Ი𐑼

raglan is the polarizing one. it’s like he’s wearing a tenfold of masks all on his own. you’ll see him in the office wearing a smile and shake the hand of a new hire and then turn on his heel, his face dropping to a cold blankness as he begins to walk back. he’ll be able to put on a cheery facade for one client, then do a complete switch and snarl at the next. maybe it should freak you out a little, that you’ve seen him raise emotions and spin lies at the drop of a hat—and that because of it, you virtually know nothing about this man who you’ve worked alongside for nine arduous months. instead, you find yourself fascinated. you’ve never seen someone so blatantly change skin like a chameleon, just out in broad daylight. well yeah, it’s his job sorta, but there’s nobody else you’ve seen be able to do that so casually, like it’s just second nature.

maybe you’re just a bad liar, but, y’know, it’s interesting. nobody else in the office seems to really notice. they all parrot back the same fond script, a older man who’s a bit distant but always friendly, willing to help you out. really? you’ve watched him pin down delinquents in their seats with nothing but a look. it’s hard to really think of him as being that straight-laced, even if he seems harmless. you can’t help but ask him one day—

“how do you do it?”

thank you so much! you don’t know how happy hearing that makes me. i’ve been writing for a long time in private, and festering my thoughts about this purple asshole for even longer, and i figured with all the imagines and fics i’ve been reading recently that i’d try to have a go at it! i fear i could talk about him for days and that’s honestly terrible.

i still think it’s unconscious, but, i also still think it was afton himself walking towards it. while we may not know how long william had been inside the suit, its safe to say that it’s been years since he was forced into what’s essentially a coma. wouldn’t that come with a bit of whiplash? it’s almost strange to think about; an afton that’s been stripped of his bitterness, of his built apathy, of this personality he’s constructed as a snake dressed as a showman. the idea that when afton first opened his eyes, now dubbed the springtrap, he had no clue he even had a different name at all. he didn’t remember what he’d done or why he’d done it or that there was anything done at all. it’s just him, in all open curiosity that could come from awakening years later in a molded rabbit suit.

and it’s you, the newly hired mechanic, who’s his first one-on-one encounter. the people who lugged him here, who forced him out of his deep sleep, all regarded him with layers of horror and disgust. all they saw him as was a disgusting pile of bolts that would be their new cash grab for the halloween season. an animatronic past its prime. valuable, yes, but ultimately an object.

you, you don’t look at him like that. well, there’s that initial recoil that comes with gazing on the wretched sight he is, but it’s quickly replaced with fascination. he knows that’s what it is. he recognizes it. an awe that crosses over you as you skim your fingers along the matted fur of the suit. he watches your face and finds that his cold body begins to thrum with an odd swell in his chest, old muscles willingly themselves awake. the corpse watches you trace a few open holes, gliding over patches of bloods, and finds that he can’t look away. this feeling. even if he can’t place what it is, even if he can’t remember, he knows that he hasn’t been looked at like that in a very long time. it’s a nice feeling. to be seen. to be appreciated.

he wants to feel it more.

it first started with idle watching. the rabbit quickly realized that you are the only in-house mechanic that’s been hired, and double as a technician and general “animatronic know-it-all” as the manager, hudson, puts it. you’re responsible for making sure the props all work and trigger at the correct times, that the speaker system is connected and functioning, and of course, himself. so he finds that he spends a majority of his time, when the building isn’t open, watching you work. there’s something intimately familiar with the way you pluck through bundles of wires to get to the chip you need. the gentleness you hold with every task. even with himself, you pretend to be oblivious to the mess of gore within his metal shell, or layer of “skin.” he isn’t entirely sure what it is to him anymore.

(but the corpse knows that you know too, don’t you? it’d be impossible not to. customers that he lurches at think it’s all fake, some pigs blood and paper mache tacked on his metal frame for special effects. you’ve spent enough time in his body—the feeling of your hands squeezing around muscle, brushing past where his abdomen should be, and he tries to suppress the rush he feels in his decayed form—that you must know that he isn’t normal, right? that there’s something wrong with him? there is. do you know what?)

it’s not just repairs he likes to watch. the rabbit finds that he likes to watch you do everything, anything. no matter how benign the task. even if it’s writing in that notebook you carry everywhere or watching you eat a snack from out of your bag. he likes to watch you, he decides. you are the only person who’s bothered to show him a bit more kindness and understanding. you say please before every motion you take in or around him, and mutter thank you each time he complies so carefully with not snapping a finger inside his decrepit body. you smile at him when he passes and squeal when he jumps at you.

he likes you, he decides.

he’s only known that open-ended questioning that he understands as curiosity for the better part of two weeks. springtrap knows that there was once a him outside of this costume, he no real memory of it, but he feels the echoes of it from time to time. the cadaver has felt that blooming interest in everything he sees or heard or does for a good while, and it still hasn’t gone away, but these echoes. it happens most when he gives a maze-goer a good scare, lurching out of a corner. there’s a rush of what he thinks is blood along his body that pumps thick in his veins and he likes the feeling. not just like. he loves it. it isn’t just fulfilling a purpose, his singular job here at fazbear’s fright. it’s deeper. it’s an echo. he loves the terror that ignites over their skin and burns into a scream or a cry, even more so when they run. he likes to be frightening. he likes to be fear.

all he has felt are rather pleasant feelings up until this point.

it’s late in the afternoon. springtrap knows this because when he awakes from a brief bout of sleep, when he exits the backroom, he moves past the few open windows in the attraction. a setting sun across the open horizon. not too long was he out, but any rest for him is long enough.

(this all should be setting off alarm bells already. he doesn’t like to sleep. he doesn’t like that unending darkness. he especially doesn’t like it when it transforms into odd blurs of colors and shapes that he doesn’t understand. another echo of the past he cannot place, just like the rest of himself.)

his automatic instinct is to follow the sounds coming from down the hall, drawing closer to the voices that are deeper in the scare maze than they should be for this time of day. the rabbit lifts his feet in preparation when he hears that your voice is one amongst the chatter. a great talent he possesses is the ability to be near silent, even in this crumpled state. it’s exceptional in moments like these. he doesn’t want to scare you away, after all. not just yet.

the corpse rounds the corner and tilts his head. his form obscured in the darkness, the barely-lit irises in the plastic plating he blinks through covered. it’s a perfect blindspot. a perfect perch to watch you, too.

springtrap finds he does not like what he sees.

you’re talking with someone he doesn’t recognize. a man, nearly down to bones with how thin he is. each tooth settles crooked in his too-wide smile. his hair is greased into streaks that make an unfaltering angle on his face. he’s disgusting. his ribs rattle in an attempt to contain his lungs and restrict the exhale that rocks out of his body.

what’s worse is that you’re smiling with him. you’re smiling at him.

that pulse of blood is not just a pulse. it’s an ache that burns through each collapsed vein, each swollen artery, pushing through into his shriveled heard and makes him scorch. it isn’t an echo. it’s so familiar that he can reach out and nearly touch it with his withered skin and rusted metal.

his fingers twitch. he wants to watch the color drain from your face as the chases you down, cornering you like a mouse caught in a trap. this body wants to feel your heartbeat thrum underneath his touch and feel it beat, beat, until it weakens and your thrashing slows and you understand just what it’s like to cross him.

no. the more he lingers on the scene, the more he finds it souring his putrid guts until he wants to wretch out what he doesn’t have. no. he doesn’t want to hurt you. you’re the only thing that’s shown him what it’s like to be what he was before, what he thinks he was before. human. you make him feel human. you make him feel. he doesn’t want to hurt you.

he wants to hurt that lump of flesh standing next to you. there’s a boiling that seems to overflow into every circuit and muscle fiber he has. that’s what he wants. why are you smiling at someone like that idiot? you should only be smiling at him. you should only be smiling at me.

for once, there’s no echo. there is rushing clarity. the first real emotion that springtrap knows is festered deep in his past, in his blood. something he can’t ever seem to dig out.

with those he’s close with, he’s especially physical. i don’t think clara likes to tolerate any touch besides her own children’s, but she’s not afraid to reach out and try and smooth over his tie, or fix his suit lapel when it’s out of place and afton somehow doesn’t notice. she holds her head high and touches him without fear or hesitation. with henry, it’s like he doesn’t really care. he’ll crowd him trying to look over a blueprint he’s sketching on, manhandle him whenever he’s too busy talking to someone and standing in his way. hell, you’ve seen them eat after each other. when you’re stuck in an apartment together for four years, you to learn to live with each other, henry says. yeah, you guess that’s true.

even when you two first met, he would linger a bit longer than socially acceptable. his hand would stay rooted on your shoulder, moving you away from a crowd. maybe when giving you a stray key or one of those fazcoins he likes to carry, his fingers would brush against the inside of your wrist before pulling away. a bit creepy, maybe, but you didn’t really read into it. just normal human interaction, right? it’s just how he is.

if you thought he was touchy before, god, now that you’re lovers? (you can’t really call him a boyfriend at his age, even if he finds it endlessly entertaining) it’s like he can’t keep his hands to himself. he’s always finding an excuse to touch you. whenever you’re walking together, he expects you to loop his arm with his, or hold hands. when he sees you sitting anywhere, he’ll stand behind you, his hands settle at your shoulders and stray inward to touch your collarbone. laying on the couch, he’ll slink down besides you and wrap an arm around your waist, or even flop on top of you if he’s feeling especially dramatic. public or private, he’ll find a reason. sometimes that reason is just that he wants to.

when you don’t indulge him, or reject his touch out of embarrassment or any other factor, he sulks. not that he’ll say that, but you can see the subtle pout in his lip, the way he suddenly goes all stoic and every little thing bothers him. the water in the sink’s too hot, or his pen is smudging too much, or everyone just seems to be getting in his way. you’ll ask him what’s wrong and he’ll huff and look away, going nothing, nothing. how temperamental.

you have to move in front of him, bring your hands to his face and force him to look at you. william tilts his head into your grasp. no shame, no questions asked, just melting into your palms. you can’t help but giggle.

“what a grumpy old man.”

his face immediately drops.

“what? i think it’s cute! i like you clingy.”

afton grumbles, “i am not clingy.”

“it’s okay! i like it. it’s really sweet,” you try to smile at him, to lighten him up a bit. “i wouldn’t of expected someone like you to be so touchy-feely.”

he’s stopped pretending like he isn’t still enjoying the attention. will turns his head inward to your right palm, pressing kisses to your fingers, the lines of your palm. his voice rumbles against your skin. “what did you expect?”

“hm. i don’t know. typical silver fox sort of thing, i guess. hookups after work, maybe a fancy dinner or two to make up for it. not much else.”

“do you think i was that shallow?”

you shake your head. “i mean, look at you. always have to look the best, have to have the best. that was when we first met, anyway. i know you better now. i think you’ll die if i don’t kiss you every morning.”

“which i still haven’t gotten, by the way.”

“shut up. i’m getting to it.”

truthfully, there’s something pleasantly simple about touch that afton won’t ever truly admit to himself. he’s forged his existence around the weaponization of words—how to use subtle praise to get himself into someone’s good graces, how to threaten someone while toeing along that subtle edge of socially acceptable, how to get someone else to believe even the most elaborate of lies. touch is just a way to affirm the seeds of doubt he’s spread. william afton, of all people, is deeply familiar with the duplicity of words. words can be ingenious. words can lie to you.

touch cannot lie. you can try to force yourself to raise a fist against someone you love, or try to shake hands with the most vile person you’ve ever met, but the truth is that touch is so intimate that there’s a point where you just can’t. you can pretend that you can—he certainly does, has tried, continues to try—but at some point, you can’t make yourself betray your own body.

perhaps that’s why it’s his love language. why instead of answering your confessions, he’ll just lean close, set his forehead against yours and close your eyes. maybe that’s why he chooses to slot against your back and wrap his arms around your waist, his head on your shoulder while you continue with your day. his words aren’t enough. even if he could speak what he feels to you, it wouldn’t be enough to convey what he truly means. it would never feel enough. he knows words can lie, and you must know that, too, being with a man like him.

a man so heavily guarded rendering himself vulnerable to you, only ever you, because he cannot find the words to speak his devotion to you. he’s already complicated his own life enough.

there is something simple about touch.

but, if you manage to worm your way past the idle pleasantries and frequent glances with william, you’ll find that his odd beliefs don’t stop there. worm your way a little bit deeper, maybe just short of his ribs, and you’ll learn that afton believes in everything. luck, fate, the afterlife, karma, ghosts; you name it. will thinks he’s a very lucky person, that some things in life are just preordained, and that it’s up to you to decide what to do with the opportunity. he thinks that you get in what you give out, but that all of his no-good-very-bad deeds just manifest in different ways than it does for the rest of the world. but what’s most peculiar is that he believes that humans have souls.

well, not just that, but mind-body dualism; humans have souls that are separate from their bodies, and that these souls are unique. it contains all the strength and abstract qualities that the body just can’t comprehend or contain alone. souls that are at peace or forcibly pacified will move on to an ambiguous afterlife befitting of their fate, while those with unfinished business, or those determined enough, remain. willpower is the strongest weapon of the mind, after all.

it’s one of the first things that drew you to him, when he idly suggested that even his beloved creations could have a soul one day. fredbear’s diner has long closed, and freddy fazbear’s pizzeria stands in its place, nearly a year strong. you are the restaurant’s most recent hire, and standing beside him just outside of the dining area, you contemplate your boss’ rather enigmatic question.

“our brains, our minds, are our souls. we need a body to have a mind. both have an equal need for each other. without one, the other can’t exist. there needs to be a body for there to be a soul.”

afton stares ahead at the new merriment henry and himself crafted for this place. he watches bonnie’s hands pretend to thrum the strings of his guitar to the tune of the song, freddy wave his hand to the gaggle of children that have gathered at the base of the stage, chica twisting and turning to the beat. william looks at them, and you look at him, and watch as a soft smile spread its way across his face. you’re so used to see him with that snake-oil grin that this feels…vulnerable. private. like he’s sharing a secret with you.

“well,” he tilts his head. “a soul needs a body. and if you need a body to contain a soul, who says it has to be the body that soul was made in?”

you squint, not quite sure what he means, and the co-owner seems to joy in your confusion. you don’t think much of his question. not even when he asks you to dinner two weeks later, or when he teaches you how to ballroom dance hours after close, or even when you find yourself drifting off to sleep in his arms nearly every night thereafter.

you don’t think much of it, even after afton is interviewed and almost arrested on five counts of kidnapping and homicide. he was found innocent, after all. you’ve known him for two years. he may be a bit aggressive to others, or have a thing for licking the blood from your cuts, but he’s not a murderer. he wouldn’t kill children, let alone in his own restaurant.

it’s a week after freddy’s had opened its doors again, and you’re closing up after a particularly stressful few hours trying to get foxy’s hook arm to stop swinging off its elbow joint. you’ve reprogrammed his routine nearly three times now, reset his arm twice that. you don’t know what the problem is. maybe he’ll have to stay out of commission for a bit longer.

you close his stage curtains, readjusting the hastily drawn “out of order” sign in front, and begin stepping towards the main stage to reset the gang back to their default positions. if you don’t, then they’ll be out of sync for any performances tomorrow, and you don’t want to stack one technical nightmare on top another.

bonnie’s easy to move (he’s always been the most forgiving of the three) simply pushing at the mascot shell of his upper arms to lock him into standing straight, his guitar at his side. you’ve flick his ear and step aside to straighten out freddy, when—a crack. a sudden, sharp, grating sound coming from right behind you. right from bonnie.

you whip around and see his head has jerked from its position to look over his shoulder, to stare straight at you. there’s a sharp gasp to your right, and you look up to see freddy’s eyes unblinking as he looks down to match your eyes. amidst your panic, a chuckle resounds from far away, one you don’t register, but certainly recognize.

“so, what do you think?”

it’s instinct to greet the echoing voice just short of the stage, the man you know so well, looking positively proud of himself. you squint again. “think of what?”