Night Vale ▷ Steve Harrington

xiii. the invitation

𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐃𝐎𝐎𝐑 𝐖𝐀𝐒 𝐍𝐎𝐓 𝐋𝐎𝐂𝐊𝐄𝐃 𝐖𝐇𝐄𝐍 𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐀𝐌𝐄 𝐇𝐎𝐌𝐄. For a fraction of a second, part of him was worried; worried that a burglar had broken in and been careless covering their footsteps, but this theory instantly evaporated once he suspiciously turned the knob and entered, the smell of fresh coffee immediately hitting him before his dirt covered shoes had a chance to even step foot inside.

It wasn't just the coffee that made him wary. Scout was just smacking off the dusty grime that managed to cake on the bottom of his Converse — and discreetly doing his best to sweep the filth under the mat near the door — when he heard the whistling. High-pitched, but not quite piercing. Uplifting, but not happy. It came from the kitchen, accompanied by the frequent clash of dishes — in the sink, no less — and yet, no swearing, or anything else the blond would have imagined would occur if he ever found himself in this situation. Just listening, standing beside the door with his hands all dirty and one shoe half-on, half-off... it made him want to open the door and walk away forever. To have this brief, blissful moment of surprise and serenity before things inevitable went downhill.

He nearly did it, too. He felt his hand, filthy as it was, edging towards the cool metal of the doorknob behind him, letting the bewildering sounds and smells of his own home fill him until it felt as though his chest were inflating like a hot air balloon, rising and soaring and taking to the air where nothing had any possible hope of deflating it. Very slowly, his fingers began to slip, one by one until the tension he so desperately hoped to break hung by a single thread, and even that began to succumb to the pressure, fragile as it was.

His finger slipped.

He allowed it to slip.

He knew he would regret this. There would come a time in the future where there would be some mistake, some mess made — whether it be either one of them, it didn't matter — and whatever conversation they were about to have will most certainly have more of an impact than he is willing to admit. It makes sense, though. Perhaps his father deserved an explanation, one that came from — well, his son, as opposed to the cops. And yet, considering how he reacted last time, Scout was far from sure about his decision. The tears that fell on his pillow that night may have long dried, but that didn't mean there weren't ones still unshed.

Just as he was about to change his mind and make a beeline for his bedroom as per usual, his decision was made for him. The whistling that had filled the next room just moments ago died down, like an ambulance rushing past until its screeching siren slowly began to wind down in the distance. He didn't notice it right away, too busy being trapped in the spiral, so perhaps that's why he jumped so high when he noticed his father peering at him several feet away, a deer caught in the headlights.

The man leaning against the wall had a towel in his hands, rubbing every available inch of skin as though it would kill him to have even a drop of water left. It's more nervous than Scout expected, less controlled. Furrowing his eyebrows, the blond's eyes darted around the small home, taking in the small differences he failed to notice before — the blinds were open just a smidge wider than normal, the teetering stack of bowls that dangerously resembled the Leaning Tower of Pisa typically dominating the end table beside the couch were nonexistent, and perhaps half a dozen other small changes he can't quite put his finger on. All in all, though, the place does look cleaner. And the bright side? Scout didn't even have to do it himself.

It took him a moment to raise his eyes. Clark was still standing there, probably waiting for his son to blurt out an apology, but the words simply didn't come. Even something fake had rendered him useless, despite his desire to get it over with and spend the rest of the day alone in his room, pondering his visit to Night Vale. What little light outside has filled the room, but it isn't much. His little trip took more time than he expected to take, and now, hours late — "home from school" — Scout was fully prepared to sell any lie that would get him out. Out and away from the microscopic gaze he feels he's under, his father's stare making him squirm as though he were an interesting specimen, and the man in front of him is a curious scientist.