Chapter Text
The Afton house was quiet.
Michael shut the door behind him, the creak of the hinges trailing down the hall like an echo. He kicked off his worn boots and tossed his hoodie onto the banister, leaving the faint smell of cigarettes and dust in the air.
The living room was dim, lit only by the soft glow of a fish tank that hadn’t held anything living in years. The water hummed, the filter chugging slowly like it was dying. Like everything in this house.
"You're late."
The voice came from the kitchen.
Michael didn’t flinch. He moved slowly, deliberately, like a cat crossing territory he didn’t quite own.
Elizabeth sat at the table, her legs swinging, a fork twirling in a bowl of instant mac and cheese. She didn’t look at him, just kept her eyes on the television that flickered in the adjacent room, half-muted cartoons casting blue shadows across her face.
“You were at the pizzeria again,” she said. It wasn’t a question.
Michael leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “Don’t tell him.”
Elizabeth snorted. “I’m not stupid.”
“You’re twelve.”
“Exactly. And you’re not subtle.”
Michael let the corner of his mouth twitch. That was as close to a laugh as he ever gave her. He walked to the fridge, grabbed a soda, and popped the tab loud enough to startle the cat asleep on the windowsill.
“You’re gonna get caught eventually,” Elizabeth added, glancing sideways at him now. “And when you do, he’ll make you clean the workshop again.”
Michael took a long drink. “Been worse.”
The dynamic between them was… strange. Not quite protective. Not exactly friendly. It was like living in the same house as someone who also knew what it was like to walk on eggshells barefoot.
Elizabeth was smart. Smarter than she let on. She never said too much, never asked the wrong questions, but her eyes always knew more than her mouth did. Michael respected that. Respected her, in a way he didn’t often admit. She was weird, sharp-tongued, maybe a little obsessed with her doll collection, but she survived this house, same as him.
That earned something close to loyalty.
As for David…
“Is he still awake?” Michael asked, voice dull.
Elizabeth jerked her head toward the hallway. “He’s playing with that stupid plush in the closet again. Talking to it like it’s real.”
Michael didn’t respond right away. Just leaned his head back and stared at the cracked ceiling.
“I don’t get what your problem is with him,” Elizabeth said after a moment. “He’s annoying, but he’s just a kid.” Like us was left unsaid.
“He cries too much.”
“He’s ten.”
Michael didn’t answer.
He didn’t hate David. He didn’t want anything bad to happen to the kid. But something about him set Michael on edge. Maybe it was the way David clung to everything, to the stupid toys, to Elizabeth’s arms, to their father’s cold approval like it meant something.
Some part of Michael still craved his father’s approval, though he chose to ignore the hypocrisy buried in that desire.
Wanting made you weak.
And William Afton had no use for weakness.
Speak of the devil…
Michael heard the faint creak of the basement door opening.
His spine stiffened, instinctively. Not in fear. In preparation. Like how animals straighten their backs when they know a bigger predator has entered the room.
The footsteps were slow. Calculated. Polished black shoes stepping over a lifetime of silence.
William came into view, sleeves rolled up, face as unreadable as ever. His eyes flicked to Michael first, those cold, searching eyes like scanners behind a human mask, and then to Elizabeth, who didn’t look up from her bowl.
“Home late,” William said. Not angry. Just… observing.
Michael shrugged. “Hung out with the guys.”
William nodded slowly, as if calculating the probability of that being a lie. “You’ve been smoking again.”
Michael sipped his soda. “And?”
William’s gaze lingered a second too long, then shifted. “I need your help tomorrow. In the workshop.”
Of course he did.
Michael’s jaw flexed, but he didn’t say no. He never did. He didn’t know why, maybe he was still trying to understand the man by being near him. Like studying a rabid animal in a cage you helped build.
William was possessive. Always had been. Everything in this house, his tools, his work, even his children, were things he considered extensions of himself. Things to be maintained. Cleaned. Corrected.
He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t violent. He didn’t need to be.
His control seeped into the walls like mold.
“Fine,” Michael said at last. “Whatever.”
William nodded again. Then, like it meant nothing, turned and disappeared back into the dark hall, his footsteps absorbed by the thick, suffocating carpet.
Silence.
Michael exhaled through his nose.
Elizabeth finally looked up at him. “You’re weird, y’know.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Thanks.”
“You talk like you hate him. But you still do what he says.”
Michael stared into the dark hallway, eyes glazed. “Doesn’t mean I don’t hate him.”
“Then why help him?”
Michael’s grip tightened on the can.
Because I already know too much.
Because I’ve already helped clean up things I can’t unsee.
Because if I stop… what does that make me?
“…Because it’s easier than the alternative,” he said quietly.
Elizabeth went quiet again.
He left her there, in the blue flicker of the dead fish tank and the sound of cartoon laughter, and climbed the stairs to his room.
The floorboards creaked.
He shut his door behind him and leaned against it.
The shadows in his room felt heavier tonight.
Like something had followed him home from Freddy’s.
Like something recognized him.
And somewhere deep in the house, maybe even in the walls, a voice like static whispered:
You're just like him.
----
Michael’s room felt colder than usual, as if the shadows pressed closer after the lights went out. He stood there for a while, soda can in hand, staring at the spot on the ceiling where water had once leaked from the attic. A jagged stain had formed, vaguely in the shape of a grin.
He blinked.
Looked away.
The hallway outside his room was dark, the carpet muffling his steps as he passed the bathroom and paused in front of the door at the end.
David’s room.
Michael hesitated, hand hovering near the knob.
He told himself it didn’t matter, that David was probably asleep. Still thinking about what Elizabeth had said in the kitchen, he finds himself walking in anyway.
The door creaked open.
The room was dim, just a soft yellow nightlight glowing near the closet. The bed was empty.
Michael stepped in and found him where he expected to: huddled in the closet, the sliding door pulled mostly shut, a tiny circle of plush toys arranged around him like some kind of secret council.
David was whispering.
Not loud enough to hear clearly, but Michael caught snippets, names, mostly. Voices put on for each toy.
“Fredbear says it’s okay...”
“Bonnie saw it too, but he doesn’t wanna talk about it.”
Michael leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. “You know closets are for clothes, right?”
David jumped, plush Freddy clutched tight in his hands. He stared at Michael with wide, guilty eyes, like a dog caught chewing through wires.
“I—I wasn’t doing anything,” he said quickly, voice small.
Michael sighed and walked in, squatting beside the cracked-open closet door. The light cast long shadows across his face. “Relax. I’m not gonna tattle. Or... whatever you think I do.”
David didn’t respond. His fingers nervously twisted the worn ear of his Fredbear plush, the fur patchy from years of overuse.
“You talk to them a lot,” Michael said, nodding to the circle of faded, slightly grimy animatronic toys.
David lowered his head. “They talk back.”
Michael raised an eyebrow. “Yeah?”
A beat.
Then David looked up at him, quiet, cautious. But for just a second, something sharper flickered behind those eyes. Not fear. Not childish nonsense.
Awareness.
It unsettled Michael more than he expected.
David looked away again, shrinking a little. “You’re just gonna make fun of me.”
Michael scoffed, glancing around at the plush lineup. “I mean… it is a little weird.”
David didn’t laugh. His grip on the plush tightened.
Michael sighed. “Look, I’m not here to-” he stopped himself, trying to choose words he didn’t know how to use. “I’m just checking in.”
David frowned. “You never do that.”
Michael winced a little. “Yeah. I guess I don’t.”
The silence that followed was thick, not heavy, not dramatic, just awkward in a way that came from unfamiliar ground. Michael wasn’t used to being soft. He didn’t do gentle. Not with a dad like theirs. Not in a house where love was rationed like food in a war.
Still, something kept him kneeling there.
“I don’t hate you, you know,” Michael said suddenly, staring at the floor. “I just... I don’t really know how to be around you.”
David blinked, processing that.
“I don’t hate you either,” he said, quieter.
Michael looked up at him, really looked, and for the first time in a long time, saw something besides an annoying shadow who clung too close to things that didn’t love him back.
David wasn’t dumb.
He just stayed quiet because in this house, being loud got you hurt. Not always with fists, but with silence. With cold shoulders. With the kind of neglect that didn’t look bad from the outside, but felt like drowning slowly with no one noticing.
Michael stood up, unsure of what to do with the fragile thread between them.
“You should sleep,” he said. “It’s late.”
David nodded and climbed into bed. The plush toys came with him, nestled under one arm like guardians.
Michael paused in the doorway.
“Don’t let Fredbear eat you,” he added, voice dry.
David managed a tiny smile. “He’s not hungry.”
Michael left, door creaking shut behind him.
Back in his own room, he stared at the ceiling again.
He didn’t understand how to be a brother.
Didn’t know how to protect something that hadn’t already been broken.
But maybe, maybe, he could try.
Even if all he knew how to do was survive.