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It only happens in the dark.
That's in character for Michael, you suppose. Creepy bitch that he is.
It was a shock the first time. You'd been tucked up in bed, nearing the cliff-edge of sleep, when you'd felt the cover being pulled back. Michael being in your bedroom wasn't a shock by this point—he'd already become a permanent fixture in your life, whether you liked it or not—but he'd never got in your bed before. You don’t know why he chose then. No matter how long you spend with him, there are things you can't understand. But the ease with which he'd slid in behind you and wrapped an arm, solid and unmoving, around your waist, felt right. Natural. You hadn't even tensed up, not until you felt his chin resting on your head. It was nice—better than nice, lovely even, but something was different. The space where the hard plastic should've been, and where it was now just Michael, bare and exposed.
No mask.
That was certainly new. It was new, and it was big, and meant something, because it was Michael Myers, and he wouldn't just do that for no good reason. Make himself vulnerable? Why?
He's impossible to understand, but he's made the choice to give you this, chosen you for whatever reason, and you can't refuse him. You could theorise why at night; maybe it’s a bedtime habit, maybe it makes him feel safer, maybe there’s no deeper thought to it at all. You don't need answers. Whatever it is, Michael trusts you enough to do it.
You pretended not to notice at first, like how you know he's starting cleaning the house after you go to bed, but won't say a word about it, knowing, like a sulking cat, that he'd stop if you did. The warmth of his smooth, unmasked face so close it almost hurt not to look, practically taunting you. Sometimes, if you woke during the night and you were especially lucky, you'd hear his slow, sleeping breaths and feel him limp and relaxed against you.
It's trust. It might even be love.
You feel like a hopeless romantic, and maybe you are, but Michael never does anything he doesn't want to do. And he chose to do this.
It's a brave night when you stop pretending. You're in his arms—something you still can't believe you're used to—when you risk turning around. It's a winter night, and you're relying on that pitch-black darkness to make this work. He tenses, but doesn't stop you. More trust. You can't see a thing, and he must realise that because his muscles unclench. He settles back into the bed, likely thinking that you were just getting comfortable, that you're done now.
Instead, you raise your hand. You start at his arm, smoothing it along his forearm and bicep, knowing you have to start slow or risk—well, everything. He's ok until you reach his neck. You can't blame him; the throat is already so vulnerable, and it's inches away from a part of him he hasn't shown in years. You pause there, fingers barely resting against his skin, giving him time to pull away. He doesn’t, but he doesn’t relax either. His breathing grows tighter, and you can feel him preparing for the worst, his hands forming fists as he readies to strike. It's a miracle he's let you get this far.
“You’re alright, Michael. I won't hurt you.” As if you could. But he still deserves to hear it. “I just wanted to touch your face. I know it's—if it's too much, I can stop. You listen when I say stop.”
Because, for as brutal and violent as he can be, he respects your no's. The least you can do is the same.
His eyes burn into you, dark and assessing like always. You can barely make them out in the room's dimness, black against black, but you know that's what he's doing. It's what he's always doing. Calculating, figuring you out.
And then, with a grip so gentle that it shouldn't belong to him, he brings your hand to his cheek.
He's warm like you expected, and soft like you hoped. There’s the beginnings of facial hair growing in, something you know he shaves, even if you can't imagine him doing it. You feel the solidity of his cheekbone and the curve of his jaw, and the subtle cushion of skin to smooth his edges. His mouth doesn't part for you as you brush against it, but you're happy just to feel the rise of his cupid's bow and the silk of his lips.
He lets you do it all. Run a finger up the ridge of his nose, follow his eyebrow, feel your way along his hairline. He finally bats you away when you nearly poke him in the eye. Fair.
“You feel pretty,” you say, laughing a little as he holds onto your hand and refuses to let it go. “Handsome. Whatever.”
He huffs, the only noise of amusement he'll let you hear. You’re determined to make him laugh one day.
“Let me play with your hair?” you ask, knowing he'd never in a million years turn it down.
He shuffles further down the bed, reversing your usual positions by nudging his head under your chin. Certainly not disproving your cat theory. Your hand comes to cup the back of his head, immediately diving your fingers into his thick hair. The tiny sigh he lets out would be inaudible if you hadn't been waiting for it.
He holds you as close as possible, wrapped around you until you're tangled together. His grip isn't just protective, it's needy, fearful of letting go. The tenderness of it makes your eyes water in a fond, weepy way you doubt he'd appreciate. The word love comes to mind again.
“Thank you for letting me see you,” you whisper into his hair.
A pause. You think he’s trying to sleep until you feel him squeeze you lightly, carefully. The loudest answer he'll give.
You have hope that one day he won't hide his face at all.