Chapter Text
“End communication.”
The fire is chipping away at his skin and there is a painful ringing in his ears that refuses to cease while his lungs slowly fill with the smoke that consumes the building around him. His glasses feel like they are slowly, but surely, melting into his skin; so with a shaking hand he takes them off, feeling how soft they’ve gotten in his grasp. He’s sure his fingerprints will be left on them. But in the end, nothing at all will be left. It will all burn down until nothing but ashes remain. Memories might linger for a few years more, but they too, will fade, like all memories do. Henry places his glasses on the table before him, resting his wrinkled and aged hands down on his lap, clasped together, though not for a prayer.
He’s always known this day would come. That he would be forsaken to a slow and painful death like this. He has been prepared for this for many years now. Hell, he is the one who prepared this death. After more than 40 years of much worse pain and suffering, he’s ready for this. He wants this.
He’s the one who started everything, and he’ll be the one to end it.
There are worse fates than this, like having your organs ripped out and forever living in that agonizing pain while you rot away slowly, never being able to find the rest you deserve. Living with the guilt of being a part of the cause behind your little brother’s death, only to find out your own father is a child murderer and unintentionally killed your little sister — the only real family you had left. That was poor Michael Afton’s fate. A life of unwarranted, endless torture.
Though, perhaps there were even worse fates than that, like having your organs and bones be ripped apart slowly and stabbed into — replaced by machinery, bleeding to a slow and agonizing death — but by your own design, you’ll never be able to pass on. Instead, you will suffer in a broken body for all eternity. That was the fate of William Afton, his old friend.
There was nobody more deserving of a fate like that.
If it weren’t for him, Henry's little girl would have been 46 now.
In the far distance of the pizzeria, he can hear monstrous screeches, the building crashing in on itself as it is engulfed by the flames. Henry can imagine all the souls finally moving on; Elizabeth, that bright little girl he watched grow up . . . well, as far as she was able to grow before her life was ripped away from her, finally gets to rest. Henry wonders if Michael is still alive, though he sure hopes not. He wishes he had been there for him. The poor boy had to carry all that heavy weight all by himself, living through so much grief alone. All he has done for him is put an end to his suffering. Everyone’s suffering. A suffering he helped create.
Michael should’ve gotten the chance to live a good life, living for himself, not for others. A chance to actually grow old. A chance to build a family. All of them should have. But because of that depraved man, everything was ripped away from them before it had even begun.
All of those thoughts are useless now, a sigh falls from Henry’s lips, coughing on the smoke he breathes in again, now barely able to. After everything they’ve been through, what they all deserve the most is to rest. No more pain, no more suffering — and most of all, no more William Afton.
And his Charlotte . . . perhaps he should be there with her, holding her in his arms as they pass on together. But to see her in that state, the few times he had to were too many. His little girl, stuck inside a trap of his own creation, suffering. Could she even hear him? Could she hear the apologies and soft words he whispered to her inside that animatronic? The gentle kisses on her forehead? It must be his selfishness showing. How selfish he is that he doesn’t want to see her like that, that he wants to cherish the memories he had of her, alive.
He can imagine her, right in front of him, with her smile so bright it could easily outshine the sun. It was radiant, and oh-so contagious, whenever she smiled, Henry couldn’t help but follow suit. Her very existence lit up the world. Perhaps she was the sun, at the very least, she was Henry’s sun, like Daniella before her. And so, when she was taken away, Henry's world turned dark.
She must be waiting for him, holding out her little hand, the green bracelet that was supposed to keep her safe hanging from her wrist, and Henry will take it into his own, just like he used to. Her tiny, soft hand in his old and wrinkled ones. They’ll rest together, at last. After forty long years of endless suffering. For her, more than it had been for him.
Henry slowly closes his eyes, leaning his head back, as if he were simply putting it down onto the softness of his pillow. He takes in one exhausted last breath of smoke, as it all slowly fades into a peaceful black, one that he has longed for, for so long.
Henry frowns tightly, feeling the creases it creates around his eyes—and tries to clench them shut even tighter to block out the rays of sunlight that have fallen onto his face.
Wait — sunlight?
Henry snaps his body upward, eyes blown wide open. He looks around through blurred vision, trying to process what the hell is going on. There’s no more smoke, no crackling of fire, there are no screams of agony, and absolutely no smell of burning skin. He can breathe comfortably, he can move around freely, with ease, his body feeling so strangely light. Like a feather. And so Henry breathes in as much of the fresh air his lungs can hold, feeling his chest expand to its limit. A huge difference from before, as chain smoking for years hadn’t done him any good.
All that is great, but a very important question remains inside his mind;
What in God's name is going on?
Without his glasses, Henry can only narrow his eyes to try to make out the shapes of his surroundings. Though there’s little he can see, thanks to his eyes stinging as if he were still burning alive. It doesn’t take his eyes to realize he’s in a bed, too-warm bed sheets covering his lower body, only wearing a thin T-shirt and shorts. He's surrounded by colorful walls, and the lack of that trademark chemical smell and hideous gown eliminates the chances of this being a hospital, and also the fact his entire body feels different. Then, a bedroom? Why would he be waking up in an unfamiliar bedroom after dying in that dingy office?
If it were to be his bedroom, it’d make even less sense. But there’s one way to check what’s going on — something that would automatically confirm the unthinkable — with his glasses.
Henry quickly feels around on what he thinks might be a nightstand or table by his bedside, if this is his bedroom, they have to be there, he might not be blind without them, but he’s very near-sighted. Thanks, Dad, he manages to think mid-frenzy. He feels the shape of a pair of glasses under his fingertips and quickly grabs a hold of them, frantically shoving them onto his nose. Now, he’s finally able to take a good look at the room he’s found himself in.
The room is a mess, with bright-colored walls that don't suit his taste. Nasty, carpeted floors that have never served another purpose other than to be a pain to clean. A large bookshelf is filled to the brim and even more books that didn't fit sit on a messy desk, cluttered with loose sheets of paper and other belongings. From the desk chair hang pieces of clothing and there are some children’s drawings taped onto the closet door. A calendar by the desk reads July 1961. His brows seem to furrow tightly on their own, as his brain struggles to process the situation he's found himself in. 1961 . . . he’d be seventeen in ‘61. He was. Had been.
Henry flits his eyes away again, the date being over 60 years in the past is simply too much to take in right now, or ever, really. On the walls are various drawings alongside amateur blueprints, he can make them out without even having to put in any effort.
It’s Fredbear.
Or well, older concept sketches of Fredbear. The best a 17-year-old could have crafted with limited resources and knowledge. And this isn’t the house he raised Charlotte in — or any of the shacks he lived in for a couple of months at a time each after that.
No, it’s his childhood home.
Henry looks down, analyzing his body. It’s a bit smaller than what he had just moments before, his skin much smoother. Feeling at his face, he realizes there is no beard, no wrinkles, no burns or scars either, nothing that was there before he woke up here, or should be there after the fire.
What the hell is this?
He gets up, nearly tumbling down to the floor like a bowling pin, not used to this very light and agile body. No longer feeling like he's walking on eggshells, he practically sprints to the bathroom to take a proper look at himself. He nearly jumps at the reflection, because he mistakes it for a stranger; in the mirror, the face of his teen self stares back at him. There are no more signs of age, no facial hair aside from his outgrown sideburns, and no gray hairs. None. Instead, he has his youthful auburn hair again, curls springing about. And there is still a sparkle in his eyes that he had long lost after his little girl was so cruelly ripped away from him.
It’s ‘61. He’s seventeen.
“Am I hallucinating?” Mumbles Henry, jaw dropped onto the cold tiles below him. If he isn’t hallucinating, he has to be dreaming at the very least.
When pinching his cheek has no effect, he slaps himself to check. Instead of waking up, he feels it sting like hell. He begins to massage his sore cheek, slowly taking in the situation he's found himself in.
Henry accepts this couldn’t be some kind of dream, as much as he humanly could without going completely insane, and settles on the idea that it’s the afterlife — which makes perfect sense, considering he died just a few moments before. He begins to analyze the bathroom around him. Everything is exactly as he remembers it when he was younger; the yellowed walls with stains in places his father hadn’t cleaned yet, the off-white cabinets, cold tiles with cracks in some spots . . . it's all the same, every last bit.
Even the lines on the doorframe that tracked his height as he grew are still there.
Well, not just his height.
Henry slowly steps back out of the bathroom, looking around the rest of the second floor. While the hallway is empty and silent, from downstairs comes a faint sound of chatter and clattering plates. Henry hesitates to go check, he trudges toward the stairs, feeling like a fawn taking its first steps, not yet ready to descend them.
Instead, he stares the staircase down, as if it were a dangerous journey, thinking of every possible scenario that might take place if he does go down. Perhaps it’s William — and he’ll wake up right back in that burning office — or it could be literally anything else, Henry just doesn’t know.
What in the name of God could be waiting for him down there?
His parents are — of course they are—and they’re chatting away as Henry slowly enters the room, his once-light legs feeling impossibly heavy again.
With big eyes, his mother turns around to look at him the moment she hears his steps, flashing a familiar smile, one that Henry hasn't seen for far too long. Just like how he remembers from many years ago. She has her red hair tied up in a high bun, freckles painted delicately all over the surface of her skin. She’s in the middle of making the table for breakfast, still holding the plates firmly in her palms, a shiny wedding ring on her left hand. She’d always had a kind of intimidating mother bear physique, and she could often be very, very intimidating, but she has always been the most kind-hearted person Henry has ever known.
Given, he never knew all that many.
Beatrice Emily, the head of the family, no matter how one looked at it.
“Look who’s finally up and about!”
In the kitchen, his father’s head turns immediately, green eyes hidden behind thick-rimmed and far too large a pair of glasses. A large, fluffy brown mustache above his lips, matching his light brown hair. He stands a lot taller than his wife, matching her physique. However, as opposed to his wife, he was not intimidating in the slightest, more of a . . . teddy bear figure. Too soft-hearted to even raise his voice, and a bit of a pushover at times.
Arthur Emily, second in command.
His mustache curls up with the corners of his lips, causing his droopy nose to scrunch a little. “Oh wow, early for once, are we? Go wake up the twins then, eager beaver.”
The twins.
Henry doesn’t move. He simply can’t. His limbs entirely frozen, as if turned to stone. His eyes glued to the two before him. They aren’t looking at him anymore, but they’re right here. Right in front of him. Alive and well, smiling and joking. His parents had died many years ago, before Charlotte was even born. But here they are, talking and smiling as if nothing ever happened. As if he never suffered through the agony of losing them — nor the loss of his own daughter. As if it’s just another day.
But if this is the afterlife, why are his siblings here? They haven’t died yet. Surely, despite their poor relationship, he'd have received at least an email if they passed away so suddenly.
Then maybe it’s not . . .
Mom turns back to him when she notices he hasn’t moved an inch — though she quickly realizes why: heavy tears are rolling down his cheeks and patter onto the wooden floor below like rain. Because he can still see that cold room at the end of that impossibly long hallway, the way the door knob felt as his hands shook like a leaf. The pitying stares from the police officers, the silence that clung around him like a noose and strangled the life out of him. He thought he was going to die there, right next to them. He could barely recognize the bodies underneath those white blankets as the people who raised him. He could only ever imagine them full of life, as they always were.
“Oh, Henry!” She slams the cutlery she's holding down and rushes over to her son. “What’s the matter? Why are you crying?”
Henry wipes at his cheeks, trying to put a stop to the flood of tears. But there was no stopping it, as the dam had broken down and the water was set loose.
“I had a nightmare,” is all he could manage. And it felt like one. His entire life felt like one long, miserable nightmare that just didn’t seem to end. For them, this place must be normal. But not for Henry. He just woke up here after living through hell on earth and burning alive. Hell, Henry isn’t even sure what “this place” could be.
His mother immediately wraps her arms around him, holding him in a tight embrace. And it’s exactly what Henry needs, and has needed for so long. Someone to hold him, to be there for him. He can’t remember the last time someone has held him like this — comforted him with genuine and good intentions.
“It was just a nightmare, everything’s alright now.” She rubs circles on his back, as if he were a small child again. Well, he is, isn’t he? At least compared to before.
Henry can feel her warmth, no longer just a cold, stiff hand in his own, the gentle scent of shampoo and perfume filling his nose. Her hair against his cheeks, he lowers his head deeper into her embrace. He never realized just how much he truly missed her. And Henry wants to thank every god there is for letting him see them again, despite everything he's done.
“Nightmare? At your ag—”
“Oh, shut it.” His mother doesn’t give her pestering husband a slither of a chance and cuts him off immediately.
Pulling out of the embrace, she wipes the tears from his face, looking up at him with a warm smile. Everything is warm about her, and it helps Henry compose himself. He can’t be acting like this at his old age. Though seeing his mother after decades makes him feel like a little kid all over again.
“I’m alright now.” He sniffs, rubbing at his nose, almost reflexively wiping the tears and snot out of his beard. He isn’t alright, and he will never be. But how would he ever explain it? He’d sound like a lunatic, heaven or not. He fought his immortalized enemy, stuck inside a robot rabbit suit . . . hell, if possible in this place, he’d probably be sent to Bible camp if he even tried. “I’ll go wake them up.”
Standing in front of the large door, Henry feels utterly small. It’s towering over him and Henry thinks that once he opens the door whatever might be inside will swallow him whole. Perhaps it's all just inside his head, and inside that room will be William, springlocked and torn apart, waiting to end his misery. Henry has been more than ready to die for years now, but not by his hands. He will never give that man the pleasure of finishing him off.
Henry’s hand shakes and it feels like his legs will give out. Everything has been so unreal, he’s still not even sure what is going on. Nonetheless, with that shaking hand, Henry clutches the doorknob, not yet turning it. Even though the fear of something unholy awaiting him inside lingers in his head, the thought that it might just be his siblings gives him strength. Still, he isn’t ready for this. He isn’t ready to see them. Not here. Not like this.
Despite that thought, that fear, he opens the door with some kind of certainty. Because he is confident that he wants to see them again. His little sister and his little brother, whom he hasn’t seen in so many years.
And there's no monster when Henry finally pushes the door open, William isn't waiting to tear him apart — it's just the bedroom he can very vaguely remember — though looking very different from his memories. And there they are, sound asleep in their respectful little beds. And the more Henry takes in, the more he recognizes. Two tiny beds, plushies, and toys scattered throughout the room. Drawings are taped onto every surface, and yet their room is much neater than Henry’s (who set the bar very low in his teenage years), obviously the result of Mom’s frequent cleaning.
Jimmy, the youngest of the two — despite being at the ripe age of seven — is sucking away at his thumb. If Mom saw, he'd surely get his mouth glued shut. The thumb-sucker sports curly, short brown hair and freckles all over his face, just like his mother, though considerably more than her. When Henry tries to think of him when he was older, the memory is blurry and vague, unsure of how exactly he grew up to be.
Jenny, the elder, is hugging her elephant plushie in a death clutch. She had always loved them; elephants. It's that love that made her study abroad to become a zookeeper, dragging Jimmy along with her. As opposed to her twin, Jenny has relatively straight red hair, tied in two braids, color matching that of her mother’s. Though they both share the inherited freckles.
Henry doesn’t have freckles, and his hair color is a different shade of red than his mother’s. But he resembles his father, having similar droopy green eyes. And as he got older, Henry began to resemble him even more, especially when he decided to grow out a beard in his mid-20s.
At the sight of his siblings, he can feel tears well up in his eyes again. He hasn’t seen them in years. They left for college the second they got their diploma, leaving everything and everyone behind, including Henry, including their own two parents. He thinks deeply about their last meeting and it finally hits him like a speeding truck.
The last time he saw them was after Charlotte passed. The first time he had seen them in many years, they never bothered to visit, barely even calling home. Jimmy had been all dressed up neatly in a black suit, coming to the funeral of a child he’d never even met. His brown hair had been slicked back with gel, and he looked heartbroken, guilty, tears at the edge of his eyes. Of course, even if he never met Charlotte, she was his niece, his big brother’s daughter. He had hugged Henry tight, as if it’d be the last — never knowing it would be one of the last few. He apologized a hundred times for a sin he didn't commit. Henry didn’t cry. That entire funeral, Henry felt numb. None of it felt real, more like a nightmare. A nightmare that never ended.
And Jenny had been dressed just as neatly, in a black dress, her hair tied in a high bun just like Mom used to. She'd been hysterical, apologizing to no end for never being there, not having gone to see her, sobbing her eyes out. Shedding the tears Henry couldn’t. Henry never held it against them for not coming to see her, it was not like they lived in the town next over and could visit whenever. He only wished they could’ve seen his little sunshine before it was put out. But to Henry, the fact they came to her funeral had always been enough. Especially when after the funeral, they stuck around for a while, trying to help Henry adapt.
Adapt to a life without Charlotte.
He never would.
Henry snaps free from the memories and looks at the much smaller versions of those two adults before him. Are they really alive? He holds his breath as he waits in anticipation, letting out a sigh of relief as he sees their little chests go up and down.
Of course they’re breathing. This is the afterlife. They can’t be dead. Henry taunts himself a little for being so foolish.
He gathers his feelings, taking in a deep breath. His still shaking hand moves to the light switch by the door, he flicks it, causing the lamp hanging from the ceiling to illuminate.
On cue, the two wince and turn, lifting up their tiny arms to make sleepy attempts at blocking out the light. Henry smiles softly watching them, yet not able to wash away the heaviness in his heart. He wants to ask them just why they are here. If this is the afterlife, they shouldn’t be. They should still be in New Zealand, having built their own families and found the happiness they deserved.
He didn’t tell them his plans, but he left them a letter.
Well, what does Henry know about the afterlife, anyway? His brain is already overheating trying to comprehend everything that's going on.
“Wakey, wakey!” Henry announces more cheerfully than he feels, shaking their beds a little, having swallowed away the lump in his throat. He walks up to their bedside and pulls the sheets off of them one by one.
“No . . .” Jenny whines while Jimmy lets out some incomprehensible noises, kicking his legs, having the warmth stripped away from them and they’re exposed to the colder air. Not that it was actually cold, because the sun had risen and warmed their rooms up nicely. It was just . . . colder.
Anything was colder to Henry — since he just quite literally burnt to death.
“Come on, breakfast is ready.” Henry hasn’t done this in years, and thus there is a sentimental feeling to it. He used to do this for little Charlotte every morning . . . until she got out of her bed one morning, and it would forever remain empty and cold.
She fell asleep and would never wake up again.
Not in the way she used to.
Breakfast.
This breakfast is the first proper meal he’s had in many, many years. Henry sacrificed his own well-being while trying to put an end to everything, and it’s surprising he even lasted until 2023 with how he was treating his body. Alcohol, smoking, he’d done it all. Now he stares at the steaming plate of food before him, made with so much care by his father. It brings tears to his eyes once again, but he fights them off. Quit it, you big crybaby, he scolds himself, rubbing the tears out of his eyes. By his sides are the twins, devouring their food without a second to spare. As if they found water in the middle of a desert.
When Jenny looks up to try and grab her big brother’s attention, Henry looks right back, grinning while he wipes away some food from the corner of her mouth. She grins wider and immediately begins to dig in once again, new crumbs already finding their way to her mouth’s corner. And maybe this is his personal heaven, shaped around his childhood. He won’t deny he’s happy — because he is. He's the happiest he’s been in many years. Happy being able to see his parents again, see his siblings again. But when he thought of the afterlife, he had imagined it with Charlotte, resting with her, and his wife. All of them, finally together again after so long.
Then what about Charlotte? Is she all alone, in that big house in Hurricane, the one she was supposed to grow old in? That can’t be. It simply can’t. His little girl can't have been forsaken to a fate like that.
Henry looks out the small window in the backdoor, leading to the yard. The sun is shining, he can see trees and the shapes of their yard chairs. It’s weird. It all seems just too real.
Perhaps, just maybe, this isn’t the afterlife, Henry thinks as he pokes at his food, but brushes that thought off again, because what else could it be? If not the afterlife, perhaps a dream — but he already debunked that theory — and it’s simply all too realistic to be a hallucination. He glances at his siblings again, and then his parents, the veins and muscles on their skin, even able to see all the tiny imperfections. It was too real.
When the twins left for college, they left America entirely and barely contacted Henry. That’s why they couldn’t just visit. Henry never blamed them, he wished he had stopped them instead. Had he been a better brother, then maybe they would’ve stayed. And in the end, all he had were William, Clara, and Charlotte. That’s why he could never let go of them. But he won’t let that happen this time, in this place, he’ll treasure what he has . . . as for William . . .
That man oughta be burning in Hell right about now.
“Oh, did you lot hear?” Mom asks as Henry battles with his meal, shoving it down as if his life depends on it, yet also truly savoring the flavor. He had long forgotten how delicious food could actually taste. “A new family moved in a few streets over.”
Henry’s heart feels like it stops, again.
He’s heard these words before.
He’s had this conversation.
“What was their name . . .” She looks to her husband for assistance, while Henry has no one to look to for assistance. His father's reply comes short and sweet, but it's a knife to Henry's heart.
“Afton. The Aftons. All the way from London, I heard.”
No . . . no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no no.
No.
T H I S C A N ’ T B E H A P P E N I N G.
Henry hadn’t thought of William returning for even a second, it’s simply impossible. IT’S HIS HEAVEN. He simply cannot be here. Not where everything is supposed to be peaceful. Not when Henry finally felt happy again.
But he doesn’t deserve it. He doesn’t deserve happiness. He doesn’t deserve peace. He doesn’t deserve to rest nor does he deserve to be with his loved ones. Not after all he’s done. That must be why he’s here. To serve as a reminder;
Henry Emily, you don’t deserve to be happy.
The ground is gone from under him and everything around him vanishes — he’s alone again, in the darkness, because there was no monster behind that door to the twins’ room, it was always right there with Henry waiting to strike, and now it has swallowed him whole and nobody is there to hear him cry for help. He can’t breathe. He can’t even move. He’s trapped and he’ll never escape — he’ll never be free. NOBODY WILL EVER BE FREE. They’re stuck for all eternity, in his vicious cycle. Because William Afton always comes back.
At those familiar words, Henry snaps out of it. He jumps out of his chair, sending it tumbling down onto the floor with a loud clatter. He practically makes a leap for the front door, almost tripping over his feet and just barely taking the time to put on his shoes.
“Henry!”
He has to put an end to William Afton.