𝐑𝐎𝐂𝐊 '𝐍 𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋

𝕔𝕙𝕒𝕡𝕥𝕖𝕣 𝕥𝕨𝕠

You raised your arms above your head in a plea for mercy, inching backward until your back was pressed flat against the wall. The guttural snarl grew louder and a massive figure emerged from the corner of the room.

Monty's glowing red eyes made the points of his star-shaped glasses look jagged like the blades of daggers. Whatever mood he had been in earlier obviously hadn't passed.

"You're not scaring anyone," you nervously lied through your teeth. He was so close now that you could have reached out and touched him without fully extending your arm. Monty didn't say a word, only letting out a loud huff through his nostrils. His steamy breath fanned the skin of your face, pleasantly warm and smelling strongly of fog machine fluid and...weed.

"Not even a little bit?" He chuckled, dropping the predator act with a snicker. You didn't even need the lights on to know that he had the biggest shit-eating grin on his face. Still, he didn't immediately back off like you expected him to. "Whatcha doing up there, babycakes?"

Programmed to speak six different languages and he still comes up with the worst pet names for you.

Monty cocked his head to the side impatiently and you realized with a start that you'd been staring. "I...uh." Even bent over he was still more than a head taller than you. He'd always liked watching you squirm, but maybe that was just the predator in him. "Maintenance," was the lie you came up with after a handful of seconds.

"Maintenance..." He repeated it slowly and you were scared that he wouldn't believe you. "What do they got my roller-bunny doing maintenance for?"

Roller-bunny. Every day you cursed the child who innocently called you that during one of Monty's meet and greet sessions. You know, before he decided to stop showing up to them altogether. It was the only time you ever wished death upon a five-year-old.

Because now every single human and non-human employee in the entire Plex called you that in passing. Except maybe Freddy. He only ever called you one thing and it wasn't even your name.

"We're short-staffed," you supplied. At least this wasn't entirely a lie. "And the wet floor signs don't fit in there, ya know?"

Monty hummed, but it sounded more like he was baring his teeth down at you. Maybe you were right after all and he still wasn't feeling good. Maybe he was finally going to attack you like everyone already predicted should have happened months ago. 

You were just about the only employee that didn't have some form of physical proof that they worked with the band. Whether it be a scar or a broken bone that never healed properly. That anyone knew of, anyway.

You were still disoriented from the fall and the total darkness wasn't helping in the slightest. Otherwise, you would have thought to move before his jaws brushed against your throat and made you freeze in place.

For a handful of seconds, but what felt like eons, neither of you moved. You felt one of his hands flex beside your head where he was leaning against the wall and then all of a sudden you were blinded by the overhead lights of the dressing room flickering to life.

You might as well have shone a flashlight directly in your eyes.

"Ow."

There was a good reason that guests weren't allowed to enter Monty's dressing room. Or if they were, you doubted that anyone who worked here realized just how destroyed it was on the inside.

"Monty...what the-"

"Like it? Decorated myself."

When you finally blinked back your irritated tears, Monty was standing beside you with his hands on his hips. He was proud of his little mess—the stacked pizza boxes, slashed walls, and broken furniture.

You could only gape at the space around you as he retreated back to his green leather sofa. It was the only thing in the room that hadn't been shattered, torn apart, or flipped over and it groaned under his ten-ton weight.

"Montgomery Gator!" you shrieked. You were the one person who could get within a ten-foot radius of him without triggering one of his rockstar meltdowns. You were the one person who could be inside of this room without leaving with some external injury. And you were absolutely the one they would send to clean this all up first thing tomorrow morning. "Corporate is going to eat you alive!"

"Let 'em try. They know what I can do," he said, looking up from his bass to flash you his steely razor-sharp teeth—freshly polished by yours truly. Two different medics had to be in the room while you did it (per company policy) and nearly everyone you worked with expected you to come out of it exactly like the last guy had...with a missing finger.

You stepped over a pile of broken glass toward the vanity, nearly gagging at the slice of what must've been a week-old pizza sitting right on top of it. "So what was that all about?" You asked as casually as possible, flicking the pizza slice off of the table and into the trash. "Your little display earlier, I mean."

Monty stopped tuning his bass but didn't look up to meet your eye. "Fucking kids are getting on my nerves."

"What? But they love you," you pouted.

"Oh yeah. Really feeling the love when a dozen toddlers are stepping on my tail all goddamn day."

"Monty—"

"—And would it kill those sticky little fuckers to—!" he halted himself mid-rant and discarded his bass behind him. He was quite literally fuming; chest rising and falling as he worked himself down from what could have easily been today's Alligator Attack part 2.

Rolling his shoulders, Monty relaxed into the sofa with one hand on his thigh. The other was lounging around the back of the couch. "C'mere."

Monty beckoned you closer with the curl of his clawed finger. Hot, perfumed smoke spun from his nostrils like a broken fog machine, making him look more like a dragon than an alligator. Only once you were standing directly in front of him did he lean forward over his knees and offer you his right hand.

At first, you were confused, but then you turned his hand over and saw that the claw of his middle finger had snapped off, leaving behind a jagged black shard. "Ouchie," you sympathized. 

Question answered: they can actually feel. Weird.

Monty looked away from you, feigning discomfort. But he didn't try to retract his massive hand from your grip. "Can't play bass without these bad boys," he grumbled.

"I can put a work order in first thing tomorrow morning."

He rolled his eyes and looked back at you with an unimpressed sneer. "Is that it?"

Your eyes narrowed. "What else do you want me to—" but you didn't even have to finish your own sentence before an idea struck you.

It took both of your arms and most of your energy to lift his hand to your face level. Without an ounce of hesitation, you pressed a quick kiss to his knuckle right at the base of his injured finger. Monty immediately stopped breathing. Or whatever it was he did that simulated breathing.

"There, I kissed it better. Now you can kindly stop whining."

Monty leaned over his knees without daring to break eye contact, careful not to spook you away and break the physical tie that ran between you; his hand in your own. It would be a couple of hours before you realized that it was the first time you touched him willingly. Not because you had to perform maintenance or because someone else blackmailed you into working with him on their behalf.

You were scared of him. He knew that. Everyone was. But you still reached out and touched him.

Using his free hand, he flipped up his red-tinted sunglasses to take a long hard look at you.

"You're a good girl, bunny. What the hell you doing in a place like this?"

The question went right over your head and you smiled confusedly with your eyebrows furrowed. "A place like this? What do you mean?"

Just as soon as you gathered the courage to ask, he drew his hand back and you instinctively jumped back half an inch.

This Montgomery, the one who let toddlers use him as a jungle gym, was the exact same one you've seen take out three different security guards at once after a concert. You didn't think he would ever hurt you on purpose, but you weren't stupid.

"Nothin," he mumbled, readjusting his weight over the entire sofa and trying desperately to appear collected. "Forget I said anything."

And just like that, his glasses fell back down over his eyes and that milky gray smoke began pouring out of his nose again. Conversation over.

One of the ears attached to your headset ticked and you reached up to feel them. Sometimes you nearly forgot you were wearing them at all. Freddy's voice caught your ear, just as chipper as always.

"Little Helper, is something wrong?"

"Crap. I gotta go."

"Well by all means," Monty gestured to the open vent, crossing his arms smugly. The opening was far above your head and it would be both embarrassing and time-consuming to even consider crawling up there on your own. "Hm? Does Roller-Bunny have something she needs to ask me?"

You bit the inside of your cheek. You would never hear the end of this. "Can you help? Please?"

Monty lifted himself off the couch with an audible strain before making his way over to you, a deep chuckle rumbling in his throat. "Only because you asked so nicely, baby."

Not even a full second later, you were gasping as Monty's head slotted between your legs and he hoisted you up onto his shoulders, his signature strong grip holding either of your thighs in place so that you didn't fall.

"There you go," he grunted, carefully lowering you into the chute.

You shimmied into that vent like your life depended on it, eager not to let Monty see your face again in fear he would notice how absolutely flushed you were. You mumbled a quick thank you and goodbye before resuming your crawl deeper into the network of metal passages.

You weren't even four yards in when you heard a low whistle echo off of the chamber walls around you.

"I hate seeing you leave but I love watching you go!"

"GROW UP, MONTGOMERY."

You buried your head into your shoulder with embarrassment, listening to his cackles long after you turned the corner and found yourself in front of a new grate.

The loud whine of a guitar told you that this was Chica's room before you even took your first look between the bars. At first, you didn't want to disturb her, but the thought of getting lost in there was making you claustrophobic to the max.

Awkwardly, you took your fist and knocked it against the grate as if it were a front door. Chica halted her guitar-playing and looked around for the source of the noise before her attention landed on the vent right above where she was standing.

"Chica! It's (Y/N)!"

Recognition melted over her cartoonish features and she clapped excitedly. "(Y/N)! Hi!"

"Hi! Don't mean to bother you but I really need help."

"Don't be silly, (Y/N). I already found my lucky scrunchie," she laughed, holding her fist in the air to show off that she had in fact found her lucky pink satin scrunchie. "Besides, why would it be up there?"

"That's...not why I'm up here," you shook your head despite the fact that she couldn't see you. "Doesn't matter. I just need to know if I go right or left from here."

Chica carefully sat down her star-shaped guitar and held up both hands, making the L shape with her index and thumb. "Hmm...left. No, right. No! It's definitely left."

You were doomed.

She smiled up at you hopefully and you bit back an exasperated sigh. "...Thank you."

"No problem!" She exclaimed, offering you one last wave before returning to her instrument. You'd barely turned away from the grate when she resumed playing so loudly that it shook the surface you were crawling on. 

(A/N: I only proofread this once. Majorly unedited. Hope you like! If you see any spelling or grammar errors I would appreciate a comment! I have no idea why this book is blowing up. You guys scare me. I had another joke to make but I forgot. Can we leave some funny glamrock freddy comments? those crack me up).