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Mike Schmidt fucking hates this fucking franchise.
About eight hours ago, he’d gotten a call from the local prison from Michael fucking Afton telling him that Vanessa’s possessed by Charlotte (what the fuck). The Afton sibling broke himself out of the place in fifteen minutes flat (what the fuck), and Mike picked him up from a Seven-fucking-Eleven to drive them both to yet another Freddy’s location where Michael swore the answer to the possession laid.
Of course, now they’re trying to find their way through this fucking maze of a place to get to something Michael cryptically calls “The Scooper.”
Mike doesn’t want to fucking know.
They’ve just travelled through some wonky emporium–with three neon stages, a million tables, and zero fucking scoopers–and ended up in a much smaller control room. While Michael broods about all the electronically sealed doors, Mike goes for one of the computers. He’s barely touched the damn thing when he selects “management tasks” and Michael barks, uncharacteristically shrill, “Don’t touch that!”
Too late.
There’s a hissing noise, and then some sort of aerosol begins to roll out of the vents. It’s tinted purple, and in the split second before Mike stops his breath cold to keep from inhaling it, it smells like the bubblegum-scented nitrous they give you in the dentist’s office.
He glances at Michael, hoping to get some kind of answer as to what the fuck this is and if it’s going to kill them–probably–but instead of any clarity, he sees the taller man standing very inconveniently next to one of the wall vents like a deer in the headlights, very clearly not holding his breath at all as a cloud of purple engulfs him.
Mike wants to either assume safety or throw a fit because they do not need any more handicaps than they already fucking have, but he’s been around both Afton children enough to know whatever this shit is, Michael is recognizing it, and it’s causing a very negative, probably trauma-induced reaction. He’s seen it happen to Vanessa a few times, from something as glaringly obvious as a rabbit springlock suit to things as simple as an empty fountain drink cup from the original Freddy’s. He’s still not sure what that was about. Either way, she always fawns, growing quiet but always receptive and never assertive.
Michael, Mike has begun to pick up, was torn to shreds if he did anything but take the punishment, no matter how harsh, without so much as inhaling too sharply. He may fawn to get his father’s attention, but when faced with his wrath?
He freezes like a bug suspended in electricity.
God fucking dammit, William Afton, did you know abusing your klds this bad would make it impossible for them to fight back? Mike thinks bitterly as he steps forward, grabs Michael by the sleeve of his oversized security jacket, and pulls him as hard as he can away from the vent.
To his surprise, the other man follows as docilely as a sheep on a leash. His compliance makes Mike want to puke.
…well, maybe that’s the oxygen deprivation.
Though they’re out of the worst of it, the room is almost all violet hued now. Gritting his teeth, Mike drags Michael out of the room and down a hallway so narrow that it’s almost claustrophobic. His gaze darts from one unfamiliar thing to another until he spies a dingy door marked “CUSTODIAL”. He doubts a janitor’s closet would have a vent, especially one that could pour that crap.
Knees shaking, Mike shoves Michael into the tiny space, and then slams the floor-length door so that they’re in gas-free darkness. Only then does he inhale desperately, gulping in air. God, stale, cleaning supply scented air has never tasted this fucking good.
“What the absolute hell”, Mike gasps, voice cracking, “was that shit?”
Michael doesn’t answer, staring blankly at the grimy floor where he’s slid limply down the wall to sit, face wrought with fear. To Mike’s surprise, despite his clearly trembling hands and locked-tight posture, his breaths are deep and even.
“Michael?” Mike tries again. Michael flinches a bit, but still says and does nothing.
“Hey”, Mike calls as he gets to his knees, trying to deliberately go gentle this time; his name said kindly is surely something he’s never heard from his dad. “Michael. Come back to me.”
In a rush of genius, he fumbles his flashlight out of his pocket and illuminates it so the circle of warmth falls onto the wall a foot or so away from Michael’s face, and the younger Afton flinches, more violently this time, back to life. To Mike’s disappointment, he still looks freaked out rather than fully annoyed by Mike’s prodding; that probably means the reaction wasn’t just an oopsie! I mistook that perfectly harmless purple air for much more dangerous blue air, no need to panic! response.
“Michael”, Mike demands, trying and failing to keep his own fear from filling his voice. “What was in that gas?”
Michael’s gaze locks onto him like throwing knives into skin. “How much did you inhale?” he demands, voice sharp.
Mike raises his hands defensively. “None!”
When Michael raises a disbelieving eyebrow, he clarifies, “Like, as soon as I saw it was purple I stopped breathing.”
“But you inhaled before doing so”, Michael counters acridly, eyes wild.
The shorter man shakes his head. “No! I’m not a fucking idiot, man!”
Michael lets out a tiny, humorless chuckle. “You look, sound, and act like one.”
Despite the harsh words, Mike can see his shoulders give just the slightest bit in the dim light and assumes: he’s probably not going to be terribly afflicted by whatever was in that gas.
Michael, however…
“I didn’t breathe any of that crap in”, Mike restates. “But you sure as hell did. What’s it gonna do to you?
And just like that, Michael’s tense again.
“I didn’t know Father still used it”, he says, voice harsh in the silence. “It’s used to make killing more difficult victims easier. It disorients them, then knocks them out.
The sentence sounds incomplete, but before Mike can demand more information, Michael pulls in on himself, gritting his teeth.
“The neurotoxin is kicking in already”, Michael hisses like he's confessing a vile, vile secret. “I'm going to be delirious.”
Neurotoxin?!
Before Mike can ask what the flying fuck is going on, Michael grabs him by the arm. His hand is cold even through Mike's flannel, and he can feel Michael digging his nails into his skin; it's like he's never interacted physically with another person before.
Mike thinks of those family photos with Michael feet away from everyone else, how he watches Mike’s hands like they’re vipers, the way Vanessa described his childhood room, resting alone at the end of a long hallway and considers grimly, maybe he hasn't.
“Do not touch me”, Michael whispers in Mike's ear; his breath smells like formaldehyde and clothes that have been slept in too long. “Not even a finger. No matter how much I beg.”
Mike instinctively nods slightly, frightened by his intensity, but then thinks better of it.
“Don’t touch you?” he blurts–because why would he do that?
Michael snarls, but it’s half-hearted at best, and Mike feels his blood run cold when Michael meets his gaze with unfocused eyes; it’s already hitting him.
“As the victim is pulled under, the gas aggravates a need for human touch”, Michael recites through tight lips, like he’s already in pain. “It doesn’t matter who the source is, your brain will seek contact.”
“Even from your own murderer?” he blurts, cringing as Michael hits him with a wordless glare. Yes, from your own murderer, dumbass, that’s the point!
And what a sick fucking point it is.
Mike gulps before asking again, “Beg?” internally cursing himself at the clear shake in his voice.
Michael huffs out a bitter, humorless chuckle. “Oh, yeah. Beg, bargain, threaten. I'll probably start screaming at some point.”
Mike pulls away, horrified. “How do you know so much about this shit, anyway? You used it before or something?”
He regrets the statement immediately as Michael barks out a harsh, high-pitched cackle.
“Used it? Who do you think Father tested it on?”
And he should have expected it, really, it’s William fucking Afton, but at this revelation, Mike almost does fucking puke.
“Oh my God”, he mumbles to himself. “What do I do?”
“Ignore me”, Michael responds with a frighteningly breathy voice. “No matter how bad it gets.
Mike swallows thickly, and, against his better judgement, nods.
…
It's bad.
The shakes begin barely a minute after they separate, so violent Mike can hear Michael’s limbs trembling against the metal shelves. Then each breath the taller man takes begins to break on something that Mike is frightened to call a whine.
After that–Mike’s not sure how much longer–Michael begins to move shakily in Mike’s direction.
The shorter man’s heart sinks.
“Michael”, Mike warns, though his heart is so far from in it. “You made me promise, remember?”
If Michael even registers this, he doesn’t show it.
“Please”, he chokes, “Hurts”, and his voice is almost completely unrecognizable; he sounds terrified, absolutely wrecked, and no older than sixteen.
“I know”, Mike tries to soothe. “It’ll be over soon. But I can’t touch you.”
Michael still seems to be trying to pull himself over, but to Mike’s simultaneous horror and relief, he doesn’t seem strong enough. The gas must’ve nerfed his muscles.
“Please”, the younger Afton repeats. “I’ll do anything.”
“I can’t”, Mike repeats against the lump in his throat.
“Please, please, I’ll be good, I promise–!”
“I’m sorry”, Mike pleads back as he pulls himself as far away from the grasping man as he can because he knows if Michael manages to make it to him, he won’t be able to deny him.
Michael seems to try to say something else, but it comes out as a wordless sob. Then his breath hitches again, and Mike flinches as the ever-quiet Michael Afton screams like he’s had a hot knife shoved clean through his stomach.
“Vanny”, the broken voice in the corner sobs, and fuck, Mike has to cover his ears at that; he can’t fucking do it.
The next few minutes or hours or days are torturous for them both. Honestly, Mike feels bad even considering his own struggles painful when he’s hearing Michael convulse and cry and beg for mercy like he’s completely out of his mind.
Their only relief, it seems, is that the gas works in rounds. Every so often, Michael’s cries quiet to slurs, even groans of discomfort that sound more like what Mike is used to. During the second lull, Michael even manages to mumble something profane as he rolls himself over and a bottle of glass cleaner that spilled itself empty years ago gets lodged under his ribs.
Mike relaxes a bit then, thinking the worst had passed, but mere moments later, Michael is wailing again, this time for his mother, and Mike has to scratch his own arm bloody to keep from reaching out.
…
The third bout of lucidity is the scariest.
Michael blinks himself awake and immediately scowls, reaching a clumsy hand up to rub away what Mike can only imagine is a splitting headache.
"Is it over?” Mike croaks, choosing bluntness over concern for the sake of both of their egos.
“You kept your word”, Michael mumbles half to himself instead of giving an answer.
Mike can only swallow, his throat dry and his tongue thick with gratitude for the return of cryptic, unhelpful Michael, and nod.
“Next time will be the worst”, the other man warns.
Mike nods again. He's still apprehensive, but at this point he's starting to get desensitized. Maybe Freddy's has killed his ability to feel shock, he thinks with a self-deprecating snort.
This is immediately disproven when Michael opens his mouth again.
“Arms are fine. Hands are fine. My hair is fine, but don't pull. Don't touch the back of my knees, or my shoulders without telling me. Do not grab my stomach, my chest, or my neck under any circumstances.”
Mike has to think, and then his jaw drops.
“You want me to touch you next time?”
His second thought–you trust me?--goes unspoken, but not unknown.
Michael snorts humorlessly. “I don’t know if I can make it through another round. I’m not as resistant as I once was.”
What the younger Afton says next is barely audible, but it rocks Mike's world on its axis.
“Besides, I guess you've earned it.”
Mike practically lets out his own sob of relief. He doesn’t know if he can take another round of ignoring the other man; no matter how hateful and cruel he may be, no one deserves whatever the fuck that gas is eliciting.
The re-uptake doesn’t take long. Mike has barely repositioned his stiff limbs into a position so he can get the lanky man to sit in his lap and drape over his chest when Michael begins to cry. The pleading hasn’t even started yet, but Mike can’t hold back any longer, doesn’t want to.
“It's okay”, he coaxes, voice low and calm like he's trying to get a feral cat to eat from his hand. “I'm gonna hold you.”
Michael makes a tiny sound that’s laced with desperation, and Mike shifts to gently pull the taller man closer.
The first touch of Mike’s hands against Michael’s arms, even through the fabric of the latter’s clothes, causes Michael to sob like it's been punched out of him. Mike gently wrestles the thick jacket off of him, then, after a moment’s thought, shrugs off his own flannel so he’s only in his sweat-soaked t-shirt.
As soon as the fabric hits the floor, he’s wrestling Michael into place with as much care as he can manage.
The plan is to have Michael’s legs bent under him so as not to have him be too uncomfortable, but the moment Michael’s chest touches him, the taller man goes boneless, crying uncontrollably as he presses his face into Mike’s neck. It leaves his lower half sprawled awkwardly, one leg bent so as to accommodate the closed door, and his back must fucking hurt, but from the way Michael’s reacting, he might as well have been lowered into a plush bed after years of sleeping on the ground.
He’s mumbling something, wild and unrelenting, and Mike has to once again swallow back tears when he registers that it’s, “thankyouthankyouthankyou…”
Despite this, however, Michael is still panting and shaking, and no matter how tight Mike squeezes him, it doesn’t quite seem to be calming him down, which Mike wants to do; he thinks they both deserve it.
He considers Michael and all his odd complexes, specifically the one that seems to stem from William's negligence, and comes up with an idea that him from twelve hours ago would have balked at.
“You did it”, Mike soothes before he can quite think twice about what he's saying, but he means them more than he thinks he's meant anything. “The hard part is over. You did so well.”
The last statement elicits a sound that Mike thinks might have been a wail if the younger Afton had any strength left; instead, it's a soft warble, more breath than noise.
And God, for all the terrible things the guy has done, Mike cannot deny that Michael is tough. Honestly, he has no idea how his father made such a living off of doing exactly that.
“God”, Mike huffs out a half-hysterical laugh. “I don’t know how you did that. I don’t know how you did is so many fucking times. I would have gone insane.” He traces a hand down Michael’s back, sighing warmly as he feels some of the muscle begin to give way as Michael’s body stops cramping.
When it does, he promptly reaches under the taller man before he can get too comfortable and grabs his leg, being sure to keep clear of the back of the younger Afton’s knee.
“Come on”, he coaxes. “Lemme get you more comfortable, can you do that for me?”
And to his surprise, Michael does. He’s clumsy with lack of control, sure, but he tries his damndest, and the fact that he’s even allowing Mike to touch him hits him like a goddamn battering ram to his too-tender chest.
“I'm so proud of you”, Mike breathes, tasting the weight of the words as he speaks them, and he pulls Michael into perhaps the most genuine, earnest hug he’s ever given.
Michael shakes as he whines into Mike's shoulder, “Dad, dad”, and despite the fact that it too easily can be taken as an outright lie that he is in fact William, Mike can only respond, “I’m here. It’s gonna be okay. I’m here.”
The poison seems to wear off gradually from there. Michael’s vocalizations get lower and less desperate, and his hands begin to move with more thought.
“G'nna fall asleep”, Michael slurs softly, though it’s blessedly lucid compared to everything else up to this point. He's moving minutely yet steadily; shifting his shoulders lets him know that yes, Michael is in fact nuzzling Mike's shoulder.
“Is it safe?” Mike asks.
Michael shrugs so sloppily that Mike half thinks it was an involuntary twitch. “Should be. Father does all th’ damage. The gas's jus’ made t'knock you out.”
As if on cue, Michael yawns.
“I've just nev'r passed out. Father made me stay ‘wake so he could…test all the…side ‘ffects…”
Disgust roils in Mike's chest. No fucking wonder this guy turned out insane.
Externally, though, Mike tries to stifle his anger, laving long, soothing pets down Michael's spine. “Then I think you should rest.”
Michael makes a soft, “mhm…” sound, weight dropping against Mike’s chest as his muscles give way.
To Mike's surprise, cradling a sleeping Michael is really easy. He thought he'd feel resentful, but honestly, all he feels is the painful swelling in his chest that he gets whenever Abby has a nightmare and crawls into his bed crying.
He sighs roughly, throwing his head back to gaze at the ceiling tiles.
Fuck, he thinks as he gently brushes through Michael’s greasy hair with one trembling hand, I hope this is over soon.
…