Author: ScarlettWoman710
Title: Paper Cuts
Summary: While she and Tate are friends (for now) he could never be the best friend that she's always wanted. Luckily, she's found Chad to fill that roll.
Rating: M
Warnings: Language, dirty talk
Spoilers: Season 1.
Disclaimer: I don't own American Horror Story.
A/N: I wanted to write something a little lighter and fluffier than what I've done recently and this is what came out. There's Tate and Violet fluff in here but it's mostly about Violet and Chad's friendship. Writing this made me miss my friends. A lot. I am a slightly depressed ScarlettWoman710 today.
Also, I've decided I'm going to include a reference to Pat blowing Ben in all of my stories. Partly because I think it's funny and partly because I think Patrick's too hot and forever's too long for Ben not to think about going there, eventually. It will be like my trademark. "Oh, is Pat giving Ben a blowjob? Must be a ScarlettWoman story."
And finally when I was chatting about this story with Gray Glube she thought it would be funny if Chad and Violet were playing Fuck, Marry, Kill, and it kind of became the thread that tied each section together, so thanks to her - and thanks for the "I'm gay, not desperate" line that she jokingly suggested for Chad, which was too good not to use.
The autumn sun reflects through the trees that line Winchester Place. Had they been anywhere other than Los Angeles, the leaves would have lit up the sky in varied shades of orange and gold – but living in sunny California means that everything stays in stasis. The residents of the Murder House know what's that like.
They know it all too well.
And Violet Harmon is trying desperately to break the monotony.
It's not ignoring her, what her parents are doing. She supposes if she were being honest, they would be right when they told her they were giving her space. She was old enough that she deserved to experience being on her own – as much as she could without leaving the house.
She'd be in her early twenties if she was alive – young, vibrant, a college student at a liberal arts college back East maybe. She wouldn't have the perpetual hormones of a fifteen year old girl… or the body, she thought wryly as she stretched out on a sofa in the den. She wonders what she'd look like at twenty-one. Would she have ever gotten any taller? Maybe an inch or two, but she'd never have been as tall as her mom. She thinks about her hair and imagines it a rainbow of colors – deep auburn like the maid, platinum blond like the bitches at school, dark black with streaks of blue or purple. She would have dyed her hair a lot, she decided. She would have relished the opportunity to change her identity like changing the channel on the television. And she would have gotten a boob job. She was honest enough with herself to admit that she didn't relish being relegated to the itty bitty titty committee. It might not have jived with her alternative personality, but she would have liked to have known what it was like to have the kind of chest that makes men's tongues go numb in their mouths.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda, she thinks. It's all pointless to think about.
Chad pokes her leg with his toe. He's stretched out with her on the sofa, his feet resting near her thighs. Violet had never in her life had a best friend – someone that felt like they were meant to be a part of your family. She was too quiet as a kid to ever open up to anyone, and she never got the chance to meet anyone in L.A. that she would have called a real friend. Well, besides Tate. But then again, what she had wanted from Tate had never been friendship.
They're friends now but she knows that it's just a rest stop. Sooner rather than later they'll be together again. None of the Harmon's have ever forgiven Tate but six years of close proximity and seeing just how death twists every soul that's confined to the house has made them forget why they need to in the first place. Her parents are too happy to care that Tate was the one that handed them their death sentence. Life goes on… except it doesn't.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. No point to any of it. No point to being mad, to being sad – not when you've got forever. No point in pretending she doesn't love Tate. No point in pretending she doesn't miss his arms around her as she sleeps.
And while she and Tate are friends (for now) he could never be the best friend that she's always wanted. Luckily, she's found Chad to fill that roll.
"It's your turn," he says lazily, poking her with his toe again.
"Brad Pitt, James Dean, John Travolta. Fuck, marry, kill?"
Chad cocks his head to the side, thinking. "Which John Travolta? And which Brad Pitt?"
Violet considers his question. "Seventies John Travolta. Current Brad Pitt."
"Fuck John Travolta. Marry Brad Pitt. Kill James Dean."
Violet rolls her eyes. "Kill James Dean? I thought you said you were gay. Isn't he like a gay icon or something?"
"I want kids. James doesn't seem to be the fatherly type. And I'd have to fuck John Travolta, I watched Saturday Night Fever so many times when I was a kid I wore the tape out."
"And your hand."
"Touche," he says, raising his glass to her.
It's a game they play all the time, smoking and drinking the wine that the old lady who lives in the house now buys in bulk. She can't figure out why her wine bottles keep multiplying in her recycling bin. She's starting to think that she has Alzheimer's and is drinking her booze and forgetting she's done it. She never notices that it's three wine glasses, not one, that are clean and pristine in the cupboard while the others are coated in dust.
He reaches over for the bottle, filling each of their glasses. "Robert Pattinson, James Spader, Jason Priestly. Fuck, marry, kill?"
"Who's Jason Priestly?"
Chad sighs. "You're so young," he says, giving her a withering glance. "He was on a show. Before your time."
"Don't remind me. Ok then, I'll say… fuck James Spader - as long as we're talking about James Spader from Pretty In Pink, I don't know how he looks now – marry Jason Priestly, and kill Robert Pattinson."
"Not a Twilight fan?"
"What do you think?"
Chad gives a half smile. He lets his head loll back onto the arm of the couch behind him. "I'm so bored," he says, staring at the ceiling.
"Me too."
"We could bake something. The old bat will just think she did it and forgot."
"No, Moira hates when we do that, it leaves a mess. We could go watch the gay porn from the attic?"
"No, too horny for that."
Violet arches an eyebrow at him. "Really?
He pulls a cigarette from the pack that's wedged between their knees. "Patrick and I are going through a bit of a rough patch," he says, flaring his lighter and inhaling deeply. "Blowing your father is something I can deal with. Fucking Hayden on the other hand, that deserves the cold shoulder."
Violet reaches for his cigarette and takes a drag. "You're shitting me."
Chad gives her a bitter smile. "Unfortunately not. He wasn't always gay. He said he was bored and wanted to see if it felt like he remembered. I cut off his dick after I found out, so now we're not speaking."
Violet knew that Patrick had been handing out blow-jobs to Ben like they were candy and it was Halloween. It had bothered her, for a little while, until she realized that her mother didn't seem to care that much. She had asked her about it once, and Vivien had just shrugged and said, "I love him, Violet. And we're here forever. What am I supposed to do?" Violet had wanted her mother to be more angry about it, but then realized that she pretty much felt the same way about Tate. And if her parents were happy, who was she to judge?
Violet makes grabby fingers at Chad for his cigarette again, and he rolls his eyes and tossed her one from the pack. "It's Halloween tomorrow, we'll stock up," he reassures her. She grins and flicked the lighter. "What are you going to do this year?" she asks, pulling the smoke into her lungs.
He shrugs. "I don't know. Go out and find some twink to fuck behind a dumpster. Stagger home smelling like some guys dick. Make Pat feel jealous for a change."
"That is way too much information."
"You asked, sweetheart." He nudges her with his toe again. "What are you going to do? Take Patrick Bateman on a little date?"
Violet glares at him. He knows that Violet's been spending time with Tate again. He doesn't mind - just like anything else, there's no point in being upset anymore - but he still likes to give her a hard time.
She takes a drag off her cigarette. "You know he doesn't leave on Halloween."
"And that makes no goddamn sense to me whatsoever. Christ. The only thing keeping me sane is knowing I can get out of here one night a year."
"I think we are the only two sane people here," she says, a little sadly. "God knows my parents are fucked up."
"And my husband."
"And my ex-boyfriend."
"And don't forget about Dr. Frankenstein and his bride."
"Or my dad's mistress."
"Or the Abercrombie model in the basement that keeps fucking her."
She grins at him. He smiles back. "It's a good thing we have each other," she says. He reaches up his wine glass to clink with hers. They toast each other and drink, reclining back onto the couch.
"So have you ever fucked a girl before?" Violet asks, curious.
"No, I was very sure from an early age that I was gay."
"Want to fuck me?" She asks with a teasing smile.
"Honey, I'm gay, not desperate."
"Mel Gibson, Matt Damon, Patrick Swayze. Fuck, marry, kill?"
Chad heaves another box from the old woman's closet on to the bed where she sits. The old woman's gone for the weekend, off to visit her grandkids and see them in their Halloween costumes. Chad and Violet have decided to go through her things while she's gone to see if she's got anything interesting.
He pauses and rests his hand on the box. "Dirty Dancing Patrick Swayze?"
"Is there any other kind?"
"I've taught you well. Fuck Patrick Swayze, marry Mel Gibson, kill Matt Damon."
Violet laughs. "You know Mel Gibson's psycho, right?"
"Yeah, but Matt Damon's too much of a goody-goody. I like my men a little crazy," he says with a snarky smile. He starts opens the box and starts digging through the old woman's clothes. "Looks like her husband must have died a long time ago," he says, pulling out an old smoking jacket. "Everything in here is from the sixties."
"That's sad," Violet says, peering into the box.
"I agree. Imagine living through the sixties and being such a complete square."
Violet rolls her eyes. "No, it's sad that he died so young. They couldn't have been married for very long if he didn't make it to the dawn of disco."
"Really? I think that's the happy ending," Chad says, pulling a red jacket with black trim out of the box and holding it up to his chest. 'Now this, this is fabulous," he says, admiring the jacket. "I wonder if it would fit?"
Violet pushes back from the box. "How is it a happy ending? Sounds like it sucks, to me."
Chad grins sardonically at her. "That's because you've never been married," he says, slipping his arms into the jacket. "They were very happy for a short period of time - obviously, or she wouldn't have kept all his old clothes - and their marriage ended before they got old and bitter and she caught him fucking the pool boy. That's a happy ending in my book."
He stands up and straightens the jacket in the mirror. "How do I look?"
"Good," she says sincerely. "Would you be happier if you had never met Pat?"
"You mean, the whole loved and lost bullshit?"
"Yeah."
He gives her a bitter smile. "I don't know, honestly," he says, walking back over to the old woman's closet. "Sometimes I think so. But when it's good..."
"It's hard to wish you had never known him," she says, remembering how Tate looked when he lay above her, gazing at her with such love and want that she had felt like she could burst into flames.
"Yeah. You know what I mean, though," he says, giving her a piercing gaze. She gives him a half smile and flopped back on the old ladies bed. Chad went back to digging through her closet.
How much longer was she going to punish Tate? Was she even still punishing Tate? She wanted to. She liked the idea of him suffering without her. It made her feel like justice was being served for her mother, for Chad, for all those kids he killed. But sometimes when she crawled into bed at night and let her hand drift down her panties she would remember the way that Tate would kiss her between her legs. She'd remember the way he could make her moan and her back arch. Most of all, she'd remember the way he'd wrap his arms around her after he'd made her cum and stroke her hair until she fell asleep, whispering "I love yous" into her ear.
She was starting to think that it wasn't him she was punishing, it was herself.
She was starting to think that it wasn't worth it anymore.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda's didn't matter. Pointless to worry about the past, not with an endless forever in her future.
"Oh my God," Chad breathes, taking a long white box out of the woman's closet. "Look at what I found!"
He sets the box on the bed and lifts the lid to reveal a mass of gauzy, navy blue material. "What is it?" Violet asks, interested. He sweeps the material into his arms and holds it up to reveal a dress that the old woman must have worn while her husband was alive. It was chiffon, strapless, cinched tight at the waist with a full billowy skirt.
"Nice," Violet says, rubbing the material between her fingers. "Very retro."
"Definitely," Chad says. He holds the dress up to Violet. "You have to try it on!"
Violet arches an eyebrow at him. "Bullshit, I do," she says. "I don't have one tenth of the tits needed to fill out the damn bust, for one thing."
"So you'll stuff, that's what they did back then," Chad says, brushing off her obvious lack of enthusiasm. "Come on, one of us has to squeeze their ass into this dress, and blue isn't my color."
"Chad..." Violet whines.
"Please?" he pleads, his eyes face drooping like a puppy dog. "Come on, what else do you have to do? Give me a thrill. Please?"
She sighs and starts stripping. "You owe me," she grumbles, discarding clothes in a pile on the floor.
"Yeah, yeah. I'll buy you something more in your taste on Halloween, something with sixteen layers and in a lovely shade of vomit. Lift your arms."
Violet complies and Chad slides the dress over her shoulders. "Ha ha," she says sarcastically. He sticks his tongue out at her and steps behind her to zip it up. It fits perfectly over her narrow waist, but predictably sags in the bust. "See? I told you," she says, tugging on the material that gaped over the chest. "Apparently the old broad had some serious funbags when she was my age."
Chad sighs and starts pulling tissue out of the box. "So vulgar," he says, handing her tissues. "I told you, everyone stuffed back then. Fill it up."
Violet tucks the tissues inside her bra. The material stops gaping but still looks bumpy and uneven. "It looks like my tits are made of bubble wrap," she says. He chuckles and pushes her bra straps down her shoulders. She slides her arms out of them and tucks them into the dress. Chad steps beside her to look at them in the mirror.
"God, look at your tiny waist," Chad says, envious. "I wish your psychotic ex-boyfriend would have waited until I had lost those last ten pounds before he killed me."
"You look good," Violet says, smiling at their reflection. She slips an arm through his. "We look like we've gone back in time."
"Buddy Holly and Peggy Sue," he agrees, then pauses. "Oh, my God! I know what we can do! We can dress up like this for Halloween!"
She laughs. "Yeah. Right."
"I'm serious!"
Violet narrows her eyes at him. "I am not leaving the house in this get-up."
"Yes, yes you are, and I am too. These costumes are perfect - nostalgic, period appropriate, tragic even considering how he died. People will love us. All of the good gay clubs only let you in if you have a good costume, we can go anywhere we want with these."
She arches an eyebrow at his reflection. "Two things. One, sixteen," she says, pointing at herself. "Two, not gay."
"Oh, neither of those will matter. You only have eyes for Tate - don't even try to deny it - so you're not going to go out cruising for dick anyway. If you're a girl at a gay club, they probably won't even check your I.D. And after I'm done with you you'll look old enough to buy a few shots."
"What do you mean, 'after you're done with me'?"
"I'll do your hair and make-up," he says simply. She gapes at him. "One of my friends was a make-up artist in Hollywood. I picked up a few tricks."
"Chad," she says firmly. "We are not going out to a gay bar, dressed like this, for Halloween. Be serious."
"I am," he says. "Come on, Violet," he wheedles her. "I just want to get Pat back. If we get in to a cool club, if I flirt with some barely legal boy in glittery hot pants, if I finally fuck someone else for a change, maybe I'll make him jealous." Violet raises her eyebrow again. "Okay, well even if it doesn't I'll sure as hell fell better," he says. He turns to her, giving her his puppy dog face again. "Please?" he begs. "For me?"
Violet sighs. Chad's her best friend, the only real friend she has in the house... has maybe had in her entire life. "Fine," she says, throwing up her hands. "But you have to figure out a better solution for the bust of this thing, I'm not going out with crumpled newspaper tits."
He pulls her into his arms. "Thank you," he says effervescently. He steps behind her and sweeps her hair into his hands, revealing her thin white neck. "I'm so excited. I love giving people a make-over."
"Could you be more stereotypically gay?"
He rolls his eyes. "I'm not embarrassed to be who I am," he says primly. "And I do love doing hair and make-up, dolling up my friends is one of the things I miss most about being alive. Well, that and candy. The old bat that lives here never buys any."
"Mmm," Violet says, closing her eyes. "I would kill someone for a Reese's peanut butter cup."
"If you want one, you might have to," Chad says, chuckling. He catches her eyes in the mirror and they start giggling, happy and excited for their planned night on the town.
"Violet?"
Her stomach clenches at the sound of Tate's voice as he stands in the doorway. She steps behind Chad, shielding herself from Tate's view. "Yes?" she squeaks, then makes a face at how her voice sounds. "What do you want?" she asks, voice lower.
"Your dad is looking for you. He wants you to help your mom with the baby's costume."
She scowls. She loves her little brother, she really does, but she got sick of the new baby thing about a year after he failed to grow into a toddler. "Fine, I'll be there in a minute," she says, peeking around Chad. She sees him frown and duck into the hallway, closing the door behind him.
She slips out of the dress. "I have to go do the family thing first tomorrow," she says, throwing on her clothes. "And then I want to go shopping and get more cigarettes. What time do you plan to make me over?"
"Six," he says, handing her a moss green cardigan from the floor. "Just come up here, I'll be ready for you. And Violet?" he says, as she step toward the door. She pauses, hand on the knob. "Thank you," he says sincerely, giving her a warm smile.
She smiles back and steps through the door. Tate's waiting for her in the hall. She curls her hands into fists, refusing to acknowledge the old flutter of nerves in her stomach that used to flare up whenever he'd enter the room.
When will he fucking stop making me feel like this? she thinks. She's worried that she already knows the answer - never.
"They're in the den downstairs, I think," he says. She nods and they start walking down the hall.
"All your clothes were on the floor," he says in a voice that's trying way to hard to be casual.
"We were playing dress up," Violet says, trying to suppress a smile. She wishes she didn't like the jealousy in his voice.
"I've been hanging out with the other fag -"
"Don't call them that," Violet snaps at him.
"Okay, sorry," he says, wounded. "I've been hanging out with Patrick," he corrects. "He doesn't really have anyone to talk to now that he's fighting with Chad."
"He can't talk to Hayden?" she says, thinking distastefully of the woman. She hates the bitch. She wishes that she never would have come here.
Tate grins. "She stabbed him after she came, but before he did," he whispers to her. She feels goosebumps form where his breath sweeps over her neck. "He's pissed at her. Travis doesn't like him because he flirts with him too much, your mom doesn't like him because he blows your dad, and when he and your dad are together Patrick's mouth is full. I think he's lonely."
"He deserves to be."
"We have that in common, then," he mutters under his breath.
Violet pauses at the foot of the stairs. She wants to reach out to him but she can't. Not yet. She won't give in yet. As much as she loves him she's still mad at him but it's for all the wrong reasons. It's for making her give him up, for making her so fucked up that she was starting to not care about all the things he'd done.
"Well, I'm going to help my mom I guess," she says lamely. "We can play Scrabble later, if you want."
He gives her a small smile and starts back up the stairs. She walks towards the living room, but turns back before she goes in. She sees his shoulders sagging as he walks up the stairs. He looks so broken.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. It's all pointless to think about. She'll rectify it later when she inevitably falls back into their old relationship. She hates herself for knowing that she will.
Halloween in L.A. dawns bright and sunny, the usually sweltering Los Angeles weather tempered to cool and pleasant. Violet likes this weather best, it means she can wear the layers that she loves so much without sweat dripping down her back. She was forced to go to the zoo with her parents, who insist on one spending the morning together doing a "family friendly" activity. Even though it she knows that it's stupid and childish, she really wants to go to Disneyland. It's not that far from where they are. She'll never suggest it, and hopes that one of these years her parents come up with it on their own.
She's left her family behind and successfully stolen the wallet of some woman wearing at least seventy five grand in diamonds and with a Chihuahua in her purse. Her morals have blurred the longer she's been dead. When you know that there's literally no punishment in the world that anyone can give you, you stop caring about the consequences of swiping the billfold of some too rich bitch who probably won't even know it's missing. She needs cigarettes and iTunes cards to fill up her laptop (thank God the old woman's kid set up a wireless router when she moved in) and Christmas presents for her family, and it serves the bougious bitch right because if she wouldn't have kept her damn dog in her purse she could have kept her wallet there instead of in the pocket of her designer jacket. It was too easy for Violet to bump into the woman, stammer an apology, and walk off with a leather wallet stuffed with bills. Chad taught her how to pick pockets out of necessity a few years ago. She grins and sets off for the shops.
An hour later, she has an small camera for her mother (though she doesn't know what the point of taking pictures is, considering they never change), a leather bound book for her father, a teddy bear for her brother, and several bags filled with cartons of cigarettes. She's happy, excited for her night out, and feeling good at being out of the house and on her own. Since she's died, that's what she likes best about Halloween - the solitude. She likes wandering around and knowing that there's no one creeping over her shoulder, no eyes following her across the room. Tate knows enough to give her her space from time to time but there's always somebody - Hayden or Nora or Charles or her parents or Moira - someone there in whatever room she goes in, practically breathing down her neck.
She checks her watch. She knows that she needs to start heading back home so she can start her transformation into a pretty, pretty princess. She turns down a street towards home and pauses, looking in the shop window.
Something tugs at her heartstrings. She's never bought a gift for anybody but her parents before, but something about this... she wants to buy it. She loves him, no point in hiding it, and she wants to get him a gift. So why not? She smiles and ducks into the store.
"Ben, Charles, Tate. Fuck, marry, kill?"
Chad gasps at her. "You're cruel," he groans, sweeping blush on her cheeks. "Didn't anyone ever tell you to be nice to the person that's doing your makeup?"
She giggles. She's feeling uncharacteristically happy, drinking champagne that Chad had bought earlier from a tall flute. Chad's been playing with her hair and make-up for over an hour. She feels nothing like herself as she sits, her back towards the mirror, as Chad fusses over her and her feet swing back and forth in the tall chair. Fuck it, she thinks. Everyone gets to be someone else on Halloween.
"Jesus, it's like having my own live Barbie doll," he says grinning. "I think that will do it. Get down, but don't look in the mirror. I want you to get the full effect when you have the dress on."
She hops down from the chair and walks to the other side of the room, careful to keep her back to the mirror. "Did we figure out the solution to the bust problem?" she asks, eying the dress on the hanger. "I meant what I said, I'm not going out with tissue tits, I don't care how much time you spent on my hair and makeup."
Chad grins at her. "Oh honey, did we," he says proudly. He ducks into the closet and pulls out a Victoria's secret bag. "There is enough rubber and latex in this bag to let you fill out Dolly Parton's clothes. Here." He thrusts the bag at her. Violet pulls out a strapless push-up bra filled with enough padding to stand up on it's own. "Jesus," she says, giving a low whistle. "This thing must weigh five pounds!"
"Five pounds of bust. It will fill you out. Come on, get it on. I'm dying to see you in that dress."
Violet wriggles out of her safe cotton bra and into the padded mass that Chad bought for her. She hooks the clasp in the back and pulls it up. She looks down, surprised at the mounds attached on her chest.
"I have tits," she says, awed.
"You do!" he says. "Now get your dress on."
"Impatient bitch," she mutters, smiling. He clucks at her and slides the dress over her shoulders, zipping it up in the back. He then reaches back into his bag, pulling out a small box. "One more thing. You cannot go out in your converse. They're not period appropriate. I got these at a vintage shop, they'll be perfect."
She flips open the lid to reveal a pair of kitten heels. Not as bad as they could be, she thinks. She slips into them, wobbling unsteadily before regaining her balance.
Chad takes a step back to admire his handiwork. "You look stunning. Really," he says kindly. "You'll have to show your mom and dad before we leave, they'd never forgive me if I didn't let them take picture."
Violet wrinkles her nose. "Can I see myself first? See what level of humiliation I'm in for?"
"Oh, ye of little faith," Chad says, rolling his eyes at her. "Go look in the mirror, I'm going to get dressed."
Chad slips into the bathroom to change into his costume. Violet goes to stand in front of the mirror, half scared, half excited. When she sees herself in the mirror, her jaw drops.
She looks beautiful.
She's never really cared much about her appearance, never bothered with make-up and hair straighteners or anything that isn't a comb and a towel after her shower. Seeing herself now, she wishes she would have.
Chad's done her hair up in a twist, with a Bardot bump and curls woven into the side of the twist. He's given her cat eyes with black eyeliner and think mascara, and the light brushing of sparkley eyeshadow brings out the flecks of green in her hazel eyes. He's dabbed lip gloss on her lips, giving her a pout like a movie star, and the hint of blush on her cheeks makes her look alive. Vibrant. Her new Victoria's Secret assisted bust is spilling out of her dress, which makes her waist look even tinier.
And as happy as she is, she's sad too, because this is the Violet of another life. The Violet that wouldn't have been afraid to be pretty, that's moved on from rebellion for rebellion's sake. The Violet that would never be afraid to be herself no matter what that means - if it was cardigans and converse or poofy dresses and pretty heels. The Violet that should have been dressing for a Halloween party with her boyfriend, going out to drink legally, going home to to fuck him all night, and then waking up in his arms and going to go get breakfast. The Violet that could leave the house the morning after the sun rose on Halloween.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. It's pointless to think about what might have been.
Chad steps out of the bathroom, wearing the red coat he found earlier, black pants, and a black tie. "What do you think?" he asks, running his hand along his slicked back hair. "And wait, I forgot -" he digs in his pocket and pulls out a pair of think black rimmed glasses. "I bought these today, they just have clear plastic in the frames." He slides them up his nose. "Well? Do I look like Buddy Holly?"
"You look great."
Violet and Chad both turn towards the door. Patrick's standing there, wearing a tux.
Chad glances at Violet. Her eyes widen and she shrugs. He turns back towards Patrick. "Who are you supposed to be?" he says in a voice Violet knows he's trying to keep indifferent, reaching for his glass of champagne.
"James Bond. The retro one."
Chad nods at him. "You look good."
Patrick reaches behind his back. "I brought you a boutonnière," he says, walking into the room. "It's just a white rose. Buddy Holly wore them in his lapel sometimes, I checked."
"How did you know I was going to be Buddy Holly?" Chad asks, examining the rose. Patrick glanced at Violet. She felt a rush of affection in her chest for Tate. He was the only one speaking to Pat at the moment.
Patrick chose not to answer Chad's question. "I was wondering if I could escort you out this evening," Patrick says, stepping closer to Chad.
Chad raises an eyebrow at him. "Really," he asks.
"Yeah. We haven't gone out together in a long time... and there's no one I'd rather spend Halloween with than you."
Chad mouth twitches into a smile, then fell. "Well, Violet and I-" he begins uncertainly.
"-had plans to go trick-or-treating," she finishes, smiling at Chad. "But I think I can let you off the hook this time. I can go on my own."
Patrick grins. "I'll wait downstairs," he says, reaching for Chad's hand and squeezing it. Chad's hand slowly drifts down to the side of his body as Pat walks away. He turns to Violet.
"Don't apologize," Violet says, shaking her head. "To be honest, spending the night in a sweaty club, being surrounded by boys that are better dancers than I am shaking their asses to Lady Gaga didn't really sound like a great time."
He rushes over to her, wrapping her in a hug. "Are you sure?" He asks breathlessly, pulling away to look at her face.
"Positive. I had a fun getting ready, that's enough excitement for one year. Next year you can take me with, okay? Go with your husband. Have make-up sex... preferably in the bathroom of the club. I don't want to hear you fucking each other when you get home."
He hugs her again. "Thank you so much, Violet. I need this. We both do."
"I know," she says, hugging him back. "Go! He's waiting!"
He smiles at her and darts out of the room. Violet follows, at a slower pace.
The house is nearly empty, no ghosts popping out of rooms to surprise her or asking her to look at what someone did to them. Her parents have taken the baby trick-or-treating in his homemade sheep costume. She briefly wonders where Tate is before deciding that he must be in the attic with Beau. She drifts out to the back yard to stand in the gazebo, leaning against a post.
All dressed up and nowhere to go. How fucking tragic. She wishes she had her cigarettes but they're in the house, so she nibbles on her nails instead, feeling the cold air on her bare shoulders.
She hears his feet crunch over the grass before she sees him.
"You look pretty."
She turns, her skirt flaring out as she spins.
Tate's standing on the lawn. He's ten feet away but by the way he's making her skin tingle he might as well be in front of her, running his tongue over every inch of exposed flesh.
"Hey," she says. She remembers the way her mother is always clucking at her to stand up straight and she squares her shoulders and lifts her chin.
"Did I scare you?"
"You never do."
He grins and steps closer. "Why are you all dolled up? Playing dress up again?"
"Something like that."
He nods but doesn't leave. She's glad. She doesn't want him to. "Where were you?" she asks, curious. "You haven't left the house on Halloween since..." she trails off. She doesn't need to finish, they both know. He hasn't left the house since they left it together, taking her on her very first date.
"I went trick-or-treating," he says sheepishly. He lifts one hand, revealing a mask. "I found this in the attic. I figured if I wore it, nobody would recognize me."
'Nobody' being the fifteen people you killed, she thinks, but she doesn't say it aloud. There's no point.
"Why would you do that?" she asks.
"You and Chad... you said you liked candy. You said you missed it."
Her broken heart finds a new way to break, another splinter off of what's left of the whole.
"You didn't have to do it."
"I wanted to." He steps into to the gazebo, holding out the bag of treats he's accumulated. "I went to all the houses that were giving away Reese's Peanut Butter cups twice. There were so many kids coming and going, they didn't even notice."
She rustles through his bag, seeing several of the tell tale orange wrappers. She wants to cry. "Thank-you," she says softly.
He must know, must be able to sense her weakening, because he sets the bag down and takes her hand. "Let me get a good look at you," he says, spinning her around. His eyes sweep over her chest and she watches him swallow, his Adam's apple bobbing up and down. She feels self-satisfied, thinking of all the times she wished her barely there B would transform into something else. His eyes drift to hers and she sees lust. Love. She wonders if they're just reflecting the emotions in her own.
"You look so cute," he says.
"Thanks."
"It's a good Halloween costume."
"Tell Chad, it was his idea."
"I will. I'll tell him that it's a good disguise."
Violet feels her cheeks heat up and she steps backward. "Fuck you," she says defensively.
He smiles and takes her hand again, tugging her back towards him. "It's a good disguise because you're pretty like this, but you're beautiful when you're being yourself."
She rolls her eyes and throws her head back to stare at top of the gazebo, hoping he can't see the blush that heats her cheeks. "So fucking cheesy," she says, trying to play it off like his words mean nothing, but she knows that he knows they mean everything.
"You thought I was being an asshole," he teases.
"You usually are."
"Ouch," he says sarcastically. "So where were you going tonight? The sock-hop?"
"Something like that."
"You look like you belong at a high school dance from the sixties."
She nods. She's tired. Tired of breaking her own heart every time she has to convince herself she doesn't love him, tired of forcing herself away when she wants to be close. It's Halloween. Everyone gets to be someone else on Halloween. She slips on the last part of her costume - a normal girl in love with a normal boy. Who they were, before the house came into their lives and twisted their thoughts like coiled black snakes. Who they could have been. Who they should have been.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. It's all pointless to pretend she won't end up as fucked up as everyone else, loving the one person she shouldn't. She is her mother's daughter, after all.
She steps against him, leaning into his chest. Her head finds the soft spot in between his breast bone and shoulder, the spot that she had claimed for her own years ago when her heart was still beating. She breathes him in and sighs. He still smells the same - clean laundry and a little bit of the incense she knows he used to burn to cover up the smell of joints he'd smoke when he wanted to block out the voices but didn't feel like shaking and shivering from the meth he kept in his sock drawer.
He stiffens and then softens, cautiously putting his arms around her. She sways with him in the dark.
"What are you doing?"
"We're dancing. You said I belong at a sock-hop."
He feels him chuckle before she hears it, the rumble building in his chest. "I've never been to a dance," he admits, his breath blowing warm across her ear.
"Me neither. Would you have asked me to dance?"
Never mind the fact that they never would have met. Never mind the fact that he would have been 34 when she was 16. Never mind, never mind. It's Halloween and everyone gets to pretend.
"Probably not."
"Afraid of rejection."
"Yeah. That and I don't dance."
"We're dancing now."
"It's easy with no music."
Her hands press into his back. "That was a nice thing that you did for Chad."
"I want you to be happy," he says simply.
"I know."
He stops swaying and she looks up. "I miss you so much," he whispers, his lips inches away from hers, his eyes on her mouth.
She misses him too. He knows.
She stretches her neck and their lips meet, soft and sweet and she feels the same butterflies in her chest she did the first time they kissed. The same ones she feels every time they kiss. His warm hand finds the small of her back and he pulls her close, bringing his other hand up to cup her cheek. His hand feels soft against her face.
He pulls away reluctantly. "What does his mean?" he asks, his lips brushing hers as he speaks.
She laces her arms around his neck, her fingers brushing against his curls. "We'll figure it out tomorrow," she says softly.
She hopes she doesn't bruise her knees when she comes crawling back to him.
He smiles and leans in for another kiss. A crash sounds from the house and she jerks away, looking towards the house. One window glows with the light from a lamp. It's hers.
"Chad," she whispers, and disappears.
She materializes back in her room. He's still wearing his costume but his face is read and blotchy. He picks up one of the old woman's glass knickknacks that cover every surface and heaves it against the wall. "Fucking selfish bastard!" he screams, agonized. He collapses on the bed and curls into a ball, his face pressed into the pillow.
"Chad."
He turns his head to look at her. "I'm sorry," he says halfheartedly. "I'll clean it up later."
"Like I give a shit about the room," she says, coming to sit beside him. "What happened? Why are you here?"
He brushes a tear away. "Patrick and I went to a club. It was great, for awhile - everybody kept coming up to us, telling us how great our costumes were. He kept looking at me, just looking at me like... like how he used to, you know? I was so fucking happy. And then some guy in a goddamn skintight Speedo comes over to say he'd like to buy us shots, but he needs Patrick to help carry them. So they leave and they're taking to long and I have to piss, so I walk into the bathroom and find him fucking the bastard." His breath hitches and a tear drips down his cheek. "I feel so fucking stupid."
"I'm so sorry," she whispers. She lays down across from him, her skirt spilling chiffon across the bed and over his legs.
"And the worst part is, I know I'll go back to him," he says. "He'll say he's sorry, and I'll go back, half because I love him so damn much and half because I'm so lonely!" He starts to sob, curling his body into itself, bringing his knees to his chest.
Violet knows how he feels. A tear slides from her eye and down her nose, dripping onto the pillow.
"Why can't we love it here like everyone else?" he whispers at her. "Why don't we get a happily ever after? Where's our soul mate?"
She slides her arm over to him, taking his larger hand in hers. "Right here," she says, squeezing his hand. He laughs bitterly. "I"m serious," she protests. "I've never had a best friend before. I've had good friends but never a best friend. Never anyone like you."
He smiles shakily at her. "Me neither," he admits. "I was more the lone wolf type."
She squeezes his hand again. "I love you," she says.
"I love you too."
"I'm really sorry about Patrick."
"Thanks. I know."
They're silent for a moment, looking at each other and smiling sadly. Mourning all the things that went wrong in their too short lives and too fucked up afterlives.
"I can't believe my best friend doesn't even know who Jason Priestly is. How fucking tragic." He brushes the tears off his face, done with being sad. It's still Halloween. Still plenty of time to pretend to be something else.
"You can show me. We've got time."
"That we do."
She rolls away from him, reaching under the bed with her free hand. "I got you a present today," she says, handing him a small box. His face lit up and he tore off the wrapping paper she had hastily covered it in this afternoon.
"Saturday Night Fever," he says fondly, tracing the words with his finger. "You remembered."
"Yeah, you wouldn't shut up about it. I wanted to see if John Travolta really was as fuckable in this movie as you say."
He laughs. "Come on," he says, sitting up. "Everyone else is out for the night. Let's go watch it."
"Now?"
"You have somewhere more pressing to be?"
She heaves herself out of bed and pads down the hall and stairs after Chad. When they enter the den, Tate's candy is sitting in a bowl on the coffee table. A small note sits on the top. "For Chad and Violet" it reads in Tate's untidy scrawl. She smiles.
"What's this?" Chad asks, nodding to the candy. He slips the disc into the woman's player and sits down on the couch.
"It's a long story," she says, flopping down next to him. He presses play on the remote and John Travolta's shoes strut across the screen.
They'll go back to their broken men, trying to fill the spaces in their broken hearts. It's inevitable. The house creeps into the cracks in their souls and the only way to push it out is to fill the space with something else. In Hayden and Lorianne's case, it was rage. In Nora and Hugo's case, it was oblivion. For Chad and Violet and Vivien, it's love - but something so pure can never exist for long in the Murder House. So they try to forget all of the crimes of their lovers, try to pretend that they're somehow happy with the status quo and the dark things in the pasts and presents of the ones they love.
Violet picks through the bowl and finds two peanut butter cups. She hands one to Chad and unwraps the other, popping it into her mouth.
"You never told me who you'd pick," she says, chewing. His eyebrows lift. She swallows. "Our last game of Fuck, Marry, Kill. You never told me who you'd pick with Ben, Charles and Tate."
He rolls his eyes. "I'd kill myself first," he says, taking a bite of his candy.
"Nope. Not how the game works. You have to chose."
He swallows and sighs. "Fine. Fuck Tate, marry Ben, kill Charles."
"Fuck Tate?"
He grins. "Your boyfriend has a hot little ass. Tall, blond, muscular -"
"You do have a type."
"... and completely fucking psychotic. Something kind of hot about that."
Her face heats up. She knows. His face stays pointed at the screen, but he looks at her out of the corner of his eyes. "Did you happen to run into Norman Bates Jr. this evening?"
She grins. "Yeah."
"And did he like your ensemble?"
"He did."
"Good. It wouldn't kill you to dress up every now and then. A little make-up never hurt anybody."
She pats his leg. "Don't get your hopes up. Tomorrow I'll be back to my converse and drip-dry hair."
He sighs again. "Fine. But if you're going to be my best friend, you're going to have to incorporate more colors into your wardrobe."
She grins and snuggles beside him and they watch the movie in silence, forgetting everything that's wrong in their lives and enjoying the only thing that's right.
Tomorrow she'll go back to Tate. He'll hold her, he'll kiss both sets of her lips ans she'll moan, she'll fuck him, she'll let herself forget that he is who he is. Being without him is death by a thousand paper cuts - too sad and painful and fucked up for anyone else to understand, and no one in this house is an any position to judge her or him or them or the them that they will be. She'll let herself love him and try and move forward. Patrick will come begging back and Chad will let him, making him grovel but only for a minute before letting him find a way to apologize with his strong arms and soft hands and lips and his dick. And both she and Chad will try not to let the humanity in them slip away, both try not to think about what life would be like if she were twenty-one and on her own for the first time in her life or if he was in his thirties and happy with a new man who loves him and never blows a guy that isn't him in the bathroom. If she wouldn't have swallowed a mouthful of pills. If he had gotten out when he had the chance.
It's all shoulda, coulda, woulda's. It's pointless to think about it anymore.
Things you should read: Gray Glube has written another piece, Wilt, that might be the best thing she's done in this fandom. Considering the stuff she's written that's saying a lot. Read immediately, along with Curio Girl if you haven't read it yet. Loginandgetresults has finished Yesterday is Done Tomorrow Never Comes and if you wanted a lovely ending to the Violate saga, it's beautiful in all the most glorious ways. In contrast, Reticence by Kristybelle is very dark and twisted and I can't stop thinking about it after I've read a chapter, it's fantastic. Finally, I'm late to the party on About a Girl by Paceyourself, a fantastic AU story, but I'm glad I found it. So check 'em all out.