2019 - Early October

Tate woke to the misty gray of dawn bringing color to the shadows in his room. He lifted his head and peeked through his messy mop of hair and realized it wasn't his room. The walls were dark teal. His perception of reality shifted slightly and he remembered this was Violet's room now. She was beside him in the big bed, still sleeping.

He pushed himself up so he could see her better in the voluminous folds of the comforter. They were both bare; they'd made love last night before sleeping. Convenient sex was one of the best benefits of sleeping with her, but waking up was an intriguing adventure in its own right.

She was so beautiful when she was still. Like a sculpture carved by one of the masters, every line and curve was perfect. Even her eyelashes and the soft pout of her lower lip were delicate masterpieces. He loved that she never wore makeup. He didn't like makeup. It hid people; it didn't make them look better. Makeup was for clowns.

He shifted, wanting to kiss her, but he didn't want to disturb her. There were so many unending tomorrows; he didn't want to bring her back to their prison any sooner than necessary. Sleep wasn't restful for the spirits, but it was a form of escape from the house.

So he sat there watching her as the sun climbed higher outside, quickly heating up the California pavement. He hated summer in Los Angeles. The heat and humidity made everything sticky. A storm would be nice but those never seemed to come till nearly sundown, when he couldn't really see them. A storm now would be great but the light coming in under the blinds was persistently bright white. It made the room seem darker by comparison.

In the dim, Violet stirred and opened her eyes to the outline of Tate sitting beside her. He smiled down at her and she smiled back, sleepily.

"Hey," she said softly. She stretched languidly. There had been many times she'd woke to him staring at her. So often, she didn't even ask him why. She just reached for him.

Tate crawled into her arms and settled over her. She felt so solid and warm when skin met skin. So real and vital. But the electric thrill wavered as conflicting feelings tried to rear up, like they always did. His mother was never far from his thoughts when he was naked with Violet, but he'd learned to push Constance into a jail in his mind as soon as she started to surface in his thoughts. It had become a ritual for him, stuffing down the feelings that tried to crowd in.

Her lips brushed his and he kissed her, finally satisfying that urge. Their tongues tangled and he could feel her pressing her hips up against him. His cock woke and he shifted about, trying without success to enter her hands-free. His attempts made her giggle, which tickled his lips and made him laugh a little too. He shifted again so he could get a hand underneath him then

CRASH!

Something flew through the window above the bed, sprinkling the blankets with broken glass. The lobbed object landed on the floor with a heavy thud.

Dead or not, Tate's heart was thundering like a herd of stampeded cattle and he was crouched, ready to spring. Only there was nothing to attack. There was just a big rock on the floor and a huge gouge in the wood. Hot post-summer air poured in through the broken window, teasing the curtains.

"Oh, shit," Tate said as the damage registered.

The bedroom door flew open and Chad came in like a tidal wave. "What the HELL?!"

He glared hot death at the teens then oriented on the damaged floor. Violet covered herself. Tate shrank down to child form, which only made things weird for his girlfriend. Fortunately he got to his clothes quickly.

"We didn't do it," he said as he threw on his shirt. It was a teen-sized shirt so it fit him like a night shirt.

"I can see that," Chad snapped. "What happened?" He grabbed the rock and went over to the window, carrying the fist-sized stone like he intended to throw it right back at whoever sent it up.

The missile had left a round hole in the window with fractured fingerlike cracks spreading out in all directions. There was no one outside on the lawn or street. Furious, Chad turned away from the damaged glass and went back to the scratch on the floor. He crouched down and rubbed a finger on it, scowling.

Violet pursed her lips, peeved, but she knew better than to get between him and home repairs. "Probably just a Halloween prank."

"It's those pricks from Westfield," Tate said.

"You don't know that," said Violet. She grabbed a shirt, too, since it was becoming obvious Chad wasn't going to leave until he figured out what to do about the damaged hard wood. "It's not even Halloween for two more weeks."

Tate looked unconvinced. "Who else would throw a rock at this place?"

"Lots of people," said Chad sourly. "Haven't you noticed?" When Tate didn't respond he looked over at the boy. "Oh, come on. Don't tell me you've never noticed how the windows in the stairwell keep getting broken. And fixed."

Tate looked at him blankly.

"Ugh," Chad grunted. "Fix your hair and put some decent clothes on. Then go get me the wood putty from the basement. This floor isn't repairing itself."

...

Author's Note:

This isn't exactly a short. More like a prologue for the next season of my Murder House AU.

Some of the stuff that's going on in my Asylum fic's answered some lingering questions I had about Season 1 and spurred a whole lot more questions in the process. Like... where did those dead jocks go after Westfield was destroyed? But I digress. When Asylum's done I'll start 1.75 in earnest.

EDIT: I've started 1.75. I just couldn't hold off any longer. You can find it on my Profile under the name American Horror Story - Season 1-75 E1 - Murder House: Armageddon