I Have Problems And Tumblr

Regardless of Michael’s peculiarities, it was kind of like living with the feline equivalent of a human. Michael would hover when he wanted your attention, shadowing you around the house like an overgrown, homicidal duckling until he had his fill of company. Otherwise, Michael mostly kept to himself, making and painting paper mache masks at the dining table or reading a book on the couch.

You noticed that he never did anything noisy, nothing that required moving around a lot; which was probably a result of being incarcerated at a young age. Michael would sit down with whatever activity he felt like doing and simply entertain himself with that one thing for literal hours, only briefly looking away from his task when you wandered into whatever room that he had settled in.

You usually left Michael to his own devices when he was occupying himself with some activity or another, periodically checking in on him to refill his chosen beverage and give him more snacks if he was running low. Most of the time Michael preferred a sweet treat with a glass of ice cold water. Although you had gotten him to start drinking milk with his cookies, so you considered that a win.

However, when you weren’t fussing over Michael, you took the opportunity to complete some chores and bake more snacks since he tended to go through them in around two or three days. Michael favored cookies of all kinds, but he would eat any sweet treat you put together so long as it had enough sugar to give a lesser man diabetes. Fortunately for Michael, the laws of nature didn’t seem to apply to him, his body deferring to an entirely separate set of rules.

You were drawn out of your reminiscing when a familiar pale hand reached around you from behind to scoop up a heaping pile of chocolate chip cookie dough from the bowl that you held, retreating just as swiftly and silently as it had appeared. You shook your head in fond exasperation at his usual antics, head turning to peer up at Michael from over your shoulder, the man already staring at you through his curtain of hair as he practically inhaled the dough.

“Done with your book then?” You asked, setting the bowl onto the countertop in favor of grabbing a towel to wipe off Micheal’s fingers –which he had, predictably, licked clean– and his head dipped a tiny bit in what was the closest to proper communication that he could manage considering that he had been mute and disconnected from the world for most of his life.

“I’ll return it to the library tomorrow after work and check out the sequel.” You hummed, setting the towel aside to throw in the washer later before grabbing the bowl of cookie dough and an ice cream scooper, depositing the sizable piles of dough onto the cookie sheet.

“You can have the bowl when I’m done.” You offered, once again glancing at Michael over your shoulder when he moved closer, practically plastered to your back. You couldn’t help but smile at how adorable he was when he was excited, his demeanor reminiscent of a child. He obediently shifted back a step once you put the last dough ball onto the cookie sheet, his head turning as his eyes followed your path to the pre-heated oven.

“Two batches of chocolate chip cookies and that last batch of lemon poppyseed shortbread cookies should last you until I go grocery shopping the day after tomorrow, yeah?” You inquired, shutting the oven on the first batch before setting a timer to make sure the cookies wouldn’t burn.

As usual, Michael had no input on the matter, a mute sentinel that loomed in the center of the kitchen like an omen of death. You had never taken his silence personally though, not when he actually made an effort to communicate with you nonverbally. Michael still had days where he wasn’t responsive at all, staring blankly until nightfall, his preferred time to hunt.

You returned to your spot at the counter to start scooping the second dozen onto another cookie sheet, Michael reclaiming his position directly behind you, the mammoth of a man occasionally reaching around you to try and sneak more cookie dough. You thwarted his efforts each time though, gently catching his wrist to redirect his hand from its route to the bowl. Michael allowed the contact, skin warm and surprisingly tan considering he was usually only outside at night.

Constantly fending off Michael’s wandering hand made it difficult to complete your task since the bowl kept sliding around on the countertop, though you were quick to come up with a solution. So, the next time that you saw Michael’s hand going for the bowl, you laid your hand over top of his. The man paused, unresisting when you guided his hand to the side of the bowl, his fingers obediently holding it in place so you could comfortably scoop the thick dough out.

You kept your hand on his until the tray was full, the other wielding the aforementioned ice cream scoop. Then it was time to clean up, Michael assisting you by drying the dishes that you’d scrubbed clean, even going as far as to put them away. You had no idea why he was in such a good mood, but you weren’t about to question it since a happy Michael was a cooperative Michael.

Although it wouldn’t occur to you until much later that Michael had been uncharacteristically persistent about swiping more cookie dough because he had wanted you to hold his hand.