Archive of Our Own

It’s an unusually frigid morning when the call comes in, on the ancient landline that Claudette barely justified keeping. The little novelty cat phone’s eyes lit up a vivid shade of red (most likely a side effect of decaying circuitry), giving Claudette an odd chill. She picks up the receiver, expecting a bill collector, or maybe even one of those irritating prank callers from the apartment downstairs.

The gruff, familiar voice on the other end is laced with worry, and edged with a hint of weariness,

“Miss Morel? Are you at home at the moment?”

Doctor Loomis.

Claudette felt heat crawl up her neck, had they found out about what she did? Was she going to go to jail? Dear god why did she do it-

“I-I am Doctor,” She chokes out weakly, picking at her cuticles,

“I hate to break bad news, but you need to stay there.”

The sternness of his voice isn’t that of a superior in the middle of terminating an employee, it’s that of a frightened parent. A flash memory overtakes her in the microcosm, and she remembers how her Dad had taken that same tone when she’d talked about moving away from home. It was a genuine worry, not just for her emotional wellbeing, for her very life it seemed,

“May I ask why Doctor?”

There’s a heavy silence that makes Claudette terribly aware of how hard her heart is pounding in her throat. Loomis seems distracted, background noises breaking into their conversation until the Doctor can return to the receiver, sounding frazzled and out of breath,

“He’s out, Michael he- he got out-”

Claudette drops the receiver, as cliche as that is, spine turning to jelly. It’s a fight to keep herself upright, fingers gripping the countertop edge until her palms turned red. Michael? Out? That couldn’t be possible, he’d been incarcerated for the majority of his life, there’s no way he would’ve been able to-

“How-did he- how’d he get out?” Claudette wheezes into the receiver, morbidly curious, half expecting it to come out that it was all her fault and praying that it was the opposite.

“They’re still trying to figure that out, I don’t even quite know how he did it myself,”

Back to square one.

“All I know, Miss Morel, is that you need to stay home as much as possible and if you cannot you must get to safety. I could never live with myself if I let another young woman fall into Michael's hands..”

“Another?” She whispers faintly, barely aware she’d even spoken the word.

“I’ll explain later, just please, heed my warning, I’d advise you to invest in a firearm as a last resort if you could. He’s unpredictable to the utmost degree and you should remember that,”

Before Claudette can get another word in, Loomis is rushing through a farewell and hanging up. It leaves her alone in her apartment, uncomfortably alone in fact.

What the hell was she supposed to do now?

Claudette decides that her first order of business is stocking up, her bare fridge wouldn’t do well to hold her over if she was going to be home for a long time. By the time mid afternoon rolled around her grocery list had reached two pages of her scribbly handwriting. With a glance to her apartment Claudette ducks out into the apartment hallway, nearly bumping into her neighbor Jake.

He steadies her, patting her shoulders and offering a small smile,

“Nice seeing you Claudette, off work?”

“Oh yeah, hey Jake?” She begins, worrying her lip between her teeth in thought, “Have you seen the news lately?”

He tilts his head curiously, “Ah no can’t say I have, anything interesting going on?”

She shakes her head hurriedly, passing beside Jake with her head lowered,

“No, nothing too interesting going on,”

Claudette leaves Jake in the hallway, skittering away to the elevator with her tote bags tucked under her arm. He doesn’t follow her but she can sense his eyes on her, analytical and tinted with concern - rare for Jake. Away from him Claudette can breathe a little more easily, soaking in the air conditioning as the elevator descended to the parking garage below.
Wind and sheets of cold rain greet her as she jogs to her parked car, the temperature biting through her coat and pants and rising goosebumps all along her limbs.

The hum of her car and radio chatter calms her nerves a little, allowing her to refocus herself. She just had to focus on stocking up on some essentials, maybe even a redbox movie or two to enjoy while she was under a self-imposed isolation. Dr. Loomis had tangled with Michael before, she vaguely remembered him saying as much, so his advice was probably a lot more tangible than any panicked suggestion she would’ve made by herself. Part of her was more worried about Michael coming to her injured than about him coming to harm her.

He was gentle with her yes, but that was when he was in the environment of the sanitarium, on his meds and tightly controlled. But if he were coming to her off his meds and most likely in a different headspace, there was reason for her to worry. That was the rational part of her mind, the part of her that worried and fretted, but the other part of her, the more sentimental portion, felt different.

She missed him.

She missed Michael deeply, after their encounter Loomis had lessened their sessions to once a month, due to Michael not showing much progress under Claudette. He didn’t say as much but she could infer from his frustrated body language whenever they were in a room together that he wasn’t happy about it. Loomis never let on that he knew about them having sex, but he’d noted to her that Michael’s drawings, which normally were abstract and depicted violence had… changed.

They’d drifted away from his angry scribbles toward depictions of sexual acts that had deeply disturbed the nurses. Claudette felt a little bad, knowing that of course she had influenced him in that way. Had Michael been influenced to break out because of her too? Did her bond with him spur him into an escape attempt that, so far, seemed to have succeeded? She cared for Michael, maybe even loved him, but she couldn’t deny the cold fear that creeped into her veins the longer she thought about him.

He was dangerous, and now he was out, somewhere where no one had tabs on him. She was as careful as she could be with him, trying to keep any information about her vague. Michael was extremely perceptive and deceptively intelligent. He had to have cataloged years worth of personal information about careless nurses and orderly’s who’d assumed he wasn’t listening. No doubt he’d remembered things about her as well, if she slipped up the consequences would be..well she didn’t know what they would be. Would he kill her?

He would never...would he?

The question makes her bite her cheeks, breath whistling through her nostrils as she attempts to pull into the parking lot as calmly as possible. Parking as close to the entrance as possible, Claudette makes her way into the store briskly.

Shopping passed by in a haze as she picked up dry goods, a gallon of milk, toiletries and a few other essentials. It was as if she were on autopilot, her brain shutting down the swirling mass of questions that were churning in her subconscious. Her bout of dissociation ends abruptly when she’s at the head of the checkout line, snapped out of her peaceful, mundane zen by the blare of a tiny radio on the courtesy clerk’s counter.

“ Governor Quinn has declared a state of emergency in Carroll County after the shocking breakout at Smith’s Grove Sanitarium in Anderson early this morning. A county wide manhunt has been initiated in an attempt to locate Michael Myers, a patient that is to be considered armed and dangerous.-”

Him.

The hush that fell over the supermarket was thick enough to cut through, Claudette could hear her blood pounding in her ears, making her feel dizzy. She chokes her way through the transaction, the cashier, an older woman with sad, clear eyes smiled weakly to her.

The report continued, though Claudette could barely process it all,

“ The Governor’s Office has advised all residents to stay indoors whenever possible and contact authorities if Myers is sighted. “

Claudette tries her best to load her groceries without letting it be seen how scared she really was. The parking lot was quiet, just the sounds of cart wheels rolling over rough pavement, and she tried her best not to focus on it. Getting spooked by every little sound wasn’t going to help her stay focussed on what was important. Mercifully the traffic leading back to the apartment is light, most likely because of the news breaking. And when Claudette finally makes her way back to the hallway outside her apartment Jake is waiting for her. He takes one of the heavier reusable bags on her shoulder, smiling tightly as she unlocks the door,

“I heard the news, are you okay?” He asks gently, helping her settle her groceries on the tiny kitchen island.

“I’m uh, I’m okay for now, a little shaken up,” Claudette admits, sorting through her haul, putting dry goods up into the cupboards above the sink.

“I figured you’d be a little scared, I know you used to work with him,” Jake adds, getting the last of the groceries laid out on the table before folding up the bags.

SIlence stretches between the two of them for a long moment. Claudette can feel sweat breaking out on the back of her neck, she doesn’t know if Jake knew something she didn’t, or if he was just trying to be supportive. She debates telling him the truth, that she’d done more than just “work” with Michael, that she’d slept with him. But something tells her that whatever momentary relief she would gain from telling that private truth would be short-lived. Jake wasn’t a judgemental person, he’d said as much himself, but he wasn’t stupid, and he wouldn’t pull any punches as far as his opinion was concerned.

He was like a big brother to her, and he obviously wanted to make sure she was safe. Claudette bites back whatever story she was going to spin to spill her beans and just nods instead,

“Yeah, he never..let on that he wanted to get out,”

The man’s gaze on her is wary, but not in the aggressive way, worry is evident in his features and he sighs. Digging in his pocket for a few seconds he pulls out a diminutive pistol, the surface of which is well polished and gleams under the kitchen lights.

“Now I know this may seem crazy-”

“Jake you can’t be serious right?” Claudette blurts out, cutting off whatever he was about to say

“Listen, I know you know how to use one of these, and you don’t have to just- just take it okay?”

He looks utterly defeated in that one moment, hand coming to rest on her shoulder, eyebrows knit together in a pensive expression. Wordlessly she takes the gun from him, it’s deceptively heavy in her hand, cool to the touch. It makes a chill travel up her arm, settling in the back of her throat.

“Call me if anything happens okay? I’ll be just down the hall, like always,”

With a few more quiet pleasantries Claudette bids him farewell and Jake makes his way back to his own apartment. She’s left in the quiet stillness of her apartment, the only sounds are the ambience of her humidifier and rustling of curtains. It wasn’t unusual for her to have a quiet home but the comfort of calm silence had been tainted, the absence of sound leaving her rife with paranoia.

In an attempt to alleviate her stress she set about deep cleaning the house, watering and pruning the plants and setting out her bird feeders. It distracted the higher order part of her brain, gave her something to pour herself into that didn’t involve worrying and twiddling her thumbs until Michael came busting the door down.

Not that she would’ve minded that.

Not that she would admit that.

Okay, maybe she did want him to come busting the door down, if only to prove he missed her, that what happened between them meant something. That it wasn’t just him blowing off steam or her suffering from some grand delusion.

As the apartment was filled with evening sunlight Claudette let her eyes land on a point across the road. It was the yard of a little house, with clotheslines and a swingset in the side yard that faced the street. Some sheets were on the line, stark white and catching the last rays of light. That wasn’t the weird part, the weird part was that she was sure she saw a figure mingled amongst them.

Taller than the clothesline itself and staring right up at the window, it might’ve been a man, but she was too far away to see their face to be sure. Was it the neighbor's son? She knew she had a son that was a contractor, and he was pretty big. Maybe he was just out taking the sheets in before night came?

In the back of her mind she knew who else it could’ve been.

Michael.

The thought has chills running up and down her spine, heart throbbing in her throat. Had he come for her? Found her? Claudette blinks and the figure is gone however, the only thing she could see being the sheets themselves.

Was she just seeing things? She had to be, that was the only logical explanation.

* * *

She looks beautiful, serene, graceful, angelic even. Especially with those white starched curtains framing her face. The lights in her apartment are warm and soft, playing on the deep tone of her skin and making her appear as if she were a phantom, some illusionary idea of the Claudette he knew. But Michael knew it was her, it had to be.

It took some thinking to figure out which direction to head in after he’d escaped. The newspaper scrap that he’d managed to save was from a place called “East Platteville” being his only clue. Escaping under the cover of darkness was a smart move, though the heavy rainstorm that’d followed left Michael with no choice but to hide for the night. Taking shelter in a hollowed tree near an irrigation ditch he’d mused over the scraps he’d taken from his room.

With no pockets on his hospital gown he had to resort to folding them up into the waistband of his boxers, hoping that the layers of insulation between his gown and robe kept them dry. The rain had soaked him to the bone but the paper survived, if a little bit soggy from his sweat. Carefully Michael unfurled his treasures, studying them keenly in the dimness..

“ EAST PLATTEVILLE STAR “

Was printed in bold letters, some of the smaller header was smudged beyond recognition but the article title was what had caught his eye the most. It must’ve been a classified ad, seeing as it listed an address with a simple request;

“ PLANT/HOUSE SITTING SERVICE 12.50$/HR “

A number was under the line, obscured from droplets of moisture that had made the fibers fragile to the touch. Few words peaked through the wet patches, the most important to Michael being the partial form of an all too familiar name;

“Contact; Claudette Morel
10-800 e Lake Rd. Apt. 003”

Even with the missing letters the stroke of luck wasn’t lost on Michael. By the time he’d pieced it together the stench of rotting wood and heavy rain had lightened and for the first time in years he felt the ghost of a smile tugging at his mouth. He’d found her, Claudette. With that done, all he had to do was find a way there. The easy part was over, now for the hard part.

Michael’s first order of business was to get his hands on some dry clothes and a ride. By the time he emerged from the sodden earth it was still dark, but the air was cold and crisp. The horizon was just starting to warm up with soft milky blue and light orange, foretelling the coming dawn. That had been Michael’s cue to get a move on, seeing as he’d have nowhere to take cover again moving down the highway. He walks for what feels like hours, nothing but pavement beneath his feet and the occasional passing car that didn’t dare stop.

He felt naked without any kind of covering on his face, he’d lost the one he had on in his escape. A shame too, since it was one of his favorites, but it was a necessary sacrifice he supposed. The sun was in his eyes and he reeked of blood and stale standing water but his heart was light in his chest. He couldn’t get to Claudette if he gave up now, and he was certain that she would be so lonely without him, missing him dearly, waiting with baited breath for him to return.

When a beat up pickup pulled to the side of the road, blocking his path Michael had to fight down the smile that threatened to break out over his face.

Perfect Timing.

* * *

The night passes by quietly, almost too quiet for Claudette’s comfort. Every half hour or so she found herself back at the front window, peering out to make sure the man in the yard wasn’t there. And he wasn’t, he was never there, but the thought of him being there kept her checking compulsively. By eight o’clock it’d reached near frantic levels, her doing her evening watering and stretching with an eye fixed on the gap in the curtains.

Just making sure, she whispered to herself, just being safe.

That was her mantra it seemed, from an early age she’d been cautious, maybe even too cautious. She was the type to double-check and then triple-check that she’d locked her door (checking again to make sure she hadn’t locked her house keys in), the type to periodically sift through her bag at random points in the day to make sure she still had her pepper spray or her wallet. Careful, composed, safe, routine, ordinary, in control. Despite the general passivity of her personality Claudette prided herself on her ability to be in control, in control of herself, in control of her environment. But there was one wrench that went against the flow of her carefully curated existence, disrupting her bland but safe structured life. And that wrench’s name was Michael Audrey Myers, (presumably) escaped serial killer extraordinaire.

She moves on autopilot through the rest of her night routine, answering emails without even spell checking, putting away dinner and wiping down her kitchen. Lost in her head she moves without even thinking about it, going through the methodical process of her hair routine and skincare.

By nine thirty and laying under fresh covers, smelling faintly of jasmine oil and wearing a silk bonnet that matched her pajamas. In the dark the thoughts didn’t go away, still swarming, though dampened and sluggish under the influence of melatonin and chamomile tea. The rain pattering on the windows sounds so far away, muffled but still reaching her as she searched for something to focus on other than what was in her head. Was Michael out in this kind of weather? Alone somewhere on the lonely highway? Hiding somewhere in the brush?

Was he okay?

Even though she was dozing off, that thought struck her back into wakefulness, making her lidded eyes snap back open as it dawned on her. Michael, wherever he was, was out there on his own, completely unsupervised and unsupported, exposed to the elements. How long had it been since he was independent? It had to have been more than twenty years at this point, would he even survive weather like this?

Loomis was vague on MIchael’s medical history, designating it as “above her concern” every time the question came up. She wasn’t a doctor so while it wasn’t exactly her place to ask, or even to care, she still felt a sense of responsibility for Michael’s care. She knew he was on medication, pages and pages of pills to help keep him more “manageable” and less likely to lash out in fits of anger or distress. But on that list Claudette knew for a fact that he was on various sleeping medications and other things that affected his day to day functioning. How would he survive without his medicine? Would he just have to suffer from the withdrawal symptoms while out in the bush, the reality of what that could do to his body left an uneasy weight on her chest.

The idea that Michael was out there, suffering possibly, made it hard to get back to sleep. But eventually Claudette couldn’t resist the pull of exhaustion and she nodded off sometime after midnight, guilt weighing down her features as she did so.

Across the apartment a window creaked open.

* * *

Michael is careful to not attract attention as he crunches through the bushes around Claudette’s apartment building ; easier said than done. He knew that his stature made him stand out easily and that by this point they were most likely trying to find him, scouring the highways and neighborhoods. That truck coming to the side of the road had been a lucky break for him, as was the work clothes that he’d “borrowed” off of the driver.

Not like he’d be needing it anymore.

The pants were snug at his waist, and a little short on the leg, leaving his calves exposed. A problem partially remedied by the boots he’d squeezed into, they were thick leather work boots and a size too small but they were better than going barefoot. Over the pants he wore a sweat-stained white tank top that clung to his chest in a way that felt a little too much like a second skin. But the real star of the show had been the all-weather jacket that he’d managed to snag, with a hood that helped to cover his face and a comfortable weight that felt good on his body. He’d cleaned himself up after getting dressed, not wanting to tramp into Claudette’s home splattered in blood and dirt, ruining what he was sure was a palace of domesticity.

Climbing up the fire escape came easier than one would expect for someone of Michael’s frame and size, he glided up the metal bars like a specter. A dark shape silently moving past shuttered bedroom windows until he got his goal. The window wasn’t even locked when slid his hands over the old wooden sill, had she been expecting him? Gently Michael eases up the window, careful to not make too much noise. He manages, squeezing his upper body into the window and scanning his surroundings. This was Claudette’s place for sure.

It was pleasantly dim, the only light being string lights that ran along two corners of the room. The tiny teardrop shaped lights gave a gentle glow to the whole room, making everything seem calm and cozy. It’s warm too Michael realizes as he props himself fully on the ledge, checking to make sure he isn’t knocking anything over when he swings his leg over. He hadn’t realized how cold it actually was outside, or how stiff his hands were. Carefully Michael closes the window behind him, silently as possible, knowing that stealth was his best asset.

The room Michael found himself in was some kind of living room, judging by the door to his right and the furniture scattered around. It was thoughtfully put together, from the worn and well-loved loveseat to the collection of potted plants of all size and description. In the corner beside the console table were two large palm tree looking plants in decorated heavy bottom pots. Next to the palms a flurry of creeping vines twisted their way along the table, hanging like tendrils over the edge and brushing against the floor. He spends time wandering around the tiny room, studying every nook and cranny of the curated space.

He recognized Claudette’s messenger bag on a rocking chair that sat opposite the window he’d come in through, further confirming that his instinct had led him to the right place. Next to the rocking chair, which was draped in a soft decorative afghan, was a sideboard that was covered in knick knacks. On the far side was a stack of thick hardcover books and vinyl records, the spines were worn down with little threads coming loose from their bindings, and most of them seemed to deal with plants;

GUIDE TO NORTH AMERICAN WILDFLOWERS

FLORIOGRAPHY; ILLUSTRATED GUIDE

FORAGING; MUSHROOMS AND WHERE TO FIND THEM

THE ART OF BOTANICAL ILLUSTRATION

They were well-loved it seemed, and when he slid one of them out of the pile the weight felt good in his hand. Felt solid, real, enough that Michael sighed through his nose, the knowledge that Claudette loved these things too, making him warm inside. It was a tiny window into her private life, her own little world that he’d stumbled into. The pages had large, detailed illustrations of flowers with smaller text that he couldn’t make out in the dim light but still, he found himself staring.

After thumbing through it, carefully studying each page before moving on, he finally put it down, back on the stack as his eyes roved over the decorated wall above the sideboard.
It was covered in framed photos, a large one in an ornate frame catching his eye. The portrait showed two people, a woman who looked vaguely like Claudette - though her chin was more sharply pointed - and a man with thick glasses and short cropped hair. They were posed in a way that made him think they were married, and very in love it seemed, judging by how big they were smiling. Her perfectly manicured hands clung to the crook of his arm and a strange longing sprung in Michael at the sight.

Had he made Claudette that happy? Made her want to smile and cling to him.

His parents didn’t show much affection, to each other or to him, so the display seemed...odd. He spends a few more minutes silently studying it, only pulled away from his thinking when a scraping sound snapped him out of it. Michael turns on a dime, head snapping in the general direction of the sound, honing in on the window he’d climbed through. What greeted him made him tilt his head curiously.

On the other side of the paned glass was the skinny face of a street cat. Its giant owlish eyes reflected tiny spots of lights as it continued scraping its claws on the glass. The little thing is dirty looking with scruffy, patchy black fur that stuck up here and there all over its body. Silently Michael glides across the living room, pulling up the window to examine his new friend. Without hesitating the cat takes a leap from the windowsill, landing softly onto the carpet. The cat sniffs at Michael’s leg for a moment before circling between his legs. Kneeling, Michael outstretched his broad palm inviting the cat to sniff him again. Which it does before surprisingly, nudging its head against his fingers, to which he turns his hand over to run it along the ridge of the feline’s body.

The cat ambles around the place like it owns it, seeming entirely comfortable in Claudette’s home. Its wobbly, skinny frame disappears out of the opening of the front room and Michael follows, ending up in what looked like a kitchen. The countertops were polished granite with contrasting dark wood cabinets. In the center of the kitchenette was a square table that had a worn out tablecloth covering it, one that was decorated with a pattern of jumping fishes - currently being lounged on by the cat. It turns over onto its back, wiggling and batting at the long drooping leaves of the plant that served as the table's centerpiece. Michael comes around the table, eyes focussing on the refrigerator in the corner.

It was a glossy unit that looked completely alien to Michael. He’d never seen a fridge like this before, like the rest of Claudette’s home it was covered in little clues and snippets about her life. Envelopes, post-it notes, scraps of paper, and even a polaroid photo were scattered over the shiny surface, pinned in place with an assortment of magnets that were in the shape of tiny fruit. Under the pineapple magnet there was a polaroid of Claudette with a group of women, one of whom he recognized from the photo in her living room. Claudette was dressed in an orange dress with long sleeves and a hem that skated her upper thighs. She looked overjoyed in the photo, her face crinkled up into the biggest, brightest smile that he’d ever seen.

The scrapes of paper weren’t nearly as interesting as the photo but Michael still spared them a glance. Catching tiny bits of Claudette’s daily life, a to-do list here, a grocery list, notes about dates and times. Her handwriting was rushed, words tilted and pushed together but still in a looping script that seemed..very her. He hadn’t written much since he’d been incarcerated, at first, it was an outlet but when Loomis began to pry he stopped entirely to protect what little privacy he still had. He couldn’t even remember the last time he’d put pen to paper and wrote his thoughts down, sticking instead to drawing.

Claudette appreciated art too it seemed, judging from the wallpaper in the kitchenette. And from the abundance of plants and potted flowers that covered the counters. The wallpaper was dark emerald green with white heart-shaped pinstripes. There were strange, spiky looking plants sitting in the sink, with light green leaves that had purple and red tips. A bowl that sat aside the coffee pot caught his attention, full of fragrant soft-skinned fruits. It had been what felt like forever since Michael had had real fruit. The most he got in the hospital were canned ones that tasted metallic and sour whenever he’d dared to nibble on them.

The top of the pile was what caught his eye the most, and he finds himself palming one of the strange red-yellow fruits. It filled his palm easily and the smell was sweet and fragrant, enough that it reminded him of how hungry he actually was. Raising it to his mouth Michael hazards a bite, piercing soft skin and getting at juicy flesh. The taste of it was amazing (minus the tougher outer skin which he spat out into the sink) sweet and cloying as the strange fibers that snagged in his teeth. Without pause he digs his thumbs into the squishing flesh, splitting the fruit entirely to get at the dark yellow meat.
He tears at the flesh, slurping obscenely until he’s scraping his teeth against the empty skin, even the oblong stone inside laid bare and fuzzy.

The weight of the food settles in his stomach in a way that’s noticeable and feels foreign. Not uncomfortable, but definitely strange. He’d tasted raw meat before, felt blood and other unseemly fluids sliding down his chin, but this tasted so different. So different and so much better. Discarding the skins and stone in the little trash can beside the counter Micheal rinses his mouth and hands of sticky juice, not wanting to leave a mess. For the time being he hoped that it would tide him over, not wanting to gorge himself and end up getting sick.

His friend, the skinny little street cat, is back to rubbing itself on the leg of his pants and he kneels to scritch the top of its head. The cat meows loudly at him, sniffing at Michael’s fingers curiously, whiskers twitching. It must’ve been hungry too he realizes, seeing as it began sniffing at and scratching the little cabinet where he was kneeling. Michael opens it, poking his head into the small space, greeted by a stash of cat treats, toys, and most importantly, food. It was the cheap kind, tiny and packed in a tin can that felt flimsy as he pulled the tab off.

Setting down the can Michael watches as the cat wolfs down the wet food, purring ecstatically. Standing he watches for a few more seconds, until eventually he loses interest, the eagerness to explore overtaking him again. The sound of the cat munching happily at its meal is the backdrop as Michael wanders down the short hall, stopping at a singular door. Its solid wood, and decorated with a nameplate that was painted light blue, decorated with little plump swallows.

Claudette.

He lets his hand, large and calloused, lay flat against the door as his breath gets away from him. She's so close, so tangibly close that it's almost overwhelming at this point, if he focussed hard enough he could swear that he could smell her. Could hear her soft, fluttering breath, sleeping deeply, unknowing that he was right on the other side of the door. Listening, he waits until she settles until daring to open the door, carefully twisting the doorknob. With practiced ease he pushes the door open, lifting and leveraging his weight against the door itself to muffle the sound. It works like a dream, like it had every time he did it, and within a heartbeat he was face to face with her.

She was asleep, thankfully, curled up in her sheets and entirely covered by a thick fleece comforter. The comforter had the image of a white tiger printed on it and Michael found his fingers creeping along the stripes. He stands at the foot of the bed, watching the small exposed part of her body, her head and shoulder, lay against the silk pillowcases. She's wearing some kind of cover on her hair, it looks shiny like the pillowcases, with tiny embroidered flowers on the elastic band. Moving closer Michael tilts his head to study her, her delicate face peaceful and at rest. Long eyelashes against the soft, round apples of her cheeks, her lips parted just slightly.

Claudette mumbles in her sleep, half words that are barely comprehensible, all except for one.

“..Michael-?”

* * *

Claudette was having that dream again, the one she was too embarrassed to tell anyone about. The one about Michael, she’d dreamed about him before, usually just having him show up as a background character or a near unrecognizable shape that she assumed was Michael. But after that encounter in the sanitarium garden her dreams about him had changed dramatically, They’d become much more comprehensible., and changed tone in what felt like a sudden 180.

Simply said, they were wet dreams.

They started tame at first, tame and not too explicit. Usually just Micheal touching or kissing her like he had before, curious and passionate. Exploring her carefully, letting his tongue and fingers make their mark on her bare skin, leaving behind hickies and intents where his hands rested. Where they cupped the delicate softness of her hips or breasts, where his teeth nipped her bottom lip and the exposed column of her throat where he laid ticklish kisses, his wispy hair brushing against her.. After their encounter she’d have these dreams maybe twice or three times a week, and they stayed soft for the most part. Never being too explicit, or too filthy.
It changed when Michael escaped, her brain had been pushed to the brink from all the stress and anxiety of the day. To the point that it was currently lulling her into a new dream in an attempt to self-soothe and keep her calm.

It was hazy, syrupy and indistinct because of the melatonin and tea that she’d taken in. All that she could really focus on was the heat. The heat of his body, his breath, the slick heat of her arousal. He clutched onto her, heart hammering against her own, to the point their rhythms synced up until they were moving as one. His weight was almost crushing her, hands sinking into where her waist creased, where he had her folded in half, her legs over his shoulders. Michael was so close, his eyes honed in on the expression on her face, eyes simmering and mouth pressing hungry kissing into her jaw. When she moaned, high and urgent with how deeply he was pressed inside he silenced her, tongue pushing eagerly, desperately into the heat of her mouth, seeking her own and licking along the roof of her mouth. It was all consuming, she felt him in her stomach for god’s sake.

All she could intuit was that she was close, so close, and that she was near hysterical at the same time. Babbling incoherently whenever his mouth broke from her’s, his name falling broken and desperate on her tongue.

“Michael-”

“Michael-”

“Michael-?”

Something was wrong, Claudette could sense it, even in the warm pleasurable cocoon of her dream world. She’d always been perceptive, even when she was asleep, so it was almost a reflex when she awoke. The air in her bedroom was heavy and distrubed, that much she could tell. But it was also dark, and without her glasses she couldn’t distinguish any of the shapes that ebbed and flowed in the dark space. She rises against the headboard, noticing something shift out of the corner of her eye. Fear tingles vaguely at the back of her spine, and she tilts her head to dissuade it, it was just a coat rack. Something feels off still, and it takes a few moments for her to realize what exactly it is.

Her bedroom door was open.

She “Hmphs” to herself, slipping out of bed and into her house slippers. Shuffling she makes her way to the door, was it really that windy? She’d have to see about calling maintenance to get the hinges tightened, or see about getting a door stop.. But when Claudette reaches her bedroom door another oddity strikes her, just inside the kitchen, strutting on the counter, was Sundae. There was no mistaking it, the scrawny little feline, the lovely stray she’d taken in, had somehow found his way into her home. She had no cat door (wasn’t allowed to have pets), so how Sundae managed to waltz in had goosebumps rising on her arms. He was completely unharmed, and smelled faintly of wet cat food, the remnants of which clung to his whiskers as an empty container sat licked clean on the tiles below.

“Sundae- who let you in?” She asks, more to herself as he rubs against her palm, purring.

Scanning the room Claudette feels her heart stutter in her chest, the window, the living room window that led out onto her fire escape was wide open. Cold night breeze gently rustled the curtains and she moved quietly over to it. Had she just been forgetful and left the window open? It had happened before, specifically during a rainstorm when she’d had to run down to the mail area and had returned to her knick knacks and cacti soaked in rainwater. It must’ve just slipped her mind to close it again, so that’s what she did, shimmying down the stiff shutter until it connected with the bottom of the sil. Locking it for good measure, the motion draws her eyes downward, over the books and vinyls she had stacked beside the window. One thing in particular caught her eye, it was subtle, so much so that if she hadn’t been looking she wouldn’t have noticed.

Her books were… out of place, her copy of “Guide to North American WIldflowers,” was on the top of the pile. She was sure that when she was rearranging things earlier today that she’d left it on the bottom, putting her foraging guide on the top. Now that, that couldn’t be a coincidence could it? The window could be explained away as just spacing out, but the books, she was meticulous about them, careful. There was no way this could be an oversight. Behind her the air shifted, it was almost imperceivable, thickening, heavy and deep and right behind her.
Shakily she lets her eyes pull up to meet the glass panes, the clear surface was polished to a high reflective sheen, crystal clear and just barely, she could make out the shape of a face.

Michael.

* * *

He looked gaunt with smudges of dark circles and what suspiciously looked like bruises over his cheek and nose. Turning around finally they meet each other’s eyes and the shock of it nearly takes her breath away. He wasn’t just a dream, he was real, and he was looking at her. Staring at her really, bright eyes wide and honed in on the shivering form of her body in her nightdress. His lips part, wavering just slightly as his breath comes out in a raggad, excited hiss. Claudette felt herself frozen in place, knees wobbling and threatening to fail her, hands scrambling desperately at the sideboard to keep from falling to the floor.

“Michael, wh-”

Her words fail her as he crowds in, until her lower spine is ramrod straight and wedged against the piece of furniture that she was clinging to for dear life. His hands, brace on the outside of her hips, gripping at the edge of the little table, his head tilting every which way to take in every inch of her face. Claudette steadied her breathing, swallowing air to try and calm herself and stave off an impending panic attack. She does the same as he’s doing now, examining him. Really it was to try and take stock of whatever potential injuries he could have. His skin looks blotchy where the heavy work jacket he wore left him bare. His throat especially was marred with scratches and nasty bruises that looked fresh on his pallid skin.

Michael’s hair was always slightly unkempt, hanging long and frizzy against his back and over his face, but now it looked even messier. Tangles snarled at the ends of his hair, little bits of twigs and plant matter knotted into the dirty blonde expanse. He’d been sleeping rough that was for sure, if it hadn’t been the scrapes on his body, or the state of his hair that told her, the smell would’ve given it away. He didn’t smell bad exactly, but heavily of rainwater and damp earth, like he had just crawled out from his burrow, not unlike a great bear awakening from hibernation.

His broad chest was soaked with sweat and water, white tank top clinging like wet rice paper to the muscles of his torso. It was tantalizing, he’s taut with tension, even his nipples tight and almost visible through the thin fabric, adorably, perfectly baby pink. Claudette shouldn’t be staring, and shouldn’t be letting her hand rest against the curve of his peces, but she can’t stop herself. The reaction is instant, electric almost, a soft, low keen pitching up in his throat as his eyes squinted at her. His heart is pounding and if she were honest hers was too, his parted lips looking all too inviting.

They’re at kissing distance at this point, breath mingling, he grunts softly, head tilting in the way it always did. His eyes were scanning her face, taking in the minute twitches and softening of her expression. He leans in, taking a deep, shuddering breath, nose nudging her cheek as she turns her face away from his, her breath hitching. Eventually she twists out of the cage of his arms and he lets her, not fighting or trying to stop her, which she’s surprised by.

“Are you hurt Michael?” Her tone is controlled, and the sad little shake of his head almost makes her regret pushing him away.

As much as she wanted it, craved it even, she had to keep her wits about herself. Needed to live in the reality that there was a chance that Michael was unstable, or injured - he was always so unpredictable. “Dangerously Unpredictable” that was how Loomis always described him, cunning, terribly smart, manipulative even. He’d never used that manipulation on her it seemed, at least not negatively, but Claudette wasn’t oblivious enough to think he hadn’t tracked her down purposefully. Michael was deceptively intelligent and she knew to do well to remember that.
She doesn’t even dare to turn her back on him just yet, awkwardly weaving her way through her living room backwards. She reaches blindly, fumbling to click on the floor lamp, filling the room in warm yellow light.

Michael is at the edges of where the light barely touches, only the bottom half of his torso in the light. He’s swaying on his feet, a barely noticeable shiver in his limbs. Claudette realizes that he must be freezing, his wet clothes only making it worse. He was hot to the touch because his body was overcompensating, she assumed, and part of her felt a little guilty to push him away.

She clears her throat, seeing his head snap up,

“I have some questions for you Michael, I’m not angry I just need to talk to you, okay?”

He nodded, following along with what she was about to tell him. Taking a deep breath before continuing to bolster her nerves,

“Before I ask you anything I’m going to run you a hot bath and get you into some warm clothes, is that good?”

Again he nods, shifting and stepping toward her, not with intention she realizes, but just to get closer. To get under the lamp light and make real eye contact with her, the size difference is exacerbated, a trick of the light that casts a massive shadow on the wall. His head tilts, hands moving up in front of his body to talk in his own way,

“ Sorry. Didn’t mean to scare you, a bath would be nice. “

It takes Claudette a little while to process his signing, she was out of practice but after taking the job at the institute she’d tried brushing up on her skills. She nods, smiling gently to try and soothe the anxiety she could sense in Michael’s posture. Reaching out to him she takes one of his hands, frowning when she realizes how cold he actually was. He doesn’t pull away either, and allows her to guide him through her apartment, to the tiny bathroom at the end of the hall.

Squeezing into the space Claudette clicks on the top light and Michael’s eyes wander over the walls and counters of her bathroom. She leaves him, with the door open, in order to search her closet for clothes that would actually fit him. Putting on her glasses and turning on her lamp Claudette digs into the organized chaos of her closet. Hopefully the extra clothes that her cousin had left behind hadn’t been tossed out, he was a big guy, roughly the same height as Michael. After a few minutes of digging and sorting she finally found them, thrown in a bag behind her easel and the lockbox she kept in there.

Dumping out the bag onto her unkempt bed she was greeted with a balled up pair of basketball shorts, a wrinkled shirt, two mismatched socks and a plaid pair of boxers that had a hole in the waistband. It would have to do for now unfortunately, she just hoped that Michael wouldn’t mind the paltry offering - at the very least they were dry. Getting him out his soaking wet clothes and into something clean and warm were what mattered right now. He may be indestructible as the rumors said but that didn’t mean he wouldn’t be sick or hungry after hours, maybe days, of hiking on the open road.

Gathering up the clothes she steps into the doorway of the bathroom, clothes clutched in her hands.

“I brought you some clothes, you should take a shower, I can show you how the facet works if you need help” What the hell was she saying? “Do you need help?”

What was she even doing?

She cringed inwardly at what she said and wouldn’t be surprised if Michael noticed. His head pulls upward catching her eyes, the eye contact lingers for a long time, almost silent aside from her pounding heart. He looks like he’s biting his tongue, as if to keep his lips from moving into a smile,

“ I need help, they didn’t let me do it by myself, “

The realization isn’t a surprising one, it was rare that patients would be allowed to have unsupervised showers, and only for those deemed “low risk” by the board of directors. Michael was not one of those people, not if the bullet-proof glass she’d met him behind told her anything. She knew very little of Michael’s everyday routine, but she was also aware that he didn’t get a bath as often as she knew he wanted. Twice a week, once on Monday, once on Friday, that was what she’d heard, and the thought of that was heartbreaking to even imagine. He didn’t do much physical activity but that didn’t mean he deserved to go days without a shower. No wonder his hair always hung limp, clumping and tangling at the ends where he’d been unable to, or more likely, where the nurses had been too scared to comb it out.

They must’ve been so afraid of him, so scared to touch him or be alone with him. And if she were honest with herself, she was a little scared too. She knew that he was a danger to others, maybe even a danger to herself, but that stubborn, bleeding heart part of her refused to give up. Even with his tough, fearsome exterior Michael was still worth it, he had a gentleness that laid guarded by that outer shell. He was still human, still had feelings and wants and needs, and she wonders distantly if he had dreams too. Wanted things that he knew he couldn’t have because of the choices he’d made so long ago that still followed him around wherever he went.

Michael stands up to face her, swaying a little on his feet and before thinking she grabs his wrist to steady him. His skin is clammy to the touch, and angry red welts wrap around each of his wrists, from handcuffs no doubt and it tugs at her heart to see it. He doesn’t pull away, just watching her, after a few moments she lets go, stepping backward and recollecting herself,

“Okay, I’ll get the water running and you can undress. I can step out-”

In her attempt to curve around him he catches her, just barely squeezing her elbow, it catches her attention enough,

* * *

Claudette doesn’t pull away from him and his heart rises a little in his chest at the realization. She wasn’t afraid of him? She didn’t scream or thrash or anything like that, just looked up at him through thick lashes. Her breathing was even, but the pulse he felt through the artery in her elbow throbbed frantically. Her jaw was clenched, bottom lip shuttering faintly as he closed in, head tilted and eyes memorizing her face. She looked sleepy still, no makeup on and glasses slightly askew on her nose. It was more than a little charming and Michael felt himself drawn to the soft light of her dark eyes.

Gently he lets her go and she turns to face him fully,

“Can you take off your clothes ? I can’t help you shower if you’re still dressed.”

He nods, appreciating that her humor was showing through whatever slight scare he’d given her earlier. It hadn’t been his intention to spook her the way he had, he’d wanted to wake her up gently but when she began to rouse he did the only thing he knew how; he hid. The reflex was hardwired, an intention to prolong the hunt and observation period of his usual encounters with victims. How long had it been since he’d done those things? His first time breaking out had felt like a lifetime ago, but really he knew it had to be only about five or four years. But Claudette wasn’t like those girls, no matter how much he wanted her, or how well they’d clicked.

Her question comes back to mind and he complies, body subtly shivering, betraying the tight coil of excitement that tangled up his stomach. First comes the jacket, sliding off easily with a shrug and landing with a thump. Claudette’s back is turned, probably to give him the illusion of privacy while she fiddles with the settings on her shower, upper torso hidden behind her curtain. The bathroom is filled with hot steam, a marvel to Michael, who couldn’t remember the last time he’d had hot water, not just for bathing, but just in general. Being on the high-risk ward meant restrictions, restrictions that extended to every facet of his daily function and the tiny domain he inhabited.

His life had been wrapped up in restrictions and wary glances, supervised showers where men with guns would watch as terrified young orderlies roughly rubbed him down. The whole ordeal of showering was procedural, they made it clear that it was not for his benefit. It came rarely, and was one of the ways that Michael marked the passage of time. Two guards would fetch him from his cell late in the day, usually after he was finished picking over his dinner and pull him to his feet. Even with him shackled and nearly hobbled they still shook fiercely just by being in proximity to him, just from having to touch him.

The only time that Claudette had shaken around him was when she’d let him lick into the heat between her legs and let him taste her. If he focussed hard he swore that he could still smell her, still taste the traces of her cum on his tongue. It had kept him going those dark days that he’d been kept away from her, kept her on his mind. Turning the engine of his desire to find her again, to have her again, touch her, hold her, taste her-

When she leans back, His eyes focus on the front of her nightgown, slightly damp from the water and sticking to her skin. It was a modest sleeveless shift dress with an empire waist that fell to her mid-calf. She must’ve sprayed herself accidentally, and his eyes hone on the semi transparent area at the center of her chest. The fabric was light yellow, or maybe off white, and her skin showed through where it was wet and if he focussed hard enough he was sure he could see her pulse pounding . Claudette realizes where he’s staring and nervously laughs, reaching for a towel and dabbing herself off to try and mitigate the embarrassment for both of them, but the damage is already done. He sucks in a breath, hyper aware of the way his body tenses, what kind of reaction she prompts in him.

Eventually she coaxes him out of his shirt, the wet tank top landing on top of his jacket heavily. Now she’s the one staring at him, at his bare clammy chest that’s rising and falling rapidly as her gaze makes his stomach too strange flips. It's like all the air has been sucked out of the room, just suffocating heat and simmering closeness when her hand gently pats his left pec. He tilts his head, a little irritated grunt coming from his lips, as if to say “What exactly do you want?”

“You’re cold to the touch-” He hadn’t noticed, he usually felt cold, inside and out.

“ Didn’t notice, cold outside, cold inside, “

A slight tremor accompanied his signing and Claudette frowned at that. Was she worried about him? Her compassion had always fascinated him, she had a backbone that was sure, but it wasn’t like Loomis. She wasn’t hardened by the knowledge of Michael’s crimes. She tried to see the human in him, no matter how many times he’d shut her down in the beginning by ignoring or not responding to questions. Her perseverance had drawn him into her orbit, her soft words chipping at that shell. And now her hands are softening him too, fingertips leaving burning touches even though he knows it’s just her normal body heat.

Her hand falls from his chest, barely brushing his nipple that felt terribly sensitive and hard. Involuntarily he twitches and Claudette pulls her hand back at once, whatever inventory she was taking she stops immediately. Seeming to come back to her senses she makes a circular gesture with her hand, saying “Okay keep going” And Michael does, no shame in his nudity when the rest of his clothes are divested from his body. He felt cold still, skin tight all over from his body temperature being in such sharp contrast to the steamy ambient heat. WIth a rattle the curtain is pulled away, and Claudette guides him by the wrist to the shower stall. He complies, flinching when the hot water hits his freezing cold skin, the reaction is instant, a sharp vocalization coming from his lips, giving her pause.

“I know it’s hot, I’m sorry-!” She squeaks behind his back, sounding remorseful.

She looks adorable, cowering behind the plastic shower curtain, seemingly afraid of Michael getting mad at her for turning the water up too high. Not that he really minded it, this was the first time he’d gotten the chance to have a hot bath in years. Claudette’s hand is visible, clutching the curtain and he pulls on it, a little impulsive but he wanted to gauge her reaction. She doesn’t pull her hand away, though her jaw drops and a nervous noise peels from her mouth. He touches her hand to his chest, pushing her wrist in a circular motion to convey the message,

“Wash,”

* * *

Really that was when Claudette should’ve yanked her hand away, but she didn't. She lets Michael take her hand, not even in a hard grip, guiding it to lay flat against his chest. He moves her hand, little circles that cause rivulets of shower water to run over her hand and trail down her wrist, dripping down her elbow. Nodding, Claudette tries to swallow the desire that springs in her chest. It settles like a physical thing in her lower stomach, that familiar warmth, that lustful heat that only worsened the longer Michael’s bright, icy eyes were on hers. She felt it most times she looked at him if she were honest with herself, even when he’d spooked her earlier she’d felt it.

Her body reacted to his presence, his touch, his closeness to her. It had been there, dormant, only to ignite again when he’d come sneaking back into her life. Her body remembered him, remembered his touch and the heat of his eager mouth, and it seemed like his body remembered her. His skin is covered in goosebumps, even under the searing hot water that raises steam off of his body. Carefully Claudette pulls her hand away from his chest to touch the heavy, wet sheet of hair that covered his face. He shakes his head like a dog, sending droplets of water flying everywhere, earning a surprised squeal from her,

“Michael-!” She calls out, exasperated, “You’ll get water everywhere that way, here let me wash your hair,”

Guiding him away from the direct shower spray, Claudette shoulders her way further into the shower, thankful for her bonnet keeping her own hair out of her face. She focussed on first working through the tangles at the ends of his hair, picking out stray bits of leaves and wood chips. They’d probably clog up her drain later but for right now she didn’t mind. Michael stays still, large body comically bent so he could do her work of working through his hair until it was clear of whatever Michael had spent his evening rolling around in. When that’s done Claudette reaches for her detangler and the brush she used in the shower, hoping it would work.

His hair texture was much different from hers, his hair was thick and had a slight wavy pattern to it after she’d rinsed through it. The tropical scented detangler softened the mats and knots in his hair, making them easier to pick apart and get her brush through. It took a few passes - and an ache in her bicep - before she could pull the brush through it easily. WIth that taken care of she moves on to shampooing, quickly sudsing him up and scrubbing his scalp. His neck must be straining at this point, so Claudette knew she had to hurry up. This was when he joined in on the washing, shaking his head side to side and rinsing out his hair while she soaped up a washcloth.

When Michael had straightened his body back to his full standing height the crown of his head cleared above the shower rod. Shampoo bubbles still fell down the hard lines of his body but the bulk of it had been rinsed from his hair, revealing its true color, a light honey blonde. Michael peers at her curiously, his face fully uncovered to her since his wet hair was now plastered to his broad back. Claudette shuts off the faucet, ceasing the flow of hot steamy water and pulling the curtain completely open. If he had any opinion or reaction about it Michael didn’t show it, simply maintaining eye contact like being completely buck naked in front of her was something he did regularly.

Claudette doesn’t let it bother her, trying to focus on the task at hand instead. It was something that came naturally to her, to care for someone, to nurture and fret and heal. Her hands were honed for this kind of work, practiced and careful as she drags the soapy washcloth over the hard lines of Michael’s body. He’s so much different from her, from anything she’d ever had in her life before. Hard lines and edges, hollows where his intercostals and ribs blended together, dips and crevices that her fingers ghosted over. He’s like a work of art, hauntingly beautiful in the artful way he was built, almost like he was sculpted out this way. Pale skin almost transparent in some places, delicate blue veins criss-crossing at the crook of his arm and neck.
His skin feels as cold and hard as marble so the analogy felt apt. Spreading her fingers out over his stomach she lets her hands drag down his body, stopping at the crest of where hip met leg. Her palms rested there, in the divots of his hip bones, they were sharper than her own, devoid of the plush flesh that cushioned her. Michael was leaner, muscle much more visible under the canvas of his skin. And when she dug her fingers in red-white splotches were left in the wake of her fingertips. The blood rushes to the surface when she applies pressure, leading him forward until they’re nearly chest to chest.

That’s not the only place that blood is rushing, if the pulsing heat that presses against her stomach is anything to go by. Michael fidgets, his hands moving to grip her by the elbows. He doesn’t stop her, head tilting in that way it always did when he was curious about something. The throbbing gets worse, much worse, when Claudette smiles gently, slowly continuing to work her hands downward. With her hands braced on his thighs she pushes back just slightly, to get a good look at the rosy, weeping head of his dick that had been cushioned against her clothed stomach. It must’ve been the combination of the hot water and her proximity that made him so excited.

She half expects him to shy away, or to try and cover his dignity but he does neither. Michael’s eyes don’t leave her’s, not a shred of shame on his features. The only sign on his face that she was affecting him was the deep flush that crawled down his throat. Unflinchingly he leans down, bumping his forehead against hers, humming behind closed lips. The show of affection was enough to encourage Claudette, the closest thing to verbal consent that Michael could give given his muteness.

“I’ll finish washing you first okay, and then I can take care of you,”

To that he enthusiastically nods, even though his lips pull into a frown when she pulls her hands away fully. Picking back up her washcloth to hurry through the rest of the bath, scrubbing the remainder of his body. Discarding the rag she turns the tap, disconnecting the showerhead and holding it by the handle, Michael shies away from it at first, curious and no doubt confused by it. Holding his wrist again Claudette shushes him, gently moving the showerhead over his body, letting the spray rinse off the scattered soap bubbles. His nipples are hard under the water, and unconsciously Claudette runs her hands against the stiff peaks. Michael huffs through his nose, apparently sensitive as he pushes her hand away from them. She takes it as encouragement, skimming along the solid muscle of his abdomen.

They flex under her touch, tightening as her hand finally reaches its destination. Gripping his cock loosely with a light hand, feeling his pulse throbbing through it. Goosebumps break out on her skin at the contact, a thrill humming in her veins at knowing she held such power over him. Michael was so strong, so scary and seemingly unstoppable, like a force of nature that you couldn’t avoid. But here he was, breathing through clenched teeth as her soft palm works over his cock like it’s second nature to her. Not that she was practicing, but it came to her easily, at least when he was considered. It felt so right to touch him like this, intimately, gently, with a tenderness she knew he wasn’t used to – tenderness that would spoil him if she weren’t careful.

For once in her life, Claudette Morel didn’t give a shit about being careful.

She wanted to jump on Michael at this point, a slick heat between her legs that ached hotly with each tight stroke over his cock. The slick, rosy head peeking through the vice of her fist, his hips begin moving, first shallowly, gently thrusting into her hand as she pulls it away. His hot breath fans against her cheeks when she looks up at him, on her tiptoes to make eye contact, his hard, impassive features creased with pleasure. He looks so beautiful like this she thinks inwardly, so expressive and eager. It fills her heart with an odd sense of pride to know that she was the reason he felt this way, the reason his shell had softened, had let her in not once, but twice.
Red-faced and panting Michael catches her mouth with his hands finally pulling away from the tist fists he’d had them in at his sides this whole time. One hand cups the smooth curve of her jaw, the other curled into her neck, arms tightening around her. The kiss comes as a surprise, forcing her to stop in the middle of her efforts to get him off to try and navigate the change of pace. Michael’s tongue is rough, pushing into her mouth greedily as if he’d been parched for her taste, like a man dying of thirst finally coming upon an oasis. His hips move on their own, grinding against her palm like his life depended on it. After a few seconds Claudette gets her wits about her (at least a little of them) and works with him instead of against him, her hand twisting and tightening on his cock.

When her thumb swipes over his head again, smearing pre-cum everywhere in a wet, audible, squelch, the sound sends a bolt of heat straight down to her pussy and she moans. He hadn’t even touched her and she was already so worked up, so ready for him, even if this was insane. Michael had quite literally crept into her house like some kind of demented santa claus. And instead of cracking him over the head with the bat she kept at the head of her bed, or running shrieking into the hallway, or anything reasonable Claudette let him stay. Let him stay and drink in her presence, let him use her shower, let her hands touch him and pull such deep, passionate reactions from him.

Whatever consequences would come from this her lust-addled brain was in no position to resist or weigh. All that really mattered right now was the heat of their bodies, separated by a flimsy layer of cloth, and how he shivered and groaned against her lips. Michael’s teeth sink the delicate skin where her neck and shoulder met, making his presence known. As if the way he was essentially fucking her hand wasn’t making his intentions and feelings clear enough. He isn’t biting hard to be painful, just pressure that draws a gasp from her lips, his hands clasping tightly at her biceps to keep her in the perfect position. She lets him, ignoring how tightly she’s pressed against his chest, and how wet her nightgown was getting.

As much as she wanted to stay there forever it seemed that Michael couldn’t hold out, and with a few well placed kisses along his neck he came. Shuddering and growling as he painted her hand and forearm in sticky clear white fluid. When he pulls his head back, his face is still bright red, eyes a little glazed as he tries to get his breathing under control. With her free hand Claudette soothes him, trying to help him regulate his breathing and heart rate the way she’d been trained to do. Her own breathing exercises to help calm her anxiety were coming in handy more and more often lately. And after a few minutes Michael has his wits about him, tilting his head and letting her go at last.

That was quick, his expression seemed to say and Claudette had to agree.

Claudette knew that usually men were embarrassed by things like this, but it wasn’t surprising that Michael had no trace of shame in his features. His threshold for what was and wasn’t embarrassing was totally different from her, and part of her finds it strangely endearing. He pulls her by the wrist, grunting and guiding her hand under the spray to try and clean the cum off of her, mimicking the massaging motions she’d employed to clean him off before. It was cute, the way he was trying to pay back the kindness she did. Once she was rinsed to a level that he deemed suitable he noods, hands moving to communicate with her,

“All good. Hungry now, I can answer your questions,”

Oh yeah, the questions, Claudette had completely forgotten that. It was almost embarrassing how quickly her initial plan of action had been tossed out the window. She should’ve been more focussed on what was going on, on worrying about Michael’s health and safety, but her hormones had basically steered her off of a cliff. Not that Michael seemed to mind, drinking in her attention and not stopping her or denying her advances, even if he probably should’ve. But strangely enough Michael didn’t like to say no to her it seemed, sure he’d clammed up the second she came into his life, but when she’d earned his trust it was apparently unshakeable.

The idea that Michael trusted her had stuck in her mind, he had to have trusted her, seeing as he came all this way for her. It was either that, or the fact that Michael would not have anywhere else to run after escaping without risking recapture. As bad as it was, the fact he trusted her, sought out her company, viewed her as a point of safety set off a simmering warmth in her chest. People rarely leaned on her, emotionally at least, and the feeling of being wanted, needed, was something Claudette didn’t know that she would love so much, crave so much.

“ Okay,” She says, shutting off the water and cringing at how loud her voice sounds, “I’ll heat up something to eat and then we can talk, “

Michael towels himself off and she nearly sprints out of the bathroom, face hot with shame when she realizes she wouldn’t be able to resist him while he was dressing. She had to worry about herself, and the wet clothes that now chilled her to the bone. Ducking into her bedroom Claudette quickly pulls on an oversized souvenir shirt that hit her knees, her underwear were damp, and not from the water. But if she thought about it too hard that dormant throbbing would override the sensible part of her brain and she’d be sprawled out on the tile with Michael on top of her in no time.

Michael himself shuffled out of the bathroom and down the hallway, his still-damp hair slung over his shoulders and away from his face. She follows him, subconsciously collecting a spare hairbrush, a couple hair ties, and an extra towel as she did so. He settles onto the chair that faces in the general direction of her kitchen, seeming to blend into the dark shadows where the light didn’t reach. Instead of trying to push him further Claudette settles on trying to get some food for the both of them. Distracting herself would give her a few precious moments to collect her thoughts, realign, and get the questions that she wanted to ask. The hairbrush and ties end up on the kitchen table, getting pawed at by a curious Sundae. She’d have to open up the window to let him out eventually but that was at the back of her mind presently.

The fridge is sparse but she manages to fish out some butter chicken and rice that had been, popping it into the microwave as she dug out two bowls from her kitchen cupboard. Michael doesn’t sitr at all, but she could feel his eyes on her, watching her every move. Was he worried she would poison him or something? Try to slip something into his food to take him off of his game or put him to sleep? The small snippets that Loomis had shared about Michael’s time in the hospital hadn’t been pretty, saying that they’d often been “forced” to sedate him with such underhanded methods. It doesn’t sit well with him, something about doing that to someone against their will making her stomach tie in uncomfortable knots, entirely opposite from how she’d felt before. She catalogs that bit of information away for now, plating up two bowls of steaming leftovers once the microwave dings.

She carries the two bowls to the table, shooing Sundae away so she could set them down without the stray dipping his paws into either bowl. Claudette doesn’t bother setting the table, just laying out some cutlery and napkins, along with two glasses that she filled up using a carafe she kept on the sideboard. The water was only slightly chilled at best but Michael still lumbered forward, drawn to the smell of hot food. He looks curious, like a wounded animal weighing his options, Claudette tries to stay as still as possible, so as to not spook him. With his hair pulled away from his face, smoothed down and wet, he looked much younger, and his expressions showed much more plainly. The vulnerability intrigues Claudette, the hesitance that he shows as he carefully takes a seat across from her, reflexively putting his hands on the table.

His digits are splayed out, showing he had nothing to hide, as was routine for all of their meetings at the hospital previously. She watches him carefully as she too takes a seat, not really feeling all that hungry but not wanting him to feel alone while eating,

“Go on Michael it’s okay, I made the food myself, it’s safe,” She offers with a smile.

* * *

The food smelled amazing, rich and spicy, totally unlike anything he’d ever smelt before. His instincts made him skeptical however, his food had been laced before so he was always on his guard. The usual procedure that he would undertake would be to taste a portion of the offered food and wait until it began to take effect. If nothing came after a few minutes then it was safe to eat, and even then the paranoia that nagged him would leave him with virtually no appetite. But his hunger was enough to have him swallowing his spit to try and satitate it, to limited success.

Claudette looks at peace, relaxed enough to turn her back on him while he sat lurking in the corner of her living room. Normally this would be a lethal mistake, to let one's guard down around him, but there was no tension in Claudette’s posture. The lines of her back and shoulders are all soft, draped in the big shirt she wore. Was the shirt her’s? He didn’t remember much of what women wore in the outside world, and the girls he’d seen on the streets earlier didn’t give me many clues. Maybe this was just the style, and he could envision it, seeing as how soft and loose the rest of her house seemed to be.

He slinks toward her, just as she takes her seat across him at the table. She doesn’t flinch, just smiles, closing her eyes slightly as she did so. The subtle show of trust makes Michael consider taking up her offer; he didn’t know how long he could hold out on not eating a real meal. The metal fork is cold in his hand, foreign and with tines that were so sharp he swore they gleamed. But still, he waits, waits for Claudette to start eating first, to ensure that it was safe. She notices it seems, and takes it upon herself to pop a piece of meat in her mouth, chewing slowly and smiling. When she doesn’t start to choke, or struggle breathing, or keel over he decides that it was safe enough to eat. Michael follows suit, scooping up a mix of meat, rice and orange-brown sauce, shoveling it into his mouth. The chicken melts on his tongue and the sauce is slightly spiced without being unpleasant. It burns his mouth but Michael really didn’t care, scooping up as much as he could manage at one time.

Any semblance of hesitance, or manners for that matter, disappeared and he was polishing off the bowl within minutes. Barely taking breaks between bites as he devoured the rice and chicken until he was quite literally scraping stray grains of rice up with the side of his fork. Claudette on the other hand, had slowed her eating, more picking at her food than anything. She took periodic sips of water, her eyes never leaving Michael’s face while he scarfed down the food in front of him. There was a tiny hint of pity in her eyes, but beside that there was something that Michael couldn’t read as easily. Normally Claudette was extremely expressive, easy to read, her feelings plain on her innocent doe-like features. But now she looked placid, soft face slightly downcast, eyes half-lidded, the barest hint of a frown dragging her lips down.

After taking a few deep gulps of water Michael felt he had enough of his wits back to talk. Wiping his mouth with the side of his arm he cocks his head to side, noticing that Claudette’s bowl was empty. She reaches across the table slowly, taking the bowl away from him, which he doesn’t resist, and stacks it with her own, pushing both to the side. With the space between them cleared Claudette’s hands come across the tablecloth, barely grazing the hand he kept on the table. His fingers twitch at the contact, suddenly hyper aware of her touch, of how she leaned in,

“Do you think you could answer some questions for me?”

He nods, his hands doing the talking, though they moved slower than usual - hesitant,

“I can.”

The marks on her neck are more blatant, deeper and angry looking. They’d bruise for sure, the tiny thought making a seed of pride bloom in his chest. She’d be marked, everyone would see them, but no one but him would know the reason they were there. The thought of marking his territory does something to his mind, takes it somewhere darker than it should be wandering. But now isn’t the time for that, he has to focus on her questions. He would get what he’d come here for eventually.

“Okay,” She says breathily, before correcting herself, clearing her throat,

“Why are you here Michael? Do you know how dangerous it is for you to go out alone?”

There’s no venom in her voice, no accusation, but his hair bristles all the same. He was the danger usually, not the outside world. But Claudette’s face is stricken, worried,

“For you- Came for you,”

She gasps, and he catches her suppressing a smile before continuing with her line of questioning; determined,

“I missed you too Michael, I did, but you do realize why I was so worried, so freaked out?”

He looks down, on her tiny hand against his, the same hand that had touched him more tenderly than he ever touched himself. Her tapered fingers, with her nails chewed and uneven, her knuckles covered in tiny knicks and scrapes. Her thumb traces over the bumps of his knuckles, the gesture unexpectedly vulnerable, under her touch he felt his own hand relax. Reluctantly he pulls it away, to answer her question,

“You could get in trouble. I know, that’s why I snuck in,” He nods, as if to add a metaphorical “Duh?” to the end of his statement.

What she said next soured his mood considerably,

“Michael, when was the last time you took your medication?” She asks, a wavering edge to her voice that betrayed a creeping free that bled into her features.

He knew that she would ask eventually, that the change in his behavior would be noticeably different from what she’d encountered while he was institutionalized. Part of Michael wants to refuse to answer her, to dodge the question but her bright, innocent eyes are enough to yank at the fragile seams of his act. So he hisses through his teeth, baring them for a moment like a threatened animal would when they were backed into a corner. For Michael this was equivalent to standing up and screaming at the top of his lungs, and Claudette seems to recognize that, pulling back briskly. Her mouth struggles to form words but he raises his left hand to quiet her,

“I left on Tuesday night, that morning was the last time,” He wasn’t lying, and he hoped Claudette would take it at face value.

She seems to take a moment in order to process it, and to do the math. When she figures it out a frown pulls at her mouth, eyes shiny with unshed tears,

“It’s Thursday Michael. Are you telling me you haven’t taken any of your meds in two days?”

He nods his head, still tilted curiously, was she worried about him? Or just worried that he would lash out at her? The thought occurs to Michael that there was a possibility that Claudette was afraid of her; shower incident notwithstanding. She was right to be wary, to be on her guard, but he didn’t want her to be. He wanted her to be happy, at ease in his presence, to not have lines crease her expression whenever they interacted. It felt like a raw wound to be away from her, to know she was out there, somewhere he couldn’t see or touch her. And he’d thought that that feeling had been washed away when he finally saw her again, but it hadn’t. The scab on his heart hadn’t healed at all and seeing her so fearful, so upset, made that raw wound throb.

“I’m thinking better, I won’t hurt you, promise-” His hands shake just slightly – something he wasn’t used to at all. And they seem to move of their own accord, laying against her full cheeks.

She looks torn, like she wants to pull away, but she doesn’t. She stays still, lets him hold her face in his hands, lets his thumb caress the minuscule freckles and beauty marks that covered her. It’s therapeutic almost, Claudette’s skin was soft to the touch, like velvet, and her sighs and soft breathes calmed the swirling emotions that threatened to bubble over the surface. It felt nice to just be this close, normally when he’d touched women they were shrieking, and not in a good way. Claudette lays her hand against his wrist and his skin jumps at the contact, heat simmering in her touch,

“I know you’d never,” She sighs, eyes fluttering, the action magnified by the glasses she wore.

He wanted to kiss her, but not like before, softly, gently. Like how he’d always wanted to, light, exploratory, well at least part of him wanted to do. The other part of him, the deeper, darker part of his subconscious wanted more from her – he wanted her body again. That was an indelicate way of coming to the conclusion but it was the truth, in the shower he’d gotten the barest taste. A tease of skin beneath fabric, her nightgown was thin, gauzy almost, and he could tell she didn’t have a bra underneath it. He’d wanted to pull it off of her, tear it off if he had to, devour her.
But he swallows it down, like he’d always been taught, doing what his medication usually did.

Control him, control his urge, control the thrumming pulse that pounded in his chest whenever she touched him. Whenever her gentle hands were on him, whenever her eyes landed on his face. The tiny acknowledgement she’d given him was all he could think of, that she wasn’t afraid. Claudette Morel – fawnish and gentle with a heart like fresh powder snow – wasn’t afraid. He could hurt her if he wanted to, if he had terrible intentions like he usually did, but he wouldn’t and he didn’t.

All because she’d been kind.

Because she’d let her guard down physically, let him touch her intimately, and be willing, eager even, to return that affection in kind. Claudette had no idea what kind of feelings she set off in him, he didn’t even really understand them much himself either. Leaving them both in the dark, like they were now, sitting across from each other. Making silent eye contact while the clock ticked by like a metronome and Sundae weaved between their legs.

“You can stay for the night, I know you need your rest,” Claudette says, breaking the silence.

He nods, and she takes it as a cue to continue after a heavy, steadying breath that made her slim shoulders shudder,

“We can figure out what to do tomorrow, but for tonight, you can sleep here while I wash your clothes,”

Michael casts a glance over the living room, trying to think about the logistics of her offer. He wasn’t the picky type, considering he was used to sleeping on a metal bunk at night, and more recently sleeping rough in the wilderness. But if he were honest he’d want nothing more than to curl up in Claudette’s giant bed, a bed much too big for her - at least in his opinion. And she seems to pick up on his line of thinking, judging by the sweat that trickled from under the band of her bonnet.

“I’m still cold, is it okay to sleep in the bed?”

* * *

Claudette chokes down a sip of water, nearly spitting it back in response to Michael’s question. It was innocent on the surface, he needed somewhere to sleep, somewhere warm and safe enough that he could actually rest. So it was naturally he’d ask about the only bed in the house, at least the only bed that he knew of, the king size mattress that Claudette kept in her bedroom. It had been so long since she’d had someone else sleeping in her bed that there was a depression on one side, molded to the shape of how her body laid while sleeping. It should’ve been a little sad, embarrassing even, but Claudette had long grown used to and comfortable with singlehood.

It wasn’t that she was lonely, or didn’t desire romantic companionship, it was just that she was too busy. Too wrapped up in her work or studies to fully dip her toes into a dedicated relationship. Michael wasn’t the first man she’d had feelings for, or the first man she’d had a physical relationship with, but he wasn’t like the others. There was a strangeness to him that the other men she’d encountered couldn't hope to match. He was an anomaly, a deviation in the carefully planned and curated existence that she’d carved out for herself in this little hamlet. She couldn’t help her attraction to him, or the deep desire to protect and care for him that was threatening to consume her, stripping her bare of any reasonable thought.

Michael, the anomaly, the stranger who she’d crossed paths with by complete chance and become tied to, looked so vulnerable across from her. His face is shy, stricken and pale as he rubs the back of his hands, itching them like they were dirty. To soothe his worry she reaches across the table, lets her hands trace over the prominent bones of his knuckles and fingers. He flinches, but doesn’t pull away, though a quiver still ran through him as she kept up touching him.
It must’ve been hard for him to keep from touching her back, seeing as his forearms tensed and flexed with each breath he drew in,

“You can sleep in the bed, I know it must be cold,” She admits, keeping her voice soft and leveled

He lights up, tilting his head and tipping his chin up curiously, as if to ask, “Really?”

“It’s more than big enough for the two of us,” Trying to hide the giddy edge to her voice she continues, “ The only thing is that I think it would be good to get you ready for bed,”

Michael must’ve had a bedtime routine, or some type of evening routine, at the hospital. So it wouldn’t have been foreign for him, at least that she hoped not. He probably had evening medications, and a meal to go with them, and the wary look in his eyes confirmed that suspicion. He drew back from her, broad back straight and eyes shooting daggers at her.

“We’ve already bathed and had dinner already, and you’ve answered everything I wanted to know for now. So all that’s left is to do your hair so you can lay down comfortably, does that sound okay? No meds or tricks or anything.”

She felt the need to tack on the last part of her statement, to assure him that he was completely safe here. That there were no ulterior motives to her kindness, that it was genuine on the face of it. And while Michael’s face didn’t relax an inch his body loosened, shoulders dropping into a less alert position. Though his expression remained pinched, suspicious, he stands to his full height and Claudette takes to stroking his bicep to try and keep him calm,

“Does that sound good to you?” She asked, carefully watching his face for any sign of a change in temperament.

When he remained placid she hazarded touching him, lighting at the elbow and bicep like how they’d taught her in school. His skin seems to almost vibrate with how badly he shivers, possibly an effect of nervousness, or a lack of medication, and she does her best to try and soothe him. He allows her to lead him to the bedroom, making a quick stop at the sideboard where she’d left the hair ties and brush. With her supplies collected and Michael in tow Claudette makes her way into the master bedroom, where he’d made his presence known to her a few hours ago. He allowed himself to be sat on the bed, sitting in such a way that he was in the view of the large vanity mirror that was at the foot of her bed.

Claudette crawls onto the bed behind him, shuffling on her knees to click on the little lamp at her bedside so she could see better. Michael is busy staring at the little knick knacks lined up on her vanity when she turns back to them, examining each of them curiously. They weren’t heirlooms, or anything especially important, just cheap little trinkets that she’d picked up at the thrift store and flea markets. A tiny china shepherdess with an even tinier glass parasol, two precious memories figures of a bride and groom, and a felted rabbit with a velvet bow on one of its giant ears. But the way Michael looked at them, studying them, down to the details, made them seem much grander. And maybe they were in his eyes, maybe he assumed they were treasured possessions of hers, the thought was oddly heartwarming.

Smoothing her hands over his shoulders Claudette leans up on her haunches, she had to, given how huge Michael was even sitting down. It’s almost comical to see her head peeking out behind him in her mirror, her tiny hands dwarfed by the immense span of his body. But he sits for her, calm and with no resistance as she slowly brings the brush through his hair. Moving from the crown of his head to the ends of his hair in one fluid motion, surprised by the lack of tension or snags. She takes it slow, not wanting to rush it and wanting him to relax, to trust her. Once his hair falls in loose, soft waves down his back she knows that her work is almost done, at least the first half.

For the sake of comfort and just it being easier on her hands she decides on a braid. A simple three strand one against the bottom of his neck and back, so she starts by gathering his hair in a low ponytail. Tightening it with a rubber band she takes a second to tuck the little fly aways that had escaped her grasp, accidentally brushing the shell of Michael’s ear, causing a soft grunt to emanate from him. It’s a sound that takes her by surprise for a moment, a rumbling that piques her interest. Were Michael’s ears sensitive? Claudette can’t help the little mischievous grin that splits her face at the realization.

“Did your mom ever do this for you when you were a little boy Michael?” She asks, expecting a little embarrassment, but instead Michael looks away from her reflection in the mirror.

She rubs his back in soothing circles instead of talking more, knowing that the answer was most likely not a happy one. From what little she could glean from his file (what she was allowed to read at least) was that his home life hadn’t been a happy one, and that a series of “violent incidents” were the reason he was hospitalized. Early on in their interactions Claudette could tell that that past still lingered in him, that he’d yet to unlearn his survival instincts that used to keep his head above water. It was hard to see, to see someone fighting what had kept her safe for so long, even when it was something that wouldn’t actually help him in the long run. Part of her, the selfish, bleeding heart part of her, wonders if she was helping to unlearn those things.

Staying mum Claudette sets about fastening his low ponytail and separating his hair into three sections, the way that her grandmother often did when she was small. Granny had been gentle with her, carefully braiding and tucking hair so that it laid flat and neat against her scalp to be decorated with baubles and little butterfly clips. Michael probably wouldn’t have appreciated brightly colored plastic hair clips and elastics, so Claudette settles for thick black elastics instead. His thin hair flows like water through her fingers and she does her due diligence to braid it together tightly, all the way to the end wherein she finally tied off the braid. Letting it lay against the small of his back. Her hands linger on his shoulder blades, tracing the muscles there and the way they shift with his breathing.

She takes a moment to admire her handiwork, it had been a while since Claudette had braided someone else's hair, and it surprised her that it looked halfway decent. Michael’s hair looked longer like this and oddly enough it suited him,

“See? That wasn’t awful was it? I hope I didn’t tug on your hair too much,”

Michael quirks his head at her, making eye contact with her through the mirror. He shakes his head at her, examining himself in the mirror. It had to have been a long time since he’d had his hair up judging by his awed reaction. The thought was a little sad, was he not allowed hair ties in the hospital? Or had they just assumed he wouldn’t want his hair washed and combed. It turns Claudette’s stomach when her mind wanders to the idea of him being neglected like that. He touches his own hair experimentally, as if he isn’t used to it pulled back this way. If Claudette was honest he looked a little handsome like this. He had always had strong features and without them being hidden under one of his masks, or covered with his hair, they were allowed to shine.

She shifts herself, peeking at the dark silhouette of his profile, the strong shape of his nose and the outline of his jaw. A shape she’d craved to trace her fingers along for so long, to feel the prickle of the stubble that laid there, and the soft cushion of his lips. He turns his face her way, catching her off guard, along making her slip from her perch at his back. In a show of affection he nuzzles her, stubble lightly abrading her skin as he touches his cheek to hers. A laugh bubbles up in Claudette, one that’s unexpected and one she fails to contain,

“I’ll take that as a positive.”

Her voice is soft, lacking any impact as she lets her head lay against the curve of his neck, chin tucked against his shoulder. She squeezes him, arms coming around his front, when he doesn’t immediately pry her off she fully relaxes. Hands straying down his stomach, feeling him quiver under her touch. He was so close, so warm and solid that she wanted to just rub herself all over him at this point. It feels insane to want him so badly, but that longing never extinguished itself, never burned out. If anything it shimmered dangerously under the surface, just like Michael and his anger, and his impulses. She had impulses too, and while she was “better” at controlling them everyone had their breaking point, and she was at it.

One of Michael’s big hands covers her own, the one over his stomach, squeezing her by the wrist.

“Do you want me to stop?” She whispers, deathly quiet.

He shakes his head, guiding her hand down, down between his thighs, heat pulsing against her palm. “Oh my god oh my god” she repeats like a mantra in her head. It felt too soon to be doing this, but she couldn’t pull her hand away. The feeling wasn’t one of powerlessness, but of a deep desire, something that Michael always seemed to raise in her, just like how he raised goosebumps all along her arms when he touched her. It tingles in her lower stomach, warm and swarming before leaking into her limbs, all the way down to her fidgeting digits. Her lips trace the shape of his cheek, peppering it with light, fleeting kisses. Michael allows it, his eyes shut and a soft hum rumbling out of him, hands trailing up her forearms. They squeeze at her biceps, firm enough she couldn’t pull away from him – not that she wanted to – keeping her tight against him.

Gently Claudette strokes him through the thin fabric of his boxers, her other hand resting against the flexing surface of his abdomen. She keeps her touches light, not wanting to overwhelm him or take things too fast, though her lips more than make up for in their affections. Michael allows it, shivering and huffing while his head leans back, laying against the smaller shape of her shoulder. She guides him back onto the bed, and he follows without question, slowly leaning back into a lying position. Claudette narrowly avoids being crushed under his bulky body as he adjusts himself until the both of them are lying back comfortably against her pillows. He’s warm to the touch, though his nipples are tight under the fabric of the shirt she’d lent him.

“I can touch you again if you’d like, do you want me too-?,” She whispers into his ear, waiting for a beat to give him a chance to answer.

He does, nodding absentmindedly as his eyes are glued to her wandering hands. They trace over the shape of his torso, squeezing his pecs but not coming anywhere near covering the full surface of them. It produces a strangled gasp from Michael, voice shuddering and entire body trembling from just that. He must’ve still been sensitive, receptive and eager as her hands kept their course, molded to the flexing, shaking surface of his torso. Claudette pauses, stroking over the throbbing bulge between his thighs gently, almost teasingly. She doesn’t mean to, part of her hesitant to go further, but another part desperate to draw more sounds out of him. But before she can actually make up her mind there's a knock at the door.

* * *

At the sound Michael jerks out of her grasp, sitting up ramrod straight and swinging his legs over the side of the bed. Again the sound came, a little louder this time, and part of him wanted to go and investigate, even if it would blow his cover. He goes to move toward the door, only to have Claudette scramble to her feet and stop him. In her urgency she even knocks over the lamp at her bedside, the clatter making the knocking pick up fervently. Her name is faintly called, the tone of the voice alarmed, and definitively male. She calls back to it, trying to keep her voice level as her hands leave crescent shaped imprints on Michael’s forearms. There was no way she could actually hold him back, he had more than a foot of height on her and about a hundred more pounds to throw around, but he acquesies.

“I’ll be there in just a sec I’m okay-!” The forced cheer in her voice makes him morbidly curious.

Was she worried he would attack her neighbor? Hold her hostage? The first option held a glint of appeal to him. Though he realizes that that wouldn’t make Claudette happy at all, it would make her afraid of him – and he hated that. Normally Michael quite enjoyed the fear he brought to his victims, savored their despeation and terror, but with Claudette it did the opposite. It left a sick pit in his stomach that swallowed up whatever fleeting excitement he felt.

Her eyes tell him everything he has to know as she reluctantly separates from him.

“Behave yourself, please.”

With a light gait she trots to the door and he follows after her, keeping himself at a distance that would make it easy to hide if the need arose. A strange thrill overtook Michael as he watched Claudette work on undoing the locks on the door, her body pressing against the door, the tiny bit of an arch in her posture. When she leans up to get the last deadbolt off the tiniest hint of her underwear peeks from beneath the hem of her shirt, causing his breath the hitch in his throat. He’d seen her naked before, bare and lovely and soft, and been inside of the velvet heat of her body, but oddly enough this seemed more erotic than either of those things.

The man at the door looks about the same age as her, though a bit taller, his pale face looking tired and a little confused even. He raises his chin, his eyes half glazed with traces of sleep,

“Claudette? –” He paused to yawn, “Was that you making all that noise outside?”

She lets out a nervous little laugh, clutching the door frame and angling herself so the man couldn’t see over her shoulder. Michael makes sure to slide himself into a blindspot right behind her, hiding outside of the gap the open door provided. He was close enough now that he could smell her, and even see the faint tremble in her bare legs as she stared down her neighbor,

“Oh- no it was just Sundae hanging around, I let him in after he was scratching the window,”

The man narrowed his eyes, humming and rubbing his knuckles against the side of his face. He looked halfway between not believing her and not caring to know the truth. Michael creeps closer, until his hands are hovering over the small of her back, a possessive flame sputtering in his chest. He didn’t like the soft look on this stranger’s face, a deep urge compelling him to make it clear that Claudette was his. As long as he didn’t kill anyone he could hardly see a reason for her to get mad at him. Testing his theory Michael lets his hands, in their bear-like broadness, rest on the swell of her hips, his own angling against her back. Instantly she stiffens, a startled breath leaving her lips, one of her hands shooting back to grope for his arm.

“You sure you're alright?”

Claudette grits out a reply through her teeth, “Of course Jake, don’t worry about me ok- ay?”

Unfettered Micheal pulls her body tight to his, savoring the tingle that ripples across her skin. She’s warm and vital, squirming in his grasp as her hammering pulse mixes with his own. Carefully and with a degree of delicacy he rarely employed, Michael slowly moved his hips against her, pumping softly against the subtle dip of where her back curved down to her ass. The contact shot hot sparks of pleasure through him, she let out a startled yelp. Pinning her fully against the door Michael let his hands wander, smoothing down over her breasts, her stomach, finally ending on her crotch.

Her hand shoots down to try and stop him, fingernails digging into the flesh of his wrist while she hurriedly attempts to explain away her outburst. Lying about stubbing her toe while Michael’s hands continued to grope at her curiously, fingers sinking easily into supple flesh and tugging up the hem of her top. She keeps her hand on his wrist, not so much pulling him away or communicating her displeasure, more so keeping him still so he couldn’t do more. He concedes, pushing the flat of his hand against her lower stomach, against the hem of her underwear. Her body is shivering from head to toe, and when he tucks his head against the seam of her neck he feels her pulse jumping in response. The reaction it provokes in him is borderline violent, the way he wants to squeeze her and keep her for his own is something that he wasn’t used to.

This urge, it wasn’t violent, wasn’t the same as his desire to inflict pain, but it nagged him all the same. The feeling was possessive, wanting to keep Claudette close to him all the time, wanting to smell her, see her, touch and feel her. Even if it wasn’t realistic Michael didn’t particularly care, he just wanted her, all of her, even if someone was watching. The idea of this man, a stranger to him watching him stake his claim on her made a strange curl of excitement light in his stomach. He’d love it, relish the idea of it, though it was slightly dampened by the reality that Claudette wouldn’t like it at all, and he didn’t want to upset her.

He isn’t listening to the tail end of their conversation but eventually the strange man bids Claudette goodnight, though through the crack in the door Michael knows that he saw him. Even going so far as to lock eyes with him accidentally, but the moment falls flat and Michael delights in the split second of surprise that flashes across his face. He’d gotten off easy this time, if Claudette hadn’t been there between them then maybe things would’ve been different.

Much different.

But now he was presented with the perfect opportunity, as soon as the door clicks shut - the man’s footsteps slowly disappearing - he presses her against the door. Hard enough that she stumbles and cries out sharply, twisting her body around and fixing him with a scrunched up, stony glare. It’s enough to get his heart rate going, especially when she very matter-of-factly smacks his hands away from where he’d been groping her,

“I thought I told you to behave yourself?” she hisses , chewing on her lip.

“I didn’t kill him, is that not enough?”

“No it’s not Michael- and he’s my neighbor! You aren’t allowed to hurt anyone in this building, okay?”

He looks down at her, chest heaving deeply as he processes her hoarse whisper. It was the first time she’d really talked back to him, put her foot down. And though she was shaking in every limb he knew she meant what she said. One phone call was all it would take to have a team of SWAT cops busting her door off the hinges and hauling him away. So for now he concedes again, and decides playing nice is what would make her happiest. The moment stills into awkward silence, Claudette leaning her head back against the door, arms crossed over her chest as she took deep, steadying breaths. Michael leaned his weight against the solid wood, splaying out his palms to metaphorically keep her pinned. He studies the subtle contours of her face, the curve of her cheek and brow, the bridge of her nose, the soft shape of her lips.

Her breath is soft against his chin when he slowly crowds her in, scooping her up in his arms to hold against his chest. She doesn’t struggle but her eyes are squeezed shut, and he takes the opportunity to lay a feather light kiss against her lips. His hand cups her by the jaw to keep her still while he deepens the kiss, though Claudette makes no move to struggle or push away. She accepted his tongue into her mouth like it was second nature, body feeling soft and fragile underneath him. That urge is hammering in his chest now, she was his.

His.

His.

His.

* * *

Her heart is still pounding from when Michael had been touching her. The sensation heightened by the taboo of the situation she’d found herself in. Jake was none the wiser (or at least she hoped he was - she couldn’t handle the embarrassment if he wasn’t) and strangely enough she enjoyed that aspect of what had happened. It was thrilling, strange, kept her on her toes – just like anything else to do with Michael. He seemed to have an uncanny ability to always keep her curious and guessing, and for that she was grateful, she’d had far too little of that in her life.

But to keep her head about her she scolds him instead, trying to keep her voice level and not hesitating to smack his big hands away. He looks nonplussed by the attempt at discipline but her heart was seizing in alarm. She had very rarely talked back to someone before, and none of the people she’d given lip to had been even the tiniest bit as intimidating as Michael. So even though she was shaking she felt the tiniest spark of pride at standing up to him. Even if her grand protest melted as soon as he kissed her. She doesn’t resent it, although her eyes scrunch closed in reflex and a tiny shock runs through her when the heavy seat of his palm grasps her narrow jaw.

After a few breathless minutes he releases her, pinning her in place with a glare that could melt ice. Claudette bites the inside of her lower lip, trying to keep her excitement from showing through the thin veneer she put up. She manages a pout, though it’s half hearted, and pokes him in the center of his chest. He flinches and grabs her hand, it isn't a tight grip, his thumb lazily stroking the lines of where her palm and wrist met (a new habit of his). After a few seconds of just watching his fingers move she finally speaks up,

“You could’ve blown your cover really easily just then, doing something stupid like that.”

He exhales, almost childishly, releasing her hand so he could respond,

“I didn’t like that there was a man talking to you - he was too friendly-”

She almost laughs, but manages to temper the urge, knowing that Michael wasn’t always the best at decoding body language and not wanting to take chances. According to his file Michael had the tendency to become fixated on people and ideas, and she was sure that he’d picked her as his new mark long ago. Whether that was a positive or negative thing was something that she was still figuring out, something that she pushed aside to try and navigate the current situation instead. Because having to process it was a little too much for her mixed up, lust-tainted mind.

“Jake is like my big brother,” She supplies, massaging her temples and trying to keep the ache out of her loins, which was so far unsuccessful, “We aren’t…he isn’t- he’s into guys,”

That takes Michael by surprise slightly, and his wide-eyed, inquisitive expression is enough that Claudette can’t stem the giggles that flow forth. She tries, vainly, to not laugh but it doesn’t work and she ends up hiding her face in her hands. Michael grunts, pinching her cheek and nuzzling his bony chin into the crown of her head, an action that brings them even closer. So close that when Claudette’s laughter trails off and she opens her eyes she’s met with the sight of his shoulder and neck. At this distance his body heat is seeping into her skin, the scent of him filling her nose. He didn’t smell half bad, mostly just like the castile soap she’d used on him with a hint of musk that was to be expected. It’s comforting, grounding, and Claudette finds herself nuzzling against him, arms looping under his and around his back.

Though her fingers barely touch she squeezes him with all her might, sighing and taking deep, steadying breaths. He doesn’t flinch, which surprises her. Michael was not the type to trust easily, so to have him be so openly vulnerable made her feel special. Even if she would never admit it before, in fear that it would raise suspicions among his care team about their relationship. But in the safety of her home Claudette knew that she could indulge that feeling without shame – a rarity .

“Do you want to go lay down-?” She asks after a beat, breaking the tentative silence.

Michael’s head drops to her ear, nuzzling her cheek and nodding, almost cat-like in his expression of affection. His lips fall to her jaw, a hint of hot breath whispering a wordless promise against her skin, sending shivers down her body. He takes his time kissing along her jawbone, unexpectedly tender as he rounds the curve to place his lips over hers again.

“Okay-” Comes her reply, barely above a whisper as her eyelashes shadowed themselves against her cheeks, “We can go and lay down.”

* * *
Carefully Claudette untangles herself from him, sliding out of his arms and turning on her heel to face him. Her expression is unreadable, and though he wasn’t touching her it was as if heat radiated off of her. There’s a barely noticeable tremble in her limbs as he steps forward, leaving a foot of space between them, still even with the buffer she shudders audibly. Her voice trembling when she propositions him again,

“Come on-”

Her hand is clammy and feels tiny in his own, but the way she was pulling him along felt like she had a leash on him. He follows obediently, though she does pause a few times to peek back over her shoulder at him. There’s a slight, barely noticeable tremor that plagues her when they finally reach their destination, her sweaty fingers squirming excitedly against his palm. To try and dissuade the tension she quickly excuses herself, clicking off the tableside light and fumbling around for a few seconds until a string of christmas lights that he hadn’t noticed before lights up above the bed. The warm white light completely changed the atmosphere of the room, and in the darker, more intimate space Claudette seemed more at ease.

She sits on her bed, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in the bedspread, silently inviting him to sit. He does, his knee pressing against her smaller one, her skin feeling velvet soft and hot to the touch. Subtly she jumps, her hands back in her lap and face turned just slightly to face him, her eyes don’t meet his own for a long moment, and it almost looks like she had to swallow down her nervousness to do it. And when she does they’re shy and dark, long lashes framing her gaze and she not so subtly stares at his lips. His hands find her soon enough, fingers hooking into the soft, giving flesh of her thighs, rubbing rough palms over them until gooseflesh raised in his wake. Michael found the texture appealing strangely enough, a nice contrast to her usual softness that he associated her with.

Claudette guides him down by his neck, until they’re sharing breath and touching foreheads, the timidity of her voice makes his stomach throb,

“Can I kiss you again?”

Enthusiastically Michael nods without even considering it, nuzzling his nose and lips against the corner of her mouth to encourage her to reciprocate. She does so hesitantly, though he can tell how excited she is by the way her hot breath stutters before sealing her lips over his. He liked kissing her, liked tasting her and feeling the waves of emotion that washed over her every time they did it. Sometimes he was rougher with her, like he’d been before, but this time he actually preferred this softer sort of kissing. All too quickly though she breaks apart from him, pressing her fingers over his mouth that was still trying to nuzzle over her pulse point. He shakes his head against her hand, trying to show his displeasure.

But whatever annoyance he’d felt melts away when she reaches for the hem of her oversized shirt, hooking her hands under the fabric. Michael watches with bated breath as she pulls the shirt over her head, laying back onto the bedspread as she did so until she was laying flat and bare. Shakily he lets his hand glide over the downy peach fuzz that covered her skin, feeling as goosebumps raised in his wake. His lips follow, tasting the salt of her sweat and feeling how her heart sent blood thrumming under the surface. Claudette’s fingers stroked their way over his scalp, down his neck and over the span of his hunched shoulders, trembling as she did so.

Her voice was soft and breathy around his name, almost pleading as his tongue laved its way between her breasts. Her pulse was throbbing so hard that Michael swore he could see it jumping in her neck, a fact that made heat shoot down to the depths of his gut. She wasn’t afraid, but the idea of her so excited that her body was quivering at the touch of his hands was always something to savor. There were so many things about her to enjoy, her laugh, her smile, the shine of her hair and bright eyes – the sound of her moan when he’d pressed himself inside of her. He loved all of it, drank from her like he was a man on the verge of dessication, and now was no different.

Hooking his hand into the crest of her hip he maneuvers her beneath him, careful to not crush her beneath his weight. Just pressing enough that her thighs were pulled apart, exposing the heat of her arousal that throbbed against him in time with her heart. It falls into sync with the feverish rhythm of his own heart as his mouth crawls up her neck. Hungry for the taste of her skin and the soft noises that bubbled up out of her. Her hands dig into his shoulders, twisting desperately and gripping so tightly that Michael could feel her nails poking through the borrowed shirt he wore.

“God – please-” she hisses, “Please Michael-” voice coming out in soft, urgent pants.

He heeds the begging, pulling the both of them up further on the bed until they were lying side to side at the head of it. The posture gave her more room and she took great, shuddering breaths as Michael took to nipping and marking the skin from her jaw to the tops of her breasts, fondling the soft flesh in large, rough hands. His grip on her was clumsy and eager, slipping down the soft dip of her waist to grope at the curve of her ass in a way that made her squeal. She was so soft, so reactive and hot to the touch that he almost felt overwhelmed by it, by the layers of sensation and scent and sound of her.

Groping his way back up to her hip Michael tugged down one side of her underwear, fingertips soothing over the divot where the elastic had bitten into her skin. Her whole body trembled as she kicked her underwear down her legs, and she didn’t stop him when his big hand shot down between her legs to cup her in his palm. She sighed, nuzzling kisses into the side of his face as he pressed his fingers against the wet heat of her bare pussy. It was heavenly, and he didn’t resist the urge to slip her a kiss, catching her by the scruff of her neck to hold her better as he hiked her leg up over his own hip. Her teeth graze his bottom lip, and then along his jaw as she squirms her hand between the two of them. Pulling and tugging at the elastic of his boxers until she could wrap her hand around him, stroking him with a feverish pace that matched their mutual excitement.

The only noise that Claudette could perceive at this point was the mingling of her hammering heart and the sound of Michael’s soft snarls and grunts. He was so close, so warm and palpable that it made her heart swell in her throat. She missed this, as much as she hated to admit it, as wrong as it was to miss it. But that was the truth, that she’d longed to feel the steady marching beat of his heartbeat, the prickle of his calloused hands, and the iron-laced taste of his lips on hers. If she were in her right mind she would stop him, in her rational, upstanding citizen, “do the right thing” mind, but she wasn’t. Right now she wasn’t Claudette Morel the mandated reporter, or the occupational therapist, she was just a woman, and Michael was just a man. There was a purity to their togetherness, something that she hadn’t felt in a long time, as absurd as it was.

His body is furnace-hot against her, radiating like he was melting in her hands, as if steam would rise from his skin if she were to run her nails across him. The tight muscles of his abdomen are tense, obviously holding back as she’d slowed the pace of her stroking. Focusing on long, slow strokes that ended in her teasing her thumb against his head, dragging precum down his length in languid pulls. He twists and chuffs dangerously in her ear, but she doesn’t bristle, simply kisses along his hairline and coes gently to him. She bats away the hand that had been stroking between her thighs, repositioning it to rest on her hip as she propped herself open. That certainly got his attention, because suddenly his icy eyes were honed in between the two of them and she could feel his gaze on her. Normally it would feel intimidating, but right now it was exhilarating.

Guiding his cock against her pussy Claudette took a deep breath before teasing the head of him between her folds. The hand on her hip tightens, trying to wiggle her and readjust her but she resisted, instead dragging herself against him until his cock was flat against her. His heartbeat throbbed in time with her own between her legs and the mix of their fluid made lewd, wet sounds that mingled with the soft sounds of her breathing. Michael repositions her legs, pressing her thighs tight together so that he could fuck himself between them, practically bouncing her as he did so. A laugh bubbles up in Claudette’s throat, though it fades in a moan when the pressure of her thighs together, in combination with Michael’s rough movement, puts a delicious amount of friction on her clit. It was bordering on overstimulating and she clung to that edge for dear life.

Michael’s pace hitches, until eventually he stops entirely, stilling with his cock pressed against her stomach, throbbing and leaking precum against her skin. He was breathing hard, and Claudette could feel his heart skipping under her fingers. It takes him a few moments to calm down, letting the deathgrip that he had had on her leg slacken so that she could move. She wiggles in his grip a little, angling her hips so that his cock could finally, finally slip inside. Her nails dig into the back of Michael’s neck, much like he grabbed her before but he doesn’t bristle or pull away.

His neck is victim to more marking as her teeth fell to taste his flesh, nipping and kissing, hoping to leave his mark on him. There’s no resistance from him, he only urges her on, angling her hips so that he could counterpush against the thrust of her own hips. He catches her sweet spot and her toes tingle with the burst of sensitivity, his hot mouth sealing over hers. Her fingers grasp for the stray hairs at the nape of his neck, victim to her grip from where they’d fallen loose from his braid. The tug on his hair prompted an equally rough response from him, teeth sinking in over her pulse point, sucking until it throbbed with her pulse under his tongue.

Despite the somewhat awkward tangle of their bodies Michael was not lacking in enthusiasm or in stamina, and soon enough Claudette’s whole body was jolting with his thrusts. It was always dizzying, to be at the mercy of Michael’s strength, and it excited her to no end. To know, deeply, intimately, that he held back for her, that little old her held him at bay, was exhilarating. And privately Claudette revels in it, throws her head back and half-moans, half-laughs as Michael continues to sink himself into her. She wouldn’t last if he kept up this pace, even if it was almost bruising. No doubt there’d be evidence of their joining in the morning and she loved the realization.

Michael cums before her, yelping and gasping in that strange, rattling way he did when he was surprised. And it surprises her too, enough that the teetering edge that she’d clung to in hopes to prolong her enjoyment crumbles at the look on Michael’s face. His expression is drawn and flushed, and his breath came out in shuddering puffs of hot air against her face, the ticklish sensation made her laugh. She was still oversensitive, so that when he shifted within her a soft hiss arose before he settled again, his eyes shiny with moisture. His lips brushed over the bruises that he’d laid over her skin, apologetic almost, nosing his way under her chin to rub his prickly stubble against her.

It’s all too easy for her to start dozing off like this, even with her sticky, syrupy skin and the heat that radiates off the both of them. Even if she shouldn’t have done it she lets it happen, savors the weight of his body against him and the beating of his heart. For now at least Michael was safe with her, and she enjoys the reality of that, the tangibility of him in her arms.

And for right now, that was enough.