Chapter Text
The alarm blares again and for a moment Gregory lets himself hope. Hope that he simply took a nap and that he and his friend are back investigating.
A meager thing really, like scrounged bottle glass from the floor coming apart to tear at his fingers. Instead of the neon skylight of the Pizzaplex he’s met with the muted grays of his room’s ceiling.
At least it’s not cardboard, a tired voice within muses, but it comes out too empty for Gregory’s taste.
First the comforter, then the blanket, only after can he heave himself out of bed. There’s still nausea from having a mattress at all, inches above the ground, instead of flesh openly in contact with the bitter tarmac.
The glossy black screen of the digital clock flashes a ‘6:00 AM’ in blood red, just as the purple night turns golden outside his window. He’d know, the sun had started peeking from the city’s hills in front of his very eyes after all.
And if that implies he hadn’t slept… Well, who can blame him? The dark circles lining his eyelids are an attendance to a sleeping schedule’s funeral. If children get ponies trotting above them in their slumber, Gregory has the luxury of mares marching on every inch of his scalp.
With a huff he pads his way out of the bedroom and down the stairs, making an effort to not wake the other occupant of the house. Far too easy really, being silent was tantamount to survival behind those looming doors and even before that he’d learned how to keep quiet to avoid adults’ pity.
There’s the guttering, choking, uttering sentiment of poison, venom, toxin in his throat. Even in a home supposedly his he’s a ghost, a phantom, a specter, a should’ve-been. He skips past the living room like nothing, ignoring the news channel at zero volume left on the entire night, ignoring the list of school supplies he’s supposed to buy, ignoring the divot on the loveseat.
The kitchen has him peer at the plywood cupboards up above, too far out of reach. An exasperated sigh escapes his lips as he pulls at a plastic blue stool contrasting the tenuous shades of the house like a sore smear, standing on tippy toes to scoop up the jar of chocolate powder.
No one his age should be standing near the crackle of gassed fire, but then again, ‘he isn’t in the records’ right? Stupid thoughts aside, he goes ahead and checks the pantry while the milk boils.
Umber brown eyes stare at the striped tiger mascot of a Frosted Flakes carton, imagining someone else’s face on it. Yeah, he’d totally pose like that, the dork.
An ungraceful snort later, Gregory finds himself with an obnoxiously yellow bowl of chocolate milk and cereal with a silver spoon chipped at the edge before him.
He can imagine his foster guardian’s chiding at how the contents barely reach half the cup. The drink’s warm and balming to the lips, the best breakfast he’s had for as long as he can remember, yet he can find no hunger sitting at the pulpit of his stomach. Not here among motes of dust fluttering in forlorn sunbeams and definitely not alone without an ursine companion to chat with.
A spike of frustration makes him snatch a granola bar and run up the steps to his bedroom’s walk-in closet, hurriedly slipping the stolen goods in the hidden seams of his pants just in case. It’s right there alongside pouches of dried fruits, nuts, jerky and a bar of dark chocolate littered in pockets he’s stitched himself.
Canned food is too noisy and requires tools to open, in his experience it’s simply not worth it. Tuna is probably the worst with how the fish oil gets everywhere when spilled.
Pennies and nickels clumsily piled together are a good enough alternative for now, last he’s counted them he can afford a bottle of water at the conbini with money to spare.
Eventually returning to his meal has him skip the hour in the blink of an eye, fifty-nine of the microwave’s digital clock turning into double digit zeroes. It’s been happening more and more frequently since that night, time slipping through his fingers like sand as he paces through entire days in his room like nothing.
Gregory would call it frightening, but he’s unfortunately made of sterner stuff. He might even find it a solace, blankly staring at the walls while safely tucked in the backyard of his mind, whenever it was friendly enough to accept him instead of tossing him under the gallop of the mares’ stable.
He could wait, stay firm in his seat and bide the minutes for Vanessa to come down, haphazardly jumbling some awkward discussion that would dance around unspoken topics with an understudy of a kid who’s never been a son and an excuse of a woman who never dreamed of being a mother.
He tries to find a reason ‘why’.
He fails.
(When the blonde comes down the stairs, a post-it note taped to the dishwashing machine, there’s no outward reaction but the downturn of a lip’s corner.)
The burning in his bones skids to a stop along the rest of his body, head swiveling to meet the stria of glass smattering every shop in the commercial district. The spotless pane mirrors him easily, showcasing a pale imitation of…
What exactly? He’s never been normal before, what changed now? The hazel of his eyes like wood in an orchard has set into the dusky maroon of a ravine pit, carved and swathed with eyebags reminiscent of a racoon. Brunet bangs curl at the ends like always, yet far more tousled than before.
If before he had a band-aid on his cheek, salmon pink against the pallor of his complexion, a new one now adorned the bridge of his nose.
(“Freddy!” He screamed as Chica gripped onto his ankle, too tight and sharp. The metal was cold and unforgiving, sending shivers across his spine like liquid nitrogen congealed in spoiled frosting, a belated ‘Happy Birthday’ as the dirtied animatronic pulled him down with her.
Stars danced in the back of his eyes thanks to the shock ringing across his cranium, his button nose slamming on the hinges of the trash compactor’s entrance, locking both prisoners inside with a reverberating boom. Gregory’s thoughts turned frantic and panicked, tears pricking at the edge of his eyelets warning ahead of his stammered out plea.
Then gravity made its course.)
A porpoise gray hoodie with Glamrock Freddy’s electric blue lightning streaking across it swallows his form, big and comforting. It reaches up to his palms and hides his trusty cobalt polo underneath, a trophy from the Prize Store. Beige khakis followed by red converse complete the ensemble.
Yet it isn’t the same. A part of him wants to bang on that window, demanding answers out of somebody. Maybe he’d do such a thing not too long ago.
Back when the only scars he had were the ugly violet and sickening green bruises on his back instead of the cuts on his elbows from Montgomery's claws.
Back when he didn't know the inside out of an endoskeleton and how to change its parts, wielding wrench and screwdriver alike.
Back when the only thing in his pocket was spare change, not a level 12 Security Pass.
Now he just turns away and carries on his trek, curving away from wandering glances and their owners alike, soles scuffing against the sidewalk’s pavement.
There’s no logic behind the destination, just an instinctual pull memorized through days endlessly spent following it. A path dug and marked with the passage of time, until Gregory knows he’s there with a devoting surety. The behemoths of concrete side to side with hubris-marred skyscrapers fade away to suburban brutalism and tended porches, until even those are nothing against the unmarked promenade of the wilds.
There’s pitfalls of course, ones he’s learned with time and effort. They are dodged or accounted for with pieces of driftwood as support, each a milestone to the end of the line.
It is a glade upon a hill and his first thought is: I don’t regret coming here at all, especially at dawn.
The luminescence hits the leaves in just the right way, an eidolon of the first time he and Freddy had been here. Tracing the steps of their travel, without heavy thuds of iron accompanying every footfall of rubber against dirt, leads him in front of a dogwood tree resplendent in all its picturesque beauty.
Its bark, racked with scales of hickory wood patterned like a honeycomb, is dewy to the touch. The branches fork outwards like a grasping hand, bare at the start then flowering at the edges in billows of soft pink thanks to its salverform petals.
Honey-colored chrysanthemums and roses both sprout at its roots, the light of the sky’s lone star mottling the morning grass in an universal hue of butterscotch yellow. It draws out Gregory’s breath all at once, as if it can coax every worry with a simple talk and a soothing embrace.
The clearing’s aura seems to wrap around his knees to make him lay for the earth, the charcoal cloth of his attire contrasting the tawny shades of the environment.
He could almost stay here forever, eyelashes drooping as they longingly search for the cracked panel of his Fazwatch wrapped around his wrist, red from hours spent rubbing over it in frustration whenever his friend couldn’t reach him.
He’d spent minutes choking down protests at every barb Roxanne had spitten, every you have no friends and I bet no one is looking for you challenging him to scream about the one good thing about that stupid megaplex.
The one good thing…
He kneads the dial affixed to the side of the wristwatch, thumb trembling. The hesitation is only polite, even as it bites deep whenever canines sit plush on his lower lip, drawing ichor, ichor and ichor. Even as his tongue licks behind his teeth before lolling against his cheek, smothering a groan of pain.
Then Gregory pushes the button, like many times in his life before this.
“Hello, superstar.” And oh, the boy thinks, this is what home feels like.
“H-hi, Freddy.” He stutters between syllables, a watering laugh bubbling and frothing in the cavern of his mouth. “It’s nice to hear from you again.”
“You too.” Freddy replies, as if it is a simple thing. Dogs bark and bay, cats meow and caterwaul, Freddy loves and destroys every wall Gregory has put up for years in his lonely life.
Quick to forgive him for sneaking inside his chest cavity that night, hasty to help in his escape. He doesn’t forget the way the bear had forgone his own battery to lead the kid to the first aid station, all out of worry.
Perhaps it is only right, as leader of the band, that he’s managed to hurt the brunette the most. Roxanne’s taunts, Chica’s mockery and Monty’s goading are no comparison to the spleen-aching melancholy cascading over Gregory’s heart at Freddy’s affections.
“I heard you’re going to school! Isn’t it exciting?” The honesty lilted in every vowel makes the brown-eyed kid’s shoulders droop low.
“I- Yeah, a little scary too.” Then, “It’s not the same without you.” He tacks on, an effort almost Sisyphean in its encumberment. Rarely does he let words bare his sternum so open, used to the quiet leaning over the animatronic’s legs or the tucking of his neck against the warm motors of the robot’s marsupial alcove.
“I am truly sorry, Gregory.” The ursine apologizes earnestly, applying the same timbre used over a disappointing Mr. Hippo fridge magnet.
“It’s,” He can’t really say fine, but what else can ease Freddy’s worries? “manageable.” He attempts, the term heard from Vanessa while sneaking past her patrol routes mid-ranting, it seems like the right word in this situation.
“I will recover my full body eventually. Even if I cannot be seen in public, I’ve brainstormed an idea!” The excitement lacing his voice is infectious, and Gregory lets himself be pulled in despite everything. Odd socks are the ones they fill, the human boy distrustful and skeevish whereas the robot bleeds a heart he does not possess with resourcefulness to boot.
“You want to know?” He instantly nods before flushing his face in embarrassment knowing the other couldn't exactly see him.
“Yeah, I do!” The glee in his chest carries over to his feet, pit-pattering against the crunching grass blades.
“Are you sure? I can't hear you!” Pouting, Gregory's eyes roll at the display of showmanship. Freddy or not, he is still a rockstar of the stage, he'd do the same thing now in front of an impatient audience.
“Of course you can!” The grin pulling at his gums just isn't there, okay? “C'mon, tell me!”
“Oh! Alright then! I'm sure you remember the Fazwatch you're using right now! Among the many dispensable uses I withhold such as cake delivery for birthday parties, I can also distribute souvenirs!”
The brunette's knee bounces over and over as he keeps a tight lid on an incoming protest, cheekbone squished against the square panel of the Fazwatch.
“I happen to have a teddy bear version in my likeness! It has a spot inside to fit a voice box in! All we'll need is to place a radio inside and you'll be able to bring me everywhere!”
“Uh—” He chokes down the instinctual response that overcomes him. Of course, he was too old for plushies according to other kids but… he also doesn't recall ever having them before.
It is for Freddy.
“That's great.” Again, with more confidence. “That's great.”
“Gregory, is something wrong?” The animatronic asks, picking up on the unreadability in the child's cords.
“No!” He rebuts all too quickly, “Just, you know, you're gonna need Vannnnnessa's help for something like that.” If Freddy notices the slip in his tone, he does not show it.
“Of course. Is she bothering you?” That isn't the answer the boy expected, but then again it's Freddy. He's the best at being an exception.
“She's—” He debates internally for a moment if he can use the f-word, before deciding anyone coming on this hill was worthy of the title. “Fine, it's just weird.”
“Good weird or bad weird? Or bad bad weird?”
Gregory snickers, “I think, I think it's a good weird.” He reassures, back of his head lolling against the dogbark tree's trunk.
“And that's a good good thing, or a good bad thing?” There is something playful in the band leader's sentence that makes the night's survivor chortle all over again.
“You lost me,” The brown-eyed boy whines, “I don't know what we're talking about anymore.”
“That's a shame, ireallywantedtoknowwhoneededatalkingto.”
“What?”
“What?”
Before the kid can further express his confusion, the bear barrels past the conversation with the grace of an ice cream truck on a Sunday morning.
“I can't wait for you to meet new friends! Maybe you'll even introduce me to them!” Despite his doubts over finding anyone to connect with, Gregory can't bring himself to disappoint his friend so he just chirps out a 'mhm' in agreement.
“Perhaps we could find the Exclusive Edition Fazbear Baby, to teach all young kids how to take care of toddlers! I hear they have a very sharp palate for different types of food, I would love to taste something!” Gregory imagines a future him patting the back of a baby bear to coax out a burp and wrinkles his nose in disgust.
“Can't you already taste food? Chica seemed to, since she loves pizza and everything.” Memories of the Pizzaplex's delivery service come to mind. If making the famous dish is so easy, he can try cooking it at Vanessa's house? And Freddy can help, surely he knows a thing or two—
“She, uh, also ate garbage. Of course, she's still my friend, regardless of her taste preferences!” The boy reserves the heat at the roof of his mouth for something else.
Definitely not the voice box he'd ripped out of that chicken for her siren tune, mentions of family and friends alike akin to pristine outlines of removed picture frames highlighted by dusty wallpaper.
The worst part is that he's sure Freddy means it.
“Your friends are strange, Freddy.” He decides with the confidence of youth.
“Thank you! I am glam for all of them.” The brunette runs over the others’ words until the equivalent of a Princess Quest Game Crash makes him do a double-take.
“You mean 'glad'?” The pain in his voice is almost palpable, yet hopeful.
“No! Glam!” Goodbye hope. The boy visibly deflates, dramatically rubbing at his eyelids while picking at the corners of his plasters, speaking out the dreaded question.
“Because you're Glamrock Freddy?”
“That's right! I believe I've just landed what is called a 'dad' joke.”
“Ew, no. Please stop.” He mimes the universal gesture for a ‘cut it out’ motion, exasperation trailing every movement.
“I know you like it!”
“No I don't!”
“Do!”
“Do not!”
“You do, superstar!”
Ack— Let it be known Glamrock Superstar Freddy Fazbear is a dirty cheater who cheats with his silly nicknames Gregory just so happens to really really like.
“Fine, you win.” Honorably, he admits defeat like a soldier coming home from a languid and prosaic war, wounded beyond repair.
“And?”
“Eh? What else?” The brunette blinks twice, jaws left gaping.
“Come ooon! I know you can do it!” Realization hits him like a high-peak wavelength careening across an electrocardiogram, stomach suddenly weighing like a badly made Lindlar catalyst.
“I-” He chews through every inflection, drawing out the diction to buy time.
“Youwinpapabear!” Panic shoots through his system as he butts the heel of his palm on the watch’s knob, ending the call while cutting out Freddy's congratulatory cheer. Instead of calming him it spikes the anxiety further up.
It’s only the ringtone of the brick-like (“It’s a Nokia, indestructible brick for many uses.”) cellphone Vanessa has all but shouldered him with that breaks apart his thoughtstorm.
“Video killed the Radio Star!”
In a perfect world, Gregory would be loudly complaining about the god-awful tune coming off the car’s radio. Instead, he’s happy for it, making the quietude hanging between them less awkward.
“Video killed the Radio Star!”
The tires thrum against the asphalt while the city’s residential district moves past the both of them. The vista is monotone and disheartening, making him cast a darting glimpse towards the other occupant of the vehicle.
“In my mind and in my car.”
A pastel blue button-up followed by black denim trousers, not so dissimilar to the palette of the guard uniform. The woman’s looking straight up ahead, if Gregory didn't know any better he’d call her steadfast. The tapping of her right forefinger on the steering wheel betrays that perception, however.
“We can’t rewind, we’ve gone too far.”
“What would you like for lunch?” She offers as an olive branch. It starts wilting the moment oxygen gets to nip at it. The car deodorant is in the shape of a whale with the brand ‘Whale Song’ written in bright white sharpie across it, bought from an 'Omega Store' in Vanessa’s words.
The brunette gives a noncommittal shrug, neutral and easy to produce, finding the dangling whale to be more interesting.
“I don’t want to buy the wrong thing and, you’re moving up fast. I think, you should treat yourself with school on the horizon, no?”
“Pictures came and broke your heart.”
His brows furrow as he leans closer to the door’s window, cheek almost flattening against the windowpane. Vanessa is still focused on the street, back more hunched than before with shamrock green irises almost twitching in place.
“Put the blame on VCR!”
She looks predatory at this angle, enough for him to go back to that catwalk. To holding that english key tight in his fingers and having his ears strained for softened footsteps, for crazed scarlet eyes and rotten buck teeth.
“You are a radio star!”
Then again, he just told Freddy things were good between them. He doesn’t want to add more lies to their relationship.
Gregory’s also very stubborn. Eventually, one of the two sides wins out.
“I don’t know much about food, s’all.” He doesn’t comment on just why exactly a kid his age has no idea what the grocery brands are. They both know the answer.
“Hm, I could, teach you?” The question in her tone removes all the appeal and it must’ve shown on his face, “Not like that. I mean, with cooking. You seem, good with machines. That could translate with the kitchen too.
You could give it a try?” Give it a try, is her proposal word for word. He doesn’t want to, she isn’t Freddy, he wants to be petty and look the other way but if it’s for his friend then…
Well, Gregory would do just about anything.
“Okay.” And maybe it’s an okay for something more than that, for many other things. But it’s a start.
“Okay.” Vanessa agrees, understanding.