Chapter Text
The house is too quiet after Abby leaves.
Mike notices it every morning, now; silence settles in like dust, thick and unmoving, as soon as the front door shuts behind her. He lingers in the doorway longer than necessary, listening as her footsteps fade down the sidewalk and into the everyday noise of the neighborhood. She doesn’t look back, barely waves. She’s brave like that. Or maybe she’s just learned not to linger.
A school bus passes—a dog barks. Life continues, obnoxiously unconcerned with the fact that Mike’s chest feels like it’s caving in on itself.
He locks the door, tugs on it just to make sure. Checks it twice, three times. By the fourth time, his hands are shaking. By the fifth, he doesn’t trust himself to remember doing it. The paranoia isn’t a surprise. The overwhelming, nearly suffocating sense of dread is.
It isn’t like this the last time. Perhaps foolishly, Mike had started to believe he was recovering. A year had passed, and Abby was happier than ever. His life was finally going somewhere, even if that ‘somewhere’ was unremarkable with identical days that seemed to blend together. He was better. He had people to support and people to lean on.
He had Vanessa.
Palms press against his eyes. He breathes—struggles to breathe. Sparks bloom behind his eyelids, his chest tightens, and it feels like there are ants under his skin, biting, eating, crawling up into his throat.
Panic seizes him faster than he can stop it. He chokes on his own spit. Breathe in, hold, breathe out. Jeremiah had taught him that. Vanessa used to remind him.
Vanessa. Vanessa, Vanessa, Vanessa.
Mike’s mind keeps running back to her, even though he’d cut her off—blocked her number, ignored the messages that slipped through before he finally changed his phone number. He sees a squad car pass by his house sometimes, catching only glimpses before he pulls the curtains shut and turns off the lights.
He tells himself that it was necessary. She was too tangled up in everything, and her proximity, her lies, had only proved detrimental to Abby. To him.
It didn’t matter how many times he saw her face—bloodied, hollow-eyed, reaching for him until he shut his eyes—in the mirror. Whether she liked it or not, she was part of it. Everything. It didn’t matter that when the house creaked, and the memories flooded in, all he could wonder was if he’d abandoned her the way everyone else did.
Wonder if she’d needed Mike in the same quiet, desperate way he needs structure to keep from unraveling.
There’s no reason to think about it, yet he does. Every day. He swallows a whimper and raises his head to the empty house. It smelled faintly of old coffee and sawdust—repairs were still half-finished, scars still everywhere if you knew where to look. He tried not to, though. Everything was normal again.
He could be normal. He is normal, and so, like a normal person, he goes about his day. He stares at the wall. Watches a show on mute so he can hear all the sounds of the old house, creaking and shifting with the temperature changes. He even manages a short nap that barely makes him panic.
His productive few hours end with him in the shower, rigid and choking down sobs.
Normal, he reminds himself.
The steam makes him dizzy, and he remembers that he hasn’t eaten today. Maybe not even in a while. He braces himself against the wall and lets the scalding water hit his shoulders. He scrubs his hands raw and washes his face, pretending that the only liquid running down his face is from the showerhead.
Despite himself, his mind drifts to Vanessa once more. He thinks of her gentle touches, her kindness, and the way she had stayed by his side after the chaos of last year’s events. She had been with him three weeks ago, all the way until he had abandoned her.
Embarrassed, he tweaks the controls until the water is cold and all the warmth escapes his limbs.
Mike doesn’t deserve to think of her, at least, not in that way. He’s a hypocrite; he always pushes down the thought of her until it helps him feel fuzzy and distracted. The shame bubbles in his gut even after he shuts off the water and shuffles to his bedroom with a towel tied snug around his waist.
He glances at the clock and swears. Abby’s pickup time was five minutes ago. He nearly falls on his—now clothed—ass while trying to pull on sweatpants. They’re only hanging low on his hips when he hears it.
It’s faint. A mere scrape, confusable with leaves against concrete or the rough, untrimmed leaves of his bushes brushing against the siding of his house. Mike freezes.
Every muscle locks as his brain lights up with old alarms. Don’t panic, he thinks. It’s just a sound. Houses make sounds. The world is a plethora of them. He feels stupid, just for a second, until there’s another noise. Much closer, right outside of his window.
His heart slams so hard it makes him nauseous.
Instinctively, he grabs the aluminum bat on the floor next to his bed. He’d told himself it was for peace of mind, and that he was being ridiculous. His grip is slick with sweat, fingers white-knuckled around the handle.
No, no—he can’t do this again. They aren’t back. They’re gone, and only memories, except now, they aren’t. They’re back, and real, and outside of his bedroom window.
Horror fills him until he’s near delirious, edging toward the front door. He opens it slowly, and nothing immediately leaps out at him. It’s still bright outside. He cracks the door open and steps outside, the cool air biting into his skin.
“Who’s there?” His voice comes out rough, barely recognizable.
The rustling intensifies. Something is moving in the bushes.
His pulse roars in his ears. The bat feels heavy, unwieldy, like it belongs to someone braver. Someone steadier. He’s neither of those things. Mike has always been a coward; all he ever does is run, push people away.
He’s nothing. He’s just that scared little boy, watching his younger brother be taken right before his eyes.
Mike doesn’t think. Thinking is a luxury fear doesn’t allow. His body remembers nights spent running, hiding, fighting things that shouldn’t have been able to move at all. He swings.
The impact is sickening. There’s a dull crack, a grunt of pain, a shape collapsing forward out of the foliage. Again. He swings again until the shape isn’t moving, until he’s staggering back, chest heaving, bat still raised as his brain struggles to catch up with reality.
Not metal. Not plastic.
Blood, dark and immediate, mats dark-colored hair.
“Oh—oh, shit,” Mike breathes.
The man lies sprawled on the ground, long limbs tangled awkwardly. Human in the most fragile, breakable way. He stares at the person at his feet, gaze trailing up thin legs and toward a disturbingly familiar shirt. And badge. And face.
Recognition hits like a delayed aftershock.
Michael Afton.
Of course, it has to be Michael fucking Afton. Him. Of all people. Here. On his lawn. Unconscious. Why is he here? How long has he been watching? Is this a trick? Is he playing dead? He has too many questions that he’s unable to even articulate.
Not that he could ask them anyway, considering that Michael was, well, possibly dead in the middle of the day on his lawn. Mike glances around, half-expecting police sirens, neighbors, something. There’s nothing. Just the quiet street and the unconscious body at his feet.
Quickly, he kneels, hesitating only a second before pressing two fingers to the man’s neck. There’s a pulse. Too slow, but there. Relief and dread twist together in his gut.
He can’t leave him out here. Calling the cops would just drag everything back into light, and he doubted anyone would believe him if he tried to explain the situation. Hey, I know I have a history of unprovoked assault, but trust me when I say that I hit this guy because he’s responsible for many deaths, and also the son of William Afton, the guy who murdered six kids and created killer robots.
The explanation is ridiculous even to himself, who had to live through everything. He isn’t sure whether he would get thrown into prison or a psych ward. Both would have devastating effects on Abby.
Fuck. Abby. She’s still at the school, waiting for Mike, who promised to take her shopping for her newest project. He’s tempted to just leave, but… he can’t just let Michael wake up. He’s already escaped once, leaving too many questions unanswered and Mike paranoid. If Michael’s been watching the house for as long as Mike suspects—weeks of noises he brushed aside and ignored gut feelings, then…
He can’t leave. He already knows too much, and he’s already shown that he doesn’t care whether they live or die. In fact, he probably prefers that Mike and Abby die. Letting him escape again is a horrible, foolish decision.
Mike has made enough of those.
Praying that none of his neighbors look outside, Mike drags the limp body inside. Michael is lighter than he expects, all angles and bone beneath his jacket, but the effort still leaves his arms burning and his breath ragged. He half-carries, half-drags him down the hall and deposits him on the living room floor, far from the windows.
Michael doesn’t stir. Mike begins to pace, hands yanking at his own hair. Think, think. He can’t afford to freeze up now. He’s already in too deep.
He grabs the first aid kit from the bathroom and does what he can for the wound. He makes sure he’s lying flat on the ground and presses clean gauze against the wound, wincing when Michael groans faintly.
“I’m sorry,” he mutters, already moving.
There’s rope in the garage. He ties Michael’s wrists behind his back with knots he half-remembered from old jobs, checking them twice, three times. He hesitates, then secures his ankles too.
By the end of it, Michael is tied up and on the floor of Mike’s bedroom. He makes sure the curtains are shut before sinking against the wall, bat still within reach. He watches the unconscious man breathe and spirals.
Michael Afton—son of a monster, someone who smiles wrong, talks wrong, and moves like the robots he’s surely spent his life around. He’s someone who shouldn’t be here, yet it all feels so inevitable.
“What the hell are you doing to me,” Mike whispers, unsure who he’s talking to.
Expectedly, Michael doesn’t stir. Mike doesn’t know if he wants him to wake up, ever, but he also doesn’t want to think about potentially killing him. He might be scared, unable to think, and full of frustration, but he doesn’t want to kill.
Or die. If Michael wakes up, he might try to kill Mike. Or worse, Abby.
His eyes stay fixed on Michael’s face. The peaceful expression on his face. You caused me so much suffering, Mike thinks. What gives you the right to look like that?
His stomach twists. After a moment, he pushes himself to his feet. Abby’s face flashes through Mike’s mind—waiting by the curb, backpack hugged to her chest, trying not to look disappointed. The guilt is sharp enough to make his eyes sting.
“I’ll be quick,” he tells the empty room.
He moves through the house carefully. After checking the door again, he moves to the kitchen. There, the landline stares at him, mounted to the wall. Mike hasn’t used it in weeks, but now he’s grateful for it in a way that makes his hands tremble.
He lifts the receiver.
The dial tone is loud in the silence, a flat, unwavering sound that makes his skin crawl. He punches in the number from memory, fingers clumsy. It rings once. Twice.
“Hello?” Jeremiah’s voice crackles through the line.
“Jeremiah,” Mike breathes, relief flooding him so fast it’s dizzying. “Hey—hey, it’s me.”
“Mike? You okay?”
Mike realizes he doesn’t have an answer. Dissociation curls at the edge of his subconscious, the gentle concern in Jeremiah’s question nearly undoing him.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m—” He falters, eyes sliding back toward the hallway. “I’m fine. I just—something came up. Can you… can you pick Abby up from school? Maybe let her stay over for a few hours?”
There’s a pause. Mike can practically hear the apprehension in the tense silence. It’s not necessarily suspicious, just careful.
When Jeremiah speaks, his voice is rigid. “Of course,” he says. “Everything alright?”
Mike squeezes his eyes shut. “Yeah. I mean—no. I don’t know. I just need help right now.”
“I’ve got her. Don’t worry,” Jeremiah responds, voice so soft Mike nearly sobs. “You don’t owe me anything—don’t even try saying that, I know you’re about to. Just… you can always tell me what’s going on.”
Mike murmurs something like agreement and a quick, desperate thank you before hanging up. He doesn’t want to say anything he’ll regret, although he feels like he already has.
Distantly, he wishes he had told Jeremiah. Jeremiah would help. He would believe Mike, comfort him. He would know what to do. By the time the words are on his tongue, he’a already hung up, the dial tone having returned.
He replaces the receiver carefully, like any sudden movement might shatter what little control he has left.
Abby is safe. For now, at least. She’s far from the house and all of its issues.
Mike returns to the bedroom slowly. Michael hasn’t moved. His head is turned to the side, lashes resting against too-pale skin, mouth slightly open like he was caught mid-breath. Something is unsettling about how peaceful he looks. Tied up, stripped of any threat. It’s suddenly too much, and Mike sits a few feet away, bat across his knees, looking anywhere but him.
Mike sits a few feet away, bat across his knees.
Minutes pass. Mike is tempted to check Michael’s pulse again when there’s a quiet noise. A quiet, broken whine—not fear exactly. Pain, perhaps. His eyes fluttered open, and Mike held his breath.
Silence. Horrible, horrible silence. Michael shifted and immediately stilled when the restraints registered in his mind. He shakily breathes out and blinks rapidly. Mike can see the exact moment when he becomes aware, the exact moment the glassy, unfixed stare becomes sharp. Even though Michael is restrained, Mike’s grip on the bat tightens.
“Don’t move,” Mike says, and Michael’s gaze snaps to his.
He moves immediately, because of course he does. It’s almost subtle: the way he flexes his wrists, the sharp inhale through his nose as he maintains eye contact. Then, it’s a full, irritated squirm that sends a jolt of irrational fear through Mike’s chest.
Michael groans. “What did you—” His voice cracks. “Why am I…”
“Don’t,” Mike snaps, voice harsher than he intends. Michael freezes, pupils dilated. “You probably have a concussion, and you’re tied up. Moving is going to make it worse.”
Brows furrowed, Michael’s expression twists into something petulant and offended. His eyes flick around the room—the closed curtains, unfamiliar layout, the bat in Mike’s hands. Mike can practically hear the chugging as Michael’s mouth struggles to catch up with his brain.
“You hit me,” Michael says finally, accusatory.
“You were in my bushes.”
“That doesn’t mean you get to crack my skull open,” Michael whines, voice rising. He shifts uncomfortably, making a frustrated sound. “Untie me.”
Mike doesn’t even think about it. “No.”
Michael’s eyes narrow. For a split second, something flashes across his face—anger, disbelief, something raw and sharp—but it slips just as quickly into a scowl that looks… almost childish. His lower lip juts out. He looks genuinely affronted, and Mike is momentarily dumbfounded.
“I’m not going to do anything,” Michael says. He then winces, as if not even believing his own lies. “Just let me… nnh, just untie me.”
He’s squirming like a fish, and Mike stands. He hovers over Michael, seeing the man’s expression twitch.
“Stop moving.”
Michael does.
It’s immediate—unnatural in its swiftness, like a switch flipped. His body goes slack against the carpet, breath still shallow but no longer frantic. His eyes stay locked on Mike’s face, wide and bright in a way that makes Mike’s skin crawl.
The silence stretches.
Mike hates it. “Good,” he says after a beat, mostly because he needs to say something. His heart is still trying to punch its way out of his ribs. “See? You can follow instructions. That’s a start.”
Michael’s brow furrows. “Y-you’re being mean,” he mutters.
“You were the one stalking me.”
“Barely!” Michael insists, voice pitched higher. “I was just—” He stops, glaring up at Mike. “Untie me.”
Mike snorts, helpless. “Do you think I’ll change my mind if you keep repeating yourself? Come on, dude.” Mike crouches, ignoring Michael’s flinch. “What were you doing in my bushes?” Michael glares more. Frustrated, Mike crouches and grabs his hair, lifting his head. “Answer me.”
“Stop!” Michael gasps, squirming. He smiles shakily and resumes his glaring when Mike lets go. “I don’t have to answer you.”
“You sort of do. I have you tied up, and I can call the police at any moment.”
“But you haven’t. You’re scared,” Michael sing-songs, glee on his pained face. “Assault. You a-assaulted and kidnapped me. Poor little Abby, she’s stuck with a crazy—”
Michael cries out when Mike yanks his head back up. “Don’t say her name,” Mike growls. He knows he should stay composed, but the mere mention of his younger sister makes his blood boil.
“Lemme go,” Michael whimpers.
“For the hundreth time, no. You’ll answer my questions.”
Michael’s breathing turns uneven. His eyes flick down and back up, like he’s gauging how far he can push before Mike snaps completely. Mike, unsettled, straightens slowly, forcing space between them. He sets the bat down against the wall. Michael’s eyes are tracking his every movement—he needs to feel, no, look in control.
“You’re not going to needle me into letting you go,” Mike says.
Michael scoffs weakly. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“You’re not as clever as you think,” Mike replies. He folds his arms, anchoring himself. “You’re hurt. You’re tied up. And you came here for a reason, but you’re just dancing around it like I won’t figure it out eventually. So stop playing games.”
Michael’s jaw tightens. His gaze drifts to the ceiling, then the corner of the room, anywhere but Mike. “It’s not a game,” he mutters. He finally looks back at Mike. “I’ve decided not to answer you.”
He’s acting like an unruly, spoiled child, sticking his nose up and twisting his lips. Mike stares at him, waiting for the punchline that never comes.
“Great,” he mutters. “That’s real cooperative of you.”
Michael’s mouth twitches. He looks almost pleased—eyes bright with something sharp and unkind, like he’s won a small, private victory. He shifts again, deliberately this time, testing the ropes with exaggerated discomfort.
“You really shouldn’t have hit me,” he complains. “My head hurts. Your hops… hospitality is severely lacking.”
“You broke into my yard,” Mike snaps. “You were lurking. Watching my house.”
“I was standing,” Michael argues weakly.
“In my bushes?”
“Yes! And then you came running at me like a maniac with a bat.”
Mike exhales through his nose, tempted to point out that Michael wasn’t standing in his bushes, but more crouching creepily. He doesn’t. He knows what game Michael is playing—he’s stalling, trying to keep Mike distracted from the things that actually matter.
His breathing, slow and controlled and in the way therapists always tell him to do, does absolutely nothing to calm him down. “Why,” he begins carefully, “were you anywhere near my house?”
Michael tilts his head like a bird, then winces in pain, offended. “You’re being really aggressive.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“I don’t owe you one.”
Mike rubs his face with both hands. This is going nowhere. Every instinct in him is screaming that this is wrong—this whole situation, the way Michael keeps goading him, the way his pulse won’t slow down.
“Do you expect me to believe that you just… wandered onto my property?” Mike asks. “After everything?”
Michael’s lips curl. “Wow. Paranoid, much?”
“You’re an Afton.”
“And you’re a mess,” Michael shoots back, then squints. “Where is your shirt?”
Mike freezes. “What?”
Michael’s eyes flick down, slow and deliberate, then back up again. His smile turns mean. “Your. Shirt. I thought I was the one with the concussion, but apparently, you can’t even remember to dress yourself properly.”
Heat rushes up Mike’s neck. He’d been too busy panicking to notice he never grabbed one after the shower. He folds his arms tighter.
“That’s not relevant,” he says stiffly.
There’s an unconvinced hum. “It makes this whole kidnapping thing way creepier.”
“I didn’t…” Mike’s stomach drops. “I didn’t kidnap you.”
“No? You tied me up in your bedroom, against my will. After assaulting me. I’m pretty sure that counts,” Michael taunts sweetly.
“You were stalking me,” Mike repeats, frustrated. “I don’t know why you were, but I’m not just letting you walk out of here without answers.”
Michael laughs—a thin, breathy sound that immediately turns into a pained groan. He squeezes his eyes shut, jaw tight, then opens them again, glaring. “So what?” he spits. “You’re just gonna keep me here?”
“Yes,” Mike says before he can stop himself.
The word hangs there, heavy. Michael is ramrod straight, looking up at Mike. Really, truly looking; something ugly flickers behind his eyes, and a feral grin grows.
“Wow. So confident.”
Mike stiffens. “I’m not letting you go until I know why you were here.”
Michael’s smile sharpens, mocking voice dripping with venom. “I’d rather die than become your little house pet.”
The words hit harder than Mike expects. Anger flares in his tightened chest, hot and immediate. “That’s not what this is,” he snaps.
“Sure sounds like it,” Michael drawls. “What—gonna tell me when I can eat? When I can sleep? When I’m allowed to move?”
Mike opens his mouth, then shuts it again. Michael watches him with unsettling focus, like he’s cataloging every reaction, every crack. He looks… energized by it. Alive in a way that makes Mike deeply uneasy.
“You’re fucked up,” Mike mutters.
Michael’s expression flickers—just for a second. Something raw slips through before it’s buried under a sneer. “Aren’t we all?” Silence stretches between them, thick and sour. Mike realizes, with a sinking certainty, that this interrogation is a failure. Michael isn’t scared enough to talk. If anything, he’s enjoying this—enjoying pushing buttons, testing limits. “I’ll get out,” Michael continues lightly. “And when I do, I’ll tell the cops everything. Assault. Kidnapping. Unlawful restraint.” His eyes gleam. “They’ll love it.”
Mike’s jaw tightens. “You think they’ll believe you?”
Michael shrugs as much as the ropes allow. “You’ve got a record. I’ve got a head injury. And you still don't have a shirt.” He smirks. “Not a great look for you, Mike.”
The room feels smaller. Hotter.
Mike’s heart is pounding so hard it makes his ears ring. “You’re not leaving,” he says again.
Michael leans his head back against the carpet, eyes half-lidded, smile lazy and infuriating. “We’ll see.”