Archive of Our Own

Dispatch's voice was curt yet commanding as he leaned forward to feed it into the microphone. It made Arnold feel that usual anticipation, the flutter in his chest, the underlying heat of frustration. Of something else.

"Dispatch here, come in," an expectant pause, met with silence. "Pick up, pick up, pick up. Let's not do this again." The impatience came with no real irritation; he was in a good mood today.

Arnold, on the other hand, was almost as tired as usual. He had cashed in three of his five acquired vacation days. Last shift just wrapped up, he was hesitantly looking forward to the break. Dispatch had promised he wouldn't be interrupted, called in for 'one last shift' that would inevitably stretch into two, three, four more. God, the thought only kicked up the chronic ache of his body and his current position did nothing to relieve any of it. Even still, he tried to stay as still as possible as they sat in silence together.

Dispatch chimed in again, "Come on, the suspense is killing me here." No response. Dispatch sighed, tapped around on something, simply said, "I know you're in there, the van's sensors tell me these things. Pick up."

Then came some shuffling. The driver's seat being pulled back up, a pizza box being shoved away.

"Yep, I'm here." His voice was thick with sleep, throat a little dry from only having Fazbear-produced soda to drink.

"Great to hear it," Dispatch's artificial smile sweetened his words, "sleeping on the job again, Gary?" And Arnold imagined that syrupy tone coming out of production lines alongside the soda.

The technician on the other end sniffed, the sound almost tinny as it filtered through the speakers to Arnold and Dispatch. Dispatch's office was illuminated by gentle sunbeams filtering through the blinds behind him; he was working the morning shift for once. The space almost looked inviting in this light; the leather sofa by the door, the Fazbear memorabilia that had racked up over years of staff parties. The image was only broken by the stacks of reports and files in the room, which upon closer inspection would uncover the disgusting work hours he put the techs through for Fazbear, the revealing background details on almost every one.

Yet none of this mattered to Arnold, who from under the desk could only see Dispatch's dark stay-pressed trousers and the folds of his burnt orange sweater vest. He had crossed his legs to the side, polished tip of his oxford resting against the wood and not touching Arnold in any capacity. He was starting to cramp up, caught between the desire to reach forward and support himself against Dispatch and the satisfaction of obeying the order to stay still. His mind was fully occupied either way. And while that was true, none of the pain really mattered to him.

Gary replied again, more direct and informal than Arnold could ever be, "What do you want now, man? I'm on break." He was one of the younger technicians, grew up on the west coast. It was just him and his grandma and Arnold remembered hearing that her memory was failing.

Dispatch laughed to cover the sound of him scooting his chair in, properly caging Arnold between his legs. "Not on our time. Listen, we have an opportunity here that could get you a raise," the muffling effect of the desk's mahogany nearly made Arnold feel like he was hearing Dispatch through the PTT, like he was the one in the van, fresh from a nap on company time and still dead tired.

But Dispatch was speaking to Gary.

"Really? Far out, man," his voice gave away his renewed, gullible enthusiasm.

"Absolutely," a pause to allow the monkey's paw to curl, "but you'll have to take up a shift at the diner— pretty long job— but nothing a Fazbear technician can't handle."

"No problem, dude! Er, wait, when do I start?" Gary was still too new at Fazbear's for his own good.

"Now, of course!" Arnold grimaced in sympathy, the guy had probably been working all night. But just then he was distracted by Dispatch's hand reaching down, angled towards him in waiting. Slightly unsure, Arnold met it with his own, watched it be placed on Dispatch's thigh and held there.

Dispatch seemed content to just hold hands like that, thumb stroking idly over Arnold's knuckles. Dispatch's fingers, hands, were soft and always warm whenever they dragged across any bruised and battered part of Arnold's body. The motion soothed him, the tenderness of it all unexpected and uncommon in whatever their relationship could be called.

It all made Gary's voice seem distant as he sputtered out complaints and excuses, nervous laughter peppering his words, incredulous. "You can't spring stuff on me like this! I haven't been home for hours, my granny's being admitted today," Arnold felt his hand being squeezed marginally tighter.

Yet Dispatch's voice revealed no discomfort. "Great to see you so committed to family! We here at Fazbear's would love it if you thought of us as a family, too. Now take that can-do attitude right into the next twenty hours or so!"

Dispatch pulled his hand away, cutting the line and reclining into his chair. Arnold didn't need the guiding fingers in his hair or the muttered, "Come here, pup," to know what to do. He leaned forward, putting more weight on his knees as he reached for the thick leather of Dispatch's belt. His grip on Dispatch's cock was loose as he pulled him out of his pants, gently pumping up and down, stimulating the growing erection.

He looked up at the man above in expectation. This was only his second or third time doing this for Dispatch. He aimed to please. Dispatch unhurriedly combed through his hair, fingernails slightly scratching his scalp. "You've been so good for me all week," his voice was less commercial, lower in pitch and just for Arnold. "Are you gonna be good for me some more?"

Arnold began to nod before hastily correcting himself at the firm tug of his hair. "Yes," this dynamic of theirs always made him breathless.

"Good." Dispatch seemed determined to drag this out, keep him on edge, "So, break tomorrow. You looking forward to some free time?"

"Yes," Arnold's eye's flicked down to his hand, still wrapped around Dispatch's cock and moving slowly.

Dispatch tsked; Arnold knew he didn't like the one-word answers but they were all he could offer when he got this… focused.

"Really? And what are you going to spend your time on?"

Arnold chuckled faintly, "Probably going to sleep through the entire 72 hours."

"You should really think about giving that rickety old mattress of yours a rest."

"Where else would I sleep," he mumbled absentmindedly. Arnold's hand was getting slick from Dispatch's leaking tip, he needed to be told he could start already.

"You could come to mine," Arnold paused. The notion seemed a step outside the bounds of this new, uncertain thing they had going on. "We don't have to do any of this, of course. You could just… rest," Dispatch concluded, tone softer than before, almost vulnerable.

Arnold hesitated, "Would that be okay?"

"Absolutely," Dispatch smirked, typical role returning, "I'd love to have you curled up at the foot of my bed. Or chained to its leg, I don't know. I've never had a dog before, see."

The imagery made Arnold blush. He pressed his lips together and ducked his head down.

"Nothing to say to that, Arnie? Because I think you'd love it," he suddenly tugged Arnold forward by his hair, smearing slick across Arnold's closed mouth as he let his cock rest against it. "Now open up."

Arnold took the first guided thrust in stride, becoming pliant as Dispatch moved his head down to meet his canted hips, setting their rhythm. Dispatch's fist eventually left his hair, fingers drumming against the wood of the desk as Arnold eagerly continued the pace that was set for him.

"Good boy," he sighed, and Arnold was affirmed just as much by his affected tone as he was by the words.

Arnold kept sucking him, increasing the speed and taking him deeper the more praise he received. He used his tongue more, suctioning it against the shaft and swirling it around the head, spurred on by the sounds that slipped past the limits of Dispatch's self control. This was exactly what he wanted, what this relationship gave him. He zeroed in on the task at hand because it came with the additional pleasure of forgetting the outside world; forgetting the demands of his job, the old bruise on his knee he was currently pressing on, his single bed that was empty, always empty, the sole source of his intimacy being another man, his burning attraction to said man. Arnold forgot it all, giving and receiving more, more more—

A harsh series of beeping sounds from the desk above startled them both. Arnold blinked open his eyes— when did they close?— pulling away from Dispatch as he reached for the fax machine (obnoxiously labeled 'faz-machine') that took up a large amount of his desk space.

A few moments passed as Dispatch went over whatever it was he received. Arnold's lips buzzed as he brought his tongue out to meet them, Dispatch's taste intermingled with his own sweat. He took some steadying breaths, barely resisting the urge to touch himself. Now wasn't the time for disobedience.

A sigh above him. "I have some jobs to give out," Dispatch's voice was casual, contrasting the confidence in his sudden grip on Arnold's face, "so keep yourself occupied, mutt. And don't rush it."

Cock pricking in interest, Arnold did as he was told, giving himself feather touches through his pants. He needed to pace himself, couldn't risk coming without permission. Dispatch had already reached out to the technician, voice and volume betraying nothing of the situation they were just in.

It was easy to filter out the voice of the technician on the other end. Easier still, to break down Dispatch's sentences, turn them into meaningless sounds, made only to please the ear. Arnold dug his own nails into his thigh to stop whatever sound was threatening to leave him, thrusting as silently as possible into his own palm. Dispatch laughed then, the silvery chuckle stirring something warm in Arnold's abdomen. Arnold bit his lip as an enthusiastic, "Great job!" cut through the haze. Mildly surprised by the spark of jealousy the words caused, he otherwise had no trouble imagining they were directed at him, squeezing his thigh to curb the sudden spike of arousal.

After a few moments, he slowly brought the pressure back, alternating between palming himself and running the tips of his fingers along his length. Dispatch above him continued the conversation, unbothered by anything Arnold was doing to himself. Like this, the space under the desk gave him a certain privacy he could find nowhere else. For once, the shame that liked to unfurl from his core and undercut his pleasure was gone. He could divorce his actions here— being with Dispatch, being Dispatch's dog— from their larger context, care much less about what it said about him that he enjoyed them.

Arnold slipped back into the present moment; whoever was on the line with Dispatch was apparently an amazing employee.

"…And keep making us proud. Dispatch out." Dispatch almost sounded genuine, lingering on each syllable in an almost purr, almost like he was talking to Arnold. And maybe he was, and that thought was dizzying, going straight to Arnold's groin. His hand absentmindedly slipped inside his already unbuttoned pants, now only barred from his cock by his underwear. The effect was immediate regardless, the damp fabric conducting the warmth of his fingers as he traced his length down into his pant leg and up again. He whined quietly, the fantasy that Dispatch was talking to him, that every word of congratulation, of admiration was his was quickly proving too much. He screwed his eyes shut, groaning weakly against the back of his hand as he willed his own touch away from his crotch.

Arnold struggled to breathe through it all silently, trying not to linger on the implications of him almost coming in his pants at the tiniest bit of stolen praise. He unconsciously leaned his head against Dispatch's leg, hand resting on his pristinely polished shoe as he came down from the edge he was teetering on. Belatedly realising Dispatch had finished the conversation.

"Did you have fun?" Dispatch asked, a melodic lilt to the words.

"Yes," Arnold hardly recognised the worn out sound of his own voice.

"Good. Now take a little break. You've earned it," at that Arnold sat against the back of the desk. He wasn't truly comfortable, never would be under there, but that was part of the point. It kept him grounded.

He rolled his shoulders, listening as Dispatch put the mic on again. A gruff, older voice came into the office shortly thereafter. It didn't take much for Arnold to place it as belonging to a tech he was personally familiar with after more than a few shared shifts and after hour conversations.

"Don, here. Go ahead," Don's voice had an earnest, kindly quality to it, despite its husk and the years he'd spent working blue collar jobs with low pay and lower recognition.

"Don, always lovely to hear from you," Dispatch replied, words as impersonal as possible, just as Fazbear required.

"I can say the same to you, Dispatch," Don sounded as unhurried as always, "old peg leg's been acting up, you know. Probably on account of the shifts we work, but they pays the bills and it's some kind of honest work. An old fella like me can't complain much." Arnold traced shapes on the floor, remembering Don's 'peg leg'; the cheap prosthetic Fazbear's insurance had dragged their feet paying for, those odd few months Don came to work with an old crutch and a table leg as support. He remembered how Don would take it off during their rare breaks, how the pale fake foot stuck out against his dark skin. "How are you doing, Dispatch?"

"Great to hear that," Dispatch glossed over the question, that level of rapport was a step too far. "Listen, we have a couple shifts for you, mostly just maintenance, nothing crazy."

Don barked a laugh, "Try doing some maintenance with a metal rod where your shin should be," his jokes were told more for himself than anyone else.

Dispatch chuckled along, listless. "Fantastic," he cleared his throat, slipping back into his usual tone, "so how about those shifts? We're a little short on active staff at the moment."

Don hummed on the other end, pensive. Like every other tech, Arnold knew he didn't like this job, knew he was well aware of his own exploitation. Persisted regardless, because this was the difference between survival and starvation. "Sure," he finally agreed, "I'm willing to pick up a few shifts if'n it means sparing kids like Arnold or Gary or Ritchie the hassle."

That caused a pang of guilt to dance through his chest. The shifts he'd miss on break had to go somewhere. Would Dispatch even be talking to Don if not for him? He felt the film of relaxation melt away, the curtain start to peel back on this whole arrangement.

"Good on you, Don," if Arnold didn't know better he'd think Dispatch was affected too, "always the team player. I'll reach you again with the details, but for now, have some time off and head on home." Then silence as the feed was cut off.

The air between them was growing uncomfortable. Arnold tried desperately to hold on to the vestiges of his earlier role, tried to avoid sinking back into their reality. Dispatch didn't help, pushing his chair back and attempting to meet Arnold's gaze, put them on some kind of equal ground.

"You okay to continue?" He asked, entirely losing his Dispatch voice, instead using his after voice. After work, after sex. It was an attempt to soothe, otherwise effective, today it fell flat. Today Arnold did not want softness, did not want the fantasy to break so soon.

Arnold sighed, "Yeah, I'm fine," rubbing his face. He felt exposed like this.

But he didn't move an inch. "Are you sure? We can take a break."

"I'm fine. Get back over here," Arnold sounded sharper than he meant to. "Please."

He relented, rolling his chair back to where it should be, letting Arnold pull him in by the ankles. Arnold shut his eyes, tried to get back into the swing of things as fingers carded through his hair. His touch was gentle at first, working apart tangles as he came across them, before Dispatch applied more pressure, scratching his scalp as each stroke tipped his head back.

"Now," Dispatch's voice was firmly authoritative, "what would you like me to do next, boy?"

"Fuck my face," Arnold gasped, heated at his own request. "Please."

"I don't know about that," Dispatch teased, gently tracing over Arnold's lip. "Aren't you here to please me? Why should I put all that work in? Open your mouth and service me yourself, pet."

Arnold moaned as he obeyed, tongue coming out to taste the salty skin of Dispatch's cock, giving it kitten licks and the occasional suck around the tip as he pumped him back to hardness. He slipped Dispatch into his mouth, pausing slightly at the sensation of him becoming fully erect. He bobbed his head shallowly, using his hands more. Arnold twisted his wrist as he brought his hand down the shaft, reaching down to fondle his balls, listening intently to each hitch of breath from Dispatch, every cut-off gasp.

Arnold stopped then, taking away his hands and holding them behind his back as he lowered his head once more. This was harder with no hands, but the groan it elicited from Dispatch as soon as he started going down on him was worth it. Arnold hollowed out his cheeks experimentally, immediately being rewarded with a gasp and sudden buck into his mouth.

"That's it, you're doing so good for me," Dispatch murmured, voice thick with arousal.

Arnold tried his best to give him some more tight sucks, knees now beginning to feel the strain of supporting his weight without arms for balance. To his relief, Dispatch's fist was back in his hair, keeping his head in place as he fucked into his mouth in earnest after all.

All the while, Dispatch uttered barely audible phrases, alternating between throwing his head back on his chair and staring down, transfixed, at Arnold. "So good, so good, fuck, Arnold," he broke off into a sigh and a series of pants.

Arnold could taste more and more precum; Dispatch had gotten like this before he came in the past. He moaned, moving his head down to meet Dispatch's thrusts, eager to taste his orgasm.

Dispatch muttered a, "Good boy," body tensing and relaxing, pleasure nearly cresting.

Before abruptly stopping his thrusts at the sound of a knock at the office door.

Dispatch and Arnold paused awkwardly as they were, listening as the knocker only grew more and more insistent. "Uh," Dispatch started, before clearing his throat, "Come in?"

Arnold froze as the door swung open and a grating voice calling Dispatch by an obnoxious nickname entered the room. He tried to pull off Dispatch's length, startled when he was kept where he was by a firm grip on his curls.

"Gene! Hey, how are you doing," Dispatch said, tone as even as ever, if not a little hasty. Under him, Arnold huffed almost too loudly. He had enough room to breathe, but trying to do so quietly would be tricky.

"Just dropping these off," Gene— Eugene said cheerfully. A plop of some papers on the desk. "Boss wants those productivity reports by the way," his volume modulating; he was clearly wandering around the office, probably looking at clutter and decorations he'd have seen before.

"Oh?" Dispatch pressed. Lungs beginning to burn from the shallow breaths he was surviving on, Arnold was split between frustration and near-delirious excitement at Eugene's presence in all this, at the notion of being caught.

"Afton's thinking of layoffs, streamlining and whatnot," A thud and the rustle of some loose paper.

"Can't say I blame him," Arnold figured he was sitting on the desk. "All these techies do is complain. 'I'm overworked!' Uh, I think we all are, buddy." Arnold managed to swallow, anxious that he may have done so too loud before Eugene was rambling on again. "'S not their fault, of course. They're all either too young or uneducated or both to really get it. But, ha, I don't need to tell you twice, huh, 'Dispatch?'"

Dispatch only chuckled darkly, "Don't need to tell me twice at all," his grip on Arnold's hair was loosening. "Tell ya what, I've got work I need to get back to, so let's finish this talk later, Gene."

Eugene chortled, "Sure, but are you working hard or hardly working?"

Dispatch's simulated laughter was loud, masking the sound of Arnold's gasp as he was finally released. "Working hard, that's the Fazbear way."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," and with that Eugene had left, having met his corporate-kiss-ass quota for the day and slamming the door behind him.

Dispatch sank into his seat with a loud groan. "God, I need a new job,"

Arnold hummed in agreement, throat like sandpaper.

"Are you alright, though, Arnold? We've never really done anything like that."

Arnold tried to talk through the scratch, "'m fine. If I wasn't I'd have used our word."

"Even with good old Gene around?" Irony laced his voice as he used the nickname.

Arnold huffed a laugh, "He's so thick you could probably convince him he said it himself."

The other man adjusted himself, redoing his belt just as he swiveled his chair to the side, giving Arnold the space to crawl out. "Maybe. Need anything?"

Arnold took a few seconds to delight in stretching, in standing at his full height. "Water, please." He watched Dispatch wordlessly get up and leave the room, headed for the only water dispenser on this floor. The office was much as he left it, now lit by the mid morning sun and maybe a tad messier thanks to the files and papers Dispatch had taken out of place. They sat on the desk, idle but official-looking, right next to Dispatch's microphone. Arnold wondered how an object could carry a presence of its own.

He was startled by Dispatch entering the room again. In one hand, he held a plain plastic cup, one of the few unbranded things Fazbear had, while in the other he held a round tin, a brush and cloth. He pushed past Arnold's questioning look as he sat back down, handing Arnold the cup and watching him drink from it.

"What're those for?" Arnold asked. He rarely saw Dispatch from above, most used to face-to-face contact thanks to their similar height. Or the view up from his knees.

Dispatch only blinked up at him, face half illuminated from the window behind his desk, eyelashes extending in shadow to fan his cheeks. "You still want this, Arnie?" His voice had dropped an octave, becoming something confidential yet suggestive. It made that usual thing flutter at Arnold's sternum.

"Yes, what's the shoe polish for?"

Dispatch tsked, "Sit down first." He watched Arnold eyes rove around the room, to the couch near the door, the chair on the other side of the desk. But Arnold knew better than that. With a slight sigh, Arnold let himself slide down the desk, landing unceremoniously on his haunches on the floor. "Amazing," Dispatch rewarded, "you always take direction so well. That's why I keep coming back to you."

Arnold shivered, subtly angling himself towards Dispatch. The desk's large built-in drawers should have shielded him well enough from view from the door.

Dispatch's foot suddenly shot out, all but stomping the ground between Arnold's spread knees. "You like my shoes, Arnie?"

"Yes…" Arnold gulped, daring to reach a hand out to encircle Dispatch's ankle, keeping him in place. "Yes, Dispatch."

"Oh, but you got them so dirty before, remember? When you were cradling my leg like a bitch in heat." Dispatch spat the last words out, drawing a whimper from Arnold.

Dispatch chuckled, diffusing the tension, the threat of punishment. "It's alright, Arnie. Because you'll clean them," he added, tossing the equipment he had brought at Arnold.

Arnold mumbled a "Yes, Dispatch," willing to participate in whatever this was but doubtful as to how enthralling shoe polishing could really be.

Without another word, Dispatch was reclining in his chair, one arm draped leisurely over his head while the other took up the arm rest. Arnold popped open the shoe polish, the smell was pungent and stung his nose as he set it aside, opting to first wipe the shoes off with the cloth. His movements were slow, unsure as he refamiliarised himself with the process, the feeling of the cloth on the smooth leather so distant from the rough skin of his work boots. He finished off the first shoe, moved to the second and repeated the circular motions, reaching for the polish and immediately starting back at the cold spritz of water on his face.

"Ah, ah," Dispatch chastised, "let's not get ahead of ourselves and forget things, hm?" He purred, handing over the small spray bottle of water. Then, with a softened tone, "I know you can do a better cleaning job than that, Arnold."

Flustered, Arnold wiped the water off his face and got to work again. It was easy to angle Dispatch's leg as he needed it, the man for once amenable to his touch. He wiped along the leather, distantly wondering what it may be like to command Dispatch in other ways. What it might feel like, to drop the cloth and run his hands up Dispatch's legs to hold him down by his hips, batting interfering hands away to kiss him, just kiss him for a while. Arnold turned his heated gaze to his busy hands in front of him. No. He could do all that some other time.

Finally reaching for the shoe polish, Arnold dipped a dry end of the cloth inside and applied a thin layer. He started with the tip of the shoe, shining it anew. Then came the buffing, which he gently lifted Dispatch's foot off the ground to do with no sentiment from the other man. Arnold grabbed the spray bottle again, moving onto the other shoe. By this point he had fallen into the rhythm of things, turning his brain off much like he did during dull shifts.

Arnold finished the job, for a moment sitting idly as the punch of the shoe polish made itself comfortable in the space of his sinuses. Dispatch sat just as idly, apparently content to lightly tap his foot against the hardwood to the beat of an unheard song. "Uh," Arnold started—

Then silenced by a sparkling oxford suddenly pressing against his sternum, keeping his chin in place when he tried to peer down at it. "I think they need a final shine," Dispatch purred.

Arnold nodded in understanding as Dispatch withdrew. Taking up the cloth again, he was met with Dispatch's foot planted on the ground, unmovable. Cheeks warmed, Arnold scooted back until he could lean down, shadow dimming the perfect reflection of light off the tip of the shoe. He blew warm air onto the shoe, neck straining to keep still as Dispatch gently lowered his other leg onto his shoulder, keeping him there. The position was humiliating. In many ways a perfect reflection of their relationship; Dispatch ordering him to do the most menial, demeaning task, and him nearly breaking his spine to do so. It was perfect.

"Good job, Arnie," Dispatch congratulated when he was done, both legs now comfortably crossed and resting on one of Arnold's shoulders. Arnold could only hum in response. Dispatch's weight against his shoulder was comfortably solid. "Speaking of jobs," Dispatch added in afterthought, "I have to get back to mine."

He then rooted around the clutter on his desk, retrieving an eggshell white file Arnold knew held the details to a gruesomely long shift inside. Dispatch flipped through the pages, eyes roving over their contents as the subtle, contented look on his face ominously faded away.

"Well, let's dial up our next victim," he smirked, humourlessly. Arnold watched from below before being struck with an idea, gently maneuvering himself away from Dispatch and back under the desk while the other man began speaking to the next technician.

"Ed, Eddie," Dispatch's voice rang out, "how are you?"

This new voice gave a brief hum of deliberation. "Hm, no new complaints on my end. Nothing you guys will listen to, at least."

Arnold paid him no mind, instead experimentally running a hand up and down Dispatch's thigh, feeling the muscle jump under his palm. "A-ah, good to hear," Dispatch was almost perceptibly caught off guard. But Arnold only focused on his belt, tugging it open once more. Dispatch's legs spread obviously, invitingly in response and Arnold took that as permission to slot himself between them again. He felt the warmth radiating off Dispatch, snaking his arms around his waist and turning his nose into the man's sweater, breathing him in. Like this the timbre of his voice was evident as he rambled on to the technician, undeniably masculine. That still made Arnold's head spin, filled him with a burst of nervous energy that was at times encompassing and at times as small as a pinprick. Dispatch laughed at something the tech said, a real laugh that boomed from his stomach and shook his torso slightly. It for some reason brought Arnold back to the MCM, that distant nightmare, although he never heard Dispatch laugh like that while in there. Arnold pulled away.

"Anyway," Dispatch said, tone betraying nothing as Arnold reached for his crotch, "we have a job for you, a chance for a raise, maybe."

"Wouldn't be talking to you if you didn't," Eddie replied, voice a joyless monotone.

"Exactly." Dispatch let his fist fall heavily onto the armrest just as Arnold took him down to the hilt, setting as unrelenting a pace as he could manage. "Now, it won't be anything too out of left field; you'll be sent out there with a few other of our guys and everything," Dispatch paused, sighed as he tightened his legs around Arnold's form. "Really it's just a collection mission."

Eddie's response, whatever it was, was lost on Arnold. The slick sounds of his mouth on Dispatch's cock were beginning to fill the small space underneath the desk, joined by the sporadic whimper from Arnold as he lost all inhibition, dutifully focused on his self-assigned task.

Dispatch was clearly sensitive from all they had done. Arnold could feel it every time he ran his tongue along the hot shaft, pulled off slightly to tease the tip. Dispatch was barely keeping it together. It was clear from his soft pants between speaking, the way his shoe dragged restlessly across the ground every time Arnold did something right, every time he was good for him.

"Perfect," Dispatch's voice came louder when he replied, but was otherwise unaffected by Arnold's ministrations. "though, the location is a tad far from where you are now— but nothing a Fazbear tech can't handle! Shouldn't be more than a half day's journey if you keep good timing."

"Yeah, sound's great," Eddie deadpanned, "how long am I looking at for being on the job?"

And at that Dispatch stuttered out the beginning of a reply, cutting himself off with a strained, "Heh, give me a second, Ed," before pushing his mic away and slumping forward onto the desk. The curtain dropped. Suddenly his breath came out ragged, peppered with slight groans and indiscernible mutters along the lines of, "Keep going, Arnold—" reaching a fever pitch as Dispatch's hips gave a jolt and Arnold felt his mouth fill with his come.

Arnold obediently swallowed the seed, cataloguing the salty taste as belonging to Dispatch. Like this— deep in his throat and panting above him— he was all encompassing. Down below, Arnold reached his own climax, not physically, but just as euphorically as he let the feeling of a job well done, of being good for someone, wash over him.

They sat together for a moment, Arnold content to stay like that forever before Dispatch inconsiderately returned to the task at hand. Taking up the microphone again and reclining into a more relaxed stance, Dispatch reached out to Eddie with the slightest bit more cheer.

"Eddie, talk to me, buddy." Not waiting for a response, "We'll be expecting you to retrieve multiple of our assets from this location. So that means multiple trips to-and-fro… so strap in for a minuscule twenty-odd hours of work!"

"Fuck off."

"I, uh, didn't quite catch that, Ed."

Eddie laughed superficially. "These drivers are crazy, man. Roads are insane nowadays."

Dispatch huffed back, amused. "Amazing. Now, I'm sure given you're standing as a technician and recent work gossip, this location isn't brand new to you. Eddie, I'm going to need you to head over to Murray's Costume Manor." Arnold scrubbed at his face, stretched his leg out. Buried down the automatic spike of anxiety he felt at hearing that name.

It hadn't taken long after he returned with the mimic curled up in the back of his van for rumours to spread about his time in the Manor. But that wasn't where Eddie had heard about the MCM. The first thing Arnold did after doing nothing but sleeping and eating for several days was try to identify the corpses he encountered, slaughtered by the mimic, with the help of the other technicians. Eddie, alongside several other techs, some security guards and even the receptionist, had attended the informal memorial Arnold had held for them. He could still recite their ID numbers off head. No, Eddie hadn't heard about the MCM through 'recent work gossip' at all.

Eddie's voice filtered through his thoughts, "Yeah. Sure." He sighed. "Knowing Fazbear's track record, is there even a point in asking whether I'll make it out alive?"

Dispatch suddenly turned away in his seat, putting distance between him and Arnold. "We here at Fazbear's would never breach the safety of a valued employee."

"So I'm screwed."

Dispatch chuckled. Hollowly. "Alright. You're mainly after a hi-tech security system the guys down there were working on for us. Should be located in the lower levels of the facility, I'll direct you. You're looking for a big box with F10-N4, M.X.E.S or even M1 plastered on it, we're not entirely sure." Dispatch's voice seemed to get farther and farther away as he spoke, turning into a distant whisper as Arnold's ears filled with the rush of blood instead.

Arnold knew for certain that the machine he was talking about was titled F10-N4, did not have try hard at all to remember the blocky letters printed onto a metallic casing, the incomprehensible buttons and flashing lights, the ominous face displayed on the monitors and, above all, the crushing helplessness and solitude experienced in that one moment where he believed that robot was Dispatch. That that machine, somehow capable of creating a haunting simulacrum of Dispatch's voice, could ever really be the only man, the only human Arnold spent his time speaking to— that even in that Fazbear had cheated him, exploited him— was insurmountable.

Arnold's throat was constricting. For some reason, the deepest, most core part of him was screaming against the idea of anyone going back to Murray's. Even as logic told him the Mimic was no longer there, that the machine downstairs, in a twisted, abandoned version of a Freddy's restaurant had long since powered down. The adrenaline came against his will. The dread of first coming face-to-face with that thing— both of those things really, came against his will.

He was suddenly frozen in place. The burnished wood of the desk around him was gone. Replaced by the dark metal of a man-sized locker, where from the corner of his eye maggots crept along the walls, waiting in hunger for the inevitable. The only light came in from the bars roughly at his eye level and it smelled of dust, and nearby, a brutalised corpse. Outside, the endless whirring of mechanical joints powered by dark forces and constantly getting closer, closer. The life he had before, the life he was just living, comfortable with Dispatch, seemed like a dream. Seemed foolish, the concoction of a mind at once delirious with sleep and sharp with fear.

And then.

And then the Mimic, his eternal pursuer. Appeared right outside the locker he had hidden in. Stalking, emitting a low, distorted sound like an attempt at a growl. And then looking at him. Amber eyes glowing, faintly but glowing, through dead mascot eyes. And then looking at him through the bars of the cage. Through the bars of the locker. The adrenaline came against his will. But it had nowhere to go. He had nowhere left to go. He was delirious with fear, his mind sharpened by sleep. And then it turned away. Outside, the endless whirring of mechanical joints. Again. Arnold's throat was constricting.

He screamed their word.

Arnold came to. Blinked away sleep— no, blinked away the panic he had just felt. The first thing he registered was the sharp scent of Dispatch's cologne, then his touch, then his voice. God, that voice, human and so, so warm.

"Arnold," his voice was soft, concerned. Arnold looked around, the office still looked the same, it was still mid-morning. "Are you alright? What happened just now?"

"I…" he was still shaken and he didn't know how to put this. He rubbed his face, exhaled. "It happened again."

"What?" Dispatch asked, instantaneous but quiet, quieter than Arnold had ever heard him.

"These," he paused, searching, "…episodes. I don't know. I've been having them since a little after MCM." Arnold felt Dispatch's grip tighten on his shoulder. Hazarding a glance at him, he was struck by the clear worry that met his gaze, the profound care found in the furrow of his brow.

It felt unnatural to have Dispatch look at him like that, care for him like that. It almost reminded him of his ex-wife, of the expression she wore religiously after he first lost his job. It was unsettling.

Arnold forced a smile, tried to lighten the mood, "Luckily it hasn't happened on the road. I don't think the higher-ups will accept 'uncontrollable flashbacks to being hunted down by a homicidal robot' as an insurance appeal." But Dispatch did not smile back, expression even darkening to Arnold's chagrin.

After a few beats, Dispatch slowly reasoned out, "This was caused by my conversation with Eddie."

Arnold sat up with new determination, "Yes. Dispatch, you can't let him go back there."

Dispatch sighed heavily, finally releasing Arnold as he held his hands together. "Arnold, you know these things come from above. I have no say."

"Yes, but," Arnold floundered, "surely you could— we could say something together. We both know people died in there!"

"And get fired?"

Arnold sputtered, incredulous, "Yes! Yes, if that could stop people from getting hurt or worse-"

"Ok, we get fired and then what?" Dispatch cut in, "You don't want to get fired by these people, it's not just losing your job, it's losing your life. People have been blacklisted, falsely accused and sued for much less."

Arnold paused, looking into Dispatch's cold, dark eyes and suddenly remembering who he was talking to. Who Dispatch ultimately was. Momentarily, an old, worn rage built up inside him and he prepared to launch into an argument with the other man, but there was no point. He was exhausted.

So instead, the moment passed in silence between the two. Arnold still sat facing Dispatch, staring at his profile as he looked down at his joint hands resting in his lap in contemplation. Arnold partly mirrored the pose, looking down at nothing for a while before letting himself sink down to a slouch. He sat like that, beside Dispatch, before letting himself sway towards the man, resting his head on his shoulder.

"I'm tired," Arnold said.

Dispatch stayed silent, slightly tensed from Arnold resting against him. At first, Arnold believed he hadn't heard him, and that was okay. It wouldn't be the first time. But then:

"Me too." And Dispatch lowered his head, leaning it against Arnold's on his shoulder.