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rubypasha1 · 1 month ago

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On the Ropes - ch. 27

Reunions.

Montgomery Gator x Reader

Freddy Fazbear x Reader?

This one has been a long time coming. Half the problem with updating a fic is remembering what the hell you wrote in the last chapters lol. Anyway, please let me know what you think. When I don't write for a while, I get anxious that my skills have deteriorated. :')

You can read the whole fic here on AO3

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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.

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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...

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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…”

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