I Don't Get Paid Enough For This (William Afton x reader)

Under The Cover Of Darkness

The rest of the day was a blur.

A painful, tortuous blur.

It was made worse by the lack of business as you had little to distract yourself with. For most of the day, you walked around aimlessly. However, the need to distract yourself with something got so strong that you became so stressed that you decided to clean the bathroom, which in your eyes was the equivalent of 'no man's land' for obvious reasons. Truly desperate times.

So here you were, stood in a small stall, wiping sharpie graffiti and some questionable stains off of the wall next to a toilet. You hated every second of it but at least it filled the hours. The bright, cold lights shone down on you as you gripped a damp dark blue cloth in your hands. Just staring at the pale blue peeling paint on the stall walls gave you some time to finally think without any interruptions.

You had seen little of William for the rest of the day, which half pleased you and half almost... disappointed you? He was the only one that knew what had happened and that made you feel less alone yet at the same time, it was William and he was... well, William. It was weird. Then again, the whole situation was weird.

Nevermind, weird is an understatement.

You were beyond confused by how he was dealing with the situation. He was just so casual about it, both during and after the events while you were an absolute wreck that was on the verge of just breaking down completely. There was something strange about him that you couldn't quite put your finger on. He helped you and yet you couldn't help but be almost suspicious of him.

You sighed and took a breath as you moved up the cloth to wipe away some stupid writing left by probably some teenagers that got bored. The sharpie markings were pretty generic with either drawings of dicks or people writing their names, you read one stating, "Mike was here" for example.

'Thanks for making my job harder, Mike.' You struggled to wipe off the name, it had obviously been written a long time ago.

The lights flickered above your head briefly, plunging you into darkness for half a second. You shrugged it off as the lights came back on again, the bulbs had probably not been replaced in a while. You raised your cloth again, cleaning a few more markings and stains off of the wall before one caught your attention.

'It's me.'

Why was that familiar?

You stared at the words for a second, they were frantically scrawled on the stall wall as if someone had written them in a rush. Then it hit you.

The pictures.

You remembered back to the day that you were cleaning the hallway to the security office and saw the drawings featuring creepy dead kids and yellow rabbits. Above it all had been the words, 'It's me.' Right before they flew out at you like in some cheesy horror flick.

You shook your head, it was probably a coincidence. Right?

You reached your hand out and placed it next to the words as you leaned in to get a closer look.

"It's me?" You muttered to yourself. The lights flickered again, the darkness cutting off your vision briefly. Something felt wrong, really wrong. You were hit by a sudden wave of anxiety when as far as you knew, there was nothing to be anxious about in that second. Minus your secret murder.

You backed away from the stall wall, this was dumb. It's just some writing. And with that, you raised the wet cloth, pressing it into the writing and with one swipe, you smudged it into the pale blue wall. You went to further clean up the job when the lights flickered off. You waited for a second, expecting them to flicker back on again as usual. But they didn't.