“What You Still Are” - Drabble (Fat/chubby! William Afton x Reader)
—A soft moment with William Afton
It was quiet in the house, save for the soft hum of the old heater kicking on and the tick of the clock above the fireplace. William sat on the edge of the couch, shoulders hunched slightly forward, hands clasped between his knees.
He wasn’t looking at anything in particular—just staring into the middle distance, lost somewhere deep in his own mind.
You’d seen that look before.
Not angry. Not cold. Just... tired. That kind of tired that lives in the bones.
You padded over and slid your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek to the back of his shoulder, warm and soft.
“There you are,” you whispered.
He didn’t speak. But his hands—those big, callused hands—rose and gently covered yours. His thumb brushed slow, thoughtful circles across your knuckles. You felt him exhale.
“Did I do something wrong?” you asked softly.
“No,” he said quickly. “No, not at all.” He hesitated. Then, quieter: “I just… had one of those days.”
You nodded, your breath warm against the nape of his neck.
“You look beautiful right now,” you murmured.
William scoffed under his breath, tilting his head down. “Hardly.” His voice was dry. Empty. “You must be looking at someone else.”
“No,” you said simply. “I’m looking at you.”
Your arms tightened around his middle, feeling the slight rise and fall of his chest. You kissed his shoulder through the soft fabric of his shirt.
“You still have the same eyes. The ones that go silver in the light.”
“You still have that little crease between your brows when you’re overthinking.”
“You still smile like it hurts, but it’s real.”
He said nothing. But you felt him leaning into you more. Just a little.
“You’re beautiful, William,” you said. “You’re mine. And I see everything in you, even when you can’t.”
It was then he turned, slowly, almost hesitant. His silver eyes met yours, glassy and unreadable. Then—without a word—he wrapped his arms around you and pulled you into his lap, cradling you against his chest like he was afraid you’d vanish if he let go.
“She used to say things like that,” he murmured into your hair. “My wife. Before Evan.” His voice broke around the name.
You pulled back slightly and cupped his face in your hands, thumbs brushing over the stubble along his jaw. He looked tired. Weathered. But underneath it, there was something soft. Still alive.
“Then let me help you remember,” you whispered.
And he smiled—small, aching, real.
“You’re a cruel little thing,” he teased quietly, resting his forehead against yours. “Making an old man feel young again.”
You grinned, thumbing his cheek gently.
“You're not old. You're just well-loved. By me.”
The living room had fallen into that kind of silence only shared by people who know they don’t need words.
You stayed curled up in William’s lap, your head resting just beneath his chin as his hands gently traced patterns along your back—slow and unsure, as if relearning how to be tender.
Then, after a long pause, he spoke.
“I don’t know if I’ll ever be good at this,” he said softly. “Not anymore.”
You blinked, lifting your head slightly.
He looked at you, eyes glinting silver even in the dim light. He hesitated, then touched your face with both hands—carefully, as though you were something delicate.
“Being seen the way you see me.”
You leaned into his touch. “You don’t have to try. I already do.”
But something flickered in him then—something determined, almost boyish.
He cleared his throat and sat up straighter, tightening his arms around you like a vow. “No. I want to give something back.”
You tilted your head, curious.
“You’ll see,” he said. And then he dramatically threw his head back, closed his eyes, and began to recite—
“Thou art the moon to my tides, the hush to my storm—”
You immediately burst into laughter, slapping his chest playfully. “WILLIAM!”
“—the very breath that resurrects a man who thought he’d buried his heart!” he continued, dramatically gesturing with one hand like he was on a Shakespearean stage. His eyes peeked open, twinkling now.
“I shall perish without thee! A wretched, chubby ghost, doomed to haunt thy kitchen—forever looking for snacks and affection!”
You were doubled over, giggling. “You idiot!”
“A handsome idiot,” he corrected solemnly, flicking your nose.
“Yes, yes,” you said between snorts, “my big plush bunny.”
Then he pressed the back of his hand to his forehead and pretended to swoon like a damsel in distress.
“Cruel,” he gasped. “Absolutely brutal. To mock a defenseless man such as I—my own beloved!”
You laughed until your stomach hurt.
Then he grew quiet. He looked at you again—really looked—and gently, without the act, pressed a kiss to your forehead.
“I love when you laugh,” he whispered. “I forgot what it sounded like. But now... I think I want to spend the rest of my days earning that sound.”
And this time, you were the one who went quiet.
Because when William Afton says something that real—something that bare—it stays.
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