Rest For the Wicked [Michael Myers x Reader]

Chapter 5

It's warm when you wake. November has somehow been left behind for a heat more fitting of July. Sweat gathers on the back of your neck, the small of your back. You want to kick the blankets off, to strip off your clothing and let the fan cool you- only to have large, so very warm hands find the skin of your sides. Deliriousness is snapped from you, every nerve firing in sync, adrenaline flooding- Who?

And the hands press you down, firm, but not unkind.

You blink, your head rushes to fill in the blanks. That's right. He'd shown up in the middle of the night the last times he'd stayed with you- you almost expected the inverse; now that you'd invited him to your room, he should've left and finally enjoyed your guest bedroom. He'd stayed. He wants you to stay. You smile softly, letting your eyes close again. There is something here.

At some point in the night, you'd wrapped your arms around him. It should be distressing, but with the solid, warm touch under your shirt, you can't complain. Your hands curl under his shoulders, forearms pressed close to his sides. More than that, the rest of you hasn't moved very much- at least as far as you can tell. You're still chest-to-chest with a murderer- who is very, very cozy.

You should be panicking, shouldn't you? He's not exactly safe... But you're too comfortable, too actually blissfully happy under your blankets, far away from the expectations of the real world, to care much what you should do.

You lie like that, drifting in and out of a light doze- listening to his heart beat under your cheek and breathing as the sunlight begins to fill your room. Other than the hands at your back, Michael makes no attempt to truly hold you or show any affection, if this was supposed to be affectionate in the first place. He certainly felt something unusual for you, he still has not killed you, but perhaps him holding you down and refusing to let you leave was not actually-

Your heart constricts.

It was curiosity, that's all. He's been alone and isolated for five decades, it was need- the physical need for touch and human compassion and absolutely not the soft, delicate thing you felt deep inside your rib cage, was not the anger and concern that lingers when you bandage him. Your fingers tremble, twitching and scraping against the thick fabric of his coveralls. There was no label to capture the strange and tumultuous feelings Michael brings out in you. You doubt he would.

Full awakeness returns, and you're acutely certain of Michael's alertness. There's no drowsiness about him, no sleep-addled unconscious movement or snoring or half-dreaming cuddling. You lift your chin and peer at his mask, find only the darkened eyeholes. How long has he been awake? If you haven't moved at all, he definitely has not either considering you're almost entirely on top of him- he must've been keeping you there all night.

Why? That's the question it always comes back to. Why not kill you? Why come back? Why stay here?

He's unknowable, completely inaccessible, even without his mask. But masked, now, you may as well have laid with a mannequin. All humanity is distant and far off, any trace of emotion hidden under one more layer of protection. You search the blackness of his eyeholes. You want to know how he thinks, why he does what he does, but at this point you'd settle for just what he thinks.

You press against the mattress and push yourself up- his hands remain flat on your back, but offer no resistance. You still speak anyway, "I need to get up." There's no acknowledgement from him, but you crawl off him without being dragged back.

You take a moment to stretch; having been apparently corralled into the same position all night leaves your back aching oddly. You pretend not to feel the eyes between your shoulder blades and silently adjust the thin tank top from how it had slipped down your shoulders. Last night's... events have left your clothes soiled and uncomfortably sticky-