Disclaimer: I do not own Cheryl/Heather Mason, Douglas Cartland or anything else directly related to the Silent Hill games. Only the story is completely mine.
Warnings: Spoilers for end-of-game dialogue and brief mentions of tobacco.
Other: For shhet's Valentine's challenge.
Though not set as a Valentine's story, but it's definitely sweet
enough.
Also, I know it's strange to call Heather Cheryl instead,
but it was her idea in the first place. Please bear with me. :)
After days of careful scheming and closely monitoring his routine, she finally managed to corner him. Cheryl fought to suppress a chuckle at her good luck and gleefully fondled the wooden handle of the knife she'd hidden behind her back.
Foolish man; he'd never see it coming. Sitting at the small dining room table crowded with old receipts, ashtrays, loose change and junk mail, Douglas was far too engrossed in the newspaper he was reading to even notice she had entered the room and was covertly sneaking up on him. His nose was buried in the current events section and he circled a notice for a local jazz festival with a red felt-tip pen.
Taking a hearty swig of coffee, he spoke to her without looking up, his gruff voice giving her a little start. "You got your clothes picked out for this afternoon?"
She swore under her breath and answered in the negative.
"Well, you better hurry up if we're going to make it downtown and beat the crowd. Have you started your laundry?"
"Not yet," she said, menace coloring her tone. She loped around the table until she was fully facing him, brandishing the knife in her small hands. And then, accusingly, "You're still alive."
Douglas sloppily folded the newspaper and laid it on the table in front of him, rubbing his ink-stained hands together. "Of course I'm –" His gaze first fell on the blade. It glittered meanly at him before his eyes moved up to regard her disturbingly serene face. "Cheryl?" Graying eyebrows furrowed with uncertainty.
Suddenly, she held the knife aloft, ready to plunge it into the nearest pliable surface. Her eyes flashed and she brought it down hard enough to jostle the stacks of half-empty cigarette cartons. The weapon struck its mark perfectly, piercing the loop of the number six and scattering frosting across the table.
"Happy 56th Birthday, Douglas!" exclaimed the cake, drizzled with rainbow sprinkles and crumbled Oreos. Cheryl hovered over it, her face darkly composed, her mouth a hard white line. The detective idly surveyed the sugary mess and shot the girl a knowing grin, her intense expression immediately dissolving into a winning smile of her own.
Douglas dug a finger through the confection and gave it a taste, smacking his lips happily. "You get less and less convincing every year, sport."