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William Afton was a father.
Or, at the least, he was going to be one very soon.
He got the call in the middle of work. He picked up the telephone in the office, expecting it to be the delivery people with a new order of napkins. They were all out of stock, after someone's little brat decided to use them all. In place of toilet paper. In the middle of the restaurant.
Sometimes, William wondered why he ever wanted to work with children.
"Just leave them at the door. I'll send someone to pick them up and bring them inside in a moment, as I am very, very busy man, my good fellow-"
"Mr Afton-! Your wife is in labour!"
William almost dropped the receiver. What? So soon? Didn't Clara only tell him... What was it, one, maybe two months ago? He could never remember. It wasn't like he was overtly interested anyway. Clara would take care of it.
So. He was going to be a father.
William had vivid flashbacks of the Napkin Incident™. Dear god. Was he going to have to deal with that all the time now? His own disgusting little hellspawn he couldn't just leave work to get away from?
"Mr Afton?"
William glanced at the animatronic parts he had been working on. He sighed. He supposed he couldn't continue and deal with his new reality at a later, more convenient time. "I'll be right there." Then he slammed the reviever down, took a deep breath, and picked it up again. He dailed Henry. "Good morning, Henry. How's your day been thus far? Clara's just gone into labour."
"...Wha-? Wait, Clara is giving birth?"
"Yes, i just got the phone call. I think its from the hospital."
"...You think?"
"I'm really not sure what to do. I only just managed a real break through, I started to work on this newer design. What do you think of humaniod robots? Would those perhaps be a good addition?"
"...You're not sure what to do?"
"You're right Henry. Perhaps not. Might fall into the uncanny valley, and the last thing we need is children getting nightmares."
"...Uncanny valley?"
Henry sounded slightly hysterical. William sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Don't act like a pleb. You know what the uncanny valley is, friend. Back to the Clara situation. What do you think about it?"
"I know what the uncanny valley is, William-! What I want to know is why the hell you're not on your way to the hospital right now, supporting your wife through the painful experience of labour!?"
"Ah. I should probably be doing that, shouldn't I?" William sent a longing look at the sketches and metal scraps on the table. Oh, his inventions. If only he could have married them instead. He carefully hid the design sketch for a... Bustier robot. No need for Henry to judge him. Judge him anymore.
"William-!"
"Okay, okay, I'm on my way there. I'll do my best to support Clara through these trying times. You can count on me."
"William."
So much said with just one name. William gave up. "Okay, okay, fine. I'm going. Farewell, dear Henry. Next time we speak, I'll be a father." Down went the reciever- far more gently this time- and William pulled off his mechanic's apron. He took a moment to slip on his suit and straighten himself up- make sure his face was free of oil smears and grime, and that his pockets weren't filled with random metal bits and bobs- gotta make sure people only saw him at his best- before stepping out of his office, ready to break several speed limits so he could still arive in a timely manner.
Hurricane police officers wouldn't bother with him, the genius inventor who brought in tourists to the town smack in the middle of nowhere. He kept this dump alive, with the magic of capitalism and mildly horrifing anthropomorphic animals. What was a few miles over the speed limit? He was the reason these people could afford cars in the first place!
He got to the hospital. They took him up to Clara. She was in serve pain. William backed out of the room. He was NOT dealing with this. He was not qualified for this. He was-
Vomiting into a toilet. Erg.
William wasn't expecting it to be so graphic. How did Clara manage?
He stood outside, until she yelled at him to come in. Her face was tinted purple with strain, her hand held by a supportive nurse. Willaim wondered if he should offer his hand instead. Then Clara screamed and squeezed the nurses hand so tight that William could hardly believe it could still function.
He stuck his own hands in his pockets.
No need to risk it.
The doctors were swarming like flies over a corpse- now, wasn't that simply a delightful thought, wonderful simile, way to go, brain- and someone was instructing Clara to push. William made the mistake of looking.
Going decidably green, he looked away.
No, no, no. Absolutely not.
Then it was all over and people were smiling and congratulating him. It felt odd- he hadn't done anything, and he'd rather they congratulate him on his inventions. He could offer to take them to see his works of genius, his beloved animatronics, but he was smart enough to know that the delivery room was not the place to be giving out vouchers.
A doctor took the squelching, wailing, frankly disgusting pink thing that had just come out of Clara- he had newfound respect for her, because dear god- and bathed it in a basin in the corner of the room.
He was then ushered out- if they were going to do that, why did he need to be inside in the first place?- and straight into Henry. The man had a worried face, still wearing his work uniform. Hadn't he take a moment to change? People looked down on those who were disheveled. He grabbed William's arm, and guided him into a seat. "Is she alright?"
"Clara?"
"Yes, Clara, who else!?"
William pinched the bridge of his nose. "She's doing well. There were thankfully no complications." William wasn't sure he would have been able to hold on any longer if there had been complications.
Henry broke into a relieved smile. Henry looked so handsome when he smiled. It would explain why he was the more popular of them, lucky bastard. "Good, good. How's the baby?"
William remembered the flesh coloured wiggling thing, and suppressed a shudder. "Good." He did not elaborate.
"I'm glad. She's in that room, right?"
"Yes."
"Why aren't you inside?"
William sighed. Again. "They sent me out."
Henry tilted his head, but before he could ask another one of his endless goddamn questions, the door opened. "Mr Afton?" A nurse with a clipboard in his hands opened the door.
"Yes?"
"She's asking for you." William stood up. Time to face it. He walked in to see Clara gently rocking a bundle of cloth. She glanced up, and guestured at him to come over. He kept his distance. "So. Um. Hello, Clara."
She gave him a look. "William."
He tried to lean on the doorway, and missed by several centimeters. He reached for something, anything, to stop his fall, but it was inevitable.
His tailbone.
Clara had the audacity to look amused.
William huffed, and dragged himself up. He did not need this right now. He turned, fully intending to storm out in a fit of dramatics, where upon Clara would chase after him and beg for forgiveness, apologizing. He'd accept of course, after a while, just to let her stew. Then they'd have a long scene where they made up, and Henry would applaud his kindness and forgiving nature. Then Clara would smile and leave, and Henry would come closer, and then he would-
"OI! YOU!"
William snapped back to reality. "Huh?"
Clara glared at him. "Plain english wasn't working, so I thought I'd try speaking your language."
"British isn't a language! And British English is clearly superior, considering its the original!"
"Well, it worked, didn't it?"
William, unfortunately, didn't have a response for that. Damn Americans.
Clara rocked the bundle in her arms. It was quiet. Weren't newborns supposed to be one-baby noise machines? Eh. She waved him over, and with great reluctance, he went. "Say hello to your son, William. Say hello to Michael."
Michael? He who is like god. Oh dear. It's probably going to develop an ego, of all things.
Clara handed him the cloth bundle. It was in there. The child. A wisp of soft hair on its head, comically large nose. It had its eyes closed, gently sucking on its thumb.
It was so tiny. So small. Fragile. He could easily toss it several meters in the air, with no effort.
He glanced over at Clara and decided that if he wanted to live he wouldn't throw the baby.
It's pink face was ugly, no denying it. But he could, in some way, see the appeal. Why people willingly had things like this. It was cute, in a way. Then it opened its eyes.
He looked at it.
It looked back at him.
Then it began screaming.
-
Look, he didn't want to be a father.
In fact, he didn't even want a wife!
But now he was stuck with... This.
Why did no one tell him just how much a baby wailed? So loud. So little sleep. So many nosey neightbours who acted concerned when he stuck the brat in a soundproof animatronic. Mind your business, Martha. It's not like it was a springlock suit.
It felt like he should have seen this coming when the baby decided to crawl into his springlock suit. Stupid baby.
And it needed to be fed, all the time.
Clara was a goddamn superhero. He bought her a bunch of flowers- buttercups and yellow carnations- and she punched him. In the nose.
It's not like he knew flower language!
Now, he had a bone to pick with the florist's son. And an explanation as to why the boy had struggled to hide a smirk as he sold them to William.
Then Michael was old enough to be bottle fed and William had deal with baby vomit and even less sleep.
He thought the Napkin Incident™ was bad. Nothing could have prepared him for nappy changing.
And when it started to walk?
Toddlers were fast. Far too fast.
Let's not forget the remorable day when it said it's first word.
"Hello."
"Not now, Michael. I'm working." A second later, William registered what just happened. "Your first word is 'hello'? Of all things? That's so boring, Michael. Are you even my son?!?"
"Hi."
"That's worse."
"Hi."
A loud sigh. William raised his eyes to the heavons. "Why, why why?" He lamated. "Is this my life? Born to be the greatest inventor in the world, better than even Henry, forced to be a father to a kid who only says 'Hi?' At least it wasn't anything weird."
"Sweet, succulent, double A batteries-"
"What the fu-"
-
He modeled an animatronic after the brat.
Balloon Boy.
Everyone hated it. But William found it was his favourite. Stupid little kid.
His stupid little kid.
-
When the "Hello" and "Hi" phase was over, then began the "Why?"
"Why is the sky blue?"
"Why is Springbonnie yellow? Bunnies aren't yellow."
"Why do we have to go to school?"
"Why are you so touchy about calling your robots animatronics?"
"Why do you act so weird around Uncle Henry?"
"Why are you hitting it? Does it activate like that?"
"Why are you scared of Miss Martha?"
"Why is-"
It went on, and on, and on until William was ready to pick Michael up, take him to a high cliff, and play a good old fashioned game of ball with him like people kept pressuring him to do. Or at the very least, strangle Michael.
Children. He dealt with them enough at work, and now he had to deal with one at home, too?
The toys everywhere, the crayon on the walls, the need to baby proof everything- it was driving him crazy. He needed a break.
Then Clara went and had two more.
Lord help him.
Henry even had one! But Henry's brat was worse than his Michael in every way. Henry's brat cried more, took longer to speak, didn't crawl into danger, didn't take apart the microwave, didn't uses the spoons to remove the inner workings of animatronics. Hm... A spoon. It wasn't such a bad idea. A way to scoop out an machine without damaging its outer shell.
See, Michael was inventive! Creative! Wonderful! It was clear who had the better child. Charlotte had nothing on his son!
Also, she was an ugly baby.
Uglier than Michael had been.
William's son was perfect. More or less. Eh. William could make him better. Fix him up.
Michael was William's son, after all.
"Hello."
William turned, to see Michael waddle into the garage. Oh dear. He'd forgotten to close the door. "Hey there, Michael... Uh, is something wrong?"
William started moving the more delicate machinery out of reach of any sticky, curious toddler fingers.
"I just want to talk with you, Daddy! I wanna play with your shinies!" Michael grabbed a ruler, swinging it around. He knocked over a box containing spare parts over, and hit the ruler into William's leg. William fell over- he wasn't expecting that, goddamn it- right into the almost completed animatronic he and Henry had been working on for weeks.
Weeks.
William could wail in despair. Michael hadn't even been here for five minutes! All this clean up, all this damage. He dropped his face into his hands, groaning. He didn't bother getting off the animatronic. It was already broken.
It then occured to him that he should probably get Michael out before he destroyed anything else. Or hurt himself.
He peaked through his fingers. Michael had picked up a random bunsen burner William had lying around, for some reason, and was in the process of figuring out how to work the gas tap and turn it on.
William leaped.
No arson in the house. Basic rule, that Michael couldn't even follow. Why are children so stupid?
William took the burner away, smiling in what he hoped was a friendly, reassuring way. "Not these shinies, Michael. But I'm sure if you go ask your mother she could find you some, okay?"
"Hum..." Michael contemplated, face scrunched up in constipated looking expression. "Okay!"
William ruffled Michael's hair, before sending him toddling off to bother his mother. He snatched the screwdriver Michael had nabbed during his brief time in the garage, and discreetly checked for oil stains and bolts he may have hidden in his pockets.
William knew not to trust children. Especially young children.
He'd learnt the hard way.
William watched Michael leave, then shut and locked the door. Idiot kid. He looked at the trail of destruction and mess Michael had made. Brat.
William grabbed a broom. Clean up. Hooray.
But he smiled. Michael was so interested in his Father's work. He'd grow up just like him, inherit the family business.
William imagined the future.
Henry, Clara, Michael. Whatever his other two children were named. And Charlie, he supposed. Fazbear Entertainment, a household name. William Afton, known to all as the greatest inventor of all time. They'd be all together, all safe and happy, as long as he kept Michael away from the screwdrivers.
Toddlers, amiright?
His toddler. His Michael.
Business was booming, and all was well.