The brave volunteer returns. William rather wishes he'd stayed upstairs, or wherever it is Michael resides. But he's been cordial to Henry, the man who set him on fire. It should not be overly burdensome to attempt the same for his son.
"You're here. For what purpose?" He can't quite keep the disdain out of that you're, so William tries to pivot in a more reasonable direction. "Was there something you needed?"
(from burnt-basement-bunny)
☆ @burnt-basement-bunny [ ... ] 𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰𝘮 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘴 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘦𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘥𝘴.
☆ • ° . 𝗉𝖺𝗋𝗍 𝗈𝖿 𝗁𝗂𝗆 𝗐𝗈𝗇𝖽𝖾𝗋𝗌 𝗍𝗁𝖾 𝗌𝖺𝗆𝖾 𝗍𝗁𝗂𝗇𝗀. --- he's spent hours running it all back in his head. another night wasted wondering about his father - or the man who claimed the title with as much disdain as michael held for him. back & forth, from thinking he must have meant what he said to thinking it all to be some elaborate ruse.
why would his father apologize ? to HIM of all people !?
it WAS his fault, after all. perhaps michael began to agree with him somewhere along the way. that he was a rotten no-good, terribly awful son. that he was doomed from the start, just like his father. that he deserved all the ire william threw his way.
but, part of him wanted that apology more than anything. and now that he got it, he had no IDEA what to do next.
mike lingers there, eyes distant and bags somehow worsened as he grinds his teeth absentmindedly. ( 𝘢 𝘣𝘢𝘥 𝘩𝘢𝘣𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘤𝘦 𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘯𝘨. )
but he hears it still, that disgust. was there ever a time he looked at michael with love? maybe it's the memory of seeing his father's eyes change that he'd like to forget the most.
❝ ouch, and here I thought we were making progress. ❞
sarcasm is still the only shield he has. the only thing that works.
❝ no, I was just keen on visiting this ... ❞ face pulls to a look of vague disbelief and exhausted amusement as he waves a hand, gesturing vaguely to the props around them.
❝ ... utterly innocuous horror attraction. ❞
he shakes his head, his hands are shaking and the chill in the basement air ensures he can feel every ache in every joint. christ, he hated it down here. a strained gasp of a breath and he leans on his cane for support as he struggled a breath through whatever remains of his collapsed lungs.
❝ did you -- ❞ -- ' 𝘮𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘪𝘵 .ᐣ ' ... but the question dies in his throat. he's running his father's patience, watching the ears for any twitch as much as his brows used to when michael was yammering on as a boy about God knows what. it's a stupid question, he wagers. after all, his father wouldn't SAY it if he didn't mean it. which means he most certainly meant it with some purpose, and one michael can't figure out for the life of him.
❝ your ... little ' friend ' -- ❞ he begins with his own measure of disdain, as he meanders further into the attraction with the help of his cane. scrutinizing gaze sweeping over all of it with marked disinterest. the fox, although wounded, treading into the den of the hare. teeth sharp, crying in some mockery of bravery when it's all bravado : 𝘐'𝘮 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘢𝘧𝘳𝘢𝘪𝘥 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.
❝ -- do they know ? I mean ... REALLY know, what you are ? WHO you are ? ❞
and when his gaze meets his father's this time, it's harsh, focused. accusatory.