Author's note: ...Okay, okay, okay, it's been a while since I wanted to try and use the fanon about the actually expectant Red, just for fun. Because of that actually nice memory I have from mid-90s, at the age of 8 or so.
We had guests from the countryside who brought a pregnant blue cat with themselves and left her at our place. Sadly, she slipped away the very next day (not that it was bad for her, she pretty much grew up in the country and could live on her own), but still, even a few hours of having such a lovely and blue and soft creature nearby and waiting for kittens really warmed my heart back then.
So in this partly-AU Red Guy is very loosely based on that cat – and is closer to his animalistic/monster side than to sentient human-like one. He doesn't talk, but thinks, feels and understands things just fine. Oh – and, of course, eats fears and sorrows.

* Keep in mind that IRL and IRL anatomy-based рrеgnаnсy isn't my thing (I'm ace).

It takes the children of this small orphanage a good while to finally find him.

At first, it's a girl noticing that no nightmares ever come to her if she sleeps on this particular bed, nor does she feel sad for long before sleep. Funny enough, but same happens over and over as the rest of her friends agree to switch beds with her, just to check.

At night, nobody ever hears the soft steps of his fleecy paws. Nor do they see just who is walking around the orphanage, slips outside to get some moonlight, and sometimes nibbles at mint leaves in the small garden nearby.

So much delicious sadness, all in one place, that's what attracted him. Sadness that tormented these poor man cubs – and fed him. They didn't need it, anyway. They needed hope, and warmth, and care. All of it came on its own every time, right after he freed the space for it, taking away their sadness.

After all, those pieces of red yarn one of the Caretakers finds from time to time in the corners of the rooms may as well be leftovers from some girl's knitting basket. There were a few red yarn balls, as far as she remembers, pretty similar in color, and why blame a kid if a few clippings get blown off by accident.

The Gardener doesn't complain either, noticing light, odd-looking footprints on the paths. Nobody walks around wearing just socks – and of a size that big at that. This could've seemed spooky, yet something told the Gardener every time there was no reason to be afraid. One day he even could have sworn he heard a rustle and- what seemed to sound like a chuckle, quickly turned around and saw nothing but a… red mop peeking out of the tool shed. Or so he managed to see from a far, getting his eyes off a partly-planted flowerbed for a moment.

It disappeared later somehow, anyway. Might as well be kids mucking around.

It's good in here. Too good. To the point when one day, the magic in him decides to tie three tiny living knots, and they start to grow quietly.

He accepts his middle filling out with eggs like he'd been accepting all that food and shelter: gratefully and calmly observing. It was bound to happen: he'd been guarding this house enough to become like one himself. There's not that much difference between watching man cubs sleeping in their beds and feeling his own cubs sleep in their shells under a layer of magic and his pelt.

It's harder to step lightly when carrying eggs: the footprints on the garden paths get deeper. He chooses to enjoy just some fresh moonlight from the windows – even despite his fangs aching for some mint, the rest of his body feels more and more sleepy, and he has no choice but obey the body, now that it have become a house for more of his kind. To stretch out under one of the beds, like usual, cool his hot belly on a pleasantly cool floor, and just soak in whatever delicious sorrow comes with the man cubs.

That's when they find out.

They giggle, surround and stroke him – many little hands at once, like a light rain, – lightly scratch him between the eyes and on a mitten paw that sticks from under the bed, then send one of them outside and watch them return with that particularly kind-looking Caretaker lady, who at first gasps at the unusual sight, but quickly crouches by their side and nods. Yes, I see, a monster under your bed all right. And a good one. A fear-eater; we called them "mops" where I used to live. People say when one appears in a house, whoever lives there, knows no fears and sorrows for the rest of life. Then she glances him in the eye. Let's get you from under it, dearie.

He tried to before, he honestly tried to, but ended up asleep again, he remembers. Somehow in his sleep he turned onto his side, shifting the eggs in belly in such a way that they couldn't let him turn back. He involuntarily lets out a short gasp that seems too painful to the kind woman, and she asks two of the kids to lift the bed and move it farther from the mop monster (preferably not squishing him on their way).

Ooooh– sweetie, but of course! she exclaims, now too noticing the fuzzy, slightly uneven red orb, and- understanding? We'll be back in a minute, just wait.

Human words sound somewhat foreign to him, but he figures out "good" and "sweetie" and obeys as some more man cubs help him to get up and then to lay down on what appears to be his very own bed in their bedroom: a mattress they found in storage, covered with a couple throw blankets, each with a stamp in the corner. One child carries a whole bunch of throw pillows, another one, a pitcher of cool water, and later, the Caretaker lady returns with two potted mint plants, puts them on the window and bends over him to feel his belly – firm eggs through a layer of thick magic within, and a fold of the still-closed pocket across it.

Should be in about a week or so, she whispers. And you'd been hiding under beds all this time? But what if we didn't find you?

The one that used to live at her family's farm had a pale ochre pelt, almost invisible among the hay, and no one would even have thought that a fear-eating monster lived next to them, if it hadn't been for faint, creaky mews coming from the barn one day. The Caretaker lady, back then just a Caring girl, hurried to the barn and froze at a sight of three baby monsters crying plaintively, all curled up by the cold body of their father.

Someone of the neighbors mistook a harmless monster for some dangerous beast in the dark and shot.

The one that's now before her is bright red. Bright, alive, soft almost like a cat, and with no mean neighbors for miles around to ever harm him. The Caretaker lady carefully pulls a blanket over the monster, tucking him in and whispering. That's it; that's a good guy. That's a good Red Guy. We all will go outside now and won't bother you.

He doesn't mind being given a name. That's how the children introduce him to the three newbies (of their own kin) and watch their faces change from scared to more and more curious as they carefully stretch out their hands to stroke his fleecy pelt. Sometimes the Gardener enters the bedroom, chuckling under his moustache and mumbling something about "aren't you a cunning mop, buddy".

And it's again the Gardener who just so happens to stand in the bedroom doorway as the glistening top of the first egg starts to peek out of Red's belly pocket. He stumbles out of the bedroom, startled, and Red can hear him call "somebody come and help that mop of yours, quick, I don't- I never- what if the shell breaks and the cub dies" and something else of absolutely no importance – because Red trusts the magic he partly consists of and lets it guide him. Humans don't have any magic in them – of course things that barely bother a fear-eater must cause them more pain. Even if the poor man imagined heavens know what cramps and pains the monster was through, it isn't Red's business to judge him.

So by the time the Caretaker lady and the children gather around his nest, all they see is a much thinner Red Guy curled up, warming three large eggs – just as red, with darker polka dots – the pocket on his middle long back to invisible. The Caretaker lady only shakes her head, probably referring to the Gardener – that panicker – and reaches out to pet the monster on his mane.

He does what the poor late Ochre Guy couldn't: gratefully leans his head against her shoulder and closes his eyes.

A couple of tears fall on his eyelid, another one on his mane. Her sorrow, so in time to refresh him, tastes unusual. Red can almost see by himself: she's grieving for one of his kin. One she couldn't save, because was but a little cub – a girl – too weak to carry a dead monster away from the barn and bury by herself. Nor could she stop the man who shot that monster from carrying away all three orphaned cubs and drowning them one by one in a bucket. The grief was, and still is, too big for her to deal with it on her own.

He thought- she sobs, scratching him under the mane – right where the fangs stick out – and not even wondering if Red understands her at all. He thought you fear-eaters were like wolves. That you were after people's cattle. Dad tried to reason with him; he didn't even listen. I later decided I'll always help the orphans when I grow up – in memory of the Ochre Guy. I came to work in here. And then you appeared.

Something smooth and roundish touches her hand. Red puts one of his eggs in her palm to hold, not knowing how else to comfort her. The egg is warm, somewhat heavy, not something she could get to see back in her childhood.

Yes, she nods, running another hand down the pebble-smooth shell. Very beautiful. We all are too waiting for your little Reddlings.

The Caretaker lady puts the egg back, closer to Red's furry side, covers him with a blanket and slips away for a couple of minutes to return and hand him a mug of warm milk.

Not that she knows whether or not fear-eaters feed their young with milk. Or what else the babies should eat after hatching. But how else can she thank at least this kind protector of her protegees, if she couldn't do the same for the protector of her own home farm. And Red flips back the strands of his mane above the mouth, empties the mug and nods, silently thanking her back.

As time passes, same girl who first discovered his hideout attaches a sign on the bedroom door, reads it to him ("Please be quiet") and explains that it means no one will disturb him and the cubs in eggs from now. The others change water in his pitcher, sit with him before sleep, and sometimes draw small cards – without words, as Red can't read in human, but clear enough to show they wish his Reddlings a happy birthday and love them and their dad. Some even whisper between themselves, and if Red could understand them, he'd know they discuss what toys to bring here from the large hall.

But finally, a faint "crrraaaaackkk" breaks the morning quiet. And repeats. Twice.

Same familiar creaky mews come from behind the bedroom door – only louder than the Caretaker lady remembers. Almost same sight as many years ago, only brighter and more joyful than what she stumbled upon as a child – the monster is alive, alive and very content, because his little human friends stroke him wherever they can reach, and by his side are his three newborn babies, all red with big gray eyes, all mewing in surprise and trying to shake off the last remains of egg shell.

The Caretaker lady reaches out to pick up one tiny monster, but Red eagerly nods and nudges her hand with his paw, encouraging her to pick up all three – now that they're finally free of their shells. In a couple of minutes the babies stop fidgeting and mewing in her arms and just snuggle close to her.

And in a few more minutes it dawns on her.

It does not hurt anymore. I… I won't forget the poor Ochre. It's just… The memories about him don't hurt. It's almost like he and his babies repeated in you.
Thank you so much, Red, now I understand.
Your babies have eaten my sadness.