Chapter Text
Steven worriedly checks himself over in the car mirror, fixing his hair so it doesn't hang in front of his face and gathering up as much as he can be bothered to. He's got too much hair, and as much as he likes the way it makes him look, it's also really annoying sometimes.
The top half gets pulled back into a high ponytail, leaving only his bangs to frame his face and the lower to hang down his back. The newer growth is noticeably darker, untouched by sun, so he adjusts how tightly his hair is pulled back to cover the awkward line of darker hair and scalp where he’d split upper from lower.
His eyeliner is good, hardly noticeable but enough to make him look better, hopefully he won't get called a slur. Concealer is hiding his eyebags… well enough. Not perfectly, unfortunately, but well enough that unless someone is looking, they won't notice.
Clothes are fine, simple white button up with the nicest black pants he owns, which work well enough to hide any oil stains. Which, unfortunately, did not get covered by concealer on his hands. It speaks to his experience, or something, surely.
He really hopes so. He spent half an hour last night trying to rub the stains out of his skin and all he got for it was irritated red areas he had to carefully avoid.
Something is missing though. He knows something is missing. He needs to get an actual job, and according to every tip he's ever gotten, he needs to look good. He left in his earrings and angel bites, so he's not missing any gold, and either way his glasses are gold.
…Fuck, that's what it is!
He pats down his pockets, silently cursing to himself until he checks the passenger seat and sighs, relieved. If he had forgotten his bandana, if he had lost it, he probably would've cried right here right now.
He ties the deep red fabric around his neck, not bothering with trying to hide the oil spots, though he does adjust his hair to cover up the smear on his cheek he’s yet to manage to get rid of.
That should be good. He takes a deep breath, smiling to himself in the mirror and, upon being reminded of the missing tooth and the chipped one beside it, decides to try and keep his mouth shut– something that probably won't last long. Stuffing his keys in his pocket, he debates for a moment over grabbing his bag before deciding against it. If he gets the job, he'll head back out and get it, if not… whatever.
He can find work elsewhere, he's sure. Freddys is just his best bet, and he gets paid… an alright amount. And it's not too far away.
“Just go in,” he mumbles to himself, “you’ll get the job. Bad things don't happen to me.” They do. He knows, logically, he's just gotten lucky, and that's bound to run out soon, but bad things don't happen to him.
Steven opens the car door and steps out, adjusting how his shirt is tucked into his pants, and turns his head up to look at the sign. A bear, a rabbit, and a bird. An odd selection, in his opinion, but they were playing off Fredbears. The bird is a strange addition, though, especially with an option like a fox or something.
Or maybe he's just biased. He walks towards the door, pulling it open and stepping into the quiet restaurant. 8am interview, they’d told him, before the day starts, so if he gets hired he has time to learn what he needs to do from one of the other workers.
Upon entering, a bell above the door jingles, loud and annoying. He hopes he won't have to hear that every day, but he gets the feeling he will. The building is dark, too, and for a moment he worries he's in the wrong place, before a figure steps out from down a hallway and the lights flick on.
“Hello, hello! My apologies, I forgot you were coming today, it's my first day on my own here,” they say, mechanical voice grinding on his ears. He blinks a few times, watching them shift and wave at him.
That's…
Huh.
His interviewer has a phone for a head.
And a tail.
Immediately, he wonders what would happen if he stepped on it. That's not what he should do right now though, so he straightens up and shifts uncomfortably, unsure what to say.
“It's, ah, fine. I mean, I do think I'm a bit early.” After a second, he holds out his hand, watching the… man? Phone? Watching them startle before taking his hand and shaking it with a small nod.
“Well, it's– it's better you be early than late! My name is Scott Cawthon, the interview will be easy, I've just gotta ask you a few questions,” Scott explains, looking around for a moment before just shaking their head and returning to looking at him.
Aside from the immediate shock of seeing somebody with a phone for a head, he actually finds he quite likes it. That might also just be them in general, it might look a bit more awkward on someone shorter. The head shape just… feels like it's for someone tall.
“So, you're applying to be a mechanic– first off, what's your name and date of birth?” Steven hums, leaning on the table just behind him and glancing to the side. He's 21, it's 1966… Shit, he was never good at math…
“Steven Stevenson, June 21st, 1945,” he answers, after an embarrassingly long time. Scott nods, dial spinning, before they tilt their head and wave their tail. He doesn't understand what any of that means, but it's hopefully positive.
“Good, good! Any criminal past I should know about?” Hm. This one is a bit more difficult.
He is still, technically, a missing person. Actually, legally, he's not entirely sure he's alive. He's also not sure “Steven Stevenson” has a birth certificate. Or legally exists. All of his identification is fake.
Scott stares at him as he opens and closes his mouth a few times, forcing an uncomfortable smile onto his face, painfully aware of the missing tooth and the chipped ones beside it. It would seem his original idea of keeping his mouth shut isn't working very well.
“No sir! I've never even thought of committing any crimes.” He gets the distinct feeling the head tilt and the click he gets is the equivalent of a suspicious eyebrow raise, but he doesn't acknowledge that, and eventually gets a slow nod.
“Good. Would you mind if I got your fingerprint?” Ah.
“They're gone,” he blurts out, clenching his hands into fists, “I, uh, burnt all ten of my fingers on a fire when I was younger. Nobody told me about, y’know, fire safety or anything, and I thought it looked cool.” Not entirely false. He did burn his fingers on a fire when he was younger. It was just intentional.
Scott clicks and leans forward, very intently inspecting Steven, who leans back. This was a horrible idea, he should really just go back to Norms shop, or back to doing random jobs for whoever needs them. Who needs a stable income? Certainly not someone who legally isn't real.
“Y-you know what, that's probably for the better,” What “Just sign this here for me, and I'll call in one of my other employees to show you what your job is going to be.” What.
Steven blinks, taking the paper that's shoved into his hand and watching Scott watch him.
He supposes Freddys was a good idea. If that's the type of question he got asked, he doubts he would've been hired anywhere else. Even getting hired here seems really strange. Regardless, he holds up the paper, lifting his glasses and holding it closer to his face before tilting his head at it and holding it out again.
He needs a new prescription soon. Really badly.
Steven scans the page, quickly reading the important stuff. Just looks like his hours and some basic stuff that he thinks comes with being a mechanic working on complex machinery, similar to what he made the few people whose cars he worked on sign, just as a precaution.
Pulling a pocket knife out, he cuts open a small hole to his pocketspace, grabbing his favourite pen before shutting it again. His signature is messy and hardly comprehensible, but it's on the paper, so he hands it back and clips the pen to his shirt pocket. Scott takes it, looks it over, then folds it up and nods.
“Well then, welcome to Fazbenders, Employee! I’ll call in our old ‘mechanic’, they'll show you everything you need to know, and at any point before ten rolls around, come get your uniform and nametag,” they explain, grabbing and shaking Stevens hand before turning on their heel and walking away, cord tail waving behind them.
…Huh.
He feels like he really, really should not have gotten that job. He scratches at his still growing in beard, looking around at the main room, something he hadn't properly done. It's what he'd expect, shitty plastic tablecloths with tacky patterns draped over all the tables, uncomfortable looking chairs, buzzing lights.
Absolutely horrible. The arcade, at least what he can see of it, doesn't look too bad. The stage, where he assumes he's going to need to go quite a few times, is probably the best built part, and even then he can see the spots where the lights are falling apart. He’ll give that a quick fix, since if those lights fall on the animatronics, he has to assume it won't be fun for him.
Right! He turns, speed walking out to his car and grabbing his bag. Much more than just his tools, but if, say, the apocalypse were to happen, then Steven would be more prepared than most. He hauls it over his shoulders, adjusting the modified straps until it's comfortable and rushing back inside.
Uniform and nametag. He doubts those are ready yet, but it can't hurt to check. First thing in the way of that– actually finding the office. Logically, it's going to be down the hallway his new boss walked down, so after a moment of pause he trails off behind where they'd gone.
He should update Jake. He can do that tonight, of course, when he gets back to his shitty little second floor apartment, but for now he can't. He wonders if he could use Scotts head to call his boyfriend…
That's a strange thought. Why is he thinking that? Why does he want to see what Scott would do if he grabbed their handset? Oh, shit, this reminds him of how he felt when he met Jake except this time it's his boss and also maybe an animatronic.
…Ah, well, surely this won't last that long. He’ll get over it soon enough.
…What was he doing?
Right! Office. He needs his uniform and stuff. He checks the watch in his bag, noting that it's already 8:15, and makes his way to the office door. With a quick knock, it's opened, and Scott tilts their head at him.
After a few seconds of uncomfortable staring, they both go to say something at once, both stopping as soon as they notice the other wants to speak. Then it's back to another moment of silence.
…They are really pretty. He wonders if that tail of theirs has any feeling in it–
“So!” he blurts out, forcing himself to stop thinking, “When abouts do you think my uniform and nametag will be ready? I don't want to forget them, y’know?” Scott clicks, shaking themself off from where they'd jumped back slightly, before motioning for him to come in. He does, because he's pretty sure he doesn't actually have a choice. That's how bosses work, he thinks. Or at least, Norm would always either drag him around or he would just listen.
“It's ready now. You had to put your measurements on the initial application, and the tag is easy enough to make,” they explain, opening a few drawers before pulling out a surprisingly nicely folded blue button up and black slacks. The shirt has black shoulder pads and a Fazbenders patch on the left arm, and the pants are just that, pants.
“Thanks, sir,” he says, taking the clothes with a nod and smiling slightly at them. They tilt their head and click back, before waving him away, turning back to the papers on the desk and doing… something. Probably.
Steven doesn't care. He does care about finding somewhere to change, though. The staffroom would be his best bet, but he isn't sure where it is. Just check every room in order until he finds what he needs to, he supposes.
First off, on the other side of the stage from the entrance to the building. He hums as he walks over, clothes held in his arms, because he doesn't much feel like opening up his pocketspace or his bag. Plus, as nice of a bag as it is, he doubts it could fit much more stuff comfortably.
The room he walks into is pretty small– there's a counter across the entire room about a third of the way in that makes it even smaller, too, though there's a slightly more open area at one end, where a large present box with a crank on the side, letting out a quiet stream of music, replaces the counter. Just enough space to fit somewhat easily between the wall and the prize counter– which, that's clearly what it is, toys and candies lining the walls in the other part of the room.
Damn, some of the prices are wild. Either that, or faztokens are really easy to get. 25 tokens for a colouring page seems a bit much. There is a plushie that catches his attention– a fox, an eyepatch over one eye, a hook on one hand, and a long, if rather flat, pirate coat. Steven considers jumping over the counter and taking a look at it, but manages to hold himself back, turning around.
Next room. Same wall as the office hallway, and even from here he can tell the inside is filled with bright yellows and blues. Upon stepping inside, the walls are light blue, though the bottoms are wavy, pale yellow with darker dots scattered across it, which is the same colour the floor is painted. If the beach-like painting of the wall and floor didn't make it clear enough, the pirate ship cutout in the corner does.
Taking another look, there's seagulls and clouds in the “sky”, shells painted onto the “sand”– it's a shockingly well made room, and while it takes a few seconds, he spots a stage proudly displaying a, surprisingly enough, short fox animatronic. It's got an eyepatch on one eye, a hook for a hand, a long pirate captain coat, and the stage is circled by starry purple curtains.
Steven steps closer, tilting his head and realizing that, even with the stage, he's barely below eye level with the thing. Huh. Either the animatronic is really short– at least, compared to the others– the stage is really short, or both. It seems like both.
It's a good animatronic. Better than the three main ones. He wonders why this one is confined to its own stage. Or maybe it's more of a… it's special? It is the only one on its stage right now, the other three are somewhere else.
Ah, whatever. Steven gives it a pat on the arm and turns. There can't be many more rooms than this, and the kitchen is obvious enough he won't accidentally walk into it, he already spotted the arcade when he first got here–
The next room has to be either the staff room or the bathrooms. Just by process of elimination. He steps into the hallway, looking around the corner. This hallway looks promising, just judging by the signs on the wall beside two doors. The bathrooms, one for girls, one for boys.
Right.
Maybe he should change in the staff room. He still struggles with trying to pick the right gender to go into sometimes, and right now happens to be one of those times. The fact it's a restaurant almost definitely doesn't help. He turns on his heel instead of continuing to stare blankly at the two openings, approaching a rather menacing looking metal door instead.
It reads Staff Only in bold letters on top, so he has to assume this is the staff room. Walking in, it's a depressingly gray box with a couple of tables and a few coat hangers on the wall. Steven cocks his hip, tilting his head to the same side his weight shifts to and just… looking.
Exposed pipes on the ceiling, a powerbox with little to no protection, hanging half open, a bunch of shelves with boxes, some tables, and of course, some incredibly unsettling suits. Because why wouldn't they have incredibly unsettling fursuits in the staff room?
He sighs, the realization that a company that has those will probably make him go outside of what he signed up for and make him wear one hitting him. If he needs to, he hopes at least that it's the rabbit. If he can't wear a fox fursuit, a rabbit is his next best, but also why would he get that lucky.
Well, of course. Bad things don't happen to him. That wouldn't really be bad, though, just annoying, and annoying things happen to him all the time.
Whatever. There isn't a changing area, so he just shoves himself in a corner and hopes nobody walks in while he switches into his uniform.
And nobody does! Wonderful.
Now what.
Well, now he searches for each and every weak point that could possibly cause anything to ruin his only reassurance of bad things don't happen to him and either fixes it and ignores it until one in the morning and then cries over it. Which means he needs to check his toolbox yet again to ensure all of his tools are exactly where and how they should be.
He hops up onto one of the tables, crossing his legs, slipping off his bag, and turning to pull out his beloved toolbox. Red with black trims, scuffed and dented to hell and back, two sets of initials– his own, a clear S.S in sharp, scratchy letters, and Norms, a slightly more faded N.A in similarly harsh font– scratched onto the top of the case.
He fiddles with the latch for a second, before it comes undone, and he opens up the box with a quiet creak. Then, slowly, he takes out each of his tools, sorting them out on the table by type. Various screwdrivers, two regular wrenches, a set of hex keys, pliers that can be reversed into wire cutters, his lockpicking set– which does not belong in there, and he tucks that where it's supposed to be– and some miscellaneous screws and nuts and bolts that fell out of his current very shitty holder for them.
The screws are then sorted by length and type, and he starts putting them back where they belong, frowning at how many were just scattered over the bottom of the box. At least he knows what was making that rattling sound whenever he moved his bag.
For now, he reaches for the bandages in another part of his bag, and the tape nearby them, taping down a shoddy cover. That's going to get in his way– what of he needs to do something quickly? What if things are falling apart and he needs a screw or a bolt? What if, what if–
He takes off and–
No, but, if they're scattered under the rest of his tools he'll be even slower. He, very hesitantly, places the bandage back over it.
It's ok. It will be ok. Bad things don't happen to him.
He has nothing to worry about.
Pliers on the bottom, hex keys there too, then wrenches sorted by size, then screwdrivers sorted by both size and head type. Perfect. Good enough, more like, but eh.
He pins the bandages so they won't unravel and places them where he got them, then the tape, right back where it's supposed to be, so he always knows where it is. He pauses, before shutting the toolbox and latching it shut, stuffing it into his bag. Shut the bag again, and now…
Now what? Now he would start looking for things, but the person training him should be here soon. He hopes so, at least, he's a little bit sick of waiting. Sure, it's only been maybe twenty minutes since he got here, but there is nothing else to do.
He could scrounge around for tokens, maybe? But he's sure he'll get enough playing and working on the arcade machines. He only really wants that plushie, after all.
Sighing, he lays down across the table, putting his head on his bag as a shitty pillow.
…He kind of wants to talk to his boss more. Scott seemed interesting, and he's already wondering in the back of his mind what their cord or tail would feel like. To him or to them. They seem to have a human body, but they produced an odd sound that didn't quite sound the same as electricity– less of a buzz and more of a whirr, like fans.
That would make sense, actually. But he didn't see any fans on their head– torso, then? They must have most of their mechanics in there, which would make sense. And they must have some mechanics because their tail needs to have a purpose and there isn't enough room in their head for a battery alongside everything needed to make a phone work and whatever they have that lets them think.
Think– maybe feel? Are they technically an animatronic? Is it even a technicality? If they are, are they pure AI? Is their skin synthetic or real? Muscle? No matter what, he realizes he's spoken to them for maybe a minute total and met them literally twenty minutes ago, and yet they've already consumed his mind.
This is just like Jake.
It's just because they're a marvel of machinery. What mechanic wouldn't be interested in them– in how they work, not– no. He has a boyfriend. He's not poly. Jake is, he isn't. Right?
…It's not like Jake would care.
This is absurd. This is entirely unnecessary. He met them twenty minutes ago, they are his boss, he does not know their pronouns, and he hasn't even had a full conversation with them.
Guh. He covers his face with his hands, groaning and pushing up his glasses to rub at his eyes, when the door slams open.
“Hello there!~ New guy, where– there ya are!” Steven stares blankly at the… person? that just walked in, blinking a few times and wondering if he's certain he's awake right now. Because people aren't purple. Either this is a really odd makeup choice, Steven is hallucinating, or he's still asleep.
“Aw, don't gimme that look! Scotty said ya were normal w’ him!” He opens his mouth, but they don't give him the time to speak, continuing on, “I'm tha one trainin’ ya– Henry’d be better, he’s better at mechanics ‘nd shit, but ‘e said he’d rather kill ‘imself than train “another dumbass like you”!”
That's– a lot to process. He turns, sliding off the table and taking a slow step forward. The other is… tall. Even to Steven, they're tall, and maybe that wouldn't be so weird if he'd met more than maybe one other person taller, and that was by an inch, if even. Not half a foot.
They sling their arm around his shoulders, leaning down to do so, and grin uncomfortably widely at him. He gives a strained smile back, ducking and stepping away, trying to make it look as if he was just grabbing his bag as he keeps a healthy distance between them. Touch like that can wait, and they seem all too eager to ignore any sort of discomfort he’d get.
“Steven,” he greets, “he/him. It's… nice to meet you.” He picked this job at this place so the only thing he'd have to deal with is children. If this is his coworker, he has nowhere he can go that won't have them. This is horrible news for him.
“Dave Miller! They/them!” they exclaim, grabbing one of his hands from where he's fiddling with the straps of his bag and hurriedly shaking it, either not noticing or willfully ignoring how his entire body tenses up at the contact. They don't let go of his hand, pulling him along, and he fiddles with his piercings, pressing down on them with his tongue in hopes for even a little bit of a distraction.
It doesn't work well. They're holding his hand far too tightly. They drag him to a door clearly labeled Backstage, Staff Only and open it up, pulling him in and clicking on a light. He notes the three signature animatronics sitting there, and tries to pull his hand free to step forward. They don't let him go.
“Here's yer animatronics! Yer gonna be workin’ on ‘em tha most. If they aren't on stage, they're gonna be back here, and…” Steven stares at them, tuning out the words, trying to wait for a break in what they're saying as his arm is pulled around, because they decided letting go of it isn't important, even when they're waving their arms around as they speak.
Is this what he feels like to people he meets? He really hopes not. He really hopes not. He can't be this bad– he would like to think he's pretty good, actually! He doesn't just grab people, at least.
They pull his arm hard enough to make his entire body move with it, and that feels like a good enough reason to kick their foot out from under them, yanking himself out of their hold as they fall. He rubs his hand, frowning and wiping it off on his bandana, glaring down at them and, hesitantly, bending down to help them up.
“Don't grab me like that. Keep yer hands t’ yerself,” he snaps one they're standing, fixing his glasses and taking a good sized step to the side. They look… genuinely upset, their odd, elf-like ears drooping and their hands coming up for them to uncomfortably fiddle with them in front of their chest, and he keeps his eyes averted so the guilt won't come.
“W-well, tha, uh, tha animatronics are back here usually,” they repeat, noticeably less energetic. Steven feels like he kicked a puppy. “Yer work is simple– ya just do a check each mornin’, if somethin’ looks wrong, ya fix it. Ya prob’ly won't know what ta do most o’ tha time, these things are complex, so come ta me or Henry.” He nods stiffly, stepping forward and kneeling down in front of the rabbit first.
“I’ll stay o’er here, if ya get lost, lemme know.” Steven nods again, unsure where to start, but the most obvious thing is probably taking off the casing. There's a tape player to his left, and a bunch of tapes, so he makes the reasonable assumption one of those will have what he needs.
One is labeled Bonnie, one Freddy, one Chica. The rest all seem unimportant. He takes the Bonnie one and puts it in, setting the tape to play as he removes and puts down his bag. The player starts with a click, and a slightly staticky– though oddly more human– version of Scotts voice filters through.
“Hello, hello! So, Bonnie needs a repair, and you aren't sure what to do? Well, I’ll explain everything you need to know in this tape. Like how to take off the casing, and I'm sure you can figure out the rest.” He should damn well hope so. He can feel Dave's eyes boring into his back, and it's making him itchy.
“For the head, first remove the eyes,” Steven does just that, reaching in, and they just… pop out. Interesting. “Then, there should be a button on either side of the jaw, press both,” It takes him a moment to find them, but once he finds one, the second is easy enough. They click quietly in the moment of quiet in the tape. The faceplate flips up, and he hates to admit it scares the shit out of him.
Dave laughs quietly. He pretends not to hear it as he pauses the tape and readjusts himself, before pressing play again.
“Now that the faceplate is up, you should be able to access everything you need! Pause the tape, and go ahead and do any repairs.” Really? Well, he's not really complaining. The first thing he checks is the ears, grabbing one and gently moving it back and forth. It seems fine, but when he repeats it with the other one, it feels loose, unable to even stand up straight.
Pulling out and opening his toolbox, he turns the rabbits head to see what, exactly, he's going to need. Luckily, it seems like one of his wrenches should be the right size, and if not, his pliers have never failed him as a makeshift wrench. He pulls out the smaller one, holding the ears straight with his right hand as his left tightens the bolt.
Once he lets go and the ear stays in place, he assumes it's good enough, placing down the tool and taking both ears, making sure they move the same amount. They do. The jaw, another joint, is the next most obvious thing, but it seems fine when he tests it. Squeaks a bit, so some oil probably couldn't hurt, but he doesn't keep oil on him and he's kept his hands clean enough that it's not worth it to try and just smear some on from a different joint.
He doubts the animatronic can see, but then again, Scott is in their office, able to speak and think and see. Whether or not they're an animatronic– which might be preferable over the idea that they're a human who was recycled and had all of their organs and head replaced– doesn't really matter, they're still an incredibly impressive show of machinery that could surely be duplicated onto the animatronics.
Ah, whatever. Not important. He presses play again on the recorder and follows the instructions to put the face back on– literally the same steps, just in reverse. He replaces the eyes, double checks that everything is in place, then triple checks, then tells himself he doesn't need to check again and continues.
“The arm, leg, and ear casing will all just slide off if you find you need to adjust anything within any of those limbs. I recommend you just bend all those, if any are loose or tight then take off the casing and fix it.” Alright. He checked the ears, but not the arms or legs. He grabs the left arm, bending it at the shoulder, then elbow, then wrist, then each of the fingers. A few of the fingers could use a bit of oil, but otherwise they seem fine.
Right arm, repeat, everything seems fine aside from a couple finger joints again. Nothing a really quick loosening or tightening can't fix, and when he checks again, it's all good. He repeats that with the legs, and luckily there are far less joints that could be messed up this time, and it turns out none of them are. Perfect.
“As for the torso, first remove Bonnie's outfit.” That would make sense, yeah. He unclips the bowtie and pulls it off, then slips off either suspender strap, letting those hang to the side. He doubts he actually has to take off the pants, so he just undoes the buttons of the shirt and takes it off, placing it to the side.
“Now, there's a latch at the bottom. I found it difficult to unlatch with my hands, so you may want to jam a screwdriver in there and use that like a lever.” Huh. It seems obvious now that he thinks of it for longer than half a second that the latch would be too difficult to open without tools. Kids and all that.
He grabs one of his bigger screwdrivers, because he’s not a strong person and needs all the help he can get, and after searching through the fur for a few seconds, stuffs it into the latch and puts his weight on it.
The stomach opens with nothing but a small click, and he relaxes, trying to catch his breath as he lifts the metal the rest of the way. Everything is still right now, which makes sense, and with a click of the tape to tell him what to check, he starts.
The voicebox is in place, the spine seems stable, and there's no obvious structural worries, so he shuts the chest cavity and redresses the rabbit, fluffing up the cheek fur and making sure the shirt sits flat, picking up both hands to adjust the way the fur sits at the sleeve cuff on the upper arm, and finishes it with a quick fix for the thicker tuft of fur at the neck and cleaning up the tail.
Taking out the tape, he steps back, smiling proudly at his work. He can still feel Dave's eyes on him, and tries to shake off the feeling, though it doesn't work very well.
Now to repeat it with both the other animatronics here. He looks up at the clock– 8:50, it says. He’s got basically three hours to finish these, and that only took thirty minutes. He’ll be good.
Steven hums happily as he fixes Chicas ““hair””, making sure it sits right before moving onto spacing out her lashes to look nice. He can't do anything with her skirt until she's standing, but he can get way too focused on her feathers and making sure they sit right.
“Why d’ya do that?” Dave asks, still leaning against the wall. He looks over, tilting his head as he messes with the collar of her shirt for the millionth time. They frown, staring at him, before making a vague motion to the animatronics.
“Yer like… dressin’ ‘em up. They ain’t human, y’know, they aren't gonna get up ‘nd thank ya.” What an interesting take. He wonders if Dave has ever experienced joy.
“I find it fun. There's no harm in making them look nice. I think it's better to imagine a what if, what if they are human. What if, for some odd reason, there's– I dunno– vengeful children's souls in them or something. What if I dress them up and take care of them, and when the robot revolution starts they spare me?” he explains, finishing with Chicas sleeves and shuffling to the side to start on Freddy.
Dave huffs, and he can feel the way their eyes narrow on the back of his head, unnerving and uncomfortable. Steven hates how intently they're examining him. He distracts himself by putting Freddy's tape into the player, letting Scotts voice fill the room and following the instructions.
“How d’ya know there's gonna be a robot revolution? Why would we make machines that can do that?” Dave asks during a pause in Scotts instructions. Steven hums, ready for it when Freddys face flips up after doing this with both Chica and Bonnie.
“Unintended things happen all the time. Just because you're not planning to doesn’t mean shit won't happen,” he points out, checking both of Freddys ears like he did Bonnies. He can hear Dave go to talk, but he isn't done, so he raises a hand in a stop motion as he tries to gather his thoughts.
“Look at our boss, even if he isn't fully mechanical, there's no way there's room for a brain and everything for a rotary phone in his head. The fact that someone like that can be created– can function well enough to run a restaurant– it’ll only advance from there,” he rambles, “And eventually, they'll get tired of us and our shitty human bodies and our shitty human needs, and they'll take over.”
The room is quiet for long enough for Steven to finish his checks on Freddys head. He clicks play on the tape again, and Scotts staticky, happy voice cuts through the slightly uncomfortable air in the room.
“Ya kinda jus’ sound like ya wanna be a robot,” they say. He blinks, turning to look at them as he shuts the faceplate, frowning and tilting his head. They shrug, leaning back further against the table they’d been leaning against this entire time.
He has no idea where they got that from, honestly. Though, now that he's heard it, he can't deny there's truth in it. He wouldn't mind being mechanical, the comfort in knowing he could fix anything wrong with him. He could open up chest and replace the rusted parts, wouldn't have to worry about organ failure or heart attacks or any other solely human issue, he would…
Yeah, no, he thinks he would actually quite like it if he were a machine. Maybe outwardly human, so he can experience the world normally, but aside from that, it seems better than being organic.
He hums, shrugging, and they sit in silence for the twenty minutes it takes him to finish with Freddy. Steven tidies up the bear's outfit, fixes his fur, then latches shut his toolbox and puts it back in his bag. He goes back to look over each of the animatronics, making sure everything looks right and their clothes look good, before nodding and turning to Dave.
“We oughta wind up tha music box. If ya wanna check tha latches or whatever on it too, go fer it,” they say, standing up straight and leading him to the prize counter again. They walk behind it, and Steven follows, snatching a shitty, though shiny, fake ring without either of them noticing.
Dave reaches down, grabbing the crank and winding up the box very quickly, like they're in a rush for some reason. The music restarts, the pleasant tune something that he can already tell will get stuck in his head, and he steps forward.
When he goes to open the box though, Daves panicked hand grabs his wrist, stopping him in his tracks. He narrows his eyes, turning and glaring up at them, but they just look scared.
“Don't bother with openin’ it! Tha thing inside is freaky ‘nd hates tha light.” Steven frowns, glancing at the box and raising an eyebrow at Dave as he puts a hand on it. They groan, jumping over the counter and leaving the room, yelling an annoyed “Don't say I didn’ warn ya!” in. Steven rolls his eyes, huffing and opening the box.
A tall, lanky animatronic launches out of the box, jingling loudly, and while it startles him, the scariest thing about the poor machine is how dirty it is. It looks like it's supposed to be covered in a black and white striped fabric, but the white is more brown, and their mask would be pretty if it weren't for the dirt and grime covering it.
“Oh– Dave, when was the last time she was cleaned?” he calls, unsure why he decided upon she/her pronouns. The skirt, maybe,which is long and puffy, though just as dirty as the rest of her. The lack of response he gets from his coworker isn't promising, but eventually they do speak.
“I don’ think it ever has been. Nobody ‘s brave ‘nough ta open tha box.” What. He scowls, pulling out his pocketknife and cutting open an entrance to his pocketspace. Slowly, he removes most of the clothes, deciding to hand wash those when he gets home. His water bill won't be happy about it, but if he leaves this animatronic looking like this he would never forgive himself. He’ll bring a scrub brush and some soap tomorrow, maybe come in early so he has time.
Lightly, he pats the animatronics arm and puts one hand on the lid. Oddly enough, it lowers back in, and if he were any more paranoid, he would think it gives him a grateful look as it does. He shuts the pocketspace, hopping out from behind the prize counter and turning to face Dave once he's out, who's staring at him with an odd expression.
“Yer weird,” the purple, 6’9” guy with elf ears tells him. He raises an eyebrow, but motions to them to lead him to wherever they're going next. They start walking, and he can't help a small smile when he realizes where– the fox. He couldn't see a tape for it, but it's just on the stage, maybe?
Dave leads him over, grinning widely and motioning to the animatronic, who somehow manages to look scared by their presence. Steven steps forward, then up onto the stage, searching for a tape of some sort. There's nothing obviously visible, but why there wouldn't be one, he has no idea.
“This ‘s Foxy. He hasn’t got a tape,” they say, and he whips around to face them. They just shrug at him. “‘S why he's jus’ out on stage.”
“Why are two of your best looking animatronics so mistreated? When was the last time he had a repair? Even a basic check?” he asks, narrowing his eyes. They hum, like they're thinking, and that's all he really needs.
Groaning, he steps so he’s standing in front of the fox, deciding to at least try. The other three had generally the same idea– two buttons and some other random thing. Removing Chica’s beak, Bonnie's eyes, Freddy’s ears– though they were replaced after for checks– so Foxy…
He pulls off the foxes eyepatch and presses the two buttons. Nothing. Unpress the buttons, but he keeps the patch, humming. Dave stares at him, he can feel it again, their eyes boring into his back.
“Ya ain't gonna figure it out. Jus’ leave it, even Henry doesn't know how ta open it.” Steven frowns, but sighs, putting the eyepatch back on and settling for making sure the fur looks nice. He flattens and fixes the pirate's collar, makes sure the ankle fur lies flat, and smoothes out the fur, before deciding the rougher look fits the pirate theme. He ruffles up the head and cheek fur, stepping back off the stage.
“What else have we got to do?” he asks. Dave shrugs yet again, though this time it seems a bit more of a genuine “I have no idea” than every other time.
“I’ll go bring tha animatronics out t’ their stage, I guess. Ya jus’ got ‘til tha day starts to relax.” Huh. Interesting!
With a short wave to his coworker, Steven decides to make his way to the office. He might as well go talk to Scott, or at least just sit with him. The worry that he's too much comes back, but he shoves it away, because he's not, and if he is then Scott will tell him.
Walking up to the door, he knocks lightly, and after a few seconds the phone opens the door. He looks surprised, letting out a quiet ring, but waves him in, sitting down and tilting their head at him. He picks up and stacks some papers that look uncared for, sitting up on the table and letting his legs hang off.
“What's up, Employee?” they ask. He hums, taking off his bag and lowering it to the ground, pushing it just under the desk enough he won't step on it when he gets down. They glance down at it, but generally keep their dial on him.
“I've got a while until the work day starts. Thought I'd get to know you a bit better– Dave is a bit too…” he trails off, trying to think of a polite enough weird to describe them. Scott clicks, tilting their head at him.
“Overwhelming? Touchy? Generally a bit much?” they offer, and Steven nods, laughing quietly. Scott clicks again, nodding and flicking their tail, before sliding their chair over to sit right in front of him. He blushes slightly at the thoughts he gets with their head that close to his thighs, so he shoves those away and leans down to be a bit closer to eye level.
“I forgot to ask, but what’re your pronouns? They/them can only stand in for so long– unless you use they/them, of course.” They seem startled, but not upset, leaning back and relaxing a bit. Steven smiles, messing with his hair and uncertain what else he could do with his hands.
“He/they. You weren't using it/its?” Steven blinks, frowning and shaking his head. Was he supposed to? Did Scott expect him to use it/its? That just feels like he would be an asshole if he did that. Still, he seems alarmingly happy that Steven showed him basic human decency, tail waving from side to side behind him.
He likes that he made them happy. He doesn't really like how, but he likes that they're waving their tail and that he got them to do that. It really shouldn't feel that nice, he only usually feels good making people happy because it means he repaired their car and they're paying him, but just like with Jake and Lily, this is different.
Maybe it's because Scott is his boss. Surely, it's because Scott is his boss.
“I don't see why I would've. I– kind of on topic, kind of not, are you machine or human? The tail and head would imply you're mechanical, but you can– or at least, seem to– think and feel. Is it like prosthetics to you? I know a guy who had three mechanical limbs and was working on more– he’d be fascinated by you, if you'd ever want to meet him,” he rambles, pausing with his mouth still partially open as the sudden fear that he's being overwhelming shoots through him like lightning.
He backs up, sitting straight again and crossing his legs. Scott is just staring blankly at him, before he curls up slightly, covers the lower part of his phone face, and his shoulders start to shake, a quiet stream of static escaping him. Steven's immediate instinct is that that's his version of crying, but as the phone gets louder, he realizes it sounds more like laughter.
Scotts laughing at him. Steven cannot fathom why.
“I think those questions would be better asked to my managers. It's a long conversation, one that you don't need to have on your first day– before your first day, actually. Technically, your shift hasn't started yet.” Steven blinks, frowning at the reminder, and looks up at the clock. It's only 10:05. That's still so much time to go before the day starts.
“Well, if you don’t mind, could you tell me what you think you are?” Scott seems confused, so he elaborates as best he can, “I'm not asking what you literally are, I'm asking what you feel like you are. If you had to pick, man or machine, what category would you put yourself into?”
The other hums, leaning back and curling up the end of their tail. They sit there for a while, seemingly just thinking, and Steven takes the time to– make sure they aren't dead. Certainly. He pulls his eyes away from their chest and checks the time again. 10:06. It ticks over to 10:07, then 10:08. Steven looks back at Scott, just to make sure they're still there, and then forces his eyes back on the clock.
It's humiliating. Really, it is. The fact he's entertaining any of these thoughts is absurd. He really hopes nobody in the building is a mind reader, he would probably bash his own skull in immediately.
By the time Scott says something, the clock reads 10:09 and a bit.
“Machine,” he answers simply, and Steven takes that as fact. The phone doesn't seem too interested in speaking any further, which does make sense– Steven just got here, and he's already asked a pretty personal question. He watches the other roll his chair back to the middle of the desk, though he doesn't leave.
Scott doesn't seem upset by his presence, and the quiet of the office is nice. The steady tick, tick, tick of the clock, the constant whirring of fans, the scribble of a pen or clacking of a keyboard. Steven hums quietly, a mix of an old song he remembers from his mother and the Puppets music box.
Time flies like that. Eventually the keyboard and pen quiet, replaced by the subtle sounds of someone folding and unfolding and crumpling and smoothing paper. When he cracks open one of his eyes– he didn't even remember closing them– Scott has a page open with a tutorial on how to fold ‘ origami’.
He looks over, watching their hands move as they fold a rectangular piece of paper into a square, over and over, until the fold line is weak enough for them to tear it and be left with a clean line, as if they had cut it.
“Huh,” he says without thinking, “I didn't know you could do that.” Scott looks surprised, tilting his head and clicking at him.
“You didn't?” they ask, and he shakes his head. They hum quietly, a staticky but pleasant sound, and hold out the square sheet of paper for him. Curious, he takes it, staring at them and waiting for them to tell him what he's supposed to do with this. Apparently he didn't do a good job at keeping his confusion off his face, because as they pick up another paper, they let out a bright laugh-ring and look towards the sheet in their hands.
“Have you ever heard of origami?” his boss asks. Steven shakes his head, leaning closer as the computer is turned so he can see it better, the phone also moving his chair closer and pointing at the screen, “This is origami. It's basically just folding square sheets of paper into items or animals. I haven't actually tried it yet, but a friend showed it to me and I thought it'd be interesting,” he explains, seemingly excited by the way his tail wags behind him.
Fuck. Steven fell and he fell hard.
“So you just follow the instructions there and it'll turn into a crane?” he asks, keeping his eyes off them and looking from his paper to the ending photo. It seems absurd, but they nod, carefully ripping their paper with incredibly steady hands. Steven’s fingertips feel dull and his hands shake a bit, but he still carefully looks at the first step and slowly tries to match it.
His first fold is horrible. He doesn't even crease it, struggling to get the two sides even for a good minute before he settles for what looks to be a perfect fold until he creases it, where it immediately fucks itself up. Fold in half again, struggle with it again, give up and just hope it works. Unfold that, squish it down, and then…
He glances at Scotts, hoping for some kind of guidance, but his is already folded beyond what Steven can recognize. Only the website for guidance, then.
Flip it over, repeat the last two steps. It tells him he completed a square base, and soon it’ll become a bird base. Those words mean absolutely nothing to him, so he continues. Side flap into the center… Steven’s turns out more with the side bit halfway into the other half, but he slides it over, creases it again, and hopes.
And then he has to unfold it anyway. Joy.
Repeat that with the other side, then fold down the top part. He folds it too short, then too long, then his hands shake really bad and snap it to an angle, and he groans as he struggles to get it to a decent point.
And then, again, he just unfolds it, again. This is going to be his last straw.
He loses what he's supposed to do on this next step. He looks to Harry again, but he can't bring himself to actually ask for help, so he just stares enviously at their paper for a few seconds before folding and just hoping he does it right.
Time to do all that on the other side. At least it looks… almost right when he compares it to the picture.
Completed petal fold and bird base! Yet again, those terms mean nothing to him, but that doesn't matter because he's making progress!
Fold the top flap along the something or other to the middle and do the same on the other side. Then repeat both of those folds on the back. Steven is doing incredibly, his paper hasn't fallen apart in his hands yet.
Ok. Ok! Folding on an angle, he’s really good at that, as is evident by the rest of this entire sheet. Long thin part up on either side, then repeat on the front, and now!...
What.
What is he looking at. What is he reading, for that matter? This is absurd. Still, Scott looks to be having fun, and Steven would at least like to get something out of this, so he just folds the paper and hopes it does what it's supposed to.
Well it… kind of does. Not really at all, actually, something is very wrong, but he powers through it.
The instructions seem far too complex for the head when he can just fold the end of the paper a little bit, and the wings are straightforward enough that he can fold them easily.
His crane is hideous. He scowls at it, putting it down and watching Scott place his beside it. There's a painfully visible difference in the quality, and Steven buried his head in his hands, face heating up with embarrassment. The phone laughs at him, and he feels his hand roughly pat his back.
“Y-yours has… c-character, for sure,” they say, stuttering and clearly trying to hold back more laughter, and he narrows his eyes, peeking through his fingers at the waste of paper.
“It's so ugly,” Steven states plainly. Scott doesn't say anything, though the quiet static and occasional ding is more than enough.
“It's your first time! You shouldn't be comparing yourself to me, I was built to follow instructions,” Scott points out, his hand just resting on his back, though a bit awkwardly with Steven still sitting on the desk. The reassurance doesn't help at all, because he knows that even if Scott wasn't made to follow instructions, he would still make it so much better than Steven did.
“I think I should stick to animatronics– Fuck!” He ignores the “ Language!” he gets from his boss, turning and jumping off the table, “Sorry, sir, I need to go fix up their outfits. I didn't get the chance to, and now that they've stood up they’ll have moved the fabric,” he rushes out, hauling his bag over his shoulder and running out the door with a hasty wave. It's 11:30, he needs to get to all four, make sure they all look good, that's 7 minutes per animatronic, and even then he would like to be ready a bit before 12.
Chica will be the most difficult with the amount of ruffles on her and making sure her skirt sits nicely, so he starts with her, puffing up and flattening out the fabric repeatedly. Each of the ruffles takes far too long, and he doesn't really have time to make sure he's satisfied with everything before moving to Freddy. He's easy enough– make sure his shirt collar is nice, adjust the bowtie, tuck in his shirt better, fix the pants.
Surprisingly enough, Bonnie is the one to cause him the most issue. Despite him tightening up the ear joint earlier, it already feels loose again and refuses to stand up straight. Steven spends much too long messing with it before giving up with an annoyed huff and moving onto the shirt and suspenders.
He doesn't get to visit Foxy before Scott steps out of the hallway and starts towards the door, flipping the sign to open.
And so Steven is officially on the clock until 6pm.
Despite having seen nobody else walk in, there's someone behind the prize counter… counter. And there's a chef in the kitchen making pizzas. Steven does not know when these people appeared, nor does he really care to find out. He's not really a stranger to people appearing out of thin air.
Scott had gone backstage and started up a basic show before retreating to his office, while he’d seen Dave slink off to the saferoom. He doesn't want to annoy Scott, so reluctantly, Steven walks away to the saferoom and opens the door, stepping in.
Dave is sitting on one of the tables, a cigarette between their teeth and a thin layer of smoke covering the ceiling above them. They eyes snap to him the moment he steps in, and a wide, if somewhat forced looking, grin covers their face.
“Steven! Good ta see ya! Has Phoney told ya what yer gonna do fer tha day?” Steven shakes his head, glancing at the animatronic suit nervously, before snapping his eyes back to Dave. The suit is… grimy, and weird, and generally looks unpleasant.
“Yer gonna be wearin’ tha suit! Me ‘nd you, though yer too tall to fit in tha bear, so you can take me beloved Springbonnie.” They wipe imaginary tears from their eye, sniffling loudly. He narrows his eyes, waving the smoke they’d blown in his direction out of his face, the sharp scent momentarily distracting him.
Steven does not want to wear that suit at all, actually.
“Why don't I take a look at the arcade machines instead? Or I could go make pizzas? Help in the prize corner? There has to be something to do that doesn't make me wear that.” Dave stares, waiting for him to finish, before shaking their head with a confident “Nope!”. Steven looks at the suit again, hands both coming up to hold onto the straps of his bag.
“I'm going to go look for myself. I'm not getting in the suit.”
Steven puts on the head of the springlock suit. Dave sticks the hand crank in, and as much as he knows it has to happen, the sound and feeling of the sharp points of the springlocks tightening and pulling further away while he's in the suit is sickening.
Bad things don't happen to me, he repeats, Bad things have never and will not happen to me, he convinces himself, even when Dave cheerily reminds him not to breathe too hard and leaves the room.
Bad things don't happen to him. He straightens up and tests out how good he is a skating. As it turns out, he's not horrible, and after a few loops around the saferoom he thinks he's got the hang of it.
Now to do that somewhere filled to the brim with children and tables and chairs that could be anywhere and there's probably cups on the floor he could trip on and if he trips then he's dead.
But it's ok.
Bad things don't happen to him.
He ducks to ensure the stiff ears he's hyper aware of don't hit the doorframe, and slowly makes his way out, towards the main room. He feels strange like this, though he's sure it would feel weirder if he were in the bear– actually, no, if he were in the bear he'd be dead. The suit didn't fit him.
Springbonnie is a bit oversized, clearly made for Dave, but at least Steven can fit in it. How the other stuffed themself into Fredbear, he has no idea, but he's not really complaining, because at least he doesn't have to.
He skates over to the kitchen window, grabbing two pizzas and checking which table he's supposed to bring them to. Table 1. Simple enough, surely, even if the screechy sound of children running around and screaming and yelling and the buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the loud music of the arcade machines and the steady sizzling from the kitchen fill his ears, and oh god what if one of his springlocks snapped and he can't hear it, is he breathing too hard? Is he crying?
Even if he is a little bit overwhelmed. He swallows it, turns around, and a horrible, screechy little voice cries up from his ankles.
“Springbonnie!” it yells, “Springbonnie!” it cries, “Are you ok, Springy! You look unsteady!” Steven can't decide if he wants to kick the thing across the room or break down sobbing right there, staring down the rabbits nose at the noisy little fuck, but he tosses out his arms and bends down instead, struggling a bit to balance the pizzas.
“Why, of course I'm ok,” Steven hesitates, checking for some sort of sign that could give him something to call the kid, and the little nametag on its chest and big bold letters on a streamer above a table screaming happy birthday! to it give him “Birthday Boy! I'm simply trying very hard to keep these two huge pizzas from falling, you know? If I drop them, then all the good stuff falls off!” The kid gasps, eyes widening, and it thankfully gets out of his way.
Table 1 just happens to be that kids. He places down the pizzas, and with a wave, bolts off back to the kitchen.
This is horrible. Steven should quit his job immediately, actually. He feels like he’s about to have a panic attack, he's pretty sure his lung just stuck to his rib because it hurts to breathe, his hands shake too much for this to be safe, he wishes desperately that this suit made him deaf instead of echoing the sound around inside the head, his head is itchy, he can feel his hair getting caught in the springlocks.
And yet, he feels and thinks nothing at all.
Because it's fine. Because bad things don't happen to him. Because Steven is completely and wholly safe wearing this death trap, because he is not a statistic.
He picks up a cake for table 3, wonders why there's already 3 tables, and skates away to deliver it.
“It's ok,” he reminds himself, a whisper he barely even hears over the sound of the restaurant, “Bad things don't happen to me.”
He will not be a corpse.
Steven takes his lunch break at the end of the day, at 5:30, so he basically gets off work early. He carefully pulls strands of hair from the springlocks, trying carefully not to rip any from his head.
That was hellish. He needs to talk to Scott, he decides, see if there's anything else at all that he can do.
He struggles to walk for a moment, standing up and trying to slide across the ground to his boots before he remembers that's not how he moves. He takes a couple shakey steps, then sits down again to put back on his boots. Old black work boots that he hasn't replaced in years and isn't planning to replace any time soon. Every rip or tear was easily fixed by Norm sewing them up– and what a shock it was to see the self-proclaimed cowboy sew– or with superglue, and they haven't fallen apart since he moved away.
Pushing himself up, he puts his bag back on and cracks open the door. When he doesn't immediately see a child, he bolts for the office, hoping nobody notices him until he's standing in front of the office door.
With a quick knock, he invites himself in, shutting the door and sighing at the relative quiet of the office. Soundproofing for this room, apparently, thank fuck.
“Hey, sir,” he greets, hopping up to where he was this morning and noticing that both of their paper cranes are sitting right at the base of the monitor, “Do I have to wear the springlock suits every day? Dave told me I’m gonna have to.” They tilt their head up at him, before shaking it, rolling their chair closer.
“No, I can find you something else to do most days– though I can't promise you every day or all day. Would you like me to teach you how to run the shows? Seems like a mechanic-y job.” Steven nods quickly, leaning down and smiling. They tilt their head the other direction, though their tail doesn't wag, and he realizes that's because it's plugged into the wall.
“I would rather do anything than wear those suits. Running the shows would keep me mostly backstage, yeah?” Scott nods, and he hums. That sounds like it, hopefully, should be quieter. If not, he's sure backstage would mean he can wear some sort of noise-canceling headphones.
He sighs heavily, lightly tapping the arm of their chair with his boot, and they move aside so he can jump down. Stretching, taking a deep breath, he makes his way to the door, turning and waving happily at them.
“I’m headed home, then. I’ll see you tomorrow, sir– you don't mind if I come in early, right?” Scott shakes his head, waving back at him as he nods and exits with a grin.
Luckily, there's a back door he can walk out of, so he gets to avoid the noisy front room. Walking around the back of the restaurant, he rushes over to his shitty, beat up car, unlocking it and yanking the door open before sitting down.
Shutting the door, he stares blankly into to mirror for a few seconds, taking off his glasses and setting them down on the dash while he reclines his seat back and covers his face with his hands.
Fuck.
He should've stayed unemployed. Thank god he's so good at ignoring problems, or he would've had a breakdown in there.
Ok. Ok. His boss has a phone for a head, one of his coworkers is purple, taller than him, has a freakishly long neck, and is incredibly unsettling, his other coworker has the creepiest smile he's ever seen, the chef seems to be the only normal one, and “Henry” is Dave's… friend? So that's not promising.
That's all very normal. He can deal with his boss. He's cool. He spent the morning doing checkups on the animatronics and then making origami with his boss, his actual shift was spent trying to not get horrendously overstimulated and accidentally kill himself, and now he's leaving thirty minutes early because he's a genius.
He wants to go see his boyfriend. He has to clean the Puppets clothes at some point tonight, but he just wants to go home and see his boyfriend. So, so badly.
He pushes the seat back into its normal position, starts up the car, and heads back to his apartment.