#equus writes

He hated storms. He hated the lightning, the electric bursts were incredibly dangerous for the animatronics. He hated the thunder, explosive and sudden, overwhelming and scary. And he hated the pouring sheets of rain, loud and distracting, too hard to hear anything else around him whenever he was trying to focus on security.

However, as much as he feared and hated the storms, he still wasn't as bad as Sun.

There was a strangled scream from somewhere deep inside his head as another lightning strike cracked thunder nearby; the screaming was louder than the thunder itself and Moon put a hand to his faceplate.

"Sun!" he growled aloud, patience already worn thin from the stress of the storm.

«Sorry, sorry,» he whimpered in response, strung tighter than a violin and twice as screechy. «It's so loud, Moony!»

"Go to sleep," Moon snarled audibly, leaping on top of a pile of stackable barrels. "If you would go into sleep mode, you wouldn't have to hear it!"

«Sleep? Sleep? Hah -- I can't sleep! Who could sleep with all this racket?» Moon could tell by the crackle of Sun's voice in his head that if he physically could be pacing around like a headless chicken right now, he absolutely would. «Nooo no no, it's too loud, much too loud! And there's the danger of the lightning, maybe hail, oh, or the ceiling could get water damage --»

«You need rest mode tonight,» Moon tried again, internally this time, more snarled than comforting despite his position as the Naptime Attendant. He couldn't help it, he was frustrated. Sun was driving him crazy with all of his anxiety, and the hammering of the torrent on the roof of the Pizzaplex was already enough to set him on edge. He drummed his fingertips against the sides of the barrels before leaping off again, crawling on all fours along the floor. «Running too long. Need garbage collection.»

«I keep my threads tidy enough, thank you!» Sun replied stiffly, momentarily distracted out of his anxiety by the utter audacity.

Moon paused for a moment, silently calculating, and drew himself up to full height. "2,378 open processes," he replied aloud. 

«I -- but that's not -- Moony!»

"Using my cores right now," he continued. "Sleep. You won't hear the storm. I get my processors back. Everybody's happy."

There was a soft grumble of frustration somewhere deep internal. «...I'm too scared to go to sleep, Moony,» he replied, soft and timid.

As if on cue, a bolt of lightning arced the sky outside and the thunder rattled the very floor of the Pizzaplex. Moon jumped, Sun shrieked, and it distracted him into a misstep on the landing; his ankle joint caught on his other foot and he tumbled forward, head over jingly heels, face first into the ball pit. 

For a few confusing seconds, Moon couldn't tell which way was up, lost in a sea of rainbow colors -- or, more accurately, a sea of off-green, with his nighttime infrared cameras active. Finally he broke the surface, springing up and out of the ball pit, landing in a crouch at the edge and giving a stray ball an angry slap back into the pit. 

«Sun,» he growled, frustrated. But Sun wasn't paying attention, softly whimpering instead. Moon softened and hesitated, listening, feeling for his other half. «...Sun?»

«I hate storms,» he muttered lowly, almost a whisper, highly uncharacteristic of the bright and vibrant animatronic. Moon couldn't help but soften at that, slumping a little.

«...me too, Sunny,» he tried, putting a hand to his faceplate. He paused for a moment, just listening to the sound of the rain hammering the roof. Then suddenly, he brightened. «...I have an idea.»

Sun appeared to pause in his anxious, racing thoughts for just a moment. «You do?»

«Just wait,» Moon mumbled, taking off on all fours toward the daycare's stash of costumes and supplies. 

---

It took him a few minutes to prepare, ignoring Sun's near-constant questioning the entire while as he dragged a massive pile of fabric, blankets, and costumes out into the center of the room. He got to work quickly, Sun metaphorically hovering over his shoulder as he started stacking up towers and laying down blankets. 

By the time he was done, it had really taken shape. A large tent made of a hapdash mishmash of different items, piled high with essentially all of the fabric available in the daycare. A colorful mix of blankets hung off of the sides, dotted occasionally with the odd princess dress or cowboy pants. 

Satisfied with his handiwork, Moon quickly closed the distance between the tent and the side wall. He plucked a large, hard plastic ball off the shelf, giving it a twist that turned on the soft glowing light within in the motif of a sun. They used it sometimes during naptime whenever a child was particularly scared of the dark; it wasn't bright enough by any means to trigger a shift, but it might bring a touch of comfort to the otherwise pitch black daycare. Moon tossed the ball aimlessly back and forth between his hands before returning to his makeshift tent, peeling back the blanket of the "door" to toss it onto the middle of the pile of fabric on the floor.

He could feel Sun's confusion as he climbed inside, sealing the tent behind him. He took a seat cross-legged on the floor, lit by the gentle glow of the sun-ball in front of him. The tent was wide enough underneath that the both of them could fit together, if such a thing were possible, but only just tall enough that Moon had to sit a little slumped. 

«Anti-storm tent,» Moon announced finally. He paused a beat, tilting his faceplate. «Cozy.»

Sun didn't immediately reply, but Moon could sense his curiosity, anxious, but tentatively inquisitive. «Moon --» he began, but was cut off by another strike of thunder. 

Sun yelped, but this time, Moon didn't jump -- the sound of the storm was muffled by the layers and layers around them, the thunder brought down from a deafening roar to a deep, low rumble. Moon's eyes narrowed to slits and he tilted his faceplate again. «See? Quiet now.»

He could feel Sun's hesitance, but also the slight relaxation of his hold over Moon's running processors. «...it is quieter in here,» he finally agreed. 

«Yes. Right. Quiet. Warm. Restful.» Moon spread out his legs before lowering himself to the ground, gangly limbs curled up in the mound of clothes around the sun ball. «See?»

Sun didn't respond. Moon drummed his fingers along the ground. «Safe,» he tried again. 

«...safe,» Sun repeated, «yes. Yes. Yeah. Safe. I do feel pretty safe in here. Okay. Thanks, Moony.»

«Rest mode now?» he queried, flexing and twitching his fingers.

There was another aching pause as Sun considered. «...will you sit with me?»

«I'm always with you,» Moon retorted, tone equal parts comforting and teasing, nearly mock-annoyance. He pulled himself back up into a cross-legged position nonetheless.

He could feel Sun pull away, like a wave ebbing from the shore, freeing up resources. Memory slots opened, closing open processes, relaxing.

Out loud, Moon softly hummed some gentle notes, a familiar lullaby he would often sing to his naptime group. There was a sense of amusement from his other half as Moon began his song; now that he was finally calming down, it was at last hitting Sun just how much Moon had been treating him like one of his children, doing whatever it took to put him down for a nap.

«...you should use this tent with the kids,» Sun offered, a little embarrassed, a little deflecting, overwhelmingly grateful. Moon gave a soft, audible shh in response before resuming his tune.

Sun took the hint. Before Moon was able to finish his song, he pulled himself into sleep mode, finally relinquishing the hold he had on their shared resources. Moon visibly slumped with relief, his own anxiety lifting. He was much more comfortable in his makeshift tent, being buffered against the crashing storm, but more than that, it scratched a familiar itch to finally get his other half put down for his nap. Like fulfilling a deep purpose, he was more than calmed, he was satisfied.