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superstar-nan · 3 months

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Fight Tooth and Nail

Day 5

Summary: You contemplate your strange relationship with Springtrap and talk with Michael about what to do next.

Words: 2,982

Fun stuff: Toxic relationships, insomnia, vague mention of child murder, and angst.

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You wanted to leave Fazbear’s Fright for good. You had never wanted to run from that place more, not even your first night there. You wanted to pack up and leave—no goodbye, no mystery solved—all for your own sanity. Or maybe you just didn’t want to face Michael after that. Perhaps if you were more selfish, you would have left. At the very least you would have gone to Michael’s home and straight to bed.

But you didn’t leave. Because you loved your best friend and you didn’t want to make Michael take the bus.

Instead, you laid down in the backseat of your car; your face flushed, your brow knit, and your heart racing too fast to fall asleep.

You almost kissed Springtrap.

You almost kissed a murderer.

You almost kissed a nasty decaying rabbit robot possessed by a serial child killer who was almost definitely responsible for your best friend’s disappearance.

How could you have allowed that to happen?

Silver eyes lidded with deep, sweet obsession.

You buried your head in your arms, curled up on your side in the back seat. Your cheeks felt warm against your skin.

The very thought of kissing him was ridiculous. Even if he didn’t hold a murderer’s blackened soul, you didn’t even know if it was physically possible. He had tattered felt and rotten teeth for lips and metal rods where his tongue should be. At the very best, it would be like kissing an old stuffed animal. An old stuffed animal that tastes like sewage.

But that didn’t matter. You didn’t want him because he was lovely, you wanted him because he was terrible. Because he was as vile and sick inside as he was out. You didn’t know why you were drawn to him because of that—you had thought it was because he played an easy villain in your black and white story, but if that was true how could you want him in that way? If he was only an object for your hatred, why did you melt at his sweet, obsessive gaze?

You couldn’t get the image of his silver eyes, laced with infatuation, out of your mind.

It was because he wanted you. He craved you. He needed you more than he needed to kill you, and that desire softened you. God, were you really that weak? Was his obsession all it took to dissolve your will?

No. It wasn’t.

You weren’t in love with him. You knew from how your heart went cold at the thought of him anything other than miserable. You wanted him—you wanted him tortured and loving and miserable and obsessed—but you didn’t love him. You were drawn to him like a moth to a flame, but you wouldn’t burn in the fire without him. Your hatred outweighed your desire.

How close was love and hate, anyway?

Your breath felt heavy as you buried your face deeper into your arms. You wished you could stop thinking. You wanted to sleep, but sleep was avoiding you, and it was his fault. And because it was his fault, that only made you angrier, which chased sleep away even more—trapping you in this terrible, poisonous spiral. Maybe you could knock yourself out but smashing your head against the window. Maybe that would return your sanity and you’d stop lusting after rotten killer robots.

You couldn’t sleep. Minutes ticked by like hours and hours ticked by like an eternity. You laid curled in the backseat, unable to keep your mind away from the object of your hatred and desire, as the sun slowly stole any chance you had left of sleeping. It was only when light drifted into your car that dread started to pit into your stomach.

You would have to face Michael after petting his psycho dad on his lap.

The more you thought of it, the more you wondered how much Michael really saw. The attraction was dark and the cameras were shit—he probably didn’t see much of what happened. Though, that left you with another problem, if he didn’t see what happened, what did he think happened? You were cornered by springtrap on camera, you were both on the floor for a while, and then he left you to run off unharmed—no new injury and no new scar. You didn’t kiss him, but did Michael believe that? Why else would you be allowed to live?

Why were you allowed to live? Another horrible problem to add to your piling list. The thought of Springtrap planning something awful enough to let you go without even a scratch was your limit. You didn’t have the bandwidth to even consider why he let you go, and so you wouldn’t. You knew you would regret that later, but you couldn’t force yourself even if you wanted to know what he had in store for you.

A shadow fell through the car window. You were still lying in the back seat, curled up with your face in your arms. Michael was back. You did not want to talk to him.

The car’s backseat door was opened softly, as if purposefully quiet. You didn’t move even then.

There was a moment of tense silence. You wondered if he thought you were asleep. You hope he did.

A cold, spongy hand pet the top of your head tenderly. You were almost startled by the kind love in the gesture. Then, rough and chaffed lips kissed your crown. Your heart softened, and your troubles faded from view.

You tilted your head up, unburying your head from your arms. Michael’s void eyes widened. He must’ve thought you were asleep. He was kneeling in front of the car to match your eye level, the sunrise behind his dark hair in a corona of warmth. His mask was pulled down over his chin, but his cap and jacket were hiding him protectively. His mouth opened and closed, a silent stutter as he tried to articulate a way to explain himself.

You couldn’t handle any harsh words or frustrated excuses, so you took his hand and kissed his palm. The strange texture of his rotten skin felt unnatural against your lips, but it didn’t unnerve you. In fact, it was oddly comforting; something becoming familiar to you. You had such trouble trying to fall asleep before, but for some reason just being around Michael made you sleepy.

Michael exhaled. He sounded tired. He sounded broken. A spark of curiosity flitted in your chest, but it was snuffed out by your own tiredness and brokenness. He used the hand you held to gently caress your face. You leaned into his hand, his thumb pressing softly against your cheek. When he pulled away, he looked genuinely taxed by it.

Michael closed the door, and you buried your face into your arms. You felt the front door open, the car jostling, and then the car humming to life. You didn’t rouse—not to put on your seatbelt, not to sit up, not to look outside—you stayed curled in the backseat with your eyes shielded from the light. Without seeing the road, you were more aware of how your body swayed to the car slowing, speeding, and turning. It was a short trip to Michael’s home, but it was made all the longer in your shame.

The car slowed to a stall, then to a stop with the jostling of keys. There was a beat of silence before the car door opened and shut. The air in the car was still. You vaguely heard the front door of Michael’s home open and close. In the sunlight, the car started to warm.

You pulled yourself up. You didn’t want to, but you knew if you stayed away from Michael for long, your mind would drift back to his vile father.

You were silent and cautious as you opened the front door. You heard the melodramatic static of Michael’s TV deeper in his home. You slipped past the door, cushioning its close behind you, and stalked into the living room. Colored light from the TV painted the edges of Michael’s silhouette, changing with each scene. You sat at the edge of the couch, holding a pillow against your chest and pulling your feet up on the cushions.

You watched the TV; whatever was playing was meaningless, which meant it was perfect. Your eyelids felt heavy. You sighed deeper into the couch.

“...I’m going to kill my dad.”

That woke you up. You whipped your head to Michael. He was still staring at the TV like it was interesting.

“And I’m going to burn down Fazbear’s Fright,” He added.

You inhaled, quiet and purposefully subdued. What happened to Michael in those last hours you were in the car? He had always been so hesitant to tell you his intentions, and everytime you brought up killing his dad, he would change the subject. What changed? What was it that he ‘needed to make sure of’, and why did it resolve him to killing Springtrap?

Whether the corpse would reveal his heart to you didn’t change your response, “Great.” You said, “I’ll help.”

Michael’s eyes, cold and void, dragged themselves from the TV to you. Just when you thought you were getting better at reading him, Michael was inscrutable. “...Is that what you really want?”

You hugged the pillow tighter to your body. Michael might as well have outright said he thought you were in love with Springtrap, and that filled you with poison, “More than anything.”

Michael’s cold expression didn’t change as those pitless eyes bore into you. You thought your hatred would help ease Michael’s suspicions. It didn’t. Maybe he found your passionate hatred just as unsettling as your love. You knew you did. “...Even more than finding your friend?”

Your heart broke, and Michael’s ice melted in an instant. You hugged the pillow in your arms tighter and turned toward the TV screen simply because it meant not looking at Michael. Hot, painful tears stung at your eyes and you tried to blink them away. “Of course, not.” Your voice was forceful and quiet.

Michael extended a hand, rotten fingers hovering over your shoulder for a fraction of a second, before he withdrew from you. It hurt your heart more that he decided not to comfort you. Michael let out a shaky exhale. The TV played dramatic monotony that wasn’t enough to fill the stale air, “You shouldn’t come.”

“I’m going,” You said almost instantly.

“I can’t protect you while I’m-”

“What?” You turned to him sharply, “Dodging Springtrap, trying to catch the place on fire? I doubt you’d even get to light a spark.”

Michael exhaled through his abraded nose, a frustrated and tense sound.

“Do you want to douse the place in gasoline?” You said, “Let me help.”

Michael rubbed his hand over his mouth and jaw, a tightness in his movement. After a breath of thought, he said, “You can man the cameras.”

“What?” You almost laughed at that, “I don’t even know how to work them.”

“It’s intuitive,” He said. “And when you see Spring Bonnie, play the audio in the room away from me.”

“I can barely pick him out on the cameras!” You shook your head, “You said he was getting more aggressive and erratic, how am I supposed to keep him from you?”

“You can-” Michael paused, biting his torn, purple lip. “You can do it.”

“No, nuh-uh, you paused,” You crossed your arms. “You know I can’t do it. Let me pour the gas.”

“No,” Michael said your name, but you interrupted him.

“I’ve already circled the attraction enough to have it memorized.”

He said your name again, but you went on anyway.

“All while avoiding Springtrap, and even hurting him a few times.”

“Please-!”

“Even if he did catch me, I’d be a better distraction than-”

“NO!”

Instinctively, you pulled away from Michael. That was louder than you had ever heard him.

“...No...” He kept his eyes downcast and you knew he hadn’t meant to yell. He pursed his shredded lips together, slowly tapping on the couch—a habit betraying his anxiety—and you saw his teeth grind together from beyond his cheeks. “Just... stay in the office.”

You swallowed, shifting the pillow around in your arms. The TV painted the two of you in muted colors, and you couldn’t let it play in the background anymore. You tentatively took the remote and turned off the TV. “...Why?” You made your voice quiet.

Without the dull light of the TV, your only light source were the golden flecks of sunlight from behind closed blinds. Void eyes were filled with pain as they briefly met yours. He cast them aside just as quickly. Rotten fingers dug into the worn fabric of the couch. His dark hair curtained his face, keeping you from seeing his expression.

You bit the inside of your cheek. You worried if you said anything it would only convince him to bottle up more.

Michael turned slightly toward you, but kept his eyes glued to the floor. “I was there, you know... Years ago, at Freddy’s...”

You held your breath.

“...I-... I didn’t see him do it. I didn’t see him kill them. But I saw them before. I didn’t know he was-” Michael swallowed. “He would wait until one was alone. He talked to them as Spring Bonnie. He would beckon them—like this,” Michael held out his hand as if he was offering it to you, before he clasped it in a fist, repulsed by the gesture. “They always took his hand. Even then, I felt like something was off. I wasn’t a child. I could’ve-”

You took his hand immediately, even as it was closed, “You couldn’t have known.”

Michael’s hand shook under your own, a wavering exhale leaving his tattered lips, “...No. But I know now.” He finally brought his midnight eyes to you, sullen with more than just rot and death. He clasped your hand in his, and the forcefulness of it surprised you. “I can’t lose you to him. I can’t lose you like how I lost them to him. Or like how I lost Charlie, or Elizabeth-” Michael stopped abruptly at the name of his sister. He took a deep breath through stalled lips. “I can’t lose you to him, too. If I could save just one...”

Your brow furrowed with both pity and conflict, “Michael... You can’t put that on yourself. You can’t put that on me. You’re- You’re not responsible for-”

“I know,” Michael’s voice was soft, but it held so much weight. He chewed his bottom tattered lip, “I know... But, please... I need you-” His words caught in his throat and he inhaled sharply. “... I need you to be safe. Please.”

You thought you would break under the pressure of his stare. How could you refuse him? How could you ever tell him you were willing to burn if that meant Springtrap burned too? When he looked at you with so much desperation, so much agony—the agony of a decades-long burden you didn’t understand—how could you say anything other than, “Okay... I-... I’ll try.”

Michael said your name in a broken exhale, not satisfied with your superficial reassurance.

“I’ll stay in the office,” You said. “I will. Unless I see a clue or-or anything that points to my friend still being at the attraction.” You swallowed, “I can’t let them burn with the place. I won’t.”

Michael lowered his eyes and nodded, “I’ll look for them.”

Tears felt like they would burn your eyes again, so you squeezed Michael’s hand and gave him your best attempt at a smile, “While you’re dumping gasoline over the cheap decorations?”

Michael breathed out a half-laugh half-sigh, “Yes. I don’t think it will take much. The place is already a fire hazard.”

“I’ll be glad to see the place burn...” You said, and your heart thrummed at the thought of the place burning down. Of him burning down. You wanted to watch it happen. Maybe it was a good thing you would be in the security room, then you could watch it happen. Though, you would have preferred setting the spark yourself, seeing his rage and pain with your own eyes, him knowing you were the one to-

Michael squeezed your hand and you were brought back to reality. It was better you weren’t the one to light the spark.

“Can you teach me how to use the cameras?” You said, “And tell me where Springtrap likes to hide?”

“Yeah...” Michael looked as lost as you were, searching your face as if you were the one that was inscrutable. “Yeah, I can draw you a picture actually.”

You thought back to his doodling in his security booklet and hummed, “Convenient.”

Michael scoffed, “I guess. It will be “convenient” if it saves my life.”

You laughed, before you paused, “Wait, you can die?”

Void eyes deadpanned, before an exasperated sigh left tattered lips, as if you asked something unreasonable—as if it was absurd to even ask! Michael stood up, shifting the weight on the couch, “I’m going to go draw those pictures now.”

“Don’t act like that’s not a valid question!” You threw a pillow at him while he left, which he caught and put back on the couch, “How would I know?”

“Get some sleep,” He said. “You look tired.”

“You look worse,” You said, but he was right. You were exhausted. Michael sat at his kitchen table and you thought about going to his bed to sleep, but hearing the sound of his pen scratching paper was soothing. You worried your mind would drift back to Springtrap without the white noise of Michael’s movement, and if you thought about Springtrap you wouldn’t get any sleep. So, you curled up on the couch and focused on the pen scratching on paper, and almost instantly you drifted into darkness...

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