Chapter Text
Diary Entry:
Today was weird. William was… nice? Not in a normal way. Just in that cold, awkward, “I-saw-you-cry-and-now-I-feel-responsible” kind of way.
I know that’s all it is. Some weird moral code buzzing in his brain. Still, he did something kind. Sweet, even. And now I can’t stop thinking about it. About him.
I hate how confusing he is. So cold, and yet quietly kind when it counts.
Whatever. I’m overthinking. Probably.
-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_-_
Chapter Ten:
You wake up like something heavy’s been sitting on your chest all night—and it still hasn’t moved.
There’s no panic. No sharp ache. Just weight. A quiet heaviness that sits on your chest and doesn’t move. It’s not sadness. It’s not anger. It’s the absence of both.
You feel… tired.
Not tired from lack of sleep. Tired from pretending. From dragging yourself through one more day in a life that doesn’t seem to want you in it. The bed's a coffin with pillows—safe, but suffocating. Comfort’s a lie, and you’re choking on it.
And then the rest hits: you’re alone.
You remember last night. How William tried to help. Said some things. Maybe looked at you like he meant it. But that part’s blurry now. You remind yourself—it didn’t matter. It wasn’t real. He just did what people do when they feel uncomfortable. Soothe the crying thing so it shuts up.
It wasn’t care. It was damage control. He helped out of guilt, not love. Out of pity, not concern. And he’ll sleep just fine.
Because he doesn’t care. Not really. And you don’t blame him. Who would?
You rot in bed, scrolling, scrolling, scrolling. Watching people live their lives like you’re not crumbling in real time. like it might trick your brain into feeling something. But everything’s underwater. Muffled. Far away.
You don’t cry. You don’t even really feel. It’s just static where emotions should be.
Time slips. Babysitting. Right. You still have responsibilities. You still exist. Life still expects things from you.
You move like a puppet with tangled strings. Shower. Clothes. Nothing cute. Just enough to pass as human. Makeup happens, because your hands remember the routine. Not to look good—just to hide what you don’t want seen. You skip the hair. Who are you trying to impress?
You throw on extra bracelets, covering the fresh cuts like it’s a reflex. Hoodie up. Don’t let anyone look too closely.
This is muscle memory now.
You try to convince yourself you’re fine. You rehearse the part: the smile, the banter, the girl who’s got it together. You’ve played her before. You’re good at it.
This isn't the first time you've been this low. Only this time you were utterly alone.
But you told yourself it's fine. You would be fine.
But deep down, the truth is too loud to ignore.
You’re not fine.
You haven’t been for a long time.
You walk up to William’s door with that crusty, secondhand sarcasm wrapped around you like an old hoodie two sizes too big. Doesn’t quite sit right today—kinda itchy, kinda sad—but it’s better than showing up honest. You can’t be falling apart if you’re being insufferable. That’s the rule. Be annoying. Be loud. Be the clown before you get clowned.
You knock in a rhythm that could summon demons—just to be a pest. Bounce once on your heels. Slap on your Best Annoying Smile™. Showbiz, baby.
The door swings open, and there he is: William Afton, walking eye-roll in a man suit, with the same exhausted scowl like life personally offended him this morning. His eyes do a full scan of you like he’s calculating the emotional tax you’re about to cost him.
He says nothing. Just looks at you like he wants to return you to sender.
Perfect.
You throw your arms out like you’re announcing yourself on a sitcom. “Honey, I’m ho—”
And that’s when fate hits the “humiliate” button.
You trip. On your shoelace? A cursed air molecule? A rogue atom? The crushing weight of your choices? God himself? Who knows. Your legs betray you like a bad prom date and boom—straight down the steps, landing ass-first like a tragic cartoon sidekick.
Your hoodie betrays you, stomach flashing to the daylight—and probably William, too.
Still committed to the bit, you raise your arms like you stuck the landing. “Ta-da.”
William doesn’t move. Doesn’t blink. Just stares with the unblinking patience of a man deeply reconsidering every choice that led to this exact moment. His mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but maybe a pre-smile. A smile embryo.
“Well,” he says, voice dry enough to ignite grass, “that gave me point-two seconds of serotonin. Congratulations.”
You groan dramatically, fling yourself onto your back like a damsel in a deeply unserious soap opera. “You’re welcome. I fall for you daily. Emotionally. Physically. Spiritually. It’s exhausting.”
He snorts. Like, an actual audible snort. You might frame the sound later.
Then he glances toward the street like he’s bracing for someone to call CPS. “Get up before the neighbors think I shoved you.”
You gasp, dramatic hand to chest. “What will the neighborhood think of my cold, emotionally distant sugar daddy?”
“Jesus Christ,” he mutters, already walking away. “you give me migraines.”
But just before he disappears, you catch it—A quick once-over. Is she bleeding? Is she broken? Is she still annoying? Check, check, check. He says nothing, of course. Feelings? In this economy?
He leaves the door open behind him.
You dust yourself off, shove your hoodie back into place, You trail after him like a stray cat who’s decided this man is her human now.
Back to normal. Or, well… your weird version of it.
By the time you stagger through the door like a raccoon who lost custody of its trash, William’s already in the kitchen. Back turned. Pouring coffee like a man who didn’t just witness you spiral into a soggy emotional puddle on his couch twelve hours ago. Like your entrance didn’t just nearly break his steps and your spine.
Cool. Business as usual, then.
You don’t mention last night. If he’s committed to pretending it didn’t happen, then fine. Same. You? Emotional breakdown? Couldn’t be you. Must’ve been your evil twin. Talking about it would mean it happened. That it mattered. That you mattered. And nope. you’re not setting yourself up for that disappointment.
Clara’s car—the blindingly white, teeth-grittingly efficient mom-mobile—is nowhere in sight. She’s gone. You let out a sigh of relief so dramatic it could win an Oscar. If she’d been here with her aggressively perky energy and unsolicited life advice, you might’ve thrown yourself into traffic.
You glance at the microwave. 2:35 PM.
William leaves at 3.
Twenty-five glorious minutes. Just enough time to bother him like it’s your life’s calling.
You drag yourself into the kitchen like a dying Victorian orphan and lean against the counter with the weight of your sins.
“Do you ever smile?” you ask, voice syrupy with fake curiosity. “Or did your face just buffer halfway through loading ‘pleasant’?”
Not even a flinch. He drinks his coffee like he’s hoping the caffeine will make you disappear.
You drum your fingers loudly on the counter like a kid who got kicked out of band class. “Be honest. How do you get to work? Do you walk? Teleport? Or do raccoons pull you there in a tiny chariot made of stolen shopping carts and emotional baggage?”
A single blink. Progress. “Garage,” he mutters, deadpan. Like the word is painful.
“The garage?” you blink. “Wow. That’s actually disappointingly functional. Here I was thinking you just screamed into the void until it opened a portal to your job. This is ruining the lore”
He mutters something that sounds suspiciously like “unholy brat,” but you can’t be sure.
You throw yourself onto a stool like you’ve just returned from war Because if he’s gonna ignore last night, fine. You’ll just keep playing your part. The sarcastic, obnoxious babysitter who totally didn’t cry herself hoarse on his couch..
He ignores you.
You ignore him ignoring you.
Balance.
Then suddenly—he looks up. Properly. Not just the side-eye of exhaustion. A real look. Scanning your face like he’s checking for cracks. Like you’re a fragile little vase someone handed him and forgot to mention was actually a bomb.
You’re deep in the sacred art of being annoying—eyebrow cocked, chaos loading—when he dares to interrupt with:
“Did you get anything for yourself?”
You blink. “What?”
He takes another sip of coffee like he regrets speaking already. “The money I gave you,” he says, all flat and businesslike. “I told you to get something. Something to feel better.”
You roll your eyes and kick your feet a little like a sullen child. “Didn’t feel like it.”
He sighs. Long. Deep. The kind of sigh that sounds like it came from his soul’s knees. “Coffee? Food? A hoodie that doesn’t look like it came from a haunted thrift store clearance bin?”
You cross your arms and swing your legs like a bratty anime character. “It has sentimental value.”
“It has mildew,” he shoots back, already grabbing his keys with the aura of someone preparing for war.
You open your mouth to sass him, but he cuts you off with a wave of the hand. “Go get Michael. Meet me outside. You have five minutes to decide what you want. If you don’t, I’m getting you socks and off-brand pretzels.”
He vanishes out the door before you can ask why he suddenly cares.
You blink after him, suspicious. Cautiously touched. Emotionally inconvenienced.
God. You hate that traitorous part of you that wants to smile.
You sigh, turn on your heel, and locate Michael—who activates like a sugar-fueled pinball machine the moment you say the word “trip.” You don’t even specify where. You could be taking him to a cult and he’d be down. Shoes on. Arms in sleeves—mostly. Hair completely feral. He is ready.
You open the front door.
Step outside.
And then freeze.
Because there it is.
There it is. Lurking in the cave-like gloom of his tragic little garage like it pays rent: a deep purple Cadillac. Not just clean—immaculate. Polished to such a blinding sheen it’s practically committing tax fraud. This thing doesn’t know what dirt is. It doesn’t park, it poses. You’re pretty sure it moisturizes.
Your jaw hits the concrete. “Is that your car?”
William, already unlocking it with the emotional range of a potato, doesn’t even glance over. “No. I stole it. Get in.”
You snort like an unhinged goose and step closer, fingers gliding across the hood like you’re in a perfume commercial. “What the hell, Afton? This... is your car? this glamorous beast? You’re all quiet, serious, and probably don’t even know what a meme is, but then you get behind the wheel of something that looks like it’s trying to start a fight with a Ferrari. I’m so confused right now, but also, I kinda respect it? I’ll admit, it’s... kinda badass for you. This isn’t a car. This is a pimp mobile.”
That gets you a look. A single flick of those eternally judgmental eyes. “It’s classy,” he says, with the conviction of a man lying to himself.
You circle it like a cat about to knock it off a shelf. “No, hold on—this thing has mafia godfather energy. What do you do in here? Smoke a cigar while threatening people with zoning violations? sell drugs and use the word groovy? I expected you to drive a haunted station wagon. Not the car version of a fever dream. William—this thing looks like it runs on blood and spite. What’s in the glove box, Afton—cursed tarot cards? Divorce papers? A live raccoon named Sebastian?”
You're so awestruck and yet Michael, gremlin that he is, has already launched himself into the backseat like it’s a bounce house. You’re still outside, turning in slow disbelief, absorbing the sheer audacity of it all. “This is the weirdest plot twist of my entire life. You, Mr. Beige Wallpaper with a Pulse, driving this.”
William opens the driver’s side with a sigh that sounds like it came from the core of the Earth. The kind of sigh that’s been building since 1983.
“Are you done?”
You raise a brow, absolutely not done. “I dunno. You got fuzzy dice inside? A disco ball? An ejector seat? A Custom license plate? Does it say ‘KingPin?”
That pulls something from him—an almost-smile. A glint of smirk. The tiniest fracture in his usual tombstone face. He erases it immediately, back to stone.
“Get in the car before I regret this more than I already do.”
You climb in like you just won the war. Because you saw it—that smile. A rare, endangered species. And now you know:
He totally loved your reaction.
He loves this ridiculous car.
And maybe—just a tiny bit—he loves the way you hype him up like he’s the hottest man in a used Cadillac dealership.
Which, to be fair, he kind of is.
Even in the car, you're gawking like an idiot. The seats are black and absurdly soft—like luxury marshmallows. You run your fingers over the stitching just to feel something. No dice hanging from the mirror though, which feels criminal. You mentally add it to your to-do list: get this man dice. He doesn’t deserve them, but the car does.
“You know,” you say, kicking your feet up on the dashboard without permission, “for someone as dead inside as you, this is a suspiciously sexy car.”
William doesn't look at you, doesn’t even blink. “Feet. Down.”
You ignore that. “Like, genuinely. It’s giving drug dealer. It’s giving midlife crisis. It's giving I have secrets and most of them involve unpaid taxes.”
He exhales through his nose, like this is physically painful. “Got it before Michael was born.”
“Right, right, the ol’ ‘I’m having a baby, better buy a pimp mobile’ instinct.”
“Exactly,” he mutters, bone-dry. “Cradle anxiety. Very common.”
You glance at him, trying not to grin. “This whole car just screams emotional repression with a hint of crime.”
He grunts. “Says the girl who showed up uninvited and fell off my porch.”
“That was for dramatic effect.”
“You looked like a drunk giraffe.”
You laugh, louder than you mean to. He doesn’t smile, but you catch the edge of something—his mouth twitching, just slightly. You’ll take it.
“So,” he says, voice flat but somehow also done with your shit, “what the hell do you want?”
You blink. “What?”
“The point of this—” he gestures vaguely, one hand on the wheel, “—was you getting something for yourself. You’ve got twenty minutes before I drop-kick you both back home and go to work.”
You glance in the backseat. Michael is happily babbling to himself about clouds or trains or lizards, completely unaware. You look back to William.
“I dunno,” you shrug. “Coffee? Hoodie? Ice cream? Existential clarity?”
He just sighs. “Pick one. Or all four. I don’t care. Just decide before I drive us into a lake.”
Classic. Emotionally constipated, deadpan, mildly threatening. But you don’t miss the way he’s still humoring you. Still driving. Still here.
“Look it's hard to think when I'm inside the pimp Mobile.”
You’ve called it that five times already. William has visibly aged every time.
“call it fhat again, and I’m making you ride in the trunk,” he mutters, pulling into a store parking lot.
You smile sweetly. “You’d be lucky to have this level of chaos in your trunk.”
Michael snorts from the backseat, and you give him a fist bump through the headrest. William sighs like a man who’s been cursed with both a child and you.
The second he parks you’re already unbuckling like a raccoon that’s just spotted a dumpster buffet. You practically leap out of the car, giddy at the sight of the big-box store with a coffee shop inside.
Target. Where people with money shop because Walmart is filled with strange creatures.
William, meanwhile, drags himself out of the car like a man headed to the gallows.
You beeline to the coffee counter with all the confidence of someone who believes sugar can solve emotional trauma. “I’ll have the largest iced drink you can legally sell me,” you tell the barista, rattling off a monstrosity with more syrup pumps than espresso shots. Whipped cream, drizzle, glitter of broken dreams—the works.
William stands behind you with his arms crossed, already judging. stares at it like it insulted his entire bloodline.
“What even is that?” he asks.
“A beverage,” you say, sipping it. “Don’t be jealous just because you drink your coffee like you’re in mourning.”
“Is it supposed to look like unicorn vomit?” he mutters, flat.
You slurp it obnoxiously. “It’s called self-care, William.”
He pays without arguing, which is suspicious in itself. Then he turns to Michael, who’s currently clutching your leg and looking up like a tiny cultist.
“Can I get a coffee too?” Michael asks, batting his eyelashes.
William sighs like this day just keeps getting worse. “Fine. But decaf. You don’t need more energy. Neither of you do.”
He orders Michael a tiny cappuccino. You're a bad influence.
With caffeine (or sugar approximations of it) secured, you snatch a shopping cart. Michael climbs in like a tiny king, and off you go—racing down the aisles, narrowly avoiding old ladies and in-store displays. You take corners like you’re in Fast and the Furious: Grocery Drift.
William trails behind at the speed of existential dread. Hands in pockets. Void in eyes. Regret in every breath. Like the universe has personally wronged him.
“Three snacks,” he says flatly when you and Michael start loading up the cart like it’s the apocalypse.
“What is this, a prison?” you complain.
“Three. Each.”
“You are ruining our art.”
You stick your tongue out at him behind his back, which earns you a tiny giggle from Michael.
“You’re already insufferable,” he says, monotone. “Don’t also make me broke.”
You open your mouth for a comeback, but you spot him looking around like he’s... planning something? Scanning shelves with unusual intent.
Then he just walks off. No word. No “hold my son” or “don’t steal anything.” Just disappears into the store like an NPC with a side quest.
You squint after him. “Okay that’s... suspicious.”
Michael shrugs, already trying to sneak a fourth snack in.
You keep an eye on the direction William vanished, pretending you’re not mildly curious-slash-paranoid he’s buying rat poison to put in your drink.
Michael continues contemplating Pop-Tarts like it’s a religion.
You keep glancing down the aisle, expecting William to return with a fire extinguisher or a priest or something equally dramatic. Instead, when he reappears, he doesn’t say anything. Just walks up and drops something into the cart like it’s just another snack.
It’s not.
It’s a hoodie.
Black. Oversized. A animal skull with antlers on the front, tangled with mushrooms and soft pink flowers. It’s like someone cracked open your soul and screen-printed it.
You stare at it. Then at him.
You narrow your eyes. “Did you just pick this out for me?”
“No,” he says instantly. Too instantly. “It was hanging by the meat section. I thought it was a dead animal.” Then barely audible adds, “it was on sale.”
You pick it up slowly, like it’s sacred. “It looks like it wants to be adopted by me.”
“Good. Maybe you’ll stop looking like a sad raccoon now.”
“Rude. But also… thank you?” you say, because your brain short-circuits when people are nice to you. “Why are you being nice?”
“I’m not.” His voice is deadpan. “I’m preventing myself from having to hear you whine about your tragic teenage drama for another week. This is self-preservation.”
“Oh my god. You do care.”
“I do not.”
You smirk, hugging the hoodie to your chest. “This is emotional intimacy. I’ll treasure it forever.”
He rolls his eyes so hard they almost fall out of his head,.“God, you’re exhausting.”
then walks toward the checkout. You and Michael trail behind, and William, he pays for everything. Snacks. The hoodie. Your dental bills waiting to happen coffee.
He doesn't say why. But you know why.
He thinks you’re sad. And yeah, maybe you are. Maybe it’s stupid, but losing your friends back home sucks more than you want to admit. And this—this silly little Target run? This was nice. Not that you’ll tell him that. You do have pride.
You silently slip on the hoodie after the register beeps. It’s warm. It smells new. It swallows you whole and you kinda love that.
Back at the car, you call it out before you’re even close.
“Shotgun!”
William groans. “You don’t have to say that. He legally can’t ride in the front.”
“Just wanted to hear myself win.”
“If I crash this car, it’s on purpose.”
“Good luck explaining that to the cops when they find me looking this cute in the wreckage.”
He shuts the door with more force than necessary. Michael climbs into his car seat without complaint—clearly, he’s done this before—and immediately starts opening a bag of chips.
William turns around so fast it’s like he sensed it psychically.
“Do not eat in the car.”
Michael freezes.
You snort. “no Eating in the pimp Mobile? Tragic but valid.”
“Stop calling it that.”
“You love it.”
“I loathe you.”
“You’ll miss me when I’m gone.”
“You’ll be gone soon?”
“I could be.”
“You should be.”
He turns the ignition. The car hums to life.
There’s a moment of quiet. Hoodie warm against your skin. Coffee in your hand. Michael humming to himself in the back.
You glance at William, who’s staring straight ahead like he’s regretting every second.
“You’re not that bad, y’know,” you say quietly, just once, just to yourself.
He doesn't respond. Naturally.
You won’t tell him you loved this little trip. That it meant more than he probably thought it would. You won’t tell him how much you needed someone. Needed this distraction today.
But you will treasure the hell out of this hoodie.
And okay. Maybe he still thinks you’re an annoying brat. Maybe you are. But for just a second, it kind of feels like you don’t hate each other that much.
Not that either of you will admit it.
The Pimp Mobile pulls into the Afton driveway, tires crunching over gravel like they, too, are tired of your shenanigans.
William doesn’t even shift the car into park before he mutters, “Out.”
you and Michael tumble out like rats who’ve just been released back into the wild.
“You have the child,” he says, staring blankly ahead like this is just one more thing pushing him closer to cardiac arrest. “Don’t burn my house down.”
“No promises,” you chirp, already juggling coffee, a bag of snacks, and Michael’s gummy worms.
He watches you both head toward the door, the weight of deep regret practically seeping from his pores. Then he peels out of the driveway like he’s fleeing the scene of a crime.
Inside, it’s the usual suburban chaos. Michael kicks his shoes off and immediately disappears into the living room like he owns the place (he kinda does), and you trail after him, hoodie sleeves covering half your hands as you take inventory of your spoils.
You both dump the snacks onto the coffee table like pirates unloading treasure. Chips, cookies, a suspiciously melted candy bar, and your still-mostly-full coffee, which you sip like a queen.
“Snack day is the best day,” you declare, flopping onto the couch like a dramatic raccoon in a thrifted funeral dress.
Michael’s already wrist-deep in a bag of cheese puffs. “Can we watch dinosaurs?”
“Only if we eat these like royalty,” you say, placing the bag of gummy worms into a ceramic bowl like it’s fine china.
You settle in, hoodie cozy around your shoulders, and for the first time in a while… things don’t feel totally awful. The sugar buzz is kicking in, the couch is stupid comfy, and Michael's already glued to some prehistoric monster documentary like it's high art.
And yeah, maybe you’re still the babysitter that William can barely tolerate. Maybe he thinks you’re chaos incarnate wrapped in eyeliner and attitude.
But the snacks are top tier. The coffee is strong. And the hoodie?
The hoodie is perfect.
And today... today kinda rocked.
The night finally winds down after a full-blown war with a five-year-old who insists he’s not tired while yawning like a cartoon lion. Eventually, you win—barely. Michael’s tucked into bed, limbs askew, drooling on a stuffed animal .
You retreat to the living room like a shell-shocked soldier, hoodie still draped over your frame like armor. It’s oversized, warm, stupidly soft. You could live in this thing.
You don’t bother touching your phone. It’s in your bag somewhere, probably lighting up with group chats you’re no longer in. Except—no. It's not. No one’s texting. No one’s going to. They’ve all moved on. You’re the ghost in someone else's friend group now.
And yeah, that still stings. A lot.
But tonight… it hurts a little less.
So you throw on some random show—something with too many bright colors and canned laughter—and just let your mind spiral.
Because today was weird. Like, extra weird.
William Afton, the human embodiment of a migraine, stopped at a store, bought you coffee, let you and his child ransack the snack aisle, and—here’s the kicker—he picked out a hoodie for you. One that is so your aesthetic it’s offensive.
Black. Animal skull. Mushrooms. Pink flowers. If this hoodie had piercings, you'd marry it.
And that’s the thing. He chose it. Didn’t grunt and throw cash at you to pick something yourself. He saw it. Thought of you. Grabbed it.
Which means—somewhere in that judgy, grayscale void of a brain, he paid attention.
You hug your knees and smile against them. A tiny, secret grin.
He hates you. He's made that painfully clear. You are a walking irritation. A brat. A delinquent with too much eyeliner and not enough volume control.
And still… he bought you a hoodie.
You liked it. Almost as much as you like seeing that little eye twitch he gets every time you call his car the “Pimp Mobile.”
You lean back into the couch, sleeves pulled over your hands, heart a little heavy but not crushed. Still sad. Still figuring it out.