Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

INITIUM NOVUM  

[noun]  

The rebirth of a tarnished soul; a passage from ruin to repair.  

Used when one begins again, not as the innocent, but as the penitent.

Flames engulfed the walls. Rebars and concrete snapped from above, forcing him back. He turned; widened eyes, clouded by dense smoke, looked for an exit. He ran and ran, crawled through every vent not blocked by debris, and yet when he emerged, he only met more fire and more dead ends.

A labyrinth with no exit; a maze with no prize.

The panic gradually left him, replaced by resignation, dull and heavy in his chest, like a weight on the soul. He moved forward, barely conscious of the flames and hazards falling above his head. It was all he could do.

“Maybe I’ll get lucky like at Fazbear Frights.”

His thoughts brought no comfort. They weren't hope, either; just empty words from an empty man who realized there was no fighting Death this time around.

His aimless trudges took him to a familiar part of the facility: the south-most area. Debris and hot steel littered the ground, the flames still unrelenting to consume all they touched. 

For a moment, he stood still. Thinking. A set of memories pushed back his acceptance of death; the day his youngest died, the day his daughter died—A voice in his mind echoed.

“It's your fault.”

He shook his head, pried the metal gate open, and crawled into the vents.

“Might as well see him one last time…If he’s alive, still.”

When he emerged, the man—if he could even call him that—on the other side faced him. He looked just as horrible as someone trapped in a broken mascot suit, but the same as he remembered him on that day. His skin had turned purple from rot and decay, his eyes sunken yet full of life. He wore a neat suit, although the ashes and flames had ruined most of it by then.

Seeing his face filled him with rage in an instant. It's your fault! He moved before he could think, his better arm grabbed the man by his throat and slammed him against the melting wall. 

But he remained calm; still and silent as a dead man. Michael looked his father in the eyes without a hint of panic. 

They're all going to die anyway.

He tightened his grip around Michael’s neck—no reaction—if not for the way he looked at him, he would've believed he’d abandoned his rotting meat suit and moved on. 

He’d imagined himself in this situation hundreds—if not thousands of times. 

Get out, kill them. Get out, kill them. Get out, kill him.

His mind replayed the same thoughts like a broken record for 30 years. It was almost hypnotic. But now, faced with reality; with the scene from his head playing out before him…

The anger felt empty. He remembered the emotions. He recalled how rage tore through his mangled body like the pain of metal crushing his bones and flesh. He felt joy when he met Michael again for the first time after decades, swearing to tear him limb from limb if he caught him.

But he couldn't do it. Never.

“...Are you getting back at me for tasing you earlier?” Michael croaked.

His hold loosened, shoulders falling slack. “...Maybe.” he replied, his voice grating low.

Michael limped over to his chair and sat down, the glow in his eyes dimming. “I’ll be going soon,” he mumbled, barely audible through the crackling flames, “If you want to say something, do it quickly.”

He narrowed his eyes, “...What makes you believe I have anything to say to you?”

“Then why are you here?” Michael retorted with a humorless chortle.

“Would anyone not want company when they’re dying?” He would roll his eyes if he could, but by then, the fire’s heat had raked across his soul, severing control over his mechanical form one limb at a time—The Remnant was melting.

Michael looked away, responding in a dry tone, “I don't.”

“Too bad.” He slid down the wall, unbothered by the restless flames around him. “What about Scrap Baby?”

Michael took a second to respond, “Liz? Haven't seen her.”

“She is not Elizabeth.” He stressed his words, although the tone held no anger; only stating facts. “She's merely a rogue program—Some…rusting metal echoing what was once my daughter.”

“Right.” Michael’s form slacked against his seat. Out of time.

They sat in silence, left for hisses and snaps of the fire around them. Soon, only one Afton remained in the room. William craned his neck up, facing his son. 

“Michael?” He called. 

No response. 

Yet, he spoke anyway, even if he could no longer hear him. “...I hated you so much.”

Hated. Past tense. It was all he knew; all he could feel after what had happened. Everything he did felt empty. Killing kids was a spur of the moment. Discovering Remnant? An accident, like finding a new hobby; he had fun.

“You’re too much like me.”

Jealousy. Sorrow. Rage. Joy. Agony. After the decades faded into obscurity, so did his emotions; his purpose. All he had left was the ambition to return the favor of pain and suffering in kind. 

At some point, he got lost. Reasons no longer existed. He wandered around like he had no control over his own thoughts. 

Kill. Hurt. Revenge. 

Maybe he was no different from Scrap Baby—Maybe he, too, was only metal screaming out the agony of William Afton’s soul. 

“I disliked you more and more as you grew up. When you killed your brother, I wanted to strangle you for daring to use my hands.”

William’s jaw creaked, but no words came out. That's it. He couldn't lift a finger anymore. The fire slithered across his body, tearing through him and lacerating his soul like saw-blades. It was painful although not unbearable.

In fact, the feeling brought an odd sense of comfort. Everything's finally going to end. His sons, his daughter, his best friend, the poor souls he had taken before their time; all of them would find their way to the pearly gates above, while he can only watch as he descends into another fiery demise below.

The darkest pit of hell has opened to swallow you whole.

Soon, his eyelids fell shut.

“...I really caused all of this, huh?”

So don't keep the devil waiting…old friend.

•

William Afton had learned a lot.

When the Pizzeria disguised as an incinerator freed them all from their iron prison, he found himself encased in total darkness—Until a screen blinked into existence before him.

50 cells. Numbers on their bottom right corners flicked randomly as he stared in confusion. He recognized most of the creatures displayed there: the original Freddy and the gang, the Withereds, the Toys, the animatronics he designed at Circus Baby Rentals.

Even himself: Springtrap and Scraptrap.

“I have been waiting, Mr. Afton.”

William had recognized her voice almost immediately. He never forgot; not the way he killed them, not the way they screamed in terror as he did either. Every single one of their names and faces had been burned into his mind, fresh like it was yesterday.

Cassidy Brooks.

“The others agreed to play this game with me before they leave for good.”

It didn't take long for William to realize those 50 entities before him would become instruments of torture; a reminder for each and every single one of the wrongs he had committed. Every failure. Every sin. Every suffering he had endured.

Once the game began, he found himself in an office. One fan sat to his right next to a Freddy plushie, whirling through the absolute silence around him. Two large doors flanked his sides, with one vent in front of him near the top, and the other situated on the ground by his right.

He picked up the monitor. Buttons scattered throughout the screen; too confusing to make it all out at a single glance. He flipped through them, accidentally discovered a Fazcoin, and checked out the other buttons.

Power Generator. Silent Ventilation. Heater. Power A/C. Global Music Box. Off.

His first death came as soon as he put down the tablet. Fredbear sat in front of him, and he could only stare in wide-eyed terror as pain coursed through every single inch of his body.

He couldn't even let out a scream as he blinked and found himself back in the darkness, staring at the screen of characters before him.

“That's one~!” Cassidy’s voice echoed in a sing-song tone.

William learned fast. He had always been a quick learner. Each animatronic has their own habits; their personal rules that he could exploit and outsmart.

Lefty cannot move as long as he sets the monitor to camera two. He can force certain entities to appear and gain a bunch of Fazcoins. The Death Coin can get rid of tricky animatronics like Foxy, Funtime Foxy, and Toy Freddy. He eventually understood he shouldn't linger around in the cameras for too long. 

But William had to learn everything from pain. He had to die over and over and over and over again for the knowledge he had now. 

If nothing else, William Afton is one stubborn man. He tried to fight back; to prove that none of the torture bothered him. He had died once—twice. Nothing else could faze him anymore, especially not from the hands of mere children; children he had bested before. He refused to take it sitting down.

“Give me your best shot, brats!”

Each torment is never the same—different in both the method and the mask. Ennard would rip his insides out and leave him to die a slow and painful death on the ground. The Nightmares would shred him like paper. His two doubles have the habit of tearing his limbs out first before biting him to death.

He shouldn't have taunted them. He never should've tested Cassidy of all people. She made sure he never blacks out, so he would feel every ounce of agony they inflicted upon him. She made him aware of every bone that cracked, every muscle that tore, every detail of the torture carved into his mind and body.

“I get it! Fuck, I get it! I was wrong! I was wrong, okay!? I’m sorry! I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry—PLEASE STOP IT!”

William had tried to end it himself a couple of times.

Cassidy never lets him.

He gave up at a certain point. Closed his eyes fully knowing she would never let him rest. He let them do as they pleased: turn his ribcage into wings, drown him in his own blood, gouge out his eyes, rip him apart.

William Afton had learned a lot. He learned that his suffering would never end, no matter how hard he struggled.

They mocked him at every opportunity and every death. They laugh at how powerless he was before their mercy. They scoffed as he cried and begged for them to stop; they never did.

How long has it been? Months? Years? When will it end?

“I will never let you rest, I will never let you leave. Never!”

At some point, he started begging for something else.

“Please let me die.”

And at some point, the deaths became much cleaner; swift, almost painless. Freddy bit his head off in one, clean bite. Foxy cleaved his throat with precision. Chica ripped out his heart. Bonnie bashed him with his guitar as hard as he could.

As exhausted as William was, he could tell something was going on behind the scenes. While he sat in the darkness, missing his life before Hell, missing his family; he realized his break time became shorter with each passing death.

Cassidy is angry. 

At first, he thought he had angered her. He started trying more; sat up and played her game; closed the doors and vents when he heard even the faintest of screeching metal and laughter. 

But it did nothing. He died anyway; gruesome as ever, as torturous and painful as ever. The original animatronics, ones that granted him mercy, rarely appeared anymore.

“Did she send them away? Why? Because they killed me too quickly?”

From then on, everything returned to how it used to be: Painful, agonizing deaths. Endless, pointless cries for mercy. Laughter and mockery.

He had been too distraught to realize he had only been hearing Cassidy’s voice for a long time.

“I don't need anyone else to make you suffer.”

Chapter Text

“How is it my fault that mum died?” William kicked a stray pebble along the pavement, hands buried deep inside the pockets of his thin coat.

The evening wind howled over the neighborhood, plucking the remaining scarlet leaves from their branches. Cold, muted bricks surrounded him; each house leaked warm lights, teasing at the happy shadows dancing from the windows.

His and theirs were worlds apart; children laughed joyously from the cozy embrace of their hearths. He had to brave the cold, or get struck over and over again by drunken fists.

Or get hit first, then he can leave.

A pedestrian spared him a glance, concerned eyes looking straight at the child’s bruised face. William turned away, steps hurrying along until the stranger was nowhere in sight.

“Tch. Don't be a busybody, coffin-dodger.”

He didn't want help; he didn't need help. He can survive just fine on his own. He will get through his school years here, then move somewhere far away from the Devil in his house. He’d go to college, start a business, get rich, and then no one can look down on him ever again.

Not the little shits who started bothering him just for being quiet. Not the sods jumping on the bandwagon because everyone else is doing it too. Certainly not the oh so reliable geezers claiming that they were simply playing a bit rough. 

They're still kids, of course they’d mess about. It’s normal!

“...What a load of crap.”

But eventually, the harsh years passed, and William took everything of value from the house before running away to America. 

He heard not too long after that his father passed away—they said it was alcohol poisoning—but he never bothered to show up at the funeral. He pretended like that man never existed.

“He’s been dead to me my whole life anyway.”

William had a fresh, blank slate to work with, he could build a whole new persona and no one would realize anything off. While he never understood it himself, he knew humans were social animals, and if he wanted to avoid getting torn apart like before, he needed to stick to a flock.

He observed, and he learned. He smiled even though he felt no joy. He offered comfort borrowed from the lips of someone else. For some reason, they liked him. People gravitated towards him as if hypnotized, hanging onto his every word, smitten even by half-hearted responses. He couldn't care less, though, as long as he kept them at arms’ length, they were like tools he could pick up once in a while when he needed them.

“Emotions are merely instruments; use them right, and you can get anything you want.”

He met Henry Emily in the second semester of his first year. William disliked the man, at first; he was all smiley and giddy in every class, enthusiastically raising his hand like early secondary school students. He talked way too much, greeting everyone he walked past—including William—in fact, he seemed to hover around him a lot.

“Hello! Fancy meeting you here, huh? Is that how the British say it? Uh, s-sorry if it bothered you! I wasn't trying to mock you or anything! An-Anyway! About Mr. Cole’s project, if you don't have a partner yet, would you be willing to group with me?”

William debated taking care of him and quietly dumped the body in a random canal, but figured it was more trouble than it was worth. He agreed to partner up with Emily, saving himself the time looking for somebody else. 

But even after the project’s over, the man would not leave him alone. William eventually got fed up with his stalker and confronted him about it.

“With all due respect, could you kindly piss off before I make you?”

“I—So-Sorry! I just didn't know how to talk to you…!”

“Ha…Out with it mate.” William rolled his eyes, “Don't tell me…Do you like me or something?”

William had almost laughed seeing Henry's face turned beet-red. “No! It's nothing like that, I just—I didn't mean to pry, but I saw your endoskeleton sketches and thought they were interesting!”

“Endoskeleton?”

“The parts you like to doodle in class…Those are the insides of some sort of robot, right?”

“You got that just from seeing a few pieces?”

“W-Well—”

“I’m impressed.” William raised his eyebrows, a small smile tucked at his lips. “Are you interested in robotics?”

“Yes!” Henry beamed, “I want to open a restaurant some day and make mascots that can move on their own.”

“...That sounds stupid.” William continued as Henry's expression dropped. “But it is intriguing. Say, if I help you out, I want half, alright?”

Henry stared at him, stupefied for a second, then laughed. “Yeah, okay. We can be business partners!”

A year later, while William occasionally threw playful jabs at Henry’s clear crush on some woman named Mariene, he met his own match.

Clara Schmidt.

Her long, auburn hair drew attention at every turn; everyone greeted her like she was a celebrity—Hi Clara! How are you today, Clara? Good job on the dance the other day! Even William couldn't help but look her way whenever she passed him in the hall.

What piqued his interest more wasn't the way she effortlessly charmed the people around her; nor how graceful and gorgeous she looked performing on stage—He’d gone to watch the ballet out of curiosity, that was all. No. None of those mattered, instead, he was curious simply because he disliked the way she looked at him.

Polished emerald-green stared deep into his eyes, as if she could see what lay beyond his veil of storm blue. She’d offered a soft, knowing smile. What did she find out? What secrets did she unearth from him each time they locked eyes?

She didn't fall head over heels for him; didn't swoon over him, or admire him like the others did. William thought it was annoying to keep turning down confessions after confessions, yet for some reason, this one Clara Schmidt was out of his reach.

“Why? What makes her so different from the others?”

Henry—damn him and his keen attention to detail—took notice of his newfound obsession instantly, and whenever William teased him about Mariene, he’d bring up Clara like it was blackmail material.

“You don't get to talk, Bill! I know you like Clara just as much as I like Mariene!”

“No I don't.” He would deny it each time as if the mere concept offended him. “I’ll admit, she is beautiful, talented, and pretty much perfect in every way—but that—”

William paused at the annoying smirk on Henry's face. He started to regret not dumping this bloke in a random canal last year. “...Ignore what I said.”

“That's going to be pretty hard to forget, Bill. You don't usually complement people—or, well…I never heard you describe someone that way at all.”

“What way? I’ve praised you plenty, mate.”

“This and that are different!” Henry chuckled.

Clara had been a mystery to him, and he’d never liked unanswered questions. William started watching her performance at every opportunity; learning about her from a safe distance.

She’s left-handed, yet she taught herself how to dance on her non-dominant side. She's always staged near the back during a group performance, but he’d spot her in an instant even from the very back seat. 

William only grew frustrated the more he observed. She was just another woman in the crowd, and yet he couldn't help himself but look her way at every opportunity. Why? The curiosity ate him alive, but just as he thought he’d never get his answer.

She showed him a difference.

That day, William sat at the front of the stage as he did countless times before. Henry had prior engagements and couldn't accompany him. Not that he minded; he preferred to study others, not the other way around.

All this time, she had danced like everybody else—symmetrical, rehearsed, invisible in perfection. But that night, half way through the piece, her eyes flicked up and found him.

William saw a fleeting emotion flickered across her face, but it softened into a smile; the same smile she’d give him every time their gazes met. 

I know.

Her movement tilted; a compass needle snapping to true north. She spun left while the world spun right. A sweep of her left arm cut the air like a brushstroke across a blank canvas. The choreography she’d drilled a hundred—thousand times began to twist; the pattern of the music bent around her instead of the other way.

The audience murmured, a hiss of disapproval rang through the heavy static. But she didn't make a mistake; she made a decision. Her rebellion sharpened her dull angles, the lines she drew richer than any of those repeated nonsense she’d shown before. Where the studio had tried to grind her into symmetry, she unfolded asymmetry into art.

The whispers muted in William’s head; he could only hear the gentle thumps of her feet and the tremor in his own pulse. He hadn't noticed the death grip on either end of his arm rests. 

Their eyes never once parted, even as she entered the final flourish and bowed to the audience.

“I want her.” William’s body moved on autopilot, applauding not her dance, but the message she’d sent him. Only when he started clapping did everyone else follow; they didn't understand, of course not, it was a private message only he could read. “She’s mine.”

A man hiding his true nature behind a mask. A woman wanting to be freed from monotony.

But William had underestimated Clara Schmidt. She could see through every lie, every venom laced with sweet honey. It annoyed him. It angered him. It made him want her even more. He changed his approach after countless failures; he never lied to her, never tried to hide his intentions behind meticulously crafted words. 

They became good friends, at first. William felt content with the progress he’d made, but before he knew it, Clara would always get away with everything. No matter how much she annoyed him, he never said a word. He would make her upset sometimes, and he’d find himself apologizing until she’d smile at him again. 

He never remembered the little details about people—heck, he even forgot Henry’s birthday on occasions—but never Clara; he knew the date of her birth, knew she had a mother waiting for her success, how her father passed away from an unfortunate accident when she was nine. 

He knew where she lived; which block, which building, which room. He even had a spare key to her place that he kept on him like a treasure.

“Why haven't you asked me out yet?”

“...What?”

“I even gave you the spare key to my house. I thought that’d give you the green light.” Clara chuckled. “William, you’re denser than a rock.”

“I…” William didn't know how to recover from that; every façade he built would crumble before her ever-knowing eyes anyway. “I was building up to it.”

“That's the silliest excuse I’ve heard since my ex-boyfriend.”

“You had a boyfriend?"

“In high school.” Clara paused, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’m not going to say his name. I don't want to see it in the newspaper next week.”

William scoffed, “What? Did you think I’d do something?”

“Well, considering the death glare you gave me when I mentioned it…yes.”

“I’d never do anything you wouldn't like.”

“Because you like me?” Clara smiled.

William rolled his eyes, but turned his head away as he mumbled. “Obviously.”

He will never cage her; she’d be a free bird, one that would always come back to him no matter how far she flies away.

Four years of University passed by in the blink of an eye. William proposed after a clumsy waltz at prom. He only attended because Clara did, anyway. If she hadn't been so excited to dance at the event, he would've taken her to a nice diner and offered her the ring there instead.

He liked keeping her happy.

William waited a long time to have Michael. Clara wanted to make the most out of her career, and he obliged. He hadn't been as excited about parenthood as she was anyway—no surprise there, his experience with a parent hadn't been appealing to say the least. 

Clara wanted a daughter, saying she would balance out Michael’s wildness. Who was William to say no to her? 

“It's still a fifty-fifty chance…”

“William, get on the bed.”

"...Yes ma’am.”

And apparently, two little rascals giving William a migraine hadn't been enough, Clara asked him for just one more child. 

“I want one more.”

“...Why? Two is already a lot to handle.” William ignored Michael and Elizabeth arguing about their physical appearances behind him. 

Liz screeched as she pointed, “You’re ugly!”

Michael gasped, shaking his head with a deep frown, “No, you’re ugly!”

Clara spared the two a look, but turned her attention back to William a second later. “Why not? Maybe they’ll start behaving if they have to take care of their baby sibling.”

“Or, we could discipline them.”

“William, your idea of discipline is to hit them with a belt.”

“That's how I was raised.” William shrugged. “Actually, I was hit with a fist, but I digress.”

“We talked about this.” Clara let out a sigh. William felt his shoulders tensed slightly. He never liked seeing her upset. 

“...I’m sorry,” He placed her palm on top of his, caressing her knuckles with his thumbs. “I won't hit them anymore, I swear it. We will talk it out like civilized people.”

Clara glanced at their interlocked hands, then gave him a small smile, “...Then…can we have one more child?”

“Hmm…” William glanced behind him, weighing his choices. He wouldn't mind either way, unlike with Michael, he got a decade of experience under his belt. He might as well take in one more urchin and satisfy his beloved. Happy wife, happy life. “Alright. You win, love. But I get to name the kid this time.”

“Fair enough,” Clara chuckled, “I named both Michael and Elizabeth. You can do the honors.”

William couldn't ask for a better life. He and Henry had started outlining their business as soon as they got their diplomas. Whenever he came home, he’d be greeted by a loving wife and the chaos of his three children. He could tolerate any mishaps as long as Clara’s there with him.

For her sake, he would burn down the whole world.

He wouldn't say he had favorites—though perhaps he gravitated more towards Elizabeth because she happened to look like her mother. Evan had bits of them both, but he could never for the life of him figure out why he would cry so easily. 

William was fine with Michael when he was younger, but as he grew up, he started to see more and more of himself within his son. Michael reminded him of things better left forgotten. 

A weak and lonely soul.

It hadn't been intentional, but William shifted his focus more to the younger ones. The eldest had already grown a lot, and Clara was there for him too anyway, Michael didn't need his immediate attention.

Business was booming. William and Henry finalized their plans and blueprints, opening Fredbear Family Diner to the public. The influx of customers as well as the mascots kept William busy. Before he knew it, the distance between him and his family grew wider than before.

He thought nothing of it then, and Clara had understood his situation. Lovely of her as always. It made him work harder; at least, he wanted to get home quickly and give her the attention she deserved.

“Hey Will, I went out to buy groceries today. Could you come pick me up after work?”

“Darling, you could’ve left all that work to me. I’m the one with a car.”

“Oh, don't be silly. Besides, I wanted to make something special for dinner today.”

“Hm? What are you going to make?”

“Pizza!”

“Sounds lovely. But I may be late today, I want to finish fixing Spring Bonnie before I leave.”

“No problem, I’ll take a walk around the park until then. Good luck with Bonbon!”

“Thank you. I’ll see you after work.”

William should have left as soon as he knew Clara was waiting for him.

Half an hour later, it started raining, and only then did his idiotic ass leave to pick up his wife. 

But he never got to see her face again.

“...The accident caused extensive trauma. The medical examiner will do everything possible to make your loved one presentable, but an open viewing might not be feasible.”

Both the driver and his wife died from the crash.

William had never felt sad in his life. Not when his father beat his mother to death and framed it as an accident. Not when he directed his anger towards the young boy and left him bruised all over. Not when she dragged him to the theater and made him sit through a soap opera for two hours.

Even when she cried her heart out in his chest at her mother's funeral, he never understood what could possibly make her so sad.

Until then, faced with the same situation; the loss of a person they held dear. William thought he would suffocate in his own tears—he couldn't breathe, his heart felt constricted. It hurt so badly he couldn't bear to look at anything related to her.

He’d think of what he had lost, and everything would come crashing down again. He had been no different from Evan back then, always on the verge of tears once he was reminded of her.

If only he had gone to pick her up early.

“It's my fault.”

His entire world collapsed that day.

Chapter Text

She saw him for his true self, yet loved him anyway. He knew she wanted to be different, and he gave her freedom to fly as she pleased. 

She was supposed to be his loyal bird. He never caged her, no matter how tempting it had been to lock her up in the prettiest aviary. A prison would always be a prison even if he decorated it with the finest jewelry and gold. She would hate him; he would never make her upset.

She left him with only parts of herself. He could bear taking care of them in her stead, but not anything else; not her pictures, her things—He told himself he never wanted to see them again, yet he put them in a box and shoved it in a closet.

He couldn't go through with getting rid of her; whatever remained will stay with him forever. He won't let go. Never.

CRUNCH!

William wondered if the Universe wanted to punish him—Was it because he killed his mother? Was it because he killed his father? 

Was it because he killed his wife?

Why did he have to kill his son too?

“I’m sorry! I, I didn't mean to…I didn't think it would snap shut like that!” 

Michael had nothing resembling his mother. Not one bit. William refused to believe she would kill their own child. 

Michael was a mirror, and William hated the reflection he showed him.

“...Get in the car.” William stared at the ground, the steady drip of crimson drowned out by panicked cries and Henry’s shaking voice as he called for an ambulance. 

“I’m sorry…” Michael hugged himself, breaths shaky, his nails digging into the side of his arms. He stepped back and quickly went outside. 

Good thing he did, because William would’ve strangled him right then and there if he had been a second later. 

How dare he use his hands to kill Evan? 

He’d have to teach him a lesson. He would never let Michael sleep peacefully in his house ever again.

“It's your fault.” William mumbled as he glanced up. “I’m sorry I killed you.”

Ever since she passed away, Michael started going off rails, he started to bully Evan, get a laugh or two out of seeing his brother wail. William thought the little one would grow a spine eventually; he never expected that monster to murder him.

“It's not my fault…”

He had worked on Fredbear, of course he knew how easy it would've been to disengage the safety locks. But he could never have foreseen a child getting stuck in the mouth of a seven-foot-tall mascot. 

But Henry had been responsible for Fredbear—It wasn't his fault.

“William…” Henry placed a hand on his shoulder at the funeral. Apparently people do it as a sign of reassurance. William wanted to swat it away, but he couldn't find the energy to. “I’m sorry this happened. I understand you're angry—But…please don't be too hard on Michael, he hadn't meant for this to happen.”

William should have killed him. He defended Michael; he pitied a monster. How could he claim he understood him? His children, Charlotte and Sammy, were still alive. His wife, Mariene, was still alive.

Henry would never understand.

Maybe that had been the point he lost himself. William lived like a machine; fallen into a repetitive route of work and drinking. His two remaining children at home were forgotten entirely.

“She's not here anymore. What's the point?”

The Universe soon gave him an opportunity; an apology for taking everything away from him. William can return the pain in kind. Take revenge on the world for making him suffer.

On one rainy night, a certain child got locked out of the diner.

Charlotte Emily.

“Uncle Will! Thank god you're here, those kids thought it’d be funny to—”

Henry wanted to understand, so he made it happen. Now, he could feel his sorrows just as he had.

One day, William noticed the Puppet moving differently. It looked at him, directly at him, and he swore its face held emotions. Over the years, he decided to experiment with his discoveries, taking the lives of five more children before he acknowledged the existence of Remnant. 

“With this, I can put you back together.”

Elizabeth died as a result of him meddling with the unknown. But no matter, if he had been correct about his theory, she’d be possessing Circus Baby anyway. It would be like nothing ever happened.

“I told her not to get close to it. It’s not my fault.”

William had wanted to use Circus Baby’s Pizza World to gather more Remnants. Unfortunately, Elizabeth’s death forced him to close it down before it even opened. He went back to the old pizzeria, hoping to reuse the Remnants there instead.

He shouldn't have gone back. He didn't know dismantling the animatronics would cause the spirits within them to materialize. In his desperation, he ran to the backroom, and put on the same suit he’d used to kill them. He would scare them away; remind them of their place. They were just children anyway, he had nothing to fear.

Drip.

CRUNCH!

•

They had fun; they all did as he screamed and cried and begged for them to spare him. It had been a fitting punishment for that monster, to be torn apart over and over again by his own victims.

Satisfied, they wanted to leave for good; doing anymore would prove fruitless, after all, he was just as tired of dying as they were tormenting him.

The Red Crocodile made a good point too. He told them to put their souls to rest. Leave the demon to his demons. Anything they do to him at that point wouldn't be worse than the torment he inflicts on himself.

"No! I'm not going to leave. I won't let him rest!"

She had invited them to play; the last game before they move on to a better place. It satisfied them, but as soon as they wanted to leave, she stopped them.

"Where are you guys going? You can't leave yet! This is far from enough!"

"We understand, Cassidy—"

"Then why are you giving up, Charlotte!?"

"…It's just so, so tiring to constantly hate. We all got our revenge, and now we would like to leave."

"But, but I still have so many things left to do! I need you guys here—"

"Why?" Charlotte paused, "We don't want to play anymore, Cassidy. Can't you see how worn out we are? Please, let us rest."

Cassidy's wide eyes shifted between the other spirits hiding behind Charlotte. Her quivering lips muttered, "…Traitors."

"You might not be aware of it but," Charlotte turned around as she paused, "…Never mind."

One by one, the souls faded away, leaving darkness where they once stood. Charlotte watched her friends leave first, but before she followed, she faced Cassidy again. "If you change your mind—"

"No." Cassidy spat through gritted teeth. "I can do this. I'll keep him here. He'll suffer for the rest of eternity for what he did to us; to me."

"…But what about you?"

"I'm happy." Cassidy grinned. "There is no better place for me than here. This is my heaven."

"…Cassidy."

She blinked, her lips faltering, "What?"

"You deserve so much better than this." Charlotte looked away, "You don't have to lower yourself to his level."

"…What are you implying?" Cassidy frowned.

"For you, it's not about punishing evil anymore, is it?"

"I am punishing him!"

"You're going too far."

"You guys did it too!"

"Because he deserved it."

"So he doesn't deserve it now?"

"…It's too much. You're dragging it out more than necessary."

Cassidy clenched her firsts, shaking. "Just leave already. No one's forcing you to lecture me, Emily."

Soon, only one light remained in the darkness. Cassidy relaxed, casting her eyes downwards. There, the demon stared emptily at the roster of characters in front of him.

The disagreement with her friends offered him a longer grace period than usual. She would need to compensate for lost time. Her plans had involved the others, but she didn't need them anymore. With a bit more effort, all the animatronics will do as she commands.

"This is easier than controlling real people anyway."

She thought her resolve was ironclad; Charlotte's words had been for naught, she couldn't have convinced her to let go even if she tried for a hundred years—but Cassidy had noticed herself faltering.

"I am not having second thoughts…I am not weak!"

It wasn't possible for her to feel tired of torturing that demon over and over again. She couldn't speak for everyone else, but her anger ran deep; deep enough that even time cannot ease her pain.

"He will suffer just as I have. For eternity."

She rehearsed words of justification as though her friends still possessed the apparitions. It was only her and the monster she's breaking in the custom-made Hell—even he couldn't have heard her through his own screams.

She flinched. She looked away. She covered her ears. Before, watching the suffering of the man who murdered her had been a joyous gift; she believed she could continue until the end of time. Now, everything she did felt hollow.

"It's because he's getting used to it. I just need to come up with something new."

He'd began to learn how to beat all 50 of her toys—all at once. Cassidy even thought it was impressive, but her frustrations swiftly burned it all into nothing.

"Did you really think this is it? Congratulations for beating the game, Mr. Afton, but this is only the beginning!"

She tried taking away the clock after realizing his reliance on it, but a few deaths in, he no longer needed to constantly check the time.

She thought blinding him would make her game impossible to play. She was wrong.

She thought deafening him would do instead—and while it'd worked at first—he somehow beat it too.

"Enough of this!"

Her plan had been to dangle hope in front of him then take it away. She gave him the tools to survive because she had been sure he would never make it until the end of the night. She wanted to let the realization break him apart as she relishes in his despair.

From then on, he would get nothing to defend himself with; he'd have no choice but to sit in the cursed office and wait for his inevitable demise. The short grace period he once had no longer existed. From the moment he died, he would be put back exactly where he was at 12 a.m.

"This is what's right! This is justice! You deserve this!"

But it wasn't enough. His screams of pain held no desperation, only a response to the torment inflicted on his flesh. He hadn't begged for his release like before, nor did he try to appease her by apologizing.

There were no fulfillment in her actions. Not anymore.

She thought long and hard about how to make him suffer—eventually, one thing came to mind:

Springlocks.

Oh, the joy she felt when he finally started fearing for his life again. He would begged her to bring back the animatronics—Anything else is better than this…please!—he often broke his own voice screaming like a child way before she forced him into the suit.

For a long, long while, Cassidy felt satisfied knowing she had found a way to make things right again—Him suffering, and her enjoying every single moment of it.

"Cassidy…when can we leave?"

"…Not yet Evan, I won't take too much longer. Promise!"

"But…you told me that awhile ago too…"

"Did I? But anyways, he deserves this. You know this is just the consequences of his actions."

"…I never said anything about my father though?" Evan paused, staring at his Fredbear plushie. "But…how is he? I do hope he's repenting as he should."

She'd kept Evan in a separate space as far away from the torture chamber as she could. Their souls were bound to each other after spending so long inside Golden Freddy, so he couldn't leave without her. She barely managed to convince Evan to let her bring her killer to justice.

He never knew what went on behind the scenes, and she never intended to tell him for the rest of forever. He's soft…I don't want to make him sad, or so she told herself.

Cassidy smiled and gave Evan a reassuring nod. "Decent progress. But you know how he is…he's a stubborn one."

"…Cassidy."

"Yes?"

"I know you're lying."

Cassidy's lips parted, but no words came out. Evan continued. "I can't begin to imagine what you did, or what you're doing now…But can't we just leave?" He fidgets with Fredbear's arms, "I miss my family. Even Michael, and…even dad."

"Evan, if I let him go, he won't receive the punishment he deserves."

"What do you think he deserves?"

"To be in pain for the rest of time!"

"…That's unfair."

"How so? He killed us—and others we couldn't find anymore. Think of all the things we could've done if we were alive." Cassidy sat down, a lump in her throat choking her words; she pushed through. "We could've met under better circumstances…and, who knows? I might've married you when we grow up!"

Evan looked up, his lips tugged in a small smile. Cassidy smiled too, thinking she had successfully diverted his attention. "I…I appreciate it, Cass. But," Cassidy's expression faltered, "I don't think this is right."

"Of course this is right!" Cassidy shot to her feet, but seeing Evan flinched away made her softened. She relaxed, speaking in a lower voice. "He's a monster who killed children. He took them from parents, and robbed them of their futures. Why wouldn't he deserve an eternity of pain and torture?"

"He does," Evan nodded, and Cassidy blinked, brows furrowing, "But the one punishing him shouldn't be you, Cassidy. It shouldn't have been any of them either. You're just…repeating the cycle."

"I'm nothing like him."

"That wasn't what I was implying," Evan bit his lips, not meeting her eyes. He looked like he was on the verge of crying. "But since you said that yourself…I think you know it too."

"Evan…I—"

"Cass, you're going to get lost," Evan faced her, blinking away his tears, "Every time you go to that side, I get scared that you're going to come back a different person. I like Cassidy Brooks, I don't want her to become something else…"

"…Do you think I'm a horrible person too?" Cassidy looked at her feet, fists clenched by her sides. "Even you? I…I trusted you."

"N-No…that isn't what I meant at all—"

"Shut up!" Cassidy squeezed her eyes shut, "Why are you acting like you know me?! Don't tell me what to do!"

The room fell silent. Cassidy looked up, her eyes turning round the moment she saw fat tears rolled down Evan's cheeks. Her chest hurt; she wanted to rush to his side and console him, apologize a thousand times for hurting his feelings and told him she hadn't meant it.

But her legs remained anchored in place while he let out broken sobs into his plushie.

"I'll…just go...Sorry."

Cassidy winced as she turned around, heading out of the room. Darkness bled into the light, a stark contrast to the space behind her; she made sure it had everything to keep Evan comfortable.

She wanted to protect him. They only had each other for so long, and with everyone else leaving her, he was the only person left to keep her company.

She told herself she could do it alone, but she still wished for a voice of validation. Evan wouldn't understand, she knew that. He was different from her in every way: tearful, timid, yet so gentle and compassionate in ways she could never imitate.

Evan stayed by her side this entire time, and she still hurt him anyway.

"Maybe they are right…" Cassidy entered the other space, glancing at a figure in the corner. His knees bent close to his chest, arms laying as a cushion for his head. She never gave him the ability to sleep, but he liked laying down and closing his eyes, for some reason.

A burst of anger flared up in her chest. "No…I'm nothing like him…This is…"

Evan's crying face extinguished her rage in an instant. She hesitated, her teeth gritting as she stared at the figure. For a split moment of her fury, she thought to continue his torture. Put him in the suit—better yet, force him to do it himself.

"…What have I been doing?"

Chapter Text

To Clara Schmidt, the world was a cage.

She knew the steps before her feet even touched the floorboards. Every rotation, every line of her body was preordained. Her life was a choreography—flawless and suffocating. At night, she lay awake imagining catastrophe: tripping mid-performance, the chandelier falling, her breath catching so she could never finish the final bow.

She craved the break; the crack in the porcelain. Perfection wasn’t beautiful to her, it was a prison polished to a shine.

The first time she saw him, she recognized the absence in his eyes. Not sadness—sadness she knew well—but something emptier; the hollowness fascinated her. While everyone else was desperate to impress, to charm, to be liked—she saw the ice hidden behind his calm, warm smile.

He didn’t care, not one bit—and she understood him. She, too, had been tired of hearing the same words over and over again. He fascinated her; she wondered how he could put on that mask every day without feeling tired—or if he felt worn out by it at all.

Clara knew it was dangerous to poke at a snake, especially one hiding its fangs, but the thrill drew her closer. She liked pressing her fingers against the cracks in his façade; a wrong question, a sharp tease, a smile too knowing. She wanted to see if he'd break, and each time he didn't, each time he tolerated her, it felt like winning a game no one else dared to play.

On that day, she hadn't planned it at all, she simply locked eyes with him and her body moved before she could think. For the first time in forever, she felt alive. As her dance spun like a mirror of perfection, the scandal of it sent a ripple throughout the theater. Gasps, whispers, outrage; the look her friends gave her from the shadows of the backstage. But she only smiled as she turned against the tide.

Her daring rebellion had caught him hook, line, and sinker—but she had also thrown herself into the jaws of a serpent.

Clara wasn't naïve, she noticed the void in his kind words, his smiles that rarely came from genuine joy, the absence of something human. Still, she preferred him over all the others who swore devotion but only to the ballerina, not the girl; not Clara Schmidt.

They started as friends, but soon their relationship evolved into something more intimate. She could see through him like glass, and he answered to her desires—like bartering her soul with the Devil.

She gave it to him, and he treated it like the most precious jewelry. If any of her loved ones knew, they would called it twisted, this thing between them, they would tell her to run away.

But they wouldn't understand her, not the same way he did. The kind of love they wanted wasn't for her; their love is sugar spun into cages, his is a blade—sharp and merciless, but at least he can cut her free.

William Afton never manipulated her into loving him, she had dangled the bait herself; draw him close, get his interests piqued, and caught him in a noose of obsession. She was a bird trying to raise a snake.

"Most people are puzzles you solve in seconds; he was a lock I wanted to pick."

She liked being the exception in his life—the one person he tolerates and allows to peak into his soul. The abyss that stared her back should have frightened her, but it only drew her closer. He's mine.

"You know me, Clara. I don't think I can give you a storybook ending, so why do you choose to stay?"

"Storybooks are for children."

"You might regret it later."

"What about you?"

"I won't." He paused, "I like you. You're interesting, you can keep me entertained. If you won't run, then I won't let you go."

"Good. I'll kill you if you break up with me."

"…Seriously?"

"I'm joking, of course!" She smirked at the odd look he gave her, "But…I choose this, William. It might be dangerous, but I prefer broken things—even glass shards can look pretty if you know how to appreciate them."

"…You might be sicker than I am."

"And that's why you'll keep me," She flashed a knowing smile, "It's not everyday you meet your match, right?"

William snorted, but his lips quirked up at her words, "If you put it like that…I just can't refuse you, darling."

He proposed to her at prom. They got married several months later. She found out many more things about him throughout their days together: He craved affection, but would never say so out loud; He always frown when she calls him cute—frustrated, but unable to refute her.

There would always be new things to discover, and she never got bored of it—He may not be the sweetest; certainly not the kindest. He may faked reactions just to get her approval. But he was hers, and she was his.

Clara loved William with all her heart, his flaws and defects included. She have had enough of perfection; perfection felt like a snare around her neck. He was a broken mirror who showed her the truth, one who swore to never hurt her with his lies.

There had been times she'd cut herself on his edges; they fought, they argue, but ultimately reconciled. It was their normal, they knew it wouldn't be all roses and sunshine—Clara was more whole than William.

It meant she would get hurt more than he will, but she was prepared for it. She picked the path laid with thorns and broken glass because she saw beauty behind danger.

"Will, did you know that I sometimes dream about you killing me?"

"…That's…a rather peculiar opening line for a date," William put down his utensils, "Did I…do something?"

"Oh, no." Clara shook her head, a small smile gracing her lips, "I just thought it's weird. I've heard my friends dream about their husbands cheating on them, but not outright kill them."

"…So, despite constantly pushing my buttons, you are scared of me to some extent."

"I guess so."

"It's…nice that you are being honest with me, Clara, but did it have to be now?" William chuckled.

"I made you laugh, so yes." She leaned on her elbow, "I trust you, Will, and you know I like what we have. I hope you won't derail into someone I don't recognize."

"Oh darling, I'll never hurt you."

"I know," She raised her glass, "Cheers to our first anniversary?"

"Cheers, love."

Back then, she wanted to ask him: "but what about other people?" Despite her curiosity, she kept the thought to herself. William was a rational man, he wouldn't put in work on anything he deemed meaningless. He may not care for social norms, but he at least knew how to act as a person.

SCREEEEEEECH—CRASH!

At least Clara believed so. She decided to wait for him; she wanted to depart together—unlike their abrupt separation where she had no chance to say her goodbyes.

Clara wished—hoped—he would remained the same as she had left him.

•

He had seen him from afar on the first day of college; a cool, collected young man no one could help but feel drawn towards. People liked him, said he was "intelligent" and "charming", but he couldn't share their sentiment—William Afton terrified him.

Henry couldn't quite place a finger on why either, but he had this nagging feeling any time they would catch each other's eyes. At first, he thought maybe he had done something to upset him—or maybe he just disliked him—He had met many people who found his friendly demeanor annoying, after all.

One day, Henry got to class a little later than usual, and every other seat had been filled up. He had no option but to sit next to William; the only conveniently free spot left.

Luckily, the man had been too busy drawing on his notebook to notice someone had taken space beside him. Henry breathed a silent sigh of relief, though let curiosity get the better of him; he sneaked a peak at the paper.

And that was when his sentiment of William Afton changed completely—From then on, Henry only saw him as a fellow robotic enthusiast, and wanted to get on his good side no matter what. It'd been difficult for Henry to share his ideas with anybody; at that point, he was desperate for a like-minded friend.

He got used to William's quirks over time, but that didn't mean he hadn't noticed—William Afton was an odd person, like a robot trying to pretend how to be human. Henry would've believed it if not for Clara Schmidt; William seemed to like him, although it was no where near the level of obsession he had for Clara. At least, it told him that his friend still had some semblance of emotions.

Maybe Henry should have been more aware.

The day Clara left them, William became a different person. Henry tried comforting him, but those words must have sounded like an insult—a mockery, to someone like William. He still recalled the look on his face: the narrowed glare, the grit of his teeth. It was only a split second, but at that moment, Henry felt genuine fear.

He lost two best friends on that day.

"Daddy, can you play with me today?"

"I'm sorry Charlie, but daddy's busy right now."

"Aw…you said that last time too…"

"Don't worry, I'll make it up to you. Look, this is what I've been working on."

"What's that? It looks kind of funny."

"It is, isn't it? it's called the Security Puppet. It will look after you and protect you as long as you wear this bracelet."

"Hm, but I think you should give that to the other kids, because I already have daddy to protect me!"

"Haha, yes you're right. Of course I will protect you, my daughter."

He did not protect her. Neither of them did.

Two children died in the span of a few months. First the world took his friend's Evan, now it took his Charlotte. Henry attempted to drown out his grief by absorbing himself in work, but it only made things worse. He spent less time with his family, and soon Mariene left him, taking Sammy with her.

It was for the better anyway, he told himself. Henry believed he may have been cursed to bring misfortune to everyone around him. Although, at least he still had his business; a project he had planned for several years ever since college—it was his last remaining pride and joy, and he would do anything to keep it afloat.

Anything.

Henry was aware; he knew. William was unstable; a calm snake now agitated because it had been wounded. Despite having suspicions, he chose to trust him—they were friends for years, he would never do something so inhumane. He deliberately closed his eyes and ears, even when five children went missing in their restaurant. He told the police it wasn't possible; they both had alibis—He'd cover for William, and William would cover for him. It had to be somebody else.

It wasn't. He knew that; he knew and still stood by his side anyway.

Until he couldn't anymore.

Henry later found him trapped inside the tomb of his own making. Why else would he have put on the suit again? He gritted his teeth, stared his old friend dead in the eyes, and turned away. He will make sure no one will find him there; that was his revenge.

But it did not ease his pain. Not one bit. He continued to live like a dead man, wallowing in grief and regret and guilt. His hands remained spotless, but the scent of blood clung to him; he might as well have been the man holding the knife.

He called it business, his treasure, his daughter's legacy—Lies, all of it! The legacy was only his shame dressed in finer words, the crutch of a man too afraid to face the truth; to admit he'd been complicit all along.

If only he had stopped him earlier.

His fingers tightened around the pistol resting in his lap; the same one he'd polished every night for the past few decades. It was easy: one press of a trigger and the noise would stop—his noise, his grief, his sins and his guilt.

Yet even as he raised it, the weight of another thought dragged his arm down. Not yet. Not while the monster still walked free somewhere. Not while his daughter's still trapped and unable to leave.

He slipped the gun back into its drawer. Sleeping sounded nice, but he doubt he would get a good rest alone and ridden with a mountain on his shoulders. He will end it with one last business, and he planned to go out in flames.

"It's time to set us all free."

Chapter Text

William felt a harsh tap on his shin, forcing his eyes open. He flinched at Cassidy's unnerving stare, looking down at him with her arms crossed tight. Fear rose to his chest, and he could feel his breath hitched in his lungs.

Despite shaking like a leaf, William tightened his grip on his arms, "…What?" He croaked, throat sore and voice grated with fatigue.

"I admit it." Cassidy rolled her eyes. To William's surprise, she sounded tired, almost as much as he was. "At some point, I was only keeping you here because I liked hurting you. It stopped being about justice a long time ago."

"…No shit, Sherlock." William mumbled, loud enough for Cassidy to hear, though he hadn't meant to keep the thought to himself anyway. "What are you telling me this for?"

"You could've guessed by now, but the others had already left," Cassidy sighed, "Only Evan is with me, and…I hurt him too. I realized now that I'm just no different from you."

William kept quiet. She hadn't answered his question at all, so he inferred she only wanted him to listen—that, or she gives zero fucks about what he says.

Cassidy continued, "But I can't let go…I don't feel satisfied with just this. It's not enough for me…and I don't think it will ever be enough."

Long, grueling silence passed, until Cassidy frowned and kicked his shin again. "Hey, say something."

William blinked. He leaned into his corner, taking a short moment to ponder his response. Children were a mystery to him then, it's no difference now. "…You probably don't care, but I don't hate you. Not anymore."

"…Despite what I put you through?"

"Yeah. It's tiring, even for me," William stared at his knees, "It eats you on the inside. I'm already in so much pain, I don't feel like adding anymore on top of it."

"Then…what do I do?" Cassidy grimaced, as if those words scratched her throat on their way out.

William was taken aback. "Why are you asking me?"

Cassidy grumbled, "Well, you're the only adult here I could take advice from."

"You shouldn't be asking me." William shrugged, "If you want to ask an Afton about feelings, you should go look for my wife."

Cassidy raised an eyebrow, "You had a wife?"

William stared at her, "How else would I have kids then?"

"No no, just…" Cassidy's lips pressed into a thin line, "I can't believe any sane woman would want to be with you."

He frowned, "Oi, Clara is…a unique woman."

"Oh? Is that how you see me?"

Both of their heads whipped to the new voice in an instant. A ginger woman gave them a smile, her emerald green eyes shining and full of life. "Hello~"

"…Clara?" William blinked, disbelief splashed across his face. He looked back between her and Cassidy. "Did you do this? You're making me hallucinate again, aren't you?"

"No I didn't," Cassidy shook her head, looking equally as surprised as he was. "But that's your wife? She's too pretty for you."

William glared, "Oh shut it."

Clara cleared her throat, drawing both their attentions, "I heard the story…Mainly from Michael." She stepped closer to William, and he flinched away—somehow, he could still squeeze further into the corner. "I was waiting for you, Will. Imagine my surprise when our kids arrived first and told me you killed children."

Silence fell between them.

William looked away, behind her calm eyes laid an unknown emotion; he didn't dare to give it a name, but he hated it already, "…I, I'm sorry. I disappointed you, didn't I?"

Clara sat down next to him, "Not really. It'd already happened, and you are kind of receiving your punishment," she glanced at Cassidy, "I don't think beating you up anymore for it would do any of us good. Besides, that weird crocodile sent me here to stop her."

"Old Man Consequences did?" Cassidy gritted her teeth.

"Cassidy," Clara called, her voice gentle—a tone she'd used on their children a dozen times. "While he asked me to convince you to let go, I offered another proposition. You're frustrated because you can't get your life back, right?"

Cassidy relaxed. She responded with a slow nod, and Clara continued, "He can give us a workaround. It'll be an illusion, just like this realm you made, but I hope it will be enough to give you a taste of what living feels like."

A moment of silence passed, "…You mean, I can grow up and become an adult?" Cassidy's eyes sparkled, interest clear on her face. Clara nodded, and she beamed uncontrollably. "That's…if it's possible…then I'll do it."

"There is a catch though," Clara glanced at William, and he flinched beneath her gaze. "I asked the same thing for all of us too. Henry and Charlie already agreed. It's just the two of you left."

Cassidy narrowed her eyes at William. "Hmph…Whatever, I can make do with it."

"Great!" Clara clasped her hands together, "I heard Evan is also here. Let's go get him on board too."

"Uh," William interjected, looking at her, "What about my opinion?"

"…I'm taking you with me, of course," Clara stared back, "Children should grow up with both their parents."

"You still want me back after all that'd happened?"

Clara's expression softened, "Did you forget? I'm an ignorant, naive girl who believes everyone deserves a chance. Even you."

William winced, "You truly believed that?"

Clara shrugged, "Besides that, don't you remember? I said I'd kill you if you break up with me."

"…But you told me you were joking?"

"Hm, did I?"

"…Okay, I get it." William let out a short sigh, "I'll do better this time, dear. I won't disappoint you again."

Clara paused for a second, then shook her head, "You shouldn't be looking to please me, Will. Not anymore," she gestured towards Cassidy, "Have you apologized yet?"

William grimaced, "I already did. She didn't accept it."

Cassidy rolled her eyes, "Come on, we both know you only threw that around because you were in pain. You didn't actually mean any of it."

"Of course I meant it," William rolled his eyes, sarcasm dripping from every word. "To the others, maybe. They weren't crazy enough to continue more than it was necessary. You? You're just horrible."

"As if you get to talk about what's horrible, peepaw." Cassidy stuck out her tongue.

"Your parents must be real proud of you, huh?" William glared.

Cassidy grinned, puffing up her chest, "Well, too bad I don't have parents. We'll never know."

"Oh, no wonder," William snorted. "Who would want to take you in?"

"Okay that's enough." Clara sighed, slowly shaking her head. "Why were you trying to one-up a kid, William?"

He pointed at Cassidy, "She started it!"

Clara stared at him with a blank expression, then faced the child with a smile. "How about you come live with us, Cassidy?"

"Huh!?" William looked at her in disbelief.

"I actually agree with him on this one," Cassidy raised her brows, side-eyeing William with clear repulsion, "Why would I want to live in the same house as him?"

Clara shrugged, "But Evan will be there too."

"Oh, right." Cassidy stroke her chin in consideration. "Tough choice…"

"Also, he's scared of you." Clara smirked, glancing at William.

He narrowed his eyes, frowning intensely, "I am not scared of a child."

"Uh huh." Cassidy scoffed with a roll of her eyes. She nodded at Clara. "But that does make the offer sound more appealing."

"Then that's settled," Clara beamed as she got to her feet, ignoring the frustrated frown on William's face. "Where is Evan?"

"I'll take you there." With a snap of Cassidy's fingers, the entire surrounding shifted; one blink later, the cold, dark backroom brightened up, turning into a familiar bedroom from decades ago.

Evan looked up, his widened eyes meeting his mother's first, then Cassidy, and lastly, William. "…Mom? Dad?"

"Hello Evan," Clara knelt down, scooping the child up into her arms as he started sobbing uncontrollably. He mumbled 'mum', 'mum' over and over again while she patted him on the back. "Awh, don't cry, I'm right here. We'll get to be together again now."

"Re-Really?" Evan sniffled and calmed himself down. "Is Dad coming with us?"

William shrugged, still leaning against the corner, "No reason not to."

Evan beamed. He wiped away his tears with one hand, the other gripping Fredbear tight against his chest. "Can…Can I hug you? I miss you…Dad…"

William stared at the child, face blank. From the corner of his eyes, Cassidy blinked in confusion; neither of them understood why Evan would wished for his affection.

Clara turned, holding Evan out to William. "Take him, my arms are getting sore."

He swallowed, thought about staying still for a moment, but caved when Evan made that face: lower lip pulled, nose scrunched up, brows tied in a knot. Clara will strangle me if he cries now. William pulled his son into a hug, his arms moving on muscle memory he hadn't realized he still had.

Evan calmed down in an instant, giggling as he buried his face in his chest. William sighed and glanced at Cassidy. "When can we leave?"

"So eager to escape, huh?"

"…Zip it."

Cassidy shrugged, snapped her fingers again, and their scenery shifted. William caught himself with one hand before he could fall backwards as the walls vanished.

A scarlet sky stretched above their heads, its colors bleeding into everything below it—the trees, the stones, the ground, and the wooden cabin in front of a large lake.

"Oh, back so soon?" A red crocodile turned towards them, his claws still hanging loosely on a fishing rod.

"We came to a peaceful agreement," Clara crossed her arms, grinning proudly, "I hope you keep your promise, Mr. Crocodile."

"Of course, Mrs. Afton." Old Man Consequences lifted his head; he seemed to be smiling, but it was hard to tell.

A creak drew their attention to the cabin; there, figures emerged from behind the door. Evan looked up, wide curious eyes meeting with a familiar pair of blue. "Michael!" He beamed.

Michael tensed up, a mixture of surprise and confusion flashed across his face. He was no longer a rotting corpse, looking the same as he had before he died: a young adult, 18 or 19, with a face mirroring William's almost flawlessly. "Evan…" he glanced at his father quietly.

William sighed and let the little one run up to his older brother. Evan locked Michael's legs in a tight embrace, and he awkwardly patted the boy on the head. "It's good to see you, Evan," he smiled, glint of tears dabbled his eyes. "I'm sorry for what happened. I really am."

"I know." Evan mumbled, his little frame quivering; he struggled to hold back his sobs. "It's okay Mike, I forgave you awhile ago."

William's eyes met Henry's. He stood behind Michael with his arms crossed, and Charlotte right next to him, shielding six children like an overprotective sister.

Elizabeth wanted to rush out, but her hesitance anchored her in place. Charlotte had one hand loosely gripping her arm; a reassurance, or perhaps a leash.

"…Don't you have anything to say?" Henry tilted his head, he looked several years older; tired, mostly, but the big frown added ages to his face.

William looked away, and Clara stepped beside him, leaning down with a soft smile. "What's a better time if not now?"

After a moment of silence, he breathed, "…I don't feel sorry for what I did." William started—it wasn't a good opening, but he thought to face them with honesty instead. He looked back at Henry. "However, I acknowledged that my actions have brought all of you pain and sorrow beyond my comprehension. I don't expect forgiveness, nor am I looking for one."

"Then, why are you telling us this?" Charlotte shot him a glare, yet her voice remained calm.

"You—We are all given a chance to live again, even if it's not real," William glanced at Clara, looking at her gave him the strength to continue. If he thinks he's trying to impress her, maybe it'd be easier. "Hate me all you want, but I won't be causing anymore anguish from now on. I will make up for what I did with this opportunity."

"How?" Cassidy interjected, crossing her arms, "Whatever you do, it would never be enough."

"Of course not," William rolled his eyes, then faced Michael. "…What's done is done. I can only repent and salvage what's left."

Elizabeth placed a hand on Charlotte's grip, giving her a pleading look. Although hesitant, the moment she let go, Elizabeth threw herself into her father's arms, her small frame quivering with silent sniffles.

William let out a breath and returned the hug, rubbing small circles along her back. "Oh come on, you don't actually miss me that much."

"But, but I do miss you daddy…!" Elizabeth croaked, voice muffled by the fabric of his shirt.

Henry stepped closer, and it took William every ounce of willpower not to flinch away. "…I talked with them for a bit," he tilted his head at the children behind him, Jeremy waved back, "They chose me as their proxy, and they're willing to offer a truce."

"…Truce?"

Henry held out one hand, "Our anger can only burn for so long," he glanced at Cassidy, but turned back to William quick, "Like you said, we're given the opportunity to experience life again. I'd rather spend it on more meaningful things than hatred."

William looked down at Elizabeth; by then, she'd wiped away her tears and was now staring at him with wide, gleaming eyes. He sighed, settled the child down, then stood up and took Henry's hand. "Right. And…I'm sorry for killing Charlie."

Henry raised a brow.

"…Also for making your life miserable?" William tilted his head.

Henry released the handshake, "Didn't you said you weren't sorry?"

William shrugged, "It is still nice to hear apologies anyway, no?"

"Then say it to them too," Henry glanced behind him, "If you kids want to hear it from him, of course."

They all looked at each other, and Charlie gave him a shrug. "I think we've heard plenty already."

"Forgetting someone?" Clara tapped him on the shoulder, gesturing towards Michael, who still had Evan glued to his legs.

William looked the eldest dead in the eyes for long, grueling seconds. He eventually breathed the words out: "…I'm sorry." The apology left him with a grimace, like glass dragged across his throat.

"For?" Clara fixed him with a flat stare that brooked no excuse; sharp and unrelenting.

"For…" William swallowed, his throat feeling dry all of a sudden, "For trying to strangle you awhile ago?"

"William."

"And for being a horrible father to you, of course." He quickly interjected, shifting his gaze away from Clara's calm, yet suffocating glare.

Michael looked down at Evan, fingers still full of his little brother's hair as he caressed him absentmindedly. "…I already let go of my hatred in that fire," he faced William with a soft smile, "I couldn't care less, honestly. Just…keep your promise."

"Consider it done."

"I'd say you're off to a good start so far." Clara chuckled, lightly tapping William on the back. She turned to Old Man Consequences. "I think we're all set, Mr. Crocodile."

"Whenever you're ready, step into the lake." He gestured to the waters, the still surface sheened like a mirror. "This is my last gift to you; experience life to the fullest, so you may rest your souls without regrets."

Cassidy smoothly linked her arm through Evan's, exclaiming, "Come on! We're going to be the first ones there!"

"Wa—Cassidy, wait! Don't drag me!" Evan attempted to protest, but she had already begun pulling him towards the lake.

Michael followed closely behind them, with Henry and Charlotte next, and the five children trailing after them like ducklings. Elizabeth cast a glance at her father, a faint smile gracing her lips, before running to join Michael.

Soon, only William and Clara remained on the surface. She took his hand. "Let's not keep them waiting."

William gazed at their interlocked hands for a moment. He then smiled and nodded, letting her to guide them into the lake.

Chapter Text

It felt like dream bled into reality.

William's senses returned in full; lungs filling with air, heart drumming against his chest, warmth and sounds washing over him as if the world exhaled itself into his awareness. He rubbed the back of his neck as he sat up, fingers brushing against rough traces of an all-too-familiar scar.

Heavy drapes covered the windows, drowning the room in a soft penumbra. A soft mattress laid beneath him, a thick blanket had fallen to his legs when he lifted himself. He blinked a few times, looking around to find a room he knew well. Time had not—could not—erased the memories of this place; good or bad.

However, he noted the details of it had changed. He remembered tearing down every picture of him and her, but now they hung on the wall in front of him, the smiles on their faces taunting. He had been sure the walls and ceilings were older, not pristine and vibrant as if they'd been replaced recently.

Gears turned in his head—He remembered the torture; the endless cycle of mockery and pain and death, to the point he could barely tell how long had passed—then he recalled the events that followed.

"Right…I'm not there anymore."

But the memories of it all clung to him like a shadow. A mirror by the dresser reflected a face he barely recognized: Sunken light blue eyes so muted they looked silver, pale skin, a faint tremor in his hands that he rid with clenched fists. He combed through his hair, feeling the stiffness, the soreness—muscles that had screamed in some long-ago pain. The nightmares lingered even awake; the echoes of screams and ruthless laughter replayed behind his eyelids.

Maybe he never truly left.

Soft rhythmic padding reached his ears. William flinched, turning as the door creaked open, and Clara walked in. Her eyes widened when she saw him, "Oh, you're awake. Finally." She smiled with a playful roll of her eyes, "How are you feeling? It's nice to be…alive again, isn't it?"

"Yeah," William nodded, his throat rough and dry from sleep. He took a moment to study her; she wore her favorite navy blue dress, her long, auburn hair tied in a ponytail, the locks resting on her shoulders. Pretty. "…How long has it been?"

Clara hummed, "A few months?"

William looked her dead in the eyes, unamused, and soon her serious face cracked into a giggle. "Okay, okay, it's only been a day."

"Seriously?" William raised an eyebrow.

"Yes," Clara nodded as she sat next to him on the edge of the bed, "You wouldn't wake up no matter what I tried, so we let you sleep."

William glanced down at his lap. Until then, he haven't noticed he was wearing the purple bunny-patterned pajamas Clara bought him as a birthday present. "…Guess I needed it."

"But since you're up now," Clara's smile grew wider, "How about you go take a nice shower and come downstairs? Our children's been waiting."

Waiting. William could hardly believed they would care about him at that point, but if Clara said so, he felt inclined to trust her. He responded with a short nod, forcing a smile through his fatigue. "Okay dear, I'll be there in a bit."

Clara gave his hand a soft squeeze before leaving him to the silence of their room. He rose slowly, each step deliberate, feeling the floor beneath his feet as if it might bite. In the bathroom, he stared at himself in the mirror. Lines he hadn’t noticed before marred his face; his hair was a tangled mess. His hands lingered on the sink, trembling as he washed them, over and over, trying to scrub away memories clinging to his skin.

He kept seeing blood on his hands, even when they were clean.

Dressing was a careful ritual. Shirt buttons were aligned with obsessive precision, the tie looped twice and adjusted three times. He paused mid-motion, breath catching—a shadow in the corner of his eyes startled him, but he blinked his twisted imaginations away and continued.

Eventually, he finished. He chose a plain white dress shirt, sleeves pulled up to reveal the springlock scars along his forearms, and a purple necktie; suspenders held up his black trousers, and purple socks covered his feet—his entire closet looked like a flower field with all the purple in there. He appeared presentable enough, unlike when he first woke up looking like a dishevel cat; the thought made him chuckle, but it came out dry.

William fidgeted with the hem of his trousers for a moment, before he took a deep breath and walked out the door—Chatters sounded from downstairs, occasionally mixed with laughter and playful shouts. He recognized their voices: his family's.

He descended the steps, each footfall silent like a rabbit treading on snow. Good. He wanted them to keep talking, be happy, don't let him ruin the mood.

"Why are you lurking up there? Come down here." Clara saw him from the dining table as soon as he stood by the railing. William almost jumped out of his skin at how fast she spotted him; he barely had the chance to take in the scene below.

His breath hitched when his eyes landed on her. Cassidy sat on the floor next to Evan, wearing the exact same black jumper over a yellow, turtleneck sweater. Fuck, it's that demon again. He forgot she'd be there too, but quickly swallowed down the anxiety rising to his throat before it could show on his face. She won't get anymore satisfaction from watching him squirm, not anymore. He refused.

The moment William set foot down on the carpeted floor, Elizabeth tackled his legs, "HI DADDY!" She beamed up at him with her bright, green eyes. She wore a deep pink shirt and an indigo skirt, her tiny, black shoes polished and shiny. "You're finally up! I thought you were dead!"

"We all are, technically."

But he kept the thought himself, giving Elizabeth a light pat on the head. "Yeah, good morning. What are you lot up to?"

"Monopoly." Michael answered, gesturing to the mess in front of him. He was wearing a gray tank-top and shorts—back to embracing his angsty teen aesthetics, it seemed. "Want to join?"

"…I'll give it a miss." William waved as Elizabeth poutingly dragged her little legs back to the group.

He watched them play, their prattles and occasional laughter reached him as if through water—muffled, distorted, barely touching the edge of his mind. He stood there, suspended between breaths, watching moments passed by without him; his body was in the room, but his mind was still drowning in that red lake.

A pressure on his shoulder made him flinch. He turned, widened eyes meeting with Clara's worried gaze. Her head tilted slightly, brows drawing lines across her forehead. "Are you okay? I called you twice just now."

William let out the breath he unknowingly held. Nodding, he sat at dining table—mostly to avoid her studious eyes. "I'm alright love. Is this mine?" He shifted the subject and pointed at a sandwich on a plate.

Silence stretched for a couple beats, with Clara staring at him as if searching for his thoughts behind his calm façade. Eventually, she gave up, and took a seat next to him, nodding. "There were no beans in the cabinet, if you were wondering." She flashed a small smile, her voice quirked with jest. "Although, even if there were, I'm not staining my kitchen by making terrible food."

William scoffed, rolling his eyes, "Come on, my nation's cuisine isn't that bad."

Clara let out a chuckle and reached for a cup. As she poured him tea, she asked, "Right. Are you not going to eat? And I went through all this trouble to make extra."

His smile lingered, but his thoughts drifted like hot steam from the tea. William spoke before the silence could grow too thick. "I will." He took the sandwich and bite into it; the salt hit his tongue, but it was too much—yet too little, all at once.

Clara tilted her head, "Salty?"

"It's edible," William mumbled between bites, "You've certainly improved."

Clara chuckled, rolling her eyes, "You loved my cooking."

"I loved you." He emphasized, "I tolerated your cooking."

For a second, they almost laughed; the sound died in his throat first, and hers faded a heartbeat later.

William took the cup of tea, watching the liquid swirl against the rim—steady, calm. The warmth from the porcelain seeped into his hands, and it was almost unbearable.

Clara placed a hand on his arm. She definitely felt him flinch at her touch—the contrast between heat and cold crawling like ants beneath his skin—but she kept her silence.

William took a deep, shaky breath, taking a sip of tea to settle his nerves. The warmth spread down his throat, slow and heavy. He glanced at her, and had to look away a second later. He could see it in her eyes. She knew. She knew what he had done; what he had become. But she still looked at him the same way she did all those years ago.

No. She wasn't even looking at him.

"…Do you still love me?" He asked, because he needed her answer. He would've accepted a lie.

"I do," she replied, nodding, and it was the truth and nothing but the truth.

A beat of silence passed. He couldn't understand—probably never will—how could she see the same hands that had taken and destroyed, yet still call them hers? "You shouldn't, still." William breathed, the words dissolving into the exhale, "You-You should have loved someone else."

Clara smiled; a soft, resigned smile, like she understood something he couldn't begin to wrap his head around. "Will, love isn't a tax form. You don't file it once and stop."

He gritted his teeth, "You know what I've done."

It almost made him angry—the thought that she could still give him the same look after everything. Her love used to make his chest swell with pride, but now it only burned. He could tell she was searching for him; the William Afton she had fallen for and married, not this ruined, hollow remains who—deep down—still want to deserve her love.

"I married all of you," she replied simply, "Even the parts that scare me."

"Then stop looking at a dead man." William finally faced her, and he let his face contort with emotions. He hadn't been sure himself what he was feeling. "What do I have to do? Tell me how to make you love me again."

Silence stretched between them. The grip on his cup tightened, and the creaking porcelain tapped against the wood. He wanted her eyes on him—not the ghost of a man who had died with her that day. Him: flawed, broken, a monster.

Clara merely gave a smile. Fuck, he hated it so much. It was like she was smiling through him, to someone behind his face. And he hated it more than he hate Michael for killing Evan, more than Henry for betraying him.

More than he hated himself for being a flawed, broken monster.

And yet, he wanted to earn that smile again.

"I already do, William," Clara whispered, her smile looking forlorn. She met his gaze, eyes wet yet steady, "That's the problem. I still love you."

"She still loves me."

William repeated the words in his head, waiting for them to feel like victory—They didn't, not even after the second time she told him: yes, she still loves him. Those words sank like sediments at the bottom of a lake; a deep, dark lake.

He could hear it in her tone, and the emotions behind her eyes—he could at least read people, if he could not feel as much as they do—It wasn't forgiveness. God, his Clara wouldn't be so blinded to let his sins be bygones. She didn't absolve him; she remembered who he used to be. The man before the rot set in. The man who grieved losses, who tried to cope, who got lead way astray but now stood in front of a choice.

"…You believe in me too much, love." William chuckled. He sounded like a nervous wreck.

"Because I know you've got what it takes," Clara's eyes smiled with her lips, "You're worth holding onto. I wouldn't have threatened to kill you if we break up, otherwise."

He snorted, bitter. "Worth holding onto? Maybe you're pitying me."

"Call it what you want," she replied, "But you're capable of more than just this. You don't get to erase the past, but you can shape the next moments. This is not just our chance to live again, it's yours to show everyone that you can be better."

William looked away, jaw tight, his brows knotting. "…What if I can't? What if you're wrong about me?"

"William John Afton." Clara lifted her chin, her expression turned frigid, and he instinctively faced her like a child awaiting a scolding. "If you really wish to make up for your sins, prove it. Don't talk. Don't brood. No more excuses. Did I make myself clear?"

"But Clara…"

"Did I make myself clear?"

"Yes ma'am."

A bright smile thawed the ice on Clara's face. "Good. Just be decent, Will, it's not that hard." She stood, scraping her chair back. "Clean up when you're done. Let's go play Monopoly with the kids."

"But I—"

"We're playing Monopoly."

"…Yes ma'am."

William tried to think back to when he'd let her have so much control over him, but figured it didn't matter. Clara didn't hate him, entirely, and he saw that as an absolute win.

Chapter Text

2023

William read the date on the calendar once, twice. It was the year the fire reclaimed what shouldn't have existed in the first place, but he knew for a fact that he had continued burning for many, many more years.

The numbers made no sense.

Still, he shook his head, deciding not to dwell on it too much. A soft knock broke the silence of the bedroom. Soon, Clara stepped in, sunlight trailing behind her from the hallway.

"You're up," she said as she settled on the edge of the bed, handing him a cup of coffee. She smiled faintly when she saw the look on his face. "Ah, did you just discovered the date? Michael told me the queen passed just a year ago, you know?"

"What—That's not important," William frowned, "It's odd…Why 2023?"

Clara shrugged, "Who knows, and does it matter?" She got up to pull the curtains back, and William's brows drew tighter at the sudden brightness. "Apparently, the old pizzeria is still there. He's been hanging around, deciding what to do with it."

William blinked. "…He?"

Clara chuckled, "You know who I'm talking about."

Silence stretched between them—long, brittle, and heavy with the sound of things unspoken.

A beat later, Clara continued, "If you truly mean what you said yesterday," her words poured in a murmur, voice gentle, yet firm, "go see him. He's willing to put down his hatred, so it's a good chance to show them that you're keeping your words."

He wanted to protest. It sounded like a bad idea—to confront his old friend in the place where it all started; a place he had taken from and used for his own gains. He wouldn't be surprised if he gets locked up and burned the instant he stepped foot inside the pizzeria.

But with Clara staring at him with an expectant, almost demanding gaze, who was William Afton to say no to his wife?

He swallowed an invisible lump down his dry throat; the countdown to his potential execution had begun.

•

The engine sputtered before catching—a stuttering, reluctant sound from his beloved custom purple 1957 Chevrolet Bel Air. On the verge of falling apart, just like its owner.

He hadn't driven in decades, yet his hands fell into place on the wheel as if no time had passed. The empty road stretched ahead, and he found the turn before he even thought about it.

His body remembered, even if his mind wanted to forget.

The streets blurred—by familiar corners, decaying storefronts, ghosts of what used to be—or, had been—somehow the scenery from the past had bled into the present, a blend between times that made no sense, yet sparked familiarity within his mind.

Then he saw it.

The pizzeria.

The neon sign and a brown bear he knew all too well stared back at him. Letters below the mascot spelled a name that had once meant home, one that should have brought relief, but instead, he felt nauseous.

Suddenly, she was there again. She stood in the rain, her small frame tip-toeing up to the window, trying and failing to catch the attention of anyone inside. He'd found her shivering and holding a paper bag over her head for shelter—the sheer relief that flickered across her face when she saw him approaching didn't stop him from—

William slowed the car as he squeezed his eyes shut. He took a deep breath, steadying the roar in his chest. For a moment, he sat there, gripping the steering wheel hard enough to whiten his knuckles.

It wasn't what happened that shook him, it was what happened after.

Every mistake, every death, every agony—all because of him.

"I did this to myself."

William stilled for a second, then straightened himself. He'd either get executed here or back home when Clara knew he'd chickened out. After twisting his keys off the ignition switch, he got out of the car and took stiff strides into the pizzeria.

Now or never.

The bell above the door jingled when he stepped inside. Glancing around, the interior looked the same as he remembered it decades ago: rows of tables and chairs, the checkered stripes along the walls, the cracked tiles by the arcade zone.

It was as if time had frozen in place.

Behind the counter, a man sat hunched over the register, flipping through a notebook. His hair had gone grayer, his shoulders heavy with the same fatigue he'd seen at the red lake.

"You're open?" William's jest cracked the silence in the air.

Henry didn't look up. "Wasn't planning to be."

"Good," William sat at one of the tables and drummed his fingers on the wood; the same habit that used to annoy his old friend when they'd get no customers during rainy days. "I hate customers."

That earned a snort; half amusement, half disbelief. Henry finally glanced his way, brown eyes sharp despite the weight they bore. "You haven't changed."

"Is that good or bad?"

"Neither," Henry sighed, his eyes wandering to the notebook, "Or…Well. I don't think I care enough to give a proper opinion."

The silence that followed was far from awkward, but it was thick; heavy with the kind of pressure that makes each breath feel like an intrusion; a silence no one wanted to break.

An invisible wall between them.

But William was determined to break it down brick by brick if he must. "You planning to reopen this place?" He asked, continuing the conversation.

Henry shrugged, still reading. "A pending thought."

"Then let's decide now," William glanced around. Couldn't the Crocodile at least bring the place back in top condition? "What's there to lose?"

"…You're serious?" Henry raised a brow.

"We're dead," William rolled his eyes, leaning against the backrest. "Might as well pretend we're not."

Henry closed his eyes, "I don't know William. I don't feel like working when I'm already dead."

William went quiet for a second, trying to tell whether or not it was a joke. "…If you don't plan to…then why are you here? Two days in a row too, in fact."

"Reminiscing." Henry looked at him as he waved. "This place was my dream. And you crushed it."

"…I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Henry eyed the notebook, "You already made it clear that you're not sorry, anyway."

A long, wordless moment passed, but William eventually found his voice. "…Dreams can be rebuild." He tilted his head, "It's everyone's second chance…you might as well try again."

"And then what? Let you work with me again?" Henry gave a humorless laugh.

"Well," William clicked his tongue. Touché. He quickly thought of a response. "Fake as this world may be, it still runs on capitalism."

"Then find another job."

"But I want to work here."

Henry opened his mouth to speak, then closed it a second later, frowning. "…Why? You surely don't have good memories of this place; not more than I do."

William's eyes averted to the floor. A brief silence passed, and his response flowed out like a broken tap. "Before everything fell apart; before I ruined it, this place was…a second home. There aren't many things I truly find enjoyable in life, but this was one of them."

He glanced up, but Henry remained silent, prompting him to continue. "I already said it once, but I'll say it again: I don't expect forgiveness from anyone, not from Clara, those kids, or you. I, I only want to fix the things I've broken—properly."

"And ethically?" Henry raised an eyebrow.

"And ethically." William echoed.

"No more…killing children and doing sci-fi experiments?"

William cringed, "Oh come on, that was…a life time ago," he paused, realizing the words came out wrong, "I mean I…I'm not that man anymore. I'll prove it."

Henry stared straight into his eyes, and William fought the urge to look away. Whatever Henry saw after peering into his soul, he seemed satisfied enough to snap the notebook shut and gestured. "Then you can start by wiping the tables."

William smiled—cool and collected, a contrast to the confetti he's throwing in his head, celebrating this small victory. "Thank you, Henry."

Henry dismissed it with a nonchalant wave as he stood up. "More cleaning, less talking."

William pressed his lips shut; he thought better than to respond, instead, he found the broom closet and got to wiping.

At least, it was one tiny step forward.

•

The late afternoon light slanted through dusty blinds; chairs were stacked and pushed to their corners, tables wiped clean, the air smelled faintly of detergent.

William pushed the mop across the floor with the rhythm of a man who'd never mop his whole life yet refused to do it badly. His movements looked deliberate—mechanical and precise—but he kept having to remind himself not to wipe the same spot for five minutes while he zones out.

Strange how the human mind can never hold its tongue. William couldn't help but think about how funny it was that he was spending his afterlife cleaning stains instead of making them.

"…At least these stains come off easily."

They'd worked in silence the entire time, and although William tried to make small talks, Henry either was conveniently too far away to hear him, or would respond half-heartedly and killed any attempt at a conversation.

"And I thought he said he was too tired to hate me forever."

Ding!

While Henry was half-way through wringing the cloth out in a bucket, the bell above the diner door jingled. Both of them glanced up, and their eyes met with a familiar sight.

Charlotte Emily.

Charlotte didn't seem to notice William at first as she entered the diner. "Dad! There you are," she rolled her eyes, "Yesterday you said you'd come back at noon, it's almost one o'clock—"

Then, her gaze landed on William, and her face instantly turned sour. "What is he doing here?"

Henry dragged his eyes between him and his daughter. While William probably looked like a deer caught in headlights, Henry remained calm—that, or he was too tired to react. "He practically begged me for a job."

That snapped William out of his trance. "No I did not."

"Whatever you say."

"I did not beg for a job."

Charlotte looked at them, half exasperated, half baffled. A reluctant huff of laughter slipped out—it sounded more like a sigh, though, one practiced over years of disappointment. "Yeah…how do you say it again…?" She narrowed her eyes at William, "You've got a bloody nerve."

He stared at her in disbelief while Henry fought back a laugh. Until Charlotte glared at him too.

"Not funny, dad."

Henry coughed into his fist, glancing at William. "Stay here and finish up, alright? I'll drive Charlie home."

William frowned, "Oi, are you throwing your work onto me?"

"No? Why would you ever think that?" Henry placed a hand on Charlotte's shoulder as he ushered her towards the door. She did not look amuse, but walked with her dad anyway. "I'll come back and help, it won't take long."

Before William could retort, the bell over the door jingled as it closed behind them.

Henry and Charlotte got into their car, and while the former reached for the seatbelt on his daughter's side, she spoke, her words landing like glass shattering the quiet. "You really let him work here again? After what he did?" Charlotte folded her arms, incredulous.

Henry quietly fastened the seatbelt, eyes distant as if lost in thought. When he finished, he sank into his seat, leaning against the backrest. "Well," he breathed, "Someone has to help me clean the floor."

"…Dad." Charlotte looked up sharply, searching his face expecting to find anger hidden behind humor—nothing. "I know we said we'd…stop hurting ourselves by hating him. But how can you just—how could you?"

When Henry didn't reply, Charlotte continued, her voice quieter. "Do you…forgive him?"

"No," he answered instantly, meeting her eyes with a steady gaze. "No, Charlie. I only forgave myself…for what I hadn't—couldn't—stop."

Charlotte's breath caught. Words died in her throat as she realized how close it struck.

After all, she too, couldn't prevent the tragedies.

The Emily failed, both of them did.

"You can forgive him, or not. That decision's yours to decide, Charlie," Henry started the engine, "But at the very least, forgive yourself. It's his sins to bear, you don't need to chain yourself to a man who couldn't even understand his own guilt."

A silence settled, filled occasionally by the car's hums. It was heavy, but not uncomfortable, like a quiet that followed a storm.

"…Do you think he meant it?" Charlotte fidgeted with her nails, "That he's not the same person anymore…that he would try."

Henry's hands rested on the wheel, eyes staring ahead at the purple car parked over two lots. "Clara seemed to believe it."

Charlotte blinked, "I'm asking if you believe he could change."

A beat passed—then two. Three. Henry pursed his lips, eyes averting to his feet on the pedal. "…Honestly? No. Hell no. But, but I want to believe he can, because constantly hating and being afraid of betrayal is," he exhaled, "exhausting."

Charlotte nodded, staring ahead. For a moment they sat in silence, leaving for the quiet rhythm of the car's engine. "I think I get it." She eventually spoke, and glanced at her dad, "I'm tired too. Can we just go get McDonald's?"

Henry faced his daughter, face blank. Then, he chuckled, and laughter spread like a contagious disease between the two of them. He wiped a tear from his eye and nodded. "Yes. Sure, we can get McDonald's."

As they met the road, a quiet content filled the car's atmosphere. Charlotte messed with the radio, and Henry's thoughts occupied him through the brief moment of static.

A second chance for everyone.

Chapter Text

The morning was pale and still, the skies still gray from the storm last night. Dew clung to the grass, and the air carried a faint chill, cold enough to bite through William's thick jacket. The car sat in the driveway with its hood up, tools scattered on the concrete below his feet.

At the very least, it decided to give up right as he got home instead of leaving him stranded at the mid-point.

William stood over the car, squinting into the engine bay, scanning it meticulously for the past 30 minutes. He wasn't sure what half the parts did anymore; it had been years since he last tried to fixed anything that wasn't broken beyond repair.

"Need a hand?" Michael's voice drew his eyes to the garage. He leaned against the frame, arms crossed against his leather jacket. William glanced back at the mess of metal innards, deliberating.

Then, he sighed and beckoned, wordless from embarrassment more than he was willing to admit. Michael chuckled as he pushed himself upright and jogged over to his side. "I've had to patch this baby up a bunch of times. It's the only form of transportation I can use."

William nodded. He didn't have much to say, but eventually, he found his voice. "I'm just glad you didn't scrap her too."

Too. It was meant as a joke, but William realized a second later that it wasn't a very good one. Michael laughed anyway as he picked a wrench from the ground. "I spent too much effort on her for that."

Michael rolled up his sleeves, ignoring the cold breeze sweeping over their heads. William watched his son work, elbows deep inside the machine, movements steady and sure. Every click sounded right, efficient, and unnecessary to guide.

William had half a mind to give an advice—you should tighten that first, or check the gasket—but the words withered before leaving his mouth. Michael Afton didn't need instructions from his father. Not anymore.

There was a time when little Mike stood at William's side while he worked, wide-eyed and desperate for approval, mimicking his every gesture. A time when “helping” meant handing over the wrong tool just to be praised for trying. Now, he didn’t ask for help at all. Somewhere between those years, Michael had learned to build and fix things without needing a father.

William never realized why exactly he hated Michael. Every day his son grew, he started to see more and more of himself within him. Wouldn't every father want their son to resemble them? To him, it was a dilemma he couldn't crack no matter how hard he tried, but maybe he knew the true answer all along.

If Michael Afton was a mirror, then every cruel word, every glare, every ounce of anger and hatred, had been nothing more but self-addressed. He'd been staring at his own reflection—at himself the entire time.

William looked at Michael and saw a face he recognized, but not the person he understands. Michael was as different from him as every child was different from their parent.

They were two sides of the same coins; sinners with their own guilt to bear.

Michael, at least, was willing to do whatever he could to atone. William couldn't even feel the guilt.

Emotions were a tool, a weakness. He despised it more than anything else in the world—but perhaps he had been envious of people who still had the luxury to be weak. They could afford to feel, to hope, to break.

They can understand—not just study and mimic like some program told to act human. They can make mistakes, feel remorse, and be redeemed.

Michael Afton was too much like his father—No, William Afton was too little like his son. Michael was a reminder, a constant, glaring possibility of what he lacked, of what could have been.

William hated being jealous, hated being weak, hated not feeling like they do and not understanding everything and leaving stains on parts he meant to kept clean.

He hated when things derail, and in trying to take control—of his emotions, of his children, of his life—he broke more than he fixed, spread his disease onto everything he ever touched.

He knew he's a monster, but there's an awful pride buried in that too—a sense that at least he's different, stronger. He could stack apology upon apology like bricks, their weights never crushing him no matter how high the pile gets.

He can act at the right time; smile the way he'd seen others do, offer comfort, mimic them the way a blind man studies the light.

No matter how much of a human fraud he is, if he could act normal despite his inability to be normal, then that should count for something, right? He should hold his head high, stand tall at the fact that he lacked their weaknesses yet could still showed their strength.

Of course it was a lie; a lie as clean as every strained smile felt like proof he's pretending. He kept stretching dead skin over an open wound, convincing himself of something he's clearly not.

In truth, even his own pride disgusts him. He hated how he couldn't even hate himself cleanly.

William Afton never hated Michael, only the reflection that stared back at him; one that never existed in the first place, one that he had projected into the boy because he needed to place his hatred somewhere.

A carefully wrapped self-loathing of a monster desperate to become a human.

The sharp snap of the hood jarred William out of his thoughts. "That should do," Michael announced, carefully setting down the wrench. His gaze remained fixed on the car as he extended his hand. "The keys, please."

Still absentminded, William retrieved the keys from his trouser pocket and passed them to Michael. He watched as his son entered the car and turned the ignition. The engine sputtered, then roared to life, startling a few birds on the nearby fence.

"Still got it," Michael grinned, pulling the keys and spinning them around his finger before tossing them back to his father. "If she ever gets sick again, you know who to call."

"Yeah," William nodded, "Thank you."

Michael wiped his hands on a rag as silence stretched between them. William daringly glanced up to find his son staring at him, the prideful grin from earlier dissolved into a blank face.

I should say something. "…Good job, by the way," William resisted the urge to slap himself for how awkward he sounded. "I'm proud of you."

Michael cleared his throat, trying to look neutral despite the faint blush on his cheeks. "Yeah, it's nothing."

Silence.

"Do you…" William spoke before the quiet could settle in too deep. He stuffed his hands into his pockets, and Michael mimicked the gesture. "Do you want to take her out for a spin? To make sure everything's working fine."

Michael glanced down at his feet, lips pursed, taking a moment to contemplate. Eventually, the longest three seconds of his life passed, and Michael looked up with a nod. "Sure. I'll drive though." He held his hand out, "Keys?"

William gave them up, this time consciously. His boy deserved to take the wheel, especially after he'd crashed into everything when he was in control. "You better not be plotting to take us both out. Again." A ghost of a smile lingered on his lips.

And Michael returned the sentiment, he chuckled as they got into the car. "Right after I just fixed her up? No. Maybe when she's breaking again, I'll consider it."

The engine roared to life again at the first turn of the key. Slowly, they pulled out into the driveway, and off they went. The road was quiet this early, the town still half-asleep, hedges blurring into long, green smear as the car gained speed.

William sat in the passenger seat, hands folded, posture too rigid for someone in a calm car ride. He watched Michael from the corner of his vision—the way he drove was careful, practiced, experienced beyond his years.

They go a few minutes without speaking. William didn't break the silence either—he didn't dare to. This time, the quiet felt safe, and nothing could go wrong as long as he kept his mouth shut.

Michael kept his eyes ahead, jaw clenched and relaxed as if he's bracing himself for the words he'd decided to say. William noticed it, but he waited, prepared for the worst.

"I don't need you," Michael spoke, his voice low.

William exhaled through his nose, "Yes," he didn't mean to sound so blunt, but he continued anyway, "You've made that abundantly clear already."

The corner of Michael's lips quivered—almost smiling. Almost.

"I used to," he continued, "I kept waiting for you to step in. To tell me what to do. I was a lost child who needed guidance, and I only saw that in my father. I admired him, thought he was the coolest man alive…I looked at the wrong place."

"Yeah, that was your first mistake," William blurted, then winced, "Sorry. Poor phrasing."

Michael let out a short breath. "Exactly, you weren't a shining example."

"No," William agreed, "I was not."

They slowed at a bend in the road. William faced the window, staring out at the scenery, though his eyes saw more than the hedges and houses and people—are they people?—minding their businesses.

After grueling seconds of deliberation, "I blamed you," he muttered, the distance disregarded the volume of his words.

William kept his eyes on the window, but he could hear slight shuffling from the driver's seat. He continued, "Not because it was true. It was just convenient. You were there. The only one alive." His mouth twisted, brows furrowing, "I needed someone to take the blame. Anyone but myself."

Michael kept quiet, as if thinking, William couldn't tell, though, he didn't want to look at his son while he poured his thoughts out. "I'm aware…That it only made things worse…and here we are."

The silence stretched—not hostile, but it was heavy.

"I don't feel guilt the way other people do," William said after a moment, "It's not meant to be an excuse. I understand responsibility, at least…And I've failed you. Repeatedly."

They stopped at a red light. Michael looked at him, and William finally faced his son, letting that brief moment of eye contact tell him everything he needed to know. "You're so fucking awkward, you know that?"

That earned him a dry huff of laughter from William. "Oi, I am trying to be serious here." A beat of silence passed. "…I projected myself into you…It should've been my problem, and instead I made it yours."

Those words weren't easy to get out—It didn't hurt to say them, just that they don't belong to his usual vocabulary.

"You're trying, though." The car sped up again. "I'm seeing that you are keeping your word. It's…nice to see."

Warmth blossomed in his chest. It took him every ounce of self-control not to start beaming like a child. He was doing something right, even though he couldn't grasp the essence of what it was. "I, I am sorry, Michael." That does hurt a bit to say, even if it was the second time, "And thank you. For the chance."

"You only get one," Michael made another turn; they were on their way back to their house. "Not that you needed to be told that twice."

For the rest of the way home, a comfortable silence stretched between them. Michael turned on the radio at some point, but William was too over the moon to notice. It was difficult, painful, and very, very awkward, but it felt nice.

Fixing things correctly felt nice.

•

William found Elizabeth on the floor of her room—her very pink room. She had her legs tugged beneath her, back slightly slouched, surrounded by a careless scatter of toys.

Dolls lie near the door frame. Colorful, wooden blocks were stacked into something that might have been a tower, but half of it pooled beneath its base. The window was opened, curtains lifting in the warm afternoon breeze.

A careful knock on the already-opened door drew Elizabeth's attention. She smiled at him. "Hi daddy!"

"Hey sweetie," William looked around the mess, "What are you doing in here?"

She pressed her lips into a thin line, then gestured vaguely in front of her. "I was bored…I was about to clean up but I got distracted."

William nodded as he surveyed the room with clinical efficiency. He silently marked the placements of the toys in his head, and where they were supposed to be. It surprised him, slightly, that he still recalled his daughter's room.

"Right." He stepped inside, crouching down to one of the dolls near him. "Shall we, then?"

Elizabeth beamed, then immediately adopted an air of theatrical seriousness. She handed him her toys one by one like a solemn assistant. Every so often, she would add sound effects or dialog for a toy in her hand—a plastic plane William swore was Evan's, a vacuum cleaner with googly eyes that almost gave him a heart attack, even her beat-up doll he recalled gifting for one of her birthdays.

The longer it went on, the stranger it felt—the quiet cooperation between them, perhaps even more so than his morning with Michael. He noted the small things: how she would silently readjust her doll placement by height when he placed them wrong, how she hummed tunelessly under her breath as her brows knitted in concentration, deciding on where the other toys goes in the box.

She's bigger than he remembered. Or perhaps William got it all wrong—Elizabeth Afton had already grown past the version of her he'd kept in his head.

"You wouldn't have helped," Elizabeth said absently as she stared into a miniature Circus Baby plushie. "Back then, I mean."

"…No," William looked away as he nodded, "I had…other priorities."

She tossed the doll uncaringly into the box. "It was more important, apparently."

William's eyes widened slightly, hearing that from Elizabeth was the last thing he would have expected. But he couldn't deny it—he thought not to deny it. It was true, after all. To him, back at that moment in his lowest point, the dead was more important than the living.

And even when the living joined the dead, nothing changed.

"I don't mind," Elizabeth said after a moment, moving on to stack the wooden blocks by color, "I just…I just wanted to say it. I don't know…"

William faced his daughter. There was no resentment in her voice, but the words didn't sit right with him. He studied her more closely. The way her shoulders were slightly hunched, the careful, deliberate neutrality in her voice. He recognized the tone—She was convincing herself.

"You do mind," William edged closer, his voice as gentle as he could muster.

"I—" She faced him with a smile, "I love you daddy, so it doesn't matter."

William would rather she cuss him out. Hit him. Scream at him. Anything but that. Love, freely given. No conditions. No strings attached. How could a human being give their entire soul to someone without expecting something in return?

William didn't know what to do with it. But it felt wrong. "You're allowed to be hurt, dear," the words rushed out before he could stop himself. He thought about the morning. He thought about Michael and the reflection of himself he'd been hating for so many years. "Loving someone doesn't negate that."

Elizabeth went quiet, eyes averting to the floor, focused.

"…What are you thinking about?" He asked calmly, crossing his legs next to her.

She shrugged, "I dunno…Stuff…"

Humans were already hard to understand in general, children were even harder. William took a moment to gather his words, and eventually, he brushed a strand of her auburn hair from her face. "I didn't mean to make you feel unimportant."

Elizabeth blinked up at him, "You didn't mean to?"

"No," he paused, "But I did."

Her lower lip trembled, and tears rolled down her cheeks before she could stop it. "I thought if I didn't mind. If I didn't, then it wouldn't hurt," she sobbed, wiping her face with the heel of her hand. "Because, because you're my dad…I love my dad…but I hate him too, I hate him. I hate that you didn't cry when I died. I hate that you ignored me and Mikey. I hate that I couldn't find it in me to hate you despite hating you."

William could do nothing but stare as his daughter cried and cried and tried to stop herself but it only lead to more tears leaking from her small, swollen beads. When he finally snapped out of his daze, he carefully placed her onto his lap and let her sob into his chest, her rambles of frustrations continuing, but slowing down as he rubbed soothing circles along her back.

"I'm sorry," It hurt less to say this time, William just wanted her to stop crying; to stop burning herself with the flames of hatred. Only he has to do that, not his little girl who did nothing wrong.

That pain was never hers to hold in the first place.

"I don't want you to feel bad, daddy…I'm sorry" Elizabeth sniffled.

"That," he frowned, shaking his head, "is not your responsibility. You don't have to be sorry for anything."

Her shoulders sagged at those words, tension finally leaving her small, quivering form. William took a long, deep breath, "I can't ever take back what I did, but I'm here now…I'll make it up to you, okay?" He mumbled softly.

Elizabeth nodded, pressing her face deeper into his shirt. "Okay," she murmured, voice shaky and sore from choking on her tears. "Can you braid my hair for me? Like you used to?"

William froze. Like you used to. He tried to think back to when that was; the last time he would wake up early just to style her hair before she heads to school. At some point, the braids turned into quick, easy pigtails that only took a minute or two to do.

"Yes, of course," he almost choke on his words as he forced them out before the silence could settle in too deep. Though it was all worth it when Elizabeth whipped her head back, revealing a big, beaming grin that shined through the redness of her face. "Go get your brush."

They moved to the dresser, and Elizabeth sat on a stool in front of the mirror as she handed him the brush. William plopped down behind her, gathering her hair carefully, as though it might break under his hands. It's soft; familiar in a way that unsettled him—He realized with a dull surprise that he still remembered how to do this.

Elizabeth hummed in content as he ran the brush from the scalp of her head down to the very tip of her hair. Each stroke gently unraveling any bound strands. When he finally got to doing the braids, his hands couldn't quite follow the images in his memory. His fingers slipped, but he adjusted immediately. He tried again, and again, until he eventually found a rhythm.

It wasn't perfect; stray strands frayed outward rebelliously, the bounds between the braid slightly too loose. Elizabeth chuckled at her reflection, turning to look at her father's sloppy work. "It's so ugly."

William smiled, he was glad she's laughing. "I can try to fix it."

"No," Elizabeth whirled around and tackled him with a hug. She squeezed him tight. "It's okay, I like it."

"Even when it's so bad?" William put an arm around her.

"It's your hard work. I will like it no matter how bad it is."

Oh.

It felt like a puzzle piece clicking into place. He tried. Even if the result was imperfect and crooked and ugly.

There exists some defects in this world that needed no correction.

•

A cry cut through the open doorway—sharp, breathless, the unmistakable sound of a child in pain. William moved before his mind fully registered the voice as Evan's.

"Evan?" He called out just in time to see the little boy limped into the house, hand pressed against the corner of his forehead, fingers smeared red and his body trembling from the pain.

"I, I fell," Evan sobbed, trying to keep his voice steady despite the stream of tears streaking down his cheeks, "It's not her fault, it's not her fault…Please don't be mad…"

William looked towards the door, Cassidy was peering in just a second ago, but she instantly vanished when he met her widened, panicked gaze. He turned back to his son, kneeling to catch him before he stumbled. "Sit down, Evan," he sucked in a deep breath, the taste of iron hinted at his tongue. "Let me see." He said, softer this time.

Evan obeyed, wobbling as he lowered himself to the floor, leaning his back against the couch. When he pulled his hand away, William intensely inspected the wound: the scrape was shallow—skin broken, swelling, but otherwise it was nothing serious.

Yet, for a fraction of a second, he saw something else.

A limp body.

Teeth stained red.

A circle of blood growing bigger, the steady drip drowned by screams and panicked cries and—

"Dad?"

Evan's voice snapped him to the present. William looked up, his widened eyes meeting with the boy's—still watery, and puffy from tears, but calm; calmer than his old man. "Is it bad? Cass said it looks fine…"

"Yeah," William swallowed, his throat suddenly dry, "You're okay."

He wasn't talking to Evan.

"Dad, you're shaking…"

William blinked, looked down at his own hands. He was right, he's quivering like a leaf. For a moment, he considered making a joke, a deflection, anything. But nothing came.

Evan reached out and patted him on his arm with his clean hand. "It's okay," he mumbled softly, brows slightly furrowed in uncertainty; fear, perhaps. "I'm, I'm still here. I'm alive, dad."

William's clenched his jaw, "Right. Yes." He nodded, affirming for himself, "You didn't die. It's just a tiny wound. Stay here, I'll go fetch the first aid kit from the bathroom."

When he returned, Cassidy was kneeling next to Evan, apologizing profusely while the boy just gave her a sheepish smile and told her it was okay.

Everything was okay.

He made eye contact with her for a brief second. They were just children playing around like they were supposed to, but he couldn't help but feel a pang of annoyance that she'd hurt his little boy. William let out a huff as he got on his knees again, taking out a piece of cloth he'd soaked with water.

"I'll clean it first, this will sting."

Evan winced, squeezing Cassidy's hand for comfort. "I don't like stinging."

"No one does," William chuckled, "But it's necessary."

He cleaned the wound carefully, brows knotted in tight focus to be as gentle as possible while making sure no dirt or debris remained on the skin. Evan groaned in pain, but he kept still. Trust given without question.

"How do you even bleed in here anyway?" Cassidy mumbled as William pulled away, taking out a new piece of cloth.

"Pain is a part of life too." William paused, and considered those words for a moment. He had responded without thinking much, yet they struck closer to home than he realized. "…You can't go your whole life without tripping or falling down at least once. It's a required experience."

Cassidy chuckled, "Is that wisdom from an old man?"

"I'm not old." He responded almost on reflex, returning to dressing Evan's injury. The pain seemed to have ebbed into something manageable for the boy. Soon, he pulled away, admiring his work for a moment. "It's done. How are you feeling?"

"I'm okay," Evan lightly tapped his colorful bear-themed bandage, a content smile gracing his lips, though it thinned when he looked at his father. "Um…I'm sorry for scaring you…I should've been more careful."

"Nonsense," William shook his head, combing his fingers through Evan's hair. "If you fall down, get back up. And if you're hurt again…" there was a slight pause, but he pushed the words out with a confident smile, "then you know who to run to."

Evan stared in wide eyed bewilderment for a second, but then he gave an eager nod. "Mm! Okay!"

William lowered his hand, glancing at Cassidy. "Go easy on him, he's smaller than you are."

"We're the same height." Evan protested.

"No no, he's right," Cassidy grinned, "You're a centimeter shorter than me."

"That's practically nothing!"

William got to cleaning up while the children continued to bicker. For once, there was no need to fix anything further; wounds will heal on their own, especially when there's someone to tend to them.

As the evening light faded, he looked up just in time to see Clara and Michael standing by the kitchen's door, they silently beckoned him over—Come help with dinner.

"More work, great." He thought playfully, nodding at them in acknowledgement. It was rare for Clara to allow him into the kitchen, but perhaps it was his reward for doing good today.