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This was it. Michael stood before the fuzzily familiar house and took a deep breath.
Prying information out of his pops was a nightmare plus a little "legal" database... Research... And he finally found him.
William Afton.
His dad despite it all.
And his family home from forgotten pasts never looked more cold and unforgiving. Funny how memories can never prepare you for reality.
The last time he saw this place was through the back of a car window when- Michael shook his head. That was neither here nor there.
He came here with a mission. To fix this. He knew what his "dad" was doing and this chain of suffering needed to end damn it. So why was he standing here in memory lane on the doorstep of one of the most dangerous men in the country?
Before another wave of reluctance could hit him, Michael pounded a couple knocks out on the door, eyes immediately shifting around towards his surroundings. The other homes looked like graves with their rotting beams and broken ‘For Sale’ signs tangled in wild grass. William’s yard didn’t look much better in his opinion-
There was the sound of a thud inside. Then a not quite yet familiar voice piped up asking for a minute. How annoying.
It's not like Michael was thinking of just hopping back into his maybe still cold car and going back to his shitty rental after all. He was.
He crossed his arms and shifted weight to a leg for the wait. He might be regretting wearing his nicest, but fluff-lined, jacket with how the sun beamed down on him as if a ‘fuck you’ just to him. The gun nestled against his sweaty lower back most certainly didn't help the comfort level either.
It had to have been 5 minutes before the door opened and a man stood before him and- He had to look down?
It suddenly hit Michael... It's had to have been a decade or so since he has last seen this man, and he couldn't help but openly stare.
Once long hair was cropped short- hastily swept into a presentable style - grey hair already dominated his temples and spotted about. A scruffy stubble of a beard donned a thin, pale face. Not quite messy but not quite looking to be out of aesthetic choices. The eye bags certainly supported that.
Michael couldn't help how worried he felt noticing the dress shirt, sweater combo on William's frame didn't look fitting at all. It hung off him, just a tad too much to be healthy but it was clear this clothing used to fit him once upon a time...
A clearing of a throat and loud clap of calloused hands interrupted his - admittedly creepy- observing and snapped back up to empty grey eyes and business-perfect smile.
"I'm sorry. But can I help you?" His voice was clearly rough from sleep at 3 pm? despite his best try and was off in his mind for some reason.
Maybe Michael should have called beforehand somehow... "Hey uh. I know it's been... A while but um. It's me. Michael. Your... Son... Yeah"
He watched something tighten in his dad's face and his eyes cloud before a small spark then emptiness again. It concerned Michael deep down under the anger.
"Oh... Oh yes yes. Uh. This is very unexpected indeed!" The other man started trying to look around him, almost desperately, "where's your- where's Henry?"
Michael couldn't help the snapped back, "that drunk? Nah he isn't fucking here. Only me."
It's not like he could even get that man to speak more than bitching and moaning nowadays anyways. He hardly even called after he booked it after high school for a reason.
William's lips almost left that plastered sly grin but it just twitched back into place as if out of habit. He shrugged as if that were a proper response then they awkwardly stood there in complete silence. A blurry memory of a talkative man with a genuine, bright smile that decayed into solemn quiet lingered in Michael’s mind, this man felt so familiar yet wrong.
Michael wasn't expecting much out of the man he once knew but every thing about this new Afton unnerved him. His movements were too fluid, practiced. His smile, far from being categorized as happy, hasn't slipped thus far. And his eyes…
'He's a child and general murderer. Stop it. What did you expect.' Michael had to remind himself before clearing his own throat, "so can I... Come in? Kinda weird to have your guest just stand out here like this y'know."
That seemed to make William whir to life as if his spring got wound up. He immediately moved to the side before wandering off into the, quite dark, house, "oh of course of course. I apologize. I haven't had guests in- you can clear off a seat, just move whatever is on it gently please! I'll make us tea."
The man slipped into the kitchen far too quietly again for Michael's liking.
The door creaked close under Michael's hand as he just stared at the state of the house. Fuck…
There were children's toys... Not everywhere, no but he recognized them. They were his and his sisters'. Chris’ got moved to the attic or given away after-
Untouched and unmoved.
They must even be in their original spots roughly with the amount of dust covering everything. And the way various mechanical pieces and projects circled them as if not daring to even touch them.
It looked almost abandoned beyond the messy makeshift bed on the couch- and floor- and the insane amount of mechanisms that seemed to live in just this one space. A clear memory yet shattered glass on the floor at the same time. Just like it was all those years ago yet so awfully not again.
Unable to look at this pathetic mess of what clearly was a man losing his mind any longer, Michael shuffled to the kitchen.
It was better yet worse. It was clean. But worryingly so.
It wasn't cleaned to the point of looking unlived but it looked hardly used.
There were uneven dust patterns, especially on the cabinets he remembered having the dishes and pots. There were a couple takeout menus on one counter but the natural culture of living didn't even seem to exist. No loose papers, reminders, mail.
The fridge was completely covered in said missing reminders, paper, and bits and bobs that were clearly from a past long gone. It hurt to see the peaking crumpled copy paper with crayon markings lurking underneath it all.
Michael was tempted to check if there might be the leftovers from that day still in there but he didn't want to be 'the cat' that badly.
Dusty and new wine bottles on the floor inhabited an awkward corner tucked by the trash can -definitely a decade addition-. He couldn’t help the subtle sneer at their existence.
And there was William at the stove looming over his trusty ancient kettle, back to Michael.
What do you even say to this? This clear shell of a man? Somehow less and more pathetic than his own alcoholic father.
What would it have been like if Henry hadn't taken Michael that night? If he had left him behind? Would his life have been better? Safer? Would he not have to sneak out every night just to avoid-
No. No Michael. Remember. Remember that this is the same man that killed your sisters in cold blood. That's killed countless children and adults for whatever fucked up reason this murderer could ever come up with.
This man has killed with his bare hands before. And he could- actually. No he couldn't do it again. He doesn't know when William started losing so much weight but Michael felt assured he could overpower the man.
To avenge his siblings and everyone.
He could end this reign of terror without another tragedy. He could easily deflect anything, maybe shove him down long enough to grab that stupid health hazard of a kettle, raise it high and-
Phweeeeeeeeeee
Michael felt himself jump at the kettle's whining yet William appeared unbothered, already reaching over to the closest cabinet and bringing down two mismatched mugs and the box of tea. The cabinets looked far more empty than he remembered.
"Would you like some sugar or honey for yours? Maybe even some milk? I've been taking just honey with mine lately. But I do have all three. I would ask if you'd like a biscuit as well, but I stopped buying those a while back. Save money where you can and all that," he was saying this not once looking at Michael yet seemingly knowing exactly where he was. Something about it unnerved him deep down again. This facade was too... Perfect.. Practiced.
Michael shook his head to clear it.
Change of plans.
"Nah. I'll just take mine however you take it. I haven't had tea long enough to tell you what I even like," he dismissed.
He walked on over to the dining table- missing most of its chairs now- and slumped into a seat in wait. He didn't let his eyes off his dad. He couldn’t help still try to rectify this new version of William Afton, this enigma, with the one he’s almost idolized in his mind for so long.
He couldn't tell if the other was still eerily smiling or not.
It didn't matter either way as that damned smile was back when William finished steeping, stirring, and pouring and brought the mugs on over. No comments as he handed it over and started nursing his own. His hands practically blended with the white mug, only ragged pink scars differed the materials.
The silence was becoming unbearable for Michael again and anger flared, "How can you live with yourself?"
William's lackluster smile tightened before a lazy roll of his hand followed, a silent ask to continue.
"How can you live with knowing you've killed so many people. Killed your own children. And for what? Jealousy? Rage? Just lost your fucking mind?! Whatever could have been so fucking important you'd ruin so many lives including your own!" Michael couldn't help the way his fist slammed the table, sloshing his tea all over the too-clean table. His face burned with the included blood rush.
He felt a chill in his bones at the almost analytical way William was looking at him now, "I'm fixing it. You wouldn't understand but I'm fixing all of this."
"Yeah, you bloody are. And how does 'fixing it' include shoving innocent kids into animatronic suits!"
"I'm fixing it! All of it! I'm fixing your mistake. Your very own blood on your hands. I'm gonna bring him back. Yes yes. I'll bring him back. Then everything will be normal again! It'll be perfect again! I just have to fix it!"
Michael felt his stomach turn at the look in his eyes. No longer empty, they were filled with... He didn't want to call it madness but he wasn't sure what else to call it. Maybe desperate, delusional hope?
He felt sick watching the man before him blabber about tests, and results, and him making sure to document it all. All with this frantic energy just short of pacing the small kitchen.
Michael felt so out of his depth so suddenly. It was making his head swim and forehead crimp.
There was far more going on here than Michael could even begin to understand.
Change of plans. Again.
He couldn't end this prematurely when the only man with the knowledge around here sat in front of him. It wasn’t like Henry knew anything, and it’s clear William hasn’t told a soul with the way it was pouring out of him now.
Michael put a hand up to interrupt him and tried his best to play along, look a little remorseful, "could I.. help you... Fix it?" The metal on his back will just have to stay put for just a while longer. Just until he got what he wanted.
William was abruptly back to empty eyes and slick movements as he leaned forward, over cooling tea, with a smile that he could swear was too sharp to be kind, "matter of fact... I have this fantastic animatronic show I loan out from a facility close by...."
A nightguard? Michael could do that.