Work Text:
Jeremy has been hanging out at various Fazbear Entertainment locations since he was tiny, and so it didn’t feel like that bad an idea to work at one.
Of course, he was never going to work at Fredbear’s, god forbid, but the place shut down in 1983, so he couldn’t, regardless. Even after that mess, though, he still likes the restaurants. He’s never seen anyone from his old friend group in any of them, but he can’t help it.
And so, Jeremy decides to do an interview with Mr. Afton (who is still just as terrifying as he remembers the man being back when he hung out with Terrence). It goes better than he expected it to, and, soon enough, he’s employed as a night guard.
Mom says that it’s weird to let a barely-17-year-old work the night shift, essentially as security for a building full of expensive machinery, but Jeremy doesn’t care. More than anything, he’s surprised by the fact that Mr. Afton was so receptive to hiring somebody involved in the death of his youngest son.
The day before his first shift, Jeremy wonders if this was a bad idea. He already thinks about little Christopher Afton constantly, and he can only imagine that Mr. Afton must think about the poor kid infinitely more. Maybe it was a bad idea to so much as offer to work for the man after everything. Maybe Mr. Afton will be unfairly hard on him or something. Maybe he’ll just cause problems, walking about as a constant reminder of the death of the man’s son.
Jeremy isn’t one for anxiety, but he can’t help worrying. This is bigger than anxiety. This is the father of the young boy whose death he was involved in.
~~~~~
Terrence worked at the original Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza Palace on-and-off for almost a year.
Father sometimes finds what he calls “short term employees,” whom Terrence has learned better than to ask about, but the job almost always lands back in the teen’s lap. This time, though, the new hire is older, seems more competent, and so Father wants to switch Terrence to the second location, the one with the Toy line.
He recorded some logs for whoever will work after him, hoping to be as helpful to somebody else as Phone Guy was to him. Maybe, if they survive, they’ll leave some recordings for whoever Father drags into his mess next. That might be a nice tradition— well, as nice as anything related to the catastrophe that is being employed by Fazbear Entertainment.
He’s not sure who he’s replacing, just that he’s expected in at 5:45 a.m. to go through some kind of training— Father was strangely particular about that. He’s never bothered with training for anybody who works the night shift before, and Terrence had never been a priority, so this is very new. It makes him suspicious, but there’s not much to be done about his complicated feelings, either way.
For the second time (the only other being the very first day he worked at one of Father’s restaurants), Father drives him to his new job site. Unlike last time, Father actually pulls into the parking lot, takes over his designated spot, and gets out of the car. Terrence follows him, mindful of keeping his distance for the safe of professionalism, unable to quell his curiosity. Father doesn’t like to be seen in public with Terrence, especially in a work setting, so this is unexpected.
Regardless, they make their way into the restaurant. Father heads towards his office, and Terrence breaks away rather quickly, turning to where he knows the security office is. Uncle Henry took him back there a few times for spare parts or to check things on the computer, and he still remembers where it is.
He wonders who the poor soul Father managed to trap in this job is. Was? He knows people must’ve died to the animatronics in his old job at the first location, and he can guess that, if the robots here are at all like the ones he’s familiar with, casualties aren’t exactly uncommon at this location, either. Terrence tries not to think about that, but he also can’t help wondering what happens to the people who get hurt (or worse) on the job.
Surely, Father, who disposed of his own daughter’s body with no issues, isn’t much better when it comes to strangers. He wonders if Father knows that Terrence is aware of just how deep the man’s horrible nature runs. He wonders if Father would care, even if he did. The answer is probably no.
When Terrence arrives at the office, he doesn’t think much of the silence. He goes through long periods of quiet when he works a the locations as well, stressfully flipping through cameras and tracking animatronics, too focused on surviving to make any sounds.
The first thing that goes through his mind when he enters the room is Chris.
It’s not. Of course it’s not, Chris has been dead for years now. But, god, it looks like Chris.
Jeremy, his former best friend, is laying on the floor behind the desk, monitors glowing with camera footage from the main stage, casting an eerie blue-purple tint across everything. It reflects off of the puddle of darkness spreading from under Jeremy’s head. Blood. Terrence knows it’s blood, even if the shadow of the desk and dim lighting of the room make the colour hard to pick out.
It must be blood because Terrence can see the chunk taken out of Jeremy’s skull. It looks like an almost mirror image of Chris’s wound, the one that killed him. Skin fraying and pulled back around a deep injury, flesh torn and gushing blood, yellow-white shards of bone jutting out of his broken head, brain matter on display. There’s a series of small pieces of Jeremy’s skull on the floor, in the puddle, and a few on the desk. Drops of blood cover the wood, leaving a trail into the vent on the right of Jeremy.
Blue eyes are half opened, glazed over as Jeremy stares, unseeing, at the ceiling, mouth hanging open, blood mottling his eyebrows and turning his scleras red. The missing chunk of his skull spans from just above his right eyebrow to the top of his head, an elongated bite taken from his head. There’s specks of blood on the front of his shirt, inky blackness soaking into the back. It looks like he’s being eaten alive by a black hole.
Terrence doubles over, gagging, and then vomits on the floor. Chris. Oh, god, it looks like Chris. The brain matter, the blood, the stench. It’s that specific smell of metal and gore, something Terrence remembers all too vividly from Chis. All that’s missing is the stupid party music, way too upbeat, the kind of thing that gets stuck in your head. Terrence swears he can hear it, even though the room is silent, save the hum of the computer.
He inhales sharply, sobs on another round of vomit that’s probably more stomach acid than anything else, and slams his eyes shut. Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look. Terrence claws at the wounds on his arms, a desperate attempt at grounding himself, not even thinking about the fact that he’s surely ruining the uniform Father gave him.
He can feel blood soaking into his pants at the knees, and that just makes it worse. He scrambles away from Jeremy and accidentally slams against the wall so hard he feels his teeth clack together. Breathing doesn’t come easily, now, now when he’s got the corpse— is Jeremy even dead? He must be— of his former closest friend.
The office door opens again, but Terrence barely catches it. Oh, god. Is he dead? Is Terrence seeing another dead body? Is another person he loved dead?
Suddenly, a hand is on Terrence’s shoulder and he’s being shaken violently. He flinches and tries to scramble away, looking up at whoever is touching him. Father is standing there, frowning, looking quite calm, if not mildly annoyed. That doesn’t make Terrence feel any calmer. If anything, this is worse than being left alone with Jeremy, even if the boy is actually dead.
“What did you do, Terrence?” Father asks coldly, the corners of his lips ticking upwards, teasing. Even when Father smiles, which is already a rarity when Terrence is around, his expression always looks so cold and cruel. Choking on his own breath, tears pouring down his face, Terrence stares up at Father, completely stunned as to how he could possibly answer that question.
“Jeremy,” he chokes, pointing deliriously at Jeremy’s unmoving body, shivering in a way that’s completely unrelated to the temperature in the room or Father’s presence.
“Yes, I saw,” Father states dryly, cocking an eyebrow. He’s so calm. Why is he so calm? How is he so calm? Terrence knows the man is cold, but he doesn’t understand how Father is so unbothered by all of this. There’s a body laying right next to them. A body. How can somebody stay calm when there’s a body laying next to them?
“He— is he— is he—?” Terrence stutters through the question but isn’t able to finish it. Is Jeremy dead? He can’t tell if he wants to know the answer to that. Father smiles again, his expression a perfect mirror of the way he stares at Terrence when he does those horrible fucking things that really won’t help if he thinks about them right now.
“He certainly looks dead,” Father says with a shrug, like this doesn’t matter. Terrence sobs, buries his face in his hands, and gags again. He might puke again, which will hurt like a bitch on account of the fact that he hasn’t eaten in a while and so it’ll just be stomach acid, which burns when it comes up.
The door opens again. Somebody screams. It must be past six, then. Terrence didn’t hear the alarm, but he’s pretty distracted, so that makes sense. Terrence just keeps sobbing, even as the person who walked in keeps screaming and Father starts acting distressed. At least they’ll call the authorities now, right?
~~~~~
It was Mangle, Father informs Terrence later. She got into the office and “malfunctioned,” lashing out and taking a bite out of Jeremy’s skull. That’s more than Terrence ever needed or wanted to know, but he does, so he just nodded when Father told him as much.
Jeremy didn’t die, he was surprised (and much more grateful) to learn. Terrence doesn’t understand how— maybe it’s because he’s older than Chris was by a decade and actually got all of the sleep and nutrition he needed throughout his entire life, unlike the scraps the Afton children all learned to make do with. Hell, maybe destiny or fate or whatever you want to call it is actually real and Jeremy just wasn’t ready.
The thought of a higher power feeling the need to kill off his siblings, cousin, and uncle just makes Terrence feel worse, though, so he abandons that thought. Why should he be forced to stay alive when everybody he loves has been taken? That’s not fair. Why couldn’t be die with his family? Why must he live on with Father?
A week after Jeremy is hospitalized, Father announces that the boy has woken up and has been diagnosed with something called retrograde amnesia, which means he doesn’t remember much from the years leading up to his injury. According to the second-hand information he’s gotten from Father, who got it from Jeremy’s parents, he doesn’t remember being injured, his employment, a large portion of his recent schooling, transferring schools, or Chris’s death. Better for him, in Terrence’s opinion. He wishes he could forget all of that, too.
Terrence decided pretty quickly after learning all of that that he wouldn’t contact Jeremy again. The boy deserves to be free of their horrible shared past, even what little of it he was directly involved in. Surely, it’ll be better for Jeremy if he doesn’t need to think about the mess he wasn’t even responsible for.
Now, as cruel as Father is, Terrence hadn’t expected the follow-up conversation he initiated right after explaining Jeremy’s current condition.
“Now, the restaurant will be closed for the next two weeks to make a public statement and calm everything down— I’ll probably have to pay for at least some of Fitzgerald’s hospital bills, as well. Either way, you’ll start working the night shift there once the obligatory period of mourning is over,” Father explains curtly, as though it’s the most logical thing in the world.
“What?” Terrence blurts out before he can stop himself, very glad Father was done speaking so he didn’t interrupt anything, otherwise he would be in serious trouble. “But— b-but, Father, I… I can’t…” he trails off, eyes widening as he stares up at Father, nauseous at the thought of sitting in an office he last saw occupied with the half-dead body of his former best friend.
“Don’t be dramatic,” Father chides. “I still go to work after Henry’s death, and I actually spoke to him leading up to that. You haven’t said a word to Fitzgerald in over three years now. This is pathetic,” he explains pointedly, and Terrence winces at the mention of Uncle Henry. “You have two weeks to get over yourself. Either figure it out or don’t, I don’t care. You’re doing it, regardless.”
~~~~~
It’s a miracle that Terrence isn’t working at that god forsaken location.
Instead, he’s been pawned off to work the day shift at the original location and spot-fill night guard duties when Father’s employees fall through for whatever reason. Apparently, he actually found a “fully qualified” employee for the second location, whatever that means, so Terrence wasn’t needed anymore. He hasn’t asked about it, wary of reminding Father of his threat and being forced to work there.
Terrence isn’t a fan of the day shift, but it’s much less dangerous than the night shifts he’s used to, so he works dutifully in hopes of being left to this job instead of switched to another one. He’s heard patrons praising his work in specific, so he’s hopeful that this’ll stick. Father likes profit enough that he might give Terrence an easier ride if it’ll get him more money.
When he was younger and working informally at Fredbear’s or wherever Father or Uncle Henry happened to take him, he hated working retail. He probably still does, but he doesn’t really remember how frustrating it was after constantly almost dying for work. As it happens, dealing with angry mothers and overly sensitive children is much easier than animatronics trying to kill him for six straight hours.
His coworkers, especially the ones closer to his age, like to complain about work. Terrence doesn’t. He keeps his mouth shut, especially around people above him or, god forbid, Father. It’s much better than what he’s used to.
“You’re so quiet, Mark,” Darrel teases, pinching Terrence’s cheek. Mark Brown, the name Father has signed him in under this time. It reminds him of his old friend Mark, which reminds him of Jeremy all over again. Maybe that was on purpose. Why he can’t just be Terrence, he doesn’t know, but he’s well past questioning Father.
“Trying to work,” he responds, scrubbing the plate he’s washing. The kitchen is backed up, so management pulled some of the servers back here to help out. Terrence was one of them. Father won’t be pleased when he hears that. He likes to say that Terrence has too pretty a face to be stuck where nobody can see it, which is not something the teen likes to hear.
“You’re way too uptight, man,” Darrel grumps. He likes slacking off and riling people up. It’ll never work on Terrence, who has too much training from Father to act out over anything, but it’s annoying and makes him worry about getting into trouble just for being around Darrel. Father would probably love to punish him for being around slackers.
“I’m doing what I’m supposed to do,” Terrence replies dryly, trying to employ the same distant, calm tone Father uses when he wants to make somebody feel like an ant under his shoe. He doesn’t know how well it works. Father is much better at this than him. That actually makes him feel a bit better. If nothing else, he’s not like Father.
“Whatever. You don’t like having fun much, huh?” Darrel laughs to himself as he says it. Terrence wants to ask him how somebody is supposed to have fun after watching everybody they love die, one by one, until they’re left with only their psychotic father. He doesn’t. He knows that will just cause unnecessary drama.
“Did you have anything important to tell me?” Terrence asks instead of answering properly. Rude as he’s being, he cannot be bothered to humour Darrel for much longer. He doesn’t like Darrel very much, which, honestly, is probably ideal. Nothing good has ever come from liking people. In fact, that most often leads to either death, grievous bodily injury, or severe trauma for both him and those he likes. Distant relationships are for the best. They’ll save everybody involved a lot of trouble.
Even Darrel, annoying as he is, doesn’t deserve the trauma that comes with a proper connection to the Afton family.
“Don’t be such a stickler for the rules,” Darrel huffs, pinching Terrence’s cheek. He wants, more than anything, to kick the older teenager in the nuts for his lack of boundaries, but he keeps his mouth shut nonetheless. Causing issues is sure to get him booted to another night shift job, and going back to that sounds horrible.
“What did you need?” Terrence repeats himself, taking the next dish from the pile he’s washing.
“I heard you were going to work at the Toy’s location before you got dropped in this shit hole,” Darrel drawls. The words send ice gushing through Terrence’s veins, and his thin hands still on the plate, soap suds running over his skin.
When he was young, he had the same skin tone as his siblings. When he was a teenager and spent almost all of his time outside, his skin would turn caramel like Uncle Henry’s and the many freckles smattering his skin would only become more prominent. These days, he’s paler, though not as light as Father’s by a long shot, both from the way he’s barely gotten any sun in the past year-ish and is now even more washed out thanks to the sudden terror thrumming in his chest.
Darrel’s elbow drops on Terrence’s shoulder, because the younger teen is still barely 5’3” and that means that pretty much everybody in his life is taller than him. At 16, just a few months away from 17, he knows he might still grow a few inches, but he doubts he’ll ever be tall like Father. Instead, he’s destined to be small and pathetic and useless.
“What?” Terrence hisses, voice strangled. He digs his nails into the plate, but it doesn’t give, of course, since it’s a solid metal pizza dish. Why the fuck would this prick just bring that up?
Everybody knows that Jeremy got hurt at his job in the pizzeria— his parents talked to the news about it, and, even though Father had that shut down the second it was publicized, things spread quickly in small towns— and that that’s why the restaurant closed temporarily. Father published a statement about it pretty quickly, something Terrence knows is just to keep everything under his control, but was strangely accepted. Regardless, though, Darrel must know that somebody got hurt. Employees knew more than the general public, after all.
“I heard you worked there,” Darrel repeats himself, as though that’s what Terrence was asking.
“I gathered that much,” Terrence grits out through his teeth, licking his lower lip just to moisten them, even though his throat feels dry and he’s impressed that his numb tongue actually wetted his lips. “What I mean is: what the fuck does that have to do with anything?” he asks thickly, speaking around the blockage in his throat. He can still see Jeremy’s bloodied body laying on the floor, broken, looking like a corpse.
“I don’t know, man, I’m just curious,” Darrel says lightly, seemingly unaware as to how upsetting this conversation is for Terrence. Is he truly unaware? Terrence has to wonder, because, surely, his discomfort is obvious. Maybe Darrel just doesn’t fucking care. This wouldn’t be the first time somebody disregarded his comfort for the sake of either their own answers, pleasure, or, sometimes, just because they can.
“Then fuck off, why don’t you?” Terrence growls, accent going vaguely British and weirdly Mexican, if only because of how much time he spent with Uncle Henry growing up. This happens sometimes, certain words being tinged with an English or Mexican or Southern accent, as though Father and Uncle Henry are his real parents and so he followed their inflections.
“Ha! I didn’t know you had Mexican in you,” Darrel exclaims, blatantly ignoring every word that came out of Terrence’s mouth. “Little fence hopper, aren’t you?” he coos, teasing and lighthearted as though they’re just having fun, a chat as friends, not the tensest conversation Terrence has ever had with a colleague. How fucking dare he? How dare he talk about Uncle Henry like that?
“Oh, go fuck yourself,” Terrence growls, rocking his elbow backwards with less force than he’d like to in hopes of knocking Darrel off of him. Not only is this guy annoying as shit, he’s also a racist prick who thinks these are acceptable things to say. Terrence wonders if Father would fire somebody over this. Father is a piece of shit, yes, but he loved Uncle Henry (in his own way) and was always so protective of the man. They were business partners. Father trusted him. An asshole, yes, but is Father a racist, too? Would he care enough about this to fire Darrel?
“Come on, it was just a question!” Darrel defends himself, bouncing back to lean on Terrence again. God, this guy is the worst. “Be nice, won’t you? I just want to know more about you,” he says with another laugh, and Terrence elbows him off again.
“Get off of me,” he hisses, setting the pizza dish on his stack of clean dinnerware with more force than he should and then reaching for a new one as he chews on his inner cheek. “And leave me alone. I’m fucking tired and I don’t want to deal with your shit,” Terrence adds, purposefully vitriolic just to accentuate his point, make himself seem less approachable and like too much work.
“God, you’re a bit insane, aren’t you? Fine, I’ll go,” Darrel scoffs, stalking out of the kitchen, looking offended. Good. Maybe now he’ll leave Terrence alone.
Jeremy’s fractured, brutalized skull, the mess of brain matter smeared across the floor, and puddle of blackness spreading from his head flashes through Terrence’s mind again. That image is directly followed up with Chris’s tiny body, his crushed head and broken body.
He shudders at the thought, but knows that Father will make that all look like child’s play if he slacks off.