An Aspiring Con Artist

Michael watches from inside the closet, drinking up your sounds, the moonlight glistening off the sheen of sweat forming across your forehead. The handle of his knife in his right hand, sturdy and familiar, as he palms his aching erection through his coveralls with the left.

The view of your hand working yourself to completion is blocked by thin layers of clothing, but Michael tries to grind into his palm to match your pace. His breathing resounds heavily from inside the mask, but both of you are too occupied to hear.

The way your brow furrows in pleasure has him enraptured. The obsession races through his blood like a fire, ready to consume everything on its path to you.

When Michael’s name slips from your lips among the staccato of needy and wanton groans, the handle of his knife creaks under his grip. His hunger is reaching a peak like never before, He must have you. Under his hands, under his knife, under his teeth- it doesn’t matter-

Electricity races up his spine as his hips tremble weak thrusts into his hand. A wet spot that grows on the front of the fabric as he remembers to breathe, his jaw still clenched with the effort of keeping his eyes on you as he came.

You have no idea about the little show you just put on, lying there limp and wrung out.

Michael feels fuzzy as you snuggle yourself into sleep, grappling the new host of urges pounding against the floodgates. Perhaps on Halloween he’ll let himself loose.

***

2 Days until Halloween

You wake up groggy after the best night’s sleep you’ve had in a week. For the first time in what feels like years- maybe a lifetime- you wake without your thoughts buzzing. The trees outside shake their red and browning leaves.

Today is your last shift before the holiday, something you think about as you make the walk to work, pulling your light jacket tighter as if that would make it warmer. The chill in the air cuts through it with the scent of decaying leaves.

You didn’t see Michael this morning, he’s been like a ghost since yesterday, only leaving clues. The memory of the sheet ghost in Quentin’s hallway resurfaces and you snort through your nose. The homemade decorations in people’s yards are much funnier when you think about it that way.

Wait.

That would make them a lot scarier. To anybody other than you, you think.

Grimacing, you make a mental note about the conversation you’re going to need to have with your roommate. Your situationship? Your skeleton in the closet.

It’s not like you think you can change him, but…would you be able to handle the guilt? You’ve already been compartmentalizing what he’s done in the past- not to mention what he’s been up to currently.

The mental balancing act of trying to rationalize not stopping him is starting to crumble. It’s not like you want innocent people to get hurt, but what choice do you have if the police think you’re crazy? Somehow you think suggesting therapy would not go over well.

You sigh.

There’s no way to make what you feel ethical. You feel it regardless. Something in your chest squeezes when you look at him.

But at the same time it can make your stomach drop. It’s like Michael can be two different people at times. And the worst part, you think, is that you can see yourself in him too.

You’re no stranger to the monster that society can turn you into.

The bell above the door to the grocery store jingles as you arrive for your shift, still thinking yourself in circles.

You wave at Quentin who’s shifting overstock in the seasonal aisle. “Christmas already, dude?”

He rolls his eyes and responds with a sarcastic “ho-ho-ho.”

“Dang, I didn’t know you were gonna be Santa for Halloween. You got that impression down-pat.”

You hear him yell ‘shut up’ from a distance as you head behind the counter to clock in. There is already a line forming at your register.

You glance over at Dwight who is currently explaining to a customer that we can’t discount a mixed bag of candy even if they promise to return the uneaten ones. He looks tired.

Not for the first time, you wonder if customer service is the scariest thing you’ll experience this Halloween.

***

“So what are you guys gonna be for Halloween, for real?” you chat idly with the others as you start to close down the store.

Quentin looks up at the ceiling as if he’s looking for an answer, Dwight scratches the back of his neck in an awkward habit.

“Uh, well…Meg and David teased us- Jake and I, I mean- into doing a couples costume. Jake said he’s being a werewolf because he can just wear one of his flannels, so I guess that would make me the vampire?” Dwight says while sweeping the front.

Quentin looks at him. “How is a werewolf and a vampire a couple’s costume?” he says in a deadpan way.

Dwight short circuits.

“Don’t mess with him, it’s a classic duo.” you chuckle amicably. “Besides, do you have anything better?”

“Yeah, I’m gonna be myself with a big bucket of candy.”

“Seriously? Save some creativity for the rest of us, I was also gonna go as Quentin with a big bucket of candy.” You snipe back as you zip up your jacket. “Now I’ll have to go as He-Man or something.”

You stare back into Michael’s mask for awkward seconds that feel like an eternity, your brain unable to provide backup so soon after waking. You look back down at the blanket from your bedroom that you definitely didn’t bring in here with you. When your gaze returns to him, a delicious zip of adrenaline shoots down your spine at the coy tilt of his head and the cross of his arms.

So he is awake…

“S-sorry. Um-” your embarrassment turns to indignation, “I mean, you’re the one who stole my shit first!”

And now you take your exit, keeping your eyes on him as you get up and then try to speedily shuffle out of the room. You make it across the threshold before an iron grip clamps on your wrist with preternatural quickness. It isn’t painful, but borders it.

“Ugh- Michael!” You give a few useless tugs, “Dude, I have to pee-”

You stumble forward when he releases you and only get a quick glance at his towering form as you duck into the bathroom and click the lock behind you.

In the mirror, your flushed reflection and bedhead look back at you.

***

The sensation of your soft skin and delicate bones of your wrist under his grip lingers long after letting go. Michael looks down at his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist. It made his mouth water dangerously.

His gaze sweeps back over where you were sleeping, landing on the large black t-shirt crumpled next to his sleeping bag. A smug feeling creeps up on him as he snatches it up.

You hadn’t noticed the hours old blood staining the clothes on his body- too distracted. He takes this time to strip off the fabric that was slowly sticking to him, tossing the spent overalls into a corner and pulling on the shirt you had been using.

The bathroom door creaks back open and your gait on the stairs sounds through the quiet house. Michael is tying the arms of his green jumpsuit that you had brought to the laundromat last week around his waist when he hears you yell from the kitchen.

“Michael, did you eat my fucking leftovers?!”

***

You glare at the aluminum pot of water on the stove to make it boil faster. Glaring at Michael would be a waste of energy because he doesn’t care, so you contemplate ruining his breakfast. Then you contemplate saying so out loud that you wouldn’t ‘because SOME people have impulse control…’

You rip open two packs of ramen and dump them into the boiling water. Turning and leaning against the counter next to the stove, you face your shielded expression toward him.

Michael is sitting on one of the mismatched thrift store chairs you’ve outfitted the space with. You have a hard time maintaining your glower seeing how poorly he fits behind the cheap ply board table. He watches you right back, eyes shaded behind his mask.

You push yourself off the counter to grab two eggs from the fridge, preparing to add them to the water with the broth powder, conveniently not having to look at him while you talk.

“I’m going to be locking up the back door now. Don’t break it. I’m-” you pause, hit with the implications your point comes with, “...giving you a key.”

Avoiding his stare, you plonk the bowls of breakfast ramen down on the unsteady table and slide his across, following it with a copy of the back door key you received from the locksmith.

When you sit, Michael cautiously grabs the key, his eyes never leaving you until it’s in his hands. You put your hands around your soup bowl, waiting for it to cool and sheepishly waiting for his reaction.

Multiple slow heartbeats go by as he fingers the key like a precious material, his gaze piercing it until he clenches it in a large fist rather than stow it away in a pocket.

You don’t see him release it as he turns up his mask to eat. It could be the steam from the broth, but you swear his cheeks look pink.

***

Work was work. It sure had a way of making the day feel over even when you had errands to run after your shift. You had to stop at the hardware store you’ve become a regular at before going home.

Today Laurie called ahead to meet you, saying it was actually the best place to go over the plan, and you see her standing out front with the hay bales when you turn the block.

You both pull your jackets tighter at a chill breeze, share a quick greeting, and shuffle in through the front door with a tinkle of the store’s bell. Giving a friendly wave to the clerk stuck at the register, Laurie ducks the two of you into the nearest aisle out of sight.

“Okay, let’s hash out the plan- do they have a hunting section here?” Laurie says sounding overwrought, then commandeering an abandoned cart left by a cardboard display of spray insulation.

“I need to get some glass cut, so is this something that a random guy shouldn’t be exposed to?” You sigh, hands in your pockets. The distinct smell and enclosed space of the store relaxes some of your tension. Laurie sets a meandering pace, seemingly browsing the stock so you can talk.

“We can’t rely on a phone to reach each other, but since we’ll be in range of the house a walkie-talkie will work perfect.” She grabs a can of long range wasp spray and dumps it in the cart.

Your brow furrows “Is Jed going to be in the loop? Not that I’m complaining he isn’t here, but the walkies would broadcast to both of you, right?” Apprehension leaks into your voice at the idea.

“Yeahhh,” the annoyance in her voice is clear and you’re glad you don’t have to justify your misgivings. “I’m gonna keep him updated, but it’s not like he’s doing any of the dirty work.

“Only important ‘cause of his damn camera and connections.” She grumbles under her breath.

You grimace and follow her restlessly into the firewood section, seeing her push the cart with a destination this time.

“I’m going to give you a taser, which might give you enough time to use this.”

Laurie sneers at the length of wrought iron she lifts from its place, a dark fire poker with a wicked hook curving down below the spear tip. From where you stand behind her, she doesn’t see the look of horror on your face.

“Uh. Not to be that guy, but I don’t know if a taser would work?” You delay, trying to school your expression into something like ‘nervous’ as she tests the heft and tensile strength of the improvised weapon.

Laurie shakes her head at you knowingly as she sticks the poker in the cart. “Pfft- of course not, a regular one would do jack shit. This one is for bears.”

Your mouth is agape.

“Wha- where did you even get something like that?” you demand, whisper yelling.

She shrugs and doesn’t look at you as she drops the poker in the cart.

“Supply order for animal control. Turns out they don’t ask too many questions and we’re close enough to Wyoming to qualify for grizzly grade equipment.” her smirk leaks into her voice with a mirthless chuckle.

You warily follow in-step behind her as she pushes the cart onward.

“Okayyy, then what’s the poker for?”

“To yank the mask off at a distance or rip it.”

You don’t have a response for this, but she takes your silence as affirmation- or at least not disagreement- and details the rest of the plan.

Processing only the gist of it, you capture that all of you will be armed with a camera, walkie talkie, and appropriate tools. You with a bear taser and fire poker, Lori with a gun that she assures you she has a permit for.

You place your glass cutting order.

To defeat the awkward silence growing in the space of waiting at a service desk, you bring up Dwight’s party.

“So, do you plan on going to that Halloween party at Jake’s- wait, shit, is it in three days already?” Interrupting yourself when you realize how soon it’s impending.

“No way, I can’t stand that stuff anymore.”

“Yeah, I can get behind that,” you nod grimly. “Plus I don’t have a costume so I’ll probably look like a total dipstick.”

***

When you get home, you check the mail even though every part of yourself screams not to.

Another blank envelope is waiting for you.

You want to slam the bag you’re carrying onto the porch and scream, but you set the paper wrapped glass pane down gently anyway.

In the last of the evening light, you rip it open with shaky hands.

A single developed photograph. The flash of the camera illuminates the blurry background of your bathroom sink, in center focus is the clear and legible label of your testosterone prescription. You don’t have to speculate what they mean with this threat.

Infuriating scrawl on the margin says ‘flip me over <3’.

Very creative new curtains, sweetheart, but we can’t have that~

Take them down, or else. XXX

On shaky hands, you replace your front door’s window. Your palm stings from where you let the glass dig into you when you crumple the photo, and bury it in the kitchen trash.

***

Your legs are locked around the bottom half of your pillow as you try to smother the fear and anger in the top half. The streetlights and moon send in enough ambient light to mock your plight.

You took your T shot today and the jack rabbit needs of your dick are warring with everything you have to worry about. It’s fucking exhausting. You don’t want to think anymore.

Who knows when you started instinctively grinding on the pillow between your legs, but that dopamine starts to be really tempting.

Flopping onto your back, your hand is already in your boxers trying to narrow the buzzing focus in your brain with a new physical pressure. It lets your shoulders relax, the withering tension coming out in a sigh.

Your dominant hand cups between your legs, cushioned by the thick hair that leads up in a happy trail. The head is way too sensitive for anything direct, like an electric shock between the legs, so you stick to stroking the length of it.

Falling into the routine of your favorite spots makes your breaths come heavier, but it plateaus. No dirty magazines, you have to use your imagination. With a free hand tugging at your hair and sweat beading at your brow, you try to recall what’s worked before.

In your mind, all you can see is Michael in that damn black t-shirt. A dirty thrill runs down your spine as you trace the line of his body underneath it, your fingers dipping lower and slick themselves to pleasure your cock better.

That one jumpsuit of his that's smaller than the rest, the way it hugs his ass and accentuates his waist should be considered lethal. How he might look with his erection straining against the fabric, chapped lips and blush peeking out underneath his mask…

It feels so good. Your hips move in rhythmic little thrusts, your mind a haze, unsure if you want to ride to your finish on Michael’s thigh or fuck him into putty. The T shot has you craving it so bad it aches, your mouth watering like an eager virgin.

You swallow and it doesn’t matter which part of you you imagine him filling because your thighs are tensing as you approach the precipice.

A groan pushes itself out of your chest amid your panting as your fingers dance over where you’re more sensitive, wishing it was his large, strong hands playing you instead.

“Mmm Michael-”, it turns into a breathless keen, your free hand now grasping at the sheets.

Working yourself hard and fast, almost like a punishment for saying the forbidden part outloud, it rushes towards you in an explosive wave.

“Ah-!”

An almost startled moan escapes you before you can stifle yourself. Mind blanking and body reeling through the pleasure, your fingers continue to work you through a powerful orgasm.

It takes several moments before the room begins to bleed back into awareness as you milk out the sensation just a little longer, only stopping when the stimulation becomes too much.

And you start to catch your breath.

***

***

You walk thirty minutes to the nearest thrift store, looking over your shoulder constantly, and load yourself with as many blankets as they’ll allow you to buy (nearly all of them, the clerk didn’t care). The trek home carrying the pile was awkward, but the physical exertion kept your mind focused.

Dumping the blankets in a heap and stepping over them, you head towards your toolbox to grab a hammer and nails. To hell with the walls, you can spackle them when the house has less pressing priorities.

You immediately wish Michael would make his stupid height useful for once and was here to help you.

Your new (mismatched and fleecy) curtains go up with sweat and swearing, and you drive nails into the frames of windows with loose locks. Come summer, you may regret not being able to open the windows, but for now these blankets will help insulate and protect you from peeping Toms. And hopefully stalking Steves.

Exhaustion hits all at once and you drop the hammer after the last window, probably denting your bedroom floor, but you couldn’t care less.

You turn towards your bed feeling like you could fall into it (literally, you still don’t have a bed frame).

But you don’t feel safe here. Not after that picture.

It makes you feel nauseous thinking about it and you wish, not for the first time, that you could be anywhere but here. You want to ask Quentin if you could stay over again, but you can’t risk getting him hurt.

The frustration of it all makes you want to cry and have a meltdown, but the testosterone in your body won’t let you. Your feet move on their own, practically running out of the room.

You don’t know why you end up standing in the doorway of Michael’s, but what you do know is that being there relieves some of the pressure in your head and chest.

It’s barren- not that your room is much better. You haven’t truly been in here since you moved in and the grey light through the window highlights the faded wallpaper and dusty floor.

A ratty sleeping bag is bunched along the wall facing towards the door. You feel guilty when you don’t see a pillow, just a small pile of bunched up clothes.

You’re hesitant stepping inside, crossing what has always been a boundary for the two of you. It feels forbidden, but the exhaustion left behind after the initial torrent of emotion and subsequent exertion leaves your knees weak and you sink down onto the sleeping bag.

Curling in on yourself, your fingers pull at something from his clothes pile. His black t-shirt.

Over the mustiness of the sleeping bag, his shirt smells like the deodorant you bought and something more distinctly him. Normally you would probably be more grossed out, but right now you close your eyes and feel comforted instead.

Your heart aches.

***

Michael left before the sun came up, he just couldn’t be around you right now. The closer it gets to Halloween, the more the itch becomes an urge becomes a burn and he can’t be sure the urge to put his hands on you will stay gentle. And if not gentle, at the very least survivable.

Since that night you confronted him, he’s been picking over the new feelings with more curiosity than frustration. Keeping things from you and trying to force things his way wasn’t working the way he thought it would, you’re not the same person he used to stalk anymore. Instead of running, you confront him; don’t get him wrong, Michael’s blood still runs hot for the chase, but this new familiarity leaves your vulnerability for teasing wide open.

Michael grips the handle of his knife harder thinking about the way your eyes widen when he steps into your space and your protests fall silent on your tongue, knowing you’re at his mercy. The way you squirm and try to hold your ground, pretending it does nothing to you - he can almost hear your heartbeat.

The woman he’s been stalking from the park’s tree line does nothing special for him, but watching her from this distance and biding his time satiates the buzz in the back of his head. It excites him too. Watching, waiting…it almost edges him, building up to the moment he can feel the pulse in someone’s neck speed up and give out or feel the knife slip past skin and bone. Their indulgent color red spilling out of them like a release, stuttering their final breaths.

From this distance, the woman’s blonde hair almost looks like Laurie’s. Michael exhales. He doesn’t like her so near to you. The night you went to the place with the campfire, he wanted to kill you then just to keep you away from her. But you went with him instead, promising him anything. And so he didn’t kill them that night.

But Laurie is still orbiting this house and you. So Michael may soon have to take that anything.

The blonde woman is joined by an unremarkable man and she emotes heavily to show her enthusiasm. The man looks almost bored, an indifference that Michael used to match for the rest of the world.

His favorite part of boring people was how much they would change when his knife was in them.

When the two begin to follow the wooded biking trail, Michael matches their leisurely pace out of sight. The sun is on its path down the sky and ducking behind clouds along the way. His vision tunnels with bloodlust, the longer he tracks, the longer his anticipation for the kill grows- keeping you at the back of his mind and humming under his skin.

***

The cardboard in the glass of the door is easily punched in, unnoticed in the dark. Stepping into the vestibule with the liquidity of a cat, Michael shuts the door behind him with a soft click.

He looks down at his boots. Mud and something that rhymes with it. Memories of the last time he made tracks in the house make him contemplate doing it again.

Michael toes off his boots. Without them, he’s quiet as a ghost, moving into the kitchen to find something to tear into.

His muscles feel relaxed and loose as he pulls the remnants of some Chinese takeout from the fridge, as if the red on his skin was a massage oil. He doesn’t bother with utensils and uses his fingers to pull noodles into his mouth, sticky brown sauce gaining a new iron flavor.

The empty container goes in the trash this time because Michael is in a good enough mood to follow your rules. He wipes his mouth on the back of his sleeve, having sated his two other needs tonight he begins to search for you.

Michael doesn’t plan for when he finds you, he just follows the trend of satisfaction he’s riding on. He enjoys the search of the bottom level of the house, the thrill of seeking excites him as if you two were playing a game.

Clearing the floor, he stops before the stairs looking up into the dark. Each step drags it out, bringing the second floor into view. The bathroom is dark and the door is open, leaving your bedroom as the last possibility.

Breath hot against his mask, Michael pushes your door open. You don’t jump at his entrance and your bed lies empty.

Confused and then frustrated, Michael huffs against his mask, his game ruined.

He exits, annoyed and ready to make that your problem.

His room is dark, but unlike the others where you seem to have blocked the windows, the moon and streetlights give enough ambient light to see the floor. Immediately, Michael can tell that things have moved.

Instinct has him strung tense in a moment as his gaze falls on your form. Fighting back the urge to yank you by the ankle, Michael walks closer. The fight response slowly dwindles as he silently observes, your form curled around his shirt replacing it with a different kind of tension.

Your arms are tucked in on yourself with his shirt, goosebumps prickling your flesh. Michael wants to run his hands over them and watch as your body shifts from sleep to surprise.

Would you try to get up and leave? Or maybe you would curl into his warmth…

Feeling a flush of heat, he turns and leaves the room. His legs carry him to yours and he pulls the blanket off your mattress. You don’t stir when he lays it over you, wrapping you up among his things.

“Where did you hide it? Is it in your room like my shirt was? Because if you’re not going to go get it, I’ll go look for it myself.” You punctuate your sentence by turning on your heel and starting towards his room.

You get three steps past the bathroom door in the middle of the hallway before you’re jerked back by the neck of your shirt. A choked noise escapes your throat as you collide backwards into Michael’s chest. Trying to step away proves futile as he holds you there with an iron grip on your clothes.

“Oh, so you can go in my room and root through my shit, but I can’t go in yours? C’mon let- go-” you fume, struggling against him.

When he does let you go, you stumble a few steps and you swear you hear him snort behind his mask.

“Why are you acting like this.” you ask, though said more like a statement. You think it catches him off guard because his eyes meet yours and then flit away.

You press harder, but hold a casual pose leaning against the wall. “I know you don’t like to think about your feelings, but why did you suddenly change? What are we-or I guess what am I to you?” you don’t force eye contact.

An awkward moment passes and you’re sure you’ve fucked this up when Michael gives a shrug. He’s given you something and so you keep going.

“You took your mask off for me…you can’t pretend like there’s nothing between us.” you say gently.

You give him a minute, and then it feels like five and you sigh, ready to push yourself off the wall and walk away.

“Alright. If that’s how you want it to be.”

It’s then that Michael moves, almost shyly, pulling the mask off.

You can’t help your staring, he’s just too beautiful and you’re too taken with him. His hair has gotten soft and feathery with living with you and his eyes brighter. His head is set at a sheepish tilt and when his deep blue eyes meet yours, his usual neutral expression seems almost guilty.

This in itself feels extremely lucky, but when Michael signs, you feel like you could sing. It’s slow and stuttering and your eyebrows raise as you follow his words.

You changed him into something- something different. It scares him. Both of you stand in silence: him having finished his piece, you at a loss for words.

This is more of an understanding silence than an awkward one, which you break this time. “Is that why you attacked me that day?” Your voice is nearly a whisper.

To your surprise, Michael straightens up- his set in a blank pout again, but the slightest amount of pink dusting his cheeks and ears.

‘It’s hot when you get scared’, he signs without looking you in the eye.

*** It’s four days until Halloween and you’ve finally set up that stupid ski mask scarecrow that’s been getting covered by leaves in your backyard. It stares at you lopsidedly as you go check the mailbox.

You don’t get letters, but the junkmail piles up and sometimes there’s coupons. Today there is a single blank envelope.

Turning it over, puzzled, you find no return address or name other than that it is addressed to you. Sharing a look with the scarecrow, you bring it inside and toss it on the kitchen counter.

You run over the list of people in your mind of who it could be from. Laurie, Quentin, and Jed are the only people who really know your address and could possibly want to send you something. Michael is off the table because he would just leave it lying around the house or throw it at you or something.

After taking a bite from a granola bar, you grab at it again and tear it open from the side, not bothering with the glued down flap. The first thing you pull out is a simple sheet of lined paper, folded to fit in the envelope.

Unfolding it reveals a short letter in a loopy scrawl that almost looks romantic.

Hello (Y/N), I’ve been watching you for some time now and, my, aren’t you an interesting subject. You have something that I want and soon I am going to come for it. Consider it in your best interest to cooperate, or else word might get out about the company you keep in your home or call your manhood into question. Oh, and I will kill you, so keep this behind your lips or I’ll have to sew them shut. I’ll know if you tell Michael. Happy Halloween~

Your mouth sours and it feels like that granola bar is going to come back up. What is this? In shock, you’ve been holding your breath; once you breathe out, it comes back too shallowly.

This can’t be real. But it has to be, how else would someone know about Michael? Wait- what is it that this person could possibly want from you? You’re living paycheck to paycheck in a rotting house.

You try to swallow, but can’t. Your eyes unfocus as you shakily fold up the letter multiple times and stuff it in your pocket. You’ll have to keep it somewhere hidden- under your mattress?

Picking up the envelope to throw the accursed thing away, you feel something else more substantial between the paper. You tilt and jostle it and a square of thick, glossy paper slides out.

You can hear Laurie’s twitch over the phone “Ugh, He wasn’t like that when we met. He actually sounded smart, like an investigative reporter, ya know?”

“Yeah, I didn’t think you’d send him over if he was creepy.”

“What do you mean?”

“He came over while I was decorating outside a couple days ago and said you sent him, for like, an interview and stuff.” You gently remind her.

“I didn’t do that.” Her tone was grim, but your brain quickly rationalizes it for you.

“Well, it’s not like he couldn’tve just found the house on his own after talking to you, so it’s not that bad.” It wasn’t great either, but it’s easy to accept.

There’s a pause before Laurie responds.

“Hmm, maybe, but I still don’t like how he treats this like a game.”

You open your mouth to reply but she cuts you off in a fury.

“-use you as bait? Is he crazy?-”

“-Yeah, I didn’t like that very much. I mean, how does he expect me to-” you interject but then look around and speak softer like someone might hear. “Get a picture with his mask off?”

“Exactly. The shape wouldn’t take its mask off if it was on fire.” She sounded annoyed and angry, so you’re glad she couldn’t see the reaction on your face.

You draw a blank on what you were going to say next as the weight of her words hit you. The image of Michael’s face under the mask floats into your mind followed by a seeping guilt. The heat of attraction and shame burns across your cheeks as you spit something out to keep the conversation flowing.

“Do you- do you think we could pull it off?”, before you even finish your sentence you’re shaking your head and clarifying yourself with a stutter. “I mean, like physically take it- the mask- off, but I guess it could be the same thing if we could get away with it at all? anyway…”.

“Geez, you need to take a breath. But…I know how you feel. How scary the idea of seeing him again is after what he’s done to you.” Her jesting tone softening with empathy.

“I’m not going to let anything happen to you.” The resoluteness of her statement is jarring, and you agree almost too quickly.

“I know. I mean- I trust you and I could always get a taser, so…” you end with an awkward laugh.

You already know that you aren’t in any danger. Or at least much danger.

Laurie makes a disapproving noise at your confidence but doesn’t say anything further. You suspect that she wants to quip about a taser not working against the shape, but holding back so as not to scare you. Thinking back, if he can stop a bat with his bare hands and survive gunshot wounds, you don’t think a taser would stop him either.

You have to excuse yourself to get ready for work later, but with a promise to get together at some point. Just the two of you, no Jed.

Your hands pull at your hair. It sucks to have to deceive Laurie, but now it feels like betraying Michael. Talk about a rock and a hard place.

He wouldn’t take his mask off if he was on fire. But he took it off for you.

Your shift ends after the library closes, but you put the books you borrowed in your bag to return through the book drop. Michael’s room is a mess and you find the one you gave him underneath the blankets where he sleeps, luckily not too worse for wear.

He isn’t home, so you don’t know how he’d react to you touching his things, but a small fantasy plays in the back of your head as you step out the door to work.

You can’t help it- living together is intimate and every so often your mind will wander to that tight black t-shirt and soft pink lips. And your hands will wander when you hear Michael’s soft groans under the shower spray…

The nippy weather is enough of an excuse to shield your flushed face with your hands by the time you arrive for work.

***

A steady stream of shoppers keeps you and Quentin pinned to the registers while Dwight makes the rounds and maintains stock. By the looks of it, Halloween is still on, considering nearly every customer has snagged one of the bulk candy packs from the sale section.

Out of the corner of your eye you see a child run towards the candy aisle.

“Oh-hey no running!-'' your words don’t land. You, Quentin, and the child’s parent watch as the child runs gracelessly into the M&M's display. The child hits the ground first, followed by the crash of cardboard and chocolate 3 long seconds later. After the kid notices everyone watching, they begin to cry.

Dwight, appearing at the other end of the aisle, simply sighs and heads toward the broom closet.

Finishing the last transaction at your checkout and flipping your light off, you nod to Quentin-the two of you have an almost nonverbal understanding at this point- and start performing first aid on the cardboard M&M man.

Dwight returns with a broom and dustpan and scoops a split bag of loose candy into it, before stacking up the intact ones to pile onto a spare shelf.

As you work, Dwight looks in your direction once before making some conversation.

“Oh, by the way, you left early from the cookout…”, he states rather neutrally.

You sweat, it had just seemed like time enough had passed that it wouldn’t be brought up.

“yeah, sorry about that, I was a little nervous to drive home after it got dark. I got lost a couple times trying to find the place.” you’re glad he isn’t looking you in the eyes. Had he seen?

“No wait, sorry, I mean-”, he apologizes in return, “I wasn’t trying to make you feel bad, I was going to ask cuz you missed it, David wants to throw a halloween party. Do you want to come?” Dwight stands and wipes his hands on his kakis.

You chuckle in relief, thinking of David, “you didn’t seem like the halloween type, but I’d love to. Where and when?” Laurie’s plan flashes in your mind after you reply, so you quickly tack on that you can’t make it on the 31st.

“I’m not! I had to have David promise not to jump out at me.” he looks exasperated. “Same place, on the 30th. Don’t worry, I have to work until six on Halloween, so I’m not going out either.”

He promises to tell you the time for it when he figures it out himself, and you head back up to the registers.

You stop, confused for a moment, when you see that there isn’t anyone up there. More specifically, Quentin isn’t at the register, but there’s only one person who seems to be waiting.

“Sorry about that, I hope we didn’t keep you wait-”

Brown curls, square glasses, beanie, smug looking face.

“Hmm~ hey (Y/n), fancy meeting you here.” Jed looks at you like you were exactly what he was waiting for.

“Yeah, hi…”, you log into the register to look anywhere but him, “I didn’t know you lived in the area.”

“Oh you know, I just had to pick up some stuff to get ready for the holiday, that’s all.” You look at his items. Bulk assorted candy, duct tape, trash bags, bleach. You swallow thickly.

“Now that I have you, is there any chance you’ve had a change of heart? I know you probably think you’re safe, but you never know what could happen.” He leans on the counter with his forearms and looks up at you with a pout as you finish the transaction. “I’m here to help you, (Y/n), but you act like you have some huge secret you’re keeping.”

You’re thankful that another customer enters your line and you don’t have much room for more than a ‘see you later’.

You finish your shift with a cold anxiety in the pit of your stomach and don’t look at Quentin whenever he returns.

*** Hugging your jacket close and looking behind you often, home doesn’t run up to greet you as fast as it should. Crossing the threshold suddenly drops the exhaustion of the day on your shoulders and you trudge up the stairs, wanting out of your work clothes an hour ago.