A/N: My apologies for the delay on this chapter, I've been busy for the last month or so and struggling with writer's block. I hope it was at least worth the wait! If you enjoy this story, I'd love to hear what you think. Reviews and critique are always appreciated.

CHAPTER THREE

It was cold that night. At first, that was all he remembered.

It came to him in pieces, in ones and twos and then in threes. Snowflakes dancing on black windows. Hot punch clutched in two small hands in a red solo cup, the warmth of pizza grease slick under his fingers. It was a special night. He recalled a forest of black-trousered legs around him. But no names, no faces.

Except… one.

"Charlie?" His voice echoed back to him from party rooms that were dark and empty. Because this was a special party, just for grown ups, and they didn't paint masks or make paper pals, or even eat the pizza. They just stood around and… talked. His lips tugged down at the corners. It was boring. "Come on, you won hide and seek ages ago. Can we do something else?"

He expected her to jump, grinning, from her hiding place, like she always did. And she always shouted "boo!". Then he would have to pick dust and lint and whatever else from her mane of brown curls before father saw and had to do it, because he was never as gentle as Michael. But she didn't, and it was with a frown now that he returned to where there was light and noise and idle chatter that didn't interest him. He was only here because father was too.

There were other children of course, most younger than him, all here as luggage to important parents and as bored as he was. And bored children were mean. Michael could tell from the looks on their faces that they did something, knew something. Little smirks darted in his direction in the split second he caught them looking. But they couldn't act on it with his father in earshot—his voice carried over all the adults whose names he didn't know.

"Ah, it really is hard to believe that it's been ten years already, is it not? My how time flies."

… At least Michael had the animatronics to keep him company, he thought sourly as he shuffled up to the stage, though they were switched off for the night. But were they? Freddy's eyes weren't fixed on the far wall as they should be, but on him. And the bear was shivering. And it was cold in here, now that the thought occurred to him, uncomfortably so. He huddled deeper into the stupid blazer that father made him wear, but nothing could keep out the feeling of snowflakes hitting his skin.

"May the next ten go as… smoothly."

"Save her," said Freddy in a voice that was familiar, but not his, and blood trickled from the whites of his eyes. Michael turned.

The room was empty. Snow drifted in through the open front door, out of a darkness that frightened him in ways he couldn't explain and onto the floor, the tables, onto discarded cups and paper plates. He caught sight of the hem of a black coat whisking around the corner and out of sight. Down the side alley, he remembered, the one with the dumpster where they threw out all the pizza that wasn't finished. "… Father?" He called out, uncertain, but he didn't come back.

Why would he leave him here alone?

He trailed after him, shuddering at the slip slap of his shoes in something wet that ran from the stage and pooled in all the cracks between the tiles. And there he stopped. His whole world ended where the last red footprint did, there on the threshold. Nothing waited for him beyond that door but the dark, and a familiar song plucked out on a music box he once knew.

My grandfather's clock was too large for the shelf, so it stood ninety years on the floor…

"Mike?"

He was standing, wasn't he? But that was the ceiling above him, swimming in and out of focus. His hand shifted, and his knuckles caught on scratchy, threadbare carpet. On a square bottle he vaguely remembered wasn't on the floor before. There was no snow, no blood. And there in the corner, clinging onto shadows and spider webs, was a small figure with limbs that were too long and too thin. Watching him from empty eyes, and a face of metal that glinted dully in the thin trickle of moonlight from the window—frozen for all time into an open-mouthed scream.

It was taller by half than the old man himself, though it weighed not a pennyweight more…

"You're dreaming about it again, aren't you?" Charlie's voice said, but the screaming mouth never once moved. "It's okay. Go back to sleep."

He didn't mean to. Really, he thought, he ought to investigate this strange new personal demon that had taken up residence on the ceiling. But his eyes closed in spite of himself, and he slept.

Maybe Ballora was right. Maybe all it took to start feeling something like human again was some sleep, and a good meal. He couldn't say for sure that he really slept, in all honesty, because he was stiffer than a freshly dug up corpse and everything kind of blurred together until he knocked back a gallon of coffee. And three Double Quarter Pounders with extra cheese probably didn't count as a good meal.

Baby steps, Michael.

"—And then he yelled 'you're crazy, man!' and stormed off. Probably to smoke a blunt." After some rattling around in an overflowing tool chest, he finally picked out the screwdriver he wanted—jeweller's, #0000—and turned back to the more important task at hand; bitching. "Talk about gratitude, right?"

Foxy gave him their 'oh my god, tell me about it' face, despite not yet actually having a face, and held their arm out at a better angle for him to access. He did wonder if being tinkered with while active hurt, or tickled, or both, but it didn't seem to bother them and it made things so much quicker when he could see the results in real time.

"Some people just—there we go. Okay," he said around the screwdriver in his teeth, "flex."

Foxy moved each of the fingers of their bare new hand in turn, then all together. Then, with the pricked ears and lolling smile of a dog discovering a brand new toy, brought pinky and thumb together in an 'O'. They would never have been able to do that in that piece of shit plastic eggshell they were trapped inside before, and while he had yet to build much on the end of the neck stump beyond two ears and eyes on a stick, he could read the joy there all the same.

He leaned in closer and scrutinised the tug, click, and release of every synthetic tendon. Countless actuators that whirred and whined, little marvels he could pick up with a pair of tweezers, built right here in his goddamn garage. He couldn't deny the sadistic pleasure of writing his father's work out of history with his own. Of the knowledge that when future generations spoke the name Afton, it would not be William on their lips, but Michael.

But it wasn't perfect yet. He exchanged the screwdriver for a fresh cigarette and bent over to tighten the tiny screws that set the tension on the knuckles, just as his phone started to buzz on the worktable. "God fucking—can someone else get that?"

"I'm afraid that the only other person currently with a pair of hands is unable to speak," came the dry tone of Ballora's voice from the camera on the rear wall.

Shit.

"Here, hold this." He pushed the screwdriver into Foxy's grip and stood up. "And don't bloody chew on it."

Thankfully, they were content testing their newfound manual dexterity by twirling it between their fingers, so he picked his way over discarded McDonald's wrappers to the table and ran a baleful eye over the caller ID. Mac. Again.

He… wasn't going to give up, was he?

Michael sighed, ran his hand through his hair, over the scars that ridged his scalp and the back of his neck. This wasn't a problem he could leave on voicemail forever. He knew that. At some point, he was going to have to pick up that call and get ready to peel open his wallet. Just… why did it have to be now?

His thumb hit answer.

"How much?" He snapped, hated the harsh scratch of his own voice, hated how… tired he sounded.

"I—what?"

"How much for the building? Why else would you be calling me at Every Bloody Hour O' Clock?"

"Uh—dude—insurance already got it, I just… I just wanted to talk."

"Talk?" Michael scowled, remembered that Mac couldn't actually see it, and leaned back on the worktable. "Alright. We're talking."

He heard Mac let out the breath he was holding. "Like… I meant in person."

"I'm kind of busy." Foxy still sat waiting patiently on their stool, bless them, and looked about as pleased at the thought of leaving things half-finished as he did. They exchanged glances of 'did he just' and 'can you believe the nerve of this guy', and he added, "can you call back later? Or, hey, not at all?"

"Look—about last night, like, I feel like I walked into something way over my head—"

"You did."

"—And I think you owe me… some kind of explanation? At least? Like… was torching my freakin' business the only way to, like, fix things?"

"In case you didn't notice, pal, I stopped your idiot ass from unleashing the furry Terminator on thousands of oblivious and helpless people!"

Damn it. Michael knew he was shouting. He knew it frightened Freddy, and Ballora, and sometimes the young kids who lived next door when they played outside. But he couldn't stop the anger, the words, as they bubbled up like magma from a volcano and spilled out. Hissing, spitting, furious.

He pushed away from the table and ignored the bang and the clatter of tools knocked loose and onto the floor. Strode to the garage door, open all the way to tempt in the hope of a breeze despite the cold. It was a beautiful day. The sun was pale and clear, and glittered on grass still crisp with morning frost now fading into midday. Soon enough the cherry would bloom, dusting his little cottage in white and pink. Like an iced cake.

… Deep breaths. He dragged on his cigarette, puffed it back out, watched the smoke coil sluggishly away into the winter. "Reckon I saved you a jail sentence for manslaughter at the very least. You're welcome, by the way. So as far as I'm concerned, we're even and I don't owe you a goddamn thing."

"Well, uh, there's one uh, teensy tiny… problem."

Another drag. "Everything you do is a problem," he retorted, watching as Foxy set aside the jeweller's screwdriver and picked through the other tools on the bench beside them. Because they had hands now, and by god they were going to use them, and there wasn't much Michael nor anyone else could say to convince them otherwise. They selected the bent and slightly flattened piece of pipe he used to wedge the door open when he needed ventilation but the weather was shit, and felt its weight in their new appendages. A few test swings and a cheeky glance of 'we should totally beat him up' flashed his way did manage to squeeze a smile from his drawn features.

"I, um, I was kinda angry last night."

"Join the club."

"And I like maybe kinda called the police. So that's… something we're going to have to deal with."

… Fuck.

"... And that's why you make sure the bear is hibernating before you start shaving," Michael finished, then stuffed an entire caramel doughnut into his mouth.

Twelve cops laughed. Mac broke out into a nervous sweat.

Because one tiny little detail Michael 'forgot' to tell him was that he and the chief—Curt Howard, impressive constitution, even more impressive beard—were on first name basis, as he was with the chief before him. Maybe the first time they dragged him, sooty and snarling, into the station, when he was still young enough to believe that violence and zeal were the answers to all problems… he would've believed in justice, too.

Because it's not like Fazbear's Fright was his first run in with the law. Not his tenth, or even fifteenth. And now he dropped by from time to time to settle his tab, just like daddy taught him.

Besides, he was having the time of his life watching Mac shit bullets. His eyes kept flicking to his ugly-ass Focus parked just outside— the one with 'Fazbear's Fright' still written in Bleeding Cowboys on the hood. Could he be any more fucking obvious that he had weed stashed in the glovebox?

"I guess you could say it was bear naked," one of the sergeants chimed in, and they all laughed again.

"I don't know how you get yourself into these situations," said Curt, clapping him on the shoulder as he passed, "or out of them, for that matter. Duty calls—be more careful where you stop for a smoke next time." They exchanged winks, and the whole goddamn entourage filed out of the shop.

So that left him, and Mac. Because your average Joe could take a hint when the entirety of the local constabulary came barging in through the door.

Mac was one of those few who could not. He was still transfixed on the window where the shadows of the last two stragglers remained, making fun of his car. When at last they wandered out of view, like sharks from the glass of a fish trapped in the same aquarium, Mac turned staring eyes on him. His mouth opened, shut, opened again. "So… so you just bribe your way out of trouble?" He sounded equal parts hurt and bewildered, but the accusing tone was there. A pointed finger shaped out of words.

For a long time Michael said nothing. What was there to say? It wasn't even a question, because the answer was already obvious. So he watched, and waited to see if any more questions would fall out of that big dumb mouth, and when none did he shoved one of the boxes across the table at him. "Have a doughnut."

"I don't—"

"Take a fucking doughnut, Mac."

His eyes darted up at him, at his face chiselled out of gaunt shadows from the setting sun, and he snatched up the first one his fingers met and shrank just a little more in his chair. Backed into the very corner of his tank, now, because there was nothing but sharks in this aquarium. And this one was the meanest of them all.

He wound his knuckles together on the table the way the chief did when he dragged him in from the ashes of Freddy's, the way he did when he wanted people to know those hands had blood on them. When he wanted to be able to lean over and see the fear in their eyes, and grab them by the handful by the front of their shirt. "You think I make the rules?" He said, and he was pretty sure those exact words came out of his mouth once, too. "You think I like this? Think I wouldn't rip them out of the rulebook if I could?"

Mac pressed his lips into a pale line and shook his head.

"Worse people than me walked away because of those rules. You think I like that?" Discarded cake forks jumped on their plates when he slammed a hand onto the table and Mac jumped. "Do you?"

"I—I—"

But he wasn't done yet. No—he was just warming up. The blood boiled in his veins, he could hear the thump of it in his ears. War drums, maddening, driving out all that was left of him that wasn't wrath. The call to arms. "You, and your shitty horror maze," he snarled, jabbing a finger out through the window at that hideous car, and its hideous logo, and everything that it stood for, "are here because that man walked, do you understand that? Those kids you're ripping off? They. Were. Real."

Grab him by the shirt, whispered that little voice in his head. And god, it would be so easy, he'd only have to shake him a little, and he would be a filthy liar if he said he didn't want to. Because it wasn't Mac's car or even his stupid face he hated, but the fact that when he looked at Freddy's, he didn't see a grave. He saw a goldmine.

"They should be my age now, just about." 'Should'—the word sounded, tasted, wrong. A bitter pill. All he wanted to say was their names, and they were there, right there on the tip of his tongue. He forced himself to swallow. "They should have jobs, and houses, and kids of their own. And you—you wanted to build an empire on their bones." His lips twisted.

Do it, the little voice said. Punish him. His nails bit into the table, still red underneath with blood.

"I'm… I'm sorry, I didn't—"

The chair shrieked across the tiles when he lurched to his feet. "And you couldn't have left things the fuck alone when you didn't even know the full story? You had to go digging up their graves, too?"

"But—no one does!" Mac clutched after him, like a liar at a straw. Or like a greedy sack of shit at a dollar fluttering in the wind. Because the only reason he even wanted an explanation out of him was to profit off it, right? "Nobody knows what happened!"

Michael's eyes flashed in the light of the dying sun. "I do."

He towered over the other man. That… didn't come with the rush he thought it would. He thought he'd enjoy it, watching him shrank back in his shadow, seeing him look small and powerless. How Mac ever managed to drag his half-conscious ass out of Fazbear's Fright, he'd never—

His fingers curled, and then he let them fall.

"Then, like, why can't you talk about it? I don't know, maybe it sounds stupid, but…" Mac spread his hands in an odd little twitch of a half-shrug, an apology, maybe, both for what he did and what he was about to say. And still Michael didn't move. "Maybe if we, y'know, talk about it, I can do something to help?"

"Help?" The word rang hollow in his ears. "What the hell could you do? It's your fault we're even in this mess."

There, he said it. It didn't change a damn thing, and Michael couldn't even feel satisfied, vindicated, for lashing out with the stick of blame. Because he knew it was never Mac he was angry with in the first place.

He flushed, but made no move to stop him as he strode to the door. "Mike—"

"It doesn't matter—it's done."

"Come on—"

And he slammed it behind him, hard enough to knock the 'open' sign from the glass.

Past Fazbear's Focus, to the seedy little used whiteware store around the corner where he parked his truck. Fumbled with the keys until the blood pressure mounted to a whistle in his ears. Into the lock, click, into the seat. Slam. He jabbed at the radio, but he didn't know what he was looking for, and threw the car into reverse long before he found it.

He supposed he should've been worried that he couldn't remember any of the drive home. But he only had one thing on his mind when he threw the door open and staggered inside.

"Michael?"

He ignored Ballora, ignored Foxy's insistent yaps, the ensuing bickering with Freddy. Down the hallway to the bathroom. Hands braced on the sink, afraid of what he'd find when he looked in the mirror. Because when his heart raced and his blood pumped, and the adrenaline burned like gasoline in his veins, that little voice always sounded like… him.

But it was just Michael looking back. Pissed off and… scared.

And why wouldn't it be, he thought as he collapsed onto the same damn couch as always and ran trembling hands over his face. Did he expect the vengeful revenant of his father's crimes to come creeping like oil through his veins in the night, corrupting him, twisting him into its likeness? He was gone. He couldn't touch him any more—him, or anyone else.

"You're not going to turn into your father just because you're angry."

"Ballora," he said through his fingers, "I wanted to hit him."

"Well, he does sound rather irritating," she said primly.

"Christ—"

"Everyone feels angry sometimes, Michael. What's important is that you're working on it, and you're getting better. And you didn't hit him, so you're already a better man than… he could ever have been."

"Why do you always have to be right?" He groused, reaching for the bottle of Jack Daniels that had somehow rolled under the coffee table, as if in hope that he wouldn't see it there, before he remembered what was said last night and left it where it fell.

"You can have one glass—but only one."

There was one on top of the rack of vinyls that looked… clean enough. "I'll make it a shot." He raised the bottle to the camera in a toast. "Man's honour."

"I shall hold you to it."

Her words hung in the room, in the silence. The last few rays of golden sunlight reached in through the crack in the curtains and picked out dust in the air. Then it moved away from the window and slipped below the shadows of the trees, and left him there, alone with the twilight and with six pairs of eyes smiling from an ugly silver frame.

His eyebrows creased in a frown. He distinctly remembered turning that face down the night before. The filigree, the glass, felt smooth under the split skin of his thumb as he brushed dust away from their faces. Their names were still there, waiting to be spoken out loud… Mara, Edmund, Charles, Elizabeth, Michael too, with his wild blue eyes, and… Charlie.

He didn't smile as he set the photo down. But he did fish his phone from the pocket of his jeans and dial Mac's number.