Work Text:
“Mm… see that there, baby?” There’s a pause — Arnold lifts his ‘I’m a Valued Fazbear Entertainment Employee!’ mug to his lips. Steam curls from the bitter brew, dusted with extra chocolate powder, despite you having told him more than once that it doesn’t sweeten the coffee itself.
You don’t need to turn around to hear the slow, thoughtful sip he takes.
“Gah, figures,” he murmurs, voice low and worn thin with exhaustion. He’s close enough now that you can feel his heat at your side. “It’s coming from the fuel line connection — where it feeds into the generator. We’ll tighten the clamp, maybe add a little sealant to be safe. Not exactly textbook, but it’ll keep it running, right?”
He shifts beside you, leaning back a little to your right. You glance over your shoulder to look at him. He looks rough — rougher than usual. With deep, dark smudges under his eyes, jaw shadowed with stubble, sweat-damp hair shoved back by grime-slicked gloves. His shirt clings to him nicely, collar darkened, skin shining faintly at his temples.
When he’s not your Arnie — he’s just… Arnold. Another overworked, undervalued, and majorly underpaid Fazbear Entertainment employee. You’re both long past the pretending-to-care-about-small-talk stage of your relationship now. You know him — really know him — in the kind of bullet-point way they’d skim through in a memorial slideshow. The kind Fazbear Entertainment will throw together when he inevitably gets blown up by some deranged animatronic tech… or worse.
Or maybe right now, if this generator decides to go out with a bang.
Even now, running on fumes, Arnold’s still got that unfair kind of tired-handsome — the kind that settles under your skin.
You watch as he sifts through his toolbox with the backs of his gloved fingers, then hands you the wrench. His fingertips brush yours — not clumsily or in a rush. Just warm. Intentional. He doesn’t pull his hand back. If anything, he leans in closer.
Because of his proximity, you’re able to catch the scent of him: sweat, motor oil, sun-baked cotton, and bitter coffee dusted with chocolate. It shouldn’t work together. But it does.
His voice softens again — low, quiet, edged with something deeper: “You’re getting the hang of it. Steady hands now, sweetheart.”
His words sink in like syrup — slow and sweet — curling up your spine as you find and flick the switch, conveniently labelled: FLICK ME.
“Oh, great,” you exasperate, throwing your hands up in the air, “nothing’s happening. I broke it, I think.”
Arnold doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches you — not casually. Not distracted. Maybe the only thing that should matter in his life right now.
How much longer could he keep pretending this dumb job mattered? Maybe it didn’t. Maybe it never had.
“Arnie? You okay?”
Then — a sputter. A metallic cough. One more stutter… and the generator catches. The engine growls to life, low and guttural, before settling into a steady, thrumming hum that vibrates through the floor and up your legs.
The lights flicker. Then hold.
The air floods with the sharp tang of fuel, scorched dust, and the smell of heat and motion — something that’s finally working the way it should.
Arnold smiles, and it’s that crooked, worn-out smile that you love.
“There we go,” reflexively, he chuckles, “knew you could do it.”
You laugh. “Well, I had the best teacher.”
Arnold half-snorts, half-scoffs, turning so that you’re both facing each other. “Flattery. Dangerous stuff.”
“Oh?” You blink up at him, all wide-eyed innocence. “So is standing this close.”
“I’m… I have to leave soon—”
You laugh, cutting him off as you rise onto your toes and press a kiss to his lips. He tastes bitter — like coffee and hesitation.
“I’m kidding,” you whisper against his mouth, close enough to feel the breath catch in his throat. You pull back slightly to thumb the oil, grease, or whatever off his cheek.
“Let me at least help clean your face before your shift,” you say, softer now. “You’re covered in oil.”
Arnold leans in to capture you in another kiss before you can pull away fully. Slow and deliberate, his hand slides gently up to cup the underside of your jaw as you part.
You blink, caught off guard, eyes searching his. You run your hands up the plane of his chest, head cocked to one side. “What was that for? Something at work been bothering you?”
He sighs. “Trust me, I don’t think you’d want to hear about that.”
“I do. I can handle it, whatever it is. You can tell me, Arnie.”
“I know, I know… and I love you, I really do,” he says suddenly. “But this job? It’s what’s standing between us. Between everything I want and what I have. That’s why I’m… I’m leaving — for real. After tonight. They’ll never see me again.”