#( house haunted by shame: default iii. )

[slaughterlocked]

"i'm helping you. don't you want my help?"

AROUND THE TISSUE CURRENTLY BEING HELD TO HIS NOSE, HE SHOOTS MICHAEL A WITHERING GLARE. As withering as he can manage when he can hardly see straight - the last whisky had been one too many, though he'll damn himself before he admits that - and deep down he sullenly knows this is a good thing. Family bonding. Son consoling father, son tidying up father's mess -- fuck that, he decides, and grunts in protest when Michael's tissue brushes against a bust lip and bruised mouth. The copper taste in his mouth grows, and William nudges Michael away irritably.

" If you could do it right, ” he mutters. Sounds sullen, an inch to the left of petulance. When he squeezes his eyes shut, massages the bridge of his nose, fuzzy static stars erupt in his head. They tickle unpleasantly down the back of his tongue and throat like copper. “ Feels like all you do ‘s—— make it worse. ”

It’s unfair ( in more ways than one ) but William never planned on being fair. What’s the use in fair? It’s never solved any of his problems. When he tips his head back in an attempt to stop his bleeding nose, the world spins. The ceiling above him blurs. Funny. He’s not usually trying to stop the flow of blood. Neither him or Michael are particularly good at fixing broken things, even if William likes to pretend he is.

“ If you want to be of any real help. ” He adds, nasal around his injury ( fuck Roberts, the old man will get what’s coming to him, William will make sure of that ), “ then—— get me a damn drink. Two icecubes. ” Half - lidded eyes lift to examine Michael, heavy and expectant. “ Then I’ll thank you. ”

[slaughterlocked]

HE WON’T QUITE LOOK AT HER IN THE EYES. ONLY NATURAL, HE’LL ASSURE HIMSELF LATER, AND NOT GUILT. Uneasy that he’s deceiving her, yes, but confident that it’s for the best: because of course it is. When it comes to his children, he only ever has their best interests at heart. And if anyone dares say otherwise, they won’t be around much longer to be listened to.

He’s a firm believer that money makes the world go round, or whatever the saying is. In any case, a promise of $200 and a halfhearted assurance that he’d see about buying new drum sticks for her had motivated Ollie… though he prefers to think it’s the vestiges of the bond every daughter has towards her father that had made her agree. Searches for it studiously as he strides into the old location, not quite meeting her eyes, glancing towards the door as if afraid someone would barge in and ruin this opportunity. But he can’t let her leave. He won’t lose another child. Not while he can stop her.

“This is more of a storage site, really. For untested games and old animatronics we decide to scrap.” He tells her distractedly, animated despite his seeming lack of focus. It’s not hard to tell he genuinely loves the company, despite everything that’s happened. “I don’t like throwing anything away completely, so I use this place mostly for storage. If it generates an income on top of that with visitors, then I’m not complaining.”

The game, of course, is Rabbit Quest. Simple game play: get the rabbit home from the dangerous big city, avoiding lurking pixelated creatures and characters along the way. He couldn’t have made it more symbolic if he’d tried. The machine is a little dusty, otherwise untouched — he wipes it off, surreptitiously cleaning a smear of silver from the screen too. The remnant buzzes at reuniting with its creator. William smiles. Plucks up the monstrosity strength to meet Ollie’s eyes as he taps the joystick, the whole machine lighting up with tinny arcade music emanating from its rear. “Rabbit Quest,” he introduces, proudly, anticipation layering his voice with a strange kind of reverence, “originally the first game I ever made. It’s been redesigned since then—” With remnant, sweat and tears! “—but I didn’t want any just old person testing it. This,” he tells her, patting the machine, “is important to me.”

@slaughterlocked au go brrrr

There days, it takes a lot for Ollie to go to one of her father's locations. But she's never really minded testing games for her father, and him offering to give her something for helping makes her decide to give an exception to that. Unaware that would never come, or what he was really asking of her.

"Christ, 'm surprised you still keep this one open. There's no one here." Making it a good place to do something sketchy without anyone to see it. To Ollie, it just makes the place look even weirder. Just test the game and get out of here. Wrong.

"Alright, where's the game you wanted me to try?"

[slaughterlocked]

if you want to yell and scream at me, go ahead. / from michael!

"IT WAS MY FAULT" PROMPTS - ALWAYS ACCEPTING !

“NOW WHAT GOOD WOULD THAT DO,” WILLIAM SAYS, a faux-easiness in his voice that couldn’t sound more uncharacteristic, “shouting at you won’t stop you from half - assing your responsibilities and getting people injured, will it?”

Simmering with quiet anger, though his voice remains calm, controlled. He is capable of some restraint after all. Turning to the customer who had lodged a complaint about the still slippery floors — of course Michael hadn’t cleaned them right, of course he hadn’t — William’s false smile could have soothed even the most temperamental of customers. “Rest assured, my son will ensure this doesn’t happen again.” He says, turning to Michael. “You’ll be more careful in future. Won’t you?”

Only then does he let his facade fall, the usual tension splaying over his face, eyes hardening in irritation. Letting Michael work here to make a little extra money had been a good idea to begin with (a way for him to keep an eye on his son, too) but with the amount of . . . disappearances surrounding the restaurant, the last things William wants or needs are injuries and unhappy customers. The business is falling apart as it is without Michael adding to it.

“I’m sure you’ve learned your lesson.” He won’t shout at Michael publicly — the kid’s got some time before William can drag him back home and snap at him properly like he wants — “We’ll talk about this later.”

[slaughterlocked]

"   why   did   you   bring   me   here ?   "

MICHAEL'S QUESTION GOES UNANSWERED AT FIRST. FOR A LONG MINUTE, THE ONLY SOUND IS THE BUZZ OF THE OLD GENERATOR IN THE PIZZERIA, AND THEIR OWN BREATHS IN THE COLD AIR. Still cold for March - momentarily, William wants to scold Michael for not wrapping up better, his jaw tensing like he's ready to lecture . . . before it sets again, and, squaring his shoulders, he lets the feeling dissipate like fog.

If Michael catches a chill, it's his own damn fault. Just another thing for William to fix.

His throat clears, his shoulders settle. This is the most at ease he's felt in a while. There's something about being around tragedy and death that calms a fierce storm in his chest that has been there for as long as he can remember. Not reading too much into why, or how. Before bringing Michael here, William had been kind enough to spruce the place up a little, cleaning dust and mess from tables and setting the room up in the style of a child's birthday party. Ignore the fact his son is too old for a Fazbear party. Ignore the fact he hasn't allowed any of his children to have a Fazbear party since Evan. It's irrelevant. He's here to fix their relationship, anyway.

" Elizabeth is at her friend's. " William's voice comes out softer than it means to, almost friendly. Stalking further into the room, glancing around, he heads for the main stage. Earlier he'd come along, put a radio at the security office. It's warbling out cheery stilted songs now, one that sets William's teeth on edge, but he ignores it in favor of beckoning for Michael to follow. " I wanted to celebrate your birthday, Mike. It's been too long. "

Ignore the rudimentary base of an endoskeleton on stage, staring out at them with unseeing eyes. Ignore the fact this is the site of the accident. William's determined to give his son a birthday he won't forget in a hurry - and just maybe teach him a lesson or two in the process.

[slaughterlocked]

i know things have been really tough lately, but i want to work things out. / hi have random angst from jules bc listen !!!!!!!!

HE HAS TO LAUGH. OH, JULES, FOREVER THE OPTIMIST. It's not a nice sound he greets her with, but the harsh short scoff of a man who feels he's lost the world he had ( forgetting, of course, that he's still got her, and them, and that life goes on ). " Don't you always, " he says, cynicism layered too deep in his voice to be anything other than sarcastic, " honestly, Juliet. There's nothing to work out. "

Nothing that he's willing to share with her, anyway. Nothing that she'd understand. Because it's eleven in the morning and he's four whiskies deep into his research, his own scrawling handwriting blurring before his eyes. Scribblings of a madman, maybe. Rambling notes about death and resurrection, hastily - copied passages from library books about reincarnation across differing religions and beliefs. Torn up journal entries. William's office is a disaster zone, not in the eccentric, absent - minded way it had once been; sweeping one broad hand across his work to hide it from his wife, a tired smile dripping of derision painted bone - deep into his face.

She thinks he's mourning. They both are, in their own separate ways. But she doesn't understand ! -- LIFE WILL NOT GO ON UNTIL HE MAKES IT. Until their child is back with them and he's proved to her ( to everyone ) that he can fix this by himself. Put their family back together again.

When he stands, he sways; caught off guard by his own intoxication. Still, William plants one hand solidly on his workbench, heaves himself upright to meet her eyes. Her presence is drained, but warm. But his own soul is brighter than ever, brilliant and burning, and he doesn't think he has much room in him right now to appreciate her comforting existence.

" If you want to stop arguing, then so do I. " He says flatly, but emphatically. Voice comes out wrong, a little too drawling and defensive. Shouldn't be drinking - even when he chastises himself, he gets more worked up. Using his free hand to gesture around him, he declares: " But if you're going t' ask me to stop working, you're wasting my time. " 'My time' had once been 'our time'. It's lonely with a broken home. He knows it doesn't show in his voice, how much he misses her deep down. Or at least, how much he misses missing her. He doesn't have much time for pointless grief, these days.

[slaughterlocked]

WILLIAM KNOWS: IT’S A BAD IDEA TO BRING THIS UP TO HIS SON. It’s an even worse idea to do it while he’s drinking. Then again, he’s rarely without a drink these days, as publicity towards Fazbear’s ‘disappearances’ (hah! The kids haven’t gone anywhere. They never even left the damn building) climbs higher. Blame it on stress over the incidents, or guilt for not looking after the kids, or whatever other excuse he throws at anyone who asks. In fact, he’ll blame Michael this time: a phone call from the school hadn’t been why he’d poured a first drink, but it definitely had contributed to the second and third.

Because yeah, Christ, he’s a terrible person. Letting Michael suffer scrutiny for his own crimes: so sue him, so hate him, he’s a bastard of a father. But in a way, William reasons, this is bringing them closer!— Father and son, facing unfair judgement, trials and tribulations binding them together. It almost feels paternal, it almost feels proud, getting a call from Michael’s school. Your son has been involved in an… incident... (His heart had leapt. Imagines Mike with blood on his hands, turning to William for help. A dead body on the ground.) …Gave another student a black eye. Totally unacceptable behaviour. (His disappointment, immeasurable, just for a moment.) If William faces suspicion then so too must Michael. They are in this together, the Afton men.

To say nothing of the fact he thinks they are, partly, Michael’s crimes. First stone cast, first child killed. If Evan had still been here then he wouldn’t need to resort to this. That’s what he tells himself at night, anyway. So he gives Michael a grin, condescending and distrustful and yeah, okay, a little ashamed: “Might be all you’re capable of doing these days,” he says, casual and loose-lipped, swirling his glass and remembering the pretty silver remnant spilling around vials in similar ways, “disappointing.” The school, the police, the community, his father: Michael’s life, to William, can be split into chapters of different fuck-ups. To say nothing of his own, decidedly worse, actions.

Lazy underhanded blow as it had been, it seems to settle with Michael in some way. William wishes it hadn’t. Wants to see Michael like him, dealing with all of this like him: instead of bruising faces he wants Michael to break them. Instead of punching his peers he wishes Michael would kill them. Maybe then he’d have pride in his son, instead of this wash of disappointment that Michael can never quite live up to him (and all-encompassing envy that Michael’s anger makes him look human where William’s makes him look fucking evil). His tone is as blasé as it is acerbic when he adds, “Christ, no wonder the school called me. You’re like a wild animal with that look in your eye.”

A cornered wild animal would be more accurate: William enjoys his comparison anyway, despite the unbidden sympathy and guilt that rise at seeing his son’s expressions: “Who was it? Who did you hurt this time?”

@slaughterlocked asked: 💬 + rumour has it you’re more of a murderer than i thought. ( — because i’m insane over this ! )

ANOTHER INCIDENT REPORTED on TV, in the local newspaper, in just about every corner of Hurricane the information could possibly spread… the tragedy’s impact is inescapable. Increased disappearances, missing children, police tape over the doors of the restaurant as they comb through every single corner. Michael already endured the questioning— his tense demeanor talking to the police must have been noticeable ( the town’s law enforcement aren’t usually his biggest fans… and everyone here knows Michael Afton’s name for one thing ). Many questions he couldn’t answer, others made him sick to his stomach with memories he cannot choke up— he’s heard his father come home concerningly late some nights, seen him cross the living room with a look in his eyes that sent a chill up Michael’s spin, any growing suspicion always silenced by swift reinforcements of his weak points. Regardless, there wasn’t anything to incriminate him, and Michael got off with a curt nod and encouragement to contact them if he saw anything.

But small town rumors don’t care about things like that.

His return to school since the most recent incident had been brutal, hardly able to push through the hallways without feeling countless sets of eyes burning into him. It reminds him of how they looked at him after Evan: a nauseating mix of fear, anger, and pity, yet there is no shred of sympathy in most gazes now. Anyone who doesn’t outright avoid him is accusatory— spitting comments in his direction, just waiting for Michael to snap and prove them all RIGHT. He dares to react and he’s the angry murderer, the piece of shit freak who killed his brother and those KIDS, and Michael doesn’t know how much more of it he can endure.

Murderer. Murderer. Murderer.

“Where’d you hear that?” Michael snaps, even though he already knows. Because he reacted. He couldn’t stand the fucking looks and jeers and let his temper win and had to be dragged away by the arms near thrashing in a stupid, desperate attempt to deflect the crushing blame and get ANYONE on his side. They called home. Of course they did.

The comment from his father stings, but it doesn’t surprise him. He expects it, finds a sick sort of steadiness in it even, and embraces the way it takes its place writhing underneath his skin or on the mountain of things that are wrong with him. Who is he without the wound at this point?

Out of impulse, or maybe Michael just doesn’t care what his father says to him for it this time, he retaliates: “Kind of a low blow there from you— just… seems lazy, since this is your problem. You were there too, you know what they found on me.” Nothing. Even still, an overwhelming guilt that he can’t explain threatens to swallow him: he didn’t kill those kids, but he feels completely responsible. Michael thinks about the stares again. One of his classmates… their sibling is missing, and they MUST think it was him. Michael’s head spins. “Sorry to disappoint. Again.”

[slaughterlocked]

@mute-call liked for a starter! based off a wish list post & thrown at william because i love the idea of a steven & evan bond!

IT’S NOT THAT HE THINKS STEVEN IS HIDING ANYTHING FROM HIM. WELL, NOT EXACTLY. William has known the guy for years and Christ, he’s not sure Steven could keep a secret even if his life literally depended on it. (Then again, that’s harsh: he’s always had a negative opinion of everyone at Freddy’s minus Henry sometimes, he should be more generous. Steven has put up with a lot over the years.) He does like him, for the most part. Loyal, hardworking, keeps his nose out of business that doesn’t concern him. William couldn’t say that about a lot of employees. But there’s something new about Steven recently. Something he can’t pin down. Like Steven knows something, sees something in him that he’d previously not been privy to — and it’s driving him insane.

Well. More insane. Sanity is relative, some would say. Steven would probably agree. You have to be a bit of an oddball to maintain a position at Freddy’s.

A knock at his office door jolts him from his reverie and from his chair. Pushing to his feet automatically, calling, “come in,” because he knows who it is. Obviously. Asking Steven to come to meet with him had been his idea, and sure, he’ll play coy trying to get information from him, but William is determined to get to the bottom of whatever the hell is going on here.

“Steven, just the man I wanted to see.” A flashy smile, a nonchalant tone: William internally pats himself on the back for acting so covertly. “Come in, please. Can I get you tea? Coffee? The whole building is freezing today.” Good small talk. That’ll get his guard down.

[slaughterlocked]

your t-shirt’s inside out. / from mike lmao.

“VERY GOOD, MICHAEL.” WILLIAM SOUNDS TOTALLY DISBELIEVING AND TOTALLY UNIMPRESSED. Not bothering to check the truth of his son’s greeting words, William drops his bag onto the floor of the living room and promptly falls gracelessly into his armchair, pinching the bridge of his nose to ward off the incoming headache. Freddy’s has been more stressful than usual — between that and his own experiments and the new publicity due to the children disappearing, William’s never been more rushed off his feet. He needs a nap, a day off, the bloody pizzeria to burn down. What he doesn’t need is his ridiculous son making up lies to try and get under his skin for one reason or another. He shoots a briefly irritated look Michael’s way, but doesn’t even have the energy to put heart into it. “Training to be a comedian, are you? Well, the punchline of a joke, son, is supposed to be funny. Just a little advice.”

[slaughterlocked]

🔪 / from jules. sorry girl --

HE'S ON A HIGH, OF COURSE HE IS. CHUCKLING AS HE COMES HOME, GRINNING LIKE A KID AT CHRISTMAS. As far as he remembers, she's out with friends tonight - or so he'd believed. It's partly why he doesn't even bother entering the house with any sense of subtlety, and partly why he hasn't completely cleaned up. The other part is sheer cockiness. He's not been caught yet, after all. Doesn't bother pausing to listen for familiar sounds of his wife being present, doesn't even cease the little tune he's humming: the annoying song that had been playing at the pizzeria on repeat as he'd gone about his business. Preparing the party rooms, checking in with employees entering the building, filing a notice to ensure he is the only one who is allowed to fix Bonnie. Wouldn't do for anyone to find anything untowards, after all.

So yes, he's in a good mood. It abruptly fades at the sight of his wife in their bedroom, as he waltzes in. He's very suddenly aware of his own state: ghostly faced, eyes too bright; usual shirt ruffled, splatters of blood trickling irritatingly on the right sleeve; the fucking knife in the bag he clutches to his chest. Lips part wordlessly for a second, caught off-guard [...] and then he's offering her a very weary, very artificial smile. They've not been able to read each other as well as they used to. Not since Evan. Maybe it'll work to his advantage this time. "Wasn't expecting to see my beautiful wife," he says, and plays it casual, taking a very small step backwards, "didn't you have plans, love?" Cursing her inwardly. Cursing his own carelessness more.

[slaughterlocked]

"hangover location" + 2. in a basement/cellar 👀

HE’D TRIED AND FAILED LAST NIGHT TO GET HIMSELF DOWNSTAIRS. The basement — now an amalgamation of half-finished animatronics, obsessive research, and memories of the past — is William’s retreat from the burden of living in his own house with his own family. He’d have preferred to wake up there than here. An ache persists in his neck as he stirs groggily, blinking up at the fuzzy figure above him uncomprehendingly. Much too old to be falling asleep against a wall, he scolds himself, and with the dizzying thud-thud-thud in his head, he’s feeling particularly sorry for himself.

“Couldn’t get th’ damn door open.” Is all he grunts at Michael, loathe to provide any explanation whatsoever but compelled to do so. Gesturing blearily at the keys still wedged unceremoniously in the lock — very notably the wrong set of keys — William dredges up some kind of story, one more acceptable than the truth. “Late nights. They must be catching up with me.”

Accent rougher than usual, less polished as it always is when caught off-guard. William groans as he rises to his feet — the taste of whisky burns the back of his throat like acid, stomach churning, but he fights obstinately for composure. At least in front of Michael. If he’s even remotely fooling him right now, vomiting up a day’s lot of whisky will rapidly change that. If his behavior last night hadn’t been suspicious enough. His memory of the day before isn’t the strongest.

“Help your father out and get me a glass of water, Mike. And, ah…. The keys from the coat I had last night.” (He takes the basement set out with him, keeping them on his person at almost all times. Better that than have someone find them and, by extension, his work.)

[slaughterlocked]

[ mock ]   your muse mocking mine.( Rosa )

IT’S MERE FRUSTRATION THAT DRIVES WILLIAM TO CRUELTY THESE DAYS.  IT DOESN’T TAKE MUCH.  A little push,  a tip over the edge  –  Rosa asking for his help in a slightly too - strained voice for something domestic he doesn’t care about  –  William’s head jerks up from his hunched position over his desk,  lips automatically twisting.  What right does she have to force him to help her with her responsibilities?

“Are you incapable?” He bites out,  unable to stop the acerbic lilt of his words.  Leaning back in his chair,  fingers fisting in the roots of his wild hair;  defensiveness over knowing,  guiltily,  that he’s far too absent from his home these days driving his anger.  “Christ,  Rosa.  I have deadlines.   All I ask from you is that you keep the house orderly while I’m out.  Did I marry someone completely incompetent?”

      BUT ALREADY HIS ANGER IS FADING;  remorse is setting in as fast as his irritation had risen to the surface,  and William pushes himself to his feet to face his wife with a hint of regret.  His head thuds  –  not unexpected after an exhausting week and the heavy grief he carries with him from Evan –  but he’s following up his words hastily. “I didn’t mean that,”  he says, half - lying through his teeth.  The frustration hasn’t left him,  but the burst of shame in his chest grows stronger at the way he had spoken to his wife.  Steps forwards,  a sigh on his lips,  he amends his words, they’ve been arguing too much lately:  “Can it at least wait until after dinner?  I do have actual work to do, darling.”

[slaughterlocked]

" what are you working on ? "

“ NOTHING THAT I’M HAPPY WITH. ” Frustration colors his tone, and another page of his sketchbook falls victim to his perfectionist tendencies. With a scowl at a particularly intricate animatronic design that doesn’t match the picture in his mind, William rips the page free, crumples it up with one hand, and sets his pencil down with a thud on the desk beside him. His head aches from the strain of late fruitless nights, and he beckons Michael further into his study. A rare moment of asking for help.

“ You draw, don’t you ? ” The question is phrased deliberately ignorantly — as if it’s not the one hobby William knows about his son. Wheeling his chair back, he gestures for Michael to take a look at the designs, a pinch in his brow indicative of his irritation. “ I’m trying to upgrade Chica. She needs a more sophisticated look for the new restaurant. But for the life of me, I can’t figure it out. See what you can do. ”

[slaughterlocked]

"Did you sleep here?" ( rosa )

HE’S EMBARRASSINGLY CRUSTY - EYED AND BLEARY THANKS TO HIS RESTLESS NIGHT. Grunting an affirmative, back aches from a position on the floor he’s really too old nowadays to keep doing. William hauls himself upright, awkward legs uncurling and hands braced against the floor to push him to his feet. “Rosa.” He says. Rasps, rather. His throat is dry, gravelly. “Yes. I—”

Does he look pathetic, sleeping on the floor next to his wife after storming out during a fight? Perhaps. Undoubtedly. But he’s stricken all at once with a sense of panic, a sudden fear that she’s going to leave him. This could be it. So he spreads his hands very quickly, universal symbol of peace, scrambling upright, and narrowly avoiding knocking himself out on their bedside table as he stands. Head thuds, chest tight. “I’m sorry.” William isn’t even entirely certain what he’s apologizing for. Normally he’s too proud to even consider a rushed apology: but something about seeing her face, sleeping right under her; it’s made him feel three feet tall. A bug under a microscope.

“ I shouldn’t have shouted at you. I shouldn’t have lashed out at you, Rosa. I’m— sorry. ”

[slaughterlocked]

❛ i'm still the same person. ❜ / clara, maybe ? post divorce or after asking for one

SALTBURN STARTERS / @roseguided

NOTHING IS THE SAME. THAT'S WHAT HE WANTS TO SPIT AT HER. YOU ARE NOT THE SAME PERSON, AND THINGS WILL NEVER BE THE SAME. Forgets very conveniently that he's not the same person either: they've both changed, and he's decided her change is for the worst. Lip curling in self-righteous anger, bitterness coating every word, William eyes his wife with a look of sheer incredulity. "Really, now." Sarcasm thicker than the tension hanging between them. Does she expect that to soften the blow? To stop the hurt that comes with the less than unexpected declaration that she wants a divorce? "Well, I'm so relieved to hear it. I mean, that was why I was angry, truly, Clara, you've solved all my fucking emotions with that reassurance!"

His voice is growing louder with every word. By the end, he's almost, but not quite, shouting. Face red, trying to control his bitter, bubbling emotions: William takes up menial tasks, viciously putting dishes away while he tries to process her words, her tone, her presence. And by the time he's found his answer, his response, he's clutching a mug so tightly it digs painfully into his skin.

"We're not getting a divorce." He says, finally. His voice is quiet, barely controlled, restrained. The mug is discarded before he cracks it in pieces: the temptation to chuck it at a wall is almost too much to resist. "I won't hear of it. You're being overdramatic about this. Every couple goes through a rough patch like this, I mean--" William scoffs, broaching his own forbidden topic with reckless, wild abandon: "Our son is dead! Of course we're struggling!! And you want to- what? End things? Have you any idea what that will do to me?!" How selfish can she be?

[slaughterlocked]

ON JAN 3RD, @bravevolunteer SENT: I hope you die. I hope we both die.

REALLY, MICHAEL? IS WHAT HE WANTS TO SIGH. BEFORE WE'VE FINISHED BREAKFAST? Not that he can blame the boy. 1985 has been an awful year for both of them. The scrutiny, the suspicion, the sense of displacement - it's all enough to drive anyone mad. If he's feeling charitable, he can almost sympathise.

So, in a rare display of mercy, he bites back an eye roll. Doesn't let his temper rise like it's so prone to do these days. Instead, William takes another sip from his (irritatingly lukewarm) mug, and appraises Michael over its rim. "Don't let the locals hear you saying that. Do you hear me?" He says. His stiff-necked collar feels cool against his throat when he swivels his head to eye the partially-opened window, antsy, adding: "That's all we'd need. Another accusation to lob at you." Keep your mouth shut. Itching for something to smoke, or drink, or break, William wraps both hands around his mug, holding it close like its pathetically delicate make can ward off the possibility of further scrutiny from the neighbours coming their way.

He continues, as if Michael is the unreasonable, unstable one ( alright, actually, unstable is a label Michael owns just as much as William does ), as if Michael's words aren't echoing William's own burning blistering thoughts he can't quite shake. Contrasting to Michael, though, William's mantra is near hysterics, bordering on manic. I HOPE YOU LIVE FOREVER. I HOPE WE BOTH LIVE FOREVER. AND I HOPE YOU OWE THAT TO ME FOR THE REST OF YOUR LIFE.

His eye twitches. Too early for those sort of thoughts. Instead, he tries to sound placating. (Is certain he sounds condescending instead.)

"If you're ready to stop whining like you're ten years old, I need your help in the study today. Are you up to that, or will you snap and kill us both with a wrench instead?"

[slaughterlocked]

“ fair?! how is any of this fair?! “

"IT'S SIMPLE CHEMISTRY, MICHAEL." WILLIAM SPEAKS SCORNFULLY, LIKE HE HADN'T BEEN ASKING HIMSELF THE SAME QUESTION AFTER EVERY TRAGEDY, EVERY LOSS, EVERY STEP FURTHER. He shakes his head with a tight, terse laugh, eyeing his son with the temerity of a man who hasn't quite yet lost his mind, but isn't far from it. "The world exists in a balance. Chemically, biologically, physically." Spiritually. "What is put out into the world is returned. The balance is kept." One life taken, another granted. Really, he's a fucking scientist - more than that, he's god, or as close to god as science can get. Michael should be begging him for forgiveness. Instead, he's whining about unfairness . . . His view of his son's actions is unfair, but William pays it no mind. Hands settling over Michael's shoulders with something akin to paternal pride, he speaks almost reverently, a priest trying to give religion to the fool: "Myself, my work - it's uprooting balance. It's about making things truly fair. Giving to those who give." Giving family to those who have given theirs up into the mouth of a bear. "Taking from those who take." From Michael and Henry and every other soul on earth who has ever taken from William. William's tone flattens, grows distant again. These days, a conversation with him is a balancing act in itself - walking a tightrope with a blindfold. "You can't tell me you still don't understand. With what I've sacrificed - this is the only thing that's fair at this point."