Chapter Text
The heavy scent of metal shavings and grease filled his nostrils before he even opened his eyes. Fuck. He woke up in the shop. No windows graced the drab concrete walls. The artificial lamplight he fell asleep under was obnoxious and buzzing, aggravating the ringing in his ears.
He was still wearing workshop goggles on something he'd been dangerously shouldering while having a visit with Jim Beam. Henry's body was drenched in sweat, through his t-shirt. Clinging to the back of his neck, his wet hair should just be put back. The coveralls he wore felt uncomfortable after sleeping in one place.
“Okay, what day -” he said aloud, spying the calendar near the clock and telephone.
It was a work day. A day he already had to be in for a small meeting with his business partner, William Afton. All he had to do was clean up and maybe he had a pair of clothes somewhere. It was then he was alerted by a grating beeping from the clock on his desk space. It. It was 10. He needed to be in at 9. “God dammit,” he muttered under his breath. Maybe it wouldn't be noticed, he knew how William was a punctual man, and expected it back. He imagined the irritability, and hurried up. His phone must have rung off the hook. Just a quick basin bath to wash his face and the damn sweat that made everything cold and clammy.
Standing up to even get there, he tripped over the rail of the stool he slumbered on precariously. It clattered to the floor, as well with his body, punctuated with a yelp, too slow to catch himself. He could already feel where he would bruise. As quiet as he possibly could, Henry pulled himself up with the help of his work bench and listened. Nothing he could hear. He brushed himself off, unhinged one of the straps of his coveralls, and ran through his excuse. A car crash, a woman stranded on the side of the road. Oh she just needed to go a couple miles away - oh the traffic - the
Henry scrubbed his hands, but there was only so much industrial hand cleaner could do in work like his. He shook his hands off and combed them through his beard, which he admitted was a little much as of recent. Forgot when he shaved last. The old bar of soap he raked across his face felt good. The tepid water? Strangely cooling. Collecting what he heard was called a “mullet” into a ponytail, he knew it wad a joke, lost only on him. The second strap of his coveralls flopped uselessly as the bib fell. Just some new clothes and spray of Riteguard and he was in the clear.
The door opened.
William Afton's steps were always purposeful, and silent. Henry didn't hear them as he had his shirt over his head. What he was met with was the angular form of his business partner in the doorway, reaching for something (he did not know what) out of his pocket.
When they met eyes, however, a tight-lipped, quizzical concern from his business partner soon became what Henry could describe as disappointment, “I thought I heard the water,” he noted, eyes moving from the dripping tap to a nod at pipes that would occasionally leak in the shop, “When did you come in?” his gaze drifted to the workshop itself.
Henry's voice caught when he tried to explain, “Just happened to come in traffic y'know-”
“Spare me,” Afton's voice was flat and arid as the desert. He slowly reached over to inspect a suit, plucking a few specs of microscopic dust from it. He pointing at the sink, “Make yourself presentable and come to my office,” he clearly had no patience today, which had been getting worse recently.
A turn of his heel and he was gone, stalking away, his steps managing to be light. It was just the door that slammed, loud enough to rattle it. Henry waited ten seconds after William left to continue scrubbing up, “Someone's in a mood,” he commented, as if the other man was ever in consistently good spirits.
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