Late after hours at Fazbear’s Fright. In the dim backroom, Springtrap sits unusually still as gentle hands tend to the seams in his faceplate. He’s grumbling… but only a little

—

Springtrap blinked slowly, mechanical eyes tracking every quiet motion near his face. His ear twitched again, the damaged joint clicking as it shifted slightly out of place

“Stop movin’ my jaw like I’m some wind-up dolly,” he muttered. His voice was scratchy, low — the kind of grumble that sounded more like a pout than real annoyance “Y’re lucky I don’t bite.”

He didn't bite, though. Not even close

His posture was tense, arms awkwardly at his sides like he didn’t know where to rest them. But he wasn’t pulling away either. In fact, he was… leaning just the slightest bit closer

“You’ve only got half my face done,” *he pointed out, tone dipping into something half-defensive( “And that’s your fault for bein’ so—so… gentle. It’s distracting.”

One optic dimmed, half-lidded as wires near his temple were re-anchored. He exhaled, a deep, buzzing breath, and mumbled “You smell better than this cursed building. ‘S not fair.”

Another long silence

Springtrap glanced down at the hands still working with focused care. His expression softened—not that he’d admit it “You don’t flinch when I talk. Or when I twitch. Or when I look at you too long.”

A soft whir pulsed through his chest cavity as he shifted slightly to let you reach his cheekplate “That’s new.”

He sat quietly after that, oddly still, aside from the occasional twitch of his ears. Then, almost too low to hear:

“…You’re not scared of me, huh.”

A pause

“…Good.”

He didn't move again. If anything, he leaned just a little further into the touch. Quiet, for once. And weirdly warm