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chevroletdean · 21 days ago

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IDLE INTERRUPTED

CHAPTER 1: NOSTALGIC HARMONY

SUMMARY: After his father passed, your childhood friend Tom decides to sell the Hanniger Mines. As a lawyer you agree to help him with the paperwork, only to get wrapped up in the dark past of your hometown.

SHIP: Tom Hanniger x Fem!Reader GENRE: Heavy Angst, Dark Fic MINORS DON'T INTERACT, this chapter is more on the fluffy side tho TO NOTE/WARNINGS: These include spoilers for the fic!!! Spoilers for the My Bloody Valentine 3D movie, dark and gritty themes, trauma, loss of a loved one, character death, blood, gore, murder, manipulation, BPD, drugging, dubious consent, kissing/making out, sex, nudity, violence, vomitting, plot twists, this is a scary one so MINORS TURN AWAY, 18+ CONTENT WORD COUNT: 4.6k A/N: The first of two chapters for another one of my @jacklesversebingo squares. I really went out of my comfort zone with this genre and I hope it makes sense OTL We'll start slow with this one! A prologue, if you will. I'm curious to hear your predictions. ❤️ PROMPT: Character A has to pick up Character B from the police station CREDIT & LINKS: header edited by me using gifs by vampirecoreleone & nyxvuxoa ─〃★ divider by cafekitsune ─〃★ series masterlist ─〃★ jacklesversebingo 2024 masterlist

▶️PLAYLIST ⏭️NEXT CHAPTER

“L/N’s Law Agency, how can I help you?”

“Y/N? It’s me, Tom,” the voice is familiar, gruffier than what you remember it to be, but you immediately recognize it and that name.

You freeze. The silence only lasts for a second, but it’s heavy.

The man on the other line, mistaking your silence for you pulling a blank, clears his throat, “Uh, Tom Hanni—”

“Tom, Jesus, it’s been a while,” you cut in.

You went to high school together.

Not only that, you were friends back then. Not the closest, but you got along with him well. Better than most of the other students did.

Tom Hanniger was more of a quiet kid and others would always eye him with either pity or suspicion. But you have yet to meet an outgoing extrovert with not only one, but two hefty near death experiences under his belt.

“Of course I remember you, just… sorry, I haven’t heard from you in…,” you trail off.

“…Ten years,” Tom finishes your sentence and the number hangs heavy over your head.

Ten years. Man, has it really been that long? It feels like ages ago and yesterday all the same.

“Sure has been a while, but it’s good to hear your voice. How are you?”

“No complaints,” you hum. “Is that why you called?”

Now, it’s his turn to pause. There’s a pit opening up in your stomach. You have this gut-feeling that something’s up. He didn’t call to catch up with an old friend, he reached out to a lawyer, after all.

“What, are you in trouble?,” you chuckle lightly.

“No, nothing like that,” he replies, his words accompanied by an awkward snicker. “Listen, I don’t know if you’ve heard. My dad passed away.”

“Oh,” you lamely respond, though the news do make you frown, and immediately cringe at your loss for words. “My condolences.”

“Thanks,” Tom mutters, his voice tight, then hesitates. “I was wondering, if— well, I’m thinking about selling the mines. And, I don’t know, maybe you could help me with all the paperwork, you know? You don’t have to, I know this is a strange request. I just thought since you’re familiar with the gist and all… Sorry, this is probably dumb, isn’t it?”

You listen patiently to his rambling, your own heart feeling heavier with each word.

Of course you are familiar with the gist. More than you’re comfortable with, honestly. With the Hanniger Mine and what that cursed place means for Harmony, with Tom and even with his dad. And, of course, with the workload of a heritage.

This day had to come eventually, though you’re surprised it’s this soon. Then again, no time can heal Tom’s and your wounds. To the small town of Harmony, that coal mine is vital. To the two of you, it’s a forsaken hellhole.

You completely understand Tom’s decision to sell it and it makes sense that he would ask you for legal advice, too. Even if he’s right: In a way, he’s asking for a lot, given that you’ve abandoned Harmony for good.

Still, you find yourself sighing softly into the phone. “It’s not dumb at all, Tom,” you reassure him, and you mean it. “How about we meet up and talk about the details?”

And that’s how, just two days later, you find yourself back in Harmony.

Instead of nostalgia, however, it’s unease that settles within every fiber of your being.

Even though you grew up here, spent your entire childhood here, you feel out of place. You remember every street, but you wish you could forget about all of them. You immediately notice the smallest of changes as you turn the corner, but you can’t say you’re sad about a couple shops no longer being there.

Ultimately, you find yourself seated at your old usual table of your former go-to coffee shop, the one closest to the door, right next to the window. Even the damn coffee tastes exactly the same, but you feel like this is no longer your home.

It stopped being that ten years ago. Nothing ties you to this place anymore.

Tom Hanniger’s phone call certainly came as a surprise, considering you are no longer in contact with anyone from here.

Aside from your parents, that is, although you can count the amounts of visits you paid them over the past decade on one hand. You’d always say you were busy with your studies and, after getting your degree, with work. And that was only a partial lie — becoming and being a lawyer wasn’t for the faint of heart.

You left your hometown behind as soon as possible. Ever since that tragic night on February 14th, when Harry Warden slaughtered 22 people, you knew you’d graduate and then avoid that small town.

Only five survivors were left behind on that fateful night: Tom, his then girlfriend Sarah, Sarah’s now husband Axel, Irene, and you. Your boyfriend Jim, on the other hand, was among the victims. You never quite recovered from losing him.

Especially since your last conversation with him was a fight.

You caught him making out with Irene. Jim claimed it was just for a silly party game, just a harmless round of truth or dare, but you were screaming at him, insulting him, for cheating on you. On fucking Valentine’s Day, no less.

Not that you were wrong, but you wish you could’ve parted on better terms. Resolve the issue somehow, just talk one more time. That bridge was burnt by Death, though. By Harry Warden and his killing spree, to be exact.

Ironically enough, you might not be alive today were it not for that stupid fight. You left the party right after and just in time to not get caught in the crossfire of the miner’s pickaxe.

Lucky you, huh?

Except you’ve pretty much lost everything. Your sanity as well as your boyfriend. As for your group of friends, well— Of course they were a mess after what happened. The months after that massacre leading up to your graduation were the worst of your life.

From what you gathered, Sarah and Axel are now married and parents at that, and they, as well as Irene, still live here. You can’t wrap your head around why, but to each their own. Everyone deals with trauma differently, after all.

Tom’s approach at least seems to be similar to yours, him turning his back on Harmony only disrupted by his ties to the family business.

The Hanniger Mines are the heart and core of Harmony, even under the heavy association with more than two dozens of corpses. The five victims after an accident first, then the 22 high school students that died exactly one year later.

All of them murdered by Harry Warden. Both instances witnessed first-hand by Tom Hanniger.

Still, the mines are the main source of income for the area, and a lot of people’s jobs depend on its future. All of which is for Tom to decide. You don’t envy him for one second.

“Y/N.”

Speaking of the devil, his familiar voice appears behind you.

You turn your head towards him and he doesn’t look a year older than when you’ve last seen him. His warm smile is the first thing you can confidently say you missed about Harmony. He looks a bit nervous, but you immediately find comfort in the sight of his sandy hair and those green eyes, genuine as always.

You rise from your seat, pulling him into a tight hug right away. In a way, you feel like he’s the only one that gets you, and that maybe you’re the only one that gets him. Like you two are the only people understanding the madness of this town, the weight of it.

Accomplices, if you will.

“It’s so good to see you,” you greet him and gesture for him to sit down with you.

“You too,” he nods and scratches the back of his head. “Although I wish the circumstances were different. I’m sorry to drag you back to this place.”

Your eyes soften, and though you bite your lower lip, you shake your head. It’s not his fault. Plus, you agreed to help him out because you know he’d do the same for you.

“I’m happy to help,” you reassure him, instinctively reaching over the table to place your hand over his. Your fingers gently squeeze his hand and you can tell the gesture takes away some of the tension from his shoulders.

A waitress steps into the picture, placing a menu on your table. It’s pink, little red hearts dotted all over. Valentine’s Special written across the top in bold, scarlet letters.

Oh. Shit, that’s right. It’s February, just a couple days short of Valentine’s Day. The timing couldn’t be more awful. You’d rather not be reminded of this holiday, an anniversary with nothing but despair attached to it.

You withdraw your hand as you glance away from the menu towards Tom, who honestly looks like he’s seen a ghost, face pale and eyes dulled as he stares holes into the laminated sheet of paper. You can immediately tell he’s thinking the same thing.

“Anything from the limited menu for you two lovebirds?,” the waitress patters, unimpressed and clearly just following protocol. “I can recommend the Sweet ‘n—”

“Just some coffee, please. Black,” Tom interrupts her swiftly, his voice ice-cold and rough. His movement is a little too sharp as he pushes the menu away.

The waitress nods, takes her leave, and remains completely oblivious to the shift in atmosphere she’s caused.

“Sorry ‘bout that,” Tom huffs and before his voice cracks, he clears his throat, uncomfortably shifting in his seat. “Did you look at the files I sent you?”

The two of you discuss the paperwork over your cups of coffee.

The air between you remains tense, though you know there’s nobody to blame. Except the large elephant in the room, shaped like a bloody heart and a Valentine’s card. Neither of you have it in you to address it.

Whispers throughout the café make it difficult enough to think straight.

“Isn’t that Tom Hanniger?”

“His dad died, he probably came for the funeral.”

“Haven’t you heard the rumors? He inherited the mines.”

Perhaps you chose the wrong location to go over the details with Tom.

You forgot how damn nosy Harmony’s citizens are. But it’s not just that — the town is fuller than usual. You know Harmony to be a mostly peaceful town, bordering on downright boring sometimes. It’s small, cozy, the kinds of neighbourhoods where everyone knows everything.

But you’ve already noticed as you drove here — the streets are infected with a craze. At first you thought it’s maybe spring-break, but now you understand.

Sick and twisted as it may be, tourists are drawn to a mass murderer’s hot-spot around this time of the year. Like moths to the flame. Or rather: The way a pile of shit attracts flies.

You’d rather not think about just how tasteless it is. These people don’t know any better. They think they’re chasing after a sensation, not after a tragedy.

Tom feels the same way. You know without him saying it. You can see it in the way his eyes harden, in the clench of his jaw, the grinding of his teeth. He slams his coffee cup down, hard enough to make it clatter harshly.

“Let’s go outside,” he mutters, hurriedly fishing some money from his wallet. It’s more than enough to cover both your drinks. Way too much, even, but you suppose the waitress deserves a nice tip during these busy days.

Without waiting for your answer, Tom pushes towards the door, expecting you to follow him. You do, without hesitation.

The cold air immediately makes you shiver, but it’s not as harsh of a slap as the Valentine’s Day themed interior of the café. Or the pitiful stares and whispers of the other patrons there.

You pull your cardigan around yourself more tightly, as though it could shield you from not just the cold, but also this anxious feeling. Technically, it’s still winter, and you can only blame yourself for getting too accustomed to the mild Februaries in Florida.

It doesn’t help that it’s late noon, either, the sun hanging low and about to set.

Tom, ever the gentleman, shrugs off his jacket — he, for one, came prepared with a tee and a hoodie underneath his jacket, at least — and drapes it around your shoulders. The warmth enveloping you like a comforting hug. Honestly, you could tear up.

“You didn’t have to,” you stutter awkwardly.

“Don’t mention it,” he says, one arm still around your shoulder. “Let’s just go.”

You let him guide you away from the coffee shop, each step further down the street making you feel better. The more distance you create between yourself and that place, the easier it is to breathe.

It seems to be the same for Tom, who, upon stopping next to his car, lets out a heavy sigh.

“Sorry, I couldn’t stand that place for another minute,” he mumbles apologetically.

“Me neither,” you agree, earning yourself a look of surprise. “It feels weird to be back.”

His eyes flicker down on you, your timid form and the way you subtly glance around, ready to duck away from any unwelcome reminders of your past.

“I’m so sorry,” he speaks, suddenly, his voice mellow and his eyes soft. “I shouldn’t have dragged you back into all of this.”

Your eyes, on the other hand, widen as you blink at him. You immediately shake your head.

“No, it’s okay,” you insist, forcing a smile onto your lips. “Actually, I’m glad you called.”

His inhale is sharp, though subtle. Once again, he awkwardly scratches the back of his neck, eyes darting everywhere except at you.

“Let me make it up to you,” he chuckles shyly. “Where’re you staying, at your parents’? Want me to drive you back to their place?”

“God, no. Nothing against them, of course, but I didn’t plan on staying for long, so I checked in at a motel,” you clarify quickly.

As much as you love your parents, you don’t think you can take a longer visit. You plan on stopping by their place before you leave, of course, but you’ve already compiled a mental list of excuses that justify you leaving this town as soon as possible.

At that, Tom huffs out a short laugh: “Great minds think alike, huh?”

You’re surprised to learn that despite his option to stay at his family’s luxurious house, Tom not only settled for a motel, but the very same one you picked, too. Turns out your rooms are almost next to each other too, just one other squeezed in between — Your’s 102, his 104.

Quite the coincidence.

At least the two of you stick together, even through this. It makes you feel a lot better, so of course you hope to be able to return the favor for him.

“Well, in that case,” you trail off with a chuckle and a shrug. “How about we ditch this neighborhood and continue our work there?”

Tom snorts softly, nods, then opens the door of his car for you. You slide into the passenger seat while he rounds the car and hops in as well. Driving off, you catch up a little — no conversation about this town, the mines not even brought up once. Just what he’s been up to, your days at college.

It’s a conversation filled with laughter. It feels right. At least in comparison to the rest of what’s surrounding you. The outside world, however, doesn’t matter — not when you’re together in this little bubble, your shared comfort zone.

Even when you’re back at the motel, sitting at the coffee table in Tom’s room, it’s good to know that you’re in this together.

The heater’s busted, just like the one in your room, but it’s nothing that a cup of tea and Tom’s jacket can’t fix.

He hands you a steamy cup, sliding it across the table. Each sip makes you forget more and more about the lack of warmth.

Tom’s eyes are glued to you, drinking in the way you nurse your tea.

“You like it?”

You answer with a pleased hum against the rim of your cup, nodding.

“It tastes really sweet,” you observe, licking your lips, “What secret ingredient did you put in there?”

Tom nervously rubs at the nape of his neck in that awkward, but somewhat endearing way of his. “Just honey, might’ve added too much, sorry.”

“Don’t worry, it’s nice.” Shaking your head, you chuckle.

You go over the numbers together, weighing Tom’s options.

Obviously many investors are interested in the mines, though some offers are downright ridiculous. As you expected, some people jumped the chance to buy cheap, reasoning that the horrible incidents have stained the location’s reputation.

Not that they’re wrong, but it’s still tasteless.

“Are you not gonna ask?,” Tom sighs eventually.

You furrow your brows together and throw him a look of confusion. “Ask what?”

“Why I’m thinking of selling,” Tom shrugs, casting his eyes down to avoid your gaze. “Everyone wants to know. They all think I’m crazy. That it’ll harm the community.”

For a solid second you remain silent.

Of course the town hates uncertainty, and to some it might look like Tom is choosing the easy way out. Like he’s abandoning responsibility. You, on the other hand, think it’s unfair it’s been bestowed upon him from begin with.

“You already went through enough trouble with that place,” you mumble. “I get you, trust me. I wouldn’t wanna keep that thing either. You’re right to get rid of it.”

There’s a tremble in your voice, but it’s not out of uncertainty. In fact, you’ve never been more sure about anything in your life. It’s your very determination, your deeply rooted hatred for these tunnels that makes you so agitated.

You want Tom to sell. You need him to sell. More so than he does, maybe.

You want this thing dealt with and gone. If you could, you’d destroy it completely. It would be better to set it all to ashes, honestly. Of course, that’s no option. Selling it, potentially letting someone turn it into something else, is the closest you can get to burying what haunts you.

It’s the closest you can get to closure.

“You’re the first, and probably the only person to think that way,” Tom huffs out weakly, one corner of his mouth twitching upwards. As bitter as his smile may be, you feel the gratitude behind it.

All you can offer is an understanding nod, and another couple of hours going through the details with him. It’s sometime later when a yawn subconsciously escapes you, triggering Tom to close the folder in front of you.

“Let’s call it a day,” he concludes without giving you room for arguments.

Not that you’re keen on more work. You’re still tired after a long drive here, barely able to focus on another page.

Thus, you give in with a nod and gather your stuff. You finish the last bit of your tea, despite the liquid having long cooled down. It’s still sweet, more so at the bottom of the cup. Mumbling a brief “Thank you”, you set the cup aside.

Tom grabs it swiftly, his fingers brushing against yours — and the touch lingers, grounding you. His hand, calloused, but warm, envelopes yours entirely. Swallowing it up. Shielding it from the outside. From your fears.

“I’m the one who has to thank you, you know?”

Whichever makes your heart skip a beat, his soft, sincere tone, or the depth behind his words, is hard to tell. Both make your skin prickle with warmth. A tingly sensation runs from your knuckles, which he runs his thumb over, to your middle.

The heat spreads all the way to your face. The air thickens around you, like a haze filling your senses. If you didn’t know it any better, you’d say the room is spinning, everything blurry, except for him.

It’s been a while since you’ve felt this connected to someone.

“For doing my job?,” you quip, lighthearted and meekly. Your own voice sounds distant in your ears, similar to the way a drunk would tipsily bubble up nonsense.

“For supporting me,” Tom clarifies, the gentle curl of his lips drawing your eyes to them like a magnet.

“That’s what friends are for,” you mutter under your breath. A voice in the back of your head tells you there’s more to it. Before you can shove it away, the firm squeeze of Tom’s hand amplifies that thought.

His other hand finds home in the soft flesh of your reddened cheek. Cupping your face, he drags his thumb over your bottom lip.

Your breath stutters, hitches. Tom catches it with his fingertips, catches you. Draws you in, until you’re so close you can get drunk from the proximity.

Your eyes almost go drooping, flickering back and forth between the golden specks in his green eyes to the freckles dusting his cupid’s bow.

God, he’s handsome. Not that you didn’t already know. You’ve been well aware for over ten years.

Even though you only had eyes for Jim during your highschool days, Tom always had this endearing air around him, sweet and charming. Slightly awkward, maybe, but in a cute way. In a dreamy way.

“Is that what this is?,” Tom hums, his breath tickling your mouth, “Is that what we are? Friends?”

Actually, you have no idea what this is. What you guys are. What he is to you. Maybe a guiding light in the endless, dark twists and turns of Harmony. The only damn thing that makes sense to you in all this rotten mess.

You don’t give an answer. At least not a verbal one, for what it’s worth.

Instead, you close the gap between you, closing your eyes and locking lips with him.

What starts off as a chaste, testing dance turns deeper the second you melt into his touch. Tom’s hand, previously having cradled your jawline, splays over the nape of your neck with more assertiveness than you anticipate.

As your lips part in a surprised gasp, he presses closer, muffling your strangled whimper.

His tongue keeps licking, tasting, exploring. Taking. It’s too much. Too overwhelming.

Suddenly you feel light-headed, drunk. Unable to match his pace, you softly whine his name, to which he abruptly freezes.

“Shit,” he exhales shakily and breaks the kiss, leaning his forehead against yours, “Sorry— I don’t know what’s gotten into me.”

You don’t know either. Maybe that silly, much despised hype around Valentine’s Day got to you after all. Yeah, that must be it, right?

Your fingers twitch, still grasped by his. A pang of something unidentifiable stirs in your guts; part of you feels… disappointed. Guilty? You didn’t mean to ruin the moment, you didn’t mean for this to end.

Craving more, you lazily brush your lips against his, as if to reassure him. Regret doesn’t cross your mind once, heat of the moment or not.

“Don’t apologize,” you whisper. Shy as you may be, and flustered all the more, your breathless words are accompanied by a cheeky grin.

There’s a shift in Tom’s eyes, so brief you think your own are deceiving you. He hesitates, but ultimately settles on leaning back. Just slightly, to place his lips to your forehead for a second. You desperately want to sink into his arms, tuck yourself into his chest, and disappear there.

“You should get some rest,” he whispers, weaving his soothing breath into your hairline.

Though your heart is beating up to your throat, you nod. It’s been a long day, for both of you, and sleep sounds wonderfully enticing.

Reluctantly detangling yourself from Tom, you rise to your feet and gather your things.

Upon heading to the door, you realize just how beat you are. Actually, your head feels way heavier than it should. Standing up makes you dizzy. Downright nauseous. You shrug it off, turning to Tom one last time.

Though the words remain unspoken, the question hangs heavy in the air: Is everything good between us? Will you be okay?

“Get some rest, I’ll be heading out,” Tom nods, though his voice sounds… askew. It’s not his tone, but rather that you feel like you’re underwater, any noise reaching your ear in oddly distorted fashion. “I should talk to Ben, about the mines, you know?”

Ben. You think for a moment, then remember that he’s a miner, and a close friend to the Hanniger family.

Of course, Tom should talk to the ones whose jobs will be affected, even if it’ll be a hard conversation. You’d offer to come along and support him, but you’re in no condition to go anywhere except your bed.

“You know where to find me,” you smile, bidding your goodbyes and making your way to your own room, just two doors over.

As you pass the spare one, you stop briefly. Soft giggling, then the unmistakable echo of a moan, all barely muffled by the thin walls, makes you cringe.

“Damn Valentine’s Day craze,” you sigh to yourself and slip into your own room.

The muffled moaning turns into obscene screaming and the repeated squeaking of a cheap motel bed. In your annoyance, you kick against the wall, but of course that doesn’t bother the lovebirds next door.

For just a split second your mind wanders to a scandalous possibility. You mull over the kiss you just shared, the fire of Tom’s lips still burning against your skin — What if you didn’t stop? Would you have gone that far?

A loud, lewd sob from next door makes you snap out of it. Flinching, you push the embarrassing thought aside. Tom’s not like that, and neither are you. You still consider him a friend, though you don’t mind that intimate moment.

It’s just a lot recently. For both of you. Things like that happen when you crave comfort, that’s all.

Giving up with a groan and a roll of your eyes, your body slumps onto your bed. You don’t even bother getting changed, nor do you notice that you’re still wearing Tom’s jacket. All you kick off are your shoes, which you haphazardly drop to the floor.

Where your spine feels like pudding, enough for you to collapse, the couple continues its passionate lovemaking. If you can even call it that. You’re pretty sure you can hear the degrading dirty talk in between the slam of their headboard against the wall.

As if your head doesn’t hurt enough already. Grumbling tiredly, you shield your ears with the pillows and blankets, building yourself a cocoon that’ll hopefully drown out any noises.

Surprisingly, it does.

Your eyelids, heavier than they ever felt in your whole life, flutter closed and you drift off into a dreamless slumber within mere minutes.

PREVIEW:

Your trembling fingers struggle to fish for your phone. You dig in your pockets, before you realize— not your pockets. Tom’s. You’re still wearing his jacket.

Fear strikes you once more as you scramble to your feet and run to Room 104. Tom’s room. You knock, repeatedly, panicked. You sob, calling out his name, again and again, but there’s nobody answering.

You don’t have it in you to break down the door, neither physically — given how weak and shaky you feel — nor emotionally. Just thinking about what gruesome sight might await you in there nearly makes you vomit again.

Instead, you run back to your own room and grab your phone. You dial Axel’s number, knowing he’s Harmony’s sheriff. All those years of keeping the numbers of your old highschool friends… you never knew it would come in handy. You wish it didn’t have to.

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