Carnage : 1983 | William afton x reader |

Static. - 6

He rested his head against the desk, voice trembling. "No... please, stay."

"I—maybe you should go to your wife," I suggested, leaning back in my chair.

He lifted his gaze, eyes sharp, glimmering with a restless energy that made me uneasy. "She doesn't like being around me," he said, voice quivering but smooth, that British lilt cutting through the tension. "Why are you still here?"

I hesitated. "...For work," I muttered, shrugging. "And observation." Professional. Distant. That was enough.

He nodded slowly, the corner of his mouth twitching. "I'll be gone soon anyway—the place is closing. Another cold case, probably."

I kept my voice even. "Still... do you know how it happened?"

He sighed, raising his head and running his hands through his hair. "Springlock failure," he muttered, and there was something in the way he said it—a clipped, precise delivery, too rehearsed, like he was trying to convince himself as much as anyone else.

"The tears triggered the mechanism... and then it bit down," he explained.

I nodded, keeping my expression neutral, though the knot in my stomach twisted tighter. The ache of it all pressed in, making my chest feel hollow, my hands restless. I swallowed, trying to maintain my composure. "It's... going to be okay," I said softly, only half convinced myself.

He glanced at me, fingers tapping absently on the desk, almost too fast to be casual. There was a tremor to his movements, a jitter beneath the surface, like he was riding some private, self-induced storm. I reached toward his hand reflexively, testing the boundary—and he held it, tight, quick, almost panicked.

"I don't know if I can... handle this," he admitted, voice low and fragmented. "I've seen... many things, but losing my own child... you don't understand—"

"Try me," I said, leaning back in my chair, maintaining distance, letting the words hang.

His shoulders shook; he exhaled sharply, gaze sliding over the papers, jittering back to me. "I felt... detached. Like I wasn't really there. A nightmare that won't end. And seeing... seeing him like that—it broke me in ways I can't explain."

I raised an eyebrow. "Detached?" I asked cautiously. "Does this happen often?"

He nodded. "All the time," he admitted, eyes flicking toward the ceiling as though the answer lived somewhere above. His hand twitched again, and I caught the faint chemical tang beneath the cigarette smoke—a sharp sweetness that wasn't part of the usual office air.

I didn't move closer. "Maybe you shouldn't be relying on... that," I said flatly.

"Maybe," he muttered, biting his lip, eyes shifting, restless. He tapped the desk impatiently, then exhaled through his nose. "I need... something to steady myself."

I made no move to comfort him. "Right. Well... there are healthier ways to do that," I said plainly.

His gaze lingered on me for a long moment, unreadable, before he exhaled sharply. "You're... practical," he said, half a smirk forming. "I can respect that."

I tapped my pen against the desk. "I'm here to investigate, William. Not to soothe broken men."

He rubbed at his face, jaw tightening. "I know," he muttered, and there was a flicker of exhaustion beneath the restless energy, like he was running on raw nerve and adrenaline. He leaned back, cigarette dangling from his lips, ash trembling at the tip.

I didn't offer another word of comfort. I didn't reach for his hand again. He seemed to need something, anything, to stop the spinning in his head, but I wasn't going to be the prop. Not yet.