Somebody with Vincent's common sense should have known that maybe it wasn't the best idea to let a kid stay in a vermin-infested room for longer than a minute-no wait, make that ever-but he didn't even have time to kick her out before he collapsed onto the couch and lost consciousness to a broken oblivion. He was so tired that he didn't even have a proper dream-just darkness that shifted and distorted slightly every now and again, silence as far as the ears could hear, floating in a welcome abyss for what seemed like a temporary eternity.

When he woke up, it was day, and he lay on the couch staring at a tilted cabinet. Can't afford to fix that, either, he thought, forcing himself to sit up. He glanced around, fuzzily looking at his apartment. Can't fix that, can't fix that-definitely can't fix that. Would fix that if I had the tools. He glared pointedly at the fridge before sighing.

"Not like I have the time, anyways."

Vincent looked down at himself, noting his slightly-faded Freddy uniform still intact, and stood up, trying to rub the sleep from his eyes and not really succeeding. His eyes were burning. It was hard to keep them open, and when he tried, his vision grew fuzzy and he had to rub his eyes with his hand to get them to water up. He lost his footing and stumbled, hitting the ground hard, just laying on his side staring into the distance for a moment.

Could he just lay here? Could he just stay and not have to work? Could he just disappear, and would anyone notice?

Probably not.

He didn't know which question he just answered, but either way, with a defeated sigh, he conceded-he had to go to work, after all, and get more soup. His muscles ached as he pushed himself back to his feet and went into the kitchen. There was no coffee, there was no fridge or healthy breakfast. The only thing that really worked in there was a toaster, and that was it. How could anyone let people live in places like this? Vincent walked over to the cabinet and opened it, pulling out a bag about half-empty except for slices of raw toast.

Bread, other people called it.

He opened it and popped a few in the toaster, reaching back into the cabinet and taking out a canister of Nutella that was practically weightless. It hurt his fingers to open them, but he managed; he spread the Nutella on the toast and walked outside, already half-finished with his first bit, the rest on a paper plate that he'd eat on the way to work. No time to wash up, he knew he overslept because of how warm it was outside.

He picked up a white sheet of paper from the windshield of the car and stuffed it in his pocket, promising himself that he'd read it when he got to work and things went back into a schedule. It was almost 9:30, he guessed, almost time to start work. If he hurried and didn't delay, he could get there in fifteen minutes, if traffic was good.

Or if his car would fucking work today.

Grumbling lowly, he hit his hand on the steering wheel, stepping out of the car and opening the hood. Hot smoke shot up at him and drifted up in thick, black plumes, poisoning the air for all it was worth. He'd have to walk to work today.

Well, he supposed it was a matter of time. After having had the loyal steed for so long, it was time it rested quietly.

Vincent closed the door and locked it, stuffing the keys into his pocket as he started down the sidewalk. He could always be optimistic and think: I'll fix it when I can afford it. But he knew that the likelihood of his situation getting any better was minuscule. Not even-it existed in a different dimension. Best not to get his hopes up or he'd end up in disappointment.

Muscles aching, Vincent glanced over at the buildings on the other side of the street, a deep sigh leaving his mouth. It'd been a good car, though-ever since he earned it for being the best student in his collage class. He was so happy that he actually took it for a joyride and ended up running out of gas before he could get back 'home'-he ended up being helped by some friendly pedestrians, who saw his sorry state and opted to help him. They directed him to a nearby gas station and bought the gas for him, and Vincent was practically in tears, apologizing and saying how he didn't deserve it. They say it only happens in movies, that it's only stories that you hear by word of mouth or on paper, but the gratitude was real.

It felt like forever before he got to the restaurant, and he expected to first see Scottish but found Winston instead. He frowned at him, and Winston smiled back. A dark gleam in his eye was enough to disclose his displeasure.

"You're late, Vincent." A certain lilt in Winston's voice brought his nerves on high alert; the deadly calm before the storm, they called it.

"Sorry, my car broke down." Brutal honesty was the best policy; that was what his teachers always told him anyway, when he used to steal food from the canteen and school supplies from other students' bags.

"Mmm." His grin curved slightly, almost a grimace. He didn't believe him.

Vincent stepped around him in order to step inside. Winston let him enter, closing the glass door behind them. Vincent tried to ignore him.

"Don't do that again, Vincent," Winston said quietly. He turned sharply to look at him, almost instinctively. The older man smiled sweetly at him, though the predatory glint in his eye still remained. "Scotty and I were getting so worried about you."

Winston had that about him-same tone of voice, same words people would use every day, and it'd call someone as if their mothers were calling their name. In the case of Vincent, it brought back bad memories he didn't want to remember but always remembered anyway. A shudder involuntarily raced down his spine, and he clutched his arm tightly. "...W-Won't."

What did he say? He didn't remember saying anything before that.

His smile brightened, and the veil over his eyes seemed to lift. "Good! Scotty's in the office, of course," he said, beginning to yammer on happily. Vincent suppressed another shake, squeezing his arm slightly as he tried to show respect to Winston but he found that he just couldn't focus on it today. His body was aching all over and he was starting to feel dizzy, a chronic sort of dizziness that wasn't helped by his vague struggle to breathe. "He'll be glad to see you, dove."

Vincent nodded, working his way through the small throng of adults attempting to make reservations. Most let him through. The ones who spoke to him mainly attempted to get him to get in a good word for them, and he generally agreed despite telling himself that he'd likely forget by the time he got to the office. Anyways, it wasn't like they couldn't get reservations in the first place-this wasn't an adoption center, after all.

He did forget when he got into the office, and when he saw Scottish, he had his head rested on his arm, looking entirely snug and warm. At ease, soldier, Vincent thought, watching for a moment as his pen lazily scribbled on some papers, his eyes half-lidded and drowsy. He wished he could be like that.

"Hey, Scott."

Scott sat upright a little jerkily, glasses turning askew; he adjusted them, narrowing his eyes slightly. "...Vincent? Jesus, don't scare me like that."

"Sorry." He couldn't help but smile slightly, walking up to the desk. "Um, my car broke down. I had to walk to work."

"Don't overwork yourself, okay? Otherwise you're going to get sick." He sniffed and rubbed his nose, grunting. "Well, we might all be getting sick, you know?"

"Maybe." Standing in front of the desk, he noted the toys on the corner-watching, smiling, waving. At night they provided some sort of divine protection that never actually did anything but it was nice to think and believe that it might because if it didn't he felt that he would finally snap and

"Have you seen anything that might make people sick?"

-"No," Vincent said instantly, shaking his head. Something nagged in the back of his mind, telling him that there was something, something that he was supposed to tell Scottish, something he was supposed to do, but he just couldn't remember what it could be. Maybe it wasn't important, but lately his memory had been failing him more and more.

"You don't seem yourself lately."

Vincent shrugged, not knowing what else to say. He'd zoned out, and the world was gently spinning again-it made him feel a little sick, but he swallowed, trying to keep from experiencing nausea. His mouth watered and his stomach twisted slightly.

Shit, he suddenly thought, blinking a few times. Maybe Scottish was right-maybe he was coming down with something. But he couldn't let the stand-in boss know about that, because then he'd be taken off work, and then he wouldn't get any money and then he'd be worse off than he was before. If you can't afford to pay rent, you get tossed onto the streets. Wasn't that how life worked?

He forced a smile. It was a little painful to attempt, but he did it. "I feel fine, Scottish. Thanks, though."

The smile didn't appease the God of Freddy's, instead making him frown. His glasses gave off a strange sheen, almost as if hiding how angry he really was. "All right, Vincent. Get to work, if you feel up to it. Maybe it'd be best if you work with the animatronics. " But the voice was still soft, unimposing. Scottish wasn't one to push things.

The forcefulness of the smile lightened, and the man with the pony tail nodded his head. "All right, I'll get right to that. Thanks."

"And eat a cinnamon roll or something," he added as an afterthought, perching his cheek on his hand. "Get something in you other than that toast you always eat."

"Oh, I have some toast in my ca-"

It hit him like a train, and he stopped dead in his tracks. Remembering how he opened the car door and set the plate of toast on the passenger's seat. Remembering how he threw a small fit in the car, hitting the steering wheel in aggravation and despair. Remembering how he left the car and closed the door, admitted defeat, and started walking. Without the toast. His breakfast was at home.

Scottish raised an eyebrow during the time it took him to process this.

"...Okay, I'll get something," he said, defeated. The frown turned to a smile as Vincent left the office, a light, embarrassed blush dusted across his cheeks.

Vincent snatched a cinnamon roll from the kitchen (all but ignoring the pointed glares of the others as they watched him) and stepped into the back room, hungrily sucking off the sticky frosting from his fingers. He did feel a little better. The cinnamon roll tasted like heaven.

...Heaven he didn't deserve. He didn't deserve any of this kindness and thoughtfulness from Scottish, as much as he might want to. He deserved to be seen as people saw Winston, except without Winston's ignorant acceptance and fully taking in all the blame that people rose around him. Why was he so impulsive?

Working on the machines usually calmed him, but for some reason he found he couldn't really focus on it. So he ended up sitting against the wall, slipping in and out of consciousness, the staff coffee doing nothing to keep him from exhaustion. It usually didn't work, anyway-as of late, it was more a formality than anything else. Disgusting, gritty, caffeine-choked; it was the best part of his working day. It was a wonder he didn't drink any during his night shift.

...Well. He had other things to keep his mind occupied during that time.

The sound of metal against linoleum, scratching and cracking the floor.

The sight of jagged figures watching him from the hallway, heads tilted, bodies at an angle to run, casting shadows that danced unbecomingly.

The sound of unwholesome music boxes, when he flipped back to the screen, and the fear permeating in his chest when he saw the tall, mechanical beast, standing, smiling at the camera, like it knew there was something watching behind it...

He jumped, pulling himself out of the dregs of sleep, before finding Winston crouching in front of him, a bloodied rag in his hand. Vincent immediately pulled himself away, shocked. "W-What're you doing?"

"Your nose is bleeding," Winston answered, tossing him the rag. "What, so now co-workers can't help co-workers?"

"I don't-" He fell quiet, trying to regain his senses, clearing his throat. Now that Winston mentioned it, though, he did feel a thick, sticky liquid running down his nose, and upon it trickling into his mouth when he spoke, it did taste like iron. Vincent wiped his nose with his arm, staring down at the smudged, red liquid. He carefully picked the rag up from his lap, pressing it against his nostrils, barely noticing that Winston was walking around-the next thing he knew, he was inspecting Old Freddy, lifting up his hat to look down at the wiring and crossbeams beneath.

"You know," Winston said, a weird sternness in his voice, "it's not healthy if you're just collapsing from exhaustion wherever you sit down and if you're wandering around like a ghost because of how tired you are. You should take a day or two off."

"I can't-"

Winston's smile quirked deviously, and Vincent fell quiet. "You can and you will. 'M not sayin' that you can't come t' work, but this in't school."

Ah. His voice was dripping with his lazy nature, sharply contrasting with what he was saying.

"If it was school, you'd be able t' sleep on th' bus or somethin', or after ye do your work." He turned to face him, eyes narrowed. "But this isn't school, Vincent."

"This isn't school," Vincent agreed after a while, pulling himself out of his blankness. The man in the pink uniform nodded his ascent.

"You need to sleep if you wanna do a good job, Vincent. You can't forget that."

"I don't have time to rest."

"Rest now, Vincent. I'll cover ya. Say you couldn't make much progress 'cause you don't have the needed... extra stuff."

Vincent took a moment to process. "...Huh?"

Shockingly patiently, Winston elaborated, "I'll tell Scotty that you don't have the parts needed t' fix the old ones. It wouldn't be a lie, shipments won't come in 'til next week, and until then I can take care of the guard duty while you take some time to rest yerself up. Sound like a deal?"

Sometimes Vincent was surprised at how brotherly Winston could be, even to someone like him, who didn't deserve it. Yes, Winston was creepy, and Vincent didn't like him very much personally, and neither did the staff or the parents, but it was times like this that Vincent couldn't help but wonder if all of their perceptions were screwed up. It shamed him to say that he hoped that was the truth, then and there, because God, how he wanted to sleep.

Vincent wondered, not for the first time, whether Winston had any family.

"You know I can't do that," Vincent tried to say, but Winston clicked his tongue sharply and shook his head. Eventually his arguments died down with a sigh, hanging in the air, active as his current state of mind. He murmured his ascent, and the brown-haired man broke into a smile, standing up and walking out of the spare parts room while Vincent lay against the wall, feeling his eyes droop against his will. He wondered how long he'd be able to sleep before he'd be woken up, wondered whether or not Winston really would cover for him. Grudgingly he mentally thanked the creep before softly chiding himself for not deserving such generosity.

But it was all a vain battle, and eventually he felt his mind drift beyond the fuzzy contours of sleep. All he could really feel in reality was that the wall felt like heaven's clouds.