#🔪 - michael

[bizarrelittlemew]

Aziraphale mourning the jar holding the tumor from a seven-year-old boy.

[creepswrites]

MASK OF HATE | Michael x Reader

a long awaited rewrite of my favorite fanfic i've written... i've come far since my first time writing it and i'm so so happy to be able to recreate my pride and joy!! if you want to see the original, here it is! but i'm thrilled to rewrite it and i hope you all like it :)

MICHAEL MYERS X FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

WARNING: graphic depictions of violence & injuries

NEXT

The smell of wet earth enveloped you as you made your way back home. The earlier afternoon rain had let up long enough for you to walk home from work, a long day spent at the farmers market and plant nursery. It was rewarding work and one of the few jobs you'd actually wanted to be hired at. Your family had moved here a few years ago and you'd fallen in love with the town instantly. You and your father lived on the edge of town, more in the woods than the city itself, but not too far that you had to go out of your way to go to work. Even after you graduated, you still hadn't moved out. Why would you? You helped pay rent, shopped for groceries, and could tend to your garden.

It was, as far as you were concerned, the perfect location. A lovely little house surrounded by trees and bushes of flowers, overgrown with vines, and a stepping stone path that led to the front door. The house itself was covered in a dark brick with the inside a beautiful white with dark wooden floors that smelt of books and fresh fruits and vegetables. And sometimes the smell of rain leaked in when you left the windows open.

So no, you had no intention of moving.

Today was one of those days where you'd get the house to yourself. As the current chief of police, your dad was known for working late nights and leaving you to your own devices for a few days. With Halloween coming up, the police were on edge. Rumors were circling in the station that Michael had escaped again but couldn't confirm yet. They were avoiding telling the public until they were sure.

You always enjoyed walking home more than you enjoyed driving. It gave you a chance to think while enjoying music in your headphones, hopping along to the beat. You were weighing your options for dinner in your mind as you got closer to home when you felt a sense of wrongness wash over you. When your song came to an end, you lowered your headphones to hang around your neck as you scanned the nearby area with scrutiny.

The smell of iron reached you in a soft breeze that brushed your clothes and skin. Coyotes weren't unheard of but you didn't exactly have a way to defend yourself if they got any closer. Not to mention there was the chance your cat had gotten out.

You picked up the pace, grimacing when the smell grew stronger and stronger. Had your head not been on a swivel, you would have missed the way the bushes shook. You froze, swallowing hard as a man stumbled out of the treeline and onto the paved street towards you. He was tall, dressed in a dark blue jumpsuit and a white Halloween mask that rang a bell in the dark recesses of your mind. But you were too prioritized by the gunshot wound in his side that bled copiously, staining the jumpsuit in dark blotches.

"Are you okay?" You gasped, watching the man stumble for balance. He just made a grunting sound so you rushed forward to catch him by the shoulders. "Oh fuck, okay, uh, I might have a first aid kit at home. It's not far, c'mon." You said, trying not to panic. God knows how this dude was even standing with how much blood he'd already lost. But you slung his arm around your shoulders to practically drag him along. He was silent, which unsettled you slightly, but you didn't have the time to be unsettled. This man was possibly dying and that was far more important to you.

Did you need to talk to him to keep him awake? You were worried that if he did collapse on you, you wouldn't be able to move him. "How'd you even get an injury like that?" You tried, jostling him a little. The size difference was glaringly apparent like this but you did your best to move him. "You're lucky I live near here. Don't want to imagine you bleeding to death out here in the woods alone."

The jumpsuit he wore made you think that maybe there'd been an accident with a car or something? You weren't sure. It wasn't likely he'd gotten himself out this far with a wound that bad but you couldn't really think straight to work out logistics. A man was injured and he needed help and that's all you could focus on at the moment.

The walk home felt like hours but you finally pulled him up to the back door, kicked the rickety old screen door open with your foot, and practically dropped the man on the floor against the counters. No way were you carrying him up the stairs, especially not when he could track blood all over the carpet. You threw your bags aside and ran upstairs to the bathroom, hurrying past your cat Mayhem who cried in hunger. "Later." You said quietly as you began rifling through the cabinet under the sink. "I should clean this out later."

First aid kit in hand, you tore down the stairs again and came to a stop in the awning of the kitchen. The man was slumped over where you'd left him and you took the brief moment to get a better look at him. Dirty, brown work boots that were covered in grass stains and wet mud had left a small trail of dirt alongside the blood drops. The jumpsuit was mostly clean except for what looked like oil stains and the blood on his side. As you approached him, you noticed blood staining his sleeves in streaks too. Odd. You made a mental note to check his arms when you were done.

You knelt down in front of him, close enough that you could hear his frantic breathing. Like he was attempting to stay awake. "Can you tell me what happened?" You asked softly, clicking open the first aid kit and reaching for the zipper of his jumpsuit. When he flinched away, you froze. "I'll need to unzip you in order to take care of your wound."

He stared at you. Or you assumed he did. The black voids of the eyeholes left much to be desired.

"Just give me a nod." You sighed.

A moment passed but he finally nodded. A small little motion that you would've missed if you hadn't been looking. You gave him a little smile and unzipped the jumpsuit to his waist, careful to avoid brushing against the wound as much as possible. The black tank top underneath had ridden up slightly which made your cheeks warm. Stuffing that down, you helped him carefully shrug his sleeves down so you could better see the damage.

It was hard to see what had happened with how much blood covered his skin. So you reached into the kit, using one of the little sanitizing wipes on your hands before grabbing the disposable gloves. "Okay, uh, I'm not exactly a doctor so just let me know if the pain is too much, okay?" You gave him a nervous smile before hiking the tank top up more around his chest to let you wipe down the skin with a clean wet wipe.

The amount of blood was almost ridiculous. But you were eventually able to make out what was undeniably a gunshot wound. "Who the hell shot at you?" You mumbled more to yourself than to him. But he still gave you a tilt of his head as though answering. "At least the bullet went all the way through," You sighed, looking between him and your supplies as you tried to figure out what to do. "Okay. Let's… see what I can do."

You didn't know anything about gunshot wounds, much less how to clean them. But you'd helped patch your dad up when he stuck himself with a fishing hook so you figured it couldn't be that much more difficult. Anything was better than letting it get infected. "Sorry," you said softly before giving his hand a squeeze, "This is gonna suck."

And you poured the hydrogen peroxide on both ends of the wound, wincing at the pained grunt he let out. You kept apologizing as you fumbled around for the needle and thread, also dousing that in the peroxide before you tried to stitch him up. Sewing had never been a skill of yours but it was the best you could offer him. At least until you could get him to a hospital. You pressed gauze at either end of the wound before wrapping him tightly in bandages. "I think the wound is supposed to drain? I think I remember hearing stuff about that. We'll have to keep an eye on it to make sure it doesn't get infected." You tried to give him a reassuring smile and sat back to view your handiwork. It was probably sloppy, yeah, but at least it was cleaned and covered.

It could've been much worse.

"Can you pass me one of the wipes?" You asked, holding up your bloodstained hands and giving him a toothy grin. "I don't wanna stain everything with blood."

He offered you a blank stare before reaching slowly into the kit and handing you one of the little packages. You tore it open and got to scrubbing. "I'd give you a sucker for being a good patient if I had any. Would you take dinner and a shower instead?" You scooted back to clean up more, letting him stand on shaking legs. "My dad shouldn't be back till late. But he should be able to drive you to a hospital once I explain-"

At that, he shook his head violently no. "No, what?" You paused, brow furrowing. "No hospital?" He gave you a nod. "I'm not exactly a doctor. Your injury probably needs more than my below average sewing skills and half a bottle of peroxide." But still, he shook his head. "Fine. Okay. No hospital." You sighed loudly, giving him a quick once-over. "Are you hurt anywhere else?"

He tried to pull away but you finally saw it: a spot on his opposite shoulder where he'd been just grazed by a bullet. More a flesh wound than anything, but you'd missed it in your stitching him up. "Alright, c'mere mister," your tone was light as you raided the kit for more gauze and bandages. "Got anything else you're hiding from me?" You gave him a playful smile as you wrapped and cleaned his wound. "It doesn't look too bad. I'm way more worried about the gunshot wound." You trailed off. "I wasn't kidding about dinner and a shower though. My dad's got clothes I bet could fit you. Though the pants may be a bit short." He gave you a calculating look as you shrugged. "At least until I get your jumpsuit washed."

The two of you just stared at each other for a while. His head tilted slowly in confusion and you couldn't help but snort. "What, you think I'll just patch you up and throw you out? Not a chance. C'mon," you took his hand and led him towards the stairs. Mayhem had ventured downstairs and began to sniff you both over, hissing at your guest despite your soft scolding.

Once inside the bathroom, you tossed the first aid kit back in as the man took a look around the small space. White tiled floors and faint, floral wallpaper framed a huge mirror, spanning the distance of the smooth countertops. You pride yourself on keeping the bathroom clean, so you only winced slightly at the dirt on the work boots that left a small trail of dirt behind. "I'll get you some clothes if you want to get undressed. I don't mind washing your clothes for you." You gave him a smile, sidestepping him to slip back out into the hall. "A shower might help you feel better. Just try to avoid getting your bandages too wet."

You left him in the bathroom and slipped down the hallway to your dad's room. A rifling through his dresser earned you some plain sweatpants and an old, black shirt you knew he wouldn't miss. Worst case scenario, your guest bled all over the shirt and you'd have to throw it out.

Heading back towards the bathroom, a realization came to you. "Hey, I'm sorry, I don't think I introduced mys-" You froze in the doorway, words dying on your lips. The man had his back to you and had shrugged the jumpsuit off the rest of the way, his boots laying near the doorway by your feet and the blue material like a puddle around his ankles. His shoulders were broad and you could make out tiny scars that littered his forearms and shoulders. His mask had remained but that wasn't what surprised you.

He didn't have underwear on.

Your face felt like it was on fire as you slammed fresh clothes down on the counter, pointedly not looking at him. "Alright, here's your clothes, bye!" It felt like your words slurred together as you slammed the door behind you, leaning against it with an embarrassed sigh.

Once you heard the water turn on, you went downstairs to clean up the kitchen floor, grateful the blood hadn't dried too much yet.

Mayhem, having decided you'd spent long enough fussing over your guest, began to complain and shout for his dinner. "Alright, you needy thing, c'mere." You scooped him up and pressed a kiss to his fuzzy head. "Let's get you fed and then see about feeding our guest, yeah?"

Mayhem meowed, as though enthused only about the coming tuna.

The man took his time showering but you didn't really mind. He certainly needed it. Plus, you could empathize there - showers always made you feel much better too. In the meantime, you'd snuck back upstairs to grab his clothes and toss them into the washing machine. When you'd gotten a good look at his clothes, you recognized the auto mechanic company logo on the jumpsuit. "L. Smith?" You'd wondered aloud, frowning to yourself. "Pretty sure I'd tutored his kids when I was a junior…" But he didn't look anything like Lawrence Smith. "Maybe it's just a common name," you had mumbled. Something about this whole situation felt off but you couldn't exactly place why.

You shook your head slightly and sighed, trying to dismiss a nagging feeling you had in the back of your mind. Sparing a glance down at Mayhem, who brushed against your leg insistently, you frowned. "You don't think this is Michael Myers, right?"

Big yellow eyes blinked up at you and you sighed, chewing on your lower lip. Not much about the Myers case was made public beyond his crimes and his mugshot. Your dad had refused to divulge anything to you about the case and you'd only managed a quick peek at crime scene photos. Nothing about the way the man had been dressed or anything like that. Besides, it had been so long since that night that any details you could have seen have been lost to time.

"Impossible." You decided with a shaking sigh as you opened the can of tuna, not even believing your own words despite their conviction. "There's simply no way."

The sound of thunder outside was a welcome distraction from your thoughts. The rain had always been peaceful to you, the smell of wet earth and the chill breeze from the window had you relaxing. You smiled, whistling for Mayhem to come get his dinner and slipped past your hungry cat into the kitchen once again.

Cutting the vegetables and boiling pasta was peaceful, a wonderfully monotonous task you could just get lost in with the soft white noise of the rain. You would have missed the sounds of the shower turning off if you'd been any more zoned out. You had just taken the tomatoes out to cut them up when you heard heavy footsteps behind you.

You glanced over your shoulder and took him in. The sweatpants had stopped just above his ankles, which you had expected. What you hadn't expected was the way his broad chest filled out the shirt, struggling to hug around his biceps. You turned back around to hide your swooning, biting your lip hard to keep yourself from smiling like a fool. He'd put the mask back on but you couldn't even bother to give it a thought.

Swallowing, you cleared your throat. "Are the bandages alright?" You asked, turning your attention back to the tomatoes. He didn't say anything but, then again, you hadn't really expected him to. "Pasta's boiling right now so dinner should be ready in a few minutes if you want to sit down." You gestured to the nearby dining room table with only a few chairs pulled up. But you didn't hear him move. The feeling of eyes on the back of your neck made you tense for a moment but you brushed it off. If he needed something, he'd let you know, right?

As you reached for a knife, his hand shot out and covered yours. You weren't even aware he'd gotten that close and you jumped in surprise. The eyeholes of the mask bore into you as you turned to look at him once again. "Do you… want to help?"

He just tilted his head, as though bewildered by your offer.

You move your hand aside to let him grab the knife, stepping to the side to give him room at the cutting board. "You just have to make them into small chunks. Try and get them around the same size, I'll get the garlic going." You hummed, your fingertips barely grazing the extra knife before he grabbed your wrist tight, jerking your hand back. A surprised yelp left you as you stared wide-eyed up at him, noticing the way he white knuckled his own knife.

Something about this was very wrong.

Swallowing back your terror, you held eye contact with him, the two of you locked in a standstill. The room was silent except for his heavy breathing, barely audible over the pounding storm outside. Soft bluish grey light cast shadows on his face, making the eyes of the mask seem like bottomless pits. Everything felt frozen in time as the two of you stared at each other.

You were the one who broke the tension, reaching over with your free hand to uncurl his fingers from your wrist as casually as you could. Anxiety pounded through you when you heard his breathing hitch. "Don't worry," you gave him a weak smile once you were freed, "I have every confidence in you." You said, giving a weak gesture to the tomatoes laying on the cutting board. You slowly moved towards the stove to set about roasting the garlic cloves, trying to appear as calm as possible while he continued to stare you down.

You only let your shoulders drop when you heard him start slicing.

Making the rest of dinner didn't take long, especially with your guest's help. He seemed unwilling to leave you alone now, hovering around you as you finished cooking and plating dinner - pasta with garlic sauce and dried tomatoes - and only retreated to the living room when you'd reassured that you were right behind him. He took a seat on the couch and you caught him staring at Mayhem comfortably sprawled out on his favorite chair.

"His name is Mayhem," you told him as you sat beside him, setting two water glasses down before digging in. "He won't bug you, he knows he's not allowed on the couch."

The man's head turned slowly to look at you, letting you get a brief sight of one of his eyes: a blue-green color that looked almost hazel in the darkness of the mask. You held in a soft gasp and turned away, trying to push the idea that the man was pretty from your mind. You hadn't even seen his face for crying out loud! Much less gotten his name.

Instead, you just clicked the television on. "Anything in particular you wanna see?" You asked around a mouthful of food. "We've got movies too but I dunno if you like horror." You hummed, setting your plate down briefly to shuffle over to the drawers in the tv stand, leafing through VHS tapes. "It's almost Halloween though," you smirked, "But, judging by your mask, you knew that."

His eyes were boring holes into you again but you just chuckled to yourself. While you pride yourself on being good at reading body language, his ramrod straight posture and silent staring was like gazing at a white canvas. But maybe that's one of the reasons you liked him so much: he wasn't complicated to understand, when he needed to be heard.

You pulled out a particular VHS and flashed it to him. "Do you like cartoons?" You asked, dangling 'It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown' for him to see.

He nodded then - so clear and obvious that you didn't waste any time popping the tape in and sitting back down alongside him. You kept your eyes glued to the screen as you ate, hoping that would be enough privacy for him to comfortably eat. He'd have to give you his name later, at the very least, but you felt the urge to give him some semblance of privacy as he ate. So you kept your eyes off him and the two of you ate in amicable silence, both your attentions rapt on the little cartoon. He ate like he was starving for it and practically chugged the glass of water when he was done, which made your heart hurt a little.

How long had this guy gone without eating or drinking anything?

"There's more in the pot if you want. Help yourself." You said softly, bumping his knee gently with yours to get his attention. He'd tensed up slightly at the contact and you momentarily scolded yourself for that. He was clearly not good with touch, but it had just felt natural to do for him.

But he didn't seem to hold it against you and just stood up, retreating into the kitchen with his plate. You watched him with a slight smile on your face. He was, no doubt, intriguing. His mysteries had you utterly fascinated and there was so much you wanted to ask. But a part of you feared the answers, paranoid your suspicions would be proven correct.

He would have killed you if that were the case, right?

The two of you continued watching movies once you'd learnt he hadn't, in fact, seen most horror films. "Well obviously I'm going to show you 'The Thing,'" you'd said as Charlie Brown came to an end. "It's one of my favorites, I think you'll like it." His staring didn't bother you anymore so you took his silence as agreement when the movie began playing. The night continued like that, the two of you watching movies together. Horror films seemed to intrigue him and you swore he jumped a little at some of the visceral body horror moments. But the two of you had cozied up just a little. He'd finally sunken back into the couch and had tolerated you scooting closer to him.

You were halfway through Frankenstein when you heard the phone ring in the kitchen. "Be right back," you whispered to him, feeling his eyes on you as you walked away. A quick glance at the clock revealed it was nearly midnight and you frowned. Your dad should've been home by now and your guest didn't seem in any hurry to go home. Didn't he have somewhere to go?

Regardless, you stepped into the kitchen on socked feet and plucked the phone off the receiver. "Hello?

"Kiddo? Oh thank god you're alright!" Your dads voice sounded monetarily relieved, letting out a sigh as he spoke. "You should've called me after you saw the news." He said, once again becoming frantic. "Lock all the doors, keep Mayhem inside tonight, and-"

"Calm down," you cut him off, "What's going on? I haven't even seen the news, I've been watching movies with-"

Your dad wasted no time cutting you off as well. "Just stay inside, okay? Keep your eyes on the news and just- just stay safe. My pistol is in my room in the bedside table if you need it."

A sinking dread began to settle in the pit of your stomach as you twirled the phone cord. "Just tell me what's going on!" You became equally frantic, running your hand through your hair in frustration.

He was silent for a moment before sighing. "Look, I'm not supposed to tell you. This is strictly police business. But the last thing I want is you digging into this yourself-"

"That was one time-!" You protested.

But he ignored you. "There's a killer on the loose." His words were like a gunshot to your chest. "We nearly caught him this afternoon but he managed to escape. We're- we're not sure where he'd gotten off to so I want you to stay inside and call me if you hear or- or see anything strange."

A lapse of silence passed and you can tell your dad was about to hang up but you quickly squeaked out. "What's his name?"

"I'm not supposed to tell you." His voice had a finality to it. He didn't plan on telling you.

You knew how to play him though. You faked a sniffle and a sob. "Dad, please, I- I need to know what I'm up against! W-what if he gets inside?"

Despite his voice being barely a whisper, it was deafening to you. "Michael Myers."

Instantly, you sobered up. Your fears were confirmed and you felt your blood run cold. Michael Myers was sitting in your living room in your dads clothes after you'd had dinner together. He'd been fascinated by Charlie Brown and had jumped a little at the chest defibrillation scene in The Thing. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield had helped you cut tomatoes and let you tend to his wounds.

You were still alive. As terrifying as this revelation was, you were curious why he hadn't killed you. You didn't know Michael Myers to be very forgiving or benevolent…

Wrapping up the call with your dad, you practically slammed the phone back into the receiver, your back still to the living room. You steadied your resolve and forced your hands to still when you turned back around. You nearly slammed into him when you did. He'd been eavesdropping and the idea that his mercifulness would end made you talk before he could move. "Seems we're locked in tonight." You managed a smile and a shrug. "Dad says it's too dangerous to go out tonight so at least it'll just be us two. If you want, I can set you up on the couch to sleep when you're ready."

He continued to stare at you and you swore he almost seemed…surprised.

You sidestepped him to head back into the living room and he let you, though he was hot on your heels. "Means you and I get more movie time though." Grinning up at him, you sat back down with a soft "oomf" and looked up at him expectantly. If you just acted like everything was fine, maybe he wouldn't kill you?

It seemed as good an idea as any.

Eventually he rejoined you on the couch after staring at you for a few good minutes.

You knew. And you had a feeling he knew that you knew. But what could you even do? It wasn't like you stood a chance against him if he decided to attack you. In fact, a part of you felt almost guilty for withholding your newfound information from him. He was literally a serial killer and you didn't want to make him think you were against him.

Which bewildered you. Why would you feel bad? You knew, logically, you should call your dad back and tell him Michael was here and let him and the rest of the force come try and catch Michael before he ran you through with a knife.

He'd extended trust to you though. You recognized that. You didn't want to betray that, especially since you didn't know who the last person he trusted could have been.

As the movie came to an end, you decided to take a risk. "Want me to make popcorn, Michael?" You kept your tone light and casual as you stood and stretched.

You didn't even get two steps in before he was up, grabbing your wrist tight and spinning you to face him. You kept your smile light and tilted your head the way he liked doing. "I think I have M&Ms if you want me to mix those in too." He continued to stare and you finally sighed. "I already knew. I, uh, had my suspicions before we made dinner. But dad called and confirmed it, basically." His grip tightened but you brushed it off. "I'm not going to tell anyone." You finally admitted.

His posture remained rigid, like he expected a fight. You felt your heart break a little. Has he ever had anyone be kind to him ever since that night? "Do you know about doctor-patient confidentiality?" His blank stare was an answer in itself. "When a doctor treats a patient, that patient has the right to keep their information private. Including their name." You placed your free hand atop his in what you hoped was a comforting gesture. "So, since you're technically my patient, I don't have to tell anyone anything." He still seemed confused and you just let out a soft sigh. "I'm not gonna rat on you, is what I'm saying."

He seemed to consider this before giving you a slow nod.

A part of you was relieved. A fair trade, you thought as you went into the kitchen to make popcorn. You patched him up and fed him and, in exchange, he didn't kill you.

The two of you wound up watching movies late into the night, with you adding soft commentary as you munched on popcorn and M&Ms. By 2AM you were fading, your head lolling to the side and bumping against Michael's shoulder in your attempts to fight off sleep. He was warm and, despite knowing who he was, you felt safe.

So you'd nodded off.

The next time you opened your eyes, you were being shaken awake by your father. "Get up," he whisper-yelled as he turned off the tv, a quick flash of the movie menu disappearing as soon as you saw it. "Do you have any idea what time it is?"

You hummed, yawning and rubbing your eyes. "Early." A glance at the clock confirmed it was nearly 6AM. "Sorry, guess I was up watchin' movies." You sat up and looked around a little before your sleep-addled brain immediately recalled that Michael Myers had been sitting on your couch last night and you looked around.

As your dad herded you upstairs and past the kitchen, you noticed Michael's boots were gone. The dishes had been left atop the table but yours had been placed in the sink as though to hide the fact there had been two people here. Once of the knives from the block was missing too, but that didn't surprise you.

If your dad's weary expression was anything to go by, Michael had escaped before he'd gotten home. "'m headin' to bed," he grumbled, "You should too." He said before shuffling into his bedroom, closing the door with more force than intended. You nodded to empty air before retreating into your bedroom, noticing Mayhem lazily dozing on top of your messy bedsheets.

Your bedroom was dim and cool, the morning light just starting to shift the pitch black sky into a dark tealish blue color. Raindrops still covered the window, indicative of the storm that must be still going. You frowned and went to close your curtains to avoid being blinded by the sun once it rose but you paused just before you could yank the fabric closed.

There, across the street, only visible thanks to the streetlight he stood under, you could see Michael Myers staring up at you.

Dumbfounded, you smiled and gave him a little wave, swaying on your feet as you tried not to swoon. You wanted to believe he wouldn't hurt you, seeing as he had ample opportunity to do so and had instead laid you gently down on the couch to sleep when he'd decided to leave. But the realistic part of your brain reminded you, as you closed your blackout curtains, that it should be more concerning that you'd become a fixation of his.

You'd heard of Laurie Strode and how she was assumedly his previous fixation, seeing as he'd stalked her for a while before deciding to take action against her friends. She'd been terrified of him for years and continued to lock herself in her house for the past two years to protect herself against him. Despite her fear of him, she'd yet to move out of Haddonfield.

There wasn't any point in trying to figure her out though. She was of no help to you. You couldn't tell anyone about what was going on or risk yourself or Michael.

You were far too tired to think about any of that for now and just flopped down into bed, freezing when your hands brushed an unfamiliar texture. After scrambling around under your stomach, you held up Michael's tank top. He must have left it for you when he'd gone to change into his jumpsuit. You felt your face heat up at the implications of him leaving his shirt for you, opting instead to shove it under your pillow with your cheeks burning.

The memories of him in the tshirt filled your head as you fell back asleep.

Crunching dry, brittle leaves beneath your boots, you made your way into town for work. You always liked the walk, especially with how beautiful Haddonfield got in the fall. A gorgeous watercolor painting of oranges, browns, and reds, touches of yellow and green giving pops of color. Despite the tragedies that had happened two years ago, Halloween decorations were still up in full swing, the town determined to celebrate no matter what. There was even a small festival at the farm nearby, complete with haunted houses, hayrides, and pumpkin patches. Halloween spirit was everywhere and you loved it. It'd always been your favorite holiday, even before a certain man fell into your life.

As you approached the plant nursery you worked at, you mulled that over. The police hadn't caught Michael yet but were working round the clock. And although you hadn't seen him in person since he'd stayed over a few days ago, you'd seen glimpses of him. Enough to know he was definitely stalking you. While you should logically feel afraid, you instead felt… oddly comforted.

You stopped beating yourself up over why. You knew why. Michael Myers was the most dangerous person alive and he was looking out for you, in a way. You felt safe with him watching you. So you played the game and pretended not to see him. It was easier to play along anyways and, as far as you knew, he hadn't killed anyone since he found you. No one your dad talked about at least.

So you'd been spending more time in town or out in the woods, hoping that entertaining him would keep him from killing. At least, you hoped so.

It didn't help that you still found yourself fascinated by him.

You'd stopped beating yourself up for that too. Most people you knew were predictable, bland, or boring. They had routines and patterns that were easy to predict. But Michael wasn't like that. You never knew what he was thinking or how he'd behave. He was interesting, unique, and unpredictable.

You liked that. Maybe that was sick or twisted of you, but it was true.

"Helloooo?" Your co-worker's soft voice pulls you from your thoughts. "Did those blackberries do something to you?" Kalei snorted, nudging you gently. "You've been staring at them for, like, ten minutes now."

You responded with a yawn, rubbing your eyes. Despite having only been at work for a few hours, you were ready for it to be over. "Sorry, jus' haven't been sleepin' well." You slurred as you tried to give her a smile.

"Bad dreams?" Kalei asked, frowning slightly as she set her own blackberry plant aside. Working at the plant nursery had been your idea, more interested in working with plants than people. But Kalei was a good friend and always looked out for you. It was nice to have company while taking care of the plants.

You chewed on your fingernail and gave her a little shrug. "Just been… thinking about a guy, I guess."

They let out a shocked gasp. "A GUY?!" Kalei squealed, ignoring your desperate attempts to shush them. "Tell me everything RIGHT NOW, oh my god!" 

You blushed, trying to get them to quiet down, flustered at the idea of Michael listening in. "It's not anything serious! Just, um, met this guy and he's… interesting. I like him." You blushed at the childishness of your own words, focusing on your plants to avoid meeting Kalei's eyes.

They gave you a nod. "Well, as your workplace bestie, I am obligated to give him The Talk."

You chose to not mention the fact there were only five total employees counting you both. "Kay, it's Illinois. I doubt he'd be interested in me, available or not." Which wasn't untrue. Even if Michael was interested in you, it likely wasn't anything beyond obsession. At least the obsession went both ways, you thought to yourself with a private smile.

"Well, regardless, I have a duty to fulfill." They beamed at you, hands on their hips. "You're a cute guy and, if I didn't have a partner, I'd take you out sometime." They ignored your snort and continued. "If this guy screws you over, I'll kick his ass for you."

If only they knew, you chuckled to yourself as you left Kalei to attend to a customer. Michael wasn't exactly great "bring-home-to-the-parents" boyfriend material. Much less introduce to your co-worker. When you'd finished helping the customer, you froze at the sight of movement in the tree line across the road. Standing in the tall grass and brush, you swore you saw Michael standing there…

As far as you were aware, he stayed close by to watch as you finished your shift. You hoped that as long as he was watching you, he wasn't out killing someone. Hopefully. For all you knew, he could be supernatural.

But you'd let him watch you. The whole rest of your shift, the walk home, and as you got in the car to go shopping. While you usually got vegetables and fruits from the plants at your work, you still needed to get normal groceries at the store. So you parked around back to be a little more secluded and went inside.

It was a cute little supermarket, clean linoleum floors and shelves lined with food. You didn't need much but you definitely needed to refill your medkit and find a proper first aid book, just in case. Thankfully, it was relatively empty that day, meaning you had free reign of the aisles to explore and take your time shopping.

You knew Michael wouldn't come in the store but you didn't doubt he was waiting for you outside.

So when you finished loading your grocery bags into the trunk of your car, you didn't feel surprised when you heard footsteps approaching you. Michael was definitely taking a risk being out with you in public but you hadn't exactly spoken to him in a few days and you were itching for the chance.

Turning around, however, you were met face to face with an unfamiliar black ski mask. Definitely not Michael. The stranger grabbed you by the arm before pulling out a knife, his head on a swivel. "G-gimme all your cash! Now!" He hissed, jerking you aggressively.

"I don't have anything on me." You said calmly. Your dad had always prepared you for situations like this so you didn't worry too much, even with the glint of his knife in the corner of your eye.

"D-don't bullshit me! I know you j-just got outta there. G-gimme what you've got and I'll b-be on my way!" He spat at you, pulling you closer to press the knife against your neck.

You caught the faintest of movement in the shadows of the alleyway behind him but you kept your eyes on him to prevent the guy freaking out. "Okay. Let's just calm down," you said, keeping your movements slow as you reached for your hip, pretending to go for your wallet. The guy kept looking around frantically as though expecting something to jump out at him. Police, most likely. But when you saw the white face of a familiar mask over his shoulder, you felt a sense of calm settle over you.

"C-c'mon!" He hurried you, jerking the knife again to threaten slicing your throat.

At that moment, you jerked back as hot blood splashed across your face. Michael had effortlessly slashed the guy's neck open from behind, bright red falling like rain against the concrete below. You closed your eyes as the choked gurgles of the mugger's voice faded to silence and his body hit the ground. It was like you were frozen in place, unable to make your muscles move as you listened to the sounds of Michael killing the man. The vicious stabbing sounds made your skin crawl and you turned away from the scene entirely to check yourself over.

You hadn't gotten blood anywhere besides on your face, which was good. Easier to clean.

This was inevitable, you reminded yourself. That man wanted to hurt you and Michael was doing you a favor. Still, you tried to steady your breathing, bracing on the trunk of your car as he dragged the body away, presumably to hide it.

You heard Michael start to approach you and you let out a breath you didn't know you'd been holding. His footsteps could be silent, almost supernaturally quiet, so if he was making an effort to be loud, you knew it was his attempt to make you feel better. To let you know he was coming.

He stood in front of you now, covered in fresh blood and gripping his knife tightly. You were thankful for the setting sun that cast dark shadows over you two, obscuring the bloodsoaked Michael from view on the streets. You noticed the body slumped against the wall a little ways away and you swallowed back bile. "T-thanks." Your voice was soft and you cleared your throat. "For saving me."

It was only an assumption that he'd killed that guy to protect you. He didn't have to. He could have just let you die or at least be robbed. You were confident in that assumption though. He wouldn't risk your game ending so soon. 

On some level, he wanted you alive.

The blood on your face was beginning to dry uncomfortably and you desperately wanted to go home. You gestured to your car and gave Michael a tilt of your head. "You coming?" He seemed to weigh his options in his head before casually making his way for the passenger seat after a brief deliberation. "What's the plan if we're caught?" You asked him with a raised eyebrow and climbed into your own seat.

Turns out, once the cops got wind of the body, they were very easy to avoid. Predictable, you thought as you gripped your steering wheel tighter, careful to not draw attention to your car as you drove through the windy roads that led to your house.

You got Michael inside, shoving the grocery bags onto the kitchen counter as Mayhem came around the corner, meowing for attention and approaching Michael to give him a curious sniff.

It was then that you remembered stories your father would tell you about how Michael would kill animals for fun as a boy. How he'd leave the dead bodies of cats and birds in his locker at school to terrify the other kids. You weren't sure how truthful the stories were but you felt a heavy pit of anxiety when Michael looked down to acknowledge Mayhem.

"If you hurt Mayhem, I will turn you in." Your voice was steady despite the way you trembled. His head snapped up to look at you and you could feel the glare behind it. "I mean it. T-this is one thing I'm not bending on. He's my kitty and I won't let you hurt him."

Michael was still for a moment, letting Mayhem rub against his boots and yowl as though expecting the man to feed him. Slowly, ever so slowly, he bent over and let his fingers brush against soft black fur. The motion was gentle, like either you or the cat would lash out should he make a mistake. Mayhem loved the attention, purring and rubbing against his fingers more, which made you smile.

He was usually an anxious cat so seeing him this comfortable with Michael made you smile. You set about making up Mayhem's dinner while Michael tried to navigate petting him. He was shockingly gentle despite clearly never having pet an animal. "Did you have pets as a kid?" You asked as you scraped food into the bowl.

He didn't answer but you didn't really expect him to. His hand was still, just letting Mayhem rub all over it and meow at him. It was endearing, you thought as you set the bowl down and let Mayhem go to town on it. Michael's head tilted curiously as he watched and gently stroked his back once before standing back up.

"I think he likes you," you giggled, scritching the cat behind the ear.

Michael just watched the cat before slowly standing back up and heading back into the living room. You followed him, tugging on his sleeve gently. "Want me to wash your clothes?"

Your words trailed off when you noticed Michael was looking at a photo of you with your dad at your graduation party. A tired sigh left you when the man tilted his head. "I don't… want to talk about that." You mumbled, crossing your arms over your chest. "It's not like it's easy to plan for your own dad's murder." The words were heavy in your mouth and you forced yourself to look away from the photo.

Ever since your mom had died, you knew your dad had been different. She'd died in childbirth with you and all your dad's friends would whisper about how that changed him drastically. He'd always been distant with you, especially as you'd grown up. When you'd hear stories about him before your mom died, he sounded like an entirely different man: happy, enthusiastic about life, and excited to be a father.

But then your mom died and he retreated inward. As though the whole thing was entirely your fault. He didn't want to parent you on his own and therefore you had to grow up taking care of yourself instead. 

"Whatever you have to do," you swallowed, turning away from Michael entirely and your voice hollow, "Just make it as painless as you can."

It wasn't like there was an easy way to ask him to kill your dad painlessly. You tried not to dwell on how easy it would be to let him go. It wasn't exactly like he'd ever been there for you anyways.

"So. Your clothes. I, um, still have your shirt and the sweats you borrowed are clean, if you want to change." You changed the topic quickly, ignoring the way he stared at you. The last thing you possibly wanted was pity from the Boogeyman. "Either way, I'm going to go wash my face before someone sees me."

You went upstairs to the bathroom, leaving Michael to his own devices downstairs. You opened drawers at random until you found the wet wipes you kept stashed for when you wore makeup. Some good hard scrubbing and scented lotion and it's like you were never there, all evidence flushed down the toilet and out of sight. You sighed, staring at yourself in the mirror as the events of the day hit you, leaving you feeling winded and exhausted all at once. You were complacent in a crime now. It wasn't just you hiding Michael from the cops, you'd let him kill a man in front of you.

Trying to argue with yourself that it was self defense was pointless. No use in lying to yourself.

When you opened your eyes, unsure of when you'd closed them, you met Michael's eyes where he stood in the doorway of the bathroom. "Oh, sorry, do you want to shower?" Before you could even move to leave, he unzipped the jumpsuit, leaving you speechless.

You gasped in horror at the state of his chest. The black shirt was gone and left his bandages on display, dirty and stained with reddish-brown blood that mixed with ugly yellow pus from the drainage of the wound. It reeked of infection even a few feet from him. "Michael!" You hurried to him to get a better look, feeling sick for the second time today. "Christ, you should have come to me before it got this bad! With how wet it's been… Take these off and sit down on the edge of the tub. God, this looks awful."

Michael sat, watching you with amusement. At least you assumed it was amusement. Though you couldn't find anything funny about this. "I should have stitched you," you mumbled as you reached for your first aid kit and began sterilizing a pair of scissors, "Or at least looked up what to do."

Swallowing back your squeamishness, you cut him free of the bandages, practically retching when you got a better look at his wound. It had somehow gotten worse, a painful red and oozing pus. "Oh my god, Michael." Your voice was barely a whisper. "I'm so sorry."

He tilted his head and you almost wanted to smack him. How he wasn't in any noticeable pain was bewildering to you.

You began to undress him, uncaring of any potential nakedness, and he grabbed your wrists tight when you reached forward to take off his mask. "Michael, this infection could kill you. I need to see if you're running a fever. So either let me touch your forehead or I'm touching your neck." 

He stood quickly, stumbling slightly as he grabbed the bloodstained knife from where he'd apparently set it down on the counter. But you didn't back down. "Be mad all you want, this is really fucking infected and I'm not letting you get worse." You sighed, racking your brain to come up with an idea to placate him. "If I close my eyes, will you let me take your temperature?" 

Slowly, his shoulders fell. Which confused you. You'd seen his mugshots, you knew he wasn't disfigured or anything like that. So his insistence at not being looked at confused you but now was not the time to be worrying about that.

Prettiness aside, you needed to help him.

So you shut your eyes and held out your hand. A minute passed without Michael moving and you briefly worried he'd left the room entirely. Before you could open your eyes, you felt his fingers encircle your wrist and press it to his neck. You felt him swallow and you tried your best to focus on how hot his skin felt and not how this was an incredible show of trust. Goosebumps erupted across your arms as you cupped his neck gently.

His skin was soft and feverish and you felt your heart clench.

"You're definitely running a fever," you sighed. "I'll look for a sewing kit or something to stitch you up but I want you to shower and get all that gross off first. Don't scrub too hard, okay?" Before you could retract your hand, his grip on your wrist tightened. "Are you-?"

He lifted your hand, letting your fingers graze his bare cheek. You felt Michael lean into the touch momentarily and you reacted quickly, holding his face gently. He was burning up so hot you weren't sure how he was even standing in this condition. When was the last time anyone had taken care of him? Or the last time he was even sick?

Judging by his height, he was likely slumped against the bathroom counter. The idea made your heart clench. Despite every instinct in your body telling you to pull away, you ran your hand up the side of his face in a gentle, soothing motion. Your fingers ran through tangled hair, soft and curly, before sliding down behind his ear to rest back on his neck. "You'll be okay," you said softly. "The fever will break and you'll be back on your feet in no time."

Having had enough of being touched, he took you by the shoulders and moved you aside, careful to not let you stumble and fall. You kept your eyes closed when you heard the shower turn on and the curtain shift as he stepped inside. Only then did you open your eyes.

What... was that?

You looked down at your hand like it offended you before shaking your head in bewilderment. He'd never fail to surprise you.

You figured out pretty quickly that that instance of seeking your touch was the extent that Michael wanted you to touch him. He barely tolerated you checking him over for fever symptoms, opting instead to lounge in your bed like he'd been exorcised of a demon.

For the past few days, you'd done your best to keep Michael's presence in your house a secret. With your workaholic dad's late hours, he usually just came back home, ate a frozen dinner, and passed out in his bedroom before waking around 9AM to stumble to work and repeat the process all over again. So, provided Michael kept quiet, there wasn't any worry. You'd taken a few days of sick leave from work to take care of him, citing a head cold. Now you just had to hope that the police would continue their dedicated search even if people weren't dying.

You wondered, as you sat on your bed with a feverish serial killer half naked and asleep beside you, if hoping he recovered soon made you a bad person.

Probably.

But god he was a bitch when he was sick.

He kept the godforsaken mask on, which you had expected. But when his fever rose to 102 you had kind of hoped he'd take it off for the sake of wanting to cool down. He was persistent, you'd give him that.

You were getting the hang of his body language too. It was subtle but you'd begun to notice the slight shifts in his stance or the way his hands would twitch without a knife in them. At first you'd assumed it was just you projecting but you'd grown confident you could understand him now. Being sick definitely made him more expressive too.

Though, right now, you wanted to strangle him. "Michael, it's chicken noodle soup." You sighed, rubbing your temples. Trying to feed him was like dealing with a picky toddler sometimes. "It's chicken, noodles, carrots, and broth. All things I've fed you before." You could feel his glare at you and you were half tempted to get your own knife to speak his language better.

The infection was running its course, which was the only reason you had so much patience with him. His bitchiness was a byproduct of his fever and you had to keep reminding yourself that he probably hadn't been sick before.

That didn’t make you want to clobber him any less.

"If you eat the fucking soup I'll go buy you pumpkin pie when you feel better." You tried, glaring him down. "Because the sooner you eat this, the sooner you'll get better. And then you can go back to slaughtering the town."

He seemed placated by that. You turned your back to him so he could eat and you let out a silent sigh. You knew him well enough to know he liked that soup, he just wanted to be a jackass about it.

Later that afternoon you yet again threatened him with violence when he refused taking medicine. You weren't surprised he wasn't interested, seeing as he grew up in a hospital. But you were outgrowing your patience with him. You did smirk a little when you realized he absolutely wanted to throw you across the room for all but forcing the antibiotics down his throat. But once it was down, you softened. "C'mere, sleep will do you some good."

Michael glared at you but let you sit next to him against the headboard of the bed as he laid down. You'd learnt he was definitely a stomach sleeper and you could tell by his huffing that the heat underneath the mask was beginning to frustrate him. You jerked your head away when he ripped the mask off, throwing it with a growl and face planting onto the pillow.

"It's okay," you said softly, keeping your gaze straight ahead and fighting the urge to look down at him. "You don't feel as feverish today, you should be back on your feet in a day or two." You heard him grumble and you giggled. "Want me to rub your back? Might help you sleep."

He was silent. But he didn't immediately lash out so you kept your movements slow and purposeful. Like approaching an anxious, abused cat. He didn't know touch that wasn't associated with pain and you had to be careful to avoid startling him or overstepping. Your fingers made contact with his back and you slid your palm over his upper back, rubbing in slow, soothing motions.

Maybe it was exhaustion, the fever, or resignation to your touch but you swore you felt him relax.

Michael's skin was tacky to the touch and incredibly warm but that didn't deter you. You hummed a soft lullaby, keeping your movements slow and gentle. He looked painfully human and you were choking on the urge to care for this man. This strange, silent Boogeyman who'd fallen into your lap and sought you for care and food and attention and it made you want to cry.

If it weren't for his murderous hobby, you'd be infatuated with the sleeping man. The slow rise and fall of his chest made something in your own clench painfully as you continued to rub his back. You'd only known each other for a short time and yet you both had extended a lot of trust to each other. Most people met him with hostility or violence but you'd met him with kindness. A kindness he was unfamiliar with and must have been a welcome change. Either that or he just liked your cooking and bedside manner enough not to kill you. You weren't too picky about his motives.

You'd be lying if you said you weren't fond of him regardless.

The sound of the front door opening was like a bucket of ice down your back. You crept from the bed, carefully shutting the door behind you and heading downstairs, meeting your father's tired face. "You're back early."

"I'm only on my lunch break," he sighed as he shrugged his coat off, "Didn't feel like packing one so I figured I'd come check on you." He was giving you a strange look. "Are you okay?"

You watched him go into the kitchen as you loitered on the stairs, watching him through the awning closest to the steps. "Yeah, just been a little under the weather." You feigned a cough and sniffed. "Getting better though."

Your dad hummed as he opened the fridge. "Michael Myers killed a man at the store the other day." He reached in to pull out a sandwich you'd made for yourself at lunch and hadn't gotten around to eating. Trying to feed Michael was a laborious task.

"Really?" You raised your eyebrows, crossing your arms over your chest. "I didn't hear about it in the news."

He watched you with a painfully blank expression. "Correct me if I'm wrong but… I think you were out shopping before you fell ill, am I right?" Your dad took a slow bite of his sandwich, poorly trying to act casual. "The store clerk said a man was following you outside the store."

Fortunately, you were a better actor than your father. "I didn't see anyone."

But, of course, he didn't believe you. He never did. "Son, a man was killed by Michael Myers the day you went out and now you've been hiding away since then." His cop voice grated on your nerves. It felt like he never stopped being a cop, even with you. Every conversation with him felt like navigating a maze to try and hide yourself from him. You hated it.

"The weather has been getting colder and I work outside. It's really not that surprising."

"Have you seen Myers?" He got sick of beating around the bush, his hands on his hips as he leveled you with an unimpressed look. "Is that why you've been hiding out here?"

The word "hiding" made your hackles raise. Like this wasn't the same man who'd told you to lock the doors and windows when he first informed you of Michael. "Nope." Your smile was fake and bitter and you could see the way he flinched. "Hard to miss a man walking around in a Halloween costume." 

"Kid-" He tried to placate you.

But you weren't interested. "I'll be back to work in a day or so, don't worry."

He seemed remorseful now. "If Myers is stalking you, you can talk to me. You know that, right?"

An awkward silence hung in the air. Your dad seemed to deflate and he ate in silence, pretending to not see you. "Have you talked to Laurie Strode yet?" You asked as you picked at a stray string on your sweater sleeve.

He swallowed and shook his head. "We're hesitant to let her know what's going on until we're certain he's still after her. Dr Loomis has been working with us to try and find him as soon as we can." He scratched his chin in thought. "Maybe I should make a statement soon, what with Halloween approaching."

You gave him another acidic smile. "You'll find him, I'm sure. You're very dedicated."

Your dad gave you a helpless look. If you were five years younger, you might have apologized for being so curt with him. But you weren't sixteen and craving your father's approval anymore. You knew that the family charade you both put up was only because you helped around the house. He wasn't home enough to give a shit who lived there anyways.

He didn't even know the killer he was hunting was asleep in your bed, stitched up with your string and your soup in his stomach. You had no intention of telling him, partially out of spite at this point.

You hoped Michael got better soon.

Lucky for you - and unlucky for Haddonfield - Michael was back on his feet a day later. He was still a bit warm but you knew it was fruitless to try and keep him inside any longer. He had to make another appearance in town anyways or else he'd risk you both. If people paid too close to timelines, your sick leave corresponding with his disappearance would be too suspicious.

But his stitches came out easily and his wound had healed decently. "Next time, come back before your bandages get too dirty." You'd smirked at him as you zipped his jumpsuit up. It felt too close to a wife sending her husband off to work for the day and the thought made your face warm.

You managed to get a few days of relative peace, especially once your father was occupied by Michael killing again. It had also been a few days since you saw Michael and you hoped that was just because his bandages were holding up well. The last thing either of you needed was another sick week.

Currently you were heading home after spending the afternoon reading at the park. Your little bag bumped against your hip as you hopped along to the music coming out of your tinny headphones. It was unlikely Michael had been watching you, since you didn't feel his eyes on you, but you still felt like taking a break from the house for a minute.

The sight of a cop car parked haphazardly along the sidewalk made you freeze. It had hit the curb slightly and looked like the driver had been in a hurry to get out. The door was wide open and you lowered your headphones slowly, the frantic voice over the radio better. The voice was staticy and it sounded like whoever it was was running but their words were crystal clear. "All units respond. Multiple fatalities reported on Orange Grove Ave. Suspect has been identified as one Michael Myers. He is armed and extremely dangerous. Shoot to kill, I repeat, shoot to kill. Over."

You felt your stomach drop and your head whipped around. Orange Grove Ave was just ahead so you took off like a shotgun, sprinting down the street. The only sound was that of your shoes hitting the pavement as you tried to come up with a plan. If they hadn't seen him yet, you just needed to get an opening for him to escape. You knew of Michael's unnatural ability to vanish if your eyes weren't on him.

Desperately, you didn't want him to get shot again.

You rounded the corner onto Orange Grove with a sharp turn, your eyes immediately spotting a second cop car. "Fuck!" You hissed to yourself as you picked up the pace. You should have gone looking for Michael sooner. Should have left for the park earlier in hopes of catching his attention. Anything, anything to have avoided him getting caught.

When you got closer to the car, you noticed a cop hanging halfway out of the car. His head had been smashed in, a puddle of gore, blood, and brain matter leaking steadily down the side of the car door. You felt like throwing up but you held it in when you spotted his partner. A young man, likely fresh on the force, clutching his gun as he pointed it down the alleyway. His trembling told you all you needed to know.

The officer gave you a quick glance, fear obvious on his face. "Get back!" He called to you.

You ignored him and looked down the alleyway. Michael stood there calmly, hanging back in the shadows between the two buildings. Another cop lay before him and you watched with horror as Michael's boot made heavy contact with the cop's skull, a wet, sickening crunch echoing out in the small space.

"Get down and put your hands in the air!" The rookie said, hands on the gun shaking as he kept his eyes on Michael. An idea came to you. It was stupid, reckless, and dangerous.

You lunged for the cop, knocking his gun from his hands and sending him stumbling.

He didn't even have time to do anything but look at you with horrified eyes before Michael descended on him. He grabbed the rookie by his collar and lifted him effortlessly before running him through with his knife, spilling his guts on the sidewalk in warm waterfalls of blood. You scrambled backwards to avoid being caught in the spray but Michael gladly covered himself in the fresh gore. The rookie's lifeless body hit the floor with a heavy, empty sound and Michael turned his attention on you.

You scanned the nearby area and spotted a little path between two houses overrun with grass and brush. Without a second thought, you took off towards it and just hoped Michael was behind you. Other members of the force would be on their way and you both needed to disappear. You ignored the scratching of sharp branches against your arms and hands, only wincing when a particularly sharp one sliced a thin cut across your calf.

But you didn't falter. You kept running through the town, your heart pounding hard and pumping pure fumes through you as you ran. As soon as you broke into the treeline of the forest, you collapsed to your knees and let yourself catch your breath.

A hand gripped the back of your shirt and for a brief second you feared you'd been caught. But Michael dragged you towards a tree, pinning you to it and holding his bloody knife close under your throat, the blade digging into your skin. "Wait!" You struggled against his grip, kicking out at him with your heavy boots. "What did I do?! I got you out of there without getting shot!"

You could see his eyes this close. Hazel, like you'd suspected. His eyes were narrow with hate and anger as he glared you down. But you stopped struggling and that only seemed to make him madder. "I wasn't just going to let you get hurt!" You hissed, reaching up to grab the hand that held your collar tightly, keeping you rooted in place. "I don't see what you're so angry about."

He didn't like that answer. The knife pressed in and you gasped when you felt a stream of your own blood run down, wetting his fingers. "Stop," you pleaded, clawing at him frantically. "Stop, please, I'm sorry."

That wasn't good enough for him and held you tighter. Tears welled up in your eyes and fell, mixing with the blood. Pain shot through you when Michael yanked his knife away, taking a few steps back and letting you slide down the tree as you gasped for breath. Your hands gripped at your neck, slightly relieved it wasn't more than a surface cut. Blood started to stain your hands, falling in rivulets down your arm and leaking over your elbows only to stain the grass beneath you a muddy red color.

His head tilted as he watched and you wanted to spit at him. "Y'know, I kinda thought we had a partnership going on." Your words were choked as you glared up at him. "Was I wrong?"

That seemed to get to him. He straightened up and stared you down. You got up on shaking legs and stumbled away from him and towards the forest. His footsteps were loud as he followed behind you and that only served to make you angrier. The walk home was silent and he stayed a few feet behind you the whole time, never getting closer nor straying. The only sounds were the twigs crackling under your shoes and you were too rattled to feel or think much of anything. Your only goal was getting home.

You kicked the back door open and stormed inside and upstairs to the bathroom. You stared at yourself in the mirror and wanted to smack yourself for your infatuation with a killer who didn't care about you. The cut was, thankfully, small. And hopefully the amount on your arms could convince your dad you were just handling a blackberry bush at work or something. The one on your leg could be hidden under pants until it healed. So you began rooting around for bandages and ignored Michael standing in the doorway.

"I help you get away and you try to kill me?" You growled, glaring at him in the mirror. "I could have let that cop shoot you and I didn't because I fucking care, Michael." Tears threatened to fall again and you swallowed them back when he gave you a tilt of his head. "I get you aren't good with feelings and- and maybe this is just you needing me to clean and feed you but I wanted to help you." You dabbled your neck with a cotton ball soaked in hydrogen peroxide and hissed at the sting. "If that's all you want me for then fine but I need to know where we stand."

He watched you bandage your neck, his shoulders set tight as he waited for you to finish. He set the knife down on the counter and reached for you but you flinched back. "Wash your hands." You mumbled and stepped back more to give him access to the sink.

The water ran for some time as the two of you watched the blood swirl down the drain and out of sight. Once the water ran clear, he pulled his hands out and reached for you again. You wanted to run but were backed up into a corner with no way out.

He covered your eyes with one and you frowned in confusion. "What are you-?" He took your wrist with his free hand and held it to his face again, silencing you. His face felt wet and that concerned you. "Are you bleeding somewhere?" You tried feeling around for any cuts but he shook his head no. "Was it raining?" Another no.

So an idea came to you. A dangerous one if you were wrong. "Were you… crying?"

He nodded. Your heart broke.

You pulled him in for a hug, keeping your eyes closed as you just held him. He dropped the hand from your eyes to hold your hip, leaning into your touch like he did when he was ill a few weeks ago. "What happened?" You tried, holding his face with both hands.

Michael just shook his head helplessly and bumped your foreheads together. Oh. Oh. "Were you… worried I was turning you in?" No. "Was it because I was there while you were, uh, hunting?" No. You chewed on your lip as another dangerous thought came to you. "You were worried I was going to get hurt."

His jaw clenched as his throat worked around a growl. The Boogeyman of Haddonfield couldn't afford to feel anything. He doesn't. As far as anyone is concerned at least. Yet here you were, defying all odds and earning Michael's favor. His protection. His care. And the idea of losing you had terrified him, causing him to lash out at you for willingly putting yourself in danger. Emotions had run high and he'd acted out. He hadn't known what else to do but scare you back. 

"I'm sorry I worried you," you said softly, stroking your thumbs over his cheeks and wiping the moisture away as you kept your eyes closed. "I was worried about you too. I heard the police radio mention shooting you on sight so I went looking for you." His grip on you tightened slightly and you sighed. "I know that you're used to people shooting at you or- or attacking you. But I'm not used to hearing about it."

You finally admitted to yourself and him: "I don't want you to die."

After a moment of silence, he pressed your foreheads together. You felt his breath ghost over your skin and your noses bumped together awkwardly. You hooked a hand behind his neck to just hold him and he squeezed your hips tight. "I don't want you to die," you gasped into your shared air. He made a muffled sound and this felt so much more intimate than any kind of kissing you'd done in the past. You just stood there in each other's spaces, sharing air and warmth and closeness that you hadn't had with someone else in a long time. You couldn't imagine how it felt for him.

"We're in this together now, okay?" You said softly, your eyes fluttering open to meet his. Pretty, you thought absently. But you already knew that. Brown ringlet curls, one eye injured from his fight with Laurie Strode, and a light dusting of freckles across his nose. His face looked damp and you brushed under his eyes with the hem of your sleeve. Despite that, his face was expressionless even though you could see conflict swirling in his eyes. You couldn't imagine how he was feeling. "We'll look out for each other, yeah?"

He gave you a slow nod and you smiled. Your foreheads pressed together again and you felt his shoulders relax as his eyes closed. Trust. You both trusted each other and were partners in this now. You accepted you'd be complacent in his crimes going forward and he'd learn to accept your care in time.

Just you and your Boogeyman against the world...

[sersi]

You said one out of 14 million, we win, yeah? Tell me this is it. If I tell you what happens, it won't happen.

[bravevolunteer]

MICHAEL BIRTHDAY

[blackfairy312]

i remade this in capcut hehe

nothing much to say about it just that Same Clothes Red Nose

(reblogs appreciated ♥️)

[crepus]

I will never recover from the crushing sadness that Michael is no longer associated with foxy 😔😔 why couldn't he posses glamrock foxy 😔😔

[hellraiseher]

whenever i listen to janis ian's 'at seventeen' and think a lot about miss laurie strode probably (definitely) spending most of her babysitting money on literature and music records and movie tickets so she can vicariously experience all-consuming otherworldly romance but she never had those bought for her on a date.....

[woorehem]

Sketch? Maybe babe 🎃

I'm crazy about this suit. Merkins know how to surprise with such clothes. Too bad I can't buy the same one :(

[theunusualsuspects]

@creatureshrieks liked for a starter from Michael Myers!

It's almost become routine now. Every time he and the object of his unending obsession enter a trial together it just so happens that it comes down to just the two of them. Sometimes Michael isn't even trying to leave Laurie for last; it just sort of happens. She's too good at knowing where he is. She's too good at knowing his next attack. No matter what either of them seem to do, they always manage to find themselves alone with one another.

This time is no exception.

Now the trouble comes with locating her before she's able to leave. He can almost sense her just in the air alone. Brandishing his knife, The Shape stomps his way around in his eager and unrelenting pursuit of The Lone Survivor.

[hersweetrevenge]

THE HANGED MAN (2023)

and [The Tower], [The Lovers]

[writing-good-vibes]

you know what they say about dead men

ever wondered why corey has daddy issues? look no further. another instalment of the road trip, at last, just in time for the one year ends anniversary !! divider by @/firefly-graphics

WARNINGS for corey cunningham x michael myers relationship, age difference, smut, unsafe kink practices, alcohol consumption, mentions of daddy issues, and mild mentions of unhappy/unstable childhood, implied child abuse and dysfunctional parental relationships.

taglist: @slutforstabbings @ethanhoewke @voxmortuus (if anyone else wants to be tagged in corey related things, just let me know !!)

Wally Cunningham is dead; mangled in a motorcycle crash in 1999, leaving behind a wife and son. Corey had carried that with him since he was old enough to ask why he didn't have a daddy like the kids at school did.

Joan chose the details carefully, spinning a cautionary tale about how dangerous the world was, how his daddy wasn't smart enough to keep out of trouble, how it's so much better for Corey to stay at home, safe and sound, with her. To stay at home where she can look after him. And Corey believed her, for a while anyway. Why wouldn't he?

In a dirty dive bar in Florida, Corey is finishing his fourth beer of the night before ordering another one. Michael sits stoically beside him, his gaze focused impossibly on the mirror behind the bar from beneath the trucker hat pulled low over his eyes.

Beneath the sound of shouts and jeers and idle chatter, the AC unit rattles steadily, keeping only some of the balmy heat at bay. Corey sweats, curls sticking at his temples and an itch working it's way down his nape, but he he doesn't take his cord jacket off.

"Hey, Wally," someone shouts. It's not an uncommon name, especially for men of a certain age. There's probably a handful of Walters and Wallaces in this bar alone, right?

Still, Corey glances over his shoulder, taking a long swig from his new beer.

The man who shouted had just arrived, and in the time it took Corey to turn around, he's snaked his way through the throngs of patrons to a table in the corner. He claps an older man heartily on the shoulder as he sits down.

Corey's jaw drops, and he dribbles some of his beer down himself.

The older man -- and he does look old, these days -- is startlingly familiar. Corey would know him anywhere, he's seen him a thousand times over in his dreams. He still has a beard, though it has long since greyed. He's wearing a bandana tied over long, equally grey hair. A motorcycle jacket is slung over the back of his seat. Of course he has a motorcycle jacket.

Corey wipes the beer from his chin and tells himself to stop staring, but he can't help it. Corey doesn't believe in ghosts, besides the ones that live in his head, but there's no other explanation for what he's seeing. No explanation that he's got the guts to take.

Because Wally Cunningham is dead. He was mangled in a motorcycle accident in 1999, leaving behind his wife and son. Corey has carried that with him every day of his life. He dealt with the school yard teasing and pushed the grief of every empty father's day deep down. He managed just fine when he learnt to tie his own tie and how to shave on his own. He managed just fine when Momma married Ronald and they all played happy families for a while until the precarious honeymoon phase passed. Corey has managed just fine.

So why is Wally Cunningham sat in a dive bar in Florida, laughing and joking, like he hasn't been dead for more than 20 fucking years.

For a split second, something like elation passes through Corey. That's his dad. His dad who was an All-American man. Who fought in Vietnam. Who would of taught Corey how to ride a trike, and then a bike, and then maybe even a motorcycle when he got old enough. Who would have played catch with him in the yard and coached him to join the baseball team. Who would have made Momma loosen her grip. "You can't keep your eyes on him every second, Joan. Let the boy live," his dad would have said. His dad who had loved him and it was just a terrible, tragic accident that tore them apart.

But then those familiar, safe daydreams fade, like smoke on the breeze. Like they'd never existed at all. His dad is alive, and he hasn't seen Corey in over 20 fucking years.

Without thinking, Corey gets up, leaving Michael sat on his own at the bar. In his haste, desperate not to lose sight of the old man at the table in the corner, Corey forgets to put his beer down, and his knuckles clench white against the glass.

"Wally Cunningham?" his voice is pitifully hopefully. It feels like a betrayal.

Wally turns away from his friends, a congregation of similarly aged-looking bikers with bandanas and bruised knuckles, and looks up at Corey, scowling. "Who's asking, kid?"

Corey swallows thickly around the growing grief in his throat, "I'm Corey."

Wally raises an eyebrow. For a long, disgusting moment Corey can see that his name doesn't ring a bell. The dots aren't connecting.

Until they do. "Corey? God, haven't you grown." Wally looks him up and down, taking in the sight before him. Corey wasn't vain, especially not now, but he has to resist the urge to shrink under his father's narrowed eyes. His hair is a little shaggy since he hasn't got around to trimming it lately, his thrift-store jeans are forever the wrong size, and his tarnished silver belt buckle glints just barely under the smoke-hazy bar lights.

"Well, it's been 23 years." 23 years of mourning only to find that the coffin was empty all along.

Wally nods in muted agreement. "What are you doing here?"

Wally's reserved reaction feels like the single spark that starts a bonfire, drawing in oxygen while Corey struggles to breath. "I should be asking you that. Momma told me you were dead, she said that you died."

Wally has the guts to chuckle, "She did? That doesn't surprise me, she always was fucking nuts. Well, boy, I'm still kicking"

His friends laugh along, but otherwise stay out of it. When Corey thinks about this conversation later -- and he will be thinking about it later, turning it over and over obsessively until he does something stupid over it -- he'll wonder how many of them knew Wally had a son at all. If he ever mentioned the life he'd left behind in Illinois, or if he wiped the slate clean with each state line he crossed. Just like Corey did nowadays.

Corey shakes his head as he connects his own dots, "You're not dead. You're not -- you've been alive this whole time."

Wally tries to be warm, but it doesn't suit him, "Not the brightest bulb in the box, are we? I guess you must take after me, son."

Corey's deep scowl says otherwise; Wally can see Corey is very much Joan's boy. He always was. "You left us, me and Momma."

"Son, your mother told me to leave, so I did. That marriage was a mistake, it's a good job I left her when I did, or I don't know how it would have ended, but it'd wouldn't have been good, I can tell you that --"

"You left me!" Corey shouts, cringing when his voice breaks. "You didn't just walk out on Momma, you walked out on me, didn't you?" His fingers tighten even more around the beer bottle, just a little tighter and --

Suddenly, Corey feels a presence behind him. He knows it's Michael, knows his outrage must of have stirred him from his thoughts and led him over, eager -- if Michael could ever be described as eager -- to be close by in case Corey makes a scene.

Michael clamps a hand down on his shoulder, pulling him away from Wally by a couple of paces. The friends sat around his table shift uneasily in Michael's hulking, scarred presence, a fact Corey revels in as he leans back into Michael's touch. His fingers loosen on the beer bottle.

There's a tense moment of silence as the reality of this strange situation settles over them all. It reminds him of the tabloid shows Momma used to watch when he was little, the ones she shooed him out of the room for: Long lost son, meet absent father.

Finally, "This a friend of yours?" Wally gestures.

Friend. Corey's lip curls into a smirk, "He's my --"

What exactly is Michael? Boyfriend sounds too juvenile, and lover too tender. Daddy crosses his mind, as a sick little dig, or my old man. He doesn't think any of those would go down too well here, though. Partner is ambiguous, but too formal. Accomplice is fitting, very fitting, but he can't go around saying things like that in public. Cult leader is what it feels like sometimes, but a bit too grandiose for their current predicament.

"Yeah, this is Michael," Corey settles on. The pause he used to gather his thoughts was loud though, and something like doubt crosses Wally's face. But he was never fucking there, so he can go fuck himself if he thinks his opinion matters now. He can think what he likes, for all Corey cares -- and oh god, he cares, he cares so fucking much it makes him sick. Wally's probably right though, in one way or another.

"So, what are you doing in this neck of the woods? You left Illinois?" Wally tries again.

Illinois is so far behind them in the rear view mirror that it scares him sometimes, but Corey is headed West, and he isn't stopping -- for anything or anyone -- until he reaches the very end of the line. "We're just passing through," Corey shrugs.

They talk for a while, but Corey doesn't sit down at Wally's table. He doesn't accept a drink when someone goes for another round. He sneers instead of laughs when Wally's friends try to crack jokes. He stays stood in front of Michael, leaning just slightly against him when Michael takes his hand off his shoulder. Michael doesn't complain, doesn't move, just listens silently to the faux-casual conversation going on in front of him. Waiting.

Against his already-scarce better judgement, Corey does agree to stay in town for a few days and meet Wally again tomorrow. They have a lot of catching up to do.

Corey doesn't believe in ghosts, but still doesn't shake Wally's hand when he offers it, scared of what it might feel like. So, instead he smirks, a crooked gesture, and turns to leave, taking Michael with him.

The motel room is quiet and dim, the nicotine-stained bedside lamp casting a sickly yellow glow over the pair while the corners of the room stay shrouded in darkness. A safe and secret place to hide away.

Corey talks and talks, half to himself and half to Michael, wanting to purge every little thought in his head until there's nothing left.

"I don't fucking need him, I never needed him! I never needed him. I don't fucking -- oh fuck -- i got by fine, didn't I? That fucking piece of shit, never fucking needed him. I wish he really was dead, dead in the fucking ground. We should -- that's what we should do, I'm gonna -- please -- And who does he think he is? Talking to me like he didn't fucking walk out on me, on his baby. Can you imagine leaving a baby all alone? Leaving me with Momma. And he didn't even care -- he never fucking cared! -- didn't care that she was gonna swallow me whole. And he knew, he fucking knew, how bad M-Momma was and he s-s-still left me. He ne-ever loved me, did he? Because you wouldn't leave someone like that if you loved them. He never... he never... Why didn't he love me?"

Corey's talk turns into tearful babbles even as he keeps rocking his hips down against Michael's upward thrusts, fucking himself past the point of stupid. Rage and grief gnawing such a deep, deep pit in his stomach that he wants it filled immediately. Wants to fill it with the type of pain-pleasure that Michael delivers without even trying. Wants to choke on it, hot and heavy and ruinous.

But who was Corey kidding? The gaping black hole inside him wasn't new, it hadn’t been gouged out by tonight’s revelations. No, no it had been there for as long as he could remember, and it was Wally who had carved it out, taking it with him when he left and leaving Corey wanting.

"Doesn't matter, anyway. I don't care -- I don't -- I don't fucking need anyone. 'Cause I've got you, right? No one ever gave a shit about me, but I'm still here. I - I don't need them. Don't need anyone. I fucking saved myself. No, no, you saved me. And it's just me and you and we're gonna -- it's gonna be -- You'll never leave me, right? Please don't leave me, please don't -- I wanna be with you. I wanna... You wouldn't leave me. No, no, no, not like him, you're not like him -- you're more of a man than he'll ever be, and you're a fucking monster... Oh, god -- FUCK -- Oh, you can keep me forever and ever and ever and --"

Michael pushes him down onto his back. Corey chokes on a gasp as the angle changes and Michael sets a new, more ruthless pace. Ploughing into him -- too hard and too fast and too much -- as Corey's mouth stops working, his grief-stricken rambles melting into moans.

This happens sometimes, Michael losing patience when Corey runs his mouth, but usually Corey has enough sense to know when shut up. Corey's on the edge and he knows that Michael knows that, knows it when a rough, scarred hand closes around his throat, pressing dangerously on either side of his windpipe.

Corey sucks in a breath until he can't anymore.

The motel room is quiet and dark, once Corey reaches over to shut off the lamp.

He's still sniffling quietly, his sweaty skin sticking to Michael's as he arranges the older man's arms around his shoulders. Michael keeps them there limply, silently, as Corey wraps himself around him.

Abandonment feels so much worse than grief ever had. Wally wasn't dead, he just never wanted Corey. Wally wasn't dead, Corey just wasn't good enough.

Corey's fingers clench. There's a knife on the nightstand, and in his duffle, and one tossed onto the floor along with his clothes. His fingers relax. There's a snub-nose .38 revolver in the glove compartment of their truck.

"He'd deserve it, wouldn't he?" Corey mutters, "Just like she did..." He blinks up at Michael through wet lashes.

Michael doesn't say anything.

He agrees, Corey decides, smiling.

[creepswrites]

MASK OF HATE (CH 3) | Michael x Reader

just when i was finally starting to feel better physically, i tanked mentally :') so i'm sorry it's taken me so long to update. i hope this was worth the wait though! i promise i Do plan to work on other stuff besides just MoH but rn i just. needed to write Michael for a bit

MICHAEL MYERS x FTM!READER (he/him)

SUMMARY: You internally cursed Dr. Loomis for tormenting this man for so, so many years. Embodiment of evil your ass, he was so obviously desperate for love and care that he'd practically thrown himself at you as soon as you'd proven you would love him no matter what. He was more than the traumas he felt compelled to reenact. He was so, so much more and you loved every part of him.

PREV || NEXT

Halloween in Haddonfield was always a high-strung time for the town.

Ever since the Halloween killings a few years ago, the town had taken a hesitant approach to the holiday. Parents made a point to accompany their kids everywhere or just simply stay home with them. If phones went down or power went out, babysitting teens were told to cross the street and get help, no matter what. Despite the horrors, people still dressed up, still went looking for candy, and still snuck out to make out with their respective partners.

Halloween for you had been quiet. You'd gone to a small costume party with your friends and tried to stay busy. You knew Michael was out working since news of his crimes reached your party, people whispering and gasping at the reported murders coming from the televisions.

You tried not to think about it.

By the time you got home, it was nearly 2am and you were exhausted. As though sensing your arrival, the Boogeyman stepped out of the shadows of your kitchen, bloodstained and breathing heavily. "Busy night?" You'd called to him with a tired smile. He tilted his head in lieu of any response.

With the holiday over, you wondered what Michael would do next. For many nights after, you lay in bed and bore holes in your ceiling as you tried to come up with a plan. Would he leave? Go back to Smith's Grove? Surely he couldn't keep killing, right? There'd be no people left in Haddonfield eventually. But was that the point?

You didn't know. You didn't like not knowing.

But he didn't do any of those things. Instead, he'd sit on your couch and watch television, intrigued by the cartoons, or follow you around the house. If you left, he'd stalk you from a distance just out of sight. He joined you for dinner and movies in front of the television and seemed to enjoy watching horror films when you put them on. You knew him well enough to notice he had a soft spot for The Thing so you tried to put it on as often as possible.

It became the new normal. Domestic and quiet.

Months passed. Fall oranges faded to browns and whites as winter approached. You'd leave out food for Mayhem in hopes he'd come home but you began to lose hope. All you could do now was pray he didn't suffer or that he hadn't been eaten by some other animal.

Michael always watched you when you did this, stood in the doorway of the backdoor while you sat on the narrow steps, hoping your kitty would come home. It might've looked silly to him but he never tried to stop you. You appreciated that.

During all this, he didn't kill anyone. At least, not that you knew of. You tried to avoid the news and, with your dad gone, you didn't have much insider information anymore. Who knows if they were even still looking for him.

So you made a Thanksgiving feast. Michael was familiar with the concept but you knew it had likely been a long time since he'd actually gotten to participate. So you went all out - turkey, mashed potatoes, corn, green bean casserole, gravy, the whole nine yards. The two of you ate together on your couch and watched Charlie Brown episodes, eating your weights in food and falling asleep on opposite ends of the couch.

When you'd woken, you had been taken aback by how peaceful he looked when he slept. Curly hair ruffled from the awkward angle he lay against one of your throw pillows, his face still but not tense. Pretty, you thought to yourself not for the first time.

It was nice. Everything felt perfect.

One afternoon when you'd gotten back from work, you saw Michael masked up and standing on your front porch cradling something wrapped up in an old towel. "What is that?" You gasped, fearing the worse as you hurried closer.

But you broke down into tears, immediately recognizing Mayhem. Cold, trembling, and most certainly sick in so many ways but alive and home. You'd taken him to the vet's office, a sobbing mess in the waiting room. He'd need surgery for his infected wounds and have to be on antibiotics for a long time but you were just relieved he was home and safe now.

Michael never told you how he found him. You didn't ask, just baked him a pumpkin pie as thanks.

November browns turned to December blues as snow and frost began to make appearances. The first snow day, you'd bundled both yourself and Michael up and dragged him outside to see the falling snow. He wore the mask much less now, often leaving the thing in the corner of the closet, hidden away like a bad memory.

You didn't really understand that. Your best theory was that the mask compelled Michael to kill and now that Halloween had come and gone, he was back to some semblance of normal. He still wore masks from time to time - rustic paper mache ones crafted at your kitchen table on quiet afternoons - but significantly less now. Maybe it was just a Halloween thing and he was relatively normal the rest of the year? You weren't sure. Obviously, you knew better than to push about what happened with his sister but you wondered if the killings were a reenactment of the trauma.

Psychology has always interested you.

It wouldn't surprise you if the great Dr. Loomis neglected to acknowledge that Michael was traumatized, quick to demonize him rather than provide him proper care. That he didn't put together Michael went from a normal boy to suddenly completely nonverbal and monotonous after killing her. It had affected him, even if people didn't want to admit that. Michael himself included.

But wearing the classic mask a little less meant you could slip a cute wool hat on his head and drag him out, mitten-clad hands clasped together as you charged outside. "Come see, come see!"

Michael looked up at the falling snow, squinting against the snowflakes that began to freckle his face. You'd laughed and nudged him. "Try this," you said before opening your mouth and letting the snowflakes fall on your tongue.

He'd given you a bewildered look but tried it. Only because he'd grown so fond of you, you assumed.

Days passed. Mayhem made a full recovery and now spent his days lounging in the winter sun. Sometimes he'd brush against Michael for attention and the man had gotten better at returning it, fingers brushing soft black fur occasionally. It was sweet, you thought, how he'd slowly begun to reintegrate into your life.

When you caught him drawing on looseleaf papers, you decided to get him paints and canvases as an early Christmas present and cleared out your dad's old room to let him have an art studio to paint and work on his masks in private. You'd layed down old newspapers to keep the floor relatively clean when you revealed it to him. He'd spend hours up in there, painting or making masks. You'd helped him hang some up on the wall of the room with little thumbtacks as hooks. He was getting good, you'd thought as you examined a bright orange mask that resembled a jack o' lantern.

Michael didn't show you his paintings very often. That wasn't really the point anyways so you didn't mind. But there had been a few times when he'd leave a dried canvas outside your bedroom door or atop your bed like a cat offering dead animals. Your favorite so far was one of the winter sky painted with fluffy whites and cold blues with your own profile looking up at the sky. The way he painted was streaky, like his hands shook, but it was still beautifully detailed despite the messy lines and bleeding colors.

It was interesting seeing yourself through someone else's eyes translated to art. You'd kept the painting in your room and you'd trace your fingers along the raised streaks of paint, fingers running along the lines of your face. You wondered, fleetingly with bright red cheeks, if he painted you often and just never showed you.

There was a chance. You liked to think he did.

It was around the middle of December as you attempted to get ready for a holiday party. Attempted being the key word. “Michael,” you sighed, adjusting your elf hat. “I told you, I’ll be back later tonight. I’ve left dinner in the fridge and I promise I’ll call when I’m coming home.”

It was nearing Christmas when you'd gotten invited to a holiday party. You were attempting to get ready, dressing up as a cute little elf. Attempting being the key word. "Michael," you sighed, adjusting your stupid looking elf hat, "I told you, I'll be back later tonight. I've left dinner in the fridge and I promise I'll call when I'm coming home."

Michael glared at you behind the accursed Halloween mask. He had a habit of being a bit of a brat and you found it equally annoying as you did endearing. He'd put the mask on when he'd learnt you were leaving but you'd expected that. Whenever he was generally stressed out or upset, you'd find it covering his head. The symbolism there wasn't lost on you but you had more pressing things to worry about then the possible metaphor of Michael masking himself literally and figuratively.

"If you're so upset, why not come with?" You snorted to yourself as you focused on doing your eyes in a dark green with white mascara. "I can do your makeup, dress you in a cute sweater, no one would know it's you. Could be fun, yeah?"

You paused to do your lips in a dark red. Makeup wasn't really your preference but it suited the costume you wore - a dark green tunic with red and white striped knee socks with brown boots. The hat was a matching green and jingled stupidly from the little bell on the end. You'd done your face with a heavy blush and had drawn little white snowflakes in liquid eyeliner. It was cute.

The sound of heavy footsteps approaching you had you spinning around. Michael stood directly behind you and tilted his head when you made eye contact. "Wait, are you serious?" You blinked in surprise. You'd gotten good at reading him in the few months you'd spent living together and you could tell he was accepting your offer.

He gave you a blank stare before putting a hand around your neck and squeezing. You noted his tense shoulders and tried to relax. A few months ago, this gesture would have terrified you. Now you knew that it was just his way of expression. A knife and a violent hand was all he could use to convey things so you'd learnt to just roll with it, knowing that his intent wasn't to kill you.

So you didn't panic.

"I'm not making fun!" You insisted, lifting a hand to push lightly at his chest. "I just need to be sure you're actually interested in going. There'll be people there, you know that right?" Silence. "People you can't kill." More silence. "I'm not kidding either, you can't hurt or kill anyone if you come with me." It had been a long time since he'd killed anyone but you could never be totally sure of his motives. He could still be unpredictable from time to time.

Michael let you go and marched towards the dresser. You watched curiously as he fished out a black shirt and black jeans - clothes you'd gotten for him when he couldn't be in the jumpsuit - before offering them with outstretched arms. He gave you a curt nod and you smiled.

He didn't do that often so you knew he was serious.

"Alright then, c'mere big guy," you motioned for him to sit on the bed as you began gathering up makeup supplies. You kept your head turned away as he changed to offer him some semblance of privacy. Growing up in an institution meant he didn't have a lot of shame left but you always felt bad when you thought about that. 

You missed the way his hands shook as he took off the mask, too busy searching for a colored contact for his injured eye. You found a pretty jade green and figured that'd work. Heterochromia was uncommon, not unheard of. Some red eyeshadow for his eyes would help cover up the scar and would also be cute for a Rudolph nose. You collected your supplies and turned to Michael with a wide smile.

That smile fell when you saw him sitting on your bed, dressed up nice as he stared at the mask clutched tightly in his hands. He stared into its face with wide, terrified eyes and that made you freeze. You'd seen that look only once before: when you held each other in the bathroom after you'd saved him from being shot.

"You don't have to go." Your voice was soft and reassuring. He looked up at you slowly and you continued. "I know this isn't something you normally do, but-" Michael blinked slowly as you rambled. "I don't want you to feel like you have to do this for me." The last thing you needed was him snapping and killing people at the party. You'd both be in trouble for that.

But you also wondered if he was unfamiliar with being given choices. You never forced Michael into things he didn't want to do and it was possible he wasn't used to that.

He stared at you for a long time, fingernails digging into latex, before he unclenched long enough for the mask to fall to the floor with a soft crunch. The two of you stared at it for a long time and he blinked rapidly as he stared. You could tell by the clenching and unclenching of his jaw that he was fighting something off.

You wanted to make it easier for him.

So you took a seat beside him and reached for his face with slow hands. His flinch made your heart break and you cooed to him softly. "It's just me," you soothed as you clicked open the container with the contact lens inside. "I'd never hurt you."

Michael relaxed slowly, watching you with something storming in his eyes. You cupped his cheek with one hand and his eyes fluttered briefly. "Have you ever put contacts in?" You asked, smiling warmly at him.

He shook his head once. This was going to be tricky.

It took some time to get the contact in. Neither of you really knew what you were doing and you kept worrying it'd roll back to his brain. But, with your combined efforts, it now sat comfortably in his eye. Pretty green-hazel heterochromatic eyes that you fought to not get lost in. Even with the scarring he looked… normal.

"Should I even ask if you've ever worn makeup?" You teased as you took out the eyeshadow. "I'll be brushing your face and around your eyes. Is that okay?"

Michael blinked slowly, which you took as a yes.

"Stop me if it gets to be too much, okay?" You said softly before dabbing the brush in the dark red and swiping it gently over his lids, relieved it covered the scar pretty well.

You weren't sure how familiar people were with his actual face. When people thought of Michael Myers, did they just see the pale, masked face of the Boogeyman? Or did they see his mugshot, televised on the evening news as they reported his escape and recapture?

When you moved to his next eye, his hand shot out to clench your hip tight. He hated feeling vulnerable. You were the only exception to his no touching rule because you'd proven your loyalty. In exchange, he'd given you protection. But he still disliked giving over control and holding you like a stressball was the only thing he could do to abate his anxiety.

You dusted some red on the tip of his nose and smiled to yourself. "So a few of my friends will be there," you hummed as you added the finishing touches on the raccoon-style eyeshadow you'd given him to hide a lot of the scars. Since he was wearing darker clothes, you reached for the black eyeshadow next with the intent of dusting it around his lids to give him a smokier look. It made him a tad intimidating, black soot that petered out into a dark red. "They'll probably try to talk to you but I'll try and take over. If they ask, we'll say you got in a car accident when you were young and haven't been able to talk since."

He gave your hip a squeeze in confirmation.

You brushed some red on the tip of his nose with a hum. "My friend Leslie is the chattiest so at least we won't have to worry about him. He's always rambling on and on about the horror novel he's writing. To his credit, it's really interesting." You began to brush a heavy blush on his cheeks, chuckling at the way he squinted against the sensation. "It's about some boy who was thrown over a waterfall before rising to take revenge on the town? I think? I mean, he'll certainly tell you all about it. I think he's calling it Behind the Mask or something, I'm not sure."

Michael opened his eyes when you finished with the blush and you froze. He looked good and you couldn't help but stare. Tight fitting shirt, half-lidded eyes decorated in smoky colors, and messy brown curls that you made a note to fluff up before you left. He looked painfully normal and pretty and you wanted to-

You cleared your throat and grabbed the white eyeliner pen. "This'll be colder but try not to move." Gently, you held under his chin to keep him steady as you began to dot little freckles along his cheeks and nose, pausing to draw larger snowflakes at the corners of his eyes. That way you two matched!

When you pulled back, you realized he'd been staring at you.

There were a few times in the time of you knowing Michael that you wondered if he could read minds. If, in order to be the scariest thing possible, he knew exactly what scared someone. But, you reminded yourself, this wasn't some Stephen King novel. Still, it unnerved you to consider he knew what you thought of him privately.

"Oh! I know!" You hopped up and hurried back over to your vanity, grabbing a brown headband decorated with felt horns wrapped in tiny bells. They were painfully cute and you spun to show him.

He squinted at you and you giggled. "Trust me, it'll look super cute." Sliding it atop his head, you finally got to fluff his hair out to disguise the band better. When you stepped back, you gave him a once-over and a smile.

Michael fucking Myers dressed up as a reindeer. Cute little nose, horns, and all.

"You think we should use nicknames to be less suspicious?" You hummed, tilting your head - a habit you'd picked up from him. "I could call you Mike." He glared at you and you smiled with a faux-innocence. "Aw, don't like it?" He glared harder and you laughed. "Well, if they ask for your last name, I'm making something up!"

He got up wordlessly and made his way to your vanity, examining himself in the mirror. As expected, he didn't say anything. But he did touch lightly at his eyes, curious when the powder came off on his fingers. You joined him, looking you both over in the mirror. From the outside, you two looked like any normal young couple heading for a Christmas party.

“Well Mikey,” you said as you grabbed your bag, “Shall we?”

You laughed at the slow, unimpressed blink he gave you.

You were honestly impressed Chrissy managed to get so many people to come. She'd been very popular in high school - a cheerleader who'd dated the quarterback of the football team, well-liked, and clearly still riding that high despite graduating out of high school cliques. Chrissy had been a year above you but had always been one of those girls to try and invite everyone she knew to any events she threw. So you weren't exactly close friends but you'd helped her with a school project once and apparently that was enough for her.

The house was decorated to the nines, lined in little white lights that glistened against the freshly fallen snow. Little reindeer animatronics made of the same lights "grazed" in the front yard and little candy cane lights lined the pathway. It all felt a little magical. A small flurry had picked up when you and Michael got out of the car and made your way up to the front door.

Michael paused to look up at the sky while you rang the doorbell, listening to the melodic chimes ring out inside the house. You swore he almost smiled, his hair dusted in little white flakes when he looked down at you. Your heart seized at the sight and you were struck with the urge to k–

Chrissy opened the door, smiling wide and dressed in an inappropriate Mrs Claus outfit. She surveyed you both and let out a surprised gasp, the corners of her mouth curling in delight. "And who's this hottie?" She whispered at you while giggling like a schoolgirl. "I didn't know you knew any cute guys. No offense." She twirled her hair, shamelessly looking Michael up and down.

Jealousy shot through you like a bolt of lightning. "He's my boyfriend."

"Oh," she seemed almost disappointed, which you tried to brush off. She'd always felt a little entitled towards whomever she determined was the most attractive guy. It was just how she was, even if it pissed you off in the moment. "Well, I'm happy for you!" She spun on her heel and led you both into the house, gesturing for her butler to take your coats. "Feel free to mingle, lovebirds! We've got drinks, food, and our chef made a bunch of cookies."

Michael seemed to notice the lovebirds comment and you flushed, giving a nod and smile to Chrissy while trying to ignore his stare boring into the back of your head. "Thanks. Oh, um, here!" You reached into your bag and held out a small, nicely wrapped gift. "For the Secret Santa."

She lit up and took the box enthusiastically. "Ohmygosh, thank you! I was just going to ask." Chrissy added the box to a nearby table and clasped her hands together excitedly. "Alright, perfect, you're free to go!"

You led the way to the kitchen, dodging a few familiar faces with smiles and waves and promises to return once you'd gotten some food and drinks. Michael held your wrist the whole way there, squeezing harder and harder the more people spoke to you.

The kitchen was huge, white, and perfectly pristine. The maid who cleaned everything always made their house look like an interior design catalog rather than an actual home. A large plate of highly elaborate sugar cookies lay atop the countertop, a large amount already missing with only trails of crumbs indicative of their place there.

You grabbed a candy cane shaped cookie and gestured for Michael to grab one. "I think you'll like these." He just stared at you, eyes widened ever so slightly. "What?" You asked through a mouthful of cookie. His head tilted slightly and you swallowed nervously. "Sorry for the, um, boyfriend comment. It just, uh, it felt like a safe alibi, y'know?"

Michael stared at you, eyes calculating. You prepared a million apologies in your head before he reached for a snowman cookie and bit into it, never breaking eye contact. You weren't sure if that was approval or disapproval so you both just stood there, staring awkwardly at each other and eating sugar cookies. Your fingers drummed anxiously on the cold marble tile of the kitchen counter as you tried to stand your ground.

When he finished his, Michael stepped closer to you and placed a hand at your waist. He leant forward and pressed his lips to your forehead, making you gasp in surprise. It wasn't exactly a kiss but the intent was there and the message was clear. You swallowed when he pulled back and you swore his eyes softened. "Okay, okay, cool," you said quietly, trying - and failing - to hold back your smile.

Standing on your tiptoes, you pressed a chaste kiss to his cheek and smirked to yourself about the faint lipstick stain there. You snagged another couple cookies and a glass of cider. His cheeks were a soft pink when you passed him one of the cookies. "Shall we brace the music?" You grinned as you took his arm and led him out the door back into the party.

Everything went perfectly, all things considered. Of course, everyone you knew wanted to meet your new boyfriend. "It's a recent development," you'd say as Michael took a drink to avoid talking. "I met him when my car broke down and we just… hit it off, y'know?" You'd smile as though recounting the memories through your pleasant buzz from the cider.

"How long have you been dating?" You were asked a few times.

"Oh, a month and a half now, I think. It feels like it's been longer." You'd say while Michael chewed on cookies.

It had been, if you thought about when the starting point of your relationship could've been. Maybe not long after he'd gotten sick and you'd cared for him in a way he hadn't had since he was a child. Or maybe after you'd both made a wordless pact to each other while your father lay bleeding on the kitchen floor. Hard to say. But calling him your boyfriend had come so easily that you questioned how long you'd considered him that in your subconscious.

When Chrissy announced her parent's arrival with a few of their friends in tow, you went to greet them without a second thought. You froze in fear when you caught sight of her father: John Kallas. Officer Kallas. A friend of your father's who had been part of the team searching for Michael around Halloween.

You clutched Michael's arm and steered him to a quiet hallway of the house. "Don't let her dad see you," you whisper-yelled. When he tilted his head, you ran a nervous hand through your hair. "He was one of the cops looking for you. He might recognize you."

Michael didn't visibly react but you did notice him clenching his jaw. "I didn't know he'd be here! I hadn't thought of it until I saw him." You sighed, frustrated with your own anxiety rising. "I'm sorry. Do you want to leave?"

He seemed to think it over but you were interrupted by heels clicking on the tile floor. In a panic, you grabbed his wrists and put his hands at your waist. "Act like we were kissing." You whispered as you leant in, bumping your foreheads together.

His head tilted askew slightly and gave you a moment to mess up your lipstick a little. The footsteps came to a halt and you heard a familiar laugh that made all the anxiety in your body melt away in an instant.

Kalei stood with their arms crossed, looking you both over with an amused expression. "So is this the guy you were telling me about back in September?" They laughed at seeing the way you hid your face in your hands in embarrassment.

Michael gave you a quizzical look and you groaned. "Yes, yes, he is." You confessed with an exhausted sigh. "But shh!" You waved a hand at them to try and quiet them.

They didn't back down though. "He would gush about you at work to me all the time," they drawled out, ignoring your flustered protests.

"I didn't-!"

"You better treat him right!" Kalei said, crossing their arms over their chest. "I may not look it but I can pack a serious punch."

Michael blinked slowly before looking back at you. "What do you need, Kalei?" You sputtered, trying to change the topic before your impromptu boyfriend decided to make a scene.

"Oh, the Secret Santa's starting. Came to getcha." They gestured for you both to follow with an impish smile growing on their face. "Better hurry up before people start making assumptions." They teased with a waggle of their eyebrows.

Your face lit up like a torch and you gently pushed Michael away to march down the hall. "N-no, wouldn't want that, yeah." Your voice sounded far away to your own ears, too much blood pounding through your head.

Michael followed on your heels like a loyal dog and you tried to ignore the way that made you feel.

You and Michael took a seat on one of the couches and you held his arm almost possessively, especially when you noticed some of the other girls at the party kept looking at him with bashful faces. It pissed you off just how shameless they were even when they knew he was dating you. Was it that hard for people to believe?

The absence of John Kallas made you think that he and his buddies had gone into one of the other rooms. Which put your mind at ease, at least a little.

The Secret Santa was relatively uneventful. You clapped politely as people opened their gifts and were surprised when Chrissy handed you your gift from her. A book on growing vegetables with a tab already inside on a picture of a tomato plant. "You think I should grow tomatoes?" You gave her an amused smile.

"Well, duh! It, like, suits your whole vibe, y'know? I'm surprised you don't grow more vegetables." Chrissy had nudged you gently as you began leafing through the rest of the book, skimming the words as Michael watched over your shoulder.

As it finally came time to leave, you were saying your goodbyes to Chrissy when you spotted Officer Kallas leaving the kitchen. You pulled Michael out of there quickly, hoping that the stumble the officer gave was simply him tripping and not because he'd seen The Boogeyman as your date to his daughter's party.

Your walk back to the car was brisk and silent. White snow was like stars as it fell overhead before coming to rest on your shoulders and the ground below. "Thank you for coming," you said, reaching over to squeeze Michael's hand. "It was nice having you there."

Before you could pull your hand away completely, he gave you a squeeze of his own before climbing into the passenger seat.

Oh, you thought to yourself. Oh.

For Christmas, you'd gotten Michael a drum set.

It had been an impulsive buy, a decision you had made while walking past a thrift store and noticing a decently priced set on display in the window.

He enjoyed doing things with his hands - be it painting, making masks, or, most recently, helping you decorate Christmas cookies. So you figured he'd get a kick out of drumming. You lived far out enough that he could afford to be loud without worrying about waking the neighbors up and you had a detached garage he could play in. Maybe when the weather got warmer, he'd move outside.

And it might help him to let energy out. You'd caught him giving death glares to random postmen who came to your door and he'd already begun the habit of wearing the accursed Halloween mask around the house again. So you didn't want him to get bored.

“Here,” you said as you passed him the drumsticks. He examined them curiously and you gestured to the drums. When he gave you an empty stare, you took one of the stucks and whacked on the cymbals. That made Michael’s eyes widen and he moved around to take a seat. “You can be as loud as you want with them. No one’ll hear soooo… go crazy!”

Michael took the stick back and held them both in hesitant hands. With a few bangs that seemed exploratory coupled with getting the hang of pressing his foot to make a lower noise, he seemed to catch on pretty quick. His banging grew in speed and volume as he gained confidence and you laughed, covering your ears when the sound echoed off the walls of the small space. "You got it!" You called over the crashing cymbals.

A loud bang signified the end of his "song" and he stared at you with wide, crazy eyes, panting heavily. "Fun, right?" You smiled at him. "They're all yours so you're free to come play them whenever you want."

His lips curled into an almost feral smile that made you smile back. You'd never seen him smile before, much less like that.

Over the next few days, Michael continued sneaking – literally sneaking, like he'd be in trouble if you spotted him – into the garage to play the drums. His disorganized, chaotic banging was slowly starting to take form. Organized chaos, you smiled to yourself. The loud sounds and movements gave Michael a chance to express himself with noise which was quite the contrast to his usual quiet self.. You also found it exceptionally cute when he'd go play and come back inside hours later with his wild brown curls disheveled and a crazed grin on his face.

It had been unsettling at first seeing him smile the way he did but now it just made your heart seize. His fingers would drum on things to a tune you couldn't hear and he was painfully human now, relaxed around you and genuinely happy, from what you could tell.

So you made a mixtape for him that focused on heavy drum sounds, steady but loud beats the way he liked. At first he didn't seem too interested in it but you'd since caught him listening to it a few times, eyes closed and posture relaxed. Music wasn't something Michael had a lot of exposure to so you had fun introducing him to various bands and musicians.

Metal music seemed to be his preference, which made a lot of sense.

It was New Years when things really changed.

You and Michael had the television on with the channel turned to watch the ball drop. It wasn’t typically a tradition you cared about but you could tell your housemate was intrigued. He’d been upstairs painting for most of the day while you cleaned the house up a bit. "Spring cleaning," you said to Michael as he watched you from the kitchen. "Cleaning makes me happy. It's nice to get everything back in order after the holidays. 'sides, it's still too cold out for gardening."

Michael tilted his head but retreated back upstairs with his water jar for his paints.

Once the sun set, you made hot chocolate and ordered pizza. Michael preferred just plain cheese but you’d gotten yours with olives - something Michael always gave you looks for. "Don't knock it 'till ya try it," you'd snickered through a mouthful of pizza.

His brow furrowed in distaste as he took a bite of his own pizza.

It was cute. He had a lot of personality once you knew where to look. And he’d clearly gotten very comfortable with you during the time you’d been living together. It felt like a great honor to get to see Michael Myers do something as mundane as eat pizza in lounge clothes.

The two of you watched cartoons for a few hours until 11:57 hit. You flicked to the news channel and let your head loll to the side and rest against the back of the couch. "It's not the most exciting thing in the world," you said as you glanced at Michael, "But it's fun. It's nice to see everyone around the world get together for something like this."

Michael had just stared at the television with a slight tilt to his head. 11:59 struck and you felt your throat tighten as an idea came to mind. You recalled a conversation you'd had with Chrissy a couple years back where she'd told you about her favorite New Years tradition.

50 seconds…

It couldn't hurt to ask, right?

45…

“Hey, Michael?” Your voice was barely a whisper. You kept your eyes trained on the TV even when you felt his eyes on you.

40…

Swallowing was a challenge for you. “There’s, um, a kind of New Years tradition. That, um, it means-”

30…

“-you’ll have good luck for the rest of the year.” Your words were slow and methodical. It felt like you had to really sell him on the idea, even if you were afraid to tell him what it was. You weren't even sure you wanted to admit to yourself how badly you wanted to-

25…

“Want to do it?”

Michael just stared blankly at you. His eyes darted between yours, calculating. It made you feel flayed open despite the fact you were pretty sure he didn't know what you were talking about.

20…

He gave you a single nod. You quickly darted your tongue out to wet your lips. Now or never, you sighed internally.

“Trust me,” you said more than asked. His eyes widened slightly but he didn't pull away. You knew he trusted you and all you could do was hope he didn't react poorly.

15…

You swallowed around the heavy lump in your throat and tried to not look too worried. If he got the impression it was something bad, you may lose your chance. Lifting a gentle hand, you let your fingertips graze his cheek before slowly settling to cup his face properly.

It was like you could hear the sound of your own heart pounding even over the cheering on the television.

10…

"This okay?

9…

Michael's eyes softened and he gave a slight nod, as though worried he'd dislodge you entirely.

8…

You scooted closer, the both of you adjusting so you were sat facing each other, opposite shoulders brushing the back of the couch. He sat perfectly cross-legged while one of your legs braced against the floor.

7…

Slowly, you reached over with your free hand to tangle your fingers together in a loose hold.

6…

His eyes widened more and his lips parted. A look of realization flashed in his eyes and for a moment you worried you'd overstepped.

5…

"Still okay?"

4…

Michael gave a small nod again, eyes darting all over your face as he searched for…something. You weren't sure.

3…

2…

1…

You leant forward and pressed your lips together in a sweet kiss. The sounds of cheering that came from the television felt far away and underwater. Every sense in your body was focused on Michael - the warmth of his hand, the residual taste of hot chocolate on his lips, and the soft intake of breath you heard when your lips met.

It felt like the cheering was for you two.

At first, Michael didn't seem sure what to do with himself. With some gentle guidance, you tilted his head to the side to let him lean into the kiss better. He was clearly trying, so you scooted closer and let him set his hands on your hips to lift you into his lap without breaking the kiss.

When you parted to catch your breaths, Michael was staring at you with half-lidded, glassy eyes. It felt like your heart was going to burst out of your chest

You pulled him back in, tangling your fingers in his hair to keep him in place. His arms wrapped around your waist and you sunk into his hold. Being with him felt warm and safe.

So yeah. Things changed on New Years. But neither of you were complaining.

The snow finally began to clear up, being replaced smoothly by sleet and rain. It was honestly far more preferable to you, since it made walks in the forest more enjoyable. You'd always preferred the rain.

It had been a few weeks since the New Years and you and Michael were in some type of relationship. The word "dating" had come to mind but it wasn't really accurate. It was more than dating. You were partners in crime - literally and figuratively - as well as good friends, housemates, close confidants, and, more importantly, you saw each other. Really and truly. You'd both picked up on the others wordless sentences and slight shifts in your bodies were like loud declarations. Sure, you two held hands and he let you touch him more but that wasn't what was important to you.

Michael smiled more. He'd watch you with soft, sleepy eyes, stopped tensing whenever you cut his hair, and you'd caught him dozing off on the couch a few times.

You internally cursed Dr. Loomis for tormenting this man for so, so many years. Embodiment of evil your ass, he was so obviously desperate for love and care that he'd practically thrown himself at you as soon as you'd proven you would love him no matter what. He was more than the traumas he felt compelled to reenact. He was so, so much more and you loved every part of him.

Today, you needed to run down to the store to grab a few things. The rain had finally let up enough that you felt comfortable driving. "Michael? I'll be back around 5:30, alright?" You called into the house as you fastened your shoes.

Ever since the Christmas party, he'd gotten better about you leaving the house for short periods of time. So long as you promised to come back, that is. If you didn't, you knew he'd hunt you down with a knife and a bloodstained jumpsuit. Of that, you had no doubt.

Michael appeared in the doorway of the kitchen staring at you. You shot him a grin and grabbed your bags. "Be back soon!" You called over your shoulder as you ventured outside.

Looking back on it, you wished you'd stayed home…

You were examining a box of cereal for dents when someone approached you. "Hey," Chrissy's voice came from behind you. When you turned, she looked tense with her arms around herself and her smile was tight. Forced. Alarm bells began ringing in your head but you smiled back.

"Hey, Chrissy. Uh, you okay?"

"How's your boyfriend? What was his name, um, Michael, right?" She looked like she'd be sick and you felt white-hot adrenaline shoot through you like a bolt of lightning. "He, um, is he around?"

You swallowed, keeping your movements slow and casual. If you cracked, then she'd know. So you made a show of putting the cereal box into your cart and took the chance to look around. The aisle was empty but you caught the sign of movement near the end. Blue police uniforms, likely Chrissy's dad and his partner.

"No, he's traveling." You gave Chrissy an exhausted smile. "Y'know I'm not gonna pass your number along, right?"

She looked pale but her smile got wider and she took a small step back, like you terrified her. "Did, um, did someone die?" Her fake pout made you want to punch her in the face. Her faux sympathy oozed from her tone and you couldn't help the way your eye twitched. "Maybe his sister-?"

You froze in place. She knew. You don't know how she found out but there was no doubt she knew. Why the hell Officer Kallas had waited so long to act, let alone use his daughter as bait, was beyond you. Had he seen pictures from the party and asked Chrissy to identify him? Had he compared it to his mugshot? The thought of that made you irrationally angry.

"His dad is sick." You grit out through clenched teeth.

"You're sick," Chrissy shot back like a viper. "You've been sleeping with the fucking Boogeyman! You brought him to my house, oh my god, what if he killed-!" She choked back a sob, having the audacity to look betrayed.

Like a Barbie doll with mascara tears.

Enough was enough. You spun on your heel and marched away from a sobbing Chrissy like a man on a mission. You heard Officer Kallas call your name and you took a steadying breath before spinning, swinging the metal cart full of boxes and cans behind you and watching the two officers stumble and trip. Chrissy shrieked in fear and you took off towards the sliding glass doors. The crackle of a walkie talkie behind you was loud, too loud for you to make out any words being said. Everything in you was hyperfocused on running.

You heard heavy footsteps hot on your heel and you wished, momentarily, that you had a weapon of your own.

All you had to do was get to your car, the little piece of junk like an oasis in a hot desert. All you had to do was get in and you could get away, get to a phone booth and call Michael. Tell him to get Mayhem, pack bags, and get out. You'd promise you'd pick him up. Something. Anything.

But you’d never get the chance. 

The officer tailing grabbed you around your middle and lifted you up like a bratty child hauling a cat around. “Put me down!” You shrieked and began to slam your fists on his arms.

"You're under arrest for disrupting justice, harboring a criminal, and assaulting an officer," his robotic words fell on deaf ears as you continued to fight for your life. Cornered animals bit and he was finding that out the hard way as you twisted to claw at his face.

But he easily overpowered you, shoving you into the backseat of his police cruiser and slamming the door. Tears began to fall down your face as you began to panic. Michael wouldn't know they were coming. They surely knew to check your house. They'd catch him there and then what? Would they kill him? Shoot to kill, like you remembered hearing on the radio all those months ago?

You felt like throwing up. All you could do was curl up on the leather seats and sob your heart out.

All you could do was hope he'd be okay.

Dr. Samuel Loomis considered himself a brilliant man.

He was assigned to Michael Myers' case when the young boy had first been admitted to Smith's Grove when he'd just been a young, non-speaking child. His mother had brought him in, her eyes red rimmed and pleading to help her son.

And Dr. Loomis always loved a challenge case. Every 'difficult' patient he ever had while working in this institution had eventually cracked under his methods. So he studied Michael, subjecting him to various medications, talk therapy, and tried everything to trigger any kind of response out of him. At first, Michael seemed to truly want to be helped. His mother visited every week and talked with him about home, about his life after the institution.

Michael took well to art therapy, much to Loomis' frustrations - he had strongly advised against giving the young boy access to making masks - and he started to make progress in sorting through what happened to him.

Then his parents died. It was like everything in Michael shut down after that. Walls were built up high and became impenetrable the longer Dr Loomis poked and prodded for a reaction. 

Years went by and no more progress was made. It was like talking to a brick wall. A brick wall with eyes like the devil, as far as Loomis was concerned. There was no way a child could commit such atrocities without an ounce of guilt, no confession of sin. He'd advocated strongly against Michael being released on parole, insisting he was soulless and dangerous.

So Halloween came and Michael escaped, killing teenagers and reenacting the horrors he'd committed to his sister fifteen years ago. And now he had escaped yet again. This time was different though - Michael had gone missing for several months now. Too long had passed without any new murders and Loomis was becoming anxious and impatient. Police had let the case go, grateful at the idea Michael moved on to terrorize a new town.

But Dr. Loomis knew Michael Myers all too well.

He stood in his dimly lit office, watching a police car drive up through the large open window. Watching you get unloaded from the car and observing the way you fought so viciously, Loomis felt like he hit the jackpot. It was no wonder Michael was so obsessed with you. There was a darkness to you that had yet to grow anywhere. Surely he was just biding his time, playing house with you while he waited for you to snap and join him in his killing sprees.

He couldn't have that though. Michael had to be returned to Smith's Grove before he caused any more devastation.

“Doctor?” Officer Kallas’s voice broke the psychologist from his stupor.

“Come in.” He turned, looking over his shoulder and smiling when he lay eyes on you.

There you were. In handcuffs with tear tracks on your face. Your lip was split from where you'd nicked it while trying to bite Officer Kallas. “We apprehended him like you asked. We’ll head to the house to retrieve-”

“Don’t,” Loomis held up his hand to still the room. “No. We’ve got all we need right here.” He approached you slowly, like you were something to behold. You felt slimy under his fascinated stare. “Michael will come looking for him. Then we’ll catch him. We can’t give him any home-turf advantages.”

Officer Kallas nodded and shoved you forward into the room before closing the door behind him. You felt like a muzzled dog, glaring down the doctor with such hate that it reminded him of Michael.

Dr Loomis took a seat at his desk. “Tell me,” he hummed, “What was it like being held captive by Michael?” You looked at him, brow furrowed. Held captive? Was that the narrative they were running with? He seemed to misinterpret your confusion and gave you a sympathetic smile. “I know you were held by him for quite some time. Your friend Chrissy told her father about it. You were seen-”

“I wasn't a prisoner.” You spat, almost offended.

“So you were simply afraid.” The doctor clicked his pen, beginning to write something down. His scribbling felt grating on your nerves and you felt the urge to strangle the man, cuffs be damned.

But you just glared at him instead. “What is this, an interrogation?”

Dr. Loomis lifted his head and you could see the arrogance in his eyes. “I’ve studied Michael for sixteen years,” he said slowly, “And I’ve never seen him so fascinated by another human being.”

“Maybe you’re just shitty at your job.” You scoffed.

If you weren't already glaring daggers, you would have missed the disapproving look Loomis gave you. "In good time, my theory will be proven." He gave you a smile and gestured to one of the chairs sat in front of his desk. "Michael will come for you. And when he does, I will finally rid the world of that potent evil." He said with a menacing, teeth-filled smile.

You wish you’d stayed home.

[dollmonger]

sometimes it’z hard to believe that you and satoru are only friendz..

"Only friends"? ..

Don't be absurd. We're not "only friends."

We are best friends.

... and maybe a little bit more.

[hedonicghost]

You'd think Michael would be smart enough not to make more Aftons...

as an afton you either have to be a good manipulator or easily manipulated. michael has both; he takes after his dad, afterall!

[im-his-druidess]

i'm gonna crown myself 🔪💕 anon, i was the one that asked for a part 3 just for reference. i was driving to class this morning and just every song that played on spotify i had a different slasher in mind, sometimes different ones for different phrases and just. super thirsting for vincent today LOL but the fun thing (which i lowkey hate) is that i actually had rz myers in mind which is INSANE bc i hate the og so much. ehhhhh, maybe the tides are changing. maybe i just love rz and that's leaking over, who's to say.

i just wanted to share a bit 💜 hope all is well with you! i'm excited to see what you post next!

That's so funny because I've been thinking about RZ Michael Myers as well!! He's definitely my favorite out of that franchise and there is a criminal lack of stuff out there for him 😭

Literally almost every song I listen to by the band Type O Negative reminds me of Vincent Sinclair so I understand that struggle lol

If there's any particular song/scenario you have I'd love to hear it! ☺️ No pressure though!

And I appreciate that very much! All is good on my end and I hope the same goes for you! Thank you for sharing ☺️💙