Chapter Text
After having done it already a few times, the little routine of getting his dressings changed was becoming familiar. The sting was expected, and father's less than gentle touch was the norm. Michael found himself spacing out because of how little he was directly involved in the process. When he snapped out of it, it was because his father's hands were on his face.
"Don't drift off dreaming now. You'll give yourself a scare." The smile on his face wasn't comforting. "Michael, you look so much like I did at your age. It's something that could have been infuriating, what with how you love to act brash and insist on growing out your hair. My eldest, my boy. Wipe that scowl off your face, you should be happy that you're so special."
Father pinched his cheeks and pushed them into a forced smile, laughing as Michael tried to scowl. "Stop it," he grumbled, muffled funny and grabbing at his father's hands. "Leggo."
"Remember, your father loves you even when no one else will. Now come on, you're done. Remember to behave yourself in front of Henry. I want him to see how you're taking after dear old dad." Michael was corralled out of the bathroom and back out with everyone else. There was a sour taste in his mouth. At some point he'd been put into a fresh shirt, which was for the best.
Michael felt awkward rejoining everyone, especially since he was still thinking about what father said. Nobody would love him if he didn't have his family. That kept going through his head when he sat back down.
"Mike, you're turning eleven soon, right? It feels like it's been ages since we last spoke." Henry was so jovial, beckoning Michael over. It felt out of place to Michael in the Afton family home. "Are you still having those nasty dreams?"
"Yes, Uncle Henry, I am," Michael said, fidgeting. "Uh. I guess, yeah." He ducked his head like he was embarrassed, and he kind of was. It didn't matter much what father thought of him, but Michael didn't want Henry to think he was mad.
"I can tell you're being a strong boy about it." Henry nodded. "You know, I have the occasional, odd dream, too. It's not just you, champ."
"What are they about?" For all that Michael recorded his own dreams, he didn't often hear about anyone else's. Lizzie talked about her dreams sometimes, and Evan seemed to have his own nightmares.
"Oh, it's depressing, adult things. I know none of it's real, though. When I wake up in the morning, anyone who was hurting is happy and alive. That's how yours work, too, right?" Henry smiled at him, but Michael just fidgeted more.
"Usually, in my dreams, I'm the one who's not alive." Michael blinked. His own choice of words caught him off guard. The purple skin was something he got used to, but he wasn't sure he'd ever had the clear thought of it meaning he was dead. In hindsight, it didn't seem so alive.
"Ah, I'm sorry, Mike. You're alive and safe, champ, promise." Henry reached over and ruffled his hair.
Michael knew he wasn't dead. If he was dead, then he'd be purple. He also knew he wasn't safe, because he lived in the same house as his father. Why that made him unsafe was harder for him to answer, though. It was kind of instinctual. "Yeah, I know."
"I thought you were purple, not dead," Charlie said. Michael didn't talk to her about his dreams much, but she always seemed to remember what he said.
"The purple is because I'm dead."
"Dead people don't turn purple, Mikey."
"How do you know? Have you ever seen a dead person?"
"No, but you haven't either. Dreams don't count."
Michael and Charlie were butting foreheads by this point, because this was a very heated discussion, and they were very physical kids. If it weren't for Michael's injuries, they'd be wrestling by this point. Nearby, Henry was holding back laughter, and a little further away was William, who just loved seeing the pieces fall together before him. Evan was the one who broke things up. Unintentionally, but still.
"I don't want anyone to be dead," Evan said with a sniff.
"Oh my god, Ev, do I look purple? They're just dreams." Evan looked at Michael, and Michael looked at Evan. Evan sniffed, and Michael looked at him harder. As far as Michael knew, Evan hadn't said squat to their father, and it would be great if it stayed that way.
"Michael, that's enough," came father's voice, and Michael deflated. "You're going to pull your stitches if you keep getting worked up."
Sighing in an overdramatic fashion, Michael leaned back in his seat. "Am not."
William came over and sat down next to Michael, putting an arm over the disgruntled boy's shoulders. "Famous last words."
"Is Michael having his birthday at Fredbear's again this year?" Henry asked.
"Naturally," William replied. It wouldn't do for his kids to have their birthday celebrations elsewhere. "The cast won't be able to come off in time, but he should be able to move around more easily by then."
"I want to be better now," Michael grumbled at his side. The boy was clearly getting tired again by the way he kept almost leaning into William.
"You should be glad I'm letting you keep all those scribbles on your cast." Rolling his eyes, William went ahead and ripped the bandaid for Michael by pulling the boy against him. He didn't like it much. Still, it was important to him that Michael stay with him. These were sacrifices he was making so that he wouldn't ever deal with a teenage runaway. William could almost convince himself that he felt fond of Michael while watching him fight off sleep.
He heard that brat, Charlie, huff irritably. "Mikey, don't fall asleep."
"Aw, let him rest, sweetheart," Henry said before William could let his temper get the best of him. "He's still healing. That's probably our cue to go, actually."
"As always, it was nice having you over, Henry." William smiled at Henry. "Would you mind seeing yourself out? It seems I'm a bit occupied."
"Of course not. I'll see you soon, Will. Bye kids." Henry waved, and Charlie followed after with her little purse.
"Bye everyone." She looked far less pleased to be going so soon. That was fine, since she was a brat anyway.
"Bye Uncle Henry, Bye Charlie." That's
William's eyes turned back to Michael. The boy had murmured out something like a goodbye, but he was heavy against William's side. There was a sort of satisfaction to knowing his children depended on him. Seeing his eldest child weak pissed him off. However, when that weakness drove him to William, that was something he could more than tolerate.
"Elizabeth. Evan. It's still a school night, and I expect you both to be in your rooms by eight o'clock." William gave his younger children a stern look, and they both responded accordingly.
"Okay, daddy." "Yes, dad."
After watching his youngest children scurry off, William once again looked towards Michael. He was well and truly asleep now. Where many others might look peaceful in their sleep, poor Michael, plagued with the burden of visions, still looked stressed. The boy was curled against him and clutching at his shirt. It had probably been years since something like that had last happened. It was also clear like this just how much smaller than him his son was. Surely, he would one day grow to be as tall as he was, continuing the trend of him being a little carbon copy of William.
In a rare moment of mercy, William stayed where he was for a while longer. He was turning over puzzle pieces in his head and allowing a sleeping Michael his comforts. Of course, Michael could never sleep soundly. The boy got William's attention by clutching onto him tighter and making a noise that he refused to acknowledge as a whimper. Afton men did not whimper.
"What are you seeing, Michael?" he pondered aloud. There would be no answer, and he posessively ran his fingers through Michael's hair instead of waiting for one. Michael made another noise, and William could tell he was crying in his sleep. That, too, was normal for him.
Suddenly, the boy jerked awake, though William wasn't confident how normal that was since Michael no longer screamed when nightmares woke him. Michael looked up at him. Something seemed off, though.
"Awake already?" William asked. "You should go back to sleep."
Michael's eyes weren't right. They looked up at him with shock and an open suspicion that came from knowledge, and that was something Michael lacked. "I'm fine," he said, and he didn't sound right either. It was too forced, too trained on being even.
"Hm. Tell me what your nightmare was about, then." A test, though he hadn't decided for what yet.
"I don't remember," Michael said, but his son never sounded that clipped or guarded. There was resentment in this boy that hadn't been there before he fell asleep. Michael shifted, trying to pull himself away from William, but he pulled the boy right back against him, far more rough about it than necessary. What did it mean that his injured son was silent over his agitated wounds?
"Try again." For a moment, the blink of an eye, Michael glared at him openly. He schooled his expression quickly, but that itself was suspicious.
"I dreamt that I set you on fire and watched you burn." Ah, now that was hatred. The boy William knew still wanted his love, even if reluctantly.
"I wonder where my son has gone," William hummed, "or perhaps I'm still speaking with him."
"I don't know what you're talking about. You're acting crazy." Ah, but Michael had never been able to lie well, at least not to William. He was shifting and visibly uneasy.
"Michael, my boy, you don't even know how to act like yourself, do you?" With that question hanging in the air, the silence between them spoke volumes. "You should have just gone back to sleep." William smiled. It was not a kind smile. He saw something like panic in his son's eyes, perhaps the realization that there was no way for him to achieve the upper hand here.
Michael started wriggling and fighting against the hold on him, but it was child's play to keep the supposed child firmly in place. "Let me go. Fuck you."
"Language, Michael," he taunted. William had to hold him tighter, basically pulling the small body into his lap, in order to ensure the stitches wouldn't come out. It seemed like Michael was really panicking now. "I'm not going to hurt you."
"I'll kill you," Michael hissed. His breathing was too fast to the point where William knew he would simply pass out if he didn't slow down. It was quite the reaction.
William hummed. "But I owe you my thanks, don't I? You're the one who stopped Circus Baby."
"You made it like that, you monster!" Moving to wrangle him with a single arm, William put his hand over Michael's mouth.
"Ah, ah, ah, not so–" William was cut off on account of having his hand bitten. He pulled his hand back and yanked hard on Michael's hair instead, snapping his neck back. "You little brat."
"I'm older than you, bastard," the boy wheezed.
"Whatever you hope to achieve is pointless. I've already won, Michael. I was always going to win from the start, and you know it." The smile on William's face was manic. "But I'll take care of you, my son, my heir."
Michael was hyperventilating. "No, no, no," he croaked. William watched him spiral and swoon from lack of oxygen, shushing him in a mockery of true parenting. It was a waiting game where he watched and waited. Inevitably, Michael's little body did give out, and he slumped back against his father where he belonged. Normally when someone fainted, they woke up again after a minute, but William had no idea if that would happen in this case.
William adjusted his hold on Michael, pulling the boy into his lap properly. After all, he was likely going to have to carry the boy to bed. It was a matter of convenience.
After a minute more, Michael blinked his eyes open. He looked bleary and unfocused. "Dad?"
"You had one hell of a nightmare, Michael," William hummed. Lying came to him as easily as breathing. Now, instead of gripping it tightly, William gently combed his fingers through Michael's hair. "I had to keep you from hurting yourself like you did earlier."
The boy closed his eyes, and this was certainly his young son now. "Tired."
"Go back to sleep. I'll take you to bed." Perhaps to truly confirm it, William touched Michael's cheek and watched him lean into it. The boy was so fragile. William would continue to put the weight of his expectations on him, because that was how he would become strong.
Michael's breathing evened out. He was carried to bed and tucked in with his favorite Foxy. After that, William sat and had a long think about what was happening to his son.
The next few days were very same-y for Michael. More pills and sleeping all the time and not getting to mess around with his friends. Evan and Elizabeth were more all over him than ever, though, and it was equal parts annoying and endearing. When they were home, he hardly got a moment to himself. Elizabeth went on about her day while Evan made quiet interjections. Then, they'd stick to him like glue until he got too frustrated.
It was nice that they cared.
Father showed it in different ways, if he even bothered. It was something Michael had to look for in things like waking up with his Foxy or Father telling him about the next project he intended to have Michael assist him with. Everything was subtle, and it was usually inextricably paired with the less kind aspects of their relationship.
Things were calm during the day. At night, Michael was still dreaming, even if he wished that he weren't. He was firmly kicking Evan and Liz out of his room every night, acting like he was sick of them and needed time to himself. Something else was making him afraid.
Just under a week had passed since the Circus Baby disaster, Michael woke up nauseous. His heart was beating too fast, and he couldn't fall back to sleep. He rubbed his forehead and failed to find a comfortable position, unable to toss or turn or sleep how he wanted to. The sound of heavy footfalls made his breath stop. No. No, no, no, not now.
Michael wanted to hide, to fight, anything. There was no way to try his usual tricks because he was basically stuck in bed. He wouldn't make it out of bed before the door opened. Gripping a pillow tight with his good side, he launched it as soon as the door was open. There was a soft plop indicating a collision and a low chuckle filled the room. Springtrap stepped inside. All the color drained from Michael's face.
After a while of Springtrap showing up in his room, Michael had realized it wasn't the same as in his other dreams. Something was always off, but that feeling was almost entirely gone now. The wrongness of looking at the Springtrap's face wasn't there.
"Michael," came the distorted, rumbling voice, "are you well? No, of course not." Springtrap was fully in Michael's bedroom, and nausea clutched at his stomach. The fear he felt was visceral, and it had him back up as far against the headboard as he could manage.
"Go away," he hissed, and Springtrap laughed at him again. Its monstrous form was already right next to his bed. Michael tried to get to the other side of his bed, but it was useless. Springtrap caught him by the hair. Later, he might wonder why the monster didn't hit him where it would hurt, but he was too scared for that in the moment.
"You need me, Michael. Wouldn't you feel so much safer if we were on the same side?" Michael was jerked by his hair, and he made a retching sound. Nothing came up.
"You– You hurt people." He grabbed Springtrap's wrist with his good side and tried in vain to pry it away. "I don't want to hurt anyone."
The monster made a tsking sound. "Don't you see, boy? You are more than capable of killing. What will you do if it's your fate, hm? What if it's the only way to save your brother."
There was a loud ringing in Michael's ears, and he retched again. He felt more than heard someone yelling at him. It was close but far away, like it was deep underwater and he was up on a mountain with the points connected by a tin can phone.
Michael's hair was released, but then Springtrap grabbed his face with both hands, leaning in close. "It's so hard fighting alone, isn't it? You don't have to be alone."
"YOU'RE NOT ALONE!"
The ringing was so loud. It made Michael's eyes unfocus, and he really thought Springtrap was going to pounce and bite him or something. His head hurt, and his stomach churned, and he started heaving. Michael barely noticed when he was let go, because he was wheezing and heaving once he fell on his side. Finally, it happened; Michael heaved and threw up. Everything felt awful. It was only natural that he did what any normal kid might do in such a situation and started crying. Through his tears, he saw the vomit on his bed glowing. When he wiped his eyes, his hand glowed, too. Michael wailed.
"Oh, Michael." That was his father. Was he in trouble? "What am I going to do with you?"