Chapter Text
Elizabeth never came back from the grand opening of Circus Baby’s Pizza World.
Father had returned home late that night, pale faced and quiet, and most notable of all alone. He had called Michael into the living room and guided him to the couch, laid his chapped, trembling hands on his shoulders. Waited for him to settle in, made him look him in the face as he spoke, detailing why he’d come home without his little sister.
“Michael, there… There was an accident.”
He hadn’t gone into specifics, but Michael knew it must’ve been bad. Father was so unshakable most of the time, he was calm and calculated. Even when Evan had died, he’d gone into crisis mode first and foremost, clearing the room while Henry called the ambulance. This wasn’t like that. He’d never seen his father this vulnerable, this… Fragile.
It felt weird. It felt like Father was upset, so he couldn’t be. If Michael fell apart, who else would be there to support him? It was just the two of them now, and he hated to see his father so haggard, so he did little more than blink his dry eyes and listen in muted horror. He could mourn later, on his own, where he wouldn’t be a burden. Father didn’t deserve the weight of that on top of everything else.
In the privacy of his own room, later that night, he dwelled on it. He managed to hold back the tears, but he still curled in the corner of his room and hiccupped for air, chest heaving up, down, up, up, down. He went over Elizabeth's final morning over and over and over again in his head, picking apart every little thing he could have done differently. If he hadn’t misplaced her socks last time he did the laundry, could she have gotten ready faster and narrowly missed whatever it was that took her life? Or would it have been better to delay, to hug her just a little bit tighter for a few more seconds before she skittered out the door?
For the most part, it boiled down to one thing: Michael hadn’t gone with them. He had trouble being around the animatronics after the incident, and Father had been all too happy to leave him behind. One less kid to keep track of, one less problem to deal with when he was already going to be so busy. It probably would have been bad for PR to have him there anyways. Knowing what he does now, he wishes he’d tagged along. Maybe this wasn’t directly his fault, not like last time, but he could have been there. He could have watched Elizabeth, kept an eye on her in their father’s stead.
Maybe, just maybe, he could have prevented her death.
They hold a private funeral service, just the two of them and Henry. It’s closed casket, but the flower arrangement on top is pretty. Michael can’t help but think about how much Lizzie would’ve liked it. The lilies would have looked lovely in her hair.
It’s been a week since they laid Elizabeth to rest, and Michael still doesn’t know what exactly happened to her. He’s not sure he wants to, but knowing has to be better than whatever this is. Senseless nothingness. The most he’s been able to glean from Father is that there was another accident with one of the animatronics, and now his sister is dead just like their brother before her. He doesn’t know how it happened, nor why. He doesn’t know which animatronic it was. He doesn’t know what she looked like in that pastel pink casket before they put her in the ground.
(Would it help to know, he wonders? Would it keep him from having visions of her mangled corpse caught in those gleaming metallic jaws, limbs twisted every which way and grey matter peeking out beneath stark white shards of bone? Would he instead remember her laying there peacefully, as if asleep? Or would it only make the nightmares worse?)
Father hasn’t spoken to him since they got home after the funeral - in fact, he’s barely even seen the man. It was one thing in the days after it happened, when he was at least home even if he was always on the phone and busy making arrangements. It’s another now when he has no respite from this empty house, every waking hour consumed by the deafening silence.
He’s alone in the kitchen and picking around the ham in the casserole a well-meaning neighbor from down the street dropped off on their doorstep this afternoon. It was a nice thought, he supposes, but it’s bland and flavorless and he’s not hungry enough to choke it down. There’s the tell-tale click of the lock in the entryway, and it feels like static clearing from his ears when he hears his father step into the house. He can tell it’s him because the only other person who comes here anymore is Henry, and it doesn’t sound like the heavy clomping of his work boots. It’s quieter, clicky on the tile like the heels of his father’s dress shoes.
Michael hears the footsteps come closer, muffling as they pass over the carpet in the living room. Father turns the corner into the doorway, and he looks surprised to see him there.
“...Michael. How was school?”
“Fine.” It wasn’t. His classmates have taken to staring at him, and it makes his skin crawl. They’ve been doing it for a while, but they’ve gotten bolder ever since the news broke about Elizabeth. Now, some of his teachers have even begun to join in. “How was the diner?”
Father steps into the kitchen. He lifts the saran wrap on their disposable tin dish of pity on a platter and scrunches his nose. “Fine.”
They’re both lying. Maybe it’s hypocritical, but Michael feels a bubble of irritation form in his chest. He waits a while, and when it seems Father has nothing else to say, he clears his throat. “Everyone at school is saying there was a gas leak at Circus Baby’s, and that’s why Elizabeth died, but that’s not what you told me.” He pauses, and then, hesitantly, “That’s not true, is it?”
Father doesn’t even look at him. He’s busy plating himself a serving of the casserole. Michael is too caught up in scowling to feel solidarity when he sees him avoiding the ham cubes. “I only told you what you needed to know, Michael. Yes, we’ve been dealing with a gas leak too. Don’t worry about it.”
His frustration builds, and builds. The membrane of the bubble expands outward, thinning more and more the bigger it gets. At some point, it’s got to— “You don’t ever tell me anything.” Pop. Michael sucks in a deep breath, then raises his voice. He doesn’t know why he’s instigating. Maybe he’s just tired of being here, in this house, all alone. Maybe he’s taking that out on the man who’s supposed to be here with him but isn’t. “You don’t even tell me when you’re gonna be home, so why would you tell me what happened to Lizzie, huh? I don’t know what I expected.”
“Michael.” He frowns. “You ought to know better than anyone why I wouldn’t tell you. Don’t you remember the nightmares after Evan died?”
After you killed him, Father doesn’t say, but it’s implied. “Don’t.” He chokes. “I don’t want to talk about that. This is about Lizzie.”
He must be imagining the vicious glint in Father’s eye when he rounds on him, arching a single, dark brow. He must be, because his father would never take pleasure in hurting him. “It’s not like we can pretend it never happened, as much as I’m sure you would like to.”
Michael huffs. “That’s what you’re doing now, but with Elizabeth. I know I fucked up! ” There are tears pricking at his eyes. He’s crying now. He hasn’t in a long time, and the wetness feels foreign. For years it was because all the kids at school would say that crying was for babies and he’d internalized that, inflicted that cruel mindset upon his own brother. More recently he’s just been too numb for it. He thinks he prefers that to this full-body, white hot rage. “I know that, I could never forget, but she’s my sister! Don’t I deserve to know?”
Father looks tired. He looks tired, so tired, and he raises his hand. As quick as it came, the anger is gone, replaced with fear something else, as if someone pried out his batteries and put them back in the wrong way.
Father’s hand is raised, and it looms over him.
Michael knows, somewhere in his heart, that Father isn’t a violent man. He would throw things, sometimes, when he got frustrated with work, but never at him or his siblings. The worst he had ever gotten was that terrible day at Fredbear’s, when he’d grabbed Michael by the arm and wrenched him away from the animatronic.
(“What have you done?” he’d hissed, voice trembling with barely contained rage. Michael could still hear it in his dreams, sometimes, the crunch, the splatter of blood, and then, “What have you done?”)
He is not afraid of Father. Father would never hurt him, Father loves his children. Father would never hurt him. He isn’t afraid.
“Michael… ” Michael flinches despite himself, squeezing his eyes shut, but the blow never lands. Father’s hand instead comes to cradle his jaw, thumb brushing across his cheekbone. “I wish you wouldn’t do this.” He sounds tired, as tired as he looks. His voice is thin and tremulous, and he sounds tired. Michael knows it’s his fault. “I don’t know why you’re so set on arguing with me. We’re all we have left, don’t you understand that?”
“I—” His eyes flutter open, then closed again. He wants to say something, to pull away even, but he can’t. His feet are rooted in place, and as much as he hates to admit it, he craves the physical contact. Father is right. Mom is gone, Evan is gone, and now Elizabeth. It isn’t worth it. Not after all that has happened. “I understand, Father.” His throat feels tight. All the fight he had left in him has dissipated, leaving only the coil of grief in his chest, the urge to cry. It would be better to just give in. “I’m… I’m sorry. I just— I miss her. I miss them both, and Mom too.”
“I do too.” William sighs. He pulls away and pinches the bridge of his nose. “I miss them a lot. I… apologize, Michael, I know this is hard on you as well. I just don’t want to upset you.” A beat of silence, and then, “Come here, come sit and give your dad a hug. It’s been a while, hm?”
It has. It really, really has.
He never gets answers about Elizabeth, but Father stops bringing up Evan to one-up him.
For the next couple weeks, things are calm (if a little awkward) between them. There’s none of the shouting he was once used to, no slamming doors, no petty arguments. All the usual ones seem stupid now in light of Elizabeth’s passing. Michael does his chores unprompted, cooks dinner and leaves a plate out for his father when he comes home late. They ignore each other for the most part. He isn’t sure how much of it is intentional and how much has to do with Father’s work schedule. He’s… He’s still gone a lot these days. It makes sense, he supposes. Father hasn’t said anything, but he’s sure there’s much to be dealt with ever since Elizabeth— ever since the incident.
Sometimes, after school, Michael lingers around the park rather than heading straight home. He doesn’t have any friends anymore, but it’s nice to sit and take in the atmosphere. He’s not used to the quiet when he’s alone. Before, there was always noise. Sometimes it was the muted buzz of Lizzie talking to her assortment of dolls. Sometimes she would follow him around and pester him to play dress up with her. Before that, even, was the pitter-patter of Evan’s footsteps, the soft sniffling he could hear behind his bedroom door. At the time, he thought they were kind of irritating, but now… Now he misses the noise. He doesn’t like the silence.
It reminds him of what a shitty brother he’d been.
It’s fine, usually. He sits on the dilapidated swingset in the far corner, as far away from everyone else as he can manage. People recognize him, sometimes, and shoot him dirty looks, but it’s better than the crushing silence that awaits him at home. Father tends to work late, and when he is home he looks exhausted. Michael figures it’s easier on them both if he just keeps out of the way and handles the housework. Most nights, he’ll come home from the park and clean up around the house. Once that’s done, he’ll start on dinner - something from the freezer, if Father says he’ll be working overnight. If not, he tries to get something halfway decent on the table by the time he gets home from work.
He doesn’t get the chance tonight. When he steps through the front door, a little after five, he can already smell onion, garlic, tomato. Father is standing at the stove in front of a bubbling pot of… Something. He watches him taste whatever it is as he toes off his shoes and places them neatly by the doorway. Father must not have been entirely pleased, because he watches him dump in a small dish of… Salt? Maybe parmesan? He can’t tell from this distance, but it’s something white and kind of powdery looking. He clears his throat to announce himself, just in case Father didn’t hear him come in. He doesn’t want to startle him, not while he’s standing over a hot stove.
“Michael!” Father turns to greet him, and he’s - he’s smiling? “There you are, I was wondering. Did you go somewhere with your friends?”
They both know he doesn’t have friends. He hasn’t for a while, not since what happened to Evan. William may not know the details, but he must know they scattered after that day, disassociated from Michael entirely. They sidestep him in the hallways, sit on the opposite side of the cafeteria during lunch. It’s probably better that way. Who the fuck wants to hang out with the boy who murdered his little brother?
Maybe Father is trying to spare him the embarrassment of admitting he doesn’t like being here alone. They haven’t talked much about it, but the absence since Elizabeth’s passing has been stifling. That’s probably why he works so late all the time. Either that, or he can’t stand to be in the same room as him. It wouldn’t be very surprising.
“...The park. Sorry.” He shifts, uncomfortable with the scrutiny. They’ve hardly spoken a word since their… Confrontation, for lack of a better word. He’s not sure why Father is paying attention to him again all of a sudden. “I didn’t know you’d be home so early. I would have told you.”
”It’s quite alright. I didn’t know either, until Henry was pushing me out the door.” He chuckles. It’s been so long since Michael heard his father laugh that it sounds strange and tinny to his ears. “Are you hungry? I know it’s a little early for dinner, but it’s been a while since I’ve been around a kitchen. I was worried it might take longer.”
Right on cue, Michael’s stomach growls. He blushes, looking away. He hadn’t eaten lunch, and breakfast had consisted of dry toast after he woke up late and had to rush out the door to catch his bus.
“I’ll take that as a yes.” William turns back to the stove to give the pot another stir. “Go on and grab a couple plates for me, will you? Set the table, too.”
Michael nods, and thankfully he’s no longer rooted in place now that his father’s eyes are off of him. He pulls two plates from the cabinet, sets them on the counter next to the stove. Now that he can see up close, the pan is filled with pasta in what looks to be some kind of tomato cream sauce. It looks good and smells even better. He doesn’t want to get in the way, so he moves quickly to the other side of the kitchen to grab the silverware. He grabs three forks at first, out of habit, before remembering and carefully placing one back.
He doesn’t make the same mistake with the napkins.
There’s papers strewn all over the table. They don’t eat here often, so it’s become sort of an impromptu work desk as of recent. Michael’s afraid to mess anything up, so he tries his best to work around the scattered papers without touching them. Lizzie’s old spot is clearer than his, so that’s where he sets down his glass of water. The other one goes at the head of the table, where Father always sits, even though there’s still papers there, because he’s never seen the man sit anywhere else without grumbling. If Father notices, he doesn’t say anything when he comes over with their plates. The pasta is still steaming when he places it in front of him, and Michael feels his mouth watering.
“Here we are.” Father settles into his own seat with a little grunt. The mess must not bother him, because he pulls a couple sheets of paper closer to skim them. His plate is off to the side, out of the way. “Dig in.”
Once granted permission, Michael doesn’t hesitate. He hadn’t noticed how hungry he was until he walked in the door. It’s good. Much better than he’s been managing, with his Campbell’s soup magazine clipping recipes and boxed mac and cheese. He’s halfway through his plate before he realizes he should slow down and savor his meal. Father doesn’t cook often, he wants to make sure he fully appreciates the gesture.
He takes another bite, chewing it slower this time, and it’s bitter.
He must have made a face, because Father frowns at him from across the table. “Is something wrong? Eat your dinner, Michael.”
Michael shrinks back. He doesn’t want to be ungrateful, really! It’s just… Something was off. “Sorry. It— it tasted funny.”
William sighs loudly, the way he always does when he’s hinting that his patience is wearing thin. Like he does when he’s working and wants them - him, just him now - to shut up and go in the other room. “Michael. It’s not polite to criticize. I know I’m not the best cook, but I’m trying.”
“I didn’t mean it like that…” He mumbles. Another bite, and though he can’t help but taste the underlying bitterness now that he’s noticed it, it’s not as bad this time. “...I think it was just that piece, maybe. I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to be rude.”
That seems to placate his father. He hums, picking at his food as he glances back to his papers. His plate looks nearly untouched, but that’s not so unusual. He tends to space out while he’s working at the dinner table. “Too much parsley, maybe? I’ll put in less next time.”
“Maybe, yeah.” He can’t remember if there was parsley on the offending bite or not. There’s some green specks throughout the pasta, but he doesn’t think he noticed more on that piece - or any, for that matter. Maybe he just wasn’t looking. “I— Thank you. For dinner.”
William nods, and then they’re quiet. They eat in silence, for the most part, interrupted only by the shuffling of paperwork and the clinking of silverware every now and then. Michael finishes long before his father, but stays quiet, stays seated. He doesn’t want to come off as rude again and risk shattering their tentative peace. He intends to stay like that until they’re both done, but after several minutes his stomach decides it has other ideas.
He does his best to ignore it and stay in place, but doesn’t make it long. The squirming discomfort in the pit of his stomach climbs up along his esophagus and tightens in the back of his throat. It’s too much, and he finally relents. “Father, may I be excused?”
William simply nods again, though he glances up to add, “Rinse your plate. I’ll put away the leftovers when I’m done.”
He’s not sure he can make it that long. He tries to, makes his way to the sink and holds his plate under the tap, but he doesn’t even manage to turn it on before he gags. The plate clatters against an empty cup in the bottom of the sink as he staggers back, clapping a hand over his mouth. He’s overcome now, repeatedly swallowing in a futile effort to keep his dinner down, but he’s fighting a losing battle. He barely makes it to the bathroom before he feels it coming up into his mouth, where he’s forced to hold it just until he can pry up the toilet lid with a loud clack against the tank.
Michael retches - once, twice - into the bowl of the toilet. He tries to ignore the splattering sound that follows, just as he tries to ignore how unsanitary the seat probably is as he rests his cheek against the cool porcelain. He waits for the nausea to pass, but it doesn’t, just comes and goes in waves. The bile chokes him over and over, leaving him in coughing fits until his body heaves out the next round. He can’t keep track of how many times it happens, nor how long it’s been. Father must have slipped into the room at some point because he feels his long, spindly fingers carding through his hair, blunt nails scratching his scalp. It reminds him of when he was little and they would watch movies on the couch, when he would fall asleep with his head cradled in his father’s lap. A better time, before Freddy’s, before everything. Before whatever happened to Mother, before Evan and Elizabeth’s untimely deaths. Before Father became so distant.
It’s quiet for a long time, Michael shivering where he’s knelt on the floor, and William crouched beside him, stroking his head to soothe him, but eventually he speaks up. “I didn’t think my cooking was that bad,” he mumbles, teasing.
Now isn’t really the time for a joke. Michael isn’t sure how to feel about it; he doesn’t know how to respond - or if he’s able, for that matter. His throat stings, and he doesn’t want to risk speaking until he knows he won’t interrupt himself by throwing up again.
“Dad,” he rasps, after a long while - not Father, like usual. It’s been a long time since he called him Dad. Even longer since— “Daddy, it hurts…”
“Shhh, shh, it’s alright. It’s alright, Mikey, I’ve got you.” William shifts onto the floor, pulling Michael along with him to sit balanced in his lap. There are gridlines on his knees from where they were pressed to the tile, deep red indentations. Despite the new position, Michael is still hunched over the toilet, shaking as he spits up again. It’s mostly liquid now. William curls a protective arm around him, trying (but failing) to keep the smile off his face. At least Michael is too preoccupied to notice. “Daddy’s here, it’s okay. You’re okay.”
Michael trembles. He feels too hot and too cold all at once, like his body can’t make sense of what’s happening to him. “Am I gonna die?” He warbles. It feels like he could, any moment now. Twenty minutes ago he was eating dinner with his father, and now he’s dying.
William takes one of Michael’s clammy hands and rubs it between his own, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at him even as he reassures, “You’re not going to die, Michael. I’m right here. I won’t let that happen.”
It crosses Michael’s hazy mind, briefly, to mention that the words ring a little empty after what happened to Evan and Elizabeth, but he thinks better of it. When he really thinks about it, perhaps there’s some logic to his words. Father wasn’t there when they died. That was the problem, wasn’t it? Maybe… Maybe it’ll be different, maybe he can trust what he says. Maybe, with his father here, everything will be okay. Maybe he really won’t let anything happen to Michael, even though they both know he deserves a death this painful. A blend of fear and legitimate inability at the moment keeps him from verbalizing any of that so he simply nods. At least the worst of it seems to be over. He doubts there’s much left in his body to be expelled at this point, but he isn’t sure.
Several minutes pass by like that, with Michael still leaned over the toilet bowl and William loosely cradling him. Eventually, when it seems he’s not going to vomit all over his father’s nice dress shirt ( the lavender one he’s always favored, the one he doesn’t wear to work often for fear of getting grease stains on it ) Michael wipes his mouth and moves to lay his head on his shoulder. William takes the hint and gathers him up, maneuvering them both until he’s able to stand with Michael bundled in his arms. For as tall as he is, he’s lighter than he should be. William makes a mental note to keep that in mind in the future. He must have overdone it tonight, seeing as Michael’s already sicker than he intended. Next time he’ll make sure to get the dosage right. He doesn’t want his plans to end prematurely.
“There we go,” he coos, adjusting his grip until he knows he can keep Michael steady. “Let’s lay down, hm? I’ll get you a glass of water.”
Michael nods again, wordlessly, eyes drifting up towards his father’s face. It hits him, all of a sudden, how foul his mouth tastes, how the acid still burns his esophagus. A glass of water would do him some good.
They exit the bathroom. Michael is so busy trying to keep himself together that he doesn’t notice they’ve passed by his doorway until he’s settling into the big, soft bed in the master bedroom. His father’s bedroom. He hasn’t so much as set foot in this room in years. “Dad…?” His head is pounding, his stomach lurching. It’s almost not worth asking. “Why am I… Why here?”
William relishes in the wide, confused stare of his son. “So I can keep an eye on you, Michael.” He pauses to comb his hair back again. It’s sweaty now, and his forehead feels hot, fever setting in. That’s good. “Like I did when you were little, remember?”
He whines, distressed. “What if I get you sick?”
“I don’t think you will.” Father hums. “My guess is food poisoning.” Not technically inaccurate. Michael has been poisoned, and it was in his food. Now that they’re facing one another, William has to put a little more effort into smothering any outward displays of glee with a concerned tilt of the head and a furrow in his brow. “You said dinner tasted off, didn’t you? I’m sorry, Mikey, I should have listened to you. I thought maybe you just didn't like my cooking.”
“‘S not your fault…” He’s mumbling now, struggling to follow along. His head is getting foggier and it’s getting harder to think of anything besides the sour taste in his mouth and the water Father had promised him so he could be rid of it. “...Water?”
“Right, right. You stay right here.” William tugs the comforter over Michael before he stands, laying the back of his hand against his forehead. The fine sheen of sweat on his face was probably enough to know, but it serves to confirm the fever he already suspected. William sighs, patting his son’s shoulder one last time before he departs. “I want you to sleep once you’ve had your drink, Michael. You need to rest.”
Michael nods weakly - he couldn’t argue even if he wanted to, which he doesn’t. As it stands, he’s already drifting off, though he doesn’t realize he’s half asleep until he feels the rim of a glass press against his cracked lips. He opens his eyes, sits up far enough to let Father to coax the cool, crisp water down his aching throat. It feels heaven sent - not just the water, but the care, the affection. It’s more than he deserves, truly, but he craves it desperately. He wonders, half delirious, if this is real. If it is, could he have had this all along? Could he have been better, could he have argued less, could he have behaved and earned this for himself before everything went to shit?
(He’d like to believe he could have, but he knows he was never good enough for that.)
Father pulls the empty glass away far sooner than Michael would’ve preferred. Another whine escapes him as he licks the last droplets of moisture from his dry lips and shoots his pleading gaze at the man. His tongue is heavy in his mouth and won’t cooperate to let him conjure up the words to ask, but he wants more. Not more water, necessarily, but more. He’s a dying man in the desert, and he’s finally been granted an oasis that he simply can’t let slip through his fingers so soon.
“Sleep,” orders William, but he doesn’t bark it out like usual. Michael feels him press a cool, damp cloth to his forehead before he rounds the bed and comes to perch at the opposite edge. “I can’t give you more right now, Michael, you’ll make yourself sick again. The last thing I need is for you to throw up in my bed.”
The scolding, while not what he wants, is soothing in its familiarity. He’s not sure how to navigate this new, softer side of his father quite yet, but he knows how to follow orders. He hasn’t been very good about it in recent years, but he knows how, and he’s willing to amend his behavior if it means his father will just hold him and stroke his hair again. Michael squeezes his eyes shut tight again and, after a moment, curls as close as he dares to where his father is sat across from him.
He can scarcely so much as breathe until he feels the bed dip, at long last, and Father’s arm around him. “Sleep,” he says again, softer yet. “I’ll be here the whole time. Go to sleep, Mikey.”
So he does.
William Afton is not a touchy-feely man. He never had been. He’d indulged his children, in their earlier years, at his wife’s insistence. He’d allowed them to climb into bed with them in the middle of the night, he’d let them drape themselves over him during movie nights on the couch. He had even, on occasion, let them cling to his legs as he trudged around the house, dragging them along. Elizabeth had been demanding in that regard, always begging for attention. Evan had too, to some extent, though he was never as upfront, never as assertive. As for Michael, William had always assumed he’d grown out of it. Perhaps he was too embarrassed to engage in that type of behavior as he’d grown older. William didn’t know, and he wasn’t sure he cared. He hadn’t missed it. Hadn’t thought much about it - until now.
Looking at his son now, he realizes he’d never grown out of it. Michael had grown tired of pleading, perhaps, but he must have craved the attention even so. William wasn’t stupid. He’d noticed, tonight, the way Michael chased after contact. Sick, heaving, and he still mustered up the energy to lean into every touch. Even now, fast asleep, Michael is clinging to him with all his might. William can’t help but grin as he tucks Michael closer, cradles his head in the crook of his neck almost possessively. He can work with this, he knows he can.
Poor, touch starved little Michael.
This is going to be easier than he expected.