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Chapter Text

The first thing he made note of when he woke up was the dull humming of a fluorescent light. Second was the bright light that blared into his retinas and gave him the beginning of a headache. Third was the realization that he didn't own any fluorescent light.

He sat up to see that he was in a hospital bed. A barren room with only him, his bed, and a nurse sitting on a blue couch reading a magazine. At the rustle of his movements, the nurse looked up and spoke out to him. At first his brain failed to register what she said, then it recognised it as English. That was odd, because he was pretty sure he was in a country that didn't speak English when he went to bed. Why couldn't he remember that country's name?

The nurse went to alert someone and he took the moment to look down on his hands. Those weren't his hands. They were calloused and scarred where as he had baby soft hands before. And his skin was a few tinges darker than he remembered. He had ordinary clothes on instead of a hospital gown, and he didn't remember owning them.

The door opened again with a bald, brown skinned doctor and what he assumed to be a family walked in. A woman, two boys and one girl. He didn't recognise them. The ginger blonde woman stood by his bed and looked at him with worry and expectance. She was drabbed in a sky blue sundress with a white ribbon around the middle that tied it tight around her middle. The boys stood behind her, both dark brown haired. The older wore denim pants and what looked like to him a denim jacket over a white shirt. The younger was more normal, with a black shirt and grey shorts. The girl, the same shade of blond as her mother, had to be restrained by her mother by her shoulders. She had a miniature copy of her mother's dress, with the ribbon being tied into a bowtie on her back, she wiggled so much that he could see it peak out a few times. She also had a bowtie on her hair, and on top of her shoes, all varying colours.

"Are you feeling well?" The woman asked a moment before the girl managed to pry herself free and launched herself at him with a cry of-

"Daddy!" Daddy? He didn't have a child?? Did he? Surely not. His mother had banned him from even getting married for the next ten years, not that he cared what that woman said. Was he experiencing amnesia? He could remember yesterday though, or what he assumed to be yesterday. Partial amnesia? Up to around the last 10 years, assuming from the woman who was his wife? She looked 10 years older than what he remember himself to be. And what was that age exactly? Maybe a day older than thirty. Looking at her more clearly, and with permission from the fact that she was his wife, presumably... Damn he scored, huh?

Focus.

What else couldn't he remember? He was... He was from.... His brother's name was... He didn't remember. His name, his country, his brother's name. Images, sensations and feelings he could clearly recall. But not any details. He remembered having a brother, struggled to remember that he was the older brother, but couldn't remember either of their names. Faces with no names to attach to them. At least he knew he was his brother's shade, so his skin could be simply tanned. But remembering a period of time long enough to get tanned? Let alone have children?

This felt odd. He didn't remember amnesia being this way, not that he had experienced it beforehand. Nor knew anyone personally that had it. Maybe his grandma, but that was Alzheimer's.

"I'm a little queasy," He answered the woman and hugged the girl back. He didn't feel any pain in his body when he did so, his body felt perfectly fine. So, a head injury.

"Let your father breathe, Elizabeth." Elizabeth? He remembered being partial to naming a daughter... not that. He had a name he favoured even though he couldn't remember what it was, but it wasn't Elizabeth. Perhaps he could remember stuff by crossing options out? This really didn't feel like amnesia. Elizabeth wouldn't have been his first or fourth pick. Why would he name her after the Queen of England of all places? He was an odd person to have picked an English name, from what he remembered, to name his future daughter, but not that odd. Though Elizabeth sounded familiar for some reason...

He looked at the faces of his family to try and remember anything about them. They all seemed a little... off? Wary. Why wary?

His eyes landed on the bear plush in his youngest son's arms.

A bear that had a purple hat and bowtie. With the exact Sanshee design, even though they never produced this bear.

Oh.

Surely not? Surely he is just a fan. Surely this is simply a new drop of merchandise.

"Mr. William?" The doctor asked in his prolonged silence.

No.

"I am William Afton." He spoke to himself. Admitted to himself.

"Dear?" His wife asked with concern. Was her name Clara? What did he know about Mrs. Afton? Why was he accepting it so quickly? But who else but him, huh? He wanted to laugh.

"I am having a hard time remembering some things." He let his mouth run off as he often tended to. Lying as easily as he breathed to give his mind a chance to think. Did he die? "It's like my mind is full of smoke." His mind had never been as clear before. Did having a different brain affect him? He was smart before, but not William Afton smart.

"What do you- What do you mean?" Mrs. Afton asked. "You don't remember us?"

No.

"I-" What to choose? Which lie to craft? Which web to spin? "I do. But some things are missing. I couldn't remember Elizabeth's name until you said it. Now I remember her and the boys'. But I can't remember yours."

She looked shaken. "Clara." She swallowed. "What else-"

"Daddy, you don't remember me?" Elizabeth interrupted her, evidently focusing on her name being forgotten out of everything else.

She sounded hurt. She was William's favourite, right? Or was that fanon? She was at least adamant in making her father proud in the sixth game, that he remembered. But what was the extent of it? What was fanon and what wasn't? Clara was Clara, so did it really matter? "Of course not..." What to call her. "...baby." he tried. Circus Baby had to be named as such for a reason, right? It was such an odd name. He put a kiss on her forehead as she looked up at him. With another man's lips, on that man's daughter- He steeled his heart.

He couldn't afford to falter.

She smiled up at him with a smile full of metal. Ergo, braces.

"Michael," Clara called out. "Could you and your siblings go and bring your father some food? He hasn't eaten since yesterday's breakfast." Thank God for this woman for giving reprieve from this awkward situation. Michael didn't need to be told anything else as he quickly dragged, Evan? David?, his brother behind him and fled the room. Literally, by the nape of his shirt. Elizabeth launched off of the bed with a cry of "Wait for me!" With the door closed, Clara looked at him in askance.

"We are in Hurricane, Utah?"

"We live in Hurricane but we are in St. George right now." And where was that? His US geography was solely lacking.

"I own a restaurant with a business partner, Henry. Henry Emily?" She nodded. "I can't remember the year." Probably before 1983, seeing as Evan-David is alive. But what could he trust from the theorising community? The whole thing was like an ouroboros, consuming itself with theories based upon theories based upon theories. All of that based upon breadcrumbs and metadata from websites.

"1982," she replied.

"I can't remember how we met or our wedding," he replied. "And what role I serve in the company. I can't decide if I made the animatronics or Henry."

"I-I have an album," she choked out. Tears visible in her eyes. From sorrow? From relief that he remembered anything at all? "And you both do. It was solely Henry at the beginning, then he taught you and helped you get a second degree."

"That's all for now, I think?" he replied, noting it down. Matpat hit that nail on the head, huh? Though it also adds credence to the theory that I'm having a fever dream, I was partial to Mat's theories. "It's hard to know what you don't know, y'know?" Did people say y'know?

"I'll go look for the children and leave you alone with Doctor Davis." she hurried out of the room.

Damn Afton, your whole family is fleeing from you. Except for Elizabeth. But whether that's due to actual good treatment, or attention seeking born from neglect remains to be seen.

That was that, then. Hopefully Afton kept a journal, or something. For now though, he racked his brain for all it knew about amnesia and how to correctly fake it.

Apparently, he just fell over as he left for work yesterday. Afton, that is. The doctor theorised that he hit his head as the cause of his amnesia, even though Clara claimed she didn't remember him hitting his head. Which provided him with jack-all.

He was given clearance an hour or so later. Was that normal? He didn't have any experience with head injuries, aside from a nasty bicycle kick to the head in middleschool. But he felt an injury causing amnesia surely had to be serious enough to be put in observation for a few days. He knew people shitted on the American Healthcare System, but was that true four decades in the past?

Clara drove them home. He'd never been in Utah, or anywhere similar. It looked like, Hurricane did at least, like Las Venturas' country side. That was as far as his knowledge on American landscapes went. He expected it to be hot, but it was surprisingly chilly. Maybe because it was a spring night. Perhaps it would be hotter in summer.

He welcomed the bite of the chilly air anyway. It cleared his mind and kept him aware.

The interior of the car looked alien to him. The front seats were uniform, whereas he was used to a gearbox splitting it in two. It was a cruiser with a skylight that he wanted to stick his head out of the taste the cold night air fully.

They pulled in front of a house that looked exactly like the rest of the neighbourhood. The fabled American suburbia. Looking as fake as he imagined it to. A two story house with a trimmed front yard and a fenced backyard. There was another car parked in front of the house. Another Oldsmobile like the one he was in, except a black convertible and not a red cruiser.

Afton had some taste, admittedly.

He used the doctor's recommendation as an excuse and went upstairs to sleep, or so he claimed. Clara protested a bit as he hadn't eaten anything but the jelly packet and cupcake the children had brought him. He checked the rooms one by one, committing them to memory. Michael's bedroom, surprisingly tidy for what he expected of a young boy's room but that could also be chalked up to his mother. A study, a barren room with a single table and rows of filing cabinets. A storage closet. And a master bedroom. He finally found a bathroom through the master bedroom. He got inside and locked the door behind him.

He finally took a real look at his body. William was nearly fifty, his ID said his birth year was 1934, but didn't look it. Clara certainly didn't look a day past thirty. Hm... I lost around 30 years of my lifespan... He was tall, taller at least. 180 centimetres on the dot. Relatively handsome. Short dark brown hair and clean shaven. He rubbed his face. I miss my beard. Hopefully Afton chose to shave rather than an inability to grow a beard. Similarly, he missed his long hair and glasses. Even if having 20/20 vision was nice his eyesight hadn't been all that bad in the first place. He simply liked the aesthetic and feeling of wearing glasses. Perhaps sunglasses would suffice? The setting sun still gave him a headache on the way over, despite having a different set of eyes and a different brain. He chuckled to himself, testing the expression on the mirror. He'd look like that one illustration of Henry by the time he was done.

He smiled and saw the face of a predator. Afton's face didn't smile, it bared it's teeth. Eyes cold and set. Clearly a murderer in the making. Useful. He was used to smiling without teeth in his past life anyway. He wondered if Afton ever made use of it. That wasn't intimidating his family into obedience. He had seen how Michael and David, it was David, looked at him.

He certainly would make use of it himself.

He grinned one last time before letting it fall off his face. And letting his shoulders slack. Piece by piece, his mask and armour was removed. He grabbed two towels off of a hanger, balled them up and put them to his mouth. And screamed, screamed until his throat hurt but all his stress drained. Like sticky hot honey trailing down his spine. He hanged the towels back and tossed his clothes off and got into the shower.

He turned the water on as cold as he could tolerate. He needed his mind to be as clear as it could be.

Show time was approaching, and he needed to be ready to put on the greatest show he ever had.

Chapter Text

He woke up at 6 AM sharp, as always. Or well, as he used to do in his past life. He had gone to bed earlier than everybody else, around eight or so. So he didn't have to deal with an awkward fact of his new life until that morning.

He had a woman in his arms.

Clara seemed to have crawled into his embrace during his sleep.

This was another man's wife.

A man that could go eat shit for all I care.

He wouldn't kid himself into thinking he cared all that much for morality. He had a lack of it even. He had trusted friends who set his morality for him, yet they weren't here. Objectively he knew this was wrong, he just couldn't bring himself to care. And the idea of doing this to Afton made his stomach warm in a particular way. So he planted a kiss to the back of her neck, basking in the warmth of her body against him and the feel of skin upon his lips before snaking his arms free. First thing to do today: Food. He hadn't had dinner to make sure he had some time alone to get his bearings. So with nothing but a packet of jelly and a singular cupcake in his stomach, and the upset rumblings they had caused in his stomach, he ventured on.

He tiptoed his way downstairs, wincing at every creaking stair. Rummaging through the fridge, he idly remembered something about children being trapped inside old fridges because their doors were too heavy. The one he just opened felt regular, lighter than the ones he was used to even. Perhaps that issue was resolved already. Shaking his head to clear his mind off of odd thoughts and observations, he fished out a single fist sized potato and a quarter of a sausage. A chorizo, the tag attached to it's butt read. He didn't know what that was.

He fell into an old routine as he washed, peeled, diced, and chilled the potato cubes in salt water. Slicing the sausage and oiling the pan, he felt like he could trick himself into believing he was back home and back in his time. A handful of various spices later, that he had to identify by smell because he didn't know their English names, he found himself standing over a sizzling pan. In no time at all, he had himself a plateful of morning delight.

And a wife staring at him from the doorway.

"Um..." William started. "Did I wake you...?" Stupid question. Obviously he had. Although, there was a chance she was an early riser as well. When were the children supposed to leave for school anyway? Perhaps he should have asked. He was used to waking up at 6 because that was just enough to get prepared for school himself. Yesterday was Sunday, so today there should be school. Though, he wouldn't know if there was a holiday or something.

"What are you doing?" She asked, halfway behind the arch of the door, leaning against it.

"Breakfast?"

"You cooked that?" Was this a traditional household? Did Afton not? Not that he judged, not everyone was as skilled as he in the culinary art of frying potatoes and boiling pasta.

"I was hungry?" He tried to deflect. "A cupcake and jelly in around two days is, as my stomach tells me, is not enough." He helpfully added.

"Okay," She replied simply. And with that, she quickly left, presumably back to bed.

Damn it.

Should he play along? Be like Afton? Conform to role?

He'd rather not.

After finishing and cleaning his plate, he left into the backyard. Laying there on the trimmed grass, staring into the sky. The sun was yet to rise but the sky was turning blue. His favourite time of the day, where everything was illuminated enough to be visible yet without a blinding ball of migraine in the sky.

Another life, huh? All this time fearing nothing but death, only to wake up anew. He was glad for it too, having been put in the body of Afton. To be in this world above all other choices. A world with a method of immortality known to him. I would have lost my mind otherwise, over the loss of three decades of expected lifespan. But I would have traded two more if given the chance.

That's all he wanted out of this new life, really.

Perhaps that's why he is William, and not Henry or Michael or some Joe.

Whatever, or whoever the cause, perhaps Afton had to be replaced by someone similar. Albeit, better.

He cloud gazed for an hour and a half, through the latter half of dawn. Planning. And fantasizing, going over scenarios upon scenarios he could face. He went back inside after the sun started to peak over the wooden fence. He started hear voices from inside as he got closer to the kitchen entrance. He opened the door and was greeted with a spooked cat of a wife.

"You were outside?" Clara asked. "I though you were in your office. What were you doing out in the cold? You just got back from the hospital!"

"For a completely unrelated reason, mind you. And I didn't feel like going back to bed." He said as he passed by her over to the dinner table. He gave Elizabeth's hair a ruffle as he sat down for his second breakfast.

Hobbits had the right of it.

Clara passed him a newspaper, as she walked over to the toaster. She didn't seem to have expected to serve him breakfast but changed course to make him something without complaint.

Domestic competence. Hot. Also worrying considering who it was she was used to serving. 

He found nothing of interest in the paper. No reports of missing kids or killer plush toys. Was the Frights canon to this universe? Hopefully not, he hadn't read any of them. It was best to check even if he had a year before David's fated death and three years before the MCI.

He put the paper down after hearing an indignant cry. His eyes scanned the table. Michael was a sixth grader, Elizabeth was second and David was first. David would've been eight by the time he died, then.

He didn't know how he felt about that fact.

"Michael, let David eat in peace." His voice froze everyone in their tracks. Michael flinched as he made eye contact and sat back down from where he was leaning across the table to swat at David. William simply nodded back to him before turning his gaze back to the paper, to give the poor boy a break. Michael seemed to be the one that was the most afraid of him. Was it because Afton was harsher on him? Because he lived the longest and had seen more to be afraid of? Curious. He had other things to think through than torture the boy with his attention anyways. Though, he noted, I should find a way to bond with all three of them.

He had two more days of advised medical leave. The doctor told him he was good to return to work, but advised him to take the additional days off to rest and to see if any symptoms arose. It gave him the perfect excuse to settle on his persona.

He couldn't be himself, he had to be Afton. He had to conform and let things play as they should've, lest he bring suspicion on himself. The problem was, he didn't want to. As low of an opinion William had of himself morally, he didn't think he was as bad as Afton. And didn't want to stoop down to that level. Afton's entire family feared him, maybe barring Elizabeth. William didn't know if he could live with them in the same house for the next however long in the current state of things, never mind the immorality of it. Despite his surprising introvert tendencies, given his natural talent for navigating interactions, he was a social animal. And he didn't have his friends here to listen to him ramble on about dragon anatomy or whatever caught his fancy that moment.

But to be a kinder Afton he had to know who that was first. The games were extremely barren when it came to it's characterisations. He had read the Silver Eyes trilogy, but that was an entirely different universe, never mind the fact that it had been a decade since he did so. So basing his persona on that Afton would likely be inaccurate. He had been lucky so far. His family's fear and his supposed amnesia excused a lot of his oddities. But sooner or later it would stop working. Would Henry excuse his actions in the same way? Would his parents... Did Afton have parents? Stupid question. Did Afton have parents he was close to?

What he wouldn't do to have a convenient Facebook profile he could read.

Clara was going to take the children to their schools. That was his opportunity to snoop through things to learn more about Afton, Clara would be home for the rest of the day. At best he had an hour or two. He could ask her, but he felt it was better the less he seemed clueless about himself even if he had a 'valid' excuse. He had to be quick. Two days, two attempts. He could try his luck at night, but Clara would be in their bedroom and, evident from this morning, she was a light sleeper. That eliminated the bedroom. Only leaving his workshop in the garage and his study, which were likely filled with everything but personal details.

Clara set his plate in front of him. "Thank you, love." British people said love, right? But Afton likely didn't. Oh well. On the plate was a piece of perfectly toasted bread cut diagonally in two with a sunny side egg on each piece. And a glass of orange juice. Perfectly as Afton liked, he presumed. Clara set herself a glass of coffee that William gazed at with envy. He scraped the eggs off of his plate, he wasn't about to test if he had the same texture sensitivity issues in front of a wife who was clearly used to having him be perfectly fine to these disgusting eggs. The rest would do fine. At least the orange juice had no pulp in it so he could pretend he liked it.

He cleaned his plate as quickly as he could to get out of the tense atmosphere. Literally no one had said zilch since he had lightly admonished Michael. Elizabeth, evidently, decided to prove his latest observation wrong.

"Daddy! Daddy, daddy!" Elizabeth tugged on his cuff, nearly spilling his glass in the process. She had jumped on her chair to lean over the table.

[CURRENTLY UPDATING THE CHAPTER, HAD TO LEAVE OF HERE.]

 "Yes, baby?" he checked their faces again to see if the nickname was unfamiliar. Elizabeth seemed to like it, with a giant smile on her face.

 "Are you going to work on Circus Baby today?" she leaned even closer to him across the table. Adorable. Father's and their daughters, huh? This irresistible charm already worked on him even though he met her not a day ago. What would... The block on his memory was annoying. What would my friend think? Better to assign people nicknames to not freeze whenever he thought of them again. He couldn't refer to all his friends as my friend. Hm, Aspect of Morality and Heroism? That silly god nickname from our Dungeons and Dragons campaigns? Let me try again. What would Heroism think of me now? Passable.

 "I might," William replied before booping her nose and pushing her back. Elizabeth let out a surprised squeak then a delighted giggle as she sat back down. "You want me to?"

 "I really, really, REALLY, want it." And that was three reallys, each accompanied by the pumping of her arms up and down.

 "I'll see what I can do." Circus Baby predated the murders then. Afton really was a technical genius, huh? Was she a murder robot, or was that a later addition? "I might have to make some changes."

 "Changes!?" calling what came out of her mouth a shriek would be a disservice.

 "Technical changes. She'll look and behave exactly the same, I assure you."

 "Will she be able to serve ice cream?"

 "Yes, she will still serve ice cream."

 "SHE WAS ALREADY GOING TO!?" Was that not the case? Perhaps Afton did have a soft spot and added it for her later. Or that he did it to shut her up.

 He put a finger on her lips and shushed her with his other hand. "That's a secret." he whispered. "Don't tell your friends." she giggled and nodded. After that, the room fell back into silence. Had enough of this for this morning.

 He dusted any crumbs that would have fallen off of his pants and got up. "Thanks for the meal, dear. Have a good day at school, kids."

 Let them have a pleasant family meal without my suffocating presence. And he was right, given that he heard them chatter as he left.

 Heroism would say, "I told you so, you have a good heart." That fool...

 First stop, once Clara left with the kids, was the bedroom. It was like a painting in dualism. One half decorated with personal objects and warm colours, the other was barren with even the wallpaper seeming to dull in it. Three guesses which was who's. Come on Afton, not letting your wife decorate the bedroom you share? Did you really need one half of the bedroom?

 He rummaged through the cabinets and found an album and two journals.

 Jackpot!

 The first journal was a collection of postcards and letters. All of them between Clara and other people. He looked them over quickly. Clara had a mother in a retirement home and a sister in Florida. Nothing else of note except for some friends. He put that journal away. He'd likely not find any other useful information if he read it fully. He doubted Afton knew the name of his sister-in-law.

 The second journal was also Clara's, a more traditional journal this time. It started around David's birth, stopping to a halt and starting again in different dates, as Clara clearly struggled to consistently keep it. It was mostly the same routine over and over. No wonder she gave up on it several times. Keeping the journal would become a chore itself.  With some notable accomplishments of the children breaking the cycle every once in a while. Like Elizabeth's first word, which was "Da-da" of course, and David's first crawl.

 Nothing about Afton. Which told him something regardless.

 The album was a huge thing. Starting from their wedding in England. Each picture had a list of everyone in them, the date they were taken, and a short description scrawled on their backs. Bingo. It may not shed light into Afton's head, but it would help him fake some crucial memories.

 "Ahem." he turned around to find Clara at the doorway, hands on her hips.

 He had lost himself in the photos. He was a chronic reader. He just couldn't stop once something caught his interest. And there was just so much on these photos, even if most were pointless, that he had apparently spent two hours reading through them without noticing it.

 "Oh, dear!" he got up to walk to her with a smile on his lips. She had seen him sit with her personal journals around him. Time to deflect. "I didn't hear you come in." he stopped in front of her, seeming awkwardly unsure but more so to block her from focusing on the crime scene, before bringing her into an embrace. He had half a feet on her, letting him block her sight with his chest.

 "It-It's fine," she gently pushed him back. Bending to look around him, which he couldn't stop without looking suspicious, she asked, "What were you doing with my journals?" Guess there is no avoiding that.

 "O-h!" he rubbed the back of his neck. "I wanted to look at our album to clear up my memories. I thought your journals were it at first before I found it. I didn't read your journals. Scouts honour...?" William did a salute with his fingers. Play the dumbass to dissuade suspicion. Deceit 101.

 "You were a boy scout?" Better yet, blind sight them with something off topic. Deceit 102

 "N-no...?" he asked more than stated. She smirked at his cluelessness. Hook, line and sinker.

 "You could have waited for me to look through my album together." Slight burn on that emphasis? Major win on that invitation to do it together!

 "Sorry," William smiled, taking pride in dissuading the situation. "What are you plans for today? I do't know I'm going to do being home all day." She walked into the room fully and put her handbag on a cupboard, letting her hair down from where it was in a bun. Once again, hot.

 "You could finish Elizabeth that Robots of hers before her birthday, for one." she knelt down to put the journals and the album back into their places.

 "I don't know how she'll take the news that she can't keep it in her room." he tried.

 "That's on you for basing it on her drawing and telling her as much." Is that so? That's awfully nice for Afton from what he gathered so far on him. "I'll be in the kitchen, ugh, baking." An opening.

 Satan lend me your silver tongue, William thought as he gently directed her towards the bed. "Is there something wrong?"

 "It's nothing." Clara said simply. "It's noth- What are you doing?" William had sat next to her and had started to massage her neck and shoulders.

 "Don't mind me." he smiled. "I'm all ears. If there is something wrong, that is. What are you baking?"

 "Ugh." Clara leaned on to him with a grimace. "I have to bake cupcakes for the PTA's bake sale next on Friday..."

 "...and?"

 "Baking make no sense!" she rubbed her hands down her face. "Cooking, I can do! It's easy. It's fun! I love it! I'm great at it! Baking. Baking is..." Clara groaned to summarise her feelings.

 "Is there any specifics about what kind of cupcakes they need to be?" Clara shrugged. "Then... I'll make them for you."

 She turned on the spot in incredulity. "...you... ...bake...?" it sounded like two separate questions and entirely different question together.

 "Baking is like chemistry, I've been told, how hard could it be?" he shrugged. "If not for that, what use do you have a scientist husband for?"

 "William... you're an engineer." she deadpanned.

 "Trust me, it'll be fine." he tried to smile encouragingly. "Is chocolate okay?"

 "... Whatever is fine, as long as they're not store bought." she sounded unsure about it still.

 "You'll see."

 Second day, on to the study.

 Today he had some more time thanks to Clara needing to stop by the store to pick up ingredients after dropping the kids off.

 The study was pure Afton. Clean, orderly, disgustingly monotone yellow. All things at clean ninety, or sixty, or forty-five degrees. From the clock to the table, to a single paper clip left on said table. Perfect.

 It was impressive, honestly. Soulless perfectionism had a personality of it's own. It was soothing to William in a way, even though it would unnerve other people.

 A single polished wooden table, certificates and a clock on the wall and wall to wall cabinets was all the room had. No plants, no pictures, nothing else. The whole room had a metallic scent to it, like blood. Each cabinet slid open without so much as a creak, perfectly oiled.

 Each new detail on Afton and his preferences made it clear to William that they may have been best friends in another life. If not for the child murder. And soft family abuse. Though...

 First thing in the agenda after settling into his new life, replace this room with a library. William betted that Afton had an office at Fredbear's, and he had a workshop in the garage. Three was too much.

 In the cabinets were papers filled with legal mumbo jumbo that he'd have to learn about Fredbear's, a contract for the cartoon show that would air across Utah next year, copies of employee files, and blueprints of different things. The clear winners were the blueprints because they contained notes and anecdotes from Afton himself. Or they would have been if it were not for...

 In the last cabinet, he found engineering textbooks and notebooks.

 Bingo.

 By the time Clara returned, he had read all of them over.

 Finally.

 Showtime.

Chapter Text

 Clara Afton née Murray is the perfect wife.

 She is clever, dutiful, caring and obedient.

 Clever enough to impress her boss and see his worth when he was but a travelling entertainer in a mascot costume before he had ever opened his first location and be one of the first to apply when he did. Clever enough to impress him, to marry him to secure herself a cushy life.

 Dutiful enough to see the financial suffering of her mother after her father's death and do something about it. Dutiful enough to have a perfect record at Fredbear & Springbonnie's. Dutiful enough to settle for a marriage. Dutiful enough to keep her husband content.

 Caring enough to drop collage despite her mother's false assurances and her scholarship. Caring enough to be the shoulder her boss could lean on when Chica's eclipsed them. Caring enough to protect her children from the worst of it all.

 Obedient-

 ...

 She is proud of this. She is fine with this. She knows she could have it way worse. She may have wished for better, once upon a time, but she knows it could be worse. Why risk it all when her current situation is fine?

 Perhaps her husband doesn't love her. She may have thought he did once. She doesn't love her husband. Anymore. She may have once. Perhaps her life is a monotone routine. All of it is fine. It's fine. She loves her children. Her Lizzie, her Mike, her David. She is proud of the perfection she keeps the house in, even if the keeping of it is soul crushing routine.

 She has her kids. She has a house to live in. She has food on her plate. She Is Fine.

 She is fine with the state of things as they are. They're as good as it could get for her.

 Or so she thought.

 She thought as she entered the house with a bag of groceries on her arm. The weight of the bag, the crinkling of the packaging of the items inside keep it ever present in her mind.

 He husband is different. Off. Has been ever since the accident. The amnesia had changed him.

 His voice is soft now and, if she dared, kind. Not the cold, even tone it was before. His steps are uneven, he bends and shifts and dodges around the corners of the furniture and doors as if he is unfamiliar with them. Not the sure gait it had been before. There is a constant searching, a certain curiosity in his eyes, like his mind is coming up blank on whatever it tried to think of. They gaze at her and her children, trying to figure them out.

 But they also shine differently. William's eyes are now always more squinted than they had been before. They appear dull because of it, the angle he holds his head in- always tipped low- with the squinting makes it so that they catch no light to reflect. But then Elizabeth tugs on his arm and they widen and shine, like she is the only thing that matters. He doesn't dismiss or chide her, he plays along and calls her baby.

 He cooks himself food. Clara hadn't seen William do so ever before. He fries potatoes and eats other such oily foods, snacking on the children's junk food as he moves around the house. The William she knew was obsessed with his health, his age. He nearly had twenty years on her yet looked barely a year or two older. He followed a strict diet that he expected Clara to prepare for her. This William snacked as he pleased and didn't touch the eggs he had been so obsessed with before.

 He smiled! Not his self satisfied smirk. Not his customer service/family photo grin. He smiled, soft and nervous.

 He listened, he apologised, he massaged, he hugged...

 The William that she saw once she entered the kitchen was neither of the two. But was both at the same time. As if she didn't struggle to get used to the new him. He stood rigid and straight, tall and sure. He turned to look at her with that familiar dullness in his eyes. But in his hands were the dishes she had left to clean after she returned and his eyes shone as he registered who he was looking at. Like a switch had been flipped.

 "Clara." her husband greeted her with warmth. He rinsed the glass in his hands and took off the yellow gloves that came up his forearms. "Welcome home, love." William greeted her with a hug and stole the bag from her hands to set it by the fridge.

 "William." she could barely manage. The gestures and the affection in his eyes affected her. It was jarring and off-putting yet it also made her stomach queasy.

 "No trouble, I hope." William said as he rummaged through the bag to set the items to their places. "I have some matters to address in the workshop, so I'll start on the first batch in the afternoon. Is there anything else you need?" dark brown eyes looked up at her from where he knelt.

 "I-I'll be in the garden." she walked past him to the kitchen entrance. She needed time to get her bearings. "If that is okay?"

 "Why wouldn't it be?" he tilted his head like a puppy.

 God damn it.

 "Well..." Clara began. "To be honest, I really didn't expect them to turn out well." And who could blame her? Her husband of twelve years turning out to be a surprisingly good baker?

 To be fair, he had followed a recipe book. But so had she! And hers always turned out all burnt or all liquid-like. William had cooked a tray of perfectly baked chocolate cake on his first try. Then he had cut little cylinders out to make cupcakes using a water glass.

 "To think that you had such little faith in me," William said, arms crossed in satisfaction, hip cocked to the side with his weight resting on one leg.

 She wanted to fire back a response. It felt so normal, so ordinary, so natural. But it didn't at the same time. It wasn't a natural thing to do with the husband she had come to know. So the fact that it felt so natural now formed a pit in her belly. It was off-putting. It was creepy. It was why she couldn't interact with William for five minutes without having to flee the room.

 She should be happy. But her gut screamed at her to flee. In a primal way. Screamed at her that it wasn't her husband. That it was some thing wearing his skin.

 "I-Sorry." she felt it creeping down her her spine. "I-I'll clean up. And cook something for the kids before picking them up. You can return to your project in the workshop." She had to leave. She had to make him leave. Something. Anything.

 "... Alright." the light dimmed in his eyes. She felt relief and guilt war in her heart as she saw him leave the room.

 God damn it.

 She woke up as the bed shifted under her. Clara blearily looked up to see William setting David on the bed next to her. She tried to convey her confusion as best as she could with her face as she hugged her son closer to her. To protect him from that thing.

 "Nightmare." William mouthed. She looked down at her boy and caressed some of his messy hair away from his eyes. Her poor baby, always wracked with nightmares. She put a kiss on his hair and looked up as William settled down in the bed. Saw the light in his eyes in the darkness as he looked at her baby.

 She slept easier for the rest of the night. Thanks to having a barrier between them.

 She stared out of the window as she watched William's car pull away. Touching the spot on her cheek where he had kissed her in his confusion, she felt her heart warm and her skin crawl.

 She'd try. Try to accept this new version of her husband.

 And maybe love him too.

Chapter Text

 This is not my bed.

 Was the first clear thought he had once he regained consciousness. Followed by...

 What the fuck!? What the fuck!? What the fuck? What the fuck!? What the fuck!? What the fuck!? What the fuck!? What the fuck? What the fuck!? What the fuck!? What the fuck!?

 He laid there, eyes wide open, trying to be as still as possible. He tried to hear if anyone else was in the room with him, a breath or a footstep, over his own heartbeat and mental freak out.

 Then he slowly sat up, trying to look as nonchalant as possible. He had been kidnapped. He had to have been. He hadn't drunk last night. He had safely arrived home and locked the doors. He had to have been kidnapped. And he could be monitored right now. So he tried to make it seem like he hadn't realised his predicament to his captors.

 His eyes scanned the room. What the fuck!? A double bed with rose patterned bedding. What the fuck!? A table covered in papers of various colours and sizes. What the fuck!? Family photos on the walls. What the fuck!? A dresser with a mirror...

 That's not me! WHAT THE FUCK!!? His hand moved to check, and the mirror followed his movement. His hand flew through a few signs to do things a doppelganger would struggle to copy quickly, the mirror replicated them perfectly.

 He moved it to his face, to the long, light brown beard. He had been trying to grow one before, so perhaps he should look at it as small blessings...?

 Hell no.

 He walked up to the mirror to look at himself. A forty something man with long light brown hair and beard. Coupled with square glasses he seemed to have fallen asleep with, he loosely resembled his old self. The strong, muscled arms and the slight gut complemented is new look.

 Old self? New look? No way in hell am I accepting it this quickly! His mind cleared finally. The freak out becoming a quiet dull noise in the back of his head. I am not whoever this is. I am... I am...

 He couldn't remember.

 W H A T  T H E  F U C K  ! ! ? !

 He couldn't remember his name or personal details. Why the fuck not? Of course he didn't. WHY WOULD IT BE ANY OTHER WAY!

 ...

 How the fuck was he going to fix this? Switch back?

 ...

 Could he?

 Of course. Of-fucking-course.

 Of course he would reincarnate into FNAF of all things!

 Of course he would reincarnate as Henry Emily!

 WHY NOT!!?

 Calm. He is calm now.

 ...

 Absolutely not. How could he be calm right now?

 He is four decades in the past. In a fictional universe. A universe that pissed on the laws of his own universe. In a different man's body. He lost his world. His body. Part of his memory. His medical license that he tore his asshole getting. His family. His friends. His dogs. His cats. He lost everything.

 Everything.

 Only to become a man who would either kill himself via robot assisted suicide or be framed for murder.

 He is absolutely glad. He is definitely not horrified. He is not miserable. And he definitely is not LIVID.

 ...

 Focus. Focus. Deep breaths.

 He has a new identity without the memories that he would need. A new job without the qualifications for it. And a DAUGHTER that he has no idea how to feel about.

 At least Emily's wife is dead. Henry didn't know how he would have handled that if she weren't.

 Just EWW.

 Deep breaths.

 He thankfully has some stuff leftover from Emily... Emily didn't work. He couldn't remember his name so he had taken Henry just to be able to refer to himself in his own thoughts and gave the original Henry his surname to try and differentiate the two of them. But Emily didn't work. How about... HNR. Original Henry's name on the Pizzeria Simulator blueprints.

 Anyways, HNR had left him two useful things. A bookshelf full of engineering notes course books and notebooks full of pages upon pages of notes and anecdotes. He could do this. He survived medical school and his real passion was for coding and robotics anyway. He could make this work.

 Positive thoughts.

 The other was a journal. Made for Charlotte Emily. Written by HNR from the very day of her birth to last night, detailing every day since in several volumes. Seven years full. What a doting father. Apparently HNR planned to gift it to Charlie this year on her birthday now that Charlie learned how to read and write in school. Thanks to the journal, he could learn everything HNR knew and thought of Charlie and some of HNR's own thought processes and personality and daily habits.

 Only problem left unsolved was what he was going to do about William Afton.

 He didn't know anything about him. For all he was the main antagonist of the original games, he was painfully mysterious. He wondered if he could curse Scott Cawthon from a universe away. He didn't know whether if he was a man driven to madness through grief or whether he was a born psychopath. Thankfully it was 1982. A year before anything began. Allegedly. As far as he knows. He didn't know what the hell was up with Fall Fest or whether or not the Frights even happened in this universe, whenever those happened, not that he had read them.

 All he knew was that he would do everything in his power to protect Charlie. Maybe he was latching onto her to cope with this insanity and keep himself same. But it was the right thing to do anyways, so what if he was using her as a reason to keep going?

 He looked up at the clock. 7.03 AM. He'd been up for six hours now. He has to make breakfast, take Charlie to school and go to Fredbear's.

 ...

 He'll just call in sick. Spend a few days crunching on engineering. Thankfully, Charlie's school would give him an excuse to keep the house empty and avoid spending time with her. Then, though, he'd have to finally spend time with her on the weekend...

 THEN he'll avoid her by going to Fredbear's!

 He knows he can't avoid his problems forever. But he'll take all he can get.

 Three days till Fredbear's and facing William, however long he needs until he has to face fatherhood.

 Priorities.

 Keep It Simple Stupid approved plan.

 He took a deep breath and left the room.

Chapter Text

 William looked back at his house from the rear mirror with a self satisfied grin, seeing Clara's face peak out between the curtains.

 He had known what she had meant when she said he had forgotten something. William knew she had meant his briefcase. But he had feigned ignorance and had given her a peck on the cheek.

 Subtle things like those. Gestures, moves, words, and endearing cluelessness had her playing on his palm. It was too easy, honestly.

 He looked back at the steering wheel as his house became a speck in the mirror. What a car, though. Afton had taste, as often as William found himself saying it, he couldn't find it in himself to think otherwise. Afton might be a murderer, but he was a murderer with style.

 It was a 1972  Oldsmobile Cutlass Supreme Convertible. A handsome thing. He had yet to test it out fully and he hadn't ever heard of Oldsmobile in his past life, so he didn't know if it's beauty was merely skin deep.

 Though the wind in his hair and the roar of the engine, whist it had nothing on the engines of the twenty first century, were pretty satisfying.

 He ran his thumb over the leather cover of the wheel as he turned a corner. He had gotten Clara to give him some directions before he left. And Hurricane was a small town. He was sure he could find his way to the Diner.

 Once he spotted the bear decorated sign in the distance, he pulled over. Pulling the roof and windows up, he turned the ignition off.

 And screamed.

 Just de-stressing before the big show. Before having to face a second group of people that saw Afton's face every single day. Before having to face Henry.

 After about five minutes of screaming, he checked his watch to see, he got the car back on the road.

 I have nothing to fear, surely. Charlie is still alive. He reassured himself.

 Fredbear's Family Diner, contrary to popular belief in his old world, was not a small establish that was naught but a single room.

 It was about the size of, if not even slightly bigger than, a standard McDonald's location. One of those ones with the Playplace. That comparison isn't by chance, as the Diner had it's own play area with one of those jungle gym-labyrinth structures. To it's side was a ball pit. Though William couldn't make out if it was THE ball pit.

 I guess I'll have to drown it in the blood of children to make sure. He would snicker once he saw it.

 But we're getting ahead of ourselves. Back to William.

 Once in entrance you could enter the main dining room ahead, the office space for the managers on the left, or the restrooms on the right. Curious, William decided to explore the place before locking himself inside his office all day.

 The dining hall had two rows of six tables with seats for six people on each. Though it looked like they could make do with eight to ten people as well. At the end of the hall was the main stage with the stars of the show already standing there in all their glory.

 It was honestly creepy to see them in real life, even though William thought the Nightmares were the weakest in that regard.

 Something that took him by surprise was the existence of a secondary stage on the right side of the room. The curtains of the stage were closed with a sign hanged in front.

 "Our beloved friends Freddy, Bonnie and Chica have left to go on tour. You can watch their adventure on your televisions next year!"

 Smart. William had seen the plans for the Freddy's location in his home office. So, the Freddy crew had been an act in the diner and now were branching off to their own location, using the upcoming show as an excuse to explain their absence.

 And no mention of Foxy. It turned out that Foxy was an original character from the creators of the show to get their hands on an antagonist without tainting the brand of any of Fazbear's characters. They had apparently wanted Springbonnie to be the antagonist originally, what irony. Afton had heavyhandedly rejected the idea, and in turn Springbonnie had lost his place in the show. And the show-runners hadn't made a new role for him to play.

 The plans for the location had said they had acquired a plot south of Cedar City to capitalise on the I-15. William would have to read up on his US maps to know if that was a good idea.

 It was curious though, as he remembered all of FNAF, perhaps save for the third game, taking place in Hurricane. Were they not able to go through with it in the canon timeline or was this a thing original to this universe?

 In any case, if they did succeed in this world, William would have the option to use the distance between Hurricane and Cedar City to avoid Henry.

 Moving on.

 From a door on the left side of the dining hall, he entered a hallway that led to the kitchen on the right, a party rental room on the left, and the arcade up ahead.

 The party room had three tables the exact same of in the dining hall and a small stage. Just big enough to house exactly one animatronic of the customer's choice on it.

 The kitchen had nothing of interest for William.

 And finally...

 The arcade was big. A long hallway, perpendicular to the one that led into it, covered wall to wall in arcade cabinets. There were some classics like Pac Man and Donkey Kong. But there were some that seemed to be Fazbear originals. A platformer shooter named Freddy in Space, a Guitar Hero-esque game called Bonnie's Jammin' Jamboree, and a Fruity Maze like maze collectathon named Chica's Feeding Frenzy. William made note of it to look at who had made them. Could be Scott Cawthon's self-insert from the Frights, or could be someone else. It would be good to know.

 One end of the hallway had a prize counter, the other led in to the aforementioned play area. The prize counter looked straight out of Help Wanted. Same lay out, but different products. Like no Fazbear branded junk food, or any Foxy memorabilia.

 Going into the play area and after making his morbid joke and having a laugh to himself, as he left the party room hallway back to the dining hall, William came face to face with an employee. A curly ginger boy with so much acne that it looked like freckles. The tag on his uniform read "Frankie".

 The boy practically leapt to the ceiling as they barely voided bumping into eachother. "Mr. Afton, sir!" the boy said, shaking from adrenaline? Anxiety? "I- WE didn't know you were returning today..."

 "I've had my fill of medical leave." he replied, then they stood there, in silence. Awkward. But good awkward. The employees likely felt that way around Afton anyway. "Is there something?"

 "Oh, uh... Oh!" the boy nodded, voice squeaking painfully. At least to William. "Yes, Mr. Afton, sir. Mr. Henry called ten minutes ago to inform us that he was sick. He will not be coming today."

 Convenient.

 Also Mr. Afton and Mr. Henry? That told him a lot about how he should go forward with his employees.

 "Noted." William turned. "If that is all, I'll be in my office. Bother me if it's important."

 He made his way back to the entrance of the diner, then turned right to head into the office space. First from the left was a supply closet for janitors, second was Henry's office, third was William's at the end. He opened the door after failing to find the right key three or so times.

 Inside, it was a carbon copy of his home office.

 If nothing else, Afton was consistent.

 The day went by uneventfully. There was hardly any customers today, given that it was a school day. And with Henry sick and his employees to afraid to bother him, William spent the entire day in his office.

 Speaking of that...

 Afton must have been demanding every document he got his hands on to be printed twice. Because even the documents were an exact copy of those he had in his house. The lay out and the inventory, every single document he had went through back home in the little time he spent there had been accounted for here.

 Except for those regarding Afton Robotics, curiously.

 Of which had revealed to him the reasons for the company and the Baby's brand's existence.

 In short, it was because Henry owned majority in Fazbear's shares. Which also explained the reason for the existence of Freddy and Bonnie.

 In short, again, it was because William owned the rights to the characters of Fredbear's.

 Long version, Afton had started out as a mascot costume entertainer that was hired for birthday parties. After accumulating some money, and getting some loans, he had opened the Diner.

 And it had gone well. He had found success.

 Until Chica's Party World had opened at the other end of the neighbourhood. Chica's had had an entire ensemble cast that could pose and sing perfect recordings at the cost of an electricity bill. Whereas Afton had to pay a wage to whoever wore Fredbear or Springbunny whenever he wore the other costume. And he would have had to rely on their vocal skills, which were often not that impressive.

 Then on top of all that, Henry had had a talent for music. Chica's band sang entirely original songs. Whereas Afton had to either license expensive but popular songs or use public domain works.

 It hadn't taken long before Chica's Part World truly eclipsed them. And then Afton missed one too many loan payments...

 Henry bought out Fredbear's and paid Afton's loans off. However Afton refused to hand over the rights to his OCs. So Henry had to resort pulling a Mickey Mouse-Oswald The Luck Rabbit on him, with a similar degree of success. Freddy and Bonnie were eclipsing Fredbear and Springbunny, to the point that kids had started referring to Springbunny as Springbonnie. Chica joined the main roster and moved in.

 (Fun fact, looking at the blueprints of the Party World location that Afton had gotten his hands on somehow, FNAF 1 location had originally been a Party World location. The outline was the same. With it's weird deadspaces and all.)

 So Afton opened his own company and created new OCs. So, surprisingly, Funtime Freddy had been meant to be a Funtime Fredbear originally, or at least in this timeline.

 All of that to say, William found why Afton Robotics and the Baby's ensemble existed, but not why Circus Baby's half built body in his workshop already had a claw in her stomach.

 In any case, he had to find to something to do for his day. So William solved the economy!

 Not.

 He just drafted a proposal to give the employees a raise based on how long they had been a part of the company. A way to increase employee retention. A ten cent increase per month of employment to their minimum wage, two dollars seventy five cents per hour, paycheck.  With, of course, a cap of four dollars being the max anyone but a manager could reach.

 It wasn't done out of the goodness of his heart, rather it was to win over some of his employees.

 He couldn't enact it without Henry's approval since he had majority. So it would seem to the employees, or to their subconscious, that William was doing something good for them and Henry was the only obstacle in their way.

 If he had to fight a rights issue in the future with his partner, then he'd like to have some employees ready to take his side.

 So perhaps he could gather support for the proposal whilst Henry wasn't around, and some rapport with the employees while at it.

 The schedule hanging on a corkboard in the office hallway  said that Frankie was manning the entrance today, so William simply phoned the front desk from his office landline.

 He had half the mind the invent smartphones just to have the convenience of Whatsapp again.

 It took three calls for Frankie to pick up, and he told the boy as much before calling him to his office. Frankie was visibly shaking as he answered, to have frustrated his boss.

 It brought a warm satisfaction to William.

 "Take a seat." William instructed. There was no additional seats in his office. Perhaps as some sort of power play. The kid had to bring his own chair all the way from the dining hall because the one in the front desk was too heavy. This forced Frankie to sit directly facing William, rather than sit on a sideways seat like they would have in front of William's table in a normal office room.

 "Mr. Afton, sir..." any apologies died on Frankie's tongue with a raise of William's hand.

 "I wanted to talk to you, Mr. Wilson. About how long you've been working with us." the boy gulped. "You've been a part of the diner for over six months now. It's certainly a long amount of time, isn't it?" a nod. "And yet you keep acting amateurish, like earlier."

 "Sir I-" William cleared his throat.

 Enough torturing the kid.

 "I am willing to overlook it this once." Frankie collapsed on his chair like a deflating accordion in relief. "Now. Despite your occasional hiccups and relapses in irresponsibility..." a wince. "...you've had an acceptable track record. In light of that, I am thinking of giving you a raise."

 "Sir?" Frankie looked puzzled, unable to comprehend the words that he had just heard, as if William was speaking Mandarin.

 His landline rang just as he was about to reiterate.

 It was Clara.

 William pushed his proposal towards Frankie. "Read this." William ordered before returning to the call. After hanging up, "I am afraid we will have to cut our meeting short. I need to go pick up my children. Tell your coworkers about this. Discuss it amongst yourselves. You will all, more or less, receive this if Henry give it his approval."

 He gathered his suitcase and left.

Chapter Text

 William waited in front of the middle school as students trickled out. Clara's car had broken down, apparently, so he had to take the kid's home himself. Not that he minded. It was yet another excuse he could use once Henry returned.

 He had told Clara he would take a look at the car himself before taking it to a garage, both as a way to milk it for excuses but to also gain some practical mechanic skills. He would delay the repair as long as he could, so he could tell Henry he had to take the kids home, day after day.

 So William waited.

 But Michael didn't come out.

 Frowning, William got out of the car and entered the schoolyard. Needling the security guard at the gate- Oh, look, a Ralph, maybe the phone guy himself. Anyways. Needling the security guard got him led to the secretary of the principal.

 Who happened to be loudly chewing gum, open mouthed.

 It turned William's dial already up to a nine.

 "Name?" the woman asked in between.

 "William Afton, here for Michael Afton," William stated. "I came to pick him up but he didn't show up. I wanted to see if he stayed back talking with a friend or something. Or if not, whether a teacher would know if he went somewhere." Calm. Clear. Concise.

*“Oh yeah, honey,” she said with a soothing voice that grated on William's already tense nerves. The tone of a know it all. “I know all about that troublemaker.” 

 "Excuse me?" William let a bit of Afton leak out. But he seemingly failed to do so, or the woman was too oblivious to notice the danger she was in. Come on. Give me an excuse. I need to release these emotions, or it will build up and I will blow up in the house.

*“Young parents like you are too soft nowadays. A belt to the back or two would have all your problems fixed in a snap.” To punctuate this, she snapped her fingers, grinning up at him.

Thank you. So much.

 A thud. William banged his hands onto her desk, leaning on them for support as he bent towards her, matching her height. "I'd advise you to not talk about my son like that around me." William said. "Because," he whispered. "if you do not, I will make sure you will not be seen in this town ever again." Now, it's for you to decide. Do I mean to ruin you? Or murder you? Can you see me? See beneath my skin? Look into my eyes. Shrink. Scramble. Feel terror.

 The woman—what was her name again? He hadn't bothered to ask. The woman shrank back, trying to fold herself lower and lower in her chair. Good.

 "Now, you bored me enough with your brainless tirade." William smiled. "I'll ask again. Do you know where he is? If not, could you direct me towards the teacher that he had his last class with today?"

 "He-He had detention today." perhaps due to feeling some sort of moral superiority after saying it, she tried to rise again. "He attacked a couple of boys during-" Wham. A slam onto her desk shut her up. She shrank back again, eyes pin-pricked when she saw what was in front of her.

 Look at my face. Into my eyes. Fear me.

 William bared his teeth in a mockery of a smile, his face unnaturally still. His eyes stretched so wide it looked as if he had no eyelids, two unblinking voids locked onto her. He tipped his head forward, letting shadow swallow his face, forcing his gaze upward from beneath his brow ridge.

 He looked barely human to her in that moment. Barely distinguishable from the machines he had built, yet somehow carrying a soul, not empty. With intent. Ill intent, aimed at her.

 He basked in the terror spreading across her face.

 "Which. Classroom?" William reiterated, leaning ever so closer across the table.

 "A-A-4" she stuttered out.

 William's face twisted back to all sunshine and rainbows. "Have a good day, miss." He left her desk with a pep in his step, barely keeping from skipping as he went.

 Soothing. I needed that. Not entirely because of her, of course. I have self control. This freak out was just building up. Screaming my voice hoarse in the car or in the bath only alleviated the symptoms. But this has been a balm on my soul.

 He was realigned, rewound. Ready for action.

 Now, a new problem. Michael beat up some kids. Figures. I didn't expect him to only be limited to David with his behaviour. I wonder, though, how often does this happen? Does detention mean it doesn't? If it did, it would be suspension, or at least that would have been my decision. But I really don't know the policies of the American school system. There are always bullies in American shows. And they never get heavily punished. Though they rarely resort to beating, so perhaps not. Hmm...

 He came upon the class.

 Classrooms truly do not change across world and time, it seemed. The class he saw through the window of the door looked exactly like how William had it. Except for the fact that his school had trapezoid desks.

 The teacher looked up from his book and saw William. He chose that moment to enter.

 Detention was boring. It sucked. His hand ached. His back ached. His legs ached. Michael hated it.

 This isn't fair. Miller and Brown started it. They should be punished. The chalk broke under Michael's fingers as he wrote one more "I must not fight with other students." on the board. But they aren't. They never are. This is bullshit.

 Mrs. Sugar looked up at Michael when she heard the chalk snap. "That's an additional ten lines, Afton." She warned before returning to her book.

 He clenched his teeth, his knuckles white against the chalk. Shut up, shut up, shut up...

 The scribbled line in front of him looked like an insult. Why do I even bother? The words on the board meant nothing to him. It was a stupid punishment. He wasn’t even sorry. He wasn’t sorry for punching them. Or kicking them. He wasn’t sorry for anything. He hadn’t started any of it. He was just... finishing it. Miller and Brown had cornered him, taunting him until he snapped. They knew he would. They were the ones who should be writing this stupid line over and over. They were the ones who should be here, wasting time. But no. It was him. Again.

 God, I hate this place.

 He stared at the board, his eyes unfocused, waiting for something—anything—to break up the monotony. His thoughts turned inward, drifting back to his dad. William Afton. The name alone made his stomach drop.

 “Another detention, another suspension, Michael, and that will be your last.”

 The words had hung in the air like a suffocating fog. His father’s voice, calm and even, but there was a sharpness beneath it, something that made Michael's skin crawl. His father's voice always made it crawl. His gaze made him want to itch his bones. He'd been standing in the kitchen at the time, staring at the floor, pretending like he wasn't crying in fear.

 His last. What the hell does that even mean?

 There was nothing for Michael to do but behave, but every time he tried, he felt like he was failing anyway. Every little slip-up felt like another nail in his coffin. But he couldn't hold on. The anger felt like boiling milk, always ready to leak out.

 Then the door opened.

 Michael barely looked up, expecting it to be his mom—she was the one who picked them up. But when he did glance toward the door, his stomach dropped.

 It was his father.

 William Afton.

 No. This wasn’t good. This couldn’t be good.

 His father’s calm tone floated through the room, cutting through the silence. "I’m here to pick up Michael," he said, like it was no big deal. Like it didn't spell doom for Michael.

 Michael’s heart skipped a beat. He hadn’t expected this—he hadn’t wanted this. He had been praying for his mom to show up, but now William was here. And that opened up a whole new set of problems.

 Mrs. Sugar's eyes narrowed. "I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to wait until his detention ends."

 Michael felt the tension rise in his chest. Don't deny him anything. He wanted to tell her. Don’t fight it. Don’t make it worse. Just sit there. Don’t look at him.

 His father didn’t back down. "Neither my wife nor I can return later to pick him up. We have commitments. Surely you can let him go for once, and I’ll take him home and tell him off myself."

 Mrs. Sugar was unmoved. "Detention is detention. I can't go against the principal's decision. You’ll have to wait." She picked up her book again, clearly done with the conversation. She wasn’t giving in.

 Please no.

 William simply rose an eyebrow, then he moved forward, his voice remaining calm. "You don’t understand," he said, stepping up to her desk and leaning over with his arms crossed behind his back. "I need to take him home. Now."

 For a second, Michael could have sworn he saw the teacher hesitate. But then she shook her head, trying to dismiss him.

 "I’m sorry, but I can't make exceptions. He stays here until he finishes his punishment." She raised her chin in defiance, trying to regain control of the situation.

 William’s expression didn’t change. There was no anger, no real outward emotion—just that same unnerving calm. He’s not yelling. He’s not making a snide condescending remark.

 Michael felt a shiver run down his spine. It somehow felt worse.

 "You’ll make an exception," William said, voice now just barely above a whisper. His eyes never left Mrs. Sugar, and Michael could see the subtle shift in his father’s stance. It wasn’t aggressive. It was just... He couldn't find the word for it.

 The tension in the room seemed to coil tighter, Mrs. Sugar’s hand trembled just slightly as she reached for her book, but she couldn’t bring herself to look away from William.

 And just as Michael thought his father would succeed, the door to the office slammed open.

 The principal, a tall man with a thick moustache, barged in with an air of authority. Behind him, Michael could see the secretary, her smug smile barely contained as she peered over the principal’s shoulder.

 What is her deal? He couldn't help but wonder.

 "Is there a problem here?" The principal’s voice was firm, but there was a tremor beneath it, a hesitation that betrayed his nerves.

 The secretary looked like she was enjoying this, leaning in just enough to catch William’s gaze. She’d told on him. Did his father do something to her? The look on her face made it clear that she was getting some twisted pleasure out of it.

 William turned his gaze toward the principal, his smile tight but still too calm. "No problem at all, just picking up my son."

 The principal, Mr. Kelly, puffed out his chest, his stance growing more rigid as he stepped further into the room. "I am afraid I can't allow that, Mr. Afton," he said, his voice firm with authority. "Your son’s behaviour has gone beyond what can be tolerated. He’s been nothing but trouble since the start of the year."

 Why are they so insistent?

 William’s lips curled slightly into a smile, but it didn’t reach his eyes. "Really now?" he said, his tone silky. "You can't allow it? How very interesting."

 His eyes flicked over to the secretary, who flinched away, standing behind the principal, practically hiding behind him as if she could distance herself from his father. William's gaze lingered just long enough to make her shift uncomfortably. "Perhaps, Mr. Kelly," William continued. "you could elaborate on exactly what Michael has done that warrants this level of strict-ness. You see, I would like to understand just why you are so insistent to deny me my son, when I am being perfectly reasonable here. Is it a misplaced dedication to professional duty? Or could it be... Could it be that personal feelings are involved?" He looked at the secretary. "Anger, perhaps?" Then he looked at the principal. "Or a matter of pride?"

 The principal's face reddened, but he quickly masked his discomfort. "There’s no need for insinuations," Mr. Kelly snapped, though it was more a defense than a retort.

 Michael’s heart was racing. He was caught between wanting to shrink into the corner and wanting to scream at the principal to stop, but his body was frozen. His eyes darted between the two men—his father, the looming figure who seemed to make everything feel so much worse, and the principal, whose posture was now stiff and defensive, clearly struggling to hold his ground.

 "Please enlighten me, sir," William said.

 “We, uh, Michael instigated a fight in the library with several older students,” the principal started, as if the words were coming out against his will. “They're very bright gentlemen, very promising, but he—"

 William turned toward Michael, causing the principal to stop, his expression shifting ever so slightly, the coldness in his eyes softened for a moment. “Is this true, Michael?” he asked, his voice still composed but tinged with something... expectant. “You fought with older students?”

 Michael stared at his father, confused, unsure of how to respond. Why is he asking me this? His father had always been harsh, always punished him before even listening to him. But now... now it was like something had changed.

 He swallowed hard, wondering if his dad really cared—or if it was just a game, a way for him to twist things further. "Yeah," Michael muttered, his voice low. "They took my notebook."

 "The one you draw in?"

 Why does he know about it? How does he know about it?

 Michael simply nodded. "I tried to get it back. They... they called me names for it." His hands fidgeted at his sides, his throat tight. "I just wanted my notebook back, that's all."

 William asked, his voice colder now, "What did they call you, Michael?"

 Michael winced. The words still stung in his mind. "They called me... they called me a freak," he muttered, barely audible. It wasn't it, he wouldn't dare say it around his father, lest he think of Michael that way as well. "A weirdo. Said I was a freak for drawing."

 William’s gaze darkened, but his voice remained even. "A freak," he repeated softly. "Is that all they called you, Michael?"

 Michael’s mind raced. His chest tightened. He could feel his pulse in his neck. What did his father think about that? Was he disgusted? His hands clenched into fists, nails digging into his palms.

 Before he could answer, William turned to the principal again, his voice biting. "Were you aware of this, Principal?"

 The principal stiffened, clearly caught off guard. "Of course not, Mr. Afton," Mr. Kelly tried to placate, his voice shaky now. "But it’s just young boys being boys."

 William’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. "And where exactly are these young boys?" he asked, his voice sharp as a knife. "Are they not receiving the same punishment as my son? My son fought, as you said—not beat them."

 The principal stammered. "Well, we–"

 William didn’t let him finish. "We hardly want to distract them from their studies, taking them out of class and all, do we?" His voice was mocking now, and Michael could see the tension rising in his father’s posture.

 "That’s not—" The principal started to say, but he was cut off by the sheer force of William’s voice.

 "It’s not?" William’s voice was slow and deliberate, a dangerous calm. "It’s not what, exactly?"

 The principal hesitated, his face flushing with anger, but he didn’t dare continue. William had him cornered. Michael could feel it clearly.

 The principal opened his mouth to speak, but William cut him off again, his voice sharp. “You’ll take care of this, won’t you?”

 The principal nodded, latching onto the out William handed him.

 “Good.” William turned back to Michael, his expression unreadable now. “Let’s go, Michael.”

 Michael nodded, his heart still racing.  William was already at the door, holding it open with one hand. The principal watched them go, his expression a mixture of frustration and defeat.

 Before leaving, William paused at the door. He turned back to the principal, his gaze sharp, his smile almost too perfect.

 "Consider this a warning," William said, the words like a threat laced with poison. "If this ever happens again, I’ll be back."

 With that, William turned on his heel and ushered Michael out of the office, the door swinging closed behind them with a soft click.

 The hallway felt long, every step dragging, but when they finally reached the exit, the cold air hit Michael like a slap in the face. He didn’t want to look at his father.

 They reached the car, and Michael slid into the passenger seat, his body aching from the labor of the past hours. William didn’t say a word as he got into the driver’s seat, his fingers gripping the wheel tightly. The silence in the car was suffocating, but Michael didn’t know what to say either. He just stared out the window, watching the world blur by, trying to ignore the storm of thoughts and feelings swirling in his head.

The car rumbled down the road.

 After picking up David and Elizabeth, who insisted on sitting on his lap which he indulged in, William arrived home to the smell of a good dinner. He let the little ones go ahead before turning to Michael.

 "Take your plate and eat your food in your room. You're grounded, as I promised your teacher." He said calmly. It's not a proper punishment anyway. Clara's journal had passing mentions of sneaking the children food after Afton punished them. I am not starving him, and he can eat peacefully without fearing my wrath. I could feel it in the air on the way over, he is terrified.

 He told Clara so, Michael had gotten detention but William had picked him up. So, Michael was grounded instead. Clara looked really tense for a moment for some reason William didn't know. Curious.

 After dinner, William went up to Michael's room.

 Michael sat hunched over his desk, his untouched dinner growing cold beside him. His sketchbook laid open, though he hadn’t drawn anything. He just stared at the blank page, his fingers tracing the spine of the book, his thoughts running in circles.

 The knock on his door was soft but deliberate. His grip tightened on the book instinctively. He didn’t answer.

 The door creaked open anyway.

 William stepped inside, closing the door behind him with a quiet click. He didn’t sit right away, instead letting his eyes roam the room, observing. Michael had the distinct feeling of being cornered.

 “I’m here to talk,” William said plainly. “Not because I particularly want to. But because it’s my responsibility as a parent.”

 Michael glanced up at him but said nothing.

 William sighed and finally sat down on Michael's bed. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, clasping his hands together. He took a deep breath before speaking. “Your mother would probably give you some long speech about morals, I am guessing, that part of my memory is still foggy. About being the better person. Turning the other cheek.” He tilted his head slightly. “But I’m not your mother.”

 Michael swallowed, still silent.

 William continued. “I know you’re angry. You think what happened was unfair. And you’re right. Those kids, they’ll go on as if nothing happened. And you? You’re the one who got punished.” He exhaled sharply through his nose. “It’s bullshit.” William met his eyes and gave a small, humourless smile. “See, Michael, the world doesn’t care about fairness. That’s the first lesson most people learn.”

 Michael’s hands balled into fists.

 “But,” William said, leaning forward slightly, gesturing with his hand towards Michael, "there’s a difference between what you did and what I would have done.” His voice dipped lower, almost conspiratorial. “See, I don’t think what you did was wrong.”

 Michael blinked.

 "Sometimes, violence is the answer. In fact, it surprisingly frequently is the answer,” William continued, his tone almost conversational. “Some people—you cannot change their minds without bashing their heads in.” He gave a small shrug. “That’s just the way they are. Some people are wired differently, I suppose.”

 Michael could only stare.

 “But you,” William continued, “you don’t get to do that. Not because you don’t deserve your justice.” His expression darkened, voice dipping into something sharp. “But because if you keep lashing out with your fists, you’ll always be the one caught. You’ll always be the one punished.”

 Michael looked away, jaw clenched. He knew his father was right. He hated that he was right. Hated that he understood Michael.

 William tilted his head, watching him closely. “So, instead of throwing punches, instead of letting their insults get under your skin, you get back at them without getting caught. Without even touching them.”

 Michael frowned. “How?”

 A slow, knowing smile spread across William’s face. “You get them by hurting them mentally. Emotionally.”

 “Like you did with the principal,” Michael said carefully. Like you do with mom. He didn't add.

 William chuckled, a deep, pleased sound. Michael hated it. “Exactly. I knew you’d get it.” He sat back, a glint of amusement in his eyes. “You’re a smart boy, Michael. You’ve got my face, you know that?” He gestured vaguely toward Michael’s expression. “The same face I had when I was your age. You are capable of doing the same thing.” William leaned in again, his tone serious. “The trick is knowing who to use it on. Your principal? He wouldn’t take you seriously. Not yet. You’re a kid. He doesn’t see you as a threat. I am his equal, you're not. But those boys? They will.”

 Michael’s heartbeat quickened.

 William smirked. “Perhaps… a demonstration.”

 Then, before Michael could even react, his father’s face changed.

 His smile stretched too wide, his eyes opened too far. His head tilted ever so slightly forward, letting the shadows swallow his features, leaving only the glare of his eyes. His entire expression became… wrong.

 Michael felt his stomach lurch. This is worse. Somehow so much worse than how he's been before.

 It was barely human. And yet, it was his father.

 William tipped his head a little further, locking eyes with Michael, and for a brief, horrifying second, Michael understood why the principal had backed down. Why the secretary had flinched.

 Then, just as quickly as it came, it was gone. William straightened, his face returning to normal, as if nothing had happened. “See?”

 Michael swallowed hard, his breath uneven. “That was…” He didn’t know how to describe it.

 William chuckled. “That is how you win a fight without ever throwing a punch.” William’s expression softened, just slightly. “Now, listen to me.” His tone became more measured. “You don’t use this against your teachers. You don’t go antagonising adults who hold power over you. You wait. You watch. And when the moment is right?” He smiled knowingly. “You make sure they never mess with you again.”

 Michael stared at him, unsure of what to say.

 William stood up, stretching lazily. “Now,” he said casually, moving toward the door, “I trust you won’t use this against your little brother.”

 Michael stiffened.

 William turned back to him, smile lazy but pointed. “Because that, Michael, would be a mistake.”

 A warning. A test.

 Michael just nodded, silent.

 William smirked. “Good boy.”

 And then he was gone, leaving Michael sitting there.

 He turned back to his sketchbook, hands trembling slightly as he picked up his pencil. His hands moved almost without thinking, sweeping lines and shadows into existence. He often sketched to create—new places, new faces, new things that had never existed before. He often sketched to remember—capturing the details of a moment, a person, a feeling, so that it wouldn’t slip away.

 But sometimes—not often—he sketched to take things out of his mind. Pouring them onto paper felt like he removed them from his mind entirely.

 Tonight, though, it wasn’t working.

 Because he knew, even as he laid the shapes and contours down onto the page, that he would never forget what he was sketching.

 His father’s face.

 Michael's own face.

 Michael’s breath came slow and even, but his grip on the pencil tightened. He had always hated this. Hated that when he looked in the mirror, he saw William staring back. Hated that people—teachers, neighbours, strangers—would glance at him and say, Ah, you must be William’s boy. You look just like him.

 He would rather look like his mother. Or like David, who didn’t quite resemble either of them.

 But now… now that he had something positive to think about, something useful about having this face—this tool—he felt something else creeping in.

 Conflict.

 He hated that.

 He wanted to hate his father cleanly, without question, without doubt. But now the edges were blurring, shifting, twisting into something he didn’t want to examine too closely.

 Michael’s pencil hesitated for half a second before continuing.

 He kept sketching.

Chapter Text

 The fishing pole sat untouched in the black pond. Thrown there in a fit of rage.

 Ripples danced in the water, not from fish or breeze, for those did not exist in this metaphysical world, but from something deeper—something that was observing. Watching, waiting, patient in ways only eternity could comprehend.

 Old Man Consequences sat at the edge of it all, hands folded, eyes dim. For once, he wasn’t serene. The ancient mask on his face couldn't hide the weight that settled in his posture like millstones on his spine. The way his shoulders shook.

 He had thought it mercy. To remove Afton before the rot could set in. A gentle edit to the page of fate, a small divine push—insignificant, he had thought—to save so many lives. Afton would die, quietly and early. Clara would find him in his bed, mindless. She would be distraught, sure, but he was sure Henry would have stepped into take care of his friend's family.

 The reincarnator was an unforeseen consequence. He could not have known that pushing a soul out of it's body in the way he had would have created a vacuum that would suck up another to fill it's place. However, sad as he had been to disrupt the life of another, he had thought it was for the best. For the greater good. And it was not as if this William would live a life of suffering, reincarnating into a successful businessman who's fortune would continue to grow for the years to come. William, the reincarnator, would live a quiet life in a world not meant for him, and that would be the end.

 He could not have known William's character. And by time he did, he regretted his decision immensely, and tried to reverse it.

 But then something else had noticed. Something greater.

 Something that had let him take a piece of itself unintentionally, only because he was too insignificant for it to notice. So small in comparison.

 Only once.

 Only once.

 He’d tried since. Tried to reverse it. Tried to pull William from the vessel, to extract him the way Afton had been removed. But nothing worked. Every ritual he cast dissolved. Every thread he pulled snapped back. The world rejected his interference like a body expelling a virus.

 No, not the world.

 Someone.

 A voice—not a real one, but a sensation—had answered him the last time he tried.

 "No. You may not deny me my amusement."

 And now William, this better liar, this charming, calculating thing wearing Afton’s name like a tailored suit, was doing what Afton never could've.

 And worse yet, he was not the only one.

 This being had to have told it's kin of his world's existence. Because Old Man Consequences soon felt other intrusions, other visitors, other reincarnators entering his world.

 That was the real horror.

 Old Man Consequences stared at the pond, not seeing his reflection—just the slow unraveling of cause and effect spiraling far beyond his reach.

 Maybe he had damned them all worse.

 Maybe Afton was the lesser evil.

 He let out a long breath, a sound like wind through dead leaves.

 “I tried to save them.”

 There was no answer. Only silence.

 But in that silence, he felt it—the same presence, vast and ancient, not cruel but incomprehensible. Watching. Unmoved.

 Old Man Consequences lowered his head. And heard it again.

 "You can't."

 This wasn’t his story anymore.

 The dreamspace was murky, flickering between sterile hallways of schooldays past and flickers of memory—Clara’s laugh, the smell of burnt oil, bloodstained hands grasping something with matted fur. Afton stood across from William for the first time—not as an observer in the mirror or a passenger in his own skull, but eye to eye.

 It was the first time in weeks he’d been able to do anything.

 “I was wondering when you’d show up,” William said, voice like velvet soaked in venom. “Just you and me. No walls between us this time.”

 Afton didn’t answer—just charged.

 The first punch was clumsy, born of rage and desperation. William sidestepped it effortlessly and caught him with a jab to the ribs. The pain was dull and dreamlike, but it still knocked the air from Afton's lungs. He stumbled, but recovered quickly, swinging again.

 They crashed into each other like beasts, fists flying. A dog and a cat. The blows weren't clean. They clawed, bit, shoved, anything to hurt. There was no style or technique—just fury and amusement made flesh.

 "You think you're something?" Afton spat, shoving William back. "You're a parasite. A freak wearing my skin."

 William laughed as he wiped a smear of blood from his nose. “I’m what you could’ve been. If you weren’t such a talentless dickhead.”

 Afton tackled him, driving them both into the shifting ground. They rolled, traded blows, teeth bared. William bit his ear, hard enough to draw blood. Afton slammed the crown of his head into William’s face.

 “You will ruin everything!” Afton roared. “My plans! My art! My life's work! You don't know what you are doing!" He screamed in anger. "And I can’t stop you!” Hands grasping around William's wrists as he had Afton pinned.

 “You were already doing a magnificent job of it yourself,” William hissed, dragging his fingernails down Afton's cheek. “I saw your blueprints for the Funtimes. Really? Indiscriminate kidnapping of children? What is your obsession with them!? They draw more attention than any hobo you could've taken off the street. You would have been found out eventually, and that is if you hadn't gotten yourself killed till then! What a waste of resources and time!”

 Afton howled in rage, slamming into William's nose, twice—then William bucked and slammed Afton's head against the floor.

 “You get it, do you?” he whispered. “You just can't admit it. I am the better player here.”

 Afton kicked out, broke the hold, rolled away gasping. “You think this is a game?”

 William stood, dusting himself off. “Yes. I think it’s a game, a performance, whatever you want to call it. And I’m giving the best performance of my life. You had to watch from the sidelines while I played house better than you ever did. You lost your self in your work and created a house of nightmares. Whilst I managed to keep up with our mutual project, whilst at the same I kiss your wife goodnight and she doesn’t even notice. Your kids laugh in my presence. Face it. You were never going to be anything but background noise. Was never going to achieve your dream and leave a legacy.”

 They clashed again. Their fists became blur and motion, sweat and spit flying. They fell and rose and fell again. Afton struck William hard across the jaw—William staggered, grinning through the blood.

 “You know what your wife said the other night?” he taunted. “She told me—not you—how safe she feels around me.”

 Afton’s eyes blazed. “I don't care!”

 “Oh, probably. But the off-chance you do is so delicious~.”

 That broke something in Afton. He lunged with everything he had left, both of them colliding and crashing to the floor in a tangle of limbs.

 They lay there, chests heaving, too exhausted to stand. Their fists were bruised, blood smeared across their faces from a fight that had no consequence and no winner. Every punch landed with the weight of weeks of silence and simmering rage. Afton’s fists trembled. He wanted to lunge, to scream, to rip this man apart. But the dream had drained them both. The violence dissolved into silence, bitter and cold.

 Blood pooled and evaporated under them in the strange physics of dream logic. They sat. An endless, colorless void stretched around them as their breaths evened out. The void pulsed quietly.

 After a long silence, Afton turned his head slightly, voice broken.

 “Now what?”

 William shrugged. “I dunno. I guess we wait until I wake up.”

 “…Right.”

 More silence.

 Then William tilted his head, almost casually. “Wanna make out?”

 Afton froze.

 “…What.”

 William grinned like a wolf in a nursery. “C’mon. Tension like this? Feels like it’s either kiss or kill.”

 Afton stared, mouth slightly open. No words came.

William leaned back, smug as ever. “I’ll take that as a ‘maybe.’”

 William sat up in bed next to Clara who stirred slowly. He turned to her as she stared at him in confusion.

 "Sorry, just a dream."

 She laid her head back down and asked noncommittally.

 "Nightmare?"

 William shook his head as he laid back down.

 "I can't remember, forgot it already. But no, I feel like it was oddly pleasant."

Chapter Text

I am making this announcement update solely because I once said that I'd update during the summer. However, as you can see, I have not.

It's funny, I started this fic just because the one that inspired it hadn't been updated in a long time, only to do the exact same thing when I caught up with it finally.

So, here's what's happening and has happened. During the summer, I lost my notebooks that had my plans for this fic. I was also working on my other projects such as Eight Pieces of Nine. I was also back home and visiting a lot of relatives in other cities because I am one to not do that and my mother immediately seized the opportunity to subject me to it when she had access to me.

However, two weeks ago, I did find my notebooks again. So, why didn't I update? Silksong. For the last month, my life's been about Silksong. Anticipating, theorising. Actually writing a Hollow Knight WIP. So on. Then it came out, I didn't sleep for over a day and finished the game with 90% completion in 3 days.

That is to say, there isn't much obstacle for future updates. Except for one thing.

I am going for double majors in University, decided over the summer to get another degree in case shit doesn't work out in the industry I am aiming for. So, that'll add to my workload.

I will not make promises, since I proved I can't keep them. But updates will come, if I don't die that is.

Edit: Also regarding SotM that came out between this chapter and the next, I am going to disregard it. Both because I have not had the ability to experience it for myself this summer and likely won't be able to download it with the shit internet I have access to over the year. I also know that it conflicts with a lot of my original plans for this fic. From the origins of the animatronics such as Foxy I gave an explanation to during William's first visit to the Diner, to Edwin himself who I had plans for as some of you guys may have guessed from Clara's maiden name.