He watches her.

He's the night watchman, after all. It's his job to watch her. That's what he gets paid for. That's what he tells himself, at least, and it's as good a rationale as any.

So he watches her. Watches her head rise and fall in his lap. Slow, patient, practiced. She's done this before, that much is obvious. He didn't think they were built for this sort of thing. She must have learned it somewhere. He finds himself wondering where, and from whom.

Freddy? He doubts it. The bear is all business, more concerned with the day's receipts than with the concerns--or the needs--of the employees. He's also seen the way that she looks at her boss. The look in her eyes is one of fear, not desire.

Foxy, then? More plausible, perhaps. She's definitely on better terms with him than with Freddy. But he has a hard time believing that she'd be attracted to that lunatic pirate, either. Always going on about rum and sea serpents and his 'precious doubloons.' Besides, he's always figured Foxy is probably gay.

The previous guard, maybe...

She makes an irritated sound that jars him from his thoughts, and he looks down into her violet eyes. Such lovely eyes.

Her expression says it all. 'Am I boring you?'

He cups a hand against the back of her head in apology, coaxing her to continue. She resists, for a moment--but only for a moment--before her eyes soften, and she returns to work. Apology accepted.

He expects her beak to be cold. He is surprised that it is not. Warm, wet, and long, well-suited for the task. Up, down, up, down, slow and smooth and skillful.

Oh, yes. She's done this before.

He tips his head back where he sits with an appreciative sigh, allowing his eyes to close. It's a quiet night, and he's thankful for that. It's a good excuse to pass the time with her. A glance at the monitors every now and then, just to make sure. Three o'clock and all's well, just like always. No sound except for the rattling hum of the desk fan, and the soft, wet noise of her beak upon him.

Not bad for four dollars an hour.

They could be caught. He knows that. The two of them would certainly be fired. But it's unlikely. Freddy rarely leaves his office, tallying up facts and figures. Bonnie keeps to herself, preferring the company of her guitar and her music. Foxy stays on his boat--his 'vessel,' he calls it--and probably polishes his hook, or something. He doesn't worry too much about being caught.

He almost thinks Chica would like it.

He's seen her furtive glances toward the door. He's seen how her cheeks flush beneath her feathers while she tends to him. How her hips rise and fall while she tends to herself, when she knows the cameras are on.

When she knows he's watching.

She shifts position where she kneels before him, moving her legs further apart. One of her hands rises to draw across his chest, slowly, touching him through the fabric of his uniform, fingers caressing his nametag; the other moves downward, slipping between her parted thighs, to caress something else.

The sounds she makes are quiet, muffled as he fills her beak, easier to feel with his flesh than to hear with his ears. Her cheeks darken further as she satisfies both her appetites at once.

He didn't think that robots could blush. But then, he didn't think they could give blowjobs either, so really, what did he know?

Her hand slips beneath the edge of his shirt, touching his bare skin, and he gasps sharply. Her beak is warm; her hands--feathers?--are not. Strong, metallic, cool.

She draws off and away, as if scolded. "What?" she asks. "What'd I do?" Her voice is a hushed, worried whisper.

"Nothing, it's okay," he replies. He can't resist teasing her, just a little. "You're cold, you know."

Relief--they can feel relief, apparently--washes across her features, and she smiles at him, the edges of her beak quirking upward. A smile that on a human woman, he would call sly, even sultry.

"Mmm," she murmurs, "I think I know how to keep you warm."

She goes down on him without another word. Faster now, more aggressive. That's typical of her. Shy at first, only to grow bolder, more daring as the night goes on. She cradles him with her feathered fingers, gingerly rubbing, stroking, squeezing, metallic chill giving way to his own body heat. She's right about keeping him warm.

His fingers clutch at the feathers upon the back of her head in a half-hearted attempt to draw her away. He won't last and he knows it. He's just a man, after all; the flesh can't compete with the machine.

"Chica," he whispers. "Easy, Chica, it's all yours..."

She doesn't answer. Up and down, up and down, like a hydraulic pump, without pause or hesitation. Her other hand is hidden from his sight, but he knows that it's moving just as quickly, pushing her higher, faster, making her body tremble where she kneels. She makes a sound that is somewhere between a whimper and a moan.

Amid the tide of pleasure that assaults him, he spares a thought to wonder what it's like for her. Not so different than it is for him, he imagines. Core temperature rising. Servos locking up. Systems overheating.

"Chica," he repeats, this time more urgently. "Chica, if you keep that up, I'm gonna--"

She lifts her head and looks up at him with those large, expressive eyes. She's shaking on her knees, riding one hand and furiously stroking him with the other.

"Please," she pleads, keeping her voice low. Sound still carries in the empty halls. "Please, give it to me. I need it, I need it so bad..."

The bib she wears says 'Let's eat!' He obliges her.

Her face, her feathers, her chest. White on yellow. She opens her beak wide and closes her eyes, letting out a desperate bird's cry. He sees her thighs squeeze together around her intruding hand, a sheen of something wet upon her slender fingers.

The joy of creation.

He slumps in his chair; she leans back upon her knees. Relief, this time for both of them.

Quiet reigns once more. Gasping, panting, and the gentle whir of the fan.

When words return to her, she giggles. "Good thing I wore my bib," she muses.

He gives a weary chuckle. "Huh," he says, "and here I thought you were gonna make a crack about pizza toppings."

"Those cost extra," she states, matter-of-factly. She leans in to place a long, lingering kiss upon the head of his spent shaft, and then wraps her arms around his waist where he sits, resting her cheek against his thigh. "Thank you, Mike," she whispers. "For everything."

"You don't have to thank me. You know that."

"I do. You keep all of us safe, and you keep me company. I want you to know how much we all appreciate that..." She huddles more tightly against him. " ... how much I appreciate it."

In the warm haze of afterglow, he can afford to feel magnanimous. He gently strokes his fingers across her feathers. "It's my pleasure, Chica," he says. "Go get cleaned up, and then get some sleep. You could probably use it."

"We don't need sleep, silly. Staying still for that long would just make our joints lock up, anyway. But you're right, I suppose I ought to go freshen up a little." She straightens up and stretches where she stands. "Would you like anything from the kitchen when I get back? A snack to get you through the rest of your shift? There's plenty of pizza, and we had a birthday party here yesterday. I think there's still some cake left."

He gives her a smile that is drained, but satisfied. "Some coffee would be nice, if it's not too much trouble."

"One pot of java, comin' up!" she chirps. She turns on her heel and moves to leave, but then pauses, and looks over her shoulder at him. Her eyes are half-lidded, with the same sly expression upon her beak as before. "And if you'd like some dessert..." she says, fanning her tailfeathers, "... just let me know."

He reaches to zip up his pants, but his eyes remain locked upon her, and what she offers, watching her hips sway to and fro as she walks away.

He's the night watchman, after all. It's his job.