Pondering a soulmate/red string AU with a Y/N and the DCA except you hear all these stories about how slim and fine the red string is that lead someone to their significant other and how the string looks so delicate and small that sometimes it's almost not even there, which is great and all, except, your red string isn't a string. It's a ribbon. A thick, flat, silky ribbon. It's knotted around your left ring finger like a bow.
You internalize this as a very bad sign. Something's wrong. You don't get a soulmate or maybe your soulmate already decided that they'd rather not have you or maybe you're just not worthy.
It keeps you up at night. You twist and tug on it but it's always leading away, out the door and into the world. It only seems to trail off until you end up at a new job. You work with animatronics and always preferred them over people, anyways. Who needs a soulmate right? You're totally fine without one. That's your new mantra. You've accepted the ribbon and its refusal to give you what you want.
But it's kind of funny how the Daycare Attendant reacts when he firsts see you. He stares for a long time. You don't make anything of it, and you've trained yourself to not try and spy if your ribbon is acting strange around different people or places, but it does seem to sway a little, the great length almost dancing around Sun as he tends to children. It slips around Moon, almost pirouetting when he puts toddlers to bed and sings lullabies to babies.
You saw his wrist ribbons. How could you not? For one frantic, yearning moment, you almost thought—but that can't be right. You don't get anyone. Something's wrong with you. His is topped with bells, for the children, so they can hear where he is.
Soulmates and red strings are freeing. Someone can ignore theirs if they like or reject the chosen one entirely. It's not a curse. It's a choice. A soulmate is only what someone makes.
You had forgotten about that little tidbit, having lived so long fearing that you were simply left without. Fate had written you off. That's fine, you begin to think to yourself whenever Sun offers you a sundrop with his chin in his hand, leaning over your desk, grinning, or the numerous times Moon is muttering behind your shoulder, hanging from the ceiling on his aerial wire, reminding you that it's midnight in that soft rasp of his.
He has a malfunction one day. Something is wrong with his forearm and the glow that he can activate to ease children in the dark or entertain when glowsticks are accompanying him, stuck in safety mode. Eclipse. He has many names. He comes to see you. The Daycare Attendant often finds an excuse to. You like that. You've forgotten to check your ribbon every morning, knowing that you will walk into the pizzaplex to see him.
You ask him to undo the ribbon around his wrist so you can properly open up the plating of his arm. He does as you ask. You flinch slightly at the reminder of your own. Eclipse doesn't miss your little cringe, and it sparks a question. You find that it's easier to talk about now, your red string that's not a string at all but a silky scarlet ribbon that's so thick it can only be tied into a bow around your finger. You remark that you've given up on it as you tinker away, completely at ease within his presence.
He's listened to you before. He's teased and laughed and talked. It feels like the only sane thing in the world—you are entirely yourself when you're with him.
You finish your sad little tale and Eclipse is strangely silent. Something's eating away at him. You ask him what's wrong, if you didn't fix the issue properly. He softly asks you to untie the ribbon on his other wrist. You ask if he can't. He says no, he can, but he needs you to do it. Furrowing your brow, you take his offered arm and tug the length of fabric until it unravels, letting it fall away with a jingle, but there's still a ribbon, thick and scarlet and silky with no bells. You see it clear as day. You move your left hand. The length tenses. You feel something tug back. When Eclipse lifts his hand to cup your cheek, his thumb wipes away the tears trailing down your face.
Eclipse starts to apologize. He's not what you expected or wanted, and if you're disappointed or don't want a robot to be yours, he, they, understand. They will accept your choice.
You lace your fingers between his long, metallic digits, so nimble, and yet, they're trembling as you squeeze his palm. You tell him that this is the best day of your life. You just hope he can forgive you for not seeing what was right in front of you the whole time.
He says they can find a way to with a big grin and flashing optics, utterly bright with relief and hope and joy.
The ribbon twines and coils and when they pull you onto their lap, you laugh and cry a little softer and he tells you a little story about the ribbon on their wrist and how it kept leading away, out of the daycare, until they find the end tugging on your finger. He holds your hand and strokes the bow that led you right to them. You both look like a Christmas present, all wrapped up in a scarlet ribbon.
