Rest For the Wicked [Michael Myers x Reader]

Chapter 7

The thought of that has your hands shake as you pop the top to the creamer and pour in as much as you do. He nods this time and you finish his mug with dark coffee. He takes it without a word, without even stirring it, and returns to the living room. You let out a breath you didn't realize you'd been holding. Even as comfortable as you've become around him, his inner dangerousness is never lost on you.

He'd tried to kill you while half-asleep in a fever dream. His urge to kill is strong- but you're fairly sure you've come to understand what made him leave both nights. Each time, you'd threatened his power. The first, you had broken the peaceful little trance you'd lived in, taking care of a murderer without any idea of who he was. The second, you'd disobeyed him.

He wanted to kill you those days- and he'd held the knife against your skin, had curled his hand around your throat.

But he didn't kill you.

You don't even know if he knows why. But you think you know what drives you to keep letting him in, to keep bandaging him up despite the source of his injures. To let him crowd into your kitchen and silently demand you make his coffee while he stands there and watches. The self-hatred for daring the care about him is wearing off now, replaced by a warm and enjoyable acceptance.

You stand in the entryway to the living room and watch as he rolls up the bottom of his mask and sips the steaming coffee. He recoils slightly and you want to scold him for it being too hot- but that won't make him stop. He'd drink more just to spite you. Maybe he'll let you kiss his burned tongue better later.

You take your seat in the living room and give your drink a moment to cool so you don't face the same tongue-burning as Michael. You watch the screen in silence and enjoy the silly animation he's let play. His presence, the shape on your couch, the soft sounds of him drinking, his low and steady breathing is all comforting, knowing you're not alone in the house.

When he finishes his surely too-sweet coffee, he leaves the gray mug on the coffee table and rolls the latex down again. What is it about the mask that he needs? You'd much rather have that silvery-white scruff and scarred face than the blank, expressionless mask. It's not a matter of trust, you know that much- he let you take care of him without the mask. He's even willingly taken it off for you twice now. Maybe one day he'd be comfortable enough to leave it off, or maybe he just likes how it makes you uncomfortable if you look at it too long.

You drink your coffee and watch Jerry elude another of Tom's swipes.

Gravel sprays, grinding noises echoing up your driveway. Ice runs in your veins. The peace of the moment is gone, cold tension sparking every nerve. Your coffee sloshes in the cup as you struggle to set it down before you're up and dashing to the entryway. A glance through the peephole in your door confirms the worst possible scenario: a dark green Crown Vic pulls through the dust cloud.

Your voice is small and far away. "Michael." He's already standing behind you in the hallway. "Leave, out the back. I'll talk with them." You don't wait for his confirmation, already twisting the deadbolt and stepping out onto your porch- pulling the door closed behind you.

Please get out of here-

Two men step out of the car, you recognize one with his icy, piercing gaze and short, dark hair. The other you don't know- he's stout with a young, round face, sandy blonde stubble peaks from under his nose. You steel yourself and do your best to find the same inner strength that controls Michael's expression. It's easier than you think and by the time the porch's first step creaks under the first state policeman's weight, you feel centered, grounded. All you have to do is buy time.

"Morning, officers." You greet, and manage to actually sound cordial.

"Good morning." The new man says. There's no joy in his voice. "Mind if we step inside to talk?"