Summary: Michael comes home after a killing spree with injuries on his hands. You tiredly bandage them and you soon realize that the killer likes it when you kiss over his injuries.
The heat from the large blankets became unbearable, and you kicked them off with a huff. Sleeping wasnât the same without him; you shouldâve known not to grow too attached to the idea of it, yet you let the small moments get to you. You turn to the empty spot on the bed, then over to your phone. With the press of a button, it turns on, and the screen light blinds you. A groan leaves your lips at the harsh lights, squinting to turn down the brightness.
âItâs three in the morning,â you groan.
Usually, Michael would be back by midnight, or sometimes at one in the morning, but that was the latest heâs ever been. Youâve been tossing and turning since nine at night. It frustrates you how much you relied on his presence for a good sleep, but your mind wouldnât shut up unless you knew he was safe and sound. You then sit up with your back against the headboard, pulling your knees close to your chest. Each blink made you want to keep your eyes shut, but now your mind wouldnât rest.
You felt the air shift. A strong presence entered your home; you knew it could only mean one thing. Michael came back. Sometimes, you found it funny how the mass murderer of Haddionfeild always came back home; you didnât know whether he returned for you or just for a place to stay. The bed creaks as you stand to your feet and put on your fuzzy house shoes.
Going downstairs wasnât your first thought; however, you shuffled to the bathroom first to obtain the medkit under the sink. The pit of worry in your stomach was practically eating you alive as you made your way downstairs. A deep sigh leaves your lips once you reach the last step, reaching out to the light switch that turned on the living room light. Michael was there. The first thing you noticed was his bloody hands; it didn't look like it was from his victims.
âHey, youâre hurt,â you said through the silence.
You watch as Michael turns his head towards you in the doorway, rubbing your tired eyes that were soon full of worry. You stood there with your medkit. He sat in the large black leather chair, the dark circles of his mask stared at you before turning back to the wall. His cut-up, bloody hands got your attention. Someone must have cut his hand in self-defense. The wooden floorboards groan with every step you take towards him.
Michael kept his bloody hands in his lap. You wonder if he could even feel pain anymore. Or maybe he could, and he just didnât care about being hurt due to always getting beaten up by his victims. But you did. You always cause a fuss whenever he comes home hurt, but a cut-up hand was the most tamest injury heâs sustained that youâve seen so far. Carefully, you walk towards him and stand in front of him.
âMay I see your hands?â you ask with your hand out.
You didnât grab him, nor pull him towards you; it was his choice to take your help or not. You could hear the faint sounds of his breathing as he slowly raises one of his bloody hands. Now that you got a better look at the injury, you saw that it was more of a gash rather than small cuts; the fresh gash bled and stained his hands.
âThank you, Mike. Letâs wash your hands first.â
You quickly made your way to the kitchen, and he followed you silently. You did your best to wash his hands gently with warm water and soap, washing around the gash. You went back over to your medkit and grabbed it, opening the white box to grab a sterile gauze pad and placed it directly over the gash on his hand, then you used the white bandage to wrap around his wrist that made its way up to the cracks of his fingers.
You finally sealed it off with tape and did the same thing to his other hand. Once finished, you closed the white box.
âYou gotta be more careful out there, Mike,â you said gently. âYouâre lucky you donât need stitches.â
He didnât move. A relaxed sigh left your lips. Waves of exhaustion hit you now that you knew he was safe and patched up. Youâd change the bandages later, after you got enough sleep. You retrieved the box.
âIf you want to sleep with me, you know the rule: no coveralls in my bed, you know where your pajamas are.â
You made your way upstairs and put back the medkit. It felt like a massive weight being lift off your shoulders once your body hit the bed that now felt comfortable. As your eyes close shut, you felt at peace. The bed dipped. Tiredly, you open one of your eyes to see Michael in his blue pajamas. It was hard to find ones similar to the coveralls he wears everyday. His mask was still on. Heâd never take it off, not even to sleep.
A sigh left your lips as you close your eye to sleep. You felt your body relax, falling deeper into dumber, until a large hand gripped your throat with a firm grip. Your eyes shot open as Michael made you turn your head in his direction.
âYes, Mike?â you say tiredly.
The grip loosen, yet his hand never left your throat. It took him a while to teach him to make his grip less tight on your neck, it was his own weird way of touching you. His thumb rubs your chin, then snakes its way up to your bottom lip. Gripping your throat was one thing, but he never put his fingers up to your lips before. It made you sit up, as groggy as you were, it had to be something importantâŚright?
You take his hand off of you to hold it. Yet he pulled back, you were too sleepy to figure out whatâs wrong.
âI donât know what you want Michael.â You say with a yawn.
Michael points to the inner palm of his hand where the gash was, then up to his masked face. You did a slow blink with confusion written all over your face. He did the motion again, but more so pointed at his masked lips rather than his face. It then made sense. You always kissed his injuries after patching him up. It must not have crossed your mind to do it, but it surpluses you that he actually paid attention to you doing itâŚand taking a liking to it.
A smile forms on your lips as you take one of his hands. Pressing your lips to the very center in a kiss and did the same for the other one. âIs that better?â
Michael took his hand away afterwards. Stiffly lying down on his back. It was the closest thing youâd get to him relaxing to sleep. Now it was your turn to lie down with him. Your arms wrap around his arm and you rest your head on his chest. He still was still stiff, but didnât pull away. You soon began to learn that he didnât mind, if he did, he wouldâve pushed you offâŚheâs done it a few times before.
"The pain, I can assure you, will be exquisite. As for our deaths, there is nothing to fear. Our names will be written on a thousand walls. Our crimes told and retold by our faithful believers. We shall die together in front of their very eyes and give them something to be haunted by." đđ
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