A pre-canon one shot. Contains spoilers, rated for language and themes.

Warning: This is really sad. I write a lot of angst, but this one is especially depressing, so please tread with caution.

It's been sixteen days.

She's been counting since day one. Each morning is harder to face than the last, each night is just as sleepless. Her eyes are bloodshot and rimmed red with mourning. She moves through the world like a ghost now, with silent, repetitive motions, waiting for the dream nightmarenightmareNIGHTMARE to end, face as white as a gray-scale missing persons poster. The house is quiet now. The first room on the left at the top of the stairs is still untouched from sixteen days ago; a stack of baseball cards on the nightstand, a green t-shirt lying on the floor.

She'd given him a hard time about it. She'd been tired and frustrated and she really needed a cigarette but she'd promised she'd try to quit. "Matthew John Crawford, we are not leaving until you pick your clothes up off the floor," she'd said, and he'd pouted in defiance. "You think I'm joking," she'd said with a brow raised, arms crossed over her chest, and he'd finally huffed and started gathering several of his shirts from around his room. She'd seen it slip from his arms as he went around picking up dirty clothes but didn't say anything, just sighed and went downstairs to wait in the car.

On the first day, she took that shirt, held it to her chest, and cried.

Most days, it's hard to so much as get out of bed. She goes to wash her face and looks at the pale woman with nails bitten down to the quick, hair thin and coming out in clumps being torn out in clumps, and wonders who that person is. It can't be her. She's no model-she never quite got her figure back after her pregnancy and she's a heavy smoker-but the person she sees in the mirror looks more like the models in the drug abuse prevention posters, complexion pasty, eyes sunken, expression sullen and hopeless.

It doesn't bother her. Nothing does anymore. She can hardly go down the stairs to make herself food, much less go out, so there's no need for her to put on makeup or put on a pretend smile and tell people everything's okay. She's always offered the condolences of anyone who recognizes her from the news story, but she hardly hears them. The world is nothing but white noise, phantoms moving in and out of her vision, and now and then, she sees a shock of messy, blond hair, a t-shirt with a superhero or a car on it, her little boy and her heart beats faster and her breath catches in her throat and her eyes well up with tears. A moment later, his mother or father will take his hand and he'll smile up at them, and her whole being aches as she tells herself that it's not him. It's never him. But she keeps looking anyway.

"I'm sorry, Mrs. Crawford," the search group's organizer had told her, "But this is all we can do for right now. We've been searching for two weeks without any new leads. We have to wait until the police turn something else up to renew the search…."

That's what they said, she knows that.

But all she heard was, "Your son is gone," and that's all that mattered.

She got home that day and went into his room, determined to put that grimy, green t-shirt with spots of mud and wetness where she'd cried into it in the wash, but when she bent down to her knees and reached for it, her hand stopped in the air. She sat there for maybe five minutes, fingers flexing, stomach churning, face burning with tears, and then she got up and walked away, leaving it right where it was.

Most days, she can't do anything or go anywhere, but today, today is going to be different. Today she has a clear goal, a purpose. Her therapist tells her to start small, to give herself little goals day by day, schedule things to look forward to weeks in advance, so she has.

She has been living for this day.

Her husband is gone, having left for work hours ago, chugging along all alone because somebody has to go to work and it obviously isn't going to be her. The most they ever argued about was her smoking, and even then he was so loving, so supportive, so gentle, "One day at a time, honey." Now they hardly speak to one another. He comes home and finds her in the same spot she was in when he left that morning. They eat side by side, silently. She doesn't know what his therapist tells him. She doesn't think it's working.

It certainly isn't for her.

But today is not like any of the last fifteen. She gets up, she gets dressed, she grabs a manila folder full of photos and case evidence and puts it in her purse, and then she gets her keys and heads out the door. The garden in the front yard is in full bloom, marigolds and petunias opening to face the sun, the neighbor's dog is running in circles across the street, the world is still turning, and how dare it? How can the world keep moving when Matthew is gone and everything is so wrong? She still gets tentative phone calls from work asking how she's done and trying to gently broach the topic of whether or not she intends to return. She can't understand it. Can't they see she doesn't care? The office could burn to the damn ground and she wouldn't care. The light bounces off the windows in the downstairs hallway as she pulls out of the driveway.

That's where he used to play with those damned hot wheels cars, always leaving them in the middle of the floor where someone would inevitably step on one. She must have told him a thousand times to pick them up when he was done, but he never seemed to hear her. It used to make her so mad. She would have to pick them up one by one after he was already asleep because he just never listened, dumping them into the barrel of little toy cars that she kept in the cupboard, safely tucked away so she wouldn't creep downstairs for a smoke at midnight only to yelp as a little toy car embeds itself into the sole of her foot.

God, does she miss it.

The expression of haunted emptiness slides into one of determination as she pulls into one of many empty spaces in a large parking lot. She stares up at the reflective windows and four stories of Fazbear Entertainment's corporate office building, hands clenched into fists at her sides, the purse hanging on her right shoulder heavy with the weight of great purpose, the corners of the manila folder and a million papers crammed inside sticking out. The security guard stationed at the front desk sees her coming, eyes full of humor, and he greets her with a smile despite the way her lips are stretched in a thin line. "How can I help you?"

"Linda Crawford," she says hoarsely. She hasn't spoken properly in days. There was a lot of crying and screaming, but not a lot of talking. Her throat is still raw.

He nods. "Second floor, first room on the left. Large double doors, you can't miss it," he says, gesturing towards the elevator past the desk, still smiling like it's a great day to be alive.

She passes him without so much a word in thanks, scowl deepening at his, "Have a great day!" that echoes in the empty lobby behind her as she calls the elevator.

Freddy Fazbear's Diner had been the latest of several kitschy attractions in town, and the most popular place for children's birthday parties for miles. She'd taken him countless times, sometimes just to get a family meal that he was actually willing to participate in, and sometimes as an additional chaperone for his friends' birthday parties. All of the parents sat at their own booth while the kids ran wild, but she'd always poke her head out to make sure he was behaving. She didn't have to, really; Matthew could be a little pest sometimes with the way he left his laundry and those fucking hot wheels everywhere, but then she'd see him laughing with his friends, the kind of infectious, non-malicious laughter that only small children are capable of, and she'd smile and join in the conversation with the other moms again.

"Jesus Christ," one of them muttered when the famous Freddy Fazbear once again took the stage in response to the cries for an encore, "We're going to have these songs memorized by the end of the year."

"What, you don't know them already?" she'd asked, and they'd all laughed to themselves about it.

And she did know most of the songs, the tunes and the lyrics. Matthew would sing them all the way home in the car, kicking his legs to the rhythm, and she'd sing, too, sometimes. They sounded like strangled cats but Matthew neither noticed nor cared, and his smile lit up even the darkest evenings.

It used to be their special place. No matter how bad the day had been, a trip to Freddy Fazbear's Diner could bring the whole family together and make it alright again.

After the first day, the mere sight of the logo made her want to vomit.

The doors to the meeting room are wide open when she arrives, and all eyes turn to her. They're all clean-cut, fresh-shaven, suit-wearing CEOs and executives, people who regard her with coldness and apathy. She wonders if any of them even have children, if they could possibly understand how she's feeling.

"Please have a seat, Mrs. Crawford," the man at the front of the room says, and does so. The doors are shut behind her. "Before we begin, I want to offer my condolences. The entire staff at the diner know about the situation, and they're all keeping their eyes open for anything that could be useful to the search."

Rehearsed, regurgitated bullshit. He even looks bored as he says it. "Thank you," she says hollowly. She takes the folder out of her purse and sets it on the table in front of her. "This is from my lawyer."

Every suit in the room is staring at her with their unfeeling eyes, but she refuses to back down. "Ah, yes," the man says, "I spoke with your lawyer yesterday evening. I appreciate your patience and understanding. Let me assure you that we will do everything in our power to…."

The words all blur together into an incoherent, insincere murmur in the background. His mouth is moving, but she doesn't understand what's coming out. None of these words are his and not once has he apologized. Doesn't he understand? Doesn't he get it? She doesn't have time for this.

She glanced around the edge of the booth when the next song started, but Matthew wasn't with the other kids crowded around the stage. She hadn't been worried. There were other places in the diner he could be, and she knew from experience that the worst thing in the world for a young boy was a hovering mother. She chose to stay seated. She chose to wait for the next song to check again. She chose to keep talking, trying to ignore her anxiety.

She chose wrong.

"...currently reviewing the footage in case they might have missed something before, though the bulk of the investigation is focused outside of the diner. I understand this is all very hard on you, and we are prepared to offer compensation for…."

"I'll be right back," she'd said after ten minutes of waiting and no sign of Matthew anywhere. The other mothers all traded knowing glances and muttered something about her being young, and she'd made a quick circle around the diner, searching the crowds of screaming kids and growing increasingly nervous. "Matthew?" she'd called, apprehension seeping into her voice, "Matthew?" She tried walking a little slower, looking more carefully, checking back over her shoulder at the stage periodically. He had to be somewhere. He had to be. Her head was hurting and her thoughts were swirling and she could hear her heartbeat in her ears as the room seemed to spin.

Oh god, she thought, please let me just have missed him. But she kept looking, kept moving in circles and never finding anything.

She never saw him again.

"Where is my son?" she asks.

The man stops abruptly, eyebrows raising in surprise at being interrupted. "Mrs. Crawford, Fazbear Entertainment is doing everything it can-!"

"Where is my son?" she demands, rising to her feet. "He went missing sixteen days ago, and your diner was the last place anyone saw him. Where is he? Where is my Matthew?"

There are disturbed murmurs throughout the room. "I don't think you're well enough to be discussing such a serious matter right now," he says, "Please go home and get some rest. Have your lawyer call me tomorrow."

"You have to know," she insists, "Your diner is the last place he was at. Somebody had to have taken him from there." Security arrives moments later, and her voice rises into shrieks as she feels someone grabbing her by the arm. "Where is he?" she screams, "Where is my son? Where is my son?" and she watches the large doors slowly shut, hiding the detached gazes of the men behind Fazbear Entertainment.

"Have you seen him?" she'd cried, "My son is gone. He's gone!"

The man working as a greeter at the front door shook his head. "It isn't unusual for kids to wander off around here," he says calmly, "If you wait around, I'm sure he'll turn up again."

"Matthew wouldn't just wander off," she insisted, but he'd just shrugged.

"Look, I'll keep an eye out for him, alright?" he offered, and took out a pen and a little notepad from his breast pocket, "Describe him to me one more time."

Her head hurt. Her heart hurt more.

The cheerful security guard from the front desk had been the one to come get her, and he tried making small talk while they were in the elevator, his hand still a vice grip around her forearm. She didn't answer him, eyes straight ahead and empty. She'd been living for this day. It wasn't supposed to be like this. She'd tried to work on her outbursts, but whenever she thinks of Matthew and his sweet smile, his cartoon t-shirts and baseball cards and hot wheels, the way she had to fight him to take a bath but the way his eyes got big whenever he saw her smoking and she'd snub it out with her shoe and smile reassuringly, evenings spent as a family at Freddy Fazbear's Diner and the song they sang on the way home from birthday parties….

All of that, all of him, was her world. What's left for her now?

The security guard walks her out the front door and finally lets go. She feels humiliated and angry and so lost, and she knows she needs to leave before she says something else that she regrets, but she hears him say, "I hope this hasn't ruined the diner for you."

She feels something inside of her snap. Just who the fuck does he think he is? Like he knows a fucking thing about how she feels right now, like he has any right to say something as fucking heartless as that, like she's ever going to go to that fucking diner ever again. She can't stop herself; she turns on her heel and meets his eyes, but her words die in her throat before they can even leave.

He's still smiling at her.

It's kind of like the smile he gave her before, but more smug, more secretive, taunting her, holding something over her head like he knows something she doesn't. It's a sick smile, almost childlike but too cruel to be worn by anyone other than an adult. His eyes glint and he's almost leering, and she has nothing to go on, no new information, no evidence to point her in any direction, but she feels what she knows is the instinct of a mother and hears Matthew's laughter in her ears.

"Now, baby, there are some bad people in the world," she told him, "So I want you to be careful. If a stranger tells you to go with them, you don't go, no matter what. Even if they promise to give you something, or if they tell you that they know me or your daddy, you don't go with them."

Matthew hadn't argued with her at all. He'd looked terrified. "But what if someone tries to take me even though I don't want to go?" he'd asked.

"You do whatever you have to do to get away from them," she'd said, "Scream and make sure everyone nearby can see you, and get away."

"But...what if…."

"I'm not trying to scare you, sweetie. I just want you to know what to do just in case." She wrapped her arms around him. "Don't you worry, baby, I would never let anyone hurt you."

She'd promised him.

She'd promised.

She sees the security guard's sick smile turn to a smirk, the glinting of the light off of his badge on the right breast pocket of his purple shirt, as he slowly shuts the doors between them.

"No one will ever hurt you."

The sound of the lock clicking into place resounds in the air around her and her world, perched so carefully on hopes of a long nightmare and the promise of new leads in the investigation, of small steps for every day and finding things to live for, crumbles to pieces. She sinks to her knees in front of Fazbear Entertainment's corporate office, and

she

screams.