Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"What's… wrong with him…?" Spoke a ghost, into the quiet. Their silhouette illuminated the darker corners of the room. In contrast to the other small spirits in the room, they had quite the fashionable bow, which they tugged on nervously.

"Jeremy— No, nothing's wrong with him, and-and why do you care? None of us should!" Answers another, temper evident, "He's just… uh,"

"He's not even here!" A third interrupts. This ghost, sitting moodily on the subject in question, sports a fluffier silhouette, with what one could assume was a hair poof near their face. An angry rain is the only backtrack to such a peculiar scene. 

Above them, the roof was leaking. If you squinted, you could see stars through the holes. The five spirits seem unconcerned with the rain, floating around the dingy ruin, attention focused elsewhere. A large mass of robotics and rabbit ears lay under them, completely silent, and yet alive. 

Well, alive as he could be, anyway. The tiniest of the bunch seemed especially worried, attempting to nudge and prod at him.

"Cass, what does that even mean? Obviously, he's here. What else could you be sitt…sitting— Miles, be careful— what else would you be sitting on?!"  

"No, idiot, I mean he's not, like," Cass said, waving in the direction of the rabbit’s head, "Mentally here. It's super rainy and gross in here, I think he just wants to, like, rot or something. Let's just. Let him."

This statement was apparently ridiculous.

"Cassidy you are not suggesting we give up and-"

"Susie did it! I don't care! I don't wanna be here, Fritz! I. Don't. Care."

The outburst echoes around the building, disturbing the peace. Cassidy turns away from the others and tends to an anxiety-ridden Miles. Fritz turns his head, and Gabriel is behind him, expression skeptical and annoyed.

Cass' words don't sit well with Fritz. Susie was scared, and they weren't, so she left. It's not like they wanted to keep her here. It was their job to keep Springtrap from messing up everyone else's lives, and if they let him rot here, he would be found. Again. It was protecting others with your needs in mind, they even had the okay to keep haunting-

"Fritz," Cassidy turns, "We did our job. We got our revenge. Springtrap is dead and miserable, do we really need to make it worse?"

"Well, what else are we gonna do, Cass?" Gabe asks, on the offensive behind him.

"I say we just, like, leave. Just move on and leave him here. Why are you asking me, dear leader? Having doubts?" 

"No, Cassidy." Gabriel hovers forward, and the two almost bump heads.

"I say we haunt his dreams. No rest for the wicked." Fritz suggests, morbidly. He was staring down the near-lifeless body of his murderer, and wow, was he vulnerable at the moment. 

Gabriel and Cassidy swivel their heads towards him with equal malice. Fritz looks up again and promptly decides he's not a contender in the conversation anymore. He slinks back and bumps into Jeremy to avoid the debate.

"Listen, c'mon. Do we really think he's going to be doing anything after that whole fiesta?" Cass deadpans, rhetorically.

"Yes." The three respond immediately. 

"Oh, come on— look at him!" She defends, waving her hands about and finally pointing at Springtrap's face. To only prove her point, Miles taps him on the nose.

Springtrap doesn’t move. His fingers twitch like they have been since he hit the Hurst's floor face first. Maybe he really did pop a circuit on the way to Harry's from all the stress. At least he was finally acting like a dead guy. 

But the worst of it was his eyes. Usually a neutral pink or bright purple, his eyes were an uncomfortable white. His pupils had gotten bigger, like a cat's when they spot something they like, except empty. So, so empty. Like he'd tuned in to the radio that played at a volume only he was hearing, producing an abnormally small amount of light.

Even the kids found it creepier than usual. He was never like this, even when he was scary, he was never this unnaturally… creepy. His gaze seemed to be focused somewhere behind you, a gray-scale static approaching you from where you couldn't see. 

That was the best word for it— static. Sketchy pencil markings where eyes should have been. With its plastered smile and unmoving form, the animatronic looked quite frankly robotic, for something so regularly far from human.

It was… uncanny. The suit's automatic caricature of an expression. A caricature of Springtrap, always the middle ground between human and animatronic. To look too much like one wasn't really being him, the kids suppose.

"Does he seriously look very murdery right now? No. He looks like he's dead."

"Tell me somethin' new…" Fritz mumbles, to no one in particular. Jeremy— the only one to hear him— giggles a little.

A long silence stretches over the children, while Gabriel mulls over what to say. The relentless rain patters angrily on the roof. From the sound, you'd think the place was going to collapse any minute.

"So leave, Cass."

"Wh- no,"

"So leave, Cass."

"...No. Gabriel, I am not stepping foot into the beyond— or whatever— without all of you. No one should go alone. Not me, not you, don't you dare tell me you're suggesting we leave Miles here, Gabe," Cassidy glided closer and stuck an accusing finger in her friend's chest, "Stop being all self-righteous and emo, man, we don't have to leave anyone behind. We can all go together. And we will. We don't have to be here. You know what Consequences said. We're welcome anytime-!"

"Okay-okay! Fine, Cassidy. I'll go with you guys. Go with the stupid balloons. How are we going to let him know that we're gone?" Gabriel pushes Cass' hand away, lightly. She beams at first hearing his admission to leave but sours at the mention of Springtrap.

"We can jus-"

"Cah-Cass! Don't you start," Jeremy interrupts. "You're both right andyouknow-it! We don't need to let him know we left (but it would be nice to.) We can leave wh…without telling him and he'll figure it out. Uh... boom." 

The anxiety, clear as day and lacing his voice, didn't hinder the message. When Jeremy spoke with authority— over his sister— you listened. Even Fritz seemed to cool down on a rare occasion like this. 

Miles, ever the youngest, was tapping curiously around the room for a scrap of paper and pencil he wouldn't be able to pick up. Still shaking, but curious.

"Let's all just… get outta here. I'm tired too. Mr. Consequences can handle Springtrap, let's just. Leave. I wouldn't mind being at peace." He finishes, awkwardly.

"Yeah." The spirit next to him tacks on.

The absence of Fritz's usual aggressive enthusiasm was... jarring.

"No more birthday parties." Said Miles, somberly. 

"At least we get balloons." 

Chapter Text

"Chik-chikk…?" Said the raccoon, prodding around a heap of fur that smelled of death. 

She had plans to take off pieces of it to wash in the river, like last time, but below the fur, there was only metal. The inconsistency was annoying, at worst, maybe a fork in her day plans, but the thing getting up, however, was a bigger problem. 

Springtrap, the object of scrutiny, smelled enough like death to trip up the local ring-tailed animals and wasn't very aware of it. He wasn't aware of much of anything, at the moment. He rose from his spot on the disgusting checkered floor and blinked, sleepily, one eyelid slightly behind the timing of the other. 

His not-so-sudden return to consciousness sent the raccoon skittering a few feet away, and out of his grasp. This proved to be quite the advantage; upon realizing that a piece of his robotic torso had been chewed on and letting out a few stupid noises, he lunged for the poor animal. But the raccoon was nimble, and Spring had yet to plan out his little revenge past 'GRAB,' so he went crashing into the wall face— or, snout— first.

Needless to say, it hurt, and he protested a string of curses at both the wall and the raccoon. And finally, he turned to get a good look at the thing, and it was gone. Scampered away like a scared animal. Very on-brand.

"God… dammit, little… 'coon-thing." He muttered, to nothing, in the… familiar abandoned building. Spring knew where he was- He remembered this disgusting tile floor and holey ceiling far too well. But how the hell did he get here? Back in his old deathbed? Did he black out and start... sleepwalking? Could he black out? 

His fur was soaked, he noticed. It'd rained in the time he was out— was Deliah worried? Did she know where-

Ah.

He was kicked out— no, no, he left, he left with no plans to return because he was awful. And he told them, the one act of justice in his godforsaken afterlife. And Harry was there; he went to Harry's house. Harry, the little bastard, was probably the reason he was still here, here in-

-Springtrap swiveled his head around. If this really was Fazbear's Fright, then there ought to be a loose floorboard. He began to get up, and failed, then tried on his knees and crawling, searching around, if he was in Fazbear's Fright, he could look under the fire extinguisher, under the dull tile. This awful place that he knew too well had a can of gasoline under the floor, like some psycho's plan B. He could laugh, here's your psycho, in the flesh. Fur. He still didn't know what got him here. How he ended up on the floor. It wasn't like Spring was a stranger to unrecallable gaps in his memory. Wouldn't matter anyway if he just found that can.

The raccoon hissed at him again, half-peeking at him through the open doorframe. Spring could see it through the corner of his eye. 

"You." Said the murderer, coloring the room in a nauseating bruise of purple. His eyes, turning the same sickly color of his tone and brightening, were intense and narrowed. Intimidation amplified by the gritting of his teeth, he hoisted a hand to the wall and stood up. It was a burst of energy he didn't think he'd had at the moment. If you'd been able to go in and look, you'd see a dry spot where he'd been crawling from, outlined sporadically in mud. He'd been flopped down there for a long time.

"I've seen you before. You little… rat," His legs were weak under his own weight, and still he stumbled forward, "You thought I was a four-course meal back in the day… ripe for the…th-the feastin'. News flash, I'm not dead! Too bad!"

The raccoon didn't scatter at this display, it held its position and simply stared up at him. There was something weird about the thing's fur, under all the dirt and grime. Now that he had a better look, there really was something wrong with its fur. It didn't blend well into shadows like raccoons did, just to steal from you. It was certainly worthy of investigation. Tiny too. Maybe, if he could just grab it, and take it somewhere, they could be friends. He's never been particularly fond of raccoons before, but such a rail-thin animal couldn't do much harm. Rodents (were raccoons considered rodents anymore?) were criminals too. This one probably wouldn't judge him. Or maybe it already knows, and that's the real reason it was afraid. Maybe it knew. Judgy rat.

"Let's see you scamper away this time you weird," He stepped forward, his arms at the ready. The door wasn't that far from him, "selfish, little…" 

"Are you seriously talking to a raccoon?" 

Springtrap spun and practically yelped. The ring-tailed animal sprung and dashed under his feet. Around the child in the yellow raincoat and straight out— well, what was left of— the front door.

"OH, what the hell-" Announced the child, flinching away as the raccoon sped through. Spring had the inclination to complain about it getting away, because that fur pattern was weird, and he'd love to see it in a better light, but there were more pressing matters at hand.

"Harry? Whu-what are you doing here, how did you even?" He trailed off, in thought. If Harry was here, then does that mean he led him here? Old instincts tapping in while he was out, grasping for a knife that wasn't there in a pizzeria that didn't exist because of course, he'd do something so stupid-?

"Man, it wasn't hard. I followed you here originally. R'member?" Harry took off his coat hood and gave Spring a funny look.

So that was all? He just… came here and… flopped over? No, there had to be something else that'd happened. He had to have done something, maybe the kid just didn't want to talk about it? He— He didn't need to know. Did he? Concerning potential acts of violence, it was probably important, but then, Harry didn't want to talk. So, he would like to know, but the kid doesn't want to talk, and the kid comes first. That sounded right, yeah, that made some semblance of sense, and if he just dragged it out of Harry he'd be prying anyway.

"Okay, why are you here? Shouldn't you be over at Nick's celebrating with a juice box or… something?" Springtrap growled out the man's name. Oh God, he can't even imagine how Nick'd be grinning right now. Having a goodbye forever you stupid bastard party. Or maybe he was just asleep, having some nightmare about Spring. Maybe thinks he's dead. 

Dead again. He would've been if not for Harry. And, technically, that raccoon.

"I'm here 'cus you need help, man. If this place is any sort of… metaphor? For your mental state, anyway. I mean," Harry took his hands out of his pockets and waved them around, "Look around."

Springtrap couldn't argue with that. The building around him was crumbling, he was pretty sure he heard something fall in another room for effect. However, he was not about to be receiving help when all he's done with it is fuck up. Not happening again. He would just have to grit his teeth and bear this. Find somewhere to stay. Preferably as far away from people as possible. 

"Don't play hero, Harry. It'll get you traumatized."

"I'm aware, man-"

"Don't call me that,"

"-I'm just giving you a dry place to hide out in. If all goes according to plan-"

"Plan-?"

"-I CAN…  Sneak you into my uncle's place, and we can tell him all about your situation. Easy."

This uncle of his— he'd mentioned him before at the Edwards'— was apparently just as chill as Harry about murderers. And even if not, Harry seemed determined. That set-in-stone look that Spring had put on his face before as well— albeit for more dangerous reasons, most of the time. It was unusual for the regular calmness the kid carried if he hadn't seen Harry like this a few hours ago. Hours? How long had it been- and wait- this whole 'plan' was seedy as hell sounding!

But… then again, he was standing in the old horror attraction built around his extensive crimes and subsequent death from his life previous. His whole existence was seedy. If not more so. 

Harry was offering him a place to stay, that's all. Little stuff. He didn't consider the kid family; it just didn't feel right. Especially not now, especially after proving himself right. He couldn't have a family.

Yet it was still an odd feeling. He didn't want to parent around Harry. He didn't want to not support him, either. A weird detachment of the self, he could guess. And now, if he was being offered this again, he couldn't help with parenting because he didn't want to, and then that would make this charity. He didn't want charity— God, want, want, want, all day. No one else-

"How can I pay rent?" Springtrap asked. It would have been less absurd if he wasn't talking to someone nearly two feet shorter than him, he swore. Negotiations of rent with your landlord, who happened to be fourteen— probably, there's no way this kid could drive— were not a regular occurrence. 

"You. Want? To pay rent?" Said Harry, incredulously.

"No more charity. I'll do something stupid," Springtrap looked away from the pre-teen he was negotiating with and opted to stare through the door frame, "And it doesn't have to be money. I probably don't have any at this point. Just… cooking and such. Chores."

The awkward shifting of raincoat sleeves drew his attention back to Harry. He'd rolled back his sleeves slightly to gain better access to his own hands and was counting on his fingers.

"I am not doing your chores, just get… erh…" Springtrap trailed off, realizing that he didn't know any of the other Hursts' names, "...your brother. To share some, God knows high school isn't going to give him any time to do them. "

His own mention of high school sent a shiver down his spine. From what little he remembered, it wasn't fun, from the relentless bullying to… to the… food? If he thought about it too much it practically hurt, and he wasn't in the mood for more of a headache. He'd pick up that weirdly foggy train of thought later when he wasn't wondering how the hell he'd survive another five hours being conscious.

"How, exactly, are you sneaking me into your house?" He eyed Harry suspiciously.

He'd stopped counting out 'rent' and paused, humming to himself. It didn't help his shaky case, but it's not like Springtrap had anywhere else to go. He looked around as Harry tried to explain his convoluted little plan. Through the drear of the leftover rain clouds, he could see it was a surprisingly bright day out. Must've been sometime around… one? Maybe?

Harry was still explaining. The kid never seemed to take his hands out of his pockets (of which he had many) and it was a pretty good little aura of confidence he had going. 

"...And then we just. Keep you in the basement. For, uh… like a month? It's comfy down there so, y'know. Yeah?"

Springtrap vaguely remembered the Hursts' downstairs room. Used for storage, there were a lot of doors that didn't seem to make sense unless they were specifically for hide and seek— or storing old stuff, of course. He was pretty sure he'd opened one he wasn't supposed to; there was a box that said 'Mason's Stuff' in messy sharpie on the side, and it didn't click as Harry's brother's name, so he left it alone.

"Sounds comfy…" He muttered under his breath. And kudos to him, it wasn't a lie! The place was a nice little cove of old video games (that he remembered playing when they were new) and cozy furniture. The time frame, however, worried him. A month of what? Sneaking around and only coming out at night like some kind of vampire? 

But on the other hand, (he refused to call them paws) where else did he have to go? Who else would be there? 

He glanced at the building around him again. Rotting away and falling apart. Would that be his fate? If he were left alone, would he snap like a particularly thin twig? Go around breaking into people's houses and… steal family photos or something? Would his mind crumble like- 

Like a- 

He was running out of similes here,

Like… one of those British cookies? 

"Springtrap? You good?" 

Spring looked back down at his soon-to-be landlord. The kid had to be fourteen. Going into high school this year, if that hadn't changed in his time being dead. Harry had a pretty sweet deal going on, a cool head, and good direction. Deliah did too, with family to lean on, a future to live. Would he have to sit back and watch, a miserable bystander? Would it be better if just moved away, would any of them ever forgive him? Would he poison them both if he kept living?

Chapter Text

Springtrap was beginning to regret his decision. 

Harry was casually strolling down the sidewalk in front of him, hands in pockets, like he didn't have a some-seven-foot rabbit tailing him. He apparently had no qualms about the both of them walking in public. 

Spring stumbled along next to him— head still awfully foggy— a stark, anxious contrast to the kid's bright disposition. He glanced around quickly as he walked. Paranoia was getting the best of him, as usual, as inevitable. To be fair, he was quite the novelty, some weirdo shuffling around in a huge fur suit, following a poor, unsuspecting child.  Spring could see the headlines in bold typeface on the edges of his vision, as if little shadow figures were waving them wildly and skittering away when he turned.

"So I've been wondering," The sudden start of a question came as a small shock, even though he knew it would happen eventually, "Is Springtrap your real name? Or did you make it up— I mean, I assume you just took the animatronic's stage name for authenticity? In case Mr. Edwards knew anything specific? I was kinda thinking about it before I came back to get you."

…He’d done exactly that, actually. The kid had it almost spot on, except for the unpredictable bit of Stanford™ stupidity he’d accidentally tossed in for spice. Even considering he’d come up with it on the spot when Dels walked into that old back room, it was still stupid . He had the chance to come up with something brilliant, to start himself completely anew and he landed on a pun. Like he wasn't taking it seriously, just start a new life under the heavy cover of lies and deceit all the while your poor victims haunt you for revenge, no take-backsies, that's all! 

"...The suit's… name was Spring Bonnie . Real lovely thing back in the '80s."

He could still feel the shadowy figure's headlines pulling at his eye sockets. They pulled towards old memories— probably why his brain was still fogged to all hell. Either that or he died a second time and had to recover. The shadows were still tugging at him, telling him to just lay down and rot on the sidewalk below. Tugging at the seams of his body. His body. His suit? Bodies had blood, didn't they. He didn't have blood. In his veins, which he also didn't have. He didn't have blood in him. Or on him, either. He didn't even have a name. Not really. Not real, and all. 

"But where'd the… trap come from? Did you, like-"

"I died in it. It was a trap , and I died in it. Generally, you can guess, Harry." He snapped, through blood that wasn't in his teeth, that he wasn't actually feeling. God, he hated being like this.

Harry went silent. Spring just yelled at him, of course he was going to quiet down. The two of them hadn't stopped walking, in daylight, in public, though. In some… increasingly familiar suburban neighborhood with more green than what was natural in Utah. The grass wasn't fake, but it wasn't natural. He noticed much of the newer scenery was like that. He was still being interrogated by himself, in his own mind, and he could feel the sift of panic in his chest. Sifting through bad memories. Bad, bad memories. Trying to find every instance he could remember of the shadows. He knew it wasn't normal, but it was just easier to ignore them— but look where that advice got him.

Springtrap clasped his hands together and fiddled with his fingers. He could feel them like normal. They weren't red, or crimson, or skin. The fur on them was matted with dirt, and he took to roughly flicking a particularly chunky bit of dirt off the space in between his first two fingers. It didn't hurt, or sting. Not even a little. He couldn't remember if it was supposed to hurt as much as he expected it to. The piece landed directly on the street and he vaguely recognized that they had passed by a storm drain. Maybe there were raccoons in there. He opted to dive into a memory more recent to save himself more headache. 

His most recent memory. Hurt. And he had another recent one that hurt, but less. It was easier to focus on too, and it made him a little mad, but it was easier to process than the obvious. He had to leave because he was awful, and Nick was going to spill his secrets, and Nick didn't trust him. Nick had hit him. It'd-

-Had it… hurt? When Nick hit him? Did it really hurt, or was he hallucinating it, was it some placebo he conjured up? Just to be more mad at the man? Obviously he just loved to be angry at people, because it was 'easier to process' which was- it was bullshit! He knew it was bullshit, it's always been. Back then he’d fumbled the lies, resorting even to threatening Nick over not being able to feel pain anymore. Was that another lie too? The adrenaline of paranoia dragging down his already low pain awareness? Spring couldn't remember if he could ever feel pain. Logically, he knew he could, but it’d been a long time.

And Nick himself was a whole other can of worms, Nick was… annoying. An unfortunate obstacle he'd needed to be rid of, and now? Maybe he would tell Deliah about the times he'd been threatened, just to put a pin in any remains of forgiveness she had left to give to Springtrap. 

Or maybe he'd just tuck her into bed and sit outside her room with a bat. Afraid Spring would return. Afraid he'd make good on those stupid, awful threats. What reason did he have to think anything else of him? And hey, why the hell did Harry give him any chance? 

He could refocus on the kid in front of him, faintly, and see he was still silently walking the familiar path to his house. It was a blurry image like he was holding back tears, and he swiped a hand over his eyes. The motion was useless, he wasn't crying, he hadn't even been crying when-

His vision cleared slightly, and lo and behold, he was crying. 

It was weird though, a disturbing, inky substance came away where there should have been no color. Tears didn't have a color. He tilted his arm out— did this… stuff have the same properties as tears? It stuck to the back of his hand when he turned it over. He swears he could see it almost  squirm,  but he wasn't prepared to understand whatever that meant. Maybe it was actually, genuinely ectoplasm? From the movies? It was a terrible word; he didn't want to deal with ectoplasm of all things.

He knew the kids had some kind of tear residue, even if he hadn't seen them in a little while. Which was another pressing problem he couldn't process at the moment. Maybe that was the stuff he would hallucinate about, the writings on the walls. Hallucinatory goop.

Except he’d always been able to see the shadows, the figures, the headlines, the whatevers! The delusions weren’t new. It was his handwriting on those walls, and always a message to himself, and it was always something along the lines of get it together you idiot.

He nearly jumped out of his skin— his suit— at a pebble hitting his outstretched arm. He hadn't realized he zoned out so deeply as to stop walking, but now Harry was looking at him, with an awfully smug half-smirk that made the message clear as day. Score. He was standing a ways away, right before a split in the neighborhood where a crosswalk was. Spring dropped the arm and shuffled forward to gain some ground toward Harry.

“What?” Springtrap grumbled. He was an awful guest.

“You just stopped walking. What’s wrong with your arm?”

“Nothing, Harry- it’s fine, I just- uh,” Think, think- “I just don’t… have any motorized parts! No wires- and… and such. It’s weird.”

Harry’s expression melted into confusion. To be fair, it was a pretty dumb excuse, but it’d been a question bouncing around Springtrap’s skull for quite a few weeks. How was he walking? Talking? How did his face plating change the way it did, just to grant him more expression? When Deliah mysteriously picked up the exact parts he’d needed, how did she get them? From who? She never knew any of the mechanics, he’d done most of the repair himself, when she wasn’t around. Did… the ectoplasm (awful name, he’d have to think of a new one) have something to do with it? The last time he checked, his tear ducts were pretty much dust and rot.

“Yeah, you can keep that to yourself, never mind,” Harry’s nose wrinkled up suddenly, in faux disgust.

What. What did that mean? Was he talking about-?

“Harry, what-?”

“No-nono it’s cool man you don't have to tell about that kinda stuff,” He hooked a right down the sidewalk, power walking as fast as possible. He was quick for a kid, but Spring had more pressing matters to be confused about. Harry was snickering to himself the entire way around the sidewalk to his house. "Forget I asked, old man!"

“What do you think… what? What do you think I’m talking about-? Harry-!” Spring semi-angrily hurried after him, having trouble deciding between hiding as soon as he got near the house or spraying Harry with the hose in his own front lawn. Wasn’t quite running after him, so-to-say, but he wasn’t slowing down either. There weren’t any cars out front, so he could guess that’s where all of Harry’s confidence when leading Spring inside had come from in the first place.

Being the third house down the road, Springtrap was surprised that this wasn’t a busier part of the neighborhood. He was also aware that, yes, he was passing by Deliah’s house as he huffed along, and he should probably speed up or he might be seen. Maybe he’d already been seen. Maybe she’d immediately gone to lock the doors. Maybe she'd get her father's bat and sit in the same closet she hid in during hide-and-seek, right before she'd immediately had a nightmare about him and he'd screwed it all up, for real.

The thought of her being so afraid of him— the memory of it— scraped a claw through his stomach and stabbed at his heart. 

He kept walking into the Hursts’ house. He hadn’t even realized he’d stopped walking to look away.

Chapter Text

Harry had a reading project due in two days. He'd been stuck on that deadline for a long time, weeks smiling goodbye through his summer as his schedule became more and more… hectic. Deliah had been a welcome new best friend, but the video games were running fairly dry and most of their hangouts recently had been kind of strained. His other friends were busy, apparently always, and he suddenly had plenty of free time to do his Romeo and Juliet summer assignment. That was due. In two days.

So he was looking up words. Fancy words relating to stars. His objective? Simple. Find one word pertaining to the play— one last word out of five. Explain it in as many other words as possible, and bam. Done. It was extremely difficult, however, to stay on track. There were so many. A scrawling list of Latin words too, all meaning different things about the sky. 

Welkin just meant sky, of course, but it looked Gaelic in root, and that was a trail he could follow forever and ultimately destroy his focus. Language fascinated him to no end sometimes. He could still remember vividly the kind of tree that captured his attention in one movie based on Gaelic legends he saw when he was like… nine, and then never found again. He'd have to ask his mom.

Firmament was an interesting contender. He could see, after a closer look, that it was directly connected to the heavens, perfect for the assignment at hand. It didn't stand out to his liking though. Didn't sound right. Worst case scenario he couldn't find any other words and he'd force himself to use this one. 

“Harrison, Matthew," He could hear from down the hall, "I’m leaving!”

“Love you!” Echoed through the house. Harry always went to repeat it, even if it would break his concentration. Well, scattered concentration. It was kind of reassuring to know that Matt and him still told their mom they loved her. It was something Harry had always hoped none of them ever stopped doing. The door clicking shut was a very loud sound.

He stole a glance at the clock. Eight thirty-three. It was way too early to be doing this stupid reading project, but what other time did he have? Matt would probably bother him for lunch plans at some point, and then he'd never get anything done after. 

Star-crossed lovers, hm? He always found the concept a little bit stupid, and the play wasn't very good at threatening his disdain. The whole thing was about two dumb teenagers (he would know) thinking they're in love and killing themselves over it. The age difference leaves something to be desired, but that's a whole other can of worms probably being debated on immaturely by every YA author out there. The play was pretty good— it was goddamn Shakespeare— but young adult novels were the worst . He hadn't finished a book in so long just because everything else just seemed more… pressing. And easier to digest than Hunger Games Copy #26.

Harry's computer beeped at him. It needed a restart, apparently. New update. He dismissed it immediately. 

Maybe he should broaden his search. Cosmos, universe, theories! There were plenty of words in science reports on space his new reading teacher probably wouldn't question. Sure enough, there they were: universe, galaxy, microcosm-macrocosm analogy (multiple words, and he didn't even know what that meant), cosmology (he could possibly use that to describe Shakespeare's literary strategies), megacosm… infinitesimal.

Cool. He didn't even think he could say infinitesimal. The link took him straight to the definition, and some websites about the creation of the universe, which only intrigued him more. The Big Bang wasn’t new to him by any means, but that didn’t make it any less interesting. There was also a song by the same name, which he made a note to listen to sometime.

in·fin·i·tes·i·mal

/ˌinˌfinəˈtes(ə)m(ə)l/

adjective

extremely small.

There was some shuffling and creaking from further in the house that sounded uncomfortably like the stairs. Matt never went downstairs unless Harry was already there, and when in such situations they immediately pestered the hell out of each other. Harry spun all the way around in his chair and tried his best to peek at the staircase without getting up. His view from the hall was limited, constantly turning his head because of the spinning chair, but he could see a pair of huge rabbit ears doing a terrible job at hiding. By no means was Harry spying discreetly.

Sigh. Time to deal with Springtrap. He could guess that Matt wasn't going to be out of his room right that second, so there was no real reason to rush him over. 

Harry swung back around and pasted infinitesimal into his Google Doc. Best to make a start. If it meant extremely small, he could probably stretch out a description of literary devices connecting to the‐ Oh, what cosmic entity was it connected to again? He'd not clicked on any links because of the odd definition. It was a mathematical quantity as well, like a super-decimal.

If he focused on the far right of his screen, he could see the reflection of Springtrap poking his head around the corner of his door. He hadn't known the guy much longer than a month or two now, but in all the time he'd been away from Deliah's house he hadn't been very smiley. It was kind of unnerving, considering his whole face shape was regularly a smile. He glanced around Harry's room for a second, realized he'd apparently traveled completely undetected, and grinned. 

Wait, assignment, right. Checking out the Wiki was a bust, as whatever "surreal numbers" were, they probably had nothing to do with Shakespeare. Checking to see where Springtrap was, however, was a more successful operation. Even though he'd heard Deliah mention it off-hand so much, the distance he covered so quickly without so much as a creak was shocking. Spring was directly behind him, arms outstretched above Harry in a stereotypical spooky cartoon fashion. Harry had to hold in his snicker. Dels was so right. Huge doofus.

"Boo."

"Do you know how to say this?" Harry spun in his chair, "This."

Springtrap deflated at the lack of reaction. Harry motioned to his monitor for emphasis in case the old man’s eyes were failing. Luckily, the word was interesting enough to grab attention, and he bent down to Harry's height.

"Er… infinite- infinitesimal?" Springtrap eyed the screen warily. Harry was pretty sure he hadn't been there to see Google exist, so it wasn't out of expectation.

"Infin- eh -tesimal?" He put extra effort into the pronunciation as he returned to his computer. He was not going to be that one kid who couldn't read their presentation the day of. Even if no one else knew the words to begin with. It'd be a chilly day in hell when there wasn't at least one kid in his class who could silently judge him for a mispronounced word. As if he wasn’t that very same kid most of the time.

"Yep," Springtrap said oddly as if he expected to pop the 'p' in the word. "Why?" 

"Got a project I'm working on for school." Spring pulled a funny look Harry was only able to catch at a glance, and it occurred to him that he was incredibly expressive for a robot. Even if he was a ghost, weren’t poltergeists the only kind that could manipulate objects? It was clear now that Spring barely had a grasp on what he looked like, and- weren’t ghosts supposed to forget that they were dead? Remembering your death had to be pretty traumatic even if you totally deserved it right then. Even when Harry first met him as the creepy bunny man in Deliah’s house, he was, in fact, just some kind of dork with a crazy anxiety problem. Death had to be hard on the brain— which reminded him, he needed to get in touch with his uncle. Hadn't seen him in… years now. Hopefully, he could do his nephew a favor.

Springtrap broke the silence. "You and your brother still say, 'I love you' to your mom?" 

"...What?" 

"You and your brother. I heard it earlier when she left." 

He turned to face Springtrap again, and there he stood, hunched over slightly from where he’d read what was on-screen. If Harry was correct, and he didn’t get infected with Spring’s “hallucination goop,” or whatever, then Springtrap was asking, with complete sincerity, why he told his mom he loved her before she left for work. The regular half-genuine smile was there, but yeah. He was… completely serious.

"What, you didn't hear Deliah say that?" It probably wasn't his business what Springtrap did and didn’t hear but it was a better option than attempting to pry open Spring's… mess of problems directly. Not ready for that.

"Eh, you know," Harry did not, in fact, know, "Had to… deal with Nick first. Never noticed." 

Springtrap narrowed his eyes at the mention of Nick. He was probably trashing the man to all hell, which probably wasn’t fair, he seemed pretty nice whenever Harry saw him.

"Weren’t you there for like, seven months-?"

"Give me a break, alright?! I was a little busy trying not to explode like a time bomb," He lowered his voice to mutter. "...But that didn't really work, did it?"

Harry was still just kind of sitting there. The only reason he could hear the man mumbling was because it was so quiet in the house, but that probably wouldn't last long. 

Spring stiffened after a minute of mutterings and sprung from looming over him into the most strained grin Harry had ever seen. Accompanied by panicked eyes, he had the feeling it was still too early for more in-depth questions. 

"But seriously, aren't you fourteen or something? And how old is your brother anyway? Doesn't it feel a bit juvenile?" Spring near-manically grabbed onto the chair and launched Harry back around again. The speed and then sudden stop as Springtrap grabbed the chair, again, made his head spin.

"Gh- Listen, man, I've got work to do. I wouldn't say it if I didn't mean it." An honest answer was likely the best way to deal with whatever Springtrap had going on. He had a feeling he knew what those questions meant, but he didn't really want to think about it. This did silence Spring for a few moments, and Harry sighed. Back to work. He could hear Spring poke around his room a little, but as long as he didn't start opening drawers or something, he was fine. 

He did have a project to work on, after all. He could quickly scribble out some connection between infinitesimal (which was honestly becoming a favorite word of his at this point) and Romeo and Juliet's ability to see their own futures. Or their ability to think ahead at all. Doing all that for "love" was just stupid, there would be so many other solutions! If it were him in Romeo's situation there never would have been a fight to begin with. He couldn't remember if the Montagues' and Capulets' feud was ever even explained. His keyboard was beginning to complain at him the more he typed.

And then Harry could hear the distinct sound of Styrofoam beans being crunched. Looking over revealed Springtrap, squatting next to his— whaddya' know— bean bag chair. 

"It's a bean bag."

"Mhm." Springtrap was eyeing it cautiously as if it was going to pop and explode the second he put any weight on it. At the same time though, his pupils were huge, like a cat when they locked onto a target. 

"You can sit on it, you know-" A small part of Harry wasn't sure if he actually knew what he was poking at.

"I know what a bean bag chair is! I'm not from 1942, kid." A larger part of Harry just really wanted to see Spring get mad over being old.

He tapped it again. It made a bean bag sound. 

Then, the front door made a sound as well, and Springtrap flinched outwardly. Harry didn’t jump as far up as Spring, because he’d heard his own door being knocked on a million times, but the fact that it was eight forty-something in the morning stuck out to him. Who the hell would that be?

“Calm down, it's not the police. Probably just some…” He blanked for a second because no one would be here at this time, but then again Springtrap could chalk it up to being dead. “Telemarketers.”

“What?” Spring looked away from accusing the bean bag of knocking on the door. Harry was already halfway out his door, perfectly content to leave Springtrap in the dark.

“Uh- No, one of those guys that advertise stuff at your house. You know what I mean. Not a telemarketer.” He corrected, mostly to himself. If Matt heard him talking to someone before he opened the door the jig was up, and he'd be dead meat by noon. Could’ve sworn there was a word for a door-to-door salesman, anyway.

Harry lived in a house that had a nice door, that had this nice kind of chestnut color, and it matched his really nice porch— but he lived there, so he never noticed any of that. The handle on his door wasn't shiny, but it opened smoothly, and he always seemed to be shorter than the people on the other side. So, when he poked his head out and Nick was the one knocking on his door, it was not a surprise to have to look up.

He was fidgety for someone so much taller. "Oh. Hello Harry! Did your mother leave yet— I wasn't sure if she left yet. I wanted to check on you."

"Hey, Mr. Edwards. I'm alright… isn't it really early to check on me?" Harry made no move to open the door any wider.

"Figured it would be best to try to catch your mom before she went to work. Guess I missed that opportunity, heh…" Nick emptily smiled. 

There was a moment of silence that Harry knew meant an adult wanted to say something but couldn't articulate it quite yet. He stayed quiet. 

"...Do you-" Nick interrupted himself and sighed, "Do you know where Springtrap is?"

"He's safe."

Nick blinked down at him. "But- where?"

"Safe." Harry shrugged.

Nick narrowed his eyes and inhaled as if he was going to ask Harry again. Harry could nearly hear the gears turning as Nick looked at him and held his breath. Now that he had more time, he noticed the man wasn't quite looking him in the eye. Nick decided against the question.

"Just… you stay safe. Too. Alright?"

"Yes sir." Nick began to leave. "I don't think he'll be plotting anything unnecessarily evil anytime soon. The last time I talked to him, he still couldn't look at himself in the mirror."

Nick'd stopped to look back at him, and then to look at his watch. There were a lot of emotions cycling through his face that Harry probably didn't want to decode. The only one that lingered particularly long enough for Harry to pay attention was skepticism. 

"I'm almost late," He mumbled, and Harry was sure he said more (something about Harry going to see Deliah at the candy shop) but of course, he couldn't hear Nick (so he wouldn't be going). "Have a good day, Harry."

He shut the door. The house around him was quiet, and when he turned, Springtrap was too. Sitting on the staircase, arms wrapped around his knees, ears drawn down, he looked… medium-sized. Harry didn’t think Springtrap could ever manage to look small, even if he tried. Even now, it just looked kind of pitiful. 

He has got to get in touch with his uncle.

The banister wasn't made to be leaned on by an adult, but Harry wasn't going to be an "adult" for another four years, so he leaned on it anyway. Except for when his mom was around. 

Springtrap seemed to notice. "I… Thanks."

"Can you eat? Like I've heard you made Deliah cookies and stuff all the time." He asked, innocently. He didn't miss the minuscule flinch when Springtrap heard him mention Deliah, but he wouldn't put it past the man.

"No."

"Bet that sucks," Harry replied. The conversation was pretty empty, but he didn't mind. At least he had an excuse not to‐

Shit, his project.

"It does. It does suck." Said Springtrap.

"D'you know any... starry words?"

Springtrap looked up at him, confused. And then the look became a sort of thoughtful confusion, and finally, a weird expression. It looked like he was terrified for a few seconds.

"I don't. Quite. Remember," He began and averted his widening eyes (that usually blinked a lot more). "What the stars… look like."

It kind of didn't make sense. I mean, didn't he spend all night outside multiple times? Recently? Well— light pollution was strong in this part of Utah, even if half the place was known for its uninhabitable deserts and, of course, clear skies. "Oh. Alright." 

Chapter Text

Harry was pacing around his basement.

“You have got to get out of my house,”

"And where do you suggest I go?” Springtrap replied from his spot on the couch. His ears twitched at something unheard.

“Literally anywhere?” Harry shot back.

“I am a seven-foot rabbit animatronic. I am very noticeable!" He stood up for emphasis, "If I step foot outside, I will be questioned.”

“...Nuh uh." He sighed.

Springtrap wouldn't actually be questioned, but he apparently didn't know that. He'd have guessed the undisturbed walk back to Harry's house would provide Springtrap with enough evidence, but he'd be wrong. To be fair, even Deliah hadn't known about it until Harry told her. No one in town said a word. No one wanted to be a snitch. Guess it's up to Harry to be the exposition.

Speaking of Deliah (and school by proxy), he’d have to cut this really, really short, because he was probably actively missing his bus.

"What do you mean, 'nuh uh,' Harry!? Believe it or not, but people don't exactly mind their business."

"You're going to therapy soon anyway! You'll have to leave one way or another." Harry was correct, but that didn’t seem to make Springtrap feel any better. In fact, the mention of it seemed to sour his mood. He scowled petulantly down at Harry. The boy sighed once again.

“Okay, listen, man, I’m going to cut this spooky tale a little short because I’ve got school and you already know the gory details, but just- just listen to me. Way back when, in ye old times when you were off…” He trailed off for a second, sucking air through his teeth and attempting to formulate an explanation without being borderline rude. “While you were being super evil,”

Surprisingly, Springtrap nodded and simply plopped back down on the couch, elbows on his knees. His ear twitched again. “There was another robot guy. He was trapped in the suit and shit, just like you, and became a bit of a Hurricane secret for… like. Forever now. He had a real nice rest of his afterlife and got a girlfriend or whatever, I think-?"

Harry waved a hand around his face as if to brush away the unnecessary details. "No one really has the same story 'cause we never met him y’know? But he lived a long time and eventually, they found his suit— he was a bear by the way— like. Completely lifeless and empty one day. Guess he got peace or something.”

One of the reasons he'd tried to find out more of what was up with Springtrap in the first place was because he'd never met the other guy. It was just a bedtime story and a small-town myth until Deliah had introduced him.

Spring's eyes had long since widened, and now his mouth was hanging slightly open, which was kind of a storytelling win from Harry’s perspective. He could also guess it wasn’t just his storytelling, but a win is a win. He could nearly hear the gears turning.

"My point here is that if you go out there? No one will bother you. Either they know that you're a ghost or they think you're a furry."

"A what?"

"They won't ask you," Harry amended. He would leave that task to someone else. "'Cause they think you're like… a brave soul and shit. Trapped in a robot body. Emphasis on trapped."

Springtrap snorted. Or made a sound that would indicate a snort— and then broke out into laughter. Loud laughter. His ear twitched, again. Harry wondered briefly if the dead children were talking to him.

"Dude- be quiet! What?" 

"Just a- Just an inside joke I have with myself. Sorry kid, I'm not…" He waved a hand in front of him, kind of depressedly, "All here at the moment. And don't- Don't call me that."

Truthfully, Springtrap was laughing because of his own name, which had become somewhat of a bittersweet joke at that point. Harry didn’t know that though, so the man improvised. He wasn't all there at that moment either, though, so it wasn't exactly a lie. He'd been on a nice track record not lying recently. He'd say it was because he had nothing left to lie about, but that would be sad.

He fixed Harry with an odd expression all of a sudden, immediately indicating that he was about to pry. 

"You're sure it was a guy possessing a bear suit? Was it resembling mine at all? All… golden?"

"It's not like I've seen him. Yeah, he was a bear, that's all I know." 

Springtrap narrowed his eyes in suspicion. "So you're feeding me a local myth?"

"You don't believe me? Why would I lie? You know that type of stuff can happen," Harry poked Spring in his scuffed bow. "You know more than anyone."

"I just don’t see why you want me to leave so terribly bad. You- ya’ got some kind of evil plan, kid?" Springtrap grinned and leaned back into the couch. He was trying to make a joke, but the expression was tilted wrong at the edges. Didn't look right, didn't look genuine. Like he was convincing himself of something in the back of his mind. Still— it was not the time.

"Yeah, actually. I have just enough time to spray you with the hose again if you're so adamant about staying-" An alarmed look crossed Spring's face and he sat up quickly. 

"No! …Fine. I'll leave the house, but if I get interrogated all day it's your fault." He huffed. He was not going to be the victim of the hose again if he could manage.

"You won't, though!" By the time he opened his eyes, Harry was already running to the stairs, barely paying Spring another glance. "Bye!"

Springtrap couldn't object without yelling, and he was already feeling huffy. So he sat there and listened. He listened to Harry meet up with his mother and brother, (hug them,) and leave. 

So now, he was completely alone in the house.

Besides the kids, of course. They'd apparently gotten an attitude change. And a change in appearance, but maybe he'd just been hallucinating worse. They seemed to be full-on shadows now, rather than the transparent form they had before. It was… odd. They'd been there while Harry was talking, giggling at him conspiratorially. Springtrap's ear twitched. He needed to find that noise and fix it.

"You could just not leave."

"He won't know!" They whispered.

"I'm enough of a joke." He hated when they made fun of him. No one liked to be made fun of, but Springtrap especially. He'd make jokes, and he would make puns, and that was the set-up for a good laugh. Not when he was always at his worst. Or his best, and then they'd come in and laugh at him, and mess up everything he'd worked for.

But they were kids. Obviously, Spring couldn't be the person to teach them, because he'd somehow hurt them, because of course he would. He could never manage to get the concept of an inconsequential mistake to stick, could he? And now there was no one else to teach them. They were stuck with him. 

His ear twitched. He felt like yanking it out. No wonder the kids made fun of him.

"You lie all the time anyway."

"Aren't you all supposed to be preventing me from murdering people?" He asked incredulously and got up.

"It's just a lie!" They whispered urgently. No matter their volume or distance, Springtrap could always hear them. He gritted his teeth together. His teeth were always together because opening his mouth affected the volume of whatever speaker he used, but it never hurt to see how hard he could press down. 

Climbing the stairs, he briefly wondered if he pressed down hard enough, he could simply break his own jaw. Maybe it'd stop him from talking.

The kids giggled behind him.

He should leave.

*

The car behind Deliah drove away, and she was finally, officially, a high schooler.

Deliah hugged herself close and tugged on her backpack straps. She didn't much like the revelation. The first day of school always gave her a stomach ache, as if she was on a rollercoaster right before a drop that wasn’t gonna happen until… lunch probably. Maybe she could sit with Harry at lunch if they had the same period. Maybe.

She probably didn't have any classes with him. She'd been on kind of a reclusive streak lately anyway.

She stepped out of the car line area (look left, then right, and pray none of these cars have student drivers) and into her new high school. It was a huge pavilion-courtyard, littered with random people she didn't know, and people who'd probably ignore her. Back to her usual experience. If she kept a low profile, she'd stay out of drama this year, and no one would bother her. She’d gather some people to trust in her classes and hope Harry happened to be one of them.

"DELS!" Oh boy.

Surprisingly, when she turned to find the source of the yell and they called to her again— it was Harry! Speak of the devil, he was just trying to get her attention. It wasn’t some random kid and his group of friends she could pin down as annoyances. So, she waved happily.

He immediately waved back and yelled some more, so she decided the best option was to duck and cover her way through the crowd and further into the courtyard so he'd quiet down.

"Harry!"

"Deliah!" He crashed into her, and they hugged. She'd been getting a lot of hugs recently, but this was nicer. "You're finally here, I've been waiting forever."

"I apologize for not riding the bus. What a terrible thing I've done, avoid other teens." She snarked at him. It felt good to be talking to him again. Natural conversation. Harry grinned, and something seemed to spark behind his eyes that spelled mischief in huge bold font.

"Can't avoid them anymore," He pulled the both of them closer to one of the tables all of a sudden, farther in the courtyard and surrounded by a couple of kids. "This is the crew. The main one, anyway. HEY!”

Two of them turned, but the other two did not. One of them looked directly at her, the one closest to the corner of the table. She had nice glasses and lots of bracelets on, which Deliah had to admit were really pretty, and they made a nice noise when she immediately turned back to who she was talking to— a much bigger kid, probably a junior. Rude. Deliah personally marked the bracelet girl down as avoidable and moved on to the other two.

The lankier one had a nonbinary pin on a jacket that was way too fluffy to be worn during the summer. That was noted too. They spoke first. 

"Oh, yo! You're- you’re Deliah aren't you! Nice to meet you, man. Harry won't shut up about you and your video game skills. Is it true you’ve never played a single shooter except Halo? And still absolutely wrecked his shit first game? That won't last by the way," They sure did like to talk, "I'm the mad gamer in this friend group and you're going to die."

It took a second for Dels to process that little monologue. Luckily, Harry filled in the gaps for her.

"That's Bingo. They talk like that… because they do." Harry explained with narrowed eyes. Deliah was only mildly concerned about the threat to her life. 

Bingo seemed like the type to be wearing a terribly nerdy shirt under all that jacket. They also kind of complimented her weird skill in shooter games, which was surprising, but not unwelcome. 

She looked at Harry again. Did he really talk about her a lot?

The other member of the crew spoke up. "That was a joke. I'm Jade. That’s Bingo. They talk."

The other kid was… green. Her hair was green, her clothes green, and she even had jewelry on that was green. From what Deliah could see while Jade was sitting at the table, the only non-green thing was her skin and eyes.

"Jade?" Deliah blurted out. These introductions were going way too fast to think clearly, apparently.

"Jade."

"Harry. Great! Introductions over, get your schedules out, fools. We do not have time." He rushed to sit down and suddenly was not behind Deliah anymore. There goes her semi-shield. The other girl and junior had long left, around the time Bingo opened their mouth. Maybe the other girl at the table wasn't actually part of the crew. Oh well, more profiling done anyway. She wasn’t going to ask if it was never mentioned.

…It was probably weird that her first task on every first day of school was to profile as many people as possible. Maybe. Everything about herself seemed abnormal whenever she met entirely new people.

“That’s only because you didn’t get here at your usual four in the morning. Calm down.” Jade supplied. It was also kind of uncomfortable meeting these two, who had obviously known Harry longer than she had. She didn’t think Harry was the type to be super-unnaturally early.

Regardless, Deliah actually had her schedule when she sat down, and so did everyone else, which was a good sign. She did like these two new kids, and even though Bingo never seemed to breathe when they managed to get started talking, she found it nice. Nicer than usual. 

Harry had taken out a pen and started writing his schedule on his arm when she looked over at him. Deliah smiled. She hadn't planned to genuinely smile at someone (probably not a normal thing to do) until she went to lunch or finally met one of her teachers. She'd missed orientation kind of not totally on purpose, and plus, Springtrap was at her house. He was… a lot.

The smile was gone. She really did need to ask Harry about him. And maybe she needed to ask herself about Springtrap too, but she didn’t have the energy or the time to puzzle out how angry or sad or whatever she felt about her ex-best friend and his apparent murderous tendencies.

It all made too much sense in the scheme of things. Except for him leaving. Springtrap left, and he was so nice to her for so long, that couldn't have all been a lie. He'd left, and that was proof.

Right?

Jade bumped her arm and she jumped about six feet up. It felt like she jumped that far, at least. "Deliah. We've got the same homeroom. Mrs… Haves."

"...Is it hav-es or… hay-ves?"

"No clue. Guess we'll find out."

"I've heard she's a total-" Harry clamped a hand over Bingo's mouth, shutting them up. Deliah snorted.

"Spoilers." Bingo squinted at him, faux angrily. There was a peaceful moment of silence between the group. "ARE YOU LICKING MY FUCKING HAND?"

The first bell rang and nearly scared Dels out of her skin. She was jumpy today, things were just happening too quickly, all at once. Harry and Bingo began to squabble good-naturedly, and Jade began to drag her away by the arm. 

*

So.

So, Springtrap was walking around Hurricane, and nothing was happening. 

There were people on the streets, but what little attention they paid to him didn’t last. He was acutely aware of every gasp and stare until they eventually returned to their destinations. Maybe they'd whisper amongst themselves, but no one came up to him and accused him immediately of murder, proving the kids wrong enough.

He'd decided that nothing the kids could be planning was a good idea, and neither were his own ideas, so Harry's was the only opinion he could rely on as of current. So he left the Hursts' house! 

He didn't have a destination. Spring couldn't remember for the life of him— or lack thereof— the map of his hometown. He wasn't a fool, there were bound to be changes in thirty years, but this was a newer problem.

His own memory. As of recently, it hadn't been doing too hot, even putting aside his frequent inability to distinguish reality from hallucination. He could feel the heat of the sidewalk he was aimlessly wandering on, but he knew at the same time that it wasn't real because he wasn't alive. It just made his head spin.

Which was bad, considering he did not particularly want to get hit by a car at the moment. The impact would probably do more damage to the car than to him, and he just didn't have any money on account of being legally dead. 

Springtrap considered the town around him. It looked so vaguely blurry at the edges of his vision, he wondered if his eyes needed to be checked. It had always been small and that rang true today, despite the fact that Hurricane had nearly doubled in size. The people who passed him were still whispering. If he squinted, one of the kids was in the window of a nearby shop… using their tears to write something on the window…?

It was like he needed glasses. He's never needed glasses. He wondered briefly, again, if his eyes needed to be checked, and ducked down into an alleyway.

Spring promptly popped his right eye out of its socket in his head. Well— it was more like he yanked it out, after pressing a button somewhere around the back of his neck and under the mask, of course. Again, he thought it best to avoid the children and their plans today, even if he rightfully deserved whatever new bit of anguish they had in store for him.

He turned the eye over in his hand a couple of times. His eye. The alleyway was terribly dark for almost noon, it was unnatural. He couldn't see out of the eye when he popped it out, so that eliminated… absolutely nothing about how he worked. Maybe he was still being powered by electricity in his wires? The battery would have been long dead by now if— there even was one.

He silently cursed his previous foolishness in not checking any farther than "No dead body? Great!"

If he dismantled anything now it likely would not have good consequences. Most likely.

Springtrap shivered. Consequences . He couldn't tell if this feeling was some weird sensory issue, or if it was truly his most ironic and cowardly fear yet. Just the word consequences sent an uncomfortable shiver down his spine. Simply and only the word. He couldn't possibly be that much of a coward, could he?

He looked up and realized the sky was stormy. Weird, considering it'd been extremely sunny almost five minutes ago, and Utah was a desert.

He rubbed the eye against his fur, hoping to clear out any dust, and popped it back into its socket. There was a gasp from down near the sidewalk, and when he turned, he caught a glimpse of a horrified woman hurriedly speed-walking past him with a teenager in tow. The kid hadn't seemed to notice him…

Pop his eye back into his face.

Whoops.

*

Nick, au contraire to apparently literally everyone else, was… mildly panicking.

Physically, he was ringing up a regular and her son for the kid’s choice of gummy bears. Lisa— the regular in question— always let her son roam free while she talked with Nick aimlessly at the counter. The kid never visibly stole anything and might’ve been friends with Deliah since she was here so often, so Nick let him wander while he dealt with the kid's mom.

Lisa was… nice? Yes, she was nice conversation but sometimes held up other customers in her odd mission to talk to him, and then he’d have to ask her to move, which always sounded rude to him, but at the same time, she was in the way. 

That didn’t happen today though (it’d been a slow day), and he gave them the candy and recited his customer service lines with a wave because Lisa was nice and probably considered him a friend. She mentioned something about a weird figure in some alley that scared her on the way here, so he tossed in a " be safe" for good measure. 

Internally? He was kind of terrified. Springtrap was still in the neighborhood. 

Nick was aware when Springtrap left that he'd be at Harry's house, the kid tried to appeal to him right there, but he hadn't really processed it in the wake of comforting Dels. 

He’d been thankful to Deliah’s high school many times before that she was away from the house all day, but never as much as he was now. 

Springtrap was in Harry’s house, and the kid wouldn’t admit it to Nick. 

He had to hand it to him, lying to his face in full confidence. Wasn’t a good thing, but it also wasn't his business to pry.

And yet, Nick wasn't free of the murderer. So, it was his business. For Harry, for Deliah, and for the children Springtrap murdered. He'd say it was still hard to believe, but the man had threatened him one time too many for Nick to give him the benefit of a doubt.

He'd been worried about Deliah more recently too. He was hoping she'd make some more friends at school today and open up again since she'd pretty much holed herself up in her room— completely alone after Springtrap left. For nearly a week now, he'd tried his best to be there whenever she needed comfort and offered to talk multiple times, but his off days ran out quicker than he could get through to her. As usual.

It was… awful. Nick hated not being there for Deliah. He'd done that enough over the past few years, obviously. And now, there'd been a dead child murderer staying in their house for four months without him knowing. 

Nick had an inkling, after a while, that Springtrap wasn't just a robot. He talked too human and knew things he really shouldn't've, but he was making Deliah happy. Very happy. She actually had someone to rely on over the summer— it hurt… but he couldn't blame her. He wasn't there. Spring was playing it nicer, smarter, gradually. Avoiding Nick until completely necessary and gritting his teeth to bare it when he had to talk to him.

Nick was the one who fucked up when he let Springtrap stay. He practically knew Springtrap wasn't just a robot, and he still let him stay! Not even attempting to fact-check! 

Wait.

He had been tapping a pen on the counter as he spiraled, and no one was around to notice his quiet panic attack. Now, he stopped abruptly.

He could absolutely do some digging. Find out what he was really dealing with, research that Fazbear place, and just keep track of Springtrap. If anyone saw him sneaking around like a rat (even though he was a rabbit— but actually a ghost-) Nick would know nearly immediately! 

He didn't know the town all that well, because sure, he'd admit to not actually having many friends in the first place, but he could ask around. Throw his contact information around too. 

The idea of putting up Lost Dog posters around town to keep track of Springtrap came to mind. Nick chuckled to himself. 

Lost Intruder

His name is Springtrap and if you see him, please tell me. I hate him and never want to see him again because of the damage he's caused to my family. If you see him, please contact me immediately and let me know where you saw him and what he was doing. He should be in the slammer and is a danger to society.

Thank you.

Wait. If he was walking out and about like he wasn't a huge robot, he'd definitely see the posters.

Nick sighed and began tapping the pen again. The store bell rang, and a couple walked in. He waved slightly. They ignored him completely. So, he sat there and thought for a very long few minutes.

He was going to ask around about that Fazbear's place. It was concerning to an extent that Deliah knew more about it than him. The tapping continued.

She got him from a diner, right? 

Nick reached under the counter and snatched up a piece of candy from the shelf. It was jolly ranchers, and he knew exactly where they were because they were the only candy and or pastry on the shelf below him that wasn't all for show. They happened to be his secret emergency stash, in fact. The couple left without buying anything.

He was going to that diner. He popped the jolly rancher in his mouth. 

Blue raspberry flavor. Nice. 

(They were all blue raspberry.)

He just had to figure out when he had the time.

*

Springtrap's eyes had not gotten any better. In fact, they'd gotten worse. 

His peripheral vision was practically useless at this point, despite him popping out his eyes about seven times for a shine-up on his way around town. He was still wandering around, looking for a suitable café to haunt (heh) and finding a lot of commercial bullshit that smelled of far too much like canned food and grease.

Maybe he was a tiny bit of a snob about food. Just maybe. He'd always cooked for himself up until recently. With. Deliah

He stopped at a crosswalk and shook the thought of his brain. Literally shook. And then looked both ways before politely crossing the street. He'd almost forgotten he didn't look human whatsoever, because he'd just tuned out the whispers. It was an old skill of his to be able to ignore the whispers by ignoring most of everything, and one he was happy to keep. Plus, he literally couldn't see them turn and whisper anymore.

At least his nose was still working. He had exactly one sense to lead him around, away from Harry's (and Deliah's, and also Nick's) neighborhood. 

The kids were still definitely following him around. Throwing out the occasional absolutely devastating blow to his psyche. They'd clearly changed in such a short time. He could have sworn they were nicer, quieter even, on the way to Harry's. One of them even told him she'd thought he was being brave.

Man, he was getting bad. Maybe he should have just been institutionalized the second the damn hallucinations showed up.

When was it? 

He made for the dangerous venture of trying to remember past his death and ducked down an alleyway for the… eighth time?

Leaning on the side of some building for support, he rubbed the back of his neck and fiddled with his bow. Something to keep his hands busy. He really needed to change out the bow soon, it unfortunately did not escape his little escapade into the ruins of Fazbear's Frights, despite being hosed down with him. There was a huge garbage can a few feet from him, and he briefly wondered if the local raccoon population had also been whispering about him.

It was easier than trying to remember anything about his life.

His memory was beginning to worry him. How much would he forget? Why did he remember every minute in this suit with stark clarity since he died, when he couldn't even remember what his name was sometimes?

He wouldn't forget Deliah, would he? Or Harry? Was he just doomed to deteriorate the longer he was dead? He had to change before he died again. He had to. This couldn't have all been for nothing. He didn't hurt Deliah to croak in some alleyway trying to remember who he was and how he could fix himself.

Completely... Alone?

"Selfish." Spring tensed. "Are you forgetting about us, now? The ones you murdered trying to fill your empty life? Trying to escape being a hopeless loser, all alone? You're never alone now, idiot."

And Springtrap tensed worse, and Springtrap walked straight out of the alley, looked around at his surroundings, dazed and more than a little panicked. Everything seemed to be a blur more recently anyway. If only to escape the barbs.

There was a sign on the building he'd been leaning on. He squinted up at it because the blur at the edges of his vision had lessened but he still could not see well.

Dolly's Donuts had little shooting stars all around the sign holding up its name on the front of the building and it was… comforting. The funniest thing, it was purple! Looked almost like a doodle someone would make while dreaming of bigger things, in a nice purple pen. 

He could definitely use a fuckin' donut right now.

...Except he couldn't eat. He’d forgotten somehow. Spring was still going to walk in regardless, so might as well. If only to escape. He barely glanced at the ominous figure standing in the alley he was just in not even a full minute ago, (he'd long since learned to ignore them) and decided to investigate Dolly's. The kids were obviously better at getting under his skin than anything the hallucinations had to say. Or look like.

It looked like a local business too, which was an absolute win in his books. Donut time.

Springtrap had also forgotten— in his rush to escape the kids— that he absolutely did not have money to pay for anything he attempted to order, but he continued inside, oblivious. He wasn't going to order anything regardless, because he'd get an awful headache the second he'd step into the store. He'd literally flop down onto the counter next to some poor couple who'd apparently just got done with their romantic pastry outing. 

And he would sit there for about a minute, feeling foggy and alone, until he'd be disturbed by a mildly concerned attendant.

Truly, he was haunting the place.

Chapter Text

Dolly Levine was having the most boring day of her entire life. 

The regulars for her café had come and gone, and the high school rush wasn't going to be in with any new drama until three. She was looking forward to seeing all the upperclassmen and the occasional freshman they’d drag along to introduce to the tradition early. The bar was practically empty, besides from a couple who'd ordered some chocolate something-or-other and were being obnoxiously in love. Everything was sparkling clean too, thanks to her excellent hires, so she really did have nothing to do.

So she was practically off the clock.

Eugh. She leaned on the counter next to the drink mixers, far, far, away from the couple enjoying their food. Her order notepad was a modicum of comfort where she tapped it lightly on her arm.

She could experiment with drinks like a mad scientist. Or maybe just draw some new things on the chalkboard menu above her. Yeah, she'd do that.

Unfortunately, she was not tall, so she'd have to go back and get the step stool, but that would reflect badly on the café if there was no one behind the register, but then—

She slapped the notepad down on the counter next to her, leaned forward, and spun to go get the damn stool. There wasn't anyone in here today, tomorrow, or in the next week that wouldn't know Dolly was just getting something in the backroom and would “be back in five.” 

Hurricane was a small town. It always has been. She's picked that up in her time here.

Pushing open the swinging door and stepping into the kitchen always felt off when there wasn't food actually cooking. It was fancy and had all the tools she'd ever need for the next thousand years, but nothing was going on. Again, one of her staff practically deep-cleaned the entire place once a week because he had the dullest shift, so it's not like she could break out the rag and wipe down the counter when it really didn't need it.

She lifted her hand up and batted the hanging pots absent-mindedly to make the loudest noise imaginable. Maybe, if she was lucky, it would disturb the couple outside. Completely unfair to them, but she was particularly petty on a lonely week. Which this week definitely was. And they already ate their pastries, so she was getting paid whether they were startled or not. 

Dolly switched the hand carrying her notepad and dug around in her pocket for the keys to the backroom, found them, unlocked the door, and immediately put fifty percent of her entire weight into kicking it open. This was successfully much louder than the pots, which was great! She’d disturbed someone by now.

The stool was where it always had been, as she suspected. Under the shelves in the pantry, almost close enough to be a tripping hazard.

She looked around at the pantry. It was her pantry, as she suspected. Occasionally she’d use this and the freezer in the back for extra storage when she couldn’t fit it all back home. Ice cream buckets, frozen strawberries, a couple thousand boxes of pancake mix (put to rest here, as the first time she made pancakes she got burned, somehow), and peanut butter set aside from the standard donut shop flour and yeast.

It didn’t feel as empty or boring as the rest of her cafe. More lived in, if she had to guess.

Still, Dolly turned to the door into her empty, sparkling clean, fully stocked kitchen, and sighed. She was still bored. Terribly bored. 

Wait, that’s right- 

She wanted to draw on the chalkboard. Make decorations and change a few things up. She was just short, that’s all. Poking her head in and sneaking and extra rag and box of chalk from the bottom shelf took hardly any work, and lightly batted at the pots again. They still made an awful clattering even if she only put half the effort in— they were good pans.

She just hoped something interesting happened in the time she was gone.

She really hoped so. 

So, when she entered the dining area, the very first interesting thing she noticed was the couple from before, now looking worriedly at someone new slumped onto her counter. Then back to her, practically begging for her to come take the money and let them leave. She paid the new figure no attention, instead opting to dump the chalk and rag on the drink counter to help the couple and get her sweet, sweet cash in before having to— presumably— kick someone out.

They rushed out as soon as they could, and Dolly had the satisfactory notion that maybe she was the reason they were so spooked. It was a stretch— whoever was being miserable next to her most likely was the cause.

She leaned on her clean counter, and finally, she looked over. It took her nearly a good, solid minute to process what she saw. 

"Oh, shit." She whispered. There's a furry in my café!

And from the looks of it, an interesting one. Usually, they had crazy colors or came in groups. And they usually weren't leaning on her counter like a huge… pathetic-looking dog. It was kind of ironic, that someone being less colorful or bright was considered the out-of-ordinary thing.

This guy was a tan-goldish color and had bunny ears, drooping as far as possible to make him look… as sad as possible. Positively depressed.

The suit looked pretty simple all in all, but she knew those kinds of things cost big money. Plus, he was obviously in a period of intense emotional distress. People loved donuts when they felt like they had nothing left.

She would know. She ran the place.

"Hey there. Could I get you anything? Pastry to take the edge off?" She asked, in the most professional, airy voice she'd ever used. If she was lucky, she could tip her hire in the backroom a good sum. The people in fursuits usually weren’t the type to ask for her number, either, and that was an automatic plus.

The guy was face-down. Sort of. It was more like that thing that dogs do when they lay their head on a table or countertop, and their snout sticks out and gives them a droopy sort of look. His was more depressed than your regular dramatic dog, though. He even took a good second to answer, like he was loading in.

"...Nah. Can't."

"You can't? Is it the suit? Looks amazing by the way, animated to all hell."

"What?" His eyes shot open— blindingly purple. She blinked a couple of times to clear her vision.

"Woah-ho, your eyes glow?" Truly, the heavens had gifted her with entertainment today. This whole… situation was a far cry from the drone of her little cafe not five minutes ago.

He lifted his head to be eye-level with her. "You're the only one being even vaguely reasonable about this. Why are you the only one being reasonable about this."

"I mean you walk in here wearin' the fursuit you're gonna get a few questions, aren't you?"

"You know, you would think that! But I don't, it's so weird."

"Really?"

"Yeah. Not a single person has asked— well," He stopped suddenly, cutting himself off and reeking of someone guilty. God, that suit was expressive, he even had on a bow.  "Has uh- Asked about it. I'm not even fully sure how it works. It's got no mechanical bits; it hasn't had them in forever! When I fixed this thing up, I was focused on… Other things, but I never had to replace the skeleton of it!"

"It has a skeleton?" Dolly was, maybe, beginning to be confused. "Wait, how can you not know how it works? Didn't you make it?"

He eyes her with the same exasperated air from before. The guy's stare was intense even as he seemed to be mulling something over. It was probably the glowing eyes. It was now that she noticed his bow was a little muddy, and wrinkled, and generally not pristine as expected.

Finally, he seemed to reach some disappointing conclusion, sighing and resting his head on the counter pitifully. 

"...No." He answered, refusing to elaborate. 

She was vaguely aware that you could commission something like that. You'd have to have a lot of money though. Maybe he just had a rough day and didn’t have the time to clean his bow off.

"How much did it cost… to fix it?" 

"My life." He grumbled. 

That was a bit of a stretch, even for Hurricane standards. She'd been serving countless weirdos (with their weirdo stories) countless donuts for a couple of years now, but she'd never heard of someone blowing their entire fortune on a fursuit.

She looked outside her cafe. There was a small gathering of people outside, maybe four or five onlookers. They all tensed when she noticed them, but she waved them inside with a smile as if nothing was wrong. 

"So can you pay for a pastry, or are you all out?" Dolly asked him in her familiar airy customer service voice. Business first. The bell rang politely as the group from outside awkwardly stepped in and headed for booths.

"Nothin'. Sorry."

"Alright then. Give me five seconds, and I'll be right back." Dolly assured him and ran to collect a few orders. He didn't seem to notice. Like the whole world had gone dark around him. 

Once collected from the mostly unprepared customers— trying desperately to seem covert, staring at the newest loser flopped over on her counter— she headed back to the break room. It all felt fast as she went, through the kitchen’s other door and down the hall, her muscle memory of countless hours collecting orders and delivering them in slightly less than record time returning to guide her.

She knocked in warning, not as a question. "Hey, Cher. C'mere. We've got customers."

When Dolly swung open the door, her longest-running hire had only half her headphones on her ears and sighed dramatically. Cher was a lovely East Asian woman whom Dolly, upon meeting her, labeled as "annoying and tall."

"When do we not?"

"Oh, come on, don't give me that. You've had nearly an hour."

Cher was already getting up to join her. She'd always been incredibly fast. If her memory served correctly, Cher quit the track team at her previous school because she got bored. She’d done the same to her chess team as well, printing out little chess pieces to fool people when she felt like they needed to be knocked down a peg, and then leaving before they could get rid of her.

"But all that racket you made earlier took a year off my life, Miss! I nearly fainted." Cher fixed her with an exaggerated pouty look.

"Do not call me Miss, Cher." She swatted at the girl's finely brushed dark hair with her notepad, hoping to mess it up just a tiny bit. "You know I hate that. It's even on the sign."

Her sign, which she had ordered immediately following scribbling a design in pen on a piece of napkin, simply said Dolly's. Dolly’s Donuts. It would always say Dolly's, and nothing else.

Her swat was swiftly dodged, Cher stealing the notepad out of her hand with a laugh and half-meant apology. It was a bit of an understatement for Dolly to say Cher could be relied on, after all the years the two had helped each other out. In fact, this job was a favor to Cher. Currently, she was the indebted one in their little game of favors, which meant absolutely nothing when either of them faced any actual emergency.

She paused and looked around at her now-empty break room. She couldn’t hear Cher’s long swishing skirt, or even her boots from down the hall— sure, they were loud, but only when she walked slowly enough to be heard, and those occasions were few and far between. The kitchen made no noise, as no one was in it yet to be baking the food she served here. The break room itself had the regular items on its counters, minus any drink makers, because if you wanted a coffee or drink of any kind, you could just go get it upfront. 

Just… empty of people. 

She had no idea why she got hung up on empty spots like that— liminal spaces? .Maybe she'd always been like that, she couldn't be sure. Dolly turned and marched down the hallway. She had a very interesting customer waiting.

Maybe more of a freeloader, actually. Hopefully, he can spin her an entertaining enough yarn that she’ll really make him a free donut. If he can eat it, of course. He’d said he couldn’t eat because of the suit, which sucked, so hopefully, he was lying, or just tired. Couldn't he just... take the head off?

Opening the door and seeing her cafe bustling with chit-chat was an amazing sensation. These kinds of moments were what she lived on, aside from trash TV and children’s cartoons. Cher was doing her job, Dolly’s notepad in hand, and generally being the cause of most of the chit-chat. She was just the kind of gal that left you talking.

Meanwhile, Mr. Flat Broke was still dead to the world on her countertop.

“Hey. I’m back, as promised.” She shuffled over to him, “You still alive in there?”

“No...”

“Good enough.” She shifted to lean on the counter as well, in a better position, supporting her head with her hand. 

He let a grumble of something unintelligible and vaguely angry, and for a moment, Dolly considered how huge this guy was. From memory of when he looked up, it looked like she could fit her entire head in his mouth. She didn’t like the look of those chompers either, and for that brief moment, his fluffy-looking fur seemed altogether too cutesy. 

What came to her mind was an anglerfish, and then a sea bunny, because that was more appropriate appearance-wise. Sea bunnies were poisonous, probably. 

“...I don’t know your name, and I’d really like to, since you’re obviously going to be here for a little while.” She’d dropped the professional voice and replaced it with her regular tone.

No response.

"Hellooo?" Swiftly, she booped his huge fucking nose.

He shot up, eyes wide. Looked around wildly. For a split second, he turned to look behind him, and the suit's neck made kind of a creaking noise, and he turned it just too far backwards to be normal. She cringed.

"Did I… fall asleep here?" He looked back at her, and then at her name tag with troubled eyes. "Miss… Dolly?"

"Yep. Now you gotta pay."

His eyes widened significantly. “I’m broke.” He squeaked.

She laughed in his face. “And I’m fucking with you. Spin me a yarn, rabbit-man. Tell me something interesting, since you evidently spent ‘your life’ to fix that suit of yours. That’s payment enough.”

She watched his face cycle through confusion, to mild annoyance, to dawning horror (most likely at the revelation that he spoke in his half-asleep state), and then settle back into confusion. He was incredibly easy to read through the mask, which was starting to become uncannily human and rapidly more uncomfortable to think about.

“A good story? That’s it?” He asked, with just about the grimmest resignation she’d ever heard in her life.

“Just make it interesting.” She nodded, emptily. This felt bigger than her all of a sudden.

The man in the rabbit suit at her counter sighed, long and heavy. 

Whatever he resolved to tell her felt, even from across the table, unmistakably like a tragedy. 

*

Nick finally pulled up to the front of Deliah's high school. The car line had taken what felt like an hour, sitting in his car, waiting just to get to her school. But now he was going to pick up Deliah, and everything was perfectly okay. Maybe.

He was worried.

There were always far too many things on his mind, but first and foremost was his daughter's safety and happiness. If today was a bust, he had to be able to be there for her. 

She wasn’t the best at getting along with other kids. One year she'd be too angry, and then the next, she'd been nothing but quiet. No friends over, just the occasional group project he'd have to pry out of her. A teacher marked her down for it one year— being quiet.

Nick had asked if she'd participated in group discussions when she broke down about it to him. She clammed up after that particular question.

He was never on her side, was he? He could do that now. He could be there. He had to be.

It was the least he could do after all this mess he'd led them into.

Springtrap was not happening again. Not ever.

A knock on the passenger window shook him. The click of the door unlocking was a kinder noise to his nerves.

Deliah hopped into her seat next to him.

She was turned toward the open car door, grinning, even waving a little bit and laughing to herself. He leaned down a bit to see, and, sure enough, she was waving at Harry and another girl, with bright green hair in two buns on each side of her head, both exaggerating their waves to a comical extent.

Flashy.

"Hey Dad!" She mumbled, still focused elsewhere as she closed the door. She was downright sunny.

Nick was a little dumbfounded. He hadn't expected this. He'd expected… tears? Maybe? It'd happened before, he was absolutely prepared to pull into a parking lot and comfort her at any time during the trip back home, but this… was different. 

Obviously, she hadn't been alone today, and he couldn't thank Harry enough for that little feat. 

She turned back to him, and then to the front windshield, and then back to him. "Uh… Dad?"

"You look. Happy." He mumbled.

"Yeah. I had a good day." She raised an eyebrow at him and glanced back at the windshield. "Are you gonna-"

A honk from behind them interrupted her and sent him nearly flinching out of his seatbelt. Nick remembered with sudden clarity that he was, in fact, in the middle of a parking lot line, with other parents waiting to pick up their kids.

"You made a new friend? Today?" He asked, desperately attempting to seem like he wasn't surprised about her being happy after a day of school and kicking the car into drive.

"Harry helped. He uh-" She glanced through the side-view mirror as they pulled out of the pick-up line, "They're technically his friends being my friends by proxy, y'know?"

Nick raised an eyebrow at the road. "They?"

This was evidently the correct button to push. Out of his peripheral vision, he could see her kick her feet a little, smiling widely as she began to fill him in.

"Yeah! Apparently, Bingo's been friends with Harry since second grade, which was kind of scary until they said Jade had come into play just a year or two ago— Jade was the one waving me goodbye with Harry. She's amazing! She's got the oddest voice, and never really seems to change her expression, but I have homeroom with her, and she led me around when I got lost. The campus is huge, there's like seven different buildings that I know of. The map doesn't look intimidating, but it is not accurate."

Needless to say, it was a lot to process at once.

So there was Jade, and there was Bingo to pay attention to. Deliah had made not one but two friends. Nick made an educated guess; Jade must have been the girl waving with Harry. So Jade was… green. Which was nicely on-brand.

"Bingo?" He asked, as innocently as possible.

"Yeah! They've-" She stopped short, and turned to look at him, "They're nonbinary."

"That's their-" He couldn't keep himself from snickering. She eyed him suspiciously. "So that's their name-o?"

The car burst into laughter. He was extremely lucky they'd coasted to a red light when he got the idea to make the joke. Truly, it was a stroke of genius on Nick's part because he'd not seen his daughter so smiley in…

In quite a while.

"They are going to hate me for that tomorrow. I'm stealing that! It's my joke now." She announced, through stifled laughter. He could not have been more delighted.

*

He stood up, hands on his hips, surveying his spur-of-the-moment work.

Pretty nice. The noise was completely gone, and he'd cleaned it up a bit otherwise as well.

He'd been on an ecstatic streak ever since Dolly had called him a loser.

Which was odd, considering she just listened to… everything he'd done. He (a fool) had absolutely spilled his guts about his life (and near afterlife) of murder and lies to some random woman at a café and she'd immediately called him a loser. Didn't flinch, barely even reacted. She said it was "one hell of a story," and she even got a donut for him. Still tried to give it to him when he told her it was all true. She just… did not care.

Which was probably a good sign. Maybe this was cosmic reaffirmation or something. 

You did good, you bastard, here's a donut! And a friend! Keep it up!

Seemed like a nice sentiment. He couldn't eat, obviously, but it was nice. Dolly ate the donut for him. Apparently, it had been jelly.

He'd left Dolly's place at five, and Harry's family was home and moving around by the time he started working on the washing machine. After an entire week of it bugging him he'd gotten his hands on the source. Technically, it'd been a quick fix, not exactly brain surgery. But what helps, helps right? 

Besides, the kids hadn't let up the entire time he'd been cleaning. Something had definitely changed with them. Maybe his leaving hadn't been their plan. Maybe he got lucky in Fazbear's Frights when that… odd raccoon tried to nibble on him. Maybe continuing to live wasn't their plan for him. It never really was anyway, why should that have changed?

They'd left now, though.

Where was Miles?

Spring heard light footsteps coming down the stairs from behind him. He pocketed the change he'd cleaned out of the noisy machine by shoving it into the small hole in his side, left by his raccoon encounter. 

"Springtrap?"

"Yes?" He turned and grinned, brightly.

"Got news about your therapy sessions. Good news, bad news. Which-" He looked from his phone as he stepped fully into the basement. "What… happened?"

"Hm?" Springtrap tilted his head at the question.

"You're, uh. Covered in dirt, or something. What happened?"

He glanced back at the washing machine, and then glared at the lint catcher he'd deep-cleaned. "Lint. What's the news?"

Harry snorted. "You're good for an appointment. Free of charge, mostly. My aunt's pretty cool, apparently."

"Oh. Good."

He sighed and brushed at his arm. He really was dirty. All that lint had stuck to him in the oddest points. Likely static electricity. Not around his open spots, though. He'd noticed that. He never stained where his suit exposed his endoskeleton. He figured it had something to do with it being the edges. 

Or whatever that… tear goop was.

Harry didn’t fill the silence when Spring looked back at him. Just looked at him expectantly, leaning on the railing of the stairs.

"What?" He squinted at the kid.

"What'd you mean 'oh'?" Harry threw up a hand in emphasis. "Didn't you request this? Mr. Pay-Rent?"

Spring hunched his shoulders and turned away, opting to flop into the cough with a sigh. The couch creaked in complaint.

"That's different. I'm sure your-"

He froze. Harry had said his aunt was a nice woman, just now. But when he'd been on about it before, showing Springtrap around the basement and not-so-subtly avoiding the closet with the box that said "Mason" on it, he'd said his uncle was completely unmarried.

He looked up at Harry from his spot on the couch. "Your… aunt?"

The child in front of him shot him a grin from a horror movie, laughing under his breath.

"Bingo."

Chapter Text

Springtrap didn't have anything to do all night except walk around Harry's basement and think. That's all he had done since Harry had filled him in on the situation with his aunt. Which was actually quite sweet to think about— Harry getting back in touch with an almost completely lost family member— if it wasn't a bit painful too.

Think. Attempt to remember. Writhe in self-loathing. The usual.

He couldn't even breathe to pass the time— he didn't need to. It was some solution to anger he vaguely remembered from his brief time at a therapist in his later life, one of those people trying to revolutionize medicine by talking. That didn’t stick, though. Obviously. Maybe he’d be able to keep his head on right when they tell him he's insane this time, maybe he'd believe them.

He couldn't sleep… probably. It was altogether likely he'd have vicious nightmares. The kids were cut out perfectly for that particular job. 

It was increasingly worrying how… awful they were being. They shot unusual jabs and barbs at him that stung worse. They seemed impossibly vicious compared to the previous childish guilt trips they'd been bothering him with. Then again, if they could inflict nightmares, it wouldn't be too far out of reach to say they could've just gotten fed up with him and eager in their revenge. It wasn’t like he deserved to be alive!

…Well, he could "breathe." If he tried.

But it wasn't real. Just an intake of air he didn't need. It seeped in between his teeth and the seams of his suit, whether he wanted it or not, and if he thought real hard about it and not about deserving death, he could, kind of... focus the direction of the air.

Speaking of his odd inner workings, Spring still hadn't figured out what on earth he'd been crying on his way to Harry's home. The most likely option was that it was the same kind of tears the children cried (hadn't they been leaving him alone more once he'd fixed the noise from that damn washing machine?) but that raised the question of where the liquid even came from. 

He wasn't an idiot, and he wasn't going to just accept that he could cry. Those tears had to come from somewhere.

And it was probably the same reason, thinking about it now, he'd had such an easy time when he fixed the suit. Deliah… she supplied him with the parts— which was odd, because he didn't think they made those parts anymore— but he'd done the fixing and cleaning. Well, he cleaned what he could. His chest cavity was fused shut when he’d tried to clean it, which made it all the more disturbing when all he needed was a good spray from the hose in Dels’ backyard, and he was just… fine. Fresh, even.

He hated that hose. No, not just that hose, any hose, really.

The children were definitely made of something. Whether he was hallucinating it or not, there had been minuscule moments of them manipulating the living world. Bumping into some curtains and causing them to move, sheet-ghost style, or he could’ve sworn that one of them accidentally turned on a light switch while haunting him. They never seemed to run out of tears to shed, either.

Which was…  an awful sentiment. 

They never stopped crying because of him. 

He leaned farther back into the couch he was on, hoping it could consume him whole and get rid of him forever. It simply groaned in protest of his weight and Spring slapped a hand over his eyes in disappointment.

A memory floated through the thick fog of his mind-

-He dropped the knife.

In front of him, in his kitchen, there floated a ghost. A specter. She glowed brightly, never-ending inky tears flowing down her face and dripping onto the floor below her.

This was her. This was… Susie. Susie was her name! She was here!

He didn't notice the smoke, or steam, or whatever it was that rose from her and her tears. He didn't notice any sort of danger, then. It was excuse after excuse to justify himself. It hadn’t changed now, either. He was just… aware.

Spring distinctly remembered that he'd had a knife for the sole reason of sawing his hand off. He'd spotted… blood. There was blood on his hands, and he'd tried to scrub it off with the nearest brush. Even when his hands were raw with pain because he was using a brush, the blood still did not go away. That must have been where that particular hallucination started. 

Hindsight is twenty-twenty, he supposed.

"YOU."

"Muh-" He choked out, in disbelief. It worked! She was here! "Me!"

He could feel a familiar smile carve itself onto his face. He hated his smile; every single person he'd ever met had thought it was creepy. He had to agree. Except for... the children. Except for Susie— she was here. She came back! She came back to him!

It then occurred to him, all of a sudden, that he should introduce himself. It couldn't have been easy to get back here, after all, she would need a bit of comfort. A welcome home, at the very least. He reached for her, hoping to give her a lovely hug, and maybe wipe away a few of those tears. They must have been a side effect of the trip back home. They must have been— he'd help her. She looked so troubled.

His welcoming hands were met with a terrible, boiling substance. It hurt like hell, but that didn’t matter; she'd need comfort, but it got so awful that he'd pulled his hands back after a few seconds.

"No, no, no it's alright! It's- It's okay. I know it must have hurt, I know, I know, but you're-" He sputtered out, watching her troubled expression worsen, "You're here! Home! This is safe, it's safe here, Susie."

"SHUT UP." She spat at him, indignantly. Ungrateful. 

That would be fine, this would be a learning process. And to think, he was in such a dizzy fit earlier over it. She was here now! She was safe with him, like this. Nothing could hurt her.

"Listen, Susie-"

"STOP. THAT." The ghost screeched at him, waving her arms around petulantly.

He stepped closer and could feel the burn on his face from here. He had no idea she would be able to do this. No matter. She was home! "My name is Roger! You're safe here, alright? I was the man- I was Spring Bonnie! I know it's odd to see me without the mask, but you're safe now. With me."

Her tears had only increased exponentially in the time he'd begun talking, and for a moment, he worried that he really wasn't qualified for this. That she really would hate him forever, that it all had been a mistake. That the steam rising from her boiling spirit, that her boiling tears, meant that he'd been more of a danger to her than a savior.

 No, no, she was safe, now, that's what mattered. 

She was angry. He could deal with that. The trials of being a parent, yes? He could try and reason with her, but it'd likely take quite a few days to get her to... warm up to him.

Hah! He'd save that to tell her later!

"I know, it must have been so scary to get here. To come back. But it's okay now! I can be your new- your better family- it'll be so easy. It's all smiles from here on, kiddo! All love. All safe." He grinned as comfortingly as he could through his own excitement.

But that didn’t work, obviously. He was an idiot. A desperate idiot. 

He'd never seen Susie since. She was his very first victim, and he'd never heard the kids speak of her. Not once. She'd just… disappeared when Miles came into play. His second, and youngest victim. After Susie's rage, he thought it best to get a child quite a bit younger.

Awful, he thought at himself, coldly, awful idiot. Selfish piece of shit. "All love, all safe?" Disgusting.

The couch complained again, disgruntled to be carrying not just him, but all his sins as well. There was stomping upstairs.

The Hursts were awake.

Well, Harry and Matt, at least. He was pretty sure he'd heard Mrs. Hurst get up about an hour ago. She and Nick got up at around the same time. Around five. Without fail. 

He always knew when Nick woke up because Nick would want coffee. Except he'd always agonized over getting up, sitting there, staring at the ceiling for a few minutes first. And then getting up to get coffee. 

Springtrap knew, because he'd watch, because...

Well, because he hadn't slept either. Obviously.

The stomping hadn't let up, and moved on into the kitchen, accompanied by loud sibling bickering. Potentially over breakfast. They only had cereal in that pantry, Spring had checked. He wished he could make himself go into Harry's kitchen proper, but there were dangerous things in there and he couldn't be trusted.

He couldn't trust himself there. In the Edwards' home, he could at least put the knives away. Now? No options. If he made pancake batter, someone would notice. If he made or did anything upstairs, someone would notice. So cooking was completely down the drain as a hobby as well. Nothing to stop him from just thinking. 

There was a beat of silence (very likely the boys were actually eating their breakfast), and in it, Springtrap thought.

Particularly about the raccoon he’d encountered.

Weird fur aside, it had been trying to claw through his suit and eat him when he woke up. There was a small piece of him missing on the side to prove it.

First of all, raccoons washed their food. They were very intelligent (but destructive) little creatures, and there was a memory sticking out painfully in his mind, much like a splinter, of a previous encounter with a normal raccoon and its little family from when he was alive. That raccoon had absolutely zero interest in eating him; in fact, it didn’t pay attention to him at all. In hindsight, the whole interaction— or lack thereof— hurt his feelings a little, but all in all, it made his encounter with the most recent raccoon all the more peculiar. If there really was a corpse under the fur, then would a raccoon even want to eat something so rotted? So much so that it would dig through his suit's casing to get to it?

And why on Earth had it been so scared of him? Was he just that scary, in general? Downright terrifying— not even five minutes into being conscious?

He had a million questions, and the step near the stairway creaked. Harry's voice wafted down, vaguely muttering something as he descended the stairs. Springtrap didn't straighten up to look. 

"Hey, Spring,"

He opened his eyes to respond, only to notice one of the children grinning down at him from above. It was a searing kind of smile, one he'd expect from himself rather than the kids. It struck him as terrible that he'd rubbed off on them as much as he had.

The kid's teardrop also struck him. Directly in the eyes. And burned. 

He yelped and rubbed hurriedly at his mechanical eyes, which were not supposed to feel anything. Harry jumped back at the outburst as well.

"Uh-?" He could see Harry lift a hand in question at him, through rapid blinks, "What the hell just happened?"

Springtrap was dazed and more than a little pissed. He checked— out of his peripheral vision this time— if the kid was still there, to no avail. "The-! Th- er…"

He glanced back at Harry. 

He knew about the kids, didn't he? He could probably help.

"One of the kids was," He paused, holding his metaphorical tongue so he wouldn't start tattle-tailing like he was in fucking preschool, "He was just… playing tricks on me. They like to do that— what were you saying before?"

Harry snorted at his misery, or maybe at his inability to dig himself out of a self-depreciation hole, even though that wasn't possible, and Harry could not hear his thoughts.  "Was just down here to double check. Make sure you remember. My Aunt Veronica's got you covered for an introductory session today."

"Oh." Springtrap would lie if he said he'd been excited about this.

"Again, what does 'oh' mean? I thought you were on board with this." Harry accused him immediately. He was… annoyingly perceptive. 

Spring was not going to spill his guts today, though. That was yesterday. When he dumped his sad-sack life story on the very first person who asked. He vaguely remembered Dolly asking why he had the suit on and something about its skeleton. Maybe that's why she got him to spill so easily. It was only ever her and Nick who'd really tried to look into his business. Dels had pried a little, and then he'd nearly broken her arm because he was such a cagey bastard.

"I'm just nervous, Harry. I'm a bit of a walking basket case if you haven't noticed." He sighed, moodily leaning back into the chair (but not without a quick check above him.)

"Fine, but I don't recommend walking into a therapist's office all caged up and on edge. Mom always told me he-" Springtrap could practically hear how Harry mentally backpedaled. "How she was always really stubborn. Like, participate in sit-ins and almost get arrested, stubborn."

He raised an eyebrow at the description. "Sit-ins?"

"Yeah. Guess that should've been a clue that she was actually my aunt, but you know how it was in the eighties. You know better than anyone, actually." Harry nodded throughout his explanation. Springtrap was not impressed.

"What is that supposed to mean?" Spring asked, dramatically, pitching his voice to sound as offended as he possibly could. He vaguely recalled old women taking this exact tone when they'd share gossip amongst themselves, from when he was a kid and spied on conversations rather than participated in them. It made for an excellent impression, certainly.

Harry stared at him. "You're… from the eighties? Also?"

Springtrap cringed visibly at how far the joke flew over Harry's head. And at the slight noise of someone walking around upstairs. "It's- Since she's your aunt now, and not your uncle… and just- you compared me and— never mind."

"...So that's the good news, but I never did tell you the bad news," Harry sucked air through his teeth, "Unfortunately, it's about my brother."

"...Great." Sighed the brother in question, leering down at Spring from the stairs behind Harry.

Matt was visibly annoyed and more than a little uncomfortable seeing Springtrap, even from higher ground. He couldn't blame the kid if he was honest. He just had more pressing, angrier problems to attend to.

"You told him?" Springtrap felt his teeth snap together and his mechanical skeleton click as he straightened from his position on the couch so quickly. He always seemed to unconsciously open his mouth when angry, despite not needing it.

"Yeah, yeah, I did, calm down! He's our ride to your therapy appointments, okay? Only other one here that can drive." Harry threw his hands up in defense.

He held his metaphorical tongue at that, because it was frustratingly correct. Also, because he was supposed to be working on his anger. As best he could. The only way he knew how. 

He turned his head away from the stairs and side-eyed them both. "I can drive…"  

"Likely story." Matt raised an eyebrow at him from the stairs. "We're leaving soon."

Springtrap shot an offended glance at the analog clock (that settled ever so slightly crooked) on the wall. "Soon? It's five in the morning!"

Matt sighed and stalked back up the stairs. For several seconds, Springtrap was left in complete silence until Harry realized Matt just... wasn't going to talk anymore and huffed, frustratedly.

"School starts at seven, Springtrap. We have to get you to my aunt's and make it back to school on time. Be thankful Matt even agreed to this. Unfortunately, that rent you wanted is doing his chores since he can't rob you blind for twenty bucks every ride over."

"Because I-?"

"Because you have no money." Harry deadpanned. Then he squinted at Spring and scrunched up his nose in thought. "Did you ever? You got good pay, at least, right? I don't know exactly how much they paid you guys back in the day."

Springtrap winced. "Eh." 

"Eh?" The kid asked, incredulously.

"Ehhhhh," Spring squinted in turn, "Enough. It was a while ago."

He could nearly see the light bulb suddenly pop to a start above Harry's head at this. 

"Which reminds me! I have something for you." Harry brightened and swiftly stepped over to a storage closet. Fast kid.

The closet in question was the one Springtrap usually avoided snooping in. With the box labeled "Mason" and taped shut about… 3 times over. Harry simply swung open the door, though, flicked on an unseen light switch to his right, and plunged his hand into one of the piles of stuff on the metal shelves, unbothered by the box at his feet.

Springtrap crept over. He didn't ever really mean to creep over, not unless he had the chance to spook someone, but it was kind of just how he walked. 

"'S Kinda morbid though," Harry muttered off-handedly, still shuffling around the closet.

Spring looked to where Harry had flipped the light switch. He didn't see anything remotely like a light switch on the wall. Just shelving.

"How-?"

"Found it!" Harry spun around, and Springtrap almost missed the "Mason" box being given a solid kick, sending it sliding under one of the shelves. Almost.

In his hands, Harry held a plushie.

A little golden rabbit plushie. With pretty green eyes and a nice red bow, striking and cutesy despite the layer of dust. 

"It's a… you plushie. Mom bought it back when Freddy's was still open and then tossed it back here after all… that." Harry explained away the little thing in his hands and then fell silent.

Springtrap looked at it. It looked barely used, and if he kept looking at it too long, he was pretty sure it would look back at him. Look through him, even. 

Spring Bonnie was a familiar face he hadn't ever expected to see again. The suit had been Spring Bonnie, once. But Spring Bonnie was not who he saw when he managed to look in a mirror. He was Springtrap, and so was his suit, and there might be a rotting corpse under all that fur, and there really wasn't anything left of Spring Bonnie that could possibly reflect in any mirror. They were an old friend, sort of.

Springtrap took the plushie gently. As if he could break them with the slightest pinch in the wrong spot. He was vaguely aware of his ears, drooping so low he could spy them in the corners of his vision. He dusted Spring Bonnie off, just a bit, clearing some fur away from an eye so they'd look less angry. There was a small tear in their side, just wide enough for a small amount of fluff to peek through.

Harry remained silent. He, for the most part, still had to get ready, but could tell that this meant a little more than just a plushie. Plus, he couldn't get past the closet door without Spring moving out of the way. Spring was remarkably easy to read, of course. Just confusing to understand. He glanced around while Spring continued his silent conversation with the little Spring Bonnie, and quietly noted how much stuff was in here that was either his or his dad's.

Springtrap brought the plush close to his face, so Spring Bonnie could be at eye level with him.

They had brighter (more button-y) eyes than the last time he'd seen them on stage. He'd always personified Spring Bonnie as a friend— less creaky joints and tighter, easier-to-hold-down springlocks were little gifts in place of conversation— but they weren't as well taken care of as he could've liked. He did what he could, but certain mechanics can only get you so far. He'd had no idea how to clean off the fur  until much later, when he was...

They were dirty, more than a little pizza-stained, and their eyes had seemed particularly dull by the time he'd last witnessed them perform.

Maybe they'd looked so dull because of him. Would they have given up on him had they known? Had they been alive to witness it? He hoped not. 

Spring Bonnie and Fredbear had always seemed like a pair of buddies on the stage and in the old cartoons. His old coworker had been victim to the particular mishap that took the old bear suit away. Springtrap hadn't the faintest idea of his name. He supposed that would've been the first blow to poor Spring Bonnie. Losing a best friend.

"...Spring?"

He hummed in response, sordidly attempting to balance the Spring Bonnie plushie on his snout. They had a lovely little poofy bunny tail, but it made it hard to situate them.

"Can you, uh, let me out of the closet?" Harry asked, very reasonably.

Spring flattened himself against the shelf to his right and let Harry squeeze through. Still with Spring Bonnie on his nose, no less.

He looked to his right and found a light switch, still flicked on, hiding behind the supports of the shelf. Invisible without guidance as to where to look or search blindly, with only your hands, in the dark. As per usual, when getting stuck in a closet. If he ever did get stuck in this closet, he would know where to find it now. Why on Earth it was hidden.

He focused back on the plushie on his nose. "What the hell, am I right?"

Spring Bonnie stared at him. Button-green to a haunted purple. They did not laugh or blink, but he was used to that. He always cracked jokes at them when he worked on their joints and such. He liked to picture that if they could laugh, it'd sound like one of those sitcoms' laugh tracks, even if it was creepy. 

He was creepy. Wouldn't make a lick of difference. They'd be a couple of best friends. Creepy little friends with creepy smiles and odd laughs.

He still couldn't exactly see through the corners of his vision, but he was thankful at the very least that he could still see anything around him. 

One of his least favorite (as if there was a favorite in the first place) hallucinations was this one— where all the shadows seemed to grow, and then seize his vision down to nothing. Literally tunnel vision, if you would.

He steadied Spring Bonnie in one hand while he flicked off the light switch and shut the closet door behind him. He bumped into the couch on his way out, and placed a hand firmly on it to use as an anchor— he really could not see, but all for the plushie, he supposed— to carefully flop over until Harry came back down to get him. He didn't have very much else to do in the meantime.

Maybe he'd talk to his new old friend.

*

Nick rubbed the sleepiness out of his eyes and folded his work apron neatly.

He wasn’t getting all that much sleep recently. It had become a new sort of normal to him— having nightmares, or a sleep full of nothing. He was just a naturally tired person.

But he needed to focus today. He was in a time crunch.

He didn't want to involve Deliah in his… investigation of Springtrap, and he absolutely wasn't going to cut out what little time he already got to spend with her. So his only option was his lunch break. Thirty minutes to drive to some failing, sketchy diner and back, hopefully with some much-needed context.

Nick leaned over and placed his apron in the backseat with the twitchiness of a man depending on a deposit. Alex had been confused as to where he was going— and more than a little exasperated with him for being so unpredictable recently— but he calmed down a bit when Nick assured him he was just going out for his lunch break and not bouncing work completely. Nick even brought in an extra twenty bucks for him a few days ago, though it was politely refused.

He glanced at the clock. He had about twenty-five minutes to get some info and get back to the shop. Nick grabbed the handle of the car as if he were about to get out. 

He paused, conflicted. 

Flipped down his sun visor and checked how he looked in the mirror. 

Flinching at his eyebags, he flipped it back up and opened the car door as if nothing had happened. Nothing at all. He stuck his hand in his front pocket and checked he had the notepad with him.

The building in front of him looked surprisingly clean. He confirmed with the sign near to the front— The Salt and Pepper Diner. 

There were stacks of boxes in the corners of the windows though, as though the entire place was entirely impermanent. There was a nice retro feel about the place, with the checkered patterns running below the wide windows. There were a few people inside, so he was sure they were still open. Just… packing, apparently.

On the contrary to its appearance, when he opened the door there was no bell jingle. Nick shot a look above the door, and sure enough, there was no bell or mechanism. From what he'd heard, this place was on its last legs. It gave him an eerie feeling.

His daughter found Springtrap here, apparently. All by herself.

This place was closer to the house than work was. Still too far for comfort.

"Hello sir, welcome to Salt and Pepper Diner," He flinched at the bored, almost monotone voice behind the counter, "Can I get you something, sir?"

"Uh, yes- I'm here to ask a few quick questions?" He stumbles over his explanation. He was on a time limit, dammit, he didn't have the time to stutter.

The worker raised an eyebrow at him. Looked him up and down. It made Nick glad he'd at least checked the mirror before he left the car.

"Are you a reporter or something?"

*

Springtrap pulled at the seams of his fingers. He could feel the fur there clicking ever so slightly across his endo when he pulled, unreasonably similar to when he was alive and had done the same thing to calm his ever-present nerves. When he was alive. What an odd phrase.

“Do you need me to walk you inside the office?” Harry asked him, sincerely, peering around the passenger seat. He had such a genuine concern plastered on his face, it looked so weird. Harry was a fast kid. He was laidback and a little bit of a smartass. He and Dels were similar in that, at least. Concern was just not something Springtrap generally associated with Harry— likely because he’d been too blind to look for it.

“I…” Springtrap felt a terrible lump in the back of his metaphorical throat and a nervous twitch in his right ear, where he’d been missing a piece back in the diner. “Yes.”

Springtrap shifted closer to his door, wincing at the way his ears bent uncomfortably. There was a pause as the kid waited outside the car for him to leave. He could hear Matt groan and see his side eye out of the rearview mirror.

“Can you not open the door?” Harry had walked over and opened it for him. The kids snickered at him from outside the vehicle. He’d noticed them filing in as he got closer and closer to Ms. Veronica’s place of work, poking at him like a toy.

“My fingers are too big."

"Oh." Harry stepped back as Spring squeezed out of the backseat. Looking behind him, Spring could see the kids sitting on top of the car happily. In order, as if to taunt him. “Matt, do not leave me here. Just park or something.”

Well, when were they not taunting him?

He felt a tug on his arm as Harry began to walk into the building.

Miles wasn’t there again. How long had it been since he’d since the youngest of his victims? The boy seemed to have completely vanished. Spring’s vision was returning to that blurry state— a new hallucination to officially throw onto the list.

There was quite a nice wooden ramp into the counseling building. He hadn’t caught the name, but the door didn’t make a single noise when the two of them walked in. Harry seemed to be at home here, leading Springtrap to a seat with all the confidence of someone who worked there, while still looking around in a quiet sort of awe. He felt like a shaken-up bottle of Coke.

They didn’t need to sit long. Some piano from some unseen speaker slowed to a stop as Harry’s aunt stepped into the waiting room happily.

She had very nice and professional heels on, letting him know she was coming around the hall even before she'd stepped into view. Every single aspect about her seemed professional, actually, as if she’d stepped into a store and come out of it richer. Especially her pants, straight and flared at the ends— she pulled off the formal outfit well in such a business casual situation. He wondered, briefly, if she’d been in a sorority before, but discarded the thought. She'd had to have been in a fraternity... eugh. Still, she fit right in with any of the sorority girls he'd met; they'd all get along like a house on fire.

The thought made him grin and stop squinting at her outfit (he still couldn’t exactly see). He hoped that smile wasn’t terrifying, but at the same time, it’d be a better introduction than anything else he could pull out at the moment. He’d noticed early on that most things he did were met with the polite smile— the one that never reached the eyes— you’d give someone you thought was greasy, or weird.

She had the same blonde hair as her nephew. “Hello! You’re right on time, you two.”

Harry jumped up to hug her, and Spring winced at the wrinkling of Veronica’s button-up. “It’s nice to see you too, Auntie, but it’s six in the morning. We’re an hour early.”

“It’s never too early to reconnect with my nephew,” Spring kept up the bare bones of his previous smile and looked anywhere but at them. “Did Sharon drive you over?”

“No, just Matt.” Harry sighed.

Appropriately, they jumped at a car honking from outside. Harry looked worriedly out the door and Veronica laughed under her breath.

“And he’s going to leave without me soon,” He motioned to Spring, who straightened as if he’d never felt jealous at all. “Springtrap, Aunt Veronica. Aunt Veronica, Springtrap. Bye!” 

Once again, the door made no noise, and he sped out. Even from inside the building, he could hear Harry yelling expletives at his brother. That’s just how having siblings was, probably.

He looked back at Veronica and widened his grin as he got up from the chair. It complained at him. “Uh, hello. It’s me.”

She laughed slightly, under her breath again. “It is you! Welcome to Drewberry, Springtrap. As you know, my name is Veronica.”

“Yep.” He was at a loss for words or snarky comments, walking down the hall with her. It all felt too sterile, with the white walls and random tacky paintings scattered about. He didn't like medical buildings. “So what’s…”

Springtrap struggled with his sentence as she opened a door, and he was greeted with an entirely different setting. The room was carpeted and fluffy-looking, illuminated by several funny-looking lamps. One such was a bright red telephone, the twirling cord used as the cord you’d tug to turn it on. There was a couch closest to him, a muted blue and vaguely felted. Two of the kids took a seat on the floor on either side of the decorated chair in the middle of the room.

He walked over to the couch and flopped into an awkwardly polite seat. “What are we starting with, then, doc?”

She laughed properly at that, loud enough to be heard, shutting the door. It set his teeth on edge. She had a very nice laugh, solid and almost scratchy.

“Just some basics,” she reassured him as she sat down, “Mostly I’d like to know why you’re here, but you could throw in a favorite color— or maybe you’re religious? Really, it’s up to you what we start with.”

He scoffed, stiffly. “I don’t really believe in God anymore.”

“Anymore?”

“Yeah. Baptist until I was seven.” He answered, dryly, plucking at his hands again. He'd been through this before. There was no reason to feel so anxious.

Veronica didn’t say anything. She just scribbled down something and looked back at him expectantly.

“You know why I’m here.” He dropped the bones of a smile and scowled at her. He could see one of the kids sitting next to her mimic his expression.

She stuck him with the exact same concerned look Harry had given him not five minutes ago, except this look was… worse. Tinged with some kind of low-lying disappointment at his accusation. “You want to be… better, right? For lack of a better word?"

It was his turn to stay silent.

“From what little I’ve heard, you’re already trying. This is just an introduction, Springtrap. I want to hear about you, from you first.”

Springtrap couldn’t look her in the eye. He just stared at the carpet and the odd blue couch he was sitting on. It reminded him of Nick.

*

Nick was sat at one of the barstools, in front of the most monotone-voiced man he’d ever heard in his life.

“I just wanted to ask— I’m collecting some… information— if you’d had anything stolen from you within the last year?” He fiddled with the notepad and borrowed pen in his hand. He’d forgotten to bring his own, which was only slightly mortifying. This whole place had a musty air to it while still being clean. No grease around, and nothing left on the bar. Just felt musty.

“Yeah. Mom lost one of her weird antiques a few months ago.” He hooked a thumb over his shoulder at the kitchen. So this was a family-owned business. “‘M kind of glad someone took it. Looked ripped up and smelled.”

Nick raised an eyebrow. “What kind of antique smells?”

Trent (as his nametag read) gave him a dirty look. “You are a reporter.”

“No- I just-” He tried, in vain, to explain, but quickly got himself together. “What got stolen?”

Trent squinted at him.

“Antique.”

“...What kind?”

“Are you going to order something?”

Nick spluttered. “Wait, wait, one last question— are you guys moving locations? There's boxes around, and I was just wondering…”

Trent disappeared under the other side of the counter and reappeared with a menu in his hands. “Yeah. This is our last week open. Don't really need it, though. Just feels like we should be open, I guess."

“You don’t need it,” Nick scribbled three little checkboxes on his notepad and checked off one of them, writing “antique” next to another. “but you'r still here?”

Trent tapped the menu insistently. “Just felt like we needed to. What can I get you?”

Nick stood up and backed a little ways away. “Thank you for your time, and nothing, no thank you.”

He hurried out the front of the diner like his life depended on it. He had been through interviews all his life, but never once conducted anything close to one. Looking back, he noticed there was no one else in the booths there. Not a single other person at the diner other than Trent, leaning on his elbow on the counter. The door didn’t even have a bell on it.

Nick ran a hand along his button-up to straighten it and looked around the parking lot. There weren’t any other cars there. He felt a shiver go up his spine and sped up a little.

His car made a familiar, nice noise when he opened the door and got in. He turned on the car and checked, he'd made good time.

Nick paused, hands on the steering wheel. 

He flicked open his sun visor and looked in the mirror. 

Do I really look like a reporter?

*

Springtrap walked to the Hursts' home and noticed a polite manila folder on the front doorstep. He'd seen that kind of folder before, but this one in particular seemed almost like an awkward old friend— oddly familiar. He picked it up lightly. There wasn't anything on the front, just a sticker with an address.

He'd been at Dolly's since the appointment had ended. It was a much-needed break. Dolly was easier company than Veronica.

Opening Harry's front door and peeking inside, he mindlessly flipped it over in his hand. The Hursts wouldn't mind a bit of mail collection. He could always frame it as Harry or Matt being a bit more involved.

Speak of the devil, Harry was in the kitchen. 

"Hey kiddo, I'm…" This was not his home. "I'm back!"

"Nice. Is Dolly alright?"

"You know Dolly?" He stopped short of the counter island stools.

"She's kind of hard not to know. Everyone goes to her place after early release," The kid held up an incredibly disorganized sandwich to him, "PB&J?"

Spring stared down at the sandwich with the contempt of a man who cut off his crusts. He set the envelope on the counter gently and turned away dramatically. "Absolutely not. Dolly was happy to see me; she said so. Also, you got mail."

He was distinctly aware, in the back of his mind, that he had nothing else in particular to do today or tomorrow. Going to Dolly's was a nice break from the monotony of Harry's basement, but she might get tired of him if he kept going every day. Hopefully, his therapy sessions would be a good break as well. Horribly anxiety-inducing, but distracting, at least. That

Veronica had seemed incredibly nice, if a bit… pushy. 

"Oh shit, you can't eat. Sorry." 

Being a little bit pushy was part of the job. What little experience he had with other therapists— psychiatrists, actually— were complete extremes. Stuffy to downright aggressive, even one was genuinely lazy. He stuck with that one the longest, until the old lunatic had wrung enough information out of him to diagnose treatment and recommended something entirely out of his range. His mother almost agreed, too. It was a terrifying thought.

He shivered at the oddly clear memories. It was always the worst things that stuck out to him.

Spring heard ripping— presumably the envelope. "Oh, they're having another youth group trip. Sick."

He glanced at the kid out of the corner of his eye. "Who?"

"'S our church. They do youth group stuff. Trips to theme parks, y'know." Harry answered, reading through the little booklet describing some theme park from the... familiar envelope. 

It read, in very polite font, Hurricane Baptist Church.

“You go there?”

“What?” Harry looked up from the booklet in his hands with an odd sort of suspicion. He always seemed to catch on quickly. “Hurricane Baptist? Yeah. Why, you religious?”

Springtrap was quick to snap the little booklet out of Harry’s hands. It was easy, considering that Harry hadn’t expected him to do much of anything. He snatched up the envelope as well, nearly curling it up into a little ball in his hands as he turned and marched— almost robotically— down the stairs.

"Spring, dude- Hey-?" Harry spluttered at him, not making an effort to move, but certainly a little miffed about being stolen from.

Springtrap did not listen. He just slouched down the stairs, staring at the crinkling paper in his hands like it'd jump up and bite him in the nose. No explanation.

Harry barely heard him mumble down the stairs. "'S just not safe."

His church? Not safe? Harry thought, incredulously. He held up the PB&J and took a bite. It was delicious, but the jelly had a weirder taste the more he chewed on his own thoughts. I'm safer there than with you.

Chapter Text

The distinct sound of Harry's sliding backdoor woke him up from a nice, comfortable sleep.

A quick glance at his alarm clock told him it was about five to six hours too damn early, which definitely wasn't a good sign.

He grabbed his covers close and sleepily ran through his options.

There was a very real possibility it was just Springtrap, messing around. He wandered around at night all the time— Harry knew that at the very least. When he still had about a week left of summer left and decided to take Spring home instead of leaving him at the old burnt ruins (doing who knows what trying to catch a raccoon) he'd noticed the guy doing nothing but wandering.

Except in the kitchen. Spring avoided it like the plague.

From what Deliah told him, Spring loved to cook. For anyone, at any time. 

Here, though? Completely different. Harry had gotten home from school one day and heard him shuffling around in there while he did his homework, and after twenty minutes Spring came in and shakily handed him the most pathetic sandwich he’d ever seen in his life. Obviously, he’d accepted and eaten it, he wasn’t rude. It was just… weird. Springtrap’s eyes were so bright and pink when he got shaky like that— like he was concerningly hungry for a reaction.

Maybe it was the knives. Any weapons, at all, just maybe. It'd suck if Harry couldn't make himself use a knife for anything, so it was… understandable. Probably. He didn’t need a knife to make a sandwich though. It couldn’t possibly just be the sight of a weapon that triggered him to be as shaky and scattered as he was. Could it have?

He’d have to ask his aunt.

Harry stood up and wrapped his covers around him like a makeshift cape. He would check on that noise and check on Springtrap. It wouldn't be anything other than Spring, because nothing could successfully sneak in while the robot was here. What would someone even do in that situation? Finding a seven-foot robot in someone's home? If it were him, he'd just drop whatever he had and promptly skedaddle (which was a very funny word.)

A bit of wind blew into his room, although lightly, and he realized why he’d woken up so suddenly. His window was open. No wonder he could hear the door opening, he was right above it. He’d close it when he got back, his room needed a little air circulation anyway.

Still, he was spooked. The wind, light as it was, felt like the sensation of something vaguely bug-shaped on his arms, and he didn’t particularly like bugs. He needed to check out the noise. 

Harry turned his door handle at a snail’s pace and peeked out into his house as if the dark hallways he’d known all his life would swallow him whole. 

Of course, Springtrap had been getting… worse, recently. Maybe he’d always been gloomy and had mood swings, and been uncomfortably fast. He wouldn’t ask Deliah. She didn’t need that.

He could tell Springtrap leaving was doing a number on her. She hadn’t brought it up to him or asked in any capacity, but Mr. Edwards came by the other day, asking about where Springtrap was, so obviously neither of them had forgotten. Harry could only hope that letting Springtrap stay was the best decision. His Aunt had texted him after Spring’s session and told him it went well. So why, when he came home, was he on edge, snatching the mail out of Harry’s hands and stomping off downstairs for the rest of the day? Even in the hour before Harry’s mom got home when Matt already knew he was here and Harry had figured that Springtrap would have liked to walk around freely, he was holed up down there.

The stairs creaked at him affectionately, as if to reassure him. As if to say something in comfort. It’s not me you should fear.

That was likely an exaggeration on his house’s part. It was just Springtrap down there. 

The final step downstairs (and the first step upstairs) was the one with the loudest noise. He had a lot of creaky floorboards scattered around. It was so loud, Harry decided to forgo it entirely and just hop over it onto the first floor. He landed with a thump and smiled when he looked back and his covers were trailing behind him, still on the stairs. He found there was a lot of joy to be found in lots of fabric of any type of clothing, like when they got rid of Matt’s old dresses— he’d stolen a few fancy (but simple) ones to keep. They were just so pretty. He wasn’t exactly interested in putting them on, they just seemed too nice to throw in a thrift shop somewhere. He had a lot of hoodies too, but it was too hot to wear them right now.

He was getting lost in his thoughts— it was just something nicer to think about than the oppressive feeling of whatever Springtrap was doing outside. The dark still felt like it would jump out and bite him if he wasn’t careful. 

The rest of his house was undisturbed, like there was never any noise at all. All the doors were closed, and neither Matt nor his mom seemed to have heard the door. It really had been because of his window being open, then. He noticed, though, that even in the dark, his walls had little chips in the paint. Scrapes and tiny chunks were out of the wall closest to him, showing a different layer of paint underneath. Likely from furniture or mischief, or a combination of those. 

He looked out his back door, and there was Springtrap. Harry adjusted his cape of covers. It was all shadows out there in his backyard— his suburban neighborhood was an unusually dark place— and it obscured nearly everything but Springtrap’s general silhouette. 

Except for a small light source near his face, his eyes.

No- wait. There was something else in his hands. The light blew out all of a sudden, met with nothing. Not a single acknowledgment that it had disappeared beside the shuffling of a hand and the rapid, sharp clicking noise that came with trying to reignite a handheld lighter. (Albeit softened by the glass door.)

The warm light of the flame returned. It illuminated the envelope that Springtrap was holding in his other hand.

Springtrap muttered something, out there, out in Harry’s backyard with a lighter in his hands. He couldn’t hear it through the muffling of the glass. He was glad, though, because it was just another layer between Springtrap and himself.

The only layer, in fact.

He hugged the covers tighter to his shoulders. 

Springtrap carefully held the envelope to the little flame and both he and Harry stood there watching as it caught. Didn’t move, either of them. 

Harry held his breath as if Springtrap would be able to hear it through the glass door, now that the envelope was burning. Springtrap held it tightly in his hands and oddly close to his face, as if the heat was nothing to him.

It probably was nothing to him. Could he even feel pain?

That brought a terrifying train of thought to the surface. How do you stop someone who can’t feel pain if they get violent? What was that envelope, and did he feel the need to burn it?

Harry stepped back, finally. His floorboards were cold. 

Springtrap moved slightly. An adjustment in position, as if he was getting impatient with the speed of tiny desolation in his hands and wanted to get back inside. Harry took this as his cue to leave.

He turned around as fast as he possibly could, stepping back and scrambling to the stairs. Away from the door. Up the stairs, a step or two at once.

Harry stumbled. 

Dropped a hand to the railing to regain balance. He’d dropped the covers but that didn’t really matter right now. He just had to get into his room. His palms hurt a bit from the rough catch but that was also not exactly his main priority right now. He was up the stairs and into the second-floor hall in a few seconds.

He nearly slammed his door shut, scurrying out of the hallway and into his bedroom. Harry stopped himself before the noise raised the entire house, shutting the door with a whisper of a click before leaning back on it and sitting down to rest. His heart was racing, and the situation felt specifically intense for such a simple event.

What was he doing? Where did he get that lighter? What the hell was he burning? Evidence? No, no, of course not, where would he even have found something like that?  What if someone sent it? Who sent it, then? Here, of all places? Who would've known, and how? That Springtrap was here? A cold case waiting to burst? 

What was Springtrap fucking burning in his backyard?

A whirlwind of questions. 

At least he was in his room, and not out there. That was certainly nice.

Safe in his room. If worse came to worst, he could lock his door and climb out the window. He knew a good route down. The second floor wasn’t that high. He’d climbed down before. Run around the house and get something weapon-like. Knock on the other rooms. Get his mom and Matt out as quickly and covertly as possible… Pull them out if he had to. 

It was occurring to him now, truly, that Springtrap was a lot more than he seemed. He was an easy-to-read loser trying his best to be a better person and fumbling around. He wanted kids, he wanted a family, but he sucked at it. He needed therapy. He cracked jokes and cooked but was afraid of Harry's kitchen.

But he was also a murderer. A genuine fucking murderer, creeping his way around, and getting increasingly familiar with Harry's house for— what, a week now? A week and a half?

It was a lot to process at once. How could he dismiss it so easily?

Harry put his head in his hands and ignored the static feeling when he pushed a little too hard around his eyes. He sat there for a minute, hugging his knees to his chest and finally attempting to understand that he let Springtrap in his house, and every bit of monster that came with him. Attempting to understand, that there was, for lack of a better and more understanding or encompassing phrase, a monster in his basement.

Trying not to be a monster. But it was still there. Hiding in dark corners and in the kitchen he avoided so desperately, and burning something that probably wasn't evidence in his backyard with a lighter Springtrap had probably stolen.

He heard the backdoor open again, pinning him still like a bug on a wall. 

It wasn't to say Harry's house had creaky floorboards, but there were certain ones you'd hear when you walked around. The one directly in front of his room, the one about halfway up the stairs, and the one directly in front of the kitchen. With the utensils, and the knives, and generally average could-be home weaponry.

A board of which he heard. 

There weren't any other footsteps. Springtrap didn't make noise when he moved around, and Harry was all the way upstairs with his door closed and the window open, and it was making noise. The wind wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t quiet either.

Harry tensed as the board creaked again. Weirdly, this time, as if it'd had weight on already and it had just let up— turned around.

And again. 

And again.

And then, finally, silence. 

It settled over him and tasted like how rubber feels. Harry felt a ringing he hadn't noticed before, suddenly, as if the lack of noise had popped a balloon in his head to call attention to itself.

That didn’t mean Harry was going out there. No way. Not happening. He'd seen far too many horror movies to investigate. The only reason he investigated previously was because he'd gotten far too comfortable having Springtrap in his house.

It occurred to him, suddenly, again, that he did not have his covers with him.

He was not going out to get them.

There was a low, barely audible fabric rustling out there, near the stairs. Springtrap had discovered the blankets.

The first step in the stairs complained. There were so many floorboards in his house. It seemed almost comical now, a perfect detection system so he could writhe in anxiety while someone came close.

He knew the covers were Harry’s; he’d actually offered to wash them at one point. Guess that was when he discovered the loud washing machine. And fixed it. Springtrap had made him food and washed his blankets and fixed his loud washing machine and he was a murderer all the same. Harry hadn’t taken it seriously enough before, he didn’t really know. He understood that Springtrap was a murderer but really it hadn’t occurred to him. It’d been a long time since Springtrap had threatened him— God, Springtrap had even threatened him to his face, and he’d forgotten?

The middle of the stairs creaked. He tensed against the doorframe. If Spring tried getting in, he’d-

He clicked the lock shut as fast as he possibly could. It made a terribly loud noise. Another small burst of wind flew in through his window.

He would climb out the window. He couldn’t hold the door shut against Springtrap, but he could run and get someone. Easy plan of escape. 

If Spring didn’t try to get in?

Harry would sit there. Harry would sit there and then go to bed. And he’d talk to Spring as normally as he possibly could in the morning. And he wouldn’t forget that Springtrap was a murderer, but he’d be his friend. He could do that. Ultimate test right here, right now. What do you do if I see something I’m not supposed to?

He felt the air behind the door change. When you’re that close to it, you’re able to tell.

There were more fabric rustling noises then, and the light under the door from the ambient light of the house was covered up by what he could only assume were his blankets. It was a neat, straight shadow. Not the shadow of a pile of blankets being dumped at his door. Spring had folded it?

There were footsteps, loud footsteps. Like he was making a show of leaving, down the stairs, past the creaky boards. All the way down.

It took Harry a few minutes of silence to open his door and snatch up the ever so slightly messy folded covers. They were cold, and so was his floor, and so was his room. He didn’t lock the door again, but he did close the window. He didn’t want a draft while he slept.

His alarm clock told him he had another four hours of sleep to continue.

Chapter Text

Springtrap fiddled with the keys in his hand. 

Harry gave them to him, which was weird because both Matt and Harry had retained their keys. He'd have to interrogate Harry about that— make sure the kid hadn’t stolen his mother's. 

Hearing how Harry and his mother interacted was an eye-opener, straight out of the gate. From the entire family still saying "I love you" to each other despite both boys being teenagers, to a family dinner on the couch, and by choice, the Hursts had brought him a completely new perspective on family. 

…And on the topic of revelations, he'd just had another session with Veronica. Eventful. 

She'd been enthusiastic to see him and Harry, despite the early morning. They'd walked into the same room as before, and she'd started off asking about his mother. An old, old wound. 

Or, well, his family in general. He'll admit he'd panicked a little, in hindsight, and bitterly closed up for the rest of the session. She'd noticed, obviously; he'd seen her scribbling down notes like a madman, so he could guess, to his chagrin, that it would come up again. The whole place made him feel like a rabid animal, disoriented and strange and just jonesing to be put down. He'd been there again, and the anxiety hadn't let up in the slightest.

So, all he wanted, at the moment, was to talk to his new plushie friend. Spring Bonnie was much better company. Dolly was lovely to go to cool down, but he was out in public, and prying eyes overwhelmed him so easily. So, he was here, fiddling with a set of keys, trying to get into the house he was only a guest in. 

A guest was a stretch. Springtrap was more like a basement dweller.

...It might be a bad thing that his best company was currently someone who could not speak or move. 

Someone. The plushie was a person if he really thought about it. If Spring Bonnie had enough soul to be his friend as a robot, he was sure a plushie wouldn't bother them much. He would take excellent care of them, like he couldn't do before. Pay close attention to the washing instructions.

He opened the door to the Hursts' home and stepped inside like a stranger.

Then again, they were another person he'd have to apologize to. And wonder if they would ever forgive him. Would Spring Bonnie, the person, the plushie, let him take care of them? 

He shook his head and noted how the color glinting off the keys in his hand changed. He'd thought it was sunlight before, but now that he was inside and regaining consciousness from a space out (as he called them), the color shifted to pink. A dull pink. His eyes hadn't been in color for the entire time he'd been holding the keys— how long had that taken?

He lightly kicked the carpeted floor above his room in the basement. He didn't really need to go down there until Matt came home; he didn't want to bother the kid with his presence any more than he had to. He could probably vacuum, or maybe do some laundry.

He walked over to the couch and flopped over with a huff.

Or he could just sit here. That would also work. Sit here and think.

He had a photo stashed away in his chest cavity. 

This was not a new addition. He'd had it there for months, forgotten about it completely, and then rediscovered it when he was investigating his own suit. All it took was flicking the right switches, and his chest piece loosened, split into two pieces down the seams, covered naturally by his arms.

He took a moment to close his eyes and appreciate the design choices there. These same metal bits that had killed him so gruesomely were, quite frankly, marvels of invention for his time. He knew that at least. He'd always wondered who exactly made these things, because he'd only cared when the originals had been replaced. Some company called… Afton Tech? Robotics? He couldn't remember. Some randoms had come along and started reworking the things right and left, all commercialized and plastic. Regardless, the original creators of the springlock suits got completely left in the dust, and that was ultimately depressing, even if their creation did result in his death.

He had an eye for good craftsmanship and design when he saw it. It was probably one of the reasons why he loved being Spring Bonnie so much. He'd not thought about it in quite a while, if at all. Being someone perfect and happy-go-lucky like he could never manage in real life, right down to the way they were designed aesthetically. Not cutesy, not plastic, but nice and real.

The photo. Sitting in his dirty hands, with a date on the back in nice handwriting. Lovely handwriting, actually. Did Nick write this, or did someone else? It was a photo of the two people who lived next door to the house he currently haunted.

plink.

He cracked open an eye. There was dripping coming from behind him. In the kitchen? Yes— echoing endlessly in this terribly empty house. It was probably just the sink, but it was loud. It brought to the forefront of his mind how he hated silence.

plink.

Another drop. That might be annoying soon, he'd have to tell Harry. Write him a note or something in case he was downstairs when Harry got here. Again, he’d hate to bother the kid, especially if he was doing his homework. For now, he could... deal with it. An exercise in patience or something. He certainly needed it.

plink. plink.

So even if it was going to make him rip his ears off, he'd sit there and wait. Maybe watch some TV to drown out the noise, it'd be a good distraction. Distractions are good for dealing with aggravating things— Veronica had confirmed.

She’d been insistent that they talk about Spring’s family this first session. Unlucky for her, he’d learned how to escape the prying hands of a shrink by the time he was thirteen. 

Her methods were… odd, though. She’d been following his trail of misdirection with little bits and pieces of his life and hounded him back to the topic of his parentage every time until she suddenly stopped and shifted focus completely. Started giving him advice on calming himself down instead of prodding at him so much.

“You lived alone?” She raised an eyebrow at him in piqued interest.

“Yep.”

"Always?"

He grimaced at her, annoyed. "Yes! You wanna know so much about my parents— I'll tell you now— they weren’t much company."

She hummed. Scribbled something down in her notebook.

She hadn't asked about him being younger anymore after that. She'd asked a bit about his hallucinations, and he gave her the bare minimum so she wouldn't try to ship him off somewhere. She probably couldn't do that, but caution before carelessness. He'd apparently given her all she needed to know that session, or she just gave up in lieu of his avoidance.A pit in his metaphorical stomach told him it was the former.

plink. Plink.

He rose from his peculiar seating— taking up every inch of the couch. It was just how he'd landed when he flopped over. So now he'd have to enter the kitchen. Easy. 

'Harry fix your sink. ' As much as he'd like to boss the kid around, he'd probably not tell his mother out of spite. 

'Harry, the sink is leaky. Could you get your mother to call someone?' Did he really even need to make a note? Harry would figure it out eventually, and then Springtrap didn't really need to go investigate the kitchen.

The dripping continued. Almost impatient with him. His steps were much louder on tile than on carpet, and he thought it'd be easier to sync his steps with the sound. 

Lo and behold, Springtrap anxiously stepped into the kitchen to find the sink leaking. He shifted his gaze from the faucet (to the knife block) to the drawer closest on his right, narrowing his eyes. Junk drawer where all the pens and such would be.

It wouldn't open at first. He tugged on it, and it jammed a few inches after opening. So he closed it and tried again.

It jammed again. Springtrap glared at the offending drawer.

He stuck his hand in the drawer and shuffled pens and such out of the way. Something fell out and into the cabinet below, but then the drawer opened, and he finally collected the sticky note and pen he needed.

Plink, Plink, Plink, Plink—

He gritted his teeth at the noise and clicked open the pen. He could write admittedly well, considering it'd been... some years. He'd guessed at why he'd retained it a few times when Harry started asking him questions. 

Lots of questions. They did that yesterday, actually. The two of them sat down and played twenty questions (which was more like forty questions, since they'd go back and forth) until one of them forfeited, usually Springtrap. He thought Veronica put the kid up to it and, surprisingly, didn't mind that. The game had tested his patience for sure, and if the kids were planning on being little nightmares, he'd need the practice. They seemed hellbent on pushing him over the edge recently. He noticed, vaguely, that the sink had gone quiet.

Within one of the games, Harry asked if he still knew how to read, to which Spring had (lightly) thrown a stuffed animal directly at his face for the question and immediately tapped out on account of being tired. If he was honest, he wanted time to think. The kid had just given him yet another incentive to question what he was made of and how exactly he retained his memories after death. Since the photo was still clean and not covered in corpse in his chest cavity, he had some guessing to do. A few experiments, even. That's what he'd really left for. To consider possible experiments.

How... medical of him. Eugh. 

He stuck the sticky note on the fridge where he remembered Harry liked to open it to get after-school snacks. The kid would notice when he got home and hopefully remember to follow the advice.

FFFFFSSSSSSHHHHHHHHHHH-

He spun towards the sink. The damn thing was fully running now, water spitting out of it at a concerning speed.

Springtrap dropped the pen he was holding and hurried over to stop the sink— somehow. He reached for the handle frantically. Pipes could come loose if they were old enough, right? That had to be it. Something seriously wrong with the pipe pressure.

His hand was met with resistance. The handle was already off. The sink was just pouring out water for no visible reason, and he was alone with no experience to deal with it. He could fix up a fur suit he'd been wearing for years, but god forbid he had any experience with any actual engineering. How did he even get hired, again? Springtrap shakily ducked below the sink and bent at the knees. There had to be something happening underneath with the pipes. There was a weirdly clear rainy scent floating around.

Too late, he swung open the counter cabinet and realized his mistake. Springtrap flinched, squeezing his eyes shut, expecting the water to hit him at full power. He did not think this through-

-But there was no water.

There was no leak in the pipes. Nothing. Everything was normal under the cabinets. The faucet above just kept spraying water anyway.

He sat there, staring at the pipes, for a moment. A long, thin moment. He didn't have organs, and yet he could hear his heart. It was almost muffled like he was hearing through cotton, except he knew he was hearing through fur, fiberglass, and metal skeleton— and whatever the hell that ghostly, goopy shit was. He hadn’t seen the stuff since the day Harry had fished him out of the ruins of Fazbear’s Frights like some half-dead squirrel in a pool, and now? Now?

He's hallucinating that the goddamn sink was unendingly leaking. It wasn’t real, it was just his stupid brain telling him exactly how fast it could break. He was having… a panic attack? That's it. Yeah, a panic attack, Veronica had said it once— god, it sounded a lot scarier like that. Panic attack.

Spring sat on the floor, staring face-to-face with a bottle of Bleach. 

Maybe he was right earlier. Just maybe, the sink would stop if he just ignored it. It would take pity on him, sitting on the floor, near tears over a bit of water. It’d fade into background noise and Harry would get home with Matt, and then Ms. Hurst. The house wouldn’t be so empty and so damn quiet, and he’d have to go back downstairs. But it would go away. 

So, he stood up— or tried, falling flat on his ass immediately. Like the floor was actually wet. Slowly, he grabbed the countertop and carefully tried to assess why his joints weren't working. Just… panic. Most likely.

The sink was still running when he rose up to focus on it. 

Spring sighed. He sighed long and heavy. He could feel little shadows of sensations under his skin— or, suit— like he always had. Hallucination after hallucination, from writing on the walls to the phantom feeling of someone behind him. Someone resentful and desperate, or even worse, someone cold and tired. Old, violent ghosts he wasn’t even responsible for. They weren’t real, but they’d always felt real. 

As real as when he saw writing on the wall or blood on his hands. He could never know— he was doomed, for his entire existence, to never understand or be truly sure of what reality was. 

He stepped back from white-knuckling the countertop and the overpowering noise of the sink. He probably wasn’t strong enough to break the counter, but then again, he didn’t really know. Couldn't risk it. His endeavor outside from a few nights ago was bold enough. 

Harry had run from him. He was very obvious about it, too. Scrambling away from him so fast he'd left his blankets on the stairs, if only to get to safety. Springtrap couldn't blame him, honestly. He was unpredictable and potentially violent robot with at least two feet on him. Even Harry had to have his limits at some point. He was just a kid. It was so easy to forget that sometimes. For all his confidence and innate ability to foil Spring's plans, Harry was only fifteen. Spring had thought he was practically an adult at fifteen. 

Probably because he had to be. He was a huge exception to most life experiences. Including but not limited to: being dead.

Springtrap stepped back and immediately felt himself begin to slip backwards again. His feet were steady, but there was something on the floor he was stepping on, forcing him to hold his arms out to balance. The brief and terrifying thought that he was slipping on blood crossed his mind, and he dismissed it with a hypothetical racing heart rate.

All he had to do was look down, and so he did. Simple stuff. Focus on simple things, in the present— that's probably what Veronica had said would help. Maybe. 

There was water on the floor. Pooling on the floor beneath him. He looked for the source with another sense of panic entirely. If he didn’t find the source, stop it immediately, and clean all of it up, the Hursts would have to replace their carpeting. He despised that concept.

It was coming out of the bathroom nearest the kitchen. The Hursts had an upstairs bathroom and a downstairs bathroom, and currently, one of them was pouring out water. 

So, he opened the bathroom door.

Inside, waiting for him impatiently, was an alligator skeleton. Well, a human skeleton, just with an alligator skull sat atop the spine and a few too many ribs. It stood there, just before the doorway, and looked down at him from underneath a fishing hat. A muted green fishing hat, with little things attached to it. A fish hook hanging off the side. A little lure stuck through the band that looked red. 

Then again, it was hard to tell. Springtrap had finally noticed that most of his surroundings had been completely leached of color as if he’d stepped into a black-and-white movie. Except for the red things. Like the alligator skeleton almost folding underneath the ceiling, looking down at him, as he looked down on everything. Like the skeleton’s fishing hat, which looked green with a red tint slathered over it. The kitchen sink was still on— in fact, every water-connected thing in the house sounded like it was on and running, the showers, and the washing machine downstairs, all going at once.

“Hello.” Said the alligator skeleton.

Spring didn’t say hello back. He just stood there, looking up at the red, skeletal form. Springtrap wasn't used to looking up like this. No one had been taller than him in twenty years. The alligator— with a pair of fishing overalls on, and a pair of very nice fishing boots to go with them. It all went together very well despite his looming presence. If he hadn't been so absurd in essence, so terrifying and deadly-looking, and if Springtrap wasn't filled top to bottom with a paralyzing, cold dread at the very sight of him, the whole ensemble would have made him laugh.

“Name’s Old Man Consequences.” He spoke again. His voice was baritone low. It was easy to hear over the running water and the endless liquid dripping off him, despite having no visible vocal cords.

“Hel-” Springtrap wheezed out, and stopped. He gathered up his courage and a better voice to introduce himself in. If he didn’t make a good impression on this alligator, right now, he was completely certain he’d never make an impression on anyone ever again. “Hello. I’m-”

“Stanford. Roger.” Old Man Consequences leaned forward, through the door frame, and leered at him with so many teeth. “You’ been a thorn in my bones. We’ve met before.”

“We have?” He squeaked through a grin and stepped back. Or stumbled back— just a bit. A little bit of stumbling.

Old Man Consequences hummed in grim confirmation. He looked around. “This ain’t your house, right? You don’t have one.”

Springtrap looked at the floor. A red-tinted puddle lapped against his feet, rocking in time with the alligator’s voice, and the drip-drip of water off his oddly dry bones. “No, I- I don't. Can you get rid of the water?"

“No.”

“No?” He asked the alligator. Spring had chosen to question what was actively happening, because if he asked things like; Why are you here? What are you? Or just ask Old Man Consequences to please leave, he’d bet he would get to know those teeth very well. He just had a hunch. A very, very strong hunch.

“No.” Old Man Consequences stepped forward into the hallway, and Springtrap stepped back again. He briefly worried where the kids were, and, speak of the devil, he could see one peer around the corner of the hallway from the kitchen. The ghost obliviously stepped around and into the puddle (walking, for some odd reason) and backpedaled, looking at his foot in disgust. 

The ghost looked at him like the puddle was his fault. Spring flicked his hand and tilted his head in the direction of the kitchen, trying to motion him away.

“You’re lucky with a roof over you,” The skeleton eyed him warily again. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you.”

Springtrap did not laugh. Barely. "You've said."

Old Man Consequences huffed through his nose, like an animal, and raised his voice an octave to mock the man. "You're on a nice streak, ain'tcha? No violence?"

Springtrap kept his mouth shut despite the question. He was still trying to peek at the kid rounding the corner and floating over to him. He could feel his ears drooping as far as they could possibly go— this whole situation was terrible. The kids needed to be far away while this thing was here. Who knows what he would do? Old Man Consequences seemed very confident in his ability to hurt Springtrap. The kids couldn't be an exception.

Still, the alligator awaited his response.

"Yes," Springtrap steadied himself. "Yes. Should've… always been that way."

"Shut up. You couldn't be." He snarled, and then leaned backward. "Listen, unfortunately, I didn't come here to antagonize you. You're actually doin’… good." Old Man Consequences looked elsewhere on an oddly solemn note, and Spring took his chance to motion away the little ghost. "Kids said you turned over some kinda leaf. Don't go provin'em wrong."

Springtrap froze. "What?"

The alligator snapped back to attention. Literally snapped his teeth and growled at Spring. He stepped back again and felt the wall behind him. "Don't prove 'em wrong, you old rotter. Keep your damn head together. Sim-ple.” He snapped his teeth again on the last syllable.

Spring was distracted. "No- no, about-! What about the kids?"

"I told you."

"You- You're talking to the children? Are you where they have to disappear to-?" He felt an uncomfortable white-heat rage boil in his stomach at the thought of this thing handling the ghost children with tooth and claw. Was he really so unbearable that they went away to- to this?

And yet, what if it was his fault? Had he sent them to some terrible hell with this Old Man Consequences? The idea soured in his stomach and quelled his anger as soon as it arose.

The skeleton in question straightened and sighed, heavy and low like he’d given up on talking to the robot in front of him. He tiredly tugged on his hat that had shifted when he snapped at Spring and muttered under his breath— even though he had no lungs. "You shoulda' been a number."

He turned back to where the kid had been last. Instead, Springtrap was met with the little phantom's face directly in front of his own, and he jumped back with a quite frankly pathetic yelp.

The old skeleton's attention was drawn again by the noise. "What? Hallucination?"

Springtrap squinted and glanced frantically between skeleton and ghost, teetering on his own minuscule fence of sanity. "How do you know about-?! Why?"

"What spooked you?" Old Man Consequences asked, toothily. "Tangible fears ain't my specialty. Need'ta… take notes."

"Err…" He racked his brain for the name, dumbly unresponsive to the underlying threat. "Gabriel."

The alligator glanced around.

"...No."

Spring felt an odd burst of confidence rise in the midst of his own lack of emotional range. "What the hell do you mean, no?"

"No. He ain't. Here." Consequences leaned down to glare at him again. "I told you."

Springtrap glanced at the kid to his right. Staring daggers at him and paying no mind to the alligator. Dripping dark, shadowy liquid onto the floor without any effect. He noticed how close the kid was to him, and yet Springtrap couldn't feel an ounce of heat. Susie had taught him that very specific lesson a very long time ago.

When ghosts get angry, they boil.

It was a constant among the rest of them, as well. They boiled when they got fed up enough with him. Gabriel had done it before, and it hurt like hell. The kid was calm and usually didn't get furious, but when he did, it left a mark. It was just like... Harry reminded him of Gabriel. Just older.

He hadn't noticed himself boiling, though. Or Miles. But the other ghost children had all done it at one point or another.

The shadowy children (when had they stopped being transparent again?) had never boiled. Not an ounce of steam or smoke. They never seemed to change the temperature whatsoever.

Springtrap looked the alligator in the eyes. "Where is he, then?"

"Moved on. Gabriel’s been moved on for… weeks. Whatever you're seeing," Spring turned to the apparition again as Old Man Consequences continued, leering at him with a dry intrigue, "It's not him."

Weeks?

They'd changed color. Changed attitudes. Changed completely. Miles wasn’t even there anymore.

So, none of the barbs were theirs. None of it. Not the tricks, or the constant hateful presence, or the name-calling— it all seemed so childish— it was just him replacing what was missing.

He didn't think when he swiped a hand through the shadow in front of him. Springtrap didn't even have the time to berate himself for not simply poking at the fake ghost instead of swinging for it. 

His hand just fell through like there was nothing there. The ghost- the- the hallucination just frowned a little harder at him. A fake.

"I only came here to warn ya'. One way or another," Old Man Consequences poked him in the chest again, but he couldn't look. He was frozen by the cold hallucination of a ghost next to him. "I'll be lettin' you burn yourself out."

Every source of running water in the house stopped, and Springtrap was alone.

*

The lunch at her school looked awful.

Deliah glanced down at her (noisy) styrofoam plate again. The mac and cheese looked vaguely edible, but they’d also handed her Pepto Bismol on a plate in tired confidence. Her sneakers were comfortable when she walked, but the concrete was uneven and unfamiliar, and she would trip easily if she didn’t keep her steps in mind.

The buildings at her school had numbers. This would be completely normal and honestly quite nice if the numbers weren’t completely random. She walked past the thirty-first building on her way to the seventh building. It was terrible. Especially when she heard from Jade that the numbers were new. Before they had letters, and now even the upperclassmen couldn’t give any directions because they weren’t sure themselves.

Other than that, it’d been pretty sweet. She just kept to herself mostly. Certainly not the high school experience of her nightmares.

Meeting Jade and Bingo the very first morning had been a huge help. She could not have thanked Harry more. The three of them were one of the few reasons she’d been having even a remotely good time. Her teachers were nice, but the regular amount of anxiety-inducing. They’d handed out syllabi that weren’t actually detailing the semester’s assignments and just established rules, which is not what a syllabus was. Most of them had wanted them signed and returned as well, so she didn’t remember them anyway. It was good to start off with an easy A, though.

She scooted around the cafeteria poles and stopped behind building twelve. Scanned around unreasonably tall high schoolers for Harry and the rest of his friends. She spotted Bingo and Harry having an animated (and apparently very silly) argument over a bright, blue-painted picnic table. Her feet hurt slightly.

Deliah did not feel well, even if she was having a generally pretty good day. She had an inkling of what was causing her discomfort and unease, but no real way to get rid of it.

Talking about Springtrap with Harry seemed so far off when she made herself a little plan. Do it on Thursday, she’d say to herself, and then the weekend had passed over her before she even remembered. Whenever she thought of talking to Harry about it, her metaphorical stomach dropped into nothing when she even looked at him. She didn't want to shy away from it. That was dumb. But...

She leaned further against the wall and uncomfortably into her backpack. It didn’t help that every time she looked at him, she also— cliche as it may be— got butterflies.

She had that to figure out, too. He was definitely cute, that was for sure, but now she saw him every day, and it only gave her more fuel for the fire. There was just so much going on, her grades, her social life, her dad had attempting to hang out with her at all times, even if he was obviously migraine-level tired. It worried her. She was just a girl with a lot to worry about.

Or, maybe not. She could count on one hand how much she had to worry about. Which was supposedly a good thing, but counting out all her problems as if they were neatly assembled and easy to take apart just made her feel worse. Deliah shifted and mindlessly counted them out on her hand anyway, still holding onto her tray of food and watching as Harry and his friend, whom he’d known for years, settled down from their argument.

They were having fun despite being in the middle of a debate. She didn’t know if she could handle that on a day like this.

It was a little ridiculous. She felt awful for a very small number of reasons at her new high school that she liked. The whole situation seemed like a parody of itself— one big oxymoron thrown at her head like a dodgeball.

She probably shouldn’t bother them on a bad day. The courtyard felt loud, like someone turned up the instrumental of a song slightly too much so that it just barely overpowered the actual words being spoken. It always annoyed her when that happened.

“Hey.”

“AH-!”  

Deliah spun with the abject terror of someone lost in their thoughts. Jade was to the right and slightly behind her, having to slightly look down to talk. Most people had to do that, but she noticed anyway.

So maybe Deliah wasn't exactly happy with being the shortest, but she made due. "Jeez- Jade. Hey."

"Looking for the new table? Bingo texted me a second ago," Jade looked down at the phone in her hand, "Harry and them discovered something."

"Oh, yeah, I noticed." Deliah motioned over to where the two kids were currently being loud and comically resuming their argument. She could hear their voices indiscriminately through the now-thinning crowd. Why was it so loud? Almost everyone was at their tables.

“Then... why were you just standing here?”

Ah. So Jade had been standing there a little while. “I… I had something on my mind.”

Deliah looked the girl next to her straight in the eyes. She was good at lying if she had a bit of time. It’s one of the things she picked up from Springtrap. Which… was probably bad. There were a lot of qualities Dels didn't want from Springtrap.

Jade squinted at her. If she squinted back, she’d just see a blob of green. “We’ve got time. Once you’re out of the cafeteria, they don’t care.”

“...That’s kind of morbid.” A swing and a miss. That definitely wasn’t the right word for it. Anything to change the subject. 

“What's wrong?” Dammit. 

Deliah opted to stare down at her lunch tray, which still looked unappealing. There was an ache in the side of her jaw. "You're really perceptive."

Jade hummed in agreement. Her voice never really seemed to waver or change. If you listened for it specifically, you could always kind of catch what she was feeling, but Deliah felt cotton in her ears from the courtyard volume, so it was a little tough.

"I- uh…" Deliah fiddled with her backpack straps. They were a soothing texture to her hands, and she mumbled out a half-truth. "Just don't feel good. Really busy with homework and things at home. I didn't want to lower the mood just 'cause I've got stuff to think about."

Jade's phone buzzed over the courtyard noise and the ache in Dels' mouth. She patted Deliah's shoulder and sighed in sympathy.

"I haven't known you for very long. But it doesn't matter. At this point, you're stuck with us." She mulled something over, and Deliah felt especially like Jade had just put away some metaphorical crowbar to pry into her business with. Dels wondered if this is what people felt like when she wanted information out of them. "Especially with Harry."

Deliah's eyes widened. "Wait- really?"

Jade nodded her head, and Dels realized, suddenly, that she'd not told Jade anything about her crush on Harry. She hadn't told anyone, actually. Except for maybe indirectly Springtrap. 

What would Spring be doing right now? Surely, he'd be lonely, cooped up in a basement.

No, wait- Never mind that— point two to Jade's perceptiveness.

"Is-? Is it really that obvious? I thought I was being discreet." 

Jade's raised eyebrow told her all she needed to know. Deliah could feel warmth rise to her cheeks without her permission. She didn’t particularly like this conversation either, but it wasn't the worst.

"Listen," Jade started, and Deliah's hope of dropping any part of the conversation washed down the drain entirely, "I think all of us would feel better if you were with us when you zone out instead of 'lost' in the courtyard."

She stared at the grass, finding it less green than her friend. 

"You ever try origami?"

Jade's hand grabbed her attention, waving a few pieces of paper at her. Perfect squares of paper, in various colors and patterns. "I've heard of it. I'm more of a scissors-type person. I think."

Her friend didn't respond; she just dug out a little booklet and added to the pile, the same perfect square size as the papers. It was a folding guide; it said so on the small cover. 

Deliah understood as Jade waved the pile in her face again, that these were hers to take. She wasn't even sure where Jade had pulled the paper from.

"I get fidgety. These help."

The paper was a smooth texture in her hands, light and not quite thin enough to crinkle. "You should keep these, I couldn't-"

Jade's phone buzzed again, and she actually looked at it this time, transferring her tray to her other hand. Deliah released a breath she didn’t know she'd been holding. Jade was very unconcerned with her half-hearted refusal of the paper.

The girl narrowed her eyes at her phone and slid it into her pocket, satisfied with whatever she had read. Actually, Deliah hadn't noticed she had pockets, usually, dresses don't have pockets at all. Her dress had poofy mesh sleeves— the see-through kind that still had patterns on them, in this case, just dots. Now that she looked, it seemed more like the mesh was a shirt underneath the dress.

Jade nodded towards Harry and Bingo and began to walk, the tray of 'food' in one hand. "Table?"

"You do have pockets!" She blurted out, catching up with her friend and shoving the paper as carefully as she could into her own pockets. Jade did not respond; she just threw up her free hand and wiggled it, as if to signify 'magic' with jazz hands.

The trek to the bench and connected table was short. Deliah had no idea how the two hadn't noticed her staring at them. Bingo was the first to notice them coming over, and they did so loudly. "Jade-! Come here!"

"Coming." She answered, not missing a beat or wincing at the several tables around swiveling to look at them accusingly. "I found Deliah. She got lost."

Deliah glanced at her in a silent nod of thankfulness and received one in return. The other two were too preoccupied with their argument to notice.

"Did you know- have you taken the stupid little personality test?" Harry asked, completely seriously. He had a t-shirt on today that seemed slightly too big for him, with a very simple design of Garfield on a skateboard.

"I- Any of them?" Dels slung her backpack over her shoulder and onto the mulch while putting her tray down with the other hand. Jade scurried to sit near Bingo on the bench to Dels' left. She ruffled their hair affectionately on the way to sit down, and it crossed Deliah's mind to try and do that with Harry at some point. He had fluffy enough hair. It might be soft, even.

"No- the stupid one, with the letters as types of people?"

"It is not stupid! It's cool, it utilizes actual science!" Bingo shot back, nibbling aggressively on some of the sandwich they'd fished out of their lunch.

Deliah had no clue what either of them were talking about. Harry rolled his eyes nearly to the back of his head at Bingo's words. 

"What kind of science? You know, astronomy is a science, and you aren't going around believing in zodiac signs." 

Jade tapped her phone in finality. "INTJ-A. Architect."

Bingo's eyes widened, and they swung around to peer at Jade's phone. 

"That's the rarest one!" Bingo pointed out something on Jade's phone excitedly. "I'm an ENFP-T."

"Did you memorize it?" Harry said through a mouthful of fruit roll-up, so it sounded funny. He also side-eyed Deliah's untouched tray of 'food' like it offended him and dug around suspiciously in his lunchbox.

"Yes, I did. It's cool. I like the personality types— there's a fandom, you know. A whole group of people making content for the little characters! Zodiac signs are just speculation and fortune-telling based on the stars. It's not actually astronomy." 

It was like watching a tennis match. 

A small packet of fruit snacks was dropped unceremoniously onto an empty part of her tray. When she looked over, Harry was still digging for more, as if he hadn't been the one to place it there. "Still a scam, man."

Bingo huffed and argued no more, so Dels scanned the courtyard briefly. Out of the corner of her eye, she spotted the avoidable girl from the first day. Still with her bracelets and heart-shaped glasses, she was standing awkwardly in the courtyard, as if waiting for someone. 

Noted.

She still didn't quite feel hungry, and a little out of place, so she fished out the origami paper. The little stack had bent a little, but not enough to do damage. The guidebook was there as well, and she stuck a thumb on one side to watch as the pages inside flipped.

It stopped open on a picture of a paper crane. She'd definitely seen those before, but they looked complicated.

A bag of chips was on her tray now, balanced delicately above the main course, best described as a cup of liquefied bubble gum. She didn’t know the taste of the stuff and wasn't going to attempt a go at it, so she moved the chips to a safer, less dunkable place on the table. It was weird they'd served something so inedible when the previous day's food had been pretty decent.

"So, how is Ms. Hayes?" Bingo had dropped all pretense of the previous conversation and leaned expectantly towards Deliah. They also swiped a pepper slice out of her veggies, which she would not tolerate if it had been anything other than pepper.

"She's not bad, actually. She just teaches math." She explained.

Bingo evidently did not believe her. "I heard she made some kid cry, though. Then again, I don't have her, I'd have no idea, but a guy can guess, right? Do people get her name wrong a lot?"

"Dude, that kid was Henderson, remember? Gavin?" Harry objected before Dels could get a word in.

"It was Henderson?"

Deliah smiled at how quickly the two forgot their argument and flipped open the guide again. She could try her hand at that paper crane. There were other, simpler folds in the guide too, so if she failed miserably, she could just make a star instead. Something along those lines.

First two steps, fold in half twice to make a triangle. She just had to line it up correctly, that is all. After a few more steps and a bit of grumbling, she had an elaborately creased kite shape in her hands. The guide referred to it as the bird base, which was unusually funny to her. Deliah had the rest of the table half tuned out, but they all were enjoying their food more than they were talking, so it was comfortable.

She also noticed, out of the corner of her eye, a trio of kids looking over at their table. The avoidable girl was one of them. They must have been the people she’d been waiting for.

Maybe Deliah should stop calling her avoidable. Seemed mean. Something about her heart–shaped glasses would be a better nickname. If she looked closely, the rims were slightly shiny, as if they had little gems on the edges. It might have just been the light, or flyaway strands of her tied-up strawberry hair. 

The shorter of the two boys— they looked too confident to be freshmen— was staring them down directly. A toothy smirk split across his face, and Deliah was struck with a particularly familiar uneasy feeling that he had plans for trouble. He turned back to his little group, though, so she just made a mental note and kept quietly folding. All she needed to do was line up the edges, though the continuous creases complained at her.

There was an unusual amount of fun to be had when you were quiet. You could sit and watch the drama all you wanted without ever getting involved. When you go quiet, you can get in on a lot of information. She knew a lot of things about kids from her middle school that she kept under wraps for later use. If some of the stuff she knew got out now, she could potentially ruin social lives right out of the gate.

Delilah wasn’t the type to do that, though. She listened, and she watched, but the idea of ruining someone else completely, with no warning, made her honestly sick. She listened to rumors, but she didn’t spread them.

She’d stopped folding in thought. Whoops.

She stole a glance to her left and found Harry… lost in thought. He had another bag of chips open, but he was kind of looking out into empty space. It must have been what she looked like when Jade found her.

Before she could check on him, a shadow fell over the table that felt like far more trouble than a high schooler could cause normally. Delilah eyed him skeptically, and to her surprise, he sat right down. He squeezed right next to Bingo and leaned, squishing both them and Jade into each other uncomfortably.

His voice caught her off guard, an entire octave higher than she expected. “I heard my name over here?”

His taller buddy snickered like he was in on something. So, they were definitely here to make fun of them all; that's what the voice was for. Bingo didn’t seem to notice this detail and greeted him with an awkward wave, like they hadn’t actually been talking about him— Deliah assumed this must be Gavin Henderson— nearly a minute ago.

“Henderson.” Jade spat out. In the middle of summer, the tone of Jade’s voice turned the air nearly icy and sent a shiver down Deliah’s spine.

"Let’s see here, we've got— Blondie?” Henderson looked at Harry in genuine surprise and confusion, “God, dude, why are you two still hanging around these two?"

"Oh, Christ-" Harry sighed.

Deliah felt anger boil to the surface in record time. He was clearly not here to beat around the bush. This was an old feud she was witnessing.

"Seriously, man. Everyone knows you and you’re still hanging out with the wacko duo! This one never shuts up or takes off those stupid jackets— thinks he's queer." He shot a cocky look at a now frozen Bingo and then pointed over to Jade, "And that one's some sociopath whose health-junkie mom-"

Harry slammed his hands on the table and stood, his patience run thin. He wasn't nearly as tall as Henderson, but the point came across just fine. "Henderson, get the fuck out of here! Go sit down at your own table full of assholes, alright?" 

Henderson was silent for a moment, and his buddy stepped a little closer behind him. Heart Glasses looked outright bored. Dels glanced to the side at her friends. Bingo was scowling off to the side with Jade's hand on their shoulder in comfort. 

“Like I said. Everyone knows you, Blondie. Even if we’re assholes,” Henderson sniveled out, hooking a thumb over his shoulder to indicate his taller buddy. “Why the hell are you with these guys?”

The taller leaned over and whispered something to Henderson. He turned to the middle of the table, to Deliah. Opened his mouth as if to say something.

She glared him straight in the eyes, daring him to say anything. Anything he could possibly think of, go ahead. Try it. I guaruntee you I've dealt with worse.

Heart Glasses spoke first, a little rushed, as if she was a little panicked. Deliah likely misheard. “Guys- c’mon. I am so bored and so hungry. Can we go eat now instead of hustling some nerds?”

Successfully distracted, Henderson shut his mouth and leaned back, with a look on his face that didn’t really have any substance behind it.

“Fine. You’re always hungry.”

The table was quiet as Henderson and his buddy left, the girl lagging a little behind. Everyone at the table except for Harry.

“Millie!” 

She stopped and looked back. Harry had dug another fruit snack bag out of his box, and he lifted it up to her. He was asking, without words, if she wanted any.

Millie turned around continued walking.

Deliah had no idea what that meant, but Harry sat back down at the table with enough of a disappointed sigh that she could guess. All the sighing and the way he ran his hands through his hair a bit more than usual had been hints as to how stressed he was. It all just seemed a bit bigger than some upperclassmen coming over to bother them, though. Maybe the two of them had been stressed for the exact same reason.

The descriptions Henderson had given out were ruthless. She looked over at Bingo and Jade again. They leaned into each other, hugging. Though the girl didn't emote much with her eyes, Jade looked more troubled than Bingo; her eyebrows drawn together and fidgeting with her hands. 'Sociopath,' he called her. What did he know? Deliah couldn't have known her longer than a week, and she seemed so expressive through the calm exterior.

She looked back at Harry guiltily. She had to do something; she hadn't even received an insult. It was a serious doubt he could give out anything she hadn't already heard anyway— Henderson hadn't seemed very bright behind his eyes. Not the sharpest tool.

She still had the half-folded origami swan in her hand, although a little crumpled, so she got to work.

When she handed it to Harry— with uneven folds and tiny bits of paper sticking out in some areas, but generally resembling a paper swan— he was delighted. He took his head out of his hands and gasped happily at the little gift.

He shifted it in his hands for a second and then sighed lowly, like Deliah could feel the weight on his chest by sound alone. “He gets on my nerves. Sorry.”

“Nah, he seemed like an asshole.”

Harry laughed, and it reminded her oddly enough of painting in orange and yellow. Dels felt warmth rise to her face. “Spot on. This looks amazing.”

She tore her eyes away and ripped open a gummy bag like her life depended on it.

*

Springtrap was back at Dolly's. He couldn't possibly sit in that house all alone until Harry came back. He couldn’t stand the silence.

"Why'd you even leave? You've got nothing to do anyway." Maybe he hadn't told her about Old Man Consequences. Or why he came back. She hadn't asked that yet.

"Thought I'd… overstayed my welcome. I'm not exactly paying you."

"You pay me more than enough in entertainment."

"I've always had a knack for that, y'know?" He added on. Internally, he was playing a sort of mind tennis, trying to figure out if he should tell her. He'd walked in shaking like the last leaf in the middle of winter, and she just sat him down, no need to explain.

She was drawing on a notepad now. A different one from the one she used to write down orders. She'd passed that to one of her hires— they were all sort of blending together. He was surprised he'd made it here, the way the shadows felt like bugs crawling up his legs.

"You ever practice comedy, or was it all just being the rabbit?" She asked, squinting at him and then back at her notepad, sticking her tongue out of the side of her mouth. Her nails were done today, in a nice color combination of red, orange, white, and pink. 

He'd noticed her primarily orange color palette this morning when he walked in. He just zeroed in on fashion by habit. The way she chose a thick orange headband to contrast with the darker color of her eyes, skin, and coiled hair worked well. She'd obviously worn the ensemble before, and every day he'd come into Dolly's, she'd been warm-colored.

It was the kind of consistency that did him wonders when his world went shattering, as it did so often. "Their name was Spring Bonnie. And- no." 

He reached into the open spot where his stomach would've been through the hole in his side and shuffled around. Stolen (and gifted) things laughed at him, and he brushed by them: a man's lighter, the Hursts' house keys, and a photo of two people he could not go back to. Finally, the Spring Bonnie plushie.

"Aw, man. You'd do good." She turned around her notepad and showed him the pencil sketch. He ignored the underlying insult in the words and sat Spring Bonnie soundly on the counter. "What d'you think?"

It was his eye. His pupil, more specifically, lying flat on the notepad she’d put down. It looked so inhuman, double-ringed and purple— she'd taken a highlighter and colored the rings. He bounced his leg on the bar stool under him.

"Oh. You brought a friend?" Dolly pointed at Spring Bonnie with the tip of her pencil.

He felt himself smile a little more genuinely. "Yeah. Spring Bonnie. In the… plush."

"Nice." She moved as if to tap the notebook in her hand with the pencil, but stopped. "How'd you bring them here? Did you put them in your stomach?"

"Have you ever needed to get out of a house before?" He felt the smile slip off his face and completely ignored the question. He had other, better, less confusing, less horrible things to think about than his insides. Spring didn't really have to tell her about the old alligator. It's not like it could be potentially life-threatening.

She narrowed her eyes in annoyance at his avoidance. "...Generally?" 

"Like the place was trying to eat you up and swallow you whole?" He supplied, hoping she'd get a bit more of the picture. The picture being shaped like a terrifying ghost-skeleton-demon thing, making every sink in the Hursts’ house go ballistic and then leave not a single drop of water behind. She'd understand.

Dolly raised an eyebrow at him and leaned to one side, putting the notepad down on the counter. The sketch of his own eye peered up at him. Other eyes also looked on, in the shadows and crawling up his leg.

"Yeah. 'Cept I run a B&B through it. Just an extra income, yknow?" She sighed into her palm. "Plus, it's better than being alone in that huge fuckin’ place. I've got too much space for my own good, so even if the house swallows me whole, I've got someone else to get digested with."

Springtrap gave her an odd look, snorted, and flipped over the notepad. "Ew."

She laughed with him. "It's a good plan, though!"

“Sure.” He glanced up at the chalk menu Dolly had drawn up for that day. It had the same signature shooting stars decorating the edges, and he found the continuity nice and comfortable.

He felt... safer here.

Chapter Text

Spring was at Dolly's much earlier than he expected to be.

He'd just needed to get out again, practically crumbled to bits trying to get out of the Hursts' empty house. The silence was just so grainy in his ears, drilling into his brain like static. No rushing water, no crackle of fire, no kitchen noises, just the empty humming of an AC unit. 

Even if it had never been them, the kids had been missing, and it showed. He was getting desperate. On his way out of the house to escape to Dolly’s early that morning, he nearly encountered Ms. Hurst. She was just standing out there, blankly sipping coffee and looking up to capture a memory of the stars before her day began. Springtrap had no reason to study her as he did with Nick, and he had somewhere to be, so it wasn't much of a concern to him. The problem arose when he'd tried to copy Ms. Hurst's example and steal a look at the stars, only to nearly fall flat out in front of her and into the delicately planted bushes outside their home. The way she got in her car, a little shaken but otherwise alright, reminded him vividly of Harry.

Just another instance to tack on about how separated Springtrap clearly was from his own mother. It'd been proven several times now that Harry and Ms. Hurst were very close despite a very obvious unspoken wedge in the family. Likely a death, or Harry's father leaving, or whatever had happened to Mason. Spring could spot that kind of unspoken family issue from a mile away. He made sure he'd be able to notice the unspoken little things.

Many particular little things that also, coincidentally, led to Spring being impatient waiting out the night, almost getting caught, and steadily creeping his way to Dolly's Donuts— a route he'd frantically memorized.

The door creaked open, not too loudly, but in the regular creaky way of a popular café. The bell above him jingled sweetly, as if to tattle on him. Springtrap felt as if he was sneaking in, even if this was the front door and Dolly's Donuts was definitely lit up and open. It wasn’t an unfounded assumption; it was weirdly early for a cafe to be open, but he wasn’t one to judge.

"Be right there!" She answered from the kitchen. She was most likely still preparing for the day.

He stopped walking at the counter, hands over the entrance like he'd planned to open it and greet Dolly like he lived here. Like he was a welcome friend, at worst. He probably wasn't that. "Uh… Dolls?"

"Oh shit, Spring?" He heard a few more clangs than what was necessary for moving around a kitchen at that early in the morning. His mild confusion was strong enough to push back the prickle of shame at using a nickname for Dolly completely unprompted. They clearly weren’t good enough friends for that, but hopefully, she’d let it slide.

There was a carved design on the very edge of the counter that felt nice, a distraction from being here when he wasn't supposed to be. Dolly's head popped happily out of the kitchen doors. 

"Hey man, you're early," Her grin was certainly unexpected, like she wasn't laying out some cardinal sin of his, being exceedingly punctual to an appointment he'd never scheduled. Come to think of it, they never made an actual agreement that Spring would be here nearly every other day. He just did. "Come here and help me!"

She disappeared into the kitchen again.

He blinked, stupidly.

"What?"

"C'mere! I need help with a recipe, and I need fresh meat!" 

He was, apparently, fresh meat to cooking. Perish the thought. Without cooking— baking too— he'd simply explode.

Spring couldn't let himself be demoted simply to fresh meat status. The pattern on the side of the counter (small, messily carved lilies, he'd noticed) was abandoned, and he pushed his way past the counter and through the kitchen door like it was nothing.

The kitchen was huge, and he promptly forgot about being ‘fresh meat’ upon entry. Stocked to the brim, he could feel himself gasp at the sheer space. Pans hanging up from an island table covered in drawers, a couple of cabinets on the wall were open at about his height; tupperware boxes and plastic jars full of donut decor packed into them. There was a set of four ovens in the wall, and the closest topmost oven was illuminated with the familiar orange glow of heat, though nothing was inside. Springtrap could barely grasp the entire place, something out of his oldest daydreams.

Dolly tugged on his arm and pointed slightly to the side of the ovens, where there was a semi-clear case sitting on the counter. “Since you’re so early, help me with the first batch. New recipe in progress.”

And then she was busy, milling around, flinging open cabinets and grabbing ingredients out of them. She had a saucepan and a baking dish out, though, not what one would typically need for donuts. He’d question it later, right now, there was a first batch waiting for…

What did she want him to do with it, exactly?

He shuffled over and lifted the case. Under it was a deliriously good smell, fresh out of the oven, plain glazed donuts set carefully on two trays. Spring leaned down and stared at them for a moment, appreciating the craft. Every single one was near perfect, delicate, and crumbly-looking while also retaining the fluffiness any self-respecting pastry should have. Dolly obviously knew what she was doing, and she knew it, so what was he back here for?

He glanced back at her, getting buttermilk out of the fridge next to her designated cluttered workspace. She’d probably told him already, but he could risk it. “What… am I supposed to be doing? These are perfect.”

She smirked at him and set the buttermilk on the counter with a thunk, which was a better reaction than he expected.

“Those,” Dolly motioned vaguely at the donuts with an oddly soft look Spring couldn’t pinpoint. “Are for the pre-work regulars. I put ‘em in there so they stay warm for the sweet tooths that come here for breakfast. You’re takin’ ‘em out so I can keep working.”

Ah, simple. He tossed a goofy and exaggerated salute her way and turned to pick up the racks. They weren’t heavy in any sense, despite being arranged with so many baked goods, but stacking one rack on top of the other gave him the heebie-jeebies. He’d have to take them outside one at a time.

Pushing open the kitchen door with an arm full of donuts and seeing a customer waiting patiently in the cafe felt surreal, for many reasons. He’d never had this kind of personal feeling at Fazbear’s, it was just his job back then— not that this was his job now. He was just helping out the owner, and if that meant ignoring the bewildered look of a customer and asking in his ever-so-familiar customer service voice if they were a regular, then so be it. If that also meant gently placing down the rack of donuts, blindly opening a drawer and getting lucky to find the bags the customer referred to as usually getting with their fourth-a-dozen donuts, and accepting the payment from them, only to awkwardly not put it into the cash register, then so be it. Easy.

Springtrap sighed heavily when the door closed after the regular. Customer service was so stressful when you didn’t work there and hadn’t serviced anyone in thirty years.

“That went over well.” Called Dolly, incriminating herself thoroughly from the other side of the door.

“You knew somebody was-!?” He hissed and crashed into the kitchen without an ounce of genuine malice.

She threw her head back and barked out a laugh, opening up a can. “You did just fine! You really are just some random retail worker standing on some comically large paws.”

“Paws?” Spring spluttered helplessly. So she had exercised some disbelief about what he’d told her, and this was a chance to prove a bit of truth to his story?

“Paws!” She pointed at his feet with the butter knife and then noticed the money he still had in his hands. “Dingus. The key’s already in the register.”

He held his metaphorical tongue and, faux angrily, picked up the other tray of donuts. Another customer was waiting out there, shocked to see him. This one laughed, though, and said something about Dolly being a wild card. Spring served them up a half-dozen, opened the register, stuck the payment in, and mulled over why they were wrong. Dolly was a card, yes, but more like if a wild card had been transported into chess, and could become a queen if she made it to the other side of the board. Something like that. Maybe more like checkers. He's never actually played chess before.

When he walked back into the kitchen, Dolly was putting her hair up with some difficulty. The coils of her hair seemed to work against her, so she sufficed for just containing the hair around her face with her headband. It still worked, both for her appearance and effectively getting the hair out of her face, but she huffed grumpily at the dish she was making.

“Your hair’s nice.” He offered some support from the sidelines, leaning on the counter. 

She distractedly motioned over to a stove top next to her. “Wish it was longer. Can you watch that for me?”

Springtrap practically bounced over, definitely only mildly giddy at the chance to actually make something. It was just helping, but it’d been so long since he’d gotten his hands on some real kitchen tools. Dolly had a saucepan on medium heat, filled with peaches and sugar. Peach cobbler, then? She’d obviously been in a bit of a rush to get to her dish, so he stirred it some more to get the sugar to really mix in. There would be more juice this way, so it would melt better into the cobbler crust. 

He hadn’t made cobbler in forever. Even when he was alive, it wasn’t exactly his number one priority. Now, he could put his knowledge to good use.

Dolly was chopping butter. Not slicing it, literally chopping it into pieces. It was a smidge concerning to watch, and he was grateful she only needed a few pieces. The saucepan below him was mixing nicely and almost ready to be taken off the heat— peaches cooked faster than you would expect. He quickly leaned over to rescue the rest of the butter from his friend and put it in the fridge, ignoring the amazing smell that came with baking fruit.

He absentmindedly opened the cabinets around him, hoping to find something to give Dolly more time to prepare. “What do you use to get it that fluffy? I'm curious.”

She stuck her hands into the dough and began to knead the butter in— a reliable technique. Spring snatched some cinnamon out of the cabinet and noted the shameful lack of brown sugar. Taking the peaches off the heat was one thing, but not ruining them with too much cinnamon would be another. 

"Just the regular stuff,” She answered, not actually answering his question and pulling out a half a cup of buttermilk to pour in the dish. “Extra-strength conditioner is my best friend. Still is awful to grow out, though."

"Because of the coils?"

"No. My hair just hates me. Coils don’t- Do you think coils make it harder to grow out your hair?" She whipped her head around to eye him incredulously, still kneading.

"Had a girl do that in my sorority once. I think she got it long enough." He dodged around the question with an oddly clear memory that shouted for his attention. "Had a whole drawn-out plan and everything. God, I thought it was crazy, but it started working, and she wouldn't tell me anymore. S'not like I needed hair any longer."

"...Sorority?"

“Uh, yep.” He attempted to pop the ‘p’, but it didn’t work. He peered disappointedly down at his snout as best he could.

Dolly grinned at him in disbelief from over the forgotten cobbler, a bit of flour on her own nose. “A sorority?!”

“Oh,” He remembered with sudden clarity that sororities were specifically only for women, and he had absolutely zero normal life experience. To Dolly, he was a prime opportunity for second-hand experience. She'd told him so, straight to his face. “Well, they liked me a lot. Genuinely thought I was a girl, I guess. I kept to myself, of course, and got everyone chocolate when it was shark week, so they liked me. The girls paid for me to stay when the school caught wind of it. They all made the... best years of my life.”

“Really? I was never in one, I've never even seen one. They all seemed like just another popularity contest in the movies.” She sighed.

“Oh, no, it was nothing like that— like I said; my best years! Out of state, too. The girls were amazing, and they already considered me a sister by the time they'd realized. They were like the-” He stopped short.

The girls in his sorority had absolutely felt like family to him. They called him a sister and literally paid for him to stay. Family by choice.

But he'd left them. Abruptly dropped out of college and off the face of the earth over a phone call. Spring never should have left them, ever, now that he thought back on it. He was happy there! Out of stupid Utah and stupid Hurricane, and with a family who actually wanted him there with them.

He needed to pack that up in a box and save it for Veronica. It would be a huge dick move dumping everything on Dolly again. 

“...They were sweet to me. Always had my back. All kinds of good stuff.”

“But you didn't mention them.” She added on, returning to her kneading and oblivious to his flinching. “When you spilled your wires at me.”

He raised an eyebrow and frantically tried to change the subject. “My wires? Not all my hypothetical guts and baggage? Oh, wait— I told you that's a mystery, right?”

Dolly hummed in confirmation as she fiddled with the cobbler base. In one smooth movement, she took the saucepan and drizzled the peaches into the dish. “Seems spooky.”

Subject changed successfully. 

“Spooky is an understatement.” The peaches looked amazing, golden and red on the edges. It was a tragedy that he couldn't eat now, Dolly would have to eat it for him. She swiped the inside of the saucepan with a finger and hissed at the leftover heat, but still made her point. There was more left in the pan, and you never let deliciousness like that go to waste.

He glanced around at the many, many drawers in the kitchen. “Where's your silverware?”

“Im vuh-” She slurped down some more leftover peach drizzle. “In the drawer next to the fridge. Right side.”

Spring leaned over and collected the various chilled ingredients that he could put away quickly on the way there. The silverware was exactly as directed, and rather nice, sorted into five loose groups based on type and size. Easy.

“Heads up!” He tossed a small spoon her way when she looked over and slammed down the bowl, likely from instinct. When you hear that phrase enough, it becomes second nature to drop whatever and immediately locate what's being thrown at you. He wondered if that was the result of school years for Dolly as well.

She caught it expertly and started digging in. He shuffled over, aiming to ignore the taunting peachy smell, and put the cobbler in the oven. One problem: they hadn't made a topping yet. Integral to the assembly of a peach cobbler, without it, it would just be a pan of toasted peaches.

He turned back around to tell her, and she held a spoonful of the stuff out to him, and he almost— almost opened his mouth and tried to taste. Dolly noticed this immediately and exaggerated her reaction.

“I saw that!” She grinned toothily and stuck him with a victorious look, like she'd cracked some breakthrough out of him. “You tried to eat it.”

He blinked at her, just a little— maybe a smidge— taken aback. Her sudden enthusiasm was more than a little terrifying. “...Old habits die hard-?”

“So it is true!" Dolly looked off to her right, as if an idea had just waved for her attention. "I bet you can eat. How strong is the bite force on that thing, anyway?" A small jolt of fear went through him, but she continued waving the spoon in front of his face. "It's not, like, hydraulic and shit, right?”

“Did you go home and assemble a corkboard or something?” Springtrap half-laughed and stepped back. "Get out the red string?"

“No.” She finally put the spoon down on the counter to punctuate her confirmation. “But I did my research! I seriously doubt there's nothing spooky going on under there, normal fursuits don't work like you do! You can see and smell, and touch, right? That's four out of five-”

“That was three.”

“Shut up. You can hear me, can't you? It's-" She broke off, mid-sentence. "I wanna know how you work, and so do you! So, I looked up some stuff on my own.” 

“How do you work?” He shot back, mood officially souring... Dolly really wasn’t letting this go. He was just short of being interrogated, here.

“Blood and bone, idiot.” She quipped, as if this was still fun. The flour on him itched. Spring stepped back again. “Can you eat or not? And how are you moving if there's no body in there? Obviously, you're confident enough that there's nothing gross in there, you want to cook! So what’s the deal? What do you have to hide that could be worse than anything else you've told me?”

There was a ringing in his left ear and tightness in his shoulders. He shouldn't be back here, in this kitchen. Why had he come here so early— he hadn't been invited. 

Springtrap straightened and shuffled back half a step, again. “Why do you wanna know so bad?”

“It's interesting as hell! You're a ghost standing in my kitchen, haunting some animatronic— somehow.” A thought crossed her face, and she rounded on him like she'd caught him in a lie. “You said the kids had some kind of- of goop, right? You must have that too! The,” She waved her hands widely in his direction. “Endoplasm.”

“Okay, never mind.” The words felt like a slap in the face or a bucket of ice water. It was like some rubber band had snapped in his chest, and it stung, badly. There was an awful, bland taste in his mouth. "Never mind!"

Dolly's hands were still covered in baking ingredients, and a bit of it finally fell free of her arms and onto the floor. She looked cheated and more than a little petulant, standing there empty-handed. She'd been so apparently confident in her interrogation skills. “What?”

“If you’re going to treat me like some kind of- fucking science experiment, I’m leaving. I can help and bake- I love to bake! Just don't… I don't-” His hands were shaking, halfway fists and all the way useless. He was not an experiment. He may be crazy, and stupid and not even human anymore, but he was human once. A long time ago. He didn't let anyone take that from him before, and wasn't going to now. He was not a project, not a case study, and he was not an experiment. “Sorry I came here early, I guess. Won’t happen again, Dolly.”

Springtrap hurried out the kitchen door and out of the cafe. Everything felt too close, and he was off balance somehow, as if the world was working at a slightly faster pace than normal. The shadows hadn’t grown any deeper, and there weren’t any taunting whispers, but there didn’t need to be. He just needed to leave. No time to investigate how the lilies were carved.

He barely minded traffic, leaning on a lamppost around the corner to collect himself before continuing. Getting run over was not on his to-do list today, but then again, neither was getting shittily interrogated. Fine, he'd go back to the Hursts’ house. It'd be empty, and for once, he preferred that.

Dolly was left alone in her kitchen with an unbaked cobbler.

“Oh,” she said. “Shit.”

*

Sharon Hurst was not as easily fooled as her son would’ve liked. 

It was little things at first. A couple of weeks after the Edwards had their whole debacle, there would be simple alterations in her home. Her busy schedule made it hard to notice, but they weren't that well hidden either. Small continuity errors that she assumed were the doings of her children, until Harry had gone to stay at Deliah's for a day, and the weird goings-on stayed consisent.

The pictures in the hallway would get fixed periodically. Simple at first, and then she'd performed an experiment. Tilted them far too oddly before she left, when her boys had already gone to school. When she arrived home?

Fixed. Nearly perfect, as if someone had effortlessly broken into their home to meticulously arrange their photos.

It was horrifying. It was stressful. She was never a smoker, in all her years, but coffee was another case entirely. When she was stressed, so was the coffee maker. The possibility that someone was in their home and she could do nothing about it was something she had yet to discuss with anyone. Even her sister.

Oh, and what a flipside. Sharon had her sister back. It’d been years since she’d seen Veronica, years of their parents' complaints and then years of their parents' silence— the latter quite possibly the worst of the two. Like they didn't care at all that their child had completely disappeared, as long as they had one left who didn't ‘feel the need to burden them with some queer fantasy. ’

She shivered and scowled through the night air, coffee in hand. She'd left just like her sister, and here she was, all the better for it. A good job, a nice home, reunited with Veronica, and two brilliant sons.

Well, if recent events were just as connected as she suspected they were, two brilliant sons who were adamant about lying to her.

Veronica had always been a bit of a snitch, even if she didn't mean to be. A bright person who talked slightly faster than she thought. Probably what gave her away to their parents so fast. Her new patient, whom she talked about as vaguely as she could, sounded remarkably similar to the problem poor Nick had been dealing with next door.

And if Sharon knew her son, she knew that Harry would've absolutely done something stupid if it meant he could help someone. It ran parallel to her in her own family, her husband, her son, and her sister. They seemed to be bleeding hearts, always looking for the easiest way to help someone. She’d been able to avoid it with Matt, but he had his own problems to deal with when he was younger. Harry thought things through— most of the time.

She glanced up at the stars above her. They didn't have many trees around, so while there wasn't a lot of shade, the stars were pretty clear. Semi-clear. Harry had told her about light pollution once. He occasionally commented on the shapes or colors of streetlights, citing facts she had no idea he knew. Sympathy for the stars, even. When he met Bingo for the first time, the poor kid was getting bullied, hard. Those kids had some kind of vendetta against them, because it took Harry’s entire soccer team to get them all to lay off them. But he’d thought it through, and now Bingo was his closest friend.

That was the trait he'd taken from her. The plans.

If Sharon was right-

SNAP.

She swung her head towards the sound. It was altogether likely that a squirrel or some animal had fallen or stepped on a stick, but she couldn't be sure. The timing was too perfect, there was no way it was anything other than some dog.

It was too dark to get a good look at the thing scrambling to get away from her bushes. Harry had told her about light pollution before, how it blocked out the stars. Made the world a paradox, because the brighter they make streetlights, the more pollution there will be, which means less starlight, which means darker nights and brighter lights! Something about a snake eating its own tail. The thing was halfway back around the side of her house by the time she registered it— in this dark night on a street that had a fondness for not replacing its own lamps— but that was all the time she needed. Too big to be a wild animal, too odd to be human.

Nick needed to know about this.

Sharon Hurst was not stupid. And she would not keep a monster in her house.

Chapter Text

It started after school.

Harry went and did his work, surprisingly. Bingo and Jade were being themselves— he had an inkling that they weren't just friends anymore. Deliah caught up with him, and even if she wasn’t having a good week, or a good month whatsoever, she brought a smile to his face pretty much immediately. He really hoped he could do that too, for her. It would be really cool. 

The two of them had gone to Dolly's after, and she'd seemed amiss too. She'd even gotten his order wrong, which was something he'd expect of anyone other than her. Dolly was eternally a stickler for the perfection of drinks, but only the ones she'd make. He'd seen the restraint she practiced with her newest employees, like she was literally biting her tongue to keep the criticism constructive. It was kind of a part of her, to Harry at least. Dolly made her drinks perfect, and if you look closely, she'd never have the same one twice. It was kinda weird. He'd been noticing the weird things way more recently. All of them.

Matt joined them, and when she got his order slightly wrong too, his eyes went saucer-wide. He was the one to go ask if she was doing okay while Harry and Deliah chatted. She had English homework to do, and finding metaphors in poems was so easy for them both that it was mind-numbing. When Matt came back to the table and commented on them being nerds, he had nothing to show for his expedition. Dolly'd avoided the question like the plague. All adults seemed to do was avoid questions, hm?

They'd asked one of her employees, Cher was her name, and she'd simply said that she and a good friend had fought yesterday. That it was "really bad."

The only other thing that even hinted at something being wrong was his mom. She stayed home today because she had a day off. Simple stuff. Spring would hear her and stay downstairs. It only seemed so weird if he thought back on it, in hindsight.

It came as a surprise when Harry got home from Dolly's with his brother in tow, and their mom was sitting at the table in the kitchen with her arms crossed. Dead silent. The brothers looked at each other and decided, wordlessly, to put their backpacks down at the front door. They could come get those later.

Nothing was amiss in the house. No Springtrap in any corners, looking down at the floor like a kid in timeout for getting caught putting his hands in the cookie jar. His mother couldn't have known. She wasn't one to be subtle about serious problems. Every Hurst knew very well that Spring was a murderer; it's just that only two of them knew that he was downstairs, camping out until further notice.

“Hey, boys.” She said.

Matt and Harry looked at each other again. Uh oh.

“Hey, Mom.” They echoed, the words nearly hollow. This had to be some kind of test. Their mother knew something, and both of them were determined not to be the one to confirm it.

They stepped forward, and Harry sat down. Act natural, right? Matt had given him a bit of advice on bluffing on the rides over to Spring's therapy sessions. It was either that or complete silence every time they drove over.

Neither of them had to say much.

“What's in the basement?” She sighed, grim, and then tilted her head forward to emphasize. “Who?”

Game over.

“What?” Matt took the lead automatically, breathing out the question like he'd been punched in the gut. It certainly felt like Harry had been.

Their mom looked at him with narrowed, troubled eyes. She gulped like there was something in her throat, and maybe there was. Harry didn’t really see his mom cry all that much. She was really strong and probably really repressed. There was a box in the basement that none of them talked about, and that Spring most likely knew about— he was a bit of a snoop. Maybe he should talk to his aunt about unpacking that box soon.

“Who is in the basement? I-” She looked like she wanted to say more, but she choked it back. His mom was totally about to cry.

He had to focus, though. Even if he felt really awful and terrible about making his mom cry and lying straight to her face. Even if his own throat felt constricted and clogged when he spoke up. “Mom, are- are you alright?”

He meant it when he said it. Harry did want to know if his mom was okay, and it would take her mind off Springtrap for a second. It was obvious she was not calm about the whole situation. Why would she be? There was a murderer in her house, and her kid lied to her about it. A lot. For who knows how long?

But it definitely sounded like he just questioned her sanity about someone being in the basement. He could see very clearly now how grounded he was, how absolutely doomed he was for the next month or million years. He was lying to her face, and he was doing it terribly.

Harry looked at Matt for support. A last-minute request for help. His brother sucked air through his teeth at him and looked down. Message received and denied.

His mother's face was scrunched up at the nose, tearfully furious with both of them, but mostly Harry. There were real tears in her eyes now, too, threatening to spill out and forcing him to look away again. This was terrible. His stomach felt heavy, and his heart was melting through his feet and through the floor like acid. Harry's mom didn't cry often, and she didn't ground them often either. The Hursts were an occasional family of troublemakers. When they did make trouble, they were honestly good at not getting caught, and when they did, she usually gave them a chance to own up a reduce their sentence.

“Y-you both are so grounded.” She sniffed, and Harry cringed and tried his best to fall backwards through his chair. “And that thing is not staying in our house anymore.”

He recovered a stupid burst of confidence through the shame. “He's not a thing-!”

“Harrison! He is a murderer that you’ve stuffed in my basement for who knows how long,” She rose from her chair so far it almost fell over behind her and spat at him. “And lied straight to my face about it! You and your brother— yes, Matt, you are not exempt from- from this! You two have both put all of us in extreme danger because you want to help some random man you think has a chance of being- being something. Anything!”

His mom sank back into her nearly overturned chair and ran a hand through her hair. The boys in front of her were recovering from the shock. She never really truly screamed at them, and she hadn't now, but she'd come close. The tears she was holding back sprang loose from her eyes and dripped accusingly onto the table in front of them all.

Harry felt his own eyes sting. “...Mom-?”

“Is this- Does this have anything to do with Mason?” She swiped an arm over her eyes and fixed them with a look similar to the one she had when they came in, except worse. Stressed. Messy. “We don't talk about him, and I know that, but Veronica— she told me we should. Does this,” She swept her tear-stained hand out and held it there for a moment, finally letting it thump down on the table, open. “Does this have to do with his death? Do you need someone? Either of you?”

Harry looked at the hand outstretched on the table and felt his eyes get warm and uncomfortable like they do when you're about to really cry. Sob, even.

“Please-!”

“No. No, Mom. It's okay.” He grabbed onto her hand like he was five and just scraped his knee. “Well, it's not okay, but- But I-”

Matt finished for him, and out of the corner of Harry's eye, he was crying too. “It's not because of Dad. It'd… It'd be nice to talk about him and shit, though.”

He grabbed for their mom's hand, too.

“Alright. I can do that. Do you two-?” She sighed and squeezed both their hands before reaching into her pocket and pulling out her phone. “I'm going to get Nick.”

That was bad news bears. Alarm bells rang so loudly in Harry's ears that he stood up in surprise and shook the tears out of his eyes. Well, as many tears as he could. “No, no- Why? Springtrap just got away from-”

His mom shot him a stern look and opened her mouth to speak. 

A thud shook the house, and she did not get to finish. Every Hurst flinched around the dinner table, and his mother stood up about as fast as Harry could run into the hallway, Matt on his heels.

The noise had come from the far hallway window, but Harry made a beeline for the stairs. Practically sliding down the stairs two at a time, his mom running after him. Like tag, except he stopped dead when greeted with a completely empty basement. No Springtrap in sight. It crossed his mind to check the closets, but his mother grabbed him by the waist and pulled him back upstairs before he could act on a whim again.

His brother was at the window. “Unlocked.”

“Then lock it back.”

“But-” He protested, half aware that it was in vain since his mom had yet to let go of him, “What about Springtrap?”

“What about him? I told him he had to leave,” His mom replied, indignant and dragging him towards the front door at the end of the hall. She was probably checking its locks as well. “So he did.”

Harry did not like that answer.

*

Springtrap knew how to leave places. Escape when he was hunted. 

There was a certain feeling that came with being on the run. He didn't miss it. It was not a friend to him.

He felt it all brim to the surface now, and it began to drown him, choke him. An endless loop of rolling, stretching weight on his stomach and crawling up his chest. Poison in his mouth, begging to bleed and foam through the gaps in the suit— to stain his arms in blood that was his and blood that wasn’t his— like he had rabies of the soul. 

It felt so final as he stumbled along, desperately trying to keep himself upright against buildings and miraculously not getting hit when he crossed streets he vaguely remembered the name of. This was it, really, this time, he’d wander the roads of the town he’d lived and died in, and he would never leave. Never again.

There was a numb awareness to it all when he passed Dolly's. Stopped stock still, peering in through the windows at an empty café that was usually so warm to him. Dolly was using him for some kind of personal experiment. Springtrap never really thought about what it would mean to medical professionals if a dead man walked through their door and politely sat down. The thought was bile, crawling up his throat and threatening to stain his fur and these, nice, nice windows, so he staggered back, almost gleefully. Passing Dolly's by completely was a freeing feeling, like there truly was nothing left and he could…

Well, he could die! 

Finally!

“Finally.” Echoed a familiar venomous voice. He'd have turned around and hugged Foxy if it weren't for the phantom of a phantom's tone. They weren't real, remember?

Still, he turned and grinned at the ghost of a child next to him. Natural as breathing. 

The fake ghost grinned back at him, a twisted reflection of his expression. Or maybe the jagged edges and uncomfortable wideness were actually what he looked like when he smiled. Maybe the monstrous, inky substance he'd been crying had finally stained the suit's teeth, and he looked completely empty, all the way through. The only thing left was to black out his eyes if he really wanted to sell the dead look! It was laughable! It was hilarious, actually.

Springtrap stumbled forward, gait lurching less and less. He knew exactly where he was going! It was a lovely place— oh, it'd be so poetic. His treat. He gets to kill himself however he wants, at last, wherever he wants, completely alone. No one has to witness it, and every figure who'll be there to help would just be in his mind. His own mind holding his hand by stabbing a knife through his chest, it was justice!

A car honked at him, and he sped up, nearly breaking into a full run. He wasn't even there yet and he felt like he was in a fucking musical, belting out the final number with every step he took to his old tomb.

He knew his grin was practically splitting his face in two. How could it not? He had a final goal, a prize he'd earned all for himself, all alone. It weighed on him now, how much effort it took to finally lose everything. Dolly's was easy. They'd bonded over stories and stupid people at work and baking, and then she was a liar. He wondered if that was how the kids had felt, holding Spring Bonnie's hand with excitement at the promise of a party, of cake, of a friend to listen.

Led on and then bled dry. He didn't have any blood left, so that part would have to remain metaphorical. His first effort, that fire, it'd almost worked, but it was too big. There were witnesses; civilians next door to rat him out for escaping before his allotted time. That Old Man Consequences bastard could shove his warnings where the sun didn't shine, Springtrap could feel it under his skin. Something, it, was humming and repeating to him now. Now. Now. And what reason did he have to ignore it?

“All by yourself.” Foxy taunted him from above his shoulder, like an angel. Like a really, really annoying shoulder angel.

“I think he's a coward.” One, Freddy, remarked casually. They must all be here now. No witnesses that were real.

Still, their presence was nearly enough to anchor him to one spot on the pavement. Springtrap's stride was broken, glee dimmed by his victims, and he could barely keep himself up. There was heat behind his eyes and pressure in his lungs, and he didn’t even have lungs! What was the fucking use of the weight and the pressure and the tears, there was no fucking reason! He collapsed against another wall, brick, and almost slid down and sat. If he sat, he'd never make it to Fazbear's Fright, he'd lose his nerve, and Freddy would be right. Springtrap heaved like he had breath to lose.

“Told you.”

“No, come on, get up…” Bonnie entered his field of vision. All freckles and bow, and he felt like he needed to sneeze out of guilt, which was such an odd reaction to the poor kid. “You can do it. Come on!”

The little one shouldn't have to reassure him like this. Springtrap needed to do this— he would. For Bonnie, he would. For all of them. His treat, his choice, their reward. That was the missing piece to his fucked up little justification.

He peered around the building. The ruins of Fazbear's Frights sat stationary and alone across the street, exactly where it had been when he'd last left it. There was no reason to expect to have moved. It was a building, even worse, what was left of a building. The whole situation dawned on him as completely ridiculous— some idiot stumbling around his hometown in a rabbit costume and exploding with excitement at the sight of the disgusting bones of a building that was the last piece of a long-dead tragedy he caused.

He felt Bonnie pushing him lightly, the phantom of tiny hands urging him to keep going. It almost burned, the way he recognized the feeling so fast. Why was he hesitating now? He'd had his due time to think. Ms. Hurst had given him that, at least. 

He was sitting on the couch, thinking about old psychiatrists and not going to visit Dolly, and when he looked up… she was there. She had a plate in her hands, and she was shaking, but she looked incredibly ready to use that plate as a weapon. Stone-faced and honestly terrifying, he knew the look in her eyes from back in his sorority days when one of his sisters would get awful news. He knew very well the way women looked when they didn't like what they had learned or saw and were about to use it for their own benefit. It was his sorority sisters who’d tried to teach him to utilize information that would usually have made him weep. He grew up with a primitive type of anger, an uncontrollable instinct rather than a proper weapon, and he'd never quite gotten the hang of their methods.

It was that look on her face that made him sink into the couch and try to look as small as possible. It'd worked too, as she simply told him that he was caught, that he needed to leave in a furious tremor of a voice. He nodded at her— what else was he going to do when she gripped that plate like it was a dodgeball? She told him to wait, and then she left. Ms. Hurst left him down there for about an hour, he knew because he kept checking the clock in between spirals about how to escape. 

He felt like a caged animal down there, so when the door opened upstairs, he knew that it was his opening. When a door opens, you take the opportunity.

The yelling kept him from passing the kitchen. So did the fear of the kitchen. He hadn't been able to go in all that much anyway, because yeah, he couldn't move the knives. Maybe if he went in, he would really start to act like a caged animal and get clawing. So the door was off-limits, and the window next to him was unlocked. He was too big to be graceful, so booking it was his only option. 

Springtrap took a step forward, and then another, and thanked Ms. Hurst for giving him time to think. She was a smart woman, and maybe he hadn't tried all that hard not to be found.

The ghosts trailed behind him as he ran across the crosswalk without a second thought— he'd do more damage to any car than a car would to him if he was honest with himself. There was a strong wind going, like it was pushing him on, the more it howled. Maybe it would rain when he went up in flames. That would be a sight to behold. He could see the checkered, ugly floor through the cracks and splinters in the walls now. Why the hell hadn't they taken this place down?

“Come on!” Foxy floated through the wall, and the others melted through as well. They'd beat him to the party— technically, they already had.

Shadows were abundant in the ruins. The sun was just beginning to set outside, and everything seemed, true to its nature, more haunted as he stalked inside.

“Back home.” He wheezed, as a joke.

He turned a corner and felt a hand on his shoulder. Not a child's hand, but a hand from his childhood. Springtrap froze.

The walls around them cast the room in orange and twilight, and there stood his mother. Right there, outlined in darkness. She avoided the harsh light like a vampire, but looked, at the same time, like dust you’d only be able to see floating through the air in a beam of sunlight. She had his long, dark hair, though it was fluffy in the way he had such a hard time replicating in his lifetime. 

Uncomfortable tears sprang up in his eyes— she looked like a picture. A happy picture, silent. Smiling at him.

She was here to help him. Like she had always tried to.

The hand she'd placed on his shoulder had disappeared (had she taken it off his shoulder?) and motioned for a nice spot in the middle of the room. The kids were there, Bonnie and the like. He looked so happy, sitting there patting the ground where Springtrap could sit down. He'd burn more easily that way.

He stumbled over and felt his signature grin carve its way onto his face. This time, he meant it. It was all over from here on out. Even Foxy sat down, right in front of him. He didn't mimic Springtrap's smile this time, but he was happy. Amused, even.

Freddy was near to him too, his mother still there in the corner of his eye, silent. The little ghost had a friend with him, though, a long-forgotten face that sent a chill down Springtrap's spine. Chica.

He sat there and blinked at the ghost girl in front of him. She was the one who'd taught him that ghosts boiled.

And she'd left, right?

Springtrap swept a look around the room. Everyone was accounted for, except... his mother had disappeared. And except for Miles— Miles was never there, was he? It'd be wrong if he was. Chica- Susie and him? They weren't supposed to be here. He couldn't die in front of Miles. It would be too much for him, he was so young. And Susie was gone. Did he even want to?

Freddy pressed on his side like he was real. Encouraging him to keep going. He wasn’t real, though, right?

Springtrap was alone.

With the realization came clarity. The ability to tune them out, just like he'd always done. Just hallucinations. They didn't mean anything more than someone standing directly behind him without ever being there, or foggy vision and incurable headaches, or the entire world around him going completely missing. They didn't mean anything anymore.

He was, really, alone.

How long have I been here? He thought, desperately clawing for a feeling of any kind, and finding nothing. That was new. The vastness of nothing. It was terrifying. I've done nothing with the chances I've been given. All five and more.

He dug around in his own nearly empty chest cavity with a manic finality. Shaking violently, though he didn't notice. It was hard to notice, it was like all of his senses had gone completely dark.

How many chances do I get before they've had enough of me? Do I never get the privilege to be brave enough to follow through with killing myself? 

Springtrap's hands were shaking. It made it hard to open.

Why do I get second chances? Second chances I don't deserve. Second chances I don't need. Second chances that would be better without me. Second chances six times over, and a seventh for the torture of it all.

I don't want them. I don't want a second chance. Stop, please.

He clicked open the lighter.

Chapter Text

Springtrap was going to stick a lighter in his mouth and go up in flames.

Simple as that. No coming back this time. No second chances.

It reminded him humorlessly of that word; infinitesimal. When Harry found it, he'd been working on some project for school and making fun of Springtrap. As easy as it was to do that, it was obvious Harry hadn’t taken him seriously for the first week he was there. The entire time they'd known each other, the kid had done nothing but outsmart him. Despite the annoyances, the fact that he was even allowed in was a huge favor, a testament to Harry's kindness that Springtrap had taken for granted out of jealousy.

Now? He was in huge trouble for even helping Springtrap. He and his brother. Ms. Hurst had kept her cool about it, and he had to give her the ultimate kudos for that, but there was no way the boys were free of charge for hiding him down there. He held on desperately to the hope that Harry and Deliah would be there for each other when he finally died. Nick, as ironic as it may be, would be there.

He'd lied before, it was a funny concept to him. Springtrap was infinitesimally small and causing so much trouble— rotting and festering in the wounded lives of everyone he meets. Harry would be better off, truly, without someone to drag him into such trouble, and the Edwards would live on like they were supposed to.

He couldn't see the burnt ruins around him, nor could he see the children who'd previously been here to egg him on. Simply the lighter in his own hands, aflame and bright, but unable to outshine the brightness of his own eyes. 

There was something wrong, though.

He wasn't alone. There was…

There was a raccoon.

Said raccoon shook its fur in the corner of the room, annoyed at the sudden downpour outside.

He could see it, hear it. Very clearly. It looked around and took in its surroundings as it stepped into the old corpse of a building, its little paws clicking on the ugly tile below. His grip on the lighter loosened without his permission or knowledge. In fact, he'd become completely ignorant of the way the flame danced in his hand, too engrossed in this new witness to his plan.

It jumped when it noticed him, lighter and all. He supposed that was an appropriate reaction. It studied him like he was something to be wary of, and for once, he wasn't.

So he studied it back, motionlessly. The shadows grew large, and his endlessly annoying tunnel vision was strong in this grimy place, but he could see the odd patterns. This was, without a doubt, the exact same raccoon that tried to eat him before. There came a great temptation to open his stupid mouth and point this fact out to the raccoon like he was addressing an old friend. For once, he managed to keep his mouth shut.

Apparently, this time it'd learned to avoid him. No meat inside that old suit, no food.

A gust of wind blew through the door and shook the little creature's fur. (And blew out the lighter.) It was absolutely pouring outside. 

And then he really heard it. 

As if Spring's ears popped and he realized he'd heard nothing for the past fifteen minutes or so, all accompanied by the crashing cymbals of rain. It registered in his brain at the same volume as a freight train, and it was a wonder he was able to keep still when bombarded by sound like that. No wonder the little critter wanted to get inside and shake off. Hearing its trek into the room must have been so quiet it'd thrown him off so far that the rest of his senses returned to him. It was almost too much. There was a great urge to slam his hands over his ears, but he wouldn't be able to do much. His ears were huge now.

The downpour had done something good, though, so he desperately focused on that instead and kept stock still. The raccoon's fur was much clearer now, less mud, less dirt. If extremely matted, it was… definitely the wrong color that a raccoon should be.

Almost orange. No, wait— literally some kind of orange— the raccoon was orange! Dull, of course, but without a doubt an almost peachy animal. 

It made a break for the hallway all of a sudden, directly in front of him. He was still frozen stiff, but he followed its path with his eyes. He figured it'd be better to stay like this, if only to not scare it.

Its tail wagged slightly as it glanced back at him. That had certainly meant something, but it wasn't joy. It probably- 

Well, did raccoons wag their tails at all, generally? Was it some kind of warning? 

It scampered into a side room, out of his sight.

He stood up immediately to follow. He was shocked at how easy it felt, how completely naturally he stood up to tail (heh) the animal. If he kept his steps extra quiet, he'd get lucky and potentially catch it to further investigate this strange new orange friend. 

He crept along, hoping the raccoon would stay in the room long enough for him to get close. 

There was a loud clank from behind him. He flinched and held himself frozen still for a solid minute before looking back and seeing…

The lighter. On the floor.

He must have dropped it when he got up to trail the raccoon.

The engraving on it glinted at him sardonically in the dim light from outside. It sweetly whispered to him exactly where he'd taken it from and reminded him of what he came here to do. 

Nick E. It said.

Wasn't he supposed to be burning by now? Chucking that same lighter in his mouth and preferably catching aflame like he was just a little bunny made out of paper?

Seemed almost selfish now. In seconds, he could be distracted from ending himself and his entire existence (again, how many times was he gonna try that?) by a raccoon.

Though, Springtrap couldn't ever get rid of his existence anymore, could he? All the people he's hurt, Deliah, Nick— he'd be a liar if he said, in full confidence, that Harry was going to just forget him.

He'd never be able to be rid of himself.

He whipped his head around at a clattering from his new orange friend's room. 

He waited. Hesitated. Listened carefully in for little paws padding and even smaller claws clicking, towards the door. Fur rustled, slowly approaching the door. He was hunting now. 

But it was for fun, to capture, not to kill. Why would he kill a raccoon? That would just be cruel, there was no need for that. He’d heard of the notorious real pieces of work out there who thought about it like hunting. It was really stupid if he thought about it for even a second, like he had any moral high ground. Ridiculous. You’re murdering people!

Hunting was just a fancy word for it. Maybe the wrong word entirely.

Springtrap shook his scattered, half-delirious thoughts out of his head and crouched down as slowly as possible.

He could hear the clicks of little paws at the door frame.

At the last possible second, the raccoon noticed the looming presence in its doorway. It couldn't do much to stop him by the time it registered his presence, so when it backpedaled, it was merely for the sake of futility. Hands (gently) grabbed at one suddenly angry raccoon, its tail swiping wildly in an attempt to… confuse? He'd have to do lots of research on this little fella.

Who was, in fact, very orange. Mostly pastel, but with a darker color in some patches around its adorable fuzzy tummy, and still incredibly dirty. Most of its-

Her fur was matted and drenched with mud— she needed a bath desperately. If he recalled correctly, the term for this kind of thing was albinism, but usually those animals were all white.

Although... he'd been dead for a good few years now. Too many to think about in depth. Too many to even consider! How fast could animals evolve, again? It was a stretch, but he really had no frame of reference.

She was still scratching at his hands, swinging scrapes at him like no tomorrow. He'd have to be very clear he wasn't going to hurt her.

"Finally gotcha," Spring announced, smugly, and tucked her neatly into his lap, hands serving as barriers. She immediately thrashed about like any generally intelligent wild animal would.

After a few minutes of sitting there, blocking her escape time and time again, she seemed to accept her fate with a mild amount of spite. She couldn't get out through the side, and if she climbed up his chest, she'd just be getting closer to his mouth, which was a survival instinct no-no for sure. Poised to hiss and scratch again, but not actually flailing about doing those things, Spring realized he needed to name her. He had to, or he'd just sit here, watching.

He glanced down at her and spoke his thoughts. "You up for a funny name? Like… Peachy? Carrots?"

She soundly smacked him on the nose, which made a squeaky toy noise in protest.

Nope. Guess not.  

She was a very easily frustrated young woman, apparently. 

To be fair, he did lunge at her. Previously, he'd been a terrible guest, having no meat on his bones and then trying to kill himself (twice, now.) 

He hastily racked his brain for any descriptions he had left of orange or even brown shades. She was far from a plain raccoon, after all, if she was going to be introduced, she'd name a far from plain name!

"You're adorable, you know. Maybe you should be Fluffy. Something sweet! Like… Snugglebug."

This time, the smack came down harder. Twice. Then a third time, before he realized she thought she was gaining actual hits on him and gingerly stopped her paws mid-smackdown. He sighed anyway, defeated at her lack of creativity.

"…Vanilla?"

Her tail swished angrily at him, but there was no resounding thunk against his nose when she sat back down. 

"Vanilla it is. Many apologies for the manhandling, I am… a very large guy." He was, in fact, very large compared to her. She was a small thing, about a third of the size of his leg, and easy to hold in two hands. He patted her head, and she pouted angrily at him from the grimy floor. 

"Deliah would love you." Spring sighed and scooped Vanilla up into his arms somberly. "Dolly too."

She was scooped with little to no protest, and he got the oddest feeling she was pitying him.

Wait.

"Wait," He blurted, verbose, "Dolly. Dolly!"

Previously holding her low on his chest, he hugged Vanilla close. He’d apologize for being so cuddly, but that would give her the notion that it would not happen again, and it absolutely would.

Without further question (but definitely some mild squabbling), Spring tucked the raccoon under his arm, still pressed close to him, and ran off into the pouring rain. His grin, regularly huge, was bright, and he noticed only now that his eyes worked incredibly effectively as flashlights. It had occurred to him before, but he hadn’t had the chance to use them except to scare Nick.

Ah, Nick. He’d forgotten the man’s lighter.

He booked it recklessly, a little faster into the rain, sort of hunched over to keep Vanilla as dry as possible. He just had to retrace his steps, and even if it felt like his feet were so heavy he could just fall right over every time he passed a particularly dark alley, the raccoon in his arms kept squirming and distracting him. 

She was awfully good at distracting him from the shadowy things. Unusually so. That was good to know. He filed that away in his mind as he turned a corner and was immediately stopped short by a familiar face.

Hidden like a pearl under her umbrella was Dolly, unlocking the doors to her café in the pouring rain. He skidded to a stop in front of her.

She looked up at him.

“...Hey!” Spring blurted out. “Could I-? Join you?”

Dolly glanced, eyes wide, at the raccoon he had cuddled into his chest protectively. He’d bet a good sum of money he didn’t own that, despite the rain, they were both absolutely covered in mud.

"Oh, yeah. I hope you don't mind that I brought along a friend. This is Vanilla." He shifted the raccoon to his hands and held her out to Dolly, under the umbrella. She squirmed in his (very, very, very gentle) grip until she was comfortable.

"It's…"

"It's a fashion statement. Very important to her, y'know?"

"Showstopping." Dolly looked at the raccoon before her incredulously, as if he was making some grand joke at her expense. Then, she twisted up her face into something that felt familiar, but was completely indecipherable to him. "She'd be an even nicer shade if you... came in. And- and gave her a bath."

"You're absolutely right," He shifted Vanilla to his side again and glanced apologetically at Dolly. "Do you have a towel I could use?"

She looked him up and down. The corner of her mouth turned up slightly like she was biting back a particularly funny rib against his personal choices. He wouldn't have blamed her. "Uh, worst-case scenario, you get my floor all muddy. Get in here or I'm- I'm pulling a Hurst and finding a hose."

That was motivation enough and more. He hated the hose. Springtrap quickly stepped inside (he'd had to duck to clear the door frame every time he came in, ears and all) and stopped just before going behind the counter, wincing at the obvious loud drips of water running off him. It vaguely reminded him of his encounter with Old Man Consequences, and even if the entire thing had been one big hallucination, he’d rather stick his hand in boiling oil than ignore the warning. It had been a threat, obviously, and maybe a bit of a foreshadowing. 

How ironic, now that he thought about it. Could he have stopped Mrs. Hurst? If he listened carefully to Old Consequences' words? What were those words, again?

The counter jeered at him, completely unmoving, because it was a countertop. What was it going to do? Laugh at him?

Was he still allowed to go back there? Past the counter (that insisted on being in the way) and into the kitchen? Just like that? He and Dolly had just fought; what if she wanted nothing to do with him? 

Dolly brushed past him easily and leaned on the doorframe into the kitchen, holding it open for him. “...Ladies first. Heh.”

Dolly winced like she didn't expect the joke to land whatsoever, and they’d just been some rogue words that'd flown out of her mouth. He grinned at her, happy to ignore the problem at hand. Neither of them obviously wanted to talk about her actions, or what Spring had said, so neither would. For now. He'd shown up at her cafe out of nowhere, covered in mud and carrying a wild raccoon, and she had let him in without question, for some reason.

Veronica told him he should share more of his thoughts, right? Maybe that wasn't the exact phrasing, but it sounded right. So the two of them would share that they very much did not want to share right now.

There weren’t any dishes in the sink— the café would've been closed today— but from one look alone, Spring could tell that Vanilla (although adorable) would not stay as calm as she seemed the second she was free. Her floors were tile, but Dolly's cabinets were wood, and he could tell there would be no Springtrap anymore if even a single speck left a mark.

“Why're you here? I thought you were closed on Thursdays?” She'd told him about it previous to their… fight. It was a weird day to be closed, but she said she always needed a break day, and she wanted it smack dab in the middle of the week. Sundays gave her the church crowd, and Saturdays gave her the lazy day crowd who'd pay a lot of money to eat a particularly good donut.

He sat cross-legged in the middle of the floor, making sure his ears weren’t spraying mud everywhere and placing Vanilla carefully in his lap all at once. The raccoon sat down with him, remarkably uninterested in the new environment. Now that he thought about it, Dolly was most definitely closed today, so why had he run here?

Maybe he had planned to break into the café. His only witness would’ve been Vanilla and god. And eventually, Dolly, who was currently messing around with the plug for the sink.

Whatever. 

“Oh, well. You know." She pushed the words out of her mouth like they tasted rotten. "I forgot something.”

Lie. He knew that kind of quick fabrication so well he could practically smell it.

“Really? What was it?”

She side-eyed him and opened the cabinet under the sink, pulling out some soap. “None’a your business, Mr. Picking Up Strays.”

“Owch!” He made a show of slowly falling over, a hand clutched over where his heart would have been, like he'd been shot. “You wound me.” His head popped up from the nice tiles. “Why're you really here, though? Quid pro quo.”

Dolly blew air through her teeth and squinted at anything except him.

“I spilled my guts to you and then interrogated me for more!” He tossed out, in his best singsong from his position on the floor. It was a low blow, but whatever. Share his thoughts, right? Vanilla crawled onto his chest and stared down at him, expectantly. Expecting what, exactly? He'd never know.

Dolly sighed from her bird's eye vantage point of the countertop and grabbed the edge, preparing to jump up and sit on the counter. Her pants caught his eye— pretty, high-waisted jeans, that looked like they were acid-washed. They fit her well, but her headband wasn't on and she had a black graphic tee-shirt halfway tucked into her jeans. Consdiering her usual wardrobe, she very well might have just thrown this on and left her house.

“...When I feel like shit I carve things. I like to carve lilies in my furniture because it's pretty and I can." There was a small celebration and popping of party poppers in his head— he still had it! The years the Delta Nu girls had spent on him had not been a complete waste. "Why are you out and muddy staggering around in the pouring rain on Thursday night?”

It was Springtrap's turn to wince. He had been right, but at what cost? He sat up and placed Vanilla slightly away from him, acutely aware of her sogginess as she sniffed around. “Ah. Personal mission?”

Springtrap watched as she grabbed a large wooden spoon from an open jar near the towel-covered part of the counter. He also watched as she reeled back and smacked him square in the nose with it.

“OW! Fuck!” Was accompanied by a rather loud, painful squeak as the mechanism held in his nose was assaulted.

Dolly leaned in instantly, eyes alight with an investigator's humor. It wasn’t a sight Spring was accustomed to, nor was it an exactly welcome expression.“Holy shit, your nose squeaks? Does it make other noises?”

He held his nose and shuffled back, expression sour.

Dolly’s eyes widened, and her own expression fell immediately. Vanilla traipsed back over with an absurd amount of emotional gauge. He wondered, very briefly and absurdly, if she was a magic raccoon. Considering the fact that she’d been there when he was at his worst, her oddly calm temperament at the unfolding situation— it was still an absolutely ridiculous notion, but he had a little bit of evidence. A eensy weensy bit of evidence. Plus, she was blonde. That was magic enough, right?

Spring let go of his snout and held onto Vanilla instead, using the island in the middle of the kitchen to get up. Share your thoughts. Share your thoughts, right?

“Let’s- Let’s get her washed up.”

“Yep.” Dolly spat out the agreement like saying anything else would stain her tongue. She jumped up and sat on the counter next to the sink, now filled about halfway with running water.

Vanilla seemed to sense her fate before it greeted her. She squirmed and wriggled suddenly— almost out of his grip— and generally did her damndest to escape the bath below. Spring had no qualms about putting her in a sort of air jail immediately, held aloft at a safe distance over the sink with no escape in sight.

Dolly snorted at their antics, and he couldn't sneak a look at her face long enough to determine if she was still uncomfortable. “She's contrary.”

He'd have to take a gamble here, not being able to read her. The art of joke, or something like that.

“Like you.” He shot back, and immediately lowered Vanilla into the water. Spring didn’t mind getting his hands wet if it could be an excuse to avoid talking, had his joke flown over her head. 

Dolly laughed at him, and there was never a more relieving sound.

The impromptu bath went over relatively well. Springtrap himself was covered in mud, exactly as he suspected, so he opted to ask for something else. Probably just a regular towel, but then again, why would Dolly have towels in here? This was a café.

“Here.” And yet, Dolly handed him several dish towels crumpled up into a handful. 

When he looked over, she'd set a few more down the other side of the counter as a place to dry Vanilla off without getting the surface sopping wet. Still, it made him uneasy, the concept of ruining this nice kitchen, so he resolved to move the rags onto the floor in the same swift movement he would make when grabbing Vanilla out of the sink.

A maneuver he would definitely be able to accomplish. Easily.

Springtrap nearly fell on his face, entirely due to his own hubris. Vanilla was a perfect angel of a raccoon, not wriggling around since she was already sopping wet and instead sitting miserably in his arms, and he made her safety his top priority when falling to an untimely second death trying to towel her off while also trying not to offend Dolly's decision-making. Which was definitely a real threat he was facing here, and not something he conjured up to make his life harder and more floor-shaped.

Dolly helped him sit up with a surprising lack of laughter, and Vanilla padded into his lap, promptly getting her sweet little paws dirty again and begging to be dried. He placed her delicately onto the patchwork quilt of dish towels his friend had set up again, but on the floor, catching his intent. The two of them ruffled up her fur with the rags as best they could and found the occasional bug. Spring had actually found a lot more when bathing her, and it worried him a bit. Would she have fleas? She didn't seem to be scratching at any of the bugs in her fur.

Regardless, they took care of the awful things, Dolly more violently than Spring, and eventually, they were finished.

Vanilla fit her name well, and she stood there dutifully while Spring and Dolly stared in awe. It was like she knew she was special. She probably did, considering that her raccoon friends would've probably told her somehow, hopefully in pleasant terms. He wasn't sure how raccoons were politically aligned.

Regardless, she was extremely fuzzy now that the dirt had been thoroughly washed from her. She looked like a ball of fluff, or maybe a cylinder. She was quite thin and really, truly, blonde. Her fur got darker and more peachy on her forehead, back, and tummy, but other than that, she was a shade away from white. She looked like a lightly toasted marshmallow.

“...She's adorable,” Dolly said, and she was. “I looked it up while you were dealing with the bugs, and apparently, raccoons can eat peaches. I've still got a can or five, so they should do the trick. Not really planning on making any more cobbler without-”

And then she promptly shut her mouth. Spring never pegged her as the type to take pride in her kitchen; she seemed utterly unconcerned with the size and quality of the place, just the cleanliness, but maybe her missing ingredients meant a bit more. It was the only reason he could conjure up, anyway. She was tiptoeing around him now, and every time she put a stop to her own words, it sent a pang of guilt through him.

“I'm sure she'll be happy to eat something solid.” He wanted to pet Vanilla terribly badly, but he was afraid of ruining her newly dried coat.

“You gonna keep her?” He kept his hands moving despite the overwhelming urge to freeze and immediately explode in the face of a question. “You should.”

Well, then that was the verdict, wasn't it? Yes. He would (try to) keep Vanilla. He'd do his best. Keep her company. If the sheer fact that he'd made it here wasn't evidence enough, the raccoon chattering angrily at him from the floor put an odd sort of calm spell on him.

He sighed, heavy with the weight of another friend to care for an unhealthy amount. “Fine.”

“If you don't want her-” Dolly put her hands on her hips and narrowed her eyes at him like he was going to do something stupid.

“No, no- Listen, I'm just… I'm worried, Dolls. Just need somewhere to go.” Obviously, Harry’s was completely off the table. He’d need somewhere that allowed animals, or somewhere that was just terrible at checking. Nothing he hadn’t done before. “I can get out of here by nine, easy.”

He was just glad to have his thoughts in order. Glad Vanilla had brought him out of his own swirling vortex of terror and self-loathing. Maybe he wasn't working at one hundred percent at the moment, but that was for him to figure out later. He'd crack a joke or something, and it would all be fine.

“Spring?” The question was soft, and he stopped tussling with the raccoon being toweled off to be extra dry in his lap. Dolly was leaning on the counter, gazing slightly to the side of him, like there was something there to pry the words from her mouth.

He heard dripping and turned, briefly, to look. 

Nothing was there. Nothing red or made of bones. Just the sink.

Dolly was staring him in the face now anyway, and he put the towel to the side. Vanilla shook off in his lap, successfully cleaned. Her fur would need some more in-depth care later, but Dolls had something to tell him, and there wasn’t any pet shampoo here. He'd get his hands on some eventually, then. People left their doors unlocked too much in this town anyway.

“I'm… sorry. For earlier. You're not a science experiment, you're your own person- and shit-” She made a face that suggested there was a speech she'd practiced and promptly forgotten. Dolly fidgeted with her fingers, drumming them against the side of her thigh. “I thought it was like… You were a murderer and stuff, so I could be an asshole about your business. Like that stupid saying that totally doesn't work because it's probably really easy to kill people when you're mad.”

“...What?”

“It's, like-” She threw her hands up and waved them around as if they would grow mouths to explain for her. “Before you go on a journey of revenge, dig two graves! Which is stupid! Dude— if I'm going on a journey, I'm killing way more than two people, and if you don't shut up, you're gonna be one of them!"

Springtrap felt laughter bubble in his throat and snorted loudly. In fact, the giggles were so hard to contain so suddenly that he fell over and patted at his snout helplessly through them. He could hear Dolly start too, sliding down from the counter to the floor to sit and laugh beside him. Vanilla padded over and copied his movements, throwing a paw up to hit him in the nose.

It made it worse. His nose squeaked again and practically echoed throughout the entire building, and it was Dolly’s turn to hold her sides and wheeze like it was the funniest thing she’d heard in years.

Springtrap had never, in his life, found fluorescent lights to be warm, nice lighting. Now, though, he was dead, and laughing on the floor with his friend while it was pouring down rain outside, and maybe he’d have to finally amend his opinion on the damn things.

When he could finally catch his breath, he stared up and grinned at the pretty carvings of lilies on the underside of the countertop.

Chapter Text

Springtrap had a pretty bad headache. He'd call it a hangover if that was still possible, but it wasn't, and he was still awake at five in the morning trying to cook his own thoughts.

That was a lie. He was cooking eggs. Scrambling them. More of a metaphor than a lie, really. Or something like that. He was pretty sure there was something looking at him in the corner of the room, also, but that was fine. They weren’t speaking or moving and probably weren’t real, so he didn’t need to worry about it. It was fine.

He was scrambling eggs and trying to pretend his head wasn't killing him. 

Last night had been a rollercoaster. Trying to process it all had him preoccupied for an entire hour that morning, lying there, staring at the ceiling. The inaction assaulted him in extremes; it couldn’t decide if it was physically painful or frighteningly easy for him to slip away mentally, just sitting still, bored, on the nice bed in Dolly's guest bedroom. He’d also been very afraid of messing it up; it was so nice, and so he hadn't moved. He'd check the clock out of the corner of his eye, all but paralyzed, blink even though he didn't need to, and check again only to find that fifteen minutes had simply... passed. At the very least, he'd think to himself, he was in a bed, and not cold, hard flooring, covered in grime and-

Egg. Yep. Egg.

Unceremoniously, he’d answered one of his many questions and raised several more— all maliciously congealing together over the course of this wretched morning to form the headache that was currently bothering him. Having a headache was even fuel to the fire, because that meant he was feeling pain, and that answered a question and brought up several more, which in turn made the whole thing worse, and then he’d quietly start fuming about Nick hitting him, and then wince at the image of Deliah, crying, and… Ugh.

There remained only one question to figure out that didn’t make him want to curl up in a ball and die: how the hell had he managed to fall asleep?

He'd done it before, but thought he'd been trapped in a hallucination rather than a nightmare. Back when Deliah had left for Harry’s and stayed a little late, he’d completely lost his mind worrying, but he’d also fallen asleep. Most likely. Considering what he'd almost accomplished last night— the whole swallowing the lighter and going up in flames plan— could he venture to say that he could only black out after a complete mental breakdown? The concept sounded utterly ridiculous, but if not that, then what? Why was sleeping so arbitrary? If he could sleep, then why didn’t he feel like he needed to? The suit had long run through any power supply, so it wouldn't make sense for it to just suddenly begin needing to rest and recharge, or whatever. Was he just… not trying? To sleep? Was it all in his godforsaken mind?

He felt something small nudge him in the arm and jumped about an inch or two out of his skin. Suit. Whatever.

It was Vanilla. Perched atop the counter, pulling him out of his thoughts, like a good raccoon. Maybe she’d only nudged him for snack reasons, but she’d done it no less, and that counted. Right. As of now, he was attempting to focus on making breakfast, and the raccoon acting out a full theater production on the counter to receive a piece of egg for herself could only help. 

She’d… She was on top of the counter.

“No, honey,” He nudged her back slightly, put the spatula down where it wouldn’t start melting (he’d done that before, very embarrassing), and then scooped her up to put her on the floor where she would be safe until she decided to jump back up again, undoubtedly within the next five to ten minutes. “This is people food.”

So much had happened in such a short period of time. He had Vanilla now, for one thing— had broken free from his hour-long space out session this morning with her hopping up abruptly onto his stomach— and he didn't immediately feel the need to kill himself. That was a good sign. All he had to do now was get rid of that headache and pretend like he didn’t feel someone in the room with him, looking at him. It was fine. He was briefly worried this morning that he'd flatten her if she slept so near him like that every night, but then she eagerly attempted to squeeze into the hole in his side, and he decided she would be just fine as he yanked her out.

Her little nails clacked on the tiles wherever she walked (he'd need to trim those down as soon as possible if he was really going to keep her), and the noises echoed around the kitchen and further into the house in a way that made him uneasy. It wasn't like this when Deliah had brought him to live in her house— he'd felt at least a little welcome in a house like that. At Dolly's, though? There was no such comfort. 

It wasn't her fault, per se; she'd been her usual warm, snarky self since her odd apology had ended in their raucous laughing fit last night. The mood had flipped between them at a lightswitch speed, and for that, he was grateful. It was simply the house itself. She mentioned earlier that it could ‘eat her whole,’ but he'd taken it as an exaggeration and forgotten about it until he'd actually walked through the front door.

Her house was huge. He'd blundered around counting rooms, Dolly at his heels doing her best impression of a tour guide, and found four full bedrooms, three bathrooms, plus the living room connected to her kitchen, and a room almost entirely dedicated to a pool table sat in its midst. He still felt a little absurd just… cooking normally in here, as if the party that should be filling a house like this would appear out of a closet somewhere. The whole feeling was actually uncomfortably familiar; the lingering absence of company pressed practically into the paint on the walls. There was a weird noise, too, somewhere in the house. Just like in Harry’s basement, he could hear something. The air conditioner, Dolly had told him.

Maybe he was overly paranoid, or maybe being stuck in a storage room for a few years (twenty years) had finally gotten to him, but the place seemed… so big, and so, so empty, and the silence of the morning had only made it worse. And now he was (mostly) completely sure that his mind was filling the space for him, and just making it worse.

It reminded him of Freddy’s, for goodness' sake. He could see the straitjacket already.

But it was fine. So maybe Vanilla was his only anchor other than the sizzling of breakfast, whatever, no biggie. He'd done loneliness for decades.

There were footsteps, heavy, suddenly shambling sleepily down the stairs. That had to be Dolly, right? He checked the time on the microwave. A little late— had he been cooking for that long? He wasn't slipping again, right? He hadn’t just sat there and rotted all morning, just most of the early morning, and he'd also constructed a plan for when Dolly would most likely wake up based on the cafe’s hours. He’d also planned out how to interact with her at all, rather meticulously, so that he wouldn’t ruin their newly achieved peace, but that was more of a guideline than anything concrete. A bumper of sorts, so that he wouldn’t mess anything up. Again.

Surely… that was a symptom of something at this point, but he'd rather chalk it up to crazy anxious nonsense, pack that diagnosis away in a box and place it in the highest, dustiest possible shelf in his mind. It wasn't exactly like he could head over to Dr. Veronica's and give his regular, subpar performance to her about it without a ride. The rest of her family had already decided he was a lost cause anyway, and at this point, the good doctor should’ve given up on him. It was probably for the best. Dolly was a full-grown adult, and Vanilla was a raccoon, and this way it'd be least likely he'd kill anybody. He would get by, and never see the Edwards or the Hursts again, somehow, and at some point, Old Man Consequences would get impatient enough to come and make gator food out of him. Open and shut.

Vanilla took his moment of distraction as yet another chance to jump on the counter, that thing in the corner of the room almost flickering as the footsteps approached, and when Dolly entered the room, he was crouching down, placing the raccoon back on the floor and distinctly avoiding the eyes looking over the counter.

“Goo’morning.” She drawled, half awake and half zombie. 

“Good morning!” He announced, slightly too loudly, popping back up to see her over the counter and just barely catching an errant snicker before it left his mouth at her choice of sleepwear. She looked cartoonishly cranky, covered in a pink fluffy robe and sporting a similar colored bonnet, slightly askew. “I’ve made us both breakfast. As a thank you.”

Dolly hummed sleepily and sank onto a barstool, cushioning her face in her arms. “I ush’ally just have… coffee.”

At this point, the eggs were done; he could smell them. He'd been creative with it, adding a pinch of shredded cheese in for extra flavor, and hoped it would be perfect enough to quell his nerves.

Oh, jesus christ, he could smell! And he had most of all the rest of his senses, but how? He was a suit.

He scooped up a fair share of scrambled deliciousness and tucked away that thought process. He was focusing. He was ignoring the eyes. Everything was fine. That particular question might even get answered this morning, if he didn't back out of his own scheme. He would have to find a way to bring it up, but it might be too early at the moment…

“That sounds awful.” He said, setting breakfast down on the counter, distinctly aware of Vanilla prowling the floor beneath him, waiting for scraps. His hands tangled themselves together nervously. Never mind, I’ve got to do it now, like right now, or I’ll totally lose my nerve, “So I was, uhm, thinking. About what you said the other day! About me being able to eat, and–”

She straightened almost violently before he could finish, like something had poked her in the spine. 

“Oh my god.” 

He was worried for about half a second. Nothing had poked her in the physical sense. There was nothing to poke her. Physically. Of course. Vanilla was still on the floor, on his side of the counter. Dolly was just... annoyed. 

Fuck, already? What now–?

“The sun isn’t even up yet, man— sorry!” She threw her hands up above her head, and Spring felt himself flinch backward. As if, suddenly, his nerves had taken the rest of his body hostage, completely under his own nose. Dolly was now shouting loudly, and his head immediately cried out in pain. “I’m sorry!”

Never mind! Never mind! Abort! This had immediately gotten as exactly out of hand as he thought it would, just like last time, and the fact that he’d even attempted it was supremely stupid in hindsight. Or maybe it wasn’t, and his brain just hurt too much to think about it properly, but she was not going to just sit there and yell at him, and he was not going to let her just–

“It was fucked up!” The emptiness of this stupid, big house was making it all sound about three decibels louder than it actually was. “But I am tired and I already apolo–”

Springtrap lifted his hands, nerve-pinch quick, and slammed both fists into the granite.

CRACK.

…He found it extremely surprising when his fists sank a little, and the thing that started hurting first was not his hands, but his head.

Dolly’s shiny dishware, the ones he’d put the eggs in, told him that his eyes were currently glowing a bright, ugly-looking purple color, but not much more than that. He was only seeing them out of his periphery, after all, because he could not tear his eyes away from the vague shape of the woman on the other side of the counter.

She’d finally shut up, but his ears were still ringing— probably because of that god forsaken air conditioner. It was clammy and warm in here, always, even though he could always hear the stupid thing running. Just slightly uncomfortable, like she’d set the temperature higher before she’d left for work one day, to save energy, and never changed it back. Permanently set to be back soon, thickening the air. She’d just said the machine sucked, but in a house this nice, it didn’t seem plausible. Just fix it if it's so terrible. You obviously have the resources, you-

Something brushed against his face, claws, and he tilted left like he’d been shot— but it was just Vanilla. Pawing at him, unafraid. Hungry?

His eyes shot briefly back to Dolly (one arm over her chest, one white-knuckling the stool, eyes wide), and he immediately regretted it with every fiber of his being. So, instead of looking more, he quickly scooped up the raccoon and retreated to the coffee maker on the far side of the kitchen.

They sat in relatively unbroken silence. He could still hear her warily shuffling in her seat as he shakily found the mugs with his one available hand, but neither of them spoke. Vanilla was soft and cuddled into his elbow, chirping softly at him, unreasonably comforting in the heavy air of the room. He could feel his ears twitching, low, like they could hide him from the eyes he knew were boring into him. In fear.

It was fear, right? Was she scared? Of course she was, but didn’t it look like she was angry? How hard was she holding on to that stool? He couldn’t remember. Wide eyes meant fear, but they could also mean surprise. Joy. He didn’t look close enough. He needed to look again. But he wouldn’t. Coward.

He turned a dial on the coffee maker, aimless, and opened his mouth. Then he closed it, looked down at Vanilla, and opened it again. The machine chose that moment to let out a concerningly long groan, and he choked back a laugh despite himself as the raccoon in his arms squirmed to get away from it. He smoothed down her fur with a hand, trying to help her settle.

“I have a headache,” Slipped out of his mouth, and he almost caught the last two words in between the grit of his teeth before he could finish saying them. Hissed it out more than he said it. “S-orry.”

An absolutely hellish scraping noise erupted from behind him, and he clutched Vanilla to his chest, whirling around to face the counter. Dolly was hunched over her plate of eggs, almost painfully contorted, holding a fork and looking, for all the world... extremely embarrassed. 

The noise had been the fork against the plate, his ears too sensitive and his nerves too taut to register it as anything normal-sounding. And Dolly was still just above the breakfast, silent and slightly red-faced. 

With a giant mouthful of egg.

“M’sorrh. Tou.” She mumbled, eyes low, and then swallowed. Cartoonishly, she blinked up at him and then back down. Springtrap had the oddest urge to laugh, dry and humorlessly. “I’mb– m’bitchy. Hangry.”

She shoved another generous helping of scrambled egg into her mouth, as if she were starving, and he fully, really snorted. The silence struck him as absurd. He'd never had this happen before he met her, where the quiet after the yelling actually worked, and all the tension melted away like sand. It was as if she knew what part she was supposed to play and what joke to set up once he turned away from her. Why had Dolly only read the script? She understood his regret so immediately, understood that they were both sorry, understood that it would just be easier to laugh about it. It was like she could read his mind, but only after they'd started yelling at each other. She blinked up at him and then back down. Again.

Vanilla wiggled again in his arms, and he ventured toward the counter to set her down with a heavy, shaky sort of sigh.

He paused, only briefly, and then all the words began to fall out of him. It had happened before, and here it was, happening again. There was just that something about Dolly that seemed to convince him that that would be a good thing. To go in swinging and just let everything pour out everywhere, so they could read the tea leaves when it all dried. Like he knew she would read the script before the curtain opened and crack a joke once the shards were on the floor. It was terrifying. He barely knew anything about her.

She looked terrified, too, though. What did that mean? She knew everything already.

“Wh- What I was going to say was… that you had… a point. Back at the cafe. I don’t know how I can eat, or how I’m standing, or if I can sleep, or even cry, and I want to know, but,” He stopped to take an unnecessary breath and shuddered almost violently, from his ears to his feet. "I’m scared, Dolly. I am really, really scared. And I need your help.”

Dolly didn’t look up from her food. He couldn’t see her face at all, and any indication of mood came solely from the soft sound of chewing and the speed at which she swiped a hand across her mouth and cleaned it against her robe. He would’ve scowled and called it gross if his nerves weren’t on needles.

Springtrap felt the need to plead. “I’ve- I’ve been thinking about it all morning, it’s driving me crazy–”

“Well, yeah.” She interrupted, waving her fork at the granite, finally looking him in the eye. “You cracked my fucking counter.”

As if to prove her point, Vanny sniffed at the aforementioned counter, sporting a noticeable indent and several eye-offending cracks, spiderwebbing into the pattern of the stone until he couldn’t see them any longer. 

He hadn’t noticed how bad it was before— it’s not like he split the damn thing in half, but… 

Had he been this strong the whole time? All the times he’d picked up Deliah, or when he threatened Nick, pushing him around, pinning him down– Was he just completely ignorant of the real damage he could be causing? Ignorant of how dangerous he was? And was that better or… worse? Had it been luck that he hadn’t hurt them, or was he more dangerous now that he was noticing? Was that kind of strength another punishment? What about Fredbear— he’d never even learned that man’s name— was he like this? Even if Spring hadn’t ever murdered a soul, even if he was a goddamn heaven-sent saint like him, would he still be able to do this?

He felt a pang of white hot ache behind his eyes and groaned, realizing suddenly that the world still existed and he was in it. The coffee maker joined him, crying out in pain, and Spring shifted to glance at Dolly, who, in turn, glanced up at him from delicately covering his full plate of eggs with her own plate, now empty. She didn’t speak, thank goodness; she only made a sort of grabby hands motion at the machine behind him and blinked a couple times in quick succession, like she was trying to flutter her eyelashes cartoonishly. 

He shuffled over to the coffee machine and ferried the steaming mug to her side of the counter.

“I’ve got to find out what’s keeping me upright, Dolly. But…” His voice wavered pathetically as he set the cup down, and she dragged it towards her. She didn’t strike him as a black coffee drinker, but she took a swing all the same and didn’t spit it out at him, so luck was on his side at the moment. “I don’t think I’ll like the answer.”

“But you’re sure about this?” She asked, quite seriously, over another sip. He didn't flinch, even though he thought he would. Her voice was comforting again. “...Testing?”

“No.” Said Spring, and he was not lying. He definitely did not want this. He didn’t want to do tests or be an experiment. He did not want to eat, because then he'd be having someone root around in the place where his stomach should’ve been, or if this worked like he logically thought it would, using godforsaken tools to get the food out of him– “But I’m doing it anyway.”

After a moment of silence, Dolly clicked her tongue at him. “...Any theories?”

“A couple,” He said, unhelpfully, eyeing the sink to his right for any signs of otherworldly red bone. “But I’m asking you for help here because you know how I can… freak out. About it.” 

She snorted.

He turned to look at her again and took a breath. “This could be dangerous, Dolly. You’ll have to listen to me. That’s not… always a good idea. Or a safe one.”

“...Yeah.” She tapped her colorful nails against her coffee mug once, and then twice, staring at the crack in the counter he himself was trying very hard to avoid. “I’m okay with that.”

He was a… tiny bit suspicious of this. In the same way he was inherently suspicious of most things, of course, she wasn’t being blatantly dishonest, nor had she done anything to suggest she wouldn’t tell him the truth, aside from… Well, she had apologized, hadn’t she? No need to hold anything against her. He wanted the same right? He still did? There was nothing to be suspicious of— he was acutely aware that he was stalling for time when nothing at all had even happened, as if any syllable that escaped his mouth or any micro movement would condemn him to something.

Vanilla entered his field of vision and pawed suspiciously at the stack of plates. Spring lifted his hand to drag her to his chest, the movement hindered by a robotic, hesitant shudder, and she hissed at him, frustrated by his continued thwarting of her breakfast schemes. They were similar in that way, always making a scheme. He smoothed out the fur on the scruff of her neck and pressed her close to him, extremely gently. That mechanical stopping and starting was... worrying. All the more reason to check. It could be in his head! How would he know for sure if not by...

Dolly gave the plates a tiny push towards him and then laid her hands down flat on the table, like he was a wild animal, and if he couldn’t see her hands, he’d lose it. It was probably meant to be a peace offering, but it honestly pissed him off a little. He gave Vanilla one last nuzzle and shoved her across the counter into Dolly’s space, trading the bewildered raccoon for the covered plate of eggs. Dolly and Vanny made a similar kind of surprised yelp as they made contact, and then they both shot him a mean glare as Vanilla crawled properly into her arms as he laughed under his breath. 

Or, lack thereof.

“Alright then,” He said, and then his mouth went slightly dry. “Uh. I’m gonna eat this and then we’re gonna… pop me open to see if I’m all… disgusting. Inside. Got it?”

“Got it,” She agreed, and then, to Vanny, she whispered, “Are you gonna help us?”

The raccoon in question lifted her head to Dolly's mouth, closed her eyes, and huffed, as if too annoyed to even look at him. Dolly giggled into her fur.

Springtrap pulled a face. “No. She’ll try and eat me again.”

Dolly looked up, blinked at him, momentarily lost, and then burst into the most obnoxious laugh she could possibly manage, clutching Vanilla to her chest.

*

“Well, I'll be damned.” He crackled. It wasn’t really speaking so much as it was materializing the words into the air and having them simply be understood.

Communication, for him, was an art of many methods and many outcomes. At the very least, everyone knew what dread felt like, and whether they saw him as an intricate labyrinth of seemingly random pieces of red bone, or as a couple of pixels stacked on top of one another, they could feel, at the very least, that he was what he said he was.

The ghost next to him on the dock, Jeremy, stirred and hummed an unintelligible question. He was unable to see what Old Man Consequences could see in the mirror-still surface of the water, and had fallen asleep against his 8-bit side sometime ago. 

If Consequences had eyes on the back of his head, he would’ve noticed another ghost burst out of the frozen red treeline and attempt to roll out onto the dock, but bump into one of the supports and fly a little too sideways. Promptly, Fritz righted himself, eyes a little wide, checking if anyone had seen him.

Jeremy did not have eyes in the back of his head either, but he’d swiveled around to see what the noise had been, still shaking off his nap and rubbing his eyes. He snickered at his friend's miscalculation. 

“You see something, old bones?” Fritz sent a pointed look at Jeremy and floated over to them as if nothing embarrassing had happened at all. “You've been staring at the water for ages.”

The skeleton laughed, shifting said old bones— though making sure to mind a much smaller specter, currently snoozing in his ribcage. He was made of fairly sharp corners at the moment, and though he was sure nothing would happen, it’d be polite not to nudge the little one if possible. Miles hadn't done much but sleep since they'd arrived, occasionally poking his head out to ask ‘if Springtrap was okay.’ The others had been concerned, but Consequences was perfectly content to let him rest and reassured them that all was well. If anything, Miles being able to sleep was a good sign. It meant he felt safe here, wholly and fully, and the steady drumbeat of life was not ringing in his ears quite so loudly anymore. Jeremy and Cassidy had eventually followed the boy's example, and at one point, Consequences had a small pile of snoozing specters to deal with.

He fished a brightly colored lure out of one pocket of his pants and briefly looked away from the lake to peer at it as he thought over his next words. Old Man Consequences couldn't just tell them all that their murderer had, yet again, decided against killing himself and pivoted headlong into another distraction. He was certain he wouldn't be able to announce it without seeming inherently displeased. The lure was made of a few pink and purple feathers, secured at the ends and attached to a small metal fish head. 

“Your murderer’s tryin’ to put his head on right.” Is what he supplied them with, in lieu of properly explaining. Carefully, pressing a (rather square) claw into the sharp ends of the hook, he began to bend. He had to make sure… “I told y'all ‘bout this Dolly lady, yeh?”

Both ghosts took a second to look at each other, wide-eyed, weighing his question. Consequences had learned, in his short time with the children, that Jeremy and Fritz were simply a pair in that way, looking to each other despite their many disagreements. 

“You're kidding!” Exclaimed an incredulous Fritz. “He roped in somebody else?”

Jeremy beamed, pointedly ignoring his friend's doubt. “And she's really gonna help him?”

‘Help him’ was up to interpretation. Roger Stanford was certainly less suicidal. Was he any smarter? Would she turn out as just another risky witness, a mistake, like Stanford had been? They were made of similar grain. It was not ideal.

Satisfied with his handiwork, the skeleton let go of the lure and the now dull hook. They swung freely over the still water.

“...Sure. S’not at the Hursts’ anymore, at least.” Consequences shifted pixels, nodding to the ghost in the bowtie and casting his line out a little ways, careful again not to bump his ribcage. “I do believe this means you and your sister are the winners, no?”

Jeremy lowered his eyes to the dark, cherry-red wood of the dock. He adjusted his bowtie aimlessly. “No, the bets are… still going, Mister Connie. It can't be that easy.”

Fritz moved to comfort his friend silently. 

“I see.” He'd held a discussion with them recently about why Stanford's nasty habit of going to children for asylum was a bad idea, no matter what, yes, and they'd gotten a bit carried away with it. So carried away, in fact, that they started placing bets on how things would turn out based on Consequences’ occasional reports.

Don't get him wrong, Old Man Consequences considered even the slightest of their faith in the dead man to be entirely misplaced, but he’d made no move to stop any of the children from forming their own little betting pool. They deserved a little fun. He'd been too busy regardless, trying to figure out just how to talk to them without being… ominous or frightening in some way. He was still attempting to do just that, actually; keeping certain details of Stanford's headache-inducing decisions to himself and toning down the severity of his… ‘day job,’ so to speak. To them, he simply liked to fish and eat those fish. He was an alligator, after all. Maybe they knew of his true nature, vaguely, but they hadn’t started asking him questions yet, so maybe they’d just accepted it and let it slip from their minds.

He remembered very clearly when they decided to stay with him; it had been raining that night, and he was able to witness the entire proceeding conversation. He’d only been watching to keep track of Stanford, and, best-case scenario, catch his pathetic final moments, but instead they'd all climbed out of his pond, hand in hand, shaking from the cold, and he’d been with them since. The dead were his obligations; the fish, his dinner… but these children, due to the nature of their prolonged time as spirits, were now his wards, and he could not escape that fact, even if he wanted to.

For most, moving on was not this rough a journey, but most did not also have the luxury of taunting their murderer into bringing about his own gruesome demise and spectating his subsequent miserable afterlife. Murders happen, people die, but the alligator knew well that it was his decision-making that had started the chain of events leading them to their deaths, and taking care of them was the least he could do to repay them for it.

Consequences was not one to question the cards dealt unto the living— of Roger Stanford’s loneliness, of his stubbornness, or the pain of any other soul swimming aimlessly through life— but when he had the opportunity, he sought to balance things. To briefly comfort those for what they'd suffered in life, knowing, at least, that now their pain was over. He knew naught of life, if it had a true name or form or mind, but he could venture one assumption. It did not care. It did not have to watch as its creations spiraled high and rotted away. It did not watch over any of its creations.

He did.

And his namesake was not misleading; he took endless enjoyment out of delivering violent punishment to the deserving, but it was not his only ability. It was actually only due to personal preference that he specialized in the muddier side of things. Consequences were not solely a thing to be feared, and very often, he was the proprietor of good karma. Small victories, miraculous luck, wishing wells, happy accidents— what have you. 

Sometimes, the opportunity to do something… larger presented itself to him. Second chances were few and far between, and never would a secondary life be as fulfilling as the first, but in the tragic and specific case of one good man gone too soon, certain loopholes were made available to him. When he reanimated the man in the Fredbear suit, however, the alligator had never expected Stanford to find those loopholes, nor had he expected the man to drag down six children with him as he went, kicking and screaming, falling uncomprehendingly into them. 

Teach a man to fish, and he’ll murder children, evidently.

“Mister Consequences!” Gabriel called out from further back, in the grassy area of his clearing, startling the skeleton out of a few stray pixels. They floated away from him and dissolved, finding no air to carry themselves on any further.

When he was alive, and even when he was dead, Gabriel had been a fairly notorious tattletail. Cassidy was attempting to tackle him before he could say another word.

The alligator sighed, feeling Miles stir under his bones. Quickly, knowing she'd been caught, Cass straightened up and put her hands behind her back, trying to hide the evidence of her plans. Gabriel grinned widely, and Old Man Consequences was very bizarrely reminded of the poor boy's murderer. 

“Do you have anything that we can play other than cards?” He asked, as innocently as he possibly could. “Mister Connie?”

The skeleton felt the air temperature rise sharply by a few degrees around Cassidy and snorted. 

Miles rose over his square shoulder, sleepily resting on his collarbone. He shifted closer, pressing his face against the first few vertebrae in the alligator's pixelated cervical spine. 

There was a… small chance that Consequences had begun to enjoy the children’s company, despite the tragic nature of their arrival. He’d certainly begun laughing more than he ever had before they’d settled in. This would not pose an issue like it would to the living; they would simply move on, and he would carry their memory gratefully rather than stagnate in their absence. Maybe he would recognize them again one day as fish, full-grown, and take joy in their cyclical existence. 

It did, however, make his job harder when the children attempted to convince him to help Stanford in any way. They were unfortunate consequences (heh) of a personal issue between himself and the murderer, and now they were sure that the right influence would set things straight rather than muddy them further. Again, this was why he gave them games and encouraged a betting pool. Stanford had to do it himself or not do it at all, and end up a rare, tasty sort of meal. A cooked fish. How delightful.

“‘Course I do, Gabe.” With one skeletal hand on the fishing pole, he dug into another of his many pockets and found a small leather bag full of something that sounded like metal. “Any’a you know how to play jacks?”

Only Fritz nodded, clearly joyful, and zipped over to grab the little bag out of the alligator's hand. The ghosts tailed after him— gathering around a section of the clearing where he'd already begun to lay out the pieces— all except for Miles. 

He had also, coincidentally, been left out of the betting pool.

Consequences returned to his lake. The little ghost uncurled from around his collarbone and floated down next to him, the wisp of his tail hanging over the edge of the dock. For a moment, they sat in silence, listening to the brief, gentle motions of the water against his line and the slowly unraveling chaos behind them. 

The skeleton was, ultimately, not good for conversation. His hobbies tended to be either fishing alone or going diving to settle business, and on the occasion he spoke, it was most often threatening. To make matters worse, in his red forest, he knew nothing about what the children were thinking or what they wanted, but they were his wards until further notice, and the skeleton was saddled with all the associated responsibility of caring for them. His slight social impairment was one of the reasons he’d let the little ghost sleep in his ribs. 

Old Man Consequences was very determined to help them, and again, he would not be distracted from this personal mission until they had all moved on— but he was, quite possibly, a little out of his depth (hah).

“Not up for jacks?” He mused, at last, after several minutes of flipping through every word and phrase he knew. 

Miles only shook his head in answer. 

Then there was silence again, dreadfully, and Consequences began to comb his memory once more for something to say when the little ghost sighed. 

“What are you fishing for?”

“...Someone hard to catch.” He said, mysterious only out of habit. Then he paused, and though the other children were loudly enjoying their new game, Consequences lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper and leaned over, not taking his eyes off the lake. “You remember Deliah, don’t you?”

Miles’ eyes widened considerably, and he scooted incrementally closer to the skeleton. “Yeah.”

“As I’ve heard, she’s not been getting the best sleep lately.” Old Man Consequences grinned as toothily as a fellow made of pixels could. “How’d you like to have a chat with her?”

The little ghost next to him gasped into the empty air and regarded him with wide, knowing eyes. Miles was a smart boy, young as he was. He’d had a strong sense of reason, it just tended to wander outside of areas the other children understood. In an absurd sort of way, Consequences could be more honest with him than the rest, because who would believe a world so odd— one where fish were people, and where the sound of life was so loud you would go deaf to it until you died— but someone who had barely begun to live at all?

A small laugh slipped from the alligator’s teeth as he bent his pixelated bones, pulling the line back, sensing another lure writhing for his attention. He still had work to do, fish to eat. This would be a side-project of sorts. He would have help. Miles could do with a little busywork.

“Don’t worry.” Consequences leaned a little further to the left, gently pressing an arm bone to Miles’ shoulder. “I don’t make mistakes twice.”