Work Text:
The technician was seated by his lonesome in the cramped office of Fazbear's Fright. So absorbed by the pencil in his hand and the paper at his fingers, the man was utterly oblivious to the world around him, and was content to remain that way.
Quite soon, however, he would find himself in the company of a most dreadful being.
He smelled him before he saw him. A deathly odor sauntered into the room, coiling about the man's defenseless nostrils. He gagged slightly but maintained his focus on the matter at hand.
Stomp. Stomp. Stomp.
The technician ignored this background trudging, cursing inwardly as the tip of his pencil snapped. He rolled to the side a ways and rummaged in the top desk drawer in search of a sharpener. Seconds later, he emerged victorious, and restored his writing utensil to its former glory with a self-satisfied chuckle.
“Oouurrghm.”
Flicking his gaze to the side, the technician was greeted with the source of the fetid stench.
The automaton looming overhead was a cruel miscalculation of what a rabbit was meant to be. Its rancid fur lay in mouldy, matted clumps across the battered exoskeleton, of which harbored a sickly mass of blood-colored lumps. Metal bars and wire bits had made their home within these fleshy insides, though these horrors paled in comparison to the disgusting, toothy grin that had taken permanent residence across the suit's corroded face. Eyes, seemingly dead for how vacantly they stared, bored into the unsuspecting technician as it calculated its next move.
Turning back to his artwork, the man greeted, “Evening, Springtrap.”
“Toby.”
That was all the rabbit offered in greeting. Though certainly a proper man – or, at the very least, one who tried to appear as such – courteous formalities were a needless venture in Springtrap's eyes. He considered the pleasure to be all yours on the rare occasion he might choose to speak with you.
The rabbit went silent then, and if not for the lingering scent sensation of burning garbage, Toby would have surely thought that Springtrap had moved on. It was a time before the rabbit disproved this speculation.
“Do you– draw?” Springtrap leaned heavily against Toby's slumped shoulders, straining to view the guard's work.
“Huh? Oh. Yeah! It's more of a hobby than a skill, but, uhhh… once in a while, y'know…”
“Fascinating.”
Though it was a no-no amongst most artists, Toby allowed Springtrap to continue his observation until the rabbit rasped, “Do you happen to… accept commissions?”
“You want to commission me? What for?” Toby stopped sketching long enough to stare his fellow employee down, a gesture that caused his companion evident discomfort.
“Nothing in particular!” Almost defensively, the older man shot upwards, pacing backwards and eyeing the coffee machine with a sudden interest.
“Art of… myself, but– in my suit. My… character, of sorts…” He placed an awkward hand upon his metallic hips, tapping a tuneless finger against its rim.
“Your fursona?” Toby guessed, not at all expecting the reaction this warranted. Like a sleeper agent revived in summons of an ancient duty, Springtrap gasped, close to tears as he fumbled to cover his stammering mouth. When the surge of profound emotion ebbed, William's head began to bob with unrestrained enthusiasm.
“YES! Finally, someone else who grasps my vocabulary! Oh–” Springtrap collapsed to his knees and clasped the flabbergasted Toby's hands inside his own. “Do this for me, and I shall reward you lavishly.”
“Really?” Toby stuck out his bottom lip, toying internally with the prospect. “Not many people ask me to draw for them, let alone for money. You know what? Yeah. I could do that, Springtrap.” Toby patted the paper lying atop the desk invitingly.
“Come tell me what you'd like drawn, Peepaw.”
Having said this, Toby shifted himself to once again face his work station, and within seconds, he'd faded back into the lure of creation. It took a few minutes for the younger man to realize that his coworker had not joined him, and when he rolled his chair to look upon Springtrap, he found the older man still staring up at him, his face solemn.
“Toby?”
“Yeah?”
“I am unable to raise myself.”
Moments after Toby heaved William to his feet (a venture that the guard scarcely escaped uncrushed), Springtrap hovered over him, jabbing a finger against the man's sketchpad as he mapped out his imaginary scene:
“Right. So draw me there, and behind me, a super buff grey wolf with striking blue eyes, and then in the corner there, I want Henry exclaiming, ‘He's so amazing! I wish I were like him!’ and you can draw little hearts around his face as he gazes at me admiringly. Oh, and maybe put Michael there, too. He can be polishing my– no, never mind. Forget Michael. He can purchase his own furry commission. This is my time to prevail.”
“Sure thing.” Grinning in great enjoyment of the present events, Toby's hand worked furiously to sketch out the basic shapes of the newly assembled piece.
Under Springtrap's watchful eye, the technician worked. The going had been great for the first few minutes, but there did reach a time where the threat of burnout began biting at Toby's brain. Typically, he'd allow himself a break, but the lurking Springtrap close behind prodded him onward. Occasionally, the silence would be broken by a question or observation from the older man.
“Toby?”
“Yes?”
“The hearts.”
“What?”
“Around Henry's face. Remember? It's a very crucial detail; I wouldn't want you to forget it.”
“Ohh, yeah. My bad.”
This cycle continued until the rabbit stood suddenly, clapping his fungus-ridden paws together as he declared, “I'm off for a bathroom break, Toby. If you see my son, tell him I hate him for me, would you?”
“Wait, what?” Toby wheeled around in his chair, fixing the rabbit with disbelieving eyes. “Springtrap, there's no way you possess the physical capability to… go…”
Toby eyed William warily as the decrepit, metal-clad man pushed his hefty figure from the office desk. The force sent the Freddy and Bonnie bobbleheads toppling onto their sides. Chica remained at rigid attention, dead eyes glazed with terror as she fought to ignore her fallen comrades.
“It's canon,” Springtrap declared. He leaned forward to flick an unidentifiable mass clinging to his leg. “You can cry about it, but you cannot change it, Toby.”
“I'm not the one who's crying. It's the janitors who should be fearing for their lives right now.”
Toby waved William away and returned to his work.
Let him do what he wants. At least now, I'll have a bit of time to focus.
Springtrap's “bathroom break” evolved into a three-hour endeavor, and Toby had begun to fear for the older man's wellbeing by the time William returned to the office. No longer was Toby confined to the desk. The technician stood lounging about the coffee machine, slurping contentedly at a piping cup of hot chocolate. When Springtrap looked at him expectantly, the younger man beamed.
“Check the desk,” Toby advised, to which the older man complied with great urgency.
Some seconds passed before a lengthy, high-pitched squeal erupted from the rabbit's mouth. He snatched the paper upwards, eyes roving the completed piece greedily. Without shifting his gaze, he stood gushing out praises to the awaiting Toby.
“Marvelous,” the older man declared, his clunky feet stomping a happy little tune on the ground. “I look perfectly intimidating! My fursuit is as beautiful as ever! And Henry– Oh, Henry… Henry is… Mm. Mm, mm, mmm…”
With the hand of his that wasn't gripping the paper, Springtrap eased a finger about the rim of his neck, rubbing its circumference anxiously.
“You know, Toby,” the older man ventured, “one of these days, I may have to commission you for a little something else–”
“D-Do you like it?” Toby waved excitedly to the paper in William's hands, ever so desperate to shift the subject.
“I do, Toby. Quite much.” Springtrap spun on a metal heel, promptly stumbled, and regained himself, clearing his throat as if nothing had occurred.
“And of course,” Springtrap concluded, rummaging about within his chest cavity, “there is the matter of your fee…”
“Aww. Pssht. Well…” Toby waved Springtrap off sheepishly. “You just pay whatever you think my work is worth, Springtrap. Really, the pleasure was all mine–”
“You shall receive the same form of payment I always use; I'll allow nothing less for my favourite artist.”
“Oh, Springtrap, you'll never understand how much that means to–”
“Here you are, Toby!”
The technician reeled back with a yelp as, without warning, Springtrap drew a mouldy corndog from within his exoskeleton and thrust it into the man's unsuspecting face.
“O-Oh! Oh. Oooooohhh….” Toby extended a tentative arm and woefully accepted the corndog. His eyes flicked from the dingy food item to William's gleeful stare. He attempted to force a smile, and found that he could not.
“Where, uh… where'd you find this?”
“I stole it from a child,” Springtrap declared, in a voice dripping with pride. “Ahh, it was like taking candy from a seven year old...”
“Seven?” Toby grimaced under the weight of secondhand embarrassment. “Really, Springtrap?”
“But, of course.” Springtrap eyed the man matter-of-factly, explaining, “After they reach about eight or nine, they become far too strong.”
“Right…”
Pulling back with his lackluster prize, Toby eyed the disease-ridden object warily, as if a part of him were seriously contemplating its consumption. Springtrap caught wind of his hesitancy and leaned forward, allowing his left ear to bump the younger man's head as he spoke.
“Toby? What's wrong? You look disappointed. Is my offering not to your satisfaction?”
“N-No! Not at all! This is great, man!”
Toby's acting was evidently lacking, for the technician sighed, drooping his corndog-clad arm defeatedly.
“I'm sorry, Springtrap. I don't mean to be that way. I'm grateful for this, really, I am. It's just that– well…”
Toby faltered under the weight of William's expectancy, hoping that what little he said would suffice. Springtrap squinted intently at the man for a time, but soon enough, a knowing smile wrapped about his lips. From beneath the mask came a raspy chuckle.
“Ahh. You drive a hard bargain, Toby, but I'll concede, just this once.”
“Huh?” Toby watched William resume digging about in his suit, and the man was just beginning to question how many health code violations Springtrap violated before, once again, an unforeseen object was thrown Toby's way.
This time, however, the sight awaiting the technician was far more pleasant.
Even wadded between Springtrap's brutish clutches, the unmistakable outline of dollar bills lay in plain view. Toby couldn't help a grin as he remarked, “Heyyy. You were really holding out on me all this time, Springtrap?”
Though the corndog had become a secondary priority, a subconscious force compelled Toby to retain his hold upon it as William slapped the wad of currency into the man's unoccupied palm.
“This is great! Thank you so much. I mean it, man.”
Toby glanced downwards with great anticipation–
And found his eyes locked with the Queen of England's.
“There you are, Toby. A whole fiver, and a tenner, to boot.” Oblivious to Toby's shock, Springtrap clapped a hefty paw upon the man's back, joking, “Don't spend it all in one place, now.”
“Ohh, something tells me that I won't, Springtrap.” Toby smiled at the rabbit, closing a fist around the bills and depositing them into his pocket. The technician waved cheerfully at the departing William, though the second the springlocked man wandered out of view, he released a long, pained groan.
“Drawing furry art on the clock,” he reminisced sarcastically. “The American dream. This is what it's all about…”
“An altercation with Father, I presume?”
At the familiar monotone, Toby turned.
“Mike! Hey.” Toby watched the corpse venture into the office, his steps slow and timid. “Your dad wasn't all that bad today. It's just–”
Feeling slightly embarrassed by the situation, the technician stuffed a hand into his pocket, emerging with Springtrap's gracious gift.
“Got any idea what I can do with these?”
“British pound notes?” Michael leaned forward to examine the bills, laughing softly at the relics of faraway lands. Drawing back, the corpse suggested, “Sell them online for five times their initial value?”
“Ooh, you are smart, Michael–”
“Though I don't think many would appreciate being sold crumpled bills that likely harbor some form of plague or parasite.”
“Right…” Toby trailed off, ashamed at having hit yet another wall in his struggle for financial success.
“I see you have also been given a corndog.”
Michael waved towards the arm of Toby's that still wielded the questionable treat. It was then that Toby spied a spoiled corndog of Michael's own, held stiffly in his left hand.
“Ohh, thank God. It's not just a one-time thing. I– I kind of felt like I was being initiated into a cult.”
“That wouldn't be entirely inaccurate.”
Saying this, the corpse bit into his corndog with a notable air of depression, chewing in the manner of a dejected animal. He swallowed with great difficulty, gagging all the while. Shuddering, he drew the cursed object forth for another helping of misery.
Toby, feeling as if he were being subjected to watch a man die, cut in for the sake of his friend.
“You… you don't have to eat it, you know…”
The corpse gasped at this blatant blasphemy, looking fearfully at his coworker. “But to reject Father's sacred corndog is an indicator of disrespect. It's an ancient ritual dating back to when I was a boy. No Afton would dare defy our most holy tradition.”
Toby dedicated a solid minute attempting to figure out what any of Michael's words meant, and eventually the man concluded that there was simply no sense to be found in such a statement.
“Mikey? I'm going to be brutally honest with you when I say I'm not entirely sure your family isn't just some sick, twisted government experiment.”
“Me neither, Toby. Me neither…” Michael sighed, as he so often did, and busied himself by forcing another mouthful.
Feeling a fresh surge of fear, Toby glanced upon his own corndog, waving it uncertainly.
“Mike? Does that mean that I… have to…?”
“I will lift your burden,” Michael vowed solemnly, nudging the corndog out of Toby's hand to claim it as his own. Though his body heaved in protest, Michael prepared to polish off his first corndog when Toby threw a protective hand before his friend’s mouth.
“Michael, stop. J-Just stop.”
“Toby, you do not understand our Afton customs. This is something I must do. Now, if you cannot bear the sight, and understandably so, kindly exit the premises so that I might make my ancestors proud.”
“Dude…” Keeping one arm firmly barring the corndog further passage, Toby used his other to wave at the trash can beside the desk.
“There's a wastebasket right there. I won't tell if you won't.”
Michael's eyes flicked gravely to the corndogs, then to Toby. Slowly, the man smiled.
In another few seconds, Michael stood triumphantly over the conquered corndogs, watching them slowly but surely continue their decomposing process. Eventually, he was able to break his eyes away and stare upon Toby, who joined in the trash-watching.
“I-Is this what healing feels like?”
Toby smiled and extended an arm to pat the corpse's bony shoulders.
“Yes, Michael. Yes, it is.”