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You are not good at keeping secrets, or anything resembling a secret. Especially when it's a good (exciting, magical, almost impossible) thing that makes your entire chest feel like it's chock-a-block full of butterflies.
The first image of them, taken only two weeks after your appointment, has burned in your back pocket for nearly three months, and you've done very little to hide the fact that you're brimming with excitement. Several of your friends and coworkers have asked why you're… like that, but you were juuuuuust barely able to contain yourself. It's not good to tell people and get their hopes up and then… and then…
Well.
You don't have to worry about that this time! Because it's been three months, you are officially out of the Danger Zone, and–
"Monty! Monty, Monty, Monty!" You yell, waving the animatronic gator down. "Hey!"
The group of children he was chatting with don't seem bothered by your interruption, but Monty bares his teeth in (what you know is fake) annoyance. "You're late."
True. Management wasn’t really happy about you coming in an hour later than usual, but you offered to stay a little longer, too. Plus, you had a doctor appointment. If they didn’t say it’s okay to come in late, you’d be on their ass with a quickness.
"Yeah, yeah." You confirm, sending the guests a smile. "Have you guys gotten your photos already? Do you mind if I steal Monty for a bit?"
He squints at you, and his jaw makes a strange clicking noise that you've come to associate with him thinking things over. "If you head on over to Monty Golf, I'll meet ya there." He finally says, giving the kids a toothy smile.
One of them immediately agrees, while another says they want to check out Roxy's Raceway. They're out of earshot (well, your earshot) before a decision is made and you don't really care anyway because–
"I have something to tell you. Well. All of you, but you first." You say, holding your hand up for Monty to take.
He does, although he looks confused by the sudden offer of affection. "What's up? Got yourself into trouble?"
You can't help but laugh at that. Into trouble. That sounds like something your mother would say, if she still had any say in your choices.
"No, no, I'm…" You use your free hand to fish out the most recent picture you have. "Do you wanna see something absolutely miraculous?"
Fazbear Animatronics are surprisingly expressive, but you still can't tell if Monty is worried or intrigued when he responds, "Sure?"
You hold up the picture, and he plucks it out of your hand with exceedingly careful claws.
"What am I looking at?" He holds it up to his optics, taking in the strange black and white image. It looks swooshy, was your first thought, even though you were fully aware of what it was.
"Who," You correct.
"Who?" Monty tries holding the image up to a light, although the neon of the Pizzaplex only makes it look even stranger.
You squeeze his hand, and he momentarily gives up on trying to puzzle it out in order to stare at you.
"Monty. That's an ultrasound. Of me."
"Uh-huh."
"And the little blobby thing is my child."
Monty isn't stupid (none of the animatronics are), but that little nugget of information seems to stall his processors for several seconds. He just stares at you, almost unsettlingly still.
Despite that, your cheeks are starting to get sore from how big you're smiling. Finally. Finally you can tell them and they can share in your joy.
"A… you're…" Monty starts and stops, his voice box doing some interesting, creaky things as he struggles. "You're makin’ a kid."
"Uh-huh." You say.
"An' you're happy about this." He continues.
“Very."
Monty is not a subtle man (robot? gator?), and you expected big feelings . You did not expect him to scoop you up into his big metal arms and whoop "Hell yeah!"
He spins you around like the two of you are reunited lovers in some cheesy romcom, and you giggle as he continues shouting encouragement. "This is gonna be great! I'm gonna teach the little brat bass, okay?"
Before Monty can continue making plans for the nibling that hasn't even been born yet , another voice chimes in with, "Monty! Put our handler down! We still have guests, someone could get hurt!"
Monty stops spinning you, but he doesn't put you back on solid ground quite yet. You peek over his shoulder at the newcomer, greeting, "Chica!"
The smaller animatronic has her hands on her hips and is making what you assume to be her best impression of a pout. "Are you okay, sweetie?" She asks.
"I'm super okay." You say. You want to hug her, because she's Chica and you're excited, but Monty is too tall to risk falling off of. Which is probably why he doesn't want to set you down.
Monty was… you don't want to say difficult to befriend. Slow to open up, perhaps. But once he let you in, he became even more protective of you than he is the children. Sometimes when there's a particularly rude parent, they'll break off mid rant because Monty is looming behind you, all sharp teeth and tough guy attitude.
It doesn't shock you that the knowledge you're with child has sent him into protector mode.
He puts a hand on your lower back, silently asking that you settle back down. Which you do, although it’s less for his sake than your own piece of mind. You know it’s silly to think resting against him would squish the fetus, but… you’re silly, sometimes.
“Don’t you have a birthday party to go to?” Monty asks, turning around. Not to face Chica, but to walk right past her.
She makes a very fitting squawking noise, “Hey! Don’t just—“ she has to speed walk to keep pace with Monty. “You are being totally rude! And that’s not until four o’clock.”
“Elementary schoolers?” You guess.
“Yes.” She sighs. “I hope there’s left over pizza. Sometimes the kids eat everything.”
“They’re growing.” Just like my little one. You bring a hand down to cradle your belly. You’re not really showing, not yet , but you can feel the difference. Your belly is less soft, more round. Sometimes when you lay down and stretch yourself out, it looks like you’ve got a balloon stuffed under your shirt.
Monty grunts, and you look up to find him staring at your hand. “What?”
“Can you… feel it?” He asks.
“Feel what? Are you keeping secrets?” Chica sticks her arm out, and though Monty can and has blown right past her before, he stops.
You briefly wonder what he did with your ultrasound picture, but you suppose you don’t need it back right now. “Hey, put me down so I can hug her, too.”
The gator grumbles, but only for a moment. He sets you down ever-so-careful, even going as far as to steady you as you get your balance back.
Chica watches the two of you with a critical eye. “You’re being nice.” She says it like an accusation.
“I thought I was totally rude.” Monty can’t pitch his voice up high enough to mimic Chica in tone, so he copies her valley girl-esque accent instead.
“Girls, girls, please.” You say, resisting the urge to hold your hands out like a velociraptor trainer. They might be offended if they recognized the meme.
“He started it.” Chica huffs, crossing her arms over her chest. She can’t pout like a human can (or anyone with lips, rather), but she gets the point across.
It’s childish and silly, but you’re overly hormonal and you adore her.
“Chica,” you say, leaning up to cup her hard plastic cheek. “Come on, it’s a happy day.”
Her eyes narrow, even while she leans into your palm. “Why?”
“Because. I went to the doctor earlier.” You’re dragging it out, savoring it, and she knows it.
She makes a humming noise that you feel in your chest, despite not being that loud, and Monty grumbles.
“Why did you go to the doctor?” She says, singsong.
“To get an ultrasound.” You smile.
“I hate this game.” Monty says.
Chica ignores him, “Why’d you need an ultrasound?”
“To see my uterus.” You bring your free hand to your belly, and Chica’s eyes follow the movement.
“Why’d you need to see your uterus?” She almost rivals Sun and Moon in theatrics, and it doesn’t shock you when she drops to her knees to look at your stomach. It’s mildly surprising, at best.
“So I could see the fetus growing in there.” Acknowledging its existence out loud still makes your mouth feel strange. Electric. Numb. Somewhere in between.
“The fetus.” She parrots.
“Baby. Or. Soon to be baby.” If calling it a fetus feels strange, calling them a baby is almost-too-much. Not in a bad way, really. Just… you never thought you’d get this far. Never thought you’d be stable enough, emotionally, financially, physically, to have a baby . Mostly because you thought it’d have to be all by yourself, but now you have a whole village. As strange as that village may be, considering it’s the fucking mega pizzaplex.
Chica abruptly brings you back to the present by leaning in, and– just for a split second, for one horrible moment– you think she’s going to bite.
She doesn’t.
“Hello, baby.” She says, while you try to swallow the lump in your throat. “My name’s Chica. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
She tilts her head back, looking up at you, “I’ve seen people do this in movies. Can they really hear me?”
“Kinda.” You haven’t really looked into that part yet. “I don’t think they’re big enough right now, but some people think it helps to talk to them in utero. Sometimes it calms them down.”
“They can get excited!” Chica says, breaking eye contact to once again stare at your belly. Like she’s the one with X-ray vision.
(Actually… how does Roxy’s vision work? Will she be able to see them?)
“They kick. From the inside.” You haven’t felt it yet.
“What?” Monty says. He moves, not at all subtle, and then he’s looming again, at your back, looking down at the barely there bump.
“No.” Chica says it like you just told her a particularly scandalous anecdote. She leans close again, her voice getting quiet, “You be nice. No kicking.”
You absently wonder if it would be inappropriate to make a joke about appreciating the Cretaceous sandwich thing going on. Monty would think it’s funny, at least.
Unfortunately, you get distracted by your phone beeping, reminding you to clock in. Chica grumbles when you take your hand back, while Monty disengages completely, stepping back out of your personal space and clearing his throat. Although. You’re not sure if that’s a thing he needs to do, or just a noise he knows humans make when they feel awkward.
“Chica.” You say, gently.
She makes a soft noise. “Okay. But I’m totally gonna spoil you later! Oh, we could have a pizza party!”
You watch her get to her feet, eyes narrowed in faux suspicion. “Are you sure the pizza party is for me? Because you love a pizza party.”
“We will make it the way you like?” She offers. “No gross fake meat?”
“Hmmm…” you think it over. A pizza party is better than one of those baby showers with weird baby themed food. “Okay. But.” You hold up your pointer finger. “No telling anyone else until I do. So no planning with Roxy until I tell her myself.”
Chica nods, but you’re not completely sure if you trust it.
It’s not hard to get Roxy semi-alone. She keeps her room curtains open for fans, but it’s mostly soundproof, and you don’t mind a few kids gawking as you repaint Roxy’s nails.
“So.” She says, leaning into her free palm. It’s too practiced a pose to be accidental, but it’d make her even more self conscious if you asked her to really relax. “You wanted to tell me something?”
“Did Chica tell you that?”
“Chica…” she says, slow and purposeful. “Wanted to plan a party. But wouldn’t tell me why you’re the star of the show.”
Roxy is loud, vivacious. Passionate to a fault. Some of the parents have accused her of being too aggressive and a bad influence.
But she knows when to be delicate, and she’s one of the best listeners you’ve ever known.
She lets you think about it as you finish the first coat on her right hand. You make a vague motion and– you’re hormonal. You know that. You still can’t help but feel like there’s something holy in the way you don’t have to use words for her to give you her hand. Surely, taking care of one another is a form of sacrament.
“I’ve never seen you with a little little kid.” You start.
She shrugs. “Not a lot of toddlers like go-kart racing. I like them well enough. Especially the ones who aren’t afraid of dressing the way they like.”
True. You distinctly recall her getting all excited because of a kid with purple hair, spiked bracelets, and a tutu.
“What about babies?” You just barely get a bit of “skin” with your next brush stroke. Months ago, Roxy would’ve gotten angry about it, possibly even cut your time together short, but now she just silently watches on as you correct the mistake, wiping it away with an alcohol soaked q-tip.
When you’re done with that, she says, “Babies are more of a Daycare Attendant thing. I don’t mind them though.”
“That’s good. Because…” again, you motion for her other hand, and she gives it to you without hesitation. You bring it to your stomach, and watch her head tilt in confusion when she feels the almost perfectly dome shaped swell. “I am making one.”
It shouldn’t shock you, that she immediately pulls you into her lap, into a hug so all encompassing that your only feedback is lots of hair. Because she loves you and you love her and of course this is good news.
But she’s also a coworker, in a weird way, and sometimes it still takes you off guard, how much they genuinely like you.
Once at your old job, a newly hired woman found out she was pregnant, and was immediately met with not-so-subtle scorn. Not enough to allow her a HR thing or to sue the company itself for discrimination, but enough that she knew of people making snide comments. She must've known. She just wants to take advantage of maternity leave.
Sure, sometimes at the Pizzaplex you run into a glitchy endo and have to walk backwards like your life depends on it (it does), but you have friends.
Roxy holds you, forever and five seconds at the same time, before pulling away in order to tell you with her signature wolfish grin, “I am going to be their favorite.”
You want to make a joke about her competition being pretty stiff or something, but. You can't. Not even jokingly, you can't break her heart like that.
So instead you lean up and boop her snoot.
She can't wrinkle her nose up the way you know she wants to in response, but she narrows those lite-brite eyes of hers, and from her voice box comes the pre-recorded sound of a growl.
Silly.
"Monty already offered to teach them bass, ya know." You say, glancing at the window to make sure there's no kids watching right this moment before hugging her again.
"I'll teach ‘em to drive. And be cool." She hugs you back, but it's much more casual than earlier. You can't help but mourn the loss.
"Monty is cool. Sometimes."
"Yeah, because I taught him, too." Roxy agrees. "And it only half stuck."
You don’t like being in the west arcade during business hours. As much as you love DJ Music Man and his beats, it’s too loud, too full, too bright. It was overwhelming even before your hormones gave you a hair trigger.
But you heard scurrying in the vents when you were with Roxy, which means you are on a time limit.
Still.
You wait until there are only minutes left before closing, the announcements making even the most stubborn patrons flock to the doors. No one wants to be caught inside without a key. No one normal, at least. Although classifying yourself as abnormal skirts a little too close to the “not like other girls” phenomenon for comfort.
DJMM is resting when you arrive, alternating between watching the stragglers exit and one of his children… dance? You think they’re dancing. They’re walking in a circle, always facing their father, and shaking the adorably child sized tambourine they have.
Unfortunately, they cease their performance when they see you. Not in a bad way, but still. You find it a little sad.
They immediately begin trying (and succeeding) to crawl up your leg, their tiny metal pincers digging into your skin. It doesn’t hurt too bad, but you don’t want faux cat scratches covering your calves, so you reach down to pick them up. You usually hold them against your stomach, facing the world, instead of cradled, but you’re pregnant and silly, and you have a bump you’d rather not press them against.
They make a soft noise when you cradle them, seeming confused.
DJ echoes that confusion, tapping on the stage to get your attention. You used to think it was weird, that a DJ animatronic doesn’t have a conventional voice box, but you’ve gotten used to his Bumblebee-esque way of communication. “What’s up?” The sound clip he uses sounds excited, almost angry, but he is neither of those things.
“I…” the mini spider (spiderling? Nymph? Pupa?) you’re holding rests their head against you, briefly derailing your entire train of thought. “Cutie.”
DJ is one of your more patient coworkers, and he lets you coo over his child without complaint. It could also be that you only got one word in beforehand, and he doesn’t realize you’re here to deliver news.
Still. You appreciate his time.
“I have something to tell you.” You begin.
DJ tilts his head to the side, curious. “Good? Bad?”
“Good. Very good,” with any luck. You’re not oblivious to the ever looming dangers that can still hurt you and yours. But you’re also aware that stress can be one of those dangers, so. It’s better to try and relax. Celebrate. Maybe even joke around a little. You smile at DJ, and say, “So. When’s the next single parent meeting? Because you and me. We’re gonna be a team here pretty quick.”
DJ doesn't immediately try to get all up close and personal like a few of the other animatronics, but a new song kicks on. A lullaby.
It’s not a question in the traditional sense, but still, you confirm, “Yeah.”
The spiderling in your arms seems just as excited as their father, and joins in with a wild shake of their tambourine.
It was, perhaps, a mistake to tell the most anxious animatronic you know that you have news. Even when you specified good news.
So it doesn't shock you that Moon is on you like white on rice when the kids finally all fall asleep.
"Tell us." They say, voice pitching up the way it does when they're annoyed. "Sun has been fretting alllllllll morning, starlight."
Sun worrying over next to nothing isn't new, and most of the time you just feel bad, that they're so so anxious.
But you're not yourself, and it makes you angry. "Tell Sun there's no reason to fret. I'm not one of the children." You snap.
Moon tilts their head to the side, confused and dismayed and…
That was… too far, you realize belatedly. "Fuck, I'm sorry, I didn't…"
They reach out for you, cupping your face. "We forgive you."
Sun will, no doubt also comment on the swearing, but for the moment, you let yourself relax into Moon's pleasantly cool palms. You already told half the Pizzaplex. It's not a big deal, it's just… it is. A big deal. Everytime you say it, it gets that much realer. More real.
"Can you tell me now? Or do you really want to wait until closing?" Moon asks, glancing towards the clock. Nap time is an hour and a half, and then it's five (ish) more hours until the Daycare officially closes.
You look towards the children, sleeping oh-so-soundly, and then back at Moony. "Is Sun listening?"
"Yes." As if to prove that point, the tips of Sun's rays poke out of their faceplate. They've been getting better at that. At sharing, and allowing Eclipse to come out without a complete reboot.
"Okay. So." You're stalling. A little bit. "I'm going on vacation in like. Six months."
Moon blinks at you. "...what?"
"I'm going on vacation, and while I'm away, you two will be preparing for a VIB. A very important baby."
They twitch a little, and if you had to guess, you'd say Sun just said something about how all the babies are important. Which is true, but nevertheless.
It takes them several seconds to put vacation and baby together, but you know they've got it when their eyes turn red. Infrared vision, to help see in the dark.
"You!" They say, hands moving from your face to your arms and– you should be used to your animatronics picking you up by now, but you still startle.
They pick you up by the armpits like an unruly kitten, and before you can even complain, they're setting you back down on the security desk.
"We!!! We thought you were just eating too much watermelon, to be honest."
It's clearly a joke, based on the silly myths kids tell each other, but you still bare your teeth at the jester. Bastard.
They giggle in return, hands hovering over your stomach. You appreciate that they're waiting, despite being so excited they're unable to keep still. If Moon is fidgety, you can't imagine how Sun will take it. "Can we see? Can I touch? Some of the little ones, they say they've felt their siblings."
"You may touch. But it's not far enough along to feel kicking." You lean back on your hands, so your tummy sticks out more.
Moon makes a very high pitched noise, a robotic buzz, almost, and immediately begins mapping out your growing tummy. "A baby ."
"Yeah." You smile.
"You'll make a wonderful parent." They say, matter of fact. "And we'll watch them while you work, and during sleepovers, and— sleep. " Moon freezes. "You should be resting . You're growing a baby."
"Moony. I know you're Little Miss Naptime, but I really don't need—"
Their eyes turn white, the way Sun's do, and their voice comes out strangely robotic, "Most doctors recommend eight to ten hours per night. Typically, sleep will not be as deep or restful while pregnant, and you will need to sleep as much as you can."
You frown. "Fact checking me mid conversation is rude."
They laugh in response. “Naptime! Naptime for the children, and for the tech.”
You look over at the play place, wondering if you could make it. While they can follow, they have difficulty being so big. And the kids are sleeping, so they’d have to be extra quiet. Making it across the bridge would put you much closer to the door, and Moon doesn’t leave during naptime.
Moon must realize what you’re thinking, because their eyes shift again, glowing brighter. "I will catch you."
"Kinda makes me wanna do it more." You admit, smiling at them. "You know I love a game of hide and seek."
"Naughty, naughty…" They tease, leaning in to press their faceplate against your tummy. They don’t have a mouth, per say, but the intent is there. It’s a kiss.
You hope your baby knows how much they’re loved, even now, when they’re not yet a person. You hope that when they’re a person, with thoughts and feelings, that they never think to doubt that love or feel neglected and alone.
That line of thought makes your heart ache though, so you reach for Moon. Their faceplate is… weird. Flat. One of the least “human” designs. Lovingly cupping their face feels a little like tenderly holding your cell phone.
"It's time for rest." This time, when they reach for you, they wait until you nod your consent before scooping you up, princess style.
"So, are you actually going to make me nap every time I work in the daycare?" You ask, lowering your voice as they get closer to the kids.
"Yes."
The blunt, monosyllabic response makes you laugh, and Moon, with you still in their arms, can't help but do one of their happy dances. Their weight shifts from side to side, making the bells on their wrists and feet jingle.
It’s not loud , not enough to bother any of the children, but you still shush them. “Stop being silly for five minutes.”
Moon rotates their entire face, as if tilting their head just wasn’t gonna cut it this time. “We’re jesters?” They say.
You double down, trying to look stern as you say, “No silly billy behavior.”
They set you down, ever so gently, on one of the bigger naptime mats (usually meant for kids who don’t like sleeping without their siblings), and then stand to their full height.
You raise your eyebrows. They’re up to something.
Slowly, they bring their hand to their chest, and say, “I will play the part of Serious William.”
You slap your own hand over your mouth, trying to muffle the sound of laughter.
“For you, starlight.” They continue gravely, as if this is a duty they are honor bound to.
“ Moon. ” They look so pretty and stupid and you can’t help but reach for their hands, pulling them down into your arms. “Come cuddle me, you absolute clown.”
They go willingly, albeit with a reminder, “I have to get up if the children need me.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
You don’t expect to fall asleep, even with the Naptime Attendant wrapping you in their cool-side-of-the-pillow arms. But you are tired, and you are pregnant.
They’re gone by the time you wake up, both in the sense they are no longer cuddling you and in the sense that the lights are on. One of the kids (Sarah, who likes red light green light and always has her hair in a Dutch braid) has wriggled between your arm and chest, and she grumbles when you move. “Five more minutes, Amber.”
It takes you a second to register she’s calling you her sister's name. You don’t mind, but it does strike you as a little sad. She adores her big sister, but they have a large age gap, and she’s away at college.
You relax back again, whispering an apology for disturbing her.
Plus, it’s not like it’s a big deal. You already took a fuckin’ nap on the clock (at the insistence of an animatronic previously deemed “unstable”, although you don’t fear them in the slightest), it’s not like extending your break to stare up at the star-spangled ceiling is going to harm anyone.
They’re impossible to make out with the lights on, blazingly bright. You wonder if Sun can see them, with their weird robot eyes. The Daycare Attendant and Roxy have upgrades, although they’re sparse on the details. You know Roxy can see through some things (like walls?), but not to what extent. And Moon can obviously see in the dark, but Sun–
Sun is. Upside down.
You blink up at them, startled.
They’re leaning over you, bent at the waist, their permanently affixed grin somehow even cheerier than usual.
“Gooooood morning, sleepyhead!”
The child pressed into your side groans and tries to hide her face in your shirt. “Sunnnnnyyyyyy,” she whines.
Sun holds out their hand, but you shake your head. “Can’t. I’m trapped.”
As if to prove your point, she fists your shirt in her (admittedly tiny) hands.
Sun gasps so dramatically you wonder if it’s a pre recorded sound bite. “I didn’t realize this was a kidnapping!! Oh, woe is me, my favorite tech is being held hostage!”
There are several more gasps from the other children watching, and you purse your lips in an attempt to not smile.
“Mhm! And I’m not giving ‘em back!” Sarah declares. You can’t see her face, but she sounds like she’s smiling.
“Even for a sundrop?” They offer.
You narrow your eyes, “I am worth more than one sundrop.”
“Not helping!”
Before you can further protest, Sarah says, “I want a whole bag of sundrops, and moondrops for later, and Chica FizzyFaz, and–“
“You drive a hard bargain, you scallywag.” Sun says. “How about we have a competition instead? If you win, you can have our beste̷̠͆̈́s̴̨̮͝t̷̩̫́̾ friend alllllll to yourself.” The way they force “bestest” through their filter makes you laugh, which. Was probably exactly what they intended. “Until your mom comes. And if I win… hmmm…” they sway from side to side as they pretend to think about their reward.
“I’ll let you have my dessert tomorrow.” Sarah offers.
“Oh, no, kiddo, we could never take your dessert! We don’t have a mouth!” Sun pokes at their own face, making the kids giggle. “How about we think about my reward later! Let’s get right to the game. What do you want to play?”
Figuring if she’s awake enough to make demands, she’s fine with you moving, you get up on your elbows. Sarah comes along with that movement, giggling as she makes herself go limp and falls face first into your lap. “Goofball,” you pat her head.
She props her head up on your leg, bony little chin digging in uncomfortably. Thankfully, she only stays like that for a little (probably because it’s uncomfortable for her too, but whatever). Still, instead of getting up and allowing you your freedom, she makes a show of crawling into your lap in the most awkward, gangly way possible.
“What should we play?” She asks you.
You think about Moon threatening you with a game of chase earlier, how much fun that’d be. But then you consider what’s the funniest thing to make Sun do, and you say, “Musical chairs.”
“ Starlight .” Sun says, their voice oddly strangled. It’s interesting how expressive they can be.
“Do you not like musical chairs, Sunny?” Sarah sounds troubled by this, or, more likely, worried that Sun wouldn’t have fun if she picked it.
Cutie. If it were anyone else around, you’d blame it on the hormones, but it’s Sun and if anyone understands why that makes you tear up, it’s them.
They drop down on their knees, assuring her, “I love all the games we play together!”
Which, let the records show, is a true statement, but not a fully transparent one. They like all the games, but they don’t like (or pretend not to) when you sit on the sidelines and giggle at their expense. Because they’re a nine foot tall jester, and the plastic Daycare chairs are meant for children.
You’re genuinely not sure if Sun lets them win, or just losses as a result of how bad this particular game is for their frame, but it doesn’t shock you when they’re knocked out in the first round.
“You’re being mean today.” They say as they join you on the sidelines. “Telling Moony first, and then picking musical chairs .” They use a recording of your voice, as if the game is too terrible to say with their voicebox.
“Technically, I told Monty first.” You say.
Sun makes an offended noise. “Monty?”
“He was standing by the entrance.” You glance up at them out of the corner of your eye, trying to resist the urge to reach for their hand. PDA, even of the platonic variety, are frowned upon in the Daycare, if only because the kids already love making you and Sunny “the parents” when they play house.
Sun seems to be on the same wavelength, their voice coming out in an actual whisper when they say, “Can you stay late today so I– we can hug you?”
Awww.
“Yes, Sunshine. I have to make up for napping on the clock anyways.” You wonder if you should edit your time card.
Sun hums, out of step with the daycare theme, but nevertheless pleased as punch.
“ Although. ” You say, smiling at them. “I get the feeling you’re gonna find a way to hug me before then.”
They feign shock, covering their mouth as if scandalized. “ Me? Bend the rules? I think you’ll find that’s Moon’s domain.”
“You’re both stinkers and you know it.” You tut.
“I know no such–“
“Sunny! Did you see me?” A kid (Jamie, one half of the three pairs of twins the Daycare sees regularly. He likes baby carrots so much you have to stop him from making trades with the other kids) says. He’s sitting halfway on a chair, the other half being occupied by another child. “I got here first!”
“No, I did ,” his seatmate spits.
You and Sun are both moving before you really register it, “Nnnnno hitting!”
You take your eyes off them for two seconds …
Freddy is one of the hardest animatronics to get a hold of. Not because he purposefully evades you or anything like that, but because he’s just. Freddy fucking Fazbear, and everyone wants to get a hold of him.
So even though you want to pull him out of the thick of it and tell him all about your good news immediately , you really can’t. And you know you shouldn’t anyways, because you’re his tech and you’ll get to see him eventually.
Like when his paint job gets a little dingy.
Or. A lot dingy.
Perhaps even caked on.
“So.” You squint up at him, taking in the way he wrings his paws in embarrassment and refuses to make eye contact. His faceplate and mouth are covered in still wet looking frosting and bits of cake. “I knew you had a party today but I didn’t think it was a wedding.”
“It was a third birthday party.” Freddy says, tilting his head in confusion. “A wedding?”
“Because…” you motion to your own face, before remembering he’s probably never had to learn about wedding traditions. The juxtaposition is still kind of weird to you. They’re so smart , they’re just… isolated.
“Let’s get you cleaned up while I explain.” You offer, turning towards Rockstar Row.
Freddy follows dutifully behind, and thankfully, you don’t run into any of his bandmates. You love them, you do, but they’d have a field day mocking Freddy while the frosting just gets more and more gross.
Speaking of. You’re so glad that you haven’t been overly sensitive to smells throughout your first and second trimester. You’ve been sick, seemingly without any triggers which is annoying, but. Preferable? Given where you work?
You grab cleaning supplies from the storage area behind Freddy’s room as you try to decide if that is actually preferable. You think so. Maybe.
Freddy is sitting on the floor when you return, so you can sit on your little rolly chair and still reach his face.
You begin with paper towels, wiping off the main… chunks, you suppose. It’s gross, but only gross in a superficial way. You’re not going to get sick from smeared cake.
Freddy’s mouth doesn’t move as he says, “So. Will you explain your wedding joke?”
“It’s a thing people do…” you take your free hand and press it against one of the few cake free parts of his face like you’re smearing even more cake. “The bride and groom shove cake in each other’s faces. Supposed to be a cutesy kinda thing.” You’ve never actually looked up why though. Maybe you should do that later.
“I see.” Freddy says in that way he does, when he’s confused but accepting of weird human traditions. “I can assure you, that was not the case this time.”
You crack a smile. “No? You sure, Freddy? You’re not leaving me for some MILF?”
“MI—“ his no profanity filter kicks in, and he doesn’t even bother resisting it. “Do I want to know what that means?”
“Probably not.” You allow. “Although…” now that you think of it. You’ll be joining their ranks soon. Neat.
Some of your friends might want you to finish that thought immediately, but Freddy rarely pushes for more information. He falls silent as you grab gloves and the wet wipes.
“I have something I want to tell you.” You begin, starting with the seams of his face. You don’t want to have to explain to Parts and Services why there’s cake in his internals.
Freddy makes a soft noise, a very fatherly hm? that makes you smile a little. He’s so cute. Even with the cake.
You have the sudden desire to boop his nose, but squash that in favor of getting him clean. Maybe you’ll get to boop him later. When he’s clean and you’re celebrating.
But for now, you gently wipe his face, and he hums one of his songs.
The cleaning process is simple enough, although, again, you can’t help but think how lovely it is. Just like with Roxy and her nails, Freddy letting you care for him is… special. Tender, but not scary. Not too much .
Which is what gives you the bravery to say, outright, “I’m pregnant.”
Freddy slow blinks. His eyes make that weird camera shutter noise you like. “You…”
“Are having a baby. Am? Having a baby.” You don’t like the way you worded that, but—
Freddy brings his hands up, hesitating. “I… would like to hug you.”
You smile at him. “You don’t need to ask, Freddy.”
He has some kind of response, some kind of of course I do, I would never want to make you uncomfortable , on the tip of his tongue, but you wrap your arms around his neck and he cuts himself off.
He hugs you back, so, so heartbreakingly gentle. “You will make a wonderful parent.”
“Thank you.”
“And we– those of us at the Pizzaplex– will love taking care of your child.” He tilts his head, just barely laying it on top of yours.
The love you feel for the animatronics is usually bright and loud. Usually you feel it in your hands and your face, in smiles and laughter.
The love you feel right now, in this moment, is soft and curled in the base of your throat. A fledgling of a feeling, still in its nest.
You squeeze Freddy tighter and repeat, “ Thank you .”