Chapter Text
Gregory can't sleep.
It makes for a fitful day of being half-aware and working hard to fight past the syrup in his head. He falls asleep halfway through, waking up with no idea of where he is or what time it is. He ends up overheating and has to take a shower to bring down the level of misery he feels.
It sucks. Gregory knew he would take this hard, but he'd had no idea how hard until he was in the bathroom at six forty-two in the afternoon, staring at the toilet bowl because he thinks he might throw up at any second.
Henry is at... work, or something. At twenty-three years old, Gregory is well aware of how busy an adult's life can be. How busy Henry's is, with his near-obsession with the Fazbear franchise and whatever business he operates to fund his obsession, he can hardly begin to guess. Still, it feels a lot like he's a kid who's been left home alone to sulk, and it annoys him.
The space is nice, though. God knows what he'd do if he had to deal with his body rebelling against this house and with the old man at the same time.
A few minutes, or maybe a few hours, pass without him noticing - time has a way of slipping through his hands when he's lacking sleep, and he's gone through a lot but this is on a different level than usual - and he hears a polite knocking on the door. Gregory's eyes flicker to his phone. A new one with a different number. No text, which means Henry hasn't come home. In that case, it must be...
"Hello? Gregory, are you okay?"
The high-pitched and childish voice belongs to the one and only toy-sized animatronic: Helpy. Gregory would hate the thing if it actually resembled Freddy, but between the white-and-pink color scheme and the cartoonish proportions, it doesn't look like him at all. Other than the hat, but it's welded on. He's not about to rip off a part of the bot's exoskeleton just because it makes him uncomfortable.
Besides, he'd gotten used to it over the years while living with his dad. Henry was a... memorable visitor during that time, if nothing else, and Helpy was a good friend.
"Doing great," Gregory says reluctantly, gathering up the scattered pieces of his brain. He tries to sound coherent. He's not sure if he succeeds.
Helpy makes a humming noise from the other side of the bathroom door. "Okay! Would you like to make a request for dinner?"
Something in Gregory - something emotional and nostalgic - aches a little. He packs that away, manhandling it under the heavy layer of exhaustion and discomfort. "No," he says shortly. "I'm good with whatever."
"Significant allergies or preferences?" Helpy asks, his tone still as cheerful as before. It's something that Helpy used to know, before, but it's been long enough that either the robot wants to verify there's been no changes, or Henry had erased the data in order to free up storage.
Gregory thinks about Chica making food in the kitchen. About the animatronics in general, scanning him for his profile, asking questions, and how they stopped asking questions as they'd gotten to know him. Well, the questions didn't stop, but it's been ages since they've asked about anything as basic and banal as allergies.
"No," he replies. "No, I don't... have any allergies."
"Okay!... Please take care of yourself!" Helpy says, and there's a faint tap-tapping as the small bot presumably walks away.
Gregory is not looking forward to when Henry comes back. He wishes, briefly, for the man to end up stuck at his job somehow. To stay out late enough that Gregory can justifiably retreat to his room close the door, and claim he was sleeping.
The car rolls into the driveway at eight 'o clock sharp, and not even Gregory thinks that's an appropriate time to head to sleep. Not that he couldn't use it, but he's just taken a three hour nap. His internal clock won't be cooperating any time soon.
Gregory drags himself to the living room. When the door opens, he plasters a... not a smile, but a neat real expression. A not-upset expression. "Welcome back."
Henry's expression warms. "Thank you. I'm back," he says, shucking off his shoes and taking a seat beside him on the couch. It's loud, it's noisy, it's breaking the quiet of the house and - "What's for dinner, Helpy?" Henry asks, looking for all the world like a man who's feeling happy and comfortable and completely ordinary.
Annoying.
Helpy jumps off the kitchen counter, landing with an impressive clatter, and trots up to them both. "Fresh rice, sautéed onions, cheese omelette, fried chicken -" the animatronic lists off several more food items, all of which sound fairly good, and also not quite like a cohesive menu. He can't smell it from here, which makes him suspicious. He doesn't hear any sizzling or fans running either. Just silence.
He would've questioned it earlier, had he not been preoccupied by gearing himself up to greet Henry. He's questioning it now, especially when Henry doesn't even raise an eyebrow.
The man merely nods. "I'll take a plate of fried chicken and potatoes," Henry says. The man then looks at Gregory expectantly. So does Helpy.
Gregory only meets the toy bot's gaze. "I'll, uh. Have a cheese omelette. Please."
Helpy salutes. "Understood!" he says, trotting off again. Gregory can't quite see the kitchen from here, but he still doesn't hear anything. Not even the clatter of pans.
...Come to think of it, that bot is so small that he could probably carry it around with him. How is Helpy cooking in the first place?
Gregory thinks about asking Henry.
He discards the thought almost immediately. The silence is very nice, and he's not about to ruin it by making small talk. Especially since, sitting next to each other the way they are, he doesn't even have to look at Henry's face.
It's a bit awkward to stare at a blank Tv screen, but Gregory's done worse before.
Henry, apparently, doesn't appreciate the silence. "Wonder what's on," he says, leaning forward and grabbing the remote. He flips through several channels - none owned by the Fazbear company, Gregory notes - and settles on The Darly Boxman show.
It's about a bunch of vaguely abstract people doing nonsense while the show host looks incredibly stressed the whole time. Gregory watches it with all the enthusiasm of a dying plant.
Gregory can't take much more than five minutes of it before he grabs the remote and turns the volume down.
And then, because he doesn't want to be too blatant with his irritation, he says something as an excuse. "I should probably check in with my workplace soon." He regrets the words as soon as they're out of his mouth.
Henry hums. "You're still recovering. I'm sure they'll understand," he says.
Helpy arrives with two plates of food, and Gregory shovels omelette in his mouth to avoid further conversation. "Thanks," he makes sure to say in-between bites, and Helpy practically beams. Good. At least someone's happy in this hellhole.
Gregory reflects that he thinks he perhaps shouldn't hate Henry as much as he does. The problem is that Gregory holds grudges, and Gregory - as a rule - does not like to be controlled.
Henry is a clingy man. Rightfully so, but still.
Gregory's not looking forward to having to pry himself from Henry's fatherly grasp. Gregory already has a father, thank you very much.
He doesn't need one who's using him as a replacement for the dead.