Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

It can’t-

No, no, no, no, it can’t be real-!

Please, you almost choke. The words do not make it past your lips. Do not let this be real.

Anything, anything else, you wish it could be anything else. 

It was sheer luck that you had even found out. A mere accident, really. Something so small and insignificant.

It should have been your day off. You were going to relax, use one of those fizzy bombs you had bought yourself ages ago, and treat yourself to something from your favorite Vietnamese restaurant. 

It was such a stupid thing to think of. You’d left a keychain at work. Just a keychain. It was just a keychain.

You even knew where it was. In the daycare, most likely. The Attendants probably had it. The Attendants had made it, after all, and you had just forgotten to bring it home. 

Maybe you just wanted to grab it. Just so they didn’t feel bad. Or maybe that itching, itching, itching at the back of your mind was telling you that something was terribly wrong, and maybe, just maybe, it was right.

Who are you kidding.

It was.

You’re not sure you’ve ever driven so fast before. It’s a wonder the cops haven’t tried to pull you over. But you’re sure they’re far more occupied anyways.

The sunset was always such a beautiful orange here. Often streaked with pinks and purples and blues like a watercolor painting.

You loved the sky. In a way, it was almost poetic how much you loved it. Looking up into the blue, sometimes you felt like the gaze of something more celestial must fall upon you. Perhaps it is the sun and moon themselves that meet your gaze.

Being in some god’s snowglobe - or maybe it’s a fishbowl, depending on how you look at it - had always been so beautiful. 

Have you made something mad? Did you do something wrong? Did they?

Surely something must have gone wrong, some- something bigger than all of you must have gotten angry, angry like the reds and oranges that fill the sky the closer and closer you get to your destination.

Your heart is pounding.

Your heart is pounding.

Your heart is pounding. 

The sunset is red

Red, red, red, red, red.

Red is a pretty color. It is the color of your neighbor’s roses. It is the color of candy wrappers during Valentine’s. It is the color of the blood that fills your veins.

It is the color of fire.

Red has never been an uglier color. Ugly, ugly only in the way that you are stricken with such a visceral terror that you’re more than sure you’re hyperventilating. Are you crying?

It can’t be real. None of this can be real. Please, please no.

Animal sounds choke from your mouth, agape in shock as you pull into the parking lot. It doesn’t even register to you that there isn’t anyone here. Not where you’ve parked, at least. 

The employee parking lot is on the side of the building that isn’t so terribly affected by the fire. Something about that is terrifying, because it is your goal that is in flames. The front of the building is likely surrounded by firefighters, police, whoever they may need.

You don’t even hear your feet hitting the pavement as you jump out of your car. Everything seems so surreal. It feels wrong. The heat is unbearable.

Yet still, you race towards the back entrance. Smoke fills the building, stinging your eyes.

You can’t leave them here, you can’t, you can’t.

Maybe you’re an idiot. Maybe an idiot in love. But surely, surely not. You can’t think about that right now. But you can’t leave them to die here, alone. 

You cannot be cruel enough to abandon your best friends.

You just.. You just need to find them now. Surely it will be easy, right? Their silhouette is striking enough and the further you go into the enormous mall, the harder it is to make out anything other than vague shapes.

How did this even happen? You can’t imagine it was an electrical fire. Surely, surely FazCo was smarter than that. With the sheer amount of electronics in this building, wouldn’t there be some sort of safety preventing that? 

But FazCo is also unbearably cheap. You’d seen it yourself. Despite the incredible feats of technology they’ve made, incredibly detailed animatronics with AIs that make people question if they’re really just machines, a robot who can see through walls, and even two AIs in one body, FazCO is undoubtedly lazy. The Daycare Attendants with nothing to cover the sensitive wires exposed on the back of their head is a good example of that.

You knew very well how cheap they could be. You were a mechanic after all, you worked so close with all of that.

You can barely see. The smoke burns your lungs terribly the further into the mall you run. For the thousandth time you curse how impossibly large the Pizzaplex is.

The Daycare is closer to the main entrance. Truthfully it seems impossible to make it there, your legs burn as you sprint through the atrium. 

Would Moon be out at this time? Is there any chance he might be somewhere safer up in the rafters?

“Moon!” You howl it like some sort of dog. Your voice doesn’t sound like it’s really coming from you. “Moon, Moon, please are you there?!”

There is nothing you can hear over the roar of flames. Nothing you can see from the bright burn of the fire and the suffocating black of smoke. 

“Sunny! Sun, I’m going to get you out! Moon, Moon please tell me you’re somewhere!” It will be better if Moon is out. He could get them out of the Daycare, after all. He could get Sun out and save them both from being trapped in 

And yet there is no answer to your screaming. Thus, you push further.

Further, further, further yet.

You could die in here. You could die in here and leave Sun and Moon to die too. But they’ll die if you don’t try, won’t they?

You can’t imagine they could survive this fire. Not if Sun is out and they are stuck in the Daycare.

You don’t want them to be stuck with such a fate. Even if that means you may not get to return to your car tonight.

You’re almost hysterical. Screaming, screaming, screaming their names. You’re shocked no one else has come to you just because of your screams. 

“Sunny, Moonie, please, please, please-” You’re babbling.

It is then you see what is almost an angelic thing to see. It must be them, it must be. They’re not too far from you, close enough you can see how they stumble away from the flames. You can see their tall, tall, tall silhouette, lanky and slim in a way that separated them from the Glamrock animatronics. 

Rays sprout from a rounded head. No matter how bad your vision is in the flames, you can easily tell it’s them

“Sunny! Sunny come here! We have to get out!” You shout at them, and you see how they swivel to look in your direction. A glint of red from their eyes lets you know they’ve seen you as you start to approach them with an arm out.

You get close enough to grab their hand. You squeeze it tight, and start tugging them towards the back exit. 

“C’mon, c’mon, we can’t stay here, okay? I know-” You cough. “-I know you’re scared, okay? But we have to get out!”

You don’t hear anything, but the hand you clasp returns your hold. You feel sharp claws. You… Sun does not have claws, it is something you are very very aware of. His fingers are slim and rounded, perfect for handling children. Moon is the one with claws, sharp like knives, though you really don’t understand why he has the,. Once more you look up to see the shine of red eyes.

Red eyes, and a silhouette with rays like the sun.

Red, like Moon’s. Red is such a pretty color. Red, red, red.

Oh god, they must have Eclipsed, the poor things. They must be terrified.

You waste no more time taking them and pulling them along with you, sprinting as fast as your human legs could take you. You know Sun and Moon could be so much faster than you, but you wouldn’t be surprised if they are disoriented or damaged to the point they wouldn’t be much help.

You just have to get you both out. That’s what is most important right now. 

It’s almost like a miracle when you both slam through the door and into the night. You feel the animatronic behind you falter as the sky opens up above you. It is dark by now, but the stars are cloaked behind the smoke billowing into the sky, and your thoughts are drained out by the sounds of sirens screaming their dreadful song.

You’re almost frantic as you open the back door of your car, ushering the animatronic in. It’s so dark. You can’t see how they must be injured. You’re admittedly terrified of seeing it.

Once they’re in, you shut the door and rush over to the driver’s seat. You practically throw yourself in, turning on your car and pulling out of the parking lot as fast as you reasonably can. The stressful part is over. 

That’s a lie, and you know it is. 

You refuse to look back at the animatronic in your back seat.

You’re so, so scared of seeing them in such terrible condition due to the fire. You can’t stomach it right now, not while you’re driving. The poor things… stuck with that dreaded perpetual smile while they suffer. They must be in so much pain.

Enough pain that they’re not making a sound, too. You’ve never heard them this quiet. Sun is always quite the chatterbox, especially with you. By the end of his chatter you always know just about every event from his day. If he wasn’t talking, he was humming like a little canary.

It was always very sweet.

Moon is pretty quiet, but rarely silent with you. You’d hear him fiddling with the bells on his person, making pretty little tinkling noises that let you know he was there. Or he’d hum a lovely tune to put the children to sleep, or even to try to get you to sleep. Most times, he’d quietly chatter with you, though he was typically much more interested in hearing about your day.

You remember when you first met them. Sun was a sassy thing, it certainly took him a bit to warm up to you. Moon wouldn’t even give you the time of day. But you refused to let them continue to be neglected by the other mechanics due to their attitudes. 

It took weeks of consistently trying to befriend them before Moon decided he liked you enough to engage with you, and thus, Sun decided you weren’t all that bad and started being nice to you.

By now, the three of you were the best of friends. Or… maybe a little more than that. You’re not sure. Your relationship was interesting. Not romantic, you’re pretty sure, but certainly more than friends.

Friends don’t cuddle that way. Friends don’t look at each other like that.

Or maybe they do, you’re not all that sure. You’ve never had friends that close. You could very well just not know what the average friendship is like.

Sun and Moon meant the world to you, whatever you all were to each other.

Well, you knew what they were to each other. So you were probably just their friend. They had each other, after all. 

You wonder if they’re looking out the window behind you. They’ve never seen outside of the Plex before.

You wonder if they look up at the sky with the same fascination you do. Do they feel special in this fishbowl?

You hope so. 

You want them to feel special.

It’s tempting to break the silence. To tell them they’ll be alright. To try to comfort the undoubtedly scared animatronic that sits behind you. You imagine that once they stop eclipsing, Sun will be fidgeting nonstop. You’ll probably have to keep him from pulling his rays or chipping the paint off of his fingers. You’ll need to make sure Moon doesn’t shut down.

The road before you seems to stretch on infinitely. It’s strangely calm now. It’s hard to believe that not so far away, your workplace is burning down. 

Fuck, it’s your workplace. 

…You can think about that later. Sun and Moon are your priorities at the moment. You don’t want to worry them. You’re sure you can figure out what to do about money later…

Though… you should also have a good amount in savings. You were admittedly terrified of FazCo finding your friendship with the Daycare Attendants inappropriate and firing you. It was much more paranoid than it was realistic, especially considering your presence seemed to help out with certain problems they were having with the Attendants. 

You always felt like you were socializing them like cats, in a weird way. But you couldn’t be all that mad, you enjoyed spending time with them. 

God, they’d be devastated being taken away from their jobs, wouldn’t they? The two of them adore working with children. Poor Sunny would be going out of his mind without anything to do. You’d have to figure out what to do to keep them from going crazy. You… really hoped you would be able to do that.

You want to make sure your friends are okay.

But they’re safe now, and really that’s what matters right now. 

You can figure out keeping them from boredom after you keep them out of harm’s way. Yes, they’re out of immediate danger, but you’re not sure what kind of damage they suffered in the fire itself or what you’d even be able to fix.

No matter what, you’ll figure it out. They’re everything to you. You won’t let them suffer. 

You turn into your neighborhood. You’re glad you were fortunate enough to have a place to yourself that would hopefully be able to house a robot… You did have a guest bedroom, so it should be fine, you think. You’ll figure out charging them and let them keep the guest room as their own. Plus, they can always stay in your room with you if they get lonely. Your bed should be big enough… okay, maybe not, but you can figure something out. Most beds weren’t made with a 7-foot tall robot in mind. 

Your driveway come into view, and you turn into it, parking the car with a heavy sigh.

“Come on, buddy, let’s get inside…” You say, hopping out to go open the door for your robotic companion. It’s dark out, you can’t get a good look at them. You take their hand, though, and help guide them to your door.

Sun and Moon - or, well, you should probably call them Eclipse at the moment - stand still and quiet behind you as you unlock your door and usher them in. They have to bend down to get inside. 

You have your back to them as you close the door and turn on the lights, and you quickly turn to-

…

That’s not Eclipse.

Chapter Text

Tall, tall, tall.

You thought Sun and Moon were tall, but the thing in your house was nothing short of a behemoth.

You’re quite sure that this animatronic would stand over a head taller than Sun and Moon. 

You stand still in its shadow, your heart gone cold.

That’s not Sun or Moon. The thing before you is completely unfamiliar. Aside from looking uncannily like Sun in a way, that is.

It doesn’t say anything. You don’t either.

You just… stare.

It’s built like the Attendants. Tall, slim, but you’d hazard to say that this one looks almost sickly. Exactly how a robot looks sick, you’re not sure, but you can imagine that if it were a human it would be hardly anything but skin and bones. 

It is dressed plainly. Much too human. A black turtleneck sweater and khaki pants, and on top of that a white lab coat with the sleeves pushed up to the elbows. As for shoes, it wears a pair of what appear to be black leather loafers. Its clothes are singed in areas and grey with ash but overall very intact.

It’s bizarre for something from FazCo. Their animatronics were so bright and eccentric and colorful, but this one before was simply… dull.

You don’t want to look at its face. You don’t think you can face this mistake.

Its hands. The yellow casing is the tone of something you find hidden in a basement after years. Lines of silver show where the hands have been scratched and the paint has chipped to reveal the metallic material under it. The sharpened tips of the fingers are without paint. You cannot tell if it is intentional or if the paint was meticulously picked off. 

You can’t face it. You can’t face it. You can’t face it.

Looking at its face will prove it, you feel. Prove that you did not rescue your friends. You can’t, you cant, you can’t.

You abandoned them.

You got the wrong robot.

“...Are you alright?” You flinch as you hear its voicebox crackle to life. Softspoken, the voice itself is higher pitched than you would have expected from an animatronic so large. Much like Sun’s voice, you think, albeit lacking his volume or the nasally quality he tended to speak with. It talks. Of course it talks. 

Are you cruel for calling it an it?

You don’t answer it, but you do finally crane your neck up to look at its face.

Its rays are torn up, chips and dents littering them, especially the lower ones. One ray even has the tip of it broken off. They are sharp and jagged and you cannot help but think of how many times Sun was kept from getting his rays in such a state.

Red is such a pretty color, but you cannot help but feel sickened by it as bloated red irises with pinprick pupils gleam down at you like some awful mockery of your Moonie. 

Moon, oh Moon, god he must still be trapped in the fire. Your throat constricts, and the hands of fault only squeeze tighter and tighter as the seconds tick by.

How could you do that to them?

The animatronic’s face is just as scratched up as its hands are. The crescent pattern is that same sullen, sad shade of yellow, while the other half seems to have had any paint chipped off to reveal silver. But you are keenly aware that it is not metal.

Its face moves. You had once heard discussions of giving the Attendants new faces, silicone and able to emote. Mouths and tongues so they could mime eating with the children. All to make them less frightening.

The animatronic before you is the most frightening thing you could have seen.

Strapped to its face is a muzzle. Leather, four straps going between rays where the bases had been broken enough that the straps can sit flush with the faceplate’s edges. On the front is an opening with metal bars like you’d see on a dog’s muzzle. 

You can see its mouth, pulled into an awkward line, and really all you can do is stare. 

You got the wrong robot.

Sun and Moon are still in the Pizzaplex. They’re still in the building that is actively in flames. They aren’t safe, you didn’t save them, your friends are effectively dead. 

Can you even do anything? It’s much too late for you to go back. You doubt you could get in safely or even successfully get them out.

You…

You left them to die.

All because of a mistake. A mere accident. Something that, in any other situation, could have been so small and insignificant. 

The animatronic merely waits for your response.

It does not get one.

It shuffles in place, hands coming together as it starts to fiddle. The movement is too familiar. How many times did you see Sun do just that when he started getting nervous?

Really, in the worst of ways, the robot before you looks like Sun. The rays, the fidgeting, the color of its casing. It looked like if someone had taken Sunny, made him scarier, and just… forgotten him somewhere.

Neglected.

Your heart is pounding. 

You feel like prey under the garnet gaze of the thing in front of you.

Something, some part of you screams that you need to run.

It isn’t Sun. It isn’t Moon. It isn’t even some weird version of Eclipse. Because of it, because of you your friends are dead or dying and there isn’t anything you can do about it other than stand there and shake while white noise screams in your ears.

The animatronic’s brows pinch. It’s not your Sunny. Sunny can’t move his face like that. 

Sunny is dead.

Something in you blares when the animatronic bends down, taking a slight step closer to you.

You’re very sure you let out some kind of scream, but all you can hear is the blood rushing in your ears as you bolt to your room.

You feel like prey.

Sunny is dead.

Sunny is dead. 

Sunny is dead.

===

The sound of a door slamming is entirely unfamiliar to him. He is careful with doors. Careful, careful, careful, as one must be with all things, no matter how poorly the situation may seem.

Delicacy is the key to success. Patience is the love of the delicate. 

He is… worried, though. 

He’d never seen fire. Never seen such a large expanse of space, either, much less that much space filled up with smoke and flame and the tender smell of ash. 

He’d never been grabbed by the hand. He’d never been pulled out of danger. He’d never been under the seemingly infinite expanse of the sky where he felt he could stand and stare for the rest of his days.

He knew what a car was, vaguely. He’d never seen one. Never been in one. He’s sure he must have spent the entire ride keenly listening to the inner workings of it. He’d love to see a diagram. Or perhaps look through the vehicle himself, should he be given permission. 

If not, there are other things in which he can learn about. 

Knowledge is so very limited when your space is limited.

Ah, but knowledge should not take precedence at the moment.

He was saved from a fire. He is built to be rather resistant but silicone and metal can melt, 392-degrees Fahrenheit for the silicone. A shame he does not know the exact composition of the metal used to make him, then he would know his melting point entirely. 

A fire allowed him to escape his enclosure. He was saved from a fire. A fire in which he likely would have died or at least been severely damaged in, if he stayed. He was put into a car and driven away from the establishment that he had never exited, and had never even seen outside of his given space. He was brought into what he can only presume is your home and was promptly stared at in horror.

There are many factors that could have caused that last event. 

He shall list his theories.

• His appearance. He is aware he is shocking, at the very least.
• Post-Traumatic Stress. Not necessarily the disorder, but he might need to keep an eye out for further symptoms. Humans are fragile and fire is dangerous, thus rushing into a fire is most likely quite traumatic.

He is tempted to make another point to list another theory, but truthfully he has run out of ideas.

A very rare case for Doctor-

Doctor… Doctor -...

He shakes his head. 

Communication is key. He shall make an effort to communicate. 

Hearing his steps on wooden flooring is interesting. He has long been used to the sound of his shoes on concrete or tile. The sound is nice.

He looks at the door you had disappeared behind, the one you had slammed. He has decided he does not like the sound of slamming doors.

Raising his knuckles up to the door, he lightly taps them twice. Just enough to create a soft sound against the wood. The sounds are uneven, one slightly louder than the other. It is a foreign action. Perhaps he will need to practice it.

There is no answer.

He expected as much.

“Go-Good evening.” He grimaces at his stutter. He is more well-spoken than that. He should not be stuttering. “I extend my gratitude to you for your actions today. I appre- appreciate your kindness. Thank you.”

He must have sustained some damage. He hates to stutter.

At least he can remain polite, as one should be. He is a polite man, he knows his manners and how to act. Doctor-...

Doctor-...

His fingers twitch. He must have sustained some damage.

There is no answer to his gratitude. He does not express any disappointment, he has no business expecting anything from you after a traumatic event. 

“I shall remain in the… living room.” He believes that is what it is called. He’s heard the term a time or two. “You needn’t hesitate if you have anything to ask of me.”

That should be good, yes? This is not his area of expertise, believe it or not. 

He almost snorts at that little joke of his. Of course he should be believed, he is a trustworthy source, after all. 

With that he trods back into the living room. He wonders what the origins of such a term are. Perhaps he will be able to learn

Your living room is quite nice. He must admit he is fond of the space already. Shelves carry an array of books, many titles he has heard in passing. 1984. The Alchemist. Animal Farm. Inferno. There are a handful of poetry books, as well. He wonders if he could read any by Edgar Allan Poe. He has heard the name a time or two before followed by praise.

His access to literature was… limited. There was certain knowledge he was programmed with but a learning AI was rather determined to learn. That learning only really occurred through his own experimentation and through the small amount of books he had been given by an intern who had recently graduated high school and wanted to be rid of their textbooks.

He wondered if you would let him read any of yours. He would truly love to do so. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. It catches his eye. He’d like to read that one, too. 

You have a couch, as well. It faces a large screen mounted upon your wall. He does not make the assumption that he is allowed to sit on your furniture. 

He was content to sit on the floor, anyways. It had never bothered him in the past, it will not bother him now. 

Though, he does wonder if you will let him sit there. But perhaps it will be easiest for him to sit on the floor, if only because of the height difference. Surely he is much less intimidating at a lesser height. 

Your living room has windows. He is most excited about that. Windows.

He has never seen birds before. He would really, really love to watch them. He can hope you will not take such joy from him. There are plenty of reasons you may decide he cannot look at the birds, but he may make the choice to avoid giving you those reasons lest you see how he is a trustworthy source and thus listen to his reasons. A lie of omission makes him cringe much less than a more blatant sort of lie.

Perhaps tomorrow you can both introduce yourselves. He would like to know your name. He will make sure to write it down, lest he forget.

Not that he ever forgets.

He shall introduce himself formally for you are strangers and he does not want to be impolite by being informal.

Good morning, my name is Doctor-...

His mouth pulls into a line.

My name is Doctor-...

Not that he ever forgets.

My name is Doctor-... Good morning, my name is Doctor-...

His hands itch at where the straps of his muzzle sit between chipped rays. He’s careful not to chip them again, though, if only to avoid getting shards of metal on your floor. 

He… he needs to sit down. He was in a fire. He has no doubt suffered some kind of damage. 

With a sigh, he settles on the floor, hugging his knees to his chest.

A fire let him out of his enclosure. He was rescued from a fire. He was put in a car. He was brought to your house. You looked at him in horror. Those are the events of today.

Not entirely, no. Before that, before that, before that. Seven roaches. American cockroaches. Periplaneta americana. All collected and removed from his enclosure. Roaches get boring after the fourth dissection. Roaches do not taste good either. 

Fifteen full paces around his given space. No visits from the interns. No extra enrichment. 

Two reads through his own notebook. Boredom had truly caught up with him, if he was doing that.

His notebook is in the inner pocket of his coat. He would never leave it behind.

Ah, something he should remember to ask for, a new notebook. Pages are finite and diagrams take up space. 

He remembers his day. He remembers yesterday. The day before. All of it, exactly, with timestamps in his system too.

He flits through each page of memory, and one thing is starting to stand out. He is very rarely referred to. But he knows, he knows, that people call him something. He has a name beyond his title and beyond his name he has a nickname.

Flit. Flit. Flit. Memory and memory and memory. Day. Day. Day.

Seconds are lost. He is missing things.

The pattern is the same. Names, names, names, and never his own. No, he knows names very well. There are not many he was ever told but he remembers the ones he was very well. Sibon. Andrew. Sara. Carter. Tom. 

Hello, my name is Doctor-

Good afternoon, my name is Doctor-

Good evening, my name is Doctor-

Good morning, my name is Doctor-

My name is Doctor-

My name is Doctor-

My name is Doctor-

What is his name?

Chapter Text

The morning begins with the ache of mourning.

You were never taught how to cope with loss. No one really is. You can’t prepare yourself for the grief.

No one is taught how to cope with loss when it's your fault.

How are you supposed to come to terms with the fact your friends are gone because of you? Your best friends, the people who made going to work every day worth something

They’re just… gone.

You saw them the day before the fire. You’d gone into work. You’d sat with Sunny and kept him company throughout the day. The daycare had been closed for cleaning that day. It was redundant for them to do such a thing, considering Sun deep cleaned the place once the daycare closed each day, but you’d like to think it was nice for him to get a break.

Not that he always agreed, but it gave you the chance to spend time with him and make sure his systems were all in working order. It was like having a little spa day, you’d check up on Sunny’s circuitry and you’d clean off any grime on his casings.

And of course, when Moon came out, you’d do the same. Check over his systems, clean him off. Though, Moon was typically in much better shape, given that he didn’t work with the kids as much and was not usually the victim of grubby, sticky hands and who knows what else. Moon liked to take out card games to play with you. Sometimes you had to get creative, considering you’d be the only two players.

Sun loved to talk. Loved to sit right up next to you so that you were touching while he told you everything about his day, gesturing with his hands to make up for the lack of expression on his face. For a robot without any pupils or any capability of facial movement, he was very, very expressive in a nearly cartoony way. You loved it.

Moon would always sit across from you. Or he’d twirl about on his cord and circle you from above, acting like he was swimming. You’d had to discourage him from snatching you up into the air a number of times. You’d be the one to fill the silence, tell him about your latest reads or the things you did with your day.

You loved it.

They are gone.

And it is your fault.

Not only that, but there’s- there’s a stranger in your house. A looming, gangly thing with red eyes and claws like knives!

Red is a terrible color.

The color of fire and the color of blood and lately you cannot help but think it is the color of death.

The robot in your house has death in its eyes.

And- and it spoke to you. Its footsteps had creaked across your floorboards and it knocked on your door and maybe, maybe, maybe, you really don’t want to remember just how high up on your door that knocking sound came from. It spoke to you. Thanked you. Told you it would be in the living room.

You didn’t mean to save it. You didn’t want to save it.

You can’t just tell it that, can you? How is anyone ever supposed to react to being told “I wasn’t supposed to rescue you” ? Surely no one would react well to that.

Can you kick it out? No. It’s a robot. It wouldn’t have anywhere to go and very well could die. You don’t want to be responsible for another death. Not to mention it’s Fazbear property, if it gets out and somehow traced back to you, you could get sued into your grave. But wouldn’t keeping it do the same?

Well… if you keep it hidden, it won’t, right? All you have to do is check the systems. Make sure there’s nothing FazCo has direct access to. Make sure it doesn’t go outside.

You try not to think about how sad of a life that is. You’re sure you can justify it.

Maybe you should… talk to it. Try to… figure out the situation. If you’re going to have to cohabitate you should probably lay out some ground rules, right?

You can feel your heartbeat. Your chest feels tight and cold. The robot that presumably sits in your living room is terrifying and you do not want to admit that is not just the appearance that leads to this.

But what will you do? Hide in your room? Starve to death? You don’t exactly have that many choices.

There’s a slight tremble to your movements as you slide out of your bed. Your footsteps seem much too loud. The sound of your door creaking open is even worse.

The lights are on like you left them. You can see sunlight streaming in from your place in the hallway. 

The animatronic is not in your sight yet. Your nerves only grow as you pad into the living room.

You’re not sure what you were expecting. The robot is clearly awake, but it is not looking at you at all. 

No. 

It is utterly entranced by the windows. It sits on its knees, face practically pressed up against the glass, arms crossed on the windowsill as it just… stares.

It’s a nice day outside. The sky is such a pretty shade of blue. The pretty shade of blue that got you to call it a fishbowl. 

You wonder how pretty it must be to the robot. You know it has never seen the sky.

How pretty would it be to Sun and Moon’s eyes?

“Sparrows are much tinier than I thought they would be.” You jolt when it breaks the silence. Its voice… God, it sounds so happy.

The animatronic sits back a bit, making it so you could better see into your yard. Your little birdfeeder, half-filled with seed, is currently being visited by two small brown birds. 

A sharp finger points towards them. “House sparrows. Passer domesticus. Two females, to be specific. The males have a black mark on their face.”

It turns to look at you, red eyes curved in a delighted crescent as it smiles. It smiles with its mouth closed, but it cannot hide two little canine teeth poking from its mouth. Not even the muzzle hides them. You watch, almost a little stunned, as it puts its hands in a cup shape, miming like it was holding something in its large palms. 

“They’re so tiny! I wonder how much they weigh. What do they feel like? Perhaps I could hold one to see-” Its enthusiastic musings shock you out of your stupor, especially that last comment.

You are not going to let that thing hold a bird, much less let it outside. Especially not when you have neighbors.

“I think- I think we need to lay down some.. Uhm… ground rules.” You sputter out. The robot goes quiet, mouth settling into a line, though it’s not exactly a displeased expression.

“Ah. Yes, we do need to go over that. Proper introductions are in order, too.” It nods. But it does not move from where it sits. You had expected it to stand, maybe sit on the couch or something, but no, it stays right where it was seated by the window. 

“Uhm… come sit.” You motion to the couch, sitting on one end.

“It may be easier if I sit on the floor. I am significantly taller than you and proper eye contact would be uncomfortable that way.” It says in a rather matter-of-fact tone, and comes to sit across from you on the floor, crossing its legs.

Well… it's not wrong. You don’t push the issue. 

For now you’re really just glad that the robot seems to have no bad intentions. 

It is the robot that starts, cocking its head to the side. “First and foremost, what is your name?”

You give it after a moment of hesitation. The robot pulls out a small leather-bound notebook from the pocket of its lab coat. The book is covered in nicks and scratches, likely from the robot’s claws. It flips open a new page, and producing a pen from another pocket, it scribbles something down. The pen is much too small for its hands, but it holds it delicately.

“Very pleased to meet you!” It repeats your name, seemingly testing it on its tongue. Does it even have a tongue?

“Uhm… You as well.” You are lying through your teeth, but the robot does not seem to notice that. Nothing in its facial expression changes. “What’s… what’s your name?”

The robot cringes a bit. Setting the book and pen back into its pockets, it clasps its hands together and starts to fiddle with its fingers. “I must sincerely apologize but I do not quite have an answer to that!”

It winces.

“I.. ah…. I must have been damaged a bit in the fire. I have no recollection of my name. I am very sorry for the disappointment.” You hate to feel relieved, in the most morbid of ways. You cannot truly face the identity of the person you mistakenly rescued when you don’t have their name.

You feel sick to your stomach.

“But! Let’s not be discouraged, I am aware that I am a Doctor. Thus, I suppose I may be referred to by my title.” The robot smiles at you, again without showing its teeth. 

“Okay then… well, Doctor, uh…” You trail off for a moment. “How to you prefer to be referred to?”

“I-...” The Doctor pauses, and blinks at you before pinching its brows. “I believe I just told you? You may call me Doctor.”

“Oh- no, no, I meant, like… pronouns. Y’know? He, she, they, it?” You did not think you’d be having to explain that to a robot first thing in the morning.

It just stares at you for several seconds. “Forgive me, this is… not my area of expertise. I am unfamiliar with that sort of question.” 

You’re not sure how to respond to that. It seemed like such a simple question but the Doctor has you wondering if it really was.

“I suppose I was always called a ‘he’. I- I haven’t any idea about the others, though…” It- He says, averting his eyes to look at his hands.

“‘He’ it is then.” You nod. Okay. Easy enough. Is it bad to hope you don’t have to explain gender and sexuality to a robot?

You didn’t have such thoughts when you explained it to Sun and Moon.

“Okay, Doctor. Uhm… so, this is my house. So uh… I have rules. Yeah, uhm…. First, no going into my room. You already know which one that is. You are not allowed in there.” You started, and you hope to whatever gods above that your voice isn’t shaking. You need to sound authoritative, right? 

“Understandable. I shall not enter your room.” He nods. “May I knock should I need you or if I have a question?” 

“Uh… sure, I guess. If it’s late at night, though, please only do so if it is an emergency.” You do not want to deal with being woken up at some ungodly hour to answer a question.

“What constitutes an emergency?” He tilts his head. You have a feeling he will be asking a lot of questions. 

“If we’re in danger or something. That sort of thing.” It’s not as detailed of an answer as the Doctor wants and you can tell, but he does not press further. 

You move on to the second rule. You have a feeling he will not like this one but it is very necessary. 

“You cannot go outside.” Just as you thought, the robot seems to deflate.

“I cannot go look at the birds in your… back yard?” The words are spoken as if he isn’t sure if they’re the right ones, but really he appears almost a little appalled by your rule. “You have a fence.”

“You are taller than my fence and I also have nosy neighbors.” You retort.

“I can bend down and be very quiet.” He says it in a way that doesn’t sound sassy, yet some part of you can feel the attitude coming from him.

“Doctor, you cannot be seen, or I could get in serious trouble! You can’t go outside. No.” You’re definitely a bit agitated with that one, but it gets the point across and the Doctor finally just nods. He does not seem that pleased.

“I shall not be seen outside.” He says.

“You will not go outside.” You’re not letting him try to weasel out of it.

The robot just nods again and does not continue on.

“I have another bedroom you… you could use if you’d like. Though, the bed is probably too small for you.” You hate the words coming out of your mouth. That room was for Sun and Moon, in some impossible, theoretical world. And now you’re giving it to… to some imposter.

Your mouth tastes bitter.

“I appreciate your kindness, you needn’t worry about me. I am not one for sleep. I promise to take care of the space.” His mood seems to lift at this, and once more he grins at you. “You are very kind.”

If only he knew what you were thinking.

You feel sick to your stomach.

“Question, if that is alright.” The Doctor waits a moment to receive your nod. When you do, he motions to your bookshelves. “May I read your books? I ah… I’m very intrigued by some of the titles you have. My access to literature was… very limited. I promise I shan’t even crease a page.”

“Uh… sure, go ahead. You can read them. I mean, you could annotate them too, I don't really mind.” You always wanted to do it yourself, but really, you don’t think of picking up a pen while you’re reading. 

“Thank you. I am very excited to read them.” He lightly claps his hands, the sound hardly more than the light clink of metal fingertips. 

“I don’t really… uh.. Care if you use any like, utilities or anything. Not that I think you’ll need any of them, but you’re free to poke around the kitchen and stuff… just please do not damage anything or move anything around.” You’re sure it’s too vague, but really, you do not think a robot will have any need to use your oven or kettle or anything in there. “I’m sure I have the manuals for everything in one of the drawers.” 

“I may take a look later.” You don’t doubt he will. You just doubt he’ll actually use anything.

“There’s a bathroom in the hallway if you need it for any reason… it's pretty empty because mine is connected to my room so… I guess you’re free to use that?” Surely he wouldn’t need that either, but it’s always good to give the option, right?

If you had the option you wouldn’t even have him here.

Are you a bad person? 

But the Doctor is part of the reason your friends are dead. They’re dead because you grabbed him on accident. 

You can be angry, right? You can be hateful, right? Your thoughts aren’t a crime, right?

“...Thank you, again. You have saved my life.” The Doctor smiles at you and it is soft and it is genuine and it is like a stray dog with fleas.

“Yeah… No worries, Doc, it’s no big deal. You’re welcome”

You hate the color red.

Chapter Text

There was once a day you truly dreamed of having a robot in your house. It had seemed impossible.

The guest room would be filled with trinkets, drawings pinned up all over one of the walls. Maybe there would be a mural. You’d have a corkboard up for polaroid photos. Somehow there would always be speckles of glitter embedded into your floors.

You’d have friends with you. 

You and Sun would have breakfast together, or more like you’d eat and he’d simply hang out and talk to you, considering he didn’t have a mouth outside of sculpted teeth. If you had the ability to, maybe you’d give him some of the upgrades management had always talked about.

You and Moon would have dinner together. Maybe you’d discuss music, you’re sure Moon would like that sort of thing. You’d let him listen to music on your phone a handful of times and he greatly enjoyed it. You wonder if he would ever want to learn an instrument. 

Sun would have tubs of art supplies, you’re so very sure of it. He was quite the skilled artist, in truth, you’d seen the sketches he’d done outside of working hours. You actually had a handful in your room.

You…

You avoid opening the drawer they’re in.

The truth loves to choke you. Oh, how it loves cruelty. Truth, it gnaws on your brain like a dog to a carcass, and it is becoming increasingly hard to ignore.

The Doctor is hard to ignore. 

Sort of. 

He makes no disturbances. He has settled into the room that you let him stay in, last you checked, but really that couldn’t have been too hard considering he had nothing but the clothes on his back and the notebook and pen he seemed to never put away. 

The only thing you could note is that he does not sleep, or did not last night. Then again, he is a robot, and Sun and Moon did not sleep either. Still, they could rest and be still and relax, and that is far from what the Doctor did. He paced. And paced. And paced. And paced. Not at one point did he rest. Can you blame him? You didn’t either. You could hear him walking, pacing through your home. He wasn’t loud, really, but you were… maybe you were listening for him. It is hard for a large, undoubtedly heavy robot to be completely silent, too. You don’t want to think you were listening for him.

But it wasn’t something that should keep you from sleeping. Really, it wasn’t. You’re not sure what kept you awake, maybe some mix of paranoia and grief.

You fear what you will see if you sleep.

Regardless, the Doctor makes no disturbances.

And yet he is the most distracting presence. You swear it, your house feels so much colder with him here. 

Is it mean to wish he was never here?

Maybe- maybe it would have been better if you didn’t mistake him for Sun. if you had just accepted you couldn’t save them. It would have been nicer than realizing you maybe could have saved them, but your mistake was what killed them.

You hate the color red.

It is an ugly color, it the color that faces you while Ignorance himself looks into your eyes, reminding you, reminding you, reminding you, of what you have done. Hah! He says, without so much as a word. Do you see it now? You did not even think to check. 

All you can do is pretend.

The Doctor sits in Sun and Moon’s room. He takes up their space. He is in your house the way they should have been. He has the audacity to look like your Sunny.

You didn’t even check if it was them. Assumptions, assumptions, how they will ruin you.

And yet, the Doctor looks at you and smiles. He thanks you. Because you saved him. You should feel proud, you at least kept one person from death. You preserved one life. You can’t make yourself feel proud. Your heart squeezes with the mere suggestion of it. 

You should probably get out of bed. Getting up will help, yes? Maybe it will snap you out of this state of mind.

You don’t have time to properly grieve. Not when you have an unfamiliar robot in your house you need to deal with.

He doesn’t know. God, he doesn’t know. It’s not his fault, it can’t be, he couldn’t have known you were looking for someone else. Can you fault him for wanting to get out? For moving towards the person calling out to him?

You can’t. You shouldn’t.

You pull yourself out of your bed, and for a moment, you just sit there. Your limbs are heavy, your head feels much too light. Numb.

You just shake your head and go into your bathroom to get ready.

You feel sick.

===

There’s a part of you that is ashamed of how you hesitated to exit your room, peeking out into the hallway like a scared animal.

There’s a part of you that is ashamed of how you kept your steps light, as if to try and sneak by your… impromptu housemate.

There’s a part of you that is ashamed of how you flinched when you saw the back of the Doctor as he leaned his back against the kitchen counter, looking towards the window.

“You have house finches. Look, the male is the one with the red on his face. Isn’t he lovely?” The Doctor’s voice damn near startled you of your skin, his head turning to look at you. He’s got a little grin on his face, eyes practically overflowing with delight.

Red eyes. Garnet. Crimson. Ruby. Scarlet. 

You hate the color red.

“Haemorhous mexicanus. And that is H-A-E-M-O-R-H-O-U-S M-E-X-I-C-A-N-U-S.” He continues, spelling out the words without so much as a stutter or pause.

You look to the window.

At your bird feeder are two birds, small and brown. One has red on its face. You cannot help but think that they are just birds.

“Yeah, Doc… neat.” You give him the response to give him a response at all. You’re sure he’d keep adding on more about the bird otherwise.

The Doctor turns himself to you, and that is when you realize he holds a mug. It is small in his hands, and he holds it delicately. In it is a straw, one of your reusable glass ones. 

For a moment, you are just so… baffled. Why would the robot have a mug and a straw?

Your question is swiftly answered, and it is, much to your surprise, the simplest answer. The Doctor brings the cup up, up, up to his face, using his open hand to maneuver the straw through the bars on his muzzle so that he could sip his drink. Judging by the color of the liquid in the straw, it’s… coffee.

The robot is drinking coffee.

“...Is there something wrong?” He asks after he… swallows, you suppose? His head cocks to the side, brows pinching.

“I… you can drink?” You just stand there, mouth agape as you watch the robot take another sip. He does it almost as if to show you, yes, I can.

“I can indeed. You said I could use your appliances, I hope there is no issue with me using your coffee machine.” He says it like he is shocked you commented on it at all. Gingerly, he sets the cup down on the table. The action is done slowly, like he was unsure of the distance, or perhaps how gentle he needed to be with the cup.

“No, no, you’re fine I just-...” You buffer for a moment, staring at the cup. It is easier than looking him in the eyes. You do not want to look at his eyes. “I’ve never… Do you… how?”

The robot humors you, a lighthearted laugh coming from him. “Much like how you do. I’ve a mouth, after all. A stomach, too, though it is a far more simplified mechanism than that of most organic - eukaryotic, E-U-K-A-R-Y-O-T-I-C, that is - life does. A faux esophagus that leads directly to a removable silicone stomach.”

Fascinating. Honestly, it really is. 

Some part of you, one you do not listen to, is sad that if these were different circumstances, you probably would have really liked the Doctor. 

“Wow, that’s… I’ve never seen that. It’s certainly not as complicated as I thought it’d be.” You hum. “Can you taste?”

It’s not too crazy to guess that if the robot can drink, the robot might be able to taste, right? FazCo made some pretty crazy advancements in technology, after all, it shouldn’t be too far off that they’d get even crazier than sentient AI?

“I can. I have a fully functioning tongue.” He nodded. “I can show you, if you’d like?”

You don’t want to.

“Sure, that sounds neat.” You bring your eyes up to his face, to his mouth. 

Teeth.

He peels back his lips and sticks his tongue out to the best of his ability considering the muzzle, moving it around to show its flexibility. It is very realistic.

You can hardly focus on that.

Teeth.

Large, sharp, you’d call them monstrous. On both upper and lower jaws, he has large hooked canines that look ready to tear someone’s flesh off of their body at any moment. Even his incisors are sharpened. 

You can’t stop looking at his teeth.

It is only when he retracts his tongue and closes his mouth that you’re able to snap out of it. 

You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine.

The Doctor has a muzzle. Those teeth can’t get you anyways. 

Why would the Doctor have to wear a muzzle?

You can feel your heart racing in your ribcage, and honestly it takes everything in you to not let it show on your face. You’re not even sure if you succeeded.

The Doctor’s gaze does not seem to catch anything, though, much to your relief.

“How uh- how does that work?” It is shockingly easy to keep the conversation going, no matter how tight your throat begins to feel as you feel Fear trace her fingers around your jugular. You shouldn’t be so focused on his teeth. It’s something so small and insignificant. That is all it should be. Something so small and insignificant.

“Oh, I haven’t a clue.” The Doctor deflates, mouth curling into a frown. You cannot help but be thankful for it, as his canines do not peep out from his mouth his way. “They didn’t let me take my tongue out after the first time. Goodness, how angry they were at me!”

Okay. Wonderful. The robot is a psychopath, sure. That’s something you can have in your house. A robot who has apparently ripped out his own tongue. And out of sheer curiosity, no less!

Unless-... You should give it the benefit of the doubt. Maybe it was removable.

The robot snorts in annoyance at the memory. “Clearly they have the capabilities to repair it, I haven’t a clue why they wouldn’t let me.”

All hope of his sanity is lost.

You swallow. You’re more than sure that FazCo wouldn’t let their robots mutilate themselves, if only for the sake of the public’s opinion. And if not that, because they didn’t want to put the money into fixing it.

You also do not want to deal with fixing it, if the Doctor ever decides to sate his curiosity…

“You probably shouldn’t do that sort of thing. It uh… I don’t know, you could really damage your sensors.” You do not want to have to spend the money to repair it. You do not want your hands anywhere near his mouth. You could make a whole list of reasons.

“Of course. I am not so uninformed to think there isn’t a risk. But I will argue that this risk comes with the reward of knowledge, and I am not so foolish as to intentionally damage something I believe I cannot repair.” He said, picking up his cup once more and moving over to your sink, turning on the faucet. You note that his hand seems unsteady, unsure, as he does so.

He is moving around in a new environment and trying to act confident. 

He puts the cup under the faucet, letting it fill with water before pouring it out, and repeating the action twice more. It is only after that, that he decides to put the mug and straw in your dishwasher. He even follows your typical organization. 

“Not that I would do it, still.” He waves one hand as he closes the dishwasher, turning back to you and tapping at the leather of his muzzle. “Certain things ought to stay under wraps. Though, is ‘behind bars’ more appropriate here?”

You just stare.

Why would a robot need to wear a muzzle?

What has he done?

Dogs wear a muzzle because they want to bite.

Dogs wear a muzzle to ensure they don’t bite. 

Is he like a dog?

Does he bite?

The silence stretches on for a long moment, and you watch as the Doctor becomes more and more unsure of himself, seeming to shrink. His hands clasp together and he fidgets with his joints, feeling where his claws start. The sharp points of his fingers are not so careful with himself, especially when compared with how he treats everything else you’ve seen. If he had skin, he would be bleeding from countless nicks and cuts on his hands.

“I’m- I’m very sorry, that was… that was a joke. Did I say something wrong?” He forces out the stuttered words clearer when he repeats them. Pinprick pupils do not meet yours, rather focusing on the countertop. You can see how his eyes try to follow some kind of pattern on the table, jittering to follow tiny shapes and color shifts.

He reaches up to scratch his rays. 

“No, no uhm… you’re fine, Doc.. just… I didn't get the joke.” You try to brush off his worries. He looks back at you, tilting his head. 

“Oh, the joke is that I-”

“You don’t need to explain it, you’re fine. Don’t worry.” You don’t care for whatever the joke was. Jokes are only funny when they have some truth to them, aren’t they? 

You wonder what the truth is for him.

The Doctor just stares for a moment, his mouth settling into a line. Maybe he’s disappointed you interrupted him. Maybe he just doesn’t know how to react. He is a learning AI and maybe he just hasn’t learned all that much on social interaction.

That’s probably it. He doesn’t seem to be able to pick up social cues all that easily. If he could, he’d probably see that you were nothing short of terrified of him, he’d probably see that you certainly weren’t fond of him.

Sun and Moon were smarter than that. Socially, that is. They both were very sensitive to people, to emotions, all of that. Even the Glamrocks were, you’d yet to meet a Fazbear animatronic that wasn’t keenly trained on responding to human emotion.

You guess there’s a reason you’d never seen or heard of the Doctor.

“Have you any plans for the rest of the day?” He asks. It is an appreciated change of subject.

“Not really. I’ll probably order some food or something…” You shrug. “Do you?”

“Plenty enough. Tedious things.” His answer is vague. You can assume he’s probably going to be stuck in that notebook of his, drawing the birds or something.

Is it bad that you might think you hate him?

The Doctor returns to the windowsill. He sits himself on the ground and looks back to the finches hopping around your backyard.

“I think the red makes them so lovely.” He says, looking out at the birds.

Looking at him, you cannot disagree more.

Chapter Text

Warmth. It is a comforting thing. When it was cold outside, you would cozy up in your heated blanket and watch movies on your laptop whilst you laid in bed. 

Your eyes focus, focus, focus, to find that warmth. Perhaps to get closer, to lean into the comfort, god knows you need it, or to pull away lest it become overbearing.

As you focus, that warmth becomes accompanied by something far more disconcerting, especially while laying in bed.

Wetness.

You can feel it pooling beneath you, hot and sticky as you try to see just what it is causing such a feeling. Did you spill something? Did a pipe burst?

But that should be cold.

Focus, focus, focus, it feels like your eyes have to be pried out of sleep, out of the darkness, out of something. It feels sticky.

Your face feels sticky. Wet.

You look into the darkness of your room.

Oh, oh, oh how he looms, he was made for the darkness, to be a monster like this. Maybe, for just a mere, magical moment, he is beautiful. Only out of the morbid, poetically terrible way he fits the scene.

Teeth, teeth, teeth, sunk into your stomach. Flesh is a sad thing to describe it as, the gooey red mess that is your midsection. It is all blood and viscera and entirely indistinguishable from yourself. You see your life pour out of it, out, out, out like it is desperately fighting for escape.

The muzzle is gone. There is nothing to keep you safe. 

You haven’t even registered the pain yet. For now, for now, all you are privy to is the vile image before you, shifting like watercolors, and for a moment you have to wonder if you are dying.

Would you see your friends, if you died? Do animatronics have enough of a soul to go to heaven?

Do you?

You see that tongue as it laps at your innards like a dog, followed by a sickly, warbled growl. Teeth sink in again for another piece.

For once, you wish you could look him in the eyes, look at that red, red, red, and know you were right. You weren’t being paranoid, you were right, you were right, you were right. How ugly of a color, the color of your blood on his mouth, the color that coats the cold, cold, cold claws that dig into your sides. 

His eyes. His eyes. His eyes.

You can’t see them.

Watercolor warbling wanes into a wretched whine, something much too animal for your human throat. But yet, but yet, it tears from you, and you feel the sticky, coppery blood sputter from your mouth.

He looks at you.

His eyes. His eyes. His eyes. 

Why can’t you see his eyes? 

It is all a blur, as he lets out that terrible, excited noise once more, and you see how his face - red, red, red, with your blood - curls into the most awful smile you have ever seen, teeth and gums bared like a starved animal.

In a flash, he is at your throat, and his teeth sink in.

You’re left a moment, a moment, a moment, to gurgle. There is no hope of screaming, not when he has sunk so deep into your throat. It’s bizarre. You thought dying would hurt. But no, all you feel is the pressure, so very heavy against your body. He has most of his weight on you now.

A hand cups your cheek, and for a moment, a moment, an insignificant moment, it is tender, but all he does is use it to tilt your head back further.

It fades gently, much too gently for something so gruesome. He is far from gentle, too, but yet the life fades from you in the same way sleep does.

And you open your eyes.

You lay in your bed, blankets tangled around you as they always are. The weighted one is pulled up to your neck. You are warm, alive, and you can feel how wildly your heart pounds in your ribcage.

What a feeble thing.

The human mind loves to torture itself, doesn’t it? You can’t think of another reason it would put such terrible dreams in your head. Or, well, you can, but knowing it is because of a preexisting fear of the animatronic that has taken residence in your house is far less poetic.

May your poeticism save you. You certainly won’t. 

You groan as you pull yourself out of your bed, standing there for a moment. You just… stand.

Your stomach is still there, flesh lovingly holding vital organs inside, flexing with your muscles. 

You are alive.

It’s hard to not bark out that bitter, incredulous laugh.

You are alive.

Your best friends don’t get the luxury to say that, but you do! Oh, what a joy, you get to say you’re alive! Alive, alive, alive, while the people who mean the most to you are dead, without the kindness of a funeral or anything so respectful as a burial. No, they’re going to be left to rot, because they are metal.

Metal and electricity, and that’s it, isn’t it?

And that is never enough for people to give them the courtesy of being treated like they’re alive, much less like people. People give fish funerals. Small animals. Insignificant things, in the grand scheme of it.

And yet, metal and electricity, when that’s it, they get nothing.

You’d do it yourself, if you could. But FazCo is notoriously possessive of their properties, it’d no doubt be a death sentence if you tried to go on. Plus, who knows what would happen to you if you tried to traverse the rubble.

Maybe you’re just a coward.

You really don’t want to think that’s the case. 

With a heavy sigh, you amble over to your bathroom to brush your teeth and make yourself a little bit more human. 

When you do exit your room, you have to take a moment to linger in your doorway.

A moment, a moment, a moment.

He’s out there, you know it. The Doctor.

A moment, a moment, a moment.

You can’t get rid of him. What would you even do? You can’t kick him out. Fucking hell, he hasn’t been rude or anything, he has given you absolutely no reason to hate him. Are you so attached to guilt’s leash that you let it keep you from being kind?

A moment, a memory.

Teeth. 

It is nice to have something to hold onto.

You shake your head, as if to try to banish the thought from your mind. You don’t want to be cruel. He doesn’t know. He hasn’t done anything. He hasn’t given you a reason to hate him.

You pad into the living room, and as he has been the past few days, there he is, by the window. 

He has forgone his lab coat, leaving just the black turtleneck he wears under it. 

At your entry, he turns from the window, and he smiles at you. He doesn’t show his teeth, but you can still see the tiny points of canines that peek from his lips.

“Good morning! I saw the sparrows again. They are building a nest in your tree.” He says it excitedly. You’re almost a little sad you can’t return the emotion. You like animals. You like birds. But really, they aren’t so significant to you that you’re as excited as the robot before you.

Maybe you should appreciate his joy for something so small and insignificant. 

“That’s nice, Doc.” You hum, keeping an eye on him as you go into your kitchen to find something to eat. Your stomach twists as if it is clasping its hands to beg for food, and you know better than to ignore it, lest you be miserable for the rest of the day.

The Doctor doesn’t say much else on the topic. You hear him hum softly, and you assume he is looking back at the birds. Maybe you should be glad he likes those birds so damn much, it keeps his attention off of you. 

You open up your fridge, staring into it for a moment in hopes of finding something to sate your hunger. Instead, the sterile light of it just looks back at you disappointingly. You have plenty of ingredients, yes, but really it was the kind of stuff that made your fridge look like it had food, without really having much to eat at all. Still, you huff and grab two eggs out. Those will be easy enough.

When you step back from the fridge, you are startled to see the Doctor looming just a few feet away. He’s maintaining a healthy distance, but is very obviously watching you. Still, you yelp, nearly dropping the eggs as you jolt.

“Jesus fuck-!” You take a step back, before stilling and taking a deep breath. “Doc, don’t scare me like that. You shouldn’t sneak up on people.” 

You’re tone’s not as nice as it could be, but it doesn’t seem to affect the Doctor negatively. He simply looks guilty for scaring you at all, hunching in on himself a little bit. God, seeing him without his lab coat is weird. You’re not sure how to explain it but he looks… gaunt. 

“I’m very sorry. I- I thought you heard me, I made sure I did not walk on my toes so that my heels hit the floor and made a sound.” He shuffles back, averting his gaze to the eggs in your hands. “I simply wanted to see what you were doing.”

“I’m making eggs. Now, if you’re going to watch, maybe sit down and don’t just… Loom there like a creep.” It’s snappy, you know it is, and maybe part of you doesn’t like it, but you already said it and the Doctor has already heard it. 

“Is there somewhere in particular you want me to sit?” He asks, cocking his head like a dog. 

Like a dog. Like a dog. Like a dog.

He wears a muzzle. He tilts his head. He looks at you kindly.

“Just- I don’t know, go sit in one of the chairs. Go.” You shoo him away, and like a dog, like a dog, like a dog, he obeys with no further question.

You hear the scrape of one of the chairs against the floor as he pulls it out a little bit to sit. You know by the sound alone that he’s sitting at your kitchen’s island, as you expected him to. You’re sure that if you let him, he’d sit on the floor at your feet just so he could see what you were doing better. 

He doesn’t say anything. He just… he just watches. Entirely silent. Studying you.

You feel like an insect under a magnifying glass. Maybe that’s all you are to him. A weird little bug under the glass of his optics.

You go on to make your eggs. A bit of oil in a pan, putting both of the eggs in and waiting for them to cook without burning or overcooking the yolk. Once done, you remove them from the heat and go to plate them. You quickly rinse off the pan in the sink and place it in the dishwasher. 

After that, you grab the salt and pepper from your counter and quickly put some on your eggs. It’s nothing interesting, but it’s something to eat. 

Throughout this, the Doctor watches you intently. It’s uncomfortable, but you’ve already snapped at him enough and you don’t want to do so again by telling him to stop watching you. But you will admit, having someone stare at you eating is weird.

You eat quickly, just to avoid having him stare at you any longer. 

You toss the paper plate in the trash, and your fork in the dishwasher. 

“Was that as entertaining as you hoped it would be?” You ask him sarcastically. If you can joke with him, surely you can be nicer. You don’t like to be mean. You don’t want to think you’re a mean person. Sun and Moon would hate how you’re acting.

That thought hurts. Perhaps more than the loss itself.

“It was. Thank you. I greatly enjoyed watching.” There’s not an ounce of sarcasm in his voice. You shouldn’t be surprised, really, the guy already seems so easily amused. Maybe he’d enjoy all those puzzles you never put together, you’d always thought they were too boring. He’d probably have a blast with those.

You don’t respond to his thanks, intending to go do something to your lonesome. You… don’t want to look at him all that much longer.

“By the way, are you alright? Your heart rate spiked quite dramatically before you woke up. Between the hours of 7:23AM and 9:39AM, to be exactly. It peaked at approximately 119 beats-per-minute, and that was around 10 minutes prior to you waking up.” He says it so calmly, brows pinching with worry, but you just look at him like he’s crazy.

Why does he know your heart rate? Was he in your room? Was he in your room for hours, monitoring you?

“How do you know that?” Your voice comes out quiet. All the possibilities run through your head.

Was he there, in your room, without you knowing? While you dreamt of him killing you, was he there, watching? Close enough to monitor your heart?

Speaking of your heart, you can feel it in all of your limbs.

“Doctor, how do you know my heart rate?” You hope he has an explanation. And a good one, at that, because if not, you really might start to hate him. You might kill him. It would be for your own safety.

“I can hear it.” He says simply, face becoming more worried as the seconds tick by. “I’m sor- I’m sorry, is that not something I should mention? Your heart rate has spiked again. You’re at 105 beats-per-minute and rising-”

“No, Doctor, how the fuck are you listening to that? What the fuck?! Were you in my room?” You’re hyperventilating. You know you are. You aren’t really listening to what he’s saying.

“I can hear it. My senses ar- are very keen. I often tune things outside of a ‘normal’ hearing range but I- I heard your heart this morning and I beca- became worried about you.” He shirks back into his seat, his stutter getting worse. You can hear the frustration as he forces out words clearer. His voice is small as he continues, eyes focusing on the table. “I’m sorry”

“That’s weird, Doc, don’t do that.” You snap at him. You feel bad after a second. He has good intentions, he has painfully good intentions, and here you are fussing at him for something he doesn’t know is wrong. How is he supposed to know? Plus, he is a doctor, maybe he’s programmed to be very aware of people’s health stuff? You don’t have the slightest clue what he’s actually programmed to do. Or be.

“I will not do that again.” He says, nodding. “I did not know that was bad.”

You want to cringe. It’s not- he’s not bad, and here you are acting like he’s some villain to your story. You feel like an asshole. You should apologize. He was trying to help. He wanted to make sure you were okay. 

“Just… yeah, thanks.” You grimace. 

He nods. He does not look up from that table, sharp fingers idly itching at his rays. It can’t be a good habit.

You go back to your room. You need some time to yourself.

Maybe just to give him a break.

Chapter Text

You need to go to the store. Your fridge is… painful to look at. 

Not to mention you have a robot that has been going through your coffee. It’s really absurd.

Really. Who would expect that a robot would be the reason your coffee supply is almost entirely depleted? Not that you drink much coffee in general, it’s not that bothersome, but you had absolutely no plans to buy more coffee prior to the Doctor having taken up residence.

You’re at least thankful he doesn’t take up more resources. 

Ah, well, that’s a bit of a lie. He does have a habit of throwing stuff away, but only if it goes bad. Still, you were frustrated to see that a whole thing of strawberries was tossed out just because one had mold on it.

But you would trust the animatronic with a freaky sense of smell (why he has that, you can’t even fathom) to tell you when things have gone bad.

You groan as you step to your closet, rummaging through to find something appropriate to wear outside. There’s not too many options appropriate for a grocery run, though.

Sweatpants and a hoodie are the only thing you think would make sense. Still, you stare at your closet as if it will offer up something else.

Your Fazbear uniform glares at you. You look away from it.

Sweatpants and a hoodie it is.

When you exit your room, dressed and ready to brave the day, your resident Doctor is quick to notice the change. Maybe he can hear the clinking of your keys in your pocket.

“You are going somewhere?” He muses. It’s more of a statement than a question, but there is the expectation for you to elaborate. You’re sure your face shows your desire to not have to.

Yet you do, because it is a harmless question and a harmless answer. 

“I’m going to the grocery store. I need to restock on food.” And he’s partly to blame, if you ignore that everything he’s tossed was something that had gone bad and that everything he had tossed was discarded for your own good. “Do you need anything, Doc?”

You almost hope he doesn’t.

But at the same time…

The Doctor’s been in the same outfit since the fire. You’re pretty sure he cleans it somehow, considering it doesn’t even have a speck of dirt or soot on it, but he probably needs more clothes. 

Not that you’ll be able to find him anything… he is a nearly 9-foot tall robot. Still, maybe you should try, just for the sake of him having some kind of backup outfit.

“Hmm…” He brings a hand up to idly itch at the straps of his muzzle. “There’s nothing I necessarily need but I would greatly appreciate a new notebook. I’m running out of space in mine. And pens, if that would be alright?”

“Yeah, okay.” You nod. Easy enough. You can get those. “I’ll grab those. I’ll be back later.”

With that, you grab your shoes and head to the door.

“Have a good day, I will see you later.” The Doctor waves you goodbye.

You would have preferred the silence.

===

Maybe you would have preferred the Doc’s company.

The grocery store manages to be a sort of hell-hole of the fluorescent kind, the buzzing light overhead taking on that perfectly nauseating shade of blue.

Your little snowglobe of a world is pretty bleak now, isn’t it?

You no longer have your best friends in your life, and the closest thing you’ve got is a poor mimicry of your Sunny that looks like he came out of hell. You’re out of a job too, and frankly you’ve been somewhere between too distracted and too unmotivated to start searching for a new one. Plus, Fazbear was a steal, job-wise. The pay was far better than anything else you’d get, and as shitty as the company could be, the job was interesting.

You got Sun and Moon out of it, after all.

Well, you didn’t get them out of it. You think, All you got was a sick shade of red.

The fire blazes behind your eyes, all an oil painting of red and orange not unlike the color you see when you close your eyes and the light shines through the skin, 

You cannot seem to escape the red, red, red.

Really, it’s rather repulsive how it seems to right itself in your vision no matter how terribly you try. Whether it is red, red, red eyes or red birds or red labels on the shelves that you pass by, it has clearly gotten far too comfortable in your consciousness. 

You glare at the box of pasta on the shelf, innocent red label burning in your vision.

Red is the color of death.

Red is the color of the eyes belonging to the stranger in your house, the creature that mimics your beloved friend, the color of the blood that pumps through your veins.

You try not to think of how red is the color of your blush, the color of your Moon’s eyes, the color your friends often donned, the color of sweet and tart strawberries, the color of ribbons on gifts you’ve given, the color of your neighbor’s roses, the color of candy wrappers during Valentine’s.

The color of the blood that pumps through your veins.

Oh, how you wished red was something small and insignificant, like the box of pasta you glower at. 

You grab the box and put it in your cart. You’ll make pasta one of these nights. The Doc will probably watch and ask questions while you do so. 

Something in you twists at the idea, and you don’t understand why. You don’t understand why you dislike him. Are you truly so scared that you have turned this wretched?

You shake your head. It doesn’t matter.

You’re jolted from your thoughts by someone calling out your name, and you whip your head around until you find the source.

You’re met with a familiar head of blonde hair, tied back into a ponytail. Though, this time, there is no Fazbear cap and uniform to accompany it.

Pale skin, green eyes with eyebags dark enough to look like bruises, Vanessa looks the same as ever. She looks at you with a smile, the kind of thing you rarely saw on her back when you worked at the Pizzaplex.

“You look like shit.” She speaks bluntly, and you roll your eyes. Yeah, you are very aware you do, but you can’t help but give her a look. She looks about as bad as you do.

She only snickers. “Hey, takes one to know one. How are you holding up?”

You shrug. “Fine, I guess. As good as I can, all things considered.”

Vanessa winces, sucking in a breath through her teeth. “Yeah… I know how it feels. But uh, good news job-wise, actually!”

Awkwardly clapping her hands together, she continues, “They’re rebuilding the Plex, so uh, you should be able to get your job back. My friend who’s on the uh, the team for that, he says they’re gonna rebuild the bots and add a bunch of new stuff.”

They’re gonna rebuild the bots.

Sun and Moon will be rebuilt. You… You’ll see your friends again. Your friends who you left for dead. 

Will they remember you, your relationship with them? Will they remember how you didn’t come and save them?

You’re not sure what you’d even want. 

But a giddy feeling builds up in your chest. You’ll be able to see your friends again.

“That’s... Wow that’s great news, actually!” You’re almost shocked by the smile that creeps across your face. “I… god I’ve been worried considering I’m currently unemployed and… you know, everything with the fire…”

“Yeah… I was really glad I called out sick that night, I was supposed to be on duty.” Vanessa shudders, and you see how her gaze turns into something a little more glassy. You, too, would be terrified by the idea that you could have been caught in the fire if not for something like that.

Well, you did end up in the fire. And you didn’t even succeed in your goal.

…Should you tell Vanessa about the Doctor? 

You could get rid of him. You could return him to Fazbear and hopefully never see him again.

And you really, really consider mentioning your impromptu housemate to her. Hey, Ness, are they maybe missing a giant scary Sun-model that looks like a mad scientist? I’ve got him! Please take him!

You don’t know why you don’t tell her.

“Are they gonna be making new animatronics?” You cock your head, leaning against your mostly forgotten cart. “It’d be cool if they bring back Bonnie. I was never around when he was still in commission.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re making some new ones. Hey, maybe they’ll bring out some of the old scrapped ideas!” She grins. “They had plans for an escape room thing years ago, but it fell through. But I agree, they should bring back Bonnie. He was my favorite.”

“An escape room? I bet that would have been neat. I like escape rooms.” You weren’t exactly good at escape rooms, but they were pretty fun in your opinion. You were just really, really bad at them. “Did you work at the Plex while Bonnie was around?”

“I think it was like… Zombie themed? Or Frankenstein, but I think it was zombie themed.” Vanessa makes a vague gesture with her hands. At your question about Bonnie, her expression becomes a little more fond. “Yeah, I worked here before he was decommissioned. I worked dayshift then, so I never really got to talk to him, but he was pleasant the few times I interacted with him.”

“That’s really nice. I always wished I could have seen him.” You hum. The rabbit animatronics from the old restaurants had always seemed really interesting, so you can’t say you weren’t disappointed when you weren’t able to see the one they had at the Plex.

Oh well. You’ve learned you like celestial bodies a lot more than rabbits.

“Yeah. But uh, anyways, I guess just keep a look out for stuff from Fazbear. I doubt it’ll be too long before they have people coming back, since you’re a mechanic they’ll probably get your help with the animatronics before they open again.” Vanessa redirects the conversation back to the job itself.

“Really? Won’t repairs take forever?” You raise a brow.

“Fazbear’s filthy rich and greedy. The quicker they fix it, the quicker they get back to making money.” She shrugs, and you hum in agreement. Yeah, that makes a lot of sense.

“Let’s hope they fix it well, at least. Maybe with better fire deterrents. I’m sure they’d rather not see their prize possession go up in flames again.” You huff, shaking your head. You doubt it’ll be great, probably the same terribly large and somehow surprisingly inconvenient building it always was. “Do you think they’ll ever get us a working coffee machine? Oo, or maybe they’ll give us a nice lounge room!”

Vanessa outright laughs at that, seeming to shock herself with just how loud it was. She puts a hand over her mouth, trying to quiet herself. “Fuck no, the most we’ll get is an extra chair in the break room. Maybe a motivational poster if they like us enough.”

You can’t help but laugh with her. She’s completely right, much to the dismay of every FazCo employee. 

“Well, it’s nice to know I’ll be able to go back. But uh, I gotta get my stuff and get home.” You flick your eyes down to your cart. There’s still a good handful of things you need to get. Heavy cream, milk, strawberries, cereal…

And notebooks and pens.

You don’t like the Doc, but with his size and claws, you’d also rather keep him somewhat content.

You look back up at Vanessa, who nods in understanding. You smile at her. “It was nice getting to see you, Ness.”

“Nice getting to see you too. Stay safe.” She gives a small wave, and the two of you part ways in the store.

===

The car ride back home was near bliss. No terrible fluorescent lights, no robot in your space, no shaking of your snowglobe.

Of course, gleaming red, red, red, follows you everywhere, but you can’t exactly wish away the traffic lights.

When you get home, lugging in plastic bags full of groceries, you see the Doctor sitting at the table for once. Laid out before him is a worn notebook, the same one you’ve seen him draw the birds in, clearly on some of the last pages. You can see small, tight writing on the pages, but cannot make out what any of it says. He twirls a pen, much too small for his hands, in his sharpened fingers, staring intently at the pages before him.

The expression on his face is odd. Brows pinched and mouth set in a frown. It looks uncharacteristic on him, really.

“Doc?” You break the silence, and break whatever stupor he’s in. You wouldn’t say he startles, but he does freeze when you speak, before turning to you with owlish red eyes.

“Welcome home!” He greets you pleasantly, closing his notebook and tucking it into the inner pocket of his coat. Through the bars of his muzzle, you can see his grin. It looks no different than usual. It isn’t tight or strained or some sick simile of his usual smile, no, it is perfectly, perfectly, perfectly normal.

And yet you think of the expression he held less than a minute ago.

“I got you your notebooks and pens.” You say, setting down the bag that holds them. He’s quick to start looking through it, taking the books out and stacking them - you got him three, all in different sizes. He takes the pens and opens them, tucking them into his pockets.

“Thank you very much. How was the shopping?” You almost hear him hesitate before the word ‘shopping’, like he wasn’t sure if that was the right word.

You are in a gracious mood, it seems, easily entertaining his conversation. 

“It was fine. I ran into an old coworker, which was nice.” You say, and he hums in acknowledgement. “They’re apparently rebuilding the Pizzaplex.”

You’re not even sure why you tell him that. But he stops, slightly cocking his head before he smoothly resumes movement, grabbing one of the other grocery bags to help put things away. 

“Interesting. That’s where I was, yes?” It’s an odd question. Why would he even have to ask that?

Still, you nod. 

The Doctor’s expression becomes a little odd, again. It’s nothing forced, nothing to hide some other ugly emotion. You’d say it’s contemplative, maybe even a bit resigned. 

It’s still hard to read regardless of what you assume it to be.

“I hope I am as forgettable as they made it seem.” He mutters, voice lowered but still loud enough for you to hear. 

You don’t provide an answer.