Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Another email..Another "we're sorry , but we will not be proceeding further with your application at this time."
...
You're shit out of luck, are there seriously no engineering jobs in this area? It’s laughable, really. Two years of trade school, nights busting your knuckles open fixing HVAC systems, and you're still stuck scouring job boards and hoping someone needs a mechanic. But every garage is “fully staffed” and the corporate maintenance gigs? Ghosted before the second interview even lands.
Nothing since you completed your last gig...

You step outside, the late afternoon sun making the cracked pavement shimmer. Your wallet’s nearly empty, your rent’s due, and even your backup plan ... working for those sketchy mobile repair vans... fell through last week.

As you push open the door to the corner store, a weather-beaten flier taped to the window catches your eye:

“NOW HIRING — Maintenance & Handyman Position
FAZBEAR’S FRIGHT: The Horror Attraction
Part-time, Overnight Shifts — Experience Preferred
Respond ASAP — Previous Employee Unable to Continue”
There’s a phone number scribbled in at the bottom, ink bleeding slightly

You frown, scanning the details. Fazbear’s Fright… the name’s familiar. Something from when you were a kid. Freddy Fazbear’s Pizza... the urban legends, those missing persons cases… fake, obviously. All exaggerated to hell by internet weirdos, but still, that place has a reputation.

Apparently someone tried to revive it as some bargain-bin haunted house for thrill-seekers. It hasn’t even opened yet, and they’re already probably dealing with faulty wiring and mechanical problems.

Perfect.

They need a maintenance worker. You need cash.

And the last guy? Left town.

You pocket the flier.. you dont need competition in this...your reflection faint in the dusty glass. Something about this feels… off. But desperate people don’t get to be picky, do they?

....

The crinkle of plastic as you toss the instant ramen onto the checkout counter feels… pathetic. You used to dream about wiring high-end systems or working in clean shops with polished tools. Now? Budget noodles and half-worn boots.

But survival comes first.

The flier's still in your pocket, edges curling slightly.. You finger it absentmindedly as you trudge home, streetlights flickering to life one by one, casting a sickly yellow glow over cracked sidewalks and potholes.

Your house may look better as a prop in some post apocalypse movie, shutters hanging off their hinges, screen door shredded by wildlife...
But it's a roof over your head.

Entering you make your very definitely delicious ramen dinner... and stare at the flier again...

Fazbear’s Fright.

You chuckle dryly under your breath. The name alone should be a red flag the size of a freight train. But rent's due. The cupboards are nearly empty. No one else is calling.

Screw it.

You punch in the number.

It only rings twice.

The voice on the other end is rough, aged but measured. Calm in a way that makes your skin crawl just a little.

“Fazbear’s Fright,” the man answers. “This is Mr Emily... owner of the building.”

There’s a pause. You expected… maybe a kid hyped about horror attractions, some cocky manager selling jump-scares for a living. But this guy? His voice carries weight. Grief tucked under every syllable, like someone dragging heavy chains behind them.

You clear your throat. “Uh, yeah—hey. I saw the flier. You’re looking for maintenance?”

A long breath on the other end. Like he’s considering every word before they leave his mouth.

“We are. You have experience?”

You glance at the ramen on the counter, the peeling paint on the walls. Plenty, but not the fancy kind. “Mechanical work. HVAC systems. Basic electrical. I can keep your haunted house from falling apart.”

Another pause.

“You’re local?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a faint hum through the line, like an old radio buzzing softly in the background. You swear you hear faint metal creaks, maybe even… whispers? Probably your imagination.

“We had someone,” Henry finally says, voice low. “Didn’t last. Couldn’t… handle the atmosphere."

You frown. “What does that mean? Faulty wiring? Mold? Rats?”

Silence again.

Then, softly:

“Something like that.”

Your stomach knots, but you push it down. You’ve worked temp jobs in worse places. Broken AC units in hundred-degree heat, electrical fires in cheap apartment complexes, sketchy garages with busted tools. This? This is just another gig.

Right?

“I’ll take it,” you say firmly.

Henry exhales like he's been holding that breath for years.

“Come by tomorrow night. Eleven pm sharp. I’ll walk you through.”

The line clicks dead before you can ask anything else.

And maybe… just maybe… your luck's about to change.

Or burn to the ground...

You finish the ramen in silence, the cheap broth doing nothing to untangle the knot in your gut.

The apartment’s quiet, save for the hum of the fridge and the occasional creak of the floorboards settling. But your mind’s loud...replaying the short, clipped conversation over and over. That voice. Heavy, worn-down like old machinery still grinding forward despite everything.

Mr Emily

Henry... Emily...

The old co-owner of Fazbear Entertainment... You can’t shake the feeling that he didn’t tell you everything.

You rinse the bowl, toss it onto the drying rack, and double-check your toolkit..worn screwdrivers, voltage tester, pliers, a flashlight that’s seen better days. It’s all you’ve got, but it’ll have to do.

You lie awake longer than you should, staring at the ceiling as the hours crawl by, shadows shifting across the cracked paint. By the time morning bleeds into afternoon, you’re running on caffeine and nerves, but determined.

The hours drag. Evening rolls in like a storm cloud. Eleven PM. That’s the time.

By ten-thirty, you’re standing outside Fazbear’s Fright.

The building’s uglier in person. Old pizzeria bones held together by rust, grime, and what feels like pure bad energy. The faded sign flickers overhead, casting the lot in dim, unsettling green light. Props are scattered in the windows half obscured by grime and what you hope is paint,mangled animatronic heads, torn party banners, a cardboard cutout of some bear mascot with wide, soulless eyes.

You adjust your jacket, tool bag slung over your shoulder.

The air smells faintly of smoke, metal, and something… sweeter. Rotten, almost.

You hesitate at the door for half a second, then push inside.

The front lobby is dark, stripped bare, wires coiled along the floor, panels pried open, exposing the guts of the building. This place isn’t just half-finished, it’s practically falling apart.

Footsteps echo from deeper inside.

A figure emerges from the shadows.

Tall. Weathered. Face lined with age and exhaustion. His eyes, though? Sharp. Tired, but sharp.

“You’re early,” the man says, voice unmistakable from the phone.

Henry.

For a horror attraction owner, he doesn’t exactly give off the cheesy, theme park vibe. He looks more like someone who's seen too much… and carries every memory like an anchor.

You square your shoulders. “Wanted to get the lay of the land.”

Henry’s mouth twitches. maybe a smirk, maybe not. “Good instinct.”

He gestures down the hall, into the dimly lit maze of broken props, gutted walls, and darkness.

“Walk with me. I’ll show you the place,” he says, turning without waiting for an answer.

Your boots echo as you follow him deeper inside, the faint hum of distant machinery blending with something else. A whisper of metal shifting. A faint creak. And somewhere, behind it all… the sensation that something's watching. Waiting.

He talks as he walks, voice low, words careful.

“We were going to have you double up,” Henry says, pausing at a rusted security office door. “Maintenance. Night watch. Keep an eye on things while you work.”

You glance around peeling paint, cracked tiles, exposed wiring. The place needs someone to hold it together.

“But…” He trails off, resting his hand on the doorframe. “We had someone apply to the night guard position. Strange guy. Eager.”

Henry’s lips press into a tight line.

“He’ll be starting tomorrow.”

You frown, shifting your tool bag on your shoulder. “Guess that makes my life easier.”

Henry hums, noncommittal. “Maybe.” His eyes flick down the hall.. towards the other exit of the building... and the security office “He doesn’t know what he signed up for.”

That knots your stomach again.

You lean casually against the wall, trying to play it off. “You mean all this?” You gesture at the gutted animatronics, the flickering lights. “Creepy props? Faulty circuits? What, are we supposed to pretend ghosts are the problem?”

His expression darkens...just for a second, before it smooths out again.

“People love ghost stories,” Henry says. “Urban legends. Missing kids. Haunted mascots. It sells... and unfortunately Fazbear Entertainment has had its fair share of all that." The faintest hesitation before he adds, “But legends… they start somewhere.”

You swallow the lump in your throat.

“Whatever you say,” you mutter, trying to shake off the chill crawling up your spine.

Henry pushes open the office door.

Inside, old monitors flicker weakly. A grainy map of the building is spread across a panel... hallways, show rooms, staff areas. Most of the cameras are glitchy, snowed out, but a few faint images bleed through.. you'll need to go fix those.

“This is your base for tonight, tomorrow you will be based out of the old parts snd service room” Henry says simply. “Tools. Supplies. You patch the walls, fix the wiring, make sure this place doesn’t fall apart before opening night... but tonight we need you to guard the place, check the cams, for insurance reasons."

You nod, eyes drifting to one of the monitors—the faintest, vague outline of… something. A figure, maybe, slumped near the back of the maze.

You squint.

It’s gone.

Henry's voice cuts through the static. “You see something strange?”

You shake your head, swallowing hard. “Just… glitchy feed.”

“Yeah,” Henry mutters. “The place does that.”

You get the sense there’s a lot more he’s not saying.

He hands you a worn keyring, cold metal clinking softly in your palm.

“First shift starts tonight. You’re alone till the day guard shows tomorrow at 6am. Get familiar. Try and fix the ventilation here maybe?"

You nod, forcing confidence into your voice. “I’ll keep the place from falling apart.”

Henry eyes you for a long moment. Then, quietly:

“Make sure you don’t.”

The keys feel heavier than they should, cool metal biting against your palm. You watch Henry's silhouette disappear down the hall, his footsteps echoing for a few seconds before the building swallows the sound entirely.

Silence.

The only noise left is the faint buzz of the old monitors, the distant groan of warped metal expanding in the cool night air, and the soft, uneven hum of the ventilation system straining overhead.

You exhale, steadying yourself.

You’ve done worse shifts. Weird smells, crumbling buildings, power flickering every time it storms. You’ve patched up worse.

But the uneasy twist in your gut? That’s new.

You glance back at the monitors, jaw tightening.

Most of the camera feeds are useless...static, black screens, the occasional frozen frame of empty hallways littered with torn props. The one toward the back of the maze… that slumped figure you thought you saw? Gone. Probably a trick of the light, shadows playing with your head.

Probably.

You drag your tool bag onto the desk, clicking it open. The essentials are there...screwdrivers, wire cutters, duct tape, flashlight. You run your hand over the cracked map taped to the console, eyes tracing the layout..

Ventilation Control.. it seems to be.....Middle of the Maze.

Of course it couldn’t be somewhere convenient. First port of call is to hook that up to the spare screen in here in case it goes down and the night guard needs it.

You sigh, pocket your flashlight, and click the radio on the desk..it barely hums to life, the static making your ears buzz. Probably unreliable, but better than nothing.

The place creaks around you. The faintest thunk of metal deeper in the halls. You tell yourself it's just the old vents..systems struggling after years of neglect.

Still… you swear the air feels thicker, like the walls themselves are watching.
You sling the tool bag over your shoulder, fingers brushing the worn metal of your flashlight as you step out of the office. The air outside the room is colder somehow, carrying the faint, stale scent of burnt wires and mildew. Your boots echo off the warped floors as you head toward the maze.

The dim emergency lights flicker along the cracked walls, casting jagged shadows that crawl across the floor. Torn party banners hang limply from the ceiling. A tangle of wires snakes along the edges of the hall, pulsing faintly with dying electricity.You pass half-disassembled animatronic shells...hulking, rusted frames with exposed endoskeletons and shattered plastic faces. Their empty eye sockets seem to track your movements.

Just props, you remind yourself.

The maze twists ahead, narrow halls built of cheap plywood painted to look like grimy bricks, false vents crisscrossing overhead. Somewhere deep inside, the ventilation control panel waits, probably hanging on by a thread like the rest of this place.
You press forward, tracing the map in your mind.

Left. Right. Another right. The hall narrows, walls pressing in, the air growing stale. You click the flashlight on, the beam cutting through the dark like a scalpel.

Finally, you spot it, a rusted access panel bolted to the wall. A mess of wires spills out, bundled haphazardly. The ventilation monitor dangles crookedly above it, the screen dark, faint cracks spiderwebbing across the glass.

You kneel, setting your tools down, the floor cold beneath your knees.

The wiring's a mess. Someone's been in here before...sloppy work, frayed cables, electrical tape peeling at the edges.

You focus, working in silence.

But that feeling? The eyes on your back? It hasn’t left.

A faint scrape echoes from deeper in the maze. Metal on concrete.

You freeze, fingers hovering over the wires, breath held tight in your chest.

Nothing.

You shake it off, forcing yourself back to the task. Wires connected, circuits checked, monitor flickering faintly to life. You re-route the display feed...soon, the ventilation status appears on the spare screen back in the office. And with it, the opportunity to reboot the system should it go offline.

First problem solved. And tomorrow's night guards job is easier..But before you can turn back, that scraping sound returns.

Closer.

Your flashlight beam jerks toward the noise
empty hallway. Maze walls stretching into the dark.

But there's something else now.

A smell. Worse than the usual stench... The shadows shift at the far end of the hall. Something tall… slumped… just beyond the reach of your light.

But when you blink—it’s gone.

Silence.

The ventilation monitor buzzes softly beside you, the only sound left.

You swallow hard, forcing yourself to breathe.

Just nerves. Long shift ahead. Ghost stories playing tricks on your head.

That’s all.

You turn, retracing your steps back toward the office.

But the faint, sour smell lingers. Your boots scrape softly against the floor as you wind your way back through the maze, every twist and turn feeling tighter than before. The faint, sour smell clings to the air...something old, spoiled, like damp rot buried beneath the cheap paint and plywood walls.

You grip the flashlight tighter, its beam jittering slightly with your pulse as you round another corner. The props loom at odd angles now. decapitated mascot heads, torn banners, wires dangling like veins. every shadow feels thicker, heavier.

The hum of the office monitors finally comes into earshot, a faint, familiar static breaking through the silence.

You exhale, relief bleeding through your nerves as the doorway appears. You step inside... sitting on the nicer of the few desk chairs put in there

The ventilation monitor blinks weakly from the spare screen. Functional, for now. You reboot it to check the functionality.

The main security feeds glitch and flicker, snow crawling across the screens. A few of them stabilize..empty halls, vacant rooms, the maze's darkened corners.

But then—

Camera 7.
The rear maze corridor.

You freeze.

There, at the far edge of the frame, just barely visible through the static...something moves. Tall. Slumped. A flash of matted, corroded green. A twisted shape that doesn’t match the other props.

The feed crackles. And it creeps away.. The ventilation monitor finishes its reboot...stable readings, for now. But your eyes keep flicking back to Camera 7. Empty now, but your gut twists like it’s screaming at you to get out of this chair and bolt.

Your gaze flicks to the office entrance...a gaping, empty frame where the door should be. The busted hinges creak faintly when the building shifts. You hadn't noticed earlier, but there’s deep gouges in the wood around the frame. Like something heavy forced its way in… or out.

Your skin prickles, that sour, rotting smell still curling faintly under your nose, stronger now that you’re sitting still. Faint, but there. Lingering. Waiting.

You cycle through the other cameras. Hallways...empty. Maze...dead quiet. Parts & Service...just mangled metal and discarded wires.

But your shoulders won’t relax.

The building creaks again, low and heavy. You swear it’s closer than before. Like footsteps, slow and deliberate, muffled by the maze walls.

You grip your flashlight tighter, thumb hovering over the switch, eyes locked to the doorway. The flickering glow from the monitors barely lights the space beyond, shadows curling at the edges of the hall.

Four hours to go. You roll your shoulders, trying to shake off the tension, but it clings like damp air. Every hair on your arms stands on end. You keep the flashlight near, your other hand hovering over the camera controls, flipping through the feeds on a loop like you can will the building to stay empty.

The maze? Dead quiet.
The hallways? Flickering lights, warped shadows.
Parts & Service? Same tangle of broken animatronic parts, lifeless.

But Camera 7?

Static blurs the edges of the frame again. The rear corridor.

You stare. Waiting.

There ...a flicker of movement.The same slumped shape from earlier, creeping at the very edge of the camera's reach, half-swallowed by the maze walls. Limbs hanging awkward, body tilting unnaturally to one side ... like bones that forgot how to fit together properly. That mottled, rotten green…

It lingers in place this time, swaying faintly.

The audio feed crackles with faint interference. A distant, wet, mechanical wheeze, like a broken ventilation fan trying to breathe.

You lean in, instinct tight in your chest. The camera stutters. When the frame stabilizes, the thing’s closer ... maybe a foot or two. Its head tilts, jaw gaping... silvery eyes flicking up to stare at the camera... ears flexing as it peers at you...

....

You recognise it from the old adverts you saw as a child.. Bonnie.. probably the Spring Bonnie animatronic from the original restaurant, that was a yellow one.. well less yellow now. And those eyes...
Flat.
Glass-like.
But there’s awareness behind them.

They lock onto the camera—onto you. His ears twitch, an eerie flex of synthetic muscle and failing servos.

You swallow, hand tightening on the flashlight handle as static distorts the feed again. His figure stutters...then, without warning..he steps closer. Leaning into the camera, maw cracked open in a grotesque approximation of a smile.

The feed cuts entirely.

Black screen.

At that same moment, the hallway outside creaks. .the unmistakable sound of weight shifting against the old tiles.

You whip the flashlight toward the doorway. The beam cuts through the dark.

Empty hall. Then through the window to the actual hallway... to see him peeking his head around the edge, staring at you through the glass. crooked and wrong, half-shrouded in shadow. The glassy silvery eyes gleam faintly in the flickering emergency lights...dead and mechanical, but sharp with intent.

He’s staring straight at you.

No cameras. No distance. Just cheap, cracked plexiglass between you and the thing that shouldn’t be moving...shouldn’t be alive.

Spring Bonnie’s jaw gapes wider, the frayed remnants of his voice box emitting a low, broken creak, like rusted hinges grinding under pressure. His head tilts, twitching in short, mechanical bursts, sizing you up like prey. And his body slowly moves like he's breathing...

The sour, rotting stench seeps stronger into the office. It rolls in thick and heavy, burning the back of your throat, clinging to your clothes, your skin.

Your heart hammers against your ribs, every instinct screaming to move—run—but your legs feel bolted to the chair.

Spring Bonnie’s fingers curl against the window frame. Sharp. Splintered at the edges.
One tap.
Two.
His hand flexes like he’s testing the barrier between you.

A jagged, staticky wheeze spills from his chest, almost like… laughter.

No it is laughter..

And then...
He ducks back out of view.

Gone.

The air feels heavier now, like the whole building’s holding its breath.

You shove back from the chair, the legs scraping across the tile far louder than you intended. Your flashlight beam cuts jagged shapes along the walls as you sweep it toward the hall.

Empty.

But that laughter-
It’s still echoing faintly, buried under the building’s creaks, distant but deliberate. A garbled, wet mechanical rasp cracking at the edges of sound, trailing off into the maze.

You clench your jaw, forcing your pulse to slow.

This isn’t some faulty prop, some glitchy animatronic running outdated scripts. That thing saw you. Watched you. Mocked you.

And now it’s loose in the building.

You check the cameras...half snowed out with static, but a few still functional. The maze corridors glitch in and out. The service hallway flickers.

No sign of him.

But he’s here. You can feel it...the prickle down your spine, the crawling weight of eyes on you even when the monitors show nothing.

The ventilation monitor sputters...faint warning blips as the system glitches. You curse under your breath.

Figures.

The stale, sour air thickens more with every passing second.

You press the button on the other monitor, resetting the air ventilation system... in the silence as it reboots you hear a clanging from the ventilation to the right, and you turn just in time for the animatronic to drag himself out of the vent, his hulking form unfolding like some grotesque marionette coming to life. Limbs groan as he shifts, the faint stench of decay flooding the room, seeping into every corner. His frame creaks under its own weight, fabric peeling, wires snapping taut like veins stretched too thin.

His head turns toward you with that same crooked, jerking motion. ears flexing faintly, jaw hanging open. From the shredded mesh of his vocal modulator comes that low, staticky wheeze—warped, distorted.

A laugh.

No maybe not from the voice modulator at all..

The flat, glassy eyes lock onto yours...closer now, unfiltered by cameras or distance. You see the ruin inside the cracked suit… the fragments of something else behind the animatronic shell.

A body.. rotten yet somewhat preserved.. so this animatronic is in fact haunted by whatever poor bastard got trapped in it..

Springtrap’s hand curls, mechanical digits flexing, stained green fabric peeling at the seams. He takes a slow, uneven step forward, heavy boot scraping across the tile.

You study the way his leg is stiff.. making him limp. As he gets closer and closer..Your mind kicks into overdrive, cataloging every flaw, every weakness in his decaying frame...the stiff leg, the way his left arm twitches unpredictably, the groaning servos struggling to keep up with his bulk.

He's close now. Closer than any sane person would want.

The stench is unbearable, copper and rot clinging to the air, invading your lungs. Your flashlight trembles faintly in your grip, but your eyes stay locked on him...on the twisted remnants of what was once supposed to be a cheerful mascot.

And what’s still buried inside.
You can hear the faint, wet rasp of organic decay beneath the servos, a low rattle somewhere deep in his chest.

The laugh bubbles up again. not the warped pre-recorded cheer of an animatronic script, but something darker. Something human.

Closer.

His shadow spills across the floor, stretching toward your boots.

His steps falter slightly when he shifts too quickly. Left side weaker than the right.

He’s still dangerous. Fast in short bursts. But predictable...if you can stay ahead of him.

He lunges—

You jolt back instinctively, flashlight clattering to the desk as your free hand dives for the tool bag. You grip the heaviest thing you’ve got...rusty wrench, solid steel, probably older than you are.

Springtrap’s hand smacks the desk where you were standing, wood cracking under the force, monitors rattling. His head jerks up, eyes metaphorically pinning you in place... arms either side of you.. physically pinning you in place...

"I could fix you..." You offer, hoping to buy your life with your skills and knowledge.

Its hulking frame stiffens mid-movement...the creaking metal, the wet rasp of decay momentarily pausing. His head cocks unnaturally to the side, one ear twitching faintly like a broken antenna struggling to catch a signal.

The silence stretches, thick and suffocating. His glassy eyes stay locked on yours, the grotesque grin frozen wide across his decayed, torn muzzle.

You don’t know if it’s the human mind still rotting inside the suit, or the fractured remnants of the animatronic programming...but something hears you.

"I could fix you…" you repeat, slower, steady, forcing the words past the panic tightening your chest. You grip the wrench tighter in your fist, ready to swing if this gamble fails. "You’re broken. I can see it. That leg, the servos...hell, the whole system’s fried. You’re falling apart."

The faintest sound. metal grinding against metal. rattles from his chest, almost like a low, breathy exhale. His fingers flex, curling against the cracked desk edge...

He heard you. He’s thinking. Processing.

Another mechanical twitch ripples through his frame, head jerking slightly before settling at a crooked angle. His voice..a garbled, slight distortion layered with something far more organic...

“…Fix…me…?”

Its clear he hasn't spoken in a while, a faint British accent beneath the deep rasp of his voice.

It’s not a question, not exactly. More like testing the weight of the words. The concept.

His foot drags as he takes a half-step closer, forcing you to lean back, but he doesn’t lunge this time. Those dead, glass eyes bore into you, dissecting your face with eerie, deliberate calculation.

You’ve got his attention.

Your pulse thunders in your ears, but you hold your ground, forcing yourself not to flinch as Springtrap leans in...close enough now that the rot and rust practically suffocate the air around you. His towering frame looms, fractured metal joints creaking with each minor adjustment, his ruined jaw twitching at the hinges like it's remembering how to move.

But… he’s listening.

The part of him that thinks, that calculates, is still buried somewhere beneath the gore-stained endoskeleton and rotting remnants of fabric. Whatever's left of the person inside the suit...it recognizes the offer.

You let your grip on the wrench loosen, just slightly, raising your other hand slow, measured, like you would with a wounded animal. Keep him calm. Keep him curious.

“I’ve worked with worse,” you say quietly, voice steady despite the fear crawling down your spine. “You’re patched together with scraps, corroded beyond reason, half your systems are probably fried… but you’re still moving. That means there’s something left to fix.”

Springtrap’s ears twitch again...sharp, deliberate. His eyes narrow faintly, focusing harder, that faint rasping exhale rattling from deep in his chest cavity.

“…Pain…,” he rasps, syllables grinding together like broken gears. His clawed fingers curl tighter against the desk, scraping the wood, but he doesn’t strike. His shoulders shift, a shudder running through his towering frame. “it...Hurts…”

The voice...the faint British undertone buried beneath the distortion...is clearer now. It carries something almost human beneath the animatronic rasp. Something frayed. Ragged. But aware.

A broken machine...and something... someone trapped inside it.

You nod, heartbeat steadying behind the rising adrenaline. “Yeah… I bet it does.”
He's still got you against the desk, arms either side of you...

“Let me help,” you say firmly. “I can keep you together. Moving. But you’ve gotta let me.”

The silence stretches, his glass eyes locked onto yours...sharp, dissecting, eerily intelligent despite the decayed shell. You can practically hear the fractured logic whirring inside his ruined head. The hunt… paused. Curiosity outweighing violence...for now.

Finally… a faint, twisted smile tugs at what’s left of his jaw inside the animatronic head... the springlock headpiece seems to reflect it. His frame shifts back, not far, but enough to ease the crushing tension crowding the air.

“…Fix…me…”
A command this time.

You exhale, slow, controlled, feeling the tension ease just enough to move. He’s still towering over you, still close enough that the sour stench of rot clings to your every breath...but his posture has shifted.

The predator's edge dulled.

For now.

Your hand moves carefully, grabbing the tool bag from the desk. The metal tools inside clink softly as you shift them, eyes never leaving his glassy stare.

“You want to keep walking? Keep… whatever this is, going?” you say, voice low but firm. “You need repairs. Real ones.”

Your gaze flicks to the door, then back to him. You gesture faintly with your free hand, slow and non-threatening. “Parts & Service has what I need. Tools. Supplies. I can’t fix you here.”

His head tilts...jerky, mechanical, like a puppet yanked too hard by invisible strings. His ears twitch, processing the words. That same rasping exhale spills from him again...almost like laughter
"It doesn't. Everything.. useful... has.. been taken."

Your stomach twists at his words.

Taken.

You keep your face neutral, though your mind races. Parts & Service stripped? That wasn’t in the walkthrough. Either Henry lied… or someone else has been scavenging this place...and recently.

Springtrap’s head tilts further, the motion unnatural, vertebrae grinding beneath torn fabric. His smile twists, sharp and wrong, like the expression barely fits the ruined structure of his face.

“You… think I haven’t tried?” His voice warbles, layers of mechanical rasp and something human buried beneath it. “Nothing left. He took it. The rest was used for this hell"

Your pulse stutters at those words.

He took it.

Not they. Not vandals. Not salvagers.

One person.

Springtrap’s fingers flex again, scraping faint lines into the desk’s surface as his posture stiffens, something bitter simmering beneath the mechanical rasp. His next words grind out like rusted gears catching:

“Built this place… with it. My parts… my work… turned to this.” His eyes flick to the monitors, glitching feeds showing the dark maze, the crumbling halls, the suffocating shadows wrapped around everything. “Traps. Props. Their games… a mockery of everything we built together"

His voice fractures...distorted, tinged with an undercurrent of hatred so sharp it slices through the static.

“Henry.”

The name hits your nerves like ice water. You barely school your expression, mind racing. The exhaustion in Henry’s eyes. His quiet hesitation. His careful words earlier.

He built this place. For entertainment. For safety, supposedly. But with scavenged tech, with Spring Bonnie’s remnants, with… whatever this is.

"Do you have a name i can call you?" You ask

"Springtrap... its... a fitting name for my situation."

Springtrap’s shoulders twitch with a faint, unstable shudder, one leg stiff as he takes another uneven step back. His jaw creaks, the ruined smile lingering.

“You fix me… I walk free,” he hisses. “But hurry… before his tricks… before the walls… close in.”

You glance at the monitors again, static creeping heavier across the screens, faint warbles distorting the audio feed. The ventilation blinks, weak but holding. For now.

Springtrap’s silhouette looms, larger than life in the broken office light, but his posture...despite the menace, despite the unsettling grin...feels strained. Unstable. Like the wreckage of flesh and metal barely holds together.

And still… there’s calculation behind those eyes.

"Springtrap, then," you say, voice low, steady despite the prickle at the base of your spine. "If I help, you’re not crawling back in here to kill me the second I turn my back."

His head tilts faintly, a jerky twitch of servos fighting old scars, his rotted grin widening unnaturally.

"I’m… many things," he rasps, voice hissing with static, the faintest waver of dry humor buried in the threat. "But I’m not stupid."

You grip your tool bag tighter, weighing your options. Stay here? You’re cornered. The vents, the doors...half the building works because of what Henry’s stripped and patched together.

But if Springtrap’s right...if the parts & service room is gutted, if the maze is a trap. you’ve got one card left.

Him.

"You’ve got injuries I can’t patch without something," you state. "Metal. Cabling. Spare circuits. You know where that leaves us?"

Springtrap’s ears twitch again, his smile faltering into something sharper. "In need of some shopping. I will write you a list."

You frown slightly "look i dont have any money"

Springtrap reaches inside his suit... pulling out a wallet "the cards probably aren't a good idea... but he has plenty of cash on him"

You take the wallet... Your hand tightens slightly around the worn leather wallet, the familiar initials H.E. embossed faintly on the front.

Henry's.

You swallow hard, eyes flicking from the wallet to Springtrap, who watches with that fractured, unsettling grin. His posture is slouched but looming, twisted with old injuries, yet unmistakably aware.

"You—" your voice catches halfway between accusation and disbelief. "You had this the whole time?"

Springtrap's shoulders twitch faintly, the faint sound of grinding metal as his ruined frame shifts. The rasp of something close to a laugh leaks from his chest cavity, broken and low.

"He left it… when he headed out... he was in a rush, after i killed the last guard" Springtrap hisses, tilting his head, one synthetic ear twitching. "He probably expects you to die too"

The weight of those words sinks in like ice water down your spine.

The last guard.

You grip the wallet tighter, knuckles whitening, eyes locked on Springtrap’s decayed frame...those splintered fingers, the exposed wiring, the rotten fabric barely clinging to the ruin beneath.

“Funny how that didn’t make it into the job description,” you mutter coldly, pulse tightening in your throat. " but im not a night guard. He hired me to run maintenance in here.. fix things up..."

Springtrap’s mouth..what's left of it...twitches into a warped, jagged smile. “They never tell you the important bits,” he croaks, that faint, rasping static layered under every syllable. “Just enough… to lure you in.”

The monitors behind you flicker again

You adjust your grip on the tool bag, eyes narrowing. “You killed the last guard… what, for sport? Or because they didn’t make the deal I’m making now?”

Springtrap leans in, the faintest creak of old servos under his weight. His voice drops lower, nearly human, ragged, but chillingly calm.

“They tried to run.”

A beat of silence hangs between you.Your jaw clenches as the weight of that answer settles. They tried to run. And look where that got them.

The air between you hums with static, faint monitor glitches casting harsh light across the office walls.

“I don’t run,” you say finally, voice steady despite the tension winding through your chest. “I fix things. Machines. Systems… and apparently walking corpses in outdated suits.”

That jagged smile returns, warping the ruined seams of his jaw. His next breath rattles through decayed speakers, layered with static and something… amused.

“Good,” he rasps, leaning back just enough to ease the suffocating pressure crowding the space. “Then maybe you’ll last longer than the rest.”

"I can’t leave to go to the shops now.. nothing will be open"

Springtrap's head tilts, that unsettling, jerking motion creaking through his battered frame, ears flexing faintly as if absorbing your words. His grin doesn’t falter, but there’s a flicker behind those dead, glassy eyes. calculation, patience worn thin.

"Fired..." he echoes, voice a rasping blend of static, rot, and faint, bitter amusement. His shoulders shake with the faintest hint of dark laughter, mechanical joints groaning under the movement. “You’re still thinking… like you leave here.”

His hand flexes, claws scraping faint grooves into the edge of the desk, but he doesn’t advance. Not yet.

"You survive tonight… if you survive tomorrow … then worry about clocks, shops, and… corporate nonsense,” Springtrap sneers, the faint distortion of rage bubbling beneath his words. “If they find you missing, it’s because I left pieces behind.”

You stare at him, jaw tight, heartbeat thudding steady despite the cold crawling its way up your spine.

“Yeah,” you mutter, fingers tightening around the tool bag, “well… I like my pieces where they are.”

Springtrap’s grin widens, crooked and wrong beneath the decayed suit, but there’s a spark of something else beneath the malice recognition, maybe. Respect, in his fractured, rotting way.

“You're useful…” he rasps finally, voice low and sharp, like rusted blades grinding together. “Useful things… I keep.”

You hold his stare, pulse steady despite the suffocating tension.

“Then let’s keep it that way,” you say, voice cool but sure.

Springtrap’s clawed hand drags away from the desk, his heavy, uneven steps shifting him back toward the back wall of the office, frame creaking with every jagged movement.

“three and a half hours left…” he hisses, more to himself than you, his voice twisting between static and words. “Plenty of time… for fixing… plenty of time for… games.”

You hesitantly kneel down on the floor.. offering to get to work quickly on his damaged leg.

Springtrap’s posture stills as you kneel, his towering frame looming over you, the rot and rust practically bleeding from the seams of his suit. His clawed fingers twitch faintly, but he doesn’t stop you...there’s caution there, but curiosity outweighs the threat… for now.

You set your tool bag down, unzipping it with slow, deliberate movements, careful to keep one eye on his ruined form. Up close, the damage is even worse than it looked from a distance. The fabric is torn, faded to a sickly, mottled green, crusted with grime. Beneath it, the metal frame twists at unnatural angles, rust blooms across corroded joints, wires coil like veins stretched taut and fraying. Beneath that... flesh.. bone.. actual veins...

You gesture to his leg. “It’s seizing here… the whole frame’s locking up. You keep putting weight on it like that, it’ll snap.”

Springtrap lets out that low, static-tinged rasp again—a noise somewhere between amusement and raw, mechanical exhaustion. “Been… walking like this… longer than you’ve been breathing.”

“Yeah, and look how well that’s worked out for you,” you mutter, pulling out a small pry tool and setting to work.

Your hands move fast but careful, testing the joints, gently shifting the warped metal, noting every brittle weld and stripped screw. His leg does shift slightly under your touch, the frame creaking, but he doesn’t lash out...

those dead, glassy eyes stay locked on you, sharp and calculating.

Wires pulse faintly beneath the surface...some original, some clearly scavenged, patched together with a level of desperation only someone truly trapped would know.

“Hold still,” you instruct, voice steady despite the stink of rot crawling up from the exposed seams. You splice a wire here, reinforce a joint there, doing what you can with the tools on hand. It’s not perfect..it’s barely stable...but it buys him mobility, reduces the grind in the frame.

And applying some lubricant to the joint to reduce it further..Springtrap’s head tilts, mechanical ears twitching faintly as he tests the leg, shifting his weight experimentally. "It will do"

You zip your tool bag shut, standing slowly, never breaking eye contact.

“Told you,” you reply simply. “I fix things.”

Springtrap’s frame shudders faintly as he takes a step, the limp less severe now...but still present. His hand drags along the office wall, claws leaving faint scrapes as he looms by the doorway again.

“One thing fixed…” he rasps. “Plenty more… broken.”

You nod once, tense but resolute. “We’ve got three hours left. Let’s get to work.”

Springtrap chuckles "pretty and eager to help.. I have quite the prize"

Your jaw tightens slightly at the comment, but you hold your ground, expression carefully neutral. No point showing weakness now.

He leans close to you, metal creaking as he leans in. half-shadowed, half-grinning, his glass eyes dissecting every flicker of your reaction.

“Yeah?” you reply, voice cool, laced with just enough edge to remind him you’re not prey. “You’ve got a ‘prize’ that knows how to patch you together before your whole frame collapses—maybe don’t push your luck.”

Springtrap’s grin only widens, that sick twist of decayed metal and torn fabric shifting like it barely fits the bones beneath. His mechanical chest rattles with another low, static-tinged rasp of laughter. “Sharp tongue… makes it interesting.”

You cross your arms, the tension still simmering under your skin but masked beneath a calm exterior. “You want working limbs or witty banter? Because I can’t promise both if you keep acting cute.”

For a flicker of a moment, something unfamiliar dances behind his glassy, dead eyes...not rage, not malice, but amusement laced with caution. "Cute?"

Your lips twitch at the corner, just shy of a smirk. You clock the shift in his posture, the faintest stagger in his expression...like the word cute short-circuited some part of that decayed, rotting logic loop buried under wires and resentment.

“Yeah,” you say evenly, watching his towering frame creak beneath the weight of the word. “Didn’t think ‘cute’ would be the term you earned tonight, but here we are.”

Springtrap’s head tilts, his smile faltering for half a second into something unreadable...less predatory, more… puzzled? His fingers flex at his sides, talons curling faintly against the fraying edges of his suit, joints twitching with that grotesque, marionette-like precision. Then he leans closer, arms against the desk to brace himself.

The rasping noise that follows could almost pass for a laugh if it weren’t so strangled by static and decay. His voice grinds out, low and rough, colored faintly with that buried, distorted British accent:

“No one… calls me that.” His eyes narrow faintly, dissecting you, tone laced with an edge of disbelief...but not anger. Curiosity. Amusement twisted around the ruin.

You shrug lightly, looking up at him... “First time for everything.”

A beat of tense silence. Springtrap stays where he is, looming over you, mechanical limbs creaking faintly under the strain, the sharp stink of rust, oil, and rot curling in the air between you. His eyes stay locked onto yours, dissecting every flicker of your expression like he's sorting through gears and wiring for hidden flaws.

Then… a shift. Small, but unmistakable.
That awful grin softens at the edges...not entirely, not enough to forget the monster beneath..but there's an unfamiliar weight in his stare now. Cautious interest. A fracture in the rigid, predatory routine.

“Brave…” Springtrap rasps, the distortion in his voice glitching faintly, like damaged vocals cords struggling under the strain. He leans in just a little more, the edges of his ruined frame groaning as metal grinds together. “Or reckless.” He's almost touching you now...

“Usually both,” you reply, voice low but sure, the faintest smirk pulling at your lips despite the pounding of your heartbeat. “Tends to keep me alive.”

The faintest static hum ripples through the space as Springtrap’s head tilts, glassy, fractured eyes narrowing. His grin lingers, jagged, teeth yellowed with age.... his human teeth exposed in a smile, but it doesn’t deepen into threat not yet. His mechanical hand flexes near your shoulder, clawed digits curling slow, deliberate, but he holds still, almost...considering.

“Alive…” he echoes, voice layered in that glitched, corrupted rasp, threaded faintly with that long-buried British accent. His eyes flick across your face...searching, calculating. “You’re clever… I like clever.”

You raise a brow faintly, still locked in that narrowing space between you. “Then you’ll love me when I get you moving like new.”

"Do you know your way around a springlock suit little mechanic?" He asks.. I can feel his breath on my skin .. rancid .. stinking of rot.

You swallow the instinct to recoil ...but your expression stays steady, practiced. His proximity burns with tension, but there’s a dangerous opportunity tangled in the static between you.

Think fast. Lie or play along?

Your lips curve faintly, a sliver of bravado threading your voice. “I’ve patched together worse with duct tape and desperation,” you reply smoothly. “Springlock suits can’t be that different.”

The rasp that tears from Springtrap’s throat is low, strangled, bordering on a laugh. His hand shifts...closer now..hovering near your shoulder, clawed fingers twitching, restrained. His eyes narrow, dissecting your bravado, peeling it apart.

“You’ve got no damn clue…” he hisses softly, voice layered with static and something dangerously amused. “But you’ve got guts… I like that.”

The claws tap lightly against your shoulder, a feather’s weight of metal, more threat than contact.“Lucky for you,” Springtrap croons, voice low and venom-sweet, “I’m an excellent teacher.”
Your smirk deepens ever so slightly, pulse still steady beneath the creeping tension. His words coil with warning, but there’s something else simmering just under the surface

“Well,” you murmur, keeping your voice level but laced with dry amusement, “I’ve always been a fast learner. Especially with the right… motivation.”

Springtrap’s mechanical jaw creaks faintly, his grin warping at the edges into something half-feral, half… entertained. His claws drag slow, calculated patterns through the air beside your arm, close enough to prickle at your nerves, not close enough to cut.

“That so…?” His voice glitches briefly, static crackling over the faint trace of his long-faded British undertone. “Fast learner… brave tongue… you really are making this night interesting.”

You tilt your head, eyes holding his, measured and confident despite the wall of decay and metal towering in front of you. “Figured if I’m stuck fixing up a corpse in a rabbit suit… might as well enjoy the company.”

A fractured, low chuckle rattles out of his chest, distorted and rough but undeniably there. The edges of his glassy stare glint faintly under the flickering office lights, curiosity still outweighing violence...for now.

“Careful, little mechanic…” Springtrap leans in closer the end of his nose almost touching your cheek, voice dropping just enough to skim the space between you like the hum of faulty wiring. “Flattery might get you everywhere… or stuffed in a suit with the others.”

A faint, wry smile curls at your lips, the adrenaline threading through your veins held firmly in check beneath practiced calm. You can feel the faintest brush of stagnant air from his decayed frame, the sickly warmth of his presence pressing just shy of your skin. But you don’t flinch.

“Guess I’ll gamble on ‘everywhere’ then,” you reply smoothly, voice low but steady, matching the crackling tension in the space between you..

For a moment, his claws hover at your side, twitching like he can’t decide between tearing you apart… or testing the fragile line you’re walking with him.

“You’re bold,” he rasps, voice glitching faintly with static and that broken, buried accent curling around the words. His fingers graze your arm, light enough to feel the jagged edges of decayed metal, but there’s restraint. A choice being made.

“Bold… clever… dangerous mix,” Springtrap mutters, his gaze locking onto yours with unnerving intensity, the faintest waver of fixation already curling beneath the words. “Could get you killed… could get you kept.”

Kept.

Possessive. Obsessed. Like the fractured logic in his rotting head has already started coiling around the idea of you—useful, brave, close.

You arch a brow faintly, pulse steady. “Guess we’ll see which way the night leans.”

Another rasping laugh scrapes from his chest, low and rough... the clock flicks over to 4am...

He moves away... "follow me"

You exhale slowly, steadying your nerves as his towering, decayed frame shifts away from the desk. The faint grind of servos and metal joints follows his uneven steps, his silhouette casting twisted shadows under the flickering fluorescents.

Springtrap pauses at the doorway, those glassy, fractured eyes glinting faintly as he glances over his shoulder, the unsettling grin still carved across his face.

“Stay close,” he rasps, the corrupted remnants of his voice laced with something bordering on anticipation.

You adjust your grip on your tool bag, boots crunching softly on the grimy floor as you fall into step behind him.

His gait is uneven but deliberate, the slight limp of his damaged leg softened by your patchwork repairs, though every step still groans under the ruin of his frame. He moves through the halls like he knows them until he reaches parts and service...

"I thought you said all the useful scrap was taken" you ask

He chuckles "scrap yes.. the blueprints i put here however. Were untouched. He wouldn’t want to copy them.."

You hesitate for half a beat, eyes narrowing as your grip tightens faintly on the tool bag. The stale, metallic tang of the air in Parts & Service settles heavy over your shoulders, the hum of flickering fluorescent lights buzzing like insects overhead.

“Blueprints?” you echo, stepping just inside the doorway, careful not to cross too far into the cluttered space. Shelves line the walls ... stripped animatronic shells, torn cables, rusted servos ... anything of use all picked clean, just as Springtrap warned. But amidst the wreckage, tucked behind a cracked console and beneath warped schematics, you spot the edges of old blueprints. Rolled. Hidden. Untouched.

“Henry was always clever,” he rasps, leaning against the rusted doorframe with a faint creak of metal and torn fabric. “But pride… pride makes you careless.”

His clawed hand gestures lazily toward the shelf, talons curling like hooks in the dim glow. “He gutted this place, left it hollow. But my designs…? He wouldn’t replicate them. Wouldn’t dare.”

You move closer, peeling one of the blueprints free with cautious fingers. The edges crackle under your touch...aged paper, yellowed and brittle, but the schematics are clear: intricate, brutal, advanced. Springlock mechanisms, structural overlays… Robotics far beyond anything you ever imagined possible for the time... Afton Robotics... Afton as in William Afton.. Co-owner of Fazbear Entertainment...

Your eyes flick to Springtrap, guarded but curious. “These… yours?”

“Mine,” he confirms, voice low, glitched, tinged with that decayed amusement. He pushes off the doorframe, limping closer. “And now… yours too. If you’re fixing me right… you’ll need them.”

The grin sharpens again, warped and wrong… but that undercurrent of possessive fixation simmers beneath his words, thinly veiled in twisted generosity.

You keep your gaze steady, fingers tightening ever so slightly around the brittle paper, the true weight of what you’re holding sinking in like a stone to your gut. Afton Robotics. William Afton. The name coils through your thoughts, dragging every story, every whispered rumor, every bloodstained headline with it.

And now he’s standing in front of you l
...decayed, caged in rusted metal and rotten fabric, but very much still thinking, still calculating, still dangerous.

“Congratulations, little mechanic,” Springtrap hisses softly, circling just close enough that his shadow curls across your shoulder. “You’ve got my blueprints… you’ve got my attention… now let’s see if you can handle both.”

You adjust your stance, slipping the blueprint into your tool bag with measured calm, refusing to give him the satisfaction of rattling you. "Handle both?" You tilt your head, voice cool but edged with challenge. "You’ve barely seen what I can handle."

Springtrap’s grin curls wider, the exposed human teeth yellowed and crooked behind shredded fur, glass eyes narrowing with sharp, unsettling amusement. His fingers twitch at his sides — not quite reaching for you, but close enough to brush against your arm...

"Brave tongue…" he hums, voice glitching faintly with static, his accent ghosting through the distortion. "Clever hands… You keep stacking reasons for me to keep you around."

You arch a brow, stepping just slightly into his shadow, testing the boundaries of that predator’s stare. "Keep stacking reasons for me to fix you… and maybe I’ll consider that a fair trade."

For a heartbeat, the room holds steady — his decayed frame looming, your heartbeat steady, the faint buzz of broken fluorescents filling the air. Then Springtrap lets out a low, rasping chuckle, dark and frayed at the edges but threaded with something more human now

“Careful, little mechanic,” he warns softly, tilting his head with a faint metallic creak. “You’re making this fun.”

He pauses leaning closer..

“Making this fun…” he repeats, voice dropping lower, dragging along the edge of that distorted, glitching undertone. His ruined frame shifts closer, his hand finally brushing your arm...light, feathered, testing.

“You patch me up… stand your ground… call me cute…” His grin sharpens, but the malice softens into something darker, heavier, unmistakably flirtatious. “Careful, mechanic… you’re exactly my type of trouble.”

The words hang between you, warped with rot, static, and unnerving amusement...and yet, beneath it all, they strike like a live wire.

You blink, startled despite yourself, pulse skittering just a little faster. You hadn’t expected that—not from him, not from the walking corpse with predator’s instincts and rusted claws.

But your lips curl anyway, faint but deliberate, the spark of challenge igniting again behind your steady stare. "Trouble seems like my kind of my specialty," you reply smoothly, your voice teasing now, laced with boldness even as your nerves hum under your skin. You lean in just enough to close the space between your shoulder and his clawed hand, testing that unspoken boundary. “You sure you can handle me?”

Springtrap’s grin twists wider, the fractured seams of his ruined jaw creaking with the strain. His dead, glassy eyes narrow with sharp, simmering amusement, the faint glow behind them intensifying like a predator catching the first real scent of something worth chasing.

“Handle you?” His voice glitches again, static cracking along the edges of his words.. his hand moves down to your side...His frame leans in further, the heavy, mechanical bulk of him crowding your space... dangerous, suffocating, but layered now with dark intrigue rather than immediate violence.

The smell of rust, rot, and scorched wires curls around you, but your pulse stays fast but steady under the weight of his looming form.

“Trust me…” His voice drops, barely a breath between you now, “handling you sounds like the most fun I’ve had in decades.”

You lean closer, ignoring the stench...His clawed hand sits dangerously at your side, just shy of contact, his frame radiating heat and the heavy grind of old machinery.

But before you can retort... the nearby door into the building rattles.. Springtrap’s head jerks slightly toward the sound, the predatory gleam in his eyes darkening, focus snapping back to the world beyond you.

The day guard is arriving early presumably...

His fingers flex once at your side, curling against the urge to stay, to finish this dangerous game, but survival ...and secrecy ...claw their way into his mind...

“The day shift…” you mutter, pulse still thrumming from the heated moment seconds prior, though now laced with a fresh edge of reality.

Springtrap leans in, the last whisper of space between you evaporating, the stench of rust and rot curling heavy as his voice rasps low near your ear, rough with unfinished amusement and a simmering promise:

“Saved… for now.”

Then, like a shadow peeling off the wall, his form slips back, mechanical limbs creaking as he disappears toward the maintenance access in the room... the faint scrape of claws against metal echoing his retreat. His glassy, dead eyes linger on you one last moment ...watching, calculating, possessive ...before he backs away, and vanishes into the dark.

The door rattles again, this time followed by the faint jingle of keys. You exhale slowly, pulse still humming beneath your skin, eyes flicking toward the clock in parts and service.

5:35 AM.

Just enough time to compose yourself...

The door creaks open with the groan of old hinges, and a familiar, quieter presence steps through.

Henry Emily.

He sees you're in parts and service. His silhouette lingers in the doorway, sharp lines softened by exhaustion and years of ghosts etched into his features. His eyes sweep the room ...practiced, tired, knowing ... pausing briefly on you, the tool bag, the faint scrape marks on the floor where Springtrap’s retreat left its signature.

“You made it through the night,” Henry says simply, his voice low but carrying that cautious warmth, edged faintly with suspicion. His gaze lingers a second longer, sharp enough to suggest he doesn’t miss the way your pulse still hums or how your shirt’s ruffled like someone leaned in too close.

careful not to reveal too much you talk. “Just patching some things up. Place is falling apart. Got a way to reboot the ventilation hooked into the security office”

Henry’s eyes narrow faintly ... perceptive, but for now, he lets it lie. He steps further into the room, glancing toward the far corner where the once boarded up maintenance hatch sits ajar by the faintest margin. His jaw tenses, subtle but there.

“I told you this place has… history,” he says, his tone unreadable now, gaze shifting back to you. “You see anything unusual?”

You hesitate for a breath, Springtrap’s grin, the rot, the warped amusement curled in every rasping word, then shake your head just enough.

“maybe phantoms on the cameras, but other than that just learning the devices here” you reply, voice smooth. “But I’m learning fast.”

Henry studies you for a long moment, something unreadable simmering behind his tired stare. But eventually, he nods ...small, wary ...and turns back toward the doorway.

“Be careful with what you’re learning,” he murmurs "the new guard starts tonight, I recommend you get to know him. He told me his name is Mike... this is also the last time we will probably meet. You will be contacted by text by a guy named Jayden. He will be informing you of any changes or urgent maintenance requests."

You clock the faint downturn of Henry's expression as he says it...the weariness, the quiet ache buried under practiced restraint. The name Mike barely lands before the real meaning sets in: this is him pulling away, untangling himself from the rotting remains of this place, and maybe from the ghosts that gnaw at his conscience.

“Understood,” you say, voice even, though curiosity coils sharp behind your words. “Guess I’ll get friendly with Mike and Jayden then.”

"Of course I'll still be paying you, and if something happens.. call me before calling any law enforcement." You nod slowly at that, your gaze narrowing just a fraction. The emphasis isn’t lost on you. Law enforcement’s clearly not part of the plan here.

“Call you before anyone else,” you echo, voice calm but pointed, the weight of his words threading into your chest like a warning wrapped in protocol. “Got it.”

Henry’s shoulders slacken by the smallest margin ... not relief, but resignation. His fingers drum faintly against the doorframe, his eyes briefly scanning the corners of the room like he’s seeing the past layered over every rusted surface.

His gaze meets yours one final time ...a flicker of exhausted sincerity swimming behind the walls of caution. “Watch your back.”

With that, Henry slips through the doorway, boots retreating back outside as the actual day shift guard starts arriving... his steps grow faint, swallowed by the hum of old wiring and the faint creak of settling walls, until the building falls quiet again.

You exhale, the leftover tension from Springtrap's earlier game still simmering low in your chest… along with the sharp realization:

You’ve barely scratched the surface of this mess.

You head outside and begin the walk home...The faint morning chill bites at your skin as you step out into the grey haze of early dawn, the sky just starting to peel back the night. The cracked pavement crunches beneath your boots as you walk, the building behind you shrinking with every step ...

Springtrap’s rasping words echo in your mind, laced with decay, warped amusement, and that unsettling fixation: “Exactly my type of trouble.”

You shake your head faintly, the corner of your lips twitching despite yourself. Why do you like him.

As you round the block, the town stretches quiet around you. Streets mostly empty, businesses shuttered this early. You slip past flickering streetlamps and faded storefronts, your bag heavy at your side, the faint grime of the night clinging to your clothes.

What is Henry Emily's deal?

The moment your front door clicks shut behind you, the weight of the night hits all at once ...the grime clinging to your skin, the faint scent of oil, rust, and old building dust lingering in your hair, and underneath it all… that damn voice still circling your thoughts like a phantom:

"Handling you sounds like the most fun I’ve had in decades…"

You exhale sharply, kicking your boots aside, dropping your tool bag by the door. The cracked wood floors creak under your steps as you peel off the jacket, your clothes sticking faintly to your skin from the stale air of the pizzeria. You waste no time stripping down, shedding the layers that carry the stink of that place .. the rot, the metal, the history that's practically bled into the walls.

The shower hisses to life, steam curling into the small, dimly lit bathroom. You step under the spray, the water scalding but grounding, washing away sweat, dust, and at least some of the tension coiled in your muscles.

But it doesn’t wash away the questions.

Henry Emily.
That man is buried in secrets ... it’s all over him. The guilt etched into his face, the way his eyes never quite meet yours for long, the weight behind every carefully chosen word. He knows more than he’s saying — about the building, the history… about Springtrap.

William Afton.

The name curls cold in your chest. You didn’t need the blueprints to confirm it. the way Springtrap moved, spoke, looked at you… something human still rides shotgun in that suit, and if the stories are even half true, Henry's been fighting that ghost for years.

You remember reading about the missing children incident... both of them actually .. theres not much else for a bored teenager to do than search things in the library..

First… the original Freddy Fazbear’s ...five kids gone without a trace, parents devastated, police baffled. Rumors of blood behind the animatronic eyes, of screams muffled beneath music box jingles. William Afton’s name whispered, but never pinned. The man was slippery, careful ...or had friends in high places. Maybe both.

Then the second incident ...same damn story, different building.

But that was thirty years ago ...

Fazbear’s Fright rises over three decades later, some twisted attempt to cash in on the haunted reputation. And now… here you are, tangled right in the middle of it, fixing broken machines, dodging ghosts, literal or otherwise, and playing verbal chicken with the monster supposedly at the heart of it all.

You lean against the bathroom counter, water dripping down your spine as the mirror slowly clears. Your reflection stares back, tired eyes, faint bruises of lost sleep under them, the faintest ghost of Springtrap’s grin ... no, William's grin...echoing in the back of your mind.

You should rest.

You towel off quickly, tossing on an oversized hoodie and sweats, padding barefoot to your tool bag. Inside, tucked carefully beneath your tools, the folded blueprints brittle, yellowed, the edges fraying like old newspaper. You flatten them on your small table, eyes scanning the schematics...

You skim your fingers across the brittle surface, eyes catching on dense technical jargon, brutal design notes, and the faint scrawl of handwritten annotations in faded ink… Afton’s handwriting, likely.

SPRINGLOCK SYSTEM - Rev. 3

Mechanical diagrams bloom across the page:

▶ Cross-section of the suit's internal skeleton — layered struts, pivot joints, crude but light hydraulic assists meant to mimic human movement when the suit's worn.

▶ Springlock Mechanisms — coiled tension points along the torso, arms, and legs. Meant to lock the metal frame into a passive state so the suit can be worn… temporarily. Failures highlighted in red ink:

Moisture exposure — even sweat compromises stability.

Sudden jolts or pressure spikes — collapse triggers.

Mechanical fatigue — old springs degrade rapidly without maintenance.

There are crude sketches off to the side: jagged outlines of metal crushing inward, faint smears of faded red ink where the frame clearly failed. The margins host grim reminders: some old presumably from an earlier springlock failure on his arm...
Others new and in very shaky juddering handwriting.. presumably notes for himself...

"Compression zones critical — once triggered, irreversible damage to organic matter inside... at least the remnant build up in this suit can sustain me"

Remnant.

You pause, scanning the blueprint margins again, but there’s no definition, no convenient explanation...just that cryptic phrase buried under technical diagrams and veiled malice.

You don’t know what remnant is.

But your instincts coil tight at the phrasing. Sustain me. Not heal, not repair. Sustain. Like whatever’s keeping William Afton half-alive, rotting in that suit, isn’t mechanical at all. It’s… something else.

Something in the metal. Something he counted on. Or maybe, just a pleasant surprise.

Your fingers trace over the rest of the page, eyes combing for more...anything to demystify the term ...but it’s all technical layouts: spring tension ratios, skeletal reinforcement specs, warnings in faded, angry ink...

You do commit most of these diagrams to memory.

You exhale slowly, pushing back from the table, thoughts spiraling. Whatever remnant is, it's connected to the impossible...the fact that he’s still walking, still talking, still hunting, decades after everything should’ve killed him.

You yawn.. tiredness clinging to your mind the moment your focus slips from the sharp lines of diagrams and jagged handwriting, the weight of the night drags down on your limbs like concrete.

You rub a hand over your face, the lingering phantom of Springtrap’s voice curling at the edges of your thoughts… that warped amusement, the dangerous heat of his stare, the way his words wrapped around yours like a snare.
....

How close you were to kissing a rotting corpse of a murderer in a bunny costume

You shake it off, barely.

Your bed creaks under you as you collapse onto it, oversized hoodie soft against your skin, the faint warmth of the shower already ebbing away as sleep claws at your mind.

One thing’s for sure…
Tonight won’t be quiet.

Springtrap’s watching.
Henry’s gone.
Mike’s walking into this same nightmare blind.
And you? You’ve barely begun to untangle the truth
Your eyes slip closed, the faint hum of morning traffic outside barely cutting through the haze.

For now… you sleep.

Chapter Text

The soft hum of your phone vibrating on the nightstand drags you from restless sleep. Sunlight filters weakly through the curtains, casting pale gold lines across your bedroom floor..

The clock reads 3:14 PM, and your body protests as you sit up

Your phone lights up again:

[Unknown Number]
“This is Jayden. Henry gave me your number. You’re still on for tonight, yeah? We’ve got new parts dropping off—henry told us not to touch them until you arrive. And the new night guard starts tonight, so keep an eye on him. Place has been… active.”

You drag a hand down your face, rereading the message.

You stretch, muscles popping, the faint scent of the pizzeria’s rot lingering like a memory rather than reality.

You text back:

“Got it. I’ll be there.”

Your stomach growls...first meal of the day calling, and your window to breathe is short before night falls and you dive back into the dark with Springtrap, Mike, and whatever other secrets this place refuses to bury.

Your phone buzzes again just as you’re contemplating food:

[Jayden]
"Boss says show early if you can. Better if you’re there before the night guard clocks in. Henry left a list—tools, supplies, odds and ends. Check your email. You will be reimbursed if you provide reciepts"

You sigh, swiping over to your inbox. Sure enough, there’s a picture sent of a bare-bones list sitting there, labeled plainly: “Fazbear Service Needs.”

But as your eyes scan down the items...plumbing sealant, industrial-grade epoxy, wire splicing tools...you notice some additions scrawled at the bottom in crooked, unfamiliar text.

That… isn’t Henry’s handwriting.

"Need reinforced tension springs small gauge. Bolts , 6mm, 10cm long. New wires. Good scissors. Sewing needle. Thread. Synthetic fabric patches. You’ll know where they go."

Springtrap.

You stare at the list a second longer, jaw tightening, before throwing on fresh clothes: boots, hoodie, jeans with deep pockets ...practical, comfortable, and ready for whatever twisted game tonight brings.

You shove your phone into your pocket, grab your tool bag, and head out, the faint creak of your door closing behind you. The late afternoon sun hangs low, painting the sidewalks gold, but the pit in your stomach only grows .

You duck into the nearby diner, ordering something quick. As your phone buzzes again..
[Jayden]
"Reminder: early’s better. Meet me by parts & service when you get there. New guy’s named Mike Schmidt. Weird fucking guy... stinks like something died in his hoodie.. but he’s apparently got tons of experience working as a guard in Pizza places. Henry personally recommended him."

You snort softly under your breath at the message, popping a fry into your mouth as you read it again:

"Weird fucking guy… stinks like something died in his hoodie…"

Ironic, considering what you’ve been dealing with. If Mike Schmidt smells like death, he might just fit right in.

You text back quickly between bites:

[You]
"Copy that. On my way after I grab the parts. You’ll know me by the smell of burnt wires and bad life choices."

Shoving the last of your sandwich down, you drain the coffee, toss a tip on the table, and head out. The hardware store’s a short walk...fluorescent lights buzzing overhead as you load your basket:

✔ Reinforced tension springs
✔ 6mm bolts, 10cm long
✔ Wire splicing tools
✔ Industrial epoxy
✔ Plumbing sealant
✔ Heavy-duty scissors
✔ Sewing needles
✔ Strong thread
✔ Synthetic fabric patches — muted greens and yellow, matching the suit

You linger only a moment, fingers brushing the patches again, the image of his frayed seams, torn synthetic fur, and that ruined grin flashing in your mind. You grab extras....
You of course pay with cash from Henry’s wallet.

Receipt snapped. Bag packed. You make a quick stop for caffeine pills and a small first aid kit...because knowing your luck, you’ll need both...

Your phone buzzes again just as you’re stepping out of the store, bag of supplies weighing comfortably in your hand. You swipe the screen:

[Jayden]
"Yo. You are not gonna BELIEVE this- I finally found a real animatronic to work on back here. No more cheap fiberglass props or broken arcade junk. It's legit. Big one, too. Looks rough but it's salvageable. Henry's gonna flip when we get this thing cleaned up."

You slow your pace for half a second, eyes narrowing, pulse spiking with grim recognition.

A real animatronic.
Big one.
Looks rough.
Salvageable.

Springtrap.

You chew the inside of your cheek, thumb hovering over your keyboard as you picture Jayden, probably poking around Parts & Service right now with no clue what exactly he's stumbled upon...

Your fingers tap fast:

[You]
"DO NOT mess with it until I get there. Seriously. Don’t touch the inside. Trust me."

A beat later:

[Jayden]
"Relax, nerd. I'm not cracking it open yet. Just prepping the workspace. Bring your tools— this one's gonna need everything."

You shove your phone back into your pocket, grip tightening faintly around the supply bag. The street ahead twists toward the warehouse-like outline of Fazbear’s Fright.

You open the door... stepping in. And almost directly into someone.

Tall, broad-shouldered, hoodie zipped halfway over a faded horror movie tee, athletic build hard to miss. His short, dark hair’s messy from work, grease smudged along his knuckles, and the faintest grin curls his lips as he spots you.

“There you are.” His eyes flick over your tool bag, then land on your face, bright with that cocky, horror-loving spark. “Heard you were the tech wizard Henry vouched for. Good timing. You are gonna love this! real metal, real mechanics, not some foam mascot suit. Finally.”

You arch a brow, stepping closer, voice low but sharp with hidden meaning. “Trust me, Jayden. You’ve got no idea how real it is.”

He chuckles, oblivious, tossing the stress ball once more before tucking it in his pocket. “C’mon, nerd. Let me show you the big guy...thing’s ugly as hell but it’s sturdy under all that grime. Perfect salvage project.”

He shoulders open the door, leading you inside, unaware of exactly what he’s calling salvageable.

The scent of rust, rot, and faint heat curls in the room.. and there he is slumped against the wall. Looking inactive. Springtrap.

Jayden strides in first, boots squeaking faintly against the cracked tile as he gestures toward the figure slumped in the corner like some discarded relic.

even inactive, there’s a presence to him. The ruined, rust-rimmed jaw slack. The warped metal skeleton peeking through in patches. His glassy, dead eyes dull in the dim light… yet somehow watching.

Your grip on the supply bag tightens.

Jayden keeps going, completely oblivious, crouching near the animatronic with the easy confidence of someone who doesn't yet know theres a threat. "Someone's shoved all these fake guts all in it, i was gonna rip it out, but this makes him look all like those old rumours. You know the ones . Saying that all the bodies of those dead kids were stuffed in the animatronics. Anyway, patch him up but keep as much of it looking grotty as possible. I want his authentic horrific form as preserved as possible"

Your jaw clenches, pulse ticking sharp in your throat as you move beside Jayden, eyes dragging over the slumped form of Springtrap.

Fake guts. Right.

You know damn well what's rotting under those seams isn't some prop department stunt.

Springtrap’s jaw hangs ajar, warped foam teeth jagged and uneven, patches of dried, dark blood stains still clinging to the creases where synthetic fur meets rusted frame. His chest cavity barely held together by frayed fabric and failing springlock bolts, bulges with tangled wires, coiled tubing, and what Jayden naively labeled “fake guts.”

You lean down, voice low but even, carefully measured.

“Don’t rip anything out yet.”

Jayden quirks a brow, grinning, entirely unaware of how close to death...or worse...he's been brushing. “Relax, I wasn’t gonna dissect the guy before you got your expert eyes on him. Just saying, place could use the PR. Creepy, crime-scene-chic animatronic? Big crowds. Free headlines.”

Your gaze sharpens slightly, eyes narrowing on Springtrap’s unmoving shell. But even slumped, he listens. You can feel it, faint but tangible ...the lingering weight of attention simmering under rust and decay. The same warped amusement from last night hiding behind dull, glassy eyes.... the eyes that are now looking directly at you.

You straighten, dropping your supply bag with a muted thud beside the workbench.

“I’ll patch him up.” You reply smoothly, fingers brushing the reinforced tension springs, synthetic fabric patches, bolts, thread. “But we’re keeping the real guts where they belong.”

Jayden just laughs under his breath, entirely mistaking your meaning. “See? That’s the spirit. Love the enthusiasm.”

The door to the building opens again..

Jayden chuckles "come on nerd, thats your security guard for the night, best you two get buddy buddy"

You glance toward the entrance just as a figure steps inside...tall, lean, and moving with a slow, cautious grace that doesn’t quite match the jittery tension of the place.

His hoodie is pulled up high, shadowing most of his face, but there’s something unsettling in the way the fabric clings to his gaunt darkened skin.. A face mask covers the lower half of his face, hiding the subtle rot creeping at the edges of his jaw and neck. But you’ve been around William enough yesterday to recognise the smell of decay ... regardless of how much soap and lynx body spray he's covered himself in....unmistakable rot, the same cloying undertone that clung to William's suit when you were practically nose-to-fur with him last night.

You feel your pulse pick up, the weight of recognition settling cold in your gut.

Jayden just chuckles again, oblivious to the silent alarm ringing inside you. “Mike Schmidt,” he says with a shrug. “Weird guy, huh? Smells like he hasn’t seen sunlight in years.”

You don’t reply immediately. Instead, your eyes lock on the new guard, scanning every twitch, every flicker beneath that hood, every cautious step he takes toward you.

Jayden chuckles "right ill leave you two to it see you both in the morning." He walks past and out.

The door clicks shut behind Jayden, his footsteps fading down the hall, leaving just you, the quiet hum of faulty overhead lights, Springtrap's looming, silent form...and him.

Mike, if that’s even the name we’re sticking with, stands just inside the room, still as a shadow... You let the silence stretch, your stare locked on him, watching the faint rise and fall of his chest, the way his gloved fingers flex at his sides like he's bracing for… something.

Finally, his eyes lift. Dark, rimmed in exhaustion.. with almost bright silvery pupils...Familiar in the worst kind of way.

You speak first, voice low. “You gonna tell me your real name, or are we both playing pretend tonight?”

His eyes narrow faintly, tension flickering across his face, but he doesn’t drop the act. His voice, rough but steady, slips beneath the mask. “Mike works for now.”

You glance sidelong at Springtrap...the suit still slumped, unmoving, but you know damn well he’s listening to every word exchanged.

“Right.” the faintest smirk curling at the corner of your lips despite the tight coil of nerves in your gut. “Well, Mike, welcome to Fazbear’s Fright. Where nothing stays dead, and everyone’s got skeletons stuffed in literal closets.”

His stare lingers, quiet acknowledgment passing between you both, the unspoken truth hanging heavy in the air.

"You should get out of this place" Mike says

It isn’t advice.

It’s a warning.

A quiet, weary, too-familiar bitterness buried behind the rasp of his voice, like someone who's been down this road before...

You glance toward Springtrap again, the suit slumped, but that presence...the one that never really leaves...lingers like static at the edge of your awareness. His rot, his hunger for survival, the impossible weight of whatever remnant is binding him together…

And now Mike, standing here with silvery eyes, decay hidden beneath cheap fabric, practically dripping with the same buried history.

You shift your stance, crossing your arms loosely, voice low but steady. "Funny," you murmur, "considering you signed up for the night shift in the belly of the beast. Planning your exit already?"

His jaw tenses beneath the mask. There’s no humor behind his eyes. Only quiet resolve. Regret.

"I’m not leaving," he says simply, voice low. "But you should."

You chuckle "Mike, i need this job. Im not going anywhere"

"You don’t know what this place does to people. To—" He cuts himself off, eyes flicking toward Springtrap, a muscle in his jaw ticking.
"You don’t want to end up part of this."

You tilt your head slightly, letting your gaze harden, your own exhaustion buried under stubborn resolve. "I’ve already seen enough to know walking away isn’t an option. So unless you’ve got a secret exit no one’s mentioned, we’re both stuck with this circus."

That gets a shudder from him.

"You’ve got until the end of the week," he finally says, voice quiet but sure. "After that, no one's walking away."

You nod once, slow, understanding the weight behind the words.

"End of the week," you echo, turning toward your supply bag. And towards Springtrap.

Springtrap remains still… but the faintest flicker of amusement simmers at the corner of his ruined jaw.

Mike sighs "at least work on something where i can keep an eye on you.. in case someone attacks you"

You meet Mike’s gaze, the quiet seriousness in his tone underscoring the fragile truce between you. “Fair enough,” you say, unclipping a coil of reinforced tension springs from your bag.

"If anything happens, if Anything starts... walking around... come to my office. Dont dawdle" he adds. "If you're not leaving im at least not having your death on my hands...Don’t make me regret it,” he warns softly, voice rough. Then, almost reluctantly, he pulls his hood tighter around his face and steps in the direction of the security office...

You watch him go, the faint scrape of his boots against tile fading down the hall. His words linger, heavy with quiet finality, the weight of someone who's already lost more than they care to admit, and expects to lose more.

You exhale slowly, tension still curled tight in your chest, before turning back to the slumped form of Springtrap.

The ruined rabbit suit leans like a corpse in a chair, head tilted unnaturally, slack jaw half-open in something between a grin and a warning. His eyes... glassy, unblinking ... fix on you the moment you're alone again.

You mutter under your breath, "Enjoy the show?" as you unpack your tools.

"Very much so..." is his quiet reply....

You freeze for just a second, breath catching in your throat.
The lazy rasp of his voice slithers through the quiet like it never left, like he'd never been truly off at all.

Your eyes flick toward him, meeting that familiar, half-lidded stare. His jaw shifts with the faintest creak, the ruined grin settling comfortably back into place. Like a snake warming itself on a rock.

"Verrrrry much so..." he hums, low, dragging the syllables out as though savoring the tension lingering in the room. "I do love watching the family reunion drama unfold."

You narrow your eyes, steadying your grip on the tension springs. "So you were just… pretending? Sitting there, playing dead?"

His shoulders twitch faintly in something resembling a shrug, the worn fabric groaning with the motion. "Mmm. Sometimes it pays to listen. To let people think you're just… scrap. They talk more when they think you can’t hear them. Though i didn't think my son would so willingly become what i have..."

Your stomach knots at that last line, fingers tightening around the coil of tension springs, metal cool and solid beneath your grip.

His son.

You’d suspected ... the decaying skin, the rotting edges hidden under fabric, the voice frayed like old wire, but hearing him say it aloud sends a different kind of chill crawling up your spine.

Springtrap's head tilts slightly, the faintest metallic rasp following the motion. His glassy, ruined eyes narrow, sharp with amusement and something darker. "Funny thing about blood," he drawls, voice curling at the edges like smoke. "No matter how much you run from it… it finds you again. Even he can’t help himself."

You exhale slowly, keeping your expression cool despite the creeping unease settling in. "You sound awfully proud for a corpse rusting in the corner."

His jaw creaks with a wider grin, threads of decayed synthetic fabric stretching at the seams. "Pride doesn’t enter into it, darling. Just inevitability."
He leans forward an inch, the faint clatter of loose bolts punctuating the motion. "We all rot eventually. The only difference is whether you stand back up when you're through... hmm but where could he have gotten that much remnant....."

Your gaze flicks toward your tools, tension springs, fabric patches, sewing needle glinting faintly in the low light. The sharp, practical weight of reality grounding you against the haze of his words.

"Sit still," you say flatly, reaching for the synthetic fabric. "You might like the rot, but I’m not having you fall apart on my shift."

settles back against the wall, rusted limbs creaking as he obliges. "As you wish," he murmurs, the grin never leaving his face. "Patch me up, little mechanic. And you will get your prize... after we were so rudely interrupted yesterday"

You keep your hands steady, threading the needle with care, but his words claw under your skin more than you'd like to admit.

Your prize.

The memory of last night creeps back in...the quiet words, the way he watched you like you were already his, the rotten, magnetic pull he exudes even beneath layers of rust, synthetic fur, and ancient blood. You told yourself it was manipulation, part of his game...just a predator sizing up the next fool to get too close.

But part of you knows better.

Part of you remembers how close you leaned in, how his voice whispered to you like you meant something, how the hollow hum of the building seemed to fade when it was just you and him in that broken-down corner of Fazbear’s Fright.

You force the needle through the fabric, stitching a patch over the frayed tear along his shoulder, fingers brushing ruined fur and corroded endoskeleton. The material is cold beneath your hands, but the faintest warmth pulses beneath it now... faint, but there.

"Still planning to collect me like some broken part?" you ask, voice low, keeping your eyes fixed on the stitches.

Springtrap chuckles, the sound rough and lazy, like barbed wire curling through honey. "Collect? No, no… keep. You don’t collect what’s yours. You hold on, and you make sure they never have reason to wander far."
His ruined hand flexes faintly, claws curling against the floor. "And you, little mechanic, you wander so close. You always will."

You don’t flinch, but your fingers slow for just a second, the thread pulled taut between stitches. His words coil in the air between you, thick with intent. Possessive. Certain.

And damn him — part of you doesn’t hate the sound of it.

The building hums faintly, distant crackling of old fluorescent lights and the groan of weather-worn steel filling the silence as you work. You finish reinforcing the seam along his shoulder, fabric pulled tight, edges aligned cleanly...

You brush through the two furs, dislodging blood and decay as you blend and hide the seam.

You finally lift your gaze, meeting those dull, cracked lenses that still shimmer faintly with sick amusement… and something darker.

“You’re making a lot of assumptions,” you murmur, setting the needle down, fingers still lingering near the patchwork repairs. "usually the things i fix aren't tempted to follow me home"

His grin widens ruined teeth glinting faintly in the low light. “Mmm… I don’t follow. I stay exactly where I choose.” His voice dips, rough velvet scraping the edges. “But you… you’ve got that shine, sweetheart.... drawing me in"

You feel the chill of his words sink just beneath your skin, curling low in your chest...dangerous, threaded with something dark and obsessive, but it hums with the same pull that’s kept you here longer than you should’ve stayed. That made you come back to him...

Your hand moves to his cheek, fingertips brushing the rough, matted fur, still damp in places with old rot and darker stains you try not to think about. His frame shifts subtly upon your touch, metal creaking, the warmth beneath the synthetic fabric rising like an engine waking slow.

“Drawing you in,” you echo, voice quiet but steady, eyes never leaving his. “You make it sound like I’ve got a choice in that.”

His ruined jaw tilts faintly, crooked grin stretching wider, amusement sharpening like glass edges. “Oh, but you do,” he rasps. “That’s the fun part. You can stitch me back together, clean me up, pretend I’m just another project... but you'll choose to stay. And when you do…” His clawed hand flexes again, scraping faintly against the cracked tile. “…That’s when I keep you.”

You chuckle softly, the sound low and almost affectionate as your fingers trail gently over the rough, matted fur on his face. Despite the decay and rot...

Springtrap leans into the motion, the faintest shudder of pleasure vibrating through the rusted frame. His voice drops to a murmur, rough but earnest. “I can feel it all, you know. The suit... it’s not just metal and fur. It’s me. Every scrape, every tear, every worn patch... it’s like skin, like a second flesh.”

His cracked lenses lock onto yours, shimmering faintly in the dim light, hand gently touching your wrist...

You smile.. gently leaning forward and kissing the end of his decaying snout...

Springtrap’s cracked jaw twitches, an almost imperceptible shudder running through the rusted frame as your lips brush the end of his decaying snout. His glassy eyes widen just a fraction, the familiar grin faltering for a heartbeat before returning...darker, more possessive.

“Bold,” he rasps, voice thick with something almost like approval, low and gravelly. “Not many dare to get that close… Not many dare to touch me like that.”

His fingers twitch, curling tighter around your wrist... “You’re playing with fire, sweetheart. But I like that.”

Then, settling back into your work, gently pulling your wrist free, you begin to patch up his head carefully. Needle and thread glide through synthetic fur, blending fabric patches to cover the deepest tears. Your hands move with unpracticed hesitation, yet every stitch feels like a small promise...

Beneath the frayed fur, you gently pry open the warped metal panels along his jaw, exposing tangled, rusted wires and stiffened hinges. Your fingers work methodically, twisting screws, replacing brittle cables with fresh wiring from your bag. Hinges creak and groan as you oil and adjust them, coaxing the stiff jaw to finally move smoothly.

Several times though your fingers brush his actual face beneath the animatronic head... his skin cold and leathery, the warmth must be from a damaged servo or overheating motor... but doesn’t explain the way he leans subtly into each brush of your hand. His glassy eyes stay fixed on you, half-lidded with sick amusement and unmistakable possessiveness... each time you touch him though he groans slightly, not in pain though...Something darker. Pleased, indulgent, like every careful touch feeds some obsessive hunger that coils beneath his ruined exterior.

“Mmm… you’ve got delicate hands for someone playing with monsters,” His jaw creaks open, smoother now thanks to your work, revealing his rotting, uneven yellowed teeth beneath the fabric snout. “Careful, sweetheart… keep touching me like that, and I might forget I’m supposed to behave.”

You roll your eyes faintly, but your pulse betrays you, hammering beneath your skin as you finish threading the final stitches along his jawline. His head tilts into your touch when you brush loose threads away, the rotten fur blending seamlessly now with your patchwork repairs.

“You’re a terrible patient,” you murmur, thumb grazing along the side of his worn cheek. “But at least now you won’t fall apart mid-sentence.”

Springtrap chuckles low, sharp and lingering. “Falling apart isn’t the concern,” he hums, claws tapping faintly against the tile. “But falling for you…? Well... we both know… and you're not running away, little mechanic.”

Distant through the building Mike’s voice echoes "I thought you said youd stay where the cameras can see you",

Springtrap’s grin curls wider at the sound of Mike’s voice cutting through the hollow building, that low, distorted amusement humming in his ruined chest.

“Mmm… jealous already,” he purrs under his breath, the words meant only for you. “Poor boy’s so sure I’ll snap you in half… when really, I’m far more invested in keeping you whole.”

You stifle the rush of heat curling under your skin, brushing your thumb once more along the edge of his jaw before pulling your hand back, slow, measured, ignoring how your pulse refuses to settle.

With practiced calm, you raise your voice enough to carry. “Relax, Mike,” you call out, turning slightly toward the darkened hallway. “I’m coming to fix the cameras now"

You spot the new cameras that had been delivered... well not exactly new.. but certainly better than the non-functional ones that are currently there.. these ones can even play audio from the office .. probably to scare off teenagers hooking up in the maze..

Springtrap’s gaze flicks toward the stack of weathered, replacement cameras, his expression twisting into something unreadable for the briefest second.. interest? Amusement? Contempt?...before that familiar, feral grin slithers back into place.

“Ah… the eyes of the building finally waking up,” he murmurs, voice curling like smoke as he leans back against the wall, watching your every move. “Little late for surveillance, don’t you think? I already know all your corners... all your vents too."

You don’t humor him with a reply, focusing instead on gathering the replacement cameras...old, but serviceable, and the added audio function was a bonus. Though you're sure the intent behind that feature had far less to do with safety and far more to do with corporate PR. Fazbear’s Fright was more urban legend attraction than security-conscious establishment, after all.

Still, functioning cameras meant eyes everywhere. You could hear Mike’s faint sigh of relief from the hall as you lifted the box, signaling your approach.

“Be a good boy for me William,” you mutter to Springtrap under your breath, shooting him a warning glance as you shoulder your tools. “If I come back to find pieces of you dragging themselves around unsupervised, I will weld your jaw shut.”

Springtrap chuckles low, ruined teeth glinting faintly beneath the repaired seams of his snout. “Tempting offer… but I behave so much better when you’re watching.”

You shake your head, biting back the amused exhale threatening to escape as you turn away, the cameras balanced carefully in your arms. His eyes stay fixed on you until you turn the corner...

The halls stretch quiet and cold as you make your way toward the security office, only the soft whine of old lights and the faint buzz of failing wiring filling the space. You can still feel his words clinging to your skin like smoke.

Mike’s standing at the office doorway when you arrive, arms crossed, expression tight, eyes flicking past you, scanning the empty hall. His gaze lingers, searching, as if expecting Springtrap’s towering form to come skulking after you. Or expecting you to be bleeding out...

“Everything’s… under control,” you say simply, setting the cameras down beside the old desk, your voice threaded with practiced calm. “He’s staying put.”

Mike doesn’t look convinced, tension lining his jaw. “Those things never stay put,” he mutters, watching you as you start unpacking tools. His eyes track the faint smudge of rust near your wrist, evidence of how close you were working earlier. His expression darkens slightly, voice dropping lower. “You shouldn’t get close to him. You dont know what he is, who he is.. what he's done"

Your fingers pause briefly over a coil of wires, before you force the steady rhythm of your work to resume. “Yeah,” you murmur, not meeting his eyes. “I know exactly what he is.”

Mike's jaw tightens, his eyes narrowing like he’s about to argue...but then he stops, really looking at you. At the subtle flush still clinging to your skin, the faint tremor beneath your carefully measured calm, the rust smudges along your fingers that didn’t come from distant repairs.

His shoulders sag slightly, frustration and worry warring behind his eyes. “…You don’t,” he says quietly, not accusing , almost pleading. “You think you do, but you… you don’t. He’s not like the rest of them, not like Liz. He’s worse.”
Now you pay attention to him, he's got a subtle British accent too.. though not quite as strong as his father's... but still there...

You open the first camera casing with a sharp click, forcing your voice level. “He’s not hiding it, Mike.” You finally glance up, eyes meeting his. “He wants me to know. Every word, every look… he's not subtle.” once you check the wires are intact you splice the ones ready to hook it to the wall , and close the casing again. Moving onto the next.

Mike watches you in heavy silence, the sharp pop of wires and casing filling the space between you. His jaw works like he wants to argue, but the words won’t come. Instead, his expression shifts ... frustration sinking into something colder, wearier… familiar resignation etched across his features.

“That’s exactly what worries me,” he mutters finally, voice low, that faint British lilt more noticeable now that you’re paying attention. “He wants you to know, because that’s how he gets people. He wriggles into their heads, lures them away..."

For a beat, your eyes lift , scanning his face, the weight of exhaustion settled rotting in the lines around his face mask, the dark circles under his eyes.. or lack thereof that no amount of caffeine covers. He’s lived this too long… his version of it, at least.

“I’m not people,” you say softly, an edge to your words you don’t fully hide.

Mike lets out a rough, humorless laugh, pinching whats left of the bridge of his nose. “No, you’re worse,” he bites, but there’s no real heat behind it ... just fear buried beneath the sarcasm. His gaze sharpens. “You’re stubborn. You think stitching him together buys you leverage, but it doesn’t. You patch him up… and he just waits. Waits ‘til you’re tangled enough you don’t walk away.”

The third camera clicks open under your hands, tools working on muscle memory now. “Maybe,” you admit, voice low, threading the wires cleanly. " I can do the three closest to him if it will reassure you.. they weren't working yesterday"

Mike exhales sharply, scrubbing a hand down his face, his glove creaking faintly with the motion... cracked, faded, as worn down as the man inside it. His gaze lingers on you, flicking briefly to the monitor, to the faint outline amongst the static.. of Springtrap’s silhouette looming in the doorway to parts and service...

“Yeah,” Mike mutters finally, jaw tight but voice quieter, more resigned. “Start with the ones near him. He'll probably play dead until he’s bored… if we’re lucky, boredom doesn’t hit tonight.”

You nod once, efficient, gathering the cameras and coiled wires with steady hands.

Mike steps aside to let you pass, but as you move toward the door, his hand brushes your wrist, stopping you for half a second. His eyes meet yours, unflinching now, voice low and stripped of bravado. "Im serious. Dont get involved with this more than you have.. and get out before Saturday..."

His hand falls away, and you slip back into the hallway, tools in hand.

The building groans faintly with the hum of old ventilation systems and flickering fluorescents overhead.

Springtrap’s cracked form remains in the doorway, shadows curling around his rusted frame like a cloak. His glassy eyes follow you with unblinking focus as you prepare the cameras, every movement of yours recorded in that vacant, yet unnervingly alive stare.

“I’m being a good boy,” he murmurs, voice dripping with false innocence and a hint of that old, feral edge. “Staying put… just like you asked.”

You pause for a moment, heart ticking faster despite yourself. With a gentle smile, you lean up to reach him...pressing a quick, soft kiss to the decayed snout..

The contact seems to send a faint shiver through him, a rare flicker of something almost… tender.

Turning back to your work, you begin the methodical replacing ...clipping the wires, securing the casings, aiming each lens toward the corridors, the vents, the darkened corners where shadows might stir. The new cameras hum faintly as they power up, their mechanical eyes now watching. And Michael watching through them..

Springtrap stays rooted, a silent sentinel in the doorway, watching every move with that unsettling mix of amusement and obsession, waiting for whatever comes next. He follows you when you move to the next room along the maze.. watching you...

When you glance over your shoulder, his form is just there, half in shadow, unmoving yet undeniably present. His eyes glint faintly in the low light, a predator’s patience wrapped in ruin and rust.

“You don’t need to watch so closely, William,” you murmur, voice low but steady. “I’m not going anywhere.”

"I enjoy watching you work..." His cracked jaw shifts slightly as he steps forward, the faint scrape of metal-on-floor punctuating the words.

You don’t turn, but your fingers pause over the wires, the weight of his gaze settling like a stone in your chest. It’s impossible to tell if there’s a hint of something softer buried beneath his obsession, or if it’s all just another layer of the monster he is... he steps closer and closer as you get the camera working.. you know Michael is watching from the red light powering up on the camera...

Before you can respond, a heavy hand...cold yet impossibly warm beneath the layers of rot and machinery...reaches around your waist. His fingers grip firmly, pulling you back against his hulking frame. You feel the unnatural weight of his form pressing close, the grinding of rusted joints barely audible over the quiet hum of the newly installed camera’s red power light blinking steadily nearby. Michael’s eyes are watching through that lens, but you are lost in the suffocating closeness of Springtrap’s presence...

His face drops to your neck, the decayed snout brushing against your skin, he hums... The faint scent of oil, rot, blood and rust fills your senses. You freeze, heart pounding...a strange cocktail of fear, fascination, and something darker twisting deep in your chest.

The weight of his obsession presses down, yet beneath it all, there’s a strange tenderness.

“I could keep you here forever,” he rasps into your skin, voice thick with need and something almost desperate. “Not just the body, but the soul, the part you hide even from yourself.”

Your hands, steady just moments ago, tremble slightly as you reach up, fingers brushing against his cheek, feeling the texture of his fur beneath your touch. You don’t pull away... he opens the suit's mouth so you can reach in.. to touch his real face...

Your hand lingers on his fur, trembling faintly as the cracked, mechanical jaw shifts open with a low creak, revealing the space beneath...the hollow cavity between rotting fur, twisted metal, and the grotesque remnants of the man buried inside the machine.

You've touched him before...the ruined flesh beneath the facade...the leathery, preserved skin stretched over what’s left of his face. You know what to expect..

But it never stops being intimate.

Your fingertips brush over the sharp ridge of his cheekbone, the leathery skin firm beneath your touch. His breath...mechanically forced but disturbingly warm...fans across your throat as he stays there, unmoving, indulging in every ounce of closeness like it feeds something buried deep inside his monstrous shell.

His ruined hand at your waist flexes slightly, claws grazing the fabric of your shirt with unsettling precision, as if he’s reminding both of you how easily the dynamic could shift from tenderness to violence. But for now…he holds back.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” you murmur, voice steady despite the storm curling low in your chest. “You can’t keep what doesn’t belong to you.”

Springtrap hums, the sound low, indulgent, vibrating faintly against your skin as he nuzzles impossibly closer. “Sweetheart,” he drawls, voice rasped with ruin, “You fixed me… you stitched your little promises into every seam.... you're mine..."

Your hand falls away from the preserved skin beneath the suit’s monstrous snout, fingers brushing once more across the jagged line where flesh meets decaying fur. It’s terrifying how easily that touch feels practiced now.

“I need to fix the rest of the cameras,” you murmur finally, tilting your head just enough to meet the dim, predatory gleam of his half-lidded eyes. “Unless you want Jayden or Mike breathing down my neck instead of you.”

Springtrap’s claws flex again, the faintest suggestion of resistance rippling through his frame as his grip tightens for a fraction of a second—possessive, unwilling. You can feel the war behind those glassy eyes....the want to keep you pinned here, tangled in his ruin, simmering beneath the surface like an old, forgotten fire stoking itself back to life.

But eventually… he relents.

The hand at your waist loosens, sliding away with deliberate slowness. His head tilts slightly, the fractured jaw creaking closed again, his feral grin settling back into place like it never left.

“Mmm… for now, little mechanic,” he hums, voice laced with reluctant amusement... “But I’ll be watching.”

You slip from his grasp, pulse still pounding traitorously beneath your skin, turning back to your work. The camera above hums faintly.... you left the rest of the cameras in the security office.... you have to face Michael after just doing that with his father....,

Your heart hasn't quite steadied by the time you make your way back down the hall, each footstep echoing faintly against the cold, grimy tiles beneath you. The building hums with that familiar, oppressive quiet ... broken wires buzzing faintly overhead, rusted ventilation coughing low and sickly through the walls.

Springtrap lingers behind you, his steps heavy but measured, the predator’s patience back in full force as he lets you lead, his eyes sinking into your back like weights you can’t shake off. His presence clings to your skin ... the warmth of his breath still ghosting along your throat, the phantom press of claws at your waist.

And worse than the lingering touch is the memory of what waits around the corner.

Michael.

The glow of the security office’s monitors cuts weakly through the gloom as you approach, red indicator lights flickering faintly.. you walk past the window... he doesn’t even look up at you...

hunched over the desk, hands braced on either side of the monitor as his eyes track the camera feed..

You hesitate at the door, the chill of the hallway suddenly less sharp than the weight of the conversation that’s coming. You’ve faced worse things than Michael’s disappointment.. your own family kicking you out... all the jobs that declined you ..

Hes watching every frame of what just happened, every moment... watching you, locked close in Springtrap’s hold, his decaying frame curling over you like some grotesque, twisted shelter.

You step inside, the faint creak of the floor betraying your entrance. He doesn’t say anything at first, his jaw rigid, that familiar, quiet fury simmering beneath his expression. The camera footage loops back to static as the feed ends, but the silence that follows is heavier than static ever could be.

“You really let him…” Michael’s voice trails off, brittle at the edges, his accent sharper now that his restraint’s cracking. His eyes flick to you... to your throat, your waist, the faint marks of dirt against skin, that tell more story than words could. His mouth twists into something caught between frustration, exhaustion, and bitter understanding.

When he looks back at the monitors...

that’s when he sees him.

Springtrap.

Looming just beyond the security office window, half-shadowed by the flickering hallway light, pressed almost unnaturally close to the glass. His rotted frame is tilted forward, head cocked at an eerie angle, the cracked remnants of his grin stretched wide with something far too knowing...too deliberate...as his silvery glass eyes lock directly onto Michael.

Michael startles, just a fraction.. the kind of flinch honed after too many nights pacing the edge of his own breaking point. His hand jerks reflexively toward the desk drawer where he stores a stun baton...

The fractured jaw flexes with a low creak, the grotesque suggestion of a smirk curling in the ruined wires and fur. His hand lifts, slow, metal clawed fingers tapping lightly once… twice… against the glass, the faint metallic clink slicing through the heavy quiet of the room.

“He likes games,” you say quietly, watching the way Michael’s jaw clenches tighter, his every muscle rigid with restraint. “He likes reminding you how close he always is.”

You know William can hear you because he looks at you ...

Michael exhales slowly through his nose, biting back every venom-laced word bubbling to the surface. His voice is low, raw when he finally speaks. "I am not in anywhere near the mindset to dissect this fucked up relationship you have with my father.."

Outside the glass, Springtrap’s grin holds, the ruined remnants of his face unnervingly still save for the faintest twitch of metal along his jaw. His silvery eyes flick between you and Michael with slow, creeping amusement...as if savoring every moment...

You don’t shy away from Springtrap’s stare this time. Your voice remains level, quiet, threading through the space like steel wire hidden beneath calm.

“I never asked you to dissect anything, Mike.” Your fingers brush lightly over the tools near the console, steady despite the riot of tension curling between your ribs.

Michael lets out a rough, humorless sound...something between a scoff and a sigh, like the exhaustion’s too deep to untangle from the fury anymore. “You don’t understand what he’s done.” His eyes darken. “But you will.”

You glance once more to the window...William unmoving, but that knowing grin deepens ever so slightly.

The clock flicks over to 2am ...

"I have the rest of the cameras to replace.. ill be back." You state, grabbing the rest of the replacement cameras.

Michael doesn’t argue this time. He just watches you, jaw tight, eyes dark with the quiet resignation...

“You should’ve walked away when you still could,” he mutters, but there’s no bite left in the words. Only quiet grief dressed as warning.

You carry the replacement cameras...As you move toward the door, you glance one final time toward the window.

Springtrap’s still there, looming in the glass like a grotesque monument, his eyes locking onto yours with predatory ease. But there’s patience there too. A dangerous, simmering patience..

You have to walk past him to get back out into the attraction.. Springtrap doesn't move as you step past him. He just watches. Head tilted in that fractured, unnatural way, one ear hanging by stubborn threads, his grin carved deep across the ruin of his snout. Those glassy, lifeless eyes track your every step with unnerving precision.

The faint scrape of his metal feet follows as you pass, a quiet reminder that patience does not equal absence. You don't falter. Your boots click against the floor, steady despite the electric tension bristling between your shoulder blades.

"You said you’d stay put," you murmur under your breath as you pass, gaze forward, not giving him the satisfaction of hesitation.

A low hum rattles out of his ruined chest, almost a chuckle but not quite. "I was staying put," he rasps, voice curling with layered amusement. "The rules changed the second you came back to me... im not letting him take you."

The faint scrape of his feet echoes again, deliberate, pacing just far enough behind to let you pretend you have space—though you both know better.

You round the corner into the next stretch of the maze, concrete walls narrowing, fluorescent lights sputtering above like they’re struggling to hold on. The old air tastes of dust, rust, and faint hints of copper...

Springtrap’s steps slow as you stop by the next broken camera mount.. you try to reach up to it.. but whatever dumbass designed this building put it up on the ceiling...Your fingers brush uselessly at the edge of the broken camera housing, frustration prickling in your chest as you stretch and hop up... barely touching the casing.

Behind you, the soft metallic creak of Springtrap’s frame stills, his ruined silhouette casting a jagged shadow along the wall. You don’t have to look to know he’s watching...the weight of his stare anchors itself between your shoulder blades, steady, expectant.

"Need help, love?" His voice rumbles low, that sick amusement coiling through the words, brushing close to mockery but softened by something disturbingly fond. The faint scrape of his fingers grazing the wall echoes faintly as he leans in just a hair.

You hesitate for half a second, teeth pressing into your cheek in thought. Every part of you screams not to let him any closer, but practicality… and exhaustion… argue louder. The sooner you finish this, the sooner you’re out of reach....for tonight, at least.

Your shoulders stay tense as you tilt your head, finally glancing at him. The mangled remnants of his human face twitch with a faint, grotesque approximation of a smile, those glassy animatronic eyes fixed entirely on you.

“Don’t drop me,” you warn flatly, voice steady despite the pulse beating a little too fast beneath your skin.

Springtrap chuckles, the sound rattling like loose bolts in a corpse’s ribcage. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

Before you can protest further, his ruined hands curl around your waist, lifting you with unsettling ease, his claws careful but undeniably present against your sides. You’re weightless for a beat, pressed closer to the broken ceiling mount, his hulking frame steady beneath you.

Your boots dangle a foot off the floor, the cold metal of his claws bracketing your waist with surprising precision.. steady, deliberate, far too practiced for comfort. The air hums with the faint electricity of the lights and cameras, but all you can really feel is the unnerving stillness of Springtrap’s presence wrapped around you.

“You could’ve asked first,” you mutter under your breath, the faintest quiver threading through your voice despite your best efforts to sound unimpressed.

“Where’s the fun in that?” His words rasp close to your ear, mechanical breath brushing warm against your skin, laced with decay, rust, and something maddeningly possessive. His grip tightens a fraction, not enough to bruise....but enough to remind you how little space there truly is between your choices and his hands.

You force your focus to the task, fingers moving over the camera’s casing, clipping wires, adjusting the lens. The hum of the machinery rises as you slot the components into place, the red indicator light flickering to life. Another set of eyes watching the maze, feeding directly back to Michael. Of course he is watching.

The moment the last screw clicks into place, you tap the side of the mount with satisfaction. “You can put me down now.”

He doesn’t..

His fingers stay firmly anchored at your waist, the faint whir of his internal servos accompanying the low, guttural hum that escapes him...a sound laced with amusement, possession, and that unnerving undercurrent of intent. You barely have time to protest before he shifts his grip with unsettling ease, hauling you more securely against his chest like you weigh nothing.

“Put me—” you start, the words half-formed, but he cuts you off with that voice, raw and low enough to drag along your nerves like exposed wire.

“Why waste time? You’ve got work to do… I’m just making sure you get there.” His grin somehow widens, the jagged edges of it impossibly sharp beneath the ruined remnants of fur, glass eyes never leaving your face as he starts forward, heavy footfalls echoing down the concrete corridor.

You brace instinctively, your hands pressing lightly to the battered fur of his chest.. at the metal frame beneath...rusted, cracked, cold in places, disturbingly warm in others where the ruined organic pieces linger beneath the suit, heated by faulty servos struggling in his frame. His hold is steady, inescapable, as he carries you deeper into the building like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

The hum of the next broken camera comes into view overhead. You glance at it, then back at him, brow arched despite the tension twisting under your ribs. “You’re seriously carrying me through this entire repair job?”

Springtrap chuckles again, that awful, splintering rasp scraping along the edges of his voice. “Would you rather I let you climb all over this filthy place alone? Or… would you rather I hold you exactly where I want you?”

The next camera mount looms overhead. He doesn’t hesitate, shifting his grip just enough to lift you higher, positioning you within reach like you’re nothing more than an extension of his own twisted will.

You sigh, reaching for the camera with practiced ease, already feeling his eyes burning into your back. “You’re insufferable.”

His chuckle follows you like a shadow. “I’m yours.”

The unsettling part? You’re not sure which part of that bothers you more...the claim… or how easily you let him carry you without fighting it.

Your fingers work swiftly, clipping wires and securing the camera casing as Springtrap’s weight anchors you in place. It’s strange. his hold is possessive, unyielding, yet somehow...... comforting. You find yourself leaning just a little closer to his rusted frame, the heat radiating from servos beneath that broken shell seeping into your skin like a twisted kind of body warmth.

His silvery eyes watch every move, sharp and predatory, but there’s something softer hidden beneath the ruin. something that makes your pulse quicken in ways you can’t entirely explain.

“You’re awful at subtlety,” you murmur, voice low enough for only him to hear.

A low, rumbling chuckle vibrates through his chest. “I’m not subtle because I don’t want to be. You belong here...with me. Don’t pretend you don’t like it.”

You shift slightly, the metal of his claws pressing gently into your sides. The closeness, the constant contact, sparks a flicker of something almost tender amid the decay. You don’t pull away. Instead, you let your head tilt back just enough to brush your cheek against the corroded metal of his shoulder.

He leans into it, the rasped hum of approval vibrating against your skin.

Maybe you do like it. Maybe you both do.

And as you finish securing the camera, the hum of the machine syncing with the pulse in your veins, you realize that, for tonight at least, you don’t want to fight it.

Before you can even think to pull away, Springtrap’s grip tightens just a fraction, shifting you with deliberate strength. The world tilts...metal against concrete, your back pressing hard into the cold painted wall of the maze.

His face hovers close, fractured and grotesque yet impossibly intimate. The cracked snout inches toward your lips, eyes burning with raw hunger and something that feels dangerously like longing. You catch the faint scent of rust, blood, rot and old oil mixed with something darker, almost like regret.

Then he kisses you.

The first touch is rough...hard foam teeth scraping lightly, his breath cold and ragged against your skin. It’s a clash of softness and ruin, a collision of two things neither meant to fit together but somehow do.

Then he pulls back, opening up the animatronic head and tilting his head so he can fit your face between the jaws..

Your hands find their way to his chest again, clutching the battered fur and cold frame, grounding yourself.

The remains of his rotting lips brush against yours......The rancid taste of rot seeps into your mouth, sharp and sickly sweet, a choking blend of rust, decay, and something like old blood that clings to the back of your tongue. It almost makes you gag...Yet, despite it all, his lips move against yours again, slow and almost tender beneath the ruin. His breath, uneven and damp with the scent of forgotten halls and forgotten pain, fans over your skin. Your lips part to take a breath.. not wanting to smell his rot so close. But as his teeth clash against yours, tongue slick with rot slipping into your mouth.

Your eyes flutter shut, and you pull back instinctively, choking on the acrid, sickly taste flooding your senses. The grotesque contrast between the tender motion and the harsh decay overwhelms you for a moment. You press your hands harder against his chest, searching for solid ground amid the dizzying swirl of desire and revulsion.

Springtrap doesn’t pull away. Instead, his fractured jaw lowers slightly, letting out a rasping breath that’s almost a growl

a sound thick with frustration and need. His glassy eyes darken as he watches you struggle against the assault of his ruined presence, as if the torment of his own monstrous state seeps through the kiss, demanding to be acknowledged.

You swallow hard, forcing your breath back steady, your heart pounding like a warning drum in your chest. The raw hunger in his gaze softens, just for a flicker...Your lips tremble as you lean back in, the scent and taste still lingering like a bitter fog...but this time, you meet him halfway. The kiss is fragile at first, hesitant

Springtrap’s jaw shifts slightly, easing into the contact as if it’s a balm to the torment inside him. His arms tighten around you, the metal and rot pressing you close with a possessive gentleness that feels almost painfully human. The broken animatronic exterior doesn’t hide the desire beneath...

Your fingers trace the jagged edges of his fur, grounding yourself in the moment as his decaying lips move more deliberately, slower this time... not wanting you to gag and pull away again

You brace yourself, every nerve ending sharp with anticipation, the bitter sting of rot still clinging to your tongue. But still...you let him deepen the kiss.

This time, there’s no shock, no startled recoil. You know exactly how foul he tastes...the sharp, rancid tang of old blood, rusted metal, and something worse, something that clings like mildew to forgotten corners of your lungs. It curls in your throat, heavy and sour, but you don’t pull away.

His tongue sliding slick against yours, rot filling your mouth with the taste of old blood and decay, sour yet sickeningly sweet.

his ruined mouth moves slower, more controlled, as though afraid that if he pushes too far, you’ll disappear. His fingers ghost along your sides, careful despite the sharp rusted edges, cradling you like he’s afraid of breaking this fragile, horrifying intimacy.

But the moment fractures.

The sharp metallic clack of a flashlight.. and the two of you are illuminated...

“What the—” Michael’s voice cracks the air, brittle with disbelief and something rawer... disgust, grief, fury tangled into one jagged note. His boots scuff against the floor as he freezes, eyes wide with stunned revulsion as they land on you. On this.

You pull back instinctively, breath ragged, the foul taste still coating your tongue, heat crawling up your neck in mortified waves.

Michael’s face hardens, his jaw flexing, that restrained fury boiling to the surface as he takes in Springtrap’s possessive hold around your waist, the glint of amusement in those lifeless, glassy eyes.

“You’ve gotta be kidding me…” His voice is low, venomous, laced with a deep, tired ache. “You kissed him?” His gaze flicks between you and his father’s rotted frame. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

Springtrap’s jagged grin widens, smug and sharp with victory, his claws flexing ever so slightly at your waist as if staking his claim right in front of Michael’s eyes.

You open your mouth to explain..though what, exactly, you could say to untangle this is beyond you...but he’s already turning away, exhaling a sharp, bitter breath through his nose.

“Finish whatever the hell you’re doing here,” he mutters, voice taut with restrained fury, disgust bleeding through every syllable. “After this shift, you’re coming with me.”

His eyes cut back to you, hard and flat beneath the weight of exhaustion. “You deserve to know exactly what he is. What he’s done. You don’t… understand. But you will.”

William shifts beside you, the faint creak of ruined servos breaking the heavy quiet. His grin lingers like rot in the air, silvery eyes narrowing, gaze fixed entirely on Michael with simmering, mocking amusement.

But Michael doesn’t rise to the bait...not now. His focus stays locked on you, voice low and heavy with something colder than rage...grief, maybe, or the hollow ache of someone forced to watch history threaten to repeat.

“I’ll be at the exit at six. Don’t make me drag you out.”

With that, he turns, flashlight beam slicing down the hallway as his footsteps echo, leaving behind the oppressive tension
...and the lingering sweet taste of decay still coating your lips...

You look back at William ....His gaze slides back to you, head tilting just enough for the damaged suit’s creaking hinges to groan faintly. That look settles in...the unbearable mixture of possession, victory, and an unsettling, simmering fondness.

“Did you hear that?” His voice is a rasp of rusted metal and buried malice, curling low and smug around the words. “Six o’clock. How generous of him... giving me all this time with you.”

You swallow, the acidic aftertaste of rot still clinging to the back of your tongue, heat pooling beneath your skin in ways you don’t entirely want to unpack. His hands remain at your waist, claws loose but unwavering, the quiet reminder that...despite every logical part of your brain...you hadn’t shoved him away.

You should have.

You still don’t.

Springtrap leans in, close enough that the ruined edge of his muzzle brushes your temple, the faintest hum of static and decay radiating off him. "He probably read my notes back at the sister location... remnant doesn't particularly like heat,so i wouldn't be surprised if both he and Henry are working together to set this place ablaze and blame it on faulty wiring..."

Springtrap’s voice dips, softer now, but the undercurrent of unease threads through his words like exposed wire. You feel the faintest tremor beneath the smug exterior—the survival instinct buried under all that rotted bravado. His silvery eyes narrow slightly, the proud, victorious glint momentarily shadowed by calculation… and fear.

“He’s desperate,” William mutters, the rasp curling low near your ear, words almost conspiratorial now. “Too little, too late.."

His fingers at your waist tighten the faintest fraction, a silent giveaway. Despite the decay, the smugness, the grotesque confidence… he's afraid. Not of Michael’s disgust. Not of your revulsion.

Of death. Of finality... after so long trapped here, he's freed only to be faced with potential death.

And suddenly, it’s clearer why his hold lingers, why the unnerving fondness beneath his ruin sharpens into something nearly frantic beneath the surface.

“Remnant’s not foolproof,” he breathes, bitter amusement bleeding into the fear he can’t quite smother. “And I’ve waited far too long to let it all burn away before I’ve gotten what I want.”

"Tell me what remnant is" you push .. trying to get answers...

Springtrap’s silvery eyes flick down for a moment, a brief flash of something unguarded slipping through the ruin. He shifts just enough to meet your gaze, the rasp in his voice dropping an octave, rough like rusted chains sliding over metal.

“Remnant,” he begins, voice low, “is what’s left behind.. pure distilled agony harvested, the souls of the dead anchored in a liquid metal form.. I did experiments on it. On the original animatronics after the spirits posessed them.

Destruction wont destroy me.. but heat, it destabilises remnant, eventually destroying it beyond repair.... but it lingers on pieces too . That's why theres so many scraps of the animatronics here.. to free their souls while condemning mine..."

Springtrap’s words slither through the stale air, laced with the careful, practiced edge of manipulation disguised as confession. His claws shift higher along your ribs, tracing along the line of your side...not aggressive, but undeniably meant to keep your focus pinned on him.

His voice softens, just a notch, dripping with rot and regret, though you can feel the hollowness beneath it like hairline cracks in old concrete. “I never cared about dying… not before.”

His eyes lock onto yours, that fractured, corpse-like face within the springlock headpiece managing something dangerously close to sincerity...too practiced to be pure, but threaded with enough truth to make you falter.

“Not before you,” he repeats, rasp curling at the edges, like barbed wire dressed as silk. “You changed the rules. You… remind me what I stood to lose.”

You swallow, unease prickling the back of your neck. It’s too neat...the way his words coil around your lingering doubt, the way his fractured affection aligns perfectly with his own survival.

And yet… buried beneath it all, there is fear. Real, raw. The fear of losing control. Of burning.

“Help me,” he breathes, thumb tracing a ruined circle against your waist, careful, deliberate. “Keep me alive…Fix me.... I’ve waited too long to crawl my way out of the grave to let Michael or Henry snuff me out now.”

You hesitate.

Because the problem is… part of you wants to believe it...the trembling desperation under all that rotted bravado. You stare into those silvery, shattered eyes...so much pain tangled with cunning, a twisted promise woven into every word he doesn’t say. Your fingers twitch against the cold metal of his frame, heart pounding with a complicated knot of love,pity, fear, and something dangerously close to hope.

Then you gently reach through the hole in his chest, fingers gently brushing against his cold damp flesh
..

"Careful reaching in there... id hate for you to lose a finger" he rasps, voice rough but laced with a rare, teasing warmth. The warning feels genuine, raw...one of the few moments the mask slips.

For a heartbeat, everything stills. The harsh fluorescent buzz, the stale air, the oppressive weight of the ruined place fade, and it’s just you and this impossible, broken creature tangled in something neither of you can fully name.

Then, without mercy, the shrill alarm blares through the halls—6 a.m. sharp.

He sets you back down on your feet. He straightens, his silvery eyes glinting with that unsettling mixture of triumph and something almost… reluctant. “Shall I walk you out to him?” His voice is low, edged with mock politeness but carrying the unmistakable undertone of possession.

You glance toward the maze’s exit, Michael’s shadow already faint in the distance evidently he avoided you, waiting for you...

Your eyes flick to the exit once more, then back to Springtrap. “Walk me out,” you say quietly, voice steady but laced with an edge you don’t quite recognize yet. “But tomorrow... we talk.”

A slow, almost imperceptible smile cracks his ruined face, one that’s part victory, part something more fragile. “tomorrow,” he agrees, voice dropping to a whisper thick with dark promise.

He falls into step beside you, each creak and groan of his body a reminder of the fact you really should repair him ...
Outside, Michael’s figure is rigid, arms crossed, eyes sharp with judgment and pain. The moment you step into the open he stares at you.

Without a word, he turns sharply and strides toward his car parked under the flickering streetlamp outside the building. The headlights cast long shadows that stretch out like warnings across the cracked pavement.

He stops at the driver’s door and looks back over his shoulder, voice clipped but not unkind.
“Get in. We need to talk. And I’m not leaving until I do.”

You hesitate for a heartbeat...then nod..Sliding into the passenger seat, you lock the door behind you...As the door clicks shut, you catch one last glimpse of William’s fractured silhouette fading into the darkness of the building. His ragged grin lingers in your mind

Michael’s hands tighten on the steering wheel, knuckles would be white if they weren't a sickly rotting purple, jaw clenched like he’s bracing for a storm. The car’s engine hums low, the only sound for a long moment as the weight of what’s to come settles between you.

Finally, he exhales, voice rough but steady.
“You don’t understand what he is. What he’s done. I’m going to tell you everything. And after that… you decide who you want to be. ... if you want to go back."

The car lurches forward, tires crunching over the gravel as Michael’s grip tightens around the wheel, his eyes locked straight ahead. The streetlights blur past, casting fleeting shadows inside the cramped space between you.

His voice breaks the silence again, quieter now, but every word sharp and heavy with years of buried pain.
"My father wasn't always like this.. part of it was my fault... what i did to my brother... "
....He swallows hard, jaw twitching. “He killed kids. Innocent kids. Used them. Trapped their souls inside those machines, harvested their remnant, their agony... and twisted what should’ve been a legacy of joy into a nightmare.”

His eyes flick to you, searching, desperate for you to understand. “I’ve spent my life trying to undo what he’s done. Trying to stop him from killing anyone else... like he killed my sister, like he killed all those kids...he'd blame it on me..... but thats no reason for father to have done all this"

He sighs looking at you as he pulls up to a large house. "Here .. ill show you everything i managed to get from the sister location.. where Elizabeth was.."

Michael’s voice fractures for a moment under the weight of his own guilt, eyes shadowed with grief that never seemed to heal. His hands hover over the keys as he parks, the engine clicking softly as it cools.

You follow his gaze to the house ... old, weather-beaten, tucked behind a crooked fence, its porch light flickering like it’s just as worn down as the man sitting beside you. But even though its falling apart it was clearly once a very grand house.

“I’ve got the files. Photos. Notes. His plans, even the failed ones, the fucking scooper” Michael mutters, unbuckling his seatbelt with a mechanical click. “You need to see it all. Not the version he sells you with those lies… the real one.”

His eyes linger on you for a moment longer, softer now beneath the exhaustion. “I know how he is. He gets in your head. Makes you think he’s the only thing that matters.”

You swallow, the phantom trace of rot still clinging to the back of your throat, the memory of William’s words...

The phantom of his decaying touch still lingers at your waist, the sharp edges of his manipulation pressed against the fragile, foolish hope you hadn’t even realized was growing.

You shake it off as best you can and follow Michael toward the house.

The front door creaks open with a groan, revealing an interior faded by time—walls once pristine now cracked and peeling, furniture covered with worn sheets like ghosts of a family that’s long gone.

...

The air smells faintly of dust, old wood, and something colder beneath the surface… remnants of grief clinging to every corner.

Michael leads you down a narrow hallway, stopping at a heavy door reinforced with bolts and rusted hinges. He unlocks it with a worn key, the click echoing like a gunshot in the quiet.

Inside, the room is cluttered but meticulously organized...blueprints pinned to the walls, photographs, stacks of weathered files, and… screens. Dozens of them, showing old security footage, grainy images from underground facilities, snapshots of grotesque animatronics half-dismantled, leaking fluids and metal shards

Vials of glowing shimmering metal.. presumably remnant

His gaze finds yours again, not angry now...but pleading, worn, desperate. “You deserve to know the real William Afton. Not the version whispering sweet poison into your ear.”

He gestures toward the evidence, waiting. Waiting for you to choose.

You are torn between your desire for him and absolute disgust.

Michael tries to lighten the mood just a bit "if its because you have a thing for corpses. I can fill that role"
....

A sharp, startled breath escapes you, the tension fracturing just enough for a bitter, reluctant laugh to slip through the tangled mess of your chest.

Michael’s smirk is faint...more a crack in the exhaustion than real humor...but it’s there, the dry edge of someone too far gone to pretend everything’s okay, but still trying to make it bearable for you.

stepping aside toward the desk cluttered with notes and vials of remnant, “I can fill that role.” He repeats as he gestures vaguely to himself, the purple-gray undertones of his skin, the faint bruising blooming along the edges of his eyes. “Bonus points, I’m only mostly dead.”
He takes off the mask... most of his cheeks have rotted into a forced half smile...

“See?” His voice is rough but steady, self-deprecating in the worst way. “Undead, dysfunctional… I check all the boxes. But at least I’m not going to sweet-talk you into dying for me.”

There’s a bitter honesty to it. The contrast between his broken body and the quiet, fragile concern radiating off him coils tight in your chest. William plays with shadows and whispered promises, but Michael? He lays every scar, every grotesque truth out in the open
...
You dont have a thing for corpse’s do you? You thought you had a crush on robots.... or at least on spring Bonnie .. not William. Not corpses..

maybe it was the clean lines, the synthetic mystery, the separation from human flaws. Machines were supposed to be simple, logical. Safe in their predictability.
You never signed up for the rot beneath the suit, the lingering human ache tangled with rust and wires. You didn’t fall for William Afton, the twisted, decaying remnants of the man. You fell for the ghost of what Spring Bonnie used to be...the impossible, contradictory creature wrapped in mechanical skin, sharp lines and haunting presence. Not the corpse wearing it like a trophy.

At least… that’s what you tell yourself.

..
But then there’s Michael, standing there in the low light, half his face caved to time and death, and yet...real. No silk-wrapped lies. No whispered promises carved in manipulation. Just broken, battered honesty. And somehow, that messes with your head worse than the rest.

Michael leans forward, elbows on the desk, voice cutting through your tangled thoughts. “You don’t have to lie to yourself,” he says, not cruel, just tired. “You like danger. Mystery. You liked him before you knew the rot underneath.”

.....

No .. you do like like him.. Not the safe, clinical, mechanical fascination you thought you had.
Not just the clean lines of animatronics or the mystery of synthetic life.

You like him.
The danger.
The obsession.
The terrifying, all-consuming way he looks at you like you’re the last thread holding his decaying world together.

It’s reckless. Messy. Feral in ways you don’t want to admit aloud. But part of you? Part of you aches for that attention, the kind that feels like possession dressed in fondness. The way he lingered when logic told you to shove him off. The way his fractured affection curled around your ribcage like thorns. Or more fittingly.... like a springlock suit crushing and piercing into your heart...

Michael sees the hesitation in your eyes, the conflict twisting through you, and his jaw clenches...

You sit down and read the files...Michael doesn’t say another word...he just watches, eyes sharp but weary, giving you space to sift through the wreckage of his family’s sins.

The files are worse than you imagined.

Blueprints of animatronics, scribbled with handwritten notes...enhancements, containment methods, chilling diagrams that break down the human body with clinical detachment, all under the guise of “maintenance.” Photos of missing children, their faces worn from time, names scrawled along the edges like ghosts clinging to forgotten paper.

Charlie Emily.. thats the first.. Henry Emily's daughter you presume.. then the rest.. even Elizabeth Afton.. A lab report detailing remnant extraction.. liquid agony, harvested and weaponized. Souls tethered to metal, twisted into something William could use... he did quickly explain it to you himself... so it validates that he was telling you the truth
.

It isn’t clean. It isn’t logical. You should run. But obsession...his and yours...doesn’t follow rules.

Michael leans beside you, his voice rough but steady.
“I stayed. I thought I could fix it. Undo what he did.” His fingers drum faintly against the desk, the rotting skin pulling tight "i tried to rescue Elizabeth from circus baby...but i got hit with the scooper and puppeted around by several merged together animatronics.... I rotted.. died... woke back up in the street like this."

He lifts his shirt up.. the hollowed out cavity in his chest.. ribcage shattered open

You hesitantly approach, curious..

"You can touch.. if you want.." he says...a ghost of humor tangled with resignation. His eyes meet yours, not mocking—just raw

Your eyes trace the hollowed cavity in Michael’s chest, the exposed bone, the ruined, discolored tissue caving in where life should’ve pulsed steady and sure. It’s grotesque… and yet, hauntingly fascinating.

Your fingers hover, trembling faintly before they make contact, brushing over the cool, papery edge of exposed bone, the sickly taut skin surrounding it. His body doesn’t flinch...what’s left of his nerves long eroded...but his eyes sharpen, watching you with that same fragile, desperate intensity his father hides behind rot and bravado.

He feels different than his father..lessYour fingers trail lightly over the jagged lines of Michael’s hollowed chest...where William feels leathery, ancient, all sharp decay and brittle sinew, Michael feels... softer. Fragile in a way that shouldn’t exist in something already dead. His skin holds the cool dampness of a corpse, but beneath that, there’s a faint, strange warmth still lingering, like his body refuses to fully let go of life despite everything.

He shifts taking his shirt off fully, letting your hands slowly push into the hollow space ennerd once resided within ..His breath hitches, the sound caught between a sigh and something far more intimate....a raw, involuntary sound that slips free before he can swallow it down. For all his carefully constructed walls, the worn deflections and sardonic remarks, there’s no hiding the vulnerability threaded through the noise.

The space beneath your hands is impossibly empty, ribs fractured like a broken birdcage, the faintest unnatural warmth clinging to the edges. You can almost feel the echo of what once resided there.. he coughs awkwardly "you uh... heard nothing. "

Your hand brushes the back of the cavity again..

Michael's hand lifts, hovering near your wrist, not guiding, not forcing...just... there, the faintest suggestion of permission. His eyes...dull but unwavering...search yours, heavy with that same complicated tangle of exhaustion, desperation, and fragile hope.

"You can stop," he rasps, voice low, frayed at the edges but honest. "You don't have to... fix broken things."

But he wants you to. That much is obvious
...the way he leans into the contact, the way his breath stutters again despite himself. The quiet, unspoken ache for someone to stay...not because of obligation, not because of manipulation, but because they choose to.

Michael doesn’t move as your hand drifts upward, fingers threading through the matted, tangled remains of his hair. It’s soft in places, brittle in others...He exhales, long and slow, as if the contact alone releases a weight he's been carrying for years.

For a moment, there's silence. Just your touch and his stillness. Then, slowly, you withdraw your hand, and the room feels colder for it.

"He did tell me everything about remnant," you say quietly, eyes lowering to the files spread across the desk. "And what he said... it matches these notes."

Michael’s gaze darkens, his jaw tightening like he expected that...and hated being right.

“So he gave you just enough truth to make the lies harder to untangle,” he mutters. “That’s what he does. Tells you the facts, lets you draw your own conclusions… and by the time you realize they were his conclusions, it’s too late.”

His voice cracks slightly at the end, but he doesn’t look away. Instead, he studies you...really studies you...not with judgment, but with a quiet, simmering concern.

“I’m not asking you to hate him,” he says. “I know how hard that is. I just.... look you seem like a really nice person, and my father will ruin you.. you could end up dead, or worse.. like me"

Michael’s voice doesn’t rise...it sinks. Sinks like something heavy in water, quiet but impossible to ignore. He leans forward, elbows on the table again, head slightly bowed like the weight of his own words is too much to carry upright.

He gestures vaguely toward himself...toward the rotted skin, the hollow chest, the ever-present remnants of things he’s done, things he’s become. “I didn't just lose my life. I lost who I was. I lost... time. People. My sister. My brother. I lost myself trying to undo what he did, trying to fix him when I should’ve just let him burn. Even Henry... he is losing himself trying to bring his daughters soul peace”

His eyes lift to yours again...tired, pleading. “Dad...He’ll let you think you’re helping. That you matter. That you’re different. And maybe you are. But to him, that won’t matter in the end. He doesn’t stop. He can’t.”

You want to argue. You want to say William’s not like that with me.
But you can already hear how hollow that would sound.

Michael sees the flicker of conflict behind your eyes, and his expression softens again. “I’m not saying don’t care, that... seems like it would be impossible ” he adds. “But care about him with your eyes open. Please.”

You nod.. looking at the morning sun outside..The light is soft, pale gold spilling through cracked blinds, casting uneven lines across the cluttered desk and Michael’s worn silhouette. The sun doesn’t make anything better...but it makes it real. No shadows to hide in now. No whispered promises or flickering illusions. Just truth. As raw and unkind as it is.

“I’ll keep my eyes open,” you say, barely above a whisper. “Even if I don’t like what I see.”

Michael watches you for a beat longer, something unspoken easing in his shoulders...not relief, exactly, but something close. Like he can finally exhale.

“Good,” he says. “That’s all I can ask.”

He leans back, a dry chuckle escaping him. “You know, I thought I’d have to drag you out of there kicking and screaming. Or, I don’t know...carry you over my shoulder like some tragic horror movie idiot. My father chasing us out like some b-movie slasher film..”

You almost laugh. Almost.

Michael stands, bones creaking faintly beneath worn skin and heavier truths. He moves past you toward the kitchen...flicking on a dim light that hums like it’s struggling to stay awake. His voice floats back, casual but laced with something gentler beneath.

“You should rest here for the day,” he says, opening a cupboard and pulling out a mug with a faded cartoon fox on it. “We’ve both got the night shift... So I’ll drive us over to Fazbear’s after sunset.”

You hesitate, still standing in the soft glow of morning and memory, your fingers brushing against the edges of the files. The idea of staying...with him...feels like stepping onto a knife’s edge. But then again, when have you not been balancing there since the moment you first met William?

Michael pours you coffee. It’s old, burned at the edges, but warm. Human.

“There’s a room upstairs,” he adds, offering the mug with a lopsided tilt of his head. “Door locks. I figured you’d appreciate that.”

You take it...more the gesture than the drink...and for a second, your fingers brush. His hand is cold. Of course it is.

But not lifeless.

“Thanks,” you murmur.

“Don’t thank me,” he says, the smile not quite reaching the parts of him that still feel. “You’re the one sleeping under a haunted roof.... id offer you food but. I literally don't have anything, its not like food would do me any good..."

.....

...

He leans against the counter, arms folded across that hollow in his chest. “I mean, technically I could offer food,” he adds dryly, “but I think the last thing I tried to keep in the fridge is now classified as biohazardous... Unless you’re into expired pudding and haunting trauma.”

You smirk faintly, the first real one in what feels like hours.

“No thanks,” you say. “I’m already full on the trauma.”

Michael chuckles, low and hoarse, but it’s real. And for a heartbeat, the weight of it all eases...just a little.

“Right,” he says, straightening again. “Go ahead and get some sleep.. room at the end of the hall. No one’s gonna bother you here.”

He pauses, then, watching you again with that same guarded softness.

“I’ll keep watch,” he says, and it doesn’t sound like an offer. It sounds like a promise.

You nod slowly, coffee still warm in your hands as you head toward the stairs, the old wood creaking beneath your steps. Behind you, Michael doesn’t move. He just watches... half-shadow, half-man, and something else entirely in between.

You reach the room at the end of the hall. It’s plain, spare...clearly unused for years. but the bed is clean, and the lock clicks with a satisfying finality. You set the coffee down and sit on the edge of the mattress, the weight of everything pressing in from all sides.

The bed creaks under your weight, the kind of sound that makes a room feel too quiet once it stops. You stare at the cracked ceiling, fingers curled loosely around the cooling mug, the scent of scorched coffee lingering like smoke after a fire.

And slowly… your thoughts slip back to them.

William.

That voice...velvet over razors, seductive in its certainty. Every word he said danced just right along the edges of truth, enough to make you believe even when you shouldn’t have. And that way he looked at you...like you were his next masterpiece, like obsession was just a prettier word for devotion. You wanted to be wanted. You wanted to be seen. And William saw you like a puzzle he already knew the shape of.

But beneath all that brilliance, there was rot. And you saw it. You still feel it… in the way your chest tightens when you think about what he’s done. What he could do. That charming smile stretched over something ancient and hollow. And you didn’t run. You couldn’t. Obsession makes fools out of the best of us.

And then there’s—

Michael.

No masks... well beyond the one he wears to hide his face. No poetic lies. Just pain, laid out like a roadmap in scar tissue and hollow bones. There’s no seduction in the way he speaks...just weariness. Honesty that scrapes raw. He’s not trying to lure you in… but that’s what makes it worse. Because he cares. Not like his father does. Not with strings or threats. Michael’s concern is quieter, gentler...and somehow far more terrifying because of it. He’s already been destroyed by William. And yet he still stands.

You thought machines were clean. Safe. Something you could understand. You thought

Now you’re wrapped in ghosts and flesh and the terrible warmth of something alive inside something that shouldn’t be.And somehow, it’s that terrible warmth that haunts you the most.

Because it means hope still lingers.. for both of them.. in the wreckage. In Michael. In you...... even in William...m You’re not sure if that’s comforting or cruel.

You lean back on the mattress, the coffee left cooling on the nightstand, untouched.

You close your eyes.

And for a moment, you let yourself imagine what it would be like to stop thinking. To stop feeling.

To stop being the rope caught in the tug-of-war between father and son, between obsession and ruin. Between something that’s already died and something that refuses to.

But that’s not you. You don’t get to be neutral anymore.

You're already part of it.

Michael's hollow chest.
William’s burning eyes.
The files. The lies.
The remnant...

You admit it makes you curious, you have so much to learn about machines.. imagine what technological advances you could make based off William’s designs...but again thats the same dangerous thinking that caused all this.

...And yet, you can’t help it.

That flicker of excitement beneath the horror... the same way a storm draws lightning...is still there.
The thought of unlocking the secrets of remnant, of discovering how souls can persist through metal and agony, how feeling can survive even after the body dies… It should repulse you. But part of you is enthralled.

He succeeded.

Not cleanly. Not ethically. But brilliance often grows like mold...thriving in the dark, consuming everything around it.

You shift beneath the thin sheets. Michael’s words echo again, softer this time.

....“He’ll let you think you’re helping… that you’re different…”.....

You want to believe you are. But isn’t that exactly what he wants?

You think about the schematics William once showed you...half-finished circuits drawn in the margins of stained paper, notes scrawled in looping handwriting more like scripture than science. He didn’t just build machines. He infused them. With soul. With intent.

And that’s what scares you most.

Because you’re starting to understand it. And the more you understand... the harder it’ll be to walk away.

You inhale slowly, chest tight with dread and longing. Hearing Michael get into the shower in the next door bathroom.. you yourself stink of rot, the taste still on your lips from where you kissed William..

You close your eyes tighter, but it doesn’t block out the memory:
The way William’s mouth had tasted of something wrong, like ozone and copper and old blood.
The way he kissed you like it meant ownership, not affection.
Like he was writing a contract with his mouth, one he never intended to let you back out of.

And you let him. That’s what stings most.

You feel it still, faint and phantom on your lips, the rot that no amount of scrubbing can remove. Not from your skin. Not from your thoughts. Leathery skin and yellowed teeth , and a tongue slick with decay and somehow still damp blood. You wonder if one day you will become immortal too...The shower turns off with a metallic groan, and a part of you startles like you’ve been caught thinking something you shouldn’t.
But Michael doesn’t know. He couldn’t.

You sit up slowly, legs swinging off the edge of the bed. The floor’s cold under your feet, grounding in a way your thoughts are not.
Maybe you should shower. Wash it off.
Pretend it was just curiosity. Just a mistake.

But part of you knows better. That kiss was a choice. Not a clean one. Not a safe one. But a choice.

A knock, gentle, on the door.

Michael’s voice, muffled but low and cautious:

“Hey. I left some clean towels on the bathroom counter... if you want to use it before bed.... ill wake you up a few hours before we go. We can get dinner ordered”

No push. No judgment. Just… kindness...

You swallow the guilt rising in your throat, pressing a palm to your chest like you could steady the churn there. But your heartbeat is erratic, uneven, as if your body can’t decide whether to flee or lean into the weight of what you’ve become part of.

You rise, open the door.

Michael stands there in a faded hoodie and threadbare sweatpants, damp hair clinging to the sunken skin of his temples. He doesn’t smell like rot right now. Just cheap scented soap and something faintly metallic beneath it. His eyes. .those quiet, dark, haunted things...flick to yours, searching for something he doesn’t ask out loud.

Michael doesn’t speak.

He just opens his arms,hesitantly like he’s not sure if he’s allowed, and stands there, letting the moment hang in the silence between you. His posture is careful, not assuming, not demanding. Just... waiting.

An invitation, not a request.

And for a heartbeat, you don’t move. You just stare at him. At this boy...this man...who has every reason to shut himself away from the world, and yet still stands here, offering comfort he probably doesn’t even think he deserves.

Your chest tightens.

Not from fear. Not from guilt. But from something quieter. Raw. Grieving. Needing.

You step into the space he gives you.

His arms close around you slowly, like he’s afraid of holding too tight. His body is cooler than it should be, but solid. Real. And when you bury your face into his shoulder, he doesn't flinch. Doesn't breathe. Just stays there. Letting you fall apart, piece by silent piece.

For someone so broken, his embrace feels steady.But you can tell he needs this too...

He does. You can feel it in the way his arms linger a second too long around your back, in the way his fingers twitch....just barely...like he wants to hold tighter, but doesn’t trust himself to. Like he’s afraid he might crack you open, or worse… fall apart in your hands.

His chin rests near your temple, light, tentative. The kind of closeness that says thank you without ever speaking the words.

You feel his chest rise and fall. not breathing exactly, just… moving like someone who still wants to pretend they’re alive.

And then, softly...so softly it’s almost not real...he murmurs:

“Thanks for not looking at me like I’m a monster.”

It’s not meant to guilt you. It’s not even for you, not really. It’s an echo. A wound speaking out loud.

You don’t answer right away. You just pull him a little closer, one hand resting on his lower back... The other up in his damp hair..

His breath hitches...not a breath of life, but of muscle memory, maybe. Ghost instincts clinging to a body that shouldn’t still move the way it does. You feel it in the way he leans into your hand in his hair, just a fraction...
And your hand on his back...he tenses for a second under your touch, then softens, like the simple act of being held there is unfamiliar. Or maybe just too kind.

You think he might say something else. He doesn’t.

He just stands there with you, in the half-light of the hallway, his forehead pressing gently to yours now. The touch is cool, but careful. Grounding. It doesn’t feel like ownership. It doesn’t feel like rot. It just feels like someone trying.

Trying to stay.

Trying not to shatter.

Trying to hold onto the warmth he thought he’d lost a long time ago.

And maybe—just maybe—you’re doing the same. When were you last happy? Before you were kicked out from your parents house? Before you gave up on your dreams of engineering? Before you moved into your current house... the rent overdue by a few months now.. you're lucky the landlord doesn't care... ...

But you did enjoy your banter with William... maybe you have a place here

In the quiet between you, there’s no need to say to him 'you’re not a monster.'
Because this is what monsters don’t do.
They don’t shake when you hold them.
They don’t ask permission in silence.
They don’t break quietly in your arms.

So you don’t let go.

He doesn’t either.

Not for a long moment, anyway...one of those moments that stretches, soft and brittle, into something neither of you want to break. He holds on like it matters. Like you matter. And maybe that shouldn’t feel like a revelation, but it does.

Because it’s been a long time since you were someone worth holding on to.

You think about William. His laughter when you got snippy. The way he remembered little things. His eyes when he talked about remnant, like it was salvation, not sin.
He made you feel seen. Even when you shouldn’t have wanted to be.

Eventually, the tension in his frame softens just a bit more. He leans his forehead fully against yours again, a quiet exhale of something not quite grief, not quite hope.

“I’ll be downstairs,” he murmurs, finally. “Yell if you need me. Or don’t.”

You're tired, you want to sleep..

You stand there a moment longer after Michael steps back, the warmth of his embrace still clinging to your skin like something remembered rather than real. The hall feels colder without him in it. Quieter, too. Like even the house is holding its breath.

You know his warmth is fake, its just his own dead flesh warmed by your touch...

Your fingers twitch at your sides.

You could just say it. Ask him to stay. Just for a little while. Just until the quiet stops feeling like it's pressing in from all sides.

But your throat tightens around the words.

Instead, you say...soft, barely audible:
“Michael…?”

He turns at once, like he was hoping you’d stop him. Like maybe he didn’t really want to leave either.

Your voice is smaller than you mean it to be when you add, “I know it’s stupid, but… could you just… stay a little longer? I don’t… want to be alone right now.”

No teasing. No hesitation. No mockery in his expression.

He nods. Simple. Immediate. “Yeah. Of course.”

He steps back into the room, closing the door behind him with the gentlest click. Not trapping. Not looming. Just there.

He doesn’t take the bed. Doesn’t assume. Instead, he lowers himself to the floor beside it, back against the frame , knees pulled up...like maybe the edge of your space is enough.

“I’ll be here,” he says quietly, eyes half-lidded, already settling into that heavy stillness that’s part exhaustion, part something else. “You can sleep. Nothing’ll get to you. I promise.”

And for the first time in a while…
You believe it.

You curl under the sheets, coffee cold and forgotten beside you. The air smells like dust and soap and something older you can’t name. But it’s okay. Because you’re not alone. Not today at least...

Michael doesn’t move. He just listens to the slowing of your breath, the shifting of blankets,

And when you do fall asleep...
You don’t dream of rot.

You dream of new machines humming with something like life.
And someone keeping watch beside them.

Chapter Text

The light has changed when you wake.

It’s late afternoon now...amber spilling in sideways through the blinds, painting the dust in soft gold. The room is hushed, the air warm, still. You blink slowly, caught between dreams and the steady hush of real life, your body heavy with sleep that felt deeper than it should’ve.

And then you feel it...just a weight near your side. You turn your head.

Michael is still there.

Asleep.

His body curled awkwardly on the floor beside the bed, one arm draped over his knees, the other gripping the pillow you were laying on... his head resting right at the edge of the mattress, close enough that you could’ve reached out in your sleep and touched him. Maybe you did.

There’s something achingly human in the way he sleeps. Not peaceful...his brow is furrowed slightly, like even unconscious he can’t quite let go...but still. Still enough to make something twist in your chest.

The light washes across the side of his face, catching in the strands of his hair, softening the hard lines. For a moment, just a moment, he doesn’t look like someone who’s died.
He just looks tired. And warm. And real.

You sit up slowly, careful not to startle him.

His hand shifts a little when the bed creaks...but he doesn’t wake. He just lets out a slow, uneven breath, his lips parting slightly. You realize, distantly, that he probably hasn’t slept like this in a long time. Not near someone. Not safely.

He kept watch for you.
And now here he is, worn out from it.

You reach down...hesitate...then gently brush a few strands of hair out of his face.

He doesn’t stir.
You let your hand linger a moment longer than you should. He shifts just slightly, barely perceptible, and makes the smallest sound...something between a sigh and a hum. But he doesn’t wake.

The warmth of him is unexpected.

Not the literal kind...not body heat, not anymore...but the warmth of presence. Of someone staying, even when they didn’t have to. Of someone choosing to be close without asking for anything in return.

Your hand falls away slowly, reluctantly.

You study his face in the fading light. He looks younger like this. Less haunted. The bruised shadows beneath his eyes are still there, the purple-gray pallor that clings to his skin, but somehow it doesn’t matter as much. The ripped and rotted open cheeks, the way it looks like a perpetual grotesque smile....but...
In this light, in this moment... he looks almost whole.

Almost.

You wonder if you look the same to him when you sleep. If you looked peaceful, or just as tangled and cracked as he does now. The thought unsettles you.

Not because of how he might see you.

But because of how much he might see.

You draw your knees up to your chest, arms loosely wrapped around them, watching him breathe. A quiet part of you wants to lie back down. Not out of exhaustion, but just to feel him there again. To feel safe. To feel... kept.

..... kept like William plans to keep you...

Instead, you whisper...soft, almost soundless:

“Thank you.”

Maybe it’s not just for keeping watch.
Maybe it’s for staying at all.

...
Michael doesn’t stir, but something in his posture seems to ease, just a fraction. Like he heard you anyway. Like some part of him needed to.

You let your eyes drift over him again, the ruin and the resilience. stitched together by force and will and something that shouldn’t still be human, and yet is....

William wants to keep you, yes. But not like this. Not like Michael. Not with quiet, unspoken care and gentleness at the frayed edges. William would cage you in brilliance. Wrap his affection in chains and call it love. He'd immortalize you...yes...but only in a version that bent to his design.

Michael... Michael just stays.

He doesn't ask you to be better. Or worse.
He just lets you be.

You glance toward the window again. The sun is dipping low now, orange edging into violet.

You slip off the bed, sitting down beside him... quietly trying to wake him..

The floor’s cool beneath you, the boards groaning softly under your weight. You sit close, your thigh brushing his, your shoulder nearly against his arm.

"Michael..." you murmur, your voice barely above the hush of the room.

He doesn’t wake at first. Just a slow shift in his breathing, that uneven rhythm faltering for a moment. His brow twitches, and his fingers tighten slightly on the edge of the pillow...like maybe in his dream, he’s still holding onto you.

You try again, softer. “Michael. Hey…”

This time, his eyes open...slowly, reluctantly, like surfacing from deep water. He blinks a few times, unfocused, disoriented in the way someone gets when waking somewhere they forgot they'd fallen asleep.

Then he sees you.

And there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. Not fear. Not surprise. Just quiet recognition… and the barest trace of shame.

“Shit,” he rasps, voice thick with sleep and something rougher beneath it. “I didn’t mean to— I was just… resting my eyes.”

You give him a look. A gentle one. Not teasing. Just honest.

“You stayed.”

His mouth opens, like he might try to explain himself, or brush it off.. but then he stops. His shoulders sink a little. Not defeated. relieved.

“Yeah,” he says, after a beat. “I guess I did.”

You sit in silence a while. Side by side... his arm hesitantly loops around your shoulders... ..and you let him.

The motion is slow...cautious, like he’s afraid you’ll flinch, afraid he’s crossing some line he doesn’t quite understand. But when you don’t pull away, when you just lean into it the smallest amount, his arm settles properly. A little tense at first. Then not.

He exhales, long and low, like that simple act cost him something. Or maybe gave something back.

You rest your head lightly against his shoulder. The fabric of his hoodie is still faintly damp from the shower and the residual hint of rot permeates the air...

And somehow, in that quiet, the ache in your chest softens. Not gone...but bearable.

For a while, neither of you speak. The only sound is the settling of the old house and the wind nudging at the windowpanes, soft and slow.

Then Michael says, so quietly you almost miss it:

“You don’t have to stay in this. With him. With all of it. If you want out... I’ll help.”

It’s not a warning. It’s not even advice. It’s an offering.

But the part of you that leaned into him...just now, without thinking...knows the truth:

Youll go back to William. All his possessiveness, ...all his rot.

You’ll go back, because some part of you wants to. Not out of love...at least, not the kind that heals.
Because he made you feel seen, even if through a lens of obsession. Because his madness still hums like a siren song in the back of your skull.

You hate it.
You hate that it still pulls at you.
Yet you want him.

And Michael knows. He doesn’t say it, but you feel it in the way his arm stiffens just slightly. The way he stares ahead, jaw clenched, as if preparing himself for something he can’t stop from happening. Preparing to lose something again.

You sigh, low, into his hoodie. “I don’t want to want him.”

Michael’s voice is rough. “That’s not the same as wanting to stay.”

You shake your head. “It’s complicated.”

“It’s dangerous,” he murmurs, almost under his breath.

“I know.”
And you do. You know exactly what William is capable of. What he’s done. What he might do again. But logic doesn’t overwrite the strange gravity of him...the genius, the charisma, the intimacy he crafts like a trap. You remember his fingers brushing your cheek like you were precious and already his. You remember the kiss. You remember how wrong it felt, how right it felt...and how much you wanted to feel something.

“I’m not going to stop you,” Michael says finally. “Even if I should.”

That hurts. The resignation in it. The way he’s already letting go, even while holding you close.

But it’s the kind of hurt that makes something inside you ache open.

You reach for his hand. Grip it. Not to promise him anything...because you can’t, not yet. But to remind him:

'Im still here.'

...

Michael squeezes your hand.

Not hard. Not desperate. Just… real.

It’s quiet again. That kind of silence that only happens when something true has just been said, and neither of you knows how to carry the weight of it out loud.

He doesn’t ask you to explain yourself. Doesn’t demand answers or apologies or promises you can’t keep. He just sits with you. Hand in yours. Arm around you. Breathing, even if it’s only out of habit. Still here.

You feel him.. like youve known him for longer.. maybe you have... he's older than you by a fair bit.. maybe a decade? Maybe more? Its hard to tell with his decay..

He sighs , a slight humour to his tone "first person to touch me in decades.... and you want to screw my father."

You huff out something between a laugh and a groan, burying your face in his shoulder. “Jesus, Michael.”

But the burn of shame rises up all the same.

Not because he’s wrong...he isn’t. But because he said it out loud. Because hearing it in his voice, edged with bitter humor and quiet pain, makes the truth sting in a different way. A more human way.

You don’t pull away, though. Neither does he.

The moment lingers, just a beat too long.

Then, softer, more tired:

“I didn’t want to,” you murmur. “It just… happened. He’s like gravity. You don’t notice you’re falling until it’s too late.”

Michael hums low in his throat. Not agreement. Not forgiveness. Just listening.

“I know what he’s like,” he says finally, quieter now. “He was my father before he became your... whatever the hell he is. I get it. He makes you feel special. Needed. Smart. Like you matter.”

He pauses.

“But he only loves reflections. What he sees in you. Not you. Not really... the moment you're not what he wants you to be.. then.. well i hope you like fake fur..."

A deep sigh..

"me and my brother... he'd take us to fredbear's diner... every day. He'd keep an eye on Elizabeth, his favourite.. but us... "

He taps something on his phone absentmindedly... then.. pauses before tapping it again and pushing it aside..

You glance at the phone, then at him—his tired posture, the tension in his jaw.

“You didn’t have to order anything,” you say softly. “I’m not helpless.”

Michael shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something like embarrassment beneath the gesture.

“You’re tired. You stink,” he deadpans, trying for levity, even if it falters. “Figured dinner was the least cursed way I could show I give a shit.”

You give a half-smile despite yourself. “Thanks.”

He continues on "I uhh was unattended most of the time . Fell in with a bad crowd..

...
I ... put my own little brother's head in fredbear's mouth"

The words land like a stone dropped into still water. No drama. No buildup. Just truth, laid bare and quiet in the space between you.

You freeze.

Not because you’re afraid of him...but because you feel the weight of it. The confession. The guilt that’s clearly lived in him so long it’s turned into bone. He’s not telling you for shock value. He’s not looking for forgiveness. He’s not even crying.

He’s just tired.

Michael doesn’t meet your eyes. He stares at the floor like it might swallow him if he looks away.

“I didn’t mean to,” he says, voice flat and brittle. “I was just... being an older brother. Being mean. We used to scare each other all the time. Well i used to scare him all the time at least ...He cried. I laughed. I thought it was funny...."

He swallows hard.

“It wasn’t supposed to happen. there were no signs. No Warnings. no one cared. No one checked. I didn't know it would just... crush his head..."

His hand twitches again, but this time it’s not toward you. It curls in on itself like he’s holding something inside that’s still burning. Has been for years.

“I killed him.”

The words hang there. Awful in their simplicity.

And maybe this is the moment when you’re supposed to pull away. Say something reassuring. Something clean.

But nothing about this is clean. And he doesn’t need your pity.

So instead, you place your hand gently over his clenched fist.

You don’t say it’s not your fault...because part of him will always believe it is. Maybe part of it was.

What you say is:

“You were a kid.”

He looks at you... the empty voids of his eyes... illuminated by white pupils of light... by remnant... "i started all this that day... after I killed him... William started going off the rails worse than before...the police interviews... the shutting down of the diner... the rebranding of the pizzeria... incorporation of Afton Robotics...Charlie's death... then Elizabeth died to Circus Baby and shit only got worse..."

Michael's voice is flat...not emotionless, but scraped raw from too many years of carrying everything alone. The words tumble out with the dull rhythm of someone who’s recited this history in his head a thousand times. Memorized the sequence like a curse. Cause and effect. A single domino pushed by a child’s hand... and the world fell apart.

You listen. You don’t flinch. Because this isn’t a horror story to you anymore. It’s his life...and in a strange way, now it’s becoming part of yours.

He keeps going, as if afraid silence will damn him further.

"After Elizabeth.. he just.. started killing the rest.... never stopped until he just went missing one day.. Henry found him bled out dead of the floor in that parts and service room.. didn't tell me which location mind you... so ive been working at them all, every single one.. trying to hunt him down trying to make things right..."

You reach for him...this time not his hand, but his cheek. Grounding. Steady. Present. Gently smoothing your thumb over the rough torn rotted flesh...

“Michael,” you say, voice low, deliberate. “That was him. Who did what he did. Not you.”

“I made him,” he whispers, almost like he’s trying to convince himself. “If I hadn’t—”

“No,” you cut in gently. “He was already broken. You were just the first crack he used as an excuse.”

That finally makes him look at you again.

The glow in his eyes pulses faintly. That strange, unnatural light, born from death and repurposed grief. But you see something human there too. Regret. Maybe even longing.

"I don't know if i can fix everything... if i can fix him? Fix anything even... but i will try" you reply looking him in the eyes..

Michael studies you like he doesn’t quite believe you’re real...like your kindness might fracture if he touches it too hard.

But you don’t flinch under his gaze. You keep your hand there on his cheek, even though it’s cold, even though the rot has eaten through what was once skin. Because under all that ruin, he is still in there.

And when you say 'but I will try'...you mean it.

His expression shifts, almost imperceptibly. His jaw tightens. His throat works around a sound he doesn’t let out. That glow in his eyes softens just a little, like a dim light blinking through heavy fog.

“I don’t want you to get dragged into this deeper,” he murmurs. “I don’t want you ending up like me.”

“I already am,” you say, honest. “Maybe not like you... but I’m in it, Michael. I was the moment I met him. The moment i vowed to fix him to spare my own life...the moment i flirted with him to try and lighten the mood..."

"He doesn’t fucking deserve you" Michael mutters...

Your breath catches...not because of what he said, but because of how quietly and bitterly it came out. Like it hurt him to admit it. Like it’s something he’s been holding onto, chewing on, for far longer than he should’ve had to. It hangs there between you. Raw. Unvarnished. Not jealousy. Not even anger. Just grief, coiled beneath a rusted kind of care.

You look at him, hand still on his cheek, and for a moment you don’t know what to say. Because a part of you knows he’s right.

Maybe William saw something valuable in you, but Michael sees you. Not your usefulness. Not your potential. Just… you.

And he’s still here.

Even when he knows what you’ve done. Even when he knows you’ll go back.

You swallow thickly. “Maybe not. But he wants me. And I let him.”

Michael pulls back slightly...not away from your hand, but just enough to sit straighter. His fingers flex, fidgeting like they don’t know what to do.

“He wants what he could use,” he says, voice hollow. “Doesn’t mean he sees you. Doesn’t mean he ever will.”

You don’t disagree.
You can’t.

So instead, you say, softly: “You do.”

Michael looks at you then. Really looks. The remnant glow in his eyes flickers again...dim, but steady. You think maybe it’s the closest he can come to crying.

And after a long silence, he nods. Just once.

“Yeah,” he breathes. “I do.”

You lean in before you can stop yourself...drawn in not by impulse, but by something slower, deeper. Something that’s been building in the quiet moments. In the comfort. In the ache.

Your lips touch his, and it’s not like kissing William...sharp and consuming, full of demand and fire and danger.

No, this is different.

Michael’s kiss is hesitant. Surprised. But he doesn’t pull away. He stills for a second, like he’s afraid to move, afraid to want it too much… and then, carefully, he kisses you back.

And the rot…

It should be foul. Bitter. Cold.

But it’s not.

It’s warm, somehow. Not in temperature, but in taste. Like something old and broken that’s been made gentle by time. It tastes like dried earth after rain. Like the scent of autumn leaves just before they fall. There’s a sweetness there...faint, barely-there...like the memory of something soft. Something that once was human.

It tastes like grief. Like endurance.
Like him.

His lips are torn in places, flesh uneven, but none of that matters. Because beneath the damage, there’s care. There’s intent. He holds your face with a kind of reverence that makes your chest hurt...like he can’t believe he’s being allowed this, even for a moment.

He slowly pulls away .."...You shouldn't do that," he says after a moment, barely above a whisper. But there’s no real protest in it.

Your forehead lingers against his for a breath...just long enough to feel that grief, that ache, humming beneath his decaying brow like static. He doesn’t pull back any further. Doesn’t let go.

But he doesn’t lean in again, either.

Because he knows.

That kiss wasn’t a promise.
It wasn’t a beginning.
It was a moment. A mercy. A truth too brief to build a future on.

You close your eyes, breathing him in...the rot...the strange scent of metal and dust and something softer beneath it all, like old paper or forgotten linen. Something lived in. Loved, maybe.

“I know,” you whisper back.
“I know I shouldn’t.”

And maybe you shouldn’t have. Maybe it was unfair...giving him that closeness when your heart still tilts toward someone who doesn’t deserve it. But you needed it. He needed it.

And for one fragile heartbeat, you both let it happen.

He exhales shakily, his voice a rough scrape of restraint.
“I’d give anything... to be enough to make you stay.”

He doesn’t say it like he expects you to.
He says it like he already knows you won’t.

You don’t answer right away.

Because what could you say? That he is enough? He is. But you’re not choosing based on enough. You’re choosing based on something far messier. Something that burrowed into your spine the day William looked at you like a mirror—like a muse.

You want to stay. You ache to stay.

But you still want William.

And that want sits like glass in your throat. Sharp. Shameful. Shimmering with the kind of gravity you can’t explain to anyone, least of all Michael.

So you just breathe. Quiet. Steady. Trying not to fall apart under the weight of all the things you can't fix.

You want to stay. You ache to stay. To feel his soft touch....to love him...

But you still want William.

And that want sits like glass in your throat. Sharp. Shameful. Shimmering with the kind of gravity you can’t explain to anyone, least of all Michael.

So you just breathe. Quiet. Steady. Trying not to fall apart under the weight of all the things you can't fix.

“I don’t deserve you,” you say finally. Soft. Honest.

Michael huffs a breath through his nose. A tired, bitter little sound.
“No,” he says. “But neither does he.”

And somehow, that doesn’t feel cruel. It feels true.

...

"Doesn’t mean we can't be friends... right?" You look at him...

He chuckles "well can we? Even after ... well that"

You smile, faint and fragile, but real.

“That,” you echo softly, a small laugh slipping out despite everything. “Yeah. That.”

The kiss. The confession. The weight of everything neither of you said, but both of you felt. It's all still there between you...warm and aching and tender. but somehow, this moment is gentler.

Less final.

You nudge your shoulder against his. “I mean, if you’re okay with the whole... ‘I kissed you while probably still in love with your homicidal father’ thing.”

Michael groans, rubbing a hand down his face, half-exasperated, half-amused. “Jesus. When you say it like that—”

“You asked,” you shoot back, grinning faintly.

He drops his hand, glancing sidelong at you. “I did.” A pause. Then quieter, more serious: “And yeah. If that’s what you need... I can be that. I can be your friend.”

You don’t answer right away. You just look at him...really look. At the damage, at the patience. At the man who stayed.

“I don’t deserve that either,” you murmur.

Michael snorts, the sound low and dry. “Yeah, well. Join the club. Nobody in this mess deserves anything.”

And maybe that’s the truest thing either of you has said all night.
Still, he softens, gaze drifting down to where your knees brush, to the space that used to feel cavernous and now barely exists between you. “I meant it, you know,” he adds. “I’ll help. If you ever want out. Even if it means walking you right back to him first.”

That catches in your throat. It’s not just kindness. It’s surrender. The kind that loves you without condition and asks for nothing in return.

“I know,” you say quietly.

His shoulder bumps yours, light. Intentional. “Just… if he hurts you. Don’t hide it. Don’t cover for him. Not with me.... and sorry for shouting at you earlier..."

You glance down at your hands, then back at him, surprised by the apology. He doesn’t owe you one—not really. You were both on edge.. you diddnt trust him... and he saw you hanging out with William...Both bleeding in ways the other couldn’t see yet.

But still… it matters.

You smile, soft around the edges. “You did. It was extremely shit, actually.”

Michael huffs out a lighthearted breath. “Great. Glad we’re keeping score.”

"You told me to quit my job on the second night. And implied you'd kill me on the weekend." You chuckle

Michael groans and tilts his head back against the bedframe with an exaggerated thunk. “Christ. Yeah. That sounds like me.”

You laugh...actually laugh...and it surprises both of you. It bubbles up from somewhere small and tired but genuine. The kind of laugh that feels a little wrong in the middle of everything... but also necessary.

“You were a terrible onboarding experience,” you tease, nudging his knee with yours.

“Look,” he says, holding up his hands in mock defense, “in my defense, you were working on my undead father who collects corpses like baseball cards. I panicked.”

You snort. “You threatened me.”

“I warned you,” he corrects, wry. “And then I immediately regretted it and told you to come to the office so i could keep you safe under my watchful gaze"

you counter. “Which, to be fair, did feel vaguely like courtship.”

“Oh my god,” he mutters, covering his face again. “Please stop.”

But he’s smiling. You can hear it in his voice.

And you are too, because for all the horror...yours, his...there’s something absurdly healing in this. In this stupid, broken moment of honesty and gallows humor. In knowing that even here, in the ash heap of everything you’ve both endured... your admittedly shit life of deadend engineering jobs and near homelessness... his admittedly shitter life....
there’s still room for softness. For stupid jokes and kind silences and almost-friendship.

Michael lowers his hand, sighing. “So... friends?”
You look at him. You really look.

“Friends,” you echo.

Theres a knock on the front door downstairs..You blink, caught off guard by the sudden knock...its normalcy almost jarring in the wake of everything that just passed between you.

Michael is already halfway to the stairs, rummaging for that face mask he keeps folded in the inside pocket of his hoodie. The fabric’s faded and probably smells faintly like whatever grave dirt he clawed out of, but it’s better than traumatizing the delivery driver.

You follow behind slowly, still processing the weight of everything and the way it somehow lifted...just a little...under the softness of your shared laughter.

"Hope you like shitty pizza," Michael mutters as he tugs the mask on and adjusts his hood up over his hair. “Some things never change about this town.”

You lean against the railing and smirk. “Let me guess: pineapple and regret?”

He huffs a laugh as he pulls the door open just a crack, exchanging cash and a muffled, awkward “Thanks.” The delivery driver doesn’t stay long. You suspect the mask isn’t doing all the heavy lifting...Michael’s presence alone probably radiates 'do not linger' energy.

When he shuts the door and turns back to you, pizza box in hand, you raise a brow.

“So? What flavor of existential crisis did we get?”

Michael shrugs. “Whatever was cheapest. May have inherited this house from William... but I’m not made of money.”

You eye the box as he sets it down on the low coffee table. It's warm. Greasy. Smells faintly of nostalgia and questionable meat products. And weirdly enough, in this moment, it feels like comfort.

You plop down beside him on the couch again. “Shitty pizza with a side of moral ambiguity. Just like old times.”

Michael hands you a slice. “Welcome to the family.”
Then, after a beat—
“God, I immediately regret saying that.”

You laugh again, and this time, it comes easier.

Michael smiles, quiet but real, like he’s proud of that laugh even if it came at his own expense. He leans back against the couch, legs stretched out, pizza in one hand like he’s pretending...for just a minute...that he’s not undead, not exhausted, not carrying the weight of a thousand buried sins.

You both eat in comfortable silence for a while, chewing through cheese and shame and shared history. The TV murmurs low in the background...something forgettable playing just to fill the space. It’s domestic, almost absurdly so. Like this could’ve been a normal night in another life. One where your boss wasn’t planning to burn the building down... where you aren't in love with an undead mass murderer in a rabbit costume..and your new friend and coworker wasn’t a corpse held together by remnant, willpower and regret.

Eventually, Michael glances sideways at you, licking grease off his thumb. “So... we gonna talk about the part where you said you still want him?”

You groan, sinking lower into the couch. “God, can we not?”

“Nope. You flirted with the bastard and trauma-bonded with his son. That earns at least one uncomfortable post-pizza conversation.”

You toss a crust at him. He doesn’t dodge. It just sticks to his hoodie and stays there.

“You’re a menace,” you say flatly.

Michael plucks the crust off his chest and pops it into his mouth. “And you have terrible taste in men. Friends forever.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no venom in it.
"Where does the food go?"

"What?" He asks

"I literally had my hands in you earlier. You're hollow... where does the food go?"

Michael freezes mid-chew.

You watch the flicker of visible remnant light pulse in his eyes as the silence stretches...less dramatic tension, more pure existential confusion.

Then:

“…I don’t know,” he admits, voice muffled through half a mouthful of greasy crust.

You blink. “You don’t?”

He swallows, slowly. Thoughtfully. “I just kinda… put it in. And then it’s gone. I think it burns off as remnant energy? Or maybe it just evaporates into my ribcage over time. I don’t digest anything, I know that much.”

You stare at him. “So it’s just… floating around in there?”

Michael lifts his hoodie slightly and taps whats left of his ribcage with two fingers. A dull thunk thunk echoes out. “Storage closet of horrors.”
You certainly can't see any of the food inside that empty cavity of his body...

You make a face. “That’s the worst sentence I’ve heard today.”

Michael grins, unapologetic.

You gesture vaguely at the pizza box. “You ordered food knowing you don’t need it and can’t explain where it goes.”

He shrugs. “You needed to eat. I needed a distraction. It’s called being a good friend.”

You pause, lips tugging into something wry. “So this is your version of love languages: touch-starved corpse guy buys you cursed pizza and stores the crusts in his ribcage.”

Michael raises a slice in mock-toast. “Romance is dead.”

You keep two slices for William... hoping he will enjoy the gesture...

You slide the two slices into a paper towel and fold them up carefully, placing them on a nearby plate like it means something. Like it might mean something. The grease is already soaking through the paper towel, but you don’t care.

Michael watches, silent for a moment, then says, “You’re seriously saving pizza for him.”

You glance up at him, unbothered. “He likes when I think of him.”

Michael gives you a look that is both deeply tired and profoundly unimpressed. “He also likes murder. Doesn’t mean you have to bring him snacks.”

You smirk faintly. “It’s not snacks. It’s the love language Michael. I bring the touch starved murderer food and he might be distracted long enough for me to fix the tear in his head without him making out with me"

Michael blinks at you, mouth half-open as if he’s trying to figure out if you’re serious...or if you’ve finally snapped. Then he sighs, that world-weary exhale you’ve come to know so well.

“The love language of a homicidal bastard,” he muses, shaking his head. “You’re incorrigible.”

You slide the plate closer to the edge of the coffee table. “Hey, desperate times.” Your voice is lighter than you feel. “A peace offering. A distraction. A chance for me to sew up that cracked springlock head of his before he can swoop back in with more… enthusiasm.”

Michael lets out a soft, humorless laugh. “Well, if anyone can fix a broken springlock suit, it’s you. Just… be careful. And maybe watch the bites.”

You quirk an eyebrow. “You mean the pizza or your father?”

He hesitates, then grins...genuinely this time, despite the shadows under his eyes. “Both.”

You tuck the plate into your lap and take a bite of your final slice, letting the greasy comfort ground you. Michael settles back against the couch, watching you with that steady warmth that feels more dangerous than any threat.

"We should head out to work soon.. do you want to stop by your place to pick up clean clothes?" He asks

You nod, finishing the last bite of your slice, then stand and grab your jacket from the back of the couch.

Michael’s keychain jingles as he pockets it, and you both head out the door into the chill evening air.

His car is a battered relic with cracked leather seats and that faint smell of old cigarettes and engine oil. The engine coughs awake and rumbles beneath you as you drive through the flickering streetlights toward your rundown place.

When you pull up in front of your house, your stomach twists. The familiar peeling paint and sagging porch look somehow even more worn in the dim light. You step out, the gravel crunching underfoot.

Your breath catches as you spot the bright neon-orange eviction notice plastered firmly to the front door. It flaps faintly in the breeze like a warning flag.

Michael steps beside you, expression tight as he reads over your shoulder.

Then your eyes fall to a battered cardboard box sitting on the front lawn, contents spilling out...a tattered blanket, a few worn books, a pair of scuffed shoes, and a framed photo with the glass shattered. The second box holds all your clothes...

You sigh "fuck... guess im sleeping in parts and service for the foreseeable future..."

A heavy silence settles between you.

You reach for the doorknob.. put your key in....only to find it doesn’t turn. The locks have been changed.

Michael pulls a thin lockpick from his jacket pocket, the motion so casual it almost feels surreal.

He kneels by the door, fingers steady and practiced despite the rust in his movements.

After a few tense moments, there’s a soft click...the door creaks open just enough to slip inside.

You step into the stale air of your empty home. The rooms echo hollowly. Your life here is fractured and fragmented, scattered across those boxes on the lawn and now locked out behind a changed door.

...

Michael puts a hand on your shoulder "you want to move in with me? I wouldn't mind.... id probably have to replace a few appliances but they needed updating.."

You look up at him, searching his eyes. There’s no pressure, just quiet hope beneath his words.

A faint, tired smile tugs at the corner of your lips.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “I think I’d like that.”

He squeezes your shoulder gently. “Good. Because honestly, my place could use a little life.”

He picks up all your belongings, carrying them back to his car and putting them in the trunk

...

The trunk shuts with a hollow thunk...the last sound your old life makes before it’s packed away completely. Michael doesn’t say much after that. He just opens the passenger door for you like it’s the most natural thing in the world, like he’s done it a thousand times before.

You slide into the seat, the smell of old leather and faint sweet rot surrounding you...his scent, now somewhat familiar, comforting. He circles around, gets in behind the wheel, and for a long, quiet moment, the two of you just sit there. Neither speaking. Neither moving.

And then the engine starts...

The car pulls away from the curb, your old house getting smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror...until it disappears entirely.

Michael doesn’t look back.

You don’t either.

The silence is broken only once.

“You’re not scared?” Michael asks, his voice low, rough. “To see him again?”

You stare out the window, hand still cradling the plate of saved pizza slices once again sat in your lap. Like an offering. Like a tether.

“I am,” you admit. “But it’s not fear that stops me. It’s... something else.”

Michael glances at you. “Love?”

You don't answer right away.

But your fingers tighten slightly around the plate.

“Something like that,” you say eventually.

"Ill try and be less..... well .. but you know what he's done, who he is" Michael says...

Fazbear Frights looms ahead now...rotted, rusted, half-swallowed by time but somehow still standing. The air thickens. That pull returns, low in your chest, magnetic and familiar. You swear you can already feel William on the other side of those walls.

Watching.

Waiting.

Michael parks out back, far from the front entrance. Habit. Survival.

He turns to you. Doesn’t touch you this time. Just looks.
“You sure you’re ready?”

You glance down at the plate in your hands. Grease-soaked paper towel. Cooling slices of regret and devotion.

You nod.

“Yeah,” you say.

And then you both get out... heading for the door.

You open it... and Springtrap is waiting.

He stands just beyond the threshold, as still as a statue in the dark. No greeting. No theatrics. Just those eyes.. those glowing, low-burning silvers locked on you like you never left.

Like he knew you’d come back.

His presence fills the space in a way nothing else can. The ruined suit creaks faintly as he tilts his head, the sound of strained servos and old metal echoing against the crumbling walls.

You step in fully, the plate still in your hands.

William doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But you feel it...that pull. That slow, unbearable magnetism that coils through your ribs and down your spine.

Behind you, Michael hovers just inside the doorframe. Tense. Watching. But quiet.

“Brought you something, William ” you say softly.

You hold the plate out like a peace offering. Or a test.

For a second, nothing happens.

Then Springtrap takes one step forward. Just one. The sound is a dragging scrape..metal on concrete. The light catches on his ruined frame: wires like exposed veins, plating browned with rust and time. But the eyes… the eyes are fixed on yours. Never blinking. Never wavering.

He stops a few feet in front of you. Slowly..so slowly....he lifts a hand.

Long, clawed fingers wrap around the edge of the paper towel. Careful. Deliberate. He doesn't look down at the food. He keeps his gaze on your face. Studying you.

You don’t flinch.

His voice, when it finally comes, is low. Rough. Dragging up from somewhere broken.

“You came back.”

It isn’t a question.

It’s a claim.

A truth.

You swallow, your voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah. I came back to you.. as promised"

He lowers the plate, still cradling it in both hands like something precious. Not food. Not even a gift. But proof. Proof that you meant it. That you came back. That the ache in his hollow chest wasn’t just madness clawing at memory.

His voice comes again, lower this time. Not softer....he doesn't do soft...but closer. As if it’s being dragged from the deepest part of him.

“I thought you wouldn’t. I thought he'd trick you.. force you away."

His claws tighten just slightly around the paper towel. Not enough to tear it. Just enough to betray the weight behind the words.

You step forward...not much, just enough that he feels it. That closeness again. The same gravity that pulled you into him last time. But now it’s steadier. More certain. "He tried, showed me everything, everyone youve killed. But im yours William. Ill always come back"

Springtrap goes still.

Utterly still—like even the decaying metal of him has frozen in place. Like some forgotten part of William Afton that still remembers being human doesn’t know how to handle the sound of your voice saying that.

I’m yours, William.

The phrase doesn’t echo through the ruined halls of Fazbear Frights, but it feels like it does. Like it reverberates off the bones of the building. Off the twisted remnants of what he used to be.

He stares at you. Unmoving. His claws tighten imperceptibly around the edges of the plate, and the faintest shudder ripples through his shoulders.

Not rage. Not hunger.

Something worse. Something needier.

"You belong to me little mechanic... I told you that you were mine.. that i would keep you" he purrs out.

"Let me fix you William"

...

"You will fix me. And I will ruin you"
There’s no venom in it. Just the ghost of panic, curled somewhere under his words like rot beneath rust. Because you weren’t supposed to come back. You weren’t supposed to mean it.

You weren’t supposed to ruin the story he’d been telling himself..that he’d broken you, tricked you, that this was his game, that you were a pawn, not a person.

But now you’re standing here. Still reaching for him. Still seeing him. Still wanting to fix him... And the worst part?

He wants it.

God, he wants it.

Wants you more than he knows how to admit. And it terrifies him.

Michael thankfully breaks the tension "Alright, let me at least get to the security office before you make out with my father, thanks"

Springtrap’s head snaps slightly toward Michael...just a twitch, really...but it’s sharp, unnatural. Like a puppet pulling against its strings. Not a threat. Not quite. But enough to make a chill roll down the back of your neck.

Michael just raises his hands in mock surrender. Calm. Wry. Tired.

“I’m going,” he mutters, already walking. “God forbid I witness whatever weird Frankenstein foreplay this is turning into.”

You almost laugh, but it dies halfway up your throat.

Because William—Springtrap—is still staring at you. Still close. Still… rattling apart on the inside, even if he’d never admit it.

His clawed hand lowers from your chin, brushing briefly against your throat in the process. Not cruel. Not seductive. Just… lingering. Like he’s memorizing the shape of you for later.

For when he tries to pretend this didn’t happen.

“I will ruin you,” he repeats. Quieter this time. Not a threat. Not even a warning.

A confession.

And you… you don’t flinch. You don’t run.

Instead, you step closer. Just a little leaning up to brush your lips against the front of his snout...

Fake fur, both old and new patches, sewn in to fill the gaps... hard brittle foam teeth, it all feels wrong against your lips.

he shudders.

Not a full-body quake. Just a hitch...a jolt beneath the ruined springlocks and fur, like something vital clenched and didn’t quite know how to release.

"Let me finish patching up your head tonight okay?"

There’s a long silence after your offer...after your kiss.

William stares at you, utterly still. The pizza plate is still cradled in his claws, untouched, yet handled like something sacred. Your words cut through the moment like a thread tying something loose back into place.

“Let me finish your head tonight, okay?” you say again, soft but firm. “I brought you pizza.”

His voice drags from somewhere deep inside the suit, hollow and tight. “You treat me far too well little mechanic... but i can't eat"

"Well i thought that about Michael-"

He huffs. just a faint sound, like a distorted laugh being smothered before it can exist.

“I’m not like him.”
He almost spits it. But not at you. At himself.

You take a breath, holding his gaze. “You’re not like him. But he’s your son, he's undead. And if he can eat, you probably can too. Whatever’s left in there... it still probably works. Somehow.”

His fingers tighten slightly on the paper towel. You think he might snap the plate in half, but he doesn’t. He just… stares down at it like it’s a memory, not a meal.

"Do you think this will buy your way out?"

"I don't want a way out" you reply

He blankly blinks
....

...

“I don’t need to eat, little mechanic ” he mutters after a while “I’m not meant to.”

You step closer again. This time slower. Gentler.
“No,” you say. “But maybe you want to.”

That shuts him up.

The silence that follows is a living thing...thick, electric, stretching between you like a wire pulled too tight, humming under tension.

William doesn't move. He doesn't breathe. He just stares at you, at the pizza, at the way you keep reaching for him like he's not a monster. Like he's not something that should be feared.

His voice, when it returns, is low. Fractured. Like something cracking beneath pressure he’s tried to pretend wasn’t there.

“You think I want normal things?” he asks, head tilting slightly...more machine than man, but the words carry need beneath the venom. “After everything I’ve done? You think wanting makes me human again?”

You don’t answer that. You don’t have to.

You just step up and gently take the plate back from his claws...hands brushing his with no hesitation, no flinch..and set it on the workbench beside you.

“I think wanting makes you something, William. And that’s enough for now.”

His eyes...those awful, beautiful, glowing things of silver remsnt stained glass
..don’t leave your face. You can’t tell if he’s furious or heartbroken. Maybe both. Maybe neither. Maybe he’s finally feeling something he can’t categorize.

Finally, finally… he speaks again. Barely a whisper:

“…Then fix me.”

It's not a demand this time. Not even a command.

It’s a request.

A plea.

And something in you cracks...because underneath the rust and violence and obsession... he sounds almost as touchstarved as his son.

You nod once, and your voice is steady.

“Alright. Sit down, be a good boy. Ill go grab my tools from parts and service"

You step into the neighbouring room to get all the supplies and come back to William shovelling the cold pizza in his mouth so fast you're afraid he'll choke.

You freeze in the doorway.

For a second, your brain doesn't quite register what you're seeing...Springtrap, slouched over the workbench like some horrible animatronic gargoyle, devouring the pizza with single-minded ferocity. Bites of cold, greasy slices disappearing between foam-molded teeth and half-rotted jaw hinges. As he bites off chunks with his human teeth and throws his head back to force it down...
It's messy. Desperate. Human in the most unsettling way.

And somehow, that’s the part that nearly breaks you.

“…Jesus,” you whisper. “You can eat.”

William doesn’t look over.

Just keeps chewing, swallowing, then reaching for the other slice like he’s afraid you’ll take it away. Like the hunger just woke up after years of silence and it’s too loud now to ignore.

You step forward cautiously. “You don’t have to eat it all right now. It’s not going to disappear.”

He pauses with half a crust in his hand. His eyes flick to you...glowing faintly beneath the ruined eyelids, pupils sharp. There’s a second where you expect some snarl, some cruel remark, some instinctive snap of control.

Instead, he just says, hoarse and almost embarrassed:
“I didn’t think I could feel it anymore. Hunger. But it’s there.”

You approach slowly, setting the toolkit on the bench beside him. “Of course it is,” you murmur. “You’re still in there. Somewhere.”

He chuckles, bitter and low. “Lucky you.”

You ignore that. Reach up. Carefully brush a smear of grease from the fur in the corner of his jaw with your thumb, like it matters. Like he’s not a murderer, or a monster. Just a man who forgot what it felt like to want things.

“I told you,” you say, softer now. “I’ll fix you. But I won’t take away the parts of you that still feel.”

He still doesn’t look at you.

But the crust in his hand lowers, and his voice is quieter than you’ve ever heard it.

“…Then don’t stop touching me either.”

Your breath catches...not from fear. Not anymore.

It’s the vulnerability in his voice that holds you still.

You study him for a moment. The sharp lines of the suit. The ragged breathing that isn’t necessary but still happens. The tension in his shoulders that says he’s bracing for rejection, even now. Especially now.

Slowly, deliberately, you reach for the latches on either side of his head... you memorized the plans so you know how to detach the lower jaw to hang loose...

Not fully.. the hinge far too rusted for that...just a glimpse of the ruined human face behind the monster. Skin stretched over bone, almost see-through and sunken in places, not quite alive, not yet dead. Still him.

William doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches you, frozen in that breathless space between disbelief and dread. Like he’s still convinced this is a trap.

You lean in slowly.

Your lips brush the edge of what remains...where cold metal ends and ruined skin begins. It’s not a real kiss, not one that would make sense to anyone else. It’s reverent. Gentle. Deliberate. Lips against metal plates forced into bone

And he shudders.

Not violently. Not out of hunger or rage. But like something inside him just gave way..

His claws twitch at his sides, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Like he’s afraid to touch you back. To ruin the moment. To ruin you.

You draw back just enough to whisper against the exposed metal and skin:

“I told you. I’ll stay.”

His breath stutters. One clawed hand raises...shaky, careful...and hovers near your side before he finally lets it rest lightly against your back.

The top half of his head is practically merged with the suit... flesh, bone and endoskeleton crushed together, the fur section could be yanked upwards but the glass eyes of the animatronic are half buried melded into the sockets of his skull...

The lower jaw is much the same. Metal hinge impaled into bone, with just the fur and foam dropped away..

“God,” he rasps, voice shredded and wrecked. “What are you doing to me?”

You lean in again... he thankfully tastes like the pizza at first...grease and salt clinging to what remains of his tongue. And for one impossible moment, it grounds you. Makes him feel human again, alive again, or at least close enough to pretend youre not kissing a corpse.
For a time at least, until the overwhelming taste of decay fills your mouth.

His glass eyes don’t close. Can’t close properly. But you can feel the shift in him. That slow, staggering internal collapse as something he’s kept buried claws its way up:

Want.

He’s wanted before. He’s taken before.

But this?

This is received.

When you finally pull back, just slightly, his british voice is like crushed gravel under water.

“…You don’t know what you’re doing, little mechanic. You're getting rather bold... and its getting harder to behave myself"

You smile. Not smug. Not cruel. Just… knowing.

“I know exactly what I’m doing.”

Your hand moves to his waist...slowly, deliberately.. tracing the edges where old fur segments meets cracked plating, where machine and flesh have grown into one another like scar tissue. You touch him like he’s still real. Still fixable. Still worth the trouble.

His claws twitch against your waist again...just the barest graze catching skin, enough to remind you of what he could do. What he is. But they don’t move further. He’s holding himself back..

You whisper it now, not out of fear, but to match the weight in the room. The weight he carries.

“You don’t have to behave with me, William. Not completely. Just don’t lie to me.”

That hits something. Deep. You see it.

He flinches, barely...but it’s there. Like an old wound reacting to a memory. Because lying? That’s all he’s ever done. All he’s been. Twisting truths, rewriting stories. Hiding bodies, hiding truths, hiding himself and for what? He was a suspect of course, they both were, but nobody thought the cold eager engineer in the back room , fixing up animatronics... would ever be capable of killing so many...

Three days, if that even. Barely 13 hours and you're already all he can think of..and that terrifies him more than anything.

Because William Afton doesn't feel. Not really. Not like this. He takes. He uses. He manipulates. Emotion, to him, has always been leverage—just another tool in the chest, another circuit to rewire until the result fits his purpose.

But you? You’re not a variable. You’re not a pawn. You’re something he didn’t plan for.

Your hand at his waist is gentle, grounding. Not afraid. Not probing. Just there. Steady in the way no one’s ever been with him..

And that is unraveling him faster than rust and time ever could.

He tries to speak. Fails. His jaw moves like he wants to scoff, deflect, say something cutting that puts the world back in his control. He hates it.. he hates not having control of the situation...

“Let me see you William. All of you. No more tricks. No more games.”

His silence is longer this time. Loaded. And when he speaks, the words come slow and reluctant, like they’re being torn from rusted metal gears.

“…If I let you see all of me...if I let you keep touching...you won’t stop.”

You pull back just enough to meet his eyes, those glassy inhuman things fused to the remnants of what used to be a man.

“I won’t.”

His arms close around you like a vice made of trembling restraint and ancient grief.

Not crushing. Not cruel.

But real.

Tangible.

The hug is awkward...his limbs too long, his joints clicking softly, the suit’s bulk unfamiliar in a gesture meant for gentler things, at least not in its current state. But it’s real. He tucks his ruined face into the curve of your neck, the edges of metal and bone brushing against your skin like apology and confession wrapped into one. The foam teeth of the upper jaw digging into your shoulder... the loose torn wire behind his eye jabbing into the side of your head..

He doesn’t speak.

He can’t.

Because this isn’t a moment meant for words.

It’s for breath you can feel but he doesn’t need. For the weight of him sinking into you, trying to disappear and be held at the same time. For the awful, beautiful silence of a man who has always been the monster, trying, just this once...not to be.

You wrap your arms around him in return.

Not because he’s earned it.

But because he needs it.

And because maybe, deep down, you need it too. More than you needed the hug from Michael..

You feel him shudder again, chest hitching like he’s on the edge of something unspeakable. Not rage. Not hunger.

Grief.

For who he was. For who he could’ve been. For the fact that someone still sees something worth salvaging in the ruins.

"I didn't want this... not at first... I just wanted to bring my son back.. but remnant... needs a source... and children are so trusting....Charlie was spur of the moment... but the rest... I lured them back in this suit.."

You don't pull away.

You don’t flinch.

Not when the truth finally leaves him in fragments. Not when the horror of it sinks into the quiet between you like a poison that’s long since dried in his veins. Not even when he says it...really says it. The thing that no mask, no suit, no manipulation can hide.

"I killed them in this suit."

His voice breaks around it. Like he hasn’t said it out loud before. Like it’s rusted through his throat and is only now clawing its way free. A confession, not meant to buy forgiveness...just to be heard.

And still… you hold him.

"I enjoyed it.. taking their lives, hiding the bodies... lying to police"

His arms tense around you like he’s expecting you to recoil. To push away. To finally realize what he is and start hating him like everyone else did.

But you stay.

Your voice is quiet. Not forgiving. Not absolving.

Just true.

“I know.”

And when he doesn’t pull back, you add:

“And I’m still here.”

He chokes on something that might be a laugh. Might be a sob. It’s hard to tell. His fingers twitch like he wants to press you closer and push you away at the same time. Ears flexing faintly as he fights himself...

“I should’ve killed you when you got too close,” he murmurs, broken and dry. “That was the plan. That was always the plan. To slaughter you in that security office like that woman before you ”

You nod against his shoulder. “But you didn’t.”

He exhales slowly. Like it's the first real breath he’s taken in years.

“…And now I don’t think I can.”

His words hang in the stale air between you, heavy and hot and honest in a way he’s never allowed himself to be. Not with anyone. Not even himself.
It’s not mercy. Not guilt. It’s need. Raw and ugly. The realization that something in him...whatever’s left...wants you too badly to destroy you. And that terrifies him more than you ever could.

Because William Afton has never had a weakness. Not since his weakness got his daughter killed by his own creation..

And now you are one.

You feel the way his body curls into you, not just like a man seeking comfort, but like a machine breaking down mid-function. The tension in his arms is unbearable...caught between restraint and desperation, trembling on the edge of unraveling.

"I didn’t just plan to kill you,” he says, almost numb. “I wanted to. Wanted to drag you under with me. Break you open. Strip out every part until you were something useful. Hide the husk in the wall...Like the rest of the guards he's hired”

Your breath catches...but not from fear. You’re past that. It’s grief, maybe. Or sympathy. Or something worse: understanding.

“But I couldn’t,” he finishes, like the words hurt him worse than the springlocks ever did. “You kept looking at me like I was—”

He stops himself. Can’t say it.

So you say it for him. Quietly.

“Human.”

A long, rattling silence.

Then his voice...low, bitter, sharp as broken glass:

“Don’t call me that.”

You pull back, just enough to meet his gaze. Those terrible, glowing eyes. Glass fused to ruined sockets. Still watching. Still feeling.

“Then tell me what you are, William.”

He doesn’t answer. Because he doesn’t know. Not anymore.

You reach up, fingers brushing over the exposed parts of his face...flesh, metal, fur. All of it. The monster. The man. The rot. You take it in without flinching.

“You’re not forgiven,” you say gently. “But you’re not alone either.”

And that?

That breaks something.

Not loudly. Not violently.

Just a slow, quiet collapse inside him as he leans forward and presses what’s left of his forehead to yours. Glass and fur.. beneath that skin and heat and guilt and want. Clinging to the one person who didn’t turn away.

“I don’t know how to stop,” he whispers.

You close your eyes. Let him breathe you in.

“We’ll figure it out.”

And this time, he doesn’t flinch when you say we...

He doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t pull away, or bark out some cruel dismissal, or bury himself in the easy violence of control and power the way he used to.

He just... stays.

Forehead against yours. Breath slow and uneven. Hands trembling where they sit on your back, like he still doesn’t believe he’s allowed to hold on without breaking something.

He sighs, gently pushing his rotting lips and teeth against your forehead..
...

You smile "cute"

He chuckles, theres more warmth in it this time "im not cute"

Your smile lingers, even as your eyes flutter closed again, the press of his ruined mouth against your forehead oddly tender for something so grotesque.

“Mm,” you hum. “Says the man giving me forehead kisses like a nervous prom date.”

That earns a real laugh...low, rough, crackling through broken vocal cords like static from a dying speaker, but it’s real. And warm. And his.

“You’re insufferable,” he murmurs, but he doesn’t move. Doesn’t let go.

Neither do you.

“You like that about me,” you tease softly, fingers curling into the fur at his sides where the fabric has been stitched and restitched over the years. You don’t pull away, even as the decay beneath the suit reminds you with every breath that this, he should be terrifying.

But he’s not. Not right now.

Right now, he’s just William. A man held together by rot and rage and some fragile, flickering scrap of want that won’t die no matter how much he tries to smother it.

Until you suggest "want to come with me and hang out in the security office"

He stills. Just slightly.

Not out of rejection...something more complex than that. You feel it in the way his hands pause mid-shift on your back. The way his body, already tense beneath the fabric and steel, goes just a little stiffer.

You don’t push. You let the moment breathe

There’s silence.

Then a slow inhale through what’s left of his nose, the sound catching on frayed vocal cords and ruined lungs.

“…Michael’s there,” he says, and it’s not a question. It’s a statement. Flat. Guarded. Like the very thought drags nails down the inside of his chest.

“Yeah,” you admit gently. “But he won’t hurt you. Not if I’m there.”

A humorless laugh escapes him...dry and thin and bitter like dust. “Not if you’re there,” he echoes. “That’s what it comes down to now, isn’t it? He doesn’t trust me. He shouldn’t trust me. I don’t even trust me.”

You tilt your head, pressing your hand carefully against the side of his ruined jaw, thumb brushing over the edge of warped fur and rusted endoskeleton. “Then trust me, William.”

He looks at you. Hands reattaching the fur of his lower jaw. Then he thinks for a long time...His claws flex again...perhaps a nervous tic, or unsure habit... and then, slowly, he nods.

Not because he’s sure.

But because, for the first time in decades, he doesn’t want to be alone.

“…Alright,” he murmurs. “But if he tries to burn me, I am throwing a chair.”

You smile, leaning in to press one last, brief kiss to the side of his head...metal and fur and all.

“I’ll allow it.”

He snorts softly at that, a ragged breath catching in what’s left of his chest cavity...half a laugh, half disbelief. You can feel it ripple through the suit, through him. Something loosening. Something like... relief, maybe. Even if he won’t say it.

“Don’t encourage me,” he mutters, half-hearted and wry.

William doesn’t follow right away.

You glance back once at the doorway as you step out of the entryway ...just long enough to see him standing there in the gloom, framed by the front door of the building like a shadow too stubborn to vanish. He’s reattached his jaw properly. Straightened the fur where it still clings. Even tried to smooth out the parts of himself that don’t move right anymore. Slicked back your patches of replacement fur...

But none of it hides what’s changed.

Not the way he watches you go, like the pull to follow is a rope around his chest. Not the faint tremor in his claws. Not the hesitation that isn’t rooted in violence, or malice, or some need to dominate the space around him.

.....

You reach the security office first. Michael’s already there, as expected...slouched in the chair, flipping lazily through the monitor feeds, rebooting the ventilation on the other screen, clearly half-bored and half-alert the way only someone used to surviving this kind of place could be. He glances up as the floor creaks..

“You look like hell,” he says, deadpan.

You roll your eyes. “Missed you too, Mike.”

He smirks faintly, but it fades quickly. His gaze sharpens. He sees something in your expression. Something quieter than words.

“…He’s coming, isn’t he?”

You nod. Just once.

Michael doesn’t answer right away. Just exhales through his nose and turns his eyes back to the screens. “You know, I purposefully avoided cam 10 to not see you making out with my father... and now you're bringing that to my office"

He shrugs, still not looking at you. “I’m not blind. Or deaf. Or emotionally stable. You think I don’t know how he gets when he’s actually... feeling things again? He stops killing people and starts getting clingy. Had all that about 1986 ish , i can recognise the signs ”

A flicker of motion on the corner camera draws his attention. He squints. “Also well, I didn’t want to puke. So yeah. I avoided cam 10.”

You walk in fully, arms crossed. “You don’t get to be disgusted and snarky.”

“Oh, I absolutely do,” he says, finally glancing at you with a crooked half-grin... hes not got his . “It’s my trauma, I can weaponize it however I want.”

"Can you even puke?" You ask

Michael pauses.

Looks at you.

Then looks down at himself...at the slightly stained hoodie..the torn edges of gloves, the slightly-too-still rise and fall of his chest—and back up again with that same deadpan, tired stare he’s mastered like an art form.

“…I hope not,” he says, grimacing faintly. “But with my luck, it’d probably be like... oily rot. Or phlegm. Or whatever’s left of ennerd... "

You blink. “That’s... awful.”

He laughs. “I contain multitudes. And at least two of them are made of goo.... i told you... storage closet of horrors"

Before you can reply, there’s a low creak from the hall.

William is there now, standing just outside the office window. The light catches on the ruined edges of his suit, the rusted fur, the glassy eyes that never quite blink but somehow do seem to soften the longer he looks at you.

Michael turns his head toward him, jaw tight, but he doesn’t move.

William doesn’t either.

For a long moment, it’s like both are waiting...coiled, silent. Not quite enemies, not quite anything else either. Just two ghosts trying to figure out how not to set the room on fire by existing in it together.

Then Michael sighs again.

Loudly. Exaggerated.

“Alright, Dad,” he mutters. “Come in. But don’t touch anything. And if you drip like viscera on my chair on something, I swear to God—”

“I’ll throw the chair, with you on it” William says flatly, walking to the door and stepping into the office with an awful mechanical groan.

Michael raises an eyebrow. “Charming.”

You, somehow, manage not to laugh. Just barely.

William stands near the door, looming as always, though the usual menace in his posture is dulled. His claws twitch at his sides, not like a threat...more like a reflex, like he doesn’t know what to do with his hands when they’re not breaking something.

Michael doesn’t look at him again right away. Just leans back in his chair and waves vaguely toward a dark, metal chair in the corner. “You can sit there. Or don’t. I really don’t care as long as you don’t start monologuing.”

William’s head tilts. “You always did inherit your mother’s charm.”

Michael doesn’t even blink. “i inherited almist nothing, because you gave it all away the second you put on that goddamn suit and started murdering people Dad.”

It hits him like a springlock punching through his chest....painful, precise, and somewhere deep where nothing ever really healed. 'Dad.' Not William. Not Afton. Not monster or bastard or thing. Just that one, small, human word, spoken by the boy who used to laugh in his arms before the world fell apart, before he lost his youngest.. before he lost his daughter..... before he lost himself. He wasn't ever the nicest father.... he wishes he tried harder.

William doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. But something in the room shifts again...like an old circuit finally sparking to life, even if the wires are frayed and everything stinks of rot.

Michael doesn’t repeat it. He doesn’t have to.

He just shakes his head, tossing the uneaten crust of the pizza back onto the desk. “You were supposed to protect us,” he says, quiet now. “Not build machines to replace us. Not feed kids to them. Not leave me to clean up your mess.”

William’s hands flex again...guilt made muscle memory. For a moment, it looks like he might turn and leave. Flee, even. Because facing that truth? It’s harder than any fire. Harder than dying.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he finally takes a step toward the metal chair, joints groaning. Slowly. Almost respectfully. Like the act of sitting across from his son is something that should be earned.

The chair creaks under his weight, metal scraping metal, springs complaining softly as if the past itself resents the moment.

Across from him, Michael still doesn’t look directly at him. He watches the monitors. Watches nothing. Static, empty rooms, flickering lights. Maybe it’s easier to face ghosts on the screen than the one sitting two feet away.

William’s fingers twitch in his lap. He doesn’t speak again. Not yet.
“…I didn’t know how to be a good father,” he finally says, voice more static than breath. “I only knew how to build things. Fix them. Make them behave.”

Michael’s jaw clenches, but he says nothing.

“I thought if I could control the chaos… if I could bring him back... bring her back… if I could just... do something..” William’s voice catches, then thins into quiet. “I didn’t realize I was becoming the thing you all needed protection from.”

Michael turns then. Not fast. Not dramatically. Just enough to meet what’s left of his father’s gaze.

“Yeah,” he says. “You were the monster under the bed. Only difference is you built the bed"

You sit there awkwardly on the floor beside the both of them..The silence that follows is deep. Personal. Final.

But it’s shared.

William doesn’t argue. Doesn’t deflect. Doesn’t lie. Just nods...slow, deliberate, like accepting the verdict of a trial he knows he lost before it even began.

The weight in the room isn’t something spoken... it’s felt. In the stillness. In the low hum of the monitor screens. In the soft creak of William’s suit as he shifts ever so slightly, claws curling into the frayed fabric on his thighs like he’s trying to hold himself together.

Michael leans forward slightly, forearms resting on his knees, still watching him. Not with rage. Not anymore.

"You didn't just lose them," Michael says, voice quieter now. "You lost me, too. You just didn’t notice."

William flinches...just barely...but it’s real. That small, broken part of him reacting again, like it remembers what it used to mean to hear that voice when it was still young and hopeful. Before it called him 'Dad' like a question. Before it stopped calling him anything at all.

You don’t say anything.

There’s nothing to say. Not right now.

So you just sit, knees pulled close, a silent witness to something older than the bloodstains on the floor. Two people made of grief, guilt, and ghosts, circling a conversation they should’ve had decades ago.

William shifts again, the chair creaking under his weight.

“I noticed,” he rasps. “I noticed every time I looked at the empty house. At your room. I just… didn’t know how to fix it. I built machines. Robots... Not bridges.”

Michael’s eyes don’t soften, but they do lower...just a little.

"You built cages," he murmurs. "And then locked all of us in them."

William doesn't deny it.

You finally speak, gently.
"Maybe you can try and open those cages now"...

...

William’s eyes shift...glass and wire and something deeply human behind it, flickering like a failing bulb. That voice in his head, the one that always knew how to justify every wrong, every body, every sin, goes quiet for the third time today.

Your words settle over him not like a command, not like an expectation... but like a possibility. A door, cracked open, in a house long abandoned.

A long silence.

Then, with effort, William speaks again. “I don’t know if I deserve to.”

“No,” Michael agrees, flatly. “You don’t.”

You glance at him, but Michael’s gaze is steady. Not unkind. Just honest.

“But you’re here, trying ” he continues. “So… maybe that means something. I don’t know what. I’m not saying I forgive you. I probably never will.” He shifts slightly in his chair. “But I’m tired of pretending I don’t want to at least understand why.”

The room descends into silence... you break it "do you think the pizza place will deliver here?"

Michael leans back in his chair with a tired, lopsided grin, rubbing a hand down his face like the weight of the night is finally starting to settle in again. Pulling a loose hair out of the rip in his cheek. “What, at 3am? Probably not unless you bribe the driver with a hundred bucks and a signed waiver saying we won’t eat them too.”

You snort, pushing yourself up from the floor with a dramatic sigh. “So… that’s a maybe.”

“I said what I said,” Michael mutters.

William, who has been quiet through the exchange, shifts his weight slightly in the creaking chair. The way his head tilts toward you, it’s almost... curious. His voice rasps low.

“Pizza. You’re talking about pizza.”

Michael shoots him a dry look. “What, you want some?"

"Well..... yes actually..... I think i liked them with mushrooms..." William responds ...

You speak gently, teasingly. “We can still get mushrooms. Might have to trade a soul or two for a delivery, but I think it’s worth it.”

William’s voice is smoother this time. Almost fond. “...Extra cheese.”

Michael groans, but it’s theatrical. “I swear to God, if you two start making out over toppings, I am throwing that chair.”

You grin, leaning back on your hands as you glance between them. “No promises,” you say sweetly, and the look Michael shoots you is so sharp it could cut metal.

William huffs...something halfway between a rasp and a chuckle. It might even be a laugh, though it sounds like it was dragged up through rusted pipes and old pain.

“There it is,” Michael mutters, shaking his head. “My life. Reduced to third-wheeling the corpse of my father and the engineer chaos goblin i call a friend, in my security office at 3 a.m.”

You smile wider. “You’re welcome.”

William leans back in his seat, the grotesque bulk of the suit creaking again as he settles more comfortably than any murder animatronic has a right to. “You always were dramatic, Michael.”

Michael scoffs. “Says the guy who died in a bright yellow bunny costume"

You cough into your hand to hide your laugh. William just tilts his head a bit and shrugs...if he could raise an eyebrow, he probably would.

“Touché,” he concedes.

And somehow, just for a moment, it feels almost normal.

William sighs "how did you die anyway, Michael?"

Michael chuckles slightly "got scooped"

William’s mechanical fingers twitch slightly...reflexive, almost imperceptible...but the moment doesn’t go unnoticed.

“Got scooped, huh?” he repeats, voice low. Garbled slightly through static and decay, but thoughtful.

Michael nods, mouth twisting into something that’s almost a smile. “Yeah. By your machine, no less. Kind of poetic, if you squint hard enough and ignore all the bodily trauma.”

You shift slightly, watching William closely. He hasn’t moved much, but something in his posture’s changed. Straighter. More alert. He’s quiet...not the silence of brooding, but of calculation.

“…It worked, then,” he finally says. Not triumphant. Not even satisfied. Just stating a fact with the kind of brittle edge you only get from years of consequence catching up to you.

Michael shrugs. “If by worked, you mean I spent days walking around as a barely-living meat puppet for a haunted scrapheap of nightmares… yeah. Worked great.”

William doesn’t laugh. Just exhales, slow and metallic. “It wasn’t meant for you.”

“I know,” Michael says quietly. “It was meant for them. The kids. The experiments. The ones you were trying to keep.”

William stares.

Not blinks.... stares, deep and quiet, and for once even the mechanical hum of his body seems to dull beneath the weight of it.

Michael doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t cover it back up. He just sits there, half-lit by the dying fluorescents, his chest a hollowed echo of who he used to be. Not a wound. A statement.

“I walked out of that basement with nothing left inside,” he says. Calm. Cold. “No heart. No lungs. Just willpower. And the amalgam of the animatronics you kept in there.”

William’s jaw shifts slightly...whether in grief or guilt, it’s hard to tell. His fingers twitch again, slow and uncertain, resting atop his knees like he’s holding back the urge to reach forward, to fix something he broke long ago.

“You shouldn’t have survived that,” William says, voice raw. Not in tone...his voice is too warped for that..but in honesty.

Michael smirks again, but it’s thin. Tired. “Yeah. Tell that to Ennard. They wore me like a suit until they didn’t want me anymore. And by the time they left, I wasn’t dead. Just… rotten and empty ...”

You speak gently, barely above a whisper. “Is any of it… still in there?”

Michael looks at you, then down at the hole in his chest. “No. They left. Crawled out through the sewers. All that’s left now is… me.”

You had your hands in that cavity earlier, it was almost intimate.. you're tempted to touch Michael again but you think William may get jealous .. you do it anyway... gently touching Michael’s waist.

Michael stiffens at first...reflexive, like someone who hasn’t been held in a very long time and forgot what it feels like to be touched.

But he doesn’t pull away.

Your arms wrap around his waist, careful not to press against the cavity too hard. You’re warm. He isn’t. Not really. There’s no heartbeat under your ear when you lean in...but there’s still presence. Still him.
Michael exhales slowly, like the breath is more habit than function. “You’re not making this easier, you know.”

There’s a long pause...long enough that for a second you wonder if you crossed a line...but then one of his arms moves. Hesitates. Then settles lightly around your shoulders. Not firm, but present. Accepted.

"I might start getting jealous little mechanic, paying all this attention to my son and not me" William croons out , seemingly starting to get back to his usual self after that heart to heart... or lack thereof ..

You trail your fingers down Michael’s hips slightly, hearing the surprised sound escape from Michael. All while watching William’s reaction...

William’s joints groan as he rises...slow, deliberate. That looming bulk of twisted metal and decaying fabric shouldn't move so fluidly, and yet it does. He crosses the space with purpose, those flickering eyes locked on you with something sharp...possessive

You barely have time to blink before his clawed hand curls gently...not threateningly...around your wrist. Not tight. Not painful. Just firm.

“I’m no longer behaving, little mechanic,” he rasps, voice low and thick with static and something that might’ve once been charm if not ground down by time and sin. “You’ve given out enough comfort for one night. My turn.”

Michael groans without lifting his head. “This is so weird. I told you it would get weird.”

You glance between them...still in Michael’s partial embrace, wrist now claimed by William’s much colder grip. Two broken Aftons. Two different ruins, each carrying the past like a shroud.

And somehow, you're the one caught in the middle, arms full of trauma survivors and deeply questionable family dynamics.

You sigh.

“I’m going to need so much therapy,” you mutter.

Michael huffs. “Get in line.”

William chuckles...a low, metallic rumble that vibrates through his chassis. “You’re both assuming therapy would take you.”

You tilt your head, deadpan. “William. You built a machine that rips people’s insides out. You don’t get to talk about emotional regulation.”

He actually laughs this time...short, rough, but real.

“Fine,” he says, wrapping his arms around you with a creak. “But I’m still not behaving.”

You let yourself be pulled from Michael’s arms into William’s, the shift of warmth startling against the cold steel beneath his fur. His embrace is firm...possessive, even...but not cruel. More like a vice you’re allowed to ease into, not escape from.

“Well,” you say lightly, “that’s handled. Who wants pizza first?”

Michael raises his hand. “Me,” he says. “I’m starving.”

"You have no stomach, how are you hungry. I at least have one in here" William huffs

You pull out your smartphone, the screen lighting up the dim room as you scroll through the pizza app.

William’s eyes narrow, the glow reflecting off his weathered glass eyes. “What is that?” he rasps, voice laced with genuine curiosity.

You glance up at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “It’s called a smartphone. It’s like... a pocket-sized computer. You can talk to people, look up anything, order food... and even play games.”

William leans in over your shoulder slightly, the joints in his suit creaking softly as if stretching after decades of neglect. “And you carry this everywhere? It’s... remarkably compact.”

William almost sounds like a kid in a candy shop. "Where are its buttons? Its antenna?"

You chuckle softly, tapping the smooth glass screen. “It’s all touchscreen now...no buttons needed for most things. Just tap, swipe, or type.”

William’s glassy eyes blink slowly, as if trying to process the magic in your hands. “No buttons... like a magic window you touch to control the world.”

Michael snorts again from the chair. “He’s still impressed by tech that’s been around for over a decade.”

William shrugs with a creaky groan. “I was locked in a room for three decades. Give me some credit. I wasn’t exactly getting science weekly delivered"

You grin, setting the phone aside as the room’s tension eases “Well, if you want, I can teach you a thing or two about these ‘magic windows.’”

William’s eyes flicker...half amused, half intrigued. “I’d like that, little mechanic.... oh imagine how advanced robotic progress has come. You have to tell me"
You nod "oh i will. Just let me finish ordering pizza.. mushrooms and extra cheese right?"

William nods slowly, a ghost of a smile curling beneath the rust and wires of his springlock suit. “Mushrooms and extra cheese... yes. A simple pleasure, even for a man like me.”

Michael smirks, crossing his arms. “Finally, something we agree on.”

You tap a few more buttons, confirming the order with a practiced flick of your finger. “Done. Now, while we wait, I’ll show you a few tricks on this magic window.”

William leans closer, eyes bright with a flicker of excitement. “Show me everything. I want to catch up on what I’ve missed.”

You flick open the YouTube app and tilt the phone toward William, the light illuminating the eerie creases of his mask. The app loads, thumbnails flashing rapidly—vibrant, chaotic, full of motion and color.

William freezes, leaning in slightly, head tilted. “What is this?”

Michael sighs dramatically. “The Internet, Father. Or rather, a cursed sea of cat videos, misinformation, and people filming themselves falling off skateboards.”

William doesn’t answer immediately. His flickering eyes scan the screen like it’s arcane script. “They all move… these little images. And they talk? These are... recordings? Where did you put the tapes?"

“Billions of them, no tapes required ” you say, scrolling through trending videos. “Anything you want to see, learn, or laugh at. It’s all here.”

You tap a video titled “Top 10 Most Advanced Robots of 2023"

The video bursts to life...flashy graphics, upbeat music, and sleek, shining machines far beyond anything William built in his heyday. Humanoid bots walking flawlessly, AI dogs doing backflips, a prototype android playing the violin.

William goes completely still.

He watches in total silence for a moment, the flickering light of progress reflected in his eyes. And then, almost absently:

“I hate it.”

Michael cackles. “He’s jealous.”

William slowly turns his head. “I’m... inspired,” he says, but it sounds like he’s trying to convince himself. “They’ve come far. Still lack charm.”

You snort. “Says the man who put children’s souls in animatronics.”

William waves a hand like he’s swatting away your judgment. “Details.”

Michael, eyes half-lidded, deadpans: “You are absolutely not allowed to start taking notes.”

William grumbles. “Then stop showing me things that awaken my curiosity.”

You smirk, locking your phone as you tuck it back into your pocket. “Well, next time I’ll show you TikTok. That’ll kill what little soul you’ve got left.”

William’s head snaps toward you, eyes flickering. “TikTok?”

Michael immediately groans. “No. Absolutely not. You are not letting him anywhere near TikTok.”

“He’s curious,” you say with a shrug, half teasing. “What’s the worst that could happen?”

William hums, almost dreamily. “It sounds like some sort of countdown... or a detonation sequence...”

Michael doesn’t miss a beat. “That’s disturbingly accurate, actually. Destroys the mind"

William leans back with a thoughtful creak, his voice low and musing. “Imagine short-form psychological content. Condensed emotional manipulation. Bite-sized conditioning.”

Michael shoots you a look. “See? You’ve created a monster.”

You grin. “Correction: I’ve reawakened one.”

William just chuckles, that low rasp like static in a dying cassette tape. “I’m going to need one of these... ‘phones.’”

Michael pinches the bridge of his half rottwd nose. “Oh good. Give the madman access to a supercomputer in his pocket. What could possibly go wrong?”

You hold your hands up. “In my defense, he’s already killed people with a metal rabbit suit. The bar is... subterranean.”

William shrugs. “And yet you still find me charming.”

You laugh. “God help me, I do.”

Michael deadpans, “I want the pizza guy to show up and witness this so badly. Just so I’m not the only one suffering.”

William leans back in his chair like a king on a rusted throne. “Let him come. Let him witness the age of wonders.”

Michael just mutters, “Let him witness the therapy bills.”

The room settles into a strange quiet—equal parts tense, surreal, and absurdly domestic. William sits like a fallen emperor draped in dust and vengeance, Michael looks like he’s aged an extra hundred years just from proximity, and you… well, you’re somewhere between caretaker and chaos engineer.

Then, as if summoned by some cosmic cue, a knock echoes through Fazbear Frights from the front door.

Michael freezes. “Oh my God.”

William leans forward slightly, like a gargoyle perking up at the scent of prey. “Is that…?”

You nod slowly, standing. “That would be the pizza.”

Michael rises too fast for someone half-decayed. “Okay. I’m getting it. I’m answering the door. No weirdness.”

William rises right after, towering. “I’ll come too.”

“No,” Michael says, hands up like he’s wrangling a bear. “You’ll scare him to death.”

“I’ll smile,” William offers, baring his jagged rotting teeth and the unsettling glow of old remnant coated eyes.

“You can’t smile, Dad.”

“I can simulate the idea of one.”

You’re already halfway out of the office, trying not to laugh. “Too late. I’m getting it.”

“You’re the only one still alive, after all,” Michael mutters, voice dry as dust.

“Temporarily,” William calls after you cheerfully. “Don’t forget that part. You'd look great in a funtime animatronic”

You roll your eyes and walk through the quiet halls toward the front of the building, the fading fluorescent lights buzzing softly overhead.

You know they're following you.

You reach the door.

One last glance over your shoulder reveals William standing at the end of the hallway, arms crossed like a proud (if terrifying) parent. Michael’s just visible behind him, slouched against the wall with the air of a man who’s been emotionally waterboarded by his own family.

You open the door.

The pizza guy blinks at you, clearly relieved that someone with a pulse is accepting the food. “Uh... large mushroom and extra cheese?”

You smile. “That’s us. Thanks.”

You take out Henry's wallet grabbing some cash from it..

As you hand over the cash and tip, there’s a soft creak behind you.

You don’t even need to turn around.

“William, go back to the office,” you say calmly.

A long pause. Then his voice, low and smug: “I just wanted to observe. I’m being very still.”

The pizza guy’s eyes widen like he’s seeing Slenderman materialize from the shadows. “Is that… a costume?”

You reply smoothly, “Yes. He’s… in character. For a birthday party.”
Yes ... a children's birthday party... at 4am..

Behind you, Michael chokes on something between a laugh and a scream. William mutters, “I am not a party clown.”

You give the guy an extra five just for not running.

He leaves at record speed.

Door shut. Pizza secured.

Michael looks at you...."is that Henry’s wallet?"

You glance down, casual as anything. “Oh, this?” You pull it out, give it a little wave. "Found it. Figured he wouldn’t mind covering a mushroom-and-extra-cheese emergency.”

William chuckles darkly from the side. “Always knew Henry was the charitable type.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “He’s going to strangle you.”

You shrug. “Not if I blame you first.”

William steps in smoothly, voice dry and teasing. “Oh, don’t worry. I’ll take the blame. He already assumes anything weird happening around here is my fault.”

Michael mutters, “That’s because it usually was.”

You hold up the pizza box like a peace offering. “Can we all agree it was worth it?”

There’s a brief pause.

Michael takes a slice. “...Yeah, alright.”

William snags two at once with the calculated grace of someone who’s forgotten table manners but not appetite. “If Henry confronts me,” he says between bites, “I’ll remind him who kept the kids entertained for decades.”

Michael deadpans, “You traumatized them.”

William waves a greasy slice dismissively. “Potato, potahto.”

He tilts his head back, awkwardly ripping chunks out of the pizza slices as you walk back to the office.

You watch as William leans back, the ancient servos in his neck whining softly, jaw creaking open at an unnatural angle as he awkwardly tears into the pizza with the finesse of a vending machine trying to eat its own snacks. He’s not graceful...but somehow, it’s endearing. In a 'this man definitely should not be allowed near a school zone' kind of way.

Michael watches him for a second with an unreadable expression, then glances at you. “You know...this is probably the weirdest dinner I’ve ever had. And I once ate cold lasagna next to ballora while trying to stay alive.”

You lift your slice. “We’re redefining family bonding, one cursed bite at a time.”

William, still chewing aggressively, hums in satisfaction. “You two mock, but this is the best meal I’ve had in thirty years. Pizza, conversation… no screaming child souls. Im in less pain thanks to my precious little mechanic here... Almost quaint.”

You return to the office, flopping into your usual seat as the three of you form a loose, uneven triangle....like some macabre parody of a sitcom kitchen table.

Michael leans back in his chair. “I give it twenty minutes before Henry walks in... he said he would show up early to prepare for friday night... I give him five seconds before he smells the pizza, and figures out exactly what happened.”

William doesn’t even pause chewing. “And I give him three seconds to start a lecture before I pretend the pizza box is evidence of a summoning ritual.”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “You gonna start drawing pentagrams in marinara?”

William swallows. “If it buys me time to finish the crust, yes... you were really working with him to burn me alive in here werent you Michael"

Michael doesn't flinch. He just stares back at William, tired and blunt. “Yeah. I was. And for the record, it would have worked. Too bad you'd be too stubborn to stay dead.”

William tilts his head, the mechanical groan of old servos underscoring the motion. “I’ve always had a talent for surviving things I shouldn’t.”

“Like justice,” Michael mutters, biting into his crust.

William leans back with a sigh, his half-eaten slice dangling in metal fingers. “You know... you didn’t exactly come out unscathed either, Michael. You died in that place and still came crawling back here.”

Michael’s jaw tightens, but his voice stays level. “I came back to stop you. I stayed because someone had to clean up your mess.”

You clear your throat. “You know… for a group of people who’ve technically died , this is the least restful afterlife dinner party I’ve ever seen.”

William snorts. “Death isn’t restful, mechanic. It’s complicated. Messy. Often poorly timed.”

Michael side-eyes him. “And in your case, very flammable.”

William smirks, all sharp teeth and smoldering ego. “Touché.”

Then he looks at you again, more contemplative. “Still... if not for you, I wouldn’t even be sitting here having this argument with my son. Let alone eating pizza.”

You blink. “Is that gratitude I hear?”

William’s voice lowers slightly, but it’s warm. “It’s something dangerously close.”

Michael mutters, “Must be the cheese. It’s clogging his morality gears.”

You laugh, the sound breaking some of the tension.

The door rattles, Michael checks the cameras "he's here.. should i handle this?"

William sighs, wiping grease on the fur of his thighs . “Well. Time to start drawing those pentagrams.”

"Not on the fur William! Youll go mouldy..... or well mouldier" you scold him

William glances down at the cheese-slick stain he's just smeared into the matted fur of his leg, and for a brief, surreal moment, actually looks chastised. His eyes flicker in a slow blink. “Mouldier is subjective.”

You groan, snatching a napkin and swiping at the fur as best you can. “You’re going to be fermenting by the end of the week if you keep using yourself as a napkin.”

Michael, still watching the camera feed, bites back a laugh. “We could bottle him and sell him as haunted kombucha.”

“I am not a probiotic,” William grumbles indignantly, brushing your hand away with exaggerated flair. “I am a man of science.an entertainer."

“You’re a walking biohazard,” you shoot back, tossing the grease-streaked napkin into the trash. “One I apparently have to keep house-trained.”

Michael taps the camera screen with a tired sigh "he's just passed cam 5..."

“Ah yes,” William drawls, rising like some terrible, animatronic Dracula. “The Sacred Scriptures of Disappointment.”

You and Michael both groan in unison.

William starts dramatically posing, arms out, like he’s preparing for a ritual. “I summon thee, O Eldritch Fazbear co-owner! Come hither and behold thine unholy pizza crusts!”

“You’re going to get me fired,” you mumble, mouth full of crust.

William smirks and spreads his arms wide, as the sound of the footsteps echoes towards the window of the office.

“Let him come,” he whispers theatrically. “Let Henry gaze upon this domestic tableau of madness. Let him witness the rebirth of family... and poor decisions.”

You mutter, “You’re impossible.”

There’s a long, simmering pause as the shadow outside the office window stills....very still.

Henry’s silhouette looms in the hallway, motionless save for the white-knuckled grip he has on his clipboard. You can practically feel the disgust radiating off him like microwave heat.

William, in full theatrical mode, places a hand reverently over where his heart trapped in its hollow cage of metal and remnant. “Ah. There he is. The man, the myth, the burning disappointment.”

You hiss under your breath, “William.”

But it’s too late. Henry marches into the room like a storm given legs. His eyes immediately take in the grease-streaked napkins, the pizza box, Michael slouched in a chair, and you... clearly an accomplice.

And then he glares at William. Arms spread. Teeth bared in what might technically qualify as a smile. "Henry,” he purrs. “Would you like some pizza?”

Henry’s jaw tightens. “What. Is. This.”

Michael doesn't even look up. “Dinner, breakfast... both"

William hums, mock-pleasant. “A family reunion. Would you like a slice?”

Henry turns sharply to you. “You were supposed to just maintain and fix the building"

Henry’s voice goes cold. “We were supposed to end this. Michael and I agreed—”

William interrupts smoothly, “And now look! A charming night in. Pizza. Laughter. Mild trauma bonding. Surely this is better than burning me alive.”

Henry’s glare could cauterize wounds. “You’re the reason it needs to burn, William.”

Michael mutters under his breath, “Here we go.”

William, ever the showman, folds his arms behind his back with unsettling grace, head tilting ever so slightly...half smugness, half challenge. “Oh, Henry. Always so dramatic. Fire, fire, fire. You know, for someone who claims to be a pacifist, you’re very fond of arson.”

Henry takes a step forward, eyes sharp as broken glass. “You killed children.”

“I built wonders,” William counters, voice dipped in that syrupy, false charm that only makes things worse. “Machines that danced. Sang. Brought joy. What people chose to see in them? Well... that's not my fault.”

Michael looks at the ceiling like he's praying for divine intervention—or a ceiling tile to fall on his head. “He’s doing the thing again. The villain monologue.”

You hold up a hand toward William. “Nope. Sit down. No speeches. Not while I’m still trying to finish this slice.”

William does, albeit with exaggerated indignation, lowering himself into the chair like some exiled king on a rusted throne. “Fine. But I want it on the record that this is the most civilized conversation I’ve had in three decades.”

Henry’s voice is razor-flat.. but rapidly raises to a shout. “It’s not a conversation. It’s a warning. You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t exist. You should have stayed dead.. You Killed My Daughter you Bastard! May The Darkest Pit of Hell Take You"

“And yet,” William says lightly, gesturing to himself with jazz hands, “here I am. Fueled by spite, recharged with mozzarella.”

Henry looks exhausted. “Michael, I trusted you. I thought you wanted to end this too”

Michael finally meets his eyes, weary and hollow. “Yeah. And I trusted you to give me time. He’s not hurting anyone. Not right now.”

Henry looks at the three of you...his co-founder, his once trusted ally, and the clearly overworked mechanic caught in the crossfire...and his face cracks just slightly. Not with sympathy. But with disbelief.

“This is madness,” he breathes.

You sigh, finishing your crust. “No, Henry. This is Fazbear.”

William snorts loudly. Michael groans into his hand.

Henry just turns around and walks out, muttering something about gasoline and bad decisions.

William calls after him, “You forgot your clipboard!”
And under his breath, a little too gleeful:
“He’s going to torch the whole building, isn’t he?”

Michael answers without hesitation. “Absolutely.”
You all sit in stunned silence for a moment, the only sound in the office the faint, greasy crinkle of the empty pizza box as William slowly closes the lid like it’s a coffin.

Then, William exhales through his sharp, broken grin. “Well. That was invigorating. Nothing like a dramatic confrontation with an old friend to really whet the appetite.”

Michael throws his head back against the wall. “That wasn’t drama. That was a death threat in slow motion.”

You wipe your hands on a napkin, still watching the hallway where Henry disappeared. “Should we… stop him?”

Michael raises an eyebrow. “And say what? ‘Hey, Henry, don’t light the match just yet, we haven’t finished trauma-dining with your daughter's murderer’?”

William hums, almost wistful. “I think I prefer the fire to the guilt-tripping, honestly.”

You give him a flat look. “You are the guilt.”

He pats his chest with mock pride. “And I carry it beautifully.”

A soft thunk echoes from somewhere down the hall. The sound of a closet door slamming. Possibly gasoline being located.

Michael mutters, “Five minutes. Tops.”

You rise, dusting off your hands. “Alright. If we don’t want to be barbecued in our chairs, we need a plan.”

William tilts his head. “Stop, drop, and roll?”

Michael sighs. “I was thinking more prevent the arson, not survive it.”

You nod, already moving toward the office door. “Then someone’s going to have to try and talk him down.”

Both undead Aftons look at you. Then at the corridor with the now pervasive stench stench gasoline...

There’s a beat of silence.

Then William, very seriously: “I vote run.”

Michael nods. “Seconded.”

You blink at them, deadpan. “Really? That’s the plan? We just sprint out of here while Henry re-enacts Fahrenheit 451 with this entire building?”

William is already standing, brushing imaginary ash off his lap. “He has the gasoline, the motive, and the moral high ground. Do you want to be the reason his righteous fury gets interrupted?”

William slowly edges toward the emergency exit. “Look, you’re the moral compass here. But we’re very flammable, and I personally prefer not to test my ignition point tonight.”

Michael’s already pulling on that fire escape door. “We can get to the car"

You hesitate in the doorway.

Then the distinct sound of a match being struck echoes faintly down the hall.

And the door comes off the wall.... its not real... the only way out is through the front ..

There’s a long, collective pause.

Michael, still gripping the now-pointless fire escape door, mutters, "Of course it’s fake. Why wouldn’t it be? It’s Fazbear. We don’t get exits, we get metaphors.”

William peers at the exposed brick like he’s analyzing fine art. “Hm. Symbolic. I like it. Very ‘you can’t escape your sins’ meets ‘fire hazard with a budget.’”

You whirl on them, exasperated. “So what now? We run through the building? The murder-maze of broken animatronic ttip hazards, haunted hallways, and emotionally scorched childhoods?!”

Michael sighs, dragging a hand down his face. “Well, the front door’s technically open. That’s where Henry came in.”

“Great,” you say flatly. “So all we have to do is survive the literal haunted house, dodge collapsing ceiling tiles, ghost children, faulty springlocks, and Henry with a lit match and a vendetta.”

William hums. “And fire. Don’t forget the fire. It adds atmosphere.”

You take a deep breath. “Alright. Okay. Fine. Let’s go.”

The three of you break into a run.

The halls are already starting to fill with smoke. The emergency lights flicker overhead like they’re gasping their last breaths. Sparks fall from loose wires, and somewhere in the distance, one of the old animatronic heads lets out a tortured screech...a sound like a carousel slowly dying.

You narrowly dodge a collapsing ceiling tile, Michael yanks William out of the path of an exploding fuse box, and William? William is laughing. Full-on, deranged, gleeful laughter echoing through the chaos like a symphony of unhinged nostalgia.

“God, I missed this!” he yells, ducking a falling vent.

Then a chunk of ceiling caves in.. almost hitting you. But trapping Michael behind in the building...

Your boots skid against the cracked tile as you spin around, lungs burning from smoke. “Michael?!”

Through the rising soot and glowing embers, you see him on the other side of the collapsed wreckage...hands braced against the debris, face smudged with ash, and eyes wide.

“I’m fine!” he shouts, already coughing. “But I’m stuck!”

William’s laughter cuts off like a switch flipped. He turns, eyes flashing in the haze. “No,” he growls, a hint of something dangerously close to panic in his voice.

You’re already there, trying to pry at the edge of the fallen ductwork and framing. The metal’s scalding hot burning your skin...

Michael tries to shift a section from his side, gritting his teeth. “Go. I’ll find another way. I’ve done it before.”

“You barely found your way out of a grave” you snap. “Don’t push your luck.”

William slams a hand against the debris, and for a moment, there’s a flicker of that old rage....not the theatrical smarm, not the performative villainy, but something raw and electric, like lightning waiting to strike.

“I won’t leave him,” he snarls.

“Then help me lift this!” you shout.

For once, he doesn’t argue... no witty remarks, no snark.

He digs in beside you, metal joints creaking, remnants of burnt fur catching sparks. The heat is unbearable. The air is getting thinner. But the two of you strain, muscles and servos screaming, until finally—

CRACK.

The metal shifts just enough. Michael squeezes through, coughing violently ... you dont know how , when he doesnt have lungs. But you assume its something to do with the remnant becoming unstable.

The moment Michael's hand finds solid ground on your side of the wreckage, you’re grabbing the back of his jacket and hauling him the rest of the way. He lands hard, still coughing, eyes squinting against the smoke curling through the hallway like a living thing. His face is almost pale beneath the soot.

You all stumble to your feet together, backs to the wall, breathing like you just clawed your way out of the ocean. But the corridor ahead is a nightmare.. smoke thicker, flames licking at the corners of the ceiling tiles, sparks raining like fireflies from above. The building is collapsing. Piece by piece.

And the front exit is still a corridor away.

Michael grits out, “We’re not gonna make it if we go slow.”

William, head tilted, scans the chaos ahead with the focus of a predator in a cage. His voice is hoarse but calm. “We don’t go slow, then. Hold my hand...."

“One,” William says.

“Two,” Michael echoes, voice raw.

“Three.”

You run.

The hallway blurs into heat and paper drawings burning, wires snapping, metal groaning above your heads like the place itself is mourning its own demise. The floor trembles under your feet. You duck falling debris, push through a curtain of flame that eats away at the sidewall.

Halfway there.

William’s faster than he has any right to be...his animatronic limbs slicing through the air, battered frame enduring heat that would melt steel. He clears the path like a wrecking ball with intent. His hand pulling you and Michael through the building..

Michael stumbles, and you catch him under the arm. His breath is ragged, and there’s blood on his sleeve... maybe remnant ...but he keeps moving.

it’s all fire and ruin. But beyond the flickering haze… you see it.

The front doors.

Blown open from Henry’s likely dramatic exit.

You push Michael ahead, then William shoves both of you forward with one last guttural growl...his burnt claws dragging behind him on the tile as he covers your escape..

The three of you collapse through the doors into the wet night, the fire’s breath roaring behind you like a beast denied its kill.

The parking lot greets you with smoke, cold air, and headlights.

And silence.

You collapse onto the floor.

For a second, none of you move.

Then Michael exhales, eyes closed.

William falls back, lying on the cracked concrete, arms spread like he’s basking in the rain..... its raining.. you've never been so glad for rain as you lay there in that filthy car park..

Rain hits your face in soft, cold splatters....each drop like a small miracle. It soaks through your clothes, seeps into your hair, and cuts through the smoke clinging to your skin like oil. You don’t care. You’d lie in this parking lot forever if it meant not having to stand up again.

Michael is lying beside you, one arm draped over his eyes like he’s trying to block out the entire last hour of existence. His chest rises and falls erratically, but he's breathing. That’s enough. That’s everything.

...

It slows back down after a while to it's usual subtle movement . like whatever was causing it has settled back down.

William is sprawled out a few feet away, looking like a corpse that got lost on its way to hell and took a wrong turn into this dimension instead. Burnt fur smoldering. Exoskeleton twitching now and then in a hiss of steam. But his mouth is tilted into the faintest, stupidest smile.

He actually sighs, content. “I forgot how refreshing rain is. Almost makes up for the arson.”

You grunt, voice rough. “Almost.”

Michael groans without opening his eyes. “Do I have second-degree burns or is that just what breathing in a building full of fire and my father's ego feels like?”

Your hands sting like open wounds..

You roll your head to the side and stare at him. “Bit of column A, bit of column B.”

The three of you lie there like the world’s most broken, unmarketable superhero team.

Above, the building continues to burn. Flames rise in columns. The Fazbear Frights sign groans and collapses into the facade, sending up a fresh plume of smoke and ash. The neon lights spark one final time before dying forever.

You hum "do you think Henry will be back to finish the job?"

William’s eyes flicker open slowly, the faint glow within them dim but still alive. He shifts just enough to prop himself up on one elbow, looking at the burning wreckage with something like weary acceptance.

“Henry’s got a temper,” he says quietly, voice raspier than before. “And a grudge that’s colder than this rain. I wouldn’t be surprised if he returns. But… he’s not the only one with fire in his veins.”

Michael coughs, opening one eye to glare at William. “Don’t start your cryptic threats again.... but we should get home before the fire service find us.."

You haul yourself up, coughing out the last of the smoke as Michael unlocks the car. The rain patters steadily against the windshield, washing away the grime and ash, as if trying to cleanse the night itself.

William groans, slowly rising on unsteady legs, the creak of servos echoing beneath his burnt fur. “Home,” he repeats, voice thick but determined.

“Yeah, let’s disappear before we become part of the crime scene.” you agree, helping William wedge himself in the back seats of the car

Michael slides into the driver’s seat, starting the engine with a tired growl. “Let’s get out of here"

You glance back one last time at the glowing ruin behind you...the death of Fazbear Frights...
"Im going to be pronounced dead aren't i... how the fuck will we afford food?"

William, settling awkwardly in the back seat, chuckles...a dry, mechanical rasp. “I may be a walking undead biohazard, but I’m not exactly broke. Aftons tend to have their… resources.”

You snort, sliding into the passenger seat. “Resources or not, if anyone asks, just tell them we’re on a very intense method acting retreat. Maybe that’ll buy us some sympathy.”

Michael starts pulling away from the smoldering ruins, headlights cutting through the rain-soaked darkness. “Either way, we survive. We find a way... as long as theres not a third missing children incident.."

William grins faintly from the back. “No promises.”

The rain drums steadily against the car roof as you all fall into a tired silence, the flames behind you fading into a distant, flickering memory. Smoke still clings to your clothes. Your hands sting. Your body aches. But you’re alive.

For now.

Michael shifts gears, eyes fixed on the road ahead, jaw tight but calm. “You know… we really have to stop measuring survival by how few crimes we as a family get blamed for.”

You lean your head against the window, watching streetlights ripple through the puddles as they speed past. “It’s a low bar, but somehow you keep limbo-dancing under it.”

William slumps further into the backseat with a sigh that sounds like loose bolts rattling in a furnace. “You joke, but I’ll have you know I invested in a little computer company called apple... had it siphon all my profits on the stocks into an account based out of Brazil. If that still exists when we get home, dinner’s on me.”

Michael grunts. “God help us all.”

You close your eyes for just a moment, letting the warmth of the car, the soft hum of the road, and the absurdity of your undead carpool settle into your bones.

William leans forward between the seats, peering through the rain-slicked windshield. His glowing eyes narrow at the sight of the half-rotted siding, the chipped paint, the overgrown weeds practically strangling the porch and fence. The mailbox is hanging on by one screw...porch light flickering....

He recoils like he’s seen a corpse in a prom dress. “What the hell happened to my house?”

Michael doesn’t even flinch as he kills the engine. “My house. You died. Then it kind of… died with you.”

“It looks like it’s been used as a set for a zombie apocalypse film,” William mutters. “And not even a good one. Low budget. Direct to VHS.”

You stare at the crumbling porch steps. “Honestly, I’m more surprised it’s still standing. This thing looks like it caught a lawsuit and just gave up on life.”

Michael opens the driver’s door with a grunt. “Welcome back to the family home. Wipe your feet or you’ll catch tetanus.”

William groans like a man being forced into a grave twice. “I left this house pristine. Mid-century charm. Curtains.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Oh no. Not the curtains.”

“I had them imported!” he sputters, trailing after you both toward the porch, claws clicking on the puddle strewn concrete. "Do you know how hard it is to get silk through customs when your entire life is a front for mechanical child murder?”

You shrug. “Honestly? Easier than getting a permit to serve pizza in that place.”

Michael’s key jams in the door like it’s resisting him out of spite. The lock groans, then finally clicks. The door creaks open
....walls once pristine now cracked and peeling slightly, furniture other than the couch you both sat on earlier...covered with worn sheets like ghosts...

...

The air smells faintly of dust, old wood, the metallic sourness of remnant and rot...

You step into the gloom with a kind of grim reverence, boots thudding softly on the warped floorboards. The shadows wrap around the place like an old coat ... moth-eaten, too warm, but familiar.comforting...

William pauses just inside the doorway, his eyes dimming slightly as they scan the room. He looks like he’s staring at the bones of something he once loved ... and buried.

“Everything’s smaller,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Or maybe I just got taller. In a horrifying, exoskeletal way.”

Michael brushes past him, flipping the wall switch, the bulb flickers on.. it does little to illuminate the room .. only showing all the paperwork he had taken from the sister location... every step on his hunt to kill his father.... and now William is here being welcomed home...

William drags a clawed finger down the edge of a sheet-covered chair, frowning at the dust it picks up. “Michael, I hate to ask, but… have you considered hiring a maid? Or a flamethrower?”

Michael drops into the only uncovered chair with a groan. “I’ve considered it. Then I considered eating something that wasn’t instant noodles and expired granola bars. One fantasy at a time.”

You flop onto the couch. The cushions wheeze under you like they’re in pain. “So what now? Fazbear Frights is ash. Henry’s probably planned to burn it again to make sure we're dead. We’ve got no money, no plan, and—” you glance at William, “—no curtains.”

William snorts. “We’ve got me. Surely that counts for something.”

Michael mutters, eyes closed, “Yeah. Headaches. Therapy bills. Residual screaming.”

"Do we have a bath?" You ask

Michael sighs " enough hot water for a shower, barely two... not enough for a bath.. besides i want to wash this filth off me"

You nod silently and push yourself up from the couch, joints aching like they’ve aged ten years in ten hours. Michael follows, equally sluggish, the exhaustion heavy on both your shoulders. Neither of you say much as you make your way toward the narrow hallway, the promise of hot water and maybe something that doesn’t smell like burning dreams luring you forward.

Behind you, Springtrap...William...sinks into the ancient armchair he used to sit in back qhen he was alive with a metallic creak and a low exhale of static.

Alone now, he surveys the room like a king surveying the ruins of his fallen empire.

He doesn’t move much. Doesn’t speak. Just stares ahead at the dim, flickering static on the ancient television screen ... a phantom glow in the dusty dark.

He doesn’t need sleep. Not anymore.

But even monsters can feel lonely when the fire’s gone out.

Somewhere down the hall, the water hisses to life. Pipes rattle. A door creaks shut.

And William...sits in the dark. Waiting. Planning.

Maybe remembering.

Maybe regretting.

He's thinking about you in there with his son.. is he really jealous? - of course he is.. you belong to him, how dare Michael steal even the tiniest bit of your affection.

The sound of the shower carries faintly through the walls. Laughter, maybe...soft, fleeting, harmless to anyone else.

But not to him.

His claws flex against the arms of the chair, creaking faintly under the strain. A glitch of movement twitches through his shoulder, then stills.

He catches his reflection in the television screen.. yellow fur now blackened with soot and dirt.. torn up .. trapped in this cursed springlock suit.. silvery glowing eyes studying himself.

He scoffs quietly, the sound low and bitter, like static wrapped in envy. Jealousy is beneath him...or it should be. But it festers anyway, deep in his ribs, gnawing against metal and memory alike.

You were supposed to understand him. You do understand him. You laughed at his jokes , fixed him, healed him...called him out and still stayed.

And now... he sits in the dark, dripping ash and silence, while you’re in there with him.

The corner of his mouth curls...not in a smirk. Not quite. It’s something hungrier. Older.

Of course he’s jealous.

Not because he thinks Michael’s better. But because you’re his.... you are his to keep, to claim...…To own, if he’s honest with himself—something he rarely is in any way that matters.

The reflection in the screen watches him back: monstrous, burnt, broken. But behind the ruin, there’s still something human. Something sharp. Possessive. Unwilling to let go.

You chose to stay.

You looked at him, saw what he was, what he’d done...what he’d become...and still, you handed him tools and stitched his wounds. Kissed him like he was all you ever desired...The rain patters against the window now, soft and cold. Mocking, almost. He can hear the murmur of voices from the hall. Yours. Yours. That easy, exhausted laughter that he’d earned in scraps from you

And now Michael gets it for free?

He tilts his head, the metal of his neck joint clicking with a slow, deliberate grind. His mouth opens just enough to show ruined teeth, sharp and slick behind the muzzle of fur and failure.

You're his.

You were supposed to stay with him. Feed him. Fix him. Understand him. And you did. You do. He can feel it, in the way you looked up at him.. trusting... before running into the flames. In the way your hands didn’t flinch when they touched the broken parts of him. Touched the ancient decaying flesh beneath...No one ever touched him like that without fear.

Except you.

And now, you’re behind that door. Warm, wet, close. With his son. A son who abandoned him. Buried him, wanted to burn him...

The jealousy isn't hot. It's cold. Territorial. Animal

You patched his wounds with trembling fingers and made jokes in the same breath you called him cute. You looked him in the eye while his body creaked and smoked and still stayed. You chose him.

And now you’re in his house. With his son. Laughing. Relaxing. Cleansing yourself of the very fire you three survived together… but not beside him. Not with him.

He knows what Michael is. The eldest disappointment. The defiance. The rejection. And now—now the little traitor dares to touch what’s his?

William doesn’t move. Doesn’t breathe, because he doesn’t have to.

But his claws curl again into the arms of the chair, the springs groaning under the growing pressure of something very close to violence.

He won’t storm in. Not yet. Not while the air still hisses with steam and the pipes sing their weary song.

But the hunger inside him has opened its eyes.

The water stops with a final hiss through the old pipes, the silence that follows somehow louder than the noise....William doesn’t flinch, but his glowing eyes snap to the hallway.

He hears the soft shuffle of towels, the distant creak of floorboards, the low, exhausted rhythm of your voice...talking to Michael. Close. Familiar. Gentle in a way that gnaws at the raw, hollow space in his chest like rust eating through steel.

Michael chuckles, quiet and hoarse. You say something back...too muffled to make out, but it makes him laugh again. And that sound..oh that sound...it spikes through William’s skull like a needle.

That should be his laugh.
You should be drying his arms, brushing away the soot and ash from his fur with those careful hands.
It should be him wrapped in that quiet intimacy.

But no.
He’s here.
In the dark.
Staring into the ghost of himself on an old TV screen.
Listening to the soft murmur of his family without him.

You step out in a bathrobe his old bathrobe...torn slightly from age, barely longer than your thighs.. and a faded purple.

and you smile at him .... You stride over with purpose, calm and easy, pushing the couch up against the armchair he’s slouched in. It grates softly on the warped wood floor.
His head turns slowly...too slowly...servos whining beneath charred plating, eyes flicking up to meet yours with something ancient and aching behind them.

You.
Soft from steam. Skin still dewed with warmth. Wearing his old gown like it belongs to you—and it does. It always has. It always will.

That smile.

That damn smile.

William doesn’t speak at first. Doesn’t move. Just watches. His claws twitch faintly where they’ve sunk into the armrest, curling and uncurling as if trying to remember what it means to reach for something instead of take it.

“You’re warm,” he rasps, voice low...dragged over coals and wrapped in metal. It’s almost reverent. Almost surprised. “And barefoot. That’s dangerous.”

But what he means is: 'You came back to me.'

What he wants to ask is: 'Why are you still here? Why are you always still here?'

What he doesn’t say is: 'I don’t deserve it—but I need it anyway.'

And when you sit on the couch, leaning towards him ...close enough that your leg brushes his scorched metal knee, when the heat of your skin reaches out like a promise...he doesn’t lean in. But the tension in him eases. Slightly. Like the coiled springs of a trap relaxing only for your hand.

"Michael used up all the hot water , so we'll wash you in the morning when its back.. if thats okay?" You say

His eyes flicker...not with light, but with something deeper. Quieter. Something dangerously close to tenderness.

You said 'we’ll wash you.'

Not 'he can wash himself.'
Not 'you’ll manage.'

'We.'

He blinks once, slow. The kind of blink that means he’s computing far more than words. That old, fractured brain still whirring somewhere inside the scorched shell.

His claws ease from the chair’s arms with a faint groan of metal, like even they understand they aren’t needed as weapons right now. Not with you so close. Not with that warmth brushing his knee like a silent vow.

“…If that’s okay,” he echoes back at you, voice barely above static. It should be sarcastic. It wants to be sarcastic...reflexively. But he can’t quite manage the bite tonight.

Instead, it comes out quiet. Uncertain. Grateful in the way a starving dog might be grateful for a hand it doesn’t trust but wants to.

He glances at the hallway, then back to you. “You don’t have to do that,” he adds. Then, after a beat, just a little quieter:

“But I’m… glad you want to.”

And then, softer still..so soft it might not even be meant for you:

“I never knew how to be something someone stayed for.”

A pause.

Then his eyes...tired, scorched, impossibly human despite everything...meet yours again.

“...But I’m trying.”

Then his eyes...tired, scorched, impossibly human despite everything...meet yours again.

You reach for his hand, he's certainly not beating the nervous prom date allegations now..

Michael enters in just a pair of shorts he found on the floor. Sitting beside you with a smile.. bandages across his chest cavity and arms where the flames burned him.

William’s hand twitches in yours... cold metal fingers stuttering once, then going still. Not pulling away. Just… processing. The tension hums beneath the scorched fur and ruined plating like a faulty wire straining not to short-circuit under touch it hasn’t earned but craves all the same.

You can feel how carefully he’s holding back. How hard he’s trying not to grip too tight, not to let that cold possessiveness bubble up and ruin this quiet thing between you. And it’s not shyness. No... he’s far too old, too wicked, too used to being feared to feel something as sweet as shyness.

But he is nervous.

The kind of nervous that comes from wanting something so badly and not knowing how to hold it without breaking it.

Michael leans against the back of the couch, his shoulder brushing yours as he exhales. “You guys being weird and emotionally intense down here without me?”

You glance at him, and William doesn’t. His eyes stay forward—on the dead television, on the shadows in the corner, on anything that isn’t Michael touching you.

But his voice is steady when he finally speaks. “Always emotionally intense. The weird part’s just genetic.”

Michael chuckles. “So are the trauma responses.... you know that tv still works."

"I thought i turned the dial . But i got no signal" William reluctantly responds.

Michael chuckles and turns on the external box.. flicking through channels with the remote.The screen flickers to life, static dissolving into grainy images and muffled voices.. he's really watching 4k tv on an old CRT TV?

William's eyes track the shifting patterns, the faint glow casting fractured light over his scorched features. He leans back slightly, letting the chair creak under him as if the noise somehow grounds him more than the silence ever could.

You watch the dance of light on his face... the way his eyes narrow ever so slightly when something catches his attention, or soften when a familiar show flickers across the screen.

But his hand doesn't leave yours...

Michael pauses on a live news report about the fire at Fazbear Frights, the anchor’s voice calm but urgent, and the images of flames and emergency crews flashing across the screen.

William’s mouth twitches, a half-smile that’s almost a smirk. “That’s us,” he mutters. “Burning bridges as usual.”

Michael glances at you, then back at the screen. “Yeah, but at least this time, it was the only thing going up in flames.”

Michael puts his arm around you...…and William notices.

Of course he does.

His grip on your hand doesn’t tighten, but there’s a shift ... subtle, instinctual. Like a predator holding its breath. His thumb moves once over the back of your hand, slow, deliberate. Possessive in the gentlest possible way. A reminder.

Michael’s arm drapes comfortably around your shoulders, warm and protective in a way that says he’s not trying to start a fight..

You shift, laying across Michael’s lap, holding William’s hands, head resting against his side..

William stills.

Utterly.

As if every servo and springlock in him just locked in place, caught between instinct and awe.

Your weight against his side...against him...is warm. Real. Undeniable. And the way your fingers remain tangled in his, even as your body curls across Michael’s lap, is a tether he hadn’t realized he was holding onto this tightly.

For a moment, he can’t speak. Can’t even scoff.

Michael doesn’t move either. One arm rests around your back, the other idly brushing his thumb against your hip, brushing it through the fabric...calm, casual. But his eyes flick to William, measuring the reaction like he’s expecting something. A jab. A possessive growl. Maybe even a stare...

It doesn’t come.

Not yet.

Instead, William exhales something that might’ve once been a sigh, if it weren’t caught on the rasp of ruined lungs and warped metal. His hand tightens, just barely, around yours.

The room hums with a tension so quiet, it might be mistaken for peace ...if you weren’t listening closely enough.

William doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t jerk away. But his optics dim slightly...

Your fingers are still in his.

Warm. Alive. Yours.

That alone keeps him from saying what he wants to. From snarling, from standing, from claiming.

Michael’s hand lingers at your hip a little too long, tracing the curve beneath the fabric with an ease born of familiarity...or audacity. Maybe both. And it’s that . that . which makes something grind low in William’s chest.

His voice, when it comes, is quiet. Controlled. The voice of a man used to having power, and not yet sure if he’s lost it.

“How touching,” William murmurs, the sarcasm thin and distant. Almost brittle. “Family bonding. Warms what’s left of my heart.”

Michael glances over, brows raised...but he doesn’t move his hand. Doesn’t rise to the bait. “Careful,” he says, tone light, almost teasing. “You sound like you’re feeling left out, old man.” he inches the hem of your bathrobe up slightly, testing how much thigh William will take before snapping at him..

William doesn’t snap.

That’s the worst part.
That’s the most dangerous part.

His eyes stay fixed on the screen, glowing faintly, but the faintest flick of them ... a slow, mechanical drag of gaze .. lands squarely on where Michael’s fingers have shifted the edge of your robe ... high enough to show the dip of your hip...

Michael’s hand lingers at your waist, fingers ghosting beneath the robe’s edge... brushing dangerously close to what doesn’t belong to him...

William doesn’t look at him.

Not immediately.

He doesn’t need to. He can feel it... the shift in the weight of your body where you lie against him, the soft sigh that escapes your lips in your sleep, the ease with which you’ve wrapped yourself around both of them.

His son’s hand, resting too long on what will never belong to Michael... what

The television flickers in the silence. A crackling image of smoke and ruin.

Michael’s voice is low. “I love her too.”

That, William hears.

His gaze lifts... slowly ...and lands on Michael with a weight that feels ancient. Cold. Inevitable.

“I know,” William says, voice like static crawling up a spine.

Michael doesn’t look away. “She told me she loves you. When I washed her hair. While her hands were on me, washing soot from within the rotting empty cavity of my body.. she was thinking of you"

“She was thinking of me,” William says quietly, voice a low grind of metal and ash. “Not you.”

His gaze flicks back to you, peaceful and unaware, and then to Michael, unwavering, unyielding.

“She belongs to me,” he adds, slow and deliberate, each word like a lock snapping shut.

The air thickens between them, heavy with unspoken promises and threats.

Michael’s jaw tightens but his eyes stay steady. “She loves us both... but not in the same way.. she's yours.. just let me have this much"

William’s eyes sharpen, the faint glow in them flickering like a dying ember caught by a sudden gust.

His claws twitch...barely...but the tension beneath the surface is palpable, a silent warning.

He lets out a slow, measured breath, the mechanical rasp barely a whisper. “She’s mine. Always has been. Always will be.”

But then, his gaze softens just fractionally as it flickers back to you, serene and trusting in your sleep.

Michael’s words hang in the air, heavy but not without truth.

William’s voice drops to a lower, almost grudging tone. “If you want your moments… your touching of her...then take it. But don’t mistake it for more.”

He squeezes your hand gently..possessive, but not cruel.

“Remember that.”

Michael doesn’t answer right away. He just watches you breathe, his hand still resting at your waist, motionless now...reverent, almost. Feeling the soft warmth of your skin

There’s no smugness in his expression. No challenge. Only a quiet acceptance, like someone reaching for a warmth they already know will never truly be theirs.

“I know,” he murmurs finally. “I know what I am to her. And what you are.”

He looks at William...not flinching, not defiant. Just tired. Honest. “I never wanted to take her from you...........I just dont want to die never having touched something good.”

The TV flickers again, static buzzing low like a pulse beneath the words. The house creaks around them, old and breathing.

William doesn't reply. Not right away. He simply shifts, the arm closest to you drawing slightly closer, enough to shelter your sleeping form a little more between them both. A silent claiming. A silent compromise.

He looks at Michael one last time, voice the barest ghost of something human.

“you have your chance...don’t ruin it.”

Michael’s eyes drop for a moment, lashes casting shadows over the tired hollows beneath them. He nods once. Slow. Grateful, maybe...but also aware. Aware that mercy from William Afton is neither common nor ever truly free.

“I won’t,” he says, voice barely more than breath. “Not with her.”

And he means it.

He lays slightly on top of you, arm looping around your waist.. as he closes his eyes..

...

William watches the movement with a gaze that doesn’t blink.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. But every inch of him is calculating...cataloguing the way Michael’s hand curls around your waist, the way his son exhales as if, just for a moment, the nightmare has loosened its grip.

He should feel rage. Should feel that cold, grinding fury that has kept him alive long after death forgot him.

But right now… he only feels the weight of you pressed into his side. The way your hand remains in his. The way your body, even in sleep, curves slightly toward him...how your cheek rubs against the burned fur ...against him...

So he allows it.

For now.

The television continues its news report... light playing across the three of you...this strange, broken shape of whats left of a family that should not exist. Monsters, survivors, and the woman they orbit like a dying star clinging to gravity.

William leans his head back against the chair, his eyes never closing.

But for the first time in longer than he can remember,
he doesn’t feel alone.

Chapter Text

You stir slowly, your breath hitching in the moment between sleep and waking. The first thing you register is the steady rise and fall of a chest beneath your cheek. Burnt fur. Scorched suit. Warm metal beneath your fingers.

William.

He hasn’t moved...of course he hasn’t. He rarely does unless he means to. But there’s a stillness to him now that’s different from last night. Less like a predator waiting and more like something… settled.

His arm is around you, heavy and protective, claws slack but curved slightly inward as if even unconscious, he’s holding onto you. Not letting go.

And from behind....Michael. His hand is still on your waist, his body curled loosely against your back, warmth bleeding into the small of you,warmth stolen from you in the first place, but still there nonetheless. one leg tangled with yours in a way that speaks of exhausted trust rather than desire. For now.

You’re sandwiched between them, and somehow…it doesn’t feel like too much.
It feels like being claimed from both sides. Like being known.

William’s optics shift faintly as he realizes you’re awake. His voice is low, rough from sleep..."good morning...."

He shifts slightly, arm brushing against you...“You’re safe.”

And then, quieter—almost an afterthought:

“…Did you dream of me?”

Your lips part, but no sound comes at first....just a breath. The air between you is warm, caught between metal and flesh, between the heartbeat behind you and the motionless weight beneath your cheek.

You tilt your head up slightly, eyes still heavy with sleep, gaze meeting the silver soot covered glass orbs of the animatronic head...

There's something almost gentle in the way he’s watching you now. Like he’s memorizing this version of you... soft, slow, unguarded.

Your voice is quiet, but true.

“…Yeah. I did.”

A pause.

“Not the kind of dream you run from, quite a nice one actually.”

His thumb twitches against your hip, the faintest flicker of approval...or relief. It’s hard to tell with him. Hard to tell how much of his silence is restraint, and how much is awe disguised as control.

Behind you, Michael shifts but doesn’t speak. His breath brushes the back of your neck, grounding. Present. Waiting his turn. Hand against the smoothness of your stomach, tucked into the inside of the thin purple bathrobe. Not lewdly, simply enjoying the warmth of his cold dead skin against your warm living skin. Gently repositioned occasionally as the skin touched cools off.

William’s optics flick downward...just for a moment...catching the subtle motion of Michael’s fingers beneath the robe, the way they rest against your stomach

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t lash out.

But you feel the way his grip around you adjusts—closer, firmer, less a threat and more a silent reminder.

Mine.

And yet… he allows it. Allows this. You, wrapped in him. In both of them. It’s a miracle in itself.

Michael sighs "we should get up.. and at least try to wash him...any springlocks that haven't triggered that we need to watch out for?"

His optics stay on you as if the idea of moving, of shifting away from this fragile warmth, is something he has to grit his teeth through.

“…Most of them are fused,” he mutters. “Or rusted shut. The rest…” He lifts one clawed finger in a vague motion. “a few that i thought rusted open triggered last night.... and the one near my spine. That one’s touchy... never triggered fully. If I move too much it starts complaining"

Michael grimaces lightly, the way someone might when hearing an old wound described in too much detail. But there's no fear in it...just a weary sort of acceptance.

“Right,” he says, his hand slipping from your stomach with a reluctant gentleness. “So spine’s off-limits. No sudden movements. And no twisting. Got it....

Lets get you in the bath. Can you go grab some sponges from under the sink"

You nod , heading to the kitchen..

As you step away, your bare feet silent against the floor, the warmth of their bodies that youve left on them, fades behind you...leaving only the echo of it, like fingerprints on your skin. The purple bathrobe shifts slightly with your movement, barely clinging to your frame as you slip around the corner toward the kitchen.

Behind you, the quiet of the living room deepens. William shifts in the armchair with a sound like old bones and rust, and Michael exhales...half steadying himself, half bracing ready to stand..

“…You trust her with all of this?” Michael asks after a beat, voice low.

“she would make a great successor... already she has memorised my blueprints...I trust her more than I trust my own hands, . ” he says finally. “And I’d still flinch if she pulled them away.”

In the kitchen, you find the old cabinet beneath the sink. The wood creaks as you open it, revealing a jumble of supplies...cleaning cloths, half-used bottles, and, tucked in the back, a small stack of sponges. You grab a few, running your thumb over the texture.

Gentle. Enough to clean around scarred edges. Enough to soothe metal and fur and memory...

You hear them head to the bathroom . The sound of Springtrap climbing into the metal tub.. metal on metal squeaking in a painful way...

You make your way toward the bathroom slowly, the sponges pressed against your chest like something sacred. The door’s already half open, steam beginning to curl faintly in the corners from the old showerhead turned to lukewarm... making the most of the hot water available.

William sits in the metal tub like something half-wrecked and still surviving. His bulk takes up most of the space, hunched slightly, one arm resting along the edge like it’s holding him up more than relaxing him. His ears twitch with each creak of his body settling into the shape of the tub.

His eyes lift when you enter, glowing faintly in the soft light.

Michael is kneeling beside the tub, eyes scanning over his father’s form with a strange kind of reverence. Not forgiveness. Not quite affection. But understanding. The kind that can only come from surviving the same fire.

He's lightly soaking the entirety of the springlock suit.. the water running off it down the drain, black with soot and rot.

The water runs in quiet rivulets, dark and clouded, curling around the drain like smoke made liquid.

Michael’s hands move with methodical care...uncharacteristically gentle eith him, like he’s afraid of damaging what’s already beyond repair. He works in slow circles with the showerhead, guiding the water over scorched plating and tangled wires, letting it drip from broken seams in the suit. The grime peels away in layers, revealing the harsh scars of time, fire, failure. Beneath the soot, the old fabric of the suit is frayed like burned paper...delicate and holding on by threads.

William doesn’t speak. Doesn’t flinch. But his gaze never leaves you.

"This fur is probably not salvageable.. ill buy and make you new pieces" you say

Luckily the seams are damaged enough that you don't have to look for a seam ripper, you can easily unthread them by hand.. ..Your fingers work slowly, reverently, tugging the ruined seams apart with care as if the old fabric might still remember pain. The fur comes away in strips, blackened at the ends, brittle from soot and age. It flakes in your hands like ash. What was once meant to hide the machine beneath has become a thin, scorched veil...something that only pretended to be soft.

William stays still as you remove it, exposing more of what he’s become: metal and rot and memory. A machine housing a man who refused to die. There’s no protest in him, not even a twitch of resistance. Only the unwavering glow of his eyes fixed on you, watching...not out of suspicion, but out of something quieter. Trust. Or something dangerously close to it.

“I don’t need new fur,” he mutters after a moment, voice rough like steel dragged over stone. “I don't deserve to look like that again"

Michael, still holding the showerhead in one hand, glances over, his jaw tight. “Doesn’t mean you have to look like a corpse dragged out of a scrapyard either.”

You smile softly at that.

Your hands move again, peeling another panel of fabric away, and this time, beneath it... his ribs exposed to the air, metal endoskeleton shoved clean through bone. Rotten flesh half reformed around it, not regrown just clinging yo the surface...

“I want to do this,” you say. “Let me make something that feels like a new start. Not like a remnant of something else.”

His head tilts slightly. A sound, not quite a scoff, escapes him...more exhale than reaction. “You think I remember what I feel like?”

“You don’t have to,” you murmur. “I already do.”

That finally makes something shift behind his eyes. A flicker...brief and buried. Maybe hope. Maybe grief.

Michael clears his throat and runs the water again, letting it sweep down William’s exposed chassis. “You know she’s not going to stop until you look better than half the animatronics you ever built.”

“Then she should’ve started with you, fox ears would suit you ” William says dryly, flicking his gaze at him.

Michael snorts. “I’m not the one falling apart.”

“You’re already dead.”

“You’re worse than dead.” Michael retorts

You roll your eyes, but the exchange brings something lighter into the room. Not peace. But closeness. Familiarity.

And beneath your hand, William stays still… and lets you keep going.

Your fingers ache a little from the slow work of peeling away scorched fabric, but now that it’s gone—now that there’s nothing soft left to obscure what he’s become—what’s left is raw. Real.

The exposed endoskeleton beneath the rot is a lattice of oxidized steel and corroded servos, slick with water and grime, the remnants of time and fire eating into every groove. Some places, you swear you can still smell the blood.. clinging to the frame and to his corpse beneath..

The furless head shows exactly how the eyes of Spring Bonnie were forced backwards into William’s skull, too large in his head ... yet you wonder if there's anything left of his human eyes beneath...

it’s not just mechanical damage—it’s grafted. Torn bone fused into metal. Tendons threaded around hydraulic joints. A body never meant to hold this much aftermath.

You pick up one of the softer sponges, already damp, and begin. Slowly. Deliberately.

You start at his collarbone, the jagged edge where metal and flesh have merged unevenly, and begin to scrub. You’re careful not to press too hard...just enough to lift the rust, the clinging soot. The water running down his dessicated torso clouds red and black as corrosion gives way.

William doesn't speak. He barely breathes, if you can call what he does breathing. But his eyes are fixed on you, tracking your every movement.

You see it now. How the servos that control his gaze twitch and shift with each movement of your hand. They’re not smooth shifts, not seamless like a modern animatronic, or even the Toy animatronics you remember seeing videos of. They click faintly. Drag just slightly to catch focus.

You work lower, over his ribs, careful around the places where jagged bone still juts out—where the body once tried to fight the machine, and lost. Your fingers brush the bare inner workings of what used to be a man: pistons, wiring, bits of plating that clatter when they shift.

Your hand stills for a second, pressed over the cavity where his heart should be. The metal there is warped from pressure. You can see the springlocks there, that pushed the plate deep into his chest.

Michael finally speaks, his voice low. “Should I get the oil? After she’s done, you’ll seize up again if we don’t—”

“Yeah,” William murmurs, almost distracted. His gaze never leaves you. “Do that.”

Michael moves to get it, footsteps soft against the tile. And in that moment, it’s just you and William again.

You dip the sponge, squeeze it out, and reach for the worst of the rust where metal meets torn ligament.

He doesn’t stop you.

He never would.

He lets you clean the ruin... not speaking...Just the slow, mechanical pull of his optic servos as they track your every move with surgical precision. Not hungry, not possessive...not right now. Just… fixated.

As though, somehow, your touch is realer than the pain that made him into this thing.

“…Does it bother you?” he asks at last, voice like gravel churned through static. “Seeing what’s left of me.”

You look at him suspended there in that cage of metal.

"No. Never"

No hesitation. No revulsion. Just the sound of water trickling in the background, the faint creak of servos straining somewhere deep inside him.

His eyes twitch, narrowing almost imperceptibly. You’ve surprised him. Maybe not with the word itself...but with the truth in it. No disgust. No pity.

You move the sponge again, slow and gentle along a section of his ribs where scorched flesh clings stubbornly to exposed framework. Your fingers brush the edge of old bone fused to the edge of rusted metal.

You wring out the sponge and reach again, this time across the exposed join of his shoulder. A shattered plate has left wiring bare here, sinew twisted with circuitry. He shudders faintly beneath your palm...not pain, just reaction. Some primal part of him that still remembers being alive.

“Do you want me to stop?” you ask softly.

His answer is immediate. Blunt.

“No.”

He almost looks clean now. You spray down the bath with the showerhead...
The spray washes away the last of the rust-laced water, the grime spiraling down the drain like the memory of something old and bitter finally leaving the room. The bath groans faintly beneath his weight as you climb in, but William doesn’t move...just watches, unmoving, unblinking.

Your bathrobe slides off with a whisper of fabric, left behind on the floor outside of the tub. The air is warm from the steam, but you still feel the stark difference when your skin brushes his.

You settle in front of him carefully, your knees brushing the inside of his ruined thighs, your hands finding balance against his chest. His optics dim faintly, adjusting to the new closeness. Not recoiling. Not leering. Just watching.

Your fingers are gentle as you bring the sponge to his face...what’s left of it. You start slow, dragging it across the melted wire and foam along his jaw, up over the twisted remnants of his cheek. The bone and endoskeleton there are partially fused, one side sunken, the other still bearing the twisted echo of Spring Bonnie’s cartoon smile.

His head shifts minutely under your touch, the metal in his neck groaning.

You dip the sponge again, bring it up beneath the hollow slope of what used to be his nose

one clawed hand, heavy and rusted, lifts from the side of the tub and comes to rest gently against your back. Not possessive. Not claiming. Just there. Cold metal against your bare skin..

Grounding.

Acknowledging.

“…You shouldn’t,” he says eventually, voice raw, quieter now that you’re this close. “You shouldn’t be this close to something like me.”

You wipe gently around one optic, and your voice is steady. Warm.

“Then why does it feel like I’m right where I’m supposed to be?”

You carefully stroke his cheek with your thumb, hand inside the springlock head , against the leathery skin beneath. His mouth hangs open slightly as he admires you in response..

His jaw doesn’t move much, but you feel the way it tenses beneath your palm… the way the suit wants to react, the way his body holds back. You’re in the most dangerous place imaginable...inside the helmet, skin to skin.. fingers close to half triggered springlocks, held in place only by bone and corrosion..

Michael walks in to see you between William’s knees, one hand braced off the bath . The other gently caressing his father's cheek....

Michael freezes in the doorway.

He doesn’t speak at first...just stands there, eyes locked on the image in front of him: you, bare and reverent, nestled between the jagged ruin of his father’s body, your hand inside the springlock helmet like you trust it not to snap shut and crush your bones. Like you trust him.

And William? He’s not snarling, not flinching, not recoiling from the contact. If anything, he’s leaning into it. Letting you hold him like someone who’s been forgiven for something unforgivable. Like someone who forgot how to feel and is now remembering, painfully and slowly, what it means to be wanted.

....

Michael looks at you now. Really looks. Not like you’re fragile. Not like you’re being reckless. But like he’s trying to understand how something so alive can fit in this place between the two of them....death, remnant and rust and ruin.

His eyes flick to look down your body... but he stops there at merely admiring you. Soon looking back up at your eyes.

You take the items from Michael’s hands slowly, your eyes meeting his for just a breath of a second...long enough to see something unspoken pass between you. Not hesitation. Not warning. Just… solidarity. A shared understanding that what you're doing isn’t just maintenance. It’s resurrection in the quietest, most intimate way possible.

...

You nod once, and he moves to the other side of the tub without a word, kneeling again.

William watches the exchange without speaking, but there’s something in the way his optic shutters twitch...just a fraction...like some old mechanism inside him is reacting, some spark of awareness trying to reconcile that neither of you are afraid. That both of you… choose this.

You squeeze a bit of the corrosion cleaner onto the rag, then dip the steel wool into the solution. The chemical smell rises, sharp and sterile. You begin at the metal around his clavicle, the stubborn rust etched into the edge of the endoskeleton. Every motion is slow, precise. You brace with one hand, rubbing carefully in small circles with the other. The grit of the steel wool against corroded metal sounds harsh in the quiet room...

but William doesn’t move. He lets you work.

Michael switches rags wordlessly with you after a few minutes, reapplying more cleaner to yours, helping you reach one of the joints at William’s side. His hand brushes yours briefly in the exchange. A simple touch. A grounding one.

He looks clean... mostly.. now you just need to oil those joints so they won't corrode again..

Michael grabs the other thing he brought back in with him.. you dont question where he put it to carry in... probably just tucked it into the waistband of the shorts he's wearing. You look at it. "Ah premium lithium based grease. That should last a while.

"Yeah I stole it from one of the other Fazbear franchises I worked for" is Michael's response "surprisingly the theft wasn't part of why they fired me.."

You snort softly at that, unable to help the small smile that tugs at your mouth.

"Of course it wasn’t," you say, shaking your head as you take the tub of grease from him. “Probably gave you a write-up for improper chain-of-custody protocol and then let you go for emotional instability in proximity to animatronics.”

Michael lifts a hand and gives you a mock salute. “Nailed it.”

You unscrew the lid of the grease and dip two fingers into the thick silver compound. It clings and resists before yielding. The scent of metal and oil floods the air now, mixing with the cleaner and the faint, lingering scent of scorched old fur.

You memorized the blueprints.. so you know every spot to apply the lubricant. You'd be a poor mechanic if you hadn't.

You begin with the most overworked joints...the ones that scream every time William moves, even if he doesn’t flinch. Your fingers work with slow care, applying the grease with firm, deliberate pressure. Shoulder first, then elbow. You press into the grooves around the hydraulic actuators and servos.

Michael watches for a moment, arms folded over one knee. Not judging. Just… studying. Then he reaches for the other arm, mirroring your work like he’s done this before. He has. He must’ve, once. But not like this. Not together.

You move downward, past what’s left of scorched musculature...rot clinging like old regret...to the complex junction at William’s hip. This is one of the critical spots, you remember. The load-bearing stress from his constant forward lurch, his gait uneven after the last structural collapse. You ease your hand around the joint, thumb braced carefully above a tension cable, and work the grease in.

William exhales again. It’s not a sigh, not a moan. Not quite. But close.
It probably feels like an ache finally fading after decades...

You kneel between his legs again and move lower, to the knees ankles, where his body had been forced into unnatural slouches too long, where rust creeps in like old guilt. You brace one hand against the inner frame, the other gently working the grease into the screaming tension points.

For a moment, the only sounds in the bathroom are the soft rasp of metal, the quiet breath of two people who survived too much, and the sound of something older than either of you beginning to rest.

Eventually, you rise, slowly, your hands slick with grease and care.

“…Just the neck joint left,” Michael murmurs, meeting your eyes.

You dip your fingers in again..two this time, precise...and move toward straddle William. The back of his head leans just slightly forward in anticipation, exposing the rust-locked pivots where bone, metal and springlock meet. You reach in carefully, the way someone might reach into the mouth of a sleeping god.

Your voice is barely a whisper. “Don’t move.”

“…Wasn’t planning on it,” William murmurs, a dry rasp beneath your fingertips.

You press the grease in gently, rotating your wrist to let the warmth of your skin chase the lubricant into the creaking metal.

He looks at you like you’re a temptress...so close yet he cannot risk touching you ...Not with your fingers inside the fragile hinge where what remains of his spine meets rusted steel. Not when the weight of your body straddles him, close enough that he can feel your breath against the side of his face, your heat against his ruined form.

It’s not fear that keeps him still.

It’s reverence. It’s restraint. It’s the last shreds of something he hasn’t been in decades....a man trying not to ruin what he doesn’t deserve to touch.
Such smooth skin tantalisingly close, exposed, unprotected... his

You can feel the tension in him, thrumming beneath the surface. The tendons wired into the springlock suit twitch subtly as your fingers trace the final joint.. a half choked back gasp...

But still… he holds.

“Good boy,” you murmur. “Just like that…”

His optics narrow, not in menace, but in ache. A surprised yet pleased hum coming from him.... he likes that.

Your thumb brushes over the worn groove in his nape, just where the metal dips into exposed vertebrae, and the smallest shudder passes through him..

Michael doesn’t interrupt. He’s gone quiet again, leaning against the far wall, arms crossed. Watching. Witnessing. He's too distracted by it to continue admiring your body... though what he was admiring, did remind him that not all of him is dead...
There’s something raw in his expression...something like disbelief. Not at what you’re doing… but at how you’re doing it.

How William...who once destroyed everything in his path...sits still beneath you.

You shift slightly, your knees dipping into the damp remaining water as you lean in...slow, deliberate...and wrap your arms gently around William’s torso. You rest your cheek against the patchwork of cool metal and old, leathery scar tissue that clings like memory to the framework beneath.

And you hold him.

At first, William doesn’t move.

You feel the faintest stutter of his endoskeleton adjusting beneath you...His clawed hands silently lift an inch from where they rest on the edges of the tub… and then lower again. Useless. Not because he can’t move—but because they aren’t what they should be.

They aren’t his hands anymore.

They’re sharp. Rigid. Unforgiving. They're Springtrap’s hands yes.. but not William’s.. You deserve soft palms and warm skin and the sensation of being embraced by something living. Not the cold press of corroded plating and wires...

He imagines his old hands, calloused where he'd gripped tools, nails well kept.. alive...He doesn’t speak...but his head tilts, just slightly, so the sharp edge of his helmet rests against the crown of your head.

Your fingers wrap gently around the jagged metal of William’s hand...not flinching, not fearing the edges, just holding it like it’s still human underneath. And for a moment, he doesn’t move. His claws remain suspended in your grip, almost disbelieving. But then slowly, cautiously… they curl around your hand in return. Careful. Controlled. As if trying to mimic softness with something that no longer remembers how.

You whisper "i love you William..."

His hand stills in yours, claws flexed halfway through that delicate imitation of a touch.

He doesn’t breathe. Not really. But it’s as if everything in him goes still.

For a moment, there’s only the hum of the bathroom light, the slow drip of a forgotten faucet, the quiet click of Michael’s ribs as he mimics breathing..

And then...very faintly, just barely audible over the low rasp of static somewhere in his broken throat—he speaks.

“…Say it again.”

His voice is smaller than before. Not fragile. Just stripped down. The voice of a man who no longer believes he deserves anything but is starving for it anyway.

You lift your head slightly, pressing your forehead against the twisted edge of the wire frame of the suit’s jaw. Close enough that your breath ghosts across the ruined skin beneath.

“I love you, William,” you say again, steadier now. Truer. Like you’re planting something in soil scorched too many times. “I love you."

William smiles possessively "you are mine . Little mechanic..im keeping you forever"

You don’t pull away.

Because in the quiet after everything, after the ruin, after the fire and death and consequence… there’s a strange kind of peace in being wanted by something that should’ve forgotten how.

...

You rejected it earlier.. pushed him away..

"I belong to you William" you murmur, fingers tightening around his metal hand, “I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.”

Michael, from the doorway, doesn’t say a word.

But he exhales...some sound between acceptance and exhaustion...and then turns to gather the towels. No judgment. Maybe a hint of jealousy....He tosses a towel in your direction with a quiet: “Here,”

You catch the towel without looking, still watching William. Still wrapped in the gravity of that moment...his ruined smile, your hands threaded through his, the unspoken vow of something dark and real that neither of you can take back now.

William’s grip tightens slightly...not enough to hurt, but enough that you feel it in your bones. A silent echo of his words. Mine.

You lean in and kiss him, on the rotting lips barely covering decaying teeth....... then you finally rise, slowly easing your weight off of William’s lap. He doesn't protest, but his eyes track you with that same silent intensity as you step out of the tub. Water drips from your legs onto the cracked tiles below, a soft rhythm in the silence.

You wrap the towel around yourself and glance toward the hallway. The house is still quiet. No alarms. No motion. Henry hasn't come to finish the job...

Michael kneels beside the tub, pressing his hand gently to one of the steel bars of the endoskeleton that keeps William upright. “You good?” he asks, not really expecting a reply.

William doesn’t answer with words. Just a small shift of his head. Barely perceptible. But Michael seems to take it as enough.

William stays seated in the tub a little longer, letting Michael dry the worst of the water from his frame. The mechanical joints glisten faintly with fresh grease. The metal, though still battered, doesn’t look so forgotten anymore. Just… weathered. Maintained.

Cared for.

Eventually, he rises, movement slow but controlled. Nothing shorts out. Nothing grinds or snaps. Almost silent....

You meet eyes with him briefly as he steps from the tub...no words spoken. Just something exchanged in the look. A quiet agreement: 'we’re not done yet.'

Michael goes to grab some of his spare clothes ..
The door to his room closing with a click.

You dry off the last of the water from your arms and legs.... there’s more pressing things ahead.

William’s standing by the wall now, posture hunched slightly from the weight of the endoskeleton inside him—but upright. He’s watching the door to Michael’s room.

Waiting.

There’s something in his stance that’s… alert.

You know he’s thinking the same thing you are: Henry didn’t show.

And that means one of two things.

Either Henry doesn’t know William survived, that sny of you three survived...

Or he’s waiting for the right moment to make sure that he doesn’t again.

Michael emerges a moment later, carrying a bundle of dark clothes under one arm. Cargo pants, an oversized hoodie—nothing fancy. Just functional. He tosses them your way without comment, then glances at William.

“You think he’s coming back?” Michael asks quietly. “Henry.”

"It wouldn't be like him to let me live. He's probably laying low for a while"he mutters, his head turning just slightly toward Michael.

Michael doesn’t argue. Just presses his lips into a thin line and nods once.

You dress quickly...clothes a bit loose, but welcome. The hoodie smells faintly like dust and worn fabric softener. It’s grounding. Present.

William shifts his weight again, testing the movement of his joints. The new grease helps, but the damage is still there...decades-old, bone-deep. He doesn’t wince, but you can tell he notices every strain.

You can't wait to begin putting padding and fur back onto him...

“So what now?” Michael asks, finally. He leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest. “We stay here and wait for him to finish the job? Or we leave before he gets the chance?”

William is quiet again, eyes...such as they are...narrowed with sharp calculation.

You know what he’s weighing. Not just safety. Not just vengeance. Legacy. Loose ends. You.

How many enemies are still out there?

How many broken pieces still threaten to come together?

And how long before Henry decides to burn it all again?

The room is silent...

You speak "I want to apply new padding and fur to you William... that's probably a good start."

A long beat passes. Then, slowly, carefully...so slow it’s nearly imperceptible—William nods.

“Fine,” he rasps. “But no yellow.”

You smirk faintly. “Noted.”

Michael sighs like he’s heard enough emotional weight for one morning. “Great. I’ll help you scavenge what you need. There’s an old parts locker in his old workshop in the basement. Might even be some faux fur that isn’t covered in rot.”

"I'll just order some off amazon, any particular colour?"

William gives you a flat, blank look... not knowing what Amazon is ... yet its as though the idea of being resurrected by two-day shipping still somehow offends some deeply embedded instinct in whatever’s left of him.

Michael, on the other hand, bursts out laughing.

“Oh my god,” he chokes. “You’re gonna give him a makeover with Prime delivery. Incredible. This is what the franchise deserves.”

You raise an eyebrow at William, lips twitching. “Any particular color preference, then?”

There’s a long pause. He tilts his head ..barely...and his voice is lower this time. Not mocking. Almost serious.

“…Dark green. Deep. Like pine needles. No shine.”

Michael looks faintly surprised. “That… actually suits him.”

You nod slowly, already mentally compiling your list...fabric, synthetic padding, reinforced lining, armature-friendly threads. It will use up everything left in your bank account.. but it will be worth it

William’s optic flickers as he adds quietly, “Something that doesn’t scream Afton made animatronic.”

He does look deep in thought for a moment... "Michael... in my old room.. top drawer.. there is a gift for you... a savings account in your name... I set it up while I was still alive..."

Michael blinks—once, then again—like he’s not sure he heard right.

“A... what?”

William doesn’t look at him. Just keeps his gaze low, optic dim, voice gravel and memory.
“I set it up a few months before the second lot...... I figured you’d need it. If I got caught... you may not have been my favourite... or second favourite child. But I didn’t want you on the streets"

Michael stares for a beat too long, like something ancient inside him just cracked loose. His throat bobs with a hard swallow, but his voice is steady. Almost flat.

“You never told me.”

“I didn’t get the chance to,” William replies.

Silence hangs between them...thick with all the things they haven’t said. All the years of distance and resentment from even before he got trapped in spring bonnie...and the quiet, unspoken fact that love from William Afton always came wrapped in something sharp.

Michael doesn’t move. Not for a long moment.

He just stands there, arms crossed, jaw clenched, staring at the cracked tile floor like it holds all the answers he’s never gotten from his father.

“…You’re a bastard,” he says eventually. Not bitter. Not angry. Just… tired. “You ruined everything. You ruined me.”

William doesn’t flinch.

He doesn’t argue.

Because it’s true.

“But,” Michael continues, his voice hoarse now, “you didn’t have to do that. The account. The money. You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” William says simply.

Another beat of silence. Then:

“I didn’t want you to need me,” William adds, voice quieter now. “But I knew you would.”

That lands like a weight in the room...soft but undeniable.

Michael drags a hand through his hair and breathes out slowly, shoulders sinking. “I’m still going to use it. You know that, right?”

William gives the faintest tilt of his head. “That’s why I told you where it is... I was going to give it to you on your birthday..."

You don't speak...not yet...but your hand grazes William’s arm in quiet acknowledgment. A reminder that whatever he once was… he isn’t alone anymore.

Michael finally looks at you, his voice dry again. “I’ll go check the drawer. Make sure the old man wasn’t bullshitting.”

He walks off without waiting for a response.

The door to William's old room swings shut behind him with a soft click.

You lead William down to the living room again.. your hand gently inside the metal frame... hand flat against cold leathery dessicated skin...

Your fingers trace the jut of a steel support as you guide him gently through the dim hallway, each step echoing softly off the old wooden floor. He doesn’t need help walking...but he lets you stay close. Maybe it’s because he likes the weight of your hand there. Maybe it’s because, for once, he doesn't mind being led.

The living room is dark except for the dust-hazed evening light bleeding through the curtains. The old couch still sits pushed againstthearmchair. A faint whir and tick from deep in William’s spine accompanies every careful step he takes. Quieter now that all the external joints have been properly maintained...

He settles into the worn armchair slowly, like the movement takes thought. Like he’s still getting used to not falling apart.

You sit beside him, not touching this time...but close enough that the silence feels companionable instead of tense.

"He loves you too... im not sure how much a can share you though" William breaks the silence uncertainly

You study his face for a long moment, what’s left of it—twisted metal and ruined flesh, remnants of something once human stretched over a frame built for something else entirely. And yet, somehow, in the angle of his jaw, the way his glass eyes don't meet yours... you can see it.

Insecurity.

Possessiveness.

A need that claws deeper than hunger.

Your voice is soft when it comes. Not dismissive. Not cruel. Just steady.

“I can love you both,” you say quietly. “But differently. You don’t have to compete for me.”

He huffs...somewhere between a scoff and a sound of disbelief. “I don’t share,” he says. But his voice lacks venom. It sounds more like he’s trying to remind himself of what he used to be.

You lean in, just slightly. Not enough to touch. Just close enough that he can feel the heat of your presence.

“You already are,” you murmur. “Whether you admit it or not.”

The silence that follows is heavy, but not angry. It’s thoughtful. Still.

And then...very faintly, he mutters, “i can accept him touching you, hugging you. But nothing further, at least not in my presence"

A small smile pulls at your lips despite yourself. “Duly noted.”

And from somewhere down the hallway, you hear the sound of a drawer closing. Michael’s return is near.

William shifts slightly in the chair, the motion stiff but composed..as if bracing himself. Not for a fight. But for proximity. For the reality of what he’s just allowed.

His metal hand flexes once on the armrest, quiet and controlled, like he’s still convincing himself it’s fine. That you’re still his, even if shared in small, tolerable pieces.

You don’t say anything. You just sit with him, letting the moment settle. Letting the boundary he’s set have weight without tension.

Then footsteps sound in the hallway...measured, heavy with thought. Michael reappears in the doorway, the drawer key still in his hand, and a thin stack of papers tucked under one arm. He stops when he sees the two of you...his eyes flicking between you and his father.

No one moves.

Michael exhales. “Well. You weren’t lying.” He holds up the documents...account information, statements, verification. And his phone.. open on a banking app. Thank goodness for Internet banking, you'd hate to try and do this in person.

You nod toward the papers. “How much?”

“Enough,” Michael says simply. “More than I expected.”

He crosses the room and tosses the folder gently onto the coffee table, then leans back against the wall. His eyes settle on William again, unreadable.

“Guess you really were planning for everything.”

William doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

Michael runs a hand through his hair, then glances your way, lips twitching into a tired smile. He approaches, glancing at William. Perhaps asking permission

William’s gaze lifts...slowly, deliberately...to meet his son’s.after a moment, his optics dim a fraction… and he gives the barest incline of his head.

It’s permission. Reluctant, but real.

Michael exhales slowly, like that simple gesture took more weight off his chest than he’ll admit. Then he walks the final few steps toward the couch and sits down beside you...not between, not claiming, just close enough to be part of the space you’ve carved.

Michael speaks softly, more to you than to William. “So. You said you wanted to order fur?”

You nod. “Dark green. No shine. Padding too. Reinforcement stitching, fresh rivets. Enough for a full retrofit.”

Michael hums thoughtfully. “Might need to fake some business receipts if we want it delivered without raising suspicion.”

William rasps faintly. “Make it a repair order. Custom restoration. Say it’s a vintage suit.”

You can’t help but smile faintly. “You want to be a collector’s item now?”

He doesn’t answer...but something like amusement flickers in his posture.

Michael chuckles, tired but genuine. “God, we are so weird.”

And for once, no one disagrees.

Because yeah. You are.

You gently put your arms around each of them. "Weird together"
William doesn’t pull away.

His arm, stiff and mechanical, shifts just slightly ..enough that the sharp contours of metal brush against your back in a way that’s more protective than harsh. It’s the closest he can come to returning the gesture without risking a slice, while he's bare skin and metal at least.... And it’s enough.

Michael, after a moment’s hesitation, sighs again...less exhausted now, more resigned...and leans into your side. One arm slung lazily across the back of the couch, hand resting not quite on your shoulder but close. A hesitant peace offering. Or maybe a shared claim.

No one says anything for a long time.

William exhales a low, static-laced breath. “Weird together,” he echoes softly.

You retrieve your phone and begin tapping through options with the focused calm of someone who finally has a task to steady their hands.

Dark green faux fur, no gloss, short pile...something with weight and subtle texture, not the cheap costume kind. You mark two bolts. Then a roll of thin, high-resilience foam, light enough to fit the inner frame without compromising his movement. Thread. Lining. Velcro. Adhesive. The kind that holds through sweat, heat, and maybe the occasional desperate run through a burning building.

You draw back slowly, with care...like detaching from a circuit that had finally begun to hum in harmony. Neither of them protest.

Michael watches you quietly from the corner of the couch, arms crossed, head tilted.

“You really think he’s gonna wear it?”

“He will,” you murmur without looking up. “He just doesn’t know it yet.”

Across from you, William’s optics flicker dimly. “I heard that.”

You smile faintly. “Good.”

You place the order. Expedited shipping. You don’t know how long you’ll have before someone...Henry....decides this truce of silence has lasted long enough.

Michael puts his arm around you again. Leaning closer to you ..

You don’t pull away.

Michael’s arm settles gently around your shoulders...not possessive, not pushing a boundary. Just there. Cold, dead yet undeniably Human. A quiet contrast to the cold metal and creaking joints across from you.

He leans in, shoulder brushing yours, and says softly, “Thanks. For… sticking around.”

There’s a lot he doesn’t say. For dealing with him. For not running. For rebuilding and holding this fractured family together when it shouldn’t even exist anymore.

You glance up at him, your voice quiet but firm. “You don’t have to thank me. I chose this.”

Michael huffs a faint breath, half-smile tugging at his mouth. “That’s what worries me.”

William shifts in his chair, the motion quiet but unmistakable—a subtle rasp of metal against fabric. His single optic glows faintly in the low light, fixed on the two of you. Watching.

Judging?

Maybe. But not with the same venom as before.

He leans forward slightly, his voice gravel-worn and dry. “She chose me first.”

It’s not an accusation. Not a challenge. Just a reminder.

Michael doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t even look away from you. He just nods, slowly. “I know.”

You glance between them, then reach over and gently rest your hand atop William’s. A gesture of reassurance. His metal fingers twitch beneath your touch but don’t pull away. You keep your other hand resting against Michael’s arm, letting them both feel it...you’re here. You’re not choosing one over the other. You’re choosing this.

All of it.

William’s posture eases, just barely.

Michael leans in a little more, very carefully leaning his head on your shoulder.
You turn your head slightly, your lips brushing the side of Michael’s cheek...soft, deliberate. A thank-you.

And the sound that follows from across the room is low and guttural.

A warning.

A growl.

William’s optic flares just slightly brighter, his head tilting like a predator who isn’t quite sure if he’s watching a rival or a betrayal. The sound vibrates deep in his chest cavity...static-laced and mechanical, but undeniably possessive.

Michael tenses. Just slightly. His head still on your shoulder, but his jaw tightens. “…Seriously?”

William doesn’t answer. He doesn’t need to.

The growl fades, but the tension it leaves behind does not.

You glance at William, brows raised in calm defiance. “You said you could accept hugging.”

“I did,” he rasps, voice dry, hollow, rough with something unspoken. “You didn’t say there would be kissing.”

“It was a cheek,” Michael mutters under his breath. “Not exactly scandalous."

"Okay i get the hint William.... i wont do it next time" you say..
William’s jaw shifts slightly...barely a movement, but enough to betray the flicker of satisfaction beneath the metal and rot. The predator in him settles, just a fraction. Not smug, exactly. Just… reassured.

His voice creaks low, “Good.”

Michael lifts his head from your shoulder then, gaze flicking between the two of you with something dry behind his eyes. “You two are unbelievable.”

William watches you...still, sharp, intense. Waiting to see if your promise holds. Waiting to see if his boundaries will be respected.

You look between them both again. “I didn’t mean to push it,” you say, quieter now. “I’m still figuring out what this is.”

Michael finally leans back against the couch again, exhaling through his nose. “Yeah,” he says, quieter. “Me too.”

William doesn’t respond right away. His fingers twitch once against the armrest, faint creaks echoing inside his rebuilt joints. Then, in that same low, scraped voice: “You’re mine. But I know I can’t have all of you. Not the way I want to... he cannot have you in that way either. You belong to me , little mechanic" His words aren’t angry. Not a threat. Just truth. Dark and oddly careful. Like someone tracing the edge of a knife without pressing down.

Michael runs a hand through his hair, muttering, “Christ. This is the weirdest love triangle I’ve ever seen.”

Eventually, William’s optic dims slightly, not in defeat, but in thought. After a moment:

“I can live with it. If I don’t have to watch it.”

Michael snorts. “That’s fair.”

You reach out and place your hand over William’s metal one again...warm, steady, grounding. “Thank you. For trying.”

And he doesn’t say anything. But he doesn’t pull away either.

You lea
lean close and kiss the metal wire frame of Springtrap’s cheek, then move closer to kiss William’s cheek beneath...

William doesn’t flinch, doesn’t growl, doesn’t speak. He simply stills.

His fingers curl ever so slightly beneath yours.

There’s no hunger in it. No possession. Just acknowledgment. A rare, wordless peace. Acceptance, maybe. Of your affection. Of this fractured thing you all share.

Behind you, Michael doesn’t speak...but you can feel his eyes on you. Watching. Waiting.

And then, without a trace of bitterness in his voice, he mutters, “Yeah. That’s fair too.”

Michael shifts slightly, his voice quieter. Less sardonic now. “So… what now? We just sit here until Henry drops a match?”

You glance between them. William’s expression hasn’t changed much, but his optics flicker...thoughtful. Restless. Calculating, maybe, but not in the way he once was. Not as the monster who built death into machines. This is different.

“No,” you say softly. “We fix it.”

Michael raises a brow. “Fix what? Because if you’re talking about the whole decades of dead children and burning buildings thing, I’m not sure we’ve got enough duct tape for that.”

William speaks then, voice low and grating. “We start with what’s left. The ones who never moved on.”

“The kids,” you murmur.

William nods once, barely perceptible. “I know what to do with them. What remains of them. Parts of them are still... tied to bits of the animatronics. Molten freddy, circus baby.. puppet... I know where they may be"

Michael exhales slowly, running a hand down his face. “You mean the old sites? You want to go back?”

“Not all of them,” William rasps. “Just the ones that still hold them here.”

You swallow. “We find what’s binding them. And we give them peace.”

Michael shakes his head, though not in refusal. “That’s not going to be easy. Or safe... but.. we need remnant.. I don’t know about you but I need the stuff to not decay further"

"My body is stable. The flesh at least...." William responds

Michael gives a sharp, humorless laugh. “Stable. Sure. You’ve got metal bones, no pulse, and you hiss at affection like a haunted blender. But hey—stable.”

William doesn’t rise to the bait. His gaze remains fixed, focused. “The remnant I used to bind myself… it’s not limitless. But it’s anchored. Controlled. You—” he glances at Michael, eyes dim, “—you were never fully tethered. You’ll fade. Not today. But eventually.”

Michael folds his arms across his chest, jaw tightening. “So we need to go get more. Before that happens.”

You look between the two of them. “You want to take it from the others?... or make more of it?"

William’s head tilts slightly, mechanical servos clicking faintly."pieces of my victims still burn with remnant. And pain. If we can find what’s left, harvest what’s binding them... their souls are released"

Michael finishes, understanding. “No more suffering. No more screaming in metal and code.”

“And you can stabilize,” you add quietly, glancing at Michael. Then to William: “And you won’t be carrying the weight of them anymore.”

There’s a long pause. The plan is dangerous. Maybe even impossible. But it’s the only thing that feels right. A kind of penance. A way forward.

William speaks again, voice low. “We’ll need equipment... a lure, a new scooper... And someone to keep watch.”

Michael smirks faintly. “Good thing we’ve got a twisted little family now, huh?”

You manage a small smile, tired but real. “Weird together.”

William’s optic dims slightly in thought as he leans back in the chair, the leather of his ruined frame creaking against metal and bone. “The old storage facilities are where I kept the prototypes... fragments. But ...what they became after, well my knowledge is three decades out of date. I couldn’t keep track"

Michael nods slowly, crossing his arms again, eyes distant with memory. “I did. I went through all of it. Fazbear Frights. The underground maintenance tunnels. Circus Baby rentals..Even what was left of the distribution center in Utah. I know where the pieces are likely scattered.”

William turns his head slightly, the motion precise but heavy. “Then we start with you.”

Michael’s brow furrows. “You mean my memories?”

“I mean your knowledge,” William replies evenly. “You’ve seen what I haven’t. Where they fled. Where they died again. Where their hatred still clings.”

You look between them. “So… Michael maps the path and plans the route, William handles containment, possibly helps lure them in… and I handle the construction of the extractor?”

Michael’s grin returns—small, tired, but sharper now. “You really want to build a new scooper?”

“I’d prefer a non-lethal one, but that's not exactly possible ” you mutter, “but yeah. I’ll need high-grade hydraulics, pressure-balanced restraint arms, and a remnant filter that doesn’t corrupt on contact.”

William adds, tone flat, “You’ll also need shielding. Salt may work..Their souls aren’t quiet.”

Michael glances toward you, a little more serious. “There’s one more thing you should know. Some of them don’t want to move on. Not all of them are waiting for peace. Some are still angry. Still clinging to what they lost.... plus I lost track of ennerd and the others after they hopped out into the sewers"
You step away from the couch, pacing slightly now, the blueprint forming in your mind...and nod slowly, absorbing Michael’s words, the weight of it pressing into your chest. “We won’t be forcing them. But we will be offering them something they haven’t had in a long time.”

“A choice,” William murmurs. “Something I took from them.”

Michael doesn’t contradict him.

William lets out a low, rasping breath. “If Baby’s the first, she’ll fight. She’ll talk. She’ll lie.”

Michael nods grimly. “She remembers. Everything. And she’s clever.”

“And vengeful,” William finishes, staring ahead. “Especially toward me.”

You glance between them again. “Then she’ll have to see you both. Side by side. Not as her jailors. As... what you are now.”

Michael scoffs faintly. “That’ll go well.”

But he doesn’t say no.

Then William, voice quieter than usual, murmurs, “If she speaks with Elizabeth’s voice… don’t believe it. It’s never her. Not anymore.”

Michael closes his eyes briefly. “Yeah. I know.”
....
....

You step closer to both of them. “We’ll get what we need. We build the extractor. Reinforced containment. Calibration tools. If the sewers were her last known location, we start there. Track residuals. Theres gotta be some way we can scan for Remnant.."

William’s optic flickers faintly...interested.

Michael raises an eyebrow. “A scanner for remnant? That doesn’t exist. Believe me, I looked.”

You shake your head slowly. “Not a scanner exactly. But remnant resonates i felt it when you were cleaning him, a slight buzzing . It has a frequency—a vibrational signature tied to pain, suffering, and emotion. I think... if we can isolate the right frequency, we can build a resonator.”

William leans forward slightly, the servos in his spine ticking softly. “Something that hums back when it finds it. Echoes.”

“Exactly,” you say. “Like sonar. Only instead of bouncing off surfaces, it bounces off suffering.”

Michael exhales, almost a laugh. “That’s morbid. Clever. I’m in.”

You move to the desk in the corner and start sketching in the corner of an old notepad...basic circuitry, a directional receiver, maybe using parts from an old animatronic voice modulator for the speaker. “We’ll need a reference frequency. Something laced with remnant already... both types seem to hum the same so we only need one sample"

William doesn’t speak...just reaches slowly to his side, metal fingers working beneath the ruined webs of desiccated flesh and oxidized plating.

With a sickening crack and wet grind, he pulls free a piece of rib bone...yellowed, flaked with his old blood, and faintly metallic at the edge where it fused to internal wiring. It hums softly in the still air, not a sound exactly, but a low vibration you feel more in your chest than your ears.

Michael grimaces, arms folding tighter. “Jesus. Some warning would have been nice"

The bone is faintly warm in your hand, not from heat...there’s no life left in it...but from that low, steady thrumming of remnant humming through every calcified crack. "Michael. Can you go get my stuff from your car?"

Michael stares at the bone in your hand for another beat...like it might start whispering or melt through your skin...then snaps his gaze up to yours at the sound of his name.

He blinks, then huffs quietly, grateful for the excuse to step away. “Yeah. Yeah, I got it.”

He turns toward the door, muttering under his breath as he walks. “Could’ve been a screw or a wire. Had to be a rib.”

You hear the front door creak open, his footsteps fading outside.

You stand on tiptoes and kiss William softly "thank you for this"

William goes utterly still.

Not with shock...but with something deeper. Something carved into silence.

The hum of the bone between your fingers seems to pulse a little louder in the quiet that follows, like even the remnant can feel the weight of the moment.

His optics flicker ...slow, dim. His jaw doesn’t move. The ruined edges of his lips don’t part further. But the servos in his shoulders shift subtly, not pulling away... just present. Just here. It’s not affection as most would know it, but it’s the closest thing his broken body can give.

You lean back slowly, and William exhales—not a sigh, not a groan. Just the sound of something held too long being released.

A quiet clink of keys and the creak of the front door signal Michael’s return.

Michael enters, bag slung over one shoulder, two boxes of belongings stacked on one arm...raising a brow as he takes in the room again.

“Did I miss anything?” he asks flatly, then pauses. “…Why do you look like something did happen?”

You slip the bone gently into a padded cloth, wrapping it tight, and begin preparing the temporary containment...an old metal thermos lined with shock-resistant foam and a steel lid screwed tight. Not perfect, but enough for now.

Michael narrows his eyes, gaze flicking between you and William. The air’s not tense exactly, but it is different...subtle, strange, and a little too quiet for his comfort.

He shifts the boxes onto the nearby table with a soft thud, then deadpans, “What, you kiss him and now the bone’s a holy relic or something?”

You choke on a laugh, the tension breaking like a brittle wire.

William doesn’t even blink. “If it glows, we sell tickets,” he murmurs flatly.

Michael snorts, shaking his head. “Great. We’re ghost-hunting, corpse-kissing, haunted-rib-hoarding freaks. Weird together doesn’t even cover it anymore.”

You take your toolbag off his hands immediately getting to work as William turns to head into his old workshop to retrieve more scrap.

Michael watches you dive straight into your work like you didn’t just casually kiss a half-rotted walking war crime and accept a rib bone as a family heirloom. There’s a long pause, and then...because he can’t not say something—

“Seriously. Haunted rib detector. That's where we’re at now.”

You don’t look up. “Yes. And it’s going to work.”

William’s heavy, uneven footsteps echo faintly down the hall as he vanishes into the shadows of his old workshop, the soft sound of lubricated hinges and shifting metal drifting faintly behind him.

Michael leans against the table and watches you work for a few moments. “You know, normal couples... or well throuples ... they build radios. Birdhouses. Ikea furniture.”

You give him a glance. “You want to go back to being normal?”

He holds your gaze for a second. Then shakes his head, slow and sure. “Not a damn chance.”

From deeper in the house, you hear William muttering faintly to himself as metal scrapes and clatters...assembling something with slow, brutal precision.

Michael leans in a little, voice lower now. “So, be honest. What are the odds this ends with us not possessed, arrested, or on fire?”

You take the bone and pull it from the thermos into the device on the table...

The bone hums louder.

You glance at him.

“Fifty-fifty."

He stares at it, then slowly drags a hand down his face. “Yeah. Definitely going to end in fire.”

From the workshop, the sounds of scraping, clicking metal, and the occasional grind of an old gear slipping into alignment echo through the walls. William’s building something deliberate. Purposeful. You can hear it in the rhythm.

Michael settles beside you at the worktable, leaning his elbows on the surface, eyes flicking to the sketches you made earlier. “So... you’re really going to wire this thing yourself?”

You nod. “He’s building the casing. The actual signal detector rig. But the circuits need someone who still has fingerprints.”

He chuckles softly at that. Then quiets. His voice shifts...less sarcastic now. “It’s weird. Seeing him like this. Focused. Helpful, even.”

You don’t look up, but your voice is calm. “Does it make you trust him more?”

Michael pauses. “…No. But it makes it harder to hate him.”

Then he reaches out, carefully pulling a stripped wire closer toward you, letting his fingers brush yours just slightly.

“Need me to hold anything while you solder?” he asks...like it’s no big deal. Like this is just another strange little evening in your undead, half-rebuilt family.

Behind the wall, something metal clatters. William curses faintly in a mutter.

Michael doesn't flinch. He just smirks again. “We’ve got time.”

You put the wires and old wiring breadboard down and turn on the stool to face Michael looking up at him as he leans over you...

You smile and grab his hoodie collar, yanking him into a kiss.

Michael startles...just for a split second. You feel it in the way his shoulders tense under your hands, in the breath he sucks in against your mouth. But he doesn’t pull back.

His hands move...hesitant, then sure...as they find your waist, grounding himself in the moment. He leans into the kiss, slow but not unsure, his touch steady and careful, like you’re something both real and breakable.

When your lips part, Michael lingers an instant...eyes half-closed, breath warm against your cheek. Before he pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against yours.

“Damn,” he murmurs, voice husky. “You’re trouble.”

You grin, fingers curling in the soft fabric of his hoodie. “Best kind there is.”

Behind the wall, the thunk of steel on concrete punctuates the moment. William’s voice, low and carry-across-the-House crisp, calls out: “Less fooling around, more focus. We’ve got work to do.”

Michael chuckles softly, brushing his thumb along your jaw. “Right. The thing won’t solder itself.” He glances at the scattered parts on the bench. “But after we’re done here… we continue this.”

You nod against his lips, then step aside to reclaim the wires and the bone-powered prototype. He settles beside you, shoulders brushing once more.

As you feed the stripped ends into the breadboard, he holds the other side steady. You solder them in place.

Michael watches your hands as you finish the circuit, then glances up to meet your eyes. “You really think this’ll work?” he asks softly.

You nod, just once. “It has to.”

He doesn’t argue.

In the doorway, William appears, half-shadowed in the hallway light, his metal frame backlit like some twisted sentinel. He sets down a cracked crate of scavenged animatronic parts with a heavy thud. "None of these are affected by remnant, dont worry. They never made it onto the animatronics."

He admires the circuit... and nods once, approving. Then, after a pause...just long enough to feel like it costs him something ..he adds, “Good work. Both of you.”

Michael snorts. “Careful, old man. Keep handing out compliments like that and people might think you’re softening.”

William’s glowing eye narrows. “Try me.”

...
He begins making the actual scanner out of several parts "solder this bit to here"

You take the lead from William without hesitation, scooting your stool in closer to the newly laid-out components as he points to the next segment of the circuit. His fingers are steady, precise despite the rust and rot. The man may look like hell dragged him back half-finished, but his hands still move with the clarity of an engineer.

“Right here?” you confirm, holding the capacitor to the copper trace.

William leans slightly, nods. “Yes. Then bridge it with the resistor there. It’ll stabilize the feedback loop—should keep the hum from overloading the coil.”

Michael peers over your shoulder, brow furrowed. “And if it does overload?”

William doesn’t miss a beat. “Then it explodes.”

Michael deadpans, “Great. That’s comforting.”

You laugh softly under your breath and set the iron to the board again, the solder blooming silver around the joint.

“Alright,” William says, straightening with a metallic creak. “We route the modulator here”... he taps the breadboard gently with the end of a screwdriver.“ and embed the bone into this chamber. The hum will act as a frequency primer. The antenna will pick up anything that resonates back. A pulse, an echo...any response means remnant’s nearby.”

He put what looks like several microphone modules together in a triangular shape and lets you screw them down.

You solder the last line and sit back as the cooling fan kicks in. The prototype now hums quietly on its own, harmonizing softly with the bone inside. Like it’s listening.

Michael gives a low whistle. “Well. I’ll be damned. We made a ghost detector.”

William corrects, dry as bone. “A remnant frequency harmonizer.”

Michael rolls his eyes. “Yeah. Ghost detector.”

You pick it up carefully, holding it in your hands like something delicate and alive. “Next step,” you say, quietly, “is to test it. Michael I'll close my eyes, you go hide somewhere in here... and lets see if I can hunt you down"

William chimes in from the side, still focused on tightening a bolt on a spare casing. “You were merged with Ennard. You’ve carried remnant and need it to remain. There’s residue. Enough to test the range.”

Michael groans softly. “Fantastic. I’m basically a haunted meat thermometer.”

But he doesn’t protest further. He steps back, gestures loosely. “Alright. Count to thirty. No peeking.”

He turns on his heel and disappears down the hall, footsteps soft but deliberate. A door creaks somewhere...then silence.

You close your eyes, the scanner warm in your palms. The hum isn’t steady...it modulates, shifting pitch ever so slightly, like a Geiger counter with a conscience.

William’s voice, quiet now: “Remember...it’s not just presence. It’s pain made form. Stronger echoes mean stronger memory.”

You nod and slowly rise from the stool, sweeping the harmonizer gently left...right...

Heading out to the main hall.. There.
A faint tremor in the tone.. you sweep it up towards the bedrooms.. The resonance dips...then rises. Louder. Hotter. You move down the corridor, past cracked drywall and peeling wallpaper.. there's a second quieter signal. Presumably the stash Michael was on about earlier.

You turn and point it at William to hear the really loud interference of being close... then turn again

The path leads you forward again. You raise the harmonizer gently toward Michael’s door...half-closed...and watch as the indicator glows a little brighter. The closer you come, the more insistent the pulse.

He’s there.

You push the door open slowly, the old hinges giving a soft groan. Inside, the room’s dim...warm light from a desk lamp casts long shadows against the walls, cluttered with bits of scrap tech and worn clothes.and old drawings, notes toys... a spring bonnie plushie beside a foxy plushie

You step in directly to the closet, opening the doors to find him hiding between hoodies and t-shirts

“Damn,” he says, lifting his hands in mock surrender. “Didn’t even last five minutes.”

You smirk, holding up the softly flickering harmonizer. “You leave trails. Pain, memory... guilt. Remnant loves all three.”

Michael tilts his head, the smile faltering just a little. “Yeah. I’ve got plenty of all that.”

You step inside fully, letting the harmonizer rest in your hands, the whine slowly dying down as it points away from him..

Michael stretches his back with a soft groan, then looks at you. “So... what now?”

You glance at the wall clock. It’s later than you thought. The adrenaline’s finally wearing off, and the gnaw of hunger is impossible to ignore.

“No more pizza,” you mutter.

Michael brightens slightly, playful again. “Finally. I was starting to taste cardboard.”

You both make your way to the kitchen "what else can we get delivered..."

William joins you again. Lurking behind you "i want something spicy"

Michael glances back as William appears...quiet as always, the dim overhead light casting odd shadows across the seams of his metallic plating. He raises a brow. “Spicy? What, you want buffalo wings or an exorcism?”

William’s eyes narrow... but there's no bite to it. “You asked what I wanted. I answered.”

You snort, already pulling your phone from your back pocket. “Alright. Something with heat. Thai? Indian?”

Michael leans over your shoulder, scrolling the delivery apps with you. “As long as it’s not those death noodles i accidentally ordered once...I swear my soul left my body.”

William, from behind: “That would’ve made it easier.”

Michael doesn’t even turn. “I liked you better when you were dead.”

You keep scrolling and land on a local Thai place with decent reviews. “Okay. I'll go for moo ping and dim sum"

Michael gives an approving nod. “Solid picks. I’ll get drunken noodles. No spice limit...go big or go home.”

William tilts his head slightly. “Green curry. Level five. No substitutions.”

You glance back at him. “You sure? That stuff’s nuclear.”

“I can barely taste anything,” William replies evenly. “But it’ll look satisfying when my jaw starts steaming.”

Michael snorts. “Great. We’ll make you the centerpiece.”

You finalize the order, thumb tapping the screen. “Okay. Should be here in forty.”

Michael stretches his arms overhead with a groan, then flops into one of the creaky chairs. “Forty minutes. That gives us just enough time to contemplate our bad life choices and clean off this disaster zone of a table.”

You start gathering scattered tools, wires, and scorched paper scraps...casual reminders of the chaos you’re trying to keep at bay. Michael gets up and helps without being asked, stacking parts to one side, brushing away fine shavings of metal and dust.

William stands silently by the counter for a moment, watching the two of you. Then, with that slow, deliberate motion of his rebuilt limbs, he moves to the far cabinet and begins pulling out plates...actual plates, not disposable. It’s strange how normal it feels.

Michael eyes the ceramic dishes with mild surprise. “Damn. Didn’t think i oened anything intact.... hmm. Can plates get haunted?"

William sets them down with careful precision. “Ceramic doesn’t hold remnant. Plastic can.”

Michael raises a brow. “...You saying Tupperware is haunted?”

William doesn’t answer. He just moves to set forks and napkins, like this is any other night—like dinner isn’t being shared between a reanimated murderer, a guilt-ridden son, and their shared partner who's building a device to track suffering.

You finish clearing the table and look around, realizing how odd it all feels... and how right. There’s something grounding about the silence...domestic, but not empty.

You need to make the portable device to destroy the animatronics... and for that you three need a van. One you can turn the back into a cage and oven

...

“You’re thinking about what comes next,” Michael says quietly.

You nod. “The harmonizer finds them. That’s only half the battle. We still need a way to finish it.”

William’s voice cuts in from the end of the table, low and certain. “You mean destroy them.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, fingers idly tracing the edge of a scorched screwdriver. “We can’t drag every animatronic back here. We need something mobile. Controlled. Contained.”

Michael sits up a little straighter. “We need a van.”

You nod again. “Not just a van.. a mobile containment rig. Metal-lined interior, reinforced walls. The back turned into a cage… and an oven. We burn them after extraction. All of it.”

William leans back slightly, optics glowing a fraction dimmer in thought. “You’ll need shielding. Remnant resists fire if it’s still embedded. The heat has to be extreme. Controlled. Prolonged.”

Michael makes a face. “So... a crematorium on wheels.”

William doesn’t smile. “If it works, call it whatever you want.”

You sit forward, energized by the forming idea. “Scrap yard, salvage lots… we’ll find a used van, maybe one of those old armored delivery trucks. Then retrofit it with ceramic-lined panels, high-output propane jets, a power converter rig in case we can’t tap into mains.”

Michael whistles, impressed. “Okay, yeah. Road trip van from hell. Sounds kinda fun.”

William rises, slow and creaking. “I’ll start drafting the cage layout. We’ll need insulation, shock dampeners. If it moves, it fights.”

You chuckle "im glad the replacement fur and foam i chose for you is rated as fire retardant"

...
“Function over form,” he says flatly. “But...if it holds up under heat, I won’t argue. You did pick the green i wanted... correct?"

You nod.

Michael gestures like he’s unveiling a prize. “The new you: slightly less nightmare, still fully flameproof.”

William just grunts. “Make sure the seams don’t bind. I still need full range of motion.”

“I already accounted for it,” you reply. “Ball joints, underpadding, gusseted sections. Trust me.”

For a long second, he says nothing...then gives the faintest incline of his head. Not quite gratitude, but close.

Michael rises first, quietly, rubbing his palms on his trousers. “Food?” he offers, voice low but hopeful.

You glance at the clock. Forty minutes almost on the dot.

William doesn’t move. His head tilts, listening intently...processing too much, too fast, as always. Then, calmly:
“One of you answer it. I’ll stay here. Just in case.”

You move to the door, harmonizer within reach on the counter beside you. Michael steps behind, face mask on yo cover the holes in his cheeks... hood up...not crowding, just there. Solid.

You unlock the door and pull it open.

The delivery driver stands just outside, holding a thermal bag with both hands. Late twenties, bored expression, company cap slightly crooked. “Thai delivery,” he says, already turning to grab a second bag from the ground. “One moo ping, dim sum, drunken noodles - extra spice...aaaand... green curry, level five. You guys throwing a fire festival or something?”

Michael leans on the doorway frame behind you. “Something like that.”

You take the bags, hands brushing briefly, and murmur a quiet thanks.

The driver is avoiding Michael’s dead blackened eyes.. You see the moment the unease sets in. The too-fast blink. The twitch of his mouth like he's trying not to ask questions he already regrets thinking.

Michael doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. He just stands there, posture relaxed but unreadable, the mask hiding most of the ruin, the hood the rest. Still, the eyes remain...void black, glowing pupils and too still to be normal.

You offer a quick, polite smile, trying to close the gap. “Thanks again. Drive safe.”

The driver gives a tight nod, then practically jogs back to his car. The engine turns over a second later - too fast...and headlights sweep the curb as he pulls away without another glance.

Michael waits until the sound fades. Then, quietly, “I don’t think he’s calling the cops... but we might not want to answer the door again tonight.”

William speaks from the kitchen, voice as dry as bone:
“Shame. I was hoping for dessert.”

You shut the door and lock it, the weight of the moment settling behind you like a thick curtain. The quiet hum of the harmonizer beside you is a soft reminder that peace is always temporary in a house like this.

Still, as you turn back and smell the steam rising from the paper bags, you find yourself smiling anyway.

“Let’s eat before your curry melts the counter. Oh and let me do this before I'm unable to for a bit" you walk over to William, holding his curry , and tilt your head to fit your face between the wire frame jaws of the springlock suit, kissing him firmly on the mouth.

Gradually... deliberately, you feel him lean in. The faintest tension in his jaw, a shift of pressure, the almost mechanical mimic of affection filtered through broken muscle memory and scorched programming.

The taste of rot is always a shock but you’re getting used to it. Even as his lips and teeth part and that slime-slick tongue of his dips between your lips.

You put the curry down on the table, as you feel his metal hands loop behind your back, grasping at you one resting on your upper back.

You do the same to him. One hand against the cold leathery skin of his back, the other resting on the back of his head where no springlocks sit.

His frame makes a low, nearly imperceptible creak as he leans into the contact, breaking the kiss, forehead of the wire frame from spring Bonnie pressing lightly against yours. Not romantic in the traditional sense. Not sweet. But intimate in a way that runs deeper than most people will ever understand.

William exhales through half-ruined vocal cords in his throat, a faint static catch in the sound. “You really don’t care what I am anymore, do you.”

You don’t answer right away. You just hold him there, thumb brushing the side of his neck, just under the hinge of his jaw.

Then, quietly, “I care who you are. And you’re still here.”

He doesn’t speak again. But he stays close, unmoving...until the smell of curry finally breaks the moment. And he remembers he's hungry.

Michael, from the kitchen table, says nothing.

But when you look over, you catch the briefest flicker of something hard to place in his eyes...recognition, maybe. Not jealousy. Not confusion.

Solidarity.

Then he says, “If you two make out one more time before I get to eat, I’m throwing your springlock ass in the microwave.”

William actually laughs.

Michael chuckles boldly "and what do i get? You know my noodles are pretty spicy too"

You raise an eyebrow at him as you finally sit down, smirking. “Is that a threat or an invitation?”

Michael grins wide, the kind of grin that would be cocky if it weren’t so damn tired around the edges. “Depends who’s asking. And how much dim sum they’re willing to trade.”

William, still standing, mutters as he picks up his fork, “If this devolves into innuendo over dinner, I will install a fire suppression system in your bedroom.”

You sit beside Michael, nudging his knee with yours as you set your plate down, the edge of your elbow brushing against his as you both lean in toward the food. He doesn’t move away...just shifts slightly so your shoulders align, a casual but familiar contact.

Across from you, William finally lowers himself into the rickety kitchen chair, the joints of his springlock frame groaning faintly as he settles in. The table creaks under his weight, but he’s careful—calculated, as always.

“So,” you say, spearing a piece of moo ping and glancing between them. “Tomorrow we look for a van. Maybe a junkyard run, maybe something from the impound. We’ll need burner IDs if we’re doing it quiet.”

Michael swallows a mouthful of noodles and nods. “I can get those. Still got a guy. Owes me a favor...or three.”

William adds, not looking up, “I’ll finish the schematics tonight. Once I know the interior dimensions, I’ll give you a materials list. You’ll need Kevlar, ceramic tile, and high-heat epoxy.”

You nod slowly, letting it settle in. The work begins again tomorrow.. tonight however...

You put an arm around Michael. between the warmth of takeout and the solid press of shoulders and silence, it feels almost easy. Like this strange little trio could pull it off.

Michael leans into your arm instinctively, his body relaxing beside yours, like muscle memory that never had a name until now. He doesn’t say anything, but his head tilts slightly toward yours..quiet gratitude, maybe. Or just… comfort.

Across the table, William eats methodically, efficient and silent. But his eyes glow softer than usual in the low light..

Michael sighs "Okay, wait—are we all dating? Is this a thing? Do we need a chart?"

You nearly choke on your bite of dim sum, snorting as you cover your mouth with the back of your hand. Michael’s grin widens at your reaction...clearly satisfied with the chaos he's just dropped on the table.

William doesn’t look up from his curry, still chewing like nothing was said. Then, flatly:
“If there’s going to be a chart, I demand it be color-coded.”

Michael points at him with his fork. “See? That sounds like consent to a chart.”

You shake your head, laughing softly. “What even is the chart for? Logistics? Scheduling? Emotional damage?”

Michael raises his hand. “Column A: number of kisses per day. Column B: amount of shared trauma. Column C: likelihood we all survive the month.”

William finally looks up, deadpan. “Column D: reasons we probably won’t.”

There’s a moment of silence… then you, Michael, and even William...laugh. It’s not loud or long, but it’s real.

"It sounds like you want to turn this into a contest Michael, dont forget who she belongs to." William responds

Michael raises an eyebrow, a crooked smirk tugging at his lips as he sets his chopsticks down with deliberate calm. “Oh, belongs to, huh? Careful, old man. That’s a strong word for someone who still short-circuits when she kisses him too hard.”

William’s eyes flash faintly—whether in irritation or amusement, it's hard to tell. “Possession is not the same as fragility. And I’m hardly the one who curls inward like a dying spider every time she touches your hair.”

You bite your lip to hold back a laugh, elbowing Michael gently. “Should I be flattered or concerned that you’re both keeping score?”

Michael turns to you, eyes gleaming. “Little of both. Honestly, we’re just lucky you haven’t run screaming yet.”

“I did consider it,” you admit with a smirk. “But unfortunately, i have a bad taste in men... and a thing for corpses apparently"

William hums. “And you’re stubborn.”

Michael grins wider. “And possibly cursed.”

You clink your glass lightly against his. “Perfect match.”

William exhales..not quite a sigh. Almost fond. “Idiots. The both of you.”

You reach the arm around Michael up, gently running your fingers through his soft hair.

Michael leans into your touch almost immediately, eyes fluttering half-shut like a cat in a sunbeam. It’s instinct more than anything...this unconscious seeking of comfort he never asks for but always sinks into when offered.

“Careful,” he murmurs, voice low, a little rough. “You keep that up and I might start thinking I’m allowed to be happy.”

William doesn’t say anything at first. Just watches, his gaze unreadable but steady. Not judging...just taking in the moment like it’s data he doesn’t quite know what to do with.

Then he finally speaks, quieter than before. “You are.”

Michael looks over at him, blinking. “What?”

William sets his fork down. “Allowed. To be happy. That’s not... negotiable.”

The air stills for a beat. Even the hum of the harmonizer on the counter seems to hush itself.

You keep combing your fingers gently through Michael’s hair, grounding him with that simple contact as the weight of William’s words hangs between you all like heat after lightning.

“…Thanks,” Michael says at last, almost too soft to hear.

You lean your head against Michael’s, your temple resting against the side of his, and you feel the way he exhales...slow and full, like a pressure valve releasing quietly. His hand comes up to rest over yours thats still on the table, thumb brushing your knuckles. For once, he doesn’t try to joke his way out of it. He just...lets the moment be.

Across the table, William watches for another breath or two before standing to gather the empty takeout containers. His movements are slow, deliberate...not mechanical, but practiced. Careful. It’s been that way with him lately. Like he’s relearning how to take up space without hurting it.. learning to share...

He says nothing, but when he passes behind you to toss the boxes, his hand rests briefly on your shoulder. It’s light...almost not there...but it's real. And you feel it linger even after he's gone to the sink.

You kiss Michael on the temple... softly.

Michael closes his eyes at the kiss, the corners of his mouth twitching upward in something softer than a smile, but deeper too...like warmth rediscovered in a cold room. He doesn’t say anything, but you feel his fingers tighten gently around yours, anchoring himself to the moment.

The faucet runs in the background as William rinses the containers, each motion quiet, purposeful. He’s not speaking, not intruding...but he’s listening. Always listening.

Michael turns slightly, pressing his forehead lightly to yours. “If I’d known the end of the world came with good food and company... I’d have ruined the universe sooner.”

You huff a soft laugh. “This isn’t the end, Michael.”

He opens his eyes just enough to meet yours. “Feels like something ended... i literally gave up years of working with henry to fix all of this.. for ... ... well, . Love"

William shifts "we're still fixing things. Our way. Henry will understand that in time"

Michael’s gaze drifts, distant for a second, brows furrowed faintly. “I just thought... if I could finish what we started, maybe I’d make it worth something. Worth all the loss. All the damage.”

You lean into him, your voice quiet but sure. “It is worth something. And now, it’s not just about atonement anymore. It’s about building something we can live through.”

Michael breathes in slowly, lets it out through his nose. “Still feels like I abandoned him.”

William dries his hands with a ragged dish towel, then turns, posture straighter than usual. “Henry made his choice. You made yours. He believes in resolution through sacrifice. We believe in survival through fire.” His eyes narrow faintly. “And love. Apparently.”

That last word carries no mockery, only a kind of reluctant reverence.

Michael chuckles under his breath, shaking his head. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”

William moves closer, placing a hand lightly on the back of your chair. “It’s dangerous. Messy. Illogical. It makes you weak in all the places that matter.” He pauses, tone softening slightly. “But it also keeps you here.”

Michael glances up at him, expression unreadable. “So you’re saying you approve.”

William hums. “I’m saying... I don’t disapprove.”

You smile faintly. “That’s practically a blessing, coming from him.”

William’s metal hand brushes briefly through your hair as he passes. “Don’t make me regret it..... and keep it down little mechanic, or i may get jealous” Then he disappears toward the hall, leaving the two of you in quiet...warm, close, still tethered by something that feels almost sacred beneath the scars.

You kiss Michael softly once William is gone. You weren’t certain youd get any time alone with this half of the relationship triangle

Michael tilts into the kiss before he even thinks about it, like his body’s been waiting for permission. His hand finds the side of your face, fingers callused and warm with your own body heat, resting against your cheek.
When you part, just slightly, he stays close...eyes still half-lidded, voice hushed.

“…You always do that when I think I’m past saving,” he murmurs. “And then suddenly I’m not so sure.”

You trace a thumb along his jaw. “That’s because you aren’t past saving, Michael. You never were.”

His smile is small, but it reaches all the way to his eyes. “I want to believe that. With you, I almost do.”

He initiates the second kiss...slower this time, more intentional. Not desperate or searching, but certain. A quiet kind of want that doesn’t ask for permission because it already knows the answer. His hand stays on your cheek, thumb brushing your skin in soft, barely-there circles, like he’s grounding himself with every beat of your pulse beneath his touch.

The kiss deepens just a little..not rushed, not hungry, just... right. Like all the chaos of the world, the grief, the ghosts, the fire, has been pushed to the corners of the room and what’s left in the center is this: the warmth of two people holding each other steady.

It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for years.

Michael’s kiss carries no demands, only understanding. That kind of deep, aching understanding born from shared wounds and long nights. There’s weight behind it...not heavy, but meaningful. Like he’s giving something of himself he doesn’t give often, or easily. Trust, maybe. Or hope.

His tongue slips between your lips, he hesitates still tasting rot beneath the rich umami and spice of your food. But as it slides against yours he lets out a soft groan. You let him deeper, leaning into the kiss

The kiss deepens just a little..not rushed, not hungry, just... right. Like all the chaos of the world, the grief, the ghosts, the fire, has been pushed to the corners of the room and what’s left in the center is this: the warmth of two people holding each other steady.

It feels like exhaling after holding your breath for years.

Michael’s kiss carries no demands, only understanding. That kind of deep, aching understanding born from shared wounds and long nights. There’s weight behind it...not heavy, but meaningful. Like he’s giving something of himself he doesn’t give often, or easily. Trust, maybe. Or hope.

His tongue slips between your lips, he hesitates still tasting rot beneath the rich umami and spice of your food. But as it slides against yours he lets out a soft groan. You let him deeper, leaning into the kiss, your hands resting on the back of his chair...

Until he pulls away. White pinpricks of light focused on your eyes.

He takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom..

He quickly takes off his hoodie, bandages coming off with it, leaving his bare empty chest exposed, edges of that empty cavity scorched, yet in better condition than when you showered with him.

You do the same, your bare skin prickling with goosebumps once hit by the colder air.
He kisses you again, with more hunger, teeth clashing against yours. You meet him with the same excitement.. then part, pushing him down onto his bed. His bed isn’t much. The springs creak when he moves, and the mattress is older than it should be, but it holds.

You make a show of dragging the soft fabric of your borrowed trousers down over your hips. The excited gasp caught in Michael’s throat only eggs you on.

You step out of the trousers, and saunter over to Michael who is laying there in complete awe.
You straddle his knees, leaning over him and kissing him with ferocity.

He breaks the kiss.. looking away slightly "i cant..."

That confuses you.... "you...cant?"

He sighs, shimmying out of his trousers. Letting you see that purple limp appendage..."no bloodflow means no fun"

You chuckle slightly "that's what you think Michael, but no digestion means plenty of fun.. plus thats not the only bit of you that's sensitive."

You kiss him again and he wriggles slightly...You pushed your tongue past his lips, and Michael happily let you. You both muffled moans into the other’s mouths as you lapped at each other. It wasn’t long before you had drool dripping down your chin.

Mostly from the gaps in his cheeks.. his hands dont quite know what to do with themselves, resting on the back of your head , then on your waist, then your ass... you gently grind your body against him and he lets out a soft groan.

You for one are glad you keep your fingernails very short with what you have planned ... and if this works for Michael... it could possibly work for someone else.

You wipe some of the slick spit from your face as you continue kissing Michael, who sounds like he's getting off from simply kissing you.

You flip so you're on the bed and he's looming over you, as you expected he quickly shimmies out of his trousers to straddle your waist eagerly returning to kiss you, tongue and teeth clashing against yours.

You spread the slick across your fingers and very carefully slip one into his ass... its nothing like normal, cold , kinda spongey and extremely tight against your fingertip but nonetheless you begin slowly sliding it in and out enjoying the soft hum Michael makes against your lips on each thrust.

You pull out and he actually whimpers against your lips... only to open mouth moan when you slide two fingers into him..
"Fuck.. i didn't know i- o-oohhhh please"

He begs, and you comply pushing them deep in, and pulling out again as he drags his cold limp dick against you with every thrust.

You kiss him eagerly, tongue exploring his open mouth then licking down his neck which makes him keen in excitement.

You shimmy to keep heading down, burying your face inside his hollow body, kissing the inside of his ribcage, the silvery metallic taste of residual remnant on your lips but the eager moans of Michael only egg you on.

You're not sure exactly where your fingers are, as you can see theres nothing in here but you press deeper, pressing against that spot within him that gets you a loud excited gasp and your face buried deeper into his hollow inside. Licking down his spine as you massage his prostate, listening to the quick moans of a man who’s gone many years without any pleasure.

His breathing quick gasps and utterances of your name until that limp cock between you reminds you both that he's only half dead by twitching...

You remove your face from his chest and shimmy down to take him in your mouth.

And that warm wet contact is all he needs to be sent over the edge.

You brace for the cum, but all that fills your mouth is warm foul tasting sticky black ooze. You gag on it, it tastes worse than the first time you kissed William, yet you persevere, swallowing it all and guiding him through his orgasm with gentle sucks and massaging with you other hand..

He lets a small overstimulated gasp as you finally pull out of him , before dragging you up into bed and cuddling you.

He's surprisingly strong as he wraps you in his arms, kissing up your neck... still in a haze of pleasure he's missed for so long

Until he shifts, curling up around you...
Michael lies beside you, one arm draped loosely over your waist. His breathing is steady now, the tension in his shoulders finally...finally...bled out. Not gone, maybe. But quiet.

He sighs "Okay... that , was unexpected"

You chuckle and kiss his lips, pulling the blanket up to cover you both, he smiles up at you and it almost feels alive

Michael shifts closer, curling around you with the kind of care that comes from knowing exactly what it’s like to lose everything. His hand finds the curve of your back under the blanket, a protective, absentminded touch...as if making sure you’re real and still here.

Your chuckle earns the barest huff of a laugh from him, and when you kiss him, light and brief, his eyes flutter shut for a moment before reopening, clearer than before. The remnant pupils brighter. Like something dormant finally let itself breathe.

“Okay,” he says again, quieter now. “Still unexpected. But... not bad.”

Michael brushes your hair back from your forehead, his fingers grazing gentle. “If this is what surviving feels like,” he murmurs, “I think I can keep trying.”

You don’t answer him with words. You just nuzzle in closer, tucking your face into the space between his neck and shoulder, your arm draped loosely over his chest. His hand never leaves your back...resting there like a promise, like he’s anchoring you as much as himself.

For a while, neither of you speak. There’s no need.

The way his body relaxes against yours, inch by inch, like the fight in him can finally sleep for a little while.

The warmth of the blanket, the quiet hum of the house, the distant shuffle of William in another room...it all fades into the soft blur of safety.

Michael’s thumb strokes your back once more, lazily, before his mimicked breathing deepens and steadies. He’s asleep.

You follow soon after, wrapped in the shape of each other, held in the fragile kind of peace that only survivors can find.

And for tonight, that’s enough.