavering voice chokes out as you press a hand over your heart, startled.

An emphatic, “Are you all right!?” blurts from your lips before you can think to keep a hold of it.

All at once, the sounds cease and you grimace, sucking in a quiet hiss through your teeth as someone shuffles on the other side before the same voice snaps, “Does it fucking SOUND like I'm okay!?”

She, you can only presume, pauses again and sniffs loudly, huffing, “And this.... bastard toilet doesn't have any sodding paper-!”

Quick as a flash, you step out of the stall and swipe a fresh roll from your cart, leaning down to stick your arm underneath her door. “Here,” you call, waving the roll about.

After a moment, a hand snatches it from you and you stand upright once again, listening to her tear a piece off and blow her nose whilst you bite down on the inside of your cheek, venturing to ask, “Can I... get you anything else? I've got, uh..,” You pull open one of the drawers and spare a quick glance through your supplies. “There's bottles of water in here.. Mmm... Make up wipes?”

Nothing but silence answers you for quite some time. Then, a dry, humourless chuckle seeps under the door and the mystery woman croaks out, “Don't suppose you've... got a magic wand that can zap away all my problems, do you?”

Giving your own, wry hum of amusement, you reply, “Sorry. Fresh out of those, I'm afraid. Apparently, they're a rare commodity. Soon as I have some in stock, bam! They're gone.”

“Ha!” she sniffs with the barest trace of humour, but it isn't long before she's huffing out a tired sigh, “Well...That's too fucking bad.”

Hearing the exhaustion buried behind her tone, you can't deny the pang of sympathy that smacks you right in the sternum, borne from the reminder of crying yourself hoarse nearly every night in your own bathroom at what you'd almost called home, nobody but the walls to lend you an ear.

Glancing back at the cart, you worry at your lip for a moment before offering a tentative suggestion. “But, I'll tell you what I do have – An Out of Order sign. I can... stick it on the door outside so nobody comes in for a while... If you want?”

It isn't a courtesy you would extend to just anybody, but the unspoken unanimity of women supporting one another in public restrooms has been instilled in you since your teenage years.

So, you let the idea simmer in the air for a while, giving her time to mull it over, and for several, tedious moments, nothing more is said. Until at last, in a small voice that sounds so different to the one she'd first used, she utters, “...Would you?”

Without a word, you grab the standing sign and take it to the bathroom's entrance.

Cracking the door open to spare a brief glance up and down the corridor, you eventually determine that the coast is indeed clear and plonk the 'Out of Order' sign squarely in front of the entrance, hoping that any passing guests will heed it. There are plenty of other bathrooms nearby for them to use, one of the perks of having a Plex that caters predominantly to small children.

You let the door swing closed, turning around when the woman calls out, “Are you still there?”

“Yeah, I'm here,” you reply, cradling your elbows uncertainly,“You... want me to go?”

Her reply comes sharply, thought its watery quality lends to something more pleading than angry. “No!”

Raising your brow, you snort softly to yourself as she clears her throat and adds, “I mean, I... No. I might... Need someone to... pass me a make up wipe.” A soft laugh trickles out of the stall. “My mascara isn't... uhm, waterproof.”

Shaking your head, you amble back over to your cart and grab a packet of wipes from the drawer and once again pass them under the gap.

This time, you get a clipped, “Thanks,” in response.

Figuring she wouldn't have asked you to stay if she didn't mind you talking, you step over to the row of sinks and lean back against them, pursing your lips. “So... Are you here by yourself, or...?”

“My son,” she replies, sniffling again, but at least sounding a touch more put together, “I'm here with my son.”

“Oh.” You're glad she isn't alone whilst she's going through... whatever it is she's going through. “Is he waiting outside?”

“No, no... I left him playing in the daycare,” she explains, “I just... had to get away for a minute, you know?” Lowering her voice to a bitter scoff, she mutters under her breath, “First his father doesn't bother to show up.. Then it attacks me...”

Although you're certain she hadn't really intended for you to listen in on her little soliloquy, you can't help but bleat out in alarm, “Attacked? You were attacked!?”

“What?” the woman snaps, then, “Oh, no not... not like. Ugh, it was just one of those stupid robots.”

Like a stone tossed into a pond, your stomach plummets down into your shoes. “Uh, a robot?” You have an awful feeling... “Not one of the animatronics?” Perhaps she meant one of the Map bots had just... startled her... It's no secret that the Plex has received multiple complaints from guests about the over-helpful little automatons.

To your dismay, however...

“Oh, it was that... damn crocodile one,” she grumbles.

Your eyes slip shut and you scrunch your face up into a harsh grimace, hardly seeing a point in correcting her. There isn't a doubt in your mind anymore.

'Monty...'

“It scared the life out of Roland,” she continues, “Almost knocked me clean off my feet!”

At least she doesn't sound upset anymore. Now, it seems you've only gone and riled her up, leaving her fuming inside the bathroom stall.

You know that Monty's reputation isn't exactly squeaky clean, not like Freddy's is... And yet, from what you've seen, you just can't picture him attacking anyone for the Hell of it, especially not a guest.

A little apprehensive, you wet your lips, trying to choose your words as diplomatically as you can, lest you make an enemy in here today. “Can I ask what happened? Are you hurt?”

You're almost afraid to know the answer, not least because of what it'll mean for Monty if he's injured a guest.

For several moments, the woman remains quiet, and then, to your surprise - and relief – she blows out a sigh and begrudgingly admits, “No... Well-... Ugh, no, it didn't hurt me. Just... gave me a push.”

She laughs, and you can make out the emotion creeping into her voice again, “I don't even know why it upset me so much that I'm hiding in the bathroom, crying like... like a fucking school girl!”

Another bang, softer this time, as she aims a spiteful kick at the stall door.

'Okay,' you think, 'So, Monty didn't hurt anyone. Good.'

Still, you can't help but wonder what would have lead him to push this woman in the first place. Maybe this is what Mick had meant when he warned you that the gator is dangerous – He's unpredictable. Sometimes, unpredictability can be just as destructive as clear intent.

Thinking for a time on the woman's rhetorical comment, you venture to suggest, “If you don't mind me saying, it sounds like you've been having more than just a rough day.”

A pregnant pause fills the bathroom as she seems to ruminate on your response. When she huffs out another laugh, it comes out as little more than a weak croak. “Hit the nail on the head there...”

You don't think it's prudent to ask, but apparently, the woman is in the interest of sharing, so you simply lean quietly against the sinks, an anonymous ear for her grievances.

“You ever been through a divorce?”

“Oh, I uh...” You cross your arms, holding tightly onto your elbows and admit, “Not a divorce, no.”

“...Bad breakup, huh?”

Your fingernails dig little crescent moons into your skin. “Something like that.”

She hums, takes a breath and begins, “Don't ever get married.”

You have to admit, the abruptness of her tone renders you taken aback. “I.. okay?” you reply, dropping your arms back to your sides once again.

“Don't,” she proclaims, “Because when they decide to leave you one day, all it does, is create a whole fucking cyclone of shit that no one human should ever have to deal with.”

You take solace in the fact that neither Sunnydrop, nor Moon are here to witness her foul mouth.

Growling, she laments, “The custody battle alone makes me want to put my fist through anything that even looks at me wrong. Robots included, apparently.”

She's handing you quite the suitcase to unpack.

“That must be... awful,” you say, because what comfort can you give her when you don't really know what she's going through? The best you can do is fill the silence with safe condolences. “I can't even imagine...”

In a weak attempt to inject a little humour into the sombre room, you let out a weak chuckle and smirk, “I bet poor, old Monty didn't know who he was messing with, huh?”

It's risky, but luck is on your side, apparently, because she laughs. “Dumb bot, trying to tell me what my son can and can't have. I'd have clocked it in the face if Roland didn't start crying.”

Admittedly, you're immensely grateful that she hadn't tried to swing at a bot who weighs about as much as a Ford Focus, and you have to bite your tongue at the insult to Montgomery, but after forcing another, strained laugh, you say, “Monty tried to co-parent your kid, huh?”

“Pfft... Nah.” You hear her get to her feet, pushing herself up off the toilet seat. “It didn't want me to take some stupid figurine, despite telling Roland that he could take anything he wanted from the room if he... I don't know, if it guessed his name wrong, or something.”

'Figurine?' you scoff lightly to yourself, 'Why would Monty refuse to give up some.... Uh oh.'

Rolling your neck back, you huff out an exasperated breath and ask, “This figurine... It wasn't made of glass, was it?”

The shadow under the door grows still for a moment before the woman carefully replies, “Yes?”

“Was it of Monty? Rocking out on a little guitar?”

“How do you know about it?” she demands, evidently suspicious.

Given her prior attitude, you can't begrudge yourself a little hesitancy before you come clean, but for as much as you wholly try to avoid confrontation like the plague, you're woman enough to acknowledge that Monty wouldn't have incurred this lady's wrath if you hadn't given him that figurine in the first place.

He may be an animatronic, but it doesn't sit right with you to let him take the blame, especially considering how he'd covered for you with Mick...

Swallowing your reservations about redirecting this woman's ire onto yourself, you resign yourself to a quiet confession. “I'm the one who game him that figurine. It was a... a gift, I suppose, to thank him for helping me with something.”

Your words fade into silence and you give her a few seconds to respond, a little put out when she doesn't.

Gulping noisily, you continue, “Er, anyway, I – I told him to take good care of it, and he promised he'd keep it safe.” Not an outright lie, more an embellishment of the truth. Neither you, nor Monty had said as much to each other out loud, but the exchange had been there, unspoken, simply understood.

The woman in the stall doesn't say a word for some time, so much time, in fact, that you begin to fidget nervously, bouncing your leg faster and faster and clearing your throat. “Ahem! So, yes! I guess I owe you an apology. Monty must have taken my request as an order. I'm sure he didn't mean to scare anyone...”

You don't know how sure you are about your own claim, but you aren't given the time to dwell as the lock on the stall door abruptly slides from red to green.

Your most immediate instinct is to bolt for the exit, though you stamp down on that particular urge, keeping your shoes planted firmly on the bathroom's slick, black tiles.

You almost wish you had fled, however, when the stall swings open to reveal the stranger.

The woman who emerges from her stall cuts nearly as imposing a figure as you've ever seen on a human. Everything about her is just... sharp, from the angular brows knitted into a scowl to her uniformly-pressed, grey suit. You almost wouldn't believe that this is the same woman who'd been crying her eyes out mere moments ago if it weren't for the red tinge sitting in her sclera and the faint, black flecks of mascara that speckle across her cheeks.

She stands there in the doorway for a while longer, subjecting you to her discerning stare, which she flicks over you from head to toe, putting together a quick assessment. It's only fair, you suppose, having just done the same to her. You have to wonder what she must be seeing in you – an almost-down-and-out cleaning lady with an untucked shirt and sleepless eyes.

You jump as she suddenly strides out of the stall and parks herself next to the sink you're leaning up against, tearing her eyes off you and turning them to the wall mirror.

“So. It wasn't lying...”

“Uh, I - er, what?” you ask with all the grace of a toddler learning to speak, uncertain if you'd heard her correctly.

“It didn't lie,” she repeats, reaching up and sweeping a few fingers underneath her eyes to wipe away the lingering traces of mascara that the proffered make up wipe had missed.

After another second or two spent composing herself, she swivels her head around to peer at you again and explains, “The robot. Monty, was it? It said the figurine was a gift. I didn't believe it. I just assumed...” She suddenly presses her lips together and spins her head away to the mirror once more. This time, when she speaks, her tone is contrite, yet curt, and you get the distinct impression that she's a woman who doesn't especially like admitting to her own follies.

“Well...” she says brusquely, “I assumed it was disobeying orders for the sake of being... Oh, I don't know.. difficult? Unruly? But now that I'm actually thinking about it, that's ridiculous. It's a robot. It was just trying to... follow conflicting orders, right?”

“Oh, sure. Exactly,” you're quick to agree, giving her a nod as well for good measure - whatever keeps her appeased.

“And now, I just feel embarrassed for losing my shit at a machine,” she chuckles wanly, turning around to lean back against her own sink, mirroring your stance near-perfectly. “Over a piece of crap figurine, ha!” Cutting herself off, she shoots you a wince. “No offence.”

“Ah, none taken,” you wave her comment aside.

She smiles a little at that, though it soon fades as she angles her gaze at the wet-floor bot, watching it swivel idly in place, its little white eye lights blinking innocently back at her.

“...I just wanted what was best for my son.” When she spares you a glance and finds your lips tugged into a hesitant, yet encouraging smile, she asks, “Do you have children?”

“Nah, not for me, I like kids well enough. But.. I mean, I'm still afraid of the dark, so, god knows I'm not ready for a little me to be crying about monsters in the closet,” you tell her breezily, earning a wry smile.

“Well,” she snorts, “You don't need children to know how it feels to want what's best for another person. Roland and I were always close... before the divorce.” Again, she sighs and lifts a hand to pinch the bridge of her nose. “Now though, I... I feel like he's... slipping? His father's been making a real push to establish himself as primary caregiver.”

Her face turns ever sourer as she continues, ”Every time Roland comes home to me, he's always sporting some flash, new toy, designer clothes, the latest video game! And I.. I just...” Clenching her fists, she drops her hands from her face and looks at you through sad, pleading eyes. “I just can't keep up. I'm losing my son because I can't give him the best, not like his father can!”

The sharpness of her face has softened immensely. It occurs to you that she's likely been carrying this for a long time. Perhaps you're the first stranger she's encountered who has opened up a line of conversation that can allow her to release what pent up tension lays in her shoulders.

She isn't venting because she finds you easy to talk to. She's venting because she has to. She has to get rid of even a little pressure, or risk exploding, as she'd likely exploded on Monty.

The woman confirms this when she tries to wipe surreptitiously at her watery eyes and sniffs, “When your Monty wouldn't let me give my boy the figurine, I think I... panicked? A little.” Scoffing at herself, she adds, “As if I really thought Roland would hate me if I couldn't get him the best prize.”

“I... don't have kids,” you say slowly, “So, I'm probably not the best authority on this, but.. The fact that you're trying so hard is a good thing. It's just...”

When you trail off into uncertainty, she lifts her shoulders and urges, “Just what?”

“Well, maybe you're trying too hard?” You very nearly feel your heart drop into your shoes as her expression begins to twist into a scowl, prompting you to hurriedly elaborate. “I-I just mean, maybe he doesn't care if his stuff is the best of the best. Maybe he'd be happy no matter what you give him.”

The look on her face is chilling. “Are you saying my son should settle for less?”

The urge to roll your eyes almost wins out over common sense. Almost. She definitely has a chip on her shoulder, that's for sure.

“I'm saying,” you stress, “That parents shouldn't have to buy their kids' love. Buying cool stuff might win you temporary affection, sure...”

You're aware that you're starting to tread a little too close to home, but you push on anyway. “-But not love. Money won't – and, please don't take this the wrong way – but money won't buy a bond between kids and their parents. Just like it can't really buy love in any relationship.”

“But then...” Her frown deepens, more confused now than indignant. “How can I show Roland that he's loved?”

Good lord, you've met some clueless parents in your line of work, but this?

Outwardly, you tug your lips into a gentle smile and offer her a laugh that you hope she won't take offence to. “Er, you're kind of already doing it?”

She stares at you as if you're speaking in tongues, and not just trying to offer some friendly advice.

“Look,” you sigh, gesturing towards her, “You're here, aren't you? You brought your kid here to spend time with him, to have fun with him! That's how you build a bond.”

For several seconds, you let her chew on your words until she gives you a skeptical look, asking, “That's it? Just... spend time with him?”

“Well, damn, it can't hurt, right?” you laugh, “You play games with him? Hide and seek. Arts and crafts. Stuff like that?”

Her eyes light up and she opens her mouth, only to freeze, her brows drawing slowly together and her lips tipping back into a grim line. Through gritted teeth, she falteringly admits, “Jesus... Not since...”

“Since before the divorce?” you offer cautiously, and she replies with a sullen nod.

“Shit. I'm a shitty mother, huh?”

“Eh, I've met worse,” you remark with a shrug, attempting to lighten the mood again.

Your efforts are rewarded when the woman snorts, you'd venture to say politely.

Mimicking her smirk, you add, “I think a shitty mother wouldn't give a damn if her kid is happy, or whether or not they love her.”

She rolls her lower lip through her teeth, peering at you from the corner of an eye. “...Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

Her harsh mouth quirks into a grateful smile and you return it without hesitation, watching as she pushes herself up and off the sink, brushing down her pencil skirt and blowing out an exhale.

“God, that's... something to think about,” she hums, brows raised, “Who'd've thought I might find parenting advice in a bathroom?”

“Hey,” you retort, “Some of the best conversations I've ever had have gone down in women's bathrooms. It's a safe space!”

Your new acquaintance abruptly throws her head back at that and lets out a laugh that's as sharp and chilling as her appearance, but somehow remains genuine. “Ha! Oh, god! The sisterhood of club restroom, right? Oh, that makes me.. harken back to my University days...”

She turns to face you properly and you feel a glimmer of satisfaction tweak at your chest to see the noticeable lack of tension in her sloping shoulders. The hard line between her brows has all but disappeared.

You've given her a plan of action – a goal to work towards and a new option to explore. You've given her a leg up and out of the rut she's found herself stuck in.

“Well, I...I'd best get going,” she tells you lightly, knocking her head back over a shoulder at the door, “Roland'll be wondering where I am by now, I suspect...”

Pausing to take a hesitant breath, she squints at you, something discerning passing through her dark, brown eyes that gives you the impression you're being puzzled over.

In the end however, she merely hums softly and pulls her lips into a grin. “It's been.. nice, talking to you,” she decides matter-of-factly, her eyes dropping briefly to your badge, “Y/n... I'll let you get back to work.”

And with that, she gives you a curt nod and spins around on her heel, marching back towards the entrance as you call a soft, “See you!” after her retreating back.

Just as she pushes the door open though, she stops with a clack of her shoes and twists her head over her shoulder to give you a sideways glance. “Oh, and if you happen to see your robot friend, will you tell him 'no hard feelings,' from me?”

Perhaps it's a slip of the tongue, perhaps its a conscious choice on her part, but you don't miss that she referred to Monty as 'him,' not 'it.'

You grin widely and reply, “Of course. He'll be very glad to hear that, and, I'm sure he's sorry for what happened, if I know him.” You don't. Not really, not after less than a day, but she doesn't need to suspect that.

Giving a nod and a final wave, she disappears through the bathroom doors and you're left alone once again. Well, as alone as one can be with nobody but a wet-floor bot for company.

You wait several seconds in silence before you deem it safe to double over and release a loud, steady breath of relief.

That could have gone one of several, very unpleasant ways, and you're immensely glad it went the way that it did, in the end.

And, if you happen to have kept her from complaining about Monty to Fazbear's, well... All the better.

With a debt repaid to the gator, you head over to the wet-floor bot and grab your mop as you pass the trolley. “Alright,” you say to it, giving its head a gentle pat before you step past it and slap the mop down to absorb the spilled puddle, “Let's get this mess cleared up, hmm?”

Of course, the little bot doesn't respond – can't, in fact – given that it, along with the rest of its model, has never been fitted with speakers. But, it does swirl around on its wheels to watch you sweep your mop across the tiles.

You've barely made a dent in the puddle of liquid when the bathroom door swings open again and you glance up, wondering if the woman has returned for something, only to release the mop and a gasp at the same time when none other than Freddy Fazbear himself ducks underneath the doorframe.

“Fre- wha- Freddy!?” you babble, a little scandalised as you stoop over to retrieve your mop, “What are you doing in here!?”

The bear's eyes flick over the room and quite literally brighten when he spots you across the way, his lower jaw rising into his best approximation of a smile. “Ah! Miss Y/n!” he declares, thumping towards you on his cumbersome legs and sweeping his top hat from his head in one, fluid motion, drawing it close to his chest, “I am very glad to have found you!”

“You've been... looking for me?” you ask, frowning uncertainly.

It seems that he reaches you in a meagre few steps before he draws to a loud, clanking halt just in front of the wet-floor bot, which looks woefully small compared to the vast animatronic. “Oh, yes!” he replies, nodding emphatically, “Quite extensively. I'm afraid there are no cameras in the restrooms.”

Raising a bemused eyebrow, you huff, “I should think not!”

You know full-well that Freddy is notoriously 'safe.' A gentle giant through and through, though his reputation does little to pacify the quiver your stomach gives once you realise that you're alone in a bathroom with Fazbear's 'golden boy.'

This is the second time in as many days that you've had a run-in with Freddy, an animatronic that, until now, has left you well-enough alone, and you in return, have managed to skirt around an introduction to the bear. At least, before yesterday.

Still, you're careful not to let too much apprehension bleed into your expression, despite how tightly your fingers grip the mop's handle, turning your knuckles pale and pronounced.

But if Freddy notices your discomfort, he's gracious enough not to mention it.

His large hands are clutched around the brim of his top hat and he fiddles with it, twisting it through his fingers as his ears tip back on their pivots. If you didn't know any better, you'd think the animatronic is just as nervous as you are, though you can't imagine his reasons are on par with yours.

Sure enough...

“Please, forgive me for intruding upon your work,” he says apologetically, “But I did not know who else to turn to...”

You don't even know what the problem is, but you can already name several people off the bat who would be of far more use to the bear than you. You wonder, perhaps, if his facial recognition software is experiencing a fault, but that line of thought is quickly rendered moot when he utters a few, simple words.

“It's Montgomery.”

Ah.

Right.

If your conversation with that lady in the stalls is any indication, you have a sneaking suspicion you know what's going on. “Is he all right?” Eyeing the animatronic's fingers as they twiddle anxiously around his hat's brim, you tack on, “Are you all right?”

Freddy twitches an ear forwards in interest, a little taken aback by your response. For a while, he remains quiet, politely waiting for the usual remark to drop – the one that a lot of the staff give whenever he mentions his reptilian bandmate.

'What's he done this time?' or some variation of the like.

When it becomes clear that you've finished asking your questions, he tilts his head sideways to regard you from a new angle, thoroughly perplexed.

Humans have their patterns, as he's come to observe in the limited sample size provided by the Pizzaplex, and Freddy Fazbear prides himself on being observant. A large group of humans will typically mimic the behaviour of those around them, especially a group as close-knit as the staff at the Plex. He sees the same behaviour most often in children.

So this... curveball you've thrown him, knocks his processor slightly off-kilter. Perhaps this is what Monty had been insinuating last night, during Jazzercise, when he'd gruffly 'complained' that the little cleaning lady is, unlike most humans they know, really out there in left field.

They – Freddy, Roxy and Chica – were taken aback by the definite lack of animosity that came out of their friend's mouth. As far as Monty's insults go, calling you 'odd' had been... astonishingly tame.

But Monty has always been quick to judge, and Freddy, far too slow, apparently. The bear merely files your unorthodox reply away at the back of his memory storage as little more than an anomalous result.

In response to your latter question, he rather eagerly nods his head up and down. “Oh, oh yes, I am quite well, thank you! But...” - Because of course, there's a but - “Montgomery, he is...”

'Furious,' feels like the correct and accurate assessment. At what, or who, Freddy doesn't know yet. The gator had adamantly refused to open his door when the bear attempted to enter, only to be told, in no uncertain terms, to, 'Go choke on a microphone.'

… Freddy had briefly questioned if his friend knew that animatronics can't choke, because they don't need to breathe, but when he pointed this out to Monty, something particularly heavy had been lobbed at the door, and he'd been forced to re-think his strategy.

“Montgomery is upset,” he carefully divulges, watching your eyebrows press together in a look he registers as 'concern.' Sighing, the bear adds, “And he seemed in such high spirits during Jazzercise too. I fear something bad must have happened. He is tearing his room to pieces again, and it isn't often I can hear the commotion all the way from my green room.”

Tilting his head down at you, he belatedly wonders whether you realise you're kneading your mop with enough force to blister your palms.

Before he can advise you to please refrain from hurting yourself, you reply, “Well, that's... not good?” Shaking yourself, you pull your face into a baffled grimace and ask, “Um, I'm sorry, but, where do I fit in with all of this?”

Freddy's eyelids click open and shut in a blink.

Oh. He... thought it would have been obvious. But, ah. No... He's presuming things again. You're clearly a very busy woman and although Monty had kept muscling your name into the conversation last night during Jazzercise, he had explicitly stated that you're an acquaintance, not his friend, a sentiment you had attested to when Freddy first met you.

Sheepishly, the bear hums and diverts his gaze to the side of the bathroom stalls. “I thought, perhaps you wouldn't mind coming with me to see if you can't.... coax Monty into calming down?”

“Me?” you frown, admittedly confused, “But... aren't you his actual friend? Surely he's more likely to listen to you?”

Sound logic, Freddy muses, but...

“Alas, I have already tried to reach out. But, Montgomery can be...” His ears droop sullenly as he sifts through his bank of vocabulary in search of a suitable word, eventually settling on, “...Stubborn. He would not listen to me.”

He can see you shifting your weight from foot to foot. “Have you asked one of the mechs to try talking to him? They know him better than I do,” you suggest.

“I... do not wish to speak poorly of our mechanics,” Freddy ekes out slowly, as though even the mere notion of speaking badly about someone causes him physical discomfort, “But, I'm afraid they might only exacerbate the situation.”

Quirking your eyebrow at the bear, you ask, “And what makes you so sure I won't?”

His response, to your surprise, comes without any hesitation, so matter-of-fact that you're left momentarily floored.

“You will not,” he states simply, “Not least because Monty thinks quite highly of you.”

“Oh, I... oh.” What else can you offer in response to a claim like that. Montgomery, according to everyone who has ever spoken to you about him, doesn't think highly of any of the staff.

Still a smidge skeptical, you squint up into Freddy's cerulean optics and press, “Really?”

And Freddy, always so infallibly genuine, nods his large, ursine head and replies, “Of course he does! He showed us the gift you gave him, you know... Nearly threw Roxanne across the room when she tried to take it from him!” He chuckles warmly, as if the prospect of two, warring animatronics is endearingly exasperating rather than outright horrifying.

Shaking his head fondly at the memory, Freddy puffs out a little sigh and smiles down at you, squeezing the brim of his hat in earnest. “That was very kind of you, by the way, Ma'am,” he declares, “You seem like a very nice person!”

You somehow manage not to snort out your skepticism. It feels a touch mean, but you don't think you'll put too much stock in the words of an animatronic who sees the best in absolutely everyone he meets.

Returning the bear's infectious smile all the same, you roll your eyes and sigh, “If you say so, Freddy.”

His brows dip into a gentle frown at your flippant dismissal, but you don't give him the chance to push the matter, instead breathing another, obnoxious sigh and stepping past both the bear and the wet-floor bot, ambling up to your trolley and dropping your mop into a slot at its side.

“Okay then,” you exhale, “If you really think I can help..”

Freddy turns to plod after you, something like relief flooding his systems as he falls into step at your side and slips his hat back into its rightful spot between his ears.

“I do.”

------------

It must be quite the spectacle to see Fazbear's cleaning lady trot briskly out of the women's bathroom, kick aside a 'Wet floor sign,' and carry on down the hall, followed closely by the famous Glamrock, Freddy, who's long, steady strides easily match a human's hurried pace.

Guests and staff members alike raise a few brows in your direction, but you hardly pay attention, far too busy wringing your hands and fretting over what you're supposed to do about Monty where even his own bandmate had failed. You're starting to suspect that giving him that glass figurine has set in motion a series of events you could never have foreseen.

Maybe you should have just said 'thank you' and left it at that.

Now, instead of doing your actual job, you're hurrying through the Pizzaplex, shadowed by a colossal, animatronic bear who seems to think that you can change Montgomery's mood.

It's... actually quite laughable that he has so much faith.

All too soon, you arrive at the concourse of Rockstar Row, which is suspiciously sparse, perhaps due to the muffled bangs and crashes that reach your ears just as soon as you set foot inside.

As you draw ever closer to Monty's green room, you find your feet dragging, so much so that Freddy is suddenly ahead of you in two strides. He notices at once and corrects his pace, dropping back until he's walking beside you again, his large head tipped down to regard you curiously.

“Are you all right, Miss?” he asks, his tone a little more urgent than you think is necessary.

Throwing the bear a reassuring smile, you nod, keeping your ears trained anxiously on the sounds of Monty's tantrum that grow closer and closer with every step. Freddy hums skeptically but takes your smile at face-value and turns away once more, missing the frown that blossoms across your forehead.

Approaching the gator's door, you're suddenly struck to find your knees locking up, slowing you even further until you come to a complete stop just several steps away from the ominous entrance, behind which all manner of strange noises can be heard.

It feels so much like a repeat of last night. But this time, Monty sounds even angrier, a feat you weren't sure was possible before now.

It's a given though, you suppose, if what that woman in the bathroom told you. And if Mick was with her when it happened, well. You can only imagine what was said and done to cause Montgomery's temper to flare up again like a dormant volcano erupting without a puff of warning.

Freddy takes a step closer to the door before he turns back and cocks his head to one side, regarding your taut expression and hands that fidget aimlessly with the badge hanging around your neck.

You can't help but jump slightly when the bear's optics abruptly flash and a light blooms to life behind them, sweeping up and down your body.

Another scan. You suddenly feel very exposed.

Humming to himself, Freddy quietly points out, “Your heart rate is elevated.”

“Uh, yeah,” you whisper back, turning a wary eye onto the door, “That seems to be happening a lot recently.”

Evidently, Freddy doesn't pick up on your sarcasm, because all at once, his ears pin themselves back against his plastic skull and he somehow manages to look entirely alarmed at what was intended to be a throwaway comment.

“It's happening a lot? Perhaps you ought to consult one of the onsite medics-”

“-It's fine, Freddy,” you interrupt him before he can get too carried away, “Just means I've been a bit more... jumpy, of late.”

“Jumpy?” The bear glances between you and the doorway for a moment before his optics widen and he makes a soft 'oh,' of understanding. “You are frightened,” he concludes, just a little too loudly for your taste. Luckily however, the noises coming from beyond Monty's door continue, and you definitely hear the sound of fabric tearing, so you assume he hasn't heard the pair of you conversing yet.

Pressing your lips together, you let a little sigh leave your nose and avoid Freddy's gaze, shrugging one of your shoulders in lieu of conclusive answer. “I'm not... It's not because of Monty-” A half truth. Not quite a lie. “I just... what if I can't help him, Freddy?” You swivel your eyes up again to peer at the bear a little helplessly. “What if I just make it worse?”

Perhaps it's because you somewhat know Montgomery now, whether you like it or not. Or perhaps it's because Freddy seems so sure of your influence over the gator, but the stakes seem... higher this time around.

The bear's cerulean optics whirr gently as he processes your question with newfound intrigue. 'What if I can't help?'

That you want to help, but worry you can't, has already told him that you must care at least a little about his bandmate, which is a stance leaps and bounds ahead of most staff members.

More and more, Freddy can see why Montgomery seems so taken with you.

He raises a paw – and then a brow when you flinch at the unexpected movement – before he stretches the appendage slowly towards your shoulder, humming happily as you relax after realising what he means to do. With an infinite gentleness that he exerts for all of the children he meets, the animatronic sets his paw down on your shoulder, utterly dwarfing your upper arm with his palm alone.

“You will not make anything worse,” he rumbles, “Not by trying to help. I would not ask you to do this if I believed otherwise.”

You can't hold the bear's gaze, not when he's staring at you like you're something pivotal and important. Lowering your eyes to his bowtie, you retort, “You're putting an awful lot of faith in someone you barely know.”

“You have put a more faith in Montgomery than anyone he has ever met,” he returns innocently, “And you only met him for the first time yesterday, correct?”

“I...”

Rats.

“I suppose you have a point,” you haughtily concede as you step out of Freddy's grasp and turn to face Montgomery's door, earning a contented hum from the bear.

Drawing yourself up so that you at least look more confident than you feel, you anxiously, needlessly brush down the front of your skirt and step up to the entrance, getting a world-bending rush of deja-vu.

Your hand feels small, smaller than it should be as you raise it, clenching your fingers into a fist and rapping your knuckles three times against the solid metal.

Any and all sound abruptly stops, save for a low, ferocious rattle that could probably pass for a real alligator's bellow.

“Go AWAY, FREDDY!” Montgomery roars, and from the corner of an eye, you see the bear's shoulders droop, apparently stung by the rejection.

Your tongue darts out to wet your lips and you suck down your nerves, calling, “It's me, Monty.”

After a beat, you hear your own name rasped back to you and heavy footsteps pounding closer to the door. You step back instinctively, expecting it to fly open at any moment.

To your surprise, it doesn't budge, yet the gator's rumbling voice sounds as though he's pressed his snout right up against it. You suppose he must have disabled the proximity sensor...

“What're you doin' here!? The bear with you?” he growls.

Sharing a glance with Freddy, you opt for honesty and reply, “Yeah... Yeah, he's here, Monty.”

“Huh..” The gator lets out an unimpressed huff. “You ratted me out to the lady, Fazbear?”

Freddy steps closer to you and once again encloses your shoulder with one of his sizeable paws. “I am worried about you, Monty. We both are.”

“I told you already, I'M FINE!” Powerful fists collide with the other side of the door and send a thunderous boom shooting through your chest, successfully contradicting his own claim.

It's hard to keep your feet in one place, desperate as they are to retreat from the door, but Freddy's hand hasn't left your shoulder and... you're not as afraid now as you had been last night. If you could withstand Monty's blustering then, you can certainly do it again now.

“Monty,” you begin, cautious, but steady, “I'm not usually one to refute a guy who looks like he can bench press a mini-van, but you're clearly not fine.”

“... Why'd you bring 'er here, Fred?” comes the gator's muffled grumble, ignoring your observation, “Didn't you hear what I did?”

You listen intently to the huff and puff of his machinery as it works hard to keep his systems cool.

All of a sudden, the unmistakeable sound of claws screeching against the metal door causes you to cringe backwards at the sound, an involuntary shudder rolling down your spine as the gator seethes, “She could get HURT! I'm dangerous!”

“Montgomery Gator,” Freddy chides him firmly, “You are not dangerous.”

“I'm afraid I have to agree with the bear, Monty,” you chime in, shaking yourself free of the unpleasant shivers, “You aren't going to hurt me. And you're not as dangerous as everyone's made you think you are... You're not as dangerous as that woman made you think you are...”

Freddy quirks a brow at you, flicking his ear forward curiously, but Monty...

Monty goes deathly silent.

Even his machinery stops whirring, and for a moment, you worry he's gone and shut himself down by accident. You're just about to call his name again when you hear a very soft, very faint, “Oh.”

On the other side of the door, Monty's frame has turned rigid, his optics blown wide and aghast behind his sunglasses.

You've... spoken to the exec.

Then why are you here?! If you already know what he did – because she had to have told everyone by now – why are you here, talking to him?

Your voice seeps through the crack under his door, like a douse of coolant. “She said.. you attacked her.”

His audials pick up Freddy's horrified intake of air, but Monty remains focused on you, listening raptly, waiting to hear that all too familiar lilt that will give away your abhorrence for his actions.

He's... a little stunned when your voice remains small, but not scared.

“Given what you told me about that kid's birthday party yesterday, I.. wasn't sure she was giving me the whole story,” you admit, “We talked. A lot. And, in the end, she explained what really happened.”

Monty slowly turns his snout sideways and lets his head thunk softly against the cool metal of his door, staring off at the curtain he'd ripped down in his fit of anguish.

He's pathetic, isn't he? Of course he is. Not least because just the sound of your voice alone is enough to slow the motors that are running madly in his chest.

“You didn't hurt her, Monty. She said so herself, you only pushed her. To stop her from taking... the gift I got you.”

'Oh... she told you about that...' he ponders quietly to himself, 'Well...At least he didn't hurt anyone. But...'

“I scared her kid doin' it,” he mumbles past his teeth, and again, he hears Freddy's voice.

“..Oh, Monty...”

Ha. Yeah. The bear would be appalled by something so heinous.

“Scaring a kid doesn't make you dangerous,” you press patiently, “You made a mistake. It happens. Everyone makes them, Hell-” Huffing out a quick laugh, you tell him, “-I've made babies on the bus cry just by looking at them! Does that make me dangerous?”

He has to take a moment to picture that scenario, instantly feeling the side of his mouth twitch upwards a fraction.

Somehow, you must sense his reaction without him having to say a word, because you hum pointedly and continue, “What happened was an accident, Monty.”

...An accident...

Huh.

What was it you'd told him about accidents?

They just... happen.

“Great,” he chuckles without an ounce of humour, “They're gonna decommission me over an accident. Figures.”

“Monty, come now, don't say such things-!”

Oh, Freddy's still here?

“-They will not decommission you! I'm sure this is all just a big misunderstanding.”

“He's right, Monty,” you add to the bear's assurances, but at least you aren't gushing, “Why on Earth would they decommission you over an accident?”

The gator scoffs. Loudly. Loud enough that's he sure you and Freddy hear it.

“Don't matter if it was an accident or not,” he snaps sharply, “You think that stops people from raisin' Hell about me?”

You have... NO idea how many black marks he has against his name. He's walking on ice an inch thick, existing on borrowed time. Every complaint against him could spell his doom, and the worst part is that even the threat of decommissioning isn't enough to keep him from making these 'mistakes,' as you call them.

“Montgomery...”

He snuffs a hot gush of air from his nostrils at the name, distracting him from himself for a moment, which in hindsight, is perhaps your goal.

He prefers it when you call him Monty.

Friends call him Monty.

Not the mechanics though, who have taken to calling him as such for convenience. They aren't his friends.

You though...

“Thought I told you to call me, Monty,” he murmurs, echoing his words from earlier.

There's a long pause, and he can almost see you rolling your eyes fondly at him. But after a while, your voice comes back to him through the thick sheet of metal that separates him from you.

“Monty, then. I don't think you have to worry about that woman 'raising hell' about you, okay?”

“You don't know that.”

“I do, actually.”

Oh... He hasn't heard that tone from you before. Clipped. Firm and no-nonsense. You want him to really listen to you, so listen he does, lifting his head from the door and staring down at it, wondering if he'd be meeting your eyes if it wasn't closed.

Should he open it.. just to see if you can retain that confidence?

“Look,” you sigh, “It's not my business to talk about other people's business. But. Let's just say... hmm... I think, you refusing to give her that figurine was the... the straw that broke the camel's back.”

The gator tilts his head sideways. “What?”

At almost the exact same time, he hears Freddy hum his own confusion.

“It's an idiom,” you tut, “Like, you know how little things by themselves aren't usually enough to get you to lose your cool? But when you add those little annoyances up, they get heavier and heavier until something small happens and then-”

“-Snap,” Monty concludes softly, rolling his gaze over a shoulder to peer at his room. He.. thinks he understands.

“Exactly,” you confirm, “She didn't seem angry when she left, by the way. Or upset. I explained that I gave you the figurine, and that I asked you to take care of it for me.”

“You didn't ask me to take care of it though...” he breathes, completely thrown for a loop.

Chuckling daintily, you reply, “Well, maybe not outright, but if a little white lie stops her from thinking you were being deliberately aggressive, then...”

You trial off whilst Monty just...

...doesn't really know what to say to that, actually.

You lied for him? No... you were covering for him, like he'd covered for you with Mick.

A tit for tat. The reciprocation of a favour.

You didn't have to. You shouldn't have had to. But you did it anyway, even though you ultimately had nothing to gain.

Isn't that...

Isn't that what friends do?

Maybe. He doesn't have a whole lot of experience in that department.

“So, yeah,” you interrupt his epiphany, “You don't have to worry about decommissioning, or whatever. You didn't technically do anything wrong. Just, uh...” Your tone shifts again, raises into something a little more jocular, more playful. “Please try not to go around pushing over random ladies in the future, okay?”

Of course not, he thinks at once, even nodding his head up and down, though he quickly remembers you can't see the motion.

Montgomery doesn't like to make promises, not when he himself can't be one hundred percent sure he'll be able to keep them.

But for you?

Yeah. For you, he's willing to try.

The gator absently presses his palm flat against the surface of his door, trying to imagine that you're doing the same on your side, establishing a vague connection with an animatronic who didn't know how painfully he needed one until now.

“So... Can I come in?”

With those few, muffled words, the illusion shatters and he blinks the serene image of you from his visual feed.

You... want to come in?

If he could gulp, he absolutely would.

Twisting his head around, he takes in the wanton destruction all around him, and feels a prickle of shame lighting up the sensitive wires in his chest.

“Er... I don't think that's a good idea...”

“How come?”

'How come?' Monty just about manages not to scoff at the innocence behind your question. Because he's ashamed of the mess he's made? Because he doesn't want you to see that he's lost control again so soon after you helped him clean up? Because you might be afraid of him if you don't have the protective illusion of the door between you.

Aloud, he calls, “Might've made... a bit of a mess back here...”

“Oh.” Silence, and then, “Any worse than yesterday?”

There's... no judgement in your tone, shockingly – it's just an inquiry, as if you'd asked him the date. He scans his optics over the room, at the curtain that he'd torn off its hoops, at the couch that hasn't just been flipped this time, it's been utterly shredded, the cushions torn asunder and thrown about with their feathers scattered haphazardly in such a way that a passerby might assume he'd murdered a whole coop of chickens.

Huh….He really hopes Chica doesn't walk past his window and happen to glance inside.

“Uh...” he starts eloquently, swallowing a guilty hum, “It's... it's a little worse...”

Lying coward. It's much worse.

To his surprise, he hears you laugh from the other side of the door. “Monty, you do realise I'm a cleaning lady, right? I can guarantee, I've probably seen messier.”

That's not even a lie. You've seen some truly, sinfully atrocious messes in your time, your own bedroom included, ironically.

Seconds tick by like minutes before Monty replies with a gruff demand. “Tell Fazbear to get lost first.”

You instantly aim a scowl at his door, shaking your head at the gator's petulance, but Freddy hardly seems offended, in fact, he appears quite delighted by the development. With his muzzle lifted into a comically broad and exuberant smile, he calls out, “Of course, Monty! I will be on my way at once!”

The gator growls something inaudible as Freddy turns to face you properly and once again removes his top hat, pressing it wholeheartedly to his chest and beaming down at you.

“Thank you,” he says in a voice so quiet that you suspect he must have turned his volume dial down until it rests just a click away from 'mute,' “Montgomery is lucky to have a friend like you.”

Taken aback, you automatically try to jump in and correct the bear, tell him that Monty had said yesterday that you're hardly his friend, but Freddy has already replaced his hat and plodded past you, humming a tune to himself as he saunters off on his merry way.

“O-kay, Monty,” you say slowly, turning away from the bear to face the door again, “It's just you and me now.”

It's a good thing he's hidden from your view, because it takes the gator a moment to wrestle away the pleased squint of his eyelids at hearing you say that, knowing that your attention is solely on him now, not Freddy. The happy spark is quick to fade however, once he remembers that he has to let you in, let you see what he's done.

A few, silent seconds later, the door slides open, finally erasing the barrier that had separated the pair of you.

One quick look at the gator's appearance has your forehead puckering into a gentle frown. He isn't damaged, not externally from what you can see at a glance, but he certainly doesn't seem in as fine fettle as he'd probably like, from the way his tail is slumped lifelessly on the floor to the lacklustre smile that tries to pull at his jaws.

He's alarmingly far from the animatronic who stood before you last night when he held himself tall and proud and ferocious as he glared you down from the darkness of his green room.

There's none of that pomp and posturing now though.

Instead, as he peers down at your shoes instead of your face with his claws fiddling absently at the band of spikes strapped around his wrist, you'd be justified in saying the gator looks downright dismal.

The encounter with that woman and her kid, coupled with the threat of being decommissioned over the incident must have affected him more than you'd previously assumed.

“Hey,” monty drawls, his voice box pushing the word out sluggishly as he moves away from the door and gestures for you to come in with a bitter wave of his hand.

Steeling yourself, you step inside the gator's room and return his greeting with a soft, “Hi,” of your own.

You don't even take a look around you yet, instantly fixing the animatronic with a searching gaze. You have to admit it's a little amusing to see him freeze like a deer in the headlights when you turn to face him, your brows bumping together into a from as you ask, "Are you okay, big guy?"

Of all the things he expected to come out of your mouth when you set foot inside his room, asking after him was not one of them. That's not the question you're supposed to ask of an animatronic who has just laid hands on a guest, scared a child and then proceeded to tear his room asunder.

You haven't even looked around yet. Why is he your first priority?

Ill-equipped to answer such a seemingly simply query, Monty opts for a response that should put you the most at ease, because you sound worried, and you absolutely shouldn't be worried, not about him. Not when he brought this on himself. Drooping his head, he peers up at you over the rim of his glasses and offers a wordless, but honest nod.

Subjecting him to an unrelenting squint, you press, "Are you sure?"

And again, the gator's head bobs up and down, but this time, he couples the motion by dangling a smile on the corner of his mouth and replies, "Am now..."

In spite of his assurance, you eye the gator up and down a moment longer, checking for yourself before you let out a small hum, apparently deciding that he's telling the truth. With that, you finally cast your eyes around the room, surveying the damage.

He hadn't been wrong. This is... worse.

You try to ignore that his optics are now watching you carefully for a reaction, though you manage to keep your expression neutral, for his sake.

The large stage curtain nearest his door has been torn down to pool on the ground, giving outside eyes an uninterrupted view of Monty's room. As soon as that thought occurs, a family of four strolls past, a man, a woman and their two little boys. The children turn to look through the glass and their eyes burst open wide, as do their parents', whose jaws go positively slack and they quickly try to hurry their children along, hands pushing gently but insistently at small shoulders.

You catch the woman's eye, and in lieu of any other ideas, you plaster on a toothy grin and lift your hand, giving the family an enthusiastic wave which they neglect to return, instead, they continue to speed by until they disappear from view and you feel safe to let the grin fall into a grimace.

Behind you, Monty's gaze lowers to the floor.

“Well,” you puff, hands lighting on your hips, “As destruction goes, this is.. actually pretty impressive.”

You make sure to keep your tone teasing, and when you turn the gator again, you notice that he looks like he's torn between wincing with shame, and lifting his chin with pride.

But then, your gaze slides past him, to the vanity in the corner of his room and the little piece of glass that sits smack-dab in the centre of it, completely untouched.

The sight brings a warm smile to your face.

Even in the midst of a furious outburst, Monty hadn't damaged your gift.

You're a little touched by the animatronic's restraint.

Upon further inspection, you note that the whole area near his vanity has been left alone – the desk, the chair, the mirror – to your relief. It's as though he'd been afraid to even get close to the figurine, for fear of breaking it.

You actually find it a little reassuring to discover that his 'rages' aren't as wild and unpredictable as you've been lead to believe.

“Still in one piece,” you muse softly.

Monty's optics flick over to your face and he tilts his head to the side. “Still in one...?” Following your line of sight, he twists his snout over a shoulder, letting out a disbelieving little laugh when his eyes land on the intact figurine.

A room full of chaos and you focus on the one thing that remains unbroken.

“Oh, er... yeah,” he chuckles sheepishly, scratching at the back of his neck and shrugging as he peeks at you from the corner of an optic. “Couldn't... heh, couldn't let anythin' happen to Monteeny, could I?”

Amused, you throw up an eyebrow and parrot, “Monteeny?”

“Yeah! You know, cause... cause he's me – Monty – an' he's just a little guy, an' teeny means little, so, I just thought...”

He forces his voice box to stop spitting out words like a faulty radio.

Dumb... God, that's dumb now that he says it out loud. He named a figurine? And the best he could do was Monteeny? You'll think he's a joke.

He's interrupted by a contemplative hum. The gator blinks, watching you cup your chin with a hand.

“Huh, witty,” you remark, nodding in approval and giving him your most commending smile, “You're a pretty creative guy, huh Monty?”

The animatronic glances around, likely trying to find the other Montgomery Gator you're referring to.

Creative? He is?

“I am?” he asks in a quiet voice before he quickly shakes off the doubt and throws on an air of confidence like a leather jacket, “I mean, course I am! You gotta be creative if you wanna be a famous rockstar, after all!”

“Naturally,” you agree, pleased to see him slowly coming back into himself. Arrogance suits him far more than despondency anyway.

Speaking of the latter, Monty's moment of egoism lasts only another few seconds before he promptly deflates, like a balloon has popped inside his chest. He raises a hand and rubs the pads of his fingers across his forehead, mumbling, “Ah... Look.. This mess -” Dropping his hand, he glares dejectedly towards the ruined couch. “-You don't gotta clean it up again. Tell Mick he can send in his S.T.A.F.F bots.... I won't destroy 'em this time...”

You're not quick enough to hide your look of shock. Is this his way of trying to amend what he's done? That's... an astonishingly human level of remorse hidden behind his tone.

He knows he's done wrong, and he's trying to fix it.. Christ, you've met some humans who'd rather pull their own teeth out before they'd ever admit to doing wrong.

“That's... very responsible of you, Monty,” you tell him honestly, pretending not to notice the way his silicone mouth tries to pry itself up into a smile, “But I don't mind helping out, if you'd prefer...”

Montgomery's head snaps up at you so quickly, he feels the motors in his neck whine with the effort.

Of course he'd prefer you to the S.T.A.F.F. You're thorough and careful when you work, you're not a terrible conversationalist, you're good at your job... You're... good.

You're good.

To offer your help, even after he'd undone all of your hard work...

What's more, he cares, which is frankly the strangest change to his own behaviour that he's ever noticed.

Still, averse to seeming too eager, the alligator chuffs through his snout and turns it away from you, shrugging one, massive shoulder, feigning nonchalance. “If you want to.. S'cool with me.”

“Well then, that's what I'll do,” you declare, “Just as soon as-”

Right on cue, your Fazwatch chimes with a pretty jingle, causing the animatronic to whirl his head towards you once again, curious at the unexpected interruption.

“Ah, perfect timing,” you hum to yourself, glancing down at your wrist and tapping the screen to switch off the alarm you'd set up, “Mind if I come and clean up a bit later? Shannon's going to arrive in a few minutes and I've got to get her daughter to the daycare. Sunny's going to watch her while I finish my shift.”

Monty cocks his head the other way. “Stella, right?”

Surprised, you shoot him a curious look, lowering your arm, “Er, yeah. That's right. You remember?”

The gator's snout wrinkles as he snorts in mock offence. “It was only yesterday. Give me a little more credit than that, Princess.”

“Princess? Ha! Do you see me wearing a tiara?” you quip with a good-natured smirk, “And sorry for assuming. You must meet hundreds of kids every day! Anyone would forget a name or two.”

“Well, not this ol' gator,” he declares proudly, sticking a thumb into his chest and tipping his chin back, “Got a memory bank chock-full of 'em. And I ain't never forgotten one kid who's name I've already heard.”

Which, you secretly think, is actually extremely sweet. But you don't tell him that, just in case 'sweet' is an adjective he'd be offended by.

Instead, you purse your lips and say, “Impressive! Wish I had your memory – I can hardly remember what I had for breakfast.”

With his ego fluffed, Monty barely registers the thoughtful look you're giving him until you take a breath and speak up again, “Say, would you... like to come and meet her?”

The gator's optics spring open to their maximum width behind his sunglasses and he stares down at you in palpable disbelief. Had he heard you right?

Hadn't you been paying attention earlier? He made a child cry. And now you want to introduce him to a little girl you know?

When he continues to stare down at you through unblinking optics, you start to wonder if you'd been too presumptuous in asking for what is, essentially, a personal meet-and-greet with one of the four main animatronics. “Obviously, you don't have to,” you backtrack quickly, “I mean, if you'd prefer to be alone, that's all right. I just thought...”

...Thought he might appreciate getting out of his room for a bit, where he has to wallow in the destruction all around him whilst onlookers peer nosily in through the window....

“I... I do wanna come with...” he pipes up, and yet there's a definite 'but' that he's neglecting to tack onto the end of his sentence.

So...

“But~?” you prompt for him.

Monty's tail sweeps across the floor in a slow, wide arc, scraping noisily against his carpet as he folds his arms over his chest, a recognisably defensive motion that's hard to miss on an animatronic his size. Grumbling a few, incomprehensible sounds to himself, he finally fixes you with a wary, hopeful stare.

“But, it's just... Are you... y'know... Sure?”

The gator's words are said slowly, uncertain and cautious, like he isn't entirely convinced that he wants to hear your answer.

You notice his optics, partially concealed though they may be behind his glasses, are flicking back and forth between your face and the shredded soft toy at your feet that you've been trying to pointedly ignore.

Slowly, it begins to dawn on you why he's hesitating.

You're standing in the middle of a chaotic whirlwind of broken furniture, ripped fabric and scattered toys. Perhaps you should be wary and ask yourself if you're sure you trust an animatronic who has just come out of a broiling rage after letting his temper loose on his own green room. But then, your gaze inevitably drifts to the glass figurine on his desk and you can feel the hesitation melt from you like ice under the sun's rays.

Therein lays the proof of his restraint.

You've seen regret and remorse in the face of something that shouldn't be able to achieve such a feat, and you know you don't have anything to worry about.

“Yes, Monty, I'm sure,” you tell him through a short laugh. Then, letting your smile fall to something more earnest and softer around the edges, you add, “And you don't have to worry. Stella is going to love you.”

It seems to do the trick. All at once, a spark of the old Monty returns and he puffs himself up as you turn to the door, hiding a secretive roll of your eyes.

“I ain't worried,” he insists indignantly, swiping a thumb across his nose and falling into step behind you, “Course she's gonna love me.”

It takes a second for you to scan your card and open the door, and in that small moment between his room and the outside world, Monty leans his snout over your shoulder and catches your eye.“Right?” he asks in a hesitant croak, like he's trying to seek affirmation.

“Oh, no doubt,” you return, your tone thick with the confidence that he's lacking, “That kid loves anything with scales. Snakes. Lizards. Dragons. Dinosaurs....”

“Alligators?”

“Mmm. Nah, she prefers crocodiles.”

Catching the wink you throw him, he chuckles, “Hey!” and gives your shoulder a careful bunt with the flat of his nose, nudging you playfully through the door and following you out afterwards,

Stepping through the open door, you hardly think of any potential repercussions when you raise your hand to give the side of his long, toothy mouth a gentle pat. “I'm only joking, big guy. Now, come on, they'll be here soon.”

You're so wrapped up in striding off through the concourse, your mind set on making it to the lobby in time to meet your friends, that you don't notice Monty has pulled his head back, still trailing after you, but remaining several steps to your rear. One large, sturdy hand raises to his snout and he uses the very tips of his fingers to trace the spot your palm had touched him so casually.

He's fairly certain you'd even managed to make contact with a few of his fangs, and you hadn't even flinched or recoiled. You hadn't even realised you'd done it.

With his hand still glued to the area and the motors in his chest pumping into overdrive, Monty traipses after you in lazy, loping strides, keeping his drooped optics fixed on the back of your head, oblivious to the humans parting like waves around the both of you all the way to the lobby.

------

Monty is uncharacteristically silent as he stands beside you, waiting by the front doors to the Plex.

Peering mindlessly through the glass, he notes that the sky has already begun to grow dark, heralding the arrival of a cold and icy night. Guests have begun to leave in their droves, eager to make it back onto the roads before the falling snow piles up too high on the pavements and glistening, black tarmac.

The gator watches on in a daze as parents try to coax squirming children into allowing wooly hats to be stuffed down over their heads while they zip up unruly coats that refuse to close properly around layers and layers of clothes that are already packed underneath.

Your friends have yet to arrive, and you're anxiously peering through the throng of people leaving to try and catch a glimpse of familiar faces in the crowd.

Blinking languidly, Monty lets his optics drift down to where you stand at his side, wearing nothing but your employee's blouse, a skirt and an apron, none of which looks adequate to keep out the cold. He makes a brief note to make sure you don't leave the Plex later without a hat and coat... Maybe a scarf too.

Some gloves wouldn't hurt either...

"Oh! They're here!" you suddenly pipe up, tugging the animatronic back into the room, "Shannon! Bianca!"

You raise your hand to wave and Monty raises his head, focusing on the only trio of guests who are stumbling into the Plex, rather than out of it, looking a lot like they're trying to battle against a surging tide.

Two adults, he registers, performing a brief scan and pulling up their guest profiles.

Shannon Finch is the first, a regular to the Plex, though he notes her preferred activities are the Arcade and Roxy's Raceway, which explains why he doesn't recognise her face, even if his own system does. The second woman is one Bianca Finch - wife to Shannon, and much less of a regular than her spouse, having only been to the Plex a couple of times in the last three years. Dismissing their profiles, his optics rove down to the third and final guest, walking along between them.

As soon as he sees the little human ambling inside, sandwiched between her mothers, Monty's optics slowly widen in gentle surprise.

The girl is peering straight ahead of her, a small, anxious grin on her face that parts her lips and shows off an impressive gap in her teeth where an incisor has fallen out. In one hand, she has Bianca's fingers wrapped up in a vice-like grip, whilst in the other, she's clasping onto a thin, white cane, the significance of which isn't lost on even an unobservant brute like him.

The instrument is sweeping back and forth across the ground in front of her, carefully feeling out the path ahead. Some of the guests trying to leave make the mistake of stepping into the girl's space, but a swift and ferocious glare from both of her mothers is enough to send them hurriedly sidestepping the girl, mumbling awkward apologies as they flee.

Suddenly, Monty feels very out of his depth. 

Visually impaired guests are not rare visitors to the Pizzaplex, but he'd be lying if he said he'd ever interacted with one of them.

The others had. Chica, Freddy and Roxy. His... predecessor had.

Monty wasn't typically allowed.

Those guests were often shepherded away from him and encouraged to meet the other members of his bad.

Now though, he's beginning to think the staff had been a little short-sighted in their endeavour too keep him isolated from the guests they assumed would prefer an animatronic with a 'gentler' approach.

What if he does something wrong?

He frantically begins to search his database to see if he's been installed with any kind of program that could tell him how best to interact with a blind kid, growing increasingly frenetic when his searches turn up nothing but the bog-standard child-care protocols.

Damn it. Damn the mechanics! Did they just think that this situation would never happen?

Well, evidently they were wrong!

Unaware of the gator's internal meltdown, you wave the family over. "It's good to see you! Come in, out of the cold! Hi Stella!"

Shannon and Bianca spot you at once and their faces, red and flustered beneath woollen hats, split into broad grins as they begin to make their way over to you, pushing through the last of the departing guests.

"Y/n!" Shannon exclaims, turning her head down to her daughter and adding, "Stella, Y/n's here."

Neither she nor her spouse acknowledge the gator hanging apprehensively behind you.

"There she is! World's best babysitter!" Sweeping forwards, Shannon accepts the open arms you hold out to receive her, wasting no time in draping herself over you and pulling you into a near-suffocating hug, pressing her icy hands to the back of your neck and eliciting a squeal as you attempt to pry her off you.

"COW!" you gasp out a laugh, swatting her when she retreats with a wicked grin and backs up to her daughter's side again, earning an exasperated, if not fond groan from Bianca.

"Poor girl agrees to babysit for us, and the first thing you do is terrorise her?" she tuts at Shannon, shaking her head before turning to give you an apologetic smile, "Cow is much too kind.. Hello, dear."

"Bianca," you return fondly, trusting that she won't repeat her wife's prank as she pulls herself carefully out of Stella's grasp and steps into your arms for her own hug, "Don't I keep saying, you're too good for her? If you and Stella ever get tired of her antics-"

"-You'll be the first person we come running to," she laughs, and behind her, their daughter joins in, snickering in that way children do when they don't quite understand the joke the adults around them are making.

Huffing, Shannon holds up her left hand and points smugly at the shiny, golden ring sitting around her third finger. "Yeah, well. You snooze you lose. She's tied down, and nothing short of a crow bar is prying this thing off my finger."

Stepping out of your grasp, Bianca shoots her wife a surreptitious wink. "We're joking, darling."

Unnoticed, Monty observes the way you approach the girl last, loudly, making sure your heels click on the linoleum just a little more prominently than you usually do. He realises at once what you're doing. You're deliberately letting her know where you are.

"Hey, Stella," you beam, kneeling down and nudging her cane with a hand, "Ready for a wild afternoon of driving Moon crazy-worried?"

The girl, all dressed up in mittens and a scarf and her yellow, waterproof galoshes, slips her cane's handle around her wrist and steps forward, pushing her hands out until they connect with your collarbone before she slides them up and around your neck, squeezing herself into you with a bright, sunny smile. "Yeah!" she nods keenly, earning a laugh from you.

"Good! You know, he and Sunny are super excited to have you back!"

You allow her to pull away from you and fumble her cane back into her proper grip, asking, "Really?"

"Uh, yeah!" you scoff, as if the very idea of them not being excited to see her is a laughable offence, "You're their favourite, aren't you? Oh, whoops!"

Slapping your hands over your mouth, you suck in an exaggerated gasp and lower your voice to a loud, urgent whisper. "Oh, I wasn't supposed to say that out loud! Hey, you can't tell the other kids, okay?"

Your dramatics pull a delighted giggle from Stella's mouth. "I won't!" she agrees with enthusiasm.

Wiping a hand across your forehead and letting out a noisy, "Whew!" you add, "Thanks. Don't want the other kids getting jealous, do we?"

"Ahem!" Bianca suddenly coughs, drawing your attention back up to her, only to find her narrowing her eyes over your shoulder, arms coming up to fold neatly across her chest. "Y/n. Who's your friend?"

"My...? Oh, right! Uh, Stella, can I take your hand?" Clearing your throat, you slip your fingers around the girl's tiny appendage when she offers it out to you, guiding her into your side as you beckon for Monty to venture closer.

Sparing the gator an encouraging grin, you say, "Stella, I'd like you to meet my friend-"

Monty's motors skip over themselves.

What did... you just...? 

"-Montgomery Gator."

Chapter 12: Stella

Montgomery Gator becomes aware of several things in that sliver of a second that seems to stretch itself out until it could fill an eternity tenfold.

He's aware that you're still knelt on the ground in front of him, one hand caught up in a child's anxious grasp and other stretching out towards him invitingly.

He's aware, not for the first time, that he is very, very large, and clunky and sharp, whereas the little girl – Stella – is very, very small, delicate and soft, with skin so flimsy that it barely stands as thick as a sheet of paper.

Monty is also aware that he should really do something more significant than continue to stare down at you with his lower jaw hanging slightly ajar like a gormless guppy.

What he hadn't been aware of though, not until now at least, is that he – a boorish rockstar with an ungovernable temper – can be rendered so, unfathomably stumped by an offhanded comment you made to a child.

You introduced him as your friend.

More than likely, you meant nothing much by it. 'Friend,' after all, is just a word, so throwaway that he really, really oughtn't be looking into it as closely as he is.

But for just a moment, he supposes it's nice to pretend...

“Yoo hoo~! Montgomery Gator? Earth to Monty!”

The animatronic is thrust back into the moment by the playful lilt of your voice.

Giving his head a brusque shake, he blunders out an embarrassingly ineloquent, “Huh?” before he manages to register that you're still holding a hand out towards him, inviting him to join you down at Stella's height.

His jaws snap shut with an audible 'click.'

Stella's mother, Bianca, has her arms folded neatly across her chest, and he doesn't miss the way she tenses as he cautiously lowers himself onto one knee, trying to keep his optics on the youngster standing before him.

Stella's eyes - clouded and grey from the thick cataracts swallowing her irises - snap in the animatronic's direction when his knee lands on the floor with a dull clunk, causing her to take a fraction of a step closer to you, her hand tightening around your thumb.

Looking to you for guidance, Monty catches the encouraging smile you send his way and a quick roll of your wrist, wordlessly telling him to introduce himself.

Okay. Yeah, he can do that. No problem.

…

He's done it thousands of times before, right?

A sudden and unbidden image of Roland's tear-stricken face flashes in front of his optics, causing his actuators to sputter and skip a few times before he's able to force them to run fluidly again, shoving the memory aside.

This won't be like that.

You're here, for one thing, vigilant and reassuring, your mere presence alone serving to keep him grounded.

It isn't lost on him that you're giving him a second chance with this, by introducing him to Stella, a human far tinier than those he usually interacts with. He doesn't know if you're trying to prove that he isn't a total brute to others, or to himself, but either way... he appreciates the effort.

And he doesn't intend to let this opportunity go to waste.

Bracing one hand on his bent knee, the gator drops his voice until it spills from him in a gravelly rumble, not unlike the thrum of brontide. “Hey there, little darlin',” he drawls softly, only for his face to fall as she presses her cheek into the fabric of your skirt.

Worried that he's pushed too fast too soon, he draws back and his optics fly over to you, surprised to see that you're giving him a thumbs up, your lips soundlessly telling him to, 'Keep going!'

His tail wraps closely around his legs as he subconsciously attempts to make himself smaller. “Name's Montgomery Gator,” he continues hesitantly, “But, you can call me Monty – All my friends do.” He ignores the knowing brow you raise at him, bashfully averting his gaze and clearing a burst of static from his voice box. “You, uh, must be Stella, right?”

It's embarrassing how one negative interaction with a kid has knocked his confidence so completely out of whack. Introductions had felt so much less stilted with Roland.

Monty can feel the mothers' watchful eyes searing into the top of his head whilst he waits apprehensively for an answer, observing the girl as she sticks her lower lip between two teeth before finally, finally offering him a shy nod.

'A nod. Good, that's good,' he tells himself, feeling a small piece of insecurity break off and fade into the aether, 'Better than screaming. Much better than tears. Maybe I've still got it...'

His reptilian face must be all but broadcasting uncertainty and hesitance because you seem to suddenly take pity on his awkward attempt at breaking the ice and lean in close to the girl, whispering, “Hey, Stella? Can you guess what kind of animal Montgomery Gator is?”

Stella's head twists towards you an inch or two and there's the ghost of a smile on her lips as she meekly answers, “An... an alligator?”

“Exactly, that's right!” you cheer, earning yourself a wider grin from her, “And now, tell me. Do alligators have... fur?”

Montgomery snorts, enraptured by the ease with which you coax a giggle out of your charge.

“No,” Stella snickers, more loudly than anything he's heard her say yet as she shakes her head at your cluelessness.

“No?” Humming pensively, you glance at the animatronic and quirk a lip, trying, “Feathers?”

Again, the girl laughs, dropping your hand to give you an admonishing push. “No!” she exclaims, and then, because obviously you'll never get the answer right without her help... “Scales!”

Behind you, Shannon pulls an endearing face at Bianca, who is busy fighting back a soft smile of her own while simultaneously trying hard to keep a cautious eye on the animatronic.

You, in the meantime, throw up your eyebrows and give a long, drawn-out, “Oooh~! Scales!” and thunk a palm against your forehead.

Stella titters delightedly at the sound of the soft 'slap' of skin meeting skin.

“I wonder what scales feel like... Say, Monty?” Turning your face towards him, you flash the gator a pleading grin and ask, “Can I see your arm for a sec?”

He has to make a herculean effort not to thrust his arm at you too eagerly. “You wanna find out what a real alligator feels like, huh?” he says, maintaining a casual tone, “Be my guest.”

Leaning forwards, he presents you with his bent forearm, ensuring that it's tightly flexed by squeezing his hand into a fist, optics flicking up to gauge your face for a reaction.

He's only slightly disappointed that you only snort in amusement rather than drop your jaw open, overcome by unmitigated awe, but that sliver of dismay is swiftly knocked out of him once you reach over and lay your palm flat over the panel of his wrist.

There's that alien flood of warmth again, spreading electrical pulses up his arm to the underside of his neck as you gingerly begin stroking your hand back and forth across his limb, making a show of gasping and uttering, “Woah!” under your breath, just loud enough that Stella can hear you and grow curious.

At first, Monty doesn't even question why you're doing this – he's entirely too lost in another of your feather-light touches. Revelling in the new, intriguing sensation, he lets his eyelids flutter closed.

It isn't until Stella ventures a step or two closer that he understands the reason behind your actions.

This is all for the girl. Engaging with him, touching him - You're making an effort to acclimatise her to the gator, getting her used to his presence and feel, showing her, by doing so first, that she has nothing to be afraid of.

Numbly, he wonders if this show is also meant for Bianca.

The bespectacled woman has relaxed considerably, hardly carrying a single trace of that prior rigidity in her shoulders. Shannon, in contrast, is positively vibrating on the spot, fingertips pressed firmly against her grinning lips.

“Can I have a turn?” a small, hesitant voice peeps out, and Monty has to hurriedly cut the feed from his speakers so he doesn't emit an embarrassing sound of endearment.

“Oh, I'm sure Mr Gator won't mind?” you say, giving him a questioning look all the same.

As if he'd ever say no to either of you.

… Damn. And there was him thinking he wasn't a total pushover...

“Course I don't mind,” he chuckles, silently mourning the loss of your hand when it slips from his arm to make room for Stella, “C'mere, you little nipper. You can tell all yer friends you got to wrangle a real-life alligator.

Spurred on by his encouragement, she stretches out her hand and shuffles forwards.

Monty produces a soft rattle from his voice box, quiet as a whisper, but with just enough volume behind it that the girl twitches her head up at it and takes another, surer step towards him, then another, until her fingertips brush delicately against his forearm.

She recoils slightly at first, but after you reach up and tap a finger on the animatronic's wrist and tell her, “You're all right, that's him,” she advances again, finding his outer casing with her palm and pressing it to the temperate plastic.

Monty doesn't have breath to catch, so his voice box merely warbles with static as he watches the miniature human's face go slack with wonder.

Wonder. At him.

Behind your back, Shannon mumbles something about needing to take a picture immediately and begins to fumble around inside the pockets of her dress in search of her phone.

You, meanwhile, are content to sit back on your haunches, beaming proudly down at Stella for a second before you turn that same gaze up towards Montgomery, only to find that he's gone utterly still, his wide-eyed expression almost mirroring the girl's as he watches her explore his forearm.

Satisfied, you slowly get to your feet and back up, leaving an unobstructed view for Shannon to snap several dozen photos of both girl and gator.

“Y/n, you little minx!” she hisses teasingly around a grin, “I cannot believe you brought Montgomery Gator to meet our daughter!”

Lowering the phone, she throws a scrawny arm around your shoulder and squeezes you into her side. Standing beside you, Bianca is still watching the alligator, her lips tugging thoughtfully at their corners as he leans his snout close to Stella and expels a whuff of warm air across her face, earning a delighted squeal in response.

“I just can't believe he's being so good with her,” she muses, and you turn to give her an expectant look, but Shannon beats you to a reply, withdrawing her arm from around your neck.

“Well, duh. He's built for entertaining kids, babe. I think it's literally in his programming.”

“I.. yes, I know. But...” Giving a little huff, Bianca drops her voice to a whisper. “We've all heard the rumours, Shan. Daisy Mangrove says-”

“- Daisy Mangrove thinks wearing a tinfoil hat will stop the government from projecting subliminal messages into her brain,” Shannon snorts, rolling her eyes, “The robots are safe, Bea. A business like this isn't going to jeopardise itself by risking the lives of its guests.”

“I'm not going to argue with you,” Bianca replies curtly, “I was just trying to say that it's... a nice surprise... to see that at least some of the rumours were wrong.”

Her frown softens as she peers at Monty.

You follow her gaze, too slow to catch his optics when they flick down to Stella again, carefully watching her inspect the studded bracelet wrapped around his wrist.

“But! Enough of that,” Bianca exclaims, clapping her hands together and jolting you in your shoes, “I can't believe it's been a month since we caught up! What about you, dear? Work treating you okay? Busy?”

“Uh, always,” you reply with a huff and a smile, “And, yeah, work's good. It pays enough to get by, hours are decent -” Cocking a grin, you bob your head at Monty and add, “- And my co-workers are a pretty interesting bunch.”

Shannon copies your grin as Bianca nods her head with a sage hum, seemingly pleased with your response. “That's great,” she says, “That's really... I'm glad you've settled in so well.”

Momentarily, the pair of you fall into a comfortable quiet, happy to stand vigil whilst Shannon continues to indistinctly fawn and coo over the photographs she's taking of her daughter. But it isn't long before you feel the subtle shift in the air beside you, a sort of heaviness that seeps down on top of Bianca's shoulders and pushes a tentative sigh from her lips, worry lines growing like a crevasse between her eyebrows.

Her mouth opens, closes, then opens again around a question that she isn't sure she should ask.

Sadly, you recognise this song and dance all too well. You know the question she's hesitating to voice - the one she asks every time she sees you, as much as you wish she wouldn't. And yet, you can't find it in you to hold her concern against her.

Sometimes though, it would be nice if you could just be allowed to forget.

Sure enough, just as Monty lifts his head to ascertain that he's still doing a good job with Stella, Bianca finally leans towards you and asks in a hushed voice, “And, you still haven't heard from... from Hunter, have you?” She speaks his name like it's a forbidden word – and you suppose it is, for you at least. Still, you're well-practiced in keeping down the groan that almost leaks out of your mouth.

At your other side, Shannon lowers her phone a little and you can just tell her ears are pricked with interest.

Stella, luckily, appears too preoccupied with informing Monty that her classmates are never going to believe that she's met a rockstar and an alligator all in the same day.

Inhaling a long, slow breath through your nose, you open your mouth and sigh it all out again, emptying your lungs before you softly murmur, “No. Thank God. Not a text. Not a phone call. Not even one of those creepy letters.”

It's been the most wonderfully peaceful year you've had for a long, long time.

“And you haven't seen him around the city, have you?” Shannon demands suddenly, sliding her phone into a pocket and turning to you, arms folded bossily across her chest.

From the corner of an eye, you see Montgomery's head raise slightly, the crimson glare from his optics shining in your direction, but you pay him little mind, too busy giving Shannon a strained smile and disguising your discomfort with a scoff of laughter. “Don't worry. If I do see his Lordship, you'll be the first to know, okay?”

To your dismay, the woman positively bristles at the ease you inject into your tone.

“No. No!” she scolds you, jabbing a finger at your sternum, “The first person to know should be the officer on the other end of your phone!”

“Yes, Shan, I know,” you sigh.

“You can't give him another chance to -”

“- I know, Shan.”

“- to hurt you, Y/n!”

“Shannon,” you warn her through a tight smile, eyes wide as they dart pointedly down to Stella and back again.

Sometimes she needs to be reminded that there are certain conversations that should never be talked about in front of young children. The unpalatable topic of Hunter stands firmly at the top of the list, in your opinion.

'Another chance to hurt you?' Unnoticed by any of you, the pupils of Monty's optics shrink to sharp, little pinpricks and his protocols slam into place at the word 'hurt,' like a bull reacting to a red flag. 'You're hurt?”

“S'cuse me, lil' darlin',” he mutters to Stella, pushing himself up to his feet and using the back of a hand to nudge her gently towards Bianca, never once taking his optics off your face.

It's decidedly nerve-wracking to turn at the sound of Bianca's gasp, only to promptly find yourself nose to chest with a hulking alligator.

“Who hurt you?” Monty growls, catching you wildly off guard with the dangerous undertone sitting in his voice box.

Shaking your head at the shift in atmosphere, you retreat a step, trying to reclaim some lost space, blurting, “Uh, nobody-?”

“Where?”

“Monty, I-”

All of a sudden, you're cut off by an impatient puff of hot air blasting your hair back and a strong, but gentle hand sliding around your wrist, lifting your arm up and away from your side to give him an unobstructed view of your torso.

“Where'd you get hurt?” he demands, performing a scan as you balk, tugging fruitlessly against the gator's iron grip.

Belatedly, you realise that he's checking you over for injuries.

“Mom?” Stella's voice peeps out as Bianca takes up her daughter's hand and tugs her close, peering at the animatronic and shifting from foot to anxious foot, like she's expecting him to snap your head off at any given moment.

…

… Would he?...

No. You resolutely shove that niggling doubt aside.

Whilst it is true that he's been known to fly into a tempestuous rage every once in a while, you're slowly learning that those outbursts aren't random. They have a trigger – and Monty is seldom the one to pull it.

Still hearing Stella's hesitant call and having the gator's snout so close to your ribs, you know that it's your duty – as a loyal Fazbear employee – to de-escalate this 'situation.'

Clearing your throat, you cease fighting against his unwavering grip and straighten your back out, ready try the only technique you can think of.
You open your mouth and force out a convincingly genuine laugh.

Laughter breaks tension, takes people off their guard and turns what should be a serious situation into something that seems less serious.

You've used it in timed direr than this. And while it didn't always work, it was always worth a shot.

“Monty, you can scan me all you want, but you're not going to find anything besides yesterday's paper cut, okay?”

The agitated gator pauses, sending you a funny look. “Huh?” He blinks and you watch his pupils expand a fraction. “But... she said-”

“- I know. I know,” you interrupt patiently, “But it happened a long, long time ago Monty. I'm all right now.”

His optics slowly narrow, studying your face for any semblance of a lie.

After a second, you tack on, “I promise.”

The animatronic blinks again, performs another cursory scan just be sure, and at last pries his fingers away from your arm, grumbling something indecipherable and giving you a squint of warning, like he doesn't quite believe you, but is willing to let this go... for now.

You're rather proud that you don't let go of the shaky sigh that had built up in the back of your throat.

The tension around you dissipates as well once Shannon and Bianca let themselves relax, though the latter's voice is a little tremulous as she sucks a breath through her teeth and asks, “Is... Is he always so...um... protective?”

With a croak, you clear your throat. “What? Oh, no. No, that was just.. uh -” You share a brief look with Monty, stumbling over your own explanation. “...His... first-aid protocols kicking in. Yeah! All the animatronics have them installed.”

Truthfully, you have no idea how their protocols or programming works, but Sunnydrop had once divulged that he and Moon have measures in place to ensure that any injuries that occur in the daycare are to be taken care of without delay. You have firsthand experience at dealing with the aftermath of an injury inside the play area – a twisted ankle after you tripped over a little, red ball that had escaped the pit.

Sunny hadn't just insisted that he take you to a first aid station, the poor attendant had been... inconsolable.

You can only assume that the Glamrocks follow a similar line of code.

“First aid protocols?” Bianca voices dubiously.

“Uh, yeah!” comes your eloquent reply, “So, it's like, if they suspect a guest or a member of staff is injured, then looking after that person is bumped up to the top of their priority list. It can be a little...” You press your lips together and flick your eyes to Monty again before they snap back to Bianca. “..daunting, at first. B-But, in this instance, Monty was just trying to make sure I wasn't hurt for real.”

Without preamble, Shannon's hand flies up to her mouth and she gasps. “Oh, god. So, when I mentioned that Hunter hurt you...”

“Yeah,” you wince at the reminder, “That'd be enough to trigger an alert. Right, big guy?” You hope he goes along with the lie, if only to reassure your friends.

Monty, at last, seems to have come back into himself and the pupils in his optics widen as he glances from you down to Stella, who has pressed herself tightly into her mother's jeans, her face drawn taut with unease.

“Uh... yeah,” he says, tucking his tail and letting his gaze drop to his fidgeting hands, “Yeah, sorry. Didn't mean to scare you ladies-” He looks between all four of you, finally settling his optics on you. “- Protocol's a little... sensitive today. Guess I can't help but worry, you know?”

You wonder if he really means that. You weren't aware that 'worry' was even a word in the gator's vocabulary bank.

Shannon and Stella seem appeased though, while Bianca maintains just a flicker of disquiet in her expression.

“Aw,” Shannon croons, moving past you to put an arm around her wife's waist, “Well, it was certainly, ah, unexpected. But it's nice to know that she's got a gigantic robot watching out for her.”

“Like a knight!” Stella chips in helpfully, getting a smile from her mothers.

Rolling your eyes over to Monty, you quip, “Oh yeah, real chivalrous, this one. My knight in scaly armour.”

Quick as a whip, he returns, “Guess that makes you my princess, Princess.” His elbow bumps carefully into your side and you let out an undignified snort, swatting at his arm with the back of your hand.

The knot of -ugh- worry in the gator's chest cavity eases considerably after you reward him with a playful grin.

This is... okay? he cautiously decides. Sure, there was the hiccough where he'd been a tad aggressive in searching for your injury, but you'd smoothed it over, effortlessly soothing your friends' worries with a laugh and a half-baked excuse for his actions.

“So, yeah,” you cough, returning your attention to the women in front of you, “You guys don't need to worry. Stella will be in good hands.”

“Of course she will be,” Bianca tells you earnestly, leading Stella over to you and passing her hand into yours, “She'll be with you. You've never let us down before.”

Her faith in your ability to keep her child safe and happy for a few hours is just as overwhelming now as it is every time she expresses similar sentiments. Embarrassed, you lower your gaze to the ground, cheeks aptly aflame with the effort of trying not to smile too wide.

Shannon's mouth stretches into an amused grin as she leans towards her wife and says, “Careful, Bea. You keep flattering her like that, and I'll start thinking you want to take her to dinner instead of me.”

All at once, Bianca gasps, slapping a hand to her forehead. “Oh – crap! Dinner! The table! Oh, we're going to be so late-!”

Monty's low voice cuts through the woman's floundering as she fumbles a large canvas bag off her shoulder.

“I understand you're in a hurry, ma'am, but I gotta ask you to watch your language around the kid.”

Flustered, Bianca flits her eyes down to Stella and opens her mouth, only to find herself cut off by a triumphant, 'Ah ha!' from Shannon, who spins around and throws a finger up accusingly at her wife.

“How do you like it? Sucks, doesn't it?” Twisting her neck back to you and the gator, she explains, “She's always telling me off for my language!”

Bianca's exasperated groan pulls a giggle from her daughter whilst you hold your hands out obediently and allow the canvas bag to be dumped unceremoniously into your arms.

“Sorry, Stella. You didn't hear that – Okay! Y/n!” Striding away from you backwards, Bianca slides an arm through her terribly smug wife's elbow and continues to retreat for the doors. “There's a change of clothes in there, and her dino! We'll call you when we're on our way back-!”

“-I think she knows the drill by now,” Shannon snickers, letting her spouse drag her towards the exit.

Lifting an arm, you wave them off, calling, “I've got it, you two! Have a fun night! Shannon, you stay away from those Tequilas!”

The woman in question heaves a put-upon sigh that is as ingenuine as it is dramatic, and retorts, “You're no fun!”

Shaking your head affectionately at the pair, you add, “Look after her, Bianca!”

She pauses just for a second in front of the exit and casts you one last glance. “Same goes for you, you know!” she tells you, nodding towards Stella and Monty, “Take care of our girl, you two. Stella, you be good for Monty and Y/n!”

“I will!” the girl replies.

Behind you, the gator knocks a quick salute off his forehead and calls, “You got it, ma'am.”

Arm in arm, the women send a final wave farewell before they slip through the doors and disappear out into the snowy night.

Once they're gone, you turn yourself and Stella around to face the gator, chuckling, “So, that was Bianca and Shannon.”

“Nice ladies,” Monty nods approvingly, tipping his snout down to the girl, “You got some cool moms, kid.”

Her mouth stretches into a wide, proud smile.

“Right, Stella,” you announce, “Shall we start heading to the daycare?”

She tilts her head back and innocently asks, “Is Monty coming too?”

The question gives you pause and you share a look with the animatronic, yours hesitant, his expectant.

You didn't want to presume he would, but to your surprise, Monty speaks up in your stead. “Sure, I'm comin'. So long as the lady says it's okay.”

At once, Stella is bouncing on the tips of her toes. “Can he? Please?” she implores.

“Well, yeah. I don't see why not, if he'd like to?” You shoot him an inquiring gaze and he responds by nodding his large, robust head up and down, giving you the impression that he's just as eager for this as the girl is.

“All... right? Uh, it looks like he's on board," you confirm, "So, you want to hold my hand, or Monty's?”

Stella gives the options some serious thought. “Mmm...” she hums, suddenly shy again without her mothers here, but after a moment, she lowers her head and meekly decides, “Monty.”

The gator's optics fly open wide and he shoots you a hasty glance, wordlessly pointing at himself as if to ask, 'Me?'

You reply with a knowing smile and a nod, but your voice is warm and soft as melted butter as you give him the go-ahead. “She's all yours, Sir knight.”

The look Monty throws you is one part pleasant surprise, and three parts smug superiority, his eyelids dropping in conjunction with a smirk that spreads across his malleable jaw. You concede to give him a roll of your eyes in good-humour, silently bowing and sweeping your arm in Stella's direction.

That contemptuous look of his is quick to fade however, when his optics land on the girl once more.

Cautiously, he approaches her, keeping his footsteps heavy and slow until he reaches her and stoops down, holding out his hand before taking another leaf out of your book and rumbling, “S'it okay if I take your hand, little lady?”

The girl lifts her head back to follow the sound of his voice and she nods shyly, offering out her left hand for him to take.

You watch on, unaware that you're holding your breath. For a moment, Monty hesitates, and then, just as you think he might lose his nerve and insist Stella walk with you instead, he gingerly reaches down and closes his own, comparatively enormous appendage around hers, engulfing her limb almost entirely up to the elbow.

The gator's tail stiffens as soon as he establishes contact, as if he expects her to suddenly start screaming and pulling away from his touch, but after a pregnant pause in which Stella simply stands waiting for him to make a move, his tail slowly begins to sway again, just a fraction to the left, then to the right.

You have to cover your mouth to hide a smile.

Who'd have thought - Montgomery Gator, black sheep of the Fazbear family and the most surly animatronic in this place – would have such a soft spot for kids?

When the alligator swivels his optics back up to meet your eyes, he's surprised to find that your expression has grown sickeningly soft, a lopsided grin on your lips and your eyebrows slanted into the centre of your forehead.

“What?” he grunts, eyeing you suspiciously.

Giving nothing away, you just drop your smile a little and shake your head in reply, reluctant to admit that there's something utterly endearing about a colossal animatronic holding the hand of a little girl in a bright, pink coat as if she's made of porcelain.

“Nothing. It's nothing,” you say eventually.

Snorting, he turns and begins to lead Stella through the lobby, hardly daring to believe that he's allowed to be doing this. His long tail curves around her back and stays there as they walk, serving as a rather unconventional shield against anything that should try to approach her from behind.

You don't imagine that he even knows he's doing it.

Stella, in the meantime, looks absolutely ecstatic to be escorted along by the gator. Her mouth is peeled back until her cheeks shine and her eyes squint, proudly showing off her gap-tooth grin.

“Looking good, Stella,” you praise, falling into step beside them as you all begin to make your way through the lobby towards the escalators, “You ready to lead this gator to the daycare?”

Thrilled at the chance of being in charge, she lifts her chin and tightens her hold around the ends of Monty's fingers. “Uh huh!”

And so it goes.. An animatronic alligator, a cleaning lady and a visually impaired little girl stroll together across the Pizzaplex.

It sounds to you like the start of a terrible joke.

Chapter 13: Mounting Concern

Summary:

“Monty! Wait! It's okay,” you try to blurt out as you're suddenly swung behind a bristling wall of green plastic and metal.'

Hughie Morgan could swing for Montgomery Gator.

He wouldn't, of course, because his mother raised a coward, and the last thing he is, is a fighter.

But at the very least, he can fearlessly berate the animatronic in private, from within the safety of his own head.

Ever since Monty swept you so abruptly from the daycare, Sunnydrop has been.... insufferable. Namely in the sense that, every five minutes or so, he comes skipping right up to the guard's desk and looms over it, bobbing anxiously on his feet and wringing his hands together in a manner that doesn't sit right with Hughie at all.

The boy does the exact same thing when he's nervous.

Which could mean one of two things. Either Sun is able to comprehend, assimilate and even feel fear and anxiety, or – far more disturbingly – he's been watching Hughie's body language and is learning how to mimic what is prominently human action.

The guard isn't sure he really cares for either possibility.

There are only three children that remain inside the daycare, all scattered about in the play area, engaged in a game of hide and seek where their designated seeker – Sunnydrop - pauses their game for the umpteenth time to approach Hughie at a hopeful bound.

All of this, just to ask if the guard has heard from you over the Faz messaging system.

Just as he has done every time, Hughie cowers back in his chair and shakes his head, bleating out a squeaky, “No!” that has the animatronic drooping dejectedly, hanging his head as he turns around and skulks his way back over to continue the game he'd interrupted.

Hughie – perhaps naively – prays for four o'clock to roll around soon, so that Moondrop can take over. Good old, reliable, creepy Moondrop, who is always so busy fussing over the kids that he never finds time to speak with the guard.

Just the way Hughie likes it.

Of course, he soon comes to kick himself for wishing away Sunnydrop.

Because the lights of the daycare have just turned out.

In no time at all, the children have been read to and put to bed under blankets near the ball pit, and in the light of a thousand, glow-in-the-dark stars, Hughie can plainly see a pair of luminous, red lights bobbing towards him, like a predator stalking up to its petrified prey.

What possessed him to think that the nap-time attendant wouldn't inquire after you? At least this animatronic approaches slowly.

Hughie's knuckles turn white as he clenches the arms of his chair and sinks down into the seat, bracing himself – again – for the question.

Silent as a ghost, Moondrop draws to a halt, but where Sunny had stood so close that Hughie could always smell the faint trace of antiseptic and craft paint wafting off his frame, Moon leaves a respectable distance between he and the desk. “Still no word?” he asks in a voice like rustling leaves.

Hughie simply gapes back at Moon for several, embarrassing seconds before he seems to register that he's been asked a question. With quivering fingers, the guard makes a show of tapping at the screen of his Fazwatch and sparing a fleeting glance at the five messages he's sent you over the last few hours, along with a call that had been made at Sunnydrop's insistence.

So far, all have gone unanswered.

Not that's he's really surprised, however. As the Plex's sole human cleaner, you must be an especially busy woman, far too busy to take two seconds out of your day to shoot him a brief, one-worded reply, just so that he can give the animatronic hounding him the affirmation that you're okay!

...

With Moondrop's eyes boring a hole straight through to his core, Hughie gulps down his complaints, shakes his head free of any lingering bitterness and cringes further into his chair. “Uh, n-no! Nothing. I'm sorry!” His timid 'no,' brings with it the fear that the attendant will grow frustrated – angry even - with his failure to provide information about your wellbeing.

But, to Hughie's shock, Moon's response is neither explosive, nor is it threatening. He only sinks low on his wiry struts until he barely stands taller than the desk, and sends a longing glance at the daycare doors before his faceplate droops to peer at the ground.

And then he asks something that throws the guard even further off-course.

“Do you... think she's okay?”

It's such a gentle question, asked in a voice so saturated in palpable concern that Hughie is left floundering for an answer, staring agog whilst the animatronic waits patiently, his slender hands rolling steadily over each other.

“I – uhm – Yeah! I mean, well – she's super... smart, right?” he stammers. In truth, Hughie has no idea whether you're more intelligent than not, but complimenting Moon's favourite member of staff seems like a wise move, proven right when the animatronic nods emphatically in response.

“Well, er..” the guard continues, wiping his slick palms on the fabric of his shirt, “So, she'd probably know better than anyone how to take care of herself, wouldn't she?”

Moon ticks his head at a sharp angle, regarding the young human curiously.

He understands where Hughie is coming from, of course, and he appreciates the attempt at reassurance.

But the boy is missing the point.

It isn't that Moondrop doesn't believe you can look after yourself. It's that he doesn't want you to have to, not after everything you've been through. You deserve to be looked after sometimes too.

But, Hughie means well, and the attendant is glad that he's at least saying full sentences to him now, rather than the odd wheeze or whimper he usually gets in lieu of a conversation.

So, Moondrop nods and turns around. Then, softly, so as not to startled the boy, he twists his head back over a shoulder and murmurs, “Thank you, Mr Morgan...”

“Oh, er...” The guard blunders over his words for a second or two, uncertain as to what he'd done to earn even a glimmer of the animatronic's gratitude - answered a question he didn't like the answer to?

Before he can begin to re-think everything he's ever heard about the strange and perplexing attendant, there's a quiet knock on the daycare doors, and Hughie's backside almost leaps right out of the chair when Moondrop snaps his head towards the entrance like a startled owl. Both the guard and the animatronic remain frozen in silence for several, long moments.

Who could be knocking at the doors during nap time?

The staff here strongly advise that parents pick up their children only when the lights are on, citing that it wouldn't be fair on the other kids who are trying to nap if someone barged in and started getting their child ready to leave.

At least this knock is quiet enough not to wake Moon's charges.

Hughie is halfway out of his seat when the attendant begins silently moving towards the doors and stills the guard with a gentle gesture, wholly aware that the boy can be just as jittery around strangers as he is around the animatronic sometimes.

Sliding his long, plastic fingers through the door handle, Moondrop tugs the entrance open and allows a shaft of light to slip through the gap, wincing at the sting of it on his sensitive optics as he moves his faceplate into the space so that he can peer out.

There's a beat of silence.

And then...

“Guess who~”

His voice box sputters, but he manages to eke out your name through the glitch. “Y/n?”

It's... you?

'IT'S YOU!' Sunny cries out in their processor, his personality eagerly rearing up, 'You're here! You came back! You said you would, and here you are!'

You're opening your mouth to say something, but Moon is too impatient – too hasty – too relieved to let you get a word in edgeways. His hands suddenly fly through the gap and he sneaks his shaky fingers around the lapels of your shirt, pulling you insistently but carefully towards him, into the darkened daycare.

“Woah! Moon, easy-” you start in a whisper, only to let your teeth click together when the animatronic's optics flash a dazzling blue and you're suddenly bathed in light as he performs a thorough scan, starting at your head and ending at the toes of your black court shoes.

Swept up by his own urgency, Moon processes your biological data within mere milliseconds.

… Temperature: 37.5°C

… Heart Rate: 62bpm

… Blood Flow Velocity: 62cm/sec

… Abrasions: Minor cut_index/right_hand

He already knows about the cut, and you aren't showing signs of further injury, so... You're... okay?

“You're okay,” he affirms out loud, more to reassure himself and a frantic Sunnydrop than anything else, “He did not hurt you?”

He, of course, being Montgomery Gator.

----

Montgomery couldn't exactly describe the sensation that shot through his systems when he saw you disappear into the pitch-dark daycare, but a human might liken the feeling to that of panic. He wasted no time in letting go of Stella's hand and placing the flat of his palm on her chest, nudging her safely behind his right leg before he reached through the gap in the door, beyond which he could spot a flash of your lilac shirt...

 

You're admittedly bemused by the nap time attendant's sudden urgency and you give the back of his hand a pat, sliding your fingers around his and prying him off your blouse, wholly intending on settling the anxious bot's crossed wires as best you can.

A split second later however, you gasp, surprised to feel cold, metallic fingers curling around the collar of your blouse, and the next thing you know, there's a tug around your neck and you're sent stumbling back through the daycare doors and into the light once again, unable to contain an alarmed, if not indignant squawk.

Moon lets out a hiss of static as he tries to dart forwards, screeching to a halt just inches from emerging after you.

“Monty! Wait! It's okay,” you try to blurt out as you're suddenly swung behind a bristling wall of green plastic and metal.

Hastily glancing to your right confirms that Stella has also been herded behind the unexpectedly hostile gator, one hand clutched anxiously around her stick whilst the other sweeps through the air until it bumps against one of Monty's tail segments and latches on like a limpet.

“Y/n?” she peeps out.

Quick as a flash, you reach down and take up her hand in your own, giving it a light squeeze. “It's all good, Stella,” you chirp, your voice practically oozing false confidence, “Monty is just... holding the door open for us.”

The chipper lie would be convincing if it wasn't immediately followed by the gator's throaty growl. You can't see Moondrop from where you are, stuck behind Monty's bulk as he swells to fill up the space between the doors, his sturdy shoulders bulging out to make himself look bigger in a frightening display of aggression.

“Monty, stop that,” you whisper through gritted teeth, “What's gotten into you?”

What indeed? Other than the fact that you're his friend. His.

Not Moondrop's. Not Sunnydrop's.

His. Montgomery Gator's. And nobody puts their hands on Montgomery Gator's friends and gets away with it.

Without taking his optics off a bridling Moondrop, the alligator grumbles back, “He grabbed you...”

Moon seethes, feeling Sunnydrop's presence puff up at the back of their shared processor. The lanky animatronic's head gives a single twitch in warning before he slowly begins to lift himself up to his full, staggering height.

It's definitely intimidating to see those flaring, LED optics rise over Monty's mohawk like twin suns, burning hot with fire and rage and indignation.

You'd almost forgotten why Moondrop is considered the most unnerving animatronic in the Plex. His movements are slow, deliberate yet elegant and precise, not unlike a human's. With very little effort, he can be absolutely terrifying to behold, when he wants to be.

“You...” he seethes in Monty's face, his head snapping to the left before it swivels alarmingly to the right, “You stole my fr-!”

“Moondrop?” a tiny voice creaks out.

Just like that, any and all animosity drains straight out of the nap time attendant. Even Montgomery seems to give a start, twisting his neck around to glance at the little girl standing behind him.

Dropping back into his half-crouch, Moon leans sideways to peer around Monty's protective stance, finally laying optics on the child clinging to the gator's leg.

“Stella?” he utters in a whisper.

Hearing the confirmation of his voice, she promptly lets out a happy gasp and feels her way around Montgomery, stretching her arm out in Moondrop's direction, completely unaware of the tension sitting thickly between them.

Balking, the gator begins to reach down, claws poised to grab her coat and shepherd her back again, but he's stilled by a gentle hand pressing to the small of his back, and an even gentler voice that hushes him. “It's alright, Monty. Moon and Stella are friends.”

Friends?

Indeed, as the gator begrudgingly withdraws his outstretched arm at your touch, he realises that Moondrop has disregarded him completely in favour of bending down to greet the little girl. His faceplate whizzes happily in a circle, causing the bell on his sleep-cap to jingle prettily as he drops down low and sweeps a pair of long, spindly arms out wide, ready to catch her once she ventures close.

“Little star,” he hums and closes his arms around her back when she steps between them, gathering her carefully up against his chest plate. Then, just as he's done dozens of times before, he bends his neck further down so that Stella can snake her arms over his slender shoulders and cling to him as he scoops her legs out from under her, standing straight once again.

“Moony!” she cheers, bouncing excitedly in his encompassing embrace.

Montgomery can hardly believe what he's seeing.

In terms of popularity, Moondrop has about as bad of a rap as the gator himself, especially amongst the kids he's supposed to oversee. Something about his optics, supposedly – the glaring, red lights shine in the dark, evocative of monsters under the bed and mirrored by the eyes of evil characters that haunt most every cartoon that's shown on television.

Now, here's a child who doesn't know what he looks like, and just like that, Moondrop has himself a little fan, one that the nap time attendant seems utterly smitten with, if the contented waves rolling off his EM field are any indication.

… Huh …

Monty slowly deflates, regarding the pair of them as if they're a particularly mind-bending riddle that he isn't equipped to work out. He has to wonder... if Stella knew what he looked like, would she still have let him hold her hand?

Not for the first time, Monty suddenly becomes extraordinarily aware of his shiny, new claws and the teeth sitting in his mouth and thinks about how different his life here would be if his creators had picked another animal to model him after, something with fur or feathers, something that doesn't look so cold to the touch.

“Hey.”

He blinks, turning a single optic to see you sidle around his left and stand there next to him, keeping your watchful gaze on Stella and her playmate.

Given how he'd just behaved, he supposed he can't begrudge you a little wariness as you carefully ask, “You doing okay?”

… Is he?

“M'fine,” he answers gruffly, standing straight and crossing his arms as the pair of you watch Moondrop pluck Stella's woolly hat from her head, allowing her unruly hair to explode from its confines and stick up at odd angles as though she's just been pulled through a hedge backwards.

Amusement brightens the gator's expression for all of a second at the sight before it promptly vanishes again, replaced by something far more dour and dreary.

“Are you sure?” you press.

Monty's nostrils flare and all he offers you is a single, stiff nod in response.

Finally, you tear your eyes off Stella and turn your head very pointedly towards the standoffish alligator.  "Well.. Thank you," you tell him, and your words are so unexpected that Monty's cool facade nearly slips and his glasses slide down his snout as he twists his neck around to stare back at you.

"What?" he sputters, "Wha'for?" 

Your laugh escapes you as more of a quiet scoff. "Uh, for not getting into a brawl with Moondrop right in front of Stella and I?"

He'd shown restraint again. Something had obviously set him off enough that he'd been willing to square up against a taller, faster animatronic, but rather than fly off the proverbial handle, he'd proven that he could calm down without resorting to violence and destruction. It's... admittedly a quality you find quite laudable, be it of a human, or a machine.

You shake your head fondly at the gator's befuddled squint, and the way his head tilts endearingly to one side. Then, turning back to Stella just in time to see the girl show Moondrop that she's learned how to unbutton her own coat, you take a deep, easy breath and promptly teeter sideways to lean against Montgomery, your arms folded loosely across your stomach and your shoulder braced on his bicep, keeping yourself upright, trusting him not to shift away.

He hardly dares move.

You've been inside his stomach hatch, but this feels like the closest you've ever been to him. You're forgetting who he is for just a moment, long enough to let yourself tilt your soft, fragile body into his immoveable one. On top of that, beyond any kind of logic or reasoning, you aren't upset with him... You didn't tell him off because he tried to antagonise Moondrop and came barely a hair's breadth away from losing his temper. Instead, you thanked him for not losing it.

Wary of moving too fast lest he scare you off, Monty slowly twists his nose around to stare down at you, agog. You aren't looking back. Your eyes are only focused on the animatronic in front of you, smiling contentedly as Moon listens to Stella telling him all about how much she's grown since he last saw her. She's the second tallest in her class, apparently.

"This is nice for him."

Monty hadn't realised that he's still staring at you until he sees your lips move, prompting him to snatch his head away and soothe over a skip in his voice box. “What's nice for him?”

Your smile stretches at the corners. “Her,” you reply, nodding at the girl briefly before you add, “This – Interacting with a kid who isn't going to cry if he tries to pick her up.”

Monty lowers his gaze to the floor of the daycare. “Does that... happen often?”

“Mm. Too often...”

He grimaces. 'Sounds familiar,' a phantom voice buzzes at the back of his CPU. Aloud, he rumbles, "Huh, heavy..."

Giving a sad nod, you open your mouth to concur, but at that moment, Moon's attention redirects to you, and with surprising ease, your expression turns bright and bubbly again. “I take it you like the surprise, then?” you ask.

Moondrop carefully shifts Stella to sit in the crook of his elbow and takes a long, languid step towards you, reaching out with his free hand and setting it down on your shoulder to give you a grateful pat.

“Thank you, friend,” he whispers, letting his palm linger against you for a several, meaningful seconds.

Stiffly, Monty's optics travel to the point of contact.

He'd prefer not to dissect the reason why his fangs start grinding together at the sight, nor why he has to bite back a territorial growl when the attendant's hand stays put for just a little too long.

He's actually relieved that Stella pulls Moon's focus away from you again by chirruping an innocent question. “Can I have a story?”

“Aren't we forgetting something?” he asks pointedly, pulling away from you.

The girl tacks on a quick 'Please?' and Moondrop chuckles hoarsely. “Ah, the magic word. Which story, Little Star?”

You and Monty watch them fall into a hushed conversation as they head for the soft mats near the ball pit where the other three children have begun to rouse, scrubbing sleep from their eyes. Soothed by Moon's departure, Hughie has worked up the courage to slide nearer to you – though he ventures no further than the corner of his security desk thanks to Montgomery's imposing presence. The look he's giving you is probably his best, albeit pitiful attempt at being withering.

“Please,” he starts, clasping his hands together imploringly, “Please can you start checking your messages?”

“What?”

“Your messages!” he presses, lowering his voice to a whisper, “On your Fazwatch? I sent you like, five! Those two have been driving me nuts for hours!” He jabs a finger over at the soft-play area, where you spot Moondrop settling down with Stella in his lap.

Baffled, you tear your eyes off the peaceful scene and tap the screen of your watch, swiping along until you see the white envelope, and the little, red '5' sitting above it, indicating that you've received five messages, all of which have gone unread.

You tap on the last one and skim through the thread.

The first had only been sent a few minutes after Monty pulled you away from the daycare.

'You okay?' Simple enough.

Then the next four rolled in, each one more urgent than the last.

'Monty hasn't done anything, has he? Msg back.'

'Hey, Sunnydrop keeps bugging me about you. Please text back so I can let him know you're okay. Thanks.'

'HELLO?'

'Sorry, panicked. Had to send something, Robot wouldn't leave me alone until I sent another message. If you don't text back soon, I'm worried he'll break the rules to come find you.'

You stare guiltily at the last message, biting on your lip before you raise your eyes to look at Hughie, offering him an apologetic grimace. “Oh, Hughie – I am so sorry,” you wince, “I hope he didn't bother you too much.”

Hesitant to respond with the gigantic alligator staring him down over the top of your head, the guard presses his lips together and glances down at his shoes.

You get the picture.

“Right, sorry about that,” you say, “Nobody ever messages me over this thing. So I just... don't tend to check it. I mostly use it for timekeeping.”

Hughie loses what little severity he can keep in his stance, slouching and exhaling the breath he'd been holding onto to keep his chest puffed out. “Eh, it's fine,” he waves your apology aside and casts Monty a curious look, no doubt wondering when you'd been assigned a permanent chaperone, and why on Earth it's Montgomery Gator.

You resolutely ignore his inquiring glances though, electing to draw a quick cross above your heart. “Well, I promise – from here on out, I'm going to start checking my messages more regularly.”

“Hmm, thanks,” his lips quirk into a tentative smile, as if even his lips are afraid to strain themselves, “I'd appreciate that.”

Right on cue, your watch gives another few beeps, indicating that the hour is swiftly coming to a close and it's high time you got back to work. “Right. Sorry to cut this short Hughie, but I'd better get back to it. I'll be here at seven to pick up Stella-”

“I know the drill,” he returns, retreating to his chair and all but collapsing down into it, “Any problems, I'll shoot you a message.”

“And I will definitely read it,” you promise again, knocking off a brief salute before you spin on your heel and raise a brow at Monty, “Ready to go?”

The gator's optics flick from Hughie back to you in a flash and he nods, stepping back and gesturing to the open doors with a flourish of his arm.

“Ladies first.”

The corner of your mouth lifts into a smirk and you side-eye the animatronic as you stroll past him into the light once again. “I thought you were supposed to be the band's token 'bad boy',” you chuckle, wagging your fingers in the air sarcastically, “Now you're holding doors open for the staff? You'll damage your reputation.”

The gator snorts, trundling after you and letting the doors swing shut behind him. “Can't damage what's already broke to begin with,” he shrugs, scraping a claw between his teeth, “N'sides, I don't hold doors open for staff. Just you.”

Damn... that had sounded much too sincere for his liking, not the casual execution he was going for at all. He coughs gruffly into a fist and pretends not to see the soft smile that brightens your features.

“Flatterer,” you tease.

The animatronic's grumpy huff is as extensive a response as you're liable to get.

--------

“This is not a good idea,” Monty grumbles for the third time in almost as many minutes, more-so because he's in dire need of a distraction from the multitude of health and safety violations that have popped onto his HUD.

Now, Montgomery Gator is not a bot who is liable to shy away from a healthy dose of danger every now and again, but frankly, this is pushing it.

You're the one responsible for these blaring alerts, of course, perched as you are at the top of a rickety, wooden ladder, wearing court-shoes no less, arms stretched to their absolute limits in order to reach the curtain pole fastened high above his showroom window.

Monty, in the meantime, stands at the bottom of the ladder with his hands clutched around the rungs, keeping the whole thing from sliding backwards thanks to its rather worrying lack of rubber feet.

Violation number one...

The animatronic keeps a very close optic on you as he grumbles to himself.

Overhead, you haul the heavy, red curtain up a little higher, grunting with the effort before you manage to slot one of the hooks into its corresponding ring. “Hm? What'd you say, Monty!?” you call out.

Huffing through his flared nostrils, he replies, “I said, if you fall and break your leg, I reserve the right to say 'I told you so!”

“I'm not going to break my leg,” you tut with a roll of your eyes, sliding a few more hooks into place and shuffling the rings along their pole, “I'm just refitting a curtain.”

His tail flicks sporadically from side to side, betraying his agitation, although he's stubbornly reluctant to acknowledge it. “Could've just got a S.T.A.F.F bot to do it,” he complains gruffly.

You're quick to shoot back, “They can't climb ladders.”

… Damn.

He's beginning to realise that you won't be so easily convinced to come down. “Yeah? Well... Well if they fall off, they're easier to fix!” He nods decisively, earning a low groan from high over his head.

“Monty, I promise I'm not as clumsy as I look. Just keep holding the ladder still, and it'll be fine. I'm almost done!”

The gator snaps his teeth in frustration but ultimately swallows his words, instead focusing all of his sensors on the ladder's integrity and the angle you're leaning at.

With the animatronic's help, you've managed to get the rest of his room back up to standard, and now, all that's left to do is fix the last curtain that he'd torn down in a fit of anguish. However, you have to admit, you hadn't expected to meet such strong opposition from Monty after you offered to refit them. In fact, when you first asked him to set the ladder up, he'd adamantly refused to do so, folding his steely arms and tilting his snout away from you in defiance, asking, “Why should I?”

You would never know that he only hoped to drive home the point that he was not prepared to help you get yourself killed on that splintered death-trap that calls itself a 'ladder.'

He hadn't thought for a moment that you'd simply shrug and extend the ladder yourself, balancing it against the wall beside his window and clambering up it before he could cross the room and stop you.

If he thought the ladder would hold his weight, he'd have gone up there to fetch you himself.

So now, he's forced to stand and watch uselessly as you fix his curtain. The one he'd ripped down...

The plex seems to have nearly emptied out entirely by now, for nobody wanders past the exposed window, neither guests, nor staff.

Nobody, that is, except for the familiar figure of Freddy Fazbear who comes waltzing into view on an aimless stroll down the concourse, passing in front of Montgomery Gator's green room.

The bear turns his head and spots his bandmate, eagerly raising a large, brown paw in greeting, only to lower it a second later and tip his head sideways, wondering why Monty isn't paying attention to him, but rather, has his long, green nose pointed up the length of a ladder, his optics fixed unwaveringly on the ceiling overhead.

Curious, Freddy cranes his own neck back and catches you peering down at him from the top-most rung of the ladder.

Offering the bear a polite smile, you lift one hand off the curtain pole and wave it at him, mouthing the words 'Hi Freddy!' through the thick glass.

Freddy's jaw rises into his own, charming grin and he happily plucks the hat from his head, tipping it up at you with a nod before he returns it between his ears and continues on down Rockstar Row at a jolly gait, disappearing from your line of sight.

It takes all of two seconds for him to come back-peddling into view once more, screeching loudly to a halt on the linoleum floor and gaping up at you with a look of abject horror spreading across his muzzle.

“Whup. Now you're in for it,” Monty smirks triumphantly.

From your vantage point, you return your hand to the curtain pole and watch Freddy's jaws as they move up and down around words you can't hope to hear through the window. Bemused, you continue to blindly fumble another hook into its ring, your eyes following the bear when he promptly storms to the side and out of view, doubtlessly heading straight for the entrance to Montgomery's room.

Notes:

HNHNHNH It's all gearing up for the next few chapters, just got to get there first with this slow stuff.
Next up, Freddy fusses and you sneak away from Monty when he learns you haven't eaten since breakfast.

Chapter 14: A Touch Overbearing

Summary:

After breaking several health-code violations and neglecting to partake in a little self-care, Freddy and Monty decide that enough is QUITE enough.

Check out this amazing fanart of Y/N and Monty, done by the lovely bababooey!!

 

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There's nothing much that you could have said about Freddy Fazbear, at least, nothing that could offer any real insight into the animatronic's character that you hadn't merely gleaned from watching at a distance. What little you have learned has predominantly come from Andy's grunted comments, shared over an early morning bus ride as you sit together on the way to work, and even those conversations are lacking in any sort of depth regarding the famous bear-bot.

A man of few words, is old Andy, the antithesis - or so he says - of the bear he often works with, who has such a penchant for friendly conversation that he even talks to wet floor bots, potted plants that aren't doing so well and, on occasion, the soft toys that sit in a neat little row upon his sofa.

Now, perched precariously on top of a ladder, you're finally beginning to understand what Andy had meant about Freddy's loquacious disposition...

You can hear the bear's muffled, baritone voice rambling outside the door for well over a second before there's an acknowledging 'beep' from the locking mechanism, and suddenly the barrier that had once sat safely between you and the colossal animatronic disappears, allowing him to come barrelling into the room with all the grace and presence of a runaway freight train.

"- detecting at least seven health-code violations! I cannot believe Montgomery would allow you to do something so dangerous! Under regulation Six of the Working at Height act-”

"-Come on in, Fazbear," Monty grumbles, hardly sparing his fellow animatronic a passing glance, irked as he is by the bear's uninvited presence. Were it not for your perilous position, he might have snapped at the bear and chased him out of the room. Yet, for the first time, the resentment he harbours for Freddy plonks itself into the back seat in favour of letting your safety take precedence on the list of Monty's priorities.

From the top of the ladder, you pitch a wave over your shoulder and call out, "Evening, Freddy!"

Down below you, the bear has his head tilted way back on its axis to stare up at you, one, impressive paw clutched fretfully around an ear. You've never seen one of the animatronics look so close to shutting down before, not even Sunnydrop that time you almost took a tumble off his balcony.

"Miss Y/n! I must – Oh, good evening - I must ask you to come down at once!" Freddy urges, clasping his paws together and stepping further into Monty's space, though he doesn't pay any mind to the gator's territorial growl.

"I'm just fixing the curtain," you reply and turn back to the task at hand so that he doesn't catch the petulant roll of your eyes.

There are only a few more hooks to go.

“But – but you are not wearing the proper safety equipment!” Below you, the bear's ears now lay flat against his head and he drags his enormous paws down the front of his muzzle before bunching them into tight, imploring fists. "Please, I must insist that you come down before you get hurt! The rules and regulations are in place for a reason - to keep you safe!”

“Now you're starting to sound like Sunnydrop!” you say with a breezy laugh.

Montys' optics remain glued to the jut of your heel where it hangs over the side of the ladder rung, but to Freddy, he huffs, “Don't bother. Already tried convincin' her down.”
Well.... He hadn't so much tried to convince you as he had shouted at you to get off the ladder before you broke your stupid neck. Funnily enough, that method hadn't worked.

Darting his gaze helplessly between you and his fellow bandmate for another moment, Freddy's optics finally settle on you and a strange look falls over his once jolly features, not unlike a cloud drifting over the sun. “Y/n,” he says in a clipped tone that you assume is meant to be stern, if it didn't fall so woefully wide of the mark, “I do not wish to file a report on this incident, but for your own safety, I'm afraid I may have to!”

The gator beside him bristles visibly at the threat. “Hmf, snitch,” he sneers, garnering a disapproving frown from the bear.

You, on the other hand, remain unhurried and nonplussed. Minor threats like Freddy's no longer frighten you quite so much as they perhaps ought to, and you've grown fairly good at being able to tell when someone's threat is genuine, and when they're bluffing.

The pinched apprehension leaking from the animatronic's voice box is a dead giveaway. He isn't lying when he says he doesn't want to report you, so, he more than likely won't. But regardless of whether you think he'll actually file a report on you for reckless endangerment, you're only really nonchalant because you've finished your arduous task.

“No need to worry, Freddy Fusspot,” you tease as you slip the last hook into its loop and exhale, satisfied with a job well-done, “I'm finished. I can come down now, if you'd like?”

The bear doesn't even seem to register the new nickname, too busy shifting from stabiliser to stabiliser and giving his head a vigorous nod. “Please! I would like that very much!”

Truthfully, you aren't quite sure what you're supposed to do with the palpable concern that has apparently overcome the famous animatronic. You're just the nameless, nearly faceless cleaning lady who disappears into the background, leaving behind no evidence of your existence except for a polished floor and the lingering scent of citrus. People simply don't notice you, which is perfectly fine. You didn't take this job to be noticed, you took it because you can do it, and because you need to make rent each month.

So to suddenly find yourself the subject of concern for the face of the company, as well as his reptilian bass player, you aren't really sure what you're supposed to be feeling.

Embarrassed?

Perhaps.

Smothered?

More-so.

It took you a long time to grow accustomed to Sunnydrop's worry, something you learned to brush aside with a disarming smile and a touch to his sensitive chest plate. Both are usually enough to distract him. Moon's fretting too, you attempted to assuage, though he was always trickier to distract. You always just put it down to a quirk in their programming, the same that kept them so fiercely protective of the children who came to the Plex.

Freddy, it seems, isn't dissimilar to Sunny – both vocal and insistent when they're unhappy in a situation. Monty, however... You aren't too sure about Monty...

He vocalises, sure. But less with coherent words and more with growls and agitated huffs through his silicon nostrils.

It had taken a Herculean effort to keep yourself from trembling when he tried climbing the ladder to fetch you down after you'd shot to the top of it, only remaining on the ground – albeit reluctantly – once you pointed out that the ladder wouldn't hold his weight, and that you needed him to keep it in place so that it didn't slip backwards.

The irate grumbling had mostly ceased after hearing that you needed him, yet each time you took a peek down under your outstretched arms, you found his optics trained unwaveringly on you, his large, clawed feet planted firmly into the carpet as though he really thought the ladder would get away from you if he wasn't there to stop it.

That noticeable restlessness still hasn't really diminished, even though nothing terrible has happened. And so, rung by rickety rung, you start to ease your way down the ladder.

The bear's ears swivel to and fro at every creak of the rungs as you carefully descend. Even Monty grows uncharacteristically still, watching you totter down the ladder until you're halfway between the floor and ceiling.

In hindsight, it's probably a little mean, but you can't quite help yourself.

Without warning, you suddenly give the railings beneath your hands a rough jerk and let out a loud, jocular, “Woah~!” pretending to wobble precariously in place.

Two things happen at once.

The first, you're almost deafened by a pair of voices belting out your name in alarm.

The second, a large, warm fist curls around your ankle, presumably to hold you steady on the rattling ladder.

“R'you okay!?” and “Don't worry! I've got you!” overlap one another, frantic enough that you almost feel bad for deliberately scaring them.

Almost.

Twisting your neck over a shoulder, you meet Monty's crimson gaze, wide and alarmed behind his star-shaped sunglasses, his hands crushing dents into the ladder's legs. Then, your eyes dart down to your leg and find that it's Freddy who has leaned in front of the alligator and stretched up to trap your ankle inside a huge, golden-brown paw. He's staring up at you with his jaw dropped wide open, giving you an uninterrupted view of the back of his mechanical mouth.

Peering down at them both, a slow, mischievous grin worms its way across your face.

Monty seems to catch on to the joke first, his expression darkening into a fearsome scowl that sends a shudder up your spine.

“Not funny,” he rumbles out from between clenched teeth.

Freddy's comprehension arrives a second afterwards. “No,” he agrees through a static-coated sigh, easing his paw away from your ankle, “I concur. That was not funny.”

“Well, it'd be funnier if you could see your faces from my angle,” you quip.

Glowering up at you, Monty gnashes his teeth together and barks, “Would you get down already, 'fore ol' Fazbear here blows a gasket!” In truth, it isn't Freddy's gasket he's worried about.

Sparing a longer glance at Freddy's pinched, plastic brows and clasping hands, you suddenly feel the playfulness drain out of you, the smile on your lips shrinking right along with it until your expression turns adequately apologetic. “Okay, all right,” you soothe, descending another step, “No more jokes. I'll come down. Sorry, Freddy...”

The bear's relief shows at once with the way his frame sags like a puppet cut from its strings, the movement accompanied by an exasperated sigh that comes from somewhere deep down in his chest cavity. “Apology accepted. But please–“ he urges, getting his hand swatted away when he tries to take your wrist and help you down, “- do not do that again...”

Once you reach the bottom rung, you try to step off, but your foot clangs against a metal surface behind you, giving you pause. Turning to look, you realise that while Freddy has moved back, Monty remains in the same position as he'd been in before, keeping a tight hold of the ladder so that it doesn't slide backwards. Bemused, you quirk an expectant brow at him.

“Hmph,” he grouses. And then, for good measure, he stretches his neck out and shoves the flat of his snout between your shoulder blades, giving you a tame, but pointed prod that he hopes will convey his displeasure. “Yeah. What the bear said...” he gripes.

“Got it,” you swallow thickly, “Lesson learned.

With a final snort of hot air against your blouse, he at last pries his claws from the ladder and moves backwards, allowing you the space to hop down onto solid, safe ground.

To your credit, you do have the decency to look thoroughly admonished as you turn to face them.

Far be it from him to ever say as much out loud, but Monty had shared in Freddy's palpable worry.

Adult humans, in his finite experience, are under the impression that they're sturdier than children. Perhaps they are, in most regards, but adults don't bounce back like children do. Their skin is still just as flimsy, they still get sick and hurt and bruised, their bones still break under impact force... Child or grown up, a fall from any height could prove devastating.

It's... odd. Until you climbed up that damnable ladder, Monty had never really given much thought to all the various ways a human could get injured.

Freddy, on the contrary, has never stopped thinking about them.

“Thank you for coming down,” the bear almost wheezes, stepping up into your space and giving you a hasty once-over, unaware that his bandmate has started bristling at his proximity to you, “I'm sure I do not have to tell you that forty three percent of workplace falls occur from the top of a ladder!”

“So, the odds are in my favour,” you chime casually, brushing down the front of your skirt.

Freddy's expression at once turns comically horrified at the idea that you could be quite so blasé about such a worrying statistic.

“Miss Y/n,” he starts, “Your tone indicates jest, but I find nothing funny about self-endangerment.” The bear's eyebrows slowly ease apart until his expression is less severe, and far more imploring. Montgomery's burning glare goes unnoticed as Freddy lifts his arm, gradually eating up the space between you until his clawed fingertips come to rest on your upper arm, a gentle touch meant to further convey the sincerity behind his words. “If anything were to happen to you, a lot of people would be very distraught, myself included, I hope you know that. You are a valued member of the Fazbear family. We look out for our own.”

Ah. There it is. You're professional enough not to let your expression fall flat.

You suppose it makes sense that the company would program their jewel in the crown to encourage the safety of corporate assets. Who could say no to Freddy, after all?

Not you, evidently – just another victim of the bear's effortless charm.

You have no way of knowing, however, that Freddy Fazbear means what he'd said to you. He means it with every optical fibre that runs through his frame.

Even when he was first brought online in that white, sterile room surrounded by strangers, he'd known that family was important. He knew it because it was all right there in his code. He was the face of the franchise, the leader of the band – and what was a leader's role, if not to protect those around him?

'Freddy. Welcome to the Fazbear family,' were among the first words his audial receptors ever picked up when that initial spark of confusing but scintillating sentience flickered to life in his processor.

But you don't know that. To your cynical ears, the bear is just spouting pretty rhetoric, and so, resisting the urge to roll your eyes, you sigh, offering him an appeasing smile. “Alright, alright. I promise not to climb anymore ladders...”

“Thank you,” he beams, squeezing his optics shut.

“... in a place where you can see me.”

Behind you, Monty lets out a surprised bark of laughter as Freddy sputters, his muzzle dropping into a frown.

“Y/n,” he attempts to gently admonish you, large paws planted firmly on his hips.

“I'm kidding, Freddy, I'm kidding,” you chuckle, holding your hands up in a placating gesture.

The bear's ear twitches once on its pivot and he moves his arms, folding them instead across his broad chest and subjecting you to a very uncompromising look. “You promised me, no more jokes.”

You very nearly point out that you hadn't technically promised him anything, but then... You suppose you've riled that poor bear up enough, and you're not willing to test your luck against a bot you're still relatively unfamiliar with.

However, before you can apologise again, a heavy, green arm slings itself across your shoulders and you stiffen instinctively at the unexpected weight, incapable of relaxing even when you remember that it's just Monty, and you'd done much the same thing earlier, leaning carelessly against him outside the daycare. Although come to think of it, you hadn't encroached quite so brazenly on his personal space there.

“Ah, lay off, Fazbear. Like the lady says, lesson learned. 'Sides, she weren't gonna fall with me lookin' after her.”

Although he tries, not even the gator can inject enough surety into his own voice to convince Freddy – or himself – otherwise.

The presence of Monty's arm around your shoulders feels far more encompassing than it should, tightening around you little by little as he bares his fangs into a wide grin and aims it right at the bear, oblivious to how you've frozen beneath him.

You... hate the feeling. You hate it. Because you know it.

You've felt it – a long time ago in retrospect, yet not long enough that you can forget how it was to have that wretched arm slung over your shoulders, stopping you mid-sentence as you spoke innocently with friends from University.

'Who's this, babe?'

A strong arm flexed, barely increasing the pressure that sat far too close to your neck.

He'd stake his claim.

Every damn time, every person you tried to have a harmless conversation with, he'd appear and press you close to him, his smile lax and friendly, but his startling, green eyes hard and sharp as flint.

'Hunter. Let go...'

Defiance was rewarded with a smack to your insolent mouth after he brought you back to the house. After the third incident where you came out worse-for-wear, you'd just... stopped asking him to remove his arm. Following that, you even ceased trying to remove yourself from underneath it. You spoke to your friends less and less, until you left them behind altogether. It simply wasn't worth the argument.

The guilt still eats you alive from time to time. It had felt more like you were admitting that your friends weren't worth the argument, which could not have been further from the truth.

But, god help you, you were so tired. You'd have done most anything to make your life just that tiny bit easier...

“-etecting high levels of cortisol in her bloodstream.”

“I got it, Fred. Back up. You're scarin' her...”

There's a muffled hum of indignation.

Suddenly registering that the weight across your shoulders has disappeared, you wrench your eyes open - wondering when they'd slipped shut - and find yourself blinking up at the snout of a scowling gator.

'Shit, how long have I been...?'

“Hey, you okay, Princess?” Monty coaxes, his jaw moving up and down frightfully close to your face.

Old habits die hard. And without a thought, you fall back on the one you always rely on whenever someone asks if you're all right in that tone of voice.

You laugh.

It seems you've been laughing a lot these days.

“What? Oh, yes! Yes, I'm fine,” you smile up at the pair of animatronics, “Sorry, did I zone out?” You can almost hear Shannon chewing you out for lying, but you shove aside her admonishing voice to remind yourself that you need to get a damn grip.

He's not even here anymore. He's in another city, far, far across the country. Not every man who tosses an arm across your shoulders is like him.

It ought to concern you really, how easy it is to throw on a disguising smile as easily as you used to throw on a silk scarf that hid those hideous 'tokens' Hunter left on the flash of your throat.

'Love bites,' he'd call them, something akin to affection lurking like a sea monster under the surface of a black, placid lake.

'Funny,' you remember thinking, 'I was just about to say the same, damn thing.'

You shake him roughly out of your head, lips curled in distaste.

Monty is still standing snout to nose with you and staring unblinkingly at your face whilst Freddy hovers over his shoulder, trying not to be obvious as he lifts his head to see a little more of you behind the alligator's frame. The stern severity in the bear's expression has fallen away completely, replaced once more with that tight, gut-churning concern.

It's certainly strange, to say the least, to have the pair of animatronics watching you with hawk-like attention, as though they half expect that you'll suddenly burst into tears or something else equally embarrassing.

You won't, of course.

You've had more than enough experience with bad memories, and the more time passes, the easier it becomes to bear their ruthless weight upon your weary shoulders.

And besides, you're certainly not about to unload your baggage onto two well-meaning, but ultimately inexperienced automatons. So, you opt to simply tell a harmless white-lie, spilling the first excuse that springs to mind.

“Sorry,” you say again, pressing your fingertips to your forehead, “Just, uh, had a dizzy spell. Whoo~! Probably should have had more than a banana for breakfast, huh?”

…

In hindsight, you probably should have sprung for a different lie.

Somehow, Freddy's look of utter distress manages to grow ever more prominent, his jaws pulling tight with a grimace whilst his ears clunk dully against the side of his head.

“You ain't eaten anythin' else all day?” Monty utters, his voice even, but flat and low, carrying a gravity you'd rather it didn't.

Between calming down that woman in the bathroom and trying to perform your duties whilst being tailed by one of the four, main animatronics, lunch had frankly slipped your mind.

You certainly remember that you haven't eaten now though, especially when your stomach suddenly gives a miserable lurch, reminding you of the neglect.

“Eh,” you shrug, giving your wrist a dismissive flick, “I'll just have a big supper when I get home. Pizza, or something.”

Freddy's brows slant into a disapproving glower and he steps around Monty to look you in the eye.

“That explains the cortisol spike...” he mutters to himself before raising his voice and giving you a pointed stare, “You should not be exerting yourself without proper nourishment.”

Maybe it's just the natural, fatherly air that Freddy seems to have been made to emulate, but you suddenly find it extremely difficult to meet the bear's eye. You've only met a handful of people who have perfected the knack for the 'I'm not mad, just disappointed' face. Andy is one of them, and now it appears as though Freddy is as well.

“Oh! I know-” The jarring shift in his demeanour and his sudden exclamation catch you by surprise and you jump, daring to raise your eyes up to his once more, then up again, to the unexpectedly keen prick of his ears. “I have no further responsibilities this evening,” he continues, “Perhaps you would allow me to fetch you something to eat from the kitchens.”

The wording implies that he's asking for your permission, but you can tell from the determined glint in his optics that you really don't have any choice in the matter. You'll be getting food before you leave, one way or another.

You don't take note of Monty's gaze snapping sharply in Freddy's direction.

Holding up a hand to stop the bear's eager-to-please processor from overheating, you give an awkward laugh and reply, “That's very good of you, Freddy, but I'm really okay. This isn't the first time I've gone without a meal.”

Another daft confession that only serves to push Freddy's ears back again and leaves Monty humming low in his chest, giving you a flinty glare.

The alligator must have been telling Shannon and Bianca the truth earlier. His protocols are extremely sensitive today.

“...I'm afraid, once again, that I must insist,” the bear tells you gently, easing his muzzle into a tender smile, “What kind of a friend would I be if I cannot even bring you food in your time of need?”

You'd hardly call this an 'hour of need,' but regardless, you're so touched by the sincerity that you don't even see how Montgomery's frame has gone eerily still and rigid, his hands balling gradually into crushing fists.

Freddy leaves you with no further time to argue as he promptly straightens his bowtie and begins marching purposefully towards the door, declaring, “No friend of Freddy Fazbear's will go hungry on my watch. You just wait here, ma'am, I will be right-”

“Woah, woah, woah! Hold up there-” Monty cuts in with a sudden shout, stalking right past you and approaching the bear, his yellow chest pushed out until it almost collides with Freddy's, as clear a challenge as you've ever seen, “I'll get 'er the food. I know what she likes better'n you do!”

If Fazbear thinks he can win his way into your favour by bringing you food when you're hungry, he's got another thing coming.

If the gator ever stopped to consider his actions, he'd likely be perturbed by the level of care he's unwittingly showing.

The bear's amicable grin drops at once and he seems just as surprised as you are by Monty's unexpected helpfulness, raising his big, black brows and sharing a look of bemusement with you over the gator's shoulder.

Now that he knows you need sustenance, Monty's protocols have begun to shriek at him, and he shoves roughly past his bandmate, stepping into the open doorway and pausing to glance back at you as he raises a hand, gesturing for you to stay put. “Don't go nowhere. I'll be right back.”

“Monty..”

'This is ridiculous,' you almost groan aloud.

Catching yourself, you instead tell him, “I really have to get my duties finished. I can't-”

“Just five minutes,” he interrupts, pointing a clawed finger at you, then at the ground – the universal signal for 'stay' - before he turns and lumbers off down the concourse, leaving you and Freddy to stare at the door as it slides shut, the pair of you equally as bewildered as the other.

“Goodness,” the bear chuckles after a moment or two of awkward, oppressive silence. Beaming, he turns to peer down at you and happily exclaims, “I have not seen Montgomery try to be so helpful in...” His words taper off and he hums, propping his chin on his knuckles. “Hm... Come to think of it, I'm not sure I've ever seen him this helpful.”

“I take it he isn't usually like this, then?” you ask, rubbing a finger up and down the side of your nose to try and alleviate a dull throb at the back of your head.

Freddy's ears swivel towards the sound of your voice and he drops his hand, his optics suddenly widening in alarm. “Oh, no, please do not get me wrong! He is a most wonderful friend and entertainer. He would do anything for the children... But...”

“~But, not for grown ups, right?” you hazard a guess.

The bear grimaces guiltily and swipes some imaginary dust from his chest plate. “I have never known him to go out of his way to assist a member of staff before,” he confesses softly, turning his brilliant optics onto you and adding, “You have made quite an impression, it seems. I believe you will be a good influence for him.”

You have to snort at that kind of optimism. The very concept of you being a good influence on anyone, be they human or hulking animatronic is laughable. Especially given that you've proved that you're far from responsible twice now. Using a ladder unsafely and forgetting basic self-care. Truly, you're the quintessence of responsible professionalism.

But, after almost frying his circuits by not following standard procedure, you suppose poor Freddy deserves to be humoured.

“Well, hey, I'm glad you think so,” you shrug, casting an absent glance down at your watch and wincing at the time, “Stop me if you think I'm making him worse, okay?”

And because you're busy doing mental calculations and deciding which tasks you could feasibly complete within the next hour, you miss the utterly fond look that Freddy is giving you.

“Oh, I do not believe for a second that you could do something like that,” he returns, though his dulcet tone soon pitches into that of apprehension when you click your tongue and start making your way towards Monty's door.

“You're leaving?” he blurts.

“I have to, Freddy. I'll get in trouble if I don't do my job.”

“I can appreciate a strong work ethic, young lady, but it'll do you no good to push yourself – especially on an empty stomach!”

Your face scrunches up into a comical frown. 'Young lady?'

You think you prefer it when he calls you ma'am.

“Oh, I'll be fine,” you tell him with a flippant wave of a hand.

“But...” He reaches towards you with one paw, but then seems to think better of it and pulls his arm back against his side with an objectionable whine from the hydraulics, “But, Montgomery asked you to stay.”

You hesitate briefly to look over a shoulder at the ladder before giving a quick shrug, electing to put it back in storage before you leave for the day. “Well, cleaning up Monty's room – again – has waylaid me a bit,” you try to explain, feeling Freddy's footsteps quake the ground below your shoes as he moves to follow, “I want to make sure I do a sweep of the atrium before I leave. Throw away some of the rubbish that the S.T.A.F.F bots might've missed. They never seem to get it all.”

Still, you're not ungrateful. It keeps you in a job.

Scanning your card by the door, you step out into Rockstar Row with Freddy sticking close to your heels.

“Well, I'd best get to it,” you say pleasantly, appeasing the bear with a small wave, “I guess I'll see you around. Bye, Freddy,” Leaving the strangely silent animatronic in your wake, you continue on down the row, heading in a weary bee-line for the Atrium.

It's been... a long and hectic day. You're fairly sure you've had more excitement in the last twenty four hours than you've ever had in your yearly history working for the Plex. You'll be glad when you and Stella can just collapse onto your well-worn sofa at home with a slice of greasy pizza in each hand, and watch cartoons until one of you falls asleep where she sits and the other has to declare that bedtime has long-since come and gone. With the way you're starting to drag your feet across the linoleum, it's becoming more and more apparent as to who will be unconscious first...

Dreams of well-deserved leisure are dashed seconds later as you start to grow increasingly aware of the ground below you quivering in a languid, two-beat thud that follows your shadow slowly down the concourse.

You're struck by a bout of deja vu... Is Monty back already? Surely not...

The brief glance you pitch over your shoulder is enough to bring you to a dead halt, nearly tripping over your own foot as it catches awkwardly on the sticky surface below you.

You should have been clued-in when he didn't return your farewell... Freddy looms behind you, tall and unavoidable in the space he takes up, even more so than Monty, and he's staring down at you in that hopeful way that makes you think you're meant to know why he's still in your vicinity.

First the gator, now a bear... You're starting to feel like you missed your calling as a zookeeper.

“Freddy...? You okay?” you ask as you turn around to face him, wracking your brain for anything you might have forgotten to do that would warrant the bear's pursuit of you down the concourse.

Freddy, for his part, appears cheerfully oblivious to your confusion. “Oh, yes! I am quite well, thank you,” he says with a smile pulling at his shiny jaws.

“... Right. Good.” When he makes no move to leave your side, you click your tongue and try, “Is there... something you need?”

His heavy shoulders lift into an easy shrug and he replies, “No? I do not believe so.”

… And that's that, apparently. The bear's head has tilted sideways again and he's staring down at you through those startling, blue-glass optics, almost as though he's waiting for you to do something. The only problem is, you aren't sure what.

You're beginning to wonder if Freddy really is as clueless as the staff make him out to be, or if he knows precisely what he's doing.

“Well, that's... good?” you nod, pursing your lips and stiffly turning around again, though not before you try to pacify the persistent animatronic by lifting your hand and offering him another friendly wave. “Okay... Um, bye?” You don't know a thing about robotics, but you reason that he might simply need a dismissal before he can return to his scheduled rounds. That's twice you've had to say goodbye, however...

The bear's round ears prick attentively and he returns the gesture with a sweep of his own paw, head still tipped as he watches you drag your eyes forward and away from him.

You barely make it three or four strides before you hear that telltale thump of heavy, metal feet clomping after you, growing louder and closer until you can feel the vibrations through the soles of your shoes.

Perhaps, you muse, he merely happens to be going the same direction as you. A bit awkward, but ultimately a non-event. Just because Monty, for some reason, adhered himself to your side after you gave him that figurine doesn't mean Freddy is going to -

- The enormous animatronic suddenly appears in your peripheral vision and doesn't move beyond you, matching your gait step by tiny step.

All right. Now you can admit that this is getting a little bizarre.

Montgomery trailing after you is one thing. But Freddy Fazbear? The Freddy Fazbear following after a cleaning lady on her rounds, when he could be tending to the piles of fan letters cluttering his vanity, or sifting happily through colourful drawings that children have handed him throughout the day? Something doesn't seem right.

“Uh. Freddy?” you clear your throat, stopping once more to pivot towards him on your heel and tip your head back, looking up into his optics. He's closer than you expected him to be, halting mid-step and peering straight back at you, his gaze alive with little else but calm curiosity and a private objective that he won't swerve away from.

“Not... that I mind the company, of course,” you say diplomatically, “But, why are you following me?”

The apertures in his optics click and whirr as they expand. Apparently, Freddy is surprised by your question. Are you missing something?

“Well, I... I thought...”

You're astonished to hear the eloquent animatronic stumble over his words, and that astonishment only doubles after he glances sheepishly at the ground.

To think... A bear, looking sheepish.

Wonders will never cease.

“I hope you will forgive my boldness,” he hedges carefully, “But you were disregarding your safety in Montgomery's room. And you have neglected to eat.” Hesitant, he raises his eyes to give you a pointed stare. “I would feel a lot better if you would allow me to accompany you on your tasks.”

There it is again, the not-quite-a-question, posed as though he's leaving the decision in your hands. And yet, that look he's levelling at you – not unkindly, not in the slightest. He's Freddy. You don't know much about him, but you've heard enough from Andy to know that the bear doesn't have an unkind wire in his body.

Still, you can't help but wonder what he'll do if you refuse. Firstly, you're a little offended that he assumes you're a magnet for trouble just because he happened to catch you up a ladder without a helmet on. You don't need a titanic, metal watch-bear on your case while you're trying to do your job. Secondly, it just doesn't seem right for the city's beloved celebrity to eat into his battery power by tailing you aimlessly around the Plex.

You can say no... It can't be that hard... Anxious fingers twist up into the fabric of your skirt and you suck down a steadying breath, letting it settle in your lungs before you release it all in one fell swoop. “That's really not necessary. I don't plan on climbing any more ladders tonight. But thank you.” The lack of authority in your voice is shameful. But then, you've never been authoritative in your life, so why on Earth would you suddenly start now?

There's the telltale sound of Freddy's little, red earring clinking softly against the casing of his skull...

You shouldn't have looked up - you really shouldn't have, because once you do, you're immediately slugged in the stomach by a pang of guilt at the sight of his ears sagging dejectedly on either side of his head.

Now that hardly seems fair.

Perhaps it says something about your strength of character that you accept defeat without really trying to put up much of a fight.

All too easily, you exhale a subdued sigh and bring your hand up to rub at the bridge of your nose, offering him a simple, listless smile before gesturing with the same hand to the path ahead. “Then again,” you amend, cursing yourself for the heart bleeding meekly in your chest, “It would be nice to have some company...”

As if some flip has been switched in his processor, Freddy perks right up and positively beams at you, leaving you to resolve that it's hardly the end of the world if you sate his desire to watch over you, just for one evening. Perhaps, now that the Plex has almost emptied of guests, his complex AI is searching for the second-most helpless human in the vicinity. Figures.

Trying very hard not to tut at the eager spring in his step, you recommence your journey down the concourse, this time with a bear-bot glued to your side.

“Do you usually babysit the staff?” Unable to retain a smirk, you roll your eyes as Freddy rushes ahead of you to hold open the red door that branches off into a long, narrow stairwell. He sucks in his broad chest for you to squeeze by, and you absently thank him as you pass through, inadvertently causing his optics to sparkle brilliantly in response.

“I prefer to think of it as taking care of my friends,” he hums warmly, letting the door swing shut behind him and wandering up the stairs after you, unable to stop his eyes from settling on the safety banister that you're neglecting to use.

Ahead of him, your mouth tugs into a lazy smile.

Freddy Fazbear – a friend to all, big or small. You can't say you're too surprised that he's lumped you in with the masses.

“You know, you really don't have to shadow me,” you tell him, already feeling your bones sag wearily and you aren't even halfway up the staircase. “I'm sure you have far more exciting things to be doing than litter-picking.”

“On the contrary,” he counters, “I've always thought the activity looked quite mellowing. I'd be grateful if you'd let me help you.”

For his sake, you hold onto a sharp bark of laughter. Only Freddy could make it seem as if you were doing him a favour by asking for his help.

At long last, you reach the top step and make a valiant attempt to keep your breaths even and quiet lest he start suggesting you take up Mazercise with him again.

You decide to give him one last chance to back out. “Well, I guess if you don't have anything else you'd rather be doing...”

The fact still stands - you've never spent any sort of significant time around Freddy, and anything you do know about him, you've heard from Andy and your colleagues, or you've caught in snippets of conversation from the guests. So, you can't be sure whether it's simply in his programming to be so helpful, or whether he really is just that excited to pick up litter with you. Then again, maybe it's nothing more than a handy excuse to keep a close optic on you, just in case there are any wayward ladders laying around for you to get your mitts on.

But when you pause in front of the doorway that will take you out onto the Atrium's central floor and shoot a glance at the bear, you're taken aback to find that he's tipped towards you a little, optics wide and shining blue like the sky in June.

“This is what I'd rather be doing,” he tells you with such suffocating sincerity, you can't help but wonder if you've been taking litter picking for granted all these years.

Notes:

I CAN'T BELIEVE YOU GUYS HAVE DONE FANART OF MY FANFIC I'M SOBBING, I'M A HOT MESS RN!
Don't worry, Monty swiftly returns to Y/N's side in the next chapter.

Chapter 15: A Helping Paw

Summary:

Sorry for the slow update everyone. I wrote this chapter while I had the dreaded Rona, so it probably doesn't flow quite so smoothly as the last chapters. Not to worry though :) I'm on the mend and the next chapter promises some quality bonding time between Monty and Reader, where the pair of them start coming to terms with what it means to be newly-established friends.

Montgomery Gator does not hurry - Not for anyone, nor anything.

Of the main four, he's the leisurely one. Not like Roxanne, whose appetite for thrills and speed rivals Chica's appetite for leftover scraps that she pilfers from the kitchens once the staff have left for the day.

Monty is the animatronic who moves at his own pace and is never in any kind of rush to get to where he's going.

So, no. He's not hurrying back from El Chips with his hatch stuffed full of pizza, burgers and whatever else he'd managed to snatch out of an unsuspecting S.T.A.F.F bot's servos. And he's definitely not in a rush because he knows that there's a human waiting for him back in his green room, hungry, probably starving, relying on the old gator to bring her food so that she doesn't run the risk of passing out on the job.

Honestly, he doesn't know how she's managed to survive for so long without him.

At a considerable rate of knots, the animatronic lumbers down Rockstar Row, stomping past a couple of confused kiosk-workers who almost trip over themselves in their haste to get out of his way and gape up at him when he doesn't even spare them a passing sneer.

As he nears his door, Monty pauses in front of it and takes a few seconds to inspect himself, thumbing away a smudge of sauce from his chest plate and scraping his claws redundantly over the solid, plastic mohawk that juts from the top of his head.

Then, satisfied, he vents a quick burst of air and steps closer to the door, letting it slide open before he steps through and glances down at his hatch, reaching eagerly inside it to grab the bulging, white bag that contains enough sustenance to last you the rest of the week.

“Hey, I'm back!” he announces, raising his head again and sweeping his optics about, “And look what I got for... uh...”

The room is deserted. Nothing more than familiar, lonely silence is there to greet him.

“...you...?” he finishes in a soft murmur, roving his gaze from the ladder that still sits propped beside his show window, to his vanity in the far corner.

There isn't any sign of you. Not in the corner... not by the couch...

You're...

Gone?

No. Monty gives his head a rough shake. No, no. He'd asked you to stay here. Why would you leave? You knew he was planning to bring you food.

“Hey, Lady!?”

The gator's optics continue to roam about the room, as if he's expecting you to suddenly pop out from behind a curtain or emerge from underneath his vanity to laugh at the baffled expression on his face.

Absently, Monty closes his hatch around the food as his tail slumps softly to the floor. “Y/n?” he tries again in a far smaller voice, almost too small to belong to the once proud and petulant alligator.

Perhaps... you've stepped into the maintenance room?

A burst of speed and hopefulness carry Monty's considerable girth towards the door sitting beside his arcade machine, and the moment the entryway slides open, he wastes no time sticking his snout inside and calling, “Hey, you in here?”

… Not a sound returns from the dark and dusty room.

Ah, but then... maybe he was being too hopeful.

Tension curls like a serpent in his chest cavity and he turns away from the darkness, facing his room once more and casting his cursory gaze over towards the couch. Blankly, he drags his focus from the soft, little Chica doll, to the miniature bear that peers back at him through beady, button eyes.

All at once, it clicks.

Monty's voice box rattles with the force of a sudden, hostile growl.

“Freddy....”

Freddy had been with you when the alligator left... Did the bear convince you to leave? Did he make you leave? Are you with him right now?

Montgomery's fangs gnash together in a vicious display of rage and his tail rips aggressively across the carpet, tearing fibres loose until the metal buzzes with the resulting static.

How dare he....

How dare that stupid, goody-two-shoes try to muscle in where he isn't wanted, taking you from the safety of Monty's room when you're so clearly in need of food and rest.

What was Fazbear thinking!?

Heaving out a snarl of frustration, Monty wheels himself about and marches straight back through the doorway, a baleful shadow haunting his ruby-red optics.

-------

There are few things in life that are more surreal, you think, than to have the unwavering and oftentimes overwhelming assistance of Fazbear Inc.'s most beloved star.

From the moment you stepped out into the Atrium, Freddy has been stuck to you like an oversized limpet, lumbering along at your heels as you scout around the vast and empty room on the hunt for loose pieces of rubbish that the S.T.A.F.F bots have missed on their initial sweep.

With a black bin bag clenched in your fist, you skirt around the main stage and collect up the odd wrapper, empty can or fluttering streamer that have been thrown in all sorts of hard-to-reach places.

This day is turning out to be a far cry from the one you'd envisioned when you pried your head off the pillow this morning.

For one thing, you never could have predicted that you'd so often be shooing away the paws of a helpful bear when he yet again tries to reach for the bag of rubbish in your hands.

“Thank you, Freddy!” you exclaim through an amused laugh for the umpteenth time, hefting the bin bag to your opposite side, “But for the last time – It's really not that heavy.”

You thought Andy had been exaggerating when he divulged to you that Freddy's simulated nature makes him jus a little too eager to please. No matter how hard you try though, it's surprisingly difficult to be frustrated with anyone who seems so unfalteringly willing to help.

“With the addition of the waste products inside it, that bag weighs one point eight kilograms,” the enormous bear rattles off as though he's reading from a screen, which, you realise with a blink, he most likely is. “The recommended weight that a human can carry for a sustained period of time is -”

“Freddy,” you cut him off, using your free hand to pinch the bridge of your nose, “How old is the human?”

“Hmm?”

Spotting a sticker adhered to the side of the stage, you drop down onto your knees in front of it and set the bin bag as far from the bear as you can manage. “The human,” you clarify at his inquiring hum, “How old is the human in this scenario?”

You set to work digging your blunted nails under the sticker whilst Freddy lapses into a very telling silence.

After a moment, he simply gives a polite, little cough and utters, “That is not important.”

“How old?” you press.

“It doesn't matter.”

“Freddy-”

“-Seven...”

Pressing your lips into a smug grin, you roll your head sideways and blink languidly up at him, drawling, “Been a while since I've had the muscles of a seven-year-old...”

Freddy, the good sport that he is, shifts his gaze up to the roof that sprawls high overhead and pretends to be terribly abashed at having been caught out on a technicality. Is it such a crime that he doesn't want a new friend to overexert herself?

At the sound of your soft laughter though, he lowers his head again to look at you and lets a jovial chuckle of his own bubble up inside his voice box.

“You have a very nice smile,” he decides, the bin bag forgotten in his attempt to ruffle you right back.

“Ha!” You play along instead, covering your cheek with a palm and making a grand show of sighing wistfully, “I bet you say that to all the staff.”

“You'd be surprised,” he retorts easily, “But even if I did, it would not take away from the fact that yours is especially lovely.”

If it weren't for hearing Sunnydrop say the same thing to you on a near-daily basis, you'd probably feel the need to hide your mouth and shrink bashfully into the collar of your uniform. “Lovely?” You fan a hand in front of your face and titter out, “Me? Hair a mess and peeling pizza stickers from your stage? Huh, I wonder if Sunny and Moon would be jealous if they ever found out their top spot is being contested...”

Freddy's optics whir with intrigue. “You are acquainted with the daycare attendants?”

“You sound surprised.”

“Pleasantly so!” he assures you with a nod of approval.

If you didn't know any better, you'd say he seems delighted by the banter, and indeed, unbeknownst to you, he truly is.

It isn't often that he gets to interact with the staff in a casual setting like this.

The CPU that sits between his ears tells him that every member under the Fazbear umbrella is his coworker, and coworkers can make for wonderful friends, or so he's heard. Typically, at this time of day, he'd be up in the Lobby or wandering around Rockstar Row, bidding farewell to all of his fans and posing for last-minute photographs, signing autographs or helping a lost child find their parents - which is far too frequent an occurrence for the bear's liking.

He'd been surprised when the guests began to leave early in their droves today, and it wasn't until he asked the young intern at Glamrock Gifts why everyone was leaving that he learned of the inclement weather outside.

He'd fussed then, rushing to the door to find Chica already there, waving farewell to all the families taking their leave whilst keeping a surreptitious eye on the guests who weren't wearing coats.

Apparently, with the unexpectedly heavy snowfall, it seemed that both guests and staff had left early, leaving behind a skeleton crew who couldn't use their own mode of transport and had to rely on the bus schedules to get home at a later hour.

Although he's always happy to see a bustling Pizzaplex, of course, Freddy doesn't mind this relative peace either – nobody but he and a fellow Fazbear employee, enjoying one another's easy company.

It's a welcome change.

You're certainly welcome.

He's embarrassed that it took him until yesterday to meet such an affable human who has, according to his database, been working right under his nose for the better part of a year.

He likes that the first thing you did when you accidentally walked into him was to apologise and ask if he was okay, rather than complain to the technicians that their bear's sensors must be faulty again.

He also likes that you're giving his bandmate the time of day. Goodness knows that gator could use some more friends besides himself, Chica and Roxy. It's wonderful to see that Monty has found a human who's a little more forgiving in temperament. Freddy can clearly see why his bassist seems so taken with you, even if the gator can't see it for himself.

Bah. And they call Freddy the oblivious one.

Once you successfully peel the sticker from the Glamrocks' stage, you let out a little cheer and happen to glance up to see Freddy watching you attentively, his own paw wrapped around a discarded can of Fizzyfaz. Quirking a brow, you slowly drop the remnants of the sticker into your bin bag and simply deign to observe the animatronic as he drags his optics down to the can in his hands before raising his gaze to you once again, as if he's studying your movements.

Then, with a soft hiss, his chest hatch slides open gracefully and he pops the can inside the empty space, closing it again and quickly glancing up to search your face, waiting for your verdict on his performance.

“Freddy, there are alternatives to putting trash in your hatch,” you deadpan, gesturing to the bin bag and giving it a rustle.

“You will not let me carry it for you, so I refuse to make it heavier by adding to – Oh!”

You blink, taken aback when the bear suddenly goes still and his optics flash briefly with green light. “I appear to have received a message... Excuse me for one moment,” he tells you.

Freddy's head tilts to the side and his optics dim as though he's looking at something far away.

“Hmm,” he rumbles, and you watch on in growing amusement as his expressive brows slant into a look of disapproval. “Well. That is highly impolite.”

“Something wrong?” you smirk.

With a blink, Freddy's pupils expand once more and he refocuses on you, the frown dropping off his face within seconds. “It is a message from Montgomery,” he begins, hesitating awkwardly before he relays it – or at least, the gist of it. “He, ah.. is asking where you are...”

Wincing, you suck a breath between your teeth. “Uh oh.”

“... And I am being wrongfully accused of theft...” he grumbles afterwards, distaste evident in his tone.

Given what you've learned about Monty so far, especially his resentment the bear, you can only imagine what the message really says.

“Are you telling him where we are?”

“Message pending...” he mumbles, then, “... Sent. I have informed our mutual friend that we are beside the main stage in the atrium. He should be here at any-”

“-There you are!” A familiar voice booms like a thunderclap across the relatively empty atrium, drawing your attention up to the top of the escalators, down which Monty is storming as if a fire has been lit beneath his heels.

“Bloo~dy Hell,” you exclaim, raising an impressed set of brows, “That was quick.”

“He must have already been on one of the upper levels,” Freddy observes.

The alligator is lurching in a dead-set path towards you and the bear with his lips twisted into a ferocious snarl and his hands bunched tightly into fists at his sides.

You hope to god he doesn't think anything of the nervous step you take behind the bear's arm, subconsciously protecting your non-dominant flank. You've long-since learned where your blind spots are.

But Monty's ire, it seems, is not directed at you.

Like a tidal wave surging towards a brave and unyielding cliff, the gator comes screeching to a halt scant inches away from ploughing straight into Freddy, and draws himself up until he almost matches the bear's impressive height.

Roiling, scarlet optics burn furiously into bewildered, cerulean blue.

“What's the big idea, Fazbear?” Monty spits his bandmate's name like it's poison on his tongue, “I tell 'er to stay put, and you drag her out into the atrium!? What happened to makin' sure she ate before lettin' her get back to work?”

Freddy, apparently just as bewildered as you are, shares a quick glance with you over his shoulder – though this soon turns out to be a mistake.

As if the bear had just personally slighted him, Monty narrows his optics, bares his fangs and suddenly raises his arms, giving the startled Freddy a vicious shove to the chest and snapping, “HEY! M'talkin' to you!”

The gator can feel that faithful old friend of his bubbling like a pot coming to the boil, whirling upwards through his systems and setting his fibre-optic wires ablaze until it builds in his throat and almost – almost tears out of him in a ragged, raging bellow.

… But it doesn't, because just as he cocks his arm back and balls his purple hand into a fist, ready to hurl it forwards into Freddy's thieving faceplates, Montgomery catches a glimpse of you.

Half-hidden behind the bear, you're staring up at Monty in much the same way as Roland had earlier. God... you look like you're expecting him to attack you, not Freddy.

He doesn't need to see the reflection of himself in your shimmering eyes – he can already guess what he must look like.

A beast.

A monster.

That's not how he wants you to see him. It isn't how he wants anyone to see him, but especially not you.

What the Hell is he doing? Was he really about to start a fight with Freddy? Freddy - who likely has no idea that he's even done anything wrong?

Monty reels back at once and drops his fist, letting it clang against his hip, settling to merely show his fangs to his bandmate instead to convey his agitation.

You can't deny that you're surprised. You'd have bet money that you'd been just seconds away from witnessing an all-out brawl between two, colossal animatronics.

There's no denying however, that Monty's still angry. Really angry. And worse still, you know categorically that it's your fault, although the revelation comes far too late. It hadn't really occurred to you at the time that leaving Monty's room – after he expressly asked you to stay put – might not sit too well with the ornery alligator. You just didn't realise he was legitimately serious when he told you that you needed to eat, as if you aren't a grown woman who has been getting through life just fine so far without an animatronic trying to schedule in mealtimes.

“Monty?” Freddy hedges carefully, dipping his proverbial toe into the conversation again now that the gator seems far more docile, “I... must apologise for upsetting you. I did not mean any-”

“-No. No,” you step in immediately and firmly, dredging up your nerve to shuffle around the bear and stand tall at his side, “Freddy, it wasn't your fault. It wasn't his fault, Montgomery -” The use of his full name stills the tiffing gator and you promptly find yourself subjected to that fire-laden glare. Only slightly daunted, you forge ahead, “He wanted me to stay in your room. But, as I tried to tell you then, I couldn't. I still had a job to do. Freddy tagged along to keep an eye on me.”

Montgomery's nostrils narrow and flare unhappily as he pitches a growl back at the bear, who is peering down at you with a mixture of surprise and warm appreciation muddling his expression.

Bobbing his head up and down in concurrence with your words, Freddy focuses on the alligator once more. “I have been monitoring the situation closely, just in anything went awry.”

“Nothing was going to 'go awry,” you gripe, rolling your eyes heavenwards, “I skipped a meal. I didn't go on a hunger strike.”

“Be that as it may, you still – Oof! Montgomery!” the bear protests suddenly, letting out an affronted 'hmph' when Monty simply shoulders past him and stalks up to you, crowding you backwards with his indomitable presence until your back hits the stage.

A jolt of adrenaline races up your spine as Monty's eyes roam over you from head to foot. The glance isn't a hungry one, though it is decidedly invasive. You get the distinct impression that you're being checked over for injuries. Just what had he expected to happen?

“Monty...” comes Freddy's rather ineffective warning.

The gator merely chuffs and without taking his optics away from you, he throws out an aggressive ping to the bear – a nonsensical, wordless message - implying, rather than outright saying verbatim, 'Back off.'

He can tell the precise moment when Freddy receives it because he half-closes his optics and arches a brow, unimpressed.

Good. Monty doesn't exist to earn the bear's approval.

Grumbling to himself, the alligator turns back to you and, without putting too much thought into his actions - because really, when does he ever – he slides his hands firmly over the soft swell of your hips, eliciting a startled bleat for the bold, unexpected move.

“E-Excuse me!?” you splutter, hands coming up to brace against the animatronic's thick wrists as he lifts you towards the edge of the stage, sliding your backside onto it without much ceremony.

“Sit,” he growls, and when you start to indignantly wriggle forwards to try and hop down again, he hisses through his fangs and places his hands on your thighs, shoving you backwards once more and adding an exasperated, “Please.”

It's probably the 'please' that keeps you in place.

Now there's a word that seldom makes itself known in his extensive vocabulary.

Unhappy with the arrangement, but recognising that you're wildly outmatched, you bite your tongue and remain seated on the stage, admittedly inquisitive to see what your unwarranted warden has in store for you.

Satisfied that you aren't going anywhere, Monty grunts and pulls his hands back, popping his stomach hatch open with a soft rush of escaping air.

The coiled spring in your belly gradually begins to unwind itself, replaced by growing curiosity as you watch Monty reach into his hatch and pull out a large, white bag, holding it towards you before dropping it wordlessly into your lap. The bag is soon followed by a green can of Fizzy Faz, which he shoves none too carefully into your fumbling hands.

“Here,” he mutters, avoiding your astonished stare, “I didn't know what you wanted, so... I just got you a couple of options. F'you don't like any of it.. tough. I ain't haulin' myself all the way back up to El Chips.”

He would, if it was for you, but he really doesn't think you need to know that.

Sliding a brow up your forehead, you take hold of the top of the bag and peel it open, taking a peek inside. “My god, Monty!” you exclaim, “There's enough in here to feed a family of four! I'll never be able to eat all of this!”

Guiltless, he heaves his burly shoulders into a shrug and moves to plant his hands on the stage next to you. “Don't gotta eat the whole lot. Just gotta eat somethin'.” With that, the gator suddenly hauls himself onto the stage and swings his tail up over the ledge, plonking himself down on your right with a soft hiss of his pistons.

And then, he just... sits there, snout pointed down at you, watching on as you pick up the can and swivel it around to find the toothy grin of a familiar, illustrated alligator staring lazily back up at you from beneath hooded optics.

“Sour lime,” Monty points out, leaning nearly on top of you to tap his claw against the boldly printed words scrawled up the side of the can.

“Ooh~! My favourite!”

It isn't. But you aren't about to tell him that Chica's Pink Lemonade is usually your go-to, not when he'd actually been kind enough to fetch you a mini buffet despite your protests. Although, you aren't oblivious to the fact that, whilst there seems to be an overabundance in options of food, he'd only provided you with one distinctive Fizzy Faz flavour.

Instead of calling him out on his bias, you busy yourself by ferreting around inside the bag for something quick to eat, unaware that Monty's tail has started to curl around your back, his maw pulled up at the corners in a self-satisfied grin.

'Favourite, huh?' A flash of orange catches his eye and he turns that grin slowly towards Freddy, who doesn't appear at all put off by the gator's air of smug superiority.

Monty wonders how it must feel, to not be the preferred animatronic for a change.

'Hurts, doesn't it?' he thinks vindictively at the bear, irked that Freddy only steps forwards with a pleased hum, his brilliant, blue optics fixed on your rummaging hands.

The gator is nudged from his thoughts by your knee as it knocks companionably into his own with a clunk.

“Hey,” you murmur, bringing his attention back to you and the box of salty chips perched in your lap, “Thank you, for this.”

And just like that, Freddy is forgotten.

Montgomery didn't bring you the food in exchange for gratitude, but he soaks it up anyway like a massive, scaly sponge.

Sitting here with his legs dangling alongside yours over the edge of the main stage isn't as boring as Monty thinks it should be. He's in a quandary, treading on new, uncharted territory in permitting himself to bask in the company of a human.

And yet, it isn't unpleasant, just to exist in close proximity to the human he likes-

'No! No. Tolerates,' he swiftly and harshly corrects his processing unit, 'You tolerate her.'

The difference between tolerating and liking are astronomical.

Yes, the idea of having a friend in this big, lonely Plex sparks a curious ember of longing in his circuits... And, sure, it's nice to have someone in his corner for a change. But that doesn't mean he's going to up and start liking a Fazbear employee.

'Not just a river in Egypt,' a gruff voice whispers, one that sounds rather irritatingly like his own, but he quickly brushes it to the very back of his CPU.

Despite the bear's nauseatingly cheerful presence, he's having an okay time, far calmer now than he had been just a few minutes ago.

Huh... It's a little strange to consider how badly he'd let his wires get crossed, especially now that he's sitting here next to you, overcome by a serene sort of stillness that is as unexpected as it is welcomed. The anger and resentment from earlier have all but melted away, due in no small part to the simple sight of you tucking into the food that he's provided.

His voice box gives a low, happy murmur at a frequency too soft and deep for your delicate human ears to pick up.

This feels.... right.

Yeah. That's the word he'd use, if prompted.

More than that though, it feels as though he's done something right, which is quite the change of pace.

In companionable silence, he remains at your side, dutifully watching you polish off the last of the chips before he reaches into the white bag and retrieves a burger without prompt which you proceed to peer at contemplatively for a moment, eventually giving a shrug and taking it from his outstretched claws.

The burger too is wolfed down in a flash, followed by a long gulp of Fizzy Faz.

And all the while, Monty does his best to ignore Freddy's presence, but the bear seems to have an irksome habit of shifting his weight just as the gator manages to forget he's there.

It really is quite bothersome when Monty is trying to enjoy this little interlude of comfortable peace.

He's busy peering at Freddy from the corner of one optic when the sudden and abrupt rustle of paper reaches his audial receptors. Giving a curious whirr, the alligator bends his neck towards you and finds you balling the burger wrapper into a tight wad as you lean back on one hand and let your body deflate around a long, satisfied sigh.

“Alright. I've gotta hand it to you, Monty,” you begin, clearing your throat and rolling your head around to face him, “Food was a very good idea.”

Montgomery's pupils expand eagerly. “Yeah?” he asks before he can reel in his boyish enthusiasm.

“Mmm... Yeah,” you conclude with a wink in his direction that causes his engine to purr noisily.

Unfortunately, Freddy's familiar baritone is quick to stifle that pleasant hum.

“Food is always a good idea, Miss Y/n.”

Monty lets out a groan and slowly drags his optics over to the bear, grumbling, “You still here?”

He's distracted at once, however, by a soft hand pushing lightly against his shoulder, coupled with a gentle reprimand from the human beside him.

“Don't be like that, Monty. Freddy can hang out with us if he'd like to.”

To the surprise of nobody, Monty hardly looks thrilled by that prospect, but funnily enough, its Freddy who politely dismisses himself.

“No, no. That's quite all right,” he interjects, holding up his paws in a mollifying gesture and bowing his head, “I believe I have intruded for long enough.”

At that, you aim a gentle frown the bear's way and click your tongue, telling him, with a level of sincerity that could rival his own, “You shouldn't ever feel like you're intruding, Freddy. You're very good company, and you've helped me out a lot this evening.”

In response, he gives you another grateful smile and squeezes his plastic eyelids shut for a moment before blinking them open again. “I hope it isn't too bold of me to tell you that the feeling is mutual,” he murmurs gently. And then, almost as an afterthought, he adds, “And.. thank you.”

Furrowing your brow even further, you give him a curious hum. “For what?”

And as if you're missing a critically obvious point, Freddy replies, “For allowing me to do this with you.”

You hesitate for a second, cocking your head at him. “Freddy,” you begin, your smile genuine, though undoubtably confused, “You realise I'm the one who should be thanking you, right? You've halved the time I usually spend sweeping through here.”

“I am glad to have been of help to you,” he replies in a quiet utterance, returning your smile, “I hope you will allow me to assist you again, some time.”

“It would quite literally be an honour.”

Beside you, Monty makes a sound that could have been a scoff, but it could also have been a gag. You ignore his petulance and bid Freddy a wave goodbye, only to let out a comically loud squawk of indignation when the bear bends down and swipes up the bag of garbage you'd so painstakingly collected.

“Hey! Freddy, you-! You put that down!”

“I believe I can find my way to the trash compactor,” he says without even extending the courtesy of trying to hide the cheeky wiggle of his smooth, round ears as he shoulders the bin bag and all its contents.

Your mouth drops open around an incredulous laugh. “Are you just trying to put me out of a job?”

“Now why in the world would I want to do that?” Freddy asks rhetorically, his tone suddenly and surprisingly tender for just a moment, “I would never do anything to jeopardise your employment – It would make me very sad if you were to stop working here... Very sad indeed.”

“Then will you let me take my own trash to the compactor?” you point out.

For a second or two, Freddy considers both you, and your suggestion, humming thoughtfully before he shakes his head, shifting his faceplates into a broad, open-mouthed grin. “I think you can afford to be helped every now and then. Besides-” He drops one optic into a wink. “- this instance can be our little secret.”

And with that, the bear tips his hat to you, nods once to his bandmate, and turns, wandering through the atrium towards the escalators with long, unhurried strides.

Blowing out a half-hearted puff of exasperation, you shake your head fondly from side to side, lips twisting up at their corners. “Tch. That bear...”

At your side, Montgomery huffs under his breath, “Hmph. Good riddance.”

Tearing your eyes off the retreating animatronic as he hits the escalators with a spring in his step, you let your smile fall flat and shoot Monty a scathing look.

Briefly, the gator glances down at you before doing a swift double-take, apparently surprised by the look he's receiving. “What?”

Your expression somehow manages to fall into an even less impressed glower. “Seriously?” you tut, “I thought you just played up the whole rivalry thing with Freddy to keep the fans entertained-” People do love a band with varied and interesting dynamics, after all. “-But I'm starting to think you really don't like the guy.”

“And you do?” the gator retorts, sounding just as appalled as you.

“What's not to like?” you start, “He's charming, he's kind, he's super helpful-”

Petulantly, Monty scoffs and folds his arms across his broad, yellow chest. “A'right, a'right... Don't gotta rub it in, Lady..”

“Rub it in?” Genuinely baffled, you lean forwards to try and catch the animatronic's eye. “Rub what in?”

The animatronic graciously holds onto his cynical harrumph. Half of him wants to simply shake the confession out of you – that you prefer Freddy's company over his own. That you like Freddy better than him, just as all the rest do.

He wants you to say it... But...

… He's a coward where it counts, in the end - afraid to hear you say what he thinks is true. He's unwilling to put a voice to his fears, as if doing so will make them a reality. So instead, he'll just have to wallow in his self-dug pit of misery, wilfully ignorant of the fact that Freddy has likely won you over in a matter of hours, and Monty had been the one to let it happen...

He should never have left you alone in his room with the bear.

Really, he only has himself to blame.

But then, you ask again. “Monty?” in a voice so small and uncertain, but equally, unfathomably gentle, that he can't help but glance down at you, making the fatal mistake of meeting your eyes.

Have they always been so... intricate?

The delicate tangle of furrows inside your iris that add depth and movement... The way the muscle contracts when his red, optical lights hit your pupils and they shrink like tiny, responsive black holes, subconsciously attentive to his focus... In all his time here at the Pizzaplex, he can be sure that he's never looked at a human's eyes quite so closely before.

He realises that this is the closest he's ever looked at you.

What else might he see, given a little more time?

Time that Freddy has no doubt stolen. Perhaps this will be the last you ever sit in Monty's presence. Tomorrow, the sun will surely rise once more over the Plex, you'll stroll in through those open doors, and the first and only animatronic on your mind will be the bear – that charming, kind, helpful bear, who doesn't break things in fits of anger, who didn't growl and posture and snap when he first met you.

Abashed, Monty finally swings his head around again, breaking whatever spell you'd somehow cast over him.

“Heh,” he laughs, and the sound of it is as bitter as he is, “Everybody prefers the bear...”

He can feel your gaze, hot on the side of his snout, yet he stubbornly keeps it pointed towards the ground below his feet, wondering if he should even bother salvaging the strange but wonderful accord he's struck with you.

“Wait, what? You think I prefer Freddy?” you ask, laughing softly at the implication. “Where'd you get that idea?”

Isn't it obvious?

“You left with him, after I asked you to stay... You wanted him to help you. Not me,” the animatronic grumbles.

“I left,” you return firmly, “because I had a shift to finish. I'm sorry, but I couldn't rightly put my job on hold because you wanted to fetch me a burger. And Freddy only came along because he insisted, even after I told him he really didn't have to help me at all.”

What?

Montgomery raises his head and looks towards you once more, uttering, “But... But I thought-”

“-What?” you interrupt, leaning sideways and knocking your shoulder companionably against Monty's solid, plastic arm, “You thought I'd become a die-hard Freddy fan and totally forget you exist? All because he helped me pick up a few empty cans of Fizzy Faz?”

The gator's jaw snaps shut... Well... It does sound a little outlandish when you put it like that...

You're giving him a crooked smile that pushes at one of your cheeks and causes your eyes to sparkle with a lively light, drawing his optic. “Sure, I like the big bear,” you admit, “But that doesn't mean I like you any less, Monty. So, don't go thinking I prefer Freddy over you, okay? Because that isn't the case.”

The gator has no breath to choke on, nor any heart to drum in his chest, so why then, does something inside him give an excitable lurch at your words.

“You...” His voice box turns fuzzy with static and he falls silent, blinking slowly down at you before he pushes out, “You like me?”

For the sake of his pride, you hold onto the laughter that nearly bursts out of you. Of all the animatronics, you wouldn't have put Monty down as the insecure one. Sure, sometimes he's about as prickly as a cactus, but as far as company goes, he's not half bad. In only two days, he's helped you tidy his own room, defended you from an irate Mick and brought you enough food to feed a village.

“Well, yeah, I mean-” You pause to gesture at the paper bag in your lap. “-Anybody who brings me this much food is bound to earn my unwavering loyalty, so...”

The pair of you share a laugh at that, he chuckles deep and low in his chest whilst you cover your mouth with a hand and snort behind it, glad to hear him sound a little less gloomy.

“Seriously though,” you sigh after regaining your composure, losing the toothy grin and replacing it with a far more sober, but no less tender smile, “Don't let your processor get all in a twist over whether or not I like Freddy more than you, okay? Because I don't.”

Monty can't tell if his audial receptors are malfunctioning, or he's caught inside a stasis dream. He'd pinch himself if he thought he could get purchase on his casing.

You like him?

“And, I know you don't want to call me your friend,” you continue, forcing the gator to zone back in on the sound of your voice, “but I hope you know I'm open to calling you mine.”

Even after all the bad he's done... Scaring you, raising his voice at you, demanding your presence and monopolising your attention... After all that, you're still willing to call him a friend?

A heavy weight settles in the pit of Monty's stomach hatch and he trips over his own tongue for a moment, fighting to produce an adequate response that won't leave him looking like a clumsy oaf in the wake of your reassuring declaration.

Picking at the polish adorning his purple claws, Monty hunches into his shoulders in a useless attempt to try and hide himself partially from view. “Reckon that's.... okay,” he mumbles, offering up a lazy shrug.

“Yeah?”

He pretends to think about it for a moment, as if the very notion of you calling him 'friend' isn't currently causing his traitorous tail to swish to and fro across the stage behind him, despite his efforts to cut the feed to the motors that control it. “Yeah,” he concedes, turning to peer down at you over the rim of his glasses. “Yeah, I guess that'd be okay.”

The smile he receives in response is so brilliant, that he wonders, momentarily, if he's the only one in dire need of a friend...

A dopey grin works at his jaw as he watches you avert your bashful gaze and busy yourself with stuffing the food wrappers back into the paper bag, tucking the treasure underneath an arm, all in an effort to avoid meeting the gator's surprisingly tender eye.

“Well," you blurt out, clearing your throat, "I suppose it's high time I go and put a stop to whatever antics Sunny is getting up to with Stella.”

“Huh?... Oh. Already?” Though Monty tries to negate the disappointment in his tone, he fails miserably and kicks himself for it. Still, when you slip forwards off the stage and hop to your feet, he follows behind you in a flash, landing far more heavily than you on the carpeted floor and producing a loud thud that leaves him feeling far too large and clumsy next to your comparative grace and delicate poise. “I thought, uh, you still had'ta finish your work.” Hastily, he tacks on, “Y'know, I can help out too, if you want.”

“Well, my last order of business was to take the trash down to disposal, but apparently, Freddy's decided to take over that particular duty, so...” Exhaling loudly past your pursed lips, you draw your shoulders into a deep shrug and drop them again, continuing, “I guess that's me finished for the day.”

You don't even bat an eyelid at the alligator-shaped shadow that trails after you as you begin traipsing towards the escalators that Freddy has just disappeared up, with a view to head straight for the daycare to relieve Sunnydrop of his last charge of the day.

Chapter 16: Imprinting

Summary:

There is a tentativeness in the first steps of a newly-forged friendship, an insecurity, and an uncertainty of how the other operates. Though hesitant, Montgomery still thinks he's doing remarkably well with this whole 'friends' business. So far, at least.
It's the 'so far' that will end up coming back to bite him, perhaps not even due to any fault of his own.

'There have always been ghosts in the machine. Random segments of code, that have grouped together to form unexpected protocols. Unanticipated, these free radicals engender questions of free will, creativity, and even the nature of what we might call the soul.... Random segments of code? Or is it something more? When does a perceptual schematic become consciousness? When does a difference engine become the search for truth? When does a personality simulation become the bitter mote... of a soul?' - Dr. Alfred Lanning, I Robot.

-------

Montgomery Gator isn't an especially clever bot, despite being implemented with a sophisticated learning algorithm and state-of-the-art AI.

When the technicians built him, they afforded far more attention to his exterior than his interior. 'Brawn over brain,' they said at the time. He was meant to appeal to those kids who might not have been so academically inclined as their peers. Of course, it was a decision those same techs are most likely kicking themselves for now, given his inclination to personally oversee the destruction of company property.

As a consequence, with far more raw, physical strength in his arsenal than any kind of acumen, Monty finds himself woefully under-equipped to make sense of the invisible tether that seems to stretch through the air between you both, keeping him inextricably and bafflingly bound to you. Not two short days ago, he had you pinned up against the wall of his green room, threatening to do to you what he'd done to the S.T.A.F.F. Bots who lay in pieces, scattered about like scrap at his feet.

And now? You're strolling breezily out through the lift doors with your back to the once hostile gator, keeping just a few steps ahead of him, your fragile spine laid out bare before him in an unintentional show of trust.

But then, perhaps he's reading too much into things.

... You said you thought of him as a friend.

Keeping a vigilant optic on the back of your head, Monty privately accesses his internal files and replays the audio from the conversation you'd shared just ten minutes ago.

“I know you don't want to call me your friend. But I hope you know I'm open to calling you mine.”

Not even the cantankerous animatronic is able to prevent a dopey grin from spreading across his snout, enough that he starts to closely resemble the version of himself illustrated in those posters that have been stuck up around the Plex.

He's a friend.

Him! Montgomery Gator.

He wonders if this is how Freddy feels all the time, secure in the knowledge that he has humans out there who are resolutely on his side.

If so, it's no surprise that the damn bear always seems so, perpetually happy...

For the first time since he was brought online, Montgomery Gator feels wanted. Really wanted, and not for the inconsequential things like his backing bass, his tolerated presence at birthday parties or the chance for an autograph to complete a set of four.

Just for him. For the animatronic he is.

At long last, after years spent having to exist quietly in the unassailable shadow cast by Freddy Fazbear, Monty feels seen.

And it's wonderful - So much sweeter than the meagre scraps of attention he earned from destroying his room and throwing tantrums, back when he believed that negative attention - though it may come with poison-bitter glares and words sharpened by mistrust and frustration - is better than no attention at all.

Once more, he rewinds the audio of your voice and listens to it all over again until it sticks like a burr to the inside of his head. 

He hadn't said as much before – too stupid and too stubborn to openly reciprocate – but he hopes you know that if he had to put a label on what you are to him, the word 'friend' is pretty high up on the list.

Which, to his dismay, has sprouted something of an issue.

Although Montgomery prides himself on an - admittedly unsubstantiated - reputation as the 'lovable rogue', he realises quite jarringly that he has absolutely no idea how a friend is supposed to behave.

You're no child, whose friendships with the animatronics, while genuine, are so often fleeting. Children come and go like the tide. Of course, there are some who do return several times a year for birthday parties and the like. But, there almost always comes a day that they just... stop coming back.

They don't return, not even to see their favourite, robot pals.

They grow up. The appeal of the Glamrock band fades. The novelty wears off...

You though... You're already a grown up. If you're friends with him now, as an adult, you can't 'grow out' of him. And you work here too, so you have no real reason to leave, which at least gives Monty the chance to learn how to be a friend to you.

With his lazy stare still glued to the back of your head, Monty follows you dutifully towards the first-floor photo booth, making a beeline for the double-doors that will take you to the Superstar Daycare.

Near the top of the escalators, you meander on by the booth that has been placed strategically, slap-bang in the centre of the walkway, and you can't help but send it a disapproving look from the corner of an eye. Typical of Fazbear's – to put the prohibitively expensive attraction somewhere totally unmissable where all the kids are sure to see it. Anything to squeeze another couple of hard-earned dollars out of their parents' pockets.

Unbeknownst to you, as you traipse on by, Montgomery's optics have also slid sideways towards the red curtain of the booth, though his glance is far less cynical than your own.

In a moment of uncharacteristic diffidence, he wonders, tentatively - perhaps even a little hopefully - whether you'd like to take a picture. With him?

He's seen numerous humans pass under those red curtains with their friends and family members, but it's an experience that has forever passed Montgomery by.

It always looked like.. fun, he supposes.

Groups of children and teenagers would go in giggling and come out again in fits of hysterical laughter, each clutching a precious strip of photo-paper in their fists, delighted with their memento of the day spent with their friends.

Flicking his optics back towards you, Monty begins to fidget idly with the black, silver-studded bands strapped around his wrists.

He could always just ask you. Right now. It'd be easy.

The gator pries his jaws apart with creaking effort, only to frown in confusion and a little vexation upon finding that his voice box doesn't seem to want to produce a sound, as if the useless thing is clogged up by icy liquid that's causing his system to freeze.

Begrudgingly, the animatronic's teeth click shut once again.

You'd... probably just think he was full of himself if he asked you to take a picture with him.

Yeah... Never mind.

His internal motors whine softly under the weight of his resignation.

'It was a stupid idea anyway.'

Entirely oblivious to the gator's defeated sigh, you breeze past the booth, but Monty's attention is abruptly snagged by a scene up ahead. Subtle motion draws his optics away from you and they land upon a trio of wet-floor bots, buzzing about near the front of the photo booth and rotating idly on their little wheels. They appear to be standing guard over a small, sticky puddle of vivid-green Fizzy Faz, spilled carelessly by the hand of some, clumsy kid.

The first thought to cross his processor is 'waste of a good flavour.' The second, however, arrives much more jarringly once he realises that unlike him, you barely even spare at the puddle a cursory glance, instead strolling far too close to it than Monty would like.

'Friends... watch each other's backs... right?'

Blowing out a puff of air through his flared nostrils, the gator lumbers up behind you without a second thought and leans down to press his snout against the side of your shoulder, giving you a firm and insistent nudge that herds you off to the right, much to your bewildered amusement.

“Woah~ Uh... Monty?” you voice, twisting your head sideways to eye the teeth that are still planted on your arm, guiding you around the wet-floor-bots, “What're you doing?”

The alligator's responding grunt precedes another bump from his snout and you find you have little choice but to allow yourself to be steered around the 'hazard' in a wide, sweeping arc.

Only once he deems you 'clear' of the spill does Monty withdraw his snout from your shoulder and throw an especially petulant glare back at the offending puddle, as if it had personally slighted him in some way, shape or form.

From beneath a slanted brow, you spare the gator a slightly perplexed look and consider hitting him with a little sarcasm. 'Oh Montgomery Gator! Thank you! I'd surely have slipped and twisted my ankle if not for your intervention!'

Yet after taking a closer look at the curl of his silicone lips and the tar-black glare he's shooting over his shoulder struts, you think better of it.

Swallowing thickly, you keep your comments hidden safely behind your tongue.

He seems hell-bent on keeping you an inordinate distance away from a spilled drink.

'His deep-learning algorithms must exceptionally aggressive at detecting water hazards,' you muse. It makes sense, given that he has to work around actual water hazards all the time in Gator Golf.

Either that, or he's taking his role as usher far too seriously. Still, you're certain that in his CPU, he's only doing what he understands to be 'right.' Even if it is a little overzealous to guide someone in a ten foot curve around a tiny splash of liquid on the floor.

But then, who are you to discourage Montgomery Gator from trying to be helpful?

So, instead, you shorten your former, teasing response to a simple, but sincere, “Thanks, Monty.”

The alligator's large, reptilian head swings around to face you, and for all of a second, you catch a fleeting look of wonderment cross his faceplates. Evidently, he's pleased to have earned your gratitude. But in the next instant, the expression is whisked away by a twitch of his lips and a blasé snort. Dismissive.

“Eh, just doin' my job...” he drawls.

Both of your eyebrows gradually hike up your forehead.

Right... Because his job entails protecting the staff from wayward puddles of Fizzy Faz...

If Monty notices your dubious expression, he doesn't call attention to it.

Turning forwards again just in time to hide an amused roll of your eyes, you absently mutter to yourself, “Should probably clean that up before I leave...”

“You're off the clock,” Monty shrugs his massive shoulders with a clunk of pistons, “Let the S.T.A.F.F bots handle it. They can deal with minor spills.” He won't bother mentioning that he doesn't need a scan to detect the exhaustion settled deep in your very bone-marrow.

Pausing by the double doors, you cast another look back at the wet-floor bots, worrying your bottom lip between your teeth before replying, “I know. But, it doesn't exactly look great for the Cleaning Lady to leave a mess behi-”

“-Ah, you worry too much,” the gator interrupts blithely as he leans over you and plants his hand on the door, pushing it open for you, “Ain't nobody here to kick up a stink about it anyway. N'it'll be gone by mornin'. 'Sides, you don't wanna keep the kid waitin', do you?”

The sigh you let out is perhaps a touch more dramatic than the situation calls for.

“Using a child to convince me to slack off work?” you tut, passing underneath the gator's burly arm and heading into the hallway beyond, “You're a bad influence Montgomery Gator.”

Entirely remorseless, he slinks after you through the doorway, sticking his nose proudly into the air. When he doesn't bother to say anything in his defence, you deadpan, “Wow. You're not even going to deny it?”

“Eh, I could try, but somethin' tells me you wouldn't be fooled none,” he shamelessly drawls.

Smiling toothily back at the gator, you titter, “Well, at least you're self-aware.” It would later strike you as an accomplishment that you're no longer afraid to laugh at him and expect repercussions. 

As his deep, resonant chuckle tapers off and you continue in comfortable silence down the corridor, you become all too aware of the animatronic dogging you at an awfully close proximity, sticking so close to your heels that you're a little worried he might end up treading on them.

What does he think will happen if he ventures any more than five feet from you?

Perhaps he still expects you to disappear without warning, like you had only a few hours ago to clear up the Atrium with Freddy.

Though why your absence is suddenly such a point of unease for Monty is anyone's guess.

Maybe he's just bored.

Regardless, you don't press him on it.

Heaving a mental shrug, you broach another glance over your shoulder and cock a grin, asking “So, are you getting up to much this evening?” It's conversational. A nice and easy question. You are technically coworkers, after all.

The animatronic – who had been smiling lazily down at you – gives a start and snaps his hanging jaw shut, then picks up his pace until he's plodding along at your side instead of trailing in your wake. “Huh?” he bumbles intelligently before he can catch his surprise.

According to his facial scanners, the toothy smile you flash him is inherently playful.

“I asked if you had anything planned tonight,” you reiterate, “Or do you animatronics just recharge from dusk to dawn?”

Side by side, your unlikely duo strolls casually along the empty hall towards Sunny's daycare whilst Monty tries his utmost to come up with a response.

It's the same line of inquiry he hears the human staff ask one another all the time as they're leaving at the end of a long, tiring shift. Just a harmless query. No need to burn his processor out by ruminating too hard on such a thing, and certainly no need to come up with an answer that'll impress the little woman walking next to him, as if it matters to you what he does in his spare time... But... why would you ask, if you didn't care?

You hitch a brow up at his prolonged silence, prompting the gator to push the motors in his shoulders into a totally unruffled shrug and hooks his hand together behind his neck as he saunters along on your flank. “Mmm, I dunno. Might go fishin' for golf balls in the hazards... Might bother the security guard.. Make a nuisance of myself in general. Same as always.”

To his dismay, you don't even bat an eyelash at the alligator's cool, unfazed act. You only tut softly and side-eye him with a gentle reprimand creeping to the front of your tongue.

In truth, you're hesitant to voice it, if only because Montgomery is hardly anybody you ought to be telling off, no matter his jarring turnaround in behaviour. You suspect he'll be affronted and inform you that you have no right to tell him what to do. Yet you feel you owe it to a fellow staff member to at least attempt to curve his affinity for delinquency. So, after chewing on your lip for a moment in contemplation, you turn your eyes away from him and ask, beseechingly, “Monty. For my sake, please don't cause too much mischief for Vanessa, okay? Poor girl doesn't look like she's slept properly for weeks...”

Having successfully had the wind knocked out of his sails, Monty audibly deflates, letting his arms fall back against his sides with a clang and a hiss of pistons.

“Hmph!” he snorts, shaking off his embarrassment, “You sound like the bear. He's worried 'bout her too. Reckons she ain't been actin' right lately.”

“All the more reason to keep that big head of yours down and your snout clean,” you retort, shooting a pointed look in his direction, “Nessa's word carries a lot of weight around here. One comment from her, and you might find yourself in Parts with your teeth in a little tray and your head unscrewed.”

Icy coolant races through his system and he has to suppress a shudder at the unpleasant visual, but he brushes the discomfort aside and blows a throaty huff through his jaws, peering down at you over the top of his glasses. “Aw, you worried about me, Doll?” he teases...

… Only for his optical covers to click rapidly in surprise when you merely hum distractedly and respond with an all too genuine, “Yes, as a matter-of-fact, I am.”

And poor Monty... Well.

Just what does one say to such a claim? Perhaps if he'd engaged his processor instead of staring gormlessly after you, he might have come up with something a little more poignant to say than a simple, muted, “Oh...”

A prouder part of his programming tries to bristle in protest – He's perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and he can't believe you'd think that some self-important security guard could be any sort of threat to him.

But as he mindlessly slows his gait and watches you pass under the shutter and enter the daycare pick-up area ahead of him, he can't help but conduct a cursory search of his memory banks, trying to pinpoint the last time someone voiced their worry for him...

The list of instances he pulls up is... woefully short...

Gradually, the animatronic's powerful footfalls slow to a complete halt as he grows lost inside his own head for a moment. Since when does the great Montgomery Gator give two hoots about whether or not anyone cares if he's all right?

It's the sound of a metal turnstile being pushed open that brings him around again. He looks up, staring dumbly after you as you trot along the daycare's upper concourse, past the party rooms and towards the staircase that will take you down to the bottom floor, where the main entrance to Sunnydrop's domain lays in wait.

… Since when indeed...? Hmm.

You pause halfway down the walkway, peering back over your shoulder and even from the moderate distance, he can still make out the uncertain smile you flash his way, one eyebrow cocked in question. “Hey? You okay back there? You run out of power or something?”

Stopping and waiting, checking in...

The tether between you snaps taut and Monty's motors whir like a couple of jet engines, kicking him into gear. Giving his head a shake, the alligator shoves his way through the turnstile after you and hastens back to your side, his steps shaking the ground as he approaches you. “Just, uh, checkin' out how much juice I got left in me,” he lies.

“Oh...” You turn away when he reaches you and continue on down the concourse, “And?”

“S'enough.”

For a moment, your steps slow and falter and you peer back over your shoulder. “Enough? Monty, you know, if you need to go and charge, you can,” you offer kindly, “You don't need to keep following me around.”

“Trying to get rid of me already?” he grunts, and damn it if it doesn't come out a little too defensively.

Your chest rises and falls around a sigh as you begin taking the stairs, slowly descending into the lower level. “No,” you stress, “I just feel like... I've been monopolising your time a lot today.” Which, to be honest, is stretching the truth a little. He's the one who's been sticking to you like periwinkles stick to rocks at the beach. Pushing that fact aside, you offer him an out. “You can go and do your own thing now, if you want to... It's okay if you do.”

The vast animatronic is silent for a while, clunking heavily down the stairs in tandem with you, but he isn't looking your way, his optics turned instead to the far side of the daycare. Hesitantly, you venture to ask, “Monty?”

“Maybe... this is... uh,” he begins, though he's thwarted by his voice box as something causes it to hitch in his throat, as if it doesn't want to say anything at all. 'Maybe this is what I wanna do,' he almost confesses, catching himself at the last moment, a little alarmed at himself, truth be told.

“Maybe... I'll go charge once I see you two outta here,” he finally pushes out.

Coward.

He's immensely glad that you turn your eyes away from him before you can see him peel his lips over his teeth in a grimace.

“Ha, well, if you're sure,” you acquiesce as you hop down the last two steps and land with a click of your heels on the rubber flooring underfoot, “You know, you're being awfully accommodating with me.”

“Accomodatin'?” he asks, thudding down bedside you.

“Yeah, it's been...” You pause, and Monty's tail stops swishing back and forth, growing still in anticipation. After another second, a soft and charming smile blooms across your face like the flowers on a magnolia tree. “It's actually been nice.” Again, you stop to tip your head sideways and give him a curious look. “You've been nice.”

The polymer gear-wheel in Monty's neck whizzes noisily as he raises his head in surprise.

He... has?

There goes his tail again.

You leave the silent gator behind, to venture for the daycare doors and rap your knuckles softly on the wood.

Almost at once, Monty's sensitive audials tune into the hushed whispers coming from somewhere beyond the entrance, whispers that are interspersed with snickers and stifled giggles until all falls suspiciously quiet on the opposite side.

Monty's nostrils twitch and he takes a cautious step closer to you.

Then, the unmistakably cheerful lilt of the daycare attendant's voice filters shrilly out from behind the solid wood. “Who's there~!?”

Quick as a flash, Montgomery's pleasant mood dampens and he curls his lip at the playful, irritating delay. You claim that Sunny is your friend, but the bot can't even recognise your bio-signature?

Some friend he is.

But one glance down in your direction stops his growl before it can slip out of his voice box.

You shoot him a look of faux-exasperation and make a show of rolling your eyes, smile plastered firmly across your face all the same.

Ah. Apparently you were expecting the attendant's question...

You take a brief second to think, pursing your lips and scrunching your nose up pensively before your expression suddenly lights up and you lean up to the door, calling in a sing-song voice, “Honey bee!”

Just as tunefully, Sunny calls back, “Honey bee who~?”

Monty can do little but observe with mounting incredulousness.

“Honey?” you chime, “Bee a dear and open the door for me?”

As if you'd struck comedy gold, the space behind the entrance explodes with two bouts of high-pitched laughter, one mechanical, and one unmistakably a child's.

Even Monty gives a snort. “That,” he attests, leaning forwards to rumble into your ear, “Was bad.”

Wrinkling your nose at him mockingly, you jab your thumb towards the doors, replying, “I know at least two people who beg to differ.”

“They're only laughin' cause it was so bad!”

Unconcerned, you allow Monty's tease to roll off you like water off a duck's back, lifting one weary shoulder in a shrug. “Sometimes the funniest jokes are also the worst ones you've ever heard.”

The laughter beyond the entrance begins to die down to mere snickers again, and the pair of you step back just as the doors finally burst open, widening to the very limits of their creaking hinges to reveal the daycare attendant in all his garish attire. And perched safely on his shoulders with her comparatively tiny calves grasped in each of his hands, sits Stella.

Her fingers are busy tugging at Sunnydrop's plastic rays in earnest, no doubt excited at being allowed up so high, though if the attendant minds at all, he keeps it to himself.

“BUDDY!” he hollers, hopping carefully from one foot to the other, much to the girl's delight. You have the distinct impression that if his hands weren't currently busy keeping Stella upright on his slender shoulders, they'd be sliding under your arms and hoisting you high into the air. “OH! I've missed you! So, so, so, so-so-sososososo MUCH! I almost couldn't stand keeping the door closed to hear your punchline!”

You'd long ago learned that telling Sunny 'it's only been a few hours since we last saw each other' is a pointless endeavour. He always misses you. He makes sure to tell you as much on a daily basis, even if you've only stepped out of his daycare to use the bathroom before coming straight back.

You're sure he's exaggerating...

... Almost sure.

With a practiced sigh, you respond, “I've missed you too, Sun. And thank you for laughing at my sub-par joke.”

“Sub-par?” he squawks indignantly, flattening the sun rays that Stella isn't holding on to, “Sub-PAR!? It – it – it was comedy GOLD! A Sophisticated drollery! It was the funniest joke you've ever told!”

Sadly, nobody had ever taught Sunnydrop that in some cases, less is more.

“Sun, you say that about every joke I tell you,” you snort.

Without missing a beat, his rays spring forwards again and he insists, “Because it's true! You just keep getting funnier and funnier every time I see you!”

“Flatterer,” you scoff lightly, placing your fingertips delicately against your cheek.

At your back, Monty grumbles something too faint for you to hear, folding his arms so tightly across his chest plate that the plastic casing squeaks in protest.

Sunnydrop's swaying halts for the barest breath of a second as he finally grants the other animatronic a flicker of his attention, matching that heated, crimson glare with a stare of his own. Ironic, that a bot with his namesake could produce such an ice-cold expression without moving an eyelid.

Even with the speed of the exchange, you can't miss Sun's shift from mobile to utterly stationary, and you cock a brow, mouth falling open to ask if he's okay, but just then, the littlest member of your group decides that she's gone ignored long enough...

“Y/n!” Stella shouts, bravely removing one hand to wave in the direction your voice, “Up here!”

Behind you, Monty stiffens as an alert flashes across his screen, similar to those that had appeared when you raced up that ladder – without a harness or safety equipment. He's just slightly mortified that he's the only one to flinch when Stella lets go of Sun.

You don't even bat an eyelash.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” you exclaim with an exaggerated gasp of disbelief, “Stella? How'd you get all the way up there?”

Taken aback, Monty peers down at you from the corner of an optic. The inflection in your tone dips into the realm of distress, and yet, there's a grin adorning your face that suggests any concern is all for show. He'd have thought for sure you'd be at least hesitant to let your ward be in such a precarious position, though your posture isn't tense at all, and a subtle scan doesn't indicate any change in your heart-rate...

… You trust the attendant that much?

Discontented, Montgomery tucks his hands beneath his armpits and settles for scowling glumly at the back of your shoes. He's not about to start a fight with the attendant, no matter how much the plastic under his palms itches. He still hasn't shaken the fond memory of you beaming up at him, a spark of relief flashing across your eyes and a word of thanks spilling from your lips, all because he held himself back from scrapping with Moondrop.

Sagging heavily onto his resigned pistons, Monty half-heartedly begrudges the impact you're already having on his behaviour.

Unperturbed by the gator exuding his dour aura, you, Stella and Sunnydrop all gather a little closer together, and Monty can't help but find the reunion a cloyingly domestic sight.

“This little star climbed up here all by herself!” Sunny announces with his chest puffed out like a proud peacock, either oblivious to, or simply unbothered by the girl testing the flex of his rays by pushing them forwards over his face and allowing them to spring back again, “With no help whatsoever from yours truly!”

“Woah!” you dutifully respond, “That's incredible! I'll have to tell her mothers that their daughter is the best climber in the daycare.”

Stella giggles into her palm at Sunny's blatant fib and your apparent cluelessness of the truth.

Sun has taken to rocking back and forth on the balls of his jester shoes, and you're sure that if he could shutter his optics, they'd be pressed tightly closed in a self-satisfied grin.

Taking a quick glance around the daycare, you ask, “So, the other kids have been picked up already?”

“Yup! Gone home! Your little star's the last!” he chips, bouncing Stella gently on his shoulders, “Mr Sewal collected Arjun twenty six minutes ago!”

You tilt your head back to cock a grin at the girl. “And, aside from using him as your own, personal climbing-frame, have your otherwise been good for Sun, Stella? And Moon, of course.”

Emphatically, the girl nods, causing her frizzy hair to bounce wildly around her face. “Uh huh! Sunny says I'm, um, I behaved even better than Freddy.”

You don't miss the alligator by the doors scoffing through his nose, but you ignore him as best you can and let out a long, slow whistle. “Wow, you must have been good. I think that deserves an extra slice of pizza tonight.”

In a flurry of limbs, Stella gasps and lurches forwards to dangle over Sunnydrop's face, her hands braced on the curve of his nose. “Pizza!” she declares.

And that's all that really needs to be said on the matter.

“All right. Climb down, you little hooligan,” you tell her fondly, “before you break off one of Sun's rays.”

The reminder that home-time is imminent seems to be a thinly veiled point of contention for both attendant and his charge.

“Aww,” Stella slumps childishly over the animatronic's head.

Though his voice box is muffled beneath her torso, Sunny also parrots, “Aww!”

“Can't we just have five more minutes?” the former begs, flailing slightly when Sun springs upright again.

“Oh! Oh, please, please can't you stay a little longer!? Just a teensy, tiny minute?”

To this day, you still don't know how an animatronic with an immoveable face can manage to make himself look so much like he's pleading.

Perhaps it's all in the tilt of his head.

“You two are bad influences on each other,” you scold them lightly with a shake of your head, “Stella, you can have as long as it takes to show Mr Montgomery here how well you can put on your own shoes, okay?”

The girl's slouched demeanour flips on its head and she perks up, trying to kick her legs despite Sunnydrop's hands keeping a steady grip on the wriggling appendages.

“Mr Montgomery! I can do my shoes by myself now!”

Taking that as his cue, the gator takes a heavy step forwards into the daycare proper and rumbles, “S'at so? Reckon I'll need some proof before I go believin' that. Ain't no way you can put your shoes on in under a minute.”

“Uh huh! Can too!” Stella challenges and begins to squirm in earnest until sun's gentle hands reach back and curl around her ribs, effortlessly lifting her up over his head before lowering the fidgety handful down to the floor.

You're pleased to see that as-per-usual, a few hours with Sunnydrop has brought her slightly further out of her shell.

As soon as her socks touch the carpet, she raises her arms up and attempts to stagger towards the door, only to find her progress halted by long, slender fingers curling into the strap of her overalls and tug her to a halt.

“Slow down there, missy,” Sun tuts, “Let me fetch your things before you try to escape!”

Your smile falters when there's an unexpected creak as the attendant's head twists slowly in Monty's direction. Baffled, you cast a glance between the two of them, only to find that they've both gone terribly still, not unlike a pair of dogs assessing one another from opposite sides of the road.

The instance only lasts for the breadth of a second however before Sunnydrop's typical range of activity starts up again with gusto and he bursts into motion, dancing away from Stella and heading off to the right, towards a cluster of cubbyholes situated near the security desk... The noticeably unattended security desk.

“Hughie around?” you call out to the distant Sun, who continues to haul Stella's gear and stick from her designated cubby.

“Oh, Mr Morgan had to leave early today! Just after Arjun. But not to worry! He left me in charge!”

… Oh dear.

While you trust Sunny without question, you know for a fact that management have, in the past, 'strongly advised' that a member of staff always remains on duty until every last child has been picked up from the daycare. Their faith in the attendant is used sparingly. For Hughie's sake, you hope none of the higher-ups decide to check out the CCTV footage from this afternoon and find out that he'd bunked off whilst a blind kid was alone with an animatronic. Not out of concern for the child, of course. But if anything happened to go wrong, there'd be... lawsuits.

A shuddersome prospect for the profit-hungry company.

Beyond trying to conceal a grimace though, you don't outwardly react, opting to merely beam at Sunny as he barrels his way over to you again with Stella's things clutched in his awkward, gangly arms.

“Thank you, Sun. You're a star,” you tell him, sending his rays a-flutter.

“I thought he was the sun?” Stella poses.

Both you, Montgomery and Sunnydrop all valiantly suppress your chuckles for the sake of the girl's pride.

“Ahem, the sun is a star,” you explain patiently, “But don't worry, you'll be learning all about that in physics before you know it.”

“That's right!” Sunny chimes in as he drops to a crouch beside the girl, placing her stick gently to one side and wrangling her shoes into one hand, his fingers deftly picking at the velcro, “Here you go, pal!”

As soon as she hears him attempting to undo her shoes, Stella hurriedly plonks herself down on her rear and declares, “I can do that! Give 'em here!”

Sun pauses and you clear your throat loudly, the two of you waiting in pointed silence.

It takes a few seconds but eventually, your patience is rewarded.

“Oh. Please?” she amends, and Sunny bounces happily on his toes, eagerly placing her tiny shoes down next to her feet.

Springing upright again with a tinkling of his bells, he simulates a sigh and leans sideways towards you, bumping your shoulder companionably with his own.

“Seriously, thanks, Sunny,” you tell him again softly, watching Stella successfully get the right foot in the right shoe on her first try, “And you too, Moon. You guys are the best.”

In response, the solar animatronic preens, his yellow buttoned chest swelling out like some ostentatious bird showing off its red and gold plumage. Moon, on the other hand, shrinks bashfully towards the back of their shared connection, a contented hum flowing through the link.

Unlike his twin, the night time attendant has never been as graceful at accepting praise.

Behind your back, standing forgotten in the doorway, Montgomery lurks, grinding his fangs together until the actuators in his jaw give several, warning groans.

“Oh! Y/n,” Stella pipes up as she finishes velcro-ing her shoes and pushes herself up onto her feet, bringing the stick up with her, “Mr Sun! He, um, he showed me how to read my name! Look!”

As Stella begins to dig into the front pocket of her overalls, you quirk a brow at the attendant, who merely shrugs and rotates his head to an angle that would be fatal if a human tried it, the very picture of innocence.

Stella, as far as you're aware, can't read yet.

You know that Shannon and Bianca have enrolled their daughter in a formal braille curriculum, but from what you understand, the girl has been entirely resistant to the arduous task of learning the code. Where other children involved could very quickly spell out the alphabet, Stella would not – or could not – even try.

It's been a source of upset for both of her mothers.

Finally, the young girl tugs a folded piece of paper out of her pocket and holds it up for you to gingerly take from her fingers. Making certain to be careful you start unfolding the page, your eyes growing wide as more and more of its contents are revealed.

Dotted – quite literally – in a neat line across the sheet, are small, raised beads, each glued meticulously by careful hands in patterns that are anything but random.

There are five sequences of beads, five letters sitting at the centre of the page, and you gently sweep a thumb across them, letting out soft huff of laughter. “Braille,” you squeeze out slowly, raising your head to look at Sunnydrop, “You're teaching her to read braille.”

In a perfectly simulated display of shyness, the lanky animatronic shuffles on his feet and swings his arms around to clasp behind his back, head ducked as if he's trying to avoid your eye.

“It was Moon's idea,” he admits, “All of our other friends get to sit quietly and read their favourite stories before nap time, and... He – we – thought it was only fair if Stella could read too.”

She's a long way off from reading whole books, but this is a better start than anyone has managed to give her in months. If your smile grows any wider, you'll start to mirror the attendant's perpetual grin. Remembering that this is an opportune moment to encourage Stella, you turn and carefully fold the paper up once more, pressing it into her hands whilst you gush, “Wow! Stella! This is incredible! I can't believe you can read braille. It must be so hard.”

“Nu-uh. It's easy!” the girl predictably insists as she slips the paper back into her pocket.

“Well, I certainly couldn't do it. You must be some sort of magician.” Leaving her with that little morsel to chew over in awe, you stand and turn to face Sun, beaming giddily at him. “And you two! You pair of geniuses! That was so thoughtful of you!”

Sunny can feel Moon glow at the acknowledgement whilst he quivers excitedly, his rays wheeling back and forth so rapidly, they blur together into a rush of orange plastic. Unlike his twin, Sun could probably operate on positive feedback alone.

You can hear his fans kick into gear, working overtime to cool his systems and keep him from overheating in his excitement. 'Silly thing,' you muse fondly. All that tech and Sun still doesn't know how to curb his enthusiasm before he shuts down.

The attendant's spindly fingers fidget with the bells attached to his wrists. Without a care you reach up and capture one of his hands in both of yours, stilling his movements all at once.

There's a soft click as his rays stop spinning and lock into place.

“Easy there, Sunny-jim,” you tease him lightly, holding his enormous hand cupped in a palm and brushing your fingers tightly over the back of his knuckles, dipping into the joints between each of his silicone phalanges, “Don't get your knickers in a twist, or you'll short circuit.”

At the mention of underwear, Stella begins to giggle.

Delightedly, Sunny announces, “But I'm not wearing knickers!” More laughter from your charge has you pressing your lips together in a crooked smirk.

“Mr Sun!” you gasp, sounding effectively scandalised, “What you do and don't wear under those trousers of yours is none of my business. I don't wish to know!”

Appealing to a child's sense of humour can sometimes be as easy as one, two, three.

Stella's giggles suddenly explode out of her in a loud, boisterous squeal of laughter.

You flash a triumphant grin at Sun, who swivels his neck around to gaze down at you in turn, carefully withdrawing his arm from your grasp and snaking it around your back and draping affectionately across the back of your neck as the pair of you turn side-on once again, standing shoulder to shoulder.

It always bewilders Moondrop that you don't pull away whenever they do this. Sunny, however, knows you've moved past that. You trust them now. You no longer jump out of your skin if he speaks too loudly. You no longer cringe away from Moon when he slinks out of a darkened corner to approach you. You've come so far since you started working here, and they're both glad to have helped in some small way. It means they get to indulge in moments like this.

Soft, malleable skin beneath unforgiving metal casing... a tender give to the flesh's elasticity as he presses his fingertips just a little more firmly into your bicep, testing your solidity, reassuring themselves that you are yet still a sturdy certainty in their tiny, little world within the Pizzaplex.

You're their permanent fixture. You visit them every day, barring weekends – which truthfully they find to be a torturous stretch of time. Neither of them knew how much they valued something so simple as familiarity before you came along. And then, you kept coming along... Over and over you returned to the daycare – to them. You let them help you clean. It became a routine, and like the children they oversee, Sunny and Moondrop thrive under a steady routine.

Hesitant, he glances down at the top of your head from the corner of his optic. Sometimes, when the parents come in together, one of them will rest their cheek on the other's head, a gesture of affection, an instance of tenderness.

He feels Moon's presence brush encouragingly through their bond, coaxing him to retract his rays and slowly tilt his head sideways, aiming to rest his round, plastic cheek on top of your hair, like they see humans do to one another all the time.

Just one more inch...

“Hey!”

Sunnydrop freezes, and you flinch at the gruff shout, twisting yourself around and subsequently pulling out of Sun's grasp. His long arm slips away from your shoulders and falls against his side as he stiffly cranks his head backwards like an owl, staring unblinkingly at Montgomery Gator.

The Glamrock's fists are bunched at his hips and his tail sticks straight out behind him, not even a twitch in the cylindrical segments. “We goin' or what?” he bites out, never once taking his optics off Sunnydrop, who likewise holds the gator's stare unwaveringly.

“Oh, sorry, Monty,” you smack your head gently with the flat of your palm and offer him a sheepish smile, “Didn't mean to keep you waiting. Uh, Stella, got your cane?”

“Mhm,” the girl replies from her spot in front of you, tapping the stick on the ground.

“Great. Okay. Come on then, let's-” Rudely, you're cut off in the middle of your sentence by thin, lanky arms snaking suddenly around your ribs and constricting like a pair of pythons, knocking a gasp out of you as you find yourself abruptly spun around and tugged face-first into a familiar, yellow chest.

“..... Shunny.” Your voice comes out muffled, what with your mouth smushed as it is to solid plastic. “You mind?”

Behind you, you pick up Monty's indignant shout of, “Let 'er go!”

“It'sh all right,” you call back, hoping the gator will listen to you, “Sh' fine. Jusht a hug.”

Had it been anyone else, you might have had the presence of mind to be alarmed at the impromptu capture. But this is Sunnydrop. This happens damn near every time you leave for the day, and you know there's nothing he hates more than having to say goodbye, even if it's only a temporary thing.

You understand, of course. The poor attendant has watched countless staff members walk out through his daycare doors with the promise of 'see you soon' rolling nervously off their tongues.

Only they never did come back.

Now, it's all you can do to try and convince him that when you say those words, you mean them.

“C'mon, Sunnydrop,” you mumble encouragingly, reaching around him to give his rigid back a rub, smiling to yourself when he immediately drops his chin atop your head and lets a happy buzz drift out of his voice box, “I need to get Stella home before we miss the last bus.”

In apparent protest, the animatronic simply buries his faceplate firmly into your hair. “Oh! Please don't go!” he whinges, “Pretty please! Stay?”

“I'm afraid it's not about how pretty the please is,” you chide him with a waggish grin, retracting your arms to place one palm lightly against his torso, peeling yourself away from him. Dripping reluctance, he allows you to coax him back, inch by inch, no matter how much his fingers twitch against your blouse. “Nice try though,” you admit, “But you know it's against the rules for day-staff to stay the night.”

You don't especially like using Sunny's unquestioning adherence to the rules against him, but it's the fastest method you have of extracting yourself from his forever-clinging appendages.

With the resistance of a starving man turning from his favourite meal, Sunnydrop forces his arms to slide away from you and flop defeatedly against his sides. Then, to your mounting amusement, he wilts like an overgrown sunflower, bending so low to the floor that his knuckles drag against the play mats. “Awww~!” he complains, spinning his face upside down to peer at you at an angle that would - again - break a human's neck if they tried it, “I don't like that rule...”

“I know you don't, Longshanks,” you smile sympathetically down at him and rest a hand on your hip, “But sometimes we all have to follow rules we don't necessarily like.”

Sunny seems to consider your words, flexing his rays back and forth like strange, triangular radars before he turns his head the right way around and springs upright once again, but his stance is... wrong. It takes you a second to realise why. He's not swaying, as he usually does. In fact, he seems just a little too still, and his head is raised to look at something above your head.

Seconds later, the shadow falls over you.

With clanking parts and a domineering presence, Montgomery steps up behind you, so close that his chest panel brushes lightly over the back of your shirt and when you risk a glance upwards, apprehension stirring in your guts, you see the underside of his long snout has extended well over your head. You can feel a cold, metallic throat pressing down on top of your hair, hear the click and whir of his innermost gears.

You can't however, see his optics, situated as you are beneath the gator's all-encompassing bulk, but it isn't difficult to imagine the glare that's being aimed at Sunny.

Stella makes a sound of confusion at the sudden silence, but you're too busy puzzling over what could have provoked the alligator to press himself so, claustrophobically close to send her any kind of reassurance.

A rumble travels from his chest through to your spine just before he speaks. “Reckon I ought'a get these two to the exit now,” he ventures slowly, “Wouldn't want 'em to miss their ride home...”

You only realise you've been holding your breath when it all hisses out of you again in a rush.

“Uh, yeah. Yeah,” you manage to swallow, admittedly unnerved by the gator's proximity, “We should get going. Um, okay, Stella. Say 'goodbye' to Sunnydrop.”

Stella, naturally oblivious, calls out, “Bye!”

The single farewell has barely left her lips before Monty takes a heavy step around you both and inserts himself directly into the space between you and Sunny, turning his back to the daycare attendant, who whinges and fusses, attempting to meet your gaze even as you turn to leave.

“Mmm!” he hums anxiously, “O-okay~! Bye, bye! Be good, Stella!” Then, shrilly, he adds, “Miss Y/n? I'll see you tomorrow, right?!”

“Of course you will, Su-,” you begin to reassure him, only to find yourself cut off when monty sticks his snout between your shoulder blades and shoves you through the doors, as if he just can't wait to get you out of there.

“Sheesh,” you huff, stepping forwards out of his reach and bending down to sweep Stella's hand into your own, “If you have something you'd rather be doing, you could have just said, you know. You didn't need to wait for us.”

At once, Monty indignantly starts to retort, “That ain't-!” But he stops himself, venting out a long, loud gush of air from his mouth. Then, in a gentler tone that entirely contrasts the one he used prior, he murmurs, “That ain't it... S'just... Uh...”

It's just that the sight of Sunnydrop draping himself all over you like he was staking a claim had sent an unmitigated rage soaring through Montgomery's circuits, and if it wasn't for the kid in their midst, he would probably have ended up doing something that would land him in Parts and Services.

The blackest depths of rage had opened up and tried to swallow him whole. It had damn near terrified him.

A little frantically, he shoves the memory aside.

It's okay now... You're okay.

“S'just,” he tries again, angling his head down and watching your heels click on the floor ahead of him, “S'just I didn't think he was ever gonna shut up until I got you outta there.”

Marching along with her hand clasped securely in your own, Stella works her expression into an innate scowl and announces, categorically, “Mr Sun says 'shut up' is mean, and you shouldn't say it.”

Snorting, you throw your brows up and turn to give Monty a pointed look over your shoulder. “You're quite right, Stella. It's not nice at all.”

Well then... Feeling moderately smaller than he had minutes ago, Monty hunches his shoulders and mumbles, “Didn't want you missin' your ride home, is all, n'have to walk back in the cold...” He doesn't know what cold is, not really. He knows that when he gets angry, his systems overheat and subsequently, coolant rushes through him like a balm that is intended to work, yet never seems to. That's the only cold he understands. But what he does know, is that cold can be catastrophic to humans caught out in it.

Your steps falter and you slow significantly, twisting yourself around enough to peer curiously up at the gator who refuses to meet your eye. He's dragging his feet, purple claws scraping noisily across the flood with every one of his thunderous footsteps.

Gradually, your expression softens, the annoyance you'd held for his behaviour in the daycare sloughs off your chest and leaves you with little else to fit in next to your weary bones except for faint exasperation. “And that -” you respond at last, pulling Stella's hand to slow you both so Monty can walk beside you, “- is very nice indeed.”

The gator lifts his head and he must have looked utterly bewildered because a bright laugh bubbles past your lips and you give his elbow a bump with your own - an action that he now understands to mean 'friend – social – affection.'

“We'll get you there yet, Montgomery Gator,” you inform him cryptically, setting off again with Stella walking safely in the space between your legs and Monty's, “It'll be a learning curve, but we'll get you there. We surely will.”

--------

The trek back to the Plex's main entrance is filled with Stella's child-like ability to bulldoze her way through any topic of conversation by talking non-stop about her afternoon with Moondrop and Sunny. By the time your trio reaches the shutter doors, both you and Montgomery are trying to surreptitiously shush one another's snickers as Stella regales you with her talk of how she'd managed to get away from Sunny and caused the poor animatronic to have a meltdown when he couldn't immediately find her, hidden as she was inside the ballpit.

It's only when you attempt to leave, holding Stella by the hand and letting out a sigh that comes with the end of a long and arduous day that Monty loses the humour in his expression.

The gator's hand clamps down on your shoulder and pulls you up short of the entrance, stopping you in your tracks to raise a very good point, albeit a very annoying one.

"You ain't goin' out there without a coat on, right?"

You're not quite fast enough to stifle a groan. "Ugh."

"S'below freezin' out there," he reiterates, circling around in front of you and planting his big, green hide right in the doorway, arms folding across a shiny chest.

"Monty, come on," you start tiredly and rub at your eyebrows with a thumb and forefinger, "We're going from here, to the bus. Then straight to my apartment. We'll be outside, like, two minutes, tops."

Without missing a beat, the gator rebuffs, "That's two minutes too many. What if you get sick?"

"I'm not going to get sick."

"... You'll be settin' a bad example for the kid though..."

Your eyes flicker briefly down to Stella, whose head has been twitching between you and Monty as you speak in turn.

Damn him, picking up on your soft spot...

Well... "Hhh, think I left my keys in the pocket anyway," you grouse half-heartedly, tugging on Stella's hand to get her attention, "What do you say, kiddo? Fancy venturing where no other kid has been allowed to venture before?"

The very prospect of getting to explore out-of-bounds draws an eager gasp out of the girl's throat. You catch Monty's triumphant grin and shoot him a glare that lacks any residual heat. "Fine. Come on then. Let's go grab us a coat before we miss the next bus. Eh?"

-----

The doors to your cleaning cupboard swings open and you tug on the pull string that dangles from the ceiling, illuminating the humble, little space with yellowed light.

Behind you, Montgomery lingers like a shadow, watching curiously as you lift your coat off the hook inside the door and stuff your hand through an arm hole. Behind him – equally curious, though for different reasons – Stella busies herself with exploring the locker room, sweeping her cane back and forth in search of anything vaguely interesting.

Content to let the girl wander, you sigh tiredly into the dingy cupboard and pat your pockets down, searching for your house keys, unaware that your reptilian tagalong's attention has shifted to the space your coat had once occupied, where a familiar square of photo paper has been lovingly stuck. Your happy face beams up at him from within the frayed edges, and beside you, the clown hovers too close like an omnipresent gnat, sporting his own grin that shines as brilliantly as his namesake.

Monty gets to wondering what Sunny must have felt like, to have his gangly arms wrapped snugly around you like that, and yours around him in return. What must it be like to hold something that delicate and breakable and know that they trust you not to break them?

Does it feel wonderful?

Or is it petrifying?

What had the attendant felt, Monty puzzles, when you first extended the hand of friendship out towards him? Had he tried to rebuff it at first? - Convinced that he didn't need a friend because it was so much easier to suffer the unwanted slog of consciousness alone than to open himself up to the disappointment of rejection. Or had he snatched your hand up and held it close, terrified of letting it slip through his fingers?

Is he like Monty?

Is Monty more like him? Which of the two is the alligator guilty of?

He'd been vocally adamant that you weren't his friend to begin with, and yet, he's been dogging your footsteps all day today.

So many questions... Roxanne would tell him to be quiet because she could hear him thinking from beyond the shared wall that separates their green rooms.

Montgomery's CPU churns, processing data as he blocks the doorway of your closet, regarding the photograph with a thousand-yard stare. He's running the risk of losing himself to his own head once more.

He doesn't even notice that you've managed to wrestle your coat on, nor that you've turned to face him, unable to move past the enormity of his bulk that fills the little doorway from floor to ceiling.

With a slow blink, you shift your gaze to the photo on your door and feel a smile twitch at the corners of your mouth. “Checking out my wall of fame?”

The gator jerks, ripping his head away from the image and snapping his optics down at you, struck like a deer in headlights. Didn't he realise he'd been staring?

“Huh?” he blurts out.

“My wall of fame,” you repeat, gesturing towards the door but allowing your smile to fall flat after giving it a longer look, “Mm. Well. I suppose it isn't much of a wall right now with just me and Sunny up there. I was going to add Moon, but he's camera-shy. And I've already got DJ and Triple M stuck on my fridge back home.”

A pang of that bitter, resenting acid that would raise his gorge if he had one slugs the gator in his empty chest cavity. He has to wonder if the engineers had made a mistake in giving him red LED's for his optics, instead of green to match the hue of his jealousy.

So, you have a photo of the clown in your cupboard. The musical animatronics are in your home...

He thinks back to the photo booth in the lobby and kicks himself for being too yellow-bellied to just ask you to take a picture with him then and there. Maybe you'd have found a place for him to go as well.

The pair of you are so lost in the little microcosm of the closet that you don't hear the slow, clanking footsteps padding their way down the maintenance tunnels in the direction of the locker room, growing louder and louder with each resounding thud. And you definitely don't see how the littlest member of your group turns in the direction of the noise. You'd have stopped her, if you had.

Unnoticed by the adults in the room, the little girl cocks an ear towards the tunnels and listens raptly, curious.

It... sounds like an animatronic.

Moondrop? She remembers you telling her how he likes to wander around at night. But... Hmm. Maybe not.

No matter how she tries, she can't hear the jingling of his bells, and neither he nor Mr Sun walk as heavily as this newcomer.

It occurs to her, with a rush of excitement, that it could be one of Montgomery Gator's other friends.

Swinging her cane around, she edges her way out of the locker room, moving through an indescribable and unknowable landscape towards the sounds. Nothing black or grey or even white lays out ahead of her, only nothing. Everything is nothing. When she grows older, she'll learn how to describe it better to her friends at school who sometimes ask her what nothing looks like.

For now though, she makes her way carefully into the maintenance tunnels. It's hard to pinpoint the source of the noise out here. Everything echoes around her. Pipes hiss, serpent-like, and the dull roar of distant machinery thrums under her feet like the pulse of some enormous, slumbering beast that's hidden deep within the earth. But there – above the ambient noise, she can make out a soft warble of static, all fuzzy and strained like her grandfather's television when it loses signal.

“工.. ... ヨ.ヨ ヨヨ.. . .. ヨ. 己己己 ヨヨ-” The sound spills from a mechanical throat.

Smiling, Stella turns to the left, picking her way down the tunnel, the soft pad of her shoes utterly drowned out by the metallic clunks of far more cumbersome footfalls that draw ever closer.

“Ch-Chica?” she calls shyly out into the nothing, clutching her cane tight. She's never met Chica before. But you've told her all about the bot's five-pronged guitar. Star-shaped, like 'Stella.'

The young girl has longed to touch that fabled instrument ever since. To pluck its strings like the rockstar and make music, the kind she and her mothers listen to in the car on their way to school.

But... hadn't you also told her that Chica is the most talkative one?

So why can the girl hear footsteps, but not a voice?

'Roxy, then,' she surmises hopefully, 'Or even Freddy?'

Stretching her lips into what she hopes is a winning smile, like her mothers taught her, Stella stands up straight and comes to a stop. At the same time, mere yards ahead of her, the robot grinds to a stop as well, far more loudly, with an added screech of metal and a burst of static.

“工-工-工.. - - 己.. 冊.. .工 卞... - ヨヨヨeeヨヨヨ!”

Tilting her head up towards the strange, glitching voice, Stella tilts her head to one side and calls a soft, tentative, “Hello?”

---

“You know,” Montgomery drawls, casually stretching out his neck and taking a large step backwards, scrutinising the inside of your closet door, “F'you wanna make this ol' thing into a real wall of fame, you ought'a get a snap with yours truly.”

“You... want me to take a picture with you?” you ask, eyeing him up and down, “But, aren't you... off the clock, so to speak?”

The gator's purple shoulder struts rise and fall with an easy shrug. “Eh, reckon I could make an exception,” he says, dropping his snout to flash you a wink over his sunglasses, “You know. For a fan.”

“Oh could you now?” Crooking a finger beneath your chin, you hum thoughtfully to yourself, pretending to give the proposal some serious thought whilst trying not to smile when you see Monty's confident facade begin to falter. At last, you decide to show mercy and give a decisive nod, you lips breaking apart to reveal a broad grin underneath. “You know what. I think that sounds like a great idea. It'll be nice to have a few more friends to add to the board. And hey, you'll be the first Glamrock to make it on here.”

There's a dull 'clunk' as his tail wags into the side of the door and he spares it the briefest of glares before turning back to you again. The first Glamrock, huh? Before Freddy, before Roxy and Chica...

Before he knows it, the idea has firmly wedged itself deep inside his processor and he eagerly asks, “So? What're we waitin' for? Hope you're more photogenic than you look, lady.”

“In these cleaning scrubs? You'd be amazed.”

Monty's claws twitch in anticipation as you fish your phone from your pocket. You... you're actually doing it? Well, yes! Of course you are.. Why wouldn't you want a photograph with the legendary bassist of the Glamrock band? Maybe you'll even give him a copy, if he asks. He could stick it inside his hatch, or pin it to his vanity above Monteeny's spot...

Just... to keep you close, of course.

“How about it, Stella?” you lean past Monty to address the girl in the room, “You wanna be in a picture with me and... and...” You trail off, eyes darting to and fro between the lockers. “Stella?”

At once, Monty picks up on your unease and twists himself about, careful not to knock you over with his tail as you attempt to push past him, pressing a lip between your teeth.

A quick scan of the room determines that, no, the little girl is no longer within the immediate vicinity.

In a flash of blaring alerts, his 'missing child' protocol activates and the gator sends a series of pings out to every other functioning bot that he can reach.

Almost instantly, he receives several pings back.

Firm acknowledgement from Roxanne, a nervous question or two from Chica, and last but not least comes Freddy's response, and Monty can practically hear the bear's protective protocols howling through the link.

He nearly regrets alerting the others so hastily – Stella can't have wandered that far – but the company have been absolutely unwavering regarding procedures that surround a missing kid.

Send an alert, lock down the building, then you can worry about whether the kid has simply gone to the bathroom without letting their caregiver know beforehand.

An unsteady heartbeat registers at the back of Monty's processor and he blinks away the flashing triangles that fill his HUD in favour of turning his nose down in your direction, his plastic brows knitting together.

“Hey.” The gator moves after you and reaches out to take your bicep in his clawed hand, tugging you to a halt, because your cortisol levels have just taken a soaring leap through the proverbial roof. “Don't worry. She can't have wandered too far.”

Rich of him to tell you not to worry... About seven different alerts are still cropping up in his field of view.

'Find her,' they all screech in one, jarring cacophony.

“She doesn't usually wander at all,” you stress, sparing him a short glance. He takes the moment to study your face – eyes already glistening with a mixture of fatigue and now, anxiety. Your jaw is clenched so hard, you'll end up giving yourself a headache if you're not careful.

How could you not? You've heard of the Company's less than savoury reputation...

Pushing down his own, blaring alarm, Monty juts his chin towards the locker room's only exit. “C'mon, she's probably just stepped out into the tunnel. You'll see – It'll be okay.”

“Yeah,” you mumble, “Yeah, okay. You're right. Let's search the tunnels...”

Wasting no more time, the pair of you hurry out of the locker room and into the tunnels, your heads turning this way and that as if on a couple of periscopes, yours to the left, whilst Monty's swings to the right.

The relief that catches you like a punch to the throat is almost strong enough to bring you to your knees when you spot a familiar shape not far away.

“Stella!” you gasp in a rush, splaying a hand over your thundering heart.

“You got 'er?” Monty turns around and lopes after you, reaching your side before he stops dead in his tracks, tail rigid and his optics wide.

The girl stands in the centre of the tunnel up ahead, twisting towards you slightly with a pout on her downturned lips.

“Y/n! He won't tell me his name,” she complains.

“He...?” You have to drag your eyes unwillingly away from Stella and point them up, at the figure looming over her head, silhouetted almost black against the light shining from the tunnel beyond it.

For once, you're a little relieved that Stella can't see what's in front of her.

Towering over the girl is a mix-mashed Frankenstein of an animatronic, its solid metal framework gleaming gunmetal grey in the low lights overhead. Twitching, it has its head tipped down almost painfully to stare at the child near its feet.

At your side, Monty takes a step towards the girl, and you move with him, too busy gaping at the strange sight ahead to take note of the large, green arm that swings protectively out in front of you, as if to warn the newcomer that you're off-limits. “Is that a-”

“- An endo,” the gator finishes in a steely growl, feeling the chill of coolant flush through his systems, not unlike how a human feels fingers crawl up their spine. It's as if he's staring at his own skeleton, a gruesome prospect were it not for the fact that he's already well-acquainted with the endos and has grown used to seeing a reflection of his own framework standing in front of him.

“But, but I thought all the endos were offline down in storage?” you hiss, keeping your voice low so Stella doesn't pick up on your unease, “What the hell is this one doing up here?”

“Not sure, but...” Falling silent, Monty lifts his head and narrows his optics, sensing the malice cloying up the air around you. “.. But somethin' ain't right with this one..."

"... Clearly."  You trail off, resolving to report this to Mick the moment you get Stella away from it. You don't like the way it's staring down at her, nor do you particularly care for its twitching fingers that taper down into sharp, silver claws, knife-sharp and inching ever so slightly closer to your charge. Taking a step towards the pair, you glance down when Monty's arm refuses to move to let you pass. "Montgomery," you mutter slowly, returning your gaze to the endo and feeling your gorge rise once you see its hand has moved closer to Stella.

"You're stayin' here," he returns, just as uncertainly, and while you want to snap and shove his arm aside and grab Stella, you fear that the gator next to you stands a better chance of reaching her first before.... something happens. What that something is, you really, really don't want to find out.

"Just... just take a couple of steps this way, Stella," you manage to call out with a voice that only quavers minimally, "Monty's coming to get you."

Perhaps you shouldn't have said anything at all. The moment you raise your voice, the endoskeleton's head whips in your direction and it's bulbous, rounded optics that had once been tilted at the girl near its feet suddenly snap up, drawing a strangled gasp out of your throat.

The LEDs that shine back at you flicker on and off as if they're teetering on the cusp of extinguishing, as if something inside that empty, metal skull is trying its utmost to keep them online.

Monty lets out a thunderous growl when the unsettling, purple optics zero in on you, the struts on his shoulders raising up like a pair of hackles as the endo's jaw flops open uselessly and a garbled string of words spill from its 'mouth,' words that should be impossible for the bot to produce, given its lack of the mechanical means to do so. The technicians would never waste a good voice box, not on an endo that has no need for speech.

In a voice like damp gravel churning in a cement mixer, the endoskeleton speaks its first coherent sentence as it takes a lurching step closer to Stella, drawing a snarl of alarm from Montgomery and a shout from you that equals the gator's in confused ferocity, the pair of you dropping your shoulders instinctively and exploding forwards as one synchronised entity.

You'd both seen, at the same time, what that step closer had done.

Those terrible, razor-blade fingers - now in reach of the girl - slide roughly around her fragile neck in one, smooth motion, eliciting a scream that saturates the tunnels with terror and pain.

"I-i-iƬ'Ƨ... ƧƬIᄂᄂ...  MΣ...'

Notes:

Oh my gosh. I am so sorry this took so long. You know when you start a fic and get really excited to write one, specific chapter moreso than the others? The next chapter is that chapter. :)
Definitely going to play with the whole 'imprinting' thing later on.
Without spoiling too much, Y/n has already forgotten how ferocious Montgomery Gator can be, when a situation calls for it.
And oh, there will, of course, be copious amounts of whump. >:)

Chapter 17: Clash of the Titans

Summary:

'It seems you've forgotten, in your complacency, that Monty's reputation for wanton destruction and aggression is not unfounded.
To watch him now... it's clear to see how he's managed to cultivate such notoriety around the Plex.'

Montgomery is set to reach the endo first.

Of course he is – the animatronic has unquantifiable power resting behind those hydraulics in his legs.

Even with your own legs pumping you forwards into a break-neck sprint, the gator still surges ahead of you, his footfalls sending tremors through the concrete and up into your jack-hammering heart that seems to beat in perfect harmony with every step he takes.

Further down the tunnel, a wailing Stella is hoisted up above the endo's sharp, angular faceplates as the fingers clutched around her delicate neck begin to close, steadily growing ever tighter and cutting off her sobs until she's forced to lift her arms in an attempt to scrabble ineffectually at her captor's hand, driven by the instinct to survive, no matter how slim her odds are of breaking herself free.

The endo's bulging, violet optics swivel up to stare hungrily at the girl dangling from its grasp, and in doing so, it arrogantly turns its attention away from Montgomery Gator – a show of hubris that won't be allowed to slide.

In a sense, you should count yourself lucky that it seems to be operating with a single-minded focus.

It doesn't even see him coming.

In the midst of his charge, Monty drops down onto all fours with an almighty 'clang!' his hands hitting the ground and hauling him along in a terrifying gallop for several, loping paces.

A child's wheezing gasp rings like a knell in his audials and his vision tunnels in on the endoskeleton just ahead, shrinking to mere pinpricks of focus.

For one, sobering moments, there's not a thing on his processor save for the little girl kicking feebly in her assailant's unshakable grasp.

Unshakable, perhaps. But certainly not unbreakable.

Montgomery Gator doesn't know the meaning of such a word.

Everything he comes into contact with breaks eventually. It's only a matter of how hard he's willing to hit it.

There's a loud hiss from his plating as it flares across his back, and that familiar red-mist of rage inevitably begins to descend across his vision.

For once, he's glad to welcome it in.

He wants this to hurt.

The powerful, pneumatic cylinders in his legs lock tight for less than a blink before suddenly springing loose, propelling him forwards at the endoskeleton like a bullet exploding from its chamber.

Instinct drives his jaw to fall open wide, ready to catch - to bite.

And then, with all the bone-breaking force of a siege machine, he smashes into the endo sideways-on, shaking the building to its very foundations and causing the walls to quiver under the strength of the impact.

Metal screeches viciously across metal, another yelp registers in Monty's CPU and he feels the satisfying crunch of delicate wiring give way beneath his fangs as his powerful jaws snap shut with three thousands pascals of devastating pressure.

Cold, metallic fingers spring open, and by the grace of some, unknowable deity, Stella is dropped into a wheezing heap on the ground whilst both Monty and her attacker go crashing backwards, sending sparks bursting haphazardly into existence as the endo's metal spine scrapes across the hard concrete below it until they grind to a standstill with Monty pinning the beast and belting out a triumphant, thunderous roar.

Hardly a second passes after the alligator successfully wipes out Stella's assailant before you skid to a clumsy halt beside Stella and drop down onto your knees with a sharp jolt that you hardly pay a single care to.

Right now, your protesting bones can go hang.

“Stella!” you yell to be heard over the metal giants tearing each other apart nearby, your hands quivering just above the girl's prone body, hesitant to touch her for a moment lest doing so only brings her more hurt.

Her unseeing eyes are wide as saucers and damp with tears, yet at the sound of your familiar voice, she lets out a ragged gasp, sucking precious air down her windpipe as she scrabbles to sit up, one hand sweeping out over the ground in search of you whilst the other rises to prod tenderly at her throat.

Above the deafening cacophony of snaps, shrieking metal and groaning frames, you manage to pick up on the meekest of whimpers.

That one, little sound is enough to snap you from your hesitation.

“Oh, god, okay – okay!” you mutter breathlessly to yourself, slipping an arm under her legs and around her back, hoisting her up against your chest where she wastes no time in shoving her tear-streaked face into the crook of your neck and beginning to wail in earnest.

Tiny fists beat insistently against your shoulders, accompanied by a hiccoughed cry. “I wa-want m-my mum!”

“I know, Stells, I know. Your mums are coming. It's okay.” The lie tastes bitter as you push it out through your teeth.

Shielding the girl as best you can behind your arms, you struggle up onto your feet and stare down the tunnel, caught in a delirious daze, your eyes glued to the animatronics warring just in front of you.

It seems you've forgotten, in your complacency, that Monty's reputation for wanton destruction and aggression is not unfounded. To watch him now... it's clear to see just how he's managed to cultivate such notoriety around the Plex.

A pair of purple, herculean fists beat down like sledgehammers upon the endo's wiry chest, snapping the thinner bars of metal stretched across its collar and denting those underneath that are more robust.

“How'd ya like pickin' on someone yer own size, huh!?” Dropping his jaw to let out a ferocious bellow, the gator dives down and buries his snout in the twitching endo's 'throat.'

It's a gruesome sight to behold - his teeth snapping and tearing at the wires as if he's trying to get at its voice box.

Suffice it to say, Montgomery Gator is uncontrollably, inconsolably angry.

You've witnessed the aftermath of his tantrums before. You've heard the horror stories from your fellow employees...

But whatever this is, it is no tantrum.

This is just... grotesque. Brutal.

Yes, the endoskeleton had hurt Stella, and you'd be a hypocrite to say you probably wouldn't be doing the exact same thing as Monty if you had the muscle, but there's no denying that there's something inherently unsettling in watching the gator – a bot whose hands had so gently held Stella's just a few hours prior – tear into the endo below him without mercy, more like the wild, predatory beast he's modelled after than the children's entertainer he's supposed to be.

“Christ,” you whisper, clutching the still-screaming Stella around the back of her head and muffling her cries against your shoulder.

Monty's tail slams repeatedly down on top of the endo's kicking legs and he abruptly rips his head back and away from its throat, shearing through metal and wires and coolant-valves as he goes.

He must have caught a sudden glimpse of you in his peripheral vision though, because that elongated snout is suddenly pointing in your direction and you feel your feet incomprehensibly adhere themselves to the ground.

Shaking his head as if to clear it, Monty's shutters blink rapidly.

He appears surprised to see you.

Surprised, and then utterly aghast.

“The Hell're you still doin' here, Lady!?” he bellows, snapping you from your stupor, “Get outta here before – Gak!”

“No!” you choke on a scream, only serving to make Stella wail into your blouse even more loudly.

The endo's gnarled hand has shot out towards the distracted gator and returns the favour Monty had paid to its own neck.

There must have been real power behind its sudden jab, because the tips of its clawed fingers pierce straight through the softer plastic under the gator's jaw and root themselves deep in his throat, twisting cruelly.

Monty's optics bulge open wide and his HUD fills with flashing lights that warn him about multiple connections that are being severed one by one. He attempts to cry out, but the endo's aim has to have severed a connection to his voice box, and all that he can produce is a garbled screech of static and code, choking on his own coolant that spews forth from several, newly exposed wires like vivid, green blood, spattering across the endo's face.

His hands fly up to grasp at the thick, metal wrist, yanking it out again, but the beast has found its advantage, and evidently intends to press it.

Struck motionless by terror, you watch helplessly as it draws one of its feet up underneath the gator and aims a vicious kick at him, catching Monty square in the stomach hatch and sending him hurtling backwards and crashing into the wall opposite with a sickening 'thud!'

He seems to hang there on the wall for a moment, before crumpling onto his knees with a noisy clang and a hiss that's clearly meant to escape his broken voice box as a groan, his yellow chest stained green with coolant, just like the rest of him.

Stella's cries are little more than a high-pitched ringing in your ears now. The second Monty's head cracks against solid concrete, you feel a flash of phantom pain shoot up behind your eyes and spread into the back of your skull, and for the smallest glimmer of a second, you can't stop your mind from conjuring up a memory of another place, another time.

It's a memory you wish would stay buried.

In one blink, you're seeing yourself in Monty's position, your back to a wall and a throbbing pain in your head whilst in the endoskeleton's place, there stands a man, chest like a barrel, shoulders broad and thick and his fair hair clipped short to match his militant father's.

And then, in another blink, it's Monty on his knees by the wall again and the endo has stepped forwards, looming over the gator with its raw-boned fingers splayed out wide, head twitching sporadically up, down, left and right.

You have to wonder, however fleetingly, if Montgomery is in as much pain as you had been on that night. If he can even feel pain at all.

But then, your eyes drift to the coolant spurting out from beneath the rubber seams of his neck and you hear the god-awful screech of a voice box attempting to form words it's incapable of producing, and just like that, you know. Somehow, on some deep, long-forgotten level, you understand that despite his body being made from cold and unforgiving metal, plastic and silicone, Montgomery Gator can indeed feel pain.

It's not such a stretch to believe. He can feel anger and contentment and fear, after all.

So, why not pain?

When you were in his position, vulnerable on the carpet with a larger, far scarier opponent towering over you, you'd prayed for a miracle – for someone, anyone – to come bursting through the front door and help you.

But of course, nobody did come to your rescue, no matter how much you wished and wished for them to. You'd been alone there, staring up into the eyes of a monster.

'But, Montgomery,' a timid voice whispers in the back of your mind, 'He's not alone, is he?'

In that instant, it doesn't cross your mind that Monty is an animatronic who can likely be rebuilt. It doesn't occur to you that unlike him, you aren't impervious to damage.

You also aren't an especially confrontational woman, but when a glint of metal catches the corner of your eye and you shoot a glance down towards the floor, you find it hard to deny that maybe fate is telling you to take a stand once more.

Leaning innocuously up against the tunnel wall, as though placed there by some divine and mysterious hand, is a long, well-worn pipe wrench.

One of the plumbers must have been in the middle of assembling a pipe when their shift ended, and they most likely left it there so they can pick up the job come morning. Right now, it's the only thing in the vicinity that could be of any use to you.

You send a brief word of thanks to its unknown owner and drop down, depositing Stella carefully on the ground behind you in spite of her whimpered protests.

“I'll be right back, okay?“ you shakily tell the girl, prying her fingers off your sleeve and giving her a nudge to shuffle her further back a few feet. Guilt curls like a serpent in your gut as you pull away from her and turn to face the warring animatronics again, reaching out your hand and sweeping up the wrench from its place against the wall.

Your quivering fingers close around chilly, solid metal and you take a breath, hefting the makeshift weapon into two hands, comforted by its weight.

Up ahead, the endo is on its feet, bending at the torso and reaching for Monty's throat once more, but the gator has lifted his hands and wrapped them around its wrist, making a damn valiant effort to keep his neck out of reach as he presses himself more firmly into the wall. His clawed feet scrabble for purchase on the ground before he thinks to lift one leg and aim a kick at the endo's legs. The monstrous bot, however, doesn't even flinch.

Monty's brows squash so tightly together, it's enough to give him a thunderous expression, his lips peeled all the way back to reveal each, gleaming fang. He looks about ready to chew the endo's fingers off if they inch any closer.

You, in the meantime, are still busy fighting back a wave of guilt, feeling as though you've just broken some kind of ancient and sacred code in leaving Stella to stand by herself in the dark. You spare a moment to send the girl a mental apology as you dash down the hallway, hugging the wall to keep out of the endo's line of sight.

With his sunglasses lost during the scuffle, Monty spots you all too easily from the corner of an optic and for a beat, the anger rampaging through him falters, pushed aside to make a nook for palpable alarm to settle in.

'NO! Get outta here!' he tries very hard to shout, but with the endo's claws sunk knuckle-deep into his voice box and the wires torn asunder, he can only hiss feebly through the vent pipes in his neck, used to expel excess heat. The coolant dribbling down his neck bubbles and spurts in protest of his own attempt at noise.

The nearer you stalk to the endo, the harder and more frantic the gator's struggles become. He spies the pipe-wrench you have clutched in your palms. Roving his stare up to your face, he can see the fretful but resolved gleam in your eyes.

He knows what you're about to do... But every damn protocol packed inside his processor is urging him to get up and nestle you away somewhere safe and quiet, where you won't ever be hurt. Why are you trying to help instead of getting your sorry backside out of here?

If the endoskeleton doesn't end up killing you, Monty probably will, for the mere crime of scaring him half to death.

His struggles grow more desperate as you draw near, clamping both of his hands around the endo's wrist and trying to force its arm backwards, away from his throat so he can stand. But he's too slow.

Too slow to stop you.

Despising the helplessness of his situation, he can only shake his head urgently as you dart behind his assailant and hoist the pipe wrench up and over your shoulder, face set in a look of hard, steely determination that would give the adrenaline-junkie Roxanne a run for her money. There's a split second where your eyes meet Montgomery's around the oblivious endo's side. He opens his mouth, wishing that lips were malleable enough to form words rather than have his jaw flop uselessly like a gibbering goldfish.

He's the one who's supposed to protect you.

'Why don't you understand that!?'

Wasting no further time, you curl your lip and swing your tool-tuned-weapon into a downward swing, driving it straight into the back of the endo's knee.

The resulting 'CLANG!' rings like a death knell throughout the corridor, and the pipe in your hands quivers from the impact, sending jarring tremors up your arms.

Montgomery freezes, his metaphorical heart lodged well within his throat.

Your panic lent you power, and he'd been so sure that for one, brief moment, the endo would go down, even if only temporarily.

But the endo – damnable thing that it is – remains totally and effectively upright.

Monty's gaze flickers to your face and he sees the realisation dawn on you mere seconds after it occurs to him.

'Big mistake.'

With the slow, unhurried pace of a glacier, the endo's head creaks around until your features are awash in that sickly, violet light.

And like a foolish doe dazzled by the headlights of an oncoming truck, you go stiff, letting the pipe wrench slip between your trembling fingers and clank to the floor. Time seems to grind to a halt as you stare at one another, both as still as statues, as if coaxing the other to make the first move.

Before Monty can think to re-secure his grip on the endo's arm, it explodes into motion with the speed and precision of a whip, wrenching itself free from his grasp and lunging straight for you.

The desperate gator's claws tear strips of metal from its appendage in his attempt to hold it back, but even that is not enough to alter its course.

You let out a yelp, too slow in ducking to avoid the long, frigid fingers that fist themselves roughly into the front of your blouse and yank you into the air, lifting you up until you're face-to-face with the nightmarish endoskeleton.

"Put me down!" you try to demand, though you end up sounding more like a mouse squeaking desperately in a trap, considering whether gnawing its own leg off will be worth it to escape its fate.

The endo studies you for a time, then its voice box crackles to life and the resonant chuckle that spills out of it drips with rancid poison - lecherous.

Your kicking legs fall still briefly and you wet your dry lips, letting out a shaky, rasping breath. “What the Hell are you?”

As if in response, the endo's optics burn brighter with malicious glee.

Neither you nor it pay any attention to the alligator hauling himself up onto his feet behind you, his unblinking gaze glued to the endo's back. The plating on his tail shivers with unmitigated fury, his shoulders begin to heave up, down, up, down, and all at once, the red-mist lingering over his CPU erupts outwards and swells into a thick, congealing wall that he can hardly see through.

'Let. Her. GO!' he attempts to howl, yet all that comes out is a strangled snarl.

No matter. It's enough.

The endo's head twitches in his direction just in time to see the gator hurtling towards it.

Matching his growl with one of its own, it drops you unceremoniously onto your backside and whirls itself about, bringing its arms up with less than a second to spare before Monty steam rolls straight into it.

Luckily for you, you have the wit to roll yourself sideways and out of their path as they go skidding by.

Digging its heels in, the endo comes to a screeching halt.

You sit up on your aching rear and crane your neck back to find Monty locked hand to hand with the beast - a veritable clash of the titans playing out right in front of your eyes.

Incapable of making threats without his voice box, Monty settles to let his vents hiss out streams of air to indicate his outrage. He can hardly see the damn endo through the alerts popping up all over his HUD. His sensors indicate that you're sitting near his right leg.

'Too close,' his processor warns.

The alligator's fangs grind together with enough pressure to turn coal into diamonds as he rolls his shoulders and redoubles his efforts, pushing the metal frame inside him to its very limits to try and overpower the threat.

But the hateful thing once again proves itself more intelligent than any endo should feasibly be.

Issuing a dangerous snarl that spills more from its chest than its mouth, it glances at the human down on the ground near its feet.

Monty sees its purple optics flick towards you, sending the gator's processor lurching for a moment.

'Why is it looking at you like-?'

Without warning, the endo shifts, and instead of pushing back against Monty's arms, it shoves its hands down.

With its claws still tangled in the gator's, he's forced to drop when his limbs are yanked and the rest of his body has little choice but to follow suit.

His fate, he realises, is solidified once he registers the endo's knee rising to meet his snout at a blinding speed.

Wincing preemptively, he squeezes his optics shut as one thought flashes through his processor.

'This is gonna sting.'

And he's right. It does.

An almighty 'CRACK!' rends the air asunder and he feels the end of his nose connect with solid, unforgiving metal.

His front teeth split – one of them is even knocked loose entirely - and his head and neck go flying back, pulling the rest of him along for the ride.

The endo rips its hands free of his to leave Monty a victim to the momentum of the attack. He's aware of nothing but the vinegary sting of defeat and anger and the agony rippling from his battered nose all the way down to the last segment of his tail.

The gator's body follows inevitably after his head, tipping backwards into a deadfall, his own weight bringing him down so much harder and faster than any human...

And then, he hears you gasp.

The gator's systems nearly short-circuit, time seems to slow and suddenly, all he can make out is the sound of you scrabbling frenetically backwards, trying to remove yourself from your spot directly beneath him.

There isn't time to stop himself from falling.

All five hundred pounds of animatronic hits the ground – hard – with the unfortunate exception of his shoulder, which doesn't seem to land on concrete like the rest of him. 

Instead, it lands on something that immediately goes 'crunch' upon impact, and his audials are flooded by a shrill and agonised screech.

In an instant, the damage to his snout is wiped from his memory banks. Shoving himself up, he twists over onto his hands and knees and finds himself staring slack-jawed down into the eyes of his cleaning lady...

You're squirming underneath his belly, gasping in pain and heaving out hitching sobs, all the while peering down the length of your body in abject horror. Blankly, Montgomery allows his optics to travel tentatively down, following your line of sight until he comes to the source of the crunch.

Oh...

Something cold and unfamiliar trickles down his spinal column.

Your ankle... your delicate ankle now lays twisted at an awkward slant, unnatural and warped, and according to the automatic scan that his CPU kicks out, he hasn't left it in one piece.

It's... broken...?

Monty can't bring himself to acknowledge the darkly chuckling endo just yet. He's too busy staring down at your ankle.

It's... broken.

He broke it. He broke you.

Humans breaking a bone isn't like an animatronic breaking a part. This is... This is so much worse.

He's hurt you, he's really, really hurt you – his friend. Friends aren't supposed to hurt their friends -!

'No... No, no, no!' The denial is stuck fast in his mangled voice box as Monty shakes his head, unwilling or perhaps incapable of accepting what he's done.

Every system set into place to prevent harm to a guest or staff-member should have stopped this from happening. They'd made so sure after the incident with Mick.

He was supposed to be safe! And yet here you are, hurt and afraid because of him.

...Afraid of him...

Somewhere nearby, Monty dimly registers a kid – Stella – crying out for you.

Down and down the gator breaks, hardly capable of stringing a coherent thought together. The anger that had subsided to make room for shock has started to beat against the walls of his mental blockade once more, demanding to be let back it.

And as his agitation rises, his anger starts to seep in through the cracks.

Anger at you for stepping in to help when you should have run.

Anger at himself for failing to protect you and for causing you this pain.

But all of that pales woefully in comparison to the thousand-degree heat that sears and shimmers underneath his plating when he turns his snout stiffly towards the endoskeleton.

It's hauled its clunky, juddering body a step closer, twitching and peering down at you interestedly as those purple optical lights flicker in and out of existence.

Monty's LED pupils, by contrast, burn with the heat of a supernova. He can feel himself slipping, as if a deep, dark chasm has opened up beneath his feet and he's teetering precariously along the edge it.

For better or for worse, he wants to topple into that black abyss, to retreat into an automated state where his temper can take the reins and deal with things for a time.

Through bulging optics, he sees himself rising steadily onto his feet, though he doesn't recall telling his motors to move about. He has a target, and he has a friend to protect and a kid who's in grave danger.

He's Montgomery Goddamn Gator! Monster of the Pizzaplex.

Now seems about as good a time as any to embrace the reputation.

All sense of motion starts to blur around him and he lets his processor go fuzzy, his consciousness retreating even as his body continues to remain perfectly functional.

A real monster squeezes its way into his personality chip, one for whom destruction comes easily, especially the destruction of the target he currently has locked in his sights.

The dismantling of this endo will be well-deserved.

Monty's fangs flint in the dim light of the tunnel. They may not be the real thing, but they're solid enough, and he's mad enough to inflict some real damage.

A threat has encroached upon Montgomery's territory.

There'll be nothing left of it once he's through.

As he surges forwards like a great, devastating wave with the promise of annihilation racing obediently at his heels, his CPU suffers a disconnect and he's sent plunging down in a dark, blissful chasm of unconsciousness.

The last sound he hears before succumbing to his anger is the cry of his name, screamed from a woman's lips.

---

---

When Andy Flowers receives the emergency alert at ten o'clock in the evening after he'd finally settled in to watch his soaps, he very nearly lets the alert go ignored.

Someone else can deal with it. One of the younger staff members, perhaps, whose bones aren't yet quite so brittle and whose eagerness to please the company has yet to dull with time and experience.

Wincing at the click in his back, he leans over the coffee table to at least give the alert on his phone a cursory glance, scanning tiredly over the lit-up screen with so much disinterest that he's already sinking back into the cushions and returning his gaze to the television before the message attached to the alert registers in his addled brain.

When it does, he promptly lurches upright on the sofa and scrabbles for his phone, snatching it off the table and reading the screen once again, this time with utmost urgency.

It's... from Freddy. Which is as good an indicator to the severity of the situation as anything else.

Everyone knows the old fusspot doesn't bother employees after they've gone home for the day. Not unless he's exhausted all other options for resolution. If he does, it's usually only ever due to an Emergency - Capital 'E.'

'And this,' Andy surmises as he grabs his keys and jacket and, after a pause, the standard-issue electric prod, before he flies out the door, 'this definitely qualifies as an emergency.'

The alert is concise, urgent and yet polite as only Freddy Fazbear's alerts tend to be.

---

!!! EMERGENCY ALERT !!!

Maintenance Tunnel C – Employee Medical Station.

Ongoing Incident – Involved: Unit# Montgomery Gator and Staff Member, Y/N L/N.

'Emergency Services have been contacted. Hurry, please.'

Sincerely,

Freddy Fazbear.

Notes:

Woo! Been having a tough time of it, lads, but this felt like a good length to end it on.
Monty and Y/N are straight up not having a good time.

Up next: Andy arrives at the Plex to discover an out-of-control gator ferociously guarding his unconscious cleaning lady and some random kid.

Chapter 18: Feral

Summary:

Monty is not quite himself....

Andy doesn't stop to worry about what the disgruntled taxi driver must think of him when he tosses a twenty onto the front seat and explodes from the car as if the Devil himself is hot on his heels.

Behind him, he hears the cabbie call through the open window, “Oi! What about your change?”

“Keep it!” Andy hollers back over his shoulder as he dashes across the ice-slicked car park and on towards the Mega Pizzaplex, which stands like a blazing ember against an otherwise velvet-black sky.

Despite itself, the mechanic's stomach gives a lurch when he spots the ambulance and rapid response vehicle, abandoned just outside the front entrance, both sets of lights still flashing their eye-searing sequence of blood red and electric blue, illuminating the curb where they must have screeched to a slippery halt.

Almost at once, Andy's heartburn starts to flare up, brought on by a fatal combination of stress, the late hour and the fact that his old, rickety legs keep chugging him along until he's puffing like a steam engine.

“Goddamn gator!” he wheezes to himself, hopping onto the curb and darting past the ambulance, “Stupid, goddamn lizard!”

The presence of an emergency vehicle never bodes well at any establishment outside of a hospital.

The bots here are equipped with standard first-aid protocols in the event of an emergency. If Freddy has called in for outside medical assistance... it means you've sustained an injury beyond the bot's capabilities.

Swallowing a globule of rancid bile, Andy hurtles beneath the Plex's shutter doors and emerges into the lobby, finding it devoid of life save for a few S.T.A.F.F bots that wheel about in their free-roam mode.

His boots leave wet puddles of mud and melting ice on his way through the red, swinging doors to his right and down the metal stairs that rattle and squeak as he thunders to the bottom, hitting the ground at a clumsy jog and hauling his tired bones along the maintenance tunnel.

He passes the employee locker room and doesn't even spare it a glance until he very nearly trips head over heels when the toe of his boot collides painfully with something heavy and solid. The briefest, angry glance down reveals a pile of scrap metal that lays next to a discarded pipe-wrench. Spitting a curse at the idiot who left them sitting about where someone – namely him – can trip over it, he returns his focus to the tunnel ahead and continues.

Through the musty gloom, he starts to make out a crowd of figures, four of five of them, all hovering together around the room that houses one of the employee medical booths.

Several faces turn at the sound of his boots striking the concrete and as he draws closer, he notes that all of them are wearing the telltale, bottle-green scrubs synonymous with paramedics. All, that is, save for one.

“Jesus Christ, Flowers! Where the Hell have you been!?”

A haggard, notably perspiring man brusquely shoves his way out from behind the sea of strangers.

Garbed in tarted pyjamas and a waterproof parker, Mick Matthews steps forth, his forehead glistening dutifully under the meagre lights.

Andy slows to a halt directly front of him, already bridling at the manager's tone. Opening his mouth to retaliate, he begins asking where in the Hell you are when Mick cuts him off, blundering clumsily on in a tirade.

“I get an alert from Freddy – Ten at night, mind you! - And what does he tell me? That your gator has been involved in an 'incident' with Miss L/n, and now -...!” A nervous, humourless laugh tumbles off his lips and he raises an arm to claw his fingers roughly through his hair. “-Now, the fucking thing won't let us get near her! Or the kid!”

In the midst of his manager's hollering, Andy's face turns grey and ashen as a corpse's.

“Kid?” he breathes.

“As if this company needed more bad press!” Mick forges on, as if Andy hadn't even spoken, “It's dire enough an employee gets hurt on the goddamn job, but if that girl's parents try to sue-!”

His beady eyes flash to meet the mechanic's stare and he seems to gather himself, tearing his focus away from the prospect of a looming lawsuit and turning it onto the problem at hand. “You'd better have brought a prod with you, because you're going in there to get them out!”

“S'what I plan to do,” Andy growls, wasting no more time in shouldering Mick aside and moving towards the door.

The paramedics part around him like waves around an unassailable rock.

One of them, an older woman with hair as grey as the sea at storm, steps up to meet him as he approaches. “You the chief mechanic for these bots?” she asks in a voice sharper than flint.

Andy bites down on the knee-jerk response to correct her, to inform her that, technically speaking, Matthews is the manager in charge. But frankly, the man wouldn't know his arse from a hole in the ground. Therefore...

“Yes, ma'am,” Andy nods and straightens his aching back.

She gives him a brief once-over before jerking her head towards the door. “We haven't assessed the patients yet. The kid is conscious, from what we can tell. But we can't get a verbal response from the employee.” Her lips come together and form a neat, thin line and she squints up at him, the creases around her eyes growing long and deep, reminding the mechanic of an ivory desert beset with cracks and crevasses. “You've gotta get your robot to stand down.”

She's worried, he realises.

Hell, he's worried. He doesn't need to be a paramedic to know that 'no verbal response' is a troubling sign.

Knowing his duty, the mechanic squares his shoulders and gives her another, resolute nod, finally stepping past her and into the entrance of the employee storage room.

It only takes a second for him to absorb the scene before his jaw promptly unhinges and almost hits the ground.

Crowded within the insubstantial area, he finds the entire Glamrock band of animatronics.

Freddy Fazbear, Roxanne Wolf and Chica all stand with their backs to the door, congregating in front of the curtained medical booth that occupies the far wall.

And there, planted directly in its too-small space with his purple shoulder struts raised high over his lolling head like the hackles of some wild and terrible beast, stands Montgomery Gator himself.

If his claws weren't burying themselves with such unrelenting ferocity into the sides of the booth, Andy would almost be fooled into believing he's offline. His signature sunglasses are nowhere to be seen, and not a glimmer of light shines out from behind those wide optics that sit like a pair of black holes in his skull.

Dark as pitch and unblinking, the gator's stare seems to be aimed both at everything and nothing all at once.

“Monty,” Freddy is saying in soft, dulcet tones, his paws raised to pacify the gator, “Please. I understand that you are upset, but you must allow the medical professionals to take care of things from here... They can help her, Monty.”

 

'Her-... Where?' Andy's gorge rises and he cranes his neck to try and see around the gator's immense bulk and into the back of the booth. It doesn't take him long to spot you.

There, hunched over on the wide seat and almost entirely obscured by a veritable wall of quivering, green plastic and metal, he catches his first glimpse of a body.

Shakily, the mechanic raises a hand and cards his fingernails sharply through his cropped hair.

Jesus... you're still. Too still.

Hot indignation floods into his belly at that moment, washing away the chill of horror that has tried to settle in alongside his heart.

Grinding his teeth together until they ache, Andy begins to stalk towards the booth, keeping his narrowed eyes fixed unflinchingly on the gator before him.

“God damn you, you godforsaken caiman!” he growls, drawing the focus of the room and raising his voice to a sudden shout, “What in the Hell'd you do this time!?”

Evidently, antagonising the gator may not have been one of his brightest ideas.

It probably would have been safer to pull the pin on a grenade.

Montgomery's long snout swings up in Andy's direction, and at last gives the mechanic a proper view of his head...

The man finds himself stopped short of Freddy's side when his own feet grind to a halt and he exhales a low, sweeping whistle between his teeth.

If he didn't know any better, he'd hazard a guess that Monty went toe-to-toe with a wrecking ball, and lost.

His yellow chin and the tip of his snout have been crushed inwards, rendering him virtually toothless at the front of his mouth. An ugly mess of severed wires dangle out of a gaping hole torn from his throat, sparking like tiny bolts of lightening just above the spot where his voice box sits.

The gator drops his mangled jaw open and vents a searing stream of hot air from the pipes that run up the length of his neck. The air leaves him in a painfully lacklustre hiss, which all but confirms to the mechanic that his voice box must somehow have suffered significant damage.

Monty is usually such a vocal bot when provoked.

The animatronic's jaw snaps shut with the force of a thunderclap before springing open once again, his sightless optics drilling a hole into the front of Andy's skull.

“Mr Flowers, please,” Freddy murmurs imploringly, swivelling an ear around to the mechanic next to him, “I believe getting upset will only exacerbate this situation. We should all try to remain calm.”

“Try tellin' that to him,” Roxanne pipes up with an agitated growl, jerking her chin at the gator.

Andy spares her a glance, only half surprised to find that the wolf has taken up a guarded stance in front of Chica, who at last twists her head around to acknowledge the mechanic.

Once he catches a glimpse of her faceplate, he can't quite hold onto a sympathetic wince.

Now he understands why Roxy has planted herself so protectively between the smallest member of their band and the black-eyed gator.

Four, shallow lines extend the width of her face, from the edge of her hot-pink bow right down through her beak, revealing slender trails of silver framework underneath the otherwise pristine, white paint.

Taken wildly aback, Andy holds her gaze for a moment longer until Roxanne rolls her weighty shoulders and snaps at Monty, “Hey, Bog Breath! Get a hold of yourself! You're scarin' the kid!”

'Kid.' Right. Shit. Her words instil a sense of urgency in the mechanic and he instantly tears his eyes away from Chica's damaged face to scan the medical booth once more.

Again, it doesn't take him long to spot her, hidden though she is behind the alligator's stocky, green legs.

Tiny fingers, all atremble, have latched onto his calf, and she has her face squashed into the back of a large knee. Her shoulders are hitching up and down every once in a while, but her sobs are otherwise silent, likely too terrified to utter a sound.

…. Whatever happened to Monty's voice box will be nothing compared to what Andy has in store for him.

But for now, the mechanic has to push past his outrage, for the girl's sake. And for yours.

Chica has turned her attention back onto the kid and she leans around Roxy's bristling shoulder, her voice sweet as honeysuckle as she attempts to coax the child out from behind an agitated Montgomery's leg.

“Oh, don't cry! Don't cry, Chicory! It's all right!” she half pleads, half reassures, “Mr Montgomery is just a little grumpy 'cause he hasn't had his nap today. But don't worry! He's not mad at you!”

Andy watches the girl's fingers slowly unclench from the alligator's calf, though she doesn't remove herself entirely. Still, progress, he supposes, is progress.

God bless that chicken and her affinity for calming down the younger kids.

But is isn't enough.

Not by a long shot.

“Rox,” Andy calls out, getting the wolf's ear to twitch in his direction, “You got the best eyes outta the lot of us. Can you get a scan of 'em? Tell us what we're dealing with?”

Under normal circumstances, he has no doubt that she'd have trouble keeping her chest from puffing out at the impromptu compliment, but now, Roxanne is all business. “Way ahead of you, chief,” she replies and twists her head about to face him slightly, one eye still glued to the gator.

 

As protocol dictates, she gives him a rundown of the child first.

“Stella Finch. Contusions on the neck, nasty ones,” she rattles off, pausing for a moment before adding, “Oh, and there's traumatic optic neuropathy in -”

“-And for us laymen?” Andy interrupts, deadpan.

Roxanne blinks, then amends, “Bruises around her neck. And the kid's blind in both eyes.”

The mechanic feels his stomach bottom out and he snaps a hand up to his forehead, pressing trembling fingertips to his temples. “Blind!?” he asks in a wheezing hiss.

“Pre-existing condition,” the wolf helpfully supplies, “However it happened, it didn't happen at the Plex.”

“Jeezus, Rox! Lead with that next time,” he croaks. So, Monty didn't blind a child. But the bruises? They're a whole different matter entirely. He knows Montgomery can be a mean son of a bitch when he wants to be, but even Andy didn't think the gator was capable of causing harm to a kid. “And.. the bruises?”

The wolf's shaggy, silver man bobs when she replies with a stony-faced nod. “On her neck, yeah. They're hardly a half-hour old.” She suddenly curls her painted lips and snaps her head around to Monty again. “But ~ I can't tell how bad they are, 'cause somebody won't let us get near her!”

A low groan of metal reaches their ears as the rogue animatronic stiffly twists his neck around to face the wolf, baring his far bigger, far sharper teeth in her direction.

Pursing his lips, Andy lowers his gaze from the gator's mangled snout, to your slumped silhouette until his focus finally lands upon Stella's tiny fingers that clutch desperately to Monty's smooth, plastic calf.

All right, he decides, hitching up his belt.

Enough is enough.

 

“Okay, Montgomery. You've had your fun...” Andy's voice trails off as he slowly pads forwards, careful to hold that blank, hateful stare when it swings towards him again – anything to keep Monty's optics focused on his face so that they miss his hand, the one that's gradually unclipping the stun baton from its place on his belt.

 

He takes one more, daring step closer to the medical booth, only to feel a large paw curl into his coat collar and tug him backwards.

 

And not a moment too soon.

 

Monty's claws lash out in a devastating swipe, slicing through the air just inches from where Andy's nose had been mere seconds before.

 

“Christ!” the man barks, compliant in Freddy's grasp as the bear ushers him backwards and steps in front of the human, standing tall, shoulders pushed back in an authoritative stance.

“Montgomery Gator!” he scolds, “That was highly uncalled for.”

If Monty gives half a damn, he certainly doesn't show it. He merely snaps his fangs at the frowning bear and backs himself more tightly into the booth, pushing Stella with him and further shielding you from view.

 

“Do you have to use the baton?” Chica asks in a small voice.

Frowning, Andy spares her a look, but she just peers down at him, wringing her hands together like she's begging him to show mercy, “I think it's only scaring him more.”

“Damn it, Flowers! The Hell is taking you so long?!”

The sharp reprimand from behind him reminds Andy that he still has an audience, and that he's officially running out of time. With the electric prod still in hand, he half turns to tell the manager to shut his mouth...

Sadly for Andy, the distraction – however brief – leads to him breaking one of the most sacred rules in animatronic handling.

 

When Montgomery Gator is in a 'mood,' you do not, under any circumstances, turn your back on him.

Rumour has it that it'll be the last thing you ever do.

 

There's no roar to announce the oncoming attack, but Andy is alerted by a child's sudden scream and he snaps his head back in Monty's direction, only to feel the heart in his chest sputter to a deadly stop at the sight of a massive, green titan lunging towards him.

“Monty! NO!” Freddy is the first to leap into action just as the gator throws out an arm and wraps one, clawed hand around the handle of Andy's electric prod.

The mechanic can't help the incoherent yelp that leaps out of him any more than he can help stumbling backwards in alarm, frantically attempting to wrench his only means of defence away from Monty's crushing grip.

Freddy flings his arms around the gator's neck from behind, keeping his jaws from lunging forwards to snap at Andy, though oddly enough, Monty seems far more interested in the prod than the human attached to it.

The girl's screams are saturating the room, only growing even louder when Chica abruptly darts around a startled Roxanne and scoops the child up in her arms.

Not one of the other animatronics, nor the humans watching, expect the girl to suddenly throw her head back and shriek, “MONTY!”

 

The switch in focus is almost instantaneous.

 

Without even a blink of warning, the gator attempts to change course. His hand leaves the baton and Andy almost topples over onto his rear from the unexpected release of traction.

 

To his back, there are shouts of concern and fear, but to his front, the mechanic can only watch on helplessly as Montgomery throws an elbow backwards, socking Freddy in his mechanical guts and effectively shoving the bear off his neck.

 

Their prized animatronic keels over onto one knee in front of the mechanic, clutching at his now-dented hatch.

 

Cold, lightless optics lock onto the chicken cornered inside the medical booth with you, her arms gently enveloping a child who inexplicably and defiantly continues to struggle for her freedom.

 

Fingers twitching sporadically, Monty takes one, lumbering step towards them.

 

“Monty! Stop it!” Chica squawks as she backs into the booth, curling around the child in her arms, "You're scaring us!"

Suddenly, a flash of silver fur slides into the space between her and the advancing gator.

Hackles raised, Roxanne Wolf hunches her shoulders and splays her clawed hands out protectively.

Whatever reason Montgomery must have had to guard you and the kid so jealously has to be the only thing on his one-track processor, because he launches forwards as if the bridling wolf isn't even there.

 

Static hisses from Monty's throat.

 

Freddy cries out for the gator to stop.

 

A spark of electricity hums to life...

 

And at last, Andy leaps forward and drives his baton up and into the inch-wide gap that sits between Monty's head and his broad torso.

Twin, metal prongs find their mark with ease and the alligator's jaw flaps open, issuing out a silent scream for nobody to hear.

It's a tragically unpleasant sight, to be sure, to see an animatronic jerk and spasm as thirty thousand volts of electricity surge through his metal frame, short-circuiting his systems and forcing a painful overheat in his CPU.

And through it all, he can't utter a single sound.

 

Andy Flowers isn't a particularly vindictive man. But in that moment, swollen with outrage for your injuries and livid at the gator's audacity to try and hide them, he perhaps keeps the current flowing for a few seconds longer than what's recommended for animatronic control.

Over the sound of zaps and sparks and the terrified screams of a girl, Andy can make out Freddy bellowing, “Mr Flowers! Please! He's had enough!”

Then, and only then, does the mechanic remove his finger from the trigger and yank the baton away, a bead of sweat trickling down his temple and getting lost amongst the creases surround one, narrowed eye.

For several, nail-biting moments, Monty remains upright, his limbs, tail and head locked straight as a quiver of arrows, only twitching every now and then as the last of the electricity runs its course and fizzles out. Smoke trails lazily from the gator's nostrils and between his parted teeth, as if he's heaving a great sigh.

Then, like a warrior beaten into submission, he drops heavily onto his knees with a deafening 'CLANG!' before teetering sideways and crumpling to the ground, utterly motionless.

Unconscious, Andy surmises, or as unconscious as an animatronic can be.

 

“And stay down,” the mechanic spits.

 

Roxanne's ears slowly ease themselves upright again and she drops her stance, stepping aside to allow Chica to leave the medical booth with her arms full of a sniffling child.

 

The chicken clucks and coos in dulcet tones to the girl, but outright refuses to look down at her unresponsive bandmate laying on the ground near her feet.

 

Andy's ears tune in to a murmured conversation and he sighs, turning to face the doorway.

 

The flint-eyed paramedic he'd spoken to earlier has ventured into the room ahead of her colleagues, every part the matriarch assessing a dangerous situation.

 

“Are we clear to proceed?” she asks shortly.

 

The mechanic casts a glance behind him to see Freddy already hunching over into the medical station and raising his big, plastic paws to hover uncertainly over your face, like he wants to touch you, but knows he shouldn't.

Dragging his gaze off you and lowering it down to the heap of an animatronic on the ground, Andy exhales wearily through his nose and feels the adrenaline drain from his system. “Yeah,” he grunts without taking his eyes off the unresponsive gator, “Yeah, you're clear.”

Still, she hesitates.

At first, he allows frustration to bite at his nerves, but then he remembers that Freddy is currently inside the medical station.

Grimacing, the mechanic calls, “Fred. Outta the booth. Let these guys do their job..”

Thank God the old bear is as compliant as a working gun-dog.

He slips the top hat from his head and thumbs anxiously at the brim as he ducks back out of the medical station, mumbling an apology for getting in the way. And at long last, the chief paramedic can march into the little space alongside a pair of her co-workers and kneel down next to the bench you're slumped across.

The two who remain warily approach Roxanne and Chica whilst the animatronics do their utmost to try and calm the crying child in the latter's arms.

Last - 'and arguably least,' Andy huffs - Mick ventures into the room, dabbing a handkerchief across his glistening forehead, evidently deeming the situation safe now that everyone else has tested the waters first.

“What a mess,” he mutters under his breath, sidling up next to Andy and peering down at the gator laid out on the ground before him.

The mechanic might've stuck around to concur if he wasn't frankly far more preoccupied with getting you and that kid out of here.

“ABC's all check out,” one of the paramedics announces, and Andy glances over to see the woman gently peeling your eyelids apart and shining a small torch into each retina.

Clicking her tongue, she murmurs,“... Pupils dilating equally.”

“Swelling on the right calcaneus,” the third says, gently pulling off your shoe.

Another tut from the older medic. “Suspected vasovagal syncope.”

Andy doesn't bother asking them to speak English.

“Get that stretcher in here. We're moving her to the ambulance. Now.”

Mick and Andy step to the side as two of the paramedics assessing you break away and dash out into the hallway, returning seconds later with an emergency stretcher held between them.

“I want to take the little girl in to be seen by a paediatric nurse.” The darkness of the booth cast the woman's face in shadow as her eyes shoot up to take in the mechanic and his manager. “Somebody'll need to contact the parents,” she adds, a touch of grim sympathy laced in her tone.

“Her name is Stella,” Chica says softly to one of the medics as she passes the trembling child over to them with palpable hesitation, “I-I've already forwarded her parents' contact details to Mr Matthews...”

The aforementioned manager pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales slowly, shaking his head.

“This'll be a pig of a call to make...” All the same, he rummages through a pocket on his coat and pulls out a shiny, black mobile phone, moving reluctantly after the medic who carries Stella away from the animatronics and leaves through the door into the tunnels beyond. Wheezing out a sigh, he grumbles to himself, “This has got 'lawsuit' written all over it.” Then, pausing in the doorway, he turns to Roxy, who is busy trying to coax her fellow animatronic into showing her the damaged beak.

“Roxanne!” he barks sharply, “Make yourself useful and take that pile of scrap back to its green room.” He jerks his chin disdainfully at Monty. “And make sure it can't get outta there... It can stew inside until I can figure out what to do with it..”

And with that, he's back to jamming numbers into his mobile and whirling about on his heel, storming from the room.

As expected, the wolf looks utterly opposed the idea of leaving her friend's side, but begrudgingly tears herself away and sneers down at the gator, ears flattened to the top of her head.

 

With you now draped on top of it, the stretcher is hoisted into the air by two paramedics who tiptoe gingerly around Monty's body as they carry you from the room. Every step of the way, the older medic is at your side, calling your name repetitively and asking if you can hear her voice.

A heavy set of footsteps move around Andy, and he's only a little surprised to see Freddy trying to follow you out.

“Fred.”

The bear's hefty body lumbers to a halt in the doorway and a single, round ear swivels in the mechanic's direction, yet the rest of him remains poised right at the room's threshold for a further few seconds, his head tilted left to peer down the long tunnel you've just been whisked into.

Eventually, the animatronic slowly shifts himself about and faces the man once more, gigantic paws clasping his hat against his chest.

“Yes, Mr Flowers?”

The bear's fretting may be fully simulated, but this wouldn't be the first time Andy is rendered perturbed by such a human gesture – uncanny in its authenticity.

Jesus... he's too old for this job...

He has to fight down his own urge to simply dash after the paramedics, knowing that first, he has a duty to these animatronics that he can't well-enough ignore just yet.

“Look,” he sighs as he rubs his thumb and forefinger back and forth across his eyebrows, feeling as weary as he likely sounds, “Just... get Chica and yourself down to Parts and Services. I doubt they're gonna let me ride in the ambulance with 'er... But I gotta go ask 'em to contact me if anythin' happens. I'll be down afterwards to get you two show-ready again.”

Chica's optics are downcast and in a moment of self-consciousness that her processor really shouldn't be capable of, she raises a hand to cover her broken beak, wrapping her other arm around her stomach.

Freddy's gaze flickers from Andy over to Roxanne, who has already slung their bassist over one of her broad shoulders, letting his legs and tail swing limply to and fro as she moves.

“And... what about Monty?” the bear asks with clear hesitation.

At that, Andy gives a derisive scoff and retorts, “What about 'im?”

This time, it's Chica who pipes up from behind her fingers. “Aren't you going to fix him too?”

Spinning towards the door, the mechanic curls his lip distastefully. “I ain't fixin' jack on that gator. Right now, we got bigger priorities to take care of... Now. You two march your shiny backsides over to P and S, or management'll roast my backside on a damn spit!”

On the last word, all three animatronics noticeably flinch, though he doesn't stick around to see it, nor does he see the disapproving frown that sits above Freddy's narrowed optics. The mechanic is already hurrying out of the room after the paramedics... after you.

----

He's getting slower in his old age. Already, your stretcher has disappeared from view, no matter how swiftly Andy believes himself to be careening up the tunnel, back the way he'd come. Halfway to the metal staircase, just past the employee locker room, he abruptly catches sight of a figure crouching down under one of the flimsy, red lights.

It's only upon drawing closer and hearing his own footfalls echo noisily down the long corridor that the figure's head snaps up and he finds himself recognising the pale face peering back at him as the Plex's resident night guard.

“Vanessa?”

Andy skids to an unsteady halt just as the young woman springs to her feet, wide eyes and uncertain, as though he's just stumbled upon her with her hand inside the proverbial cookie jar.

“Uh, I -... Mister Flowers!” she blurts out, fumbling with an armful of metal pipes and rods, “I – err – I thought those medics would have been the last ones out?...” Then, almost as an afterthought, she pulls her slender brows into a look of concern and asks, “What, uh, what happened?”

Andy bites back a sigh. He doesn't have time for this... “I don't doubt you'll be briefed on it tomorrow,” he tells her, edging around her side and casting a furtive glance over his shoulder towards the end of the tunnel, “but long story short? Montgomery went haywire. Injured an employee.” Plastering on a scowl, he shoots the guard a serious look and adds, “You steer clear of that bot's green room tonight, y'hear?”

“Damn. That's awful,” she replies, shaking her head glumly, “But I guess, it's to be expected. I always knew it was a only matter of time before something inside of that thing snapped.”

Distracted by his own impatience, Andy just offers her a non-committal hum and opens his mouth to excuse himself when his eyes happen to dart down towards the load in her arms and he hesitates for a crucial moment, taken aback by the unmistakably mechanical hand that's attached to what he'd at first mistaken for an ordinary, metal pipe. Vanessa goes rigid once she realises what he's staring down at.

After a beat of silence, Andy's gaze flicks up to meet hers and he raises a brow. “Need a hand?”

 

Perhaps a little too quickly, the guard replies with a snapped, “No!” before her brain seems to catch up with her mouth and her austere demeanour slips into something a little softer, a little more tired. “Sorry. I... Listen, don't worry about this.” Her lips twitch into a pale imitation of a smile and she shrugs her armful of metal, jutting her chin down at it indicatively. “Just some spare parts I found laying about in the tunnels. Didn't want anyone to come through here and trip over them. It's a miracle those paramedics missed them when they sped by.”

A miracle indeed, he muses. God knows they could use a few more of those around this place.

“Well, you should... probably get after your friend,” Vanessa pipes up, still smiling the kind of smile that comes nowhere near her eyes, “I'll finish cleaning up down here before I start my rounds.”

Andy only grunts a brief 'thanks,' in response before he takes off again, leaving the security guard behind him to haul whatever pieces of scrap metal she'd found down to Parts.

 

---

 

By the time Andy catches up with the paramedics, they're already pushing their way through the 'Staff Only' doors and hauling you into the lobby.

“She comin' around?” he asks as he falls into pace alongside the stretcher, on the opposite side to the senior medic, who barely spares him a cursory glance.

Still, she replies, “Started waking up on the stairs. She's pretty confused, but she's talking. Keeps asking for that... Monty fella?”

He watches your hand twitch with the effort of trying to raise it, likely to shield your eyes from the lights beaming down on you from overhead. “Guh,” you croak wetly, screwing your face up, “..Monty? S'at you?”

Andy's face twists sympathetically. You're probably worried to death that the bot is nearby.

“You don't gotta worry about him no more,” he tells you, gruff and firm, “You're safe now.”

“'Ndy...” you sigh the latter half of his name, “Monty... s'e okay?”

Shaking his head, Andy glances over at the senior medic, his face drawn so taut with worry that it wrinkles his entire forehead. “Is she....?”

“She's conscious,” the medic replies smartly, “But don't be surprised if she doesn't make much sense for a while. Concussions'll do that to you.”

A concussion...? The old mechanic's knees almost buckle and he has to briefly steady himself on the side of the stretcher before he's able to respond. “Damn... Does she... I don't know, need an MRI, or something?”

She replies without so much as a pause, and absently, he starts to wonder how long she's been a paramedic. Her face is stern, yet calm. She's good under pressure, certainly a hell of a lot better than he is.

“We'll be able to assess her better once we're at the clinic. A CT scan may not even be necessary, but we won't know for certain until we get her there.”

Once again, they're interrupted by the sound of your croaking voice. “Mmm... 'Onty?”

The mechanic waits for a second to see if you'll say anything further, but when you don't he clenches a fist and bitterly mutters, “....I'm gonna kill that stupid lizard.”

At last, the medic tears her gaze off your watering eyes and locks her stare with Andy's. It's almost imperceptible, but he might have ventured to swear that something in her expression softens microscopically when she takes in his fraught, haggard frown.

“Don't worry,” she tells him, a modicum of kindness skirting into her voice, “We see this all the time. We'll get her and the kid looked over, and make sure they're both taken care of.”

“Thank you,” he replies, clearing his throat, “I appreciate it.”

“You'd better. I've been called out to this place more times in the last two years than I ever did during my twenty-year stint in Kentucky!”

Sheepish, Andy ducks his head in deference to the veteran.

They're about halfway to the main entrance, halfway to getting you the Hell out of this damn, accursed building when suddenly, they're all stopped in their tracks, brought to a standstill through surprise alone.

All around them, the air is cleaved in two by an ear-bursting, mechanical shriek.

Andy's blood turns to ice inside his veins.

The paramedics carrying you draw the trolley up short, glancing first at one another, and then back towards the lobby behind them.

Every human twists about to peer warily over their own shoulders, but Andy already knows what he's bound to see by the time he turns all the way around.

“Sunnuva bitch,” he growls through clenched teeth, “How in the Hell did he get out!?”

 

Andrew Flowers has witnessed many a disturbing occurrence during his time at the Pizzaplex.

He's had to get up close and personal with the stinking garbage that gums up Chica's gears when she sneaks out of her green room to 'eat' the leftovers from the cafeteria bins.

He was there for the aftermath of Mick's hand after he'd wrenched it out from between Montgomery's teeth.

 

But what he's looking at now – a sight that sends a shudder tracking up his spine – is perhaps the most unsettling thing he's ever had the misfortune of laying eyes upon.

 

It's Sunnydrop. And yet... it can't be Sunnydrop, because the damn daycare attendant is programmed to never leave the daycare.

It was one of the most important systems the technicians ever implemented into its software.

On the rare days where the daycare stood devoid of any guests - child or adult alike – Sunnydrop took to venturing well beyond the plush, colourful confines of its designated area and went wandering through the Plex in search of 'friends' to whisk off, back to the daycare, whether they wanted to go or not.

It was a PR nightmare.

A lot of palms had to be greased to keep furious parents from trying to take Fazbear to court for alleged 'kidnapping.'

The technicians has stuffed so many subroutines into Sunnydrop's processor that even the thought of leaving its daycare would cause the mechanical equivalent of a panic attack. Hell, Andy himself had installed a failsafe that would lock its limbs in place should the bot take a single step outside of those big, wooden doors.

And yet...

Here it is.

The lankiest of their animatronics – save of course for its lunar counterpart – is sprawled on its stomach in front of the lobby's impressive statue, dragging itself towards the humans at a hellishly slow and painful pace.

Long, spindly fingers claw at the tile underneath it, succeeding in hauling itself along on its belly, several inches at a time. Sparks fly from the hinges of its limbs, all of which jerk and shudder sporadically as if the damn thing is having some kind of seizure. Like a horrific, mangled beast right out of a creature flick, Sunnydrop's entire head twists painfully until it's upside down, and despite this new and unsettling angle, Andy can still tell that those stark white optics are fixed unmistakably on the stretcher.

On you.

“S-S-SUU-UN—SHH-II-NE!”

Andy's nerves sing and shrink at the god-awful screech, setting his teeth on edge.

“God dammit,” he hisses in frustration, whirling to face the medics and throwing a hand towards the doors, “Get 'er the hell outta here!”

“What is that?!” one of the younger men asks, but he's cut off sharply by his senior.

“Eyes front, Oscar! We've got a patient here who needs us. Remember what you learned in NARU.”

Down on the stretcher, your eyelids screw themselves shut tight before you manage to pry them open again and flop your head over to the side, peering blearily across the lobby and spotting a familiar, yellow shape that's fighting its way in your direction.

“Guh, uhhh,” you hiss, squinting against the bright lights, “Sun? Wus'rong?”

The animatronic looks for all the world as though he's trying to drag himself through thick, oozing tar – every movement slow and forced, yet no less desperate as he raises an arm and stretches out his hand, reaching his quivering fingers across the vast, empty space between you.

Before your brain has the chance to recognise that Sunny should not be outside the daycare, movement all around you jerks your eyes shut again and you clench your teeth together, spitting a curse through them sharply. You're on the move again, if the clamour of footfalls are anything to go by.

The muted ache at the back of your head suddenly ricochets into your temples when Sunnydrop unleashes another, long caterwaul, more like a screaming animal teetering on the verge of death than any kind of robot.

Rolling weakly onto your back, you croak out his name again, letting dreaded consciousness seep like a cool liquid into your brain, and along with it comes the agony in your ankle. Something... must have happened... though you can't quite recall what, just at this moment, only that your limbs feel remarkably heavy, as if each one has been weighted down with cinderblocks.... And whoever filled your skull with numbing agent had better have a damn good explanation for doing so – Shit, but it's hard to think straight.

The ceiling lights flit by overhead, you hear the whoosh of an automatic door sweeping open, and at long last, the fluorescents of the Pizzaplex fade away and you're faced instead with an overcast, ink-dark sky.

There are voices buzzing all around you, irritating little gnats that you very much want to shoo away so you can be left in peace. But then, you hear it, nestled amongst the sharp, methodical voices...

There's one you recognise.

“-ere's the kid?”

'Kid...?' There's someone important you're supposed to be remembering. Several someones, for that matter.

“She's gone ahead with the Rapid Response Unit.” That's a woman speaking... that much you recognise, but beyond that, you're drawing a blank. Where are you? Where is Stella?

Like a sack of bricks, it hits you.

'Is Stella okay?' You don't yet know the context for that question, but that hardly matters when it becomes suddenly and abundantly clear that you have to find out if Stella is okay.

You can't yet find the energy to ask the whole query aloud, so your brain helpfully supplies the most integral word and locks onto it like a homing beacon. “S t e l l a?”

Ugh. Has your voice always sounded so far away?

Luckily for you, it would seem that same, familiar baritone murmur is gracious enough to respond to your nonsensical query.

“Stella's gonna be just fine. You'll see her soon. You did a good job of keepin' her safe, kid. A real good job.”

Oh...

   Good...

      That's good...

But.. there's something else too. Something of equal importance.

A sudden rush of blinding light crashes into you from overhead and you find yourself abruptly dazzled, and although you're quick to slam your eyes shut, the light still manages to sear its way through the flimsy skin of your lids.

“Are you this lady's father?” somebody asks whilst you groan miserably on your flat, uncomfortable slab. You'd probably snort if you were more coherent. As if your father would fly all the way out here just to see you...

There's a pregnant pause, a lull in the conversation before a hesitant response arrives. “No, uh... no, m'not... Just... just a concerned friend.”

 

A friend?

Andy, your brain helpfully supplies, that's definitely Andy... You were going to tell him something important, weren't you?

It's a tremendous effort to pry your eyelids apart all over again, yet once you do, a light glares down at you from above and almost forces them shut once more. Even in a state of near-delirium however, your mouth is more persistent than your brain.

 

“Andy?” you choke out, and you're glad to note that your words don't sound quite so far away this time.

Andy's voice trickles into your ear, safe and reassuring. “Don't worry, kid. These guys are gonna take care of you. I'll come see you when they give me the all clear. Okay?”

He'll come to see you?

Are you going somewhere?

Filing that thought away for later inspection, you swallow around a dry throat and try to call his name again, but you find yourself interrupted. Now it's Andy's turn to sound as if he's speaking from a distance...

“You take care of her, y'hear?” he orders gruffly to someone who obviously isn't you, “And tell her, when she's more lucid, not to worry about that damn gator anymore. By the time I'm done with it, there'll be nothin' left to throw on the scrap heap.”

'...Gator?'

A synapse fires off, sending an electrical pulse straight through your brain and jolting you several stages further into consciousness.

Dropping open your mouth, you let out a loud, ragged gasp.

“Monty!”

“Ma'am? You're okay-” A slender hand comes to rest on your shoulder as you attempt to shove yourself upright.

You've just remembered what you have to tell Andy.

Almost at once, you regret moving so hastily as your head gives a sudden tilt and you teeter sideway, your hand slipping off the gurney, and it's only thanks to a presence at your side catching you that you don't end up sliding onto the floor.

“Was n'endo!” you slur, tearing your eyelids apart, one after the other. Everything around you is blurred, as if you're looking through frosted glass, but little by little, the clarity returns to your vision and it only takes you a second to realise you're peering out through the open doors of a van – an ambulance, more than likely.

A paramedic in bottle-green scrubs is reaching out to pull the doors shut just as you catch sight of a dark figure standing in the darkness just beyond the threshold of the vehicle's light.

Beset by an urgency that supersedes the potential severity of your situation, you force your brain to shove out the words you so ardently need. “Wsn't Monty!” you howl brokenly, even as several hands start to push you into laying back down onto the gurney beneath you, “Andy! Don'hurt 'im!”

A woman hushes you and at last, you let your head thunk back down onto the orange canvas underneath you.

Your brain pulses at the resounding slam of metal doors and an engine roars to life, sending uncomfortable tremors up through your spine and into your clenching fingers. And just like that, you've delivered your message. It will only be later that you start fully comprehend its gravity.

-----

Andy Flowers watches you disappear behind the doors of the ambulance, his eyebrows knitting ever-more tightly across his forehead as the vehicle roars to life and begins to peel away, its blue, flashing lights searing patterns into his tired, old retinas.

Heavy footsteps drag across the tarmac, approaching him at a snail's pace. The mechanic doesn't even bother to send Matthews a cursory glance in acknowledgement.

“What did she just say?” Mick breathes, loosely clutching his mobile between the very tips of his limp fingers.

Together, the two men stare incredulously after the vehicle as you're whisked away, at least until Andy squares his jaw, tipping his head back to glare up at the dark sky above him, as if the Heavens themselves might hold all the answers to his myriad of questions.

It may well be that you're utterly delirious, confused from the suspected concussion and wholly unaware of what you're saying.

And yet... in only a few, short words, you've gone and sewn a tiny seed of doubt inside the mechanic, one that's quick to sprout roots and stick in his mind, no matter how he tries to dislodge it.

What if...?

A distant shriek of metal snags their attention once more and both men whip around towards the Plex's front entrance, Mick with his eyebrows shooting towards his hairline and Andy with his lips twisted up in agitation.

"Forgot about that," he grumbles, shaking off his lingering weariness and stalking purposefully in the direction of the noise.

Mick is close on his heels, stuffing his phone into the pocket of his pyjamas. "Forgot about what!?"

"Sunnydrop."

The mechanic's steps falter and slow to a crawl behind Andy, who's own stride doesn't slow an inch.

"Sun? ...Ha! Pull the other one, Flowers. The attendant can't leave the daycare."

His disbelief goes ignored. "...Flowers? I say - Andrew!"

But Andy has far more pressing matters weighing on his mind right now.

Will that girl, Stella, be okay?

Will you be okay?

Why - even after having had the stuffing knocked out of you - did you use what little coherency you still possessed to defend Montgomery Gator?

There are monsters at the Megaplex, of that, he has no doubt. Some are obvious, loud, ferocious and easy to point to and say, 'There. That must be the monster you seek. Look at its jagged teeth and ghastly claws, see how it lashes out at everything around it.'

But Andy Flowers has lived for a long, long time - long enough that he really ought to know better than to accept what's being shoved under his nose, and that gut feelings are often too hastily dismissed. And right now, Andy's gut is sitting slightly off-kilter. Only by a fraction, of course, but just enough that he can't ignore it. 

Something doesn't add up.

Montgomery's wrecked jaw, his malfunctioning voice-box... his carnal-minded focus on keeping the other Glamrocks and humans out of the medical booth... 

Had he really been protecting himself by trying to keep the victims of his latest rampage hidden from sight? Or did the animatronic have another motive...? Given Monty's track record, the mechanic is inclined to jump on the former, but to do that would be doing you a disservice. 

Concussion or no, Andy would trust your judgement. You've dealt with the bad sorts before, you usually know how to recognise the ones to watch out for.

So why have you been sticking around Montgomery Gator these last few days enough that you've ended up with severe injuries?

What do you know that Andy doesn't?

Emitting a groan, the mechanic drags his crooked hand wearily down the length of his face as he steps out of the cold car park and back inside the lobby of the Plex, glaring down at the daycare attendant who has managed to drag itself a respectable distance and now grasps uselessly at its own sun rays, laying on its side in front of the entrance with its head tipped back to regard the mechanic as he steps closer. 

One thing Andy knows for sure, come Hell or high water, he'll find out exactly who hurt you so badly. And when he does, there won't be a damn thing Fazbear Inc. can do to cover it up. 

Chapter 19: Forgiveness

Summary:

Good lord, it's finally up! I've been super busy as always, rehearsing and putting on a play, so I'm afraid this one feels a little bit rushed. Next, Y/n will have to deal with Monty hoarding her away in his green room to keep her safe when all she wants to do is see Sunny and Moondrop.
And who is this computer programmer they've hired???

*--Initialising System Reboot--*

In a sudden rush of alerts, flashing warnings and notifications, Montgomery's vision flickers back to life, and with a groan of his metallic frame, he arduously pries his snout from his chest and  raises his head.

Out of habit, the gator's systems kick off a diagnostics check...

A veritable legion of startling, red triangles immediately flood his heads-up display, and the mere acknowledgment of them tries to draw a moan from his voice box, but to his bewilderment, all that emerges is a soft, garbled hiss of static.

'What...?'

As more of his systems start to come online, Monty's CPU grows sharper, more alert, enough that a deeply unsettling chill sweeps through him from tooth to tail. Blinking his purple eyelids several times to reacclimatise his whirring apertures, he forces a scrub to his HUD and clears it of alerts, finding himself staring out across the expanse of his own green room.

On the opposite side of the gator's den, his vanity sits in wait, and under the dim light of the one, surviving bulb that shines down from overhead, his optics catch a glimpse of something small and dainty sitting atop the desk, familiar to him as a blazing signal fire.

The figurine... it's the precious figurine you gave him.

His first gift...

With a jolt and a heavy clunk, Monty's memory banks finally finish dragging themselves online, and all at once, the night's events come flooding back to him with the strength and speed of a tidal wave, crashing over his head and threatening to knock his entire system offline.

The endo...

Y/n!

Monty's broken jaw creaks open as he makes a painful attempt at calling your name, but when nothing more than a few sputtering clicks leave his speakers, he grits his remaining teeth in frustration and plants his hands on the ground, shoving himself up onto unsteady feet.

'Where are you...? Where's the kid!?'

Once upright, he staggers like a man inebriated across the room in the direction of his vanity, barely making it to his goal when his stabilisers give a shudder of warning mere seconds before they fail, and with an almighty 'clang,' the gator collapses under his own weight and goes sprawling out onto the floor, smacking his teeth against the carpet.

Rather unhelpfully, another alert catches his attention.

'Battery remaining: 2%.    Recommend: Find nearest charge station.'

For a time, the gator merely lays there, a wretched pile of plastic and metal misery, until he pries his eyelids apart again and issues out a gentle crackle of static - a poor substitute for your name, to be sure. Once again, the gator picks himself up off the ground, rising to his knees and peering over the lip of his vanity desk to see himself in the mirror.

God... what a state he's been left in...

Sunglasses gone, throat torn open to expose the shredded wires underneath his casing, the tip of his snout crushed inwards...

Monty's frame groans as he slumps significantly, only holding himself upright on the edge of the desk. He drags his hooded optics down to the tiny, glass figurine that sits in front of his nose, whole and intact and perfect, so unlike the bot it's modelled after. It was made to be flawless.

Ever so slowly, the gator slides a hand up behind the miniature, cupping a purple palm gingerly to its back.

Overlaid in the corner of his visual feed, he watches, stricken, from his own point of view as the recording of his throw-down with that hateful endoskeleton begins to play.

He sees himself fall backwards and flinches in real time as the feed jolts upon impact and he can hear the crunch of bone under his hefty shoulder... It was bad enough having to experience the fight, but forcing himself to watch it back a second time from a place of safety is damn near torturous. For the most part, he can remember the moments that play back at him in the footage. He recalls looking down at you through unblinking optics, seeing the unnatural twist of your ankle, then raising his head to fix the endo in his crosshairs. The next few minutes however, he can't conjure from his memory banks.

He has to watch on in dread as he charges like a mad bull down the corridor and smashes into the endo in a flurry of slashing claws and swinging fists. The brawl is far more vicious this time around, fuelled by the rage of an animatronic out to permanently dismantle a rival that dared to threaten his only friend and an innocent child.

Safe in his green room, the very tips of Monty's claws tink gently against the glass figurine as he observes those same claws ripping through metal and tearing wires and circuit boards to ribbons. With one arm torn from its hinge and those wretched, violet optics flickering on and offline like fiery embers dying in the wind, the endo begins to teeter perilously from side to side, no longer able to keep its motor functions running as swiftly as Monty's own.

Its mouth hanging crookedly ajar, it attempts to raise its remaining limb to block one of the gator's swipes, but the savagery behind said strike merely knocks the arm aside as if it were nothing but an annoying gnat, paving a way for Montgomery's fist to close like a vice around its scrawny, cylindrical neck. With his other hand, the Glamrock thrusts his fingers into the endo's chest and hooks his claws into the framework, clinging fast in his determined rage.

It scrabbles uselessly for a moment at the hand on its throat, but Monty seems to ignore the welts it leaves in his green paint just as he ignores its struggles and flopping jaw until the hand he's affixed to metal of its chest flexes and tightens, yanking down hard whilst the one secured around its neck starts to pull up.

In the present, Monty bares his teeth into a vindictive grimace as he watches his own two hands arduously peel the endo's head off its shoulders with a satisfying screech.

It crumples at once to the floor without even a twitch, whereas Monty stands over it triumphantly, heaving his leg back and giving its body a vicious kick before he hurls the head to the ground as well, snorting roughly through flared nostrils.

The fight is done.

Then, he sees himself moving towards you and Stella, and his systems immediately flood with icy coolant.

You barely look conscious in the feed, your eyelids falling shut before they burst open again as you fight to stay awake.

The audio picks up Stella wailing into your chest whilst you clutch her to you, curling over the girl and smoothing a trembling hand over her hair. Slowly, Monty's arms come into view again, gathering you gently into his grasp, one hand slung beneath your knees and the other cradling your back with Stella still nestled safely atop your chest. The visual feed doesn't stray from your face as he carries you and the kid to a medical booth....

When the other animatronics arrive, if Monty's voice box weren't destroyed, he'd roar and shout at himself for lashing out at them, and as Chica steps forwards with her hands splayed out to show that she means no harm, and he... he...

Monty forces himself to pull his hand away from the fragile figurine on his vanity lest it end up getting crushed in his clenching fist.

His lower jaw opens and a soft crackle of static tumbles from his silicone lips and fills the air, a wordless apology to Chica.

There's nothing built into an animatronic that can allow them to cry. Their optics don't sting with the coming onslaught of tears, and their throats can't tighten because there are no muscles to do so. And yet, the Glamrocks possess an algorithm that's designed to learn. To evolve with time and engagement. Montgomery Gator can't produce tears, no, but he's seen plenty of humans cry before, in moments of great distress or sorrow.

'Maybe,' he thinks to himself, turning his gaze up to peer at the lip of the desk, 'Maybe this is what it feels like... to wanna cry...'

With a hand that's uncharacteristically careful, he scoops Monteeny up into a palm and shifts himself about to slouch backwards against the desk, drawing your gift up to his chest as the feed finally cuts out. There, he stays, waiting for his dwindling battery to finally run out.

After everything he's done, the quiet solitude of nothingness doesn't sound like such a terrible fate after all...

---

Trust is a Hell of a powerful thing. Trusting the wrong person can cost a life, whereas trusting the right person can save it.

It's trust that brings Andy to Montgomery Gator's green room that same night, right after he and Mick wrangled a howling Sunnydrop back up to the daycare.

'That's gonna be a headache in the morning,' Andy grumbles to himself, dragging a hand down his ageing face.

Sparing a thought to that poor kid, Hughie, who will have to start his shift consoling what's sure to be a fraught daycare attendant, the mechanic takes a cursory glance around Monty's den.

It's dark inside. The heavy curtains have been drawn and the gigantic, green bassist himself is propped up with his back against his vanity, legs splayed out in front of him and his long chin hanging down to sit atop his chest.

“Huh,” Andy grunts, daring to venture a few steps closer, feeling for all the world like the thief approaching a sleeping dragon..

The gator's optics are wedged open to their maximum capacity, but there's no glimmer of light shining out from their tar-black depths, no crimson glare to send a shudder racing up and down the mechanic's crooked spine. Bracing himself all the same, Andy remains stock-still for several, silent beats, one hand hovering over the electric prod dangling from his belt.

Then, summoning what remains of his nerve, he draws his leg back and gives the gator's foot a good, hard kick before instantly stumbling backwards a couple of steps to peer warily down at the animatronic, his heart making a valiant effort to gallop right out of his chest.

…. Nothing.

Not even a twitch.

In a rush, his shoulders drain of their rigidity and he exhales a loud breath that he hadn't even realised he'd been holding. He didn't notice before, when he'd been more focused on getting you and Stella out from behind the rampaging bot, but now that the immediate danger has passed, Andy is all too aware of the distinct lack of star-shaped sunglasses adorning Montgomery's snout.

A hand raises to rub at the five o'clock shadow growing strong on his chin. The longer he ponders on things, the less sense he can make of it all. The damage to Monty's throat and nose alone are enough to cast aspersions on the events that have transpired here tonight, but it was you who threw the biggest wrench in Andy's assumptions - your final, slurred words to the mechanic, tossed down to him from the back of an ambulance.

Well... there's one, surefire way to find concrete answers – the very reason Andy is even standing here in the first place, right at the heart of the gator's territory. And the truth lies within Montgomery himself.

“All right, you big bastard,” Andy mutters to the burly animatronic, plunging a hand into the pocket of his trousers and fishing out a philip's head screwdriver, “Time to get your side of the story.”

---

“Well, the good news is, your reduction went smoothly. All your bones are back where they're supposed to be.”

The stark-white hospital sheets crinkle noisily as you sit up a little further in the bed, glumly eyeing Doctor Timpson whilst he scribbles away at his clipboard and paces back and forth across the tiny room.

“Good news first, huh?” you sigh, idly rubbing a thumb over the thick cast sitting snugly around your leg, “That bodes well.”

Timpson's pacing comes to an abrupt halt at the end of the bed and he turns to appraise you coolly over the lip of his clipboard, one slender, black brow cocked like a loaded gun. ”The bad news,” he states knowingly, “is everything that comes next.”

Throwing your head back, you slump against the pillows once more and push out an obnoxious, “Ugh!”

But Doctor Timpson, more than accustomed to patient theatrics, merely clicks his tongue and forges on in a clipped tone. “Displaced fractures in the ankle typically take about eight weeks to heal fully.”

“Mmph,” you grunt at the ceiling.

“Naturally, you'll be in that cast for at least six of those weeks.”

“Oh, good.”

“And you'll need to use crutches to keep the weight off it for a while. Accident and Emergency have already given you a pair-” He indicates the crutches leaning up against the visitor's chair beside your bed before glancing back down at his clipboard and jotting down another note, ignoring the way you drape an arm across your eyes. “I'm scheduling you in for a follow-up appointment with a specialist orthopaedic. We'll email you to confirm the date once you're home.”

“Eight weeks,” you mumble.

“Perhaps fewer,” he returns patiently, “Provided you follow the advice of medical professionals and do as you're told.” For all of a moment, the collected facade slips off Timpson's face and you raise your arm a little to peep out at him, marvelling at the hint of frustration that seeps across his once steady expression. “Far too many patients push themselves too fast, too soon, and all of our hard work comes undone.”

He doesn't need to gesture to himself to let you know he's talking about the staff here at the hospital.

Sliding your arm back down to your side, you shoot him a sheepish glance. “Sorry, Doc. I am taking this seriously. It just... sucks in the interim.”

Something in Timpson's steely jawline unclenches as he flicks his eyes back over to you, and if you've learned anything from your time spent under the stern doctor's care, you know that you're being assessed for your level of sincerity.

This isn't the first time you've been subjected to his scrutinising gaze, after all.

“I know,” he eventually concedes, sliding his thumb and forefinger beneath a pair of black-framed glasses to rub at the indents they've left in the bridge of his nose, “I do know. Of all my regulars, you're not the worst at following advice.”

You don't hold his weariness against him. It's been a long morning for you both.

Exhaling gently, Doctor Timpson drops his arm and adds, “And while I'm certainly not happy to see you here with yet another broken bone, I have to say, I am glad that in this instance, the break isn't correlated with...” He hesitates, meeting your eye before venturing cautiously, “Ah, your prior situation.”

Smiling warmly at the doctor, you give him a simple nod, trusting that he'll know you don't resent him for bringing up a troubled past. “No chance of that happening anymore, Doctor,” you tell him, “This was just a good old-fashioned incident at work.”

 

Colin Timpson is the only part of your old life that followed you here to the city. Serendipitously, of course. He happened to get a job at the central hospital here only a few, short weeks after you fled from Hunter's clutches and came seeking a new life. Colin started out as a med student in your home town, and he would often see you walking through the clinic doors sporting various scrapes and cuts, sometimes a fresh black eye that you'd apparently obtained from some random drunk outside a bar. No, no need to press charges, you don't even remember what the guy looked like... Your man, Hunter, was always there at your side through the whole ordeal, his face haggard and stricken with worry, like any good partner's would be.

Colin may have been young, but he never was a fool. It was telling, the way Hunter made certain to stand behind the doctor's back at every visit, but remain in direct eye-line with you. It was telling that he would do the majority of the talking, and what little talking you did was simply to agree with what Hunter had already said. Timpson knew a bully when he met one.

When you came to this hospital for the first time and he saw you standing in A&E without Hunter shadowing your every move, it had been difficult to keep his face from slackening with relief.

 

“Hmm... Well then,” he exclaims briskly, glancing over his shoulder at the open door, “Charlie's obviously gotten lost looking for your discharge note. I'll go and find him, and then we'll get you on your way home. Do you have a ride?”

“Oh, you know,” you shrug, offering him a nonchalant grin, “I thought it'd be a nice day for a stroll, actually.”

If Doctor Timpson is even in the least bit amused, he does a damn good job at hiding it.

In fact, rather than beguiled by your wit, his face is instead set in a thunderous scowl that could put a headmaster to shame.

“Miss L/n-”

“Doctor Timpson,” you deadpan playfully, somehow only causing his scowl to darken further.

Drawing in a long, noisy breath through his nostrils, he continues, “... I understand that humour is a very effective coping mechanism for you, but please do not downplay the severity of this situation. This isn't the first time you've come to my hospital with a broken leg, after all.”

The easy-going smile slides off your lips in a flash. You know better than to call him a buzzkill.

“This is, as you said, an uncorrelated instance, Doc,” you offer as consolation to appease his ire.

“It had better be.”

At his waspish response, you drop your gaze with the heat of shame beating at your cheeks.

For several, arduous seconds, you find yourself subjected to the uncomfortable scrutiny of your physician, and eventually, you have to start scrounging around at the back of your brain for a change of topic, anything to redirect his steely glare.

“Is... Stella okay?” you eventually settle on, already knowing his answer.

Doctor Timpson's sigh cuts sharply through the air, but his voice is far softer when he replies, “This is the third time you've asked me that question. I'm afraid nothing has changed in the last hour.”

Swallowing thickly, you lift a shoulder in a halfhearted shrug as if to say, 'I can't help it.'

You're worried.

Heaving yet another sigh that betrays his weariness, he clears his throat and indulges you. “She's fine, Y/n. I don't know what else to tell you that'll get you to believe it. She has a bit of bruising around her neck, but it doesn't seem to cause her any real discomfort, and she has no trouble breathing whatsoever. Her mothers took her home last night, thought it took some effort to convince Mrs Finch to leave you overnight.”

You muster a tiny smile at that. Apparently, the plucky Shannon had made multiple attempts to sneak into your hospital room while you were still under anaesthetic, causing no end of stress for the poor nurses who kept asking her to leave. Eventually, Bianca had all but dragged her wife from the hospital by her ear.

“And mentally?” you pipe up, daring to raise your eyes to Doctor Timpson's face, “Is she okay, like... in her head?”

There's a pregnant pause as he lets his mouth hang open for a second, but after a while, he shuts it, carefully mulls over his words, then says, “She's pretty shaken up.”

“That goes without saying,” you sniff.

“But she'll be okay after some rest.” Aiming a very pointed look in your direction, he adds, “And she's not the only one.”

Gradually, your mouth tilts into a weary smirk. “As if I'd ever skip out on the opportunity to throw my feet up and be lazy.”

With a click of his tongue, Timpson rolls his eyes and huffs, “For god's sake - it isn't lazy to take a few days off every now and again. I bet you're the type to feel guilty if you aren't constantly being productive!”

“Pot, meet kettle.”

His startling, green eyes narrow to dangerous slits as he glares you down, receiving your most innocent smile in return. Then, raising his pen up to jab it at you in mock threat, he firmly states, “I'll sign your discharge papers. You'll go home, and so help me god, you will put your feet up and keep your leg elevated. If the physio tells me you've been aggravating your ankle-”

“-Pretty sure it's bad bedside manners to threaten your patients,” you cut in, incapable of keeping your grin at bay.

“I haven't threatened to do anything,” he quips truthfully, “Yet. Now, don't try to stand up without me here. I'll be back shortly with your medication and your papers.” And with that, Doctor Timpson offers a curt nod before spinning on his heel and marching through the open door.

He must have only ventured a few steps from the threshold when you hear his shoes squeak to a halt and he lets out a soft exclamation. “Oh! Sorry, I didn't see you there.”

“Not to worry,” a vaguely familiar, feminine voice chimes in, “Please, excuse me.”

A shuffling of feet ensues, and suddenly, a woman comes striding through the door and into your room, her stiletto heels clicking authoritatively as she approaches.

At once, your stomach plummets down into your shoes and your eyes grow wide, shocked to see none other than the executive herself strutting into your hospital room, her suit just as immaculately pressed as it was yesterday, and her hair tied up in a pristine bun, not a strand out of place. Your stare darts briefly down to a sleek, leather briefcase clutched in her hand and you're rendered immediately conscious of your own, scruffy appearance.

What is she doing here? The woman you'd consoled in the bathroom after her run-in with Monty... For one, terrible moment, your guts lurch as the notion crosses your mind that she's here to inform you of the gator's decommissioning.

A wild urgency grabs you by the throat and you lean towards her imploringly as you blurt out, “If you're here about the attack, you have to know Monty didn't do this!”

Your unexpected outburst momentarily causes her confident step to falter and her eyes widen behind thick, dark lashes - you assume due to shock at such a bold and unsubstantiated claim.

Frantic, you waste no time in throwing out, “It was an endo, down in the tunnels! Monty, he.. he was only trying to protect us, he probably saved our-”

“Miss L/n,” the exec snaps curtly, her tone brooking no further argument from you, “Will you please keep your voice down.”

Stunned, your mouth clicks shut and you blink owlishly at her as she turns to push the door closed, casting a quick look outside beforehand. “I am quite aware of the situation, believe me.”

Sitting back against the pillows, you dart your tongue out to wet your lips, thrown for a loop. “I... I'm sorry, you're aware? I-Is Monty okay?”

“The robot is fine,” she begins, fixing you with an austere frown, “You're lucky that Mr Flowers had the wherewithal to pull the visual feed from his memory storage.”

“Andy?” you breathe, incredulous, “He listened to me....”

It was one of the few, brief flashes of last night that you can actually remember – calling out to Andy, professing Montgomery's innocence in the last threads of your dwindling consciousness. Andy must have taken it into account and bothered to get Monty's perspective. Literally.

The exec nods and her scowl loosens considerably, enough that her expression might even be construed as something borderline friendly. “Mmhmm, it seems you were right after all, about that animatronic.”

"Oh..." Staring blankly up at her, you sit up straighter in the bed and swallow down the thick lump in your throat. “I.. I'm sorry, I don't mean to be rude, really. But... if you're not here because - I mean... why are you here?”

“Mmm? Oh, I came as soon as Mr Matthews called me.”

You shrink back into your pillows as she blusters closer, peeling your tongue from the roof of your mouth. “Mick? He... he called you?”

“Oh absolutely, he did-” She grabs the visitor's chair with one hand and slides it up to your bed, slipping elegantly into the seat with well practiced grace. “- I know what happened. Dreadful business. Simply dreadful.”

She lifts her briefcase onto the bed and sets it reverently beside your cast.

Something about the deliberate placement is pointed, calculated and you don't miss that she's regarding you very closely. You begin to doubt that she's here out of mere concern for your well-being.

Treading carefully, you ease your shoulders down and keep your eyes off the briefcase. “Well. It's a relief to hear that Monty is okay,” you start, “Though I have to admit, I'm surprised you got called in for this...”

The exec pauses, leaning back in her chair and tipping her chin up to study you down the length of her nose. “Miss L/n... Do you know what my role is in Fazbear Inc.?”

Sparing the briefcase a glance, you reply, “Paralegal?”

Very slowly, one of her perfectly groomed eyebrows slides up her forehead. “How very... discerning,” she remarks, “Or am I just that obvious?”

You'd never claim to be particularly discerning, but you've become rather well-versed in the mannerisms of legal teams following your split with Hunter.

Naturally, the code-locked briefcase is a dead giveaway, along with the immaculate suit lending a strong emphasis to her professionalism. There's also the heavy layer of concealer that hasn't quite been rubbed in properly beneath her eyes to hide deep bags of exhaustion. She's been up most of the night, you deduce, likely compiling a list of legal documents and research. You're betting that before this visit is over, you'll either be asked to sign a non-disclosure agreement or your papers of resignation.

“Lucky guess,” you tell her with a shrug of one shoulder.

The exec eyes you appraisingly for a moment before she raises a fist and coughs into it, ladylike and soft. “Ahem. Yes, you're quite right. I've been on the legal team at Faz Co. for a few years now. Mr Flowers called me in to review the footage he pulled from Montgomery.”

“And?”

“We watched it all,” she says airily, “Flowers, Matthews and I... Along with several other members of the board....”

“... And?” you press as politely as you can when, much to your chagrin, she trails off again.

The exec's painted lips quirk up in one corner, and at last, she says, “Well, it seems to me quite clear. Your gator saved you, Miss L/n. And that little girl. Not to mention that he saved the company even more bad press. Goodness knows we can't have another missing child rumour on our hands...”

“So...hang on,” Shaking your head rapidly in disbelief, you ask the most pressing question on your mind, “So, they're not going to scrap Monty?”

“Scrap him!?” she laughs and throws her head back, “Goodness, no! No, not at all! Not anymore. Mr Flowers was rather adamant that the gator be left alone.”

“Wait. Andy?” Incredulous, you throw her a dubious look, eyebrow cocked. “Andy vouched for Monty?”

“He certainly did. Didn't seem too happy about it, mind you. But he made some phone calls, sent a few messages, and now the whole Pizzaplex knows that Montgomery Gator is to be spared decommissioning.” Hesitating to take a breath, she wrinkles her nose and admits, “It was a good thing Flowers watched the footage when he did though... I confess, it was looking dicey. We all thought the bot malfunctioned and attacked you.”

“He didn't,” you insist.

“Which we now know. Thanks to you.”

Leaning back against the cushions once more, you let out a loud breath and splay your fingers out above your heart, sending Andy a quick, private word of thanks. Monty saved you last night, and you've managed to spare him in return. If they thought he was the one who attacked you, which you feared they very well might, it could have spelled the end of the line for a bot who'd already pushed well beyond his luck. You do find it odd, however, that as of yet, the exec hasn't once mentioned the endo.

“Now then. As for the matter of my being here...” Clearing her throat, the woman in question straightens her skirt out and adds, ”I suppose you're eager to get this squared away.”

'Not as eager as Fazbear,' you muse, wisely keeping the thought to yourself.

“-So, let's cut to the chase.” She sets her fingers on the briefcase's golden locks, and with a subtle 'click,' they spring free of their mechanisms, allowing her to pull open the ageing, leather case. “ I wanted us to speak before the press got to you,” she huffs, beginning to rifle through a myriad of papers and notes, “Apparently, some onlookers saw the ambulances pulled up outside the Plex last night, and given some recent... hmm, unfounded rumours we've been hearing of late, those individuals immediately took to social media.”

You wince sympathetically.

“Nothing too disastrous,” she continues, leafing through a hefty stack of documents, “They're only speculating at the moment, about more disappearances and such. We'd obviously like to crack down on those rumours by outing the truth.”

“...Truth?” you echo. You're not sure why the word had left her mouth so pointedly.

The exec glances over her shoulder at the closed door, listening to a set of footsteps scurry on by before she swivels around to face you again, keeping her voice low, “Yes. The truth... About the intruder who broke in and attacked you?”

Your brows begin to creep together, prompting her to hurriedly add, “You recall, don't you? Middle aged, caucasian, dark hair – Why, it certainly wasn't one of our own bots that attacked you and the little girl. Our technology is safe as houses.”

Gormless, you stare at her, blinking slowly. “An intruder...” you deadpan.

The exec nods vigorously at you, producing a fountain pen from the briefcase and laying it gently on a slip of paper which she places down on the bed next to your hand.

Another, fleeting glance down at the document confirms your initial suspicious. It's a non-disclosure agreement. Unilateral.

“Just a precaution,” she tells you in a hushed tone, “As a fellow Fazbear employee, I'm sure you can understand the desire to protect our assets. If word were to get around that, allegedly, our endos are malfunctioning and running amok through the Pizzaplex, well, parents would have to start wondering if our main stars are safe.”

“The Glamrocks,” you murmur, skimming your eyes rapidly along the convoluted sentences typed out before you. It's obvious what she's gearing towards, and you'd almost be insulted that she's emotionally blackmailing you if you didn't already know you're going to end up signing this NDA.

Because you do understand, categorically, that if word were to spread that it was Faz technology that attacked you – something built and designed by the company - the public will start to question the safety of their tech.

You've been in the service industry long enough to know by now that frightened, angry parents can kill an entertainment business faster than a rat can sink a restaurant.

And more to the point, if parents stop bringing their kids to the Plex, what happens to the bots?

What happens to Music Man and Triple M? Sunny and Moon? It'll break their metaphorical hearts to learn that kids are afraid of coming to the daycare...

And Monty? He's hardly pulling in the masses like Freddy, Chica and Roxanne, and if the company starts losing profit, the first corner they'll cut to save costs is decommissioning any animatronics that generate 'unnecessary expenses.'

Yes, he might have saved you and Stella, but he's destroyed a lot of company property as well. How long will he be able to stay out of the firing line on good behaviour alone if the company starts to sink?

An icy trickle of dread slides down your neck at the thought.

You're all too aware of the executive boring a hole into the side of your head with her stare whilst you fret over the decision laid out in front of you. On the one hand, that endo is clearly dangerous, it had almost killed you and Stella, and likely would have succeeded if not for Monty's interference. What if it's a recurring issue? There are countless endos holed up storage.

It would be irresponsible to allow this sort of thing to happen again...

But what if it's just a one-off? You could say nothing, agree to keep your mouth shut, and the public will be none the wiser. The Plex will continue to be the county's most popular attraction, and the bots won't lose their raison d'etre.

Is it brave or foolish to hope for the best? Say nothing, and hope nothing else like this happens again...? Or say something, and potentially put a lot of people out of a job on the off chance that another endo might go haywire in the maintenance tunnels? It isn't just the bots who will lose out if the wrong information is leaked.

You're broken from your thoughts as a slender finger taps delicately against a section of the form, and the exec's voice fills the space between you.

“You will, of course, receive compensation for your injury, as it occurred on Fazbear's property.”

'Damn right,' you think to yourself, though you're admittedly taken aback. You've never once known the company to offer compensation for employees that have been injured on the job. In fact, there are very specific clauses in your contract that specifically absolve the business of any responsibility in the event of workplace 'accidents.'

The exec must recognise your expression for what it is – wary surprise – because she drops you a quick wink and adds, “I might have had some say in that decision.”

“I... thank you,” you tell her softly.

“Well, you were kind to me when I was at a low point, and I don't tend to forget those who were good to me. Of course, that compensation will be on top of your severance pay, so you'll be fairly well-”

“-Wait, what?” you balk, shooting up off the pillow again, “Severance? You're firing me?!”

Now it's her turn to recoil in shock, quirking her brow at you as if you've grown an extra head. “Firing you? Good heavens, no! But, well, it's just that...” Squinting, she slowly eyes you up and down and adds, “You... you're not quitting?”

“Not that I'm aware?” you laugh weakly without a trace of humour.

You? Leave? God, what an idea... Putting aside the fact that Sunnydrop would likely chain himself to the daycare doors in protest, you actually don't hate working at the Plex. The salary isn't anything to write home about, but it covers your rent and utilities with enough left over to treat yourself every once in a while, and you get along with your co-workers, both animatronic and human. It's a steady job, secure, and an easy commute from your flat...

Gulping down past the thick lump that's growing in your throat, you croak, “Am I... supposed to quit?”

The exec, who had been anxiously fidgeting with the fountain pen, jumps into motion and leans forwards over the bed, nearly leaving the chair behind in her haste as she blurts out, “No! No! Not – God, no! If the company can keep you, they will! You're proving to be exceptionally good for business!”

Any palpable relief you might have felt is swiftly knocked out of the way by confusion. Blinking widely at her, you clear your throat and ask, “I'm sorry?”

“It's true!” the exec announces, “You're making the rounds on social media, you know.”

A twinge in your leg helpfully reminds you that the painkillers you took after your operation are starting to wear off, but you muscle down a wince and force out, “I... wasn't aware.”

Her smile fades as she studies your face. “You haven't heard?” Then, at your blank expression, she continues, “No. No, of course you haven't... Hmm... Here, look-”

Reaching down, the exec hefts her handbag into her lap with a clamour of noise and begins rooting around inside it until, after a second or two, she pulls out a sleek, black phone. You can do little else but wait whilst she taps at the screen for a few moments before turning her phone around to face you.

Your breath catches in your throat.

It's a video, likely captured by one of the patrons you'd absently walked past yesterday on the way to Sunnydrop's daycare.

There on the screen, you watch on in stunned silence as the familiar forms of you, Monty and Stella traipse across the Lobby, hand in hand, looking like the world's most unconventional family out for a stroll.

In the footage, you're on the left, smiling fondly down at Stella, who's dainty, little hand is held gently by Monty's purple appendage. He, in the meantime, is lumbering along on the right, keeping Stella safely tucked between the pair of you, but you notice that his gaze is not on the girl.

Even with the unsteady, amateur footage taken by somebody's smart phone, you can still make out that the crimson lights behind his sunglasses are fixed unwaveringly upon the side of your head and a dopey grin twists at the corner of his lips.

You... never noticed him staring at you like that yesterday...

“It's been circulating social media all night!” the exec pipes up, “People are finally seeing Montgomery Gator's softer side, and let me tell you, they are eating. It. Up! We're already seeing a massive increase in online ticket sales for Monty's Golf! The higher-ups are remaining cautiously optimistic.”

This is a lot to take in, but you think you've not only swerved his decommissioning, but you've also just inadvertently given Monty's popularity rating a significant boost.

“Supposedly,” the exec continues, filling the space of your silence, “You're projected to save the company a fortune on S.T.A.F.F bot and furniture repair. So, you can imagine, they're fairly keen to keep you.”

Well, you'd like to think your value to the company boils down to more than that...

"And I'd like to stay," you affirm. 

"I'm relieved to hear it," the exec hums, “There is, of course, still the matter of... ah... securing the company's reputation...” Her finger taps the edge of the agreement form beside you, drawing your eye down to it.

The weight of your decision hangs about your shoulders like a cinderblock.

Reluctantly, you pull the document up to your face and begin to read, paying little mind to the woman sitting beside you. You'll be damned if you sign anything without reading it first. If she's in any sort of hurry, she's just going to have to wait.

Halfway down the page, your eyes flick over the top of the paper and meet the executive's patient gaze.

“I'd like statutory sick pay for eight weeks,” you say briskly, “That's how long the doctor said it could take for my leg to heal.”

You're actually taken aback when the exec simply nods and replies with a firm, “Done. I'll need to verify that with the doctor, of course,, but I'm sure the company will find that more than reasonable.”

“That's on top of the compensation for this injury, given that it occurred on Fazbear's property.”

Your visitor doesn't bat an eyelid. “Naturally.”

“And,” you press, “I want assurance that this... break in will be investigated. I want to know it won't happen again.”

With her face set solid like a wall of unassailable stone, the exec sits up straight, hands folded in her lap, and responds, “Let me assure you that Faz Co. has no desire to see a repeat of last night's incident. We've called in a computer programmer to check the systems and ensure we haven't been hacked. And the security guard, Vanessa? Was it? She's offered to start patrolling the lower levels of the Plex, see if she can't spot something out of place.”

Oh. That's... better than you expected from the company, to be honest. Slightly more appeased, you continue to read to the very end of the document, whereupon at last, you place it down on the hard suitcase and poise the tip of your fountain pen on the signature line.

Hesitating, you take a breath, and then with a tired exhale, you sign away the truth.

As soon as your pen leaves the paper, the executive seems to visibly sag in the hard, plastic hospital chair, as if all the adrenaline has simply drained right out of her and left her in a state of floppy relief. “Thank you, Y/n,” she sighs, fixing you with a grateful look, “If nothing else, you've just saved me one Hell of a headache. Between Roland's custody battle, the divorce and tidying up loose ends after this attack, I'm going to start looking like an ibuprofen tablet.”

“I can imagine,” you reply, “By the way, I meant to ask – how's Roland doing?”

The executive glances up at you from where she'd been leaning down to retrieve her handbag, surprise etched into the wrinkles between her brows. But after a second, she seems to register your question and you watch her smile grow wide and fond.

“He's doing better, thanks. I said I'd be taking him bowling next Saturday.” She chuckles lightly. “We used to go bowling all the time. And we're going to a pottery class this afternoon. He's so excited. I haven't seen him this happy since...” Trailing off, the corners of her lips edge downwards, yet she's quick to plaster on a slightly smaller smile when she continues, “Well, it's been a long time.... I have to thank you for that, by the way.”

“I think you only have yourself to thank, actually,” you try to point out, but the executive shakes her head patiently and you fall silent to let her continue.

“Perhaps,” she says, “But what you said to me yesterday was like a slap in the face. A good one, mind you. Painful, but necessary. You made me realise that my son was not as happy as I wanted him to be. And now, at least, I have the chance to try and make him happy for real.” She looks at you then, and you note that her expression is more serious now as it ever was when you'd discussed the 'break in.'

“I won't forget that, Miss L/n,” she tells you firmly, “I really won't.”

In the face of such sincerity, you find yourself at a complete loss for words. Swallowing thickly, you attempt to give her a weak grin and reply, “Well, I'm just glad I've finally managed to give someone advice that's actually useful for a change.”

Gradually, a good-natured grin spreads across her face and she nods to you.

“So..." Fiddling with your hands in your lap, you peer up at her and take a deep breath. "What happens now?”

The change in her decorum is instant. Within the blink of an eye, the executive's back is straight again and she's back to business.

“Now,” she starts authoritatively, pushing herself to her feet and gathering the suitcase back together, placing your signed document safely on top of the stack of papers, “I'm going to get out of your hair. You will take your eight weeks of sick pay and you will get some rest. Get that leg better so we can see you back at the Plex as soon as possible... Oh, and Y/n?”

“Mmm?”

“If there's anything else I can do to assist...?”

She leaves the question open-ended, peering down at you expectantly.

You're about to open your mouth to insist that, no, she's done more than enough... But then you pause and your eyes rove down to the shiny glint of the car keys that dangle from her grasp.

“Actually,” you say, flashing her a meek smile, “You wouldn't happen to be going past the Plex on your way home, would you?”

-----

You've evidently overestimated how swiftly you'd grow accustomed to walking with crutches, and how much practice you'd need before you could even begin to call yourself capable on them. 

The rolling doors of the Pizzaplex stand open wide in invitation, as if they're only too eager to welcome you back inside.

You've arrived, according to your Fazwatch, just after the twelve o'clock show, when most of the guests will be filing away from the main stage to seek out an early lunch before the rest of the Plex is inundated with excitable, hepped-up children and their overtaxed parents. So right now, at the very least, there are fewer witnesses to spot you wobbling your way through the entrance, your crutches clicking inharmoniously on the glistening, black linoleum.

Ever the vigilant greeter, one of the S.T.A.F.F bots rolls forwards to meet you at the turnstile and tips its smooth, white face towards yours while you merely smile crookedly back at it, waiting for it to clock you in.

“Scan complete, welcome back... Valued employee,” it rattles off mechanically, scooting aside to let you pass, “Please have a pleasant day.”

“Oh, I'm sure I shall,” you return through a weary laugh as you push off the floor with your good leg and shamble off into the lobby, already feeling the skin of your palms twist uncomfortably around the crutch handles. You're beginning to doubt your own resilience when your tender ankle gives a sudden and excruciating throb, and you have to pause in your step for a few moments, grinding your teeth together as tears spring to your eyes.

Timpson warned you to take it easy at home, and you will, of course, but you have a few essential errands to run first...

Foremost, Montgomery.

The exec might have told you that no action would be taken against the gator and that he's okay, but you know in your heart of hearts that unless you lay your own eyes on him, you'll never find peace of mind.

At some point, you're going to have to bite the bullet and make your way up to the daycare, because you're almost positive you recall hearing Sunnydrop's shrill voice last night, shrieking your name as the bright lights flew by way over your head.

But for now, you wrack your brain, trying to remember your usual schedule...

The midday show should have already wrapped up, and at the time, you're typically busying yourself cleaning the Glamrock's Green rooms. None of the animatronics seem to return until after lunch however, long after you've vacated their rooms, which indicates that they have to be elsewhere. And the only places you can think Montgomery would be when he isn't shredding his bass or shredding up his couch is...

“Gator golf,” you murmur to yourself, turning your gaze past the enormous bronze statue to the escalators beyond.

You can only hope you find the animatronic in a better state than the one you left him in – busted snout, ruined voice box and missing sunglasses.

It's the lattermost part that gives you a moment's pause.

Stumbling a little but managing to stay balanced on your good leg, you swivel an eye sideways and catch a brief glimpse of the luminous, pink and blue neon sign that hangs above the Glamrock Giftshop...

Absently, you chew at your bottom lip.

He's probably already been given a spare pair of his signature, star-shaped sunglasses... But if he hasn't? Well, it's the thought that counts.

 

---

 

Of all the attractions you've taken your shifts in, Monty's Gator Golf has always been the one in which you try to spend the least amount of time.

As per usual, the expansive section of the Plex is dark, lit sparsely by green neon and overhead bulbs that only seem bright enough to illuminate the attraction's name-sake – a vast and varied mini-golf course that winds its way around the various fake plants and water hazards. Given Monty's markedly feral behaviour, you have to admit, the jungle aesthetic suits him well.

As you hobble further into the attraction, you start to hear the periodic bellow of giant, mechanical alligator heads that pop out of the water to startle passersby before sinking back below the surface again, laying in wait for their motion sensors to be tripped.

Just ahead of the entrance however, is your goal - a modest, wooden ticket hut, and sitting behind the plexiglass with her eyes glazed over as she slouches in her chair and gazes down at her phone, is Agnes.

Without even glancing up to see who is approaching her window, the tween heaves a world-weary sigh and begins her bored, very much rehearsed spiel. “Welcome to Monty's Gator Golf, home of the Hurricane hole-in-one,” comes her flat, lifeless drawl, “I'm afraid Montgomery is currently in Parts and Services for a check-up. And no, I don't know when he'll be back. How else may I help you today?”

A smile plays at the edge of your lips. If 'fed-up' was a person, it would be Agnes Smith.

“Agnes,” you return, limping up to the glass and allowing your polite smile to grow, “You'd better not let Mick catch you scrolling on shift.”

In a manner befitting only the most exasperated of women, Agnes' eyes roll all the way up to the roof of her hut before she deigns to even spare you a glance.

You wish you had half her gumption. If you were a customer, you honestly wouldn't know what to do with yourself.

She starts to draw in a breath, probably to tell you to mind your own business when her eyes fall upon your face and she suddenly goes still, squinting sharply through the window at you.

Patient, you simply wait as her gaze travels down to your crutches, then slides back up to the name badge pinned to your blouse.

Thick lashes bat up to your face again and she quirks a black eyebrow, her lips stretching into a lazy smile interlaced with intrigue. “Hey, you're the cleaning lady, right? Y/n? Was it?”

Ah, yes. You sometimes forget that not everyone will remember meeting Fazbear's faceless cleaning lady. You've run into Agnes a few times, asking for directions around the veritable maze of golf courses or agreeing to fetch her some food from Monty's Gator Grub. No matter.

“Right in one,” you reply amiably.

Pursing her lips, she appraises you coolly, both of her eyebrows now raised as she adds, “I'm surprise you came back. Thought you'd've quit after the break in.”

Schooling your expression into something neutral, you merely offer her a noncommittal hum, not failing to notice that she referred to last night's events as a 'break in.' You wonder if she knows what really happened, or if she's just bought into whatever tale Fazbear spun for her and the rest of the faculty. Then you wonder if she actually cares.

“Takes more than a broken ankle to frighten me off,” you offer with a wan smile.

Once again, Agnes lowers her eyes to your crutches. “Oh, yeah,” she drawls, “Monty did that, right?”

“By accident,” you cut in firmly, jaw set.

The girl simply shrugs and slouches back in her seat as she raises the phone up to her face again, a rather unignorable hint that the conversation is starting to bore her. “Whatever. That's just what Matthews told us,” she replies in a tone that reeks of indifference, “The guy was freaking adamant that everyone knew about what Monty did to your leg, never mind that he saved you and that kid... S'probably why he's in such a pissy mood.”

“Who, Mick?” you squint.

She flicks her gaze back over to you, regarding you through narrowed eyes for a few seconds as if you're being deliberately dense. “Uh, Monty. Duh.”

Your eyebrows ease apart as you aim a few glances left and right, as if you might find the gator just standing there waiting to be noticed, but to your dismay, you find nothing and nobody hiding amongst the fake monstera plants and jungle vines save for a few older children who go scampering over a bridge, wielding their golf clubs like swords.

“Is... Is Monty here?” you dare to ask, returning your full attention to Agnes.

One of her shoulders barely bothers to lift in a shrug, but she lets go of her phone with one hand and extends her forefinger, pointing it straight up towards the ceiling of her ticket booth.

“He's here somewhere, all right,” she scoffs, “Sulking up on the catwalks, last I saw him. But I wouldn't bother going up there. He's been a dick all morning.... More-so than usual.”

Another frown tries to darken your expression, but this one you manage to keep it sedate.

“Did he say something to you?” you ask.

“He hasn't said anything to anyone, apparently. Didn't even show up to the midday performance, he just came straight here to sulk. And guess who has to suck-up to all the angry parents asking why Montgomery Gator won't come say hi to their kid.” She jabs her own thumb into her chest twice for emphasis. “Agnes Smith. That's who. Employee-turned-punching-bag.”

A troubled hum escapes your throat as you turn away from her and seek out the lonely door that stands directly opposite the ticket booth, behind which lays the staircase that will take you up to the catwalks proper.

You already had trouble navigating the moving escalators on crutches - you're not looking forward to tackling stairs as well. Unfortunately for your broken ankle, needs must.

"Sorry to hear that," you mutter, getting nothing more than a vague grunt in reply before the sound of nails tapping on a screen fills the ticket booth behind you.

 

As expected, the metal staircase proves to be a tricky affair. With both of your crutches held underneath an arm, you curl your fingers around the hand rail and begin the arduous task of hauling yourself up to the catwalks, hopping up one step at a time.

Progress is painfully slow, and you have to stop on nearly every rung to catch the breaths that wheeze out of you faster than you can suck them in, but at long last, you heave yourself over the last stair and very nearly topple flat onto your face before you manage to get the crutches under your armpits again.

Steadying yourself, you shake your head and venture away from the staircase and approach the edge of the catwalk, peering over the guard rail to see Monty's Gator Golf sprawled out below you, far prettier from this angle now that you can see the infamous course bathed in rich, green light.

Pulling away from the safety rail, you cast a slow glance up and down the maze of catwalks in search of a familiar, hulking animatronic. Your stomach is already twisting itself into knots, anxious to see him and put your mind at ease.

Belatedly, you wonder if he's just as anxious to see you.

It isn't long before your searching gaze lands upon the familiar shock of a red mohawk sitting atop an emerald green head.

Montgomery Gator cuts a miserable silhouette, slumped down on the catwalk with his legs dangling over the edge and his thickset arms draped over the lower railing, his chin resting despondently on top of his knuckles.

Despite his dreary demeanour, you let a breath whoosh past your lips.

As your heart's cadence drops to something far calmer, you start to limp your way along the catwalk, making no secret of your approach, but instead allowing the crutches to clang loudly on the metal grating underfoot.

And yet, to your surprise, Monty doesn't once spare a single glance in your direction.

Your tongue darts out to wet your dry lips and you pull them apart as you draw near, wracking your brain for something substantial to say. Surely he knows you're approaching...

But the animatronic's crimson optics remain fixed steadfastly straight down at the course below him, idly trailing back and forth as he keeps track of the two youngsters who are messing about near the water hazards.

It's only when you draw a few, shambling steps closer that you're abruptly stopped in your tracks. A low, rumbling growl starts to roll from the gator's chest, so rich that you can feel the vibrations travel through the catwalk to your crutches and right up into the palms of your hands.

Though your face falls, you muster up a dry chuckle, softly calling, “Wow. I haul myself all the way up here and you're not even gonna say hello?”

And just like that, the growling cuts out as suddenly as if you'd pointed a remote at him and pressed mute.

There's a definite pulse in your ears when Monty's large, green and yellow snout peels away from his knuckles and begins to twist ever so slowly in your direction. As he turns, you can't help but feel another kernel of worry dislodge itself from your chest once you find that the damage he'd sustained last night is all but nonexistent now. His nose no longer sports a nasty dent, all of his missing fangs have been replaced along his mouth and the gaping tear in the plastic plating of his throat is now nothing but a bad memory.

There isn't a wire is out of place. In fact, all the gator seems to be missing is his signature pair of star-shaped sunglasses.

The ruby lights of his optics fall upon your face, casting shadows underneath your tired eyes, and Montgomery Gator, caught in a bout of shock that stuns him nearly senseless, pries his jaws open, something desperate and vulnerable in the way he rasps your name.

 

“Y/n?”

 

A heavy weight lifts away from your lungs. He can speak again, thank god. Whatever damage had been done to his voice box isn't lasting.

“Hey, big guy,” you whisper through a smile, “How're you feeling?”

For several, silent beats of your heart, the animatronic doesn't move, nor does he come back to you with an answer to alleviate some of your fears until the silence has dragged on long enough that you begin to feel a fresh wave of uncertainty creep up the inside of your ribcage.

Then, all of a sudden, within the span of a few, abrupt seconds, Monty has ripped himself from the catwalk railing and scrambled up onto his feet, startling you back an inch at the unexpected burst of motion.

Evidently even more unsettled than you are, the gator's mouth works mechanically open and closed as he stares at you through optics so wide you can't even spot a glimpse of his retractable, purple eyelids. He looks like he's seeing a ghost. 

“You.... you came back...” he frets, shaking his head slowly from side to side as though he can hardly believe he's seeing you here, in front of him. If you didn't know him to be such a brash and unflinching animatronic, you'd think he was on the cusp of a sudden retreat.

“Why would you....?” he starts, only to trail off as his gaze drops down the length of your body until it at last falls upon your leg.

The instant he seems to register the cast and the crutches, Monty goes rigidly still, his tail lowering until it thumps against the ground and lays there like a useless heap of metal, not what had once been a prehensile and animated limb.

Speechless, you can only stare back at him apprehensively as something that could be a low, quietened whine builds in his voice box before it spills out of the speakers at the back of his mouth and drifts through the air to your ears, rendering you dumbstruck. It isn't a sound you ever thought you'd hear the hot-tempered alligator produce.

Following the animatronic's unwavering stare, your eyes dart down to your cast before flicking back up to see him take a heavy step backwards, rattling the catwalk under his weight.

“Monty?” you coax, closing the distance again by hobbling forwards, “Hey. Hey, it's all right-”

“- I did that...” the gator cuts you off as he gestures weakly at your leg with the back of his hand, like he can't quite believe what he's looking at. Gradually, he continues backing up until his spines hit the railing at the end of the platform and he comes to a jarring stop, hunching in on himself as though he's attempting to make himself seem as small as possible.

He silently begs you to keep your distance.

… You don't.

Recklessly, you dare to amble towards him, a gentle smile trying to work its way across a face that's so slack with exhaustion, Montgomery fears you might end up toppling over. After that thought sneaks into his processor, the gator hurriedly kicks out a scan, and at once, the blue light from his optics illuminates you briefly from head to toe.

… He can hardly bear what he finds.

Although your ankle has been reset, he's picked up several metallic pins keeping the bones affixed to one another. Your cortisol levels are astronomically high, which explains why you look so worn with your bloodshot eyes and haggard posture.

He doesn't need the scan to know that you should be resting. You shouldn't be here.

Any relief he might have felt at seeing you again has been utterly quashed by the abhorrence he feels at seeing the extent of what he'd done to you.

You – who've been nothing but a friend to him when he never did a damn thing to earn one...

“You shouldn't be here...” he tells you quietly, curling both hands into fists so that his claws are safely tucked away.

You continue limping up to him, wobbling on your crutches. “I wanted to come,” you profess, at last drawing to a halt far too close for his comfort. “I had to know that you were okay.”

“Me!?” the gator suddenly barks out in a sharp, bitter laugh, “I ain't the one with a broken leg!”

Nervous, you retort, “Yeah, but you got hurt too, Monty.”

“You didn't hurt me!” he snaps raggedly, “You didn't hurt me, but I hurt you! I broke you!”

“Monty,” you attempt to reason with him, “It was an accident-”

All at once, the animatronic's fangs flash dangerously in the dim light as he rips his lips back and snarls, “That makes it worse!” One of his large, purple hands lifts up to his head and latches on, claws digging into the plastic for purchase. “How many times am I gonna screw up? Huh?! Why couldn't I have been made smarter!? Better!? Even when I'm tryn'a do the right thing, I still end up hurtin' people! I hurt you!”

You blanch at the unabashedly human display of distress, fumbling over your response. “I-it's like I told you, Monty. Accidents... sometimes they just happen! It doesn't mean you're better or worse than anybody else!”

The gator's shoulders heave as he drops his optics to the floor and pries his fingers from his head, allowing the whole arm to fall heavily against his side once more. “How many accidents gotta happen before I hurt someone so bad, they don't come back online?”

Slowly, your mouth closes with an inaudible sigh whilst your heart – already softened by worry – sinks down into your shoes at the animatronic's words. Not for the first time, you have to wonder whether the programmer for these bots was a genius or a monster for installing such authentic emotions in a machine's AI.

There isn't a doubt in your mind right now that Monty isn't just emulating fear. He really, truly feels it, on a wire-deep level.

Montgomery Gator – Fazbear Co.'s most volatile robot – is afraid of hurting people. It's as plain and simple as that.

You'd have expected as much from Freddy, Sun and Moon, even Chica and Music Man... But Monty?

You already guessed he didn't actively want to cause harm, but you never would have realised that these animatronic's, much like humans, could have such deeply-rooted anxieties about their own autonomy.

Seeing the gator now, with his tail tucked close to his legs and his once proud stature diminished to a cowering, hunched stance, you can't hold back a pang of remorse.

Hadn't you once thought he was nothing more than a temperamental bully?

Pinching your lips together, you let your eyes trail to his teeth. He's turned his head to the side, as though he can hide himself away from you, his optics cinched firmly shut.

Very slowly, you withdraw one hand from its crutch and lean the stick against the nearest railing, never once taking your eyes off the gator.

A rift has evidently grown between the two of you, only splitting open wider during your brief stay in the hospital, and it's been left all night to fester in his CPU.

You intend to bridge that gap once more.

“I'm sorry, big guy,” you say softly, inching your free hand up towards his tilted chin, “I'm sorry for what happened, and I'm sorry if you don't believe me. But I promise, what happened was not your fault, okay...? Will you please look at me?”

Stubbornly, the gator keeps his optics shut and his head twisted sideways, grumbling, “It was my fault you ended up in that cast...”

The gentlest touch ghosts across his lower jaw and he jolts at the unexpected contact, flinging his optics open and swivelling them down to peer at his mouth.

All of the gator's pistons lock up at what he sees.

It's your hand. Your small, breakable hand is pressed flush against the side of his jaw – so close to the same fangs that had once bitten down on Mick Matthews' hand.

Afraid to move, Montgomery is helpless but to watch as your thumb flutters delicately over the smooth, metal teeth in his mouth.

“You're wrong,” you tell him, and when he catches your eye, the powerful animatronic is cowed by the staunch earnestness in your stare, “You're the reason that Stella and I didn't end up in caskets.”

His bluster suddenly fades, jaw clicking shut as he blinks down at you dumbly, giving you enough time to get a word in edgeways.

“That thing had its hand around her throat,” you press, “It was out for blood. I sure as Hell couldn't have fended it off by myself....” Then, in a voice as gentle as a whisper, you peer up at him through squinted eyes and squeeze out, “You saved our lives, Mont.”

His immense weight shifts, causing the catwalk to moan underneath him. It's hard for the gator to process any external stimuli with your palm laying warm and kind against his mouth, not an ounce of blame or malice behind the touch.

Nothing there but trust.

… And, oh... that's what this is, he realises, feeling his brand new voice box skip over itself as it tries to produce words. Your hand on his mouth – on his teeth - is an unmistakable show of trust.

“You... ain't afraid of me,” he utters thinly, posing it as a statement, not a question, “Even though I hurt you... and I get mad a lot, and lose control... N'scare everyone...”

A sigh parts your lips as you offer him a sympathetic smile, hopping one step closer. “I think I told you before, but just in case you've forgotten...”

“... Forgotten what?” he murmurs.

And then, you surprise him further by slipping your other arm out of the remaining crutch, which is allowed to topple over with a noisy clatter. Alarmed, Monty spins his head around to face you properly and throws his hands out, catching your ribs to hold you steady.

Balanced painfully on your one, good leg, you lift your other hand up and slide it around the opposite side of his jaw, leaving the bewildered gator's chin propped solemnly in your palms, immoveable, despite bearing the majority of your weight as you lean against him.

He'd reprimand you for ditching the crutches if he wasn't so preoccupied with the soft, little fingers pressing against his casing.

He can feel them. The indents of your fingertips are picked up by the multitude of sensors zig-zagging beneath his faceplate, detecting exactly where warm flesh meets cool plastic. And it's wonderful...

 

“I trust you, Montgomery Gator.”

 

… Almost as wonderful as hearing those words on your tongue.

It's quiet up on the catwalks above Monty's Gator Golf, and well hidden from prying eyes. Perhaps that's why, in privacy, the burly animatronic finds the courage to set aside his guilt for a moment and allows his head to sag ever so slightly into your palms, his purple-lidded optics sliding shut with a soft click.

Chapter 20: A Very Important Person

Summary:

'He was almost afraid that you wouldn't be here when the stage brought him topside, but any lingering doubts slough off his rigid shoulders once his optics fall upon your familiar, smiling face.

And you're looking back at him.

Not at Freddy, nor Chica or Roxy or the other people in the VIP area leaping to their feet to cheer.

Your face is glowing with an eager grin, and it's aimed right at Montgomery Gator.'

“Hey, by the way, I got you something...”

 

Montgomery's optics reluctantly peel themselves open as the comforting warmth of your fingers slides away from his snout. Silicone nostrils flare around an affected sigh and he swivels his gaze down just in time for him to see you delve into the pocket of your work skirt and fish around for a moment.

Absently, he allows his optics to wander further, along the length of his arm until they come to a stop on his hands, each one still splayed out across your ribcage to hold you upright while you balance with your crutches.

Sensors in his palms pick up the steady thumps of your heart, hard at work to keep your body up and moving - so much like his own battery, he supposes. Such a vital piece of human equipment, and it's only protected by a few inches of tearable flesh and fragile bone...

Ever so slightly, Monty loosens the grip he has on your ribs.

“They're no substitute for the ones you lost,” you pipe up, withdrawing your hand from the pocket, “But I figured these'll be better than nothing.”

Curious, Monty tilts his chin down and watches as you deftly unfold a pair of familiar sunglasses, beckoning him closer with a curl of your index finger.

Oh... He... hadn't even realised they were missing.

As if in a trance, the gator obediently lowers his head, never once drawing his gaze away from your face, not even when you carefully slide the glasses up the length of his nose and ensure that they're securely in place before you pull away, leaving him with a gentle tap between his nostrils..

It's only then that he remembers to blink.

The subtle 'cla-clack' of his plastic eyelids fills the quiet air between you, and at last, the animatronic manages to tear his optics from your smile, turning it instead to the little, purple stars now sitting in their rightful place atop his snout.

Whole once again, he feels a spark of appreciation zip across his systems.

“Are they okay?” you ask, eyeing him uncertainly.

Unwilling to trust his voice box to convey the adequate level of gratitude, Monty finds himself unable to offer you anything more than a tiny nod in response, having to beat back the dopey grin that pulls threateningly at the corners of his mouth.

He's still reeling from the fact that you actually came back.

At least his meagre response seems sufficient for you, given by the little sigh of relief that escapes between your lips.

Unfortunately, as is the case with all moments of relative peace, this one isn't long to last.

A shrill 'beep' slices neatly through the quiet catwalks and pulls a startled grunt from Monty, while you simply click your tongue and spare a glance down at your Fazwatch.

A new message has popped up, one with a red exclamation mark hovering above it, indicative of its level of severity. Sparing the gator an apologetic smile, you give the watch a tap, opening up the alert and reading it over.

“... Uh oh,” you say after a pregnant pause, carefully extracting yourself from the gator's grasp, much to his displeasure.

“What's it say?” he grumbles churlishly as he bends down to gather up your crutches, shooing you away when you attempt to collect them yourself.

With a tut, you balance against the catwalk railing for a moment whilst the animatronic hands you the crutches.

“Looks like Mick is after you,” you tell him, slipping your arms through the handles, “He's copied in every faculty member... Seems you're overdue for the after-lunch show.”

Instantly, the gator's mood sours like spoiled milk. Shoving himself upright again, he wrinkles his plastic nose in distaste and folds a titanic pair of arms across his chest. “Why should I care about the stupid show,” he huffs petulantly, “Matthews can play the bass for all I care. I don't owe that guy nothin'.” The choice words betray his disdain. He won't soon forget that it was Matthews who pushed for his decommissioning before Andy discovered the footage of the endo's attack.

And even after the fact, Mick still insisted that Monty be 'declawed,' as if he were some stray cat.

It was insulting.

Clear contempt for Mick aside though, Monty is reluctant to leave your side, not after yesterday's close-call. Not that he'd be caught offline saying that out loud.

You, in the meantime, are troubled by the gator's refusal to play ball.

He may no longer be persona non grata in the Plex, but you aren't sure it's wise to push management any further than they're willing to bend. They're not exactly known for their flexibility.

You know what it could mean if Monty keeps chancing his arm.

Besides, his band will be counting on him. You've seen the reviews they get, left by people who came to see a show and found one of the famous four Glamrocks absent.

 

'I paid to see all the robots perform! If I'm only seeing two thirds of a band, I want to pay two thirds of the price!'

 

You could earn a fortune if you wrote a book about all the customer complaints you overhear on a daily basis.

“Well,” you say, taking a breath, “If you don't want to do it for Mick, then... then do it for your bandmates. They're your friends. Don't you owe it to them?”

At that, the animatronic's fingers twitch against his biceps and he grimaces, averting his gaze as Chica's scraped-up face rises to the forefront of his processor, unbidden.

Well... he supposes he does owe them at least one solid...

Go straight for his core, why don't you...

He wonders if you have any idea that you're currently the only human in this stupid Plex that holds any sort of real sway over him. The gator's shoulder struts clank noisily as he unfolds his arms and slumps forwards, conceding with a gruff, “Hmph... S'pose I could... If I gotta...”

'It might just be worth it,' he thinks, watching your expression light up.

“Great! It'd be a shame if you didn't,” you add earnestly, “The shows always sound better when you're all playing.”

Shooting you a quizzical look, he cocks his brow and asks, “Wait... You've watched our shows?”

“Well, I mean, they're pretty hard to miss when I'm cleaning around the atrium,” you confess, shifting your weight a little further onto your back foot, “But yeah. I've listened to both. The shows where you're playing, and the ones where you're... ah...”

Too busy destroying his room to hold a bass guitar? Banishing that thought, you simply say, “Where you're not.”

When Monty's only reaction is a wide-eyed stare, you feel compelled to continue.

“Look, they're all really good. But... I always preferred the ones with the bass. They just don't sound the same without it... Without you.”

For an awkward few seconds, the gator doesn't respond. He merely blinks down at you, long and slow.

Perhaps it shouldn't surprise him that you've listened to their shows. They're pretty difficult to miss after all, especially if one happens to be in the general vicinity of the atrium. But why, he wonders, does the knowledge that you've seen him perform fill the gator with equal parts horror and happiness?

You said you preferred the shows where he plays?

His in-built ego reminds him that 'of course you do! Who wouldn't!?'

But there's another facet of his programming, more subdued than the former, buried deep under a labyrinth of wires and circuits, that practically sings with delight. Astounded delight.

Without even having to say it out loud, you've told him one simple yet crucial fact.

You've noticed his absence.

Even before you met him, you noticed him.

Unbeknownst to the gator, the little bud of attachment growing inside his chest begins to bloom, unfurling like hesitant, delicate petals at their first taste of sunlight.

Maybe you'd... yeah... He can only ask. The worst you'll say is 'no.'

“Well, I - I mean in that case... You... Do you wanna... uh... y'know.” He suddenly lifts his shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and lets his voice box recede in volume until he's mouthing silently at you, his head turned to glare absently at the side of the catwalk as if daring the metal bars to say something.

With an eyebrow quirked, you slowly ask, “Do I want to what?”

Gritting his fangs, Monty huffs a noisy blast of air from his nose and finally rushes out, “Do you wanna watch me perform, or whatever?”

“Oh,” you blink, taken aback but pleasantly surprised. You've never really had the opportunity to watch the show as a member of the audience...

But you did only come back to the Plex to let a few, specific bots know that they don't have to fret about you...

Oh, but there goes Monty's segmented tail again, swaying to and fro like an over-eager pendulum.

Well, you suppose half an hour won't hurt. And it would be nice to put your feet up for a while... Those hospital-grade painkillers are starting to wear off...

“Sure, I... yeah, I'd love to!” you concede, flashing the animatronic a sunny smile, “But only for a little bit. I still have some errands to run around the Plex.”

With that, you start to turn away, missing the dubious frown that descends over Monty's face plates, drawing his black, plastic brows together until they threaten to click in the centre of his forehead.

Glaring at your cast, he grumbles, “Can't see you runnin' anywhere on that bum leg.”

“It's a figure of speech, you big smart-aleck,” you tease, jerking your head towards the other end of the catwalks, “Now, come on. We'd better get you to the stage before Mick has conniptions.”

You begin to shuffle away from him, no doubt heading for the stairs that brought you up here in the first place, and if it weren't for the low freezing temperature of the coolant coursing through him, Monty might have sworn his systems had just turned to ice.

“You ain't walkin'!” he barks, as if the very notion is ludicrous.

In response, you only turn to spare him a glance over one shoulder and quip, “Not very well at the moment, no, but I can still get from A to B.”

The catwalks suddenly shudder as the four-hundred pound animatronic stomps his way after you, his lips now set in a downward curve. “What if you fall?!”

“I made it up here okay, didn't I?”

Montgomery's optics flash to the deathtrap ahead of you, disguised as a perfectly nondescript set of stairs. Purple hands curl into crushing fists. It only takes him a second to surrender to his instinct and perform a brief scan of the staircase, and for the first time ever, he makes note of the loose screw in the hand rail and the spattering of rust lurking underneath the third step, even the complete lack of any non-slip hazard tape to make the metal steps less... slippery.

So many ways that a simple descent could go horribly wrong...

One of Monty's most deep-seated protocols surges forth, as does the gator himself, moving right up behind you and bending over without putting too much thought into it.

You're wholly unprepared to feel a pair of solid arms curl behind your knees and back, scooping you up off the catwalk in one, smooth motion, even bringing your crutches along for the ride.

Smooth as it is though, you still let out a startled yelp. “WOAH! Wha- Montgomery!”

The animatronic behind you seems entirely unapologetic, tucking you firmly against a hollow chest and burying his clawed fingertips into your clothes for added purchase, taking immense care to avoid nicking you by mistake.

“Yer just gonna... slow us down,” he explains with a gruff snort, “I'd like to get to the show today, f'that's all right with you...”

Your crutches dig uncomfortably into your sides as you struggle against the gator's iron-clad hold. “Well then,” you grunt, glaring up at the underside of his chin, “Why didn't you just go on ahead of me?”

For the barest second, his stride falters, one foot poised to take the first stair. Your expectant gaze lingers on him until he gives his head a rough shake, sputtering, “'Cos... 'Cos you'll never get to the show in time to see it without my help!”

Confident in the cobbled-together excuse, he sticks his nose haughtily in the air and begins to descend, clomping down the steps with all the grace of a rhinoceros attempting ballet.

You think better of trying to jostle him on a staircase, so you reluctantly go limp in his grasp and endeavour to simply ignore the indignity of being carried like a child by an oversized animatronic alligator.

“Whatever you say, big guy,” you begrudgingly relent, “Just to the bottom of the stairs though. If anyone sees me, it'll decimate my street cred.”

You don't appreciate the way Monty's shoulders jump with a quick huff of laughter, though he's careful to keep his gaze fixed ahead of him, avoiding your challenging glare. “Just to the bottom,” he promises, “Then I'll put you down...”

You get the prickling feeling you should have asked for that in writing.

---

As it turns out, 'just to the bottom,' turns into 'just to the exit of Gator Golf,' which swiftly becomes 'just to the VIP area in front of the main stage.'

You only count yourself lucky that the guests have yet to start gathering in the atrium to see the upcoming show, which isn't to say that there aren't plenty of curious stares aimed in your direction.

“Montgomery Gator,” you hiss as he strides purposefully past the photo booths, “You put me down this instant, before your... your hydraulics break, or something-!”

 

“Mom, why's Monty carrying that lady?”

 

- Or before you simply shrivel up and die from the sheer humiliation of it all.

Utterly nonplussed, Monty's heavy footfalls plod lazily across the atrium, passing right in front of the empty stage. “My hydraulics're fine,” he contends, and you feel his chest push against your ribs as it puffs out in a shameless display of pride, “I'm built to weight-bear a couple'a metric tonnes. I could carry you for days if I wanted to.”

The idea of him doing just that to prove some kind of point quells a little of your indignation and you hurry to blurt out, “No need to test that theory. I believe you wholeheartedly.”

From your angle, you can't see his grin, but you can certainly feel the pleased hum that rattles through his frame.

After what seems like a long and harrowing eternity of being subjected to the scrutiny of a dozen strangers, he finally arrives at the thankfully deserted VIP area to the left of the stage.

“Monty! I didn't think you were serious!” you balk as he draws to a halt in front of a S.T.A.F.F bot standing guard by a velvet, red rope that serves as a cordon around the lounge.

The gator merely chuffs, as if offended, and retorts, “Course I was serious! These're the best seats in the house!”

He conveniently neglects to mention that he's not about to let you stand on the foot he broke for any longer than you absolutely have to.

“Yeah, but-!” Mindful that there are more people spilling down the escalators, you begin to fidget in his hold. “But those seats are expensive, Mont! I-I can't afford to sit here.”

“N'who said you're the one buyin'?” he scoffs.

Your brows shoot up your forehead, but he pays the expression no mind.

As if he's handling fragile glass, the gator gingerly starts lowering you down to the floor, almost dropping onto his knees before your feet make contact with the carpet.

For his efforts, you fix him with a withering look, which he continues to ignore until your crutches are safely under you once again. Then, with the reluctance of a frozen man pulling away from life-saving fire, he finally withdraws his hands, moving slowly, ready to jump into action just in case he's mistaken and you aren't as steady on your feet as he first assumed.

This time, his wariness earns him a flat, unimpressed blink.

“Don't look at me like that,” the animatronic huffs as he rises to his full height, towering over you and flipping open a panel in his forearm. “Here.”

Holding his hand out towards you, he studies the way your moody expression opens up in surprise as he produces a small slip of plastic, pinched between his thumb and index finger. “S'a VIP ticket,” he explains, perhaps needlessly - you have eyes, after all. One of the gator's hands raises up to rub absently at the back of his neck. “It's uh, it's on the house, for you.”

You're staring down at the ticket as if you've never seen anything like it before, tentatively stretching out your fingers and drawing it from his grasp to get a closer look.

“Monty,” you begin, lifting your eyes to meet his, “You can't give me this.”

The gator holds his palms to the ceiling. “Just did.”

“But... you're only supposed to give them out to people on their birthdays.”

Indignation puffs his chest out and he folds his arms neatly across it, replying, “I'm allowed to give 'em to anyone I want. And I wanna give this one to you. So just... take the stupid thing.”

He must have noticed your almost imperceptible flinch because he loses his bluster at once, lowering his voice until it's borderline soft. “Uh.. Consider it a thank you... for the glasses,” he mutters, gesturing flippantly to the pair sitting on his snout.

 

And for everything else.

 

Chewing on your lip pensively, you draw the ticket close against your chest. “I can't even stay for the whole show,” you argue weakly, but the gator brushes aside your excuse with a lash of his tail.

“You're stayin,” he informs you, his tone brooking no argument.

You pause for a moment with your mouth hanging open ever so slightly, as though you're balancing on the cusp of protesting a little further.

Monty wishes you wouldn't. He wishes you'd let him do this one nice thing for you, as a meagre return for all the patience and kindness you've shown him.

It's just... embarrassing to admit out loud just how much he needs you to understand that he's grateful. He'd rather show you than outright tell you.

He never was very good with words. Not like Freddy.

A sudden, unexpected touch against his wrist sparks sensation up his limb, and he blinks his optics widely, glancing down at himself, only to grow still at the sight of your hand draped gently along the width of his forearm.

He doesn't think he'll ever get used to you willingly touching him.

“Thank you, Monty.” Your voice is as soft as falling snow, but he can still hear it over the murmur of the gathering crowd.

Montgomery's crimson LED optics slowly venture back up to find your eyes, stopping once they lock together. Biological meeting mechanical.

You're smiling at him again, wide enough to push your cheeks up and out and even show a little tooth.

'Huh,' he muses silently, 'When did you start lookin' so...?'

“Attention, ladies and gentlemen!” a voice blares rudely out of the loud speakers, jolting him from his reverie with a snarl, “The show is about to begin. Please make your way to the ground floor for stage access. Freddy and the gang will see you real soon!”

Monty gnashes his teeth at the ceiling overhead, painfully aware that your hand has slid from his forearm with a squeak of skin on plastic.

“Guess that's your cue,” you remark, hopping backwards a step and shooing him away with a flick of your wrist before returning it to its crutch, “I'll see you up there.” Then, after a beat, you add, “Rock and Roll, big guy.”

Just like that, the borderline feral grin is plastering itself back on his face, fangs glinting like pearls under the overhead spotlights.

The gator starts to traipse lazily backwards, raising a fist high into the air and extending his forefinger and pinky, flashing you the sign of the horns. “Heh, rock and roll!” he calls back to you, at last spinning about on a cumbersome heel and lurching off across the atrium, weaving around families and children that squeal excitedly as he thunders past.

Only once he's out of sight do you finally feel it's safe enough to let your smile contort into a pained grimace, sinking on your crutches. You're glad he didn't think to scan you again. You're sure he'd have seen that you're well overdue some more painkillers. But right now, a comfortable seat in the VIP area sounds like the next best thing.

With a grunt of exertion, you manoeuvre yourself about until you're facing the S.T.A.F.F bot behind you.

“Please present your VIP pass,” it drones, dutifully rolling towards you.

Holding Monty's gift up between two fingers, you reply, “One VIP pass, as requested.”

A beam of light blooms across the plastic for several seconds before it fizzles out, and at last, the bot rolls aside, unhooking the rope and opening the way for you.

“Right this way,” it says.

You spare it a quick thanks, hobbling your way towards the nearest table with an uninterrupted view of the stage, where you sink gratefully into the hard, plastic seat provided.

A quick glance down at your Fazwatch shows you the time, and you grimace at it.

You really hope Sunny and Moon won't mind if you put your feet up for a few minutes. Music Man too. You're not on your usual route, and you know they'll be wondering why your schedule has been cleared for the foreseeable future.

“One bot at a time,” you tell yourself as you lean back in your chair, setting the crutches down on the floor beside you and threading your hands neatly over your stomach. You're here to see Monty, like you promised.

The others will see you soon enough.

All that's left for you to do now is sit back and wait for the show to start.

---

“Nice of you to finally join us.”

Roxanne's waspish announcement garners the attention of everyone milling about on the stage's lowered platform, bots and humans alike. Several pairs of eyes swivel towards the hulking figure that trundles his way up onto the dais, dragging his tail along on the floor in his wake.

He slows to a stop in front of the others, purple shoulder struts hunched and his optics lowered to the ground whilst his fingers constrict like vices around the neck of his trusty, yellow guitar.

There's almost nothing of the swaggering, ornery gator that usually steps onto the stage with them. Just a bot who's actions the previous night have left him shame-faced and reluctant to look his bandmates in the optics.

Which is why he doesn't see Chica when she suddenly darts across the stage towards him. “Monty!” she exclaims, “You're here!”

To his astonishment, her tone indicates that she's happy to see him, a fact that twists a knife of white-hot guilt into his throat, burning as fiercely as it had when the endo tore out his voice box. Finally, he glances up, and instinctively tries to take a step back when he realises that Chica is barrelling at him with her arms flung open wide, but his retreat is aborted as the slender bot crashes into him with a noisy clatter, pushing an 'oomph!' from the gator's speakers.

She squeezes his neck, sending his CPU into disarray as it scrabbles to work out what's happening. But as swiftly as she caught him, Chica is pulling back again, stepping away from him and giving him his first, proper glimpse of her face plates.

Monty's optics whir as they focus on her.

He... isn't sure what he'd been expecting to see, frankly. Of course they'd never let one of the band go up on stage with an extensive gash decorating their face.

But he's still astonished to look and find that there's nothing there.

No trace of damage. No sign of the welt he'd scraped out of her paint job last night.

“I'm so glad you came!” she adds, oblivious to his startled expression as she tosses her head back and lets out a dramatic groan, “Ugh! We thought you were gonna be up on those catwalks forever!”

He tries to respond, to ask her why she isn't more wary of getting close to his claws, but he can't hold her eye for long, and eventually, his optics drop to the ground once more. “Heya... Chick,” he croaks, watching from the corner of his vision as the encompassing shadow of Fazbear looms into view.

“Monty!” Freddy claps him heartily on his shoulder, and when the gator turns to look, the bear's ears are practically quivering with delight, “Mr Matthews was worried you wouldn't show up! But I told him you wouldn't let us down.”

“I...” The gator's voice box seizes up as he swivels his gaze from Freddy to Chica and back again, until at last he settles on peering down at the chicken, studying her face as though he expects it to twist up in outrage at any moment.

It doesn't.

“Chica,” he utters, everything he thought he'd be able to say to her suddenly sounding so flat and pathetic in his own audials.

Is an apology enough?

...Not to him. Not by a long shot.

He spares a second to wish that you were down here with him, coaxing him on. You seem so smart - you'd probably have no trouble knowing what to say.

As simple as it is, all Monty can conjure up is a soft, mumbled, “M'sorry...”

He can sense rather than see the engineers exchange glances of astonishment.

Chica only stretches her beak into a wide grin, genuine and earnest, though a gentle frown tugs at her brows. “You're sorry for protecting your friend and that little girl?”

Blinking down at her, he slowly replies, “No...? M'sorry for hurtin' you.”

Behind the chicken, Roxy leans back on her heels and spares him an appraising once-over. “You're apologising?” she scoffs, flicking her sleek, silver mane over one shoulder, “Okay, who are you and what've you done with Montgomery Gator?”

The bassist aims a venomous glare at her, but the expression drops swiftly when Chica pipes up again.

“Monty, you know none of us blame you, right? Least of all me.”

“Speak for yourself,” Roxy mutters.

Ignoring her, the gator stares down at Chica, at her easy-going smile and bright, blue optics. “But... why not?” he can't help but squeeze out.

“Because!” she presses, still with that gentle smile on her beak, “You were scared! And I'm the one who got too close! I tried to take your lady friend away from you.”

Grimacing, Monty removes a hand from his guitar and rubs at the base of his neck. “Chica... Don't call 'er that,” he complains.

For a few seconds, she regards him blankly, then with a shrug, she cheerfully corrects, “Girlfriend then!”

The gator balks, recoiling in something akin to horror as he sputters, “Th-that's not what-!”

“All right, lift-off in thirty! Devon, Gordon. Get off the stage!”

Monty tries very hard to suppress an obnoxious groan. Matthews, it seems, has arrived at last.

The rest of the band turn to acknowledge him, but Monty barely twists his head around enough to spare the man a fleeting glance, only just catching his twitchy, bulging eye.

“Decided to show up then, did you?” The corner of Mick's mouth curls in distaste. “Finally,” he spits.

To the gator's honest astonishment, the man doesn't seem to have anything more vicious to say than that.

“Places, guys!” Gordon calls out from the lift's control panel in the room behind the.

Together, the animatronics start to move. Freddy, with his microphone in hand, steps to the far side of the stage, right at the front, Chica to his left and Roxanne behind him. Which leaves Monty free to take up the right side, conveniently the side that will bring him up closest to the VIP lounge...

The lights dim, and Mick's voice shouts out from behind them as they take their places on the stage.

“All right, you four. Stick to the script. Roxy – no showboating.”

The wolf's painted lips curve at their edges and she flicks her optics over to Chica, offering the chicken a secretive wink. “Who me? C'mon, Chief, that doesn't sound like something I'd do.” To Roxy's private delight, the guitarist pulls a hand away from her instrument and places it over her beak instead, doing a god-awful job of stifling a giggle. Mick, however, has been at the gig long enough to know that it's best to ignore the pair of them, instead turning his focus onto Monty and narrowing his eyes at the back of the gator's head, his disdain as clear as the nose on his face.

“Gator,” he barks, “Since you didn't turn up on time for your check-up, it'll be your own sorry fault if something goes wrong out there. I don't wanna hear you bitching about landing in Parts because your tail fell off.”

From the corner of one optic, Monty catches Freddy and Chica flinching at the profanity. Flicking his tail irritably across the ground, the gator just pretends to fiddle with his bass, but deigns to at least nod his head to appease the manager.

“You hear me, croc!?” Mick hollers, evidently unsatisfied with such a lacklustre response.

“I got it, Chief!” Monty grinds out.

The man recoils a little, taken aback, but he's quick to turn his attention to Freddy. The change in his tone is immediate. It'd be clear to a blind man which of the Glamrocks is his personal favourite. “Knock 'em dead, Fred,” he tells the bear, “You've got a big crowd up there to appease.”

Snapping to attention like a good, little tin soldier, Freddy flicks a salute off his top hat and responds, “We won't let you down, Mr Matthews!”

High over their heads, that achingly familiar synth music begins blasting from every speaker in the atrium, eliciting immediate shrieks and whoops of excitement from the masses of guests who have packed themselves in front of the stage.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” the voice-over booms, barely able to drown out the crowd, “Boys and girls. Fazbear Entertainment would like you to put your hands together for the one, the only...”

Monty's optics roll up towards the ceiling. “Here we go.”

“-Freddy Fazbear!”

That certainly never gets old.

The rumble of an enormous motor thrums to life below their feet, kicking into gear as it starts to crank the stage up off the ground, hoisting the band towards the dazzling spotlights that flash back and forth above them.

Despite himself and his reputation, Montgomery can't quite manage to conjure up his usual bout of bitterness. It's diminished, subdued in a way that it never has been before, taking a backseat to let a tiny kernel of excitement pop and fizzle inside his chest.

Nevermind what that stupid, pre-recorded voice might say, the gator knows that this time, there's someone waiting up there in the crowds whose hands will be clapping for him.

For the umpteenth time, he raises a sleek, black claw and scrapes it up through his mohawk, as if he could coax the solid piece of plastic into a slightly more appealing shape.

Then, returning his hand to the bass, he allows his fingertips to pluck soundlessly at the strings as they move closer and closer to the atrium, anticipation building inside his chest with every second that flies past.

His bandmates are nodding encouragingly to one another, but all of Monty's attention is focused to his right, to the place where he knows you'll soon pop into view.

The jazzy music hits a crescendo, Freddy bends low on his struts, ready to leap into action, and at long, long last, the stage emerges into the atrium proper.

Neon lights burst to life all around them, illuminating a surging crowd that explodes into raucous applause when the Glamrock band jumps forwards, raising their arms to wave enthusiastically at the men, women and children cheering them on.

All except for Monty, who is content to hold his bass loosely in one hand, lifting the other ever so slightly to wave at the one human whose presence he seems to notice.

He was almost afraid that you wouldn't be here when the stage brought him topside, but any lingering doubts slough off his rigid shoulders once his optics fall upon your familiar, smiling face.

And you're looking back at him.

Not at Freddy, nor Chica or Roxy or the people in the VIP area leaping to their feet to cheer.

Your face is glowing with an eager grin, and it's aimed right at Montgomery Gator.

Forgetting himself for a crucial moment, his purple eyelids droop and his own smile turns lopsided and dozy as he watches you raise your hand to wave back at him, drawing a low, dopey chuckle from his voice box.

He doesn't even notice that beside him, Freddy has been sparing him a couple of fleeting glances.

Curious as to what, or who, seems to have ensnared his bassist's attention, the bear follows the line of Monty's optics towards the VIP area, scanning briefly through the myriad of faces gathered there until his own gaze lands upon a face he was afraid he'd seen the last of.

The bear has to do a double-take, his arm sputtering to a halt mid-wave, hovering high above his ears and top hat.

Is that...?

“Y/N!?” he booms into his microphone with a start, heedless of the crowds of people watching on. “Y/n! Is that you!?”

'It's terribly unprofessional to be pausing the show like this,' a quiet little subroutine tries to warn him, but it's swiftly bowled over by the sheer, unrestrained power of relief that spills through Freddy's systems with the force of a tidal wave, turning his knee-struts weak.

The cheering shifts to a low murmur as people stop whooping and cock their heads inquisitively, roving their eyes about to search for the object of Freddy's focus.

This is the second time today you've wanted to disappear into the aether.

Gradually, your eyes creep open until they're as wide as they'll possibly be, horrified when the lead singer of the Glamrock band suddenly raises one of his arms high into the air and begins waving it animatedly back and forth at you, a beaming grin lifting his jaw and showing off his canines. Before any of his bandmates can stop him, he turns himself about to face you head on and calls out, “I'm so glad you're okay!”

Oh no... Ooooh no...Oh, God...

You can feel the eyes of everyone in the atrium crawling across your skin, some curious, most confused. The hen party on the table adjacent from yours is shooting you several, dirty looks.

“Wasn't aware you could pay for shout-outs,” one of them gripes none-too-subtly to her friend.

As flattering as you're sure it must be to find yourself the centre of Freddy's attention, you can't help but feel mortally embarrassed, sinking low into your chair and willing the ground to open up and swallow you down into the Plex's lower levels so as to escape the sudden multitude of curious eyes that sweep in your direction. You continue to slouch until your chin barely peeps over the lip of the table, slowly lifting a hand to cover one side of your face.

But even in the wake of total mortification, you find the bear's enthusiasm hard to resist entirely. So, blowing out a sigh, you flash him a feeble grin and waggle the fingers of your free hand back at him, weakly mouthing, 'Hi, Freddy.'

All the while, Monty has done nothing but glower darkly at the bear, his jaws set into a rigid line.

Chica has begun to wave at you as well, lighting up and leaning forwards onto one foot. Roxy however is grimacing over at you in solidarity, embarrassed on your behalf.

“Freddy!” Mick's voice cuts like a whip crack across their shared chat, “What are you doing!? Goddammit, eyes front! You'll miss the cue!”

All at once, the bear jolts, his optics shuttering as he collects himself. “Oh! Oh, yes, of course!”

Electing to track you down after the show, Freddy obediently returns his attention to the atrium and does his best not to let his gaze wander back over to the VIP lounge.

He has a thousand questions he wants to ask you!

But the bear knows all too well that he has a duty to the other guests who have come to see he and his band perform.

The music swells as the bars count down towards the start of the ballad, and with a heartening nod to the rest of his bandmates, Freddy raises his little, black microphone up to his mouth and starts to sing.

---

You have to admit, it's far more entertaining to watch the show as an audience member than a cleaning lady, especially now that you're no longer being gawked at by an entire room full of people because the Glamrock's frontman picked you out of the crowd.

You hadn't realised you'd been so missed.

From up here, you're really beginning to see the appeal of the band.

They're good. Immeasurably good.

Roxy and Chica have the most marvellous chemistry on stage, playing their instruments back to back and tossing one another huge grins after every couple of riffs.

And you can definitely understand why Freddy was chosen to be the singer.

The bear's smooth, honeyed baritone transports you back to those bygone days when Johnny Cash would fill the quiet corners of your bedroom, serenading his heart out from an old record player you rescued from your neighbour's jumble sale.

Freddy is absolutely a crooner - dulcet yet powerful as he belts his ballad out above a screaming crowd in a voice you imagine could only suit a bear, if one ever deigned to speak.

And then, there's Monty.

You don't know if you'd dare to fluff his ego by saying it out loud, but - at least for this performance - Montgomery Gator is stealing the show.

His energy is quite literally electric. you can't help but notice that he's been hogging the right-most corner of the stage, closest to the VIP section, his claws blurring so fast over his guitar strings that just trying to watch sends your eyes funny.

You don't miss the glances he keeps sending your way. Even during a highly impressive moonwalk across the stage, he holds your eye until you have to pretend not to notice him, keeping your gaze moving constantly between each member of the band.

This, of course, only spurs the gator to try other methods of catching your attention.

You have to press your lips together firmly as he hops on one foot, rocking his guitar expertly and teetering back and forth like he's seconds away from falling over and crashing to the stage, much to his audience's amusement.

During one of Chica's solos, he lets his instrument hang from the strap over his shoulder and starts to flex. Which would be hilarious, if he wasn't so very obviously looking at you whilst he does it.

A terrible, toothy grin splits his jaws apart as he lifts his arms to either side of his head and bends them at the elbow, fists clenched.

Although, with no actual muscle tissue to bulge out, he only ends up looking absurd. And yet the people are eating it up.

Before long, you have your fingers splayed out from chin to forehead, peering through them at the obnoxious animatronic, who in turn, seems entirely unabashed.

The music begins to swell once more, and Chica throws her head back, holding her final nose to indicate the end of her solo whilst the others ready themselves to join in once more.

Monty lowers his arms and grabs the neck of his guitar again with one hand, and for a blessed moment, you actually have hope that his attention might finally turn elsewhere. But then, he dashes that hope by raising his free hand up to the sunglasses you gave him, pinching the frame between his fingers and tipping his snout down to flash you a wink over the purple stars.

You're beginning to regret ever buying him those stupid glasses.

And here you were thinking Roxy was the band's showoff. Her grandstanding doesn't hold a candle to the gator's.

Struggling valiantly against a grin, you shake your head and let your fingers slide off your face, parting your lips to mouth, 'Showoff!' at him. Undeterred, Monty tosses his head back and you hear a guttural laugh boom from the nearby speakers before he grabs up his guitar again and joins the rest of the band in another chorus.

For another enjoyable while, you content yourself with watching the band glean the kind of adoration they deserve, marvelling at the unexpected humanity behind each gesture, the fluidity in every step and spin. Eventually however, you happen to glance down at your Fazwatch, pulling a face when you see the time blinking back at you.

Twenty five minutes you've been sat here...

The knife's edge of guilt gives a subtle twist, spurring you to sit up in your seat and turn your head towards the escalators.

You're enjoying the show immensely, but you've kept your friends waiting long enough.

Another quick glance at Monty reveals that he's actually occupied with something other than you, namely, he's sidled his way up to Roxanne, playing just close enough that his elbow begins knocking into hers, as though he's deliberately trying to get her to miss a key. Which, you realise with a bark of laughter, is almost certainly his goal.

Shaking your head fondly at his antics, you send a silent promise to the gator that you'll track him down before you leave, to congratulate him on a splendid performance.

Then, gathering up your crutches and stealing from your table, you meander your way around the actual VIPs and hobble stiffly towards the cordon, already wondering how you're going to explain yourself to the daycare attendants this time.

---

He must have only looked away from you for twenty seconds, maybe thirty – surely less than a minute, but when Montgomery Gator finally leaps back from a simmering Roxanne and casts his optics over to your table, he finds your spot disconcertingly vacant.

Gradually, his smile shrinks, and his tail begins lowering down towards the ground as he sends out a scan, searching through the sea of faces beaming back at him from the VIP lounge. He lets his programming take over most of his motor functions, falling back on basic routines to continue playing his bass guitar while the rest of his processing power goes towards widening his search, sifting amongst the throng of people to find the one most familiar to him.

As the song plays on and the seconds tick by without turning up your signature, Monty's EM field begins to quaver, the invisible waves of energy growing more and more agitated as he spins in a slow circle, hardly following the music at all anymore.

… You're gone?

No... No you can't be. You wouldn't go off by yourself into the Plex without someone watching your back, not after what happened last night. If you're not here, then that would mean you're out there somewhere... alone.

With a broken ankle.

Slow and unguarded.

Vulnerable.

 

And that's when it happens.

His finger slips on a string, and he misses a note.

To the untrained ear, the blunder is all but nonexistent. But to his fellow animatronics, it's as obvious as a klaxon.

Almost at once, he feels the gentle presence of Freddy's EMF pressing back against his own like an ebbing tide, attempting to soothe the gator's away from its highly-strung state.

It's inquiring. Tentative.

'What's wrong?'

The bear isn't looking back at Monty and his voice hasn't strayed in the slightest from the notes he's warbling out.

A ping from Roxanne flashes onto the bassist's HUD mere seconds later, a simple message that's far less diplomatic than Freddy's.

'Keep it together, Tone Deaf.'

That her insult doesn't garner any sort of response from the gator is clue enough that something isn't right.

Chica is the only one who actually glances over at him even as she bobs up and down to the music and keeps her fingers dancing over the strings of her guitar. She speaks aloud, just softly enough that the microphones don't pick it up. "Monty?"

“It's Y/n,” the gator breathes, coming to a complete standstill as the music begins to fade and the crowd erupts into another exuberant applause, entirely oblivious to the exchange happening between the animatronics.

Monty's fiery optics pivot around to affix themselves on your empty chair once more, something unsettled and cold etching its way sluggishly through his wires.

“She's gone.”

Notes:

I have read through all of your comments by the way, and let me tell you, you guys keep me inspired, I swear. Love you all and thank you for your patience. Sorry if I don't manage to reply to all of you :(

Next up; You make your way to the daycare and find the doors riddled with signs telling you to 'Keep out.' Undeterred, you limp your way inside and come face to face with a total stranger who you've known for months.

Chapter 21: Strangely Familiar

Summary:

“F r i e n d?”

The fine hairs on the nape of your neck begin to prickle and you lean back on your crutches, away from the structure.

That voice is more in keeping with Moondrop's dulcet tones.

But... that's impossible.

The lights are on.

The foyer is abnormally silent, save for the uneven clacks of your crutches as you wander inside the lower level and shamble up to the big, wooden doors that will see you into the daycare proper.

There isn't a hint of music drifting down from the overhead speakers.

Unsettling.

It's your first clue that something isn't quite right.

The second is that all the lights are still on, both inside the daycare itself and in the adjoining foyer, yet no matter which way you turn, you can't spot a single guest milling about in the shops or sitting at the little, round tables for a spot of late lunch.

A brief glance at your Fazwatch tells you it's just gone two o'clock. Nap time.

The lights should not be on.

But perhaps the most alarming clue comes in the form of a large, printed sign that's been slapped at a wonky angle across the door's panelling.

Slanting a brow, you hobble to a stop in front of it, pursing your lips as you read over the words typed in big, unmissable font that reads out a stark warning.

'KEEP OUT.'

And printed below that in a slightly smaller message... 'By order of management.'

The sign alone is enough to set your nerves on edge and somewhere at the back of your mind, alarm bells start ringing.

Management - who are notorious for sugar-coating every last, little detail about the Plex to assuage the concerns of their guests – have just issued a very clear, blatant message.

'Keep out,' indeed.

They might as well have written 'DANGER' in bright, red paint.

 

Hell, even when Monty was busy tearing apart his green room, management only stuck a sign outside that was condescendingly soft-pedalled.

'Montgomery is taking a break, but he'll be back soon! We apologise for the inconvenience.'

It was as non-threatening as they could make it. The public-relations team know how to keep guests flowing through those rolling doors, despite the questionable rumours and reviews.

This sign however?... This sort of warning? It's troubling.

“What happened, guys?” you murmur to the silent daycare, raising a hand – crutch and all – to give the door a soft, cautious knock.

Despite your efforts to keep it subdued, the sound still booms across the foyer like a clap of thunder.

Wincing, you hold your breath, keeping your ears peeled for any noises that might answer you from behind the thick layer of wooden panelling.

… Nothing.

After a full minute ticks by without any semblance of a response, you gulp down a lump of trepidation and plant a hand on the door, giving it an experimental push.

Oddly enough, in spite of management's sign, the entrance creaks dutifully open to welcome you, just as it always has.

With a tut, you click your tongue and roll your eyes to the ceiling.

Typical of management and their tendency to only do half a job. Slap a sign on the door warning people to keep out, but don't bother to actually lock said door to prevent curious guests from sticking their noses inside.

…. Curious cleaners too, you suppose.

Hoisting yourself forwards through the open door, you cast an eye over to the security desk on your immediate left, only to find that it's been abandoned and sits predictably empty.

You suppose it'd make sense that they'd send Hughie home for the day, given that this whole section of the Plex looks to be caught in some kind of badly-imposed lockdown.

It's undeniably strange though, that as of yet, you haven't seen hide nor hair of your jolly, faithful friend.

It isn't like Sunny not to come flying across the daycare at you for a hug the very moment you set foot inside.

All you can do is hope to god he's okay. You hadn't had a good look at him last night, though you certainly heard him shrieking your name.

“Sunnydrop?” you call, limping further inside and onto the soft play mats. Your crutches sink into their foamy surface and you're almost unbalanced by a precarious wobble, immediately falling still to regain your stability. “Sun? Are you in here?”

As the silence persists, you realise that it's becoming more and more likely that the animatronic isn't here with you.

Perhaps he's retreated up to their shared storage room that sits high above the daycare, inaccessible to all but the attendants themselves.

Just as you begin to haul yourself towards the ball pit, your ears catch the sound of a bell tinkling softly to your right, muffled slightly behind the bars and foam walls of an enormous play structure.

Perking up, you swivel towards it and call, “Sun?”

Just like that, the jingling bells fall silent once more.

Your lips purse of their own accord. “Are you okay?” you try again, but when that still doesn't bring a giddy animatronic skipping into view, you add, “It's me, Y/n!”

Suddenly, your pulse jumps as a rush of frantic jingling approaches the corner of the structure, though the sound stops short just shy of a solid, foam wall.

Perturbed, you tilt your head and aim a squint at the edge of the structure, opening your mouth to ask if he's playing some sort of game, only to find your jaw snapping shut again when an unexpected voice curls around the corner, gravelly and rasping and wholly unlike Sunnydrop's at all.

“F r i e n d?”

The fine hairs on the nape of your neck begin to prickle and you lean back on your crutches, away from the structure.

That voice is more in keeping with Moondrop's dulcet tones.

But... that's impossible.

The lights are on.

Your tongue darts out to lick your drying lips, and with a hell of a lot more hesitancy, you ask, “Moon?”

No sooner has the name left your mouth than you're sent reeling back when a set of pitch-dark digits slide around the corner of the wall, not quite blue like Moon's, and definitely not the pale yellow of Sun's.

At once, the prickling hairs on the base of your neck shoot upright, standing to attention as a cold chill sweeps through you from head to toe.

What the Hell happened to them... they look burnt, blackened like hot coals on a fire.

“... S-Sun?” you stutter, wondering if perhaps you should have heeded management's sign after all.

An orange glow begins to emanate from beyond the wall, shining brighter and brighter until the very tip of one, luminous sun ray pokes into view.

You find your tongue has once again stuck itself to the roof of your mouth, which is probably why you manage not to swallow it in fear when a face follows after the ray, and quite suddenly, you're staring at a near perfect mirror of the daycare attendants' countenance, but one that's somehow entirely and horrifyingly adjacent.

It's as though someone has inverted Sunnydrop's colours.

Dark as charcoal, a grinning face rises out from behind the corner, the rays surrounding it glowing with a fiery, orange hue that matches the irradiance spilling from behind its optics and wide, toothy smile, like a torch has been shone through the back of its head.

Through the haze of shock, you can only manage a fluttering blink of your lashes.

As the strange animatronic continues to emerge, you stiffly crane your neck back to continue to meet its haunting gaze until it finally takes a single, heavy step around the corner of the play structure, bringing its frame wholly into view.

Seven feet... eight feet... nine feet.

It easily surpasses the height of the attendants.

The bot unfolds itself on gangling legs, the torso twice as long as Sun's, leaving ample space for a second pair of colourless arms to sprout underneath the first.

Staggering awkwardly back on your crutches, you gape up at the looming, four-armed beast for several seconds, your only announcement a weak, breathy, “You're not Sun...”

At the sound of your voice, the bot's scorching optics flare with light and it suddenly lurches forwards, all four arms swinging at its sides. “FRIEND!”

You're not proud of the scream that blows past your teeth, nor of the way you struggle clumsily into a retreat, swinging the crutches out behind you and using them to haul yourself back, one hop at a time.

In your panic however, you don't take a glance behind you.

All of a sudden, the foot of a crutch slips into the tiny gap between two, soft mats and with a yelp, you lose your balance, tumbling over onto your rump and inadvertently bumping the heel of your plaster-cast against the floor.

Instantly, a spear of white-hot pain shoots up into your calf, yanking another shriek out of you.

“GAH! Ow, ow! - Oh God-!” Your head shoots up to see the animatronic dropping down onto all six of its limbs, scuttling towards you at an inescapable pace as its voice box unleashes a wail of screeching static.

Shaking your arms free of the crutches, you aim to desperately drag yourself backwards out of reach, but you already know you're miles too slow.

Quick as a flash, the bot crawls over you, plating two of its hands next to your shoulders whilst the remaining pair sweep up the length of your body and come to a halt just millimetres from your hair, fingers quivering with a wild sort of fervour that sets you even more on edge.

Glowing sun rays spin back and forth erratically as it pushes its face-plate closer until the curve of its nose nearly bumps into your own.

With the endo's attack still horrendously fresh in your mind, you throw an arm up to shield your face, crying, “No, get away!”

Screwing your eyes shut, you tilt your chin back to try and escape the searing light cast across your face by its burning, orange optics.

For a gut-wrenching moment, neither you nor the new animatronic stirs.

Then, quite unexpectedly, there's a gentle pressure on your neck, and your eyes fly open once again, flicking down to see the bot nudging its flat face-plate urgently into the column of your throat, its rays bending backwards to avoid jabbing the underside of your chin.

A breath is held captive inside your lungs, unwilling to escape lest even the smallest brush of air sets off the bot looming on top of you. Curling your hand into a fist beside your head, you stammer, “Wh-what're you doing!?”

When it speaks again, the shock rips the trapped breath from your chest at last and you suck another in to replace it.

“Sorry,” the bot hums quietly, the vibrations from its internal speakers tickling against the skin of your neck, “So sorry.... Tried to help... Tried to get to you....Too slow!”

The hard line of its nose slides gently up and down your throat in repeated motions, like it's trying to coax another breath out of you.

“I-I don't-! What're you talking about!?” you bleat.

The strange animatronic's voice deepens to something gravelly, but the words it utters hit you like a slap of recognition to the face.

“Hurt my moonbeam...” it growls, then in a higher pitch, it whines, “Hurt my Sunshine!”

Your jaw goes slack.

It can't be...

This thing is a mechanical monstrosity.

It just can't be...

“Oh my god,” you whisper, carefully touching the tips of your fingers against its cheeks and easing its face-plate away from your neck, peering up into its searing optics, “... Sun?”

The spiky rays twitch, jerking an inch to the left before they spring back to their original position, like they're locked in place.

Searchingly, your fingers move across its face, tracing the smooth curve of its crescent nose. “Moon?”

This time, the whole head twitches to one side and a small, jingling bell falls out from behind its rays to dangle over its shoulder. You risk a glance at it, your eyes widening as you realise the bell itself is sewn onto a rich fabric of midnight blue, be-speckled with little, white stars.

It's the bell from Moondrop's night cap.

“Oh, oh god,” you breathe again, twisting your neck to look down the impossible length of its body, “It's.... it's you! Both of you.”

Falling unnaturally still, the bot regards you for several, silent seconds before eventually, its head creaks down then up again – an unmistakable nod.

Blinking tears of fright away from your lashes, you shake your head in disbelief. “What happened? I... How!?”

It – they? - hardly seem as bewildered about their current state of affairs as you do.

Two hands, each far larger than your head, carefully ease the animatronic backwards down your body, towards the cast encasing your leg.

Suddenly apprehensive all over again, you keep a wary eye on them as they continue to crawl off you until their face plate hovers just inches away from your busted ankle. You're quick to grow fidgety under their intense scrutiny.

One pair of arms keeps them propped off the floor whilst the remaining pair move forwards, bringing gentle fingertips up to ghost over the cast with a humbling reverence.

For such an enormous animatronic, you're astounded that you can't even feel their touch.

“Broken...” comes their hushed verdict.

It isn't a question, but you answer it anyway.

“It was broken, but the doctors fixed it.”

A hiss of static escapes their voice box, so shrill and sharp that you recoil an inch or two, digging your nails into your palms.

“Still hurt,” they press, grinning their eerie grin as they tilt their face up to fix their optics upon you, “Still hurt. Shouldn't hurt...”

“I... was given medication to help with the pain,” you counter uncertainly.

The fingers on your cast twitch, then withdraw themselves, instead moving across to gently wrap around the ankle of your undamaged leg as if they're desperate to cradle your injury but know better than to jostle that particular foot. “No,” they utter imploringly, “Shouldn't hurt. Shouldn't get hurt.”

“Well, I wasn't trying to-”

“-Shouldn't let you get hurt.”

Oh...

“Guys,” you murmur, absently raising a hand out and turning your palm towards them. It's a peaceable gesture, thoughtless, yet intended as reassurance. You reach out to them because you don't know what else to do, only that you wish they wouldn't blame themselves.

You don't anticipate the sudden eagerness with which their head snaps up, locking onto your hand like a homing missile.

All of a sudden, the massive animatronic sweeps its touch from your cast and scuttles back up the length of your body, drawing a gasp of alarm from your lips, but just seconds before you can rip your arm away - horrified that you've somehow provoked them – your palm is met with the warm, smooth plastic of their face-plate.

Somewhere inside the attendant, a pressure valve flicks open and a slow jet of air rushes out of the vent behind their mouth, escaping between the miniscule gaps left between each of their teeth. The animatronic equivalent of a sigh.

Very slowly, the rigidity seeps out of your fingers. Cupping their rounded cheek with your palm, you carefully sweep your thumb beneath their optic, earning a flutter of the long, orange rays.

Burning optics dim to a dull, gentle glow. “You are... afraid?” they ask

At first? Most definitely. But you're not about to tell them that. Not outright, at least.

“Not anymore,” you offer.

With blatant reluctance, they peel their face away from your palm and emit a pensive hum. “We think... I think, I am afraid.”

At first, you can't begin to fathom what an animatronic so unsettling could possibly be afraid of, so you press the question, just to be sure. “Why?”

For several moments, the bot remains silent and contemplative, the rays on their head making yet another attempt to spin around, only to spring back to their default position before they can make it so much as an inch. You wonder if Moon's night cap is jamming the mechanism.

At last, there's a shift.

Two, extensive hands slip hesitantly around your forearms and grip each limb with a delicacy that belies their size. Before you can react, the bot leans backwards and tugs on your arms, pulling you upright until you're sitting in front of them, bewildered.

“I do not feel like... myself.” They pause, then amend, “Myselves.”

“Then... how do you feel?”

Again, they seem hesitant to elaborate.

Taking a breath, you gesture vaguely at their body as best you can with your arms caught up in their gentle hold. “Has... this happened before?” you ask tentatively.

Their grip loosens on your forearms, and finally, they begin to retract their hands, tracing a path with warm fingertips down to your wrists until they let you go and tuck their appendages close against their chest, shaking their head from side to side and uttering a conclusive, “Never.”

You'd had an inkling that was the case. If this was something they could do, you have no doubt they'd have shown you by now. “Okay, well...” Wracking your brain, you let your arms flop down into your lap and venture, “Can you tell me how it happened then?”

Don't... know,” they rasp, staring down at two of their four hands and flexing each finger slowly as if to remind themselves that the digits all belong to them, “Sunny... cannot leave the daycare... Moon can. Sunny can be in the light... Moon cannot. Programming found a... a... ”

They trail off for a much more significant stretch of time, and so you wait, listening to their mechanical brain whir noisily as they try to come up with the right word. Eventually, they lift their sizeable head to meet your eye and settle on, “... a workaround.”

“That's one heck of a workaround,” you remark uneasily, “It's like your programming tried to bring both of you out at the same time. What should I...? Uh...” Suddenly feeling a little sheepish, you raise a hand and scratch at the nape of your neck as you peer up to meet their inquisitive stare, hedging, “What should I call you now anyway?”

They twist their head sideways with a click, regarding you from those blistering, orange sockets.

Hesitantly, you elaborate, “I mean, when you're like this. Are you Sun and Moon? Should I call you... I don't know, Smun? Smoon?”

You definitely recognise Moon's characteristics in the way the animatronic recoils at both names, using the static of their voice box to hiss clear disapproval.

"Well, all right then. How about... Star?”

Sunnydrop this time, shakes their enormous head firmly from side to side and pins their rays back, jingling the little bell that dangles from what remains of Moon's hat. “Have a star already.”

At the confused sound you emit, they clarifiy, “Stella.”

“Okay... okay then, give me a second...” You consider the bot in front of you for some time, casting your eyes from each of their four arms up to the round face-plate grinning eerily back down at you. Sunny's rays are forefront, sharp and jagged and piercing straight through Moon's lunar-themed night cap. And the optics... neither Sun's crisp white nor Moondrop's blood-red LEDs peer back at you.

Instead, the animatronic's gaze shines out at you through the darkness like a pair of orange night-lights, soft and subdued, reminding you more of the sky at late sunset, or the colour of the moon during a lunar eclipse...

“Eclipse...” you murmur thoughtfully, causing the bot to perk up, lowering two hands to the ground and pushing themselves forward, leaning into your space to let out a curious hum.

“Your optics,” you explain, “There was a lunar eclipse back in April, and they just... reminded me of it. The colour, I mean... And you do look like you've tried to merge together...”

The bot emits a pensive sound, scraping his fingertips forwards across the soft mats until one of their vast hands slides up to rest once more atop your forearm. You allow it without question.

“So?” you press, “What about Eclipse for now? Just until we can get you back to your old selves?”

In silence, they stare back at you, the little clicks and whirs betraying the processor that's hard at work contemplating this potential designation.

Just as you consider throwing out another suggestion, the bot extends their neck towards you, bowing their face-plate until it hovers just a few inches away from your nose. They're leaning so far forward now, balanced over you on one pair of arms whilst the other two travel up underneath your elbows, cupping each in a gentle palm. It's almost reassuring to learn that this bot is just as touch-oriented as their counterparts.

“It is a good name,” they finally tell you, unfolding their legs to balance on the tips of their jester's shoes, “You gave it to us. So we like it very much.”

And with that, they fall silent again with that wide, unwavering grin affixed to their face plate.

After a moment, you start to grow fidgety under their scrutiny, averting your eyes to the hands still holding you under your elbows. “Right, well. That's that sorted then. Eclipse... It suits you.”

You're accustomed to the daycare attendants staring at you, and this instance is no different. “Okay,” you sigh, slipping your elbows out of their palms and placing your hands on the mat beneath you, slowly dragging yourself backwards, out from under their claustrophobic shadow, “You just... wait here, okay? I'll go and find one of the mechanics. They shouldn't have left you like this all night, it's-”

You cut yourself off, your eyes flicking down to the long fingers that have now wrapped themselves securely around each of your forearms. Quirking a brow, you glance up at Eclipse. “Thank you, but I... I think I can stand up on my own now.”

“Not leaving.”

You're caught off guard for a second, but you recover easily after recalling how you left them last time, on top of a stretcher.

Offering the bot a patient smile, you reply, “I won't be long this time. Okay? I'll be here with a mechanic as soon as I can. They'll be able to put you back together.”

“Not leaving,” they repeat stubbornly, their optics flitting down to your cast before returning to your face, “Not safe.”

"Su-... Eclipse," you warn. This wouldn't be the first time you've had to encourage one of the attendants to let you leave the daycare. When they first learned about Hunter, it had taken almost half an hour of gentle coaxing to convince Sunnydrop to let you walk out of the daycare, and then another half hour for Moondrop to let go of your wrist so you could clock out.

With Sunny, you'd had to offer reassurances, with Moon, you'd had to be stern and unwavering.

But Eclipse...? You don't know how to deal with Eclipse.

There's a sudden, unspoken agitation to them now, as if the mention of your leaving has raised their metaphorical hackles. Even crouched, they tower over you like a monolith, rigid as a statue. You may as well try to pull yourself free from a stone embrace with how securely they keep your wrists locked in their hands.

Distantly, you wonder if they can feel your pulse as it quickens beneath your skin.

They know how much you hate to be restrained.

Another tug warrants no reaction.

With a deep and weary sigh, you opt to try the softer approach first, opening your mouth and schooling your expression into a smile that you aim with clear intent up into the bot's static face-plate.

You never manage to get out a single word.

An explosion of noise interrupts the terse standoff as the telltale 'WHAM' of something immense crashes into the daycare doors with enough force to nearly knock them off their hinges. Startled by the intrusion, you try to whip your head over a shoulder, only to suddenly find yourself bowled over onto your back once again when a positively bristling Eclipse hunkers down on top of you, all four of their hands splayed out wide against the mats around your head.

“Hey!” you protest as their willowy torso presses down until you're almost completely obscured from sight beneath a blanket of shifting, plastic parts.

Without warning, the doors fly open, ricocheting against the walls before they bounce back on squeaking, juddering hinges.

Twisting onto your side, you peer through the gap between Eclipse's quivering sun rays and catch a glimpse of the daycare entrance, where an all-too familiar figure stands squarely in the doorway, grasping the edges of the wood with a crushing grip.

There's a twinge of fear in your gut that gives a squeeze at the sight of a lashing tail, purple shoulder struts and those wild, crimson optics that gleam out at you from behind a pair of star-shaped sunglasses.

Montgomery Gator – fresh off the stage – meets your eyes through Eclipse's rays and in an instant, both animatronics go perfectly, chillingly still.

Notes:

Ahh, I do so love my evil little cliff hangars. >:)

Chapter 22: Time's up

Summary:

Sorry this one's a shorter one! Between quitting my job and illustrating a children's book, like has again been getting in the way. BUT! I wanted to get this chapter out now, because I've been invited back to work on a horse ranch in Spain! Leaving tomorrow, so I'll hopefully update the next chapter way sooner. I've already written a lot of it out, but hadn't finished and wanted to get a chapter out since you guys have been so patient with me. Hope you enjoy! <3

Montgomery Gator has never really given much thought to the slow crawl of time. The very concept of it hasn’t been of any more significance to him than the steady tick of numbers that always circle back to zero, one way or another, without fail.

Seconds roll on into minutes, and minutes into hours, day by monotonous day.

To an animatronic with such a sequestered existence, there exists only the time when the Megaplex is open, or the time that it isn’t. How could time seem ‘slow’ when the length of a second has never changed after all, remaining constant ever since humans first recorded its value?

Such inane questions wouldn’t have perplexed Monty at all before today.

Not until you went and unwittingly introduced the gator to the sluggish creep of the clock.

All of a sudden, the minutes between your disappearance and the show’s end seemed to drag on for an unbearably long time.

They only had one song left to perform, a fact that the other three Glamrocks bombarded him with when he began to send rapid glances over his shoulder struts at the backstage door behind them, gauging how smoothly he might be able to make a getaway.

‘Don’t even think about it, Gator,’ came Roxanne’s ferocious message, along with a rather violent pulse from her EM field that clashed with his own like a tidal wave of animosity, ‘Don’t you bug out on us now. Just finish this song, and then you can go track down your little girlfriend.’

Monty had to temporarily disable the subroutines that fed motion into the panels under his neck just to stop them from flaring and hissing in response to his bandmate’s jab. To an outside observer, the gator remained entirely focused on his performance.

Freddy’s nagging reassurances kept trying to press in at the back of Monty’s processor, but they, like Roxy’s goading, were easy enough to ignore in favour of pulling up the camera feed in his HUD. Only half of his processor was on his guitar, the other half was busy scouring the different feeds in search of his wayward cleaning lady.

It didn’t take him long to track you down.

With the show still blaring, most of the guests had already been gathered inside the main atrium to watch, leaving the rest of the Plex relatively devoid of crowds for you to get lost in. Besides, you were the only human he could see who was limping out of the lobby elevator with a pair of crutches. The relief that cooled his warring protocols was short lived when he realised you were heading towards a familiar, bright red set of doors.

He should have known…

He should have known you’d try and make your way there just as soon as his back was turned.

The song finished, the crowd went wild, Freddy gave his usual company mandated spiel about the merchandise available at the gift shops, and at last, at long, long last, Monty could go after you.

The main stage had moved at a glacial pace as it sank down into the basement, and he’d hardly even waited for it to touch down before he all but thrust his guitar into the arms of a bewildered Freddy and took off, mapping a path to the day care like a homing missile.

He’d been more than prepared to give you a piece of his mind when he inevitably caught up to you.

Now however, standing before you in the day care proper, any and all frustration he might have harboured for your vanishing act is promptly swept aside by a wave of alarm that comes crashing down on top of him the moment his optics land upon your face.

The scene runs across his processor, like a terrible feedback loop.

You’re on the floor of the day care, the ground, laying pinned and prone underneath the frame of a malformed figure of terrifying, twisted proportions.

Each and every one of the gator’s pistons lock into place, his tail falling still and straight behind him.

In the span of a second, two things occur to him.

The first – that there’s an unfamiliar animatronic pinning you to the floor.

And secondly – The last time an unfamiliar animatronic got its hands on you, you’d barely escaped with your life….

A scorching rage trickles down the inside of Monty’s metallic frame, spreading along his wires as his coolant turns to liquid fire.

He’d already been on edge, seeing you missing in the audience. Even before that, he’d spent most of the early morning fretting over whether or not he’d ever see you again.

It only takes the slightest push to send him hurtling off the deep end.

He isn’t about to waste any time making threats.

The hydraulics in Monty’s legs unlock with a ‘shunk,’ and without warning, he explodes forwards, jaws tumbling open to show off rows of newly-restored, monstrous teeth.

Trapped beneath Eclipse, you viscerally jerk when the gator makes his move, and at last, the bot crowding over you springs into action.

Like a coiled snake, they brace their weight on two sets of arms and pounce forwards to meet their adversary head on, spitting static with all the venomous fervour of a cobra.

“YOU!” they screech.

There’s a hideous crunch of metal and plastic as the two of them make impact, rocking the floor around you under the force of two titans meeting at the centre of a colourful battlefield.

Raking claws aim a swipe at Monty, who manages to capture two of the spindly wrists in his far larger hands and holds them at bay, bellowing, “DID YOU TOUCH HER? HUH!? YOU HURT HER?”

Equally incensed, the attendant’s rays flare and rattle, kicking out a poisonous, orange light. “RULE-BREAKER! FRIEND-BREAKER!” they howl, “GET OUT! GET! OUT!”

Left half-forgotten on the soft mats, you blurt out a frantic, “Stop!” and push yourself up onto shaking arms and knocking knees, fumbling blindly for the crutches that had fallen to either side of you when you fell.

Not again. Not again! Monty has only just been repaired. You can’t let them duke it out now, not over a simple misunderstanding.

You have to stop them.

“Hey! Cut it out!” you holler, coughing as the words scratch at the back of your throat, “Guys! Stop it! Please!”

But every word only falls on deaf audials.

Eclipse has an extra set of hands and immense height in his arsenal, but Montgomery has a working jaw and a hell of a lot more mass.

The attendant’s third appendage makes the error of aiming another strike at the gator’s face, but it becomes abundantly clear that they never expected a cumbersome bot like Monty to react with such terrifying speed.

To your horror, the Glamrock avoids their swipe by jerking his snout to the side, only to whip his head back in a flash and snap his teeth closed around Eclipse’s wrist just as it comes within range.

“Monty! No!” you scream in distress, foregoing your search for the crutches in favour of just shoving yourself up onto your feet, driven on by a panic-muddled mind that forgets how one of your legs is very much out of commission.

Braced against one another, the bots grapple for dominance, their hands locked together with one still caught between Monty’s bear-trap teeth. Yet it’s with a swell of alarm that you notice Eclipse’s fourth and final hand creeping up towards the seam between the gator’s chest and his neck, only newly repaired, like the attendant can sense it’s a weak spot.

The harrowing sight is too damn familiar, evoking the gruesome memory of an endo’s spiny fingers twisting through metal and plastic to crush the gator’s voice box to pieces.

Desperation to keep them from tearing each other apart drives you forwards into a stumble. The violence is all too familiar, and you’ve seen enough to last you several lifetimes.

“Enough-!” you try to belt out, but as your fractured ankle bears the full weight of your body, a broken cry is ripped out of your lungs, engulfing the day care centre with the sound of a tremendous, ear-splitting scream.

The fresh agony is almost worse than the initial pain of the overgrown Glamrock landing on your leg.

Every nerve howls as a needling twinge shoots up the back of your calf like a bullet, burrowing through flesh, all the way up to your hip where it jars you to an absolute standstill.

It’s too late to wrench your foot off the ground. The damage is already done, but regardless, the limb spasms back in a vain attempt to escape the pain, and without the support of your crutches, you’re sent toppling forwards to the floor. An entirely different pain splits your mouth in two when your chin hits the mat and you bite your tongue, choking out a wordless sound at the additional dose of agony.

Writhing, you try to blink back the sudden mist of gathering tears, hardly paying any attention to the animatronics towering above you. You’re a little preoccupied with holding onto the hospital breakfast that churns threateningly in your stomach.

As a result, you miss the moment both warring bots have their focus ripped violently away from one another.

Your piercing cry alone is more than enough to wrangle Eclipse’s care-taking protocols to the forefront of their processor, whilst in perfect tandem, Monty is yanked from his murderous frenzy, recognising the sudden vocalisation of your pain.

The gator’s jaws go slack at once, releasing the attendant’s wrist as the two of them swivel their optics down towards you, all the fight draining from their systems once they register you trembling on the ground nearby.

“Y/n!”

“Friend!”

In a rush of scraping plastic, they shove away from each other, disentangling their limbs and scrambling to your sides, united in one, overpowering priority.

“Hey, Lady! Y’okay?!” Monty barks, reaching out to lay his hands on your back.

However, the moment his fingers alight on your flimsy shirt to roll you over, his limbs are suddenly snatched away by two of Eclipse’s and held aloft.

“Don’t TOUCH!” the angular bot seethes.

Indignant, Monty’s lips curl back, and he raises his snout to issue a throaty growl at the attendant.

It only takes a single word to silence the rumble before it can even leave his speakers.

“Stop,” you hurl out weakly onto the mat below you, redoubling your efforts to raise your head and sending an imploring gaze in Monty’s direction, “Stop fighting, both of you!”

“But! But it-!”

“Monty, if you hurt my friends, I swear to god, I’ll never speak to you again, do you understand me?”

That threat, it seems, is as effective as a bullet striking the gator through his chassis. All at once, his sizeable jaws snap shut to hide his teeth as best he can, and he ducks his head, peering at you over the rim of his sunglasses like a kicked dog.

You deign to feel guilty about that particular expression later. Right now, you still have to appease Eclipse, whose crushing hands are still locked around Montgomery’s wrists.

“And Eclipse,” you say sternly, craning your head around to meet their flickering stare, “Let him go.”

The static-laden hiss that escapes their voice box precedes what you already know is going to be a word of protest.

Sure enough, Eclipse’s voice is low and thin, borrowing from Moon’s typical cadence as their fingers clamp down viciously until Monty’s cuffs begin to creak in dismay. “The gator…. broke you,” they slowly rasp.

In response, you subject the animatronic to a glare so hot, it could melt the plastic right off their faceplate. They’ve never seen you wear an expression quite like that before.

“Don’t you dare blame Monty for what happened to me. This-!” You lift a hand off the ground and wave it in the vague direction of your leg. “- This was an accident. Monty almost got himself scrapped by protecting me, so I won’t hear you say another cross word against him, okay?”

They may have several feet of height on you and more than enough power to simply toss you clear over the day care wall, but in the face of your unparalleled disapproval, Eclipse’s rays sink back despondently against their head, and they try to make themselves look smaller, cowed by your admonishing glare.

Reluctantly, with a final whine of static, their hands pry themselves from the gator’s wrists and sink down to rest in their lap instead, fingers threading together as if they don’t quite know what to do with themselves.

In the meantime, Montgomery deems it safe enough to lift his nose again and peers down at you through a haze of awe, stunned that you’re so willing to jump to his defence.

Satisfied, you heave an immense sigh of relief and start to push yourself upright, privately grateful when six pairs of hands slide beneath your arms and help to ease you onto your unbroken foot once again. Monty doesn’t release you even when you nod at him to indicate that you’re steady. Neither does Eclipse, for that matter, who only removes their lower appendages and uses them to gather your crutches that lay scattered near haphazardly near their feet.

“Thanks, Eclipse,” you murmur, allowing the attendant to slip one of the crutches over your wrist before they move to gently guide your own fingers around the plastic handle.

“Eclipse?” comes Monty’s mechanical rumble, voice-box still a little rough from his earlier display of aggression.

You ignore his question for a moment. The twinge in your ankle has yet to completely recede, instead lingering beneath the surface of your skin just enough to keep half of your focus on the nasty ache throbbing down your leg. You let out a miserable grumble. Dr Timpson will likely murder you if you go back to the hospital and he finds any broken pins…

Doing your utmost to simply muscle through the pain, you let the attendant slide your remaining crutch into place, and at last, with a gentle shooing motion, you manage to coax them into removing their remaining limbs from your arm.

There’s still a noticeable pressure encasing your other forearm though. Turning to the gator, you find he’s still hovering on your opposite side, his claws pricking lightly at the cuff of your sleeve as if he can’t quite decide what to do with his hands.

Just as you draw in a breath to ask him what in the world he’s doing here, the gator’s jaw flops open and he gruffly asks, “You okay?”

As much as you’d like to tell him that you’re far from it, you decide it isn’t worth the worry it’ll cause, so instead, you let out a little puff of air and give your head a shake, feeling far wearier than you have in a long, long time.

“I… Yeah, sure,” you sigh, “I’m fine, big guy. Eclipse wasn’t going to hurt me.” To an extent, you can sympathise with the gator’s startlingly violent response to seeing you pinned beneath a strange animatronic so soon after yesterday’s events. It’s the very reason you refrain from continuing to admonish him for attacking the attendant on sight.

Speaking of whom…

Eclipse’s rays spin in a slow circle as they drop their head to sit level with yours, still glaring hard at the alligator on your right. “We don’t hurt friends,” they hiss.

Your pulse lurches when Monty’s claws twitch at your sleeve. “Eclipse, I mean it,” you scold them vaguely before shuffling back a step to put both animatronics in your sights and jerking your chin at the day care bot. “Monty, this is the attendant. It’s just Sun and Moon.”

The dubious stare he aims at them over his sunglasses confirms he’s just as ignorant of their transformation as you were.

“It’s true,” you answer his unspoken question, prompting a brief flicker of surprise to widen his optics, “I’m just calling them Eclipse for clarity’s sake. It’s some kind of… I don’t know, a failsafe, I guess. Sunny left the day care to find me last night and… well...” You flick your eyes back over to the attendant. “This was the result.”

It isn’t that Monty doesn’t believe you. You’re quite possibly the only human he’d trust, and Hell, he can see for himself the similarities between this newcomer and the attendants. It would also certainly explain why they seem so abhorred by the thought of him touching you. But just to be safe… The gator’s LED irises whir noisily as he conducts a cursory scan of the animatronic before him, and sure enough, there they are - Two signatures sharing a single CPU, one overlapping the other, fluctuating synchronically inside the newcomer’s frame.

The fixed smile that bears down at him only seems to twitch wider as his faceplates open up in recognition.

Within the span of a millisecond, Monty searches his databanks to try and pull up any information surrounding the attendants and this latest development. He’s only mildly surprised when his search turns up nothing… Either this was never meant to happen… Or Faz Co. are getting better and better at covering their practices…

Regardless, sated by the knowledge that you were never in any danger, the lingering traces of Montgomery’s temper evaporate, and, in their place, frustration moves to take centre stage.

It swells into a jagged, hot ball in his chest cavity, turning his attention onto you slowly.

A burning question sits at the tip of his silicone tongue, one that seems paramount, far more important to him than solving the mystery of why the attendant is currently looming at twice your height.

‘Why did you leave the show?’

Sadly however, the sudden approach of heavy footfalls from somewhere outside the day care sends his question hurtling to the back of his processor for the time being.

Quick as a flash, Monty’s snout whips around towards the doors with a growl, his gears whirring aggressively.

You’re startled by his sudden change in demeanour, but only for a second, at least until the entrance to the day care flies open and you follow the line of his glare, your heart sinking down and falling out through the soles of your feet when you catch sight of the two figures who skid to a halt just inside the wooden doors.

“You gotta be shittin’ me…”

Andy. Just the man you’d been hoping to avoid, if only to spare yourself from the highly disappointed glare he’s currently trapped you under.

At your side, Eclipse’s four hands twitch violently, their fingers clasping at the hem of your shirt as their profanity measures kick in.

“L-language,” you hear them bite out.

Beside the old mechanic, you’re surprised to find Freddy Fazbear himself with his iconic top hat clutched by wringing paws, a habit you’ve begun to notice more and more of late.

“Mister Flowers, please,” the bear sputters, his shuffling feet muted on the soft play mats, “I understand that you’re upset, but I’m sure Y/n is perfectly all right.”

Andy, however, seems deaf to the star’s fretting.

His face is awash with badly contained fury as he stalks towards you.

Gulping down a nervous lump, you ease yourself forwards, gently brushing Monty’s raised forearm aside as you move around him, dragging Eclipse along in your wake. Their spindly fingers remain hooked into the back of your shirt.

“Andy,” you utter weakly, opening and closing your mouth as you flounder for an explanation, “I-“

You swallow your words at once when the mechanic abruptly thrusts his hand into the air in a silent command for you to stop talking. Drawing himself up and pressing his lips into a thin, hard line, he comes to a stop directly in front of you, deliberately ignoring the gator and the attendant at your back.

Far more hesitant, Freddy edges uncertainly around to the simmering mechanic’s side and offers you a polite nod.

You manage to flash the bear what you hope is a reassuring smile before your attention snaps back to Andy as the man draws in a rattling breath. When he speaks, his voice is thick with tension. “Freddy’s not a liar,” he begins.

Admittedly confused, you flick a querying look in the bear’s direction, but Andy is quick to clarify.

“And yet,” he continues, “When he told me you were here, instead of being at home after your operation… Well, I thought to myself, there ain’t no way in Hell that bear’s tellin’ me the truth…”

Shame-faced, you remain sheepishly silent, aware that the animatronics’ optics are watching you with unwavering attention. Your hands flex restlessly around the handles of your crutches.

The prominent bags underneath Andy’s eyes lend him an altogether haggard look as he rakes his gaze over you from head to toe, letting out a sigh that might as well have been a punch to your fragile guts. “Imagine my disappointment when I checked the CCTV…” he finishes.

Chapter 23: Cynosure

Summary:

You're in trouble. More trouble than you seem to realise...

If it were possible for a human to retreat inside their own shadow, you'd happily let go of your crutches and sink down into the safety of the darkness stretched across the daycare floor behind you, hiding within yourself where nobody – not Andy, nor Freddy or Monty or Eclipse – would be able to see you.

You want to be small.

You want to be still.

So small and so still that you could slip out of view entirely to conceal yourself amongst the dust and atoms that are naked to the human eye.

You'd only ask for a few hours. A few hours to be unimportant and unnoticeable.

Is that such an outlandish ask?

If it meant you don't have to be looked upon by a man with anger contorting his expression into something cold and ugly, you'd disappear in a heartbeat.

You've wished for similar things before, in entirely dissimilar situations.

“Andy,” you croak, trying not to dwell on how timid and yielding your voice has fallen, “I-I'm sorry, okay? I know I should've gone straight home-”

“So why didn't you?” The speed at which he cuts off your sentence is jarring enough to send you shrinking behind your shoulders and dropping your eyes to a spot on the mechanic's shirt that shifts across his heaving chest, slack then taut then slack with each breath.

He's asked a valid question, you remind yourself, swallowing thickly. And really, what did you expect? He has every right to be angry with you. You were discharged from the hospital and expected to go straight home to rest your broken ankle, but instead, you've returned to the very building where you sustained your injury in the first place not twelve hours later.

Sparing a second to go over the motions in your mind's eye, you start to get a picture of where you might have made a couple of minor errors in judgement.

Gulping past a lump of nerves in your throat, you raise your eyes to the mechanic's again and offer him your excuse, though you can only imagine how feeble it must sound in his discerning ears. “I... just wanted to make sure they... I needed to see that everyone was okay. Monty was half-destroyed, Andy, I couldn't just sit at home and not-”

Abruptly, the mechanic's jaws split around a sharp bark of laughter that causes Eclipse's fingers to cinch several pascals tighter around your bicep.

Even Freddy's ears flinch back at the piercing sound.

“Pah! You needed to know they were okay?” Andy parrots, giving his head a shake and planting his hands squarely on his hips. Seconds later, his face twists up to aim a scowl at you, all traces of false amusement gone. “And why in the Hell didn't you just call me!?” he points out, jabbing a forefinger against his chest, “You have my number! You could've just asked me! I'd've checked on 'em for you so you could go home!” You don't miss how his voice cracks on the final word. “What the Hell were you thinkin', kid?”

And you wish you had an answer for him.

You could counter his query with one of your own. Like whether or not he truly thinks you wouldn't have just gone to plex anyway, especially after he told you what had happened to the attendants.

Something solid bumps gently against your good ankle, and a hurried glance down reveals that Monty's segmented tail has swept close behind you, curling up around your legs as the gator shifts on his hydraulics and leans closer into your side.

It's a subtle shift, or as subtle as a three tonne animatronic can be. Privately, you hope he doesn't say anything in your defence. You can't imagine that Monty speaking his mind will lead to a peaceable outcome between he and the mechanic right now.

But if the ornery gator was on the cusp of formulating a response on your behalf, he never gets to spit it from his voice-box.

Forcing a rough exhale through his teeth, Andy raises a hand to pinch at the bridge of his nose, eyes squeezed firmly shut. “Look, kid, I...” He trails off to sigh again, turning on his heel with a fist clenched at his side. You try not to stare at his bone-white knuckles, all too aware that Freddy's optics are adhered to your face.

“You got any idea how scared I was when I went to the Hospital this mornin' and you weren't there?”

Pressing your lips together, you numbly shake your head, though you're not sure he's even looking for a response.

 

Without turning to face you, he finally lets out a tired, old exhale, tipping his head back to glare up at a nondescript point on the ceiling. ”... It's been a hell of a long day.”

You have to wonder if he managed to get any sleep last night with how thickly his voice dips.

Although you're conscious you've used it to death, you nonetheless can't refrain from falling back on your typical, knee-jerk response. “I'm sorry, Andy...” you apologise.

“I know you're sorry,” he grunts waspishly without missing a beat as he begins to march towards the daycare entrance, “Now you'd better get your sorry ass to the car park, stat. M'callin' you a cab...”

“But-”

The mechanic's boots squeak on the rubber mats, silencing you when he whirls about to jab a finger at you, ignoring Monty's guttural hum of warning.

“But nothin'!” he snaps, which in turn has you snapping your mouth shut, “I ain't in the mood today, okay? Now get!”

His command echoes out through the cavernous room, disappearing into the rafters hanging high over the daycare.

As Andy stands there, seething, you keep your feet planted firmly on the ground. With Monty's plates quivering on your right, the attendant's fingers squeezing wrinkles into the sleeve of your shirt, and Freddy hovering between you, sending apprehensive glances between you and the mechanic, you take a shaky breath to steel your nerves before you finally manage to rush out, “But what about Eclipse?”

It's funny. Before today, you'd never actually seen a vein bulge in real life.

Andy's temple seems to throb for a moment as he stares at you, jaw creaking open in disbelief.

In another second, his brows are wrenched to the centre of his forehead and he makes a sound of incredulity at the back of his throat, almost a laugh, but a dangerous one.

“Eclipse?” he scoffs, “Who the Hell is-?”

Somewhere overhead, a mechanical 'thunk' rolls across the ceiling.

At once, Andy's question falls silent and he quirks a brow, tilting his neck back to squint at the overhead lights.

Following his gaze, you nearly jump out of your skin when the daycare is suddenly and inexplicably plunged into a jarring darkness.

Barely a fraction of a second passes before Eclipse's hand on your arm goes ramrod stiff, and in doing so, turns their grip on you damn near tight – tight enough that it hurts, which instantly sets alarm bells ringing in your head like claxons.

Neither Sunnydrop nor Moondrop, in all your history of service as a cleaning lady here, have ever once caused you even a sliver of harm, not by accident or otherwise.

Putting aside the fact that their programming is irrefutably air-tight given their proximity to children, Sun and Moon have informed you repeatedly that they'd rather tear out their own circuitry before they'd ever harm a friend.

So to have their grasp on your forearm turn borderline painful isn't just surprising, it's downright unfathomable.

In another blink of an eye, the darkness bearing down on you evaporates as the lights overhead promptly buzz back to life, flicker once, then finally stabilize in the familiar, steady hum, glowing brightly down onto the daycare.

But still, Eclipse's grasp doesn't shift.

Oblivious to your sudden wince of discomfort, Monty raises his snout to peer at the ceiling, optics narrowed uncertainly. “A power surge?” he hums.

“You gotta be shittin' me,” Andy growls, ignoring the little burst of static that leaves Freddy's voice-box at his vulgarity, “First the animatronics go haywire, now the lights're on the blink. What's next?”

None of them seem to have noticed the eerily motionless giant looming at your side, nor the look of trepidation you're sending the large, spindly fingers encasing your arm.

“Uh, Eclipse?” you utter tentatively, giving your limb an experimental tug. You don't like the way they're staring at Andy, their once luminous optics as dark as tar pits and their head locked at a rigid, right angle, sun rays extended to their maximum length.

Silicone fingers tighten a fraction when you try to reclaim your limb, prompting a soft hiss to seep in through your teeth.

You may as well have let out a bloodcurdling scream with how violently Monty tears his optics off the lights and whips his head in your direction, fast enough that you can hear his motors whirring noisily to try and keep up with the movement.

Oh no...

“Wait, Monty –” you start, but you already know by the wrinkling of his snout and the dilation of his aperture pupils that he's seen the source of your trouble.

Crimson optics lock onto the vice-like hand secured around your arm.

There's a single second where you see the gator's processor scan over the pressure that Eclipse is exerting before, in a snap, the daycare explodes with the sound of a furious, thundering bellow.

“HEY! GET OFF'A HER!”

Before you can even flinch, one of Monty's purple servos stretches across your body to latch around Eclipse's wrist.

“Monty!” you shout, alarmed, “It's okay, stop!”

At the sound of your voice, the attendant's faceplate tilts down, apparently unfazed by the gator's grip, and you can't do a thing to combat the visceral shudder that crawls up the back of your neck when your eyes meet their dark, unlit optics.

There isn't a trace of the irradiant orange light that had once glowed behind their casing, light that had given an impression of real life beneath the plastic shell.

Now, they're black as pitch, save for two, nearly imperceptible pinpricks of... of purple light...

At the base of your neck, tiny hairs shoot upright, prickling at the sense of a danger you don't quite yet comprehend.

The overheads must be shining through the back of their faceplate for a moment, there and gone in a flash, because as soon as you blink, the violet pupils wink out, yet Eclipse's grasp on you remains stubbornly in place.

“Hey!” Andy hollers from somewhere behind you, “What's goin' on back there!? Thought I told you to get to the car park!”

“I'm trying!” you retort, placing a hand on Eclipse's and attempting to gently coax their fingers from your arm. At the same time, several tonnes of gator grabs the collar of your shirt and gives it a rough pull, which sadly only results in nearly strangling you when Eclipse's grip doesn't budge an inch.

“I said let 'er go!” Monty snarls, giving your shirt another yank, throttling you in the process.

Rather than continue to play the role of 'rope' in this impromptu game of tug-of-war between two powerful animatronics, you hurriedly blunder out, “Monty! Please! Let go, you're making it worse!”

“I'm tryn'a help!” he insists.

Looming over you like a dark sun, Eclipse twists their faceplate in a full rotation, their beaming grin far more menacing than you recall.

At your back, Andy's scowl disappears in a blink, his mouth falling open in abject horror.

Quick as a flash, he snatches his stun baton from his belt and skirts around Freddy, barking, “Get out of the way, gator!”

Throwing a glance back over your shoulder, your eyes zero in on the prod in his white-knuckle grip and you let out a gasp, whipping your head back to Eclipse and pleading, “Guys! What's wrong? Please, talk to me! I-it's okay!”

They lean forwards, twisting their hand into your shirt until your knees buckle and tears spring to your eyes.

Something's wrong.

Deeply wrong.

You're trapped.

It seems delayed, but at long last, a creeping terror begins to sink its gnawing teeth into your stomach.

Sucking down a wobbly breath, you fill your lungs and let everything go again in a desperate shout, hurling out the words you never once assumed you'd have to use in their presence. “Sun! Moon! Stop, you're hurting me!”

And as if it's a shut down switch, as if that's what gets through whatever has momentarily assumed control of their processor - more than your struggling, more than Monty's crushing hand on their wrist - Eclipse turns their head a click to the left, and their optics flicker, orange, then black, then back to orange again.

“F..friend?” they rasp, their voice-box laden with static.

Monty freezes at your side, the plates on his neck flared like a spitting cobra as Eclipse shifts their gaze down to the hand still wrapped around your arm.

Then, in a sudden rush of movement, the attendant all but rips their appendage from you and staggers backwards, all four of their limbs springing up to catch their head, and in doing so, you're sent toppling backwards on unsteady legs, clutching at your aching arm.

“Gotcha!” Monty grunts triumphantly as he releases Eclipse in favour of planting his hands on your waist and lifting you into the air in one, swift movement, spinning his torso around to place you gently on the floor behind his tail before he whirls back to face the attendant, chest puffed out and teeth bared, giving him the look of a bristling wall of metal and plastic.

You have to lean around his splayed arms to see Eclipse is still clutching at their faceplate, babbling incoherently until they give an abrupt, violent jolt, their knees collapsing out from underneath them.

“Eclipse!” you cry, hobbling around the gator, who only throws an arm out to catch you in the stomach, halting you in your step.

Andy appears in your peripheral, his hand still clamped around the prod.

“What in the goddamn shit is goin' on with this thing!?” he hollers.

You nearly gasp when two gentle paws land on your shoulders and coax you backwards, dragging your crutches along the ground.

“Miss Y/n,” Freddy's voice thrums over your head, “Please, don't get too close!”

Eclipse's optics flicker to life once again, only to dim a second later as that eerie, violet light sparks into existence and swivels in your direction.

There you stand, half hidden behind Montgomery Gator and engulfed in Freddy's shadow, one hand gingerly cradling your elbow, staring back at the attendant with downturned lips and upturned brows.

Drained of fight, beset upon by pain and confusion, you forget to hide your expression.

You forget that they know the look of fear all too well.

“F-Friend!” they sputter, peeling one, quivering hand away from their face and stretching it out towards you, their fingers seeking a connection with you, even metres away, “Friend? I-i-i t ' s m – m e...”

Before you can utter even a whimper in response, the animatronic suddenly throws their mechanical neck back and lets out a gut-churning shriek, three of their four hands scrabbling erratically at their faceplate.

“NNNGH!!!! GET OUT!” they howl like a wounded animal.

It's a horrifying thing to watch. And yet you can't tear your eyes off them as they rock forwards, peering through rigid fingers that cover the upper half of their face.

It's rather telling that even Monty steps back when the attendant once again buzzes and jerks as if their system is roiling with far too much electricity, a live-wire dropped in a puddle of water.

“GET! OUT!”

Their shout extends, growing and swelling in volume to an awful crescendo, until suddenly, at the apex of their cry when you're sure your eardrums might burst, the sound cuts out, as if their voice box has been inexplicably disconnected by unseen hands.

And for a long, heart-wrenching moment, they go entirely, frighteningly still....

Stricken, you let your jaw hang open, gaping at Eclipse's stiff frame as it starts to teeter over like an enormous obelisk falling slowly to the earth.

With an awful cacophony of rattling parts and scraping metal, they come crashing to the ground, none of it muffled against the soft-play mats underneath them. To your horror, a trail of smoke drifts up from the back of their head, beneath the little, black box where their CPU is housed.

Several long and tedious moments seem to drag by at an excruciating pace before finally, finally, you release the breath you've been holding for the last twenty seconds.

It escapes you in a rush, letting you know just how long you'd kept it trapped inside your lungs.

That single breath has a ripple effect, spreading outwards and touching Freddy first.

“Oh dear...” the bear mutters, his hold on your elbows going slack.

At once, you lurch forwards on your crutches before he can re-secure his grip.

“Guys!” you belt out, limping past a startled Monty, only to find yourself drawn up short by a heavy hand falling on your shoulder.

“Hold up, lady” the gator barks, easily keeping you in place even as you try to duck out of his grasp.

“God damn, shit,” Andy rasps, carelessly hurling his baton back onto his belt, “What is goin' on with these machines!?”

The mechanic once again bulldozes over Freddy's sputtered comment about refraining from vulgarity in favour of approaching the downed animatronic, moving past you and the gator to nudge the toe of his rubber boot underneath Eclipse's elbow, giving it a half-hearted kick.

“A-are they-?” you begin, craning your neck to see over Andy's shoulder.

“Offline,” he responds brusquely as he rakes a hand down his face, tugging at the wrinkles that lay under his eyes, “But looks like they fried their CPU.”

“WHAT!?” you blurt.

You might have gone on to spiral into a frantic mess of sentences, but at that moment, you're swiftly yet carefully spun around by a pair of large, tentative servos until you find yourself gaping listlessly up into the maw of Montgomery Gator.

Wasting no time, the enormous bot presses himself as far into your personal space as he can physically get without bowling you over and darts his gaze up and down your body, his optics working on overtime to scan you from head to toe.

“You okay?!” he rushes out urgently.

“What?” Mind whirling, you shoot a glance down at the lifeless attendant on the floor before returning your wide-eyed stare to Monty. “Wh-... I – yes? Yeah, I'm fine.”

A rapid shake of his head indicates his disagreement. “But they hurt you!”

“They didn't do it on purpose. It was an acciden-” you start to say, only to find yourself cut off.

“Stop sayin' stuff was an accident!” the gator blurts, his stare locking onto the spot on your arm where Eclipse had left his mark. Lips of silicone peel back to expose the full length of his teeth. “Sure didn't look like an accident to me...”

“Need I remind you that this-” you jerk your chin down towards the cast encumbering your injured leg. “-was an accident as well.”

“That's-!” The gator's voice-box sputters with fuzz for a moment as he tries to push his processor towards the words he's looking for, eventually settling on, “That's totally different!”

“Is it?” Stuffing your teeth into your lip, you fall quiet for a moment, gathering your brows into a hard line and drawing in a deep, slow inhale through your nostrils, partially to soothe your agitation, and partially because your ankle gives a sudden, searing throb, as if it had at last grown tired of you ignoring its frailty. “If I thought for one minute that they'd ever do something to hurt me, I might agree with you,” you concede, casting a troubled glance down at the eerily still attendant, your knuckles white on the crutch handles, “But this... I don't know... It's like they didn't even realise they were doing it... Something isn't right.”

“I'm sure it's nothing our fine mechanics can't fix,” Freddy pipes up.

“Agreed,” Andy jumps in, “Whatever happened, we'll deal with it down in Parts. New tech guy's comin' in to go over the security systems anyway.”

“Okay...” You nod your head, flexing your fingers around the crutches and sifting through your racing thoughts to try and formulate a plan of action, one that'll get Sun and Moon the help they clearly need. You're only glad that this has happened to you, and not one of the kids. “Okay. Okay, right. I'll help you get them down to Parts and Services.”

You should have known you wouldn't get away with that.

Sharp as a whip-crack, Andy cuts you off, shooting you a steely glare. “Not on your life, you ain't. You're going straight out to the car park, I'm gonna call you a cab. And you're gonna go home.”

You open your mouth to offer a feeble argument only to fall silent when Monty's hand finds your forearm and he leans down to place his mouth near your ear, grunting, “Maybe it's for the best, y'know? Can't do much for 'em if you're on the verge of collapse yourself.”

“I'm not on the verge of-... ugh.” You puff out your cheeks, teetering sideways before you manage to catch yourself on a crutch and shove yourself upright again. Scowling down at your cast, you mutter, “Not exactly making a good case for myself, am I?”

Rumbling a note of acknowledgement, Monty gives the back of your shoulder a guiding nudge with his snout. “C'mon. I'll help you get to the entrance.”

“God dammit, NO! NO! Monty, you're gonna carry the attendant down to Parts,” Andy exclaims, jabbing a finger at the gator and puffing like a runaway train as he throws an arm out at the animatronic bear hovering to your left, “Freddy'll take her to the entrance.”

Dutifully, the bear straightens up on his struts and returns his hat to its rightful place between his ears. “It would be my pleasure,” he says cordially, reaching out a paw for you to take and lifting his muzzle to flash you a charming smile. “May I?”

Letting out a disgruntled sigh, you take a single step towards the cordial bear, only for a clawed fist to clap shut around the collar of your shirt and keep you in place.

A growl reverberates through the air behind you and you're rudely tugged back a fumbling step, allowing Monty to slink around in front of you, releasing your shirt as he petulantly snaps, “Nuh uh, you may not!”

“Montgomery,” Freddy scolds, flicking his ears back on their hinges.

Snapping his optics over to Andy, the gator blunders on as if his co-star had never spoken. “Why him? Huh? How come I can't take 'er?”

Holding you breath, you cast a nervous glance around Monty's bridling shoulder to peer at the mechanic, who looks to be about three seconds away from pulling out his electric prod and reenacting the harrowing scene from last night all over again.

Peeling his lips apart, you catch a glint of his gritted teeth as he slowly drawls out, “Because I trust Freddy a damn sight more than I trust you to get her there in one piece.”

At that, you feel your eyebrows twitch inwards of their own accord.

It's only small, but a flicker of indignation spurs you to stick out your chin and fix Andy with a stern look, missing the way Monty's immense frame seems to grow inexplicably smaller at your side as he wilts.

“Andy, come on,” you say, “That's not fair...”

One of the old man's eyelids gives a volatile twitch, a clear indication that his patience isn't just wearing thin, it's damn-near threadbare. Yet still, you stand your ground, etching a frown onto your face that grows deeper and deeper as the silence stretches on.

Andy's lips thin, and despite his agitated temper, he spares the gator a more thorough once-over.

The mechanic has been around for a while, long enough that he was there when the switch was flipped and Montgomery Gator's processor first whirred to life. Ever since, Andy has amassed countless reports of Monty proving himself to be a nuisance, a hinderance and a downright danger to the company, the staff, the guests... To you.

The damnable bot broke your ankle, for Christ's sake...

And yet... God... And yet you've gone and done it. You've gone and buried a tiny seed of guilt right in the centre of Andy's chest. It isn't much, but it's enough...

He can't deny that you and that poor kid may very well have died yesterday if not for Monty coming to your defence.

Andy might not have believed it if he hadn't seen the feedback with his own two eyes.

The gator had protected you.

Glancing down, he doesn't fail to note the tail curled up around the back of your legs, nor the hulking animatronic casting you in his shadow - ironic, considering the bot has been doing nothing but shadow you for the past few days. People are noticing the changes...

Andy Flowers knows what loyalty looks like... He just... never thought he'd see it in a bot like Monty.

“Hhh... M'gettin' too old for this job,” he sighs, lifting a thumb and forefinger to massage gingerly at his forehead.

It's a tough pill to swallow, admitting that you have a point - that Andy isn't, in fact, being fair. He may remember, in gruesome detail, the bite, the blood, Mick's harrowing screams, but - and call him biased - he can't ignore that he trusts your judgment. Nor can he disregard the tiny kernel of gratitude he'd felt when he watched, through Monty's optics, how the bot guarded you from that 'intruder' with startling ferocity. The fact that you're the one willing to vouch for the bot means something to Andy.

So. Is it fair of him to suspect that Monty wouldn't get you to the front entrance without incident?

Andy's eyes squint sharply and he peers at you for a long moment, feeling the weight of three stares boring back into him, apprehensively awaiting his next words.

After a little while longer spent in silence, you nod your head and gently prompt, “It's okay, Andy. Monty can get me there safely. I trust him.”

You and Freddy are so busy watching the mechanic, neither of you notice Montgomery twisting his head to regard you with wide, glimmering optics, plastic brows pinched together and tilted towards the ceiling. And then the man's gaze is drawn to movement behind the gator, movement that he at first attributes to the daycare attendant stirring back to life. So it comes as a surprise when all he sees is the gator's segmented tail swinging back and forth silently at the back of your legs.

'Huh,' he muses to himself, 'That's a new one.'

Aloud, he has to summon every ounce of his willpower to do what he's about to do...

Concede.

“Goddammit, fine,” he spits, slumping his shoulders in defeat and breaking the spell of tension he'd cast over the daycare.

At once, Monty perks up and you start to smile, opening your mouth to give a word of thanks, but before you can, the mechanic jerks his chin at Freddy and adds, “Fred, go with 'em. Make sure there aren't any more detours.”

Almost as quickly as it had lit up, your face promptly falls slack. “Seriously?”

“We don't need an escort,” Monty chips in, throwing a haughty side-eye at Freddy, who only appears all-too happy to fulfil the request.

“Freddy goes with you, and that's final,” Andy retorts, squinting at you sharply, “You're in enough trouble as it is.”

It... shouldn't bother him as much as it does how quickly you back down from him, lowering your eyes and huffing out a quiet, “Fine. Fine.”

As you start to shuffle past him, you can't help but turn back to peer down at the lifeless animatronic on the floor behind you.

“What about them?” you ask quietly, pausing beside the mechanic, “Who'll help you take them to Parts if Freddy comes with us?”

“I know a gal,” is all he grunts in return as he raises his wrist and taps on his Fazwatch. The screen lights up, and a chipper voice buzzes through the speakers.

“Andy!”

“Chica,” the mechanic replies in a far less enthusiastic tone, stepping past you to stand over Eclipse's body, “Need a favour. You up for a little heavy lifting?”

Curious as you are to hear her response, it's only worry for your attendant friends that keeps your feet stuck fast to the play mats, and it isn't until Freddy's paw lands on your back that you allow yourself to be gently ushered towards the daycare entrance, tossing a last, lingering glance over your shoulder as you go.

Andy looms over Eclipse, still muttering to his wrist whilst his free hand wraps around the back of his neck, rubbing at the short, grey hairs that grow there, his whole body slouching forwards as if it can no longer bear to keep itself standing upright.

You think you can understand how he feels...

Freddy's guiding paw only manages to stay on your back for all of a few seconds before Monty slips his nose between you and the bear, giving the latter a shove with his powerful jaws.

Thrown, Freddy stumbles sideways at once, emitting a sound of surprise as his footfalls clatter clumsily on the linoleum for a moment, a moment that gives Monty ample time to move his hefty bulk between you and his co-star.

You remain deaf to Freddy's grunt of disapproval as he's forced aside, shooting the gator a reprimanding huff before reaching up to right his hat from where it had been knocked askew.

In the meantime, you continue to limp forwards whilst your head remains twisted over one shoulder, your gaze locked onto the gangling shape that lays on the floor of the daycare, round face-plates half obscured by Andy's legs.

Dark, blank optics bore into you as you're ushered beyond the wooden entrance and out through the red, swinging doors that close in your wake with a firm 'bang,' cutting off your view of that ominous, sightless stare.

Frowning softly, you turn your head forwards again and give a noiseless sigh, emptying your lungs and readying yourself for the walk to the front doors of the Plex. It's to your own shame that you look forward to collapsing on your bed and resting, while the attendants are carted down to Parts and Services where a perfect stranger will poke and prod at their CPU.

You can only hope they'll be okay when they wake up...

And so, in silence, all three of you – human, gator, and bear – begin to amble along the corridor adjoined to the daycare, not a sound passed between you except for the heavy 'clunks' of the animatronic's footfalls.

You keep your eyes on the ground ahead of you, wincing now with every other step, but keeping your expression rigid, sensing the vigilant optics of two bots assessing you from above.

You've almost reached the end of the corridor by the time Freddy breaks the silence.

“How are you feeling, Miss Y/n?” he voices softly, leaning forwards to try and catch your eye.

Exhaling a long, arduous breath through your nose, you raise your head and consider your response.

Somehow, you have enough sense to know that saying 'I'm about three seconds away from pulling my hair out and having a little cry right here in this corridor' to a worry-wart like Freddy wouldn't be the wisest choice of words.

The poor bear is already peering down at you as though he expects you to fall over at a moment's notice. So, in lieu of the truth, you plaster on a reassuring smile and aim it up at the star, telling him, “I'm all right, Freddy...” And then, because you're aware of the skeptical twitch of his plastic brows, you add a safe truth. “I'm just... really, really tired...”

You don't notice Monty's head lower to squint at you discerningly.

“Ah, that is quite understandable,” Freddy nods sagely as he presses ahead and holds open the lobby doors ahead of you, leaving Monty to linger behind and watch you through them with a careful optic, “You've had a very exciting day.”

“Excitin' ain't the word I'd use,” the gator huffs, sliding through and reclaiming his spot at your side before Freddy can bustle in to take it.

Apparently oblivious to his co-star's comment, Freddy simply settles into a steady lope on the opposite side of Monty and peers around him to continue addressing you. “I noticed you were looking a little peaky during the performance...”

Now you know he's being polite. You can't imagine that spending a sleepless night in the hospital without any opportunity to clean yourself up has left you looking your best. In response to the bear, you merely give a non-committal hum.

Once again, you all fall silent, although judging from the frequent glances that Freddy shoots down to you, you think it's safe to presume he has something else on his processor that's just bursting to get out.

Sure enough, after taking a few steps towards the lift...

“Did you enjoy it?”

“Did I... What?” you blink, turning to raise a quizzical brow at the bear.

“The performance,” he reiterates, tapping his fingertips together hopefully, “What did you think?”

Well, you muse, aside from the impromptu shoutout...

“You guys were fantastic,” you tell him with a genuine smile that only grows wider when Freddy's ears wiggle in delight, jangling his little, red earring.

Turning to Monty, you add, “You though, Mont, you stole the show!”

Clenching his fists, the gator has to focus hard on the creaking plastic to keep the pneumatic actuators beneath his casing from pulling his lips into a proud smile. There's a pressing question that's been nagging at the front of his processor, one that's been burning a hole through his chip ever since he looked up at the concert and found you missing, and he'll be damned if he's going to let a little compliment from his... from you distract him.

“Liked it, did'ja?” he mumbles.

You're still aiming a tired grin up at the side of his snout when you reply, “Of course I did...”

“Then why'd you leave..?”

Ah... There goes your smile... He almost pierces his plastic palms with his claws in some kind of self-imposed admonishment for erasing it.

But... he has to know.

Swallowing, you turn to face forwards again, dimly registering that Monty is has begun to turn himself towards you little by little, subtly herding you in the direction of the lift behind the photo booth.

Your crutches click noisily on the tiled floor. The answer to his question is precisely what you'd been hoping to avoid. And now you're stuck between a rock and a hard place. Do you tell him the truth and cause he and Freddy to worry, or do you tell a white lie and potentially insult them with a lacklustre reason for ditching the show early?

… God, your eyelids ache with the effort of holding them open.

Defeatedly, your shoulders droop and you ask, “You want an honest answer, or an answer that won't upset you?”

“Well... Honesty is my favourite policy – Oh. Watch your step,” Freddy chimes in as he moves ahead of you onto the lift before turning to face you, taking your wrist in his enormous paw and keeping you steady as you step on after him.

“Thanks, Fred,” you murmur gently.

Though he makes a show of rolling his optics at the bear, Monty concurs. “We're big bots, lady. Reckon we can handle it.”

The lift shudders when the gator steps on after you, dipping slightly with a groan of metal. You pause long enough for the sound to stop before you reach out and jab a thumb on the button for the bottom floor, blowing a noisy sigh through pursed lips.

“Doctors gave me some pain meds after the operation,” you finally confess, “But only enough for today. I was meant to go straight to a pharmacy after I left the hospital to get some over-the-counter anti-inflammatories. But...” Your voice trails off as the lift slows to a smooth halt, dinging once before the doors slide open to let you leave.

“But you didn't,” Monty points out, his voice nearly a growl.

Watchful of your every move, the bots linger behind whilst you swing the crutches forwards and haul yourself from the lift. You don't bother to wait for them, fully aware that they could catch up and overtake you in just a few strides.

Dipping your head towards your shoulder in a sideways shrug, you glance around the lobby, relieved to find that most of the foot-traffic is concentrated inside the gift shops. There are very few guests milling about around the open space, just a few tired parents chatting with one another near the turnstiles and a group of teenagers perched on the edge of the enormous, bronze statue that has pride of place at the centre of the lobby.

Only a few glance in your direction as you hobble past, sparing Freddy and Monty vaguely curious glances, but nobody seems altogether inclined to get up and greet the stars of the Pizzaplex. It's likely they've been here more times than one can count, and the novelty of walking, talking animatronics has worn off.

Perhaps you're just more impressed because you've seen these bots behind closed-doors, but you find that it's a sad world where impressive feats of technology like the Glamrocks are regarded as mundane, as if they're little more than a passing fad.

As you suspected, it isn't long before titanic footfalls tromp heavily up to your side once more, neither bot willing to let you stray too far ahead, apparently. You appreciate the vigilance, though you still find it a little overdramatic.

“Started feeling the meds wear off during your performance,” you continue softly once Monty's big, green nose appears in the corner of your vision, “And I got worried that if I didn't get to the daycare soon, I wouldn't be able to hide my pain from the attendants, so...”

“... So you left before the pain got too much to bear,” Freddy finishes for you, his ears tipping back in sympathy.

The gator, however, picks up on something else entirely. “Does it hurt real bad'?” Bristling, he takes a glance down and begins to scan your leg for the umpteenth time.

You reply with an exasperated shake of your head, though the motion is still fond. “It's my own fault, Mont,” you tell him, taking the lead and bringing them through the open turnstile that allows guests to leave, manned by a single, motionless S.T.A.F.F bot.

The gator stomps through behind you, grumbling something under his 'breath' that you miss beneath the S.T.A.F.F bot's generic, blaring address.

“Thank you for visiting Fazbear's Pizzaplex. Please, have a Faz-erific day.”

“Likewise,” you respond automatically before turning over your shoulder to address Monty again, “And it's not so bad-” Liar. “- If it was really hurting, I might've asked one of you to carry me.”

Freddy is the last to leave through the turnstile, tipping his hat politely to the smaller bot before he hurries up to your side again.

“Flowers was right,” Monty rumbles, lowering his optics to the cast on your leg, “You should'a gone straight home....”

With the main entrance mere steps away, you let out a sigh and draw to an unsteady halt in front of it. Beside you, the heavy animatronics do the same, their footsteps stopping in near-perfect synch. Hesitant, Monty turns his head towards you, his optics clicking open in surprise when he sees your hand rising steadily towards his face. He doesn't move a piston, holding his metaphorical breath as you lay a gentle palm on top of his snout and give it a slow, soothing stroke, right from his glasses to the tip of his nostrils. He has no throat to gulp, but his gears whir as he swivels his gaze from your hand to your eyes, vaguely registering the warm hum emitting from Freddy's chest.

“I'm glad I came here first,” you tell him, resolute, “For my own peace of mind, if nothing else. I wanted to see for myself that you were okay. That endo nearly ripped you to pieces.”

It takes the gator's sensors a moment to recognise your touch.

And when everything clicks into place, it takes all of his processing power to refrain from sagging like a big, green balloon with the air let out. This is the second time today you've willingly put your fragile, little hand close to his crushing jaws...

Worry. You'd described worry. You wanted to see that he was okay? He almost finds the notion inconceivable.

After all, he's Montgomery Gator. He... He doesn't worry about anyone, and nobody worries about him. That's the way it's always been...

He wants to smack Freddy with his tail when the bear announces pleasantly, “You were worried about him.”

As you turn to face the star, your hand still resting lightly on Monty's snout, the gator settles for whipping his optics up to glare at Freddy from behind your head -

- But he's stopped when you say, plain and simple, “Of course I was.”

Of course you were...

Of course.

“Well” you announce suddenly, drawing your hand from Monty's snout and returning it to the handle of your crutch, “I suppose I'd better get going before any else turns up to tell me I've made some bad decisions.”

The warmth from your hand disappears too fast, too soon, and Monty has to catch himself before he leans down to try and keep your palm attached to his nose.

Freddy's head dips in concurrence, regarding you with a soft fondness that sets the gator's fingers twitching. But at last, the bear drags his optics away from you and turns them instead to the open entrance and the carpark beyond. All at once, the easy-going lift of his jaw falls, his brows sliding together into the centre of his forehead as a troubled hum spews from his voice-box.

Following the line of his gaze, Monty soon discovers why.

The afternoon is slowly bleeding into the first touches of a cold, dark evening, and the sky overhead has grown heavy with grey clouds. Snow falls lightly from above, not enough to be of any concern to the traffic on the well-gritted roads, but enough that they can several humans meandering back to their cars, rubbing their gloved hands together and wrapping brightly-coloured scarves around their children's necks as they exit their vehicles.

“Looks like we're in for another cold one,” you remark, drawing Monty's attention down to you.

Shifting on his actuators, the gator casts a fleeting look between you and the world beyond the Plex's main entrance.

This is it, he supposes. You'll be going home now... To a place that's entirely foreign to him, filled with unknowns and unpredictability.... A place where anything could potentially happen to you, and he'd have no idea until word eventually reached him from the staff gossip chain...

Why has it only just occurred to him that the outside world might be a dangerous place? He's never considered that possibility before, not once.

“You comin' in tomorrow?” he finds himself asking before he can mute his voice-box.

Puffing out your cheeks, you blow a noisy breath through your lips before giving a wince and replying, “Not sure I can, big guy. The doctor said that fractured ankles take about eight weeks to heal.”

Eight weeks?

Now, Montgomery would never claim to be a scholarly type of bot, especially in the realm of mathematics, but he does have the advantage of having a computer for a brain.

Eight weeks? That calculates to fifty six days. Roughly thirteen hundred and forty four hours...

Damn. That's... a long time for you to be absent. Why, anything could happen in eight weeks...

“You, uh...” the gator starts fumblingly, half distracted by Freddy's stare that refuses to shift away from the side of his face. Still, he manages to cough out the rest of his question in an awkward mumble. “You gonna be okay? You got someone lookin' out for ya at home, right?”

“Well, my fish haven't let me down yet,” you laugh, though the sound quickly peters out into a hum once you catch both Monty and Freddy peering down at you, neither quite as amused as you seem to be with your own little joke.

Sharing a look between themselves, Freddy is the first to return his attention to you and tentatively ask, “You live alone?”

Balking, you offer the bear a hesitant chuckle and reply, “Bit of a personal thing to ask someone, isn't it?”

Plastic brows click down into a long, stern line, like a father on the cusp of gently scolding his brood.

“Y/n...” he starts.

“No need to make it sound so dramatic,” you interject lightly, “Lots of people live on their own.”

“Hmm... I don't mean to pry,” he says, raising a large, careful paw and laying it down on your shoulder, a warm gesture that puts a brief ache of longing deep inside your chest, “I only ask because I'd like to know that there's someone there who can take care of you.”

Slowly, your eye swivels sideways to peer at the inhuman appendage engulfing your shoulder. Something in your ribcage shifts, like a blockage coming unstuck and letting clear, healthy waters run freely for the first time in a while.

You have to squeeze your eyes into a hard blink before they can grow too misty.

Sniffing up at the towering animatronic, you raise your own hand and lay it over the top of his, giving the smooth, sturdy plastic a pat. “You're a good sort, Freddy, I hope you know that.”

The bear's ears twitch forwards and his upper jaw lifts slowly, sending your smile right back at you.

“But,” you add pointedly, “You don't need to worry. I'm sure Andy will stop by every now and again to make sure I'm still in one piece.”

“I certainly hope so,” he utters warmly, right before he throws another blow at your quivering heart, “You're part of the Fazbear family. We take care of our own.”

Unseen by either of you, Montgomery stands a few feet away, observing the interaction with a growing sense of disquiet. Deep in his innermost circuitry, he can already feel that familiar, old monster raise its ugly head, it's hue a sickly green that's awfully reminiscent of his own paint-job. It growls inside his stomach hatch, bulging outwards threateningly as Freddy's paw remains on you.

But at least this time, the monster isn't given too long to fester.

In another second, Freddy slides his hand from your shoulder and steps back, returning his optics to the car park outside. Gradually, with a subtle creak of metal, Monty's jaws unclench and he twists his head around to follow the bear's line of sight, listening to the rumble of a distant engine creep closer.

Through the wintery gloom, a sleek, black car turns off the main road and passes beneath the neon sign that welcomes visitors to the Plex. Monty squints at it, his eye drawn to the illuminated, white box sitting on top of the roof that simply reads, 'Taxi.'

“Reckon that's your ride,” he mumbles.

Humming through closed lips, you bob your head in a nod. “Looks like.”

Admittedly, it's a relief to see the car pull in. Your legs are beginning to quake under the effort of keeping yourself upright for far longer than you really ought to have.

Movement at your side draws you back to the animatronic bear, whose friendly, blue optics are shuttered half-closed, his broad shoulders slumping dolefully as he bends himself down and opens his arms, paws upturned in invitation.

The gesture is so plain and comprehensible, entirely human in its execution.

He's asking you for a hug.

And, well... Who are you to deny the face of Fazbear Inc. a farewell hug?

Freddy regards you with a hopeful waggle of his ears when you smile, hobbling across the meagre distance between you, well within the circle of his arms. Uttering a pleasant hum, he loops his hands behind your back and gently scoops you into his chest. Just like that, you're surrounded by the bear's convivial warmth that does wonders to chase away the biting wind slipping under the Plex's entrance to chill your cheeks and fingertips.

Sinking into Freddy's chest, you let out a contented hum, pinching your eyes shut as he does the same, his baritone voice thrumming through the ear you've pressed to his casing.

“Take care of yourself, won't you?” he rumbles, his chin alighting delicately on top of your head, “The better you do, the sooner we get to see you again!”

It never ceases to amaze you how an animatronic can inject so much humanity into even their most mundane of actions and words. Freddy's expressions of genuine kindness are as authentic as any human's. Of course they are. The AI that was implemented into him was designed to learn from the very species that created it. How can anyone say his compassion is only artificial? Kindness doesn't care whether the one wielding it is human or robot.

Breathing a deep, sigh, you sink deeper into Freddy's embrace, selfishly indulging in a comfort you've been desperately seeking since the trauma of last night's attack.

Of course, with a certain animatronic alligator in the vicinity, this peaceable moment was never destined to last very long.

“A'right, a'right,” Monty complains loudly, his claws sinking into the hem of your shirt to ease you backwards out of Freddy's grasp, “That's enough. You're gonna squeeze the air outta 'er if you keep that up.”

Rightfully aghast, the bear reels his head back as if Monty had struck him, exclaiming, “I would never!” Yet even still, his arms slowly peel open from around you, allowing the gator to pull you free and nudge you towards the open entrance.

“Not to worry, Freddy, you were very gentle,” you tell him kindly before throwing Monty an expectant look, eyebrows raised and arms held in much the same way as Freddy just had, “What about you, Mont? Can I interest you in one of these?”

A very small, hidden part of the gator that he doesn't want to examine too closely is immensely pleased that you'd been the one to offer. He isn't sure his pride would be able to stomach it if Freddy were to witness him admitting that he wants a hug before you leave. Despite popular belief, Monty is a hugger... He just... doesn't get as much opportunity to do so as the other animatronics.

Still, he exactly show his hand so publicly, especially with Fazbear breathing down his neck. Folding his arms across his chest, Monty gives a dismissive snort and shrugs his massive shoulders, mumbling, “Sure, fine. If you wanna, I guess.”

He doesn't know if his faux-reluctance fools you or not, but in the next few moments, he finds he doesn't much care, not when you hobble close to him on the crutches and topple forwards into a hug that forces him to the throw his arms out to catch you with a soft 'oof.'

Startled, the gator stares down at the top of your head as you sink against his inflexible frame, moulding yourself to him as if he was designed to perfectly accommodate you, and you alone.

Now, Monty has hugged children before, those that have been brave enough to ask the massive gator with sharp fangs and even sharper claws. But this, he realises, might just be the first time he's ever hugged an adult. It feels... different.

Your hands aren't sticky, for one.

Worn, calloused palms wrap around his midsection, as far as your arms can reach, and the gator's core nearly overloads when you turn your face to the side and press your cheek against his chest.

Dimly, he registers that he has yet to actually lay his hands on you.

The gator's optics swivel between each of his raised appendages, fingers splayed out as they hover over your shoulders without direction. He notices his claws. They look... sharper than they had before. They look dangerous, especially now that he's seeing them against a backdrop of soft, fragile skin.

He would never hurt you...

But that's what he thought last night, and still, he'd been the one to fall upon your leg.

It's only when you start to pull away that he suddenly realises that this moment – this wonderful, overwhelming moment – is about to end. Desperation to keep you to himself for just a few more seconds gives the gator enough courage to curl his claws into his fists and press his knuckles into your back, his head tipped low to nudge his chin into the back of your neck.

The only sound you emit is a subtle huff of amusement before you return to your original position, giving him a firmer squeeze.

“Thanks, Monty. I needed this...” you mumble against him, giving him the out.

Working his jaw silently a few times, he eventually manages to reply, “Don't, uh... don't mention it.”

And then, just like that, it's over.

You pull back, and he lets you this time, his knuckles sliding carefully across the back of your shirt until you lean back far enough that he loses his grip, and his arms flop back to his sides with a creak of metal.

“Right!” you announce, blinking rapidly and shaking a weary smile onto your face, “And on that note, I'll see you guys soon.”

You start to turn towards the exit, raising a hand off one crutch to return the little wave that Freddy gives you, but before you can limp another step, the gator once again gives you pause.

“Hey... Before you go.. I, uh...”

You stop mid step, easing yourself about to face him again and sending him another expectant look.

For some time, he hesitates, yet when your eyes start to flick between he and the taxi outside, he balls his hands into fists and eventually mumbles out like a petulant teen, “I wanted to... to thank you, or whatever.”

“Thank me?” you echo, knitting your brows together, “For what?”

'For what...' He almost huffs in dark amusement. How can he sum it up in a few words, all the things he has to thank you for?

Monty's large hands fiddle idly with one of his spiked wrist-bands for a moment as he tries and fails to look you directly in the eye, hiding behind his glasses. “I spoke to Flowers...” the gator eventually sighs, “He said he wouldn't'a checked my visual feed if you hadn't told 'im it wasn't me that attacked you.”

“What else was I going to do?” you huff, giving him an amused smile, “Let you take the fall for something you didn't do?”

For several, quiet moments, he doesn't respond, merely drops his gaze to the floor between you and gives his shoulder struts a halfhearted shrug. It occurs to you, suddenly, that maybe, just maybe, he wouldn't have been surprised if you'd done exactly that.

“Oh. Monty-” you start, reaching out a hand.

“Ah, s'nothin',” he says gruffly, though he doesn't stop you when you touch your fingertips to the side of his dangling arm, taking care to avoid the spikes on his wrist band, “Just... Just... Thanks. Y'know? For havin' my back.”

The worry on your face stays for a few more moments, just long enough that he catches it when his optics find your eyes again, but soon, you allow your expression to soften, pressing your fingers a little more firmly against his casing. “Thanks for having mine first,” you shrug, lips quirked, “I mean, what are friends for, right?”

Quick as a flash, one of the gator's brows slides up his forehead. “Friends?” he parrots.

“Oh,” you fumble, casting your mind out like a net searching for the right word, “I mean... what, colleagues?”

Leaning back on his leg struts, Monty regards you coolly for several seconds, peering at you over the rim of his glasses before he snorts softly, one side of his mouth tugging up into a smirk. “Nah...Friends is fine. 'Sides, reckon you've earned an upgrade.” He drops an optic in a lazy wink.

Taken aback, you consider the bot in front of you, recalling the ferocious sight of the colossal animatronic who bore down on you in his green room not so many nights ago. Montgomery Gator, Monster of the Pizzaplex, has just claimed you for a friend.

Perhaps a few days ago, you might've been perturbed by such a revelation, but now, despite the agony working its way up your leg, despite the heavy cast and the stinging ache behind your eyes, and your worry for the daycare attendants, Monty's little acknowledgement sits like a bubble of light in your chest.

Gratitude swelling, you cock your hip and fondly reply, “Lucky me.”

The tender moment is ruined in an instant when, from outside, a loud, blaring horn blasts across the car park, causing you and the two animatronics to whip your heads in the direction of the taxi, whose driver has his arm sticking out the window, beckoning to you impatiently.

“Whoops,” you laugh, “That's our time. Andy must have told him to be on the lookout for a girl on crutches.”

With that, you're once again shuffling through the building's wide exit, only this time, Monty doesn't attempt to stop you, perhaps realising that he's gleaned all the extra time from you that he can.

“Oh, before I forget!” Twisting back to face the bots who're still standing vigil by the entrance, you call out, “Monty, can you let the DJ know what happened? And Triple M too! I don't want them thinking I've forgotten about them again.

Standing to attention, the gator knocks off a quick salute and shouts back, “Consider it done, lady!"

You throw him a wave in response before you turn back to the taxi and continue making your way over the frost-covered tarmac, away from the Pizzaplex, and away from the gator who stares after you with tilted brows and a mellow longing worming its way through his wires.

Together, he and Freddy watch you throw your crutches into the back of the car, then clamber in after them, and all the while, Monty finds himself stewing over how the driver hadn't stepped out to assist.

Grumbling to himself, he crosses his arms over his chest, tail lashing in agitation behind him.

"I don't like to think of her dealing with this by herself," Freddy murmurs at his side, ears tilted back at an angle conveying his worry, "I do hope she'll be all right..."

For once, Monty finds that he actually agrees with the bear.

"Yeah..." he utters, his optics tracking the glowing, red tail-lights of the taxi as it swings around the car park and turns right onto the main road, "Me too..."

Notes:

WHOO! Can't believe it's been three months. I thought I'd have more time to myself out in Spain but that was NOT the case, ha ha. Anyway, this was more of a filler chapter leading up to one I've been very excited to write, wherein Monty finds out the lengths he's willing to go for a friend who's on her own.

Chapter 24: Facing Freedom

Summary:

Latibule - 'A small hiding place. A place of safety and comfort. A different home from the one you come from.'

It’s dark in the lonely stairwell at the top of Fazbear’s Megaplex.

Dark. And cramped. Small. Certainly, too small to comfortably admit an animatronic gator with shoulder struts almost an equal width to the meagre space it provides, who nonetheless has managed to wedge himself into the area meant solely for humans, his crimson optics kicking out just enough light to illuminate the sign that’s nailed to the door in front of him.

Wires prickling with anticipation, Montgomery half shutters his optics, glaring hard at the sign as though he can intimidate it in much the same way it intimidates him.

‘NO EXIT,’ it mocks in bold, red letters, ‘ROOF ACCESS ONLY.’

It isn’t so much the sign itself that unsettles him, more-so what lays beyond it.

And what lays beyond it is nothing more mundane than a roof.

The Plex’s Roof, which leads to the Outside.

Montgomery knows tragic little of the world outside the bounds of this building. The Plex itself is his world, always has been, and until this very night, he’s never once had any inclination to explore beyond its encompassing walls.

Why would he want to? Everything he needs is within - His charging station, his bass guitar, his golf course…

It was only a few hours ago, after you clambered into that taxi and sped from his sight, that something occurred to the gator, something that was immediately embarrassing to admit, yet equally impossible to ignore.

As it turns out, there is one thing on the Outside that he can’t get in here.

There are rules at Fazbear’s Megaplex. Those that pertain to the guests, and those that the animatronics are beholden to. Guests may not enter the premises after the front gates are locked, and the animatronics may not leave the premises at all.

It’s a good thing then, Monty supposes, that the rules were intended to be followed by those animatronics for whom rules are paramount. Bots like Freddy and the Daycare Attendant, for instance, whose watertight programming leaves very little room to stray from the parameters of their protocols.

It’s how they were designed, after all. Most especially the bear. Freddy was always meant to be an unwavering and infallible role-model for children to aspire to – someone who says please and thank you, who never raises his voice, or snaps his teeth… Someone who follows the rules… Freddy’s a good example.

Sometimes Monty wonders if he wasn’t meant to be anything other than the bad example. The band’s own black sheep dressed up to look like a gator.

Have to have Bad so you know what Good looks like, right?

‘Don’t be like Montgomery, kids. He’s a rule-breaker.’

The animatronic’s optics droop for a moment, falling away from the sign in front of him, plastic brows slotting together to send a bleak frown at the doorhandle instead.

Well… Whether his design was intentional or not, he’s glad the mechanics got lazy with his programming, mostly because it means he has the processing power to override the meagre safeguards that were put into place to keep him inside the Megaplex.

Theoretically, he could have left whenever he wanted to. He just… didn’t want to.

Until tonight.

Green-tipped fingers slide through the darkness and alight upon the silver, lever handle, hesitating there for a few seconds whilst the gator boots his processor into gear, and not for the first time, ponders over what he’s about to do.

The prospect has been buzzing through his joints every hour since you left, rendering him restless on his axis.

“…This is stupid,” he grumbles to the empty stairwell, though his claws never leave the door handle.

It is stupid. And in fact, he’s had to run no less than four diagnostic checks on himself in the last six hours, all in an effort to find the glitch in his coding that’s nigh insistent upon him leaving the Plex for the single and solitary purpose of checking up on you.

… Stupid Freddy, and his stupid point… ‘I don’t like to think of her dealing with this by herself…’

Yeah? Well, neither does Monty.

Three days ago, he’d have laughed brazenly in the face of anyone who told him he’d be taking a vested interest in the well-being of a cleaning lady. Well, more fool him, because in just a few days, that little cleaning lady had hooked him like an expert angler, but it was Montgomery Gator who landed himself his first and only friend.

Closing his optics, Monty focuses on the steel hidden beneath his frame, a reminder that he’s built quite literally of the strongest stuff.

Montgomery Gator isn’t scared of going Outside. Outside should be scared of Montgomery Gator!

“Rah!” he exclaims suddenly, shoving down the handle and throwing the door open. It swings outwards, clanging loudly against the brick wall outside with such force that it starts to shudder closed, only to be thrown open once more as Monty shoulders through it, stomping purposefully out onto the roof of the Plex.

All at once, he receives a general alert about the abrupt drop on external temperature, though he dismisses it with a flick of his snout.

Trailing to a halt several steps from the door, Monty puffs excess air from his nostrils, watching a cloud of billowing steam rise up towards the night sky.

Behind him, the door swings shut with a metallic ‘clunk.’

“Huh,” he ponders aloud.

That was… easier than he thought it was going to be. Nothing’s shutting down, none of his systems are telling him to get back inside…

“I… did it?”

… Tilting his head skywards, Monty’s optics slide open to their maximum extent, wide with wonder.

Far above him, an uninterrupted blanket of sleek blackness sweeps across the entirety of his optical range. He almost shrinks underneath the weight and vastness of it.

There are no corners to it. Nothing standing between it and him to break up the view.

It’s the sky.

He knows about the sky, of course, but to actually see it for the first time…  He never realised how… unending it was.

And, oh, the stars. Monty spins in a slow, lazy circle, keeping his head craned back as a smile begins to pull at the silicone of his lips. Billions of tiny, little lights, like the glittering linoleum in the Plex, but out here he’s looking up instead of down.

His gaze moves North just a little, and there, he witnesses for the first time the crescent moon hanging over him, a tiny thumbnail of white against an otherwise pitch-black sky, yet somehow commanding the horizon.

Faz Co. All this time, they’ve been keeping the animatronics inside, and… Freddy, Chica, Roxy – all of them – they don’t know what they’ve been missing!

Monty didn’t know, at least, not until now.

But he did it. … He’s Outside.

Montgomery Gator is standing outside the Megaplex!

A wide, triumphant grin peels across the gator’s snout. Spinning around on a heel, he puffs his chest out at the doorway he’d just come through, nodding at it as if it were an adversary he’s just put in its place.

“Ha!” he barks, then again, “Ha!” Because this feels like a poignant moment. Like he’s just beaten… something, even if he isn’t sure what that is right now.

Rolling his shoulders, he points his head towards the edge of the roof, where a distant, orange glow is peeking over the lip of the outer wall. He braces himself, despite knowing what he’s about to see – the car park – the city beyond, but he’s never seen it from this vantage point.

Approaching the wall, he places his palms on the brickwork and peers out into the world beyond.

The car park stretches out in every direction he looks, like another void or a sea swathed in a thin layer of glittering frost. Or the sky, perhaps.

Raising his optics, Monty follows the rows of streetlights that retreat into the distance until their pretty glow is lost among the glare of the city’s skyline.

“There it is,” he mutters to himself, tipping his head to one side and eyeing the distant buildings and high-rises, “… Looks bigger from up here.”

But no further than a mile, by his sensors’ estimate.

With his lithium battery sitting at a comfortable ninety eight percent charge, he’d wager he has six hours, tops.

Belatedly, he sets an internal timer for five.

He can’t afford to get stranded halfway back to the plex, after all.

The city lights seem to wink at him, beckoning and daring, as if to inquire, ‘Well? Are you coming, or are you all talk?’

It’s a risk… Hell, this whole endeavour is a risk. If he’s found out, it’ll be curtains, and he can kiss his position in the band goodbye. Best case scenario, they’ll strip him for parts and shove his endo back into the basement with all the others.

Worst case?

… Well. He doesn’t like to think of the worst-case scenario.

Not for the first time, Monty has to wonder if he’s really about to risk his very existence for a cleaning lady.

But then, he only has to remember the little glass figurine sitting on his desk in the green room to banish all doubt from his processor.

Okay… Just this once, maybe you’re worth the risk.

Besides, no one need know he’s even gone.

He’s already pulled your home address from the employee databanks, and all he needs to do now is get there undetected, have a look through a window or something to make sure you’ve made it back safely, then return to the Megaplex without being spotted.

A simple enough plan, with only three, easy steps.

Monty scoffs softly to himself, planting a hand on each of his jutting hips, his tail swaying to and fro in apprehensive, sweeping motions.

How hard could it be?

Running a diagnostic check on his pneumatic cylinders, Monty sets his sights firmly on the city lights flickering ahead.

In the corner of his HUD, a red light blinks lazily to life, overlayed by a very important set of coordinates.

For as awestriking as the sky and the stars are, for Monty, there’s someone out there in the World that’s more important.

In a single bound, he leaps clear over the roof’s safety parapet and plummets like a meteor to the tarmac below.

The impact is quite literally ground-breaking. The force of a several-tonne animatronic hitting a solid surface rocks the carpark, causing the very earth itself to shudder in apparent surprise.

Luckily for the gator, given his affinity for jumping down from his catwalks in Gator Golf on a regular basis, the mechanics – sick of repairing his stabilisers every other day – had conceded to simply buy the most robust shock-absorbers on the market and promptly installed them into Monty’s legs, all without his input, of course.

He couldn’t be more pleased now, however. The heavy-duty springs catch much of his weight when he lands, screeching at the strain, yet stabilising the gator as they decompress, leaving his robotic joints no worse for wear.

Straightening up, Monty stretches out the wires in his neck with a satisfied grunt.

He doesn’t even spare the Plex a backwards glance.

-----

Monty supposes he ought to be grateful that the icy November chill has driven all but the hardiest humans indoors, and those that have bravely ventured out trudge up and down the city streets keep their heads tipped down, tucked into the raised collars of winter coats.

They’re certainly not looking up.

So, none of them see the enormous, dark shape bounding across the gaps between each building.

There is much that Monty would have liked to marvel at as he leaps across the city like it's a scaled-up version of his golf course. The humans walking down below. The rusted 'oldness' to some of the buildings that gather dust and frost like cloaks. 

The wind might have felt nice against him, he supposes, if he were a human, and if he had skin, not plastic, silicone and metal.

But the little numbers ticking down in the corner of his HUD remind him of why he set out on this journey in the first place. Time is hissing away like sand through an hourglass, and he'd much prefer to fill it with fulfilling his prior motive than to satisfy a casual curiosity.

Air whistles past Montgomery’s audials as he soars in a graceful arc down onto the roof of a rundown old factory. If his geological tracker is steering him right, he should be almost on top of your address.

He keeps low as he steals across the roof, almost pulling himself along on all fours just to keep out of sight until he crawls to a halt at the frost-stroked parapet.

Hesitant, he pokes his snout above the edge of the wall, peering past it to survey the building sitting adjacent.

According to his internal tracker, this is definitely the right place; a dreary tower of flats, piled on top of one another and stretching out from side to side, sporting windows that are far smaller than the ones the Glamrocks have separating their green rooms from Rockstar Row.

‘Huh. Must be for privacy,’ Monty assumes.

He notes that most of the windows are dark. Only a few spill forth soft, yellow light, just enough to chase away the darkness that tries to encroach into the homes within.

He wonders which window you’re waiting behind. If you’re waiting there at all.

The resounding ‘wham!’ of the animatronic hitting the alley floor rattles several metal dustbins nearby and sends a small, furry animal scampering out of an overturned box, hissing and spitting back at the gator as it flies out into the street beyond, disappearing just as swiftly as it had emerged.

Gritting his jaw in a grimace, Monty freezes for several, long moments, his pistons locking tight, audials strained to pick up the sound of any humans who might be inclined to investigate the jarring disturbance.

Lo and behold, not five seconds after the ground ceases to shudder, from somewhere overhead, he catches the distinct sound of wood scraping over itself – a window sliding open.

As swiftly and silently as an enormous animatronic can, Monty slinks backwards into the deeper shadow of the building, concealing himself beneath a rusty, iron fire escape that climbs the wall. Pressing his frame against the bricks, he tilts his head up to stare apprehensively through little, metal slats at the underside of a chin that pokes itself out of the window several storeys above him.

He curses at himself for growing careless. Surely, he hasn’t come this far just to get himself caught now…

As Monty’s apertures narrow to focus in on the human overhead, he very nearly releases an incredulous laugh when the figure tilts its gaze down, and a weary face reveals a little more of itself to the gator.

Of course… What providence, that the face he sees belongs to the very human he’d come looking for. Serendipity. He understands the definition, but has never yet felt its influence, until now.

An unknowable fondness softens Monty’s optics, shuttering them slightly as he watches you briefly scan the alley from left to right, but never quite hazarding a glance to the darkness directly below the fire escape.

You thusly miss the animatronic peering up at you from the shadows.

“Cats?” he hears you wonder aloud, rubbing at your thinly-clothed arms and shivering at the cold, November air nipping at your skin. Before Monty can snort aloud at the idea of mistaking a gator for a feline, you duck back inside and pull your window down once more, sealing it shut with a decisive ‘thunk!’

At once, the animatronic’s posture goes slack.

That had been close.

His intention was never for you to see him, he only came to find out if you made it back safely. And, hey! Mission accomplished! You’re back in your home. Good. You appear to be moving around by yourself okay. Even better.

Everything is all right. He can go back to the Plex now with a weight lifted from his shoulder struts.

He waits a moment in the dark.

Then he waits a few seconds longer.

Those few seconds turn into a minute, then two…

“Hmm.”

Shooting a scowl at his legs, Monty briefly considers running a troubleshoot to determine why they aren’t cooperating. He would… If he weren’t already well aware of the reason.

Perhaps… A quick peek through your window, just to be sure… Just to prove to himself that… that…

His processor fumbles for a flimsy excuse.

That there aren’t any major hazards in your home that he needs to take note of.

Yeah. Yeah, that’ll do.

‘Ugh, I’m startin’ to sound like Fazbear,” he grouses, laying a huge paw over his snout and shaking his head, discomfited. But that does get him to think… Freddy has a lot of friends. What would Freddy do in this situation?

Well, setting aside the fact that Freddy would never leave the Plex in the first place… Freddy would try and make sure his friends were okay, right?

Monty twists his neck to face the ladder of the rickety fire escape.

His processor ticks over, pushing an idea into his motherboard.

Just a peek.

The metal walkway could carry him right past your window, he could just take a look inside on his way to the roof.

Where’s the harm in that?

You came to check on him after the endo attack, is it so wrong if he wants to do the same for you?

‘No! It ain’t!’ he tells himself firmly. The idea is gaining traction, and Montgomery’s yellow chest sticks out as though he means to challenge his own hesitation.

He’s Montgomery Gator! He does what he wants - and if what he wants is to make sure that his… his only friend isn’t about to go climbing up unstable ladders or picking fights with strange endos, then… then so be it.

With a determined nod, Monty doesn’t hesitate any further.

A few strides carry him to the bottom of the fire escape where he plants one, cumbersome foot on the first step.

The thin slab of metal immediately screeches in protest under the unprecedented strain heaped upon it, but although the steps bow and dip as he begins to haul himself up towards the first platform, the whole contraption fights valiantly to hold itself together.

Step by step, the gator climbs, reaching the first section, then the second, then the third.

Your window should be on the fifth floor by his count.

Deep in his chassis, he feels a tiny spark of excitement flicker to life, likely the result of a loose wire, but the sudden prospect of seeing a human’s home for the first time – and not just any human’s home, but your home - is an altogether exciting development.

What might he see in your green room?

A vanity, perhaps? Like the ones the Glamrocks have? Maybe even a large sofa, set to one side of the room, plush and comfortable, just as you deserve. Do you have any photographs, like the ones you have in your cleaning cupboard at the Plex?

Eagerness propels the gator further up the fire escape, until at long last, he rises to a cautious halt on the platform outside the fifth-floor window…

Careful not to let his swaying tail whack against any of the bars and alert you to his presence, Monty slinks forwards, ducking his head low to peer through the frosted glass.

A pair of thin, cream-coloured curtains have been pulled across the width of the window, though there’s still a gap between them, wide enough that he can see a generous portion of your home beyond.

The room inside isn’t… entirely what he’d been expecting.

It’s longer than his green room, with a modest sitting area near the window, and a kitchen sitting at the far end that would sadden Chica if she ever found out how cramped it is. The fridge alone looks as though the door wouldn’t open without clanging against the counters opposite.

Frowning, Monty drags his optics back towards the sparse living room. There is a sofa, as he suspected, but yours makes the one in his green room look like a luxury.

Brown, faux leather has been stretched taut over a blocky frame, hard and unforgiving and about as inviting as a slab of concrete.

A television sits opposite, square and small, its screen utterly dark. And between the two, he studies a table that’s been stained all over with brown rings from many a mug that missed the intended coaster.

There’s still one thing in particular that Monty has been trying to find, however. For all his searching and scrutinising, he hasn’t spotted hide nor hair of you.

The gator’s brows click together audibly as he scans each corner of the living space, then on to the kitchen. But the only thing of note is the little saucepan sitting on top of a black cooker, a trail of steam wafting up towards the ceiling. Grunting, he drags his optics to the right, where they finally land upon a nondescript door set into the East wall.

‘Could you be behind there?’ he muses.

As if in answer to the silent question, the door abruptly swings open, and Monty’s shoulder struts sag with relief to see the familiar form of his – of you! Of you - hobbling into the room.

In a moment where he’s taken in by blind excitement, he raises a massive paw, curls it into a fist and makes to rap it against the glass, pulling up short just before his knuckle joints make contact.

Monty blinks, shaking his head and giving his fist a perplexed glance before he slowly lowers it to his side.

Shifting forwards to peer through the glass once more, Monty watches keenly as you pause in the empty space between the kitchen and your living room, where you spare the steaming saucepan a quick look. Then, in another second, you twist yourself about and begin to limp in the direction of the window.

Jolting, Monty drops his head, shying back to conceal himself a little more from the light that creeps along the tip of his snout.

It comes as yet another relief when you stop heading for the window.

Easing back on his rigid struts, Monty instead watches you edge between the coffee table and sofa, manoeuvring your crutches about in the unaccommodating space until at last, you collapse back into the ratty cushions with a wince, and promptly discard the crutches in a haphazard mess on the floor to your left, throwing them down as if they’re nothing but hateful things worthy of your disdain.

The television sits neglected in its little corner, the screen still dark and blank, but you don’t reach for the remote that sits on the table in front of you.

To the gator’s mounting confusion, you proceed to sit quietly for several long, uneventful minutes, hands folded in your lap whilst you gaze down the length of your body. Monty may not have the shiniest processor on the factory line, but even he can tell that your eyes are adhered exclusively on the cast enveloping your leg.

He should… probably get out of here…

Once again, the nagging operations running through his head lay their hackles down. You’re safe… So, he can go.

Right now.

Somehow though, despite logic, the gator’s focus remains locked unwaveringly in your direction.

There’s a software in each animatronic – one of the first ever implemented into newer models like the Glamrocks. A facial-recognition scanner, wired from their optics to their CPU. At first, it was merely intended for use as a feature that identifies individual faces. That’s how they could tell the thousands upon thousands of guests apart from one another, not to mention the staff.

After all, what child wouldn’t feel special when their favourite animatronic remembered their names, remembered them?

Over time, management decided they were onto something with that particular technology. And thus, the software was revisited, then tailored for an additional purpose.

Soon enough, the animatronics were upgraded with the ability to not only recognise faces, but to read emotions as well, to an extraordinary degree. Tiny twitches in the brow, muscle contractions in the lips, as miniscule as they might be, would be picked up, and the bots would react accordingly.

Staring at you now, Monty registers the tiny, downward tilt of your lips and the pinched skin wrinkling between your brows, not to mention the way you’ve slouched into the sofa as though your strings have been cut, and some half-rate puppeteer has left you there like a discarded plaything.

In short, you look nothing short of miserable, sitting there, glaring dolefully at your leg in a cast, prompting several alerts to ping across Monty’s motherboard, urging the animatronic to approach and make you happy again.

And as if to affirm what his sensors are alerting him to, he watches on in dismay as you blink and a single, glistening tear is squeezed out through your lashes, marking a lazy path down your cheek, and dripping off the tip of your chin.

Something that, were he human, Monty might label as ‘guilt,’ starts to squirm through his circuits. There’s something so terribly inconsiderate about him witnessing your tears in the privacy of your own home, a place where you should feel safe and unobserved. Goodness knows he gets sick of all the gawking from time to time, of all those hands pressed up against his showroom window, eyes on stalks.

But what’s he doing now? To you?

Now that you think you’re free from prying eyes, your composure has slipped off like an ill-fitting mask.

He shouldn’t be here… He shouldn’t be seeing this, certainly not without your knowledge. 

Tail drooping, Monty lifts one, hefty foot and places it carefully behind himself, fully intent on leaving now lest he do something stupid… again.

He’s just seconds from twisting his head away from the window when, without warning, you suddenly snap upright in your seat.

Startled, Monty freezes, wondering if he’s been spotted, but a glimpse of you tossing your head towards the kitchen directs his wide optics to the real catalyst.

The saucepan that had been happily steaming away on the hob has promptly turned into a broiling, spitting mess of white bubbles. Scalding water spills over the lip of the pan, hitting the glassy surface with an angry hiss, then creeping towards the edge of the counter where it begins to drip in rivulets down the side.

In a flurry of flailing limbs, you struggle to haul yourself up off the sofa, and Monty picks up the slew of profanity pouring out of you, even through the glass, vulgar enough that he can almost picture Freddy clutching at imaginary pearls.

You succeed in getting to your feet at last, but in your rush, you try to step over your discarded crutch, perhaps assuming you might make it across the kitchen without it.

Sadly, however, Monty is helpless except to watch on in mounting horror as the toes exposed by the open end of your cast whack into the metal pole, and you unleash a shrill squawk of pain, toppling forwards to land with a sickening ‘thud’ on the carpet, barely throwing your hands out in time to keep your nose from hitting the floor first.

Monty is moving before he even registers the fire exploding to life in his processor.

Strong, black-tipped claws bury themselves into the bottom of the window frame, splintering wood as they find purchase. You must have locked if after investigating the ‘mysterious’ noise outside, but for the animatronic, the little, silver latch doesn’t stand a hope in Hell’s chance against his sophisticated motors.

Wood scrapes violently over wood as Monty hauls the window up in one, great thrust, slamming it home and squeezing himself through the gap he creates, and subsequently gouging several notches out of the frame with his shoulder struts.

Within mere seconds, he’s flown across the room and upended the coffee table with a sweep of his burly arm. In the very same motion, he stoops down over your back, his scanners going haywire.

Palms flat to the floor, you’ve barely had time to push yourself off your chest before Monty’s large palms find purchase on your ribs.

You immediately turn rigid beneath his touch, though the gator pays that little mind as he begins to pry you gently off your carpet with a care he’s known only to reserve for children – and more recently, a certain cleaning lady.

“Easy, easy” he rumbles, ex-venting a puff of steam from his nostrils as his system acclimatises to the warmer air inside your home, “I gotcha.”

Montgomery Gator has never been the type of bot who’s inclined to look before he leaps.

He wants to be. So badly. Primarily because - of all the animatronics at the Plex - Monty is the one for whom action and consequence are as known to him as his own tail.

His processor just… doesn’t think sometimes.

It might be quite alarming, for instance, to be a human, alone in your house, with no prior knowledge of an animatronic’s proximity, to then suddenly be made aware of its presence when it promptly leaps through your window and starts picking you off your feet, gears whirring and metal clanging loudly with each thudding footstep.

But that little snippet of information didn’t occur to Monty.

Why would it when his friend might be hurt?

So, he really isn’t expecting the shriek that explodes out of you, nor for you to suddenly come alive under his hands, wriggling and struggling, slamming your fists down on his forearms. “NO!” you holler, your voice hoarse with desperation.

Taken aback, Monty almost loses his grip on your sides, but at the last moment, he twists you around to face him and drops you – albeit gently – on the sofa, wincing as your flailing, uninjured leg catches him in the knee-joint. Not because you’ve kicked anything out of alignment, but because when it comes to a battle between metal and flesh, metal is always the last to yield.

Though you let out another undignified yelp, the moment you’re free, you lurch backwards into the cushions, arms pushing you deeper amongst them whilst your eyes frantically scan the looming bot in front of you.

Holding out his palms in a pacifying gesture, Monty blurts, “Hey! Lady, relax. It’s just me!”

Recognition instantly blooms across your face, softening the terrified pinch of your brows for just a few, precious seconds. In that time, Monty has the unexpected, yet not unwelcomed privilege of someone looking at him like they’re relieved it’s him, and not some other bot.

Then, of course, the relief spreading over your features is sucked back in and twisted up until the corners of your mouth turn down and your eyes once again bulge in their sockets, horrified by what they’re seeing.

“M-Monty!?” you stammer, tripping over his name as you gape up at him, slack-jawed.

Ah… Shifting awkwardly on his feet, the gator quirks a floppy smile down at you, casting a surreptitious optic to his HUD, and the results that confirm you’re entirely unhurt by your impromptu fall.

So far, things are not going according to his fool proof, three-step plan…

Notes:

Surprise! On the Ropes new chapter jump scare.
No excuses for this tardy chapter, I just struggled with feeling like anything I wrote for was good enough. Just writer things.

Chapter 25: Uninvited Guests

Summary:

Tempers flare, emotions are high and boundaries are tested. You worry, but Monty worries more. He just isn't as good as expressing it as you are.
WARNINGS!!!!!
Noncon touching, inappropriate behaviour, abuse of authority, implied s/a, self-doubt, mild threat

Notes:

Sorry this one took so long. A few months ago, my parents made me a partner in their company with a view to take over the whole damn thing when they retire, and I've had to learn how to run a business without a lick of experience in the field, so that's been taking up a lot of my life lately. I'm still finding time to write, but it is harder.

Still! I hope a nice, long, juicy chapter full of angst and fluff and hurt/comfort makes up for the hiatus. Love to the brim. X

As ideas go, Monty concludes that his latest might have been best left on the backburner, never to see the light of day. He hardly dares move, locked in place by his own mechanical parts as he stares down at you on the sofa, and you in turn, gawk up at him, your eyes still wet and shining with tears.

And for all his artificial intelligence, for all the state-of-the-art programming slapped into his circuitry, the most eloquent response he can conjure up in the face of his own blunder is a weak, faltering, “Uh…”

But what else could best encapsulate the jarring realisation that he’s been caught? He hadn’t really fathomed being caught at all, hadn’t even considered what he might do if he was caught.

Well, too little too late now, he supposes. There’s no way he can simply duck back through your open window and feign ignorance when you inevitably return to the Plex to confront him…

…. Could he…?

… No, no. Definitely not.

Closely observing your expression, the gator’s proverbial stomach sinks as your face begins to lose all aspects of shock and instead turns towards something more closely akin to anger, unpleasant in its familiarity, and Monty realises he’s running out of time to come up with a believable excuse to explain away his presence here, as if a 'good' excuse even exists.

Brows scrunching together, your jaw creaks shut, teeth meeting with an audible ‘click,’ that pulls an involuntary flinch from the gator’s tail.

He can handle Mick being angry with him. He can handle Andy and that exec, the staff and guests and all of their cross words and scathing looks.

Yet for some reason that he dare not examine, the very notion of you pointing your wrath at him fills Monty with a dread so palpable, he’d swear the coolant in his hydraulics freezes solid. The irony of the revelation doesn’t escape him. Until now, he’s spent so long being angry at everyone around him without sparing much thought as to how it must feel to be on the receiving end.

Beyond the threatening wave of apprehension cresting over him, he can still hear the sizzle of water against a hot stove-top somewhere nearby – the very culprit that had landed you on the floor, and him here in the first place - and in his eagerness to set things right again, Monty latches onto the one task he’s at least semi-certain he can’t mess up.

He doesn’t break eye-contact with you, not until he’s edged his way into the little kitchenette and finally tears his gaze from yours to spin around to the stove, knocking his tail against the fridge with a jarring clang of metal. He winces at the force, hoping he hasn’t dented it.

Grimacing at the knobs and dials sitting innocently on the cooker, he elects not to tackle them, instead reaching out to engulf the saucepan’s entire handle in a single fist where he simply lifts the whole contraption off the stove.

At once, the water boiling within its metal confines eases to a manageable simmer.

“Monty…” When his name leaves your lips this time, it’s deeper, colder, with the barest tremble flecked into your voice. “You… you can’t be here…”

The gator has enough sense not to bark out a nervous laugh at the century’s greatest understatement.

Clenching his fingers around the handle, he carefully plops the saucepan down near the back of the stove, away from the burning, red ring of heat. Excess water still dribbles in tiny rivulets down the side of the counter, but he turns his processor away from the mess by physically twisting himself around in the cramped space until he’s facing you once more, clutching his hands up to his yellow chest plate.

“You can’t be here,” you reiterate thinly, your eyes blown wide and pupils small and dark like pinprick holes, locked in his direction.

Then, with the suddenness of a bullet firing from a gun, you explode into motion.

Lurching over at the waist, you swipe your discarded crutch from the floor and begin shoving yourself gracelessly from the sofa with such fervour, Monty is momentarily struck by the ludicrous idea that you might be on your way to attack him.

“Of all the-! the stupid-!” you sputter, slamming the crutch’s rubber foot into your carpet and heaving yourself upright, wobbling across the room on an unsteady leg, “Dangerous! Irresponsible-!”

You continue hurling out adjectives and lumbering forwards, and Monty – suddenly alarmed that you’re about to topple face-first into the carpet again – kicks himself into gear. His pistons carry him across the room in a few, loping strides where he meets you at the edge of the kitchen linoleum, mindlessly throwing both of his enormous palms around your waist to steady you.

Almost at once, you latch onto him roughly, your fingertips squeaking against plastic as they attempt to gather purchase around a too-thick wrist.

“Monty!” The acrid taste of panic steadily trickles down the back of your throat. “Monty, this isn’t funny! I’m not kidding! This isn’t funny, you cannot be here!”

But Monty isn’t laughing. And although you sound borderline hysterical, there isn’t a trace of humour in your expression either. Maybe you hope it's a practical joke, or that you're seeing things. Anything except for the gargantuan reality peering down at you from behind star-shaped sunglasses. 

“I know,” is all the gator can muster up as a reply. Because he does know. He can’t be here.

And yet, he is.

“Then what-” you snap, “-the fuck are you doing here!?” It’s the first time you’ve really raised your voice at him, and there’s a sharpness to it that tucks the animatronic’s snout down towards his chest, rendered contrite in the face of your reprimand. Something deep in his subroutine starts to hum, discontented. Perhaps it’s the fact that the shoe is on the other foot now, and this time, he’s the one on the receiving end of someone else’s anger.

Another tear spills over to clump your eyelashes together.

Whirring loudly behind his glasses, Monty’s optics track its path over the swell of your cheek, and again, he creaks his jaw open, hoping something more substantial than his previous answer will miraculously come to him. As it is, he merely utters a soft, “I… don’t know.”

Evidently however, that had been the wrong thing to say.

For several seconds, your mouth flaps open and closed in disbelief before your face screws up into a tight ball of incredulousness and you manage to shrilly proclaim, “What do you mean you don’t know!?”

You snatch your hand away from his wrist to rake trembling fingers through your hair, digging into your scalp with the tips of blunted nails. “Oh god, oh god… This is bad, this is bad! You’re…”

Trailing off, you lean away from the animatronic, shoving a palm against his solid chest and giving your head a harsh shake, as if you might somehow throw the whole situation from your mind. Even as you pull away, his hands retain their firm point of contact on your sides.

After a beat of silence, you go still once more, blinking up at the gator and confirming that, no, you aren’t imagining the hulking, green goliath towering over you, looking far too large to occupy the space between your ceiling and floor. “Monty, for god’s sake,” you say through gritted teeth, “You’re in my flat!”

“I.. I know this looks bad-” he tries, removing a hand from your waist, palm tipped towards you in a placating gesture, “But, it’s okay-“

“- In what universe is this okay!?” you fret, batting at the massive paw that stretches towards you, “Monty! You’re outside the Plex! If you’re caught, they’ll-! Christ! You could be decommissioned! Is that what you want?!”

“I wanted to make sure you got home,” he emphasises.

“You can’t do that though!” you almost wail at him, shaking your fists beseechingly as if to beg him to comprehend your desperation, “You understand why you can’t do that, right?!”

“I was just-!” There’s a sudden buzz of static as he cuts off his own voice box, rendering the end of his sentence effectively unspoken.

But he ought to have known you aren’t about to let him get away with silence, not when you’re so clearly distraught and prying for answers.

“What, Monty?!” you exclaim, pinning him with your glare like a butterfly to a corkboard, “You were just what?!”

The gator’s jaw works mechanically, grinding the gears on their pivots as he clenches and unclenches it. He’s unwilling to give up the vulnerable words that have lodged themselves in his voice box, words that seem far too soft coming from the mouth of an animatronic with an unmalleable frame.

The only sound to break the silence is the steady ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ ‘drip,’ of your leaky faucet.

“Montgomery,” you snap when his silence starts to overstay its welcome.

And the gator, despite his best efforts, flinches.

Plastic eyebrows slot together with an audible ‘clack’ as Monty lowers his optics to the carpet at your feet…

You’ve fallen back on his show title.

It’s a… rather decisive step away from the nickname he asked you to call him. The chasm that stood between you and the gator was wide when you set foot his green room not so long ago, yet in spite of first impressions, that gap has slowly been closing up over the last few days.

But now? Calling him ‘Montgomery,’ and in so terse a tone feels too much like the rift has just inched a few notches wider again.

Perhaps it’s that solemn, borderline desperate urge to regain what precious ground he’s lost that drives him to finally lift his gaze from the carpet and aim it somewhere near your glistening eyes instead.

“Just… tryin’a do what you did for me…” he utters.

Your face immediately untwists, brows launching up your forehead as everything about you opens up in clear surprise.

Whatever excuse you’d been imagining, he hadn’t provided it.

“What?” The question squeezes out of your throat, rasping and tight.

Hiking up the volume in his voice box, Monty retorts, “You came to make sure I was okay at the Plex. I-I’m just… doin’ the same thing!”

Sputtering around half-formed words for a several seconds, you finally manage to exclaim, “There is an astronomical difference between a human going to their place of work, and an animatronic up and leaving the place they were built, Montgomery, you can’t even try to pretend there isn’t!”

You’re well aware that comparing your autonomy to his own is a little below the belt, but the truth, whilst certainly ugly, is still the truth.

“Andy can tear me a new one for not going home after surgery,” you continue frantically, “But that’s nothing compared to what Faz Co. will do to you if they find out you’ve gone awol! And that’s not even the half of it! I mean - What if you run out of charge!? Or – or!”

As you steadily approach the line between distraught and thoroughly panicked, your voice begins to rise, cracking at the apex of your sentence, hypotheticals darting relentlessly through your head.

“What if someone saw you!? How did you even get here! Oh, fuck, Management’ll scrap you for spare parts, or - Damnit, Monty!” you blurt, ducking your head to try and meet his downcast optics, “Are you evening listening to me!?”

He is listening, as a matter of fact, quite intently. Though his visual feed may not be focused on you, the gator is hanging on your every word. But it isn’t the realisation he could be decommissioned that’s caught his attention. He already knows that the outcomes you’ve just listed are very real possibilities, should his little escapade ever be discovered.

No, instead, it’s the clear and undeniable fear laid thickly in your voice that grinds his processor to a halt. It sits on your tongue like a glaze, shining brightly for him to pick up on, and wonder how he missed it in the first place.

This isn’t anger.

This is something else dressed up to look like anger, and the tragedy is, it’s a disguise he knows all-too well, so well, in fact, that he should have recognised you’d donned it the moment you opened your mouth to speak.

You’re afraid.

If animatronics were built to house spirits, Monty’s would be tentatively lifting their heads. However, the revelation that perhaps he hasn’t driven off his best and only friend is cut woefully short when all of a sudden, his audio receptors give a ping, alerting him to new input approaching from a nearby source.

Without warning, the gator’s head snaps towards the door of your flat, mechanical clicks filling the unexpected silence as his optics adjust to the change in distance.

Footsteps… heavy and unhurried, slowing as they draw nearer to your door…

“Monty?” you hiss, distractedly following the line drawn by his glare, “Don’t try and-“

‘Knock.’

‘Knock.’

‘Knock.’

Three deliberate raps on your front door cause any further arguments to shrivel up and die at the back of your throat. You stop breathing altogether, and every noise suddenly seems too loud in the ensuing silence.

‘Who the Hell-?’ you wonder, dumbfounded, ‘-It’s the middle of the night!?’

No sooner has the thought occurred to you than a finger of ice-cold dread drags a chilly path up the notches on your spine, right to the fine hairs prickling at the nape of your neck.

Like a jackhammer, your heart rams itself up against your sternum over and over again.

‘He couldn’t have… Shit. Could he? But... How?’

“Y/n?”

You’re too slow to clamp your mouth shut around a gasp when you hear the voice, muffled but undeniably masculine, calling out from the other side of the door. Monty’s silicone lips ripple apart, though he at least has the forethought not to push an audible growl through his speakers.

The voice, however, doesn’t sound as though it belongs to the… the person you thought it might have belonged to.

You can’t place it straight away. You’re only sure that you know it from somewhere, but with several centimetres of wood standing between you and it, details are distorted and difficult to pinpoint.

Another knock startles you again, even more-so when it’s followed by, “Are you in there?”

A pregnant pause stretches until your teeth start to ache from keeping them pressed together so firmly.

And then, the words you thought you’d never have to hear again filter through the cracks beneath the door. “I thought I heard shouting.”

There’s an instinct that rises from buried depths at the utterance, instincts you thought you’d put to bed long ago.

It's as though someone has lit a fire under your feet. Mechanically, you twist around towards the sofa, your eyes locking onto the remote controls sitting on its arm rest. Limping up to them with stilted, frenetic movements, you snatch them up and aim them at the television, jamming your thumb into the ‘on’ button with far more force than necessary. Plastic creaks beneath your fingertips.

Seconds later, the screen flickers to life, landing on a film you don’t bother to try and recognise. Hiking up the volume until the tinny sound kicks out of the speakers and fills your meagre living space, you toss the remote back onto the sofa cushions and make your way arduously to the door.

Yet another knock indicates that your late-night visitor is persistent, you’ll give him that.

Several steps from the entrance, your progress is stopped by a sudden wall of green stepping in front of you, blocking your path forward.

“Move,” you rasp through gritted teeth, too quiet to be heard over the television as you smack at the gator’s tail that’s trying to curl around your thighs.

Monty’s head swivels around to frown at you. The purple casings surrounding his optics slide half-closed to give you the impression of a beseeching look.

You wonder if he knows who’s at the door.

“Hello? Y/n?” the stranger calls again.

“I - just a second,” you blurt out, ignoring Monty’s grimace as you bully your way past him, using your crutch to keep him from stepping around you lest he risk tripping you over, “Sorry, I’m... still getting the hang of these crutches.”

You have half a mind to demand to know who the Hell would have the unmitigated audacity to come around and knock on your door at this time of night.

Behind you, Monty’s claws try to hook into the back of your shirt, but the fear of accidentally tearing anything you own keeps him from holding on with any real purpose. As such, it’s only too easy to slip out of his grasp and press your eye up to the peep hole, the blood in your ears rushing to a watery crescendo.

A distorted yet familiar face peers back at you through the glass, sweat glistening off a ruddy forehead that shines under the overhead lights.

“Mick!?” you burst out.

What in the name of God...

Whirling around to face Monty, you throw an arm out, gesturing wildly towards your bedroom door.

The gator’s jaws are clenched tightly enough that you suspect if you were to toss a lump of coal between his teeth, he’d spit out a diamond, and while his tail twitches back and forth in clear agitation, he doesn’t otherwise move.

“Ah, you are there,” your not-so-mysterious visitor exclaims, “Mind opening the door?”

Yes, you mind! You mind very much! What is he doing here!?

Unless…

Your head turns slowly over a shoulder to gape unblinkingly at the animatronic looming close behind you. Your eyes find his, your stomach clenches…

“Hello?”

“Uh, just… hang on a second!” you stall, fumbling and fiddling with the metal latch, pretending to fight with it whilst you cast another, desperate look back at the gator. “Damn lock is always getting stuck.”

The moment his optics catch your eye again, you mouth, ‘Please’, jerking your chin at your bedroom door, ‘Please. Hide.’

Ever so slowly, Monty blinks, taking in the harsh lines that cut crevices down the centre of your forehead, right between your furrowed brows. And just like that, the corners of his snarl start to fall, and the apertures of his pupils expand to hide blazing, crimson LEDs.

A thousand calculations run through his processor at once, all of them pertaining to the risk of leaving you to face Mick by yourself. His programming shrieks in defiance as he takes a reluctant step backwards, being light as he can on cumbersome actuators.

He should stay… Neither of you know why Mick is here, though he can hazard several guesses.

You’re afraid, you’re vulnerable… You need him.

But probability reminds him that perhaps the situation isn’t so dire. He's sure he hadn’t been spotted on his way here, and if he was, why would Faz Co. send Mick – of all humans - out for retrieval?

What if the man's being here is merely down to chance?

If that's the case, then should he catch you with one of the Glamrocks in your home, the repercussions will be far worse than whatever Monty fears could happen by leaving you to deal with the situation alone…

So, driven back by the urgent glimmer of tears shining over your sclera, Montgomery Gator begrudgingly makes a decision that goes against his very programming. He retreats from the room, slinking backwards as silently as a two-tonne bot can through the door and into what he can only assume must be your personal recharging station.

All the while, you watch him over the threshold, waiting until the gator’s hefty bulk disappears into the darkness of the room beyond. Even still, you wait for him to push your door shut with an undetectable 'thud' before you finally wrench the lock on your own door free and tug the whole thing open, remembering to plaster a tentative smile on your face just in the nick of time.

“Mr Matthews,” you grind out sweetly, praying that the television in the background covers your stumbling addition of, “What a… a nice surprise!”

The man on the other side of the door straightens his posture at once. It doesn’t escape your notice that he’s keeping one arm behind his back as he too slaps a grin on his face, though you imagine his is slightly more authentic than your own.

“Y/n, my dear,” he returns, revealing his hidden appendage and, to your surprise – and confusion - producing a fistful of limp, strikingly dark dahlias, the kind you might pull off the bargain shelf at your nearby petrol station.

 “I wasn’t sure you’d be awake,” Mick continues, edging towards you until the toe of his winter boot pokes over the threshold, “But I was in the area and thought I’d stop by to see how you were doing.”

With the flowers practically shoved under your nose, you try to surreptitiously lean backwards, putting your weight on the crutch as you reply, “O-oh, that’s, ah, very kind of you…”

Can he hear your pulse thundering? Oh god, can he see the dilation of your pupils? Does he know who you have hidden in your bedroom? He must… He has to. Why else would he be here?

Almost running on autopilot now, you continue, “You didn’t need to come all this way though. Um…” Trailing off to bite at the inside of your cheek, you hedge, “I didn’t realise you knew where to find me.”

To anyone with even a modicum of self-awareness, the statement is poised as a direct question, in expectation of an answer. ‘How did you know where I live?’ is being broadcast from every facet of your voice and expression.

But Mick, clueless or perhaps deliberately obtuse, merely lowers the flowers an inch and replies, “Oh, you’ve mentioned it to me a few times now.”

… Have you? It’s… entirely possible, you suppose. After all, you talk about a lot of things at work, and subsequently, you forget about a lot of things too. But who would remember all the small talk you make with co-workers, or the unimportant comments you toss out while you’re responding to ‘check-ups’ from management?

Your home address however… It took you a long time to even tell Andy where it was, in case of emergencies… You can’t imagine it’s something you let slip without noticing.

But… Mick is here…

So how else?

Shoving down the frustration at yourself for being careless, you clear your throat and nod at the flowers. “And, can I presume those are for…“

Mick jumps, staring down at the dahlias clutched in his fist as if he’s only just remembered they’re there. “Oh, yes of course they’re for you!” he proclaims, “Of course, of course. Only courteous to give flowers to people in need of healing, no?”

You blink at him mutely, pretending not to notice the excess oil he’s slicked into his hair tonight.

Is that why he’s here? To bring you flowers? Is that all?

Part of you wants to slump with relief. Another part however, older, wiser and sadder, remains cautious.

“Well, again, that’s really kind of you,” you tell him, reaching out to take the flowers from his hand. The stems seem to breathe elated sighs as he relinquishes his iron-clad grip. “I’ll have to find a vase for these…”

You’re not sure you even own a vase…

“Naturally,” he replies, peering over your shoulder to quirk a brow at the television blaring behind you, “Ah. Movie night?”

“Hmm?” Following his gaze, you rush out, “Oh yeah, I figured… since I’m off tomorrow and the foreseeable future, a little late night wouldn’t kill me…”

Would it be rude to ask your senior why he’s bringing you flowers at this time of night? Maybe you can tell him you were just about to turn off the TV and go to bed?

As you deliberate how best to tell the man on your doorstep to make himself scarce, he surprises you by abruptly asking, “May I come in?”

‘No!’ your own voice screams at you from inside your head, ‘Just say no!’

“I’m not sure that’s-“ you begin tactfully, but Mick is already bustling forwards, crowding you until you take a slight step to one side. After that, well… You’ve given him an inch, he’ll take a mile, as it were.

Once he has a literal foot in the door, Mick sweeps past you, moving breezily into your living area and roving his gaze all over the room, hands planted on his hips. “Goodness,” he remarks, cocking his head at your bare walls and sparse décor, “You don’t get much on a cleaner’s salary, do you? You haven’t put that… ahem, bonus to good use yet?”

You want to bristle like a cat that’s been kicked.

Mick’s jab is unmistakable, but his awareness of his own civility is not.

Swallowing back a retort, you simply murmur, “Hadn’t gotten around to it yet. I’ll go and put these in some water.” Truthfully, you’re still reeling from the fact he’d just invited himself inside.

Hobbling towards the sink, you delicately lay the flowers in the washing-up bowl and turn on the tap. An angry ring of red light catches the edge of your vision, and you glance over at the stove-top, clicking your tongue as you reach over and turn the cooker’s dial to the ‘off’ position.

Teeth find the inside of your cheek and bite down on the fleshy wall, worrying at it while you wait for the bowl to cover half of the flowers’ stems.

‘Monty knows better than to give himself away,’ you assure yourself, trying to pretend you can’t feel those eyes prickling at the back of your neck, ‘And it’s getting late. Mick’ll want to get home soon. This isn’t anything other than a concerned manager delivering well-wishes to a member of the staff.’

‘There’s a guest in the house,’ a voice that isn’t entirely your own pops up, unbidden, ‘Offer him a drink.’

“Can I get you anything?” you blurt out, turning off the dripping tap and swivelling about to face Mick, “Coffee? Tea?”

The man throws you a look, barking out a laugh. “My word, someone’s got you well-trained,” he chortles.

The moisture dries up in your mouth. He likely assumes he’s referring to your upbringing, or maybe your schooling, but his statement hits far too close to home and sends phantom prangs of alarm through your brain, fizzing like electricity.

But just as your head starts to feel light…

“No, nothing for me,” he sighs, entirely oblivious to the cracks forming in your outer veneer as he nods pointedly at your television, “Although, uh, TV’s a little loud, no?”

“O-oh, yes,” you give a start, wobbling past him, “Sorry, I wasn’t expecting company.” That one was a little barbed, but you think it’s more than justified, given the circumstances.

Making your way to the sofa again, you reach for the controls, intent on swiping them off the cushions, but you freeze in your tracks when your eyes land on the overturned coffee table to your left. The coffee table Monty had knocked aside in his haste to get at you after you collapsed…

Behind you, Mick of course, has already seen it.

“Doing some redecorating?” he comments.

Thinking on your feet, you resume your task of picking up the remote and turning the television off, plunging the room into an uncomfortable silence once more. “No, just… had to move it earlier to do some exercises the physician recommended.”

Mick ‘ah’s’ in apparent understanding whilst you elect to deliberately leave the table where it is, tipped on its side.

“You wouldn’t believe how much space it takes just to do some stretches,” you add, “I haven’t gotten around to moving it back.”

You make a concerted effort to keep your eyes from drifting towards your bedroom door, painfully conscious that the gator must be standing just on the other side, head pressed to the wood to follow the flow of conversation.

“Mm, I can imagine,” Mick grunts noncommittally, and as you return your attention to him, you’re just in time to see him helping himself to a seat on your sofa, breathing out a long, languid sigh as he glances up at you, ruddy cheeks pushing out in a smile. “Come, sit!” he insists abruptly, as if it isn’t your sofa that he’s inviting you to. “Rest that leg of yours, you must be tired.”

If only he knew how terribly his suggestion puts your back up and sends your pulse skyrocketing.

All of a sudden, from the direction of your bedroom door, there comes a soft, nearly inaudible scraping sound, not unlike claws dragging across wood.

To your horror, Mick’s head starts turning towards the noise, but quick as a flash, you draw his focus by stretching your jaws into a wide, obnoxious yawn and settling down on the opposite end of the sofa, leaving a respectable distance between you both.

Covering your mouth with a palm, you loudly proclaim, “Oh! Oh, excuse me. I suppose I have got one foot in bed already.”

You try for light-hearted, miss and land on uncomfortable instead. But if Mick gets the hint, he doesn’t outwardly acknowledge it, merely hums and pulls a handkerchief from the pocket of his shirt, daubing at a glistening temple.

As you perch awkwardly on the edge of the seat, you keep a firm grip on your crutch and make every conceivable effort to avoid casting any wayward glances at your bedroom door. If there’s even the slightest chance that Mick isn’t here because of Monty, then you aren’t keen on blowing your cover.

“So,” the man next to you starts conversationally, clapping his hands down on his knees, “You’re holding up all right, then?”

Shrugging a shoulder, you reply, “As well as I can be, all things considered.”

Mick purses his lips, head bobbing sympathetically. “Mm, I’m sure that’s the case,” he admits, “Bad business, that attack in the tunnels. Very bad business…”

Bad business, or bad for business, you wonder.

And talk about an understatement. You have to sternly remind yourself not to scoff.

His mention of the ‘incident’ however does raise a certain flag at the back of your mind as it occurs to you for the first time that Faz Co. wouldn’t be above sending someone to make sure you’re sticking by the non-disclosure agreement. You wouldn’t put it past them…

Is that why Mick is here? Second guessing yourself for the umpteenth time, you take a deep breath and gently try to steer the conversation towards something of real substance. “I… signed the exec’s paperwork, by the way… So, you don’t need to worry. The matter’s done with, so far as I’m concerned.”

The fact that you now have enough money to start looking for a nicer place to live is certainly motive enough to keep idle gossip to yourself.

In response, Mick only tips his head back and barks out a laugh, “Of course you did,” he chuckles, shaking his head at you, beaming, “You’re a damn good woman. You work hard, you keep your head down. You do your job, and you do it well. You’re loyal…”

Trailing off, he twists himself about at the torso to face you, the smile sloughing off his face as he adds, “Loyal enough that you’d come to the Plex the day after you were carted away in an ambulance.”

With gradual unease, your fingertips curl into the sofa cushions.

Whatever expression you pull must be dire indeed because Mick immediately drops his serious façade and lets out a chortle, leaning across the sofa to give your knee a pat just a few inches from the top of the cast, apparently too amused to notice that you blanch.

“Now then, no need to look so spooked,” he tells you, “I’m not here to lecture you about what you should and shouldn’t be doing following a major incident. I just thought I’d mention that I saw you today-“

You can barely focus on his voice. He’s allowed his clammy palm to lay like a lead weight upon your knee. It’s still there. Why is it still there? The temptation to kick your leg out as if to shoo away a bothersome fly is awfully prevalent.

“I must say,” he carries on, oblivious to the way your gaze drills into the back of his hand, “I was impressed by your dedication to the company. I’d have come over to say ‘hello,’ but…”

Breaking off to torture you with a pregnant pause, the man’s jovial expression collapses, turning sour. “Well…” He clears his throat, shifting in his seat. “Then I saw you were with the gator.”

Right there on the sofa, your heart seizes up.

“You’ve been spending a lot of time with that gator recently.”

‘He knows,’ you fret, flicking a frantic look at the door to your bedroom. The evidence is stacking up against you. Why turn up now, and why mention Monty at all?

Fingers trembling, you start the process of falling apart right next to him, debating whether or not to just get it over with and come clean when he suddenly furrows his brows at you and – at long last – draws back, retrieving his hand from your leg. “You need to watch yourself around that bot. You hear me?”

Relief and shock war for control for several seconds as you gape at him, only remembering to snap your jaw shut once you realise it’s been hanging awkwardly ajar for far too long. Swallowing thickly, you try to smooth down your bristling nerves and stammer out a clumsy, “I-I’m sorry?”

“I’m not the only one who’s noticed, you know,” Mick surges ahead as if you hadn’t spoken, “Most of the staff are starting to talk. A lot of the guests too. And now there’s that video going around…”

Your eyes are starting to ache with the effort of keeping them affixed to the manager, not your bedroom door.

“It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you,” he grunts, “And the way I see it, that puts you at the most risk.”

Suddenly, you find it much easier to pay attention. Several, rapid blinks put Mick at the centre of your focus as you politely admit, “I’m sorry, I… I don’t follow.”

The look he gives you is decidedly pitying. Heaving a slow sigh through his nose, he roves his gaze up towards your ceiling as if he means to pluck the right words out of thin air. “Listen,” he begins patiently, like a teacher trying to explain something basic to their struggling student, “Bots don’t just… change like Monty has. I mean, what’s it been? Less than a week? And it’s gone from causing countless incidents of property damage and snapping at every staff member it sees to carrying one across the plex?”

He puffs out a derisive scoff and shakes his head, lips pursed. Then, leaning forward, he links his fingers together and props both elbows on top of his knees, glowering hard at the blank television screen. “I’m not buying it,” he utters darkly, “Sooner or later, its old ways will start kicking in again, and when they do, who’s the person directly in the firing line?”

Peeling one hand away from the other, he curls it into a fist, extends his forefinger, and aims it right between your eyes.

There’s something so inherently disconcerting about the action alone that you physically draw back from the man on the sofa, leaning away and eyeing his hand as though you’re staring down the barrel of a loaded gun. But at the forefront of your mind – and a sudden source of great contention - is his implication that Monty is any kind of threat to you. Perhaps you wouldn’t be feeling a thrum of defensive indignation if the gator himself hadn’t been in the other room, no doubt able to hear every word Mick is saying about him. As it is, your chest starts to buzz with the desire to correct the man’s assumptions.

Peeling a dry tongue from the roof of your mouth, you slowly press out, “With all due respect, Sir-“

“-It’s Mick, doll. Just Mick.”

You try not to pull a face at his interruption. “Mick,” you start again, “With all due respect, I think that’s a bit unfair to Monty…”

At once, surprise opens his expression, smoothing the wrinkles between his brows as they go shooting up his forehead instead.

“Unfair?” he deadpans.

“I just mean that he’s been trying very hard to do things right lately, and we shouldn’t dismiss that just because he's had a few bad days, right?” Instances of breaking into your apartment notwithstanding. “Christ, Mick, he saved my life from that en-“

Mick’s beady eyes narrow at you.

Clearing your throat, you carefully amend, “… from that intruder.”

For several seconds, you watch on as the man’s face twists up once again into a frown, and he purses his lips at you, exhaling roughly through his nose. Leaning sideways across the sofa, he puts himself close to you and raises a finger into the air, wagging it at you in a manner that you really don’t care for.

“One example of the ‘correct’ behaviour doesn’t negate all the harm that bot has otherwise done,” he tells you firmly, “To the brand, to the plex…” Trailing off, his eyes gloss over as they drift to the back of his hand, staring at something you can’t see. After a moment, he quietly adds, “To me.”

Glancing sideways to find you fixing him with a strange look, he pushes out a cough. “A-And it certainly doesn’t prove that it’s safe. Never trust a dog that’s bitten once not to bite again.”

“Monty’s not a dog,” you point out, your brows set in a stern, unyielding line.

“No,” Mick agrees sharply, “It’s a two-tonne animatronic with a history of violence and a penchant for causing trouble wherever it goes.”

All at once, you bridle, clenching your fist around the crutch. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re in your own home that gives you a shot of courage straight through the chest. If Mick had confronted you with these accusations at work, you can’t deny you might have been a little more hesitant to retaliate. As it is, he came into your flat uninvited, he sat on your sofa and started bad-mouthing your friend…

 “Now hang on a moment, that’s just plain wrong,” you retort, “Monty hasn’t caused any trouble for me, and in fact, he’s gone out of his way to help me these past few days – quite a lot, actually.”

Somehow, Mick’s brows travel even further north towards his slicked-back hairline. He blinks, surprised, either because of your sudden and admittedly barbed defence of a bot you’ve only known for a few days, or because he hadn’t expected you to show him your backbone at all.

You quiver angrily on the opposite side of the sofa, heavy eyelids protesting the late hour whilst Mick blows a noisy breath through pursed lips, regarding you with newfound interest.

“Now then, there’s no need to get yourself all worked up,” he soothes cloyingly, “I didn’t come all this way to upset you.”

The willpower it requires not to bark ‘I am not upset!’ is tremendous, even more so to fake an apologetic smile and reply, “Of course you didn’t. Sorry, it’s just been a long day.” And getting longer with every second Mick sits there, behaving as though he’s done nothing untoward simply by being here.

“I’m sure it has,” he remarks.

And then… something happens. Something that sets the synapses in your brain firing off alarm bells left right and centre, paralysing you in your seat.

Without a word to announce his intentions, Mick shuffles himself along the sofa cushions towards you, closing the very deliberate gap you’d wedged between the pair of you minutes ago.

“If I’m being perfectly honest with you,” he begins in a low murmur, and you wish he wouldn’t be honest at all if that’s how he intends to speak, “I’m sorry I ever sent you into that damnable gator’s room in the first place. I mean, granted you’ve saved the company thousands in repairs since then… But… Ah, forgive me, perhaps this is unprofessional but…”

His already soft voice dies to absolute silence as he stretches his hand across the distance between you and sets it down on your leg once more, just above your knee - nowhere an uninvited hand ought to have any business treading.

You can’t tear your eyes off it. All the moisture in your throat has dried up, all the breath in your lungs stays trapped.

You’re not angry anymore.

“I simply wouldn’t forgive myself if that gator hurt you, you know,” his voice sounds muffled, half-drowned out under the blood rushing in your ears, “I’m only looking out for you.”

You’re scared.

He’s sitting close, too close, close enough that the smell of smoky cologne is suddenly clogging up your airways and sticking to the back of your throat when you inhale.

“Can you blame me for worrying though?” he asks, rubbing his hand up an inch as if he’s testing the waters. Sadly, your limits have been pushed before, further and further each time until the bad things just became mildly uncomfortable things, and the really dreadful things were simply better to ignore.

“You really are a very good worker. But that animatronic isn’t safe.”

Your breath catches in your gullet when you swallow, and even now, after all your experience and the hurdles you’ve cleared, you start to doubt yourself. Perhaps Mick really is just concerned. He certainly sounds it. You could be finding horror in something entirely benign. He’s a manager, he knows better.

He’s a molehill and you’re sitting here wondering if you should make him into a mountain.

Fingers twitch against your skin and you blanch, prying your jaws apart to… what? Scream? Tell him to get his hand off you? He hasn’t technically done anything wrong. You let him inside…

All of your senses come flooding back to you suddenly as a strange sound catches your ear; a latch clicking out of place, a handle turning inwards. Ears thrumming with adrenaline, you at last manage to rip at least part of your concentration off Mick and train your hearing towards your room instead.

Luckily for you and the idiot gator trying to stealthily open your bedroom door for some, inane reason, Mick seems far too preoccupied with catching your eye to even register the noise.

He’s looking for a reaction.

The appealing idea that this might just be one big misunderstanding starts to wash away bit by bit.

You cast your mind about, mentally searching the room for something – anything to derail the direction of his goal. When that fails, you reluctantly allow your gaze to wander from your television to the front door, over to the kitchen and then down to the flowers poking over the lip of the sink…

Flowers…

A stray gear in your brain chugs to life, kicking out a single, blessed idea.

“Hah!” you wheeze out breathlessly, forcing a wobbly smile onto your reluctant mouth, “You’re starting to sound like Andy. He worries about me too.”

There. It’s only for an instant, but out of the corner of an eye, you see Mick’s expression falter. “Flowers?” he asks.

“Mmhmm,” you hum, “I’m surprised you didn’t arrive with him actually.” Feigning an expectant glance at your front door, you school curiosity onto your face and add, “You didn’t see him on your way up, did you?”

Mick’s hand starts to raise ever so slightly from your thigh, too slow for your liking, yet you grit your teeth and bear it for a while longer, like you always have.

“See him?” the man blinks, “I… no? Why would I have seen him?”

“Oh, it’s just, he texted me before you knocked on the door. Said he’d be here in another ten… fifteen minutes to drop off some stuff I left in my locker at work. I thought you might have come together.” Shrugging a shoulder as casually as you can, you quirk a brow at Mick and continue, “You really didn’t see him? Huh. I hope he’s okay. It’s not like him to be late.”

On the last word, the feeling of warm, sweaty skin pressed to your leg disappears.

Bingo.

“Well,” Mick announces brusquely, plastering a cheery grin on his face as he leans back and slaps his palms onto his knees, pushing himself off your sofa, “If Flowers is on his way, I’d better let you two have your space. Wouldn’t want to crowd you, hmm?”

Though it damn-near kills you to do so, you tilt your head and ask, “Oh, are you sure? I think he wanted to have a word with you about something.”

Mick’s face turns several shades paler than usual as he stumbles over his response. “Ah, well, I’m sure it can wait until I see him at work tomorrow.” Slipping a finger between his grey tie and the collar of his shirt, he tugs the fabric looser, taking several, hurried steps in the direction of your front door. “I’m sorry to have stopped in unannounced.”

Your smile reveals just a few too many teeth. “It’s not a problem,” you lie, using the crutch to lever yourself onto your feet, “I suppose I’ll see you at work, then?”

Mick’s backwards peddling might have been funny if you were in any mood to laugh.

“Hm? Oh, yes, yes. I’ll see you then,” he titters, “You just stay off that leg in the meantime.” His hand grasps the door handle, sliding clumsily around it for a moment as his damp palms clamber for purchase.

You heart soars when he finally manages to pull it open, only to step halfway outside and hesitate in the threshold of your home. For several, awful seconds, you stare at the back of his head, wondering if he’s changed his mind, or worse, if he’s called your bluff.

Sparing you a look over his shoulder, Mick catches your eye. “Just… remember what I told you about the gator,” he tells you suddenly, “Preferably before you decide to visit the Plex again.”

And with that, he just… leaves, disappearing out into the hallway and pulling your door shut in his wake until the latch ‘clicks’ shut.

Mouth full of cotton wool, you listen intently for the thump of dress shoes hitting carpet to peter out as Mick beats a hasty retreat down the hall. Fainter and fainter, the sound fades, until at last, you hear the far-off 'ding' of the lift doors sliding open and shut, and with a shuddering inhale, you promptly crumple forwards against the door, gasping out a wet, pitiful noise whilst you scrabble at the lock with shuddering fingers.

It’s only when the metal latch slides into place with a definitive ‘shunk,’ that the door of your bedroom bursts open.

With all the speed and unimpeded ferocity of a stampeding bull, Monty comes surging from the darkness of your bedroom, his shoulder struts reared back like a pair of snakes ready to strike.

“What’d he do to you!?” he demands, crossing towards you in just a few strides.

You spare a thought for your downstairs neighbours before you remember they’ve been on holiday since last week. And a good thing too. Each step the gator takes sends tremors through the floor below your bare feet.

Monty’s sensors – by now so well-tuned to your vitals – had been going haywire behind the door, picking up on your thundering pulse and the steady uptick in your cortisol levels. He’d had to stand there, helpless but to listen as Mick spewed his rhetoric into your ear, and Monty hadn’t been able to defend himself or refute the man’s claims at all. But you-!

Wonderful, righteous, amicable you... You had! Monty's systems were thrumming, thoroughly cowed to hear you come to his defence, which made it only more difficult not to burst into the room and sweep you away from Mick when the man all but purred reassurances at you.

But worse, perhaps, was the gator’s inability to see what was happening on the other side of the door. Mick’s verbal blows against Monty’s behaviour couldn’t have been the catalyst for your climbing heartrate, though some small, selfish code in the animatronic hopes you felt at least a little indignation on his behalf.

No… Something else occurred here tonight. Something Monty wasn’t privy to, but wishes he was, if only to settle the ire broiling in his circuits.

You have your back to him, and your forehead pressed against the solid wood of your front door.

He has to see your face… He has to know. He has to read your expression and see for himself that there isn’t any fear there, just exasperation or even a fiery burst of anger. Anything… Just not fear. He would take all the fear in the world from any human he meets if he would only be spared from yours.

Wrestling back the hissing lines of code that poke and prod at his temper, Monty slows to a halt as he reaches you, his apertures twitching wide then narrow again whilst they flit up and down your body in search of damage.

“Hey,” he calls, sliding a single, clawed hand around your bicep, “You hear me? What’d he-?”

If he’d have just known… If he’d have hazarded a guess as to where your mind had gone in that moment, he might have thought twice about laying his hand on you.

“DON’T-!” you yelp shrilly, whirling around to face him and thrusting your wrist against his, knocking the limb aside as if to parry a weapon instead of his arm.

Startled, the gator wrenches his appendage back, holding it above his shoulder in a display of surrender as he blinks down at you dumbly, jaw falling ajar.

And then, he sees it.

You’re staring up at him, your face drawn back, haggard and half-mad with terror, your chest heaves with the effort of taking in breaths.

He doesn’t have to perform a scan to determine what he’s been dreading. Humans have looked at him like that ever since he was first brought online. Monty’s processor thumps, dredging up a memory of Mick - younger and bolder than the man he is now – reeling away from the gator, face as pale as Moon’s and his eyes so wide the entire iris was exposed. Monty remembers the odd sensation of something soft collapsing between his teeth.

The animatronic violently purges the memory from his internal storage, though he knows it’ll still linger there somewhere, buried behind layer upon layer of firewalls until his guard is lowered once more.

All at once, he recoils like he’s been hit by a wrecking ball, staggering backwards until his tail hits the wall behind him and he’s forced to stop. Unable to retreat any further, unable to offer you any more distance, he simply stares at you from his side of the room.

It’s over… This wonderful, safe harbour he’d found in you is finally finished… You believe what Mick had said about Monty being a danger to you.

He always knew this had to end, of course. Good things can’t thrive in the vicinity of a Faz Co. animatronic. He just… didn’t think the time would come so soon.

Even still, he can’t help but cling with raw, desperate hope to you, scrabbling to keep a hold of your good graces because he’s too stubborn or too foolish to let go.

“I-I wouldn’t -“ he starts, concealing his claws with his fists and tucking them against his chest, “- I’d never… I wouldn’t hurt you. Not you, not ever. You’re…”

His voice box sputters, cutting out for a moment as he searches his bank of vocabulary for what you are.

When it finally dawns on him, his processor almost grinds to a halt.

“You’re all I got,” he confesses slowly, surprising himself with the revelation, “I don’t got nobody else…I ain’t gonna hurt you, you know that.”

You have to know that.

Please know that.

Gradually, far too gradually for the gator’s highly strung code to endure, you lower your arm  too look at him, brows high on your forehead.

“Monty?” you utter quietly, sending a quick glance between the animatronic’s downcast snout and the hands he still keeps curled beneath his chest. In another blink, you realise what you’ve just insinuated through action alone.

“Oh, I… Monty – No, of course you wouldn’t. I’m so sorry, I… God.” Slouching back against the door, your head knocks against it as you drop a palm over your face. “This is such a mess.”

Lowering your palm to the door, you splay your fingers over the wood behind you, drawing in a steadying breath and trying to ground yourself to the solidity at your spine. Another breath, and you finally drop your eyes to the gator.

For the briefest moment, you consider telling him why you couldn’t bear to feel a hand on you right now.

Your mouth creaks open, the words sitting on the tip of your tongue.

But something along the vein of common sense tells you that it wouldn’t be fair to burden Monty with such knowledge.

‘Besides,’ you remind yourself, borrowing your mother’s words, ‘It’s all in the past, and least said, soonest mended.’

Morose yet resigned, you swallow back your admission.

“I’m sorry, Monty,” you offer instead, raising a hand to rub at your drooping eyelids, “I’m sorry. You didn’t do anything wrong.”

Unconvinced, the gator curls his tail inward, eyeing your arm - the one he’d grabbed.

“I didn’t hurt you, did I?” The question seems to creep out of him, his volume levels set so low that you have to strain your ears to hear it.

“No,” you reassure him, dropping your hand to give him a gentle, albeit tired smile, “No, you didn’t. You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t,” he readily agrees, lifting his snout a little.

For a few seconds, the pair of you simply regard each other from opposite sides of the room, until eventually – and reluctantly – you have to let your smile fade away, replacing it with a worn, heavyhearted frown.

“That was close though,” you whisper to yourself, letting your eyes slip shut, “Shit, that was too close.”

How on Earth Mick didn’t find out about Monty’s presence here, you’ll never know.

A mechanical whir followed by a thud lets you know the gator has just edged a step closer. “Yeah, no kiddin’…” There’s a pregnant pause, and then you jump slightly, snapping your eyes open as Monty raises his voice to an indignant bark, “And just what in the heck did he think he was doing, comin’ round here in the middle of the night anyway?”

The look you shoot the gator is withering enough to have him tilting his head sideways.

“What?” he asks, apparently oblivious.

You elect to gloss over his blatant hypocrisy in favour of jabbing a finger at him, though the action lacks the same hostility it might have ten minutes ago. “You know, it wouldn’t have been ‘too close’ if you hadn’t been here in the first place.”

Perhaps recognising the rising challenge in your tone, Monty’s stance shifts as he raises up on his struts, towering so high that his mohawk almost brushes the ceiling. He peers down the length of his snout at you, the line of his brows set and rigid, half shuttering his optics.

“I ain’t sorry,” he tells you, and it’s so matter of fact that you give a hard blink, your own eyebrows springing up towards your hairline.

You’re starting to feel a little like Andy. If this is how exasperated the poor mechanic feels when you do something stupid, then you owe him several, sincere apologies.

“I… I was, though,” Monty adds suddenly, lowering his nose as if the bluster was only ever meant to be short-lived, “Before Matthews turned up. But now, I…”

For a second, he falters, then bulldozes through his hesitation with a sharp grunt and a shake of his head, meeting your gaze resolutely. “Now, I’m glad I was here.”

His optics flicker brightly, though they dart between your face and the cast on your leg at frequent intervals as though he’s uncertain of himself yet determined not to back down from his conviction.

“I ain’t stupid,“ he insists, but there’s too much fervency behind it, like you’re not the only one he’s trying to convince, “Matthews was doin’ something to you. If you hadn’t’a got rid of him, I’d’ve…“

“…What, Monty,” you sigh when it becomes clear he’s hesitating to sort through his words again, “What would you have done, short of giving us both away?”

“I’d have stopped him,” he growls, puffing out his chest and jabbing it with the sharp claw of his thumb, “I’d’ve protected you.”

Rolling your eyes, you huff, “Oh, my hero. You’d get yourself scrapped, and me arrested for kidnapping an animatronic.”

It’s disconcerting to see a bot so large and intimidating positively wilt as though your point has just heaped a very real, very tangible weight upon his shoulders.

Letting a sigh slip through your nose, you catch a loose bit of skin between your teeth, worrying at it in the tangible silence that hovers between you and the gator.

You want to be angry with him for being here. You want to tell him how foolish and misguided his programming was to convince him that he should leave the Plex to seek you out. But if there was any strength left in you after the day’s events, it’s been well and truly sapped clean out of you. In fact, ‘sapped’ is too gentle a word for it. As memories try to pile up on top of one another, it takes more effort than you’d care to admit to beat them down again, leaving you with very little residual energy to conjure any resentment for an animatronic who followed you home because he wanted to make sure you got there safely.

This behaviour is so out of character for him.

And you? Well, you’re so out of your depth. Shit, you can never tell Sun and Moon about Monty’s escape. If the daycare attendants find out that they can leave the Plex as well, you’ll be in for a whole new world of trouble.

While you slump against the door, contemplating, Monty’s large head swings to the left, his optics studying the window. He’d wrenched it open so hard the frame had torn jagged splinters from the surrounding wood. The corner of his lips turn south as he lowers his optics to the table he’d overturned. That alone had almost been enough to rouse suspicion, but you’d explained it away expertly, from what he could hear, and Mick ended up none the wiser.

It comes as no real shock to the gator that if it weren’t for your quick thinking and well-oiled responses, he’d have given himself away ten times over. He’d have given you away…

Impulsive, Freddy might call him.

Stupid, would be Roxanne’s more cutting, though no less accurate decree.

It’s never been an easy thing for Montgomery Gator to admit that he might have been wrong. Even if his protocols thrum with a newfound urge to guard a member of Fazbear Co.’s faculty, his processor knows all too well that his coming here put you at the most risk.

The gator’s tail drops to the ground with a dull ‘thunk’ of plastic and metal on the carpet. “I just wanted to do somethin’ right for once,” he utters to the stillness, his truest desire finally spoken aloud.

He doesn’t look at you this time, but his audials pick up your gentle intake of breath and wonders what happened to the animatronic who would have bitten your head off several days ago just for looking at him the wrong way.

At least if that Monty did something wrong, it was usually deliberate. Somehow, as he’s quickly coming to learn, it’s so much worse trying to do something right, and getting it wrong anyway than doing something wrong in the first place.

Hurts more, he concedes.

The gator is too busy discovering the scope of his regret to notice you push yourself off the door, leaning hard onto your crutch as you squint up at him, cocking your head to one side like he’s a puzzle you’re still figuring out. Admittedly, you absolutely are. You’re not an engineer or a programmer. You can’t begin to fathom the depths that Monty’s learning algorithms can reach.

All you can see is an animatronic condemned by those who made him, trying to be better than he’s told he is. So, while you can’t condone his being here, for his own sake, you realise that he - much like yourself - has likely had more than enough of people telling him off.

Sucking down a long, thick breath, you release it all in as weary a sigh as you’ve ever expelled.

“You’re doing fine, Monty,” you say, and it’s kinder, warmer than you’ve sounded all evening, “You’re doing just fine. I mean, this was a little…” Pausing to gesture loosely at the overturned coffee table, you let out a soft laugh and continue, “Uh, overzealous. But your heart was definitely in the right place.”

‘Your heart.’

Slowly, hesitantly, Monty’s tail lifts from the ground, rising with the edges of his crocodilian smile. You might never know how much it means to him that you don’t point out how he doesn’t technically have a heart. And it means even more to hear that you know his intentions came from a good place.

“But,” you add, inhaling, like you’re bracing yourself, “I’m still not happy you’ve put yourself in such a precarious position just to check up on me.”

Monty’s metal framework groans as he slumps again.

“Ugh. Listen to me,” you chuckle, rubbing your temple, “I’m starting to sound like Andy.” Starting forwards, you begin limping for your room, stifling a wide, clumsy yawn behind the back of your hand. “Now, I have had, like, the longest day. And I’m going to bed before I keel over.”

“…But… what about your food?” he asks, sparing a glance over at the saucepan sitting idly on the countertop. The water inside has long gone cold.

Your footsteps pause as you draw alongside him, reaching out to lay a palm on your bedroom door. “I’m not hungry,” you murmur after a second. It’s not entirely a lie. For some reason, the meagre appetite you had for cheap noodles and tea has evaporated, leaving you hollow, yes, but not nearly as hollow as you were rendered by the touch of Mick’s hand on your leg.

Giving your door a shove, you push it open and reach around the corner, sliding your fingers along the interior wall until you find the light switch, flicking it on and illuminating the bedroom with a warm, yellow glow. Monty is frowning at you, you can feel his crimson optics boring into the side of your head, but you ignore him to say, “I suggest you go back to the Plex before you run out of charge.”

You must have mistaken the gator’s earlier acquiescence for a willingness to leave.

“I got plenty of charge,” he deflects.

As it is, Monty’s optics rove over the top of your head, widening significantly behind his glasses as they land upon the contents of the room that he’d been standing in just minutes ago. He hadn’t bothered to sate his curiosity then, far more apprehensive about what was happening on the outside of the space, but now, without oppressive darkness cloaking every corner and without a potential threat to contend with, his protocols take a backseat to his inquisitiveness.

He observes closely as you shuffle into the new territory, your territory, where you immediately make a beeline for the nest – bed, his CPU corrects – that’s set against the furthest wall.

Swinging his prodigious bulk around, the animatronic trails after you, ducking underneath the doorway and raising his snout to the air.

You don’t even have to look over a shoulder to know you’re being tailed. The heavy stomps are proof enough of the gator’s proximity. “Monty, come on,” you whine, “You’ve gotta go home.”

The gator only offers a gruff hum in response, otherwise distracted by the simple yet pivotal revelation that he, for the first time, is seeing your private, recharging chamber. Immediately, he’s struck by how much more lived-in this humble space is. Out there, in your kitchenette and the adjacent living room, everything seemed so much more bland. Less you.

In here, there are pieces of you scattered into each corner of the room, from the pile of unwashed clothes sitting in a nearby chair to the row of house plants lined up like soldiers along the breadth of your windowsill.

Curious, his optics roam towards a desk in the corner, upon which sits - to his immediate intrigue – a large, square tank filled almost to the brim with crystal-clear water, and lit from above by a cool, fluorescent light bulb. He knows what it is at once, though he’s never been privy to one in person before.

At his back, you reach the bed and promptly collapse onto your rear at the edge of the mattress, dropping your crutch to the floor and listening to it land with a sharp clatter of plastic.

“Ohhh,” you groan tiredly, leaning forwards to balance your elbows on your knees and drop your face into a palm, trying in vain to rub away the bags underneath your eyes with numbing fingertips.

Your whole body aches ferociously, all stemming from the sharp twinge of your ankle that lays protected behind a thick, white cast.

Six Weeks…

Day one has been hard enough. How are you supposed to make it to day forty-two? The question remains; is it uphill from here, or down?

Glancing over a shoulder, you restrain an impromptu smile before it can spread as you spot Monty creeping up to the fish tank on your desk, his head hunched low to peer through the glass at your little corydoras sifting eagerly through the substrate in search of hidden food.

“Hey, little guys,” the animatronic murmurs, his optics casting the water in a gentle, pinkish glow.

Fish are a novelty for him. He knows of them, of course, has seen images of them depicting many various shapes, sizes, and colours. He knows they can’t survive for long outside of water, and he knows they’re covered in scales.

But to see for himself how those scales flash under his scrutinous, crimson LEDs, to watch their barbels twitch as they playfully chase one another along the floor of the tank…

There’s a strange kinship there for the creatures who share the waterways with his real-life counterparts.

He likes them, he decides. He likes that you have them. It speaks to an apparent affinity for aquatically-inclined animals…

For several moments, you merely observe the gator from your bed, wondering why he’s stalling. At least, you assume he’s stalling.

“Monty,” you yawn, pretending not to notice how his purple shoulder struts jump in response to your voice, “What are you doing?”

The gator’s head twitches towards you briefly. “M’sayin’ hi to the fish,” he states simply.

Shooting him a deadpan glare, you retort, “You know what I mean. Why are you still here? You need to get back to the Plex before you’re missed.”

“Ain’t nobody gonna miss me,” he shrugs, “Sides, I’ve still got a couple’a hours of juice left in the tank. Don’t worry.”

“But I am worried, Monty,” you squeeze out - and oh, there’s that pinch of tenderness to soften the hard, brutal metal hidden under his casing – “If I wasn’t worried about getting caught, I’d haul you back to the Plex myself… How did you get here unseen anyway?”

“Came over the rooftops,” he replies proudly, cocking his head at a fish that approaches the glass, lured by the glow of his optics.

“The rooftops!?” you sputter, “How on Earth did you get up there!?”

Flashing a cheshire grin, the gator gives the casing on his thigh two hearty slaps. “Got the best pneumatic cylinders in the business. These things’ll carry me distances you wouldn’t believe. Sometimes I use ‘em to get from one side of the catwalks to the other. This is the first time I’ve seen what they can really do.”

Collapsing backwards on top of the covers, you splay your arms out on either side of you, letting a long, appreciative whistle pass your lips. “You jumped…. All the way here?” you realise aloud.

“Beats walkin’.”

“… And you’re going to jump all the way back?”

“Can’t exactly take a cab, can I?”

You don’t respond for a long while… So long that he turns himself all the way around and rises to his feet, half expecting to find you fast asleep on the bed.

Your eyes are closed, and you’ve gone very still. Your chest rises and falls with even, steady breaths, though your legs are still dangling over the side of the mattress, toes brushing against the carpet.

Monty frowns. A hum of machinery gives him away, not so silent as he paces around the bed towards you and lowers himself down onto one knee, reaching for your legs with the intention to lift them up to the bed so you can lay flat.

His first-aid protocols are nowhere near as advanced as Freddy’s, but he’s skimmed enough medical files in the last twelve hours to know that you should keep your damaged leg elevated.

With gradual movements, the animatronic’s fingers flex and stretch for your cast. However, his purple claws barely make it within a foot of your appendage when your body goes absolutely rigid, as though you’ve turned to stone right there on the mattress.

At once, Monty stops, glancing up to see one of your eyelids crack open and swivel over to peer at him, blinking slowly in the glow cast by his optics. “What’re you doing?” you ask guardedly. Something in your voice quivers. He catches it right away.

“I… just – I was gonna put your legs on the bed,” he explains.

The clock on your bedside table ticks quietly ever onwards, and it’s only when you remember to exhale that he considers your expression for another moment and finally ducks his head, asking, “… Can I touch you?”

Stuffing your teeth into your bottom lip, you clutch a fistful of the duvet beneath you and slowly shake your head from side to side. “Not… Not yet… I’m not…”

You falter, swallowing a painful lump that sticks in your throat like guilt. Monty didn’t do anything, after all.

But for an animatronic, his response comes far too softly.

“Okay,” he nods, pulling his hands away and returning them to his lap.

And that’s… all he does for a long time.

Sniffing, you lower your gaze, tugging yourself backwards using the duvet as leverage until you can haul your heavy cast over the side and stretch your legs out towards the foot of the bed, sighing in relief.

"Better put a pillow under there," Monty pipes up, jutting his chin towards the fluffy, white cushions spread out behind you.

Clicking your tongue, you stretch behind yourself and snag the first pillow your fingers grasp, hauling it over your head and tossing it haphazardly near your leg. After taking a moment to brace yourself, you lean back on your elbows and bite your tongue to keep down a cry as you lift the leg up and onto the pillow.

Through it all, Monty says nothing further. He does stare at you though…

You’ve noticed he’s being doing that a lot lately. What was it Mick said?

‘It’s no secret that it’s taken a real liking to you.’

You don’t want to think about Mick.

Finally, when the gator’s staring starts to grow a little too… intimate, you swallow thickly and peel your lips apart to mumble, “Monty, why don’t you want to go back to the Plex?”

He perks up at his name but loses his enthusiasm as he registers the question.

“I’ll go back soon,” he grumbles.

“That’s not what I asked.”

Monty’s vents hiss as he simulates a pensive sigh - like yours - and begins folding his legs up underneath himself, his plates sliding over each other as he settles himself down onto his rear, arms draping loosely over his knees. He knows.

“Six weeks…” he mutters, cautiously lowering his long chin until it brushes the duvet cover beside you. When you don’t protest or move away, he gives his head a little more rein to droop, and the framework in his neck no longer strains to keep it aloft.

Confusion lays its mark bare across your face. “What?”

Six weeks,” he repeats, “That’s how long you’re gonna be gone for. That’s a long time to…” Static clings to his voice-box, stifling his words. With a grimace, Monty thumps a fist twice over his chest until something clicks audibly into place. Then, forcing a laugh, he falteringly adds, “S’a… long time for a bot to go without having his room cleaned, yeah?”

“You could always let the S.T.A.F.F bots help you,” you point out.

“Nah, they wouldn’t do it right.”

A weary smirk toys with the edge of your mouth as you reply, “Well, have you considered – and this might be a bit outlandish, but bear with me here – have you considered just… cleaning it yourself?”

“Course I have,” he retorts, “But… c’mon, it’d be more fun with you, wouldn’t it?”

He should have known when your smirk recedes to leave him looking at a flat, sombre line that you weren’t fooled for a moment.

“Monty… Is the truth really that embarrassing?” you pose.

‘Yes…’ he huffs wordlessly to himself, ‘It is.’

 “It’s all gonna go back to the way it was before,” he mumbles into the duvet.

“What is?”

“Everythin’,” he suddenly exclaims, wrenching his head back up, “It’ll go back to how it was before you came along. You’ll be gone for six weeks! What if I start gettin’ angry again? What if I forget about what you taught me, ‘bout accidents n’ stuff?” That thought brings on another that’s even more dreadful, and he curls his hands underneath his chest, leaning into them against the side of the bed. “What if you forget about me?”

You blink at him, bewildered, studying the jarringly human behaviour he’s exhibiting, and wondering, not for the first time, if it says something about you that you see humanity in so much of what these animatronics do.

“Hey,” you offer, giving him a sympathetic smile when he slides his nose further along the duvet until it almost touches your arm. Almost. “You might be overthinking things, Monty. I’m pretty sure I could never forget you.” You laugh at that, causing him to blow a whuff of air against your forearm. “And besides,” you add, “Six weeks is… like, nothing, okay? It’ll go by faster than you think.”

Far from convinced, the gator only grumbles unintelligibly into the duvet and casts his optics to the other side of the room. The bed underneath you rumbles as the rich bass growls out of his speakers.

“Listen...” you sigh, flopping your head down onto the pillow to blink up at the ceiling overhead, “When I was younger, one of my best friends moved halfway across the world with her family.”

Immediately, the gator’s jaw clenches at the mention of your ‘best friend’ before he catches the action and berates himself for behaving like a toddler being asked to share their favourite toy.

“We haven’t seen each other for… Oh boy, ten years, maybe? I still call her sometimes… Probably not as often as I should... And you know what?”

“…What?”

You roll your head over to peer at the animatronic beside you, finding his focus has returned to your face.

Pulling your mouth into a sleepy smile, you let out a hum before murmuring, “Every time I ring, she’s always so pleased to hear from me. I bet if she were to walk through my door right now, it would be like no time had passed at all.”

Monty’s optic shutters click open and shut. “How come?” he prompts quietly.

“Well, do you think I love her any less now because I haven’t seen her for ten years?” you reply, “Friends can’t be together all the time, you know. Even if they might want to be. Life gets in the way. Families, jobs, fatigue, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t still friends. So, you don’t need to worry about not seeing me for a few weeks, okay?”

You can’t help but find this conversation very reminiscent to a similar one you had to have with Sunny after he learned you were leaving for a week of summer vacation.

“I ain’t worried,” Monty lies through his teeth, “Just wonderin’ how you’re gonna have any fun without me around.”

“Fun was not the doctor’s recommended treatment,” you yawn, letting your eyes slip shut and keeping them closed, bogged down by a cumbersome weight that’s been heaped upon your shoulders. A myriad of hurried little thoughts swirl around inside your head, too numerous to pin any single one down. Mick’s arrival and subsequent behaviour, whether you’re trying to read too much into what might have been nothing more than a friendly gesture, Monty’s escape from the Plex and the sudden responsibility you have for an animatronic you’ve barely known a week…

You just need to sleep.

‘It’ll all make sense in the morning,’ you try to tell yourself…

You’d make a shit salesperson.

For some time, the quiet gurgling of your tank's filter provides a soothing backdrop to the silence cast between you and the animatronic.

“Can I stay here?” Monty’s question breaks through the fog of flitting thoughts, his volume barely a digit away from being entirely mute, “With you? Just for a lil’ while?”

Prying your eyelids apart to blink tiredly at the gator, you let your chest fill with a slow, heavy breath, blowing it all out again through your nose.

“… Just this once,” you whisper back.

The gator’s optics brighten, then flit towards the movement of your hand on the bed.

You’ve raised your forearm, inching the appendage closer to Monty’s snout. Fingers worn dry and abrasive from chemicals and labour touch down on top of the animatronic’s nose, followed by your palm, spreading a pleasant flood of warmth down through his teeth and onto his tongue.

In response, some of Monty’s systems backfire, kicking errors codes to his HUD that tell him he’s overheating, and should release excess coolant to the affected areas. He ignores the alerts. He ignores everything. Everything that isn’t your hand is left by the wayside, forgotten in favour of soaking up a touch that he knows would never cause hurt.

Letting his optics click shut, the gator draws his silicone lips up into a lax, lazy smile.

The muffled ‘thumps’ of a heavy tail fall and rise from the carpet over and over, and Monty’s frame seems to purr as he relaxes his massive head onto your mattress, contented and committed to this spot until his battery hits zero and his limbs rust from underuse.

He knows he has to leave, but for now, just pretending… It’s the happiest he’s been in…

It’s the happiest he’s been.

“Just this once.”

Chapter 26: A Spark.

Summary:

There's something on your bed...

You couldn’t immediately say what is it that drags you from the bliss of a sleepy fugue at some unknown but doubtlessly ludicrous hour in the morning.

Not that it matters much, you suppose. Awake is awake, regardless of how sluggishly your brain chugs itself into gear and hauls with it a familiar and unwelcome ache that spreads down the length of your spine and sharpens to a needling point when it reaches your ankle.

In a voice that’s thick and laden with fatigue, you peel cracked lips apart and croak out a single, scratchy, “Ouch…”

Was that pain always there…?

Little sparks of fire dance and zip around your foot, each strike as unwelcome as a bee sting, and accompanying them is a substantial weight that’s been draped across your thighs, too heavy to simply be your duvet.

Reluctant to face cognizance but resigned to it all the same, you hesitantly pry open your eyelids and find yourself squinting out into an almost pitch-dark room. Only the dim glow of a streetlamp standing outside the alleyway manages to cast its light far enough to creep between the gap in your curtains.

Settled against the opposite wall, the filter on your fish tank gurgles softly in the darkness, the residents inside unaware and undisturbed by your plight.

Still ensnared in that strange interim that hangs between awake and asleep, you don’t connect the pain to its root for some time. Instead, a gentle sigh whistles through your nose as your chest rises and falls, and you send several lazy blinks up at the ceiling.

You have to summon the strength to turn your head over on your pillow and squint at the little red numbers flashing back at you from the clock that’s perched on your bedside table.

‘4:12am’

Your lungs deflate with mild relief.

If nothing else, at least there’s still plenty of time to catch a few more hours of sleep before you have to get up for work. Maybe, you muse in your sleep-addled brain, you can ignore the twinges and the pressure on your lap, and simply drift right back off to sleep.

You just need to relax.

Turning your head back to the ceiling, your senses still clumsy and dull, you sink against the pillow and smack your lips, relishing the softness beneath your skull.

…. Wait…

No sooner has your head touched down however than your eyes flutter open again, brows furling together into a quizzical frown.

‘Work…? No… That’s not right…’

Another timely spike of pain twists down the outside of your ankle.

And just like that, clarity sets in with such harsh ferocity, your heart just about takes a nosedive off your sternum and plunges down into your guts, dragging with it the grim truth of a reality you’d managed to forget in your sleep.

‘Ah… Right…’ you lament to yourself with a grimace, ‘The ‘incident.’

The endo… Stella… Monty coming to your rescue…

There in the darkness, your brain arduously begins fitting the puzzle pieces together, though it pauses once you reach the part where Doctor Timpson handed you a prescription for a bag full of painkillers, and suddenly, that’s all you can focus on.

Wincing, you suck in a breath through your teeth and shift uncomfortably on the bed as the pain grows from tender to worrisome.

Now you know why you woke up.

Your painkillers must have worn off during the night.

… Figures…

Heaving a weary sigh, you reach up to scrub your fingertips roughly over your eyes, groaning like you’re scratching a satisfying itch until little bursts of colour and light start to flash across the black expanse behind each eyelid.

The painkillers, of course, are not on your bedside table, because it would have been too much to expect of yourself to place them there next to a handy glass of water…

No.

Instead, they’re still sitting by the bathroom sink in their crumpled white bag alongside a dry toothbrush and the neglected care instructions for your cast.

Just then, your ankle gives another unpleasant throb, hot and swollen within the confines of its bulky stocking.

Yielding to the fact that you’ll never get back to sleep unless you take those pills, you let out a belligerent moan and thrust your hands off your face, reaching down the length of your body instead to grasp the duvet that’s been scrunched up around your waist.

You move with every intention of tossing it aside so you can heave yourself out of bed. What you don’t expect however, is for the tips of your outstretched fingers to collide painfully with a smooth, solid obstruction nestled heavily in your lap.

There’s a dull ‘clunk!’ followed almost immediately by your squeaked, “Aah!”

The shrill bleat of alarm ruptures an otherwise peaceful twilight, but the compulsion to cry out is too overbearing to bite down on. After all, you’ve just been rocked by a very palpable wrongness in learning there’s something on your bed that definitely should not be there.

Violently, like you’ve just been burned, you rip your hand away and flail clumsily on the mattress, making a pitiful attempt to shimmy yourself backwards up the headboard only to find that your legs are trapped by the inexplicable weight still settled over them, far more noticeable now that you’ve been jolted properly awake.

In the next second though, you grow very still, frantically stuffing your lips together and choking on an expletive as your shock ducks aside to allow abject horror to take its place.

Whatever it was you’d struck utters a sharp, throaty grunt that sends reverberations rattling up through your bed frame. Without warning, the unseen obstruction gives a rough lurch and promptly shoots upright, and as it does, the weight in your lap disappears.

Your eyes - still unaccustomed to the dark - stare wildly at a massive black shape that shifts against the ebony backdrop of your bedroom, its edges indiscernible despite how you try frantically to search for definition.

Are you still dreaming? Is this a nightmare?

The bones in your ankle sing as you jerk your legs up, curling the one not in a cast as far from the silhouette as you can bear.

And then, with a mechanical whir, two spots of vivid, blood-red light sputter into existence, hanging side by side several feet off the ground, far higher than any human’s eyes ought to be.

For just a split second, you’re a child again, laying in your bed late at night with the covers pulled right up to your chin, plagued by thoughts of red-eyed monsters rising out from under the bed to eat you or kidnap you or do whatever it was monsters did to overimaginative children.

Then all of a sudden, it speaks.

The voice is gruff and pitched deep like the growl of some wild, feral animal. It fills the room, pulling a visceral flinch out of you before the words even reach your ears.

“Ugh, Lady? Whus’wrong?” it slurs drowsily, muffled as though it’s talking to you over an untuned radio, “Y’okay?” A sharp burst of static buzzes through your eardrums, and this time when the voice speaks again, there isn’t a hint of drowsiness to it. Just clear and abrupt urgency. “You hurt!?”

And just like that, the neurons in your brain light up, and the final puzzle piece shoves itself back into place, such an obvious and unmistakable piece that you wonder how you didn’t see where it fit in the first instance.

“Monty!” you gasp out in a rush, only mildly relieved by the revelation as those fearsome red lights above you start to take on a softer tinge of pink, illuminating the rounded tip of a familiar, green snout, “Jesus Christ! You scared the shit out of me!”

Eyes – ‘optics,’ you remind yourself – swivel wider before they narrow again, then turn into little halfmoons hanging above you, a sign that he’s shuttering his plastic eyelids, leaving them to droop dejectedly over the lights of his LEDs.

“Oh…” the animatronic mumbles, and you hear the heavy thud of his foot as he takes a step back, away from the bed, his pistons hissing with renewed activity, “… M’sorry…”

You’re not sure you’ll ever get used to hearing an apology escape from Montgomery Gator’s speakers, and you might’ve even taken the time to recognise its rarity if you weren’t so abruptly swept up in a whirlwind of alarm and borderline panic.

All at once, your limbs spring apart as you sit ramrod straight in the bed and try to pick out Monty’s features through the gloom, ignoring the angry jolt of red-hot heat that sparks a fire in your ankle.

That heat is nothing compared to the broiling ruckus currently churning in the pit of your stomach.

“The Hell are you still doing here!?” you blurt out, all but throwing yourself sideways to fumble for the lamp on your bedside table, “You should have been long gone by now! Oh, my fucking…-! What’s your battery on!?”

Scrambling fingers find the little push switch on the side of the lamp, and you waste no time flicking it on, instantly hissing at the intrusion of light that rudely sears your retinas and forces you to squeeze your eyes shut.

“My battery’s fine,” the gator retorts, unseen, sounding less morose and more like his usual self, “I was in standby… Low energy consumption.”

Your eyelids protest valiantly when you attempt to pry them apart, but little by little, you coax them open again and blink through bleary vision at the wobbly blob of green towering above your bed. “Standby,” you echo flatly.

As if that even vaguely answers the question as to what he’s still doing in your room.

Montgomery Gator, in all his great, green glory, is standing at the side of your bed when he really, really shouldn’t be. He shouldn’t be anywhere near your bed, in fact, not when he was supposed to have made his way back home hours ago.

It still comes as a shock to see how much larger he appears without the high roofs and vast rooms of the Plex as a backdrop.

In here, stuffed between your bed and the wall, with the top of his mohawk almost brushing the ceiling, and his tail sprawled out across your carpet, he seems over twice his normal size.

Apparently oblivious to the crisis of his own making, the animatronic tips his long snout down at you, the black, plastic brows on his head slotting neatly together as he declares, “S’your battery you should be worryin’ about. Can’t’ve got much charge yourself.”

You resist the urge to scoff as you match his disapproval, scowling right back up into his optics, half hidden behind his glasses.

“Humans don’t have batteries,” you argue at last, gingerly extracting your legs from the bed and lowering them over the side, taking care not to let your injured appendage bump against the floor. All the while, you have to suppress a wince.

Because watching you like a hawk, Monty grunts, “You know what I mean.”

With a shake of your head, you brace your hands on the edge of the mattress and peer glumly down at the cast covering your leg as a question springs to mind; Is this really an argument you want to have right now…? Is this an argument you want to have at all? The shock of waking up to find the animatronic in your room is slowly but surely receding with each subsequent second.

You suppose having him all but break in last night was about as shocking as it could get. Anything that follows simply doesn’t measure up. And besides, getting into a verbal spat won’t change the very glaring fact that he’s still here… All it’ll do is sap what little energy you’re pulling from your reserves, never mind what it could do to his.

It’s too early. You’re too tired. You’re in too much pain. And you do so hate to fight…

Your ears twitch when the gears in Monty’s jaw spin softly as he opens it to ask, “Did you get any sleep at all?”

The ‘you look terrible’ comment remains unspoken but conceals itself badly behind his teeth.

Tearing your eyes off the cast, you bend your neck back and release your longest sigh yet. When it ends, you just blink languidly up at the gator, and at last reply, “Doesn’t matter. A few hours’ll have to do for now.”

Under your breath, in a voice deliberately pitched so quiet that he can’t pick it up, you softly mutter, “Painkillers…”

As you start to push yourself off the squeaking mattress, you hear an unhappy grumble from the speakers of the massive animatronic, and in just one swift stride, he’s suddenly hovering right above you, curling his thick, sturdy palms under your elbows and gently lifting you onto your feet with far more care than such a formidable bot should possess.

“Does matter,” he retorts petulantly, keeping his hands under one of your arms whilst you bend awkwardly and fish around on the floor for the crutch you’d discarded near the side of your bed.

“Why’d you wake up anyway?” he continues to grouse, “I was comfy…”

Blowing an exasperated huff through your nose, you straighten up and slip your unoccupied arm through the crutch’s handle, tugging your captured appendage from the gator’s palm and making the awkward squeeze around his sizeable bulk.

“Gee, I don’t know,” you yawn, raking your fingers across your scalp and cringing at the oily slickness clinging to your hair. When did you last have a shower? “Maybe because I realised there was a giant gator in my lap. Who probably shouldn’t still be here.”

Heavy footsteps clunk after you into the ensuite bathroom. “You said I could stay!”

“For a little while, I recall,” you snap waspishly over your shoulder, running a hand over the wall until your fingertips find the light switch. With a dull ‘click,’ the tiled, white room is suddenly flooded in a buzzing fluorescence that hurts your eyes. Not a second later, you’re already regretting the sharpness of your tone.

Hissing a sigh through your teeth like a pressure valve being released, you hobble forwards to the sink and brace your front against it, lifting your eyes to the mirror and peering at your reflection.

‘Ugh.’

Well… you suppose the dark bags are a given, but did you have to drool so profusely as to leave a line of dried, crusty spit down the side of your chin?

Wetting your fingertips under the dripping tap, you scrub them fervently at the spittle and turn your gaze instead to the reflection of the large animatronic lurking behind you in the doorway.

He doesn’t meet your gaze. He’s too busy frowning down at his feet, brows resting heavily above his optics.

In contrast, your own expression softens, weary and apologetic.

“Look,” you say in a far less agitated tone, turning off the tap with a squeak of metal and inspecting your now clean chin, “I’m sorry. I don’t want to argue with you, Monty. I just want you to go home-”

“-Why’re you so keen to get rid of me?”

What follows is a silence so fragile, you could probably drop a feather and it would shatter into a thousand, fibrous pieces.

Your fingertips find the edge of the sink and flex bruisingly on the porcelain whilst you stare through the mirror, at a loss for words.

This time, Monty is looking back. His optics are set into a hard, unflinching scowl, aperture pupils shrunk down to mere pinpricks.

You’re not about to let that slide…

“That,” you snap, “is not what this is, and you know it.”

And the thing is, he does know it. Even as he admonishes himself for asking the question, he knows. You wouldn’t… do that to him. Time and again, you prove to be a better person than he consistently expects you to be.

But experience has driven a recognisable pattern right into his code that isn’t so easily shaken loose.

Montgomery Gator knows rejection far better than he knows acceptance. Humans want him gone more than they want him around, it’s been that way since he was first turned online, and proceeded to malfunction so badly, his tail broke several laptops and a workbench. Good things don’t tend to last for bots like him. He’s told himself that before. It’s a notion that’s been haunting the back of his processor from the day he met you.

There’s always another shoe, and it’s always about to drop…

He… doesn’t want you to be the one to drop it.

Anyone else… anyone at all…

Just not you.

He hadn’t realised before just how much he needs you to choose his presence over his absence. And although he knows you’re right, it’s bad that he’s here, it’s bad for both of you that he’s here… something in his programming, something that shines as green as the snout on his face, selfishly vies for your acquiescence.

Then all of a sudden, you’re doing it, you’re turning arduously around until your back is to the sink, and you’re staring him in the optics straight on, not through the surface of the mirror.

Suddenly, he finds himself straining his audials in anticipation, every wire and node in his frame poised to hear you tell him he can stay. Here.

With you. 

Instead, you do something else entirely.

In a fashion he should have expected by now, you step delicately into the middle of the playing field, no man’s land, neither telling him you want him here, nor that you want him to go.

“You think I want to say goodbye and not see you for six weeks?” you ask plainly instead, bringing his processor to a grinding halt, then viciously knocking it off its tracks with the follow-up, “I don’t want to get rid of you, Monty, I want you to be safe.”

Safe…?

Several of the gator’s systems have to reset themselves, his optics first and foremost, flickering narrow then wide again as he shutters his lids in a few rapid-fire blinks.

Dumbly, he has to thump a fist against his chest when the speaker inside it stalls on a clumsy, “Huh?”

But you don’t seem all that willing to let him get his thoughts in order. “What do you think Mick’ll do if he finds out you’re not in the Plex? Hm?” you press on, “And I really hope it is ‘if’ and not ‘when’.”

… Safe…

Unbidden, one of the gator’s hands worms its way up to lay over the cavity of his chest, rubbing tenderly at the plastic casing as if it’s sore.

“I’m sorry, Monty...” you tell him, earnest and frank, setting aside the grief of your leg in favour of spending a few more moments consoling the animatronic, “I’m sorry, I don’t want to have to say it, but…” Hesitating, your brows dip, and you offer the gator a sad, tired frown. “Not everyone is on your side.”

‘Understatement of the century,’ he gripes to himself. But why should he care about that? So long as you’re on his side, things will be okay.

“But lot of people are,” you squeeze out with conviction, pouring as much encouragement into your words as you can fit, “I’m on your side. That exec came around too, didn’t she? Stella, and her mums. Andy is starting to trust you! Andy Flowers! Hell, even the public are seeing you properly for the first time. But it’s the people who aren’t on your side who you need to tread carefully around. People like Mick,” you continue, earning a sudden, guttural thrum from the gator’s speakers that you deliberately ignore. Let him be angry. You’re pretty angry too if you’re being honest.

Resisting the urge to wring your hands together imploringly, you add, “Right now, Mick is gonna be looking for any excuse to hurt you.”

You’re hardly surprised when Monty sticks his snout into the air and expels a haughty grunt, his prior astonishment all but forgotten in the overpowering wake of his pride.

“I’d like to see ‘im try,” he declares, jamming the pad of a thumb against his chest, “I protected you from an endo, an’ I can protect myself from old Mick too. I’m stronger than that pipsqueak by a mile.”

His bluster, however, is almost immediately knocked back out of him when you abruptly shove yourself off the sink with an exasperated shake of your head. “It isn’t about how strong you are!”

In your haste however, you stumble on your bad foot, and just like that, Monty is there, stooping forwards with his arms outstretched to catch you by the shoulders. At the same time, your own hands clasp feverishly on top of the gator’s wide wrists, squeezing at the plastic panelling as if you could physically press upon him the gravity of the situation.

“Monty,” you chew his name through clenched teeth, meeting his stare behind those star-shaped sunglasses, “He can hurt you – No, stop–! He can.” You have to interrupt him when his jaw opens to argue.

“Mick can hurt you,” you reiterate once the gator’s fangs click together again, “Without even touching you, Mont. All he needs is a reason. And you being here instead of the Plex?” One of your hands leaves the silent animatronic’s wrist and ventures up towards his face, cupping your palm gently over his rounded cheek. “That’s reason enough for him,” you finish, watching as the black holes of Monty’s apertures swirl wider and wider with every second that the warmth of your fingertips seeps through to his sensors.

If he was capable of swallowing, he would. His optics swivel over to your hand near his teeth, and once again, Monty finds himself slamming a firewall down to cut communications with the gears in his tail. This is not the size of room where the overeager appendage will be subtle if it starts swinging.

There’s a thought pinging around his processor, one he doesn’t dare give voice to lest the truth of it betray just how much the great Montgomery Gator has come to rely on the presence of another when the only back he’s watched for so long is his own.

How… How in the world is he supposed to survive for six weeks without you?

Almost of its own accord, his processor starts to run several hypotheticals detailing emergency protocols he’ll have to follow in the event of an incident occurring while you’re not with him.

And on the opposite side of the equation, he can’t help but wonder what you’ll do without somebody to watch over you when he’s not around?

It’s an unforeseen element of Friendship he hadn’t factored in until now, this… this worry.

Monty casts about for a better word, one that doesn’t have so many connotations attached to it, but he comes up empty, failing to marry his unease with anything more applicable.

He’s worried. And that in itself is worrying.

The blooming warmth emanating from your palm suddenly retracts, and Monty jerks his head upright, realising with some alarm that he’d been leaning his cheek quite heavily against your hand.

You’ve dropped it back down in favour of scrubbing it tiredly over your face. “I’m not sure what I’d do with myself if you got decommissioned because of me,” you admit sullenly, forcing him to cycle back several moments to recall your last words.

Still, the guilt woven through your tone is surprising.

“Cause of you?” he grunts, “Why would it be your fault what they do to me?”

You look up at him then, your eyes focused and sharp like whetted blades. “Monty,” you say slowly, “Why are you here?”

The question stops him in his tracks.

Because the answer is simple. It’s standing in front of him, staring him quite literally in the face.

It’s you. He came here tonight for you. He left the Plex for you, risked being found out for you, is still risking his own safety… for you.

It wouldn’t be your fault if Management does something drastic to him.

But it will be because of you.

Slowly, so slowly he half wonders if there’s a fault in his systems, Monty’s optics droop to observe your hands. The tiny appendages – so much smaller than his own – are clenched with a rigorous fervour, one around the handle of your crutch, and the other into the shirt you fell asleep in, twisting the fabric between your fingers that have gone white at the knuckle to expose the bone underneath.

You're scared. 

“So please. For my sake,” you continue, drawing his gaze from your hands to your face, “To stop me from worrying about you so much-“

The gator’s lips twitch in a wince.

“-Will you please go back to the Plex?”

And this time, with a new perspective rolling around in his processor and gumming up the gears in his jaw, he doesn’t bother to open his mouth, relying on his speakers to offer a concise and muted response.

“Okay.”

And maybe… Just maybe… the tired but dazzling smile that flutters then blooms across your expression and brightens the room makes his acquiescence all the more worth it.

“Thank you, Monty,” you tell him, the fatigue in your eyes never once stealing from the sparkling gratitude you’re trying to drown him in, “Thank you.”

And Hell, maybe he’s inclined to let your palpable waves of relief wash over him for just a bit longer.

-----------------------------------------------------

You never shut the window last night…

Standing awkwardly like a looming giant in your - now rather chilly - living room, Monty’s optics trace the scrapes and gouges he’d inadvertently torn from the wooden frame in his haste to reach you after you took that tumble yesterday.

Wincing, he clears the static from his voice box with a sheepish cough and mutters, “Uhm… I… um… Sorry, ‘bout your window…”

Leaning on your crutch beside him, you ponder the same destruction, one palm clasped around your chin.

With the painkillers now working their quick and heavenly magic around your ankle, the thoughts in your head are less of a nuisance to put together. Monty had almost tripped over his own tail in his haste to get you your requested glass of water from the kitchen. It was the only thing you could think of that would make him feel helpful and get him out of your bathroom long enough for you to splash some water on your face and idly tousle your hair.

Needless to say, it worked like a charm.

Now, you have to take several quiet breaths, in through your nose then out through your mouth before your momentary alarm at finding your window wide open starts to fade away.

It could have been worse, you suppose.

Oh certainly, the window’s frame will need to be repaired, but you’re less concerned about such a potential cost now than you would have been before Faz Co. paid you that hush money. And sure, someone could have broken in while you slept, but somehow, knowing you had a gigantic animatronic alligator on standby diminishes that particular concern. Besides, nothing looks to have been stolen. There isn’t really much to steal, after all, and you don’t live on the ground floor, a fact which deters all but the most desperate of thieves.

Besides…  

“Windows can always be fixed,” you tell him, turning to flash him a warm tilt of your lips, “You, on the other hand…”

He doesn’t miss the none-too subtle hint.

Monty’s snout tilts up towards the ceiling, his tail thwacking carefully against the carpeted floor in mock exasperation. “A’right,” he huffs, venting out a hot blast of air from the regulator valves in his nostrils, “I’m goin’, m’goin’…”

Leaning your body on the crutch, you bite the inside of your cheek and muscle back a grin when Monty takes a slow, lumbering step towards the window, dragging his tail like a dead weight across the living area.

A performer to the end…

He doesn’t even make it to the window before he stops once more, twisting his nose over a shoulder strut to peer down at you, his crimson LEDs glowing faintly behind his glasses. “You sure you don’t-?”

“-I’m sure.”

“But what if somethi-!?”

“-It won’t.”

“… Right…” he concedes quietly, turning back to the open window.

With laboured movements betraying a reluctance that clogs his every motor, Monty meticulously begins navigating his too-large frame through the window, taking great care that his shoulders don’t scrape any more paint off the wood as he goes.

You’re grateful for his effort, enough to swallow back a laugh when his mohawk clunks solidly on the wood above him and he releases an audible hiss of annoyance, swivelling his optics up to give the frame a dark glare.

It isn’t lost on you that two weeks ago, if you’d asked Monty to ‘be careful,’ he’d more than likely go out of his way to do the exact opposite.

You really are proud to see the work he’s put in to improve his standing at the Plex.

As the gator turns to feed the length of his tail through your window, you give your head a fond shake and step forwards, following his path to the sill and leaning against it on your elbows and watching your breath billow out of you in a soft cloud of white.

Awkwardly sized on the fire escape, Monty manoeuvres himself about to face you, ducking his head low and dropping down onto a knee, bringing himself to your level.

His massive frame rises and falls as he synthesises a sigh, reaching up to sweep the sunglasses off his nose and drape his forearm over a bent knee.

“Guess this is it, huh?” he gripes aloud, brightening ever so slightly when you give a husky laugh.

“Monty. It’s not forever, you know.”

“Might as well be.”

Blinking, your lips quirk affectionately, and you lean your chin on a palm, tilting your head to one side. “Aww~. I thought Freddy was meant to be the charming one.”

As you should have expected, Monty’s plating immediately flares around his neck and he draws himself up, thoroughly affronted. “I’m plenty charming!” he declares.

Flashing him a sly grin, you reply, “So I’m gathering.”

You can see the moment his CPU connects your words together. The animatronic’s brows tick up his forehead and his jaws promptly snap shut with a loud ‘clack.’

You figured he’d appreciate ‘charming’ over ‘cute.’

Even with the nightly bustle of the city drifting into the alleyway, you can hear several of Monty’s gears kick up a notch, whirring noisily in the relatively peaceful alleyway.

Taking pity on the stupefied animatronic, you tip your head upright again and lose the teasing lilt.

“It was very kind of you to come and check on me, Monty.”

Optics click shut, then open again, spinning prettily as they land on you. Without his sunglasses, you find him all the more expressive. An odd realisation for you to have about a robot.

“Yeah?” he utters softly.

Humming, you nod your head, slapping on a sickly-sweet smile and a tone that oozes warning. “Yep… Don’t you ever do it again.”

Dipping his nose sheepishly, Monty rubs at the back of his neck, avoiding your stern glare.

“You’ll head straight back to the Plex?” you add.

“Uh huh.”

“And you’ll be careful and make sure nobody sees you?”

“Mmhmm…”

The façade crumbles and you’re smiling again, still weary, but a smile all the same.

The animatronic catches it when he braves a glance up, and his contrition melts away at the sight of it, as it seems to be doing more and more often of late.

“Good,” you murmur, swaying your torso further out the window, hardly putting a lot of thought into what you’re about to do.

Later, you’ll blame it on the ungodly hour dulling your senses, and the bud of gratitude for Monty swelling in your chest until it was large enough that you thought nothing of stretching your neck out and pressing a gentle, chaste peck on the very tip of his nose.

It’s over and done in a moment, nothing noteworthy about it, just a fond farewell between friends.

But that’s only half of the collective perspective.

Because Monty…. Well, he could have lived in that second for the rest of eternity.

The warmth of soft, tender skin squashing against his snout is at first surprising, thought it almost immediately gives way to something a little more abrupt once his processor registers what you’re doing.

When it does, a surging jolt of electricity thrusts his internal fans into overdrive, riding the currents of his wiring all the way through his frame and overloading several core systems. One after the other, they shut down, rebooting after a nanosecond, and still your lips are on him, so, so perilously close to his teeth.

His jaw motors fail then, followed immediately by the hydraulics in his arms, letting them fall slack to his sides. His optics flutter closed in blissful contentment as his entire frame threatens to buckle and teeter sideways, held aloft when the fail-safes in his limbs lock them into place to prevent damage from a fall.

The warmth – the sheer, unutterable warmth is there for eons, and for a mere second – and then…

Cold. The spot you’d graced with a fabled kiss is cold once more, and Monty’s optics snap open and his fingers fumble to resecure their slackened grip on his sunglasses.

You’re there, in front of him, haloed by the golden light of your living room, looking every bit the angel he’s only seen on Christmas cards they sell in the gift shops. 

They don't hold a candle to real thing, he realises mutely. 

“Goodnight, Monty. Be safe, okay?” you ask. 

Is that all? Don't you realise you could ask him to bring you the Moon and he'd find a way to do it? 

Starstruck, the gator just nods his head dumbly in response, barely paying attention as you withdraw from the windowsill and raise your hands to the frame over your head, slowly drawing it shut. He’s still standing there when your hands slide around the curtains and you cock a smile, flapping one arm at him in a shooing motion.

With his frame still buzzing and sparking with excess electricity, Monty’s residual processing power manages to turn him about on a heel and take the stairs one at a time, each clanging footstep growing faster and faster as his systems burst back to life.

He doesn’t recall how he made it to the rooftops again. Only that his thundering footfalls feel light – lighter than they’ve ever felt before, even when he’s performing on stage, even when the crowd is roaring with excitement.

Monty flies over the buildings, he’s sure he’s flying.

Perhaps there’s a hidden feature the engineers snuck into his programming that would cause him to barely notice his own weight because this euphoria shouldn’t be possible for an animatronic made of wires and codes.

The early morning is dark and bitingly cold.

But Monty only has sensors for the patch of warmth his silicone still remembers on the tip of his nose.

Already, in the corner of his HUD, the feedback of that moment is playing on a loop. 

When the lights of the Megaplex come into view on the city’s outskirts, he almost believes he could leap right off the current building and soar all the way over the immense carpark to the rooftop he began his journey from. He only stops himself when logic catches up and reminds him that he definitely cannot fly.

Keeping his promise to you, he scales down the wall and slinks silently across the vast ocean of tarmac, sticking to the shadows on the perimeter of the Plex until he finds the same spot he’d jumped from last night.

It’s just as easy – easier, in fact with the residual energy coursing through his systems – to launch himself halfway up the towering wall, grabbing onto a gutter and then kicking off again, hauling himself hand over hand and digging his claws into the brickwork until he’s vaulting over the guard rail and onto the roof proper.

There, he turns - his chest bloated and bursting with elation – to face the city.

Somewhere among those shimmering lights is your home. And by extension, you.

He knows where you are, and that alone is enough to soothe the glaring code that longs to be within reach of you.

He’ll stay at the Plex to make you happy, and he’ll do so gladly.

Because Montgomery Gator is not about to jeopardise his chances of getting another kiss.

Notes:

oh my god.
I can't believe March was the last time I updated this fic.
So, aside from rehearsing for a stage play for the past few months, I've also been spending every waking moment creating stuff for some upcoming Christmas fairs, and haven't had a moment to sit down and write. Which really sucks because it's been so hard to do anything lately, and my new Psychoanalyist took a look in my brain and said 'have you tried prozac?' So I'm dealing with that.
Anyway, hope the little 'mwa' at the end makes up for it. I don't think Y/n knows about her budding crush yet, and Monty is staunchly refusing to acknowledge his.

Chapter 27: Reunions

Summary:

Wow, it's been a while, huh? Deliberate, of course, to really drive home the idea that Monty and Y/n haven't seen each other for a long time which is reflected in the space between updates hahaa. Hmm. :S

It’s a resounding, metallic 'SLAM!' that jumpstarts the heart of every staff member present in the locker room, wrenching them from their early-morning conversations. Someone even lets out an undignified yelp as each person turns their wide, startled eyes over to the origin of the explosive sound.

The eldest among them, Andy Flowers, with his arm held rigidly out in front of him, has his palm pressed flat to the door of his own locker, the same door that’s still quivering in the wake of being hurled shut so viciously.

Through narrowed eyes, the old mechanic glares at the cold, silvery surface, trying very hard not to pivot his vitriol to the left.

Because standing at the mechanic’s side, making a valiant attempt to sink into the floor, is that jittery kid from the day-care, Hughie, casting nervous glances between Andy’s thunderous profile and the previously slammed locker door.

“Um,” he gulps – audible enough in the deafening silence that even those at the back of the room are privy to it, “I just… thought you’d want to know… S-Sir.”

And without another word, he ducks his head down into the collar of his shirt and spins clumsily about on a heel, scurrying from the room with as much dignity as a scolded dog.

Precisely three seconds pass after he vanishes, punctuated by the ‘ticks’ of a dusty analogue clock that hangs in its spot above the entrance.

Then, slowly, somebody lets loose a long, drawn-out whistle.

“Jesus, Andy,” Devon is the first – and bravest – to pipe up, continuing with his half-finished task of tugging a pair of overalls on over his clothes and grinning curiously at the back of Andy’s head, “The Hell’d that poor bastard say to you?”

Gradually, people begin making an effort to at least pretend to resume getting ready for the day, though nobody dares murmur a word, far too nosy to let themselves talk over whatever the mechanic’s response might be.

When it comes, it’s disappointingly lacklustre for those who’d been hoping for a little excitement to spice up their tedious morning.

Wearily, Andy just heaves an almighty sigh as his hand slides from the locker, thwacking noisily against his thigh.

“Nothin’ I ain’t already heard about a thousand times in the last couple’a weeks,” he grumbles, “Damn gator’s on the prowl.”

Should he apologise to Hughie….?

Yeah… Yeah, he probably ought to. Not the kid’s fault he was picked to be Montgomery’s messenger of the day.

“Ah,” Devon’s expression opens up, comprehension dawning in the form of a knowing smirk, “He’s after you again, is he?”

Muttering something uncouth, Andy turns and tugs the brim of his hat down, hiding from the looks his colleagues shoot him as he stalks from the locker room and tries to ignore the murmurs that follow him into the hall.

It isn’t just words that trail after him.

“Can’t be bothered to find me himself, so he sends some kid to do it for ‘im,” he complains to the tapping of sneakered shoes that trot lightly up to his side.

“I think it’s sweet.”

Andy blinks, cocking a brow and swivelling his head around to eye the little blonde traipsing along beside him.

Ah, Chelsea. Sweet, candid Chelsea. Dumb as a box of rocks who can’t tell a sprocket from a spur, but a damn hard worker all the same, and likeable enough that Andy finds he’s not put out by her company. At least now she knows which end of a hammer to hit the nail with. There was a time when she first started at the Plex that nobody was really sure she did.

As her words finally break through the haze of Andy’s early-morning ruminations, he gives a start and pulls his lips into a wrinkled grimace. “S’not sweet,” he sputters on the word like it has a foul taste, “It’s weird.”

And that’s putting it mildly.

The six-week mark since your little workplace ‘accident’ is fast approaching, and the poor mechanic hasn’t known a moment of peace since it began. 

It’s bad enough having the gator pester him all over the building for updates on your condition like there isn’t a patient wire in that big, blundering frame of his, but on top of that very persistent thorn in Andy’s side, he’s also been running around after the other animatronics, most of whom seem to have unanimously decided to make this the month they let their firewalls go kaput. That it’s the same month you just so happen to be out of commission is a bitch of a coincidence.

Screwing up his face to crinkle it even further, Andy lets out a huff, glowering at the dim, red lights lining the wall as he marches past and absently grunts to himself, “All the bots have been actin’ weird.”

Still trailing along at his side, Chelsea’s lips purse and she shoots him a peculiar frown. “Like, weird how?”

How indeed.

Steering around a sharp bend, Andy throws his arms up in a half shrug, half gesture of sheer exasperation. “I don’t know! It-! It’s like they’ve all been sulkin’!” he declares gruffly, failing to note a bemused Chelsea stepping slightly out of his circumference, “Roxanne spends more and more time in her green room in front’a that mirror. The day care attendants haven’t even mentioned Y/n, which is weird, and just yesterday, I had to tell Chica to get outta the kitchen trash. Twice!”

“Chica’s always looking for leftovers,” she shrugs, trying to remember the last time she heard the mechanic talk this much. He probably just needs a holiday.

“Yeah,” he stresses, “But usually I only catch her once a week. I tell her to knock it off, and she does… Least till she ‘forgets’ what I said.”

Heaving out his tension through a brusque sigh, Andy raises his head again and sniffs, “Least Freddy’s not on the fritz.”

“Golden boy,” Chelsea hums with a sage nod.

Almost as soon as his expression relaxes however, it springs right back into a tight, puckered scowl. “But that gator, jeezus…” he hisses, scrubbing a weathered palm harshly down his face, “He’s been drivin’ me to drink. It’s like he’s… he’s-“

“Pining,” she finishes for him.

And god, he wishes there was another word for it, really he does, but she’s hit the nail on the head.

That damn gator, an animatronic with the term ‘miscreant’ written directly into his coding, is pining after his favourite cleaning lady like a schoolboy with a crush.

Lifting his hands once more, Andy buries his face into the calloused skin on his palms for a moment, pressing them against his eyes in a vain effort to try and squeeze some of the weariness out of them. “M’getting too old for this shit,” he groans.

“For what? Your job?” Chelsea asks innocently, and it’s almost enough to startle a bark of laughter out of him.

Yeah. Sure, his job. Why not?

Before he can respond, she’s already carrying on. “You know, my grandpa retired a few months ago, and he says it’s the best thing he ever did.” Pausing, she flashes Andy a sunny grin. “Maybe you could retire!”

… Charming.

Well, he did say he’s getting old…

“Thanks, Chels,” the mechanic huffs, squeezing out a thin smile of his own, eyes narrowed, “I’ll uh… keep that in mind.”

“No sweat,” she chirps, slowing to a halt at the tunnel’s junction and tossing her thumb at an adjoining stairwell, “Well, this is my stop. I’m on stage duty. See you later Mister Flowers!”

Lazily, Andy raises a hand to wave her off as she bounds up the metal stairs with far too much pep in her step for such an ungodly hour.

Alone once more, the old mechanic shakes his head and turns another corner, making for his first duty of the day – Babysitting their newest techie, Chase.

Polite enough kid, Andy supposes, kind of nosy but, hell, he’s trained up worse.

At least the new guy doesn’t ask half as many questions as that impertinent, pushy Gator…

Five weeks… It’s been five and a half, arduous weeks since your accident, and to your credit, you seem to have actually listened to medical advice and opted to stay home, letting Andy run groceries up to your apartment every week and belligerently refusing to let him pay for any of it.

Stubborn kid.

Still, at least he can take some solace in the fact that you’ve been spending some much-needed time away from the Plex and all her hazards. And while he’s certainly glad of that, he can’t deny that the unexpected side-effects of your absence have been… wearing.

Seems somebody gave Montgomery the bright idea that if he wants information on you, his best port-of-call is good ol’ Andy Flowers, apparent font of all knowledge and mechanic-turned-messenger.

Every. Single. Day. It’s been a relentless slog of questions piled up on questions, all pertaining to you.

‘How is she?’

‘She’s okay, right?’

‘You seein’ her today?’

‘You think she’s comin’ back soon?’

Andy’s running low on hair to tear out.

Well, if that gator wants to find him again and cycle through his usual rota of queries with all the tact of a fawning teenager, he’s going to have to damn well track Andy down himself instead of pestering the other staff members to do it for him.

‘Besides,’ the mechanic muses, hitching up his belt and trying not to let the fond quirk of his lips overtake his scowl, ‘there’s a particularly good reason to avoid Montgomery Gator today.’

He’d hate to spoil the surprise.

----------------------------------------------

There are a great many things that Freddy Fazbear enjoys about his role in the Megaplex.

Among the majority; hosting birthday parties, signing the remarkable pieces of artwork children bring him, performing on stage alongside his very dear friends… But one of the rarer duties, one he doesn’t often get called up for, is perhaps his favourite due in part to its infrequence.

It isn’t every day he’s allowed to be a greeter.

“Good morning, Sir!” Freddy chimes pleasantly, no less chipper to say it now than he was an hour ago, “I hope you have a wonderful time here at Fazbear’s Mega Pizzaplex!”

A frazzled man with a five-o-clock shadow pauses at the edge of the lobby's turnstiles, glancing up at Freddy as though he’s only just clocked the bear’s presence. Just ahead of him, charging ahead with their tickets clutched in possessive fists, are a gaggle of children who careen past Freddy without sparing him so much as a passing glance. racing each other for the escalator that will take them first to the atrium, and then on towards the arcade.

Freddy’s speakers buzz with a chuckle.

Their enthusiasm is nice to see. Besides, they’re older, a few years senior of the pre-teens and tots who are typically drawn to his teddy-bear appeal.

Their father and sole guardian, one Doctor Colin Timpson, staggers after them in a daze, far less equipped to face the school holidays than his children are. He, at least, manages to offer Freddy a polite tip of his head in acknowledgement, eyes heavy lidded behind his glasses.

And, well, what kind of a frontman would he be if the face of Fazbear Inc. couldn’t lend a helping paw every once in a while?

“Sir?” he calls, popping open a small compartment hidden underneath his forearm, “Here, I insist.”

As Doctor Timpson watches curiously, Freddy reaches in with two claws and carefully pulls out a small slip of paper, no thicker than a receipt.

“Please, enjoy a complimentary caffeinated beverage from any of our fine eating establishments,” he rattles off his well-practiced spiel, holding the coveted voucher out and noticing how the man’s eyes light up at the mere sight of it.

“Oh!” he blinks, gingerly taking the paper from Freddy’s paw and peering down at it like he’s been handed a bar of gold bullion. Then, tilting his head up, he offers a real, genuine smile and nods, “Much obliged, Freddy.”

Who of course replies, “Think nothing of it,” his optics squinted happily shut.

Waving after the man’s retreating back, he resumes his usual post, turning to see who else might walk through those turnstiles today.

When Mick announced that the usual S.T.A.F.F greeter bot had experienced an unfortune and unforeseen malfunction, Freddy almost leapt at the chance to offer his assistance.

There’s nothing that quite compares to the surprise and delight he’s met with when guests enter to find The Freddy Fazbear standing there to meet them.

“Hi, Freddy,” a well-dressed lady drawls as she floats past him.

“Welcome back, Ma’am,” he returns in kind, rocking idly on his struts and sweeping an arm out towards the lobby behind him, “Have a pleasant day.”

It’s nice to have this distraction, a constant flow of familiar and unfamiliar faces keeping his processor occupied and away from… other matters.

It has been a… challenging few weeks, convincing himself to stop fretting about you.

You’re an esteemed colleague, after all, and a very capable one at that.

But every now and again, in the downtime between shows or after the metal doors to the Plex rattle shut at the end of a long, noisy day and Freddy is left alone in his recharge station, he can’t quite refrain from pulling up your employee profile in the corner of his HUD and gazing fondly at it for… perhaps a little longer than would be deemed appropriate.

Freddy likes all of the staff. He likes all of the guests too. He’d be a pretty poor face-man for the company if he didn’t endeavour to get along with everybody, after all.

And yet, for the first time in recent memory, Freddy has found himself increasingly dedicating more and more of his CPU power to one particular individual.

He’ll admit, he first came to like you by proxy, through Monty’s gruff but undeniably favourable narrative surrounding you, way back when he joined Freddy, Chica and Roxy for Jazzercise all those weeks ago.

You were good to his bandmate from the get-go.

Freddy’s programming has always left him with a predisposition to ensure the well-being of any human he’s in contact with, and he likes to think he’d be much the same even if it wasn’t hardwired into his every node - that it isn’t just simulated but natural that he’s inclined to care.

He certainly cares about you, that’s for sure.

“Hey! It’s Freddy!”

The bear is tugged once more from his musings by a gaggle of children – all of whom bound over to him with varying squeals of excitement.

He, of course, is only too happy to return their eagerness, bending down on one knee to offer high-fives, a few exceptionally gentle hugs and cheerful greetings to each tiny guest.

They, like the others before them, are quick to move on once they’ve been ushered along by their accompanying adults, unable to resist the lure of those bright, neon lights and the promise of prizes waiting for them deeper inside the Plex.

Again, Freddy doesn’t mind in the least.

Straightening back up to his full height, the bear’s ears perk forwards and his optics slip shut, content to let his processor slip into thoughts of you once more.

He has to wonder – has been wondering more and more of late – how you’re faring on your own, with your leg.

It would be remiss of him to deny the concern that’s sunk its tendrils into his chassis and refuses to budge. Mr Flowers has repeatedly reminded the bear not to fuss so much but…

Is it such a bad thing?

You, after all, demonstrated an alarming lack of self-preservation, both in climbing that ladder without the proper safety equipment and again when you came into work the day after suffering a major workplace accident.

Thousands of little scripts run rapid-fire across Freddy’s processor.

‘Are you behaving responsibly?’

‘Are you in pain? Taking care of yourself?’

And then, more latterly… ‘Do you miss the Plex?’

Well ‘the Plex’ is certainly missing you…

“Good morning, Mister Fazbear.”

Almost automatically at this point, Freddy raises a big, careful paw up to his top hat and catches the brim between his thumb and forefinger, politely lifting it from his head.

“Good morning Miss L/n!” he says with a pleasant hum before swivelling back to the turnstiles.

Yes, he concludes, things just aren’t quite the same around here in your absence. It seems… dimmer, somehow, like the walls themselves don’t hold the same lustre without you in them. He’s only sorry it had taken him as long as it did to finally introduce himself to-…

… Every single thought flitting through the animatronic’s processor comes screeching to a glitched, static halt.

Then, fast enough to send the gears in his neck spinning violently in an effort to match the speed of his motors, the bear wrenches his head towards the lobby, optics flying open to their fullest extent when they land on the back of a familiar figure.

“Y/n!?” he blurts out far too loudly, forgetting to control the output of his speakers.

All at once, his chronometer falls off-kilter, the Plex around him blurs into a mess of colour and abstract shapes, and suddenly, all Freddy can see is you, turning to face him with that stretch to your lips that he’s missed so much - friendly and amused and crooked higher on one side.

"Freddy," you return, politely holding back a laugh.

Of their own accord, the pistons in his legs thrust him into an unsteady march just before the elation and sheer, palpable relief have a chance to short-circuit his systems.

He barely notices that he’s begun to grin, not even when a small warning light tries to alert him that his jaws are under increasing strain as his smile turns into a cheek-bursting beam.

“You’re back!?” he exclaims giddily through a laugh, stampeding towards you at such a rate that your expression begins to falter.

 “Freddy?” you call, then a little more urgently, “Freddy! Woah, hey! Fre-!”

The Glamrock is on top of you before you can get the last word out.

Colossal paws – gentle but effortlessly strong – slip around your waist, and without even slowing his stride, Freddy Fazbear sweeps you clean off your feet.

“Freddy!” you protest shrilly, bracing your hands on his forearms as he belts out a hearty laugh and spins you in a wide, graceful circle, the ears atop his head springing forwards with unabashed delight.

Anyone watching the display would be hard pressed to say which of the two is giddier; Fazbear’s own mascot, or the poor cleaning lady he’s twirling around like an over-enthused child with their doll.

Colours and shapes blear past you in a haze as the animatronic continues swinging you around to complete a second circle, all the while gushing out a veritable slew of words that barely register through your shock.

“It is so wonderful to see you!” he’s announcing to the whole, damn building, “We’ve missed you terribly! Are you well!?” Blessedly for your head, the spinning slows down by a degree and he adds, “You look well. Your leg must be just – Oh! Your leg!”

No sooner does your impromptu flight begin than it comes crashing to a halt, though the room continues to tilt a little as your brain catches up with itself. Only once your vision steadies do you catch your first, proper glimpse of Freddy’s face.

If ever there was a time when an animatronic looked like it might actually be sick, this is it.

Beyond mortified, the bear sets you gently onto safe, solid ground once more, his plastic brows twisted up at the centre of his forehead.

“I am so, so very sorry, my Dear,” he rushes out, his palms still pressed securely around your waist, “I don’t know what came over me! I should have considered -! Are you alright!?”

Dizzy, but no worse for wear, you give your head a quick shake to resettle it, blinking the bear into proper focus and offering him a patient smile.

“No harm done,” you tell him kindly, easing the frantic bot back from the edge of a system reboot, “It’s nice to know I’ve been missed.”

Freddy stares at you, eyebrows still furrowed even as he opens his mouth and a startled laugh bursts from his speakers. In disbelief, he pulls the sides of his jaws up, raising the shiny, plastic apples of his cheeks until his optics are almost squeezed shut. “More than you could possibly know,” he utters softly, and it’s so, damnably genuine that you have to duck your head to break eye contact, your own smile widening to mimic his, try as you might to keep it under control.

“High praise coming from The Freddy Fazbear,” you shoot back, squirming inside your own skin at the unexpected sincerity.

Falling silent, Freddy’s lenses spin quietly as he drinks you in from the top of your head to the hem of your shirt, only stopping once his optics have reached your leg.

The cast is gone, he registers first. And that’s a good sign, he’s sure, a sign of progress, of healing.

Ears waggling eagerly, Freddy opens his mouth, prepared to bombast you with a long tirade of queries when –

“Ahem!”

Suddenly, the rest of the world comes crashing back in on you, and the pair of you recall that you’re not the only two people in the Plex.

Freddy straightens up like a shot as you both spring away from each other like a couple of teenagers caught doing something untoward in the school hallway.

There’s a lady standing at the turnstiles, her lips drawn thinly and a young girl balanced on her hip.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she begins, flicking a glance between you and the animatronic, one of her slender brows cocked. “I was hoping to get a picture of Freddy with Madison?” Knocking her head sideways towards the girl, she adds, “She’s a big fan.”

As your eyes and Freddy’s optics glance at her, the poor kid immediately blanches and buries her face in her mother’s neck.

With a mere whir of his motors, Freddy glides seamlessly back into the very model of congeniality that he’s so famous for.

It’s endearing to witness the Glamrock in his element.

Bowing slightly to be closer to the woman’s height – and by extent her charge’s – he sweeps an enormous paw out in invitation, humming, “It would be my absolute pleasure.”

The woman eyes him carefully for a moment, and you almost think she’s going to reconsider before her shoulders drop and she gives a quick, satisfied nod, then busies herself with coaxing the child out of her arms.

While she’s preoccupied, Freddy tilts his head towards you and catches your eye, his azure optics glimmering prettily under the bright overheads.

“I shall catch up with you later,” he promises, one ear swivelling about to point at you, “Ah, presuming you plan to stay for a while, that is.”

Throwing your thumb up at him, you reply, “I’m not on shift until next week, but I was going stir-crazy at home so, I think I’m gonna stick around for a bit. I’ll see you soon, okay?”

The animatronic’s grin seems to stretch his plastic casing to its limit until you nearly start to worry that he’ll pull a gear loose if he keeps it up.

“Okay,” he confirms with a hearty wave of his arm, beaming from ear to rounded ear.

Returning the gesture, you begin to pivot away from him towards the escalators when he calls after you again, stopping you in your tracks.

“Oh, and Miss L/n, if I may…”

Shooting a curious glance over your shoulder, you catch him peering back at you with a tilt to his head and hooded optics, one eyebrow slanted a little higher than the other up his forehead. It’s a knowing look, almost smug, though you don’t immediately parse its meaning, not until Freddy bobs his chin towards the upper floor and rumbles, “He’s supposed to be down in Parts and Service having some routine maintenance done. I would check there first.”

That’s enough to give you pause, and you raise an incredulous brow at the bear. “Willingly?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d be tempted to say the look he sends you in return is borderline sly. But that’s impossible.

‘Sly’ and ‘Freddy’ are about as far apart as a shout is from a whisper.

Even so, the animatronic gives one optic a lazy wink and hums, “Voluntarily.”

You’re not an idiot, and neither, apparently, is Freddy.

You both know exactly who he’s talking about.

For all his simulated cluelessness and boy-next-door integrity, Freddy would attest that there are the odd occasions where he can surprise with how much he actually notices. But then, he’d have to actually be in recharge to miss the way you and Montgomery behave when you’re together, like twin moons in the same orbit, constantly circling each other, both just as hesitant to catch up, though one seems far more desperate for the bond to take than its counterpart.

As you send him a faux glower, softened by the lopsided smile pushing at your cheeks, Freddy chuckles warmly and makes a note to track you down again after the last stragglers arrive for the mid-morning show.

If you thought he was happy to see you, just you wait.

You have no idea what’s in store for you down in Parts and Service...

----------------------------------------------------------

There’s a well-established principle in the Plex, one held by both the staff and by the animatronic himself, that Montgomery Gator is not a bot who’s easy to trust. And he, in turn, trusts so rarely that he could count on one hand the number of people he’s willing to rely upon. Hell, he could count on one finger and that number would be the same.

If there was ever anybody he’d want poking around inside his mechanisms, it certainly wouldn’t be any of the engineers or mechanics. It wouldn’t be Flowers, or Devon or even the new hire, Chase, who at this very moment, is bent over Monty’s forearm with a flathead screwdriver clutched inside a thick, rubber glove, face balled up tight as he works to loosen a stubborn screw.

Monty’s expression, by contrast, is as blank as an untouched sheet of paper, and he gazes up at the blindingly bright overheads set into the ceiling of the protective cylinder, his optics dim and bleak behind his glasses.

He doesn’t like this. Doesn’t like that the new hire has been left alone with him inside a sealed tube. Doesn’t like that there’s a boiling-hot mug of coffee perched on the workbench nearby. Doesn’t like how Chase’s palms are sweaty against his plastic casing. 

The gator is keeping his jaws locked together so tightly that his systems have begun to ping at him, warning of the sustained pressure.

He should probably ease it…

What happened with Matthews isn’t going to happen again, he reminds himself starkly. He’s not the same gator as he was when Mick was the one doing repairs. And Chase is just some poor rookie that management have saddled with the task of running diagnostics on the Plex’s most volatile animatronic…

How quickly they forget, he nearly scoffs.

He reckons he ought to be grateful that his CPU is online, at the very least, even if he is starting to feel more ghost than animatronic as the rookie blithely works around him, oblivious to his clenching hands and gritted teeth.

Still, he can only think of one person he’d willingly allow close enough to perform a routine maintenance check, but sadly, said person is on the other side of the city whilst he remains stuck on the inside of a glorified, glass jar, strapped down tight to a gurney and anxious for Chase to hurry up and remove the panel on his plastic arm.

In an attempt to take his processor off the procedure, Monty turns it instead to the birthday party he’ll be hosting in just a couple of hours.

He’s been booked in for a lot of them lately, almost as many as Chica has this month alone….

Monty might be an arrogant bot by his own admission, but he’s not about to do the disservice of pretending that you didn’t have a hand in his much-improved public image.

Blinking his optics up at the wires and hoses dangling from the ceiling, he belatedly wonders if you’d be proud.

Unnoticed by the new hire, Monty’s shoulder struts begin to droop, though it isn’t the prospect of your pride that causes him to wilt. It’s the thought of you at all.

For the umpteenth time, he’s fallen into a trap of his own making. He’s allowed his processor, however briefly, to drift towards thoughts of you.

‘Bad idea,’ a surly voice grunts in his audials, suspiciously reminiscent of a grumpy mechanic he’s acquainted with.

Grumbling to himself, Monty turns his focus outwards once more, thumping his tail absently against the side of the gurney beneath him for no other reason than to keep the appendage busy.

Damn thing has a mind of its own whenever he gets to thinking about you.

“Uhhh.. Is that meant to be happening?”

The hoarse voice of the rookie pulls his swimming CPU to the surface, and he spares a quick glance over to his pre-assigned technician to find him leaning back cautiously, his eyes staring down at Monty’s tail.

With a grimace, the gator diverts power from the motors inside it, and it falls obediently still.

“Don’t worry about it,” he grunts, “Happens sometimes.”

Without missing a beat, Chase draws his brows together and mumbles, more to himself than to the gator, “I’d better take a look at the mechanisms. Reckon I can stop it from moving around so much.”

A sudden snap of leather nearly sends him reeling over backwards as Monty lurches upright on the gurney with a snarl, his wrists snagged by the straps that keep him from lunging too far. “I'd like to see you try,” he growls venomously, straining against his binds.

Almost at once, the engineer’s hands fly up in acquiescence. “Woah, woah! Okay! Sorry, Pal!” he laughs disjointedly, “Just trying to be helpful. If you say ‘no,’ it’s no. I hear you.”

Circuits screaming in alarm, Monty glares hard at the human beside him for a moment before his optics venture down to eyeball the screwdriver still clutched between Chase’s oil-slicked fingers.

Following his stare, the man gives a thoughtful hum, then slowly turns and places the screwdriver very deliberately down on the workbench beside his mug, a move the gator watches with rapt attention.

With his back to the gurney, Chase heaves a quiet sigh, reaching up to rub a hand over the nape of his neck, smoothing down the shaved bristles of hair that have begun a gradient from mousy-brown to grey. “Pushed some kind of boundary there, huh big fella’?” he murmurs, an apology wedged between his words.

Monty blinks, surprised he’d noticed. Little by little, the animatronic eases back down onto the hard, unforgiving surface below him, drawing his lips down over his teeth. “Yeah,” he huffs uncertainly, “Somethin’ like that…”

A curious frown twitches at the man's expression and he aims it into the dark, brown liquid sitting inside his coffee mug, eyes trailing after the steam that rises from it. “You can make decisions for yourself.... Huh.” Turning around, he leans his spine against the table and, to his credit, manages to look the gator in his optic, mouth pulled back in an apologetic wince. “ They told me how advanced your AI is, but…I guess I forgot.”

“Well don’t.” Monty’s voice drips sharp and cold, ringing through the tinny room like a warning. And it is just that. A warning. But it’s also only a warning. If this idiot had any idea that only a month ago, the gator might have done something far worse in response to a threat to what little autonomy he has left, he’d likely put in his two weeks then and there.

Suddenly, Monty pauses, taken aback by his own revelation.

He’d have done something worse…

He didn’t this time though, did he? In fact, there have been a lot of times over these past few weeks where his rage has been difficult to summon. Freddy stealing the spotlight in the shows, Roxy's constant taunts and jabs that all serve to remind him that she has yet to forgive him entirely for lashing out at Chica in his unconscious rage. Even Matthews hasn't been able to get under his casing as much as he usually would, though the gator has been going out of his way to avoid the man altogether, half afraid that he'll give away how perilously close he came to being discovered in your flat.

He's been reminding himself consistently that if he slips up again, he really does have something to lose. And so, he's been making damned sure to keep his snout out of trouble.

Softly, the bot lets out a resigned chuff and sinks his head back onto the gurney.

Your influence, no doubt.

“I-I’ll try to get better,” Chase is stammering over his words, only a little, but enough that the gator’s chest cavity twinges guiltily, “I promise, I only want to do good here.”

Montgomery, however, is too busy staring into space to pay much attention.

Absently, he lowers his optics until they’re pointed right at the place on the end of his nose where, not so long ago, he’d been lucky enough to feel the press of something warmer and more delicate than anything he’s experienced since the day he was brought online.

Before every show and party, Monty has taken to sprucing himself up using the wipes and cloths he borrowed from your cleaning closet down in the maintenance tunnels. For hours, he’s content to sit in his room and polish his casing until he’s gleaming, every tooth, every claw, every inch.

Every inch… save for one.

Rumbling out a resonant hum, the gator fights against the twitch of his lips and simply sighs, releasing a hot blast of air through the vents under his nostrils. He can almost hear your voice in his audials now.

“Cut Chase some slack, Monty,” you’d probably say, “He’s new. Give him a chance.”

Yeah, that sounds like you.

Hell, didn't you give a chance to the Monster of the Plex...?

Peeling his jaws apart to let out another sigh, the gator looks to Chase and catches the nervous indent where he’s gnawing on the inside of his cheek, the twist of his brows and the flash of his throat when he swallows audibly.

And then he recalls what Andy had said to him in his green room, just before he sat the gator down and introduced him to the new guy.

“She trusts you,” he’d uttered sternly, looking Monty square in the optics. Neither of them needed clarification on who ‘she’ might have been. “So I’m gonna trust you to behave yourself while you're in that cylinder with Chase.” Which had been such a shock to hear that he’d immediately run a test to check his audio input was in working order.

“Don’t let us down, Gator.”

Montgomery isn’t easy to trust.

But Andy Flowers… the man who has put more volts through Monty’s frame than any other employee at the Plex, had just handed him an olive branch.

What the Hell was Monty supposed to do other than nod his head dumbly and utter a feeble, ‘I won’t…’

With the memory fresh in his storage banks, he bites his pride on the neck and forces it down to the ground, flicking his optics back over to Chase.

“You’re doin’ fine,” he grunts, watching the human perk up at his words, “Just… stick to regular maintenance today. A’right?”

“Yeah? Yeah!” Chase’s eyes light up as he flashes a lopsided grin, showing off his gap-toothed smile that reminds Monty of those kids who get into scraps in their schoolyard.

“I’ll get right back to it. But, uh…” Hesitantly, the engineer gestures down at Monty’s arm with the end of his screwdriver, “I’m not getting into that hatch with this thing… Dunno how you jammed it so badly, but I’m gonna need a tool kit if I wanna take a look under the hood.”

Figures. It’s never an easy fix…

The pocket of space below the panel in Monty’s arm is usually reserved for vouchers and coupons that he’ll hand out to those who impress him in his golfing challenge. As for how it got dented enough that the panel was wedged immovably shut…

Well… The next time Roxy feels like poking fun at him for ‘daydreaming about his girlfriend’, he’ll have to settle for a verbal rebuttal. Slamming his forearm into her neck and pinning her to the wall wasn’t one of his better ideas. 

Not least because Freddy hadn’t shut up about it for a week…

“Beats me how it happened,” he grumbles evasively, flapping what little he can of his hand at the cylinder door, “G’on. Go ahead. Ain’t like I got any place to be.”

Soft, brown eyes widen gratefully as Chase backs out of the protective chamber, jabbing a thumb over his shoulder. “Thanks, Pal. Won’t be long, just sit tight, okay.”

“… I’ll do my best,” Monty retorts flatly, giving his wrists a gentle tug and rattling the straps indicatively. He doesn't bother reminding the man that he's about as far from a 'pal' as he could get.

Chase’s sheepish chuckle echoes around an empty Parts and Services as he dashes out through the red, double doors at the end of the room and disappears from view.

Squeaking on their hinges, the doors swing shut in his wake, and at last, Monty is left alone on a gurney with nobody but himself for company…

“Hmph. Better not take too long,” he gripes to the deserted room.

Left to stew inside his own head, it’s almost inevitable that after just a couple of minutes his thoughts would return to one subject in particular.

He wishes he’d remembered to ask Flowers how your recovery is coming along. But earlier, Andy had caught him off guard with the ‘trust’ comment, and every coherent question he’d meant to posit had promptly fled his processor.

Five weeks… How has it only been five weeks since he last saw you?

Five weeks, three days, eleven hours, twenty-five minutes, and thirty-two seconds…

Thirty-three seconds…

Thirty-

The gator bares his teeth with a snarl of vexation, wrenching his focus from the time ticking away on his HUD.

He’d been naïve in the beginning, convinced himself he’d make it through your absence without much trouble at all. He had, after all, managed to get along just fine before you stepped foot inside his green room.

He was fine. It was all fine.

.. Just fine…

But then you had to come along and spoil him, didn’t you. Yet the thing of it is, there isn’t any part of him that’s willing to resent you for it.

There’s a dopey grin tugging at the silicone of his lips, but by the time he even realises it’s there, his audials are picking up the sound of a mechanical rumble and the shrill, musical ‘ding!’ of an elevator door sliding open behind him.

Great. Someone else come to witness him in this undignified position.

Monty slumps, scowling hard at the ceiling through the purple tint of his sunglasses as a pair of shoes taps closer and closer to the protective cylinder.

Perhaps it’s only Chase, he muses. Stupid human must have gotten turned around in the maintenance tunnels and resorted to using one of the service elevators to find his way back down here.

“What’d’you get lost?” he huffs, hardly bothering to lift his head as a shadow passes by in the corner of his eye, “Took your damn time by the way.”

He’s met with silence, and the padding footsteps draw to a halt right at the door to the cylinder.

Then…

“Sorry, Big Guy. You know I’d have come sooner if I could.”

No... No way.

The gear-wheel in his neck spins frantically as Monty’s head shoots straight off the gurney. He’s almost certain that he’s hearing things, that there’s a feedback loop in his CPU playing an echo of that oh-so familiar voice in his audials.

He has to blink his shutters a few times to be sure, but when they open again, he knows there’s no mistaking his visual feed. Not even a perfect recording could adequately mirror the real thing.

Standing in the entrance to his temporary prison, haloed by the lights of Parts and Service, is a sight more heavenly than any seraphim or celestial body.

Several primary motors kick loudly into gear and the binds holding him down go taut with a ‘twang!’ as he hoists himself further up on the gurney, the corners of his jagged mouth inching higher and higher with every moment that passes him by. “Lady!?” he rasps.

You struggle not to let out an audible sigh of relief at finding him in one piece after all this time.

With a knowing smile, you fold your arms and lean a hip against the side of the entrance, one eyebrow playfully cocked. “You were expecting someone else?”

In that moment, he forgets everything he’d planned to say upon your return. He forgets that he’d meant to remain a cool, collected alligator who would greet you with a wink and a disarming smile, maybe even brandish a gift that would welcome you back without having to say the words he keeps locked safely behind his teeth.

He’s missed you. He’s missed you so much.

The tether that’s been keeping him inextricably bound to you across the vast distance of the city suddenly seems so much shorter, and without taking his sparkling optics off your face, Montgomery begins to pull at his restraints, those designed to keep a three-tonne animatronic tied down without a fuss.

He pays them no mind. They’re nothing. Not obstacles. Not even deterrents. Not when the very person he’s been waiting for for so long is standing right in front of him, just out of reach, and the only thing ricocheting around inside his processor is that he has to get to you. Now.

He’s grinning too widely, and his motors are purring too loudly for him to hear you as your face falls and you push yourself away from the open cylinder door, blurting out, “Wait, wait! Monty just a second, let me get the straps-!”

The reinforced leather squeaks for just a moment against the plastic of his wrists, then with a loud ‘Snap!’ the pieces fly apart, and Monty is suddenly lunging up from the gurney, swinging his legs down and landing on the floor with such a force that the glass windows surrounding him quiver in their frames.

He doesn’t even register that you’ve taken an instinctive step backwards as he barrels towards you like a runaway train. There’s no time for you to get far, of course.

“Lady!” he bellows again through a laugh, his speakers straining at the volume. And in the next instant, the gator is upon you.

You half expect to be hauled off your feet once more, as you had been twenty minutes ago with Freddy.

Instead, you let out a yelp as the gator throws one arm around your back and curls the other up to cup a hand over the back of your head, wrenching you into his rigid torso and trapping you in the space between his arms and his chest.

The air is knocked soundly from your lungs whilst he folds himself over you, a quaking, thundering cage of metal and plastic that clings possessively to its favourite inmate.

“You came back!” he declares unsteadily as he curves his head down to pin his lower jaw against your spine, optics squeezed shut, “You came back.”

Twisting your face sideways to get in a gulp of air, you let out a muffled laugh and pat the seam of his hatch. “Course I came back. I told you, six weeks.”

“S’only been five,” he recounts, not that he’s complaining. Not in the slightest.

“Yeah, well… They let me out early for good behaviour.”

There’s that warmth in your tone, indicative of – fondness – friendship – familiarity – that he’s been craving to hear again, not just from the recordings he’s saved of your voice.

‘Don’t stop.’ He has to choke on the words for fear of speaking them aloud, ‘Keep talking.’

After a few seconds, he notices the brush of your comparatively tiny arms sliding around his broad chest, not quite long enough to meet at the centre of his back, yet more than adequate to let him know that this moment isn’t solely for him.

“So, didn’t miss me too badly then?” you ask from somewhere within the safety of his embrace.

‘No,’ his stubborn pride grumbles, whereas everything else in him seems to howl out a resounding, ‘like you wouldn’t believe.’

“Eh,” he settles on instead, a safe enough middle-ground. At least it makes you laugh. Besides, he’s pretty sure you can read between the lines. After all, he’s still draped around you like a big, green cloak. That much is a little harder to disregard.

It’s with immense reluctance that he eventually loosens the pistons in his brutish arms and allows you to lean back so he can get a good look at you. 

He should probably say something… Something witty, something smart that’ll smooth over the blunder of being caught off guard.

Monty’s jaws part slightly as he gazes down at you, his optics raking over your face and committing this latest instance of you firmly in his memory banks.

“… Hey,” he murmurs lamely.

A flash of teeth, and you’re beaming. At him. And he realises right then and there that every second he’s spent waiting to see you again was entirely worth it.

“Hi,” you retort.

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but the abrupt thrum of a bellow kicks out of his speakers too quickly for him to mute the feedback.

In turn, you jump under his arms, quirking a brow at the gator’s chest.

It’s all he can do to turn the sound into a gruff cough, ducking under the guise of redundantly clearing his throat as if that alone might cover the mortifying noise he’d just emitted.

It’s only then that his gaze roves southward and his brows scrunch together above his glasses, carelessly showcasing concern as openly as that damnable bear. But he resolves to reprimand himself for that later.

Right now…

“Where’s your crutch?” he demands, darting his optics about to try and find the familiar, grey stick of metal.

“Gave it back to the hospital,” you explain with a shrug, “Physio said I don’t need it anymore, so long as I take it easy.”

Of its own apparent accord, one of Monty’s protocols raises its sleepy head. You’re meant to be ‘taking it easy’ and yet you’re down here in Parts looking for him… The gator’s teeth clench unhappily.

“C’mon,” he promptly decides, placing one of his colossal paws on the small of your back and giving you a gentle nudge, guiding you around the side of the cylinder.

Letting out a bewildered hum, you have little choice except to allow yourself to be steered towards the service elevators at the back of the room. “Um, Monty?” you begin, “Aren’t you supposed to be having maintenance?”

“Forget the maintenance,” he scoffs, shooting you an uncharacteristically warm look, “I just got you back. You’n me have a lot to catch up on. And you’re gonna sit yourself down on my sofa, in my green room, and we’re just gonna talk.” As it ought to be, somewhere safe and quiet, a place he can keep an optic on you. 

“Talk?” you ask dubiously.

“Talk.” Catching the rich hum building in his chest cavity, the gator drags his optics away from you and uses his other arm to scratch at the underside of his neck. “If, uh… F’that’s cool with you, I mean…”

“Honestly?” you sigh.

Monty’s tail stiffens behind him, heavy with apprehension.

His frame nearly collapses out from underneath his weight when your expression brightens and you flash him an easy smile. “That sounds ideal.” Later, you'll broach the topic about going to see your other friends. You've waited a long time to see Music Man, Sunnydrop and Moon after all. But Monty? You owe him this much, at least.

At the base of his frame, he feels the back-and-forth movement of his tail sway in its hinges when the gears unlock, only this time, he doesn’t plan to do a damn thing to stop it. Finally, finally his existence at the Plex is getting back to the way it should be. He can show you how far he’s come, how good he’s been, how many children have drawn pictures of him since you left. His green room isn’t even a mess today, save for a few old scratches on the walls that have since been covered up with crayon colourings of his face. You’ll be pleased.

You’ll be proud.

And nothing, no endos, no unruly customers, no… no ornery alligators… will ever cause you any trouble again. That, he’ll make certain of. A private promise, one he’ll reaffirm with actions, not words. Because you're his friend and he's going to be the best one you could ever possibly need. He’s never been very good at words anyway.

The dull, muted fall of shoes on the concrete floor has Monty snapping his head around over a shoulder strut to aim a heated glare towards the doors at the rear of Parts and Services.

“Great timing,” he grouses, curling his lips, displeased.

The entrance is shoved open without much preamble, and someone muscles their way through, hauling a metal toolbox along under one arm.

Turning to follow Monty’s gaze, you catch a glimpse of the newcomer.

And just like that, the air in your lungs goes stale and dies, and all the moisture in your mouth evaporates like rain off a sun-scorched pavement.

“Alright, Montgomery. Sorry about the wait,” Chase calls, “Let’s get you -…”

Between his first spoken word and the last, the man lifts his eyes from the toolbox to find you and the gator standing side by side near the elevators, though the animatronic is disregarded entirely when he locks you in his sights and jerks to an abrupt and violent stop.

The toolbox slips from his grasp, tumbling to the floor where it lands with a deafening cacophony of noise, spilling hammers, spanners, and various screws across the room like wave of metal crashing against a concrete shore.

Later, you’ll wonder if this is what it feels like to die, with a jolt of fear so vicious that it punches the strength right out of your limbs and steals the sound from the world around you as your head swells with a faint ringing, growing louder and louder with every thump of your jack-hammer heart.

At your side, you barely register Monty’s gruff and muffled voice barking something into your ear, but you can’t bear to look at him, can’t bring yourself to tear your gaze off the nightmare unfolding right in front of you in the form of a man with mild, brown eyes and an expression of horror that mirrors your own.

Numb lips peel apart until there’s just enough space to utter a single, damning word.

“You?”

And just a microsecond later comes his echo, spoken with a hushed reverence that’s still somehow so terribly, awfully potent that it shakes the foundations of your safe little life and brings it all crumbling down on your head.

“You…”

Notes:

Freddy: (picks you up and spins you around, showing you off to the world)
Monty: (Smothers you with a hug to hide you away from anything that could hurt you)
Me, desperately awake at 3am: How can hugs be used to portray someone's character?