Don't Fear the Reaper - teamchaosprez (2024)

Chapter 1

Chapter Text

On the exterior, William Afton appeared to be a valuable member of his small town’s community. He was outgoing and entrepreneurial enough to make most people forget he hadn’t always been there; a bit of a flirt in a way that most found charming; the owner of a successful robotics company that had breathed life into the local economy. He was a family man, a devoted single father to his two year old son Michael after the sudden disappearance of his wife.

After speaking with the man for the last month, local reporter Henry Emily knew that he was all of those things. However, he also wholeheartedly believed that William was a serial killer.

There wasn’t a lot of hard proof, he had to admit, but there was something incredibly suspicious about the killings that had been plaguing Hurricane for the last year - and, specifically, how they connected to the vanishing of one Clara Afton in late June of 1970. Neighbors reported that the Aftons had been arguing very loudly near daily - quite unusual for a couple that had only been married about eleven months, much less one with a five month old son to care for. Then one morning, William had called the police to report her missing. He claimed that she’d walked out and taken the car during a particularly nasty disagreement the previous night, and that he’d expected for her to come back on her own - but she never had. None of her family nor her friends knew where she could possibly be, and few could believe that a mother could leave her infant son behind. She was never found, and neither was the car; and William reported that she’d hardly been a doting mother, so the belief that spread through Hurricane was simply that she’d grown to regret her marriage and son and run out of town.

If that was where it ended, most would have just moved on. However, a little over a year later - in August of 1971 - a body turned up in a rural ditch about twenty miles out of town, wrapped in plastic. The resemblance to Mrs. Afton, right down to her body type, had many convinced that was the deceased woman’s identity - a few even believed that to be the case after she was positively identified as another local woman, Lucille Bond. Mrs. Afton and Miss Bond had a lot in common; they were both women in their early twenties who worked as receptionists and had the particular vice of enjoying alcohol a bit too much. It hardly seemed like a coincidence, but without a body or even the missing car recovered nobody could definitively say that Mrs. Afton had met the same fate.

Then, in November, the body of another dark haired, blue eyed young woman turned up not far from where the first body was discovered. In February, there was another. Panic spread throughout the small town, and any woman who even vaguely resembled the first four victims was inclined to stay inside. Eyes turned to William and the disappearance of his wife again, but he seemed to have a good story - he couldn’t have been behind the murders, he was so busy with work and raising his son, and he couldn’t hurt a fly anyway - so the suspicion didn’t last.

In May 1972, the community waited with bated breath for another disappearance or another body in keeping with the three-month pattern, but it didn’t happen. The tense atmosphere eased, and life went back to normal. They were so relieved that no violent crime had occurred in Hurricane’s borders that month that scarcely any attention was paid to a young, blond man the next town over that was found floating in a lake on May 30th. He didn’t fit the description of the other victims, after all.

Henry, however, found it unusual. He couldn’t explain why, exactly, but he had a gut feeling that the young man’s passing was connected to the four women who’d gone missing from or died in Hurricane. That suspicion only deepened in August, almost a year to the date of Lucille Bond’s date of death, when a couple from another neighboring town were found dead near their car in the woods. The woman even fit the same description of dark hair, light eyes, and medium stature - but because she wasn’t a resident of Hurricane, the people living there didn’t seem to care all that much.

The only real suspect for the case was William, even if the local police had decided he wasn’t the culprit. So that was where Henry decided to start one morning toward the end of September, calling the office of his company and nervously tapping on his desk’s surface. A quick conversation with a receptionist, and he was transferred to another line.

“This is Afton,” spoke a British accent on the other end, and Henry froze up for a moment as he considered what to say next. How do you just come right out and all but directly accuse someone of killing their wife and five other people? He really should have planned the conversation more, but he didn’t really have time to kick himself about it.

“My name is Henry Emily. I’m a reporter with the Hurricane Herald. I was wondering if you’d be willing to meet me for lunch soon, talk a little about your wife’s disappearance and what you think of the killings that have been happening in the area lately.” He winced a little at himself; investigative journalism would be much easier if the interviewing part could be done by someone else.

There was a pause on the other end, and Henry started trying to think of ways he could salvage this and convince William that a conversation wasn’t a huge deal or a commitment, but before he could open his mouth and dig himself deeper into a socially awkward hole, a response came. “I’ve already spoken to the news and the police, but sure, I suppose. Are you free on Wednesday around noon?”

Henry’s tapping on his desk paused for a moment - he’d been expecting a little bit of pushback, not an immediate agreement. His thoughts faltered; if someone was guilty, wouldn’t they be trying to avoid talking as much as possible so as not to accidentally contradict themselves or give something away that the public didn’t know? Or maybe William was just so rehearsed by now that he knew exactly what to say and do. Either way, Henry couldn’t exactly give up on the opportunity. “Wednesday sounds great,” he confirmed, nodding even though the man on the other end of the phone couldn’t see and reaching for his pen and notepad. “Is there somewhere in particular you’d like to meet? I’ll treat.”

William laughed a little, assured him that wasn’t necessary, and gave him the address of a diner not far from his company’s office that Henry was quick to write down. By the end of the phone call, Henry was pleasantly surprised by how easy the conversation was and how personable William seemed.

By the meeting time a few days later, however, the nerves had settled back in and he had to force himself to leave his car and stand near the entrance of the diner to wait for the roboticist to arrive. He was tempted to hurry back to his workplace and call again to request an interview over the phone or something, but before he could even consider bolting to his car, another pulled into the parking lot.

He’d not met William Afton in person yet, but it wasn’t difficult to guess that the tall man that climbed out was him. His brown hair was long, thick, and wavy, and he wore a purple suit jacket that might have looked tacky if he didn’t carry himself with an almost smug kind of confidence. The smile on his face was friendly, but as he came closer Henry noticed that it only barely reached his striking dark gray eyes. He was good looking; it wasn’t difficult to see how people were charmed by him.

“Henry, right?” William asked as he approached, reaching out a hand and taking one of Henry’s and shake. “It’s nice to meet you in person.”

“Likewise,” Henry nodded, taking his hand back and putting it in his pocket after what he thought was an acceptable enough moment had passed.

He followed as William walked past him and into the diner; it was surprisingly slow for lunchtime, so it didn’t take long for them to end up in a back booth having a quick conversation with a waitress. She walked back to the kitchen to hand over their order, and with a small breath to calm his nerves, Henry started talking.

“So, it’s been over two years since your wife went missing,” he started, pulling out his pen and notepad. “How have you and your son been doing?”

William let out a short, almost uncomfortable laugh, and Henry winced. “You really cut right to the chase, don’t you?” he asked, leaning forward to rest his arms on the table. “I respect it. Michael and I are doing fine. We miss Clara dearly, of course, but life goes on.”

He sounded remarkably casual for someone whose wife vanished without a trace and was probably dead in a shallow grave somewhere. Even if what the neighbors said about the Aftons constantly arguing was true, shouldn’t he be more concerned? Henry supposed the passage of time may have been to blame for that. “Sorry. I just figured that, since we both know what we’re here for, we might as well get through it.” His social skills had never been the strongest; small talk and pleasantries weren’t his specialties. In his line of work, that was always either appreciated or a setback.

“Fair enough.”

Henry nodded a little, and scribbled down a note of William’s answer to the prior question. “Did Clara have any enemies? Or anywhere out of the area she might’ve been planning to run to?”

“I don’t know about enemies, but she definitely wasn’t popular. She’s good at being polite, but once her mask slips she’s got a bit of a nasty streak.” Which would explain why William didn’t seem to miss her terribly, Henry thought. “Her family’s from Arkansas; her parents live near Hurricane, but she’s still got grandparents and relatives in the Little Rock area. I called them when she first went missing, and so did the police, I believe. They hadn’t seen her.”

Again, Henry nodded. These were pretty basic answers; they even sounded rehearsed, which made sense because god only knows how many times William had been asked these questions specifically. He leaned back in the booth a little, smiled and thanked the waitress when she brought out their food, and thought about how he could find something that hadn’t apparently been inquired about a million times in the last two years.

“How did you and Clara meet?” was what he ended up settling on, trying not to tap on the table with his pen. “Reports have said that you’d been married eleven months when she went missing, and that Michael was only five months old at the time. Was he premature?”

William blinked. “Well, she was the receptionist at the first job I had out of university. We hit it off, went on a few dates.” He rubbed the back of his neck; people must not have asked him about his early relationship as much as the weeks leading up to her disappearance. “No, Michael wasn’t early. We got married because she was pregnant and she didn’t want to be an unwed mother. Honestly, I think that was why she might’ve wanted to run away. She wasn’t happy with the arrangement.”

“That makes sense.” Henry scribbled down a few more notes. If the relationship was an unhappy one from the start, he could definitely see William snapping and deciding to get rid of his wife. But why commit murder instead of pursuing a divorce? And what could the motive be for the other homicides?

He was going to have to talk to this man more. Get to know him better than one conversation over lunch would allow.

“So, who takes care of Michael while you’re working?”

William’s face brightened a little. “Oh, he’s in this wonderful daycare just down the street.”

Noticing that William seemed happy to talk about his son, Henry struck up a conversation about the boy - two years old, incredibly high energy, and fascinated with vehicles and Scooby-Doo, apparently. He asked about his business as well, his friends, his experience growing up in London and moving to the United States for school before deciding to stay.

As their time came to an end - both of them had to get back to work, after all - Henry was pretty confident that he’d succeeded in striking up a friendship with William, something he confirmed by asking to meet again for dinner and more conversation the following week. Over time, the conversations revolved less around trying to solve a puzzle and more about life in general. This continued for five more weeks, and one afternoon in the middle of October, Henry came to a troubling realization.

William Afton was most likely a serial killer. And Henry Emily was thoroughly charmed by him.

Chapter 2

Chapter Text

William never really had to wait and search for his son in the group of children playing in the daycare classroom. Without fail, every afternoon he would arrive and Michael would come running to him with an exclamation of “Daddy!” and cling to his leg, all giggles. October 18th - a Wednesday - was no different, and William smiled brightly as he lifted up his son.

“Hello, love,” he greeted the toddler, gently ruffling his hair. “Did you have a good day today?”

Michael nodded enthusiastically, wrapping his arms around William’s neck for a moment before he went right back to being bouncy and fidgety. William smiled affectionately and gave the top of his head a paternal kiss before putting him back down, taking his chubby little hand.

“That’s good. I thought we’d walk home today, if that sounds good? Get you some fresh air.” Home was only a couple of blocks away from the office and daycare, and William was always looking for ways to channel some of the excess energy that came from the boy.

“Okay!” Michael answered with a grin, and father and son started on their way down the road. Michael rambled on as they walked, and though William paid just enough attention to give him responses and keep him talking and feeling validated, his mind was elsewhere.

Specifically, on a certain reporter he’d been speaking to and thinking about for a month.

Henry Emily was not the first reporter that had come into his life in the two years since his wife went missing, and honestly, William doubted he would be the last. He wasn’t the first one to try and get into his head, and he wasn’t the first one to think they could blow the case wide open. William wasn’t stupid. He knew that some people thought he was behind the serial killings in the area; he had to be very careful, at all times, about how he spoke about it. So far, aside from strategically mentioning once in a while that his relationship with Clara hadn’t been a happy one - because, in his experience, that gave some credence to the idea that she ran off - he’d avoided letting anything too damning slip.

So it made little sense to him that Henry still stuck around, still asked questions about his personal life and occasionally his marriage. Wasn’t that sort of a waste of time? Surely he had other articles to write, other people to press and psychoanalyze.

And yet, William couldn’t seem to stop giving in whenever he was invited somewhere, or whenever Henry suggested spending time together. He liked talking to the journalist. Although their fields were different, William could tell that Henry was smart - he could even believe that Henry was his intellectual equal. He was interesting, and even if it was fake - he was kind.

It certainly didn’t help that William was undeniably attracted to him - but that was knowledge that made him nervous when he thought about it too hard.

His train of thought was broken by Michael tripping slightly on a bump in the sidewalk, and William was quick to put a hand on his back to help him steady himself. That little hand tightened its grip on his, and something in his chest tightened with it. The toddler looked up at him, seemingly a little startled by the change in balance, before smiling brightly. “You alright, mate?” he asked, though the expression on Michael’s face and the way he started bouncing down the sidewalk again answered that question for him.

“Yes, Daddy! Thanks,” Michael chirped happily, and tugged on William’s hand to keep him moving forward. William smiled slightly, and held down a sigh. He shouldn’t let himself get too close to Henry - if he was caught for his crimes, what would happen to his son? His maternal grandparents failed to raise a child correctly the first time around, his paternal grandmother was worse and across the ocean, and his mother was rotting in a shallow grave in the woods.

This whole mess started in the first place because William was afraid of Michael being taken away from him, after all.

He was so lost in thought, trying to figure out how he could cut off whatever he had going on with Henry, as they turned the corner onto their street that he almost didn’t notice the familiar figure standing in front of the house. The head of curly red hair was hard not to recognize. Although he was a little annoyed by the timing, William put on his typical friendly smile as they approached.

“Good afternoon, Henry,” he greeted the other man, crouching a little to pick up Michael and hold him on his hip. “Can I ask what you’re doing in the neighborhood?” He could probably have asked how the journalist got his address, too, but that probably wasn’t private information after Clara’s disappearance. The missing person posters had her last known location on them, after all, and that was allegedly his front yard.

“Oh, your receptionist told me that you’d left for the day, so I wanted to come by and see if you’d like to go for a walk or get dinner or something,” was Henry’s answer, delivered in such a casual way that William almost believed that this was more about their blossoming friendship than it was about trying to get in his head about the murders. “This young man must be Michael?” he asked with a smile as his attention turned to the toddler.

“Yeah!” Michael, never a shy child, answered enthusiastically, and William wasn’t sure whether to let his guard fall or make it stronger. Surely the conversation couldn’t turn to more sensitive matters with a two year old around? It wasn’t like he ever told his son much about what he did every few months, so it wasn’t like Henry could go through him to get information.

“It’s very nice to meet you, Michael. I’m Henry,” the journalist spoke to the toddler, his tone so warm and kind that William was almost suspicious. Henry took hold of Michael’s little hand and gave it a gentle shake, which made Michael giggle; maybe he was just alright with kids. It was hard not to like him a little more when Michael seemingly approved so far.

William bit down another sigh as he stepped past Henry and up onto the front porch, fishing his keys out of his pocket to unlock the door. “Well, since you’re here, you might as well come in for a bit. I can put some tea on.” He set Michael down inside once the door was open, and watched him run off, down the hallway and toward his bedroom, before stepping into the house himself. “There anything in particular you were looking to talk about?” he asked, closing and locking the door behind Henry.

The house was, unfortunately, not really cleaned up for company, as William hadn’t been expecting any. Toys were strewn about the living room and kitchen - it was more effort to try and pick up after Hurricane Michael than it was worth - and papers were scattered on the coffee table and kitchen counter along with ripped envelopes. The kitchen table, rarely used for its actual intended purpose, wasn’t spared, a pile of robotic parts William had been tinkering with over the last week sitting in the middle and the chairs pulled out so that Michael couldn’t climb up and get into them.

Henry, bless his heart, didn’t have much to say about it, and simply pulled one of the chairs up to sit at the table nonetheless. “Not really,” he answered with a shrug, though he looked at the pile of parts with what William assumed was some amount of interest. Or disgust. It was difficult to try and read people’s expressions. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

“It’s only been a few days since we last spoke,” William replied as he filled a kettle with water and got it set up on the stove. He grabbed the nearest reasonably sized container - a piece of Tupperware he rarely, if ever, used - and quickly moved to the table to push some pieces into it. “Sorry about the mess. Been a bit too busy to clean lately.”

“Well, you’ve been on my mind lately.” Henry almost seemed a little surprised by his own words, a blush crossing his features. William felt his heart skip a beat, and a quiet sort of dread enveloped him. Oh no. “Don’t worry about it. Work and a toddler must keep you occupied.”

“They really do.” William let out a brief laugh that he hoped sounded casual despite his nerves. This wasn’t the kind of reaction he’d have had to growing feelings, probably reciprocated feelings that he would have had a couple of years ago. Flirting with people to get positive attention or funding or to throw people off his trail was one thing - genuinely wanting someone was a cause for concern.

It happened, of course. More often than he’d like. Every time, he struggled to keep his thoughts and urges under control, and every time, he failed. A stranger every here and there was regrettable, but he could live with it. He’d not gotten actually attached to someone he was attracted to in a while. He wasn’t sure what he’d do if he couldn’t…

“Who takes care of Michael when you go out in the evening?” Henry interrupted his train of thought, and William almost jumped. He regarded the question with no small amount of suspicion - it kind of brought him back to reality, back to the knowledge that Henry was a reporter trying to crack the case of the serial killings wide open.

“I don’t go out after the daycare is closed often. You inviting me to dinner last month was pretty much the only time I’ve done in the last year.” He winced a little at how defensive his voice came out, and hoped that Henry didn’t pick up on it. “When I do, though, I usually ask the daughter of one of my employees. Nice girl, takes good care of him.”

“You must be a good boss if you’ve even got goodwill with your employees’ families.”

William shrugged, and hearing the kettle begin to sing, moved to grab the boiling water and prepare a couple of mugs of tea. “I do my best. It’s not like I don’t pay her for her time, though.”

Henry opened his mouth, apparently about to say something, but before he could, Michael came running into the kitchen, clutching a red ball in his arms. “Daddy, can I play outside?” he asked, bouncing on his heels a little.

“How about in a few minutes?” William answered, glancing to Henry for a moment before he crouched to his son’s level to give his hair a little ruffle. “Henry and I are still talking, but you and I can go in the backyard together after supper.”

“I want to play outside now,” Michael pouted and stomped his little foot. Unfortunately, William was too charmed by his very existence to find the gesture threatening or serious in any way.

“Do you want to go watch the telly instead?” That always worked to redirect Michael, because he was two years old and enchanted by any form of moving picture. Saturday morning cartoons were ideal, of course, but strangely, Michael seemed to like the soap operas that came on Wednesday afternoons almost as much. It would at least keep him busy for the half an hour William needed to finish a conversation and decide what to make for dinner.

Michael’s face scrunched up, as if he was seriously considering whether to keep pressing the issue. Evidently, he decided against it, as he toddled off into the living room.

“He can turn on a television by himself?” Henry asked as the sound of it leaked into the kitchen, and William shrugged.

“Not terribly hard to figure out a button, I don’t think. He doesn’t need to play with the dials too much, since it’s always set to CBS anyway.” William took the tea bags out of the mugs and walked over to set one in front of Henry, sitting across from him with the other. “Why were you asking about my babysitting arrangements?”

“Oh.” Henry blushed, and rubbed the back of his neck a bit awkwardly. “Well, I wanted to know if you wanted to go out on Friday. Not to talk about anything serious like we have been, but just… to see a movie and go to dinner or something.”

“Sounds like a date.” William tried to keep himself neutral as he watched Henry’s face light up an even brighter pink, green eyes avoiding looking at him to the best of their ability. God damn it. Dangerous feelings and anxiety aside, he was irresistible. “I’d love to. Meet me at the theater around eight?”

Chapter 3

Chapter Text

Hurricane was a small enough town that its residents were lucky to have a movie theater at all. The one they had only contained one screen and typically lagged anywhere from six months to a year behind on whatever movies came out, but it was a decent enough place for a first date, especially on the odd month where the movie playing wasn’t meant for children. October was a good month for that, thankfully, even if Who Slew Auntie Roo was an odd choice for this year’s horror movie.

Henry arrived almost ten minutes early, and stood anxiously outside the building instead of just going inside and finding somewhere to sit in the lobby. He kept his arms crossed over his chest, glad that he put on a jacket to protect from the cold fall evening but wishing he’d dug up a thicker one. Much like the first time he spoke to William, he found himself wondering if he should just go home and cancel.

He told himself he’d invited the probable serial killer on a date of all things primarily to see if he could push him into revealing something damning. His latest theory for William’s motivation was that the murders had been a series of dates or sexual encounters gone wrong. There had never been enough DNA evidence (or evidence at all, to be honest) left behind to go off the latter, but the former was still a distinct possibility. William certainly seemed averse enough to letting people get too close.

Eight o’clock came, and Henry took a glance around the parking lot. Seeing nothing, he frowned and double checked his watch; it was unlike William to be late. At the very least, it broke the pattern of punctuality he’d established over the last month. Henry leaned against the theater’s outside wall, trying to assume that he’d just gotten caught up in traffic or something, even though there wasn’t much of that anywhere in Hurricane. As more time progressed, that became less of a possibility in his mind.

Almost fifteen minutes passed of Henry growing increasingly nervous, and he was considering just cutting his losses and going home, trying not to feel a little hurt that he’d been stood up even if he was still trying to convince himself that he was just using the date as bait to get something to break. The movie was meant to start at eight thirty anyway, so if he waited too much longer there wouldn’t be much of a point in being out in the first place.

As he pushed himself off the cold wall to walk back to his car, he spotted a familiar car speeding into the lot and parking less than gracefully. While he knew he should probably be annoyed, he was just relieved as a somewhat frantic looking William climbed out and hurried over to him.

“I am so sorry,” William spoke up sheepishly as he got closer, fixing his slightly disheveled hair as he walked. “I had to put Michael down for bed before I left, and the bloody kid just did not want to stay lying down.”

That made sense. Henry had to wonder why that couldn’t have just been left to the babysitter, but he supposed that William’s son was bound to be a greater priority (reasonably so,) and he had no reason to believe otherwise. “That’s okay,” he replied with a smile and a shrug, and stepped to open the door to the theater and hold it open for William. “You still got here before the movie. Let’s get out of the cold.”

William smiled and nodded, offering his arm to Henry as he stepped past - although he was a little flustered and a lot wary of close physical contact with someone who he thought had killed six people, he took it. It being a Friday evening, the theater was about as busy as it usually got - which was to say, not very. A couple of teenagers and a set of parents with their preteen daughter stood in the lobby, and the cashier behind the concessions looked about ready to fall asleep.

“I’ll pay for the movie if you pay for dinner,” Henry offered, pulling out his wallet as they approached the counter, and William laughed lightly.

“Are there even any restaurants open after ten in this town? I figured we’d just be eating at one of our homes.” William sounded a little amused, a smile on his face. “I did just get groceries, so I’m not opposed regardless.”

Right. It probably would have been a better idea to get dinner first - or maybe go out earlier, but apparently eight was already cutting it closer to Michael’s bedtime than was comfortable. Either way, it was Henry’s turn to be kind of sheepish as he paid for their tickets and they walked back into the theater.

There were a few more people inside than there were in the lobby, but not many. William and Henry made their way to a pair of seats toward the back of the theater, away from the center where most of the other patrons were gathered; usually, Henry would have preferred to sit closer to the screen, but he usually went alone and doubted he’d be focused on the movie itself tonight.

“Is it normally hard to get Michael down for bed?” Henry asked in a hushed tone as he settled into his seat, turning his attention toward William. He was glad for the dim light as the other looked his way, because the proximity and the attention made him blush. He wasn’t sure why, because he knew full well they’d be sitting this close together, but here he was.

“He’s got a lot of energy.” A fond, faint smile crossed William’s face. “It’s not easy for him to sit still unless something catches his attention, and lying down quietly isn’t exactly a favorite game of his. I’ve got to sit in his room with him so he doesn’t get up to try and play with his toys for hours, and even that’s not always effective.”

Listening to William talk about even the most inconvenient parts of parenthood without any bitterness was equal parts refreshing and endearing. Henry thought of his own parents; wondered if they were ever enamored with him the way William seemed to be with Michael. He hadn’t spoken to them since he moved out for college. He doubted they would even recognize him now; after all, when he left, they still saw him as their daughter.

“He’s lucky to have you,” and honestly, Henry meant it.

William laughed a little with a small shrug. “It’s my job to try and do right by him. He didn’t ask to be born.” There was a small pause, and the roboticists’s expression turned to something a little… sadder. Henry expected him to speak up again, but he didn’t; he thought about prying, but before he could even think of the right question to ask, the lights dimmed and the movie was starting.

Honestly, the film wasn’t very good, but the campy overacting and messy plot was certainly fun to watch, and even more fun to occasionally whisper something to make fun of it. Henry could scarcely believe that an hour and a half had already passed by the time it was over and the lights came back on; it was so easy to get lost in just hanging out with William.

Dangerously easy. He could definitely see how someone would be so charmed that they wouldn’t even notice they were in danger. Suddenly, Henry was a little nervous about the idea of going back to William’s house for dinner instead of staying in a public place - he’d have to follow close behind and at least make sure the babysitter saw him on her way out. None of the murders had happened anywhere near William’s home, at least - maybe he didn’t want to do any crimes where his son might witness something? He’d just have to avoid going to a third location. At least he already knew the short route from the kitchen to the front door - it wasn’t a very big house.

“You alright?” William asked, and Henry blinked back to attention, looking up to see a smile on the other man’s face and a hand outstretched to help him up. A little embarrassed about being caught zoning out, Henry took it with a small smile of his own.

“Yeah, sorry,” he answered, trying not to blush at the feeling of William’s hand in his own. Somehow, he hadn’t expected it to be warm. Though he wanted to keep holding onto it for the rest of the night, he pulled away a few moments after he was on his feet; he had to remind himself to try and not get even more attached and lost in a budding relationship. This was just to get closer and try and extract more information or force something to happen. Nothing more.

Henry, unfortunately, wasn’t very good at lying to himself.

They walked out to the parking lot in relative quiet; when Henry glanced over to William, he appeared to be equally lost in thought. Not for the first time, he wished he could read his mind.

As they reached Henry’s car - closer to the theater’s entrance - William paused. “I’m having fun tonight,” he started, gently taking Henry’s hand in one of his again, and the journalist couldn’t help the blush that crept across his cheeks. “You can follow me home, but I’m sure you remember my address, yeah? Don’t get lost.”

“Yeah,” Henry echoed, his voice a little weaker than he wished it was, and watched William walk off toward his own vehicle. It took him a moment to remember to climb in and start the engine, pulling out of his parking spot and proceeding to spend the next five minutes of the drive to William’s home planning what he should do if things went awry.

It may have been an understatement to say that he was tense by the time he parked next to William’s car in the driveway. It was after ten at night, the neighborhood was quiet, and the teenage girl that glanced at his car from the front window was only so much comfort. He stepped out, trailing a bit behind William on the way up the path to the door, and watched as the roboticist thanked the girl with a smile and handed her some cash. Henry gave her a smile and a nod as she walked past to go home.

“Now, I’m afraid I didn’t plan to make a second meal tonight, so it’s not going to be anything fancy,” William spoke in an apologetic tone as he made his way to the kitchen.

“That’s no problem. I’m sorry, I should have planned better,” Henry replied, though he wasn’t paying all that much attention to the conversation at hand - too focused on observing his surroundings. He didn’t see anything that might impede on an escape plan. He would just have to keep some distance in case William decided to use a kitchen knife; he didn’t seem like the type to own a gun, and all the murders that had occurred so far had been either strangulations or stabbings anyway.

The kitchen table, at least, had been cleaned up since the last time Henry visited. He didn’t mind the house being a bit messy - his own apartment wasn’t quite as bad, but it wasn’t exactly spotless, either, and he understood that there was only so much time and energy someone could put into less necessary chores when the rest of the day was busy - but it was still nice to not have to work around god knows what metallic objects to eat and drink. William busied himself quickly with cooking, and Henry remained quiet, not wanting to distract him.

It took about twenty minutes for William to finish whatever simple pasta dish he’d been working on and bring two plates back to the table. Henry smiled and thanked him, and - feeling a bit silly about it - waited for him to take a bite first. When he did end up tasting it, he had to admit it was pretty good. A charismatic doting father with a good job and a house who could also cook? It was a shame he probably had homicidal tendencies, or he’d be husband material.

“So,” William spoke up after a moment, leaning back in his chair a little to look at Henry with an expression that could only be described as curious. “Do you want children, Henry?”

Well, that was a typical enough question to ask on a first date, especially one with a single father involved, but Henry was still a little caught off guard. “I haven’t really thought that much about it, to be honest. I’ve been focused on my career before I settle down,” he replied, rubbing the back of his neck a bit awkwardly. “But I think I’d probably like some. Do you think you’d want to have more?”

“Yeah. I think I’d like to give Michael a couple of siblings. I was an only child, and it could be a bit lonely growing up. I like to think I’m a better parent than the one I was stuck with, but still.” This was the most about his childhood William had revealed so far aside from just grew up in London and the incredibly vague had a good bit of fun running around Norbury as a lad. Henry wished he knew how to ask about more without accidentally digging into something sensitive.

“Do you think you want to stay in Hurricane?” Henry asked after a moment of deliberation on where to steer the conversation. This was a date. He should just ask things that would reasonably set up ideas of the future of a relationship, right? “It can’t be as exciting as London.”

William laughed a little. “Well, my business is here, and I like the people. Some small town monotony is kind of nice after growing up in a big city.”

The conversation continued as they ate, and Henry didn’t even notice his guard gradually going down the longer he spoke to William until he was getting to his feet and thanking him for the lovely evening. It was only after the roboticist had walked him over to the front door that he remembered he’d been putting himself in danger for the past hour - but, thankfully, nothing had happened. William must have had different motives than Henry had assumed. Or maybe he was just too smart to do anything to a journalist that was investigating him.

His thoughts were interrupted as William opened the door for him and let him take a step outside - not by words or by the cold night air, but by lips. On his. Kissing him. Very suddenly. Very warmly. And feeling very nice. Somehow, he reciprocated despite being nothing short of stunned speechless.

Henry wondered if he looked as stupid as he felt with his mouth agape and face bright red as William pulled back and took his hand to give it a gentle squeeze. “Drive safely, alright? I’ll call you in the morning.”

All he could do was nod and walk back to his car as quickly as he could.

Chapter 4

Chapter Text

The car, the woods, and the woman tied up in the backseat were not new sights. The fog enveloping everything was, but it didn’t give William pause as he drove down his predetermined path and took a right turn into a section of woods that was just clear enough to navigate an SUV far enough from the road to be invisible. There were no hiking trails through here, and the population of deer wasn’t substantial enough for anyone to frequent it during hunting season.

None of this was premeditated in any real or meaningful sense of the word, but William couldn’t claim he hadn’t wandered around the area enough in the last couple of weeks to know the perfect spot to commit a murder. He couldn’t lie about having a few pairs of latex gloves laying around to avoid leaving fingerprints, or a spare pair of shoes with unrecognizable soles. Just in case it came to that. And it had, in fact, come to that.

Clara had been drunk enough when he removed her from the house to not wake up when she was tied up or gagged, or when she was put in the back of the car. Apparently, however, the rough terrain of the woods had caused enough bumping and shaking to stir her from her slumber. She was struggling and shouting at him, unintelligibly thanks to the dish towel in her mouth, by the time he parked the car. When he opened the back door to grab her and drag her out, he didn’t see any fear on her face - only anger, clouded by the sheer amount of wine in her system.

She didn’t think he had it in him to hurt her.

Honestly, he’d never been happier she was wrong.

William was not exactly the strongest man in town, physically speaking, but he could at least lift her over his shoulder and carry her a short distance from the car. Not far, because she decided to struggle and squirm, but a couple hundred yards was probably good enough. By the time he dumped her none too gently on the ground, she finally seemed to be realizing her situation. He walked back to his car to retrieve an empty wine bottle and a knife, and when he returned, she at last looked afraid.

And the adrenaline that rushed through him, the joy of seeing terror on her face, felt good. Good enough that it almost concerned him. Good enough that he didn’t think he could stop if he wanted to.

“I wonder,” he started, surprising himself with how cold and calm his voice came out. “How the way you treat me would make you feel? There’s not quite enough time for me to shout at you and call you names and put you through eleven long months of hell, but I can certainly show you how much it hurts to be hit with bottles. I can show you the helplessness and fear that you put my infant son through. I can give you a fraction of what you deserve.”

She said something, muffled by the gag, but it sounded vaguely like please. The power it made him feel was a rush. Even if he wanted to - which he didn’t - he couldn’t let her go. William knew what it was like to grow up with a physically abusive, narcissistic alcoholic of a mother. He refused to let Michael go through the same thing - and he refused to let her make good on her threat of taking him away and never letting him see him again.

He lifted her by the ropes restraining her, forced her to stand against a tree. He swung the bottle at her face, heart pounding as it connected to her cheek with a sound all too familiar to him. He watched as a red spot that would surely become a bruise formed there, and he hit again. And again. And again. Harder every time, letting out the last twenty five years’ worth of pent up aggression and anger with every strike. At some point, she began to cry, but he barely noticed it, too caught up in beating her face until the swelling and the forming bruises made her nearly unrecognizable.

William didn’t even know how much time had passed or how many times he’d struck her face by the time the bottle broke against her forehead, shards of glass cutting into her already badly injured skin. She slumped against the tree, unable to keep herself upright, and he could tell that she must have been on the verge of unconsciousness.

Was he still enjoying this? He couldn’t tell. He felt disconnected from his body, from the broken bottle in his hand, from everything around him. He slashed the broken bottle against her cheek, just to watch her bleed, and tossed it aside before grabbing the rope again and throwing her to the ground.

He held the knife tightly in his hand, and stared at her for a few moments. Watched her shallow, ragged breathing; wondered what she could possibly be thinking about. He wondered if she was sorry; if she was learning her lesson. Not that it mattered. He drove the knife into her chest, her abdomen -

“Daddy?”

He watched her blood stain her shirt at an alarming rate and pool underneath her on the forest floor, let himself feel all the rage and anxiety he’d been suppressing and kept stabbing without even caring whether or not she was still breathing -

“Daddy, wake up.”

The sound of a little voice and the feeling of a hand on his arm snapped him out of the dream, out of the woods, and when he groggily blinked his eyes open, he was in his bedroom again. His heart still pounded in his chest, and the glaring red light of his alarm clock told him it was just past three in the morning. He turned his head, and met eyes with Michael’s watery ones; the toddler’s grip on his arm was tight, and the plush fox in his opposite hand was held even tighter.

Not for the first time, he was grateful his son seemed to have gotten most of his looks from him rather than his mother.

“What’s the matter, Michael?” he asked, pulling himself up onto one elbow and using the opposite hand to rub his eye. Now that he was awake, Michael climbed up onto the bed to firmly attach himself to William’s side.

“Bad dream,” the toddler sniffled, rubbing his face against William’s shirt. With the hand that wasn’t holding himself up, he gently rubbed his son’s back in an effort to soothe him. “There’s a monster down the hall. I heard breathing.”

“I’m sorry, mate,” William spoke softly, tucking the duvet over Michael with the full understanding he would be sleeping there the rest of the night. “Don’t worry, it was just a dream. There aren’t any monsters in our house. I had it inspected by the monster committee before I bought it.”

Michael sniffled, but he at least looked more intrigued than scared now. “Monster’mity?”

“Yeah, they check houses to make sure they’re free of monsters, creatures, ghosts, and the like.” He gently brushed the toddler’s hair out of his face, giving him a little smile. “They said that the house is certified monster free. But even if one got in, you know I wouldn’t let it touch my little boy. You would just need to call for me, and I’d give it a good knocking.”

He watched as Michael seemed to think about that for a moment, and he looked a lot more confident as he nodded and snuggled up closer to William’s side. “Can I sleep here?”

William smiled, and gave him a nod as he lowered himself to lie back down. “Of course, love.”

Now that he was settled back down and felt safe in his father’s bed, it didn’t take very long for Michael’s breathing to slow as he drifted back off to sleep. William kept an arm around him, and let out a sigh as he looked up at the ceiling. He was a little jealous, honestly. He didn’t think he would be getting back to sleep anytime soon.

It was nearly half past nine when Michael launched himself from the bed, rousing William from the light sleep he’d managed to drift back into. Given that it was a Saturday morning and there were cartoons to watch, William was just surprised he hadn’t popped awake and run to the living room earlier.

He yawned and stretched before getting to his feet, sluggishly following his son down the hall and into the living room. Scooby-Doo had already started playing on the television, so he would be lucky if he got Michael to look away from the screen for the next hour. “What do you want for breakfast?” he asked as he walked past his son toward the kitchen, and the only answer he got was a shrug.

Cereal it was, then. He poured some Cinnamon Crunch in a bowl - no milk, because that was a mess he did not want to spend the weekend cleaning out of his carpet - and delivered it to the toddler, who started shoveling handfuls of it into his mouth without taking his attention off the cartoon for even a second. William gently ruffled his hair, and before he could sit down to read behind his son, remembered that he’d promised to call Henry come morning.

Stepping back into the kitchen, he reached out to pick up the phone, but paused with his hand an inch from the receiver. William thought of the nightmare, and thought of every date he’d gone on where he started feeling threatened a couple of hours in and resorted to seeking out the rush of killing before he could even realize what he was doing. He hadn’t felt that urge with Henry the previous night, but he couldn’t help but worry that, next time, he would.

Henry was onto him. Regardless of whether it was just a hunch, Henry knew that he was the killer and was almost definitely looking out for signs that something was awry. William couldn’t get caught; certainly, he didn’t want to end up in prison, but above that, he had Michael to worry about. He couldn’t lose him, and he couldn’t let him end up in foster care or with a relative that would treat him terribly.

William sucked in a small breath and picked up the receiver, punching in Henry’s number. It rang three times before a familiar voice answered, “Hello?”

“Morning, Henry,” William greeted cheerfully, smiling even though Henry couldn’t see him. “It’s me. Just calling to make sure that you got home safe last night.”

“Oh.” He heard Henry clearing his throat on the other end, and an image of his shocked expression after the kiss appeared in William’s mind. He had to try not to be too endeared by the thought of the journalist still being flustered and awkward about it, unsuccessfully. “Yeah, I made it home fine. Thanks for checking.”

“Yeah, no problem,” he replied, still lighthearted, and a moment of silence passed between them. William hesitated, thinking a little more on the situation and his options, and decided that it simply wasn’t worth the risk. Not when the last murder had only been a couple of months before, at least. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing his child.

And, though he didn’t want to think very deeply about it, he couldn’t bear the thought of hurting Henry, either.

“Listen,” William started, a little hesitantly, twirling the phone’s chord around his pointer finger. “I had fun last night, and I’ve had fun talking to you. But I think we should stop and go our separate ways. Maybe we can try again at a later date.”

There was another few moments of silence, and William tapped his foot a little, anxious for a response. Not that he blamed Henry much for needing a moment to think about it. “Why?” was the question that eventually came through, and he sighed.

“I just don’t feel like it’s the right time.” It was only half a lie, really. “I’ve been so busy with work and Michael, and I’m not sure if I could really commit to a relationship right now.”

“Okay. Do you think we could keep talking, though?” He could hear what sounded like disappointment in Henry’s voice, and a bit of guilt hit his chest.

“I don’t know. Maybe a bit later down the line, when my schedule’s a bit more forgiving.” He looked through the archway into the living room at Michael, still watching his programme without a care in the world. “I’ve got to go. Goodbye, Henry. I’ll be in touch.”

“Goodbye, William.”

He swallowed as he hung up the phone and walked back into the living room, scooping up Michael (and his cereal bowl) into his arms as he did so. The toddler complained about it momentarily, but quickly relaxed when William sat on the couch with him in his lap, letting him continue watching the cartoon uninterrupted. Michael leaned back, his head resting against William’s chest, and he sighed.

He hoped he was making the right decision.

Chapter 5

Chapter Text

October turned to November, and without any new leads or immediate access to William, Henry’s investigation went cold. It was frustrating, and - admittedly - his feelings were kind of hurt by the rejection. He might have told himself that he was mostly trying to get with William to find out more about his motivations, but the feelings there were unfortunately genuine enough that being broken up with hurt. If it could even be considered a breakup. They only went on one date, he told himself.

The morning of Monday, November 6th - only a couple of weeks since he last spoke to the roboticist - found Henry sitting at his desk in the office of the Hurricane Herald. It was a slow news day, but then again, so were most in a town this small. He didn’t even really have an article to write, but he had most of the day to figure it out, at least; in the meantime, he was stuck glaring at his typewriter as if it was his worst enemy.

He had only been at his desk for about half an hour when his boss startled him by putting a hand on his desk. “There’s been another murder,” he announced before Henry could even ask what he needed, and his voice almost sounded excited. Which, he supposed, couldn’t be helped. If there was one thing that sold papers, it was scandal, and murder and sex were the two most alluring kinds.

Alas, Henry was not as excited by the news. Rather, he felt his heart sink. “Is it connected to the other ones?” he asked, grabbing his notebook and pen from a drawer.

“No clue. That’s what I want you to go and find out.” He didn’t need to be told twice, getting to his feet before his boss had even finished the sentence. “Go check out the crime scene and talk to the guy who found the body. It’s behind Junior’s, that bar on the edge of town. The cops haven’t cleared out the body yet, last I heard, so I want you to get your ass in gear and get there before they do.”

“Yes, sir,” Henry replied with a nod, and hurried out of the building and to his car.

The edge of town was honestly more like outside of it. The bar in question was off the main road, and the turn to access it was easy to miss - driving through the winding forest road was enough to make Henry wonder why he chose to live in a town in the middle of nowhere. Still, he got to Junior’s within twenty minutes of leaving, and when he hurried back behind the building, he was met with a sight he didn’t think he would ever forget.

Police had blocked off the area with crime scene tape, but even with that and the scattered officers talking to each other and taking pictures, he could see the body lying propped - or slumped, he wasn’t sure - against a dumpster. The first thing that Henry noticed was the victim’s head of curly red hair, and he felt his chest tighten. It was difficult to really make out any of the corpse’s features, but his height, build, and face shape were all similar enough to Henry to make him feel a little sick.

And, for some baffling reason, a little flattered? He swallowed thickly, and forced himself to look away from the body and toward some of the police. If there was ever a doubt in his mind that William was behind the murders, it was long gone now, but he had to focus on the information available to him.

“Henry Emily, Hurricane Herald,” he introduced himself a little uneasily, and they turned to look at him with an expression that just screamed annoyance. He didn’t really blame them; it must be a pain to try and investigate a crime with a reporter down your throat. Unfortunately, it was his job, and if this story wasn’t ready by the time the next morning’s issue went to print he would have bigger problems. “Is the witness still here? Has the body been identified? Do you have any clue who could have done this?”

“We’re waiting to send the body to the morgue for family to come make a positive ID, so we’re not at liberty to say who he is. You’re welcome to call the station in a few hours to check.” The officer that ended up answering the question seemed to be a little younger than the others, and had a kinder expression. Henry was grateful that he was there. “The witness is the owner of the bar. He’s inside, and we’ve already talked to him, so you can go ask him some questions. We don’t have any suspects yet.”

“Thank you,” Henry nodded, and took a few steps back. When the policemen looked away from him to continue talking amongst themselves, he pulled out his handheld camera to take a photograph of the crime scene - he felt bad doing it, and did his best to only get the feet of the corpse in the frame, but it would be sensationalist enough to make his boss happy.

Thankfully, the door to the bar was unlocked. He’d been here a couple of times as a patron - he wasn’t a drinker and didn’t like crowds, so it was only ever when his classmates or colleagues dragged him out as a celebration. It felt… different in the daylight. Almost a little eerie.

“Good morning,” he greeted the owner as he approached the bar, even though the poor man was cradling a whiskey at not quite ten in the morning and looked like he was having the worst day of his life so far. “I’m a reporter with the Hurricane Herald. Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?” Interviewing someone was so much easier when he wasn’t trying to be subtle about it.

“Shoot,” the owner replied gruffly, gesturing to a barstool to his right. Henry didn’t hesitate in taking a seat and pulling out his notepad and pen.

“How did you find the body this morning?”

“We ended up closing late last night, so I just went home and decided to clean up in the morning. I came back, went to take out some of the garbage, and he was just lying there. I thought at first that he’d just had too much to drink last night and passed out there, but when I went to try and wake him up I noticed he was dead and called the police.”

“Was he here last night?”

“Yeah, I remember he came in for a few drinks around ten or so. Kind of late, but not unusual.” The owner shrugged. “He stumbled out about half an hour later. He was alone. Didn’t see anybody follow him, either. It was kind of loud in here, so if there was any noise outside, I wouldn’t have heard it.”

Well, Henry had to give William credit for one thing. He was very, very good at being unseen and covering his tracks. He supposed he would’ve been arrested by now otherwise, but to kill someone right outside of a busy public bar was a whole new flavor of bold, even if it was in the middle of nowhere.

The rest of the conversation offered nothing but dead ends, which was frustrating. The owner had truly not witnessed much of anything, other than finding the corpse behind the bar. Henry thanked the man for his time, pocketed his notebook and pen, and sat down in the front seat of his car, frustrated.

He thought about going back to the office to type out the story, but he couldn’t get the fact that the murder victim looked so similar to him out of his mind. He had to assume that was intentional on William’s part - that he’d specifically gone looking for some unlucky, isolated soul that would send Henry a message. Going to find the roboticist and confronting him about it sounded like an objectively terrible idea, but if there was any way he could squeeze something out of him, he could blow the case wide open.

Henry promised himself that he would be careful and make the conversation as quick as possible, and made his way to the Afton house.

He realized as he got closer that William was probably at work at ten in the morning on a Monday, but as he turned onto the street he noticed the roboticist’s car in his driveway. Henry’s heart pounded as he parked next to it and hurried up the path to the front door, knocking and keeping a foot off the porch so he could bolt if he needed to.

The man who opened the door looked absolutely terrible.

William’s hair was messy and tangled, dark circles under his eyes and his skin a little paler than normal. He wore a purple robe, pajama pants under it, and Henry wondered if he’d interrupted him trying to get his first rest in days. “How can I help you, Henry?” he asked with a heavy sigh, sounding a lot flatter and more exhausted than usual, and the reporter in question’s first instinct was to apologize, backtrack, and go back to the office. Instead, he stayed.

“I was just wondering where you were last night between ten and eleven,” Henry replied, and he watched as William’s shoulders tensed ever so slightly. Maybe it was a good thing that he caught him in such a state. He might be more inclined to let something slip.

“Home,” he replied, and opened the door a little further to gesture with his head into the living room. Henry glanced past him, and caught sight of a little figure wrapped up in blankets and planted in front of the television. “Michael has the flu. I’ve been here taking care of him. Why?”

“I’m sorry he’s not feeling well.” A decent alibi, admittedly, especially since Henry could see for himself that the poor kid was sick. “Did he have you up all night?”

“More or less. Why do you want to know where I was?” William was far more defensive than he normally was, and Henry had to think that made him sound far more suspicious. It didn’t matter what he said or did either way, though, because the resemblance between Henry and the dead man was far too much to be a coincidence. Still, Henry paused. Would it actually accomplish anything if he kept pressing on a man who was clearly not in a good mood, other than making him angry?

“I thought I saw you when I was out,” he lied after a moment of silence, glancing behind William at poor Michael again. He was just going to make William madder, and might end up frightening a sick toddler in the process.

Maybe he was a bit of a pushover when it came to this man specifically. In his defense, he didn’t especially want to get murdered. Though that admittedly wasn’t the entire reason, he could pretend it was.

“You look exhausted,” Henry spoke again when William remained silent, putting his hands in his pockets and glancing back into the house and toward Michael, who had been distracted from his show and was now looking over toward them. He waved to the toddler, who pulled his hand out of the blankets to wave back. “I have to get back to the news office and get some work done, but when I’m done, I can come back and take care of him for a few hours so you can get some sleep.”

William regarded him with slightly narrowed eyes and a frown on his face, and Henry could swear he saw his grip on the door tighten just a little. “Thanks, but I’ve got it handled. Besides, we aren’t seeing each other anymore. You don’t have to feel an obligation to help me.”

“I thought you said we could try again sometime.” He winced a little at how desperate that sounded. “But either way, I want to help as a friend.”

And because he wanted access to the house. He wanted to look around while William was sleeping, investigate and see if he could find anything damning. The evidence would be illegally obtained if he just grabbed it, but nothing was stopping him from reporting on it, and if that story could cause enough suspicion it might put William behind bars.

Henry tried not to think about how guilty that idea made him feel. The man just killed someone last night, for god’s sake. Someone who looked enough like Henry that he shouldn’t even want to be around him ever again. But here he was.

“I can take care of my son myself, thank you,” William huffed. Then he hesitated a moment, and his expression softened a little. “But I suppose I could use a little help with dinner tonight, if you want to come over then.”

Well, maybe he could talk William into taking a nap while he was over to cook. Henry nodded, and gave him a smile. “I’ll be here. Does five sound good?”

Chapter 6

Chapter Text

As he watched Henry step off his porch and walk back to his parked car, William couldn’t help but kick himself internally.

He wasn’t a fool. He knew exactly why Henry was inquiring about his whereabouts the previous night. His answer to the question had been honest, for the most part; this was day three or so of Michael’s flu, and he had been stuck at home taking care of him.

However, caring for a sick toddler that couldn’t keep much of anything besides toast and saltines down and woke up every few hours crying and coughing and throwing up was stressful. Stressful enough that, when Michael finally settled down and stayed there sleeping for a few hours the previous night, William - in a sleep deprived stupor - decided that he needed to take a walk. Just to the end of the street and back, he promised himself, because even if Michael was sound asleep and even if it was a safe neighborhood he didn’t want to leave him completely unattended for too long.

One way or another, though, he ended up in his car on a drive, and then he ended up on the rural roads on the outskirts of Hurricane. Maybe he was subconsciously looking for an outlet - he wasn’t sure, couldn’t really explain his actions. William was prone to feeling like he was observing his body rather than living in it, no more clued into the thoughts leading his actions than any outsider was.

Either way, he found himself behind a bar.

He usually tried to stay away from bars and pubs and the like - some of his colleagues liked to tease him for being an Englishman that avoided alcohol as much as he could, but he had nothing but negative memories associated with the stuff. From his mother and her boyfriend, to his deceased wife, to the first girl that he tried to court a few months after Clara’s death - he’d never exactly met a fun drunk. Whenever wine, beer, or whiskey was introduced to a function, in William’s experience it typically ended up with a new bruise or two on his body, some fresh self esteem issues to work past, and - as of recently - someone dead. That last bit was largely his fault, but in his eyes, it was a defense mechanism.

So he wasn’t really sure what led him to this particular establishment - or, well, the back of it - on a Sunday night. Maybe it was fate, he thought as someone stumbled their way over; someone who looked very, incredibly familiar. William came a little closer; he thought the man may be Henry, that he may be able to apologize and ask for a second chance because nothing made him think about the fact he’d squandered a potentially lovely relationship like sleep deprivation and stress. Surprising to him, the idea of the journalist intoxicated didn’t really bother him like it did with anyone else.

When he called out to the man with a raised hand and approached, though, he realized that he was not, in fact, Henry. Really, he only could have mistaken the two because it was dark and the back of the bar was only lit by a pathetic little light above the dumpsters and the much brighter moon. The confused look that the man gave him was embarrassing, and, honestly, the more he looked at him the more William thought about how frustrated he was that his own lack of self control was keeping him from actually committing to the first and only person he’d actually completely liked outside of wanting a quick lay.

So, obviously, he leaned into that complete lack of self control. Because what else can you do when you’re tired and kind of dissociating and frustrated and nursing some heartache, really.

With the man being drunk and off his balance, it wasn’t very hard for William to get him on the ground, leaning against the dumpsters. This position, with William pinning him and straddling his hips, just made heat rush to his cheeks, caused another flood of feelings and thoughts about Henry to run through his mind. He had to get this over with, and he had to do it quick. He unbuckled his belt, tightened it around the man’s neck as much as he could, and watched as he struggled to gasp for breath. Alas, it was an impossible task. He lost consciousness quickly, and William stayed there on top of him until he went completely limp. He grabbed his wrist to check for a pulse - finding none, he got to his feet and hurried back to the car as quickly as he could without breaking into a sprint.

Unfortunately, he did feel a little better. That was something he could unpack later, though.

He got back to the house about forty minutes after leaving it, far longer than he’d intended on leaving Michael unsupervised, but the toddler was still sound asleep in his bed and the neighborhood was still quiet. William gently readjusted the blankets around his son, tried not to think about how he was using the same hands that strangled a man not twenty minutes beforehand to do so, and made his way to his own bedroom to try and get some rest.

He thoroughly enjoyed all three hours of sleep he got before Michael woke him up crying and coughing to inform him of more vomit on the hallway floor. The two year old didn’t get back to sleep, so neither did William; it was a bloody relief when six in the morning hit and television programming came back on. Sunrise Semester was definitely not something a toddler was going to be entertained by, so William was doubly relieved to find a rerun of some family friendly sitcom on another channel.

Thankfully, being sick seemed to make even Michael’s attention span and energy levels easier to manage than usual. William sat on the couch with him; got up for only a moment to collect the newspaper when he heard it thunk against his front door. Absentmindedly, he found himself thumbing through the pages in search of an article by Henry.

He didn’t even know what time it was when the reporter in question showed up at his door, and he was too tired to be as subtle and charming as he normally was. He knew that Henry knew he killed that guy, and all he could really do was rely on the knowledge there wasn’t really any proof left behind. The belt he’d used was barely one of a kind, so the markings wouldn’t be anything special, and he’d brought it back with him and put it away anyway.

“Daddy,” a little voice piped up from the couch, breaking him out of his thoughts. “‘m sleepy.”

He looked back to see poor Michael rubbing at his eyes, and was quick to scoop him up in his arms. “Do you want to take a nap, mate?” he asked, and the toddler nodded; William wasted little time in carrying him to his room, gently tucking him under the covers. Michael fell asleep without much fuss or fanfare at all, and William opted to capitalize on that by rushing to take a nap of his own.

Maybe seven hours in the middle of the day was less of a nap and more of a horrible decision, but William hadn’t thought to set an alarm to wake himself up so he could get Michael out of bed. He didn’t stir until the sound of a knock on the door interrupted him.

He groaned and rubbed his face as he looked toward the clock, getting the feeling that he was about to have a miserable night. He’d have to worry about that in a few hours; in the meantime, he pulled himself out of bed, put his robe back on, and made his way over to the door to open it for Henry, who stood on his porch looking infuriatingly handsome with a plastic grocery bag in hand.

“Hello,” he greeted the reporter, stepping aside to let him in. “Sorry, we’ve been napping.”

“I didn’t wake you up, did I?” Henry asked, shrugging his jacket off and hanging it on an empty hook by the door. There was concern on his face, but also a suspicion in his eyes that made William nervous. There was nothing to find in the house, he told himself; Henry wasn’t going to encounter any more proof of anything than he would poking around a crime scene. As long as he kept lying and acting convincing, everything would be fine.

“You did, but we needed it anyway. Michael got tired not long after you came by this morning. Now we’ll probably be up all night again.” William sighed; the mess their sleep schedules had inevitably become would be such a pain to fix. “I’ll go wake him up. You were going to make dinner, right?”

“Yeah.” Henry held up the bag. “I brought ingredients for spaghetti. Think Michael will be okay with that?”

“That’s one of about four foods I can reliably expect him to eat every time.” William nodded a bit, stepping backward into the hallway. “You didn’t have to buy anything, you know. I have plenty of food in the house.”

Henry shrugged, and settled into place at the counter. Watching him pulling out ingredients and start to chop up an onion was a sight so domestic that it made William’s heart ache. He would love for this to be a daily sight for him, but he didn’t think that was going to be possible anytime soon.

God, he’d only known this man a couple of months and he was incredibly smitten. He tried to tell himself that it was probably just infatuation, that it would pass if he could just get by long enough. But if Henry was going to keep showing up and doing nice things for him, even if the motive was just to figure out if he was behind the murders, then he wasn’t sure how long he’d last.

He was almost tempted to confess just to make it all stop. If he had less to lose, he might.

Michael fussed a bit when William gently shook him awake, but at the very least he looked to be in better spirits than he was before. Some color had returned to his cheeks, and he didn’t immediately complain of his tummy hurting like he had every other time he’d woken up the last few days. William had a little hope that meant he would be able to actually eat dinner without it all coming back up overnight. He could also pray that the poor kid still being sleepy meant he would be able to get to bed on time.

William sat in the living room, playing with Michael and a few of his toys while Henry cooked dinner. They were close enough to occasionally pipe up a conversation, mostly small talk about what each of them had been up to over the last couple of weeks. For both of them, the answer was mostly work.

As Henry finished cooking, William helped Michael into his chair, having a seat next to him as the reporter brought the food over and took his place across from them. “Thanks for dinner,” the roboticist spoke up, and gently nudged his son until Michael echoed the sentiment.

Dinner was eaten relatively quietly - it was good, William thought to himself. Better than his own cooking, but he might have been a little too hard on himself on that front. Michael ate about half his plate, which was more than William expected him to after a few days of only eating plain grains, and hopped from the table to run off and play; he didn’t have the heart to scold him for the lack of manners when he’d been under the weather for days. He wanted to talk to Henry more privately, anyway.

“So,” he started, getting to his feet and collecting empty plates from the table. “What were you working on today?”

Henry seemed to hesitate a moment before he responded. “An article about another murder that happened last night. Do you know anything about it?”

William tensed a little as he turned on the sink. “Oh? No, I hadn’t heard. Who died?” That sounded like a reasonable enough question upon being told about a crime. He hoped.

“His name was Thomas Murphy. He was strangled behind a bar. The police don’t have any leads, so they expect the case to go cold pretty quickly.”

“And you think I did it.”

The sentence was out of his mouth before he could even think, and he glanced back at Henry to see that his cheeks had heated up and he was avoiding looking William’s way. The roboticist frowned, and focused his attention back on the dishes. Whatever. Whether he was the culprit or not, Henry wasn’t exactly subtle about his continued suspicions. Someone had to mention the elephant in the room eventually, or nothing would ever budge; they’d just keep dancing in circles around each other forever.

“I didn’t say that,” the reporter eventually said, sounding incredibly awkward and anxious.

“You came to my door this morning demanding to know where I was last night. Looking like you were about ready to get into a scuffle with me on my porch.”

He looked back again, and Henry was squirming in his seat a little. It felt kind of good, knowing that he’d caught him off guard and had the upper hand in this conversation. So he chose to continue.

“I’ve never been to any bar in town, Henry, I don’t drink. I’ve been here with my sick kid since Thursday, anyhow. I’ve never heard of Thomas Murphy in my life.” Which was barely even a lie. He didn’t even know the poor man’s name until just now. “I didn’t do it. I’ve never killed anyone. Hell, I’ve never even hit anyone.”

“The victim looked a lot like me,” Henry’s tone implied that he was blurting it out without really thinking about it. At least both of them were struggling here; that was something of a comfort. “The first few victims looked a lot like your wife. It seems like too much of a coincidence.”

“Well, you’re not my bloody spouse, are you? Maybe it isn’t even the same person doing all the murdering. Maybe the first bloke had a thing for dark haired women. It sounds like pure chance to me.”

“You seem pretty unconcerned with the idea that your wife might’ve been the first victim of a serial killer.”

“Because there’s no real substantial evidence that she is. Nobody’s found a trace of her since she stormed off on me. She’s been gone twice as long as we were together now; for all I know, she went off and got married to someone in another state under a different name.”

Henry was quiet for a couple of moments then, and William returned to washing dishes, silently fuming as he did so. He didn’t like having someone onto him like this; he didn’t like that Henry seemed to think he had the whole thing figured out. He didn’t. He had no idea what any of this was like.

“I’m sorry,” Henry eventually spoke up, and William made a noise of acknowledgement. “You’re right, I don’t have evidence. I shouldn’t assume.”

“You really shouldn’t,” William replied, a bit coldly. “The things you’re accusing me of are allegations that ruin people’s lives, Henry. I have a business to run and a child to take care of. I want the person responsible for the murders caught, of course I do, but you shouldn’t be making assumptions before you have solid information and deciding that an innocent person is guilty.”

“Right.” The sound of a chair moving against the kitchen floor told William that Henry had gotten to his feet. “I’m sorry. I won’t bring it up again, alright?”

“Alright.” Though William wasn’t sure how much he believed that. He was so determined to focus on his cleaning that he didn’t really try and track Henry’s movements through the kitchen - not until a pair of arms had wrapped around him in a hug from behind. The roboticist tensed. It had been a while since he got physical affection from anyone older than two - but he couldn’t claim that it didn’t feel nice, coming from Henry. Safe.

Ha. It’d been even longer since he felt that.

“I’m sorry, William,” the reporter repeated, and slowly William started moving again, washing the pan he was working on as best he could with someone holding him. “I didn’t mean to offend. I just get a little caught up in my hunches sometimes - it comes with the job. I haven’t only been talking to you because I suspected you of a crime. I like you. Genuinely.”

William hadn’t heard anything like that in a long time, at least not from an actual prospective romantic partner. It was hard not to be cynical, especially considering the rest of the conversation so far and the fact that their friendship had initially been built on Henry all but accusing him of murder. (Murders he was guilty of, but nobody but William himself needed to know that.) But he wanted it to be true - he wanted it so badly. He’d been in relationships before, he’d been married once, but never had he been as taken with someone as he was with Henry.

He was terrified - that when the reporter got closer, he would find something damning despite how hard the roboticist tried to cover his tracks and leave nothing implicating behind. He worried that, when Henry failed to find evidence, he would eventually lose interest and leave. He was afraid of introducing a second parent figure to Michael only to have the entire thing fall apart, hurting him. Increasingly, William was also afraid that the spell Henry had over him would break, that the relationship would sour, that he would have no choice but to kill him.

Despite all of that, he wanted to give it a chance. So he sucked in a small breath, set down the pan, and turned around to rest his chin against the top of Henry’s head. He would have returned the embrace, if not for the fact that his hands were wet and soapy.

“I like you, too.”

Chapter 7

Chapter Text

For all William worried about how long it would take him to get Michael back to bed, Henry was a little amused that the two of them were fast asleep on the couch by midnight.

He’d stuck around after dinner, partially because it felt a little weird to leave after their last conversation and mostly because William seemed to get more at ease the longer he kept them company and the argument from earlier wasn’t brought up again. It hadn’t left Henry’s mind - but the roboticist seemed like he was a lot calmer, like maybe just apologizing and reassuring him had kept him from thinking about it or seeing the reporter as a threat.

He could hope, anyway. Somehow, he doubted a man that was committing murders instead of being emotionally vulnerable with anyone was the type to just forget. Either way, William was at ease enough after a while to relax on the couch watching television with his son again, and now he was snoring with the kid in question snoozing on his chest.

Henry waited a couple of minutes, watching them sleep and thinking about his next move. He could drop it for now - but he’s not sure when the next time he’ll have an opportunity like this is. Slowly, he stood, grabbing a blanket from the back of the couch and gently draping it over the both of them; then, he wandered down the hallway.

The first room he opened the door to was empty, save for a couple of boxes. He walked over to them, opening them to check; they mostly contained dusty college textbooks and mechanical parts, probably left over from when William moved into the house if Henry had to guess. Looking around the empty room, he wondered if he’d kept it empty because he expected to eventually put another kid here. He did say he wanted more, right?

Internally, he kicked himself for dwelling on it. He wasn’t about to spend time daydreaming about a future with William when he was sure this whole mess would end with him in prison. As more time went on, though, the more conflicted Henry started feeling about it. It was entirely possible that he was just faking his charm and his kindness toward other adults - but Michael seemed so comfortable around him, at ease asking him for things, happy to be around him. Henry was no child psychology expert, but it seemed like that would be difficult to fake. It was hard not to have some sympathy for a man who implied he’d been through his fair share of trauma and came out of it a loving father.

Not that Henry was about to let him just keep killing people with no consequences. He’d have to stop him, one way or another, and he had to answer for his crimes in some shape or form. The reporter swallowed as he walked up to another door in the hallway, trying not to think about how he increasingly hoped he wouldn’t find anything of note.

He wanted William to be innocent - so very, very badly. He just didn’t think he was.

The room he stepped into seemed to be an office, and though there wasn’t much more furniture than a desk, chair, filing cabinet, and bookcase it had no shortage of clutter. Blueprint paper was piled onto the desk, balled up paper around the edges as well as overflowing from a trash bin next to it. The bookcase was full of engineering and programming textbooks, the occasional notebook stacked on top of them. Henry grabbed one of the notebooks and flipped through it; about as he expected, it was mostly engineering notes and sketches of designs for parts.

He was a little interested in what appeared to be a sketch of a robotic anthropomorphic rabbit, but he couldn’t read the handwriting around it very well. William’s penmanship ranged from relatively neat and tidy to completely incomprehensible. If only he could ask about it without giving away his snooping.

Henry finished flipping through the notebook, put it back where he’d found it, and picked up another; this one was much the same, containing mostly notes for his work and the occasional shopping list or scribbled down phone number without a name attached. It certainly gave William the image of a man with a million ideas whose mind moved faster than he could keep up with, and the sheer amount of technical knowledge in his sketches and writing confirmed that he was as smart as Henry thought he was. None of it was especially damning, but it did make the reporter wonder how the roboticist could keep on task and organized well enough to run a company. Michael had to get it from somewhere, he supposed.

Fairly certain that the notebooks wouldn’t offer him much of anything relevant, Henry moved on to looking through the filing cabinets - which contained mainly job applications and employee files. He had to wonder why these weren’t kept at the business’ actual office; maybe they were backups. Either way, these people didn’t have much of anything to do with the murders, so Henry wasn’t inclined to look at too much of their personal information without permission. The blueprints on the desk were more complex versions of designs and accompanying notes.

He was a little disappointed, until he pulled open the top drawer on the desk and found another notebook. This one’s cover was a sort of faux leather; it looked more like a journal than any of the composition books that the other notes were written in. Henry opened it, and immediately got a feeling that he’d hit the jackpot. The journal entries were short, but they were more personal than the engineering notes; maybe he’d written something about the murders.

February 12, 1969 - Investors agreed to put money down for the business. Optimistic.

February 14, 1969 - Put in my notice. Went to dinner with the receptionist. Might do it again.

February 22, 1969 - Looked at office spaces for the new business. Had dinner with Clara again after. Going to see her regularly after my employment ends, I think.

Every entry was brief, and some of them were more legible than others. They were brief enough that they didn’t offer much in terms of insight, and occasionally there were months between entries. Henry skimmed over March, then May, then June - but in July, he found something more interesting.

July 4, 1969 - Spent the holiday with Clara. She told me at the end of the night that she’s pregnant. She wants to get married, says her family will disown her and society will scorn her for having a child out of wedlock. I think that’s a bit dramatic, but she said she would give the baby up for closed adoption if I don’t agree. So we’re going to pick out rings and begin God’s most rushed wedding planning tomorrow. If it’s a girl, she wants to name her Kimberly. For the baby’s sake, I hope it’s a boy.

July 19, 1969 - I’m married. Just me, her, and her parents in a church. Her father looked like he wanted to skin me alive. It’s strange to share the house with someone. She seemed annoyed by my journaling, so I may write less often.

Henry whistled a little. Going from barely committed to married with a baby on the way in two weeks sounded downright insane to him.

September 1, 1969 - First day of operation for Afton Robotics. Went relatively smoothly. Had some champagne after to celebrate, wasn’t a fan. Clara seemed irritated she couldn’t have any.

January 19, 1970 - It’s a boy! His name is Michael William Afton. He’s healthy and strong and apparently a bit heavy for a newborn. I think he’s the most perfect human I’ve ever seen. The nurses say he looks like me, but I think he looks a bit compressed. Beautiful, but compressed nonetheless.

Henry smiled, endeared, and thumbed to the next page - it was blank, and so was the following. He thought, briefly, that new fatherhood and work had kept William busy enough that he stopped keeping up with it, but before he gave up he found another entry.

June 24, 1970 - Things have gotten exponentially worse. I have to do something. For Michael’s sake as well as my own.

There were a few more blank pages, until Henry found one dated early January 1971, describing Michael’s first word as “truck.” Infuriatingly, nothing about Clara even going missing was so much as mentioned outside of just being vaguely ominous. Though Henry supposed that, if he was a killer, writing down the details of those crimes would be just about the furthest thing from his mind. There were more entries, mostly recording Michael’s milestones or William patting himself on the back about his business’ steady growth. The most recent one predated Henry meeting him.

He sighed as he put the journal back in its drawer and walked out of the office. If there was nothing in there, he doubted he would find much elsewhere, but he decided to check the other rooms down the hallway nonetheless.

One was a bathroom; one was another empty room with another door on the opposite wall, which just led into another hallway. Walking down that, he just found another bathroom, a linen closet and a dining room that, judging from the blanket of dust on everything, had probably never been used. This house may have had the strangest floorplan Henry had ever seen. Returning to the original hallway, the next door he checked seemed to be Michael’s room. Finally, the last door in the hallway was the primary bedroom; there was nothing special about it at first glance, furniture that looked like it was probably bought secondhand, a landscape painting and a couple of photographs on the wall, curtains drawn shut.

Still, it was worth looking through. If nothing was in the office, there might have been something there. So Henry entered.

Rifling through drawers of clothes and opening nightstand drawers felt far more intimate and invasive than going through anything in the office had; it actually made Henry feel a fair amount guilty. He wasn’t finding much here, either, though as time went on he wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for. It wasn’t like William was just going to keep a cleaver he hacked someone to death with in his underwear drawer. His murders were a lot quieter than that; cleaner. Either strangling or a single stab in just the right spot to be fatal.

He sighed, about ready to give up, and walked over to the closet. He was kind of half hearted as he looked through the shirts and jackets hanging up; he wasn’t sure whether to be grateful to William for being thorough with covering his tracks or frustrated. If he didn’t find anything, maybe he could convince himself that William had never hurt anyone and just settle into a relationship with him.

Henry almost didn’t notice it. It was easy to miss, really, especially in the dark. In the back of the closet was a light purple button down shirt, and on the bottom of its sleeve was a small brown stain. It was difficult to imagine that it was anything but dried blood. Sure, there were a million reasons it could be there - a cut on the hand or cleaning up a toddler’s scrape, maybe - but it was something.

He gripped the sleeve in his hand and studied the stain for far longer than he probably needed to. It was a bit of hope; knowledge that William wasn’t quite as careful as Henry thought he was, that there might be a few more scraps of evidence here or there that he could find, bring to the police, and write about. A glance back at the alarm clock on the nightstand told Henry that he’d been going through the house for almost two hours - he needed to stop before he himself got caught.

The hope quickly faded as he walked back down the hallway into the living room and looked at William and Michael, fast asleep and unaware. By the time Henry sat back down next to them, it had turned into dread.

Chapter 8

Chapter Text

Sunlight streaming into the house and the smell of something cooking woke William up slowly. He rubbed his face with a quiet groan, and winced as he sat up and felt a bit of pain in his neck; according to the clock on the wall, it was half past seven. He had no idea what time he’d fallen asleep, but it felt like he’d gotten close enough to a full night’s rest. Michael was still snuggled up to his chest, but he stirred with a little whine as well as William moved.

He gently lowered his son to lay on the couch, shrugging the blanket off his shoulders to tuck it around the toddler instead. He might’ve been getting better the previous day, but he must have still not been feeling well to stay asleep after seven even with a late bedtime.

William expected the smell to be coming from Henry in the kitchen, and that was exactly what he found as he leaned against the doorway. The journalist stood at the stove, the expression on his face one of concentration as he focused on what looked and smelled like eggs; William couldn’t help but smile a little watching him. It was a pleasant little slice of domesticity.

He wished every morning could be like this. For a moment, he allowed himself to wonder if it could. If their relationship was as genuine as he wanted it to be, if he could go to sleep every night beside Henry and wake up every morning to his face and come home every evening to him. He wondered what he would be like as a stepparent to Michael. What other children would look like, if they had any.

He cleared his throat to try and clear those thoughts from his mind - and to warn the journalist that he’d entered the room. William walked over to lean against the counter next to the stove, glancing into the pan at the eggs Henry was scrambling. They looked a lot better than they did when he made them.

“Good morning,” he greeted the other with a smile, hoping he looked less groggy than he felt. When Henry looked over at him, he blushed, and William was endlessly amused and endeared by how easy it was to make him flushed. “Did you get any sleep?”

“A little bit,” Henry answered, keeping his gaze on that breakfast like it would burn if he looked away from it for more than two seconds. “There wasn’t a lot of room on the couch and I didn’t have the heart to wake you up. The floor wasn’t very comfortable. I’m sorry, I’m not complaining about your hospitality or anything, I could’ve gone home, but-”

William waved his hand to stop his apologizing. He hadn’t exactly been planning on sleeping on the couch all night, but he still felt guilty that Henry felt the need to try and sleep on the ground. “I don’t mind that you stayed overnight. You could’ve used my bed if you didn’t want to wake us up. I’m sorry.” He paused a moment, and his smile turned into something a little more mischievous. “I might’ve been upset you didn’t ask me to join you, though.”

The journalist’s face turned almost as red as his hair, and William had to bite down the urge to laugh about it - he was genuinely flirting and didn’t want poor Henry to think he was being made fun of. “Maybe next time,” he stammered out, which just made William’s heart melt for him more.

God. He was hopeless.

“I should call the office to let them know I’m taking one more day off.” He glanced behind him, through the doorway and back at Michael - the toddler had fallen back asleep, hand in his mouth and a leg dangling off the couch. “Just to let him get a little more rest in before I expose the daycare to his germs. What time are you going to work?”

“I’m probably going to take a day off too. I’m tired, and the article I had to write yesterday was a lot of work. It gave me some points with my boss, so it’s probably fine.” Henry shrugged a little as he turned off the stove and opened a cupboard to get a few plates. Not the most impressive thing in the world, but William was a little surprised he remembered where to find them after their date weeks ago nonetheless. The familiarity with his house didn’t clock as suspicious in his mind just yet.

“In that case, do you want to stay here another day? Maybe I can make sleeping on the floor up to you.” William smiled, and grabbed a few forks from a drawer as well. He quite liked spending time with Henry when he didn’t need to think or worry about the murders being brought up again - and he enjoyed his company even when that was a topic of conversation.

Henry looked a little relieved, but that quickly faded into looking embarrassed. “I’d love to,” he answered with a nod, and William had to wonder if he’d been hoping for an invitation. Which was almost criminally adorable, in his mind.

“Great.” William smiled, and put the forks down on the table as Henry started dishing out the eggs. He hesitated a moment before leaning in to press a light kiss against the reporter’s cheek; he watched his surprised and flustered reaction for just a moment before he walked into the living room to gently shake Michael awake.

The two year old was unhappy to be woken up, grumbling and making a face like he was about to cry, but before he could start having a tantrum, William scooped him up and put him in his usual chair at the kitchen table. Thankfully, eggs seemed to be on the list of foods that Michael found edible this morning, because he quickly cheered up and started eating. William sat down next to his son, Henry on the other side; they seemed to have something of a routine forming when they ate together.

“I’m looking forward to reading your article when the paper gets here.” Assuming it wasn’t already sitting on the porch, anyway. “I’m interested in seeing what you worked so hard on.”

“It won’t be hard to find. It’ll probably be on the front page.” Most news about the murders ended up there; not a lot happened in Hurricane or the surrounding towns, so any especially disastrous or scandalous things became a popular topic of conversation within minutes. If not another death, the front page news might have been something about another property dispute. “Honestly, it’s a lot of artificial inflating. I interviewed a few people, but there wasn’t a lot of information to go off of. Nobody saw it happen, there weren’t any cameras on the back of the building, and neither the police nor his family have any leads, really.”

Well, that was kind of a relief. William poked at his breakfast with his fork for a moment; this had been one of his sloppier murders. It was kind of a miracle that he hadn’t been caught in the act of strangling the man or his car hadn’t been spotted leaving the scene. Internally, he kicked himself for being careless and letting his emotions get ahead of him even more than they usually did. Externally, he tried to keep a neutral expression.

As the three of them finished eating, Michael hopped down from the table to run off and get to playing with some of the toys lying around the living room. William stood in the doorway and watched him roll toy cars around on the coffee table and wall, endeared by the little noises he made to mimic an engine and only half listening to Henry on the phone with the news office to let them know he wouldn’t be coming in that day. The reporter then moved to the sink to get started on some dishes, and William moved in to pick up the phone.

“Afton Robotics, how can I help you?” the receptionist - Sandra was her name - answered, sounding tired. William supposed he didn’t blame her; it was just a bit past eight in the morning, and the company’s business hours would have only just started.

“Morning, this is William,” he responded - she knew his voice, and those of his employees that didn’t knew he was the only British accented man in Hurricane anyway. “Just wanted to let you know that I’m taking one more day off. I’ll be back in tomorrow.”

“Michael still not feeling well?”

“He’s on the mend. Have I missed much of anything important?”

He fidgeted a little with the phone’s chord as he listened to her talk - it sounded like the company was running fine for the time being, they were on track for design and manufacturing deadlines, but he would be needed in back soon to sign off on some projects and talk to some investors. No problem. “Thanks, Sandra. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said as she finished her summary, and as soon as she echoed the sentiment, he hung up with a quiet sigh.

The sink had turned off while he was on the phone, and he didn’t even really notice until Henry had come up behind him with a hug. William tensed a moment, having not expected it, but quickly relaxed as soon as he heard the other’s voice. “Everything alright?”

William smiled as he turned around to return the embrace; he couldn’t help but once more be a little surprised by how good it felt to be in Henry’s arms. He’d had his fair share of… intimate encounters in his life, but he’d never truly felt like this. His heart had never simultaneously raced and melted around another person the way it did around the reporter.

Of all the nearly four billion people in the world, why did the first one he truly fell for have to be a journalist, investigating crimes he committed?

Having reminded himself of the precarious position they were in, William felt a spike of anxiety run through him. He gave Henry a gentle squeeze before he smiled and pulled away, holding the other man at an arm’s length and studying his face; he couldn’t find a trace of anything negative in his expression, but then again, William’s strong suit had never been reading other people.

But, f*ck, he was handsome.

William leaned in to gently brush his lips against Henry’s, and couldn’t help but smirk slightly when he felt the reporter gasp against his lips. “I’m glad you’re here with me,” he spoke as he pulled back, gently tucking a strand of curly red hair behind the other’s ear. “It won’t be much of anything exciting, but we’ll have a nice day.”

Henry nodded, his face bright pink - if there was one thing that was easy to read on him, it was being flustered, which William certainly appreciated. He took the reporter by the hand to lead him into the living room; if nothing else, there was a toddler that needed supervising.

Chapter 9

Chapter Text

As William promised, it was a relatively quiet day. Michael seemed to mostly be feeling better, back to his usual level of energy as he ran around the house and backyard, jumping from one game to another. He was fun to watch, and if Henry was being honest, it was fun to join in and listen to him talk about whatever his imagination had cooked up.

The sun set as they were getting ready for dinner, a little before five, and with Michael settling down and getting sleepy, the house became more quiet and calm. On the local news, there was a report about the murders; Henry carefully watched William’s face to see if he reacted, but he didn’t - his face remained blank, his thoughts firmly inside his head. He was just getting harder and harder to read; or maybe he genuinely didn’t think much of it. Not that there was much to react to, since there wasn’t much new information to go off of - just an update, a suspect arrested being released.

It was about six thirty when William picked up Michael to get him ready for bed; Henry bid him goodnight, and watched the roboticist carry his son down the hallway and into the bathroom. The reporter waited until he heard the bath faucet running before he got to his feet, slipping down the hall and toward the master bedroom.

He probably should have snooped longer the previous night, but he’d sort of been expecting for William to wake up any moment - and he didn’t exactly want to go a full night without any sleep at all, to be honest. Now, he had a few precious minutes to rifle around in William’s closet again; he turned on the light as he slipped into the bedroom.

The shirt with the bloodstained sleeve was still there, which was about what he expected. He hadn’t seen William come back here at all during the day, much less take laundry in and out. In the light, he could definitely tell that it was blood, mainly around the edge of the sleeve with a bit more around where William’s wrist would be. He would be a little concerned about it if he knew it probably wasn’t the roboticist’s own blood; he wondered if the blood type could still be identified when it had been dry and probably washed. That would require getting a sample of William’s blood as well, though.

He turned his attention to the ground underneath the shirt; there was a stack of clothes there. Getting on his knees to rifle through it, Henry could tell pretty quickly that these were just shirts that didn’t fit anymore and hadn’t been disposed of yet. He couldn’t help but huff, annoyed. Couldn’t the man stand to be a little less normal and a little more sinister? Couldn’t he slip up more than once?

Henry was just about to give up when his finger grazed against something sharp, and he winced a little. Touching along it, he realized it was a blade; he felt lightly down its length until he found the base and pulled it out of the pile of clothes. It was a large kitchen knife, the point worn down to be a bit dull and the metal of the blade rusted and stained. There was still dried blood near the tip and handle.

He dropped it as soon as he processed what he was holding, and quickly internally screamed at himself for touching it without anything between his hand and the knife. Now his prints were on it - it was contaminated and wouldn’t be used as evidence. But, God, he’d just found a murder weapon. Whether it was viable in an investigation or not, he’d found something more substantial than a bloodstained sleeve.

The reporter heard the sound of Michael giggling, distinctly outside of the bathroom, and shoved some clothes atop the knife as quickly as he could. He didn’t pay much mind to whether or not it looked anything like it did when he found it; he just wanted to hide it again so William might not immediately notice the difference. Henry got to his feet, closed the closet, and moved to sit down on the bed with one hand covering his mouth.

Based on what William said on their first date about how long it usually took to get Michael down for bed, he knew he had some time to decide what to do. He needed to run out of the house, get back to his apartment, and call the police. Surely he could explain that he’d found it and touched it before he realized what it was? A detective, or team of detectives, would be more able to comb through the house for evidence, especially with a warrant.

Henry pushed some hair out of his face, his heart racing. It was difficult to breathe. He’d been looking for this, he’d expected to find some evidence of William being a murderer at some point, but now that he had and his suspicions were confirmed to be correct, he didn’t even know how to handle it. He’d hugged a murderer, he’d kissed a murderer, he’d spent the night in his home and was planning on doing it again. Quite frankly, Henry told himself, he was lucky to be alive.

Despite the anxiety attack, Henry forced himself to take a few deep breaths, to stand up and wrap his arms around himself to hide his shaking hands. He stepped on uneasy feet out of the bedroom and into the hallway, his eyes on the kitchen and the living room and front door through it. He just needed to get out and into his car and on the road and he would be safe. He could pull over before he even got home to calm down, he just needed to get there.

Before he even made it more than a few steps, however, he heard the sound of William’s voice. He froze, and looked to the side; the roboticist hadn’t even been talking to him, he realized after a moment. It didn’t even seem like he’d noticed him. He was lying on Michael’s bed, the toddler snuggled up against his side and looking at a picture book as William read from it.

The tonal dissonance was startling. It was troubling to know that someone who was capable of killing one person, let alone seven, was also capable of having such a pleasant moment with their child. Someone so intelligent, who was generally well liked and so, so charming. He supposed that was how one gets people to trust them enough to get close - that everyone was capable of loving something.

Just as he remembered that he needed to get out of there as quickly as possible, William noticed him, looking up with a smile that made Henry’s blood run cold. There was nothing outwardly suspicious about it - it was pleasant and charming as any of the roboticist’s other smiles. That was what was so chilling about it. Nobody would ever suspect anything lurking underneath - none of his victims would have known what was about to happen, would they?

William gestured him over, and Henry swallowed and tried to look as natural as possible as he walked into the bedroom to have a seat at the foot of the bed. Michael gave him a smile and a little wave, which he returned, and William went back to reading the story with Henry now a member of the audience. Now trapped, he quietly sat through it, and hated the instinct he felt to just relax. He wished he could enjoy this moment like he’d enjoyed the last couple of days, but it was difficult.

He watched as Michael drifted off to sleep and as William gently moved out of the bed, tucking the blanket around him. A flash of guilt hit him as the roboticist kissed his son’s forehead; he had to get William arrested, of course he did, but he’d also be depriving Michael of a loving father. What would happen to him, Henry had to wonder?

“Come on,” William murmured, gently holding onto Henry’s arm as he made his way out of the room. A rush of terror ran through him; he was about to die, wasn’t he? Still, he couldn’t let William know that he was onto him, so he forced himself to stay outwardly calm and follow.

The other man led him back into the primary bedroom, and though Henry was worried his attention would immediately go to the closet, but instead William just brought him to the bed and gently pushed him to sit down. He opened his mouth, intending on saying something but not sure what - but before he could, William’s mouth was on his in a kiss much deeper than any of the fleeting pecks they’d shared so far.

Henry gasped against his partner’s lips, his cheeks heating up a bright pink, and for a moment he forgot about everything he was afraid of as he leaned in closer to return the kiss. He felt William smile, felt William’s hands on his sides, felt William step forward to hover over him. Teeth grazed against his lower lip, and a moan escaped him before he could even think to hold it in.

“Cute,” William commented, pulling out of the kiss to cup Henry’s cheek in one of his hands. His thumb brushed against the reporter’s lips, and he knew it was a bad idea to get lost in the moment but he was absolutely intoxicated . “I want you, Henry. Do you want me?”

That was a more complicated question than William seemed to realize.

He was dangerous; he must have been sad*stic, to cause so much pain and death. He could snap and stab Henry and bury him in the backyard any moment. He’d murdered seven people and clearly didn’t feel badly enough about it to turn himself in or try to apologize or atone. Though he hadn’t shown his true colors while around the reporter - not yet, anyway - he must have been unstable and prone to resorting to violence at any moment.

Despite all that… Henry did want him. He wanted everything William had to offer. He wanted a relationship, he wanted to be in his son’s life, he wanted to spend every day with him exactly as domestic and happy as they had been today. He wanted. And maybe for now, he could let himself want, before he had to send everything burning to the ground.

He’d never really given the impression that he was a danger to Henry, after all, and my god if he couldn’t ride that blissful delusion for one more night. Just one more night of feeling like he could love him; surely he could handle that, right?

“I do,” he breathed out, and William gave him a smile that looked equal parts affectionate and like he was a predator about to pounce on his prey. Henry gasped as the other came in for another kiss, gently pushing him down onto the mattress - and this time, he returned it with fervor, wrapping his arms around William and leaning his body up to seek out more of him.

“Is this your first time?” was William’s next question, and it just made Henry blush harder.

“It is.”

“Then I’ll make it special for you.”

It would be special either way, Henry thought, because it was William. But he wasn’t about to argue - he didn’t want to talk anymore, just wanted to feel. He pulled himself up onto his elbows to kiss William again, and the other smiled against his lips before pushing him back down and pulling his arms up over his head. To be restrained might have made him afraid just ten minutes ago.

Right now, though, he didn’t feel fear. He didn’t even want to remember he was capable of it. He just wanted to melt against the other, to experience pleasure and have a taste of what could have been.

Chapter 10

Chapter Text

The night was quiet, peaceful. Henry had fallen asleep, but William lay awake next to him, watching the steady rise and fall of his chest and every little twitch and subtle change to his expression. He could keep staring for hours, he thought.

Henry was far from the first partner William had slept with in his life, but he’d never felt this way before. He liked sex, loved it even, but when the deed was done with with previous people - even his wife - he’d always been eager to just roll over and go to sleep and skip forward to the next day already. With Henry, he hadn’t wanted the night to end. He didn’t want to go to sleep - he just wanted to stay in this moment, this quiet and peaceful sort of intimacy, forever.

He gently brushed some hair out of Henry’s face, and let his fingers linger against the other’s cheek for a moment. They drifted down, brushing over his jaw and the side of his neck and his collarbone, and William felt… none of what he expected to. At this point, he was used to giving people chances and then immediately feeling threatened, wondering how his date could ruin his life and tear everything down around him. More often than not, the paranoia led him to… well, extremely drastic preemptive action.

William hadn’t gotten this far with someone since Clara, and he still didn’t worry about Henry hurting him or taking his son or doing anything else to ruin his life. He knew that he should, because if there was anyone who could dig up the skeletons in his closet and bring every ounce of stability he’d found crashing down, it was Henry.

There was a part of William that wondered, though - if things stayed this way, if he kept feeling as safe with Henry as he already did, would there ever be an urge to kill again? Or would he be able to relax, live a normal and nonviolent life with the happy family he wanted?

Anxiety pricked at his mind the longer he thought about it and tried to imagine it. He still didn’t know whether Henry’s returned feelings for him were genuine, or if they were just a way to get closer and find out more about the murders. He was careful, but he wasn’t perfect. There was something to find, and sooner or later, Henry would discover it if William kept trusting him.

He had to do something. He had to make sure that would never happen. He couldn’t trust Henry to not keep popping up even if he was broken up with - he’d already proven himself more than capable of wriggling his way back into William’s mind and life - so he had to get rid of him altogether.

William’s hand drifted back up to Henry’s neck, felt the soft skin there and gently closed around his throat. He felt sick, watching his peaceful sleeping face and knowing those eyes would never open again. He imagined dragging the body somewhere, burying it, never getting to see his face or hear his voice again, never feeling that safe kind of affection again. Being alone.

His hand wouldn’t squeeze. He couldn’t do it. He tried to tell himself that it was necessary, that it was something he had to do, but he couldn’t will himself to make it happen. As he was in the middle of an internal argument with himself, before he could gather his resolve, those beautiful green eyes opened.

“Are you going to kill me?”

The question made him freeze a moment, and his eyes widened as he stared down at Henry for a few more seconds. He pulled his hand away from the other’s throat and laid back down next to him, staring up at the ceiling. “No,” he answered, completely honestly. If the other woke up at just the right moment to stop him, then it must have not been meant to be.

Maybe none of it was necessary. Not anymore, anyway.

Henry sat up, stretching his arms over his head with a yawn, and William couldn’t help but stare at him as the blanket fell away from his upper body. The freckles across his chest and shoulders, the gentle curves of his chest and stomach - he was, possibly, the most handsome creature William had ever laid eyes on in his life. Somewhat less enchanting was the way that Henry looked over at him, with an expression like he was staring directly into his soul. He looked away.

“Why not?”

William scoffed, a little surprised. “What kind of question is that?”

“I think I’ve figured you out.” That was easily one of the most threatening sentences William had ever heard in his life, and Henry continuing to talk didn’t really make him feel better. “You take someone out on a date or flirt with them for a while, you end up liking them. You convince them to come home with you, but you get nervous on the way there. You take a detour, drive a reasonable distance away from home into the woods, and you kill them before they can do anything to hurt you or threaten you. Does that sound about right?”

The analysis, unfortunately, was accurate, and William was more than a little terrified. The knowledge that he needed to do something here, to get rid of Henry before his life could be torn apart before his eyes - but he was frozen in place, and he didn’t think he would be able to make a move to hurt him no matter how badly he needed to. He swallowed, trying to keep his expression neutral, but he was aware that he was almost definitely pale as a ghost. “I thought we agreed to drop this subject,” was all he could really think to say.

“I found the knife in the closet.”

f*ck. He knew he should’ve gotten rid of that; he didn’t even know why he kept it, really. He hadn’t used it for more than one murder - when Clara was still alive, it was the oldest and least used knife in their kitchen, and that was how he decided to use it on her. He didn’t feel like he could leave it on the scene or throw it away without getting caught, so he’d just thrown it in with his clothes with the intention of disposing of it eventually and stopped thinking about it. “What were you doing in my closet?”

“I was just… looking around.” Henry sounded a little nervous, and William felt a little sick knowing he had trusted this man in his house and he used that to snoop around through his things and find a way to implicate him. “It’s not important. I just want to know why I’m some sort of… exception here. If there’s some kind of reason you’ve let me live longer than anyone else you’ve gone after.”

“I haven’t--”

“Please don’t bullsh*t me, William. I’m not going to call the police. I don’t have anything to give them. I tampered with the knife, so it probably can’t be used as evidence, and it’s not like I’ve got anything to record with.” Henry’s voice was earnest enough that William glanced back toward him, and he looked… serious, but there was something more in his eyes. Something pleading.

He swallowed.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he eventually got out after several seconds of silence. There really wasn’t any point in lying here, was there? No matter how straight he tried to keep his stories and his answers, Henry had a way of seeing right through him. And now that he’d seen the knife with two year old dried blood on it, there was no getting around it. “I don’t want to hurt anyone, really. I’m not really aware of myself when it happens. It’s like an out of body experience. I just… my mind starts racing, I start wondering if anyone I let in is going to hurt me like my mother or Clara did or take my son away where I’ll never see him again like Clara was planning to. I’ve got to protect myself, and I’ve got to protect my son, don’t I? Michael’s my world, he’s all I really have. Was all I have.”

The look on Henry’s face was a lot less judgmental than he expected it to be - just neutral, almost pitying. He would hate it if he wasn’t clinging to whatever sympathy he could find like a lifeline. “You don’t feel that same fear with me?” he asked, and when William shook his head in response, continued. “Why not just… drop people off at home instead of killing them? You’re allowed to change your mind. You don’t have to ever see them again if you’re that afraid. And why continue going on dates and pursuing people in the first place, for that matter?”

“I don’t know,” William answered, his tone as miserable as he felt as he sat up and rubbed his face. “I mean, I know why I keep trying. I want companionship. I don’t like being alone. I love Michael more than anything, but he’s two, you know? He’s not adult company. It’s… I don’t know why I hurt people. Like I said, it’s as though I’m barely in control of my body or my thoughts. And I know it’s not good, but I… somehow end up feeling better every time.”

He expected Henry to be disgusted with him - all this, and he didn’t even really have a good reason. Instead, when he looked back toward the reporter, all he saw was concern. “William, have you considered therapy?”

William let out a brief, bitter laugh. “Wouldn’t they go to the police?”

“I don’t think they’re allowed to report a past crime if there’s no risk of it happening again. And if we’re together, then you won’t feel the need to go out and hurt anyone, will you?” Henry sighed, and a bit of guilt hit William’s chest. If he was just sticking around to try and prevent future murders, that wasn’t much of a relationship, was it? “If you have any remorse at all, you should at least try to get better.”

“Do you only want to be with me because you think I’m a ticking time bomb and you’re the only thing keeping me from going off?” The metaphor wasn’t even that far from the truth, realistically, but he still felt - and sounded - a bit hurt saying it.

“No.” Henry’s voice was a little flat, and his face was neutral, but William couldn’t see any signs that he wasn’t telling the truth. “I want to be with you because you’re you. I know that you’re smart, and hardworking, and you love your family. You’re attractive and fun to spend time with and tonight was fantastic. But I can’t… it wouldn’t be right for me to just ignore everything.” There was a brief pause as Henry ran a hand through his hair, apparently searching for the right words. “I know I probably should be afraid of you. But I’m not. I like to believe you won’t hurt me.”

“I won’t.”

“Then I need you to make sure you lower the chances of it happening, okay?”

It was almost nice, William thought, to see Henry being some form of selfish and morally questionable. The right thing to do here would be to report him to the police regardless of evidence quality and try to get him convicted for his crimes, right? That was what he entered this relationship planning on doing. But he wasn’t going to do that, because he wanted to be together.

Kind of an honor to get him to ignore his morals and journalistic integrity, really.

“Okay,” William agreed after thinking about it for a moment - honestly, getting better and not feeling so much fear that he hurt and killed people without even fully processing it did sound nice. And if Henry needed him to go to therapy to feel comfortable being together, if Henry thought that would help, he would give it a try. He didn’t think he would open up as much as the reporter seemed to think that he should, but surely feeling secure in a relationship would fix at least some of the problem, right?

“Thank you,” Henry sighed, and leaned in to press a kiss against his cheek. William laid back down, and Henry followed him, nestling his head against the roboticist’s shoulder.

As he slowly grew drowsy, William thought about how nice it felt to be in love.

Chapter 11

Chapter Text

Late November saw Thanksgiving’s approach - which William insisted he didn’t celebrate, both due to being born and raised outside of the United States and because he apparently was generally opposed to celebrating anything to do with Puritans - and William’s first therapy appointment. He didn’t outwardly seem all that concerned with it, but Henry was anxious to drop him off at the office for an hour nonetheless. Moments of vulnerability with him were few and far between, and Henry worried that he would refuse to say much of anything about his issues and just come out of it saying he was fine.

In the meantime, he was in charge of making sure that Michael was cared for during the hour the appointment would take. He wasn’t sure whether he expected it to be an easy hour or the most difficult one he would ever experience, but he was nervous about it either way. It surely wasn’t as drastic as he thought it was, but in his mind, his ability to keep this toddler safe and happy for a little while was the test of whether or not they would be able to make a functioning family unit.

A little early to be thinking that way, given that they’d only officially been together for a few weeks? Maybe. Henry couldn’t very well control his anxiety, though.

He waved to William as he walked into the therapist’s office, and let out a quiet sigh as he turned slightly to look at Michael in the backseat. The toddler seemed preoccupied with playing with the little toy car he’d brought with him, running it along his legs, the arm of his carseat, and the window next to him. Henry would be a little miffed at little tire marks on his back window, but honestly, a part of the car he never saw wasn’t worth getting annoyed with a two year old over.

“Do you want to go get some lunch, Michael?” he asked - that was probably a good way to kill an hour, right? And William did say it would be a good idea to feed him. “I heard they built a playground in a McDonald’s pretty close to here.”

Michael’s face lit up, and he nodded enthusiastically. “Yeah!”

Henry smiled, and turned his attention back to his car as he backed out of his parking spot and made his way out of the parking lot. He felt a little more confident that his time supervising Michael would go well - he could only hope that William’s therapy appointment was also productive.

William didn’t know what he’d expected from the inside of a therapy office, really, but he supposed this wasn’t all that far off. Warm wooden tones, neutral colored walls, deceptively comfortable chairs in the waiting room. He supposed it must have been designed specifically to try and put people at ease. It didn’t do much for his nerves, though. He wasn’t one to enjoy being vulnerable - talking with Henry was the closest he’d gotten to it in years. Talking to a stranger about his problems sounded deeply uncomfortable at worst and downright dangerous at best.

“Mr. Afton?”

He winced a little, concerned for his public image and not particularly enjoying the receptionist referring to him by last name. He knew he had issues - the town didn’t need to. William glanced around the waiting room, relaxed a little when he verified that nobody else was there, and got to his feet.

Down the hall and to the left was a small office with a couch and a chair. The woman sitting in the chair had a pleasant enough face, shoulder length blonde hair that had started going gray and thick glasses. She was about as nonthreatening as everything else in the office, but he still felt uneasy as he took a seat on the couch and folded his hands in his lap.

“Good afternoon. I’m Dr. Richards, but you can call me Lucille if you like. Is it okay if I call you William?” the therapist spoke with an even tone, a small smile crossing her face as she addressed him. It made sense she would want to start out with being informal - William supposed it would be difficult for most people to open up when overly polite.

“Sure,” he answered, and cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck and trying his best not to act as awkward as he felt. “I’ve never done this before. I’m not sure what to start talking about.”

“Well, how about we start with what brought you here? What led you to call and make this appointment? There must have been some catalyst for it.”

“I just started a new relationship, and I have some… intimacy issues, so my partner wanted me to come in and try and address those and anything that might have caused them. And I don’t want to sabotage it before it even gets started.” Honestly, he felt a little silly just simplifying it like that, but he couldn’t very well start out his first therapy appointment with I’m a serial killer and I want to stop feeling the urge to hurt everyone I’m attracted to or feel threatened by. He didn’t think he would ever get to the point where he was ready to drop information like that, really; at the very least, not until he and Henry were married and Michael would be able to stay with him in the event of William’s arrest.

“Okay, well, that gives us a leaping off point then,” Dr. Richards nodded, scribbling in her notepad. “A lot of the time, intimacy problems are rooted in early experiences. Can you tell me a little bit about your childhood?”

What a loaded question to start off with. William took a small breath before starting; “I was born in Norbury, in south London. My father died in the war a few months before then, so for much of my childhood my mother and I only really had each other…”

Explaining his childhood - abuse at the hands of his mother and her long term boyfriend, flirting with peers for attention starting when he was a teenager, up and leaving for school only to decide to stay in the United States afterward - took almost the entirety of their hour, and became more and more exhausting as time went on. Dr. Richards, though, listened patiently, nodded when appropriate, and took notes as he went on; she didn’t interject much, which William considered a blessing. He got into his marriage with Clara and her subsequent disappearance as well - though he avoided mentioning what actually happened to her, of course.

“Well, you said you’re in a new relationship now, right?” the therapist started once William had stopped talking for a moment, and he nodded. “That’s a good start. Your past relationships, both familial and romantic, may have left you hesitant to trust others, but it’s promising that you’re still willing to try to let people in and that you’re willing to find help opening up the rest of the way. Getting in touch with your feelings and learning how to put them into words might help you process them a little more easily. How about you start writing down what you’re feeling in a notebook a few times a day, whenever you get a free moment, and we can check in on that next week?”

He did try journaling on occasion, but had largely been using it to record Michael’s growth since the boy was born, and had been writing in it far less frequently than he used to. Picking it back up might not actually be a bad idea, content of the entries regardless, and he was willing to try just about anything to get rid of the urge to kill. So William nodded. “I can do that.”

“Great! Penny at the front desk can help you schedule your next appointment.”

For a kid that was bouncing off the walls of the brand new McDonald’s Play Place for forty minutes and nearly threw a tantrum when Henry told him it was time to get going, Michael sure fell asleep quickly as they drove to the therapist’s office to pick William back up.

It had been a decent hour, all things considered. Michael had fun, and seemed to enjoy his chicken nuggets, so despite him getting tired and angry toward the end Henry considered his first afternoon watching the toddler a success.

They arrived at the therapist’s office parking lot about five minutes before William’s hour long appointment was set to be over; Michael woke up as soon as the car was parked, looking a little groggy as he rubbed his eyes. Henry wondered if fifteen minutes was a long enough nap, but he supposed that was William’s call when they got home. “Good morning, Michael,” he greeted the child, pulling his toy car out of the glovebox to offer it again - he hadn’t wanted it to get lost.

Michael took it with a bright smile, rolling it along his legs and then his arms. Henry somehow doubted that felt very good, but who was he to judge. “G’morning,” he replied, kicking his feet and turning his attention from the toy car to the window.

“Your dad should be coming back any minute now,” Henry assured him, looking toward the front entrance of the building a moment. “Did you have fun playing today?”

“Mhm!” Michael clapped a little. “Thanks, Papa.”

The new title made Henry’s heart skip a beat, and he looked toward the toddler with wide eyes. If he’d referred to him as daddy, he was willing to believe that was an accident, but he’d never heard Michael use the word papa before so it must have been on purpose. Had he really already reached a point where the toddler considered him a parental figure?

He doubted Michael understood the concept of a relationship progressing a little too fast, and he didn’t want to discourage him from ever saying it again, so Henry simply responded with a “you’re welcome” and didn’t say anything about it. He’d just have to pray that William didn’t mind. Or maybe it was his suggestion?

As if sensing that Henry was thinking about him, William made his way out of the building, opened the passenger side door, and climbed in. He looked far more tired than he did when Henry dropped him off, which he supposed was to be expected. “Did your appointment go well?” Henry asked, leaning in to give his boyfriend a kiss on the cheek.

“It went well enough,” William answered, leaning back in his seat a moment before he turned to smile at Michael. “You have a good afternoon, mate? Did you behave?”

“Yeah!” Michael answered enthusiastically, and William reached back to ruffle his hair before turning to face forward again. Henry started the car and started on the way home, the car quiet for a little while aside from the sound of plastic wheels rolling along different things in the car.

“Do you have another appointment scheduled?” Henry asked as he entered the Aftons’ neighborhood, partially for the sake of making small talk and partially because he wanted to make sure this wasn’t a one and done thing. Going to therapy may have been the agreement for starting to date seriously, but he wouldn’t put it past William to use him not specifying more than once to squirm out of it.

“Yeah, next Friday at four.” The roboticist didn’t seem to think much of the question, so Henry suppressed his sigh of relief. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to it.”

“Well, it’ll be worth it.” The journalist pulled into the driveway and parked the car, turning to give William what he hoped was an encouraging smile. “I really think it’s going to help you.” And as long as there weren’t any more murders, it would help their relationship and Henry’s peace of mind, too.

“Yeah,” William replied, giving him a smile before turning around to unbuckle Michael’s car seat. “The future is bright, I think.”

Chapter 12: Epilogue

Chapter Text

“Good morning, little princess.”

William did his best to keep his tone hushed, his words quiet. Of course, if the fussing baby hadn’t woken Henry up already, he doubted that his voice would - but being only two weeks out from having her, the former journalist was understandably exhausted and William was happy to let him get as much sleep as he could.

Elizabeth Anne Afton looked up at her father with the widest, wettest eyes William had ever seen; she was so cute, it was difficult not to laugh. She’d made her grand entrance on the first day of June, 1977, as if she wanted to claim the entire month - nay, the entire summer - for herself, and since then she’d only ever been content while in someone’s arms. Every time she woke up in her bassinet, it was as if she’d been laid down to sleep in a cardboard box.

At two weeks old, she was nowhere near sleeping through the night yet, either. William, usually awake anyway thanks to his insomnia - which he was supposed to be medicated for now, and Henry would probably kill him if he found out he stopped taking the sleeping pills no matter how temporary - did his best to take care of her whenever she cried in the middle of the night so Henry could sleep. It was exhausting, but William was too full of love for his newborn daughter to complain.

He held Elizabeth against his shoulder, walking with her to the kitchen. Although the house certainly still looked lived in, it was much cleaner now; less toys strewn about the living room (for now) because their owner was grown enough to pick up after himself no matter how much he complained about it, a kitchen table cleared of robotic parts because their little family actually ate there now. There was more room to store parts elsewhere, anyway, given that William and Henry had opened a restaurant and there was an entire workshop there to tinker in.

“Are you hungry?” he asked her, though she couldn’t respond and he knew already what the answer was. In the fridge was the last of the milk they’d thawed; he’d have to move more from the freezer for tonight. He put the liquid in a bottle, and then that in its warmer, gently bouncing the baby in an effort to keep her from fussing in the meantime. Thankfully, she was usually calm when held.

Once the milk was sufficiently warm, he gently swirled it in his hand a moment before propping her against his arm and guiding the bottle to her lips. She latched on without a second thought, and William leaned against the kitchen counter, looking out the window. It was getting close to sunrise, the dark of night just beginning to give way to the light of day. He might as well stay up at this point and let Elizabeth have a proper wake window, he thought.

About an hour of watching the sunrise and letting the baby rest on her stomach later, William put her back in her swaddle, gently rocked her back to sleep, and laid her down in her bassinet. She squirmed and whined a little when set down, but thankfully, she eased back to sleep without too much of a fight.

By now, it was nearly six in the morning, and though the sunrise had brightened the world the other inhabitants of the Afton house seemed unbothered. It being summer vacation, it would probably be a while before Michael - now seven - woke up for the day; and it being a Wednesday, he wouldn’t actually have to be at Fredbear’s until the early afternoon. Henry would probably be up soon, though, so William lifted the comforter on their bed and slipped back in beside him, wrapping his arms around his husband and pressing a kiss against his right shoulderblade. His husband sighed quietly in his sleep, and William’s heart swelled just a little.

The room got brighter and brighter, and when the clock on the nightstand read exactly 6:03, Henry stirred with a little groan. William smiled, and shifted his position to give him a kiss on the cheek. “Hello, love,” he spoke softly, and his heart melted as sleepy green eyes blinked open and a lazy smile crossed Henry’s face. Beautiful.

“Morning,” Henry responded groggily, speaking in a whisper - mindful as ever of the early hour and the baby sleeping not far from them. “Did Elizabeth wake up yet?”

“I gave her a bottle about an hour ago and she had some tummy time. She’ll probably wake up for another feeding in an hour or two.” William tucked a bit of curly red hair behind his husband’s ear, and Henry hummed and leaned into his touch. It was incredibly endearing.

“Sounds good.” Henry turned over, wrapping an arm around William and tugging him back into a laying position. The roboticist quickly relaxed in his hold, resting his head against the other’s shoulder. Unfortunately, he spoke up again with another question after just a minute of casual and comfortable silence - “Did you sleep?”

“... Some,” William lied; in reality, he’d been awake and staring at the ceiling for a good portion of the night. It wasn’t the worst sleepless night he’d experienced, however, as most of the overthinking was just running through ideas for their restaurant’s next line of animatronic animals. The place was doing well, and it was coming close to time for an upgrade.

Henry let out a sigh that told William that he hadn’t been very convincing. “Maybe you should talk to your doctor about increasing the dose,” he suggested, and William gave a non committal hum in response. Thankfully, the topic didn’t seem to stick. “The news should be coming on soon.”

“Let’s get up, then.” Watching the local morning news was pretty much the only thing to do between Elizabeth waking up for her first wake window and Michael climbing out of bed for the day, so it was quickly becoming something of a tradition to them. William got to his feet, and moved to the other side of the bed to help Henry do the same. His husband probably didn’t need assistance at this point in the recovery process, but he liked to be a gentleman and offer it anyway.

Returning to the kitchen as Henry passed through to the living room, William got the coffee machine running and stretched as he waited for the pot to finish brewing. Thankfully, it didn’t take very long, and he was walking back into the living room with two full mugs as the morning report started.

We’re starting off this morning with an important update. You may remember the murders that haunted the area around Hurricane for just over two years, ending with the death of thirty year old Thomas Murphy in November 1972…

William froze, nearly dropping the mugs he was carrying. He looked to Henry’s face, and his husband looked just as shocked and pale as he was. The roboticist took a small breath, and came over to put the coffee on the table and all but collapse onto the couch next to his husband. The other wrapped an arm firmly around him, probably an effort toward being comforting.

Suspects were arrested during the killing spree, but police have released the name of the individual they believe to be responsible.

f*ck. f*ck, f*ck, f*ck. Surely they would have shown up at the house to arrest him if they’d nailed him as the culprit? Or interviewed him and his loved ones during their investigations? William leaned against Henry, thinking back over the last five years. He hadn’t hurt anybody, hadn’t even really thought about it - his therapist had been great as far as figuring out how to get his intrusive thoughts and urges under control, and marrying Henry a year into their relationship meant he wasn’t exactly putting himself out there on dates anymore. They just had a baby. He couldn’t get arrested-

The authorities have determined the identify of the killer to be forty year old Hurricane local Dave Miller, whose car was spotted on the scene at Jr’s. He left the area in early 1973. Anyone with information regarding his whereabouts is asked to contact the Hurricane Police Department at…

A picture of the man in question appeared on the top left of the screen; this Dave Miller guy looked a lot like William, but with shorter hair and a far less charismatic smile. He stood next to a purple car that was nearly identical to the roboticist’s. He most definitely was not the man behind the killings, but it wasn’t a mystery how the authorities would assume he was.

Though he knew he should have felt guilty that his crimes were being pinned on someone else, William was having a difficult time processing the information with anything but relief. Maybe he deserved to go to prison for his crimes, but if letting someone else take the heat meant he could remain a free man with his husband and children, he was okay with that.

He looked toward Henry, who was staring at the screen with furrowed brows and a small frown. The former journalist seemed to think about it for a few moments, and then he leaned forward to pick up his mug of coffee, blow on the steaming liquid to cool it down a bit, and take a sip. “Well, I’m relieved they caught the guy,” he commented, his voice a little flat, as if they hadn’t had an entire conversation about William’s killing habits before getting together.

It seemed his husband was just as happy to forget about it and let Dave Miller take the fall as William was. If Henry wasn’t going to make a fuss and demand he go to the police to clear a stranger’s name, then he wasn’t going to. He cleared his throat, took a sip of his coffee, and nodded.

There wasn’t much else to report on the news, so for the next twenty minutes William and Henry sat in silence; not making fun of the few stories the local news station could come up with as they usually would. The roboticist assumed that his husband was just as lost in thought about the update on the case as he was. Even if he planned on not taking any action, it was a lot to process.

Thankfully, when the news ended around seven, the silence was broken by the baby crying back in the primary bedroom. Henry got to his feet and hurried back down the hall to tend to her; William covered his face with his hands and sighed heavily, trying not to let the guilt eat at him. He’d gotten quite used to not thinking about the murders at all; now that he’d been forced to put it back in his mind, he had to think about the morality of it all again.

He wasn’t alone with his thoughts for very long; he heard Michael before he saw him, bounding down the hallway to leap onto the couch next to him. “Morning, mate,” he greeted his son with a smile, trying to put the news out of his mind and just focus on his family. That was all he wanted; all he’d ever wanted. “You sleep well?”

“Yeah,” Michael replied nonchalantly with a nod; as the commercials ended and another news program started up, he let out an annoyed groan as if it wasn’t always the case on a weekday morning. “Dad, can I have some cereal?”

“Sure.” Glad for something else to do, William got up and walked toward the kitchen. Michael followed close behind, a bit of a pep in his step.

“Where’s Papa?” the boy asked, and although he was used to the title given to his husband, it made William smile just a bit.

“He’s feeding the baby. You want to hold her when he’s done and play outside in the meantime?”

Michael had spent the first two weeks of Elizabeth’s life mildly obsessed with her; he was enjoying the role of a big brother so far, and William was glad for it. “Okay! That sounds good,” he replied, hopping into his spot at the kitchen table. “Can we go to Fredbear’s later, too? Ricky said yesterday he beat my high score at Bonk-a-Bon and I want to get it back.”

“Sure. You can come to work with me.” William poured some of Michael’s favorite cereal in a bowl, and them milk atop it; he passed it across the table to his son, who started eating happily. It was nice to see him enjoying his childhood. If anyone ever found out the truth about the murders of the early 70’s, that magic would be ruined; Elizabeth would never even get to experience it.

As William made his way over to a cupboard, intending on making some toast for Henry to eat once he was done with the baby, he decided that he needed to keep the secret. No matter what the cost.

Until trouble came looking for him again, though, he was happy to just let it play out elsewhere.