Chapter Text
Think, Jeremy, think!
He has mere seconds to come up with a plan for dealing with Foxy. He knows better than most that Foxy is uncomfortably aware—he hadn’t believed Ralph when he’d told Jeremy that Foxy couldn’t be fooled by the mask, and he’d almost lost his life for it. He’d been caught off-guard by the fox more than once, too (big shoutout to Balloon Boy, officially the worst animatronic he’d ever had to deal with. The kid inside was an absolute gem, but God was he a troll). Needless to say, he and Foxy don’t exactly get along. The animatronic doesn’t notice him as he races into Pirate’s Cove through the employee-only back door, distracted by the boy he’d cornered. Fritz dodges another swipe, his young face scrunched up in panicked concentration, and his chest heaving with every movement. His steps are shaky as he darts behind the curtains, throwing one right into the animatronic's face. It traps Foxy for a moment, metal arms flailing wildly as he runs face-first into a wall with a snarl.
Fritz collapses to the ground, and it’s then that Jeremy notices the odd angle of the boy’s right ankle. Without a word, he rushes to the kid’s side, and poor Fritz screams. He realizes his mistake almost instantly as Foxy growls, now alerted to their position. Without a second thought, Jeremy dives in front of the boy and bites back a scream of his own as a rusty hook lodges itself into his back. The animatronic’s other hand grabs him by the hair and throws him across the room, momentarily distracted by the guard’s appearance. Taking advantage of the attention suddenly being on him, he shouts, “Kid, run! Down the main hall, then take the corridor on your right. Don’t stop until you reach the office, tell Charlie to check cam five!”
After a small stumble, Fritz bolts out of Pirate’s Cove. Foxy growls, moving to lunge after him, but Jeremy grabs the pirate to stop him from following.
Good news: Fritz is safe. Bad news: Jeremy isn’t.
If there was one complaint he’d like to lodge with the Old Man, it was that the animatronics held grudges. He doesn’t know how, but he knows that Foxy remembers the half a dozen times Jeremy had barely escaped from that rusted maw with his life. If he had more time to think about it, he’d probably connect the dots that this version of the bot was created partially from Jeremy’s memories. If he really had a chance to analyse the situation, he would’ve noticed that this isn’t the right iteration of Foxy, either. As it is currently, he’s a bit busy jumping out of the way as Foxy tries to pounce on him. “Jealousy isn’t a good look on you,” he goads. “Mangle got me fair and square!”
The Old Man must be watching this happen because there’s no way in hell that Foxy would be able to get offended by that comment otherwise. A muzzle full of razor-sharp teeth snaps at him, narrowly missing his face and sinking into his shoulder instead. The world around him goes fuzzy as a blinding pain reaches the forefront of his brain, and the only sound he can hear is a disgusting, squelching riiiiiiiip.
His hand shakily reaches up towards the injured shoulder and comes away slick with blood. The pain in his head doubles as he looks up, up, up at Foxy, staring in horror at the bloodied fabric stuck to his teeth, and oh God, is that skin? It hurts, it hurts, he can’t move, he can’t see, something is wrong—
Foxy lunges again, and Jeremy doesn’t know what instinct comes over him because suddenly he’s holding the animatronic’s jaw open. The teeth dig into his hands, a sharp, prickling pain he barely registers over the stench of death coming from the mouth of the beast. Being easily double Jeremy’s weight, Foxy bears down, muzzle inching closer and closer, centimeters from Jeremy’s head, before the camera in the room turns on.
A little red dot blinks at Jeremy from the corner of the room as Foxy freezes, joints locking up and causing him to collapse into a heap from his precarious pose. Without a second thought, Jeremy shoves the tangle of metal off of him and sprints back to the office, keeping one hand on the wall at all times. The vision in his good eye keeps cutting in and out, causing him to ram into the side of the hallway and stumble blindly down the left corridor.
He’s not aware of how close he’s managed to get to the office until a hand pulls him inside. Charlie’s voice reaches his ears, and the volume of it makes him want to vomit. “Mr. Fitzgerald, what happened? You’re hurt!”
Jeremy holds up a trembling hand, stopping her in her tracks. “Where’s Fritz? Did he make it?”
“I’m okay, sir,” a tiny voice pipes up from the other side of the room. Jeremy whips his head in the boy’s general direction and grits his teeth as Fritz all but shrieks at the sight of him. “You’re bleeding!”
He feels around for his lanyard, practically ripping it from his neck and holding it out to where he thinks Charlie is. “I’ll be okay,” he promises the group at large. “I just need Charlie to take these keys and grab me something from the desk. Gold key, bottom left drawer. Inside is a lockbox; use the silver key with a purple dot painted on it to open it. There are going to be a dozen or so small vials with a metallic-looking liquid inside. Take one out carefully and hand it to me, please. Nobody else touches it, am I understood?”
A whispered chorus of affirmations floats around the room, and Jeremy pays close attention to the sound of the drawer opening. There’s the clink of metal on metal as Charlie presumably puts the lockbox onto the desk, and a horrified gasp has him flinching. “Is this…?”
“Remnant? Yes. I can explain later, but I need it right now.”
Thankfully, the girl must trust him, as the cold weight of a dosage vial meets his palm. He uncaps it as best he can without being able to see and downs the entire thing in one go. It’s best to get Remnant into the bloodstream, but if he pours it directly onto his wound he might genuinely pass out from the feeling. As it is, the disgusting tang of metal hits the back of his throat, coating his tongue with the taste of iron and rot in its purest form. His body tries to reject it immediately, forcing it back up, but he swallows it down with a full-body shudder.
A nauseous groan rips itself from his chest as the flesh and muscle of his shoulder knit itself back together. Excess Remnant drips down his face from his bite while his vision slowly returns, and Jeremy does his best to collect the leftovers back in the vial. It’s gross, sure, but the Remnant that he and Michael stash away is theirs, so he can do whatever he likes with it. Hopefully, Mike will have enough energy left at the end of the night to filter the blood out of the mixture. There was always the lake as an alternative, but it was a bit of a hassle to deal with.
Jeremy blinks rapidly as he takes in the state of his injuries. A quick stretch reveals that his shoulder is healed, and the severity of his bite wound has calmed significantly, though the ache is still present. The children stare at him while he does his best to collect himself. “Questions later,” he bites out. “Update, now.”
Charlie flinches slightly at his tone, refusing to meet his eyes as she admits, “When Michael came by with Lizzie, he told me to tell you about the power…?”
Oh. Oh God, no. He checks his watch as dread settles in his stomach. 2:05. “Please don’t tell me we’re below half.”
“I’m sorry! I didn’t realize,” she cries. “I was never in a location with limited power, I completely forgot that this could happen!”
As gently as he can, Jeremy approaches the monitor setup and holds back a flurry of curses. 42%. He takes a deep breath—anger wouldn’t help anybody right now. “Until Michael gets back, I need one of you to help me with the doors.”
Immediately, Charlie speaks up. “It’s my fault that this is happening. I’ll do it.”
Jeremy smiles at her as best he can. “Thanks, Charlie. Everyone else, find a locker and get inside. You are to stay in your locker until the alarm sounds for 6:00. Susie, you and Fritz will be sharing one of the large lockers. Elizabeth, you’ll be with Evan when he gets here.”
One by one, each locker gets an occupant, and Jeremy thanks whatever god is smiling down on him because there’s just enough room for everyone. Charlie will have to hide underneath the desk, but at least everyone has a spot. They’d never actually had to use them before; they were just around for kids who got particularly scared during the night shift, so it’s nigh-on a miracle that nobody is left out. He flips through each camera as fast as humanly possible before turning the display off.
For a moment, Jeremy almost feels like he’ll be able to handle this, and then he hears a distinct thud inside the vents. No fucking way.
Withered Chica’s smug face blinks back at him from the vent map, slowly creeping closer. Within seconds, Jeremy is across the room, digging through one of the many boxes of random parts and pulling out a mask of the Puppet. He tosses it to the girl, who looks at it in confused shock. “Strap that on and be ready to use it when I tell you.”
Back at the desk, Jeremy pulls out his and Michael’s masks, quickly strapping his on and pushing it to the side of his head. The weight of the old Freddy mask is almost comforting in its familiarity, and the stench of sweat and mold bombards his senses. Ah, memories. Horrible, horrible memories.
Less than four hours left. Everything will be fine.
= = =
It’s difficult at first for Michael to pinpoint which party room his brother is in. Evan had always been quiet as a mouse, able to cover up his presence effortlessly. If he had to guess, he’d say that his brother would be underneath a table—that had always been his preferred hiding spot. He can feel Nightmare’s presence hovering nearby, the unbearable weight of his gaze making his hair stand on end. Ha, un-bear-able.
If Michael were to be completely honest, he would admit that the Nightmares creeped him out. It was bound to happen after living with them hunting him all night, every night, for almost five years. However, he also knew what they really looked like. He’d found them down in Circus Baby’s—well, connected to it, at least. The realization that his father had been drugging both him and his little brother was a bit of a mindfuck, but that little factoid was enough for him to want to uncover the actual animatronics that had supposedly stalked the halls of their home.
They were real, alright, but God did they look stupid. Wonky, misproportioned endoskeletons made out of scrap metal, shambling around in an approximation of fluid movement, dull claws, and a handful of teeth in their misshapen maws. Sure, they looked like their old selves in here, but the knowledge of just how ridiculous they actually were was enough to soothe his nerves quite a bit. He’d never been able to take them seriously after he saw them—they were nothing more than drug-induced hallucinations fueled by guilt and self-loathing. His nightmares were just another part of him. Before him, they had been his brother’s, and Evan had won against them. Michael has no doubts that he was holding his own rather well.
A burst of static comes from behind him, and he can feel the hot breath of the monster over his shoulder. “Hi, Nightmare.”
“I am your wickedness, made of flesh.”
Michael huffs out a quiet laugh, rolling his eyes. “Good for you, man. Have you seen my brother?”
Nightmare Fredbear appears suddenly, inches away from his face, and Michael grimaces at the sight of blood and viscera dripping down the bear’s maw. The sickening sound of a skull being crushed echoes through the hall, a wet crunch and a cut-off cry, and the golden animatronic tilts its head at him. In spite of himself, Michael feels a tiny, fond smile grow on his face. Never let it be said that his hallucinations couldn’t be helpful. “Yeah, him. Do you know where he is? I need to get him back to the office.”
“We know who our friends are.” Both animatronics laugh, deep and distorted.
A light in Party Room Three flickers. Bingo.
Michael enters the room, clicking on his flashlight as he crouches down to check underneath the tables. Quietly, he calls out, “Evan? Are you here?”
From the very back of the room, he hears a shaky whisper. “Michael? I-I’m scared…”
He lifts up the tablecloth that's hiding the boy as gently as he can, heartbroken at the sight of his little brother in such obvious distress. How he ever found this funny, he’ll never understand. “Hi, Ev.”
Evan blinks up at him in shock for a moment before barreling into his arms with a sob. Michael holds him close, running a hand through sweat-soaked hair. His little brother trembles against him, both hands holding onto his shirt for dear life. “Don’t worry,” he soothes, “we’re gonna get you out of here. Your friends are really worried about you.”
Michael hands his brother the flashlight, and he fumbles with it for a moment from the unexpected weight. When he moves to stand, though, Evan pulls him back down with a surprising amount of strength. “You can’t leave me here!”
“Woah, woah! What are you talking about, little man?” His brother stares at him like he’s stupid, at a complete loss for words. The only thing he can do is point towards the open doorway, where Michael can spy two sets of bright red eyes in the darkness. Evan shines the light on them, gasping at the sight of their appearance, but Michael just gives them a little wave.
Nightmare laughs again while Nightmare Fredbear waves back. He doesn’t know how it’s possible, but the sheer confused shock on Evan’s face doubles, and Michael has to stifle a little laugh of his own. A tiny, offended scowl blocks his view of the two animatronics, letting him know that he didn’t hide his amusement nearly as well as he’d have liked. He sighs as he ruffles his brother’s hair. “Sorry, sorry. Don’t worry about them, okay? They’re…”
Oh God, how does he explain this? Making friends with his literal inner demons was not a good look; he would know. Jeremy had fretted over him for a solid two hours when he’d learned that Michael regularly had conversations with the shadows in their hallway and bedroom closet. He'd been sat down on the couch and handed his favorite blanket and the plate of food that his partner had been bringing him when he'd been caught while Jeremy paced around their living room, asking him question after question. How often does this happen? Is it just auditory, or is it visual? Is there an olfactory component? Tactile sensations? What kinds of things do they say to you? Do they tell you to do things? Have you always experienced this? Do you know what causes them? Does anybody else know? Is there something I can do to help?
Of course, his partner had believed him when he’d finally come clean—it was a holdover habit from his teenage years, and it brought him a small level of comfort, as strange as it was. He'd had to explain everything: what they looked like, what they sounded like, the things they would say, where they originally came from, and why he still engages in this kind of behavior. He'd even gone as far as to show his partner his sketchbook from those years, which was filled to the brim with hyper-realistic drawings of them in the halls, under the bed, in his closet, peeking in through the windows, and attacking him. Jeremy was kind, though. He never mocked Michael or called him crazy for it, eventually likening it to the one-sided conversations that he engaged in himself while writing things down in his journal. Both of them knew that they were simply having a chat with themselves, something to help them process the world around them as things spiralled further into insanity. Michael knew that they weren't real, that they hadn't been for a long time. It was like talking to your reflection in the mirror.
Trying to convey that concept to a ten-year-old was a different story entirely, and he flounders for a moment before he remembers that Evan had had the same habit when he was alive. Shame bubbles up at the thought that he’d found his brother so strange and annoying when he did it. Father had never approved of the behavior, punishing Michael whenever he caught Evan speaking with his not-so-imaginary friends because Michael was supposed to have gotten the boy to stop by that age. Never mind the fact that it was a completely normal thing for children to do, especially one so completely isolated. Having a ‘psychotic’ child was a bad look, after all. What would the town think if they knew that William was a terrible parent? No, better to have his oldest try to bully the behavior out of him. Michael was a trouble-maker; nobody would bat an eye if they caught him harassing Evan. Teenagers, right?
Best to rip the band-aid off, he supposes. “The best way to describe it is that we’re… friends. I can tell you about what they are another time, but I know that you at least probably recognize them.”
“They kind of look like the monsters in my nightmares.” One of them laughs again at the word ‘monsters’, and Evan flinches back. “But, those aren’t real, are they? That doesn’t make sense!”
Michael wobbles a hand in a so-so motion. “Father made them, or at least part of them. A lot of what we’re seeing right now is real here, but not when we were alive. Not fully, anyway.”
The boy’s gaze darts between the two horrifying creatures and Michael a few times before settling back on his older brother. “You said that they’re your friends?”
“Basically, yeah,” he confirms. “They helped me find you, actually.”
“We know who our friends are,” Fredbear croons again through distorted static.
Michael smiles tiredly at the golden animatronic, a bit of warmth in his chest growing with every time he hears those words. “I know you do, big guy. Evan, this is Nightmare Fredbear, or Fredbear for short. The other one is just called Nightmare. It’s been a bit since they’ve gotten to see either of us, so they’re a bit excited. There are others like them, too, but they’re not here right now. They won’t hurt you while I’m here, I promise.” He turns around to pin the two animatronics with a glare. “Right, guys?”
Nightmare’s grin stretches unnaturally. “You will be spared.”
The nightguard snorts in response. He can’t help it! It’s so funny watching these hulking monstrosities try to be nice, especially when it comes out like a threat. “See, they like you!” He holds out his hand for his brother, thankful when he takes it. “Come on, everyone’s probably worried sick.”
Evan stumbles a bit at first when he has to get near the animatronics, but the two simply watch with curiosity as Michael flips through the different maps on his tablet. Both hallways are pretty full at this point, which is less than ideal, but there’s no way he’s taking Evan through the vents. He’s been hearing something thumping around up there for a while now, and a peek at the vent map confirms his suspicions: the Withers were out. Thankfully, normal Bonnie walks back down the main hall towards the dining room, and Michael pulls Evan out of sight just in time. “Okay,” he whispers once the rabbit is out of earshot. “That means the left corridor should be clear right now, so we’re going to have to make a run for it.”
His little brother nods, turning off the flashlight and falling into step right in front of Michael. Gently, the guard directs him to safety, waving goodbye to Nightmare as he splits off toward the right corridor. Nightmare Fredbear follows right on Michael’s heels, but true to his word, doesn’t try anything.
The second that they walk in, Jeremy chucks Michael’s old Foxy mask in his general direction and calls out, “Elizabeth, your brother is here! Open the door and make room!”
Lizzie peeks out of the locker behind Jeremy, waving Evan in. “C’mon, dummy!” The second that the boy is safely inside, his sister shouts, “Good luck, Mikey,” and slams the door.
Michael takes a moment to take in the state of the room as he straps on his mask, shuddering at the familiar weight. Charlie was the only one other than Jeremy who was out of hiding, wearing a mask of the Puppet and standing perfectly in the center of the room with an arm outstretched towards each door. She seemed stressed, but uninjured. Jeremy, however…”What the hell happened to you?”
A giant piece of his shirt had been torn off at the shoulder, the fabric surrounding it drenched in still-wet blood. The skin underneath the tear looked fine, but the streaks of silver running down the older guard’s face told him that it wasn’t always like that. His boyfriend’s hands were trembling and uncoordinated, and the blonde huffed angrily before he stood from the chair. “I cannot emphasize how little I want to talk about it. Charlie, under the desk. Mike, you’re on cameras—I’m having a hard time over here.”
Knowing better than to question Jeremy when he was like this, Michael gingerly takes the main tablet connected to the office displays. Charlie makes herself at home under the desk, and Michael steadfastly ignores the sound of screeching sheet metal grinding across the floor. “Jeremy, call.”
“Chica’s in the kitchen, music box is wound, Foxy’s in the Cove. Bonnie’s at the Main Stage, Baby’s in the Arcade. Withered Chica and Bonnie are in the front vent, Withered Freddy’s in the Main Hall. Withered Foxy’s trying to smuggle himself inside, so far it’s only his left arm. Haven’t seen Goldie in a minute. Pretty sure I saw Scrap Baby trying to reassemble herself, but the taser’s got plenty of charge.”
The younger guard nods, rapidly turning the camera on and off to keep Foxy in place without using any power. “Wither,” he warns, and both of them drop their masks. Withered Bonnie crawls out of the front vent, staring at the duo for a long moment before getting bored and wandering out the left door. Michael slides his mask back up. “When was the last time you changed the music?”
Jeremy looks down at his watch, tilting his head as he counts on his fingers. “2:20, so…five minutes ago?”
“Perfect, thank you. We’re holding steady at 39%. Get ready on your right, Freddy’s about to be there.” His boyfriend darts across the room, hand hovering over the button. “And…now!”
The hollow thunk that the animatronic makes as it bangs on the door is like music to Michael’s ears.