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jee-bus · 2 years ago

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Dirty Little Secrets

Night One

Numb. That’s the best way Harrison could describe how he felt. He should be feeling immense fear, sadness, maybe regret. But all he could muster was numb. Death row had its cold bony hands on him, and in seven days time he would be seated in the electric chair, for a crime that he himself didn't even commit. His jury had decided his innocence was false, and now he was going to die for it.

So there he was, sitting in his small solitary cell, alone with the quiet and his own thoughts. Currently he could find nothing better to do than to count the stars he could see from the small rectangular window he had. An exhausted sigh fell from his lips.

"You too, huh?" a voice said, startling Harrison.

"P..pardon?" He choked out, not quite sure on what to say. The voice ignored him and kept talking.

"Death rows a bitch, wouldn't ya' say? Locking us in these small cells, treating us like animals." the mysterious voice said, clearly annoyed.

"W…well...uhm what are you in for?" Harrison started, not sure why he was even conversing with this voice anyways. Again, the voice didn't respond, instead opting to dodge the question.

"Like it matters. Soon I'll be six feet under. What about you?" the voice asked, suddenly curious about Harrisons, soon to be ended, life.

"Murder. I didn't do it though." Harrison said quickly before adding, "My name is Harrison, by the way." It seemed strange, to Harrison, to continue exchanging morbid pleasantries with someone if he didn't even know the other's name.

"Murder, huh? Pretty steep charge, and you say you didn't do it. How'd you get stuck with that one, eh?" the nameless voice asked him. Harrison thought about the question, it's one that he often pondered himself. He thought any jury would be able to see that he clearly didn't do it, that there was no chance in hell that he stabbed his wife. But then they came back the next day and told the whole courtroom their final verdict. Guilty. He swore that in the moment his heart skipped about five beats.

"Jury convicted me. Apparently the prosecution put up a damn good argument, and now I'm an innocent man picking up the check while the real criminal gets away with it." Harrison said bitterly. His heart ached for his life before this. He wanted to go home to his wife, but she wouldn't be around.

"...So when are you set to die?" The voice questioned.

"A week from now." Harrison told the other man. He wasn't sure why he was still participating in this conversation. Maybe to distract himself from his impending death, maybe to get his mind off of his wife, Vanessa. Whatever it was, it's working.

“They really wanted you dead as fast as possible, ey? I have some time, not much, but it’s valuable nonetheless.” Harrison got the inexplicable feeling that this voice belonged to someone he knew, as impossible as that may be. The way the other man casually teased him and confessed, albeit mysteriously, his own sins was familiar somehow.

“I didn’t do it. I would never, I mean. We were perfect together- happy. Our life together was just getting started, nothing could ruin it, nothing.” Harrison didn’t understand how he could’ve ended up here. He and Vanessa were about to start a family, finally settle down and live like the perfect families in movies did.

“I didn’t say ya did Harry. Your life isn’t for me to debate. Whatever you did, crime or not, y̶o̶u̸’̴l̸l̵ ̶g̵e̴t̸ ̴w̶h̸a̴t̵ ̵y̸o̵u̵ ̸d̸e̵s̷e̷r̶v̴e̸.̷ ̴E̵v̵e̷r̸y̶o̴n̵e̷ ̷a̶l̸w̵a̴y̵s̸ ̵d̵o̴e̸s̴.̶”

“What? What the hell are you talking about? What are you insinuating sir?! Answer me!” But the voice stopped responding, and Harrison was left in the dark with his thoughts once more.

Night Two

Death row inmates only get a very limited amount of yard time, and they have to wear shackles during it. With the exception of the shower, Harrison had to wear shackles everywhere that wasn’t his cell, (but even then the supervision felt like twenty security cameras pointing directly at him. He could barely wash his hair without a guard thinking he’s going to snap.) and he was tired of it.

Harrison was a good man. Sure he’s made his mistakes, but who hasn’t? What person hasn’t gotten mad at their (l̷̩̐y̴̟͠ī̴̬n̸͌ͅg̷̠͂ ̵̘̌) wife over something miniscule? He didn’t kill his wife, he didn't do what the jury said he did. He just-

“Yeesh buddy, I can hear you mumbling. Calm down.” There it was, the cryptic voice belonging to the mysterious person. Harrison had spent his time out of the cell listening intently to every voice he heard, hoping to find a matching face. But he didn’t have any luck, they must be on different inmate schedules or something.

“Sorry, I just can’t believe that I’m here. I don’t deserve this.”

“y̸o̵u̴'̴r̴e̴ ̵g̵u̷i̴l̷t̵y̴ ̶H̵a̴r̴r̸y̴ ̴a̸n̸d̸ ̵y̸o̶u̶ ̶k̷n̸o̴w̴ ̸i̶t̵”

“What was that?” The hair on the back of Harrisons neck stood up, he felt a dread fill him- even if it was just for a second.

“I said, no one here thinks they deserve what’s happening to them. Some of the schmucks think they’re god incarnate and that what they did was justified, some are narcissists and don’t believe they were given a fair trial, and a small percentage of them are truly innocent.”

“Like me, I honestly do not belong here.”

“Right.” Something in his neighbor's voice made Harrison feel naked. Like this person could see into his very soul and pull out the most wretched things known to man. The voice was like dark black ink that overtook the clearest waters, turning them into small pieces of the midnight sky.

He wanted to keep this voice talking, “Are you ever going to tell me your name? I told you mine.”

“[y̸̟͗o̸͎̓ủ̸̮ ̵̣͝k̴̺͂n̵͓͝ȯ̸̩ẅ̵̞́ ̴͎͒m̸̌͜y̵͇͗ ̵̳̓n̷̲͌ȧ̸͕m̶̡̚ȇ̶̯]” The voice gave him an answer, but far from anything Harrison could’ve wanted.

“I don’t, I swear I don’t. But whatever, it’s not like it’ll be worth anything to me in a few days.” Harrison felt cold, like he ran through ice water. He tried to stay as still as possible, for fear that his neighbor could somehow see him. See his thoughts. See who he really was.

“You think you know someone," the voice began, "even if you yourself does a bad thing there's always someone you thought you could trust. They might be mad at you but they would never hurt you or anything. But then you let your guard down and suddenly… y̸̮͝ō̴̜u̷̧̓ ̵͚̇h̵̢̄a̸̳͆ṽ̸͎e̷̪͛ ̶͎͆a̸͚̽ ̴̲̇k̸̥̚ṇ̷̀ī̵̮f̷̙̋e̵̊͜ ̵̟̕i̴͋͜n̵̰̎ ̷͖̈́y̷̤͆o̴̐͜ŭ̵͍r̴͜͠ ̶̳̋b̴̅͜a̵̭͠c̴̤̿ḳ̵͊.”

It was silent. Everything was quiet. But from down the halls, if someone were to listen closely, they may be able to hear the terrified sobs of a broken man.

Night Three

Harrison didn’t leave his cell. He remained in his morbid solitude, too scared to move. His conversation with an ambiguous voice left him more terrified than when he got his death sentence. It spoke like an old friend would, but with a slight edge in its voice that said it had an axe to grind. Needless to say, Harrison didn’t want to risk running into the voice's owner.

It was an hour or so until dusk. There was still sunlight bleeding through the small rectangular window, it filled Harrison with a sense of relief he still had time [B̴̡̔e̸͔͝f̵̼̿o̵̤̍ṛ̴̿e̶̜͐ ̵̳̎ť̶͕h̶͔͒e̵̼͌ ̶̪̂v̷̯͋ơ̴̞i̷̹̕c̴̭̕ĕ̷͎ ̷͈̽w̴̝̎o̶͔̍ṷ̶͝l̷̮̑ḓ̶͆ ̶̞̏c̸͕̑ō̴̪n̸̺͝f̶͖̎e̷̺͊s̶̩̓s̷̞͛ ̸͇̑ḩ̸̽i̷͙̚š̶̠ ̷̫̂s̴͕̕í̸ͅn̷̰̿s̶̳̔ ̷̰̇] before the voice would inevitably make first contact.

His back was leaning against the cold, rough cinder block wall; in his hands was a copy of Crime and Punishment, a book that was delivered to his cell around lunch time. He thought the idea of ‘Crime’ and ‘Punishment’ was fitting to his own situation involving the two.

“Harry. Are you there?”

His blood ran cold. Why is this voice speaking to him now? It’s not dark yet, he still had an hour or so. Why- why now?

Trying to stay silent, Harrison didn’t move a muscle. He didn’t want to talk. Not now, and in an ideal world- not ever.

“[Y̷̘͂ȍ̸̜u̶̞͆ ̵͈̃ç̷̒a̷̮͒n̴̹͋'̴̓ͅt̷̰͛ ̶̫̅h̴̪̍ḯ̶͕ḏ̶̀e̸͚͐ ̴͖̉H̵͈͛à̴̱ŕ̸͍ṟ̶̀y̵͔͝,̸̺͌ ̶̟͑I̵̫̍ ̶̤͠k̸͉̍n̶̐ͅo̵̪͘w̸͇̅ ̸͌͜w̶̺̎h̵͎́a̴̓ͅṯ̵̿ ̴̯̇y̷̱̓o̴̺͊u̷͍͋ ̵͇̍d̸͓́i̸̳͝d̵͚́.̸̛͓ ].”

What he did? Harrison didn’t do anything, and if he did surely his hand was forced! He’s an innocent man, he always has been. So why was he getting bombarded, harassed even, by this voice?

He heard a ripping sound. Looking down Harrison realized his knuckles were white and he had been gripping the book like his life depended on it, causing the page to rip. He was terrified, even though a thick wall of concrete separated the two, Harrison couldn’t escape the urge to curl under his blanket like a scared little kid.

“["̶T̸a̴l̸k̴ ̶t̸o̷ ̴m̴e̷ ̸H̸a̷r̴r̶y̵!̴ ̶Y̷o̷u̸ ̸c̷a̸n̴'̷t̴ ̸r̸u̶n̵ ̸f̵r̵o̷m̵ ̴m̶e̸ ̷f̵o̵r̴e̵v̴e̶r̸.̸ ̴Y̶O̷U̶ ̷C̸A̴N̵'̴T̴ ̸H̶I̷D̸E̷ ̶F̸R̷O̷M̴ ̵W̵H̷A̴T̷ ̴Y̷O̷U̴ ̴D̷I̵D̸!̸"̴]” The voice was loud and distorted. Harrison could hear it coming from all directions. It felt like it was coming out of his own ears. Harrison swore he could feel his head splitting in half from the sound alone. He curled the blanket around him tighter, all he could do was hide; clenching his eyes as tight as his brain would allow.

Harrison didn’t know how long he stayed that way, trying to block out the screaming; but soon his cell door opened and a guard tore the blanket from him, causing him to fall on the ground.

“What is going on in here!? This whole wing can hear you screaming bloody murder!” The guard, Konnors as his name tag read, stood above him with an angry look written on his face.

The guard has it all wrong, Harrison wasn’t the one screaming. He was trying to block it out. Slowly getting up, Harrison could feel the layer of sweat that covered his body. The more he calmed down, feeling safer in the presence of a guard, he could feel a slight pain in his throat. Had he really been screaming? Harrison could’ve sworn he was just trying to block it all out.

“Well? What in the hell were you doing?!” Konnors was clearly getting impatient by his lack of response, Harrison debated on telling him the real reason. Snitches don’t make it far in prison, and if he was the only one getting in trouble- clearly he was the only one they heard. Harrison also had a peculiar feeling that they wouldn’t believe him if he told the truth.

“N..night terror, sir. I’ve been getting them since I was a child.” Lying seemed like the only viable answer. So lie he did. Konnors didn’t look convinced, but was clearly exhausted and didn’t want to stay longer than he had too.

“Right. Well, try to keep it down.” and with that, the guard left the cell and locked Harrison back in.

After Harrison heard the footsteps drift down the hall, he turned around and started picking up his stuff. Trying to keep his mind off of what just happened, he buried himself in his blanket and shoved his face in the book.

Harrison read until his eyes couldn’t hold themselves open anymore. Soon he felt himself drifting off.

“[S̶̖̃w̶͇̏ē̵̼ë̴́͜t̷̲̄ ̴̛̗ḍ̶̓r̷̙̂e̷͚͠â̷͎m̸̨̐s̴͍̓.̶̟̃]”

Night Four

After last night Harrison decided that it was better to stay away from his cell as long as possible. He didn’t have permission to be in the library (part of him was okay with that, silence seems to draw out pain), so he spent his time in the yard. He was still shackled but that didn’t matter. Harrison wanted to enjoy the sun, soon it would go out for him forever.

When lunch rolled around Harrison was sitting by himself at a table in the middle of the cafeteria. There were guards stationed all around the room, which made Harrison feel safe. His horrifying neighbor couldn’t reach him without one of them seeing.

Today’s meal was a burger with broccoli and a pitiful excuse for mac’n’cheese. Not that the rest of the meal was any better, the meat was gray and the broccoli was still cold. But even poorly made food was better than being in his cell.

Keeping his eyes on his tray, Harrison started chewing his limp broccoli, and then took a swig of water to chase it down when he swallowed. When he was halfway through his dull burger, Harrison got the most peculiar feeling that someone was looking at him.

Looking up he saw a horrific scene. A man (about a foot taller than Harrisons five-eleven frame) with brown hair and dark knowing eyes was just standing in the middle of the room, about two tables away, just staring at him. The man was ghostly pale and his eyes were glazed over, like he would see the world through a blurred filter.

But what really made Harrisons blood go cold, was the red. There was so much red on the other man. The biggest spot was over his heart, then it traveled down- staining his clothes as it went. It was splattered on his face, it fell from his lips, there was red everywhere.

The man remained stoic, never blinking, never looking away, just…staring. Harrison could feel his heart rate pick up, his breathing quickened, his palms became slick with sweat. He wasn’t hungry anymore, he felt like throwing up. Harrison couldn’t be here. Not with this thing staring at him.

Why weren’t the guards doing anything? This man was bleeding, profusely bleeding, why wasn't anyone doing anything? Why wasn't anyone else even looking?!

Suddenly the man's mouth started moving. After a moment Harrison realized he was mouthing something to him. Was he asking for help? Mayhaps he was praying? Asking whatever god he believed in for mercy?

Trying to focus on the dying man's bleeding lips, Harrison felt the world around him go silent. No longer could he hear the grim conversations of his fellow inmates, nor could he hear the jingling of keys from the guards walking around. It was just Harrison and this bloody soul. Harrison could hear the way the blood made his lips stick together with every new word, the horrifying way his lungs never expelled or accepted air, how his teeth slightly clashed- Harrison could hear it all. And he hated it.

The mouthing became a chilling whisper, which soon became a talking voice, which evolved into yelling, that eventually morphed to screaming. Still- no one else reacted. The man wasn't saying anything, merely repeating one word. Over and over and over again. It was chilling.

["̶̬̆l̵̟͑i̵̞̓a̶͉̚r̶̘̕.̶̫̄ ̶̗̐l̸͕̊i̴͇͐a̶̛̠r̴̡̔.̷̟̅ ̷͔͗l̵͙͠ȉ̶͖a̸̺̕r̶͓̊.̷̮̏ ̴͖̐l̵͈͠ī̸͜a̴̛͕r̶̬̊.̴̩̓ ̶̛̖L̷̝̿i̴͕̓a̴̠̿r̷̫̾.̷̧͗ ̷̞͘L̶̰̓ì̷͙a̵̩͠r̴͕̉.̵̨̈́ ̴̺͆L̴̮̓i̵̦̾ä̴̢́r̵͔̈́.̵͓͂ ̸͕̔L̸̺͊i̵̲͗ą̸̇r̴͍͌.̷̤͌ ̴̱͘L̴͈̚I̶̥͂À̶̢Ṛ̶͋.̴͖͒ ̷̝́L̸̲͋Í̷̬À̸͍R̴̨̾.̴̻̚ ̸̺̇L̶̻̋Ḯ̸̜A̸͇̾R̵̖̈.̷̈͜ ̴̭̍L̴͇̾I̵͂ͅA̶̰͒R̷͇͋.̴͚̆ ̵̰̂L̸̜͠I̷̹̋A̸̓͜R̴̹͝.̴̬͘ ̵͓͒Ļ̷̃Ǐ̷͙Ǎ̸̳R̴̹̈́.̴͙̽"̴̗̈́ ]

It was the same horrifying voice as his neighbors. This must be him. This shell of a man must be the mysterious voice that had occupied such a large part of his brain. Harrison could feel his cheeks begin to wet, he could feel his body shake, he could feel his will to live dwindle out.

The bloody man began to make his way towards Harrison, leaving red footprints in his wake. He was still shouting, still no one else reacted. Why weren't they seeing this? How were they not seeing this? It felt like the only thing Harrison could keep his eyes on.

The man drew closer and yet, Harrison was frozen. He felt like a statue, paralyzed. He was less than a foot away, staring down at the crying man. Once he was finally at the table, he leaned down; making sure to get his face real close to Harrisons.

The smell of rotting flesh violated his senses. This man's skin was peeling, blood was everywhere, he looked like a corpse.

He was a corpse.

"What's the matter, Harry? You look like you've seen a ghost." And with a sickly grin the man reached up and gave Harrison a weak pat on the cheek.

The fear, the smell, the blood, everything was just too much. Harrison couldn't breathe, he couldn't move, and he didn't want to be here. Face to face with this thing, it made him feel everything from anger to sadness to regret. It was flooding his senses, his brain was going into hyperdrive trying to figure out how to react.

Harrisons ears started ringing, his eyes went blurry, his mouth was as dry as the Sahara. Looking up he saw the man looking at him with a twisted grin, there was blood on his teeth. He couldn't do this, Harrison could face this. He didn't want to face this.

That twisted grin was the last thing Harrison saw before his world went black.

Night Five

Harrison Gale sat in a courtroom. To the left was the prosecution table and the jury seats, to the right was a window showing the rainy weather. Behind him sat an audience and in front was the judge. The courtroom had emerald green carpeting and a white tile ceiling. The chairs, tables, stands, and doors were made out of a dark spruce.

Harrison had this courtroom memorized, he had spent so many hours in it. The jury was currently out, as they had been for almost three days, deciding the man's fate. Everyone in the courtroom was silently waiting, they were all eager. The gallery wanted to know if they should send old Mrs. Gale condolence cards, the prosecution wanted to know if they were able to prove their truth, and Harrison wanted to know how long the rest of his life would be.

When they heard the door click open, everyone was silent. You could hear a pin drop ten miles away. One by one the jury piled back into the room and took their seats. The judge sat up straighter, if that were possible.

"Your honor, we have reached a final verdict." The only standing juror, number three, was speaking directly to the judge.

"Mr. Gale has been accused of the stalking and murders of Vanessa and Joshua Higgins. Throughout the trial you have heard from different witnesses and have been walked through the evidence left at the crime scene, as well as evidence collected at Mr. Gales own home. Please face the defendant and deliver your final verdict." The judge spoke, her voice strong. The juror nodded and turned to the rest of the room.

"For the stalking and murders of Vanessa and Joshua Higgins the jury has unanimously decided that the defendant is guilty of all charges." Harrison felt his heart skip a few beats. But this nightmare wasn't over yet, "The jury has also unanimously decided that, as punishment for his horrific crimes, that the defendant receive the death penalty."

There it was. The final nail in the glass coffin.

Harrison could hear his mother wailing. He could hear Vanessa and Joshua's families having their own quiet celebration. He felt his lawyer pat him on the shoulder and get up as the judge confirmed his sentence with the sound of his gavel.

He could see his future go down the drain.

The sound of his mother's sobs followed him as the guards led him out of the courtroom that would send him to the last home he would ever have.

—

Harrison woke up in a cold sweat. It was dark outside, the clock above the door read ten-thirty pm. He must’ve passed out and stayed that way all of last night.

He seemed to be in the hospital ward, there was a shackle on his left wrist and leg keeping him attached to the bed. Not like he would run if he had the opportunity, who would he go home too? He couldn’t look into his families eyes after he got his sentence, he refused to see his mother when she visited. And she tried, she tried so hard.

Looking to the left, Harrison saw the table next to the bed had a brown paper bag. Grabbing it Harrison could smell that it was food; His mothers homemade chicken tenders, fries, mashed potatoes, and corn; he had a water bottle filled with her sweet tea with it as well.

It confused him at first, before the truth hit him like a knife to the heart like a baseball bat to the head. His final meal of choice. They were going to get him at midnight for his execution. These were his last hours alive.

He tried to cry, to scream, to lash out somehow. But all Harrison felt was numb, his mind preoccupied with his dream. It had been too real for it to be something his mind produced on its own. Part of him was confused, and another part knew what it meant. Harrison knew what it meant.

"I always have." Harrisons voice was rough, hoarse. Like he didn't believe what he was saying, he didn’t want to believe. Harrison wanted to ignore what this meant for him forever, but that wasn’t an option.

"Well, glad to see you've finally come to terms with the bloody truth."

Whipping his head in the direction the voice came from, Harrison saw the man from before sitting in a chair in the corner of his little hospital-prison room. The man wasn't completely covered in blood anymore, now there was just a stain on his shirt where his heart would be. Looking at his face, Harrison saw that his eyes were still blurred over, the man was still sickly pale but his skin didn't seem to be peeling either. He still looked dead, just more fresh than a corpse.

"Recognize me, Harry? You've got to by now, even someone as daft as you can't play pretend forever." The man's voice was laced with venom. He was angry, and looking at him Harrison could see why.

Harrison Gale was looking into the eyes of Joshua Higgins.

Night Six

"J…joshua." Harrison choked out. It was like the name itself was poison in Harrison's mouth.

"There ya go! I'm the man you stabbed."

"You're also the man that's been terrorizing me this past week!" Harrison spat.

Joshua ignored what Harrison had to say, "Eat. You don't have much time left, do you now?" but he did serve as a helpful reminder that in just a couple of hours, Harrisons life will end.

Quickly opening the bag, Harrison pulled out the chicken and sank his teeth into it. It was better than anything he's ever tasted. This meal was like a pure creation of god, made exactly for Harrison. A gift, from the heavens, for all the shit he's been through.

"It's funny, that you brought up me terrorizing you, when you remember that you stalked me and my wife for ages." That sentence brought Harrison back down from the cloud nine his meal put him on.

"What are you talking about? Vanessa was- is my wife. You attacked her- I…I- You killed her. I must've killed you in self defense, and then got charged with both." This didn't make sense, "and I never stalked anyone!"

"Oh come on Harry, you were doing so well! You can't honestly tell me you don't remember? No? Well, let me fill in the blanks. You had been stalking my wife for years, sending her love letters, snippets of your hair, jewelry, anything you thought would make her fall for you. Then me and Vanessa got married, and soon your love letters started including themes of marriage. You had convinced yourself you and Vanessa were lovers, when in actuality you were just some janitor at her workplace. You created a whole fantasy world where you and Vanessa had fallen in love, gotten married, were planning to have kids, the whole nine yards. You had written yourself as me in her life."

"No…no! I wouldn't- that's not how it went!"

Joshua paid no mind to Harrison, "You watched her for years, every movement, you knew her better than her own mother. Then you caught wind that me and Vanessa had started trying for a baby. Must've been what set you off because a week after we first started trying, you were breaking into my house and murdering me in my own bloody living room. Vanessa tried to run but you ran after her, screaming that if you can't have her no one can. You killed her in the nursery that she was designing."

"Vanessa- I loved her! I would never hurt her, I would- couldn't, ever hurt her." Harrison was sobbing now. He couldn't believe what he was hearing, it just couldn't be true!

Ignoring him, Joshua continued, "You, being too disgusted with what you had done, convinced yourself that you were Vanessa's husband. That you came home one day and she was dead. You convinced yourself that I never existed at all. A maniac is what you are."

Harrison felt sick, he was going to throw up. Leaning over the bedside he threw up the little bit of chicken he had eaten. When he lifted his head once more, Joshua was gone. Looking over, the clock read eleven o'clock. He only had an hour now. Glancing back, Harrison saw the rest of his food. If he was going out, he at least wanted his stomach to be full.

For the next hour Harrison cried and ate the last meal his mother would ever make for him.

Night Seven

When twelve eventually rolled around, Harrison heard a buzzer from the other side of his door. The guards were here. Harrison was about to walk towards his death.

The guard that opened his door was Konnors. He looked at Harrison and then his eyes drifted to the pool of vomit as his nose slightly crinkled. The other guard grabbed his keys and began to unlock the leg cuff while Konnors did his hand.

"Sorry about the smell. If it makes you feel better I won't do it again." A bad joke was all Harrison could think to do right now. He felt desperate for someone's sympathy.

Konnors let out a small chuckle, "I'll bet. C'mon, get up. We've got to take you down to the execution room."

They helped Harrison stand, he felt like his legs were going to crumble. The other guard, Johnson, put the shackles on his wrists; and with that the three men were off to the electric chair.

Harrison was sure he was shaking, step after step he felt like he would collapse. Konnors and Johnson led him down a couple of hallways, they were walking for a few minutes before arriving.

When Konnors opened the door Harrison saw the chair. It was wooden with leather straps and buckles to keep him in place. The chair was no doubt hollow so that wires could be run through it. There was a cushion where the back would go that probably had metal rods on the inside.

There was a rollable table next to the chair that had a hair clipper next to a black ribbon on it. The table also had a bowl with a sponge and some salty smelling liquid in it. After Harrison was sat down, Johnson started buckling him in while Konnors grabbed the clipper and went behind Harrison.

Moving Harrisons head back and turning the clippers on, Konnors started shaving. Harrison watched as clumps of his hair were thrown on the ground away from the chair. He felt a single tear roll down his cheek.

Soon, it was done and Harrisons head had a newfound coldness to it. Konnors put the clippers back on the table and grabbed the ribbon, which was actually a blindfold, and tied it around his head.

Without his sight, Harrison had to rely on his hearing to know what was going on. Johnson mumbled something about a witness to Konnors before walking off. A second later the salty smelling liquid was getting wiped on Harrisons head and neck. It was cold, and soon it was all Harrison could smell. It flooded his senses, it smelled like he was sitting in a hospital. He hated that.

Soon Konnors was finished, the table was rolled away, and Harrison was alone in the room.

Or so he thought.

"Well, here we are." Joshua's voice filled Harrisons ears. It caused the dying man to jump a little. "It's been one hell of a ride. But I'm glad this is how it's going to end."

Harrison couldn't find it in him to respond.

"Your mom is here. Guess she's the witness." Of course she is, that must be why Johnson left. Mrs. Gale was always an emotional woman, probably needed someone to calm her down.

Still, Harrison stayed quiet. He didn’t want to talk, not when he was about to die in such a brutal manner.

"I wish you had died the same way Vanessa had. Felt the fear, the hopelessness. It's different when you're being murdered. You spend your last moments wondering what you did to deserve this, praying to whatever god there is for salvation, hoping you get lucky. I guess this is better than nothing. Are you scared Harry?"

Harrison thought, was he scared? No, not really. Actually, Harrison felt strangely calm. He could think of a myriad of reasons as to why he should be sobbing, praying, begging, whatever else. But, Harrison felt calm. He didn't know if he had just given up, or if this was actually how this situation made him feel, but either way he wasn't scared.

"They're about to turn the power on. I have something I want you to know, Harry." Harrison could practically feel the twisted, devilish grin that Joshua wore. Harrison felt Joshua move closer to his face. Joshua kept moving until his lips were right next to Harrisons ear. It took him a moment, but at last he spoke.

Joshua Higgins was the one who delivered the last words Harrison Gale had ever heard.

"I'll meet you in hell you fucking bastard."

#writing #no beta we die like men #creative writing #aspiring writer #thriller #horror #i found this in my drafts #it was an old school project #unedited #please be nice #spooky #halloween #ghost

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skeltnwrites · 9 months ago

Text

The Shape of Family ‧₊˚❀༉

As a single dad, Steve’s world revolves around school drop-offs, bedtime rituals, and tee-ball practices—and he's struggling to keep up. But you're always there, happily lending a hand when he needs it most. / part one masterlist

part two - at the rec center's fall festival, you and steve finally make plans to hang out 11k

a/n - how did this end up twice as long as the first chapter this was supposed to be a short one!! general warnings/tags here

── .✦

Utah’s pretty this time of year. Fall is in full swing. The maple and cottonwood mellow into rich shades of orange, there is a constant crush of leaves underfoot, and the crisp scent of pine needles mingle with the breeze. Your neighbors go all out to decorate. Pumpkins are for sale on every corner and the apple orchards buzz with families for the harvest. This kind of weather has every brush of sunlight feeling like a hug you didn’t know you needed.

The rec center hosts an annual fall festival, bringing hayrides, corn mazes, and costume contests. And though you wouldn’t normally volunteer on a Sunday, Steve’s hard to say no to. It’s not like he begged you or anything, a half-shrug and simple “If you want to” was enough convincing.

You’d volunteer with or without Steve. You have the time and the goodwill and thus it’s a cork on the end of your monotonous work-week. But there’s no denying that Steve makes it a hell of a lot more enjoyable. He’s the sunrise after a long night, guiding you into the days ahead. And yeah, maybe you’re romanticizing too much. Too caught up in the way his tongue sticks out when he’s concentrating or how he mumbles to himself when he forgets you’re near. But working with him is delightful, nonetheless.

You and Steve are friends now. Well, work friends. You’ve never actually hung out outside of the rec center but there isn’t a Friday that one of you doesn’t mention it while you eat lunch in his office. You’ve learned trivial little things about him, like his favorite brand of pen, the store he buys his groceries from, and how he likes his coffee– hot enough to burn, with as much sugar as he can get away with without attracting strange looks. You ask about Penelope often and he’s very open; eager to rant and rave about the latest details of their lives. She visits every now and then, usually too sick or naughty to be at school. So you’ve come to know her just as much. That she loves Barbies and Salt-N-Pepa and insects but not the furry ones.

Being in each other’s lives is routine at this point– parking beside his car, leaving sticky notes on his desk, setting your bag in his office. It would be crazy to say you love him, you don’t, obviously, but you feel like you could. And you know you’d be devastated if he left the center. Your shift assignments are arranged so they almost always thread with his.

He’s always hated asking for help, but then you came, puttering into his office with a lovely smile and open arms and suddenly it’s not so bad. He’ll ask for your assistance on more projects than not: your advice, your creative eye, your hands to hang something that he most certainly could do alone.

Like now, you trail only a few paces behind Steve, cradling a wicker basket full of decorations. He billows a tablecloth over the nearest picnic table, considering your dispute over the best holiday.

“I dunno, I’m more of a Christmas guy,” Steve shrugs, smoothing out a ripple in the fabric. “The music is just inarguably better. You get to open presents and eat delicious food. Not really a contest in my book.”

You hum, centering a plastic pumpkin.

“Penelope is like the queen of Halloween, though.” The corners of his eyes crinkle with mirth. “This morning, she told me she wished she was born on Halloween so she could go trick-or-treating on her birthday.”

You wear a similar expression, gaze flicking over to Penelope. She’s not far, crouched in a strip of dirt, parting a pile of leaves to search for ladybugs and other creatures. “I bet she’s excited for all that candy.”

“That’s all she’d eat if I let her. I’ve already scheduled a dentist appointment for her in November– But, I’m just as bad, she gets her sweet tooth from me,” he admits.

“Figured. The amount of Reese's wrappers I find in your trash.”

He squeezes your shoulder playfully, not hard enough that you should need to squirm away but you do. “Whatever. Why are you going through my trash anyway, weirdo.”

You click your tongue, “I wasn’t going through your trash! They are on the top where anyone could see.”

“Mhmm, whatever you say… dumpster diver.”

Joan, the youth counselor, whisks over to interrupt with arms full of mason jars before you can retort. Steve smothers his smirk with an answer to her question. Your tongue prods the inside of your cheek to prevent your own.

It’s like this with Steve, now. Teasing and taunting each other like schoolchildren. A game of tug-of-war, where every knowing glance and light-hearted jab pulls the rope just a little tighter between you. It’s as thrilling as it is nerve-wracking.

It’s not much later when guests filter into the festival. The earliest glow of sunset mists the courtyard in gold. There’s cider stations and pumpkin carving and a whole bunch of apple bobbers fighting to win a pumpkin pie. Monster Mash bleeds from several speakers lining the trail to the tented area you find yourself in. People dance and laugh and drink. It’s a very successful event for the rec center.

Steve plops down on the bench across from you, Penelope at his hip. A silent, self-invitation he knows you won’t decline— you enjoy their company more than people-watching. He seems to find you no matter which way you drift, even through a sea of townsfolk.

A big scoop of chili is spooned from his paper bowl into a second. “Blow on it,” Steve reminds, planting it in front of Penelope.

She does blow on it, a spray of more spit than air that merits her a shoulder nudge to knock it off.

Penelope simpers over her steaming food as Steve offers you an apologetic look. Last you saw her, she was waving her way up the stairs to the costume contest. She’s since been bundled up– a tiara traded for a knit beanie and the gown from her dress-up bin crammed underneath a thick sweater and spilling out the hem.

The string lights bathe their faces in a white glow. It highlights the beauty mark on the slope of Penelope’s cheek, like a half of Steve’s pair in the same spot. It’s not often you get to just enjoy their company. No scrambling about deadlines or standards. It’s a calm you could get used to. But Steve’s always ten steps ahead, already plotting which crew needs the most tending to when he’s finished eating. He’s selfless like that. Your feet ache from running around, but Steve’s probably worse.

“Penelope, is that what you’re wearing on Halloween?” You ask.

Her chin presses into the neckline of her sweater. “No,” she recalls, mouth full of sauce. “I’m being Dorothy.”

Steve swipes a napkin across her lips before anything drips.

“From The Wizard of Oz?”

“Mhmm,” she grins, popping the spoon out of her mouth.

“Very cool. Did you get your costume yet?”

She nods, glancing at Steve, “Daddy made it.”

Steve’s in his own little world, slurping his belly full of warm food and basking in the second of peace he‘s been given. But he blinks back into reality at your questioning stare, leaning in to hear you over the boisterous laughs of nearby people.

You try to reel in your surprise, soften your features. “You made her costume?”

“Oh,” he waves a dismissive hand, “I just sewed a shirt to a dress. Nothing fancy.”

“Still– that’s really cool, Steve.”

He stirs his food, voice torn with guilt. “I dunno. It’s cheap.”

“Costumes are better homemade. The ones in the stores are tacky. I bet it looks amazing.”

Fragments of a smile find his lips, more a peace offering than a true one.

“I painted my shoes red and I put so much glitter on them so they sparkle,” Penelope adds cheerfully.

“You did?”

She nods, shining with pride.

“It’s been two weeks and I’m still finding glitter everywhere,” Steve comments, more amused than he lets on. He can’t be that mad when they’re little reminders of his favorite person in the world.

“Are you dressing up?” You ask him.

He huffs, side-eyeing Penelope. “Yes.”

A glint forms in her eyes, a sly little smirk beneath. “Daddy is going to be the lion because he’s hairy.”

You laugh and Penelope joins you because Steve has a funny pouty face.

He rolls his eyes. “Tell ‘em who’s your Toto?”

“Cinderella!”

“No way!” You match her level of excitement. “Does she have a costume?”

“No, but I have a basket for her to sit in.”

You coo, “I bet Cinderella will love that.”

Steve snorts because he knows you know Cinderella will in fact not love that.

Cinderella is supposedly the grumpiest animal he’s ever met. She was a quick, unfortunately painful, lesson on boundaries for Penelope– not to pet certain areas or animals as a whole. Steve described her as an old, scraggly thing with a temper flaring unpredictably from one moment to the next. He wasn’t a cat person to begin with, growing up in a house with no animals probably started his revulsion to having fur on his clothes; but at two and a half, Penelope begged to feed the stray on their porch and she just kept coming back.

Steve wanted a dog when he moved out, if anything at all; but in four years he’s learned more about sacrifice than any speech his parents tried to drill into his head. And Cinderella is practically Penelope’s best friend now. She sets aside birthday money for new cat toys– the crinkly ones are her favorite– and sneaks the cat through her bedroom window from time to time. She even cradles her like a baby, not without protest and the occasional scratch, of course, but Penelope knows the risk.

“I told her Cinderella probably won’t want to come trick or treating but she can still take a picture with her at home.”

“I told you she will want to go because there’s candy.”

“Yes, but I told you cats can’t have candy,” Steve jabs her side lightly.

Penelope only pouts. “That’s sad. I think she would like candy.”

“It is,” he agrees, slotting a rogue strand of hair behind her ear. “But it makes them sick, remember? So we can’t share with Cinderella.”

Her cheek melds with his sleeve, begrudgingly agreeing with a sigh. “Can I get my face painted?”

Steve traces her line of sight to the ring of kids swarming the face painter. It’s not far. He can see well enough to recognize most of the children. Many are younger than Penelope too.

But Steve hesitates, “Can you wait until I’m done eating? I’ll go with you.”

“Daddy,” she whines, pinching his arm hair. “You take forever.”

Penelope’s got magical little eyes. You don’t know how Steve ever says no.

“I can take her,” you offer, stacking trash on your plate. “I’m done anyway.”

“No, it’s okay.” He deflates with a sigh, curling into his ribs so he can see her face. “You can go by yourself–”

Her frown washes away just as fast as she peels herself off of his arm.

“But! You have to come straight back when you’re done and you have to stay where I can see you. ‘Kay?”

“‘Kay!” She beams, nearly tripping on her dress as she swings her legs over the bench and breaks into a run.

Steve can’t hide the wobble in his smile as hard as he tries to be strong. Most of the hardships he’s faced as a parent are foreign to you, but clearly, this isn’t easy for him.

“She’ll be fine,” you reassure with a ginger squeeze to his wrist. “We aren’t far if she needs something.”

He nods, still locked in on Penelope. “I know, I know. I’m trying really hard not to be a helicopter parent as she gets older. It sucks though, feeling like she doesn’t need me anymore.”

“Steve,” you deadpan, prying his attention back. “That’s… silly. You’re her dad, of course she still needs you. Maybe not all the time or as much but she’ll always need you.”

“I dunno. I feel like she grows an inch every time I turn around. I never thought I’d say this, but I actually miss when she was in diapers. She’s cute now, but God was she cute then.” He chuckles to himself, eyes swinging from Penelope to you and then back.

“I believe it,” you grin, admiring his girl. Her cheeks are red from the cold, like two tomatoes framing her lips. She might like to wear your jacket, you consider, but she’s so small, perhaps she’ll overheat from too many layers.

Penelope scrambles into the chair when it’s her turn, talking a mile a minute to the face painter. A funny wave of emotion roves over you. There’s affection and joy and and then something heavier and harder to describe.

“I’ll have to show you her baby pictures sometime.” You hear the parting of a true smile. “There’s this one– it was her first birthday– I gave her a whole cake and she just demolished it. Had it in her hair and her eyelashes and in between her toes. She was so damn happy.”

You exhale a happy hum, turning back to Steve. He’s propped on his elbows now, close enough to discern each eyelash from the next. It doesn’t startle you as much as it just scrapes the words right off your tongue.

He’s reading you, churning, and chasing the right words all in between the blink of an eye. “We should hang out, you know? Like actually– We always talk about it but…” He shakes his head, trailing off.

He’d let the words be carried with the wind if you wanted. It’s hard to imagine you’d say no, but people have surprised him in worse ways. Just when he thinks he knows someone, truly knows them, they cut him off like he’s no more than a dying branch. The ghosts of past someones and somethings still haunt him. It makes being so forward with you all the more difficult.

You wear a whimsical sort of grin that you hide behind the brush of your hand, fighting your own flood of emotions. “Yeah– I mean, yeah. When?”

Excitement flares across his features. “What are you doing on Halloween? You could come trick-or-treating with us?”

“Probably just home handing out candy– but Steve, I don’t want to intrude on Halloween. It sounds really special to Penelope.”

“You wouldn’t! No way, Penelope would be thrilled if you came. She talks about you a lot, you know?”

“No she doesn’t,” you grin madly into your palm, peering over to her. Her face is dressed in a bright shade of orange now. With her pudgy cheeks, she reminds you of a little pumpkin.

“She does! Swear it– on my life.” He’s not lying. He can’t hold your eyes when he lies, even about silly things.

You huff, feeling foolishly giddy. “I don’t have time to get a costume, Steve.”

“Nonsense. We can find you one. I’ll make it if I have to. The Tin Man and The Scarecrow are still up for grabs.”

You swallow, washing the sudden dryness from your throat. Why does Steve have to be so damn cute and sweet all at once? “I dunno. Would it be fine if I didn’t dress up?”

He chuckles dryly. “Penelope won’t have that, I can tell you that much. Plus if I’m going to be tortured into some itchy lion onesie I expect you’ll do the same.” He’s teasing, which is typical for you both, but it’s like you’ve forgotten how.

“Steve.”

“Come on. If not for me, for Penelope. She’ll love it.”

“Okay,” you settle. But you aren’t really settling. He could ask you to dress up on any other day of the year and you’d do it.

Penelope races over– a tabby cat with long whiskers and a pastel pink nose– yelling, “Daddy, look!”

Steve beams at her like he stuck a lightbulb in his mouth, somehow brighter than before. “I see! You look so pretty, princess.”

“I’m like Cinderella.”

“You are!” He pats her former seat beside him until she sits.

Her long lashes flutter questioningly.

“Nell, don’t you think we need, I dunno, like a Tinman or a Scarecrow to go with our costumes on Halloween?”

She tracks his gaze over to you, adopting your smirk. “Are you coming trick-or-treating with us?” Her voice is uneven and bubbly with anticipation.

“Do you want me to?” You ask genuinely.

Penelope’s tongue wriggles in her mouth like she can’t find the proper words to express what she feels. But she nods in this bashful way against Steve’s shoulder that surprises you.

“Are we being shy now?” Steve remarks, pulling her into his arms effortlessly to peck her hairline.

“No,” she whines against his sweater, overjoyed to be smothered in love. Dry paint creases with her scrunched face. It’s an adorable sight. You keep wishing you had a camera on you because this is the kind of thing Steve probably puts in his photo albums.

The moon climbs the sky quickly, draping the party in a silver veil. Many stay for the campfire and the promise of smores. But the later it gets, the crankier kids become for their parents. Penelope’s no exception, whining and clinging to Steve until he agrees to hold her. And he tries to work still, but his arms are starting to burn and stamping hayride tickets isn’t easy one-handed so he makes the hard choice to leave before cleanup.

He feels awful, apologizing to several of his coworkers on the way out but most are too drunk on cider or too high on festive cheer to care. Besides, he’s paid a salary, doing this out of the kindness of his heart. He has no obligation to be here– you’d reminded him of that multiple times. But the festival does feel empty when they leave, even with half the town still around.

ᯓ★

Steve lives in a quiet pocket outside of town on a curvy, secluded stretch of road. The directions he’d scrawled out on a receipt weren’t as useful as you’d hoped as one of the street names you were intended to turn on was smudged beyond legibility. But you made it, parked in front of a white house with a similarly white picket fence. Steve’s beamer is idled to your right. It’s strange seeing it somewhere that’s not the rec center. But it’s a familiar comfort between so much new.

There’s a tire swing knotted to the oak tree in the yard, a collection of painted rocks in the pebble-lined path up to the house, and two carved pumpkins set outside the door, caving in on themselves but not yet rotting. A lot of love is shared here.

Penelope answers the door when you knock. She’s half dressed– stockings hugging a pair of fleece leggings and a flowy pajama tank top. Her eyes outline your costume and light up with approval.

You sport a flannel and denim overalls stuffed with prickly straw straight from the local farm, courtesy of Steve. But Penelope ogles your face paint more than anything– a stitched grin and two circles for blush. You hope it’s not scary looking.

She doesn’t know how to let you inside– she’s not supposed to answer the door after all– so she hangs clumsily off the door handle until you ask, “Can I come in?”

“Yes,” she teeters out of the way, closing the door behind you with a sweeping grin— the mischievous kind that makes you wonder what she’s up to.

The foyer is situated between the living room and kitchen, both of which are missing Steve.

“Where’s your dad?”

“Umm. Cleaning?”

“Oh. Are you getting ready to go?”

“Yes, but I can’t find my shoes,” she makes a strangled face and shrugs with her entire wingspan.

“Do you want me to help you look?”

She nods, “I think they’re in my closet.”

Penelope sprints up the stairs easily, leaning over the railing at the top until you hesitantly follow. You hope he won’t mind. You were technically let in.

It reeks of chemicals upstairs. You stifle a cough and hope it’s Steve, not some science experiment in Penelope’s room. But you don’t worry long. The culprit swings around the corner, juggling several bottles of solutions and sprays. Steve would’ve barreled straight into you had you not thrust your arms out in defense, but still, all his things scatter across the floor.

“Christ, you scared me.” He kneels, tucking a roll of paper towels against his chest. “Nell, you can’t answer the door without me.”

“I looked in the window.”

You hand him a sanitizer and shimmy your hat back into place. It’s too big and far too floppy, sagging over your brows no matter how you situate it. Amusement draws his cheeks up as he realizes. You look ready to plop yourself in the middle of someone’s crops and he’s in a tee and jeans you might find him in any other day. His smiley-staring only makes you feel sillier.

“The straw’s really a nice touch, huh?” Steve teases, picking a sandy stem from your collar with his free hand. He’s got that smirk you so often find on Penelope’s lips.

You yank the strand from his grasp and poke the column of his throat with it. “I’m definitely more itchy than you’ll be.”

His fingers encase the entirety of your fist like a shell. They’re knobby and mannish, stout against your own. But there’s a tenderness to his hold as he eases your fist away. You don’t push back, though you contemplate it. He’s never touched you for so long; he’s basically holding your hand.

“Could’ve been the Tinman,” he says, releasing your fingers at your thigh.

You suck in, like fuel for a reply, and exhale a breathy, nervous laugh. “And paint my entire body gray? No thanks.”

He chuckles, eyes darting behind you. “Well, you look great. You like it, Nell?”

You’d almost forgotten she was there. She’s quiet as a mouse when she wants to be.

Penelope bobs her head behind you, patiently watching from the doorway to her room. “I have oh-ralls like that.”

“You do,” Steve confirms, fidgeting with the nozzle on the disinfectant bottle. It reminds you of the smell.

“You kill someone?”

He stiffens. “What?”

You flick the bottle of Windex, serious facade fading. “Smells like you’re trying to cover it up.”

“Oh! No,” his shoulders soften, “Just a little spring cleaning… in fall.”

You hum gaily. “I like your house.”

“You do?” His voice is light, buoyant with relief. “I can give you a tour. A proper one.”

“I would but I’ve promised a patient little lady I’d help her find her shoes first.”

Penelope beams when you glimpse at her. “I think they’re in my closet,” she shares with Steve.

“I think so too,” he says, eyeing past her. “What happened to cleaning?”

“I was but I had to find my costume first.”

“It’ll be easier to find when your room’s clean.” He sends you a look, “Don’t let her trick you into cleaning for her. She’s sneaky.” Steve whispers the last part, loud and teasing.

“I’m not sneaky!”

“Mhmm. I’ll go get ready and then come help you, Nell.”

“Then trick-or-treat?”

“Yes,” he starts down the stairs, “Yell if you need me.”

Penelope tows you into her room by the arm, unphased by the clinking of toys crammed behind the door. Anything in her way gets kicked or shoved aside without a second thought. It’s like her toy chest exploded, a kaleidoscope of pink and purple across the carpet. And no wonder it’s a mess; she starts chucking things out of her closet, adding to the pile spilling out like an avalanche—books, stuffed animals, barbie dolls, baby dolls, and so so many clothes.

You squeeze by a play tent, scanning the floor.

“They’re red and sparkly, ‘member?” Penelope calls from behind her closet doors.

You tip a beanbag over with your foot, “I remember.”

She babbles to herself as she looks, just like Steve does– little hums and scraps of thought that are hard to catch. It’s a funny thing, to see it translated from one human to another.

It doesn’t take long to find the shoes, wedged underneath her bed with numerous other things. You go prone against the floor to dig them out and hold them up by the straps. “These it, Pen?”

She gasps vibrantly. You wish you got up in time to see her face.

“How did you know they were under there!” She shrieks, snatching them from you.

“Just had a feeling,” you sit up properly, happily watching her slip the flats on.

She practically twinkles, clicking her heels together like Dorothy.

“They look stunning! You painted these?”

“Yes,” she skips over to her dresser, shuffling through drawer after drawer. Anything folded surely isn’t anymore.

“You’re a talented artist.”

“I know. Daddy says.” Penelope yanks out a blue line of fabric. “My dress is so pretty. I’m going to be the prettiest Dorothy for Halloween.”

“I know you will! You should give your dad a big hug for making such a pretty dress.”

She buckles into the costume as fast as she can, patting the skirt down with a satisfied grin when it’s on.

After several compliments and much debate, you’re able to convince her Dorothy would have a clean room. Penelope puts a few things away, but she’s easily distracted. And it’s hard to blame her with so many toys about. So you do most of the cleaning, but you’re happy to. It’ll make Steve happy– lest he finds out it was you– which makes you happy.

The floor’s mostly cleared when Penelope decides Steve’s taking too long; it’s time for your house tour, with or without him. And when he doesn’t answer her shout it’s decidedly without him. She shows you downstairs first– the living room, the kitchen, the half bath, her favorite hiding spot underneath the stairs. All the while she explains her very detailed and strategic trick-or-treating plan. Staying out until midnight is the priority, she doesn’t seem to care if it’s past her bedtime, and filling several bags with candy is also high on the list.

“And this is Daddy’s room.” She jerks the door knob several times before yelling, “Daddy!”

“What?” Steve calls, muffled.

“Let us in!”

“I can’t hear you– hold on!”

Steve unlocks the door donning the promised lion onesie and a pair of sneakers. It’s ridiculous how handsome he looks even with a stupid fur collar and tail.

“Cute,” is all you manage to say. He takes it as teasing, rolling his eyes, though you really mean it.

“Can you help me? I can’t get my whiskers right.” He taps the cap of an eyeliner pen against his cheek where he’s drawn two lines.

“Sure.” You take the stick and follow him through his room to the master ensuite.

“Wait!” Penelope shouts and waves vaguely at the room. “This is Daddy’s room.”

You pause to look it over, jovially commenting, “Wow! Very nice.”

And it is nice. There’s a rustic set of furniture striped in blue and green accents; paired well with the framed floral prints above his dresser. And the bed’s made, only slightly surprising, topped with a Care Bear’s quilt you assume is Penelope’s.

In the bathroom, Steve leans against the counter, arms braced behind him on the sink rim. You shuffle in front of his legs, skimming knees accidentally. He has no abhorrence for physical touch, you know that for certain. He’s touchy with not just you, but everyone in the office. An arm around the shoulder, a pat on the back, a gentle squeeze to the arm– he gives these out like candy on Halloween. But even so, touching him isn’t always easy. It’s vulnerable, runs the risk of rejection.

Steve smiles at you, ever-patient and encouraging when you stall awkwardly.

“Sorry,” you whisper. Talking any louder feels illegal when he’s so close. You cup his jaw and steady your opposite hand against his cheek, picturing the line how you want it.

But just when you press into his skin and flick the pen, Penelope slams a drawer shut, startling you enough to flinch. The ink slants all the way behind his ear like a jagged nail.

You gasp and recoil, “Shit.”

Penelope gasps twice as loud and Steve crumples into laughter, even more so when he turns to view the damage in the mirror.

“Oops,” you chuckle nervously, thumbing at the black streak. “This washes off right?”

“Yeah, don’t worry. I’ve redone it like four times.”

You douse your finger in water and work the pad across his happy cheek gently.

He’s watching you. You don’t see, just feel it in the fringe of your peripherals. It’s not like he has many places to look when you’re a hair’s breadth from his nose. But he might as well press a magnifying glass against your face, point out every pore and blemish and hair you're insecure about.

Your cheeks burn and the beginning prickles of sweat coat your upper lip. You brushed your teeth before you arrived, but how could you forget a mint? And what about an extra layer of deodorant? That wouldn’t have hurt. You glance at Steve anxiously and his eyes jump to Penelope. For once you’re grateful not to keep his attention.

Penelope digs through his cabinet on a quest to find nothing in particular.

You pull away to judge your first line as Steve opens his mouth. “Nell, go get your brush and hair ties.”

The top half of her face pops up over the cupboard door like a puppet. “But I want my hair down.”

“I still have to brush it. And I thought you wanted the bows?”

She considers his words– her prior words– brows pinching before she shrugs, “Okay.” The cabinet door thuds against its hinges as it claps shut, and not a second later, Steve’s bedroom door slams as Penelope charges out.

“You would not believe how often I tell this kid not to slam the doors,” he scoffs, though it’s devoid of any real anger.

You take his chin again, packing away a grin. You have to focus. “Don’t move,” you prompt.

He’s relaxed in your hold. Still as a stone, maybe apart from the slight tug of his lips when you resume drawing.

“Tickles,” he murmurs when you lift the nib.

You print another three to match the trio on his right. It’s not bad, but you wouldn’t say it’s good. The angles are skewed weird and one’s shorter than the rest. But if he wants them any better, you might not be the best person to ask.

“How’s that?” You draw back, searching for any smudges.

He spins, briefly inspecting his reflection before facing you again. “Perfect! Thank you!”

Perfect is definitely a stretch.

Steve’s a perfectionist. You’ve seen it innumerably in the office. How he’ll spend hours revising something only to ruminate on an insignificant detail after. And with Penelope, every parenting decision is subject to endless second-guessing, as if her health and happiness hinges on the smallest nuances.

But as much as he’s a perfectionist, Steve would never judge you in the same way he might himself. Your whiskers truly are perfect in his eyes, not for the shape or size, but because you drew them– wonky and all.

The ink warps around his smile. You study his face under the guise of checking your work. Steve’s a handsome guy. An inviting kind of handsome, with shallow laugh lines and the start of stubble stippled across his jaw.

“Wait,” you square his shoulders, brushing the nape of his neck to reach for his hood. The lion’s mane is laid gently over the top of his hair.

“Now it’s perfect.”

He smirks. “Sexy, huh?”

“Should leave this unzipped a little. The cougars will love that.”

Steve laughs, harder than you think you’ve ever heard him. It’s so contagious even Penelope joins your hysterics when she returns, though she hasn’t a clue what you’re laughing about.

“What’s so funny?” Penelope lurches into his legs with a handful of hair things.

“We just think my costume’s kinda silly. Here, baby.” Steve heaves her onto the counter and props her right in between the sinks.

Her dress pours over her crossed legs like a layered cake, baby blue and white gingham. Steve really did a great job with the stitching; you can’t even tell it was done by hand. And Penelope hasn’t complained about the fit once so it must be comfortable too.

“Face forward please,” Steve reminds gently for a third time when Penelope twists her neck to speak.

Penelope frowns at his reflection. “You’re pulling too tight.”

“Sorry. You have to stop moving though.”

There’s a mild curve to his lips. He’s not aggravated with her fidgeting, in fact, quite the opposite. Maybe because you’re around, he’s in too good of a mood to spoil with something as trivial as his daughter's hair. But regardless, it’s endearing as it is entertaining to care for Penelope. He loves being a dad, even when it’s frustrating. And you can see the love as he braids her hair– how he cards through knots from the ends up and slowly sections off pieces to tackle one at a time.

“I’m not moving.” Her chin droops as she scratches the polish from her nails.

Steve cups her jaw, steering it back up. “You are, monkey.”

“Monkey?” She chortles, seeking your gaze in the mirror to see if you also find the nickname funny.

“Yeah,” Steve murmurs, seizing the rubber band from between his teeth. “Monkeys move a lot.”

“Do they have tails?”

“Mhmm.”

“You have a tail 'cause you’re a lion.”

Steve hums and bends back, evaluating his performance. “There. You look so gorgeous, Penelope.”

And he really has done a great job, especially with all her wiggles. Steve takes a lot of pride in styling his hair– much of his confidence derives from it. And he tries to extend that care to Penelope; to teach her how gorgeous she is and that she deserves to be nurtured.

Penelope shakes her head disapprovingly. “I’m Dorothy now, Dad.”

“Oh, sorry.” Steve turns toward you instinctually, happy to catch your smile.

“You look very very pretty, Miss Dorothy,” you correct.

She slides off the counter, aided by Steve’s hand. “Can we go now?”

Penelope waits patiently in the foyer for Steve to gather everything needed to leave. This lasts for all of about ten minutes before Penelope is halfway out the front door, too excited to wait any longer.

“Wait, Nell!” Steve shouts from beside you in the kitchen.

You’re choosing snacks and filling water bottles. Steve doesn’t really need to pack a bag for Penelope anymore, she’s a year and a half past diapers, but he likes to feel prepared.

When Penelope doesn’t answer, he meets her on the porch to explain, “I’m almost done. And we still have to take pictures.”

“I don’t wanna. I’m ready to leave.”

“Well, we aren’t leaving until I get a picture of Dorothy.”

She sighs, lugging herself back inside like she’s got bricks for shoes. “What about Cinderella?”

“Go and look– get the treats.”

She scrambles into the kitchen, snagging a jar of cat treats from the counter quickly. You shoulder the backpack and follow her out. Steve joins you not long after, two flashlights and several glowsticks in hand.

“No Cinderella?” Steve asks, unzipping the bag pressed to your back to stock with more things.

“No,” Penelope pouts, vigorously shaking the jar in the air. “How can I be Dorothy without Toto.”

He yanks the zipper back up, then pats her head, “Keep calling. Where’s your jacket?”

“I don’t need it.”

“You will. It’s gonna get cold later. When it’s dark.”

“It’ll mess up my costume. Dorothy doesn’t wear one.”

“Let's bring it, just in case. I’ll carry it.”

Steve jogs back inside, coming out this time with a camera around his neck, a jacket over his shoulder, and a plushie in hand.

“Here,” he sets a blue stuffed dog on Penelope’s lap. “Backup Toto.”

Penelope glares up at him, insulted. “This isn’t Toto.”

“I know. But if we wait for Cinderella we might not have time for trick-or-treating. Why don’t we bring the treats? See if she’s started without us?”

Penelope deflates, stuffing the dog in her wicker basket.

“Can I take your picture now?”

“Why, Daddy?”

“So I can remember how beautiful you look tonight.”

A petulant bow creases her lips as she peers up. Round, sullen eyes connect with his.

Steve squats in front of her, taking her much smaller free hand in his. “I know you’re sad about Cinderella but she’d still want you to have fun, right? And she might show up later. I just want to get a picture now so I don’t forget.”

Penelope nods and Steve kisses her forehead, standing and backing up a few paces.

“Smile, baby. Please?” He blinks at her through the viewfinder.

She offers a strangled face– more of a toothy open mouth than a smile; not even close to wide enough to round her cheeks or crescent her eyes like the real deal. But it’s funny and just as cute. Steve snaps a photo and the expression drains from her face as fast as the camera’s flash.

You wander behind Steve and her eyes flick to you. You try funny faces first, frowning so deep your jaw aches, pulling the tip of your nose up like a pigs, winking terribly, but none of it works. Your fingers arch into bunny ears behind Steve’s hair and you stick your tongue out at the back of his head, but still, no dice.

You have a really awful idea. You’re pretty sure you might die of embarrassment. But it’s worth it to get Penelope to smile.

“Hey, Penelope? Remember when you told me dinosaurs are silly?”

She nods.

“Well, I have a really good dinosaur impression. Can I show you?”

She nods again, equally jaded.

You take a deep breath and shake your head, mentally preparing yourself and simultaneously erasing Steve from existence for the moment. A feral screech erupts from the back of your throat, the kind of sound you didn’t know for sure you could make.

Steve buckles in his crouch, barely catching himself on the pavement with his free hand. A chorus of emotions ripple his features. He’s shocked and then amused and finally focused on capturing the picture, but what resonates the most is a fondness for you.

You cup a hand over your mouth, rendering a string of different noises, inspired by several animals because what the hell does a dinosaur sound like anyway? You haven’t the faintest clue at the moment.

Penelope fuses her lips together, unbreaking.

“Come on Nell, I see that smile,” Steve rallies.

But she doesn’t give up easy. She’s like Steve in that way.

As a last resort, you press your lips to your mouth, blowing a raspberry and screwing your face in disgust. “Oh my God, Steve! Did you just fart?”

He gapes at you, then Penelope, tickled and tongue-tied for comebacks. He can’t think straight, not when you’re making a delightful fool out of yourself, on his behalf, especially. As far as he’s concerned, Penelope’s smiling now or at least failing awfully at hiding it. So he takes several photos of her as she unravels into a giggly heap on the driveway.

Certainly one of them is photo-album-worthy, but you continue your stunts anyway. “Goodness, what did you eat today?” You backpedal a few steps, fanning the surrounding air, partially to hide your own laugh. “Penelope do you smell that?”

“Ew! Daddy!”

You aren’t sure if Penelope actually believes you or if she just wants to join the fun but either way, she’s convincing.

“I didn’t do it!” Steve defends, dropping the camera on its sling and raising his hands in surrender. “I think it was Penelope this whole time.”

You gasp. “Penelope!”

“I didn’t!” She cries, shaking her head aggressively. “I promise, I didn’t!”

“I dunno. The closer I get the more stinky it smells.” Steve slinks up to her with outstretched hands that threaten tickles.

She screams when he snatches her up, swearing up and down, “I didn’t, Daddy!”

He’s well-practiced at being the tickle monster; knows every sensitive strip of skin to target. She was doomed from the start. Giggles spill out in jagged layers punctuated with gasps of air. Steve tickles her all the way down the driveway to the car, out of breath himself by the time he sets her on the trunk.

Penelope deliriously eyes his hands where they rest on the beamer.

“You ready to go trick-or-treating, Little Miss Dorothy?” You ask.

She nods, dimples deepening with mirth.

“Here. Will you start it?” Steve fishes his keys out of his pocket and tosses them to you. “Come on, pretty girl.”

She slides into her car seat happily, bouncing with excitement as he buckles her in. Steve’s told you before it’s not always so easy.

“I really didn’t fart,” Penelope says.

He chuckles, sewing a kiss to her cheek, “I know, baby. We’re just kidding.”

Steve settles into the driver’s seat, depositing the stack of developed polaroids in your lap. You shuffle through as he backs out, flashing him your favorites; the best is one where she’s planted a hand on her hip and is rolling her eyes. You adore this little drama queen more and more every day.

The drive’s only a few minutes, just to a denser part of the neighborhood to avoid long stretches with no houses. Steve parks against an empty grass lot behind another car. This area’s already bustling with kids which adds to Penelope’s anticipation.

“Daddy, look– it’s Minnie Mouse!”

Steve inspects the crowd through the window. “Yeah, you remember when you were Minnie Mouse?”

“I was?”

“Mhmm. You had ears and I painted your face. You were little.” He unbuckles, grabbing the backpack stashed at your feet.

“Oh. Am I still little?”

He pauses to melt, just to himself and only a bit. It’s too early to be sentimental– a long night of fun awaits. Steve cranes over his seat to see her face. “Yes, you’re still little. But you’re growing a lot. I think you might be as tall as me, one day.”

“Nooo,” she giggles, waving her foot at him.

“I dunno,” he sing-songs back, squeezing her shoe before turning back around.

Steve distributes a handful of glowsticks, shoving a few extra in Penelope’s basket. You guys start down the block as the sun sinks below the treeline, more than enough time to complete Penelope’s plan which she reminds you of. She takes Steve’s hand, then yours, and it strikes you suddenly how much you appear as a family to outsiders. It’s not an unwelcome feeling, just a strange one.

At the first house, Penelope knocks hard and declares to the elderly woman who answers, “Trick or treat!” She repeats it, insisting with wide eyes that she deserves two pieces of candy for her double effort. And the woman can’t resist her charm, obliging with a handful of pieces. Steve jokes it off, calls her a bargainer, but you gawk at the interaction.

At the second house, she points to you and Steve, arguing you deserve candy too since you’re both in costume. And it works, scoring you each a piece that ends up in her tote anyway. By the third, you can’t keep a straight face, her antics are hilariously cute and you compliment Steve for raising such a little mastermind.

You fall into a routine steadily, loafing along the road with Steve while Penelope trots up to each house.

“Last year she was Snow White and the year before a cat,” Steve explains when you ask.

“She likes princesses’.”

“Less so now but yeah. She used to say she wanted to be a princess when she grew up.”

“Can’t blame her.” You watch her fondly from afar. She picks a piece of candy off the ground and debates before tossing it in with the others. “What does she wanna be now?”

“Changes all the time. Last it was a detective.” He beckons Penelope over. “Nell, what do you want to be when you grow up?”

She fiddles with her basket handle. You’ve done two streets and it’s almost full. You're starting to think you’ll have to buy a pillowcase off of someone.

“Umm… Can I be a trick-or-treater?”

“What!” Steve flips her braid over her shoulder, “That’s just for one day, goofball.”

“Well… then,” she hums, squinting at the surrounding swarm of characters and creatures. “Maybe a pirate?”

You and Steve share a look of amusement. You do that a lot now. It’s instinctual. Finding each other's eyes, even in a room full of people it’s easy. Sometimes there’s just too much joy not to share.

“Daddy, how many houses are left?”

“There’s quite a few on this street. You tired?”

“No. Can I see? I want to count.”

She doesn’t seem tired to you but Steve’s able to read her with the tiniest details. It’s like he’s got superpowers sometimes– dad superpowers. But maybe he’s just guessing, it’s getting closer to bedtime.

Steve boosts her onto his shoulders with a hefty groan about “getting old” which you bicker over because he’s only twenty-six.

Penelope counts eleven houses, eight with lights on, but buzzes about a particular home illuminated with rainbow LEDs and a giant spider. And it’s even cooler than she described up close, mansion-like, decked out with spotlights and decorations taller than you and Steve combined.

A motionless clown holds a bloody bucket of candy outside. Their decorations are so extravagant, it’s hard to tell what’s real and what’s fake. But you’re pretty sure the clown just blinked and you make sure Steve’s aware of that, not that he was letting Penelope go alone anyway.

Steve scoops Penelope up before she gets very far up the driveway despite her complaints.

“I’m not scared, Daddy,” she assures. And there’s nothing that tells you she is– she’s just as cheery and bright-eyed as before.

“I know, princess.” He rubs her arm, scanning for other statues with the potential to come alive. “I’m kinda scared, though.”

She tips her head at him, puzzled because it’s always the other way around. But her arms coil around his neck, a loving press of affection that she learned from him.

And whether he’s actually afraid to be jumpscared or just subconsciously ingraining in her that it’s okay if she is, you aren’t really sure. Probably both, and either way, it warms your insides.

The clown cocks its head slowly when Penelope reaches in the bowl.

She cocks her head back, innocently amused. “Trick-or-treat?”

The clown nods, pushing the bowl toward her.

Steve sags just a hair but remains very much on high alert.

You mouth your appreciation— “Thanks.” Thanks for not scaring my coworker-friends-child who I’ve grown really fond of and would hate to see cry.

“Daddy, can we go in there?” Penelope points to a tunnel opening, fringed with black streamers and flashing lights– some sort of haunted house walk-through that wraps around the home.

“No, baby. That’s for big kids.”

She spots a group of teenagers exit the other side, screaming, laughing, and doubling over each other into the grass.

“I really wanna go– please, I’ll be so brave. I’m not even scared,” she pleads, flashing him a wobbly frown.

But there’s no expression she could pull right now that would change his mind, not when he hears a chainsaw buzzing inside. She could throw herself on the ground and kick and cry and he’d still refuse. He knows enough kids that have been traumatized by horror-movie-type creatures and characters; he’ll be damned if his daughter becomes one of them.

Penelope sulks for a few houses but she has loads more candy to collect and decides not to waste her time for too long.

“Can you hold this?” She thrusts her basket toward Steve. It’s overflowing at this point; you’ve all started cramming candy in your pockets, hoping it’s cold enough outside that nothing melts. Steve’s been beating himself up for three blocks for forgetting the backpack in the car.

“Sure,” he says, retracting his hand from his pocket.

But before he takes it, you joke, “Better keep an eye on him. He might eat some when you’re not lookin’.”

Penelope studies him for a long moment before shifting the bag toward you.

“Penelope! You don’t really believe that do you?” He scoffs, breathily laughing.

You cackle as she shrugs and sprints to the next house.

Steve bumps your shoulder, snaking a hand in the basket to steal a pack of M&Ms off the top. “Blowin’ my whole operation.”

“Steve,” you scold and bump him back. “Don’t get me in trouble.”

“She won’t notice.” He waves you off, tearing the wrapper with his teeth. “But if she does I’m saying it was you.”

You whack his arm, glowing bright as the moon, “Asshole.”

Penelope doesn’t complain about her feet aching once the whole night and you know they probably do because yours started hurting forever ago. Surely she gets some kid-sized Oscar for that. And Steve being the great dad he is offers to carry her on the way back to the car anyway.

“Daddy?”

Steve hums, hoisting her up where she slips.

“Can we go trick or treating tomorrow?”

He glances at you, confirming you also hear this cuteness. “No, baby. Tomorrow’s not Halloween.”

“I know, but we should still go. I bet lots of people still have candy. Like, leftovers.” She yawns into his shoulder where his fur hood has been tugged down to warm his neck and double as a makeshift pillow.

“Don’t you have enough candy?”

“No. I need more Reese’s for you.”

“You’re gonna give them to me?”

“Only some. I like them too.”

“That’s kind of you.”

Her eyes are half-lidded and struggling, but she’s still awake as Steve stows her into her car seat. She chatters sluggishly to keep herself up and you and Steve entertain it; it’ll make bedtime easier if she doesn’t fall asleep in the car. Perhaps handing her a pack of Smarties was overkill because apparently, it has enough sugar to wire her longer than the five-minute drive home.

No slower than Steve can lock the front door, Penelope dumps the contents of her bag on the floor. A bouquet of candy wrappers, big and small, enough to last her months if she’s patient.

“You can have five more pieces tonight.”

Penelope smirks at Steve before he’s even finished. “Ten?”

“Six. But you have to brush your teeth for twice as long.” Before she can rebuttal he shakes his head. “Final offer.”

“Fine,” she huffs, combing through her pile. She sorts them into categories while Steve prepares her bath. It's the Great Pumpkin, Charlie Brown is already on– Steve has a bad habit of forgetting to turn the TV off when he leaves– but you find the remote when Penelope asks you to turn the volume up.

“You can have these,” she announces, pushing a chunk of her goodies toward you. It’s mostly things she doesn’t like: twizzlers and dark chocolate and anything with peanuts. But she did sneak in one of your favorites you’d mentioned earlier that night. She really is a sweetheart.

“Thank you, Penelope. That’s very nice of you.”

“These are for Daddy,” she points to a second pile, smacking loudly on the gummy bear she just decapitated. “He loves chocolate but he got a cavity once because he ate too much.”

“Are you talking about me?” Steve hollers, clambering down the stairs two at a time.

“No?” Penelope giggles.

His hands snap to his hips once he treks into the living room. “Alright, it’s bath time then bedtime Miss Dorothy.”

Penelope looks utterly betrayed. She’s only eaten three things and– “It’s not even late yet,” she whines.

He pretends to check his watch, “It is.”

It’s not but she can’t tell time yet.

“Can we watch Oz, Daddy, please? There’s no school tomorrow, ‘member?”

“We watched it last night, peanut. Why don’t we watch a Halloween movie?”

Peanut, pumpkin, princess, he calls her all sorts of cute things. Is it wrong to wish he called you cute things too?

“I wanna watch Oz. I’m Dorothy so we have to.” She drags out the last syllable until she runs out of breath.

Penelope’s over-tired. Delirious and whiny and easily hysterical when she doesn’t get her way. And it’s not that Steve thinks he should give in when she’s like this, he’s just tired too. And you’re here and it’s the weekend so what will one movie really do? He can guarantee she’ll fall asleep during it anyway.

“Okay. Only if you’re super-duper fast in the bath.”

She shouts and whizzes upstairs.

Steve diverts his attention to you, “You wanna stay? I can make popcorn.”

Of course, you’d love to stay, and not just for the promise of popcorn, but you’re afraid if you do, you’ll never want to leave.

“Are you sure?”

“Why wouldn’t I be?” He makes a face– a ridiculously lovely one. “Go sit. We’ll be quick.”

They aren’t quick but there are photo albums on the coffee table that you’re happy to look through in the meantime. You flick through beats of their life like stills of a movie. There are baby photos, school pictures, movie stubs, plane tickets, and several people you don’t know the names of. It’s weird– getting snippets of things about them you had no idea of. You’re filling the gaps as you go.

Penelope returns first, frolicking her way to the entertainment center in fresh pajamas. She’s on a mission by the looks of it, making a mess of the VHS collection in the cabinet. By the time Steve arrives, most of the films are splayed across the carpet.

“Oz is already in, silly goose. We watched it yesterday remember?”

Penelope drops the tape in her hands, “Oh.”

Steve hunches over her, slotting the films away one by one. She doesn’t help much, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

Penelope clambers onto the couch beside you and Steve beside her. It’s a long sectional, enough room for several others. But Penelope scoots in right beside you so you're hip to hip. And Steve makes himself comfortable more in the middle cushion than the farthest.

His onesie has been traded for sweats and his whiskers scrubbed away– though a faded, gray smear crosses his jawline. You consider telling him, or licking your thumb and scratching it away yourself, but it makes you feel less weird to be the only one still in costume so you let it stay.

“I like these,” you tug the cotton pant leg of Penelope’s outfit. It’s a matching set, frilly and plaid with a black cat stamped to the torso.

She tucks her lower lip away sheepishly and pushes her crown into your shoulder. Her hair's damp, soaking your sleeve cold, but you fawn at the affection more than anything.

“Did you find that picture? From her first birthday? I think it’s in there.” Steve gestures toward the closed album in your lap with the remote but remains glued to the TV.

“No, I didn’t finish looking.”

“I wanna see,” Penelope arches over your legs, prying the book open.

Steve rewinds the film to the start and pauses it so he can look too.

You thumb the plastic sheet over a recent image of Penelope scrunching her nose at the camera, a riot of stickers across her face.

“RoRo!” She taps the photo beside it. It’s a haphazard blur, most likely captured by Penelope; you make out the shape of Steve first, then the less angular, slightly shorter person– a woman, RoRo. You think Penelope’s mentioned her before but nothing about the picture rings any bells.

“Mhmm. That’s Robin. Remember this was at the airport?”

“Is that when we got pizza?”

“Yeah!” Steve rubs her arm. “You have a good memory.”

You turn the page, revealing a set of grainy, blue-tinted photos from the same roll of film. Steve looks young for his age now, but he looked like a baby then. Strangely though when there’s an actual infant in his arms. He was thinner then but even softer in the face. Not unhappy, per se, but maybe missing a lightness he has now.

“This was on my twenty-third birthday,” he explains. “Look how little you were!”

“Did I eat cake?”

“No, you were too young, baby.” He chuckles, pointing to another photo. “You tried a banana for the first time in this one.”

“I like bananas.”

“You didn’t used to.”

Steve and Penelope share slices of their pasts fondly. You study the photos, compare these reflections to the people you find yourself next to. There’s an unexpected pinch in your chest– not getting the chance to know these versions of them, it makes you sad. But it’s a happy sort of sad. You’re grateful to know them now.

Penelope begs to flip through another album but Steve decides it’ll be too late to finish The Wizard of Oz if they do. His true reluctance stems from how emotional the first one made him– though you’ll pretend not to notice for his sake.

Steve bets Penelope an extra Reeses that she’ll fall asleep by the time Dorothy meets the scarecrow. It’s unfair, really. You tell Penelope not to pinky promise it but she does. And she loses awfully, yawning within five minutes and startling herself awake within ten. You scoff when Steve starts carding through her hair– her guaranteed snooze switch. It’s evil and you tell him so. So of course, that finishes her off long before Scarecrow makes an appearance; she curls into Steve’s side and digs a heel into yours. Poor girl never stood a chance.

“She had a lot of fun tonight,” Steve utters. It’s alarming at first, how his voice eclipses the TV like there isn’t a child snoring against his stomach. But she doesn’t stir. He knows she won’t.

“Did you?” You ask, skating between a whisper and not.

“Very much. You?”

“Mhmm. Loads,” you answer without hesitation. It’s possibly the easiest question anyone’s ever asked you. “I think Penelope’s right.”

He quirks an eyebrow against the front of the couch. His cheek is sinking further into the cotton like he might fall asleep.

“We should go trick-or-treating tomorrow too.”

His lips wane into a soft smile. If he wasn’t so drained he might laugh too. “What should we be? Penelope has a strict no-repeat costume rule.”

You hum, scraping your memory for the best costumes you’d seen. There were Power Rangers and Ghostbusters and several Batmen with their Catwomen. But the image of one young family sticks out the most in your mind. A young pair of parents with their son and daughter decked in moody black and white.

“Addams family?”

“Who’s who?”

“She’s Wednesday. Obviously.”

Steve chuckles, accidentally too loud and Penelope twitches against his thigh. He draws her against his chest readily and strokes her spine with the back of his hand. “Obviously,” he whispers.

“You’re Morticia and I’m Gomez, though.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. She’s tall and pretty. Strong jawline, kinda sassy. I think you’ll make it work.”

You’re flirting. You know you are as soon as you say it. And you don’t mean to, it just happens; the words come intuitively as blinking. Your brain does all sorts of crazy things around Steve.

“You think I’m pretty?” He’s smiling hard. You can’t tell if he’s serious or not.

“Pretty sassy, yeah,” you deflect. It’s a safer truth than admitting you do think he’s pretty.

He rolls his eyes. “My mom says Nell gets her attitude from me. Says it’s payback for how I was as a child.”

You gawk emphatically. “Were you a bad kid Steve Harrington?”

“I wasn’t bad– just needed attention I think.”

You hum. It’s a little surprising since you know Steve’s an only child to wealthier parents. You’d pegged him to be spoiled in both money and attention.

“Are you close with your parents?”

He shakes his head, “Not really. Talk every now and then.”

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. I came to terms with it a while ago. Even more after she was born.” He skims his lips against Penelope’s head. “I can’t imagine not being in her life. You know, not really knowing her? Not knowing her favorite things or when she’s hurting or what she’s up to every second of the day. I don’t think that’ll ever change.”

“She’ll be so grateful to have that kind of relationship when she’s older.”

“Yeah, maybe. Like way older.” His shoulders droop as he sighs, “She already thinks I’m smothering her. Wouldn’t hold my hand yesterday because she’s ‘too big’ she said.”

“Already?” You laugh.

“I know!” He groans. “I almost cried.”

“She loves you. Kids just show it in strange ways.”

“Yeah… She forced me to hold a slug last week.”

“You held it?”

“I had to! She was so excited to give it to me.”

“Aww. You’re a good dad.”

Steve's eyes caper down and his cheeks pinken. “I’m trying to be.”

Apart from the movie and an occasional sleep sigh from Penelope, silence swallows the room. It’s a comfortable silence; the kind you only get around people you’ve known forever; It feels like you’ve known Steve your entire life. You have to remind yourself it’s only been a few months. Remind yourself this is the first time you’ve ever even hung out.

You find yourself drifting to the future. A future, with Steve and Penelope. Vacations and school events and hiking trips and movie nights and so much more. It’s silly. It makes your heart want to rip itself from your chest.

Steve clears his throat. Your fantasy is only partially dissolved. “I’m gonna take her upstairs. Put her to bed.”

You lean forward and press into your knees, gearing to stand. “Okay. I should get going. It’s late.”

“Stay for a minute. I’ll walk you out.”

You have no reason to decline but even if you did, you aren’t sure you would be able to. Saying no to Steve is as hard as saying no to Penelope. They have the same puppy-dog eyes– brown and soft as sun-baked clay. That must be it.

Steve strains to stand with the added weight. He’s strong but Penelope’s four now and having growth spurts like there’s a race to be the tallest kid in school. She clings to him instinctually, slotting her face into his neck like it was sculpted specifically to be her pillow. Her gangly legs sway against his thighs as he slowly climbs the stairs and disappears onto the landing.

You don’t notice Steve’s return. He’s much quieter than before, taking softer steps and more calculated movements. He doesn’t have the buffer of his body heat to soothe Penelope back to sleep if she wakes. The palm on your shoulder startles you.

He whispers an apology from behind the couch, voice sweet and buttery as caramel. You let him guide you the short distance to the front door– expecting it to end there– but he presses into a pair of laced sneakers thrown beside the entry table.

The night’s chill is jolting, even in your coat. It’s easy to forget the months are slipping into winter when Steve’s around. He radiates warmth, not just in sun-kissed skin and honeyed eyes, but in his tone and his touches and every aspect of his spirit. And it bleeds like a fire. Brushes your cheeks like flames and stirs perpetually in your belly like magma.

He walks you the entire length of his driveway to your car. Probably would’ve opened the door for you if you didn’t beat him to it.

“Thank you for inviting me Steve,” you say, lingering in the threshold of your open door.

“Thank you for coming. I’m really happy you came. So is Penelope.”

“As much as I am looking forward to The Addams Family next year, we should plan something… maybe a little sooner?”

“Mmm. Let me check my schedule first,” he teases, rapping his fingers against the roof of your car.

“Whatever, boss-man.”

You still don’t get in. There’s a stretch of silence, not awkward, just a placeholder for when the right words come. And they don’t. Not tonight anyway. You could hug him? Peck his cheek? Pat his back as he might yours?

You settle for a safe and simple tight-lipped smile. He appreciates it just the same.

“See you Friday?” He asks.

“See you then.”

Steve guides the door closed after you settle in. He waits until your taillights have completely fizzled out in the shadows of his street to stroll back up to his house.

He thinks of you as he locks the front door and again as he finds your hat on the sectional and a third time as he slips under his sheets. Steve isn’t sure what to do. He feels sick. His heart is hammering and his gut twists itself in knots like it does when he’s afraid. He hasn’t quite figured out what about you is so scary but how can he possibly wait until Friday to find out?

#steve harrington x reader #steve harrington x you #steve harrington fluff #dad steve harrington #steve harrington #coworker steve harrington #stranger things fic #stranger things #the shape of family #skeltnwrites #my work

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