#protectiveness | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

imagine-darksiders · 2 months

Text

On the Ropes

Chapter 25 - Uninvited Guests

Montgomery Gator X F!Reader

WARNING:

-Noncon touching, inappropriate behaviour, abuse of authority, implied s/a, self-doubt, mild threat

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.

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.’

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.”

#fnaf #five nights at freddys #fnaf sb #security breach #Montgomery Gator #On the ropes #Everyone is having a not okay time #Monty x reader #f!reader #fluff #angst #protectiveness #tw noncon

100 notes · View notes

imagine-darksiders · 9 months

Text

On the Ropes - chapter 23.

CYNOSURE.

Summary: You're in trouble. More trouble than you seem to realise...

Montgomery Gator X F!Reader

Slight Freddy X F!Reader

Tags: Jealousy, Protectiveness, Hurt/comfort, Angst, Violence, Anger, Past abuse, Friends to lovers, dialogue.

Please note, I haven't seen anything to do with the Ruin DLC. I'm writing this with just the base game in mind.

---------

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..."

#Fnaf #fnaf security breach #security breach #fnafsb #On the Ropes #Montgomery Gator #reader #Monty x reader #Freddy Fazbear #Glamrock Freddy #Fluff and angst #hurt/comfort #protectiveness #anger #violence #Five nights at Freddys #Feedback always always greatly appreciated

203 notes · View notes