A/N: Hey everybody! This is a fluffy fic for the lovely lovely ScarlettWoman710. She is going to be borrowing Langdon and Dusty from Gray Glube and my Devil's series and because I am so beyond thrilled that she wants to play with them, I wanted to write her something. She prompted me a Trick-Or-Treat fic, so here we go! Oh and SW, I lied to you! There is dialogue, but not much and it is still very storybook-y.
Enjoy!
Halloween at Murder House is bigger than every other holiday combined. It's the bullseye on everyone's calendar, the one day a year they can get away from this godforsaken place and its inhabitants and live a little, because let's be honest, that is a whole lot of awkward under one roof. Victims and killers, mistresses and wives, exes, family - dinner parties never end well.
By sunrise, the house feels almost empty . Moira is off to visit her mother's grave, Patrick and Ben are out stocking up on wine, Travis is jumping the fence to visit Constance, and Violet's parents have taken the baby out for breakfast.
As for the two forever teens, they've stolen into the homeowner's bedroom closet and are frantically pocketing bundles of cash. The old widow living there now had more money than she could count. Her husband died years ago, leaving her with a small fortune and very little to do with it; she wouldn't notice its absence for months, if ever.
Once they've both got a couple grand, Tate in his jeans and Violet in her school bag, they hurry back downstairs, swiping a folded piece of paper from the kitchen counter, and race out through the front gates of Murder House, giddy to get out into the world for a while.
A few nights back, the whole island of misfit toys had gathered around and put together a list of what they need and what they want to keep them from committing constant suicide for the next 364 days of quarantine. By the time they were through debating, it was a mile long.. Hayden wanted Uggs and a vibrator, Nora needed lipstick, Lorraine had asked for books and dolls for her girls, Travis and Violet needed cigarettes in bulk, Bryan and Troy wanted a Wii, the nurses wanted the entire series of Friends on DVD, Elizabeth Short yearned for a copy of her biography, Tate wanted the new Macbook, the baby needed diapers, everyone wanted clothes; and so on and so forth. Hence the wads of money.
It was Violet's turn to go supply shopping this year and of course Tate volunteered to help, so with her in the passenger seat flipping through the Sunday ads, he got busy hotwiring Constance's car.
After a few minutes of burnt thumbs and hissed expletives, the old beater rumbles to life and they're off, Weezer pouring out the rolled down windows and Violet leaning out to feel the wind on her face, telling him to take a left at the next stop sign.
They shop for what they can at the mall nearby and walk across the street to a cafe for lunch when they've got everything stuffed into the trunk. Violet tries the chicken soup and Tate passes over half of his sandwich when she complains that it tastes like dog shit. A few people stare like they know them from somewhere, but lose interest when they can't place headlines to faces and move on.
It's nice, being alone together for once, not having to worry about anybody watching you fuck or gutting you just for the hell of it. Tate wants to enjoy it, pausing to look out into the sunny parking lot at happy couples and friends getting into cars and driving to far off places, but after a beat Violet nudges his shin with her toes to steer his back attention and continues ranting about the pathetic appeal of flavored coffee.
It's early afternoon when they finish eating and begin working through the rest of the list. At some point Violet thinks she sees Leah, but she looks older and her face isn't marred so she lets Tate guide her over to the pharmacy were they pick up aloe for Mrs. Harvey.
With two items left, they stop for a snack and end up splitting a cup of pumpkin flavored ice cream that Tate whine about at first but softens when fed a sample on a tiny pink spoon.
After braving The Pleasure Chest, a place they leave blushing red and with more than just Hayden's Rabbit in tow, it's off to the hospital for Dr. Montgomery's request.
Unable to find any way around it, Tate barges into the emergency room and blindly steals a tray of surgical instruments from a nurse, hoping it's the same shit Charles had put on the list. She puts up a fight but he pumps her with a needle of air and somebody calls the cops. Violet's his getaway driver and even though she never bothered getting a license, she's not bad. She throws open the car door and he clambers in just as a security guard comes blundering through the front doors. She cries out in triumph and he silences her with a kiss, switching seats with her at the next stop light.
At seven o' clock it's just starting to get dark. The streetlights are buzzing awake and the sun's disappeared and Charles's scalpels were the last tick on their list. Violet folds her legs up and props her ankles on the dash, turning her face into the seat to watch Tate drive, her gaze following the line of his bicep down to where his long fingers are curled around the wheel.
After a second or two he feels her eyes on him and flashes her a smile, resting his hand on her thigh, tapping his thumbs in time with The Clash.
"What now?"
She shrugs and starts up a cigarette with the in-dash lighter, toying with the radio dial. It lands on Michael Jackson's thriller and she leaves it because they're both familiar with it and because it's a little bit festive.
They drive quietly for a little while, watching the sky fade indigo and the stars blink awake, both of their heads filled up with the calm of being together and the curiosity of where they'd be if they weren't.
Then, sipping down her lukewarm coffee, Violet pulls her legs to her chest and twists to offer Tate the last drag of her smoke before she tosses it.
"Let's go trick-or-treating." Her tone is casual and Tate opens his mouth to laugh, but shuts it when he catches her expression and realizes she might really want to. It's not like her, wanting to do something childish, she's always reminding him that even though she's got the body of sixteen year old girl. she'll be twenty-three next May. Most of the time, it tears her up, never getting older, never moving on, but for now she just wants to be kids together - they never really got the chance. It's Halloween and she's forgiven him for everything he's done and they're not fighting and for just tonight they can pretend to be nothing more sinister than a stupid pair of kids in love.
He puffs at the filter until it warms the insides of her fingers and she flicks it out the window.
"Okay."
So it's settled. He flips a bitch at the next light and drops her back at the mall. At half past eight they'll meet back home on the front porch to reveal their costumes and go out for candy.
Tate gets home and, after cajoling the home invaders to take in the groceries, bolts up the stairs to the old woman's room - she's fallen asleep on the couch. He digs through the back of her closet where her late husband's clothes are and rustles through box after box until he's recovered a pair of white trousers and a wrinkled Oxford shirt - they're both half a size too big, but they'll do. Dressing right there in her walk-in, pushing his sweater and jeans into the box at his feet, he clips on a pair of white suspenders and snags a dusty bowler hat from the wrap-around shelf. With his black boots from downstairs and the old woman's cane by the door, there's only one thing missing...
Violet finds a blue striped polo dress at Target and a clip for her hair and hitches her way home. When Tate's out of the closet and back in the basement, she slips inside and pulls down a knee-length fur coat in beige. It feels heavy on her shoulders but she looks like a million bucks and for just tonight she'll believe in style over comfort. It's the same motto she's muttering to herself when she draws out a kitchen knife and cuts off her right ring finger.
"What are you supposed to be?"
Hayden's strolling into the kitchen in a polyester Policeman's costume that's really just navy hot pants and a bra with a velcro badge. She eyes the detached finger and gestures for Violet to brush it into the trash compactor.
"Fuck off. Where's your eyeliner."
"Medicine cabinet in the second bathroom," she shrugs, pulling open the freezer and filling up a flask with cheap whiskey, stuffing it into her cleavage.
"Kay, thanks."
"And tell Ted Bundy to stay out of my shit."
In the too-white light of the upstairs bathroom, Violet rims her eyes in heavy black and parts her hair on one side, fastening it back with a red plastic barrette.
When she yanks open the front door just a few minutes later than they'd agreed, Tate's there looking dashing in all white and black and leaning on a cane with a fake eyelashes glued to the underside of his right eye - her stomach does a happy little flip-flop.
"Welly, welly, welly, well, what do we have here?" he grins up from under the rim of his bowler.
"Alex from A Clockwork Orange," she beams, "Nice!"
"Yeah... what are you supposed to - Violet! What'd you do to your finger?"
She laughs and reaches out to prod him with the stout wooden rod she's superglued to the knuckle next to her pinkie.
"Cool, huh?"
He looks her up and down and settles that, yeah, it is, but still can't figure out who she is.
She gives him a few more seconds, crossing her arms and petting the sleeves of her coat, bouncing up and down on her toes in the cold.
"Really?" Her tone is disbelieving and she huffs out a breath, indignant. "Margot? from The Royal Tenenbaums?"
Tate quirks his mouth to the side and shrugs.
"Never heard of it. Is that a movie or something, when did it come out?"
"Uhm, I dunno, 2001 or something - oh right. You were dead."
"Yeah."
"Oh well, we can watch it later, when we get home. It's, like, really fucking amazing."
"Okay." He takes her hand and tugs her down off the porch, pushing an empty pillowcase into her free hand; he's got his own half-stuffed into the rear pocket in his pants. "You look pretty. I like the coat."
She laughs and tells him thanks and walks him out onto the street that's filled with children and teens in masks that aren't half as scary on the outside as the boy in the hat and the girl with the barrette are under their skin.
They hit up Constance's house first rather than last. Tate knocks, standing a little in front of Violet, protective, just to be safe, but it's not the cocksucker that opens the door.
"Kids, Mama! Kids!"
Michael's wearing red footie pajamas and jabbing a plastic pitchfork out through the gap in the door.
"Okay, baby. I'mma comin'."
When she prizes the door open both Tate and Violet are wearing unreadable expressions and watching the little blond boy tug at his horned headband. She sighs when she sees them, her mouth pressed into a thin line, and pushes her grandson from view, dropping a handful of sweets into each of their bags and waving them off, obviously unamused by their stealing her car for the day.
A few houses over, the run into Bryan and Troy, both of whom are wearing knitted sweaters sporting respective F's and G's - Lorraine struck a deal with the twins, promising to make them the costumes herself as long as they brought home a few lollipops for her kids. Instead of baseball bats they've got broomsticks and it's clear by the bludgeoned pumpkins which houses they've already hit.
Mostly everyone guesses his costume and a few people get hers, but regardless everyone smiles politely and holds out a large bowl to pick from.
After one loop around the neighborhood, Violet's getting bored and Tate's holding both of their bags. She sends him back to every house giving away Reese's and sits in the gutter.
Her parents are just down the road, dressed as vampires, again, and holding a baby dressed like a pea pod. It brings back memories of when they'd taken her around the block back home as a kid, dressed as Batman or Freddy Kreuger or a ninja, never anything overtly girly. They'd get back to the house and Ben would help her count out her loot. They'd section out the good fandy from the bad and he'd take what she wouldn't eat to his office, the Baby Ruths and the Sugar Daddys.
She props her cheek on the heel of her hand and sighs down at her shoes, wistful. But then Tate is tapping her on the shoulder and asking her what's wrong and suddenly she's got an idea.
"C'mere," she smiles, crooking her arm around his elbow and guiding him through bundles of children until they reach the nearest house with no decorations and the lights out.
He ties their pillowcases into knots and throws them over his shoulder, following her up the walkway, curious.
She raps on the door a few times and rings the bell another dozen - no answer. Still not following, Tate watches her in his peripheral vision and tries to peep through the eyehole.
"What are we doing?"
"Shh."
Another few knocks and she hops down from the porch, but instead of following the path out into the driveway, she climbs through a shrub and around to the side of the house, waving him over. He jogs around to the lawn and rejoins her at the back of the house to find Violet scaling the fence and dropping down into the backyard. Another few seconds and both Tate and the candy are swinging over too.
It's pretty swanky, meticulously landscaped with a handful of torches scattered along the perimeter of an ovular pool, complete with its own patio and outdoor bar.
"Violet, why are we-"
"Sweet, they've got a pool. And it's heated." She brushes leaves from her hair and lights up a few of the oil torches. He walks over to one of the lounge chairs and sets down their pillowcases, guessing what's next.
He's right.
Toeing off her shoes, Violet sheds her coat on the concrete and, whipping her face towards Tate, egging him on, dives into the deep end.
She comes up spitting water a few seconds later, her hair plastered to her skull and her cheeks streaked grey, the striped dress floating up around her thighs, and smiles.
That's all it takes. Setting down his cane and pulling loose the ties of his boots, Tate flings his bowler hat onto the table and steps off the edge into the water.
Resurfacing, he shakes his hair like a dog and she squeals, splashing him with a hand wave, dunking back under the surface. Then she's behind his back, wrapping herself around him, hardly weighing anything at all. He grips her shins and spins them both, rolling onto his back, forcing them down to the bottom of the pool. They lie there for a beat, pushing out all the air in their lungs to watch it bubble up to the surface, watching each other through bleary vision until their throats burn and their eyes burn and they want up again.
"Are you cold?"
She does a lap in breaststroke and another in back and tells him no, closing her eyes to feel the autumn breeze dry her face.
Then she's turning back for a third lap, but he's there, trapping her against the edge of the pool, his hands bookends astride her shoulders. She giggles and he asks her what's funny and it's the eyelash dangling from the corner of his eye. She plucks it off and washes her fingers of it in the water, turning her face up for him to wipe at the eyeliner running down her cheeks
On the other side of the fence they can hear kids laughing and jabbering on about whether or not to head over to Julie's party or not, but soon enough it's all just white noise because Tate's closing in to cover Violet's mouth with his own and she's got absolutely no objections. He tastes like sugar and chlorine and it's not really that hard treading water and unbuttoning his shirt. She pulls it loose from his pants and peels it open to smooth her hands up the firm planes of his chest, strumming at his suspender, playful.
"Violet..."
His voice sounds almost pained when he discovers she's not wearing any panties and it more than makes up for the chilly breeze she's suffered through all night. In answer, she cinches her legs high around his waist and lets him, head bowed, watch her bare sex grind against the front of his trousers. The hem of her dress sways dream-like with each roll of her hips.
They just kiss and rut for a little while, their noses cold and their lips swollen. There's not a peep from the house but even if there was the easy meld of pelvises and tongues are too consuming to think of getting caught.
At some point they inch a few feet over and Violet releases Tate's neck to lift her arms and grip the diving board, legs still closed tight around his hips.
He's content to just make out and fool around a little before heading back home for a warm shower and, god willing, sex, but then Violet's eyes are lifting open into heavy slits and she's whining out a heady, "please."
The suspenders are floating behind his back and his pants are open seconds later.
He wants to tease her, nudges her open with just the tip of his cock, sucks a purple patch into the space below her ear, but she's not in the mood for pleasantries. Flexing her thighs and bringing her knees against the sides of her ribs, heels pressed into the dimples in Tate's lower back, Violet's able to drag him inside, pushing her temple to his ear and pulling in a hollow breath.
Tate holds her hip with one hand and steadies his other around the lip of the pool, laving open-mouthed kisses along the length of her nape, flattening his tongue against the topmost knot of her spine.
She's able to control the thrust and swell of his hips in the weightlessness the water affords them, pulling her legs back and forth where they're folded around him, the water slapping up against the edge of the pool with each cant.
The thrill of being caught and the simple joy of getting out of the house for a while coupled with the way they fit together, swollen and slick, brings them both over the edge in minutes. Violet sinks her teeth into the muscle of Tate's throat to keep from keening and he bottoms out with a grunt, hips jerking staccato even after he's spent.
They sway in the momentum of their lovemaking for a few minutes, talking of the day they'd had and wondering what the others had done with it. Violet hopes that Chad and Patrick had fun and Tate agrees, lamenting that he'd seen her dad with the tall blond just a few night back. He vows to save some candy for Beau and she tells him they can just put it all in a big bowl for people to share.
It's fast approaching midnight when they pull themselves up out of the pool, wringing out their clothes and gathering the rest of their things before unlatching the back gate and leaving.
Tate fits Violet with his hat and drapes the fur coat over her shoulders, pointing down the street towards home.
"So, tell me about this Margot chick."
"Well, she's married to Bill Murray but she's in love with her brother - Ew, no. Not like that, she's adopted…"
A/N: Thanks for reading! I wanted Tate to dress up as Alex because everyone is always comparing them and I think Violet is just so much like Margot and if you guys haven't seen either of these films, get on it! They're amazing. I hope you've enjoyed this little story time fic. I think sometimes maybe things are okay for our favorite little monsters, not all blood and heartache (although I sure love writing and reading it!)
I am incredibly depressed to say that I'll be starting up school next week and will probably not be writing as much as I am right now.
That said, I'll still be online as much as I can and will continue reading all of your fantastic fics so keep 'em coming!