William never wanted a family.
He never imagined himself having a family after he graduated. He, instead, wanted to be a businessman. He dreamed of making a name for himself as a robotic engineer. He wanted to create something so brilliant it'd be talked about for decades, even after he's long gone. Getting married and having kids would get in the way of that.
He hated kids. They're time-consuming nuisances who can't do anything for themselves. They're just weak, cruel excuses for humans. But everyone's been a kid before, and so has he. He was defenseless against those who'd pick on him and had no one to turn to–not his friends, not his teachers, not his mother, not his father. He was alone. He grew up though, learned how to fend for himself, and moved to America on his own.
Throughout college, he focused on studying everything robotics and engineering and didn't socialize. Though, he made one lifelong friend through it all, Henry Emily. He was the polar opposite of William, both in appearance and personality, yet they bonded over sharing the same dream. It was through him that he met Clara in his sophomore year. He fell in love with her outgoing and confident personality, and she fell for his cruel and cold nature. After 4 long years, they tied the knot. The two made no plans to expand the family and focused on their careers for the time being.
And so, Henry and William combined their endless knowledge of robotics to create a diner with functional animatronics that could be used as suits to preserve money. He was so close to accomplishing part of his dream, making sure every household in Utah knew his name.
He wanted to be more than 'William Afton.' He wanted to be 'William Afton, the technological visionary.' That's how it was supposed to be.
That was, of course, until Clara got pregnant.
He pretended a lot in the past, it's something he learned growing up. But, he couldn't pretend to be elated about this. He couldn't hide his disdain about the idea. He was afraid. Afraid of what? He wasn't sure himself. All he knew was that he was going to have a family and he needed to accept that.
That's what death is like. Fear–then nothing—a cold, dark hole filled with mind-numbing acceptance.
Then he wakes up.
He's lying flat on his back with cool air hitting his face. It's a refreshing change from the sweltering heat he'd just experienced. Of course, he's in hell, but he didn't expect hell to have a fan above him nor did he expect it to feel so comfortable.
He's no longer in the animatronic suit that imprisoned him for decades, and is instead wearing purple silk pajamas he doesn't recognize. As he reaches for his face, he's stopped by a weight on his arm he failed to notice earlier. The thing lying on his arm squirms and mumbles a little, clearly alive, and he decides not to do anything until he gets his bearings.
As his eyes adjust to the darkness, he realizes he's not in hell–or at least not yet. He's in his old bedroom, the one he shared with Clara before he killed her. Instead of scrabbling to his feet in panic, he slowly withdraws his arm from under what he assumed to be his ex-wife, making sure not to disturb her. When he goes to touch his face, it's smooth and intact.
He sits up on his bed and takes a deep breath, trying not to let his thoughts race.
This must be a bitter joke Gods' playing on me, he thinks, trying to justify this. Or I'm hallucinating. Yes, okay. I'm burning to death over at the pizzeria and this is my brain trying to distract myself from the pain.
He closes his eyes and waits for the Hell he envisioned to appear. But it doesn't.
He murmurs a swear under his breath and lingers a little longer. When nothing happens, and he realizes how dehydrated he is, he exits his room.
If his memory serves him correctly, once he leaves the room, the bathroom should be the second room on the right. Though, he doesn't want to end up barging into one of his kids' bedrooms and have to explain himself, so he doesn't take the chance and goes to the kitchen instead.
It's hard walking down the stairs in the dark, it's even harder to walk when he feels so light. He was used to having to carry around 350 pounds of steel anytime he moved and hearing how loud his footsteps were when he struggled to walk for the first couple of weeks, but he got used to it. It's kind of hard not to get used to it when whatever's left of your body practically fuses with the suit. His footsteps were still loud but he learned how to muffle the noise, still, they were louder than now. He's surprised at how quiet it is when he walks, the silence is almost deafening.
William tries not to think about all the pain he endured when he got spring locked. Even after 30-something years, it's still fresh in his mind.
It takes a couple of minutes to reach the kitchen, on account of how uncoordinated he is. He turns on the light and shields his eyes for a moment, he didn't consider the possibility that the light would hurt his eyes. He searches through cabinet after cabinet until he finds the one with cups and wipes it down in case it hasn't been washed properly. Clara wasn't made to be a housewife and her work around the house was proof.
William turns on the sink and stares at the water pouring out of the faucet, he's hesitant about getting near the water. The springlocks that caused him so much torment were damaged beyond repair, moisture, and sudden movements didn't do anything to it. Despite that fact, he feared the very thought of water. After the horror attraction burned down, he spent most of his time in alleyways away from the public eye, he couldn't shelter himself away from the rain that frequented the nights. He tensed up every time some form of water touched his suit. He wouldn't suffer like he had the first time, but he was still afraid. Even now–out of the suit and free–he was afraid.
He takes a shaky breath, pours himself a glass of water as quickly as he can, and takes a seat at the dining table. He gulps it all down, and it's almost as refreshing as the cool air emitting from the fan in his bedroom.
He lets his hand wrap around the cold cup and attempts to gather his thoughts. His mind races back to the idea that he's still burning to death and just hallucinating, but it doesn't make any sense. Everything feels too real to be a hallucination, and unless he suddenly developed schizophrenia, that wasn't a plausible answer. Then he thinks he's in Hell, being tortured by memories of the happy family life he had before it all went downhill. But for some reason, that just didn't seem right. Perhaps it's Cassidy taunting him after death. He's not remorseful in the slightest. He thinks Cassidy–and the other kids–should've just passed quietly, not linger around as ghosts and ruin his life.
He understands her restlessness but who knew children could be so vengeful?
He tries to explore other scientific options but gets nowhere. It doesn't make any sense, no matter how many times he tries rationalizing his situation.
Then it hits him.
He can't be the only one that this happened to. In the fire, Henry was there, maybe he got dragged back in time too. Though it'd have to be by association, Henry hadn't done anything wrong. He lets go of his cup and walks to the telephone mounted on the living room wall. When he picks up the phone, there's a deep pit of nausea pooling in his stomach. He swallows the feeling down and raises his hand to dial Henrys' house only to realize he doesn't remember his number.
He places the phone back on the cradle and begins looking for a phone book. It's not his fault he doesn't remember his friends' number, he wasn't going to remember something he couldn't use in the future. He finds the phone book and looks for his number.
He picks the phone back up and dials his number. Henry picks up on the fourth ring, but William barely recognizes his voice. His voice is upbeat despite it being late, though it's no surprise, he'd always been like that. The part William doesn't recognize is how content he sounds.
"Hello?" Henry says again. "Is anyone there?"
William hangs up.
He's not sure why, but something tells him Henry isn't in the same position that he's in. And if he was, he wouldn't be pleased to see William.
His heart aches at the thought.
He lets out a long sigh and looks up the stairs. He's not going to figure anything out today and most likely doesn't need to if none of this is real. He turns off the kitchen light and walks back to his bedroom, opening and shutting the door quietly so as to not wake Clara.
He slips into bed next to her and she rolls over to rest her head on his chest. He listens to her breathing for quite a while. It's been a long time since he's felt comforted by someone. Her soothing presence helps him sleep that night.
The next time he opens his eyes, he covers them with his hand to block out the sunlight peeking in from his window. He didn't anticipate still being here after he woke up, guess that proves this isn't a nightmare or hallucination.
His wife isn't next to him and he doesn't hear any of his kids. He does, however, hear the faint sound of the TV downstairs.
He's not the only one home.
William, determined to find out, walks downstairs and into the living room. The person on the couch sniffles and coughs like they're dying.
"Good morning," he says.
The one on the couch jumps up in surprise. "Morning.." they reply, looking down to avoid eye contact. It was Michael. William almost didn't recognize his own son, it's been long since he saw him look so…put together? He looks like an actual person and not some skin suit pretending to be human. It sort of made him happy or something like that. "I left the newspaper on the dining table as you asked."
"Oh," he wasn't sure if that's what he ordered Michael to do in the past, "Thanks."
He takes a seat at the dining table and unfolds the newspaper.
Friday, March 16, 1984. Hurricane, Utah.
William finally finds out what year it is. Unfortunately, though, that would mean Evan already died. Had William been sent back a year earlier, he might've been able to stop the bite from happening. But beggars can't be choosers. He wonders if he was sent back to give his life a second try. One where he doesn't do all the fucked up shit he did. Even if that's not the reason he was sent back, he wanted to try and fix everything…put everything back together.
He notices that Michael is trying to muffle his coughs and sniffles, there's tension in the air.
"Don't you have school today?"
Michael looks at his father, confused.
"Well?"
Michael hesitates before answering. "I…I've been sick all week so mom let me st-stay home." He stutters a little near the end, he knows his father hates when he does.
William only hums in response.
Michael's a little surprised his father isn't giving out to him about the stuttering. In fact, his father didn't react to it at all, maybe he hadn't heard. What's not surprising is the fact that his father didn't remember his son being sick at home all week. Even so, he'd rather William say something. Having a father who gets mad at the smallest things suddenly becomes quiet puts him on edge, it's uncomfortable, and it makes him wonder when he'll lose it.
"Did your mom take Liz to school?"
"Yeah."
Not even small talk can clear the tension in the atmosphere. The only noise that fills the house is the show Michael's watching and William flipping through the newspaper.
Soon enough William closes the newspaper, gets up from his seat, and heads towards the stairs.
"When is she getting home?"
"I don't know, she said she was going to get groceries as well."
William sighs deeply, he knows he doesn't need to talk to his oldest, but some part of him feels bad for all that Michael had to go through. Despite not wanting to have a family in the first place, he doesn't hate his kids. They're his own blood, how could he hate them? He knows Michael hates him, though, he's afraid of his father and harbors a deep hatred for him.
Who wouldn't though?
When Evan died, William didn't comfort Michael, he blamed him and completely broke all–if any–emotional connection they had. And it was just a downward spiral from then on.
He doesn't want the only son he has left to loathe and despise him. He didn't treat him properly the first time around, but he can change that this time. Even if Michael already hates him now, he just needs to stop his hatred from reaching a point where he can't forgive his father or a point where he needs to sacrifice himself to aid kids whose lives have been taken by his father.
"Alright, I'm going back to sleep-"
"You…you're not gonna work on anything today?"
"What?" William replies in a much harsher tone than he would've liked to reply in.
"S-shit, I'm sorry. It's just…you're usually working o-on models by now…" he hurriedly spouts, trying to avoid his father's piercing gaze, "nevermind, forget it."
William doesn't respond, but he acknowledges what Michael meant. Before the whole "Baby" situation, he'd stayed holed up in his workshop in the basement, working day and night to build robots that could trap and kill kids. In the past, he deluded himself and did it for Evans' sake, but Evans' soul was already in Fredbear–so that couldn't be it. It could've been his fear of death, his hatred of kids, the sadistic enjoyment he got from killing, it really could've been anything.
Not that it mattered now. He's going to be different in this timeline, he won't put his family through all the death and trauma.
"If you need anything, wake me up," he says nonchalantly before going up to his bedroom.