He wakes you with hot, grasping hands, his fingers dig hard into you, his breath on your neck-
Fear takes you first, cold and crisp in your veins. You remember what happened last night, that you've stripped him down and even taken off his mask. You press your eyes closed and expect the pain at your throat as he crushes your larynx- resumes right where he left off before-
and fingers grapple, fumble with your sleep shirt. He's rolled half onto you, one huge leg covering both of yours- and his hips rock against your thigh. His hands are fever-hot, his touch making you sweat under the blankets.
You look to him, not quite sure if you can believe-
His eyes are open, or at least the milky, blind one is; he lies on his right side and the icy blue iris is hidden. But the eye you can see is unfocused, half-lidded, blinks lazily. Does he even know what's going on or is all he knows is the primal urges under sentient thought? He opens his mouth- a shuddering sigh escapes. He grabs at you, pulls you closer as he ruts.
His skin is feverish, frenzied- and you remember. He's naked under the blanket, the only thing between you are your thin pajama pants, shorts. His hand slips down and paws unintelligibly at the hem of your pants. Heat floods your core.
You grab his wrist and wince at the warmth you find even there. "Michael."
He grunts and fumbles, closing his eyes and pressing his hips harder against your hip. You can feel him; thick and firm. "Michael, shh, shh,"
You let go of his hand and worm your way between your bodies- the heat is unbearable, makes your palms sweat as you find him. The angle is hell on your wrist, but from the choked-off noise that rumbles through his chest, you don't think you'll need to do much of the work.
He's smooth, almost soft to the touch, and yet so firm it makes your legs tremble. He could fuck you now- even delusional with infection, he could overpower you. Make this so easy. Stop the frustrating dance between you with one fevered impulse.
You shudder, push the thought away that you want him to.
You want to know what it feels like to have that deep ache filled properly, want to know the feeling of him moving inside you- and he ruts into your hand, his eyes dropping closed. You curl your fingers tighter, turn to alleviate some of the pressure on your wrist, and try to remember how he'd touch himself.
You swipe your thumb across the underside of the tip, twist your wrist as best you can with the angle- his breath is hot and humid on your shoulder. He tries to move with you, but ends up with a stuttering, off-rhythm cant of his hips. Three short nails bite into your skin as he tries to drag you closer, your hip bone already digging into your forearm again. You roll with him, try to sate his need for closeness until you're nearly properly front to front. His cock is already pressed between your stomach and his.
His teeth find your shoulder. You cry out sharply as he agitates the still healing wounds he'd left on you a little over a day ago-- but there's no real threat behind it. His incisors scrape off your neck with relatively little damage. It's almost normal, as tortuously close to a real lover's embrace as Michael can get. It makes you mewl, traitorous body leaning your head away so he can bite at your already purpled neck.
You free your other arm from under him and grab at his back, reaching up to feel his short hair under your palm. His right hand finds the back of your left thigh, slides up to just under the curve of your ass, pushing the leg of your shorts out of the way.
He grinds against you, uses what leverage he can to push himself into your hand. You stroke him in the little space you have, feel the blood pulsing in him. He exhales, breath cooling where he's bitten. The nails dig in again, crescent-shaped pain lighting up your skin- a wetness gathers on your palm and you know he's close.
You want so badly for him to be inside you, want him to fill you- to claim you so deep he can't be washed out. Pain lances through you sharp and brutal: His teeth lock onto your shoulder exactly where he'd broken skin two nights ago. You whimper- and he drives harder against your palm.
That's right. He likes hearing you. It doesn't come naturally- vocality not something you do for yourself. Your nails scratch lightly across his shoulders, your voice trembles. "Michael."
His teeth dig in hard, though not nearly as much as before, but the damage is already done. It takes so little for the scabs to rip open. You give a strained "Ah!" and warmth trickles over your chest. In pain you tighten your hand around him-
A noise slips past his lips- he bites down and down until tears stream over your cheeks. His hips stutter, his cock throbs between you. A wet heat spills over your hand, staining into your shirt. His jaw does not unclench the entire time, his hands spasm around you, nails biting into your skin in on and off waves in time with tiny staccato jerks of his hips.
He relaxes slowly, the tension ebbing out in a slow crawl until he's dislodged himself from your shoulder and laps at the fresh blood on your chest. You mewl, can't contain yourself at the soothing press of his tongue to your wounds- even if he was the one to cause them. Michael sighs and you can just barely see enough of his face to know he's closed his eyes. The heat in your core is unbearable, you manage to steal your hand back from under Michael's weight.
It's shameful. You can't stop yourself. Your hand shakes and you can't even bother to wipe off his release. Your shorts are easy to push aside- the thought of how easy it would've been, if he'd only been a little more aware, a little less fever-hazed. Your breathing shudders, it would take so little to set you off now. You just need something to touch you, to rub your clit just a little-
Your fingers delve into your underwear. You're soaking, hot and wanting- your fingers swirl into the wetness and drag it up to your swollen, hard clit. The first touch is electric, sparks flying behind your eyes and you're so, so close from so little-
And that's as far as you get.
One large hand curls around your wrist in warning. You whine, lift your hips as much as you can with Michael's weight on you. "Michael, please, please..."
He drags your hand out. He leans away from your neck. There's blood smeared around his mouth and you hate that he looks so good with red staining his beard. His eyes are cold and unreadable, still dazed with fever which brings a pinkness to his cheeks that matches his own.
He holds up your hand and it glistens in the morning light- the tips of your fingers covered in your own translucent arousal, Michael's more opaque cum smeared across the back of your hand and dripping down your forearm.
He stares you down, but you can't understand what he wants from you, can hardly think of anything except the incessant heat between your legs. Your hips lift and writhe under him, desperate for release, but he does not move, does not even notice the futile struggle beneath him. He brings your hand forward without looking, never even lays eyes on it- and his tongue, soft and shiny wet, slips between his swollen lips.
He steals the air from your lungs, leaves you gasping as he licks your fingertips. Your hand twitches involuntarily and you feel the tiny bumps of his taste buds, how the muscle curls around your finger entirely, his mouth dropping open to suck on your index finger. He doesn't look away, holds you in place through it all-
His eyes waver, sliding out of focus once. His head bobs to the side and startles back up. You should be concerned, but you're just too aroused. Humiliation and desperation the only things you can focus on- the thick knot pulled tighter below your navel. He knows. One corner of his mouth lifts, his eyes flashing with a sadistic light- he knows you won't try it again. You're too good, too obedient- and you want to beg again, find exactly what words he wants you to say,
But his gaze goes far off again- and those blue irises slide up under his lids, the opportunity lost.
He rests with his cheek on your breast. You pull your fingers from his hot, wet mouth, but can't find the strength to wipe them off. You tremble, press your thighs together to alleviate the unending ache. You want it. You haven't gotten off since before you'd met him and everything he's done to you in the last week has driven your need to the limits. He's cum thinking of you three times that you know of.
And here he was. Demanding you stop from finding your own ends, from reciprocating his desire. You should be furious, should finish yourself off anyway- but something about it made your skin burn. His control shouldn't be intoxicating, you shouldn't bend to the will of a murderer, of someone who's pressed a knife to your skin and wanted to snap your neck.
But you do. You lay there and stare at the ceiling, listen to the birds begin to sing outside your window, feel each deep breath Michael takes, each exhale hot and slow over your chest. The ache subsides eventually and you reclaim the headspace you had lost.
He's sick. He's really sick if he's delirious enough to be grinding on you and nearly fucking groaning for your touch. He was so calculating, so in control two nights ago. Would he even remember this?
His brow draws down, skin wrinkling- his eyes move under his lashes in a fever dream. His leg twitches, then his fingers, tickling at your side, before the illusion makes him turn away, releasing you from under his weight. You shimmy off the bed before he can turn back. The cold shocks you; Michael's fever and fevered grinding under the blankets had trapped so much heat, you'd nearly forgotten how damn cold it was.
While up, you take the chance to slide out of your underwear and switch into a fresh set of clothes- all the while pointedly ignoring the dampness spread over the center of last night's set. Today's wouldn't last long, but at least you wouldn't be constantly reminded of your failings as a human being.
You shuffle out to the living room and take a cursory glance through the windows. You flinch at the sight before you. You rush to the front door and pull it open- what little warmth was preserved by the cabin's walls was lost.
There's bloodstains on your porch. They aren't red anymore, already oxidized in the night and soaked into the grain, forming long, dark brown streaks.
You grab baking soda and vinegar from the kitchen along with a scouring pad. The air is brisk and a breeze makes you hate the world a little more, but you needed to do this before anyone unfortunate sees. You pour white powder over the streaks- thin though they were- and follow it up with the scouring pad soaked in vinegar. It's disconcerting- your wrist and forearm are still marked with Michael's cum. You hadn't even thought to rinse that first.
You shake your head- just need to finish this, then you can get Michael's cum and the stink of vinegar off your hands. Though it had been left overnight, there wasn't enough blood for the stain to sink very far. He hadn't been injured, most of it is contact stains from whoever- whatever he'd found. You're shivering, teeth-clattering by the time you're done. The skin on your arms is raised in perpetual goosebumps, the little hairs standing upright- but the streaks are as gone as you can get them. A splash of bleach will help to erode any remnants. If you can get it thin enough, it shouldn't deteriorate your porch too much. You'll have to wait for the vinegar to dry, first.
You drop the scouring pad in the trash and put the baking soda and vinegar- both nearly empty- on the counter. You turn and- you grimace. The bloody knife sits in the sink. It, too, has oxidized into rusty stains instead of the horrible crimson streaks. You turn on the tap and leave it running over the blade.
You pour bleach onto a rag and move to the knife. Large flakes of dried blood have been washed away under the tap water, but outlines of the pools remain hard stuck to the blade and handle. The rag takes those off with just a touch of pressure from your fingernails, the stainless steel not a perfect surface to bind with blood.
Blood. It was really blood you were washing-
This was someone's blood. He killed someone- maybe more than one- last night. You don't even know who, didn't even ask. He couldn't have gone far while that injured; he must've found someone nearby. This was another person's blood. And you wipe it away, slide the rag over the knife blade, get down close to the joint of tang and handle, scrub into the textured grip until all you have is the sheen of polished metal. You put it in the drying rack- can't decide if you should put it back in your knife block.
Distantly, you know it should be fine- bleach would destroy any blood, any evidence.
Instead, you go back outside with a cup of diluted bleach and the rag. The surface outside is dry, but you don't particularly care if you do get a reaction now.
You pour some bleach over the wood and lean away from the fumes as they rise. Back to your knees, you swipe the chemical over the deteriorating blood stains. Maybe it wouldn't get rid of them, but at least you could try to deal with any evidence that was left behind.
You don't even feel cold when you go in the next time.
You return to the kitchen and rinse the bleach cup and leave the rag under the running water as you squirt generous amounts of soap onto your hands. It's floral scented, something edging on tropical. You scrub everything from your hands, blood and bleach and cum and vinegar and guilt- there's nothing to be done now. You breathe deep and focus on the heat in the water, the suds on your skin.
Michael is sick. The thought slips into your brain without any interest. You need to bring him medicine, water, and maybe see if he's hungry. Could go back to sleep. It was so comforting in Michael's heat, just maybe you can seek that again. Maybe he'll even lay on you again- despite the sticky outcome, the pressure had felt nice, like safety.
You fill a glass with ice water, grab the ibuprofen from the coffee table and your phone from the end table. At least you can be ready when he wakes again.
In your bed, Michael is sprawled on his back, having moved again in your absence. He was such a dead sleeper, was it really only sickness that had thrown him so far off? You circle around the bed and put the water and pill bottle on the night stand- even popping the safety foil and shaking out two white oblong pills to set by the cup. He groans, turning his head away. Your heart aches as he shivers with chills. You pull the blankets up around him and press the back of your hand to his cheek again. Another noise resonates in his throat. He's burning up- even against your hands that had already been warmed under the hot water.
An idea strikes you. You go back out to the living room and retrieve the digital thermometer from your first aid kit. He wouldn't let you take his temperature while awake, but now he's so delirious with fever, you might just be able to get away with it. A quick press of the button and a little beep prepares the thermometer. A slight pull at his jaw is all it takes to make his lips part and you slide the tip into his mouth, aiming for what you hope to be under his tongue.
A noise rumbles from his chest, brow knitting together and he closes his mouth a little too hard. If he breaks your thermometer... You run your nails through his hair just past his temple and down past his ears. You shush him, speak quietly, "Shh, it's okay, Michael..." He doesn't relax, but he doesn't bite down any harder. Three quick beeps tells you it's done- the little display lighting up blue as you pull the tip from Michael's mouth.
There are little teeth marks on the stem, tiny ridges where the plastic began to split. You shake your head- and sigh. A hundred and three even. You need to take him to the hospital.
They'd lock both of you up.
You pick at the edge of the blanket. You had no good options. You'd rather Michael Myers did not die in your bed, but seeking medical help was out of the question. You lean forward and hold his cheek, your fingers curling into the dip below his ear. It's warm, his skin is so warm, his cheeks tinged pink. You press your lips against his forehead and hope you're doing the right thing.
You doubt it'll stay, but you grab some extra towels from your bathroom and roll them up. You lift the bottom corner of the blanket, and prop up his bound ankle on the towels.
Best you can do is wait it out, keep him comfortable. You round back to your side and fish out the remote to the TV in your bedroom from your nightstand. You turn it on and turn the volume down low- change the channel to the network you were on yesterday. If he liked cartoons so much, you could indulge him. A pastel themed show plays and you crawl under the blankets.
He's warm to the touch- and you hope you aren't bothering him as you curl up beside him. You press your back to his side, and open your phone. You flip through internet searches on how to care for infected wounds- and didn't like anything you saw. Without going to a doctor, your only course of action was to wait it out.
He's indestructible. Your mind whispers, and for once you can't disagree. He'd been shot, stabbed, slashed, burned and had been up and walking almost immediately after you bandaged him. He'd been shot six times back before he was recaptured. If he didn't die then, he wouldn't die now.
He seems to agree. His fever makes him seek your coolness, his body soon pressed snugly against yours in an unconscious, messy attempt at spooning. You very nearly laugh, but the heat of his breath on your back makes you too afraid that you'll disturb him. It's nice. You can pretend so easily like this.
So you think he's your soft, kind-hearted lover who's sleeping in, one thick arm holding you back against him. The fantasy is nice and you cycle through your app games while the TV plays softly.
A new show's intro plays. And then another's.
You're reading a long post on social media- some rant from a friend of a friend, juicy gossip from halfway across the state. It's nice to have drama that isn't related to what you want to bed.
Nails bite into your side. You hiss, turn over to your back to face your now awake guest- there's a weight in the air. You can feel it before you even see him, that oppressive force that surrounds him from time to time. You've already started the motion to turn and you can't stop now.
HIs eyes pierce through you like needles through fabric. Cold and icy and unseeing, his upper lip twitches into a sneer. "Michael?"
He lunges- doesn't get far. He's tangled up in the blankets all twisted around his legs, but it doesn't stop him from grabbing your arms and pulling you close, the motion uncoordinated and loose- one hand wraps around your throat. You pulse hammers under his thumb, fast and weak. A second stretches to millennia as you're pinned under the weight of his gaze- before you're grabbing at his wrist with one hand.
He's weak with sickness, you fighting at all catches him off guard, makes him topple forward onto you. You shove at him, grapple with his left hand as he tries to find your throat again- "Michael! Stop!"
He worms his arm free, hauling himself forward to use his knee to hold your arm down- and there's nothing in his eyes. Not just unreadable, but glassy, flat- there's nothing at all behind them, like looking into a doll's black eyes. He tries to squeeze down, but it's like he's forgotten how to move his hands, he wavers above you.
Tears prick your eyes and you writhe under him, trying to buck him off with what little leverage you had- his eyes fog and he blinks slowly. You're frantic- more panicked than you've ever felt with him. Because it's not him, he's lost under the fever and whatever primal urge that drives him to kill has taken him- This is it, he's finally do it, finally kill you as he's wanted all along and all you can do is whisper, "Please, please,"
The tightening of his hands never comes. His breathing evens out, awareness softening his eyes and for once, you think you can see something in them. The minuscule raising of his brow, how it takes him just barely too long to close his mouth and regulate his breathing- it's almost shock. A tiny scrap of horror woven in the huge tapestry of unreadable Michael.
He doesn't move for a long moment, but you can tell it's him now. The careful control has resumed. His hands linger on your neck, his thumb stroking over your fluttering pulse as you tremble and feel a hot tear slide over your cheek unbidden. He moves back and releases you arms from under his knees; blood rushes to the tips of your fingers so fast it makes them hurt.
His face is schooled back into neutral impassivity. The blood continues to rush in your ears, adrenaline making your head buzz, as he unwinds himself the from the blankets and shivers, settling back into his nest. He lays on his back and stare up at the ceiling- what could he be thinking about? What... made him stop? You look at him.
For once, he does not look to you. His eyelids droop, gaze sliding out of focus again. You're a taut wire waiting to be cut- tension binding every muscle. His eyes slide closed and you can't relax. If he woke up murderous this time, what would stop him next time?
The blankets shift between you- you jump. HIs hand finds you under the sheet. You expect pain- expect another bruising grip and tight-pinched bones.
It's not an apology. He doesn't understand remorse, or was that only for the people he intentionally kills? The people he hunts. He doesn't look at you. He does not grace you with drawn-together eyebrows and a sharp, tight frown or the knowledge if remorse can even appear in his chilling eyes. All you get is the soft trace of his fingertips on your side, hard fingernail making you shiver.
You can't call it kind, but it's far from cruel.
He doesn't open his eyes, but you lean to him and lay a single kiss to his shoulder, just to the side of his gunshot bandage. That wasn't him.His head lolls to the side and his fingers still. You want to move away, to go sit in the chair in the corner of your room- but this time you do not pretend. He's not a warm and gentle lover, a goofy boyfriend. But he touches you with a tenderness you had not expected, and that's good enough.
Your phone is drained to just over half battery when he wakes again. He rolled away from you after about an hour, thrown back into a restless dream that made him kick at the blankets until you had to get up and rearrange them to keep him warm. He'd grumbled at that, but you knew you had to keep the heat in with him until the fever broke.
But now, you look away from your screen to see his eyes opening slowly, blinking several times.
"Hey," You draw his attention. He turns, his face is as emotionless as ever, but you can see the dull shine of his eyes are betrays how sick he really is. It takes a long moment before recognition sparks. You point to his nightstand. "There's water over there. And some painkillers."
He turns away and takes the glass. He drinks with the same ferocity he had the first day- but you scowl at his apparent refusal to take the ibuprofen you'd laid out for him. He swallows loudly, and you're once again gifted with the sight of water trailing over his chin and through his beard.
"Those'll help you." You try again, but it falls on deaf ears. He finished the entire cup, even takes one of the dwindling ice cubes between is teeth and bites. He looks to your television instead, sinking into the pillows.
You sigh and give in. There's no way you'll be able to convince him of something like that and you had no faith in being able to get him to swallow without choking if he's unconscious again. Instead you check the clock on your phone- it's nearly noon already.
"Are you hungry?" You ask, but Michael's eyes are already closed again, the empty glass still in his hand, tipped haphazardly and threatening to spill the remaining ice onto his chest. You huff a laugh and pluck the cup from his hands and put it on your night stand.
You should've known what a handful he'd be while sick; he was already such a prick to deal with when in his right mind. You slide out of bed and take his cup to the kitchen to refill it and decide, fuck it. You'll get a hot bowl of soup and maybe that'll coax him into hunger.
Please don't be nauseous. You repeat in your head. Please, please do not be sick in my bed.
The pot of soup in the fridge is heavy, but you manage to get it onto the counter without any spills. From the cabinets you grab two bowls and a ladle. You try to be generous with the broth; just in case he is sick to his stomach, you know he won't tell you. Better if it's mostly liquid. You put his bowl in the microwave and watch the timer count down. When it beeps, you drop a spoon in the steaming bowl, grab another kitchen towel and fold it under the bottom so he can hold it.
He stirs as you enter the room, apparently not having really gotten back to sleep. He's more aware this time, but still drowsy as he sits up straight. You smile at him, and he does not reciprocate.
"I got you some food." You circle the bed again and offer the bowl. He takes it- and reaches up to touch his mask. He finds only skin. His expression does not change- and that's the worst part. Passive, statuesque, and somehow not at all betraying the surprise of finding his own beard in place of white latex.
"It's here." You hold your hands up and retrieve the bloodied mask from the end of the bed where you'd left it (and he'd kicked it off). He looks at it, then to you. You shrug, rub your thumb over the cracked surface. "It's not good for your fever. Please, don't put it back on yet. At least wait until your fever breaks?"
Sickness limits his comprehension, but at least it seems his emotions or urges are under control. Michael does not nod, does not really acknowledge anything you said, except to look down at the bowl. His control of the fork had been limited, and he fumbles with the spoon; his fingers too big and his dexterity too impaired by infection to deal with it. He holds it against the rim and presses the bowl to his mouth.
You smile; you guess he likes it. His Adam's apple bobs frantically, draining most of the broth from the bowl- and only then does he go back for the solids. "Think you'll want more?"
He pauses, blue eyes narrow for a split second, but he gives you no answer. You accept that, and go back to the kitchen to refill his water. You're sure he'll want it.
While there you fill your own bowl and carry both glass and bowl to your room and successfully manage to open your door. He waits, watching a cartoon that starts with a fast-paced intro, high-contrast characters. You wonder if he likes Tom and Jerry more than these shows.
You offer him the glass and he takes it. This time, he only drinks half before shakily placing it on his own end table. You eat and watch, mostly skimming through your phone between bites. He sets the bowl beside him and leans back- and you grin ear to ear at the sight of the empty ceramic. You don't have to bother asking if he wants more, his eyes are already drifting away- occasionally blinking and rolling and trying to right himself into consciousness.
"You can sleep. It's okay." He looks at you from the corner of his eye. Does he trust you? He must to some degree- to eat without his mask on, to let you bathe and bandage him. If only he were easier to read (not that you particularly want a repeat of what had happened earlier), you could shape your response better. "I'll watch over you."
Something passes over his face too fast for you to be able to even think to read it. But his continuous attempts to stay awake lessen, and soon enough his eyes drift close and he does not startle himself awake.
His cheeks are still flushed, the pinkness hiding under his beard, but re-emerging on his neck and shoulders. It's cute. The urge to kiss him- to actually kiss him rises unbidden. His attractiveness is something understated, almost plain. But like this you can see it again: he really was attractive when he was young. When he's relaxed and his eyes cannot threaten you in silence, you can follow the sharp lines of his face, the strong shape of his nose. He must've been absolutely angelic.
It's hard to imagine him young and gorgeous and hiding under a mask.
You steal the bowl from him and deposit it onto your nightstand again. How long would he be out this time? A fever that high, and you have no idea how he usually is even with a little cold. You reach over, and ever so gently drag your nails across his scalp. His lashes lift- not fully asleep yet. With fever-hazed eyes he looks at you and you freeze, but you don't retract your hand. He's opaque, as emotive as the dead- but his eyes slide closed again. He allows you this so you cradle your bowl in your lap and scratch softly over silver hair. Before long his chest rises sharply, and he sighs- immediately erupting into a tiny snore. You try not to laugh, but reclaim your hand so you can finally eat your own lunch.
Your bowl ends up as empty as his and he does not stir as you stand and take them to the kitchen. The knife glints in the drying rack, but you ignore it in favor of cleaning up quickly-- you want to be there when he wakes again.
But a commercial plays obnoxiously loud as you enter, and Michael does not look up at the screen. You take the opportunity to once again retrieve his coveralls and deposit them into your washing machine. Even his mask gets carried to the sink and wiped down. The blood has seeped into the cracks, tinting them a dark rusty color, but at least the white is restored for most of the face.
Returning to the bedroom again warrants no response, Michael snoring away pleasantly. You put the mask on his side table. You hope he won't wear it again before his fever breaks, but also know that being without it bothers him- after all, it was the first real thing you'd been able to communicate with him about. He had even put it back on before he'd held you down and finished on you.
The memory sends a spark between your legs, makes you stare at the sleeping man and hope so badly he'll wake up hard and wanting again. Because you won't touch yourself without him. He'd been as clear as he could be. It doesn't stop your wanting.
You push the thought away and return to your side of the bed. He sighs at the disturbance, but stays asleep.
Over the next several hours, his waking periods are brief. Barely enough time for him to look at you- once reaching for you, but not quite making it- before his eyes roll back again. Only once do you get him to drink, and again he finishes his glass as though racing.
While he's out and still nude, you take the time to inspect his wounds. You change the bandage on his shoulder- and gleefully find there's no discoloration at all on the white gauze. A wound so deep will take a long time to heal completely, but at least he was getting better.
But mostly he's out of it. Fever dreams bring incoherent rumblings from him, you don't Listen. It doesn't feel right to hear his voice when he so consciously refuses to speak. The temptation is strong, but you focus on your phone, on the television (which you have reclaimed control over while Michael dozes), and just about anything else. The occasional snore and snuffle makes you look to him, just to make sure his chest still rises and falls with clockwork rhythm.
His eyes open again just as dusk begins to settle through your windows. You look to him, watch as awareness returns with its usual sluggish nature- his eyes becoming focused and sharp somewhere above the television's screen. You know he'll probably just roll over, angrily kick off the blankets because the fever has made him too warm or down another glass of water. And yet he doesn't. He lies there for a minute, staring at the wall.
And then, he sits up- In that same way that was so strangely inhuman; his arms hardly exert any pressure on the mattress, his core flexing to bring him up. You frown and think of the cut on his abdomen- why couldn't he be better about taking care of himself? The last time he sat up was when he was hungry and that was quite a while ago. You open your mouth to ask if he's hungry again, if more soup is fine-
When he pivots and firmly plants both feet on the ground.
"Hey, what're...?" You're already up and moving around the end of the bed. Michael tries to stand, his full height towering over you for only a moment. He wavers on his feet, crumpling forward- catching himself on your dresser. You come up to his side and touch his back carefully. His eyes are far off and glassy and you panic- he's going to faint again.
"Here, sit down," you urge him, and he does not comply. Determination fills his gaze, the fever set aside for one moment- and he pushes you away from him. You don't go far, too concerned with whatever he was planning.
He stands again, and steps forward with his right leg. The compression wrap on his ankle makes him stumble. You catch him, his weight nearly making you crumple, but you move up to his right side and press close. His eyes are icy and cold. You can see the indignant glare building, unamused by your insistence on helping him. "Okay. Where do you need to go?"
He wants to shove you away again, punish you for invading his space again. But you were not going to let him walk on his own while his ankle is busted and he's so fever-stricken he couldn't even stand upright without nearly fainting. You hope whatever has kept you alive this long- whatever had made him stop before- will carry on. So you hold his gaze and don't back down. You'll just have to deal with his ire later. "Let me help you."
And something shifts. He tilts his head- tries to read something on you. He must like whatever he finds, because he does not fight you anymore. He does not willingly give you any of his weight, either, but he reaches out and supports himself with the wall and stumbles forward.
You realize a bit too late he's going for your bathroom.
Your face turns as pink as his, but you help him. At the doorway, you try to duck under his arm and leave him be- he doesn't let you go. What had been one arm slack over your shoulders becomes an unbreakable chain, his hand finding your upper arm and holding on tight. Even in a space small enough for him to be able to find something ls to lean on, he suddenly drops his weight onto your shoulders. You yelp, struggle to keep him upright, fight back the panic that he's going to fall and crack his skull on the tile.
You catch his eyes- and your stomach flips. It can't be real. There's something a bit too keen in his gaze. If you didn't know better you might mistake it as fun.
You squeeze into the bathroom- for Michael to stand before the toilet, you have to be pressed tight between his right side and the bathroom wall. With you supporting a not insignificant amount of his weight now, you can't escape. He leans forward and splays his three fingered hand over the wall behind the toilet.
You look to the ceiling; he doesn't look away from you. Something hot and wet splatters onto the tile.
"Michael!" You gasp and realize the problem. With one arm around you and one arm on the wall in front of him, he isn't... aiming. He's stopped- continues to look at you. His expression is blank, utterly emotionless- betrays nothing of what he's thinking. And he keeps looking at you as though this is your problem to solve.
It is your problem. He's your problem.
You already jerked him off today. You whisper to yourself and close your eyes. You reach in front of him blindly and follow the trail of soft, silver hair down his belly, over the terrible wound, until. You search the ceiling for meaning.
He's warm. Soft, this time. You already jerked him off. It can't be any weirder than that. Your fingers curl around him, and begin to lift- only to realize a fatal flaw in your willful ignorance.
You can't help him without looking. You'll miss and only make a bigger mess and still will have touched his dick for nothing.
It seems he knows this too. He doesn't start again, waits so patiently for you to close your eyes and take in a shuddering breath. You've seen it before.
He's not hard. In truth, there's little about his cock that should scare you for now. But you can feel his eyes burning a hole right through you. You tilt your wrist until you're sure he can't miss.
And he still won't start. You think you know why. You swallow, bite your lip hard and try not to tremble too hard. You meet his eyes.
It's like being punched in the gut, all the air escaping from you at once just from the power of his gaze. You're pinned, stuck both physically and psychologically- unable to move away from him as he stares right into your soul.
You wish again he was anyone else, but know the truth now: the very thing that draws you to him- that magnetic pull, the overwhelming presence masked in an unreadable face- would not exist if he were anyone else.
Something splashes, far off and away- and the knowledge of what's actually happening is enough to make you break eye contact and focus hard on the corner of your bathroom. He continues to look at you, his head tipping slowly as though trying to recapture your gaze, but you safely escape his power while he handles himself.
And soon, the trickling noise dies off. You stand there, unsure of what to do- this isn't exactly how it works for you. He expects something else- but you don't know what he wants. That's about as usual at it can get for you.
He huffs, shifts his weight on his feet and leans away from the back wall. You adjust to take more weight again- and his left hand curls behind yours on his dick. You look. He squeezes, and slides his hand up- knocking yours out of the way to hang limply at your side. At the tip he shakes- a few droplets escaping into the toilet.
And being naked, he simply lets go.
You wobble, but pivot around him and let him guide you back out to the bedroom. He doesn't even look at the sink, but that doesn't really surprise you. He'd been caked in blood and grime when you found him. When isolated with regulated prison care his entire adult life, he's never cared for himself. You ease him back into bed as his eyes become unfocused again.
He doesn't fight as you tuck him in, though he follows you with his eyes. He even lets you put his leg up on the stack of towels again before his eyes roll back.
You return to the bathroom and clean up; seems Michael was always going to make messes you have to clean. Maybe if this was going to be long term you could at least talk to him about flushing. You hesitate, and look back to the man under your blankets.
Long term was a bit of a stretch. The last time he got out he was only free for a day. And who knows the kind of technology the police have now- you're amazed he's even managed to survive this long. But they weren't far off and you were already a person of interest. Long term, in all reality, would not be so long.
You wash your hands.
You crawl onto the bed with him, just as he'd held you in place before- settled over him, chest to chest, your ear pressed against his heart. His eyes open halfway to look at you and watch as you curl up on him. His hands touch your hips, so large he can nearly touch the column of your spine. You almost expect him to knock you away, to glare daggers and remove you- but it doesn't come.
You look up to him, admire the long line of his scar and the magnetic pull of his eyes; how beautiful even his blind eye is. His eyes close again and you're left with the steady beating of his heart under your ear.
You wake- having rolled off him at some point- to Michael peeling the covers off himself and throwing them onto you. Rapid blinking did not help clarify- it's still dark outside, your room lit with the overbright neon colors of the TV's night programming. Michael sighs and you find him in the darkness. His eyes are closed but he's scowling, his mouth open as he pants-
The smell of stale sweat fills the room. You recoil, but in truth, it's no worse than how he smelled that first night. You move to him and press your hand against his face- he snaps his head away. You would've been more upset at his rejections, unconscious though it is, except for the ecstatic relief that floods your system. His forehead is damp and as he shifts, you can see the outline around his body in the sheets- dark and wet.
His fever broke. He kicks at the blankets and reveals more of himself to the cool air. Happiness lights your face as you get up to refill his water- he'll be damn thirty to sweat this much.
In the kitchen, the sound of running water drowns out the TV in your bedroom. Across the lawn and through the trees, the sky is tinted orange, a diffused light spreading on the night's clouds.
It seems the worst has passed. If his fever has broken, his body must have deemed the infection dying. He'd be back on his feet soon.
Too soon. His ankle is still sprained and even if he can purge the infection, the wound will still need considerable time to heal. He'd paid so little attention to his other wounds, leaving twice in spite of them. You were sure he felt pain, he had favored his left leg after walking for some time on the right- he's just too damn stubborn to stop and heal.
Or maybe it's survival.
If he stops too long he'll be found. He only escaped for a day last time. You wish you could say he'd be safe here, but you know it's not true. He needs to move on. You can't imagine where he'll go, what sweet, quiet town he'll haunt next.
There's an unasked question that probes the back of your mind and you refuse to acknowledge it. You return to the bedroom with Michael, blink tiredly at the gentle morning light that threatens to shine through your windows. He's restless- his mouth open in a pant, sweat beaded across his chest. You leave the water on his nightstand and grab a washcloth.
You soak it in the bathroom sink and wring it out so it is damp. Michael's head thrashes, fingers twitching at his sides in some dream you hope you aren't a part of. You lay the pale cloth over his forehead. It doesn't stop his internal struggle- with either uncomfortable fever sweat or a real dream, but it makes you feel better.
When he moves on, what will happen to me?