Author's Note: This was written as a one-shot with the possibility of being a full-blown story. I don't know if I'll end up making this into a story, but if you feel like it should be, feel free to let me know in a review. Takes place very much post-Afterbirth in season one. Rated M for trigger warnings and for future possible chapters, as I will most likely include violence/gore, smut, all the good stuff. Enjoy!

He's sitting in the basement, where it has become more of a home than the house itself ever was. Rocking in his rocking chair, to and fro, he has a concentrated look on his face, hand under his chin. But if he were to be honest, he would say that that was just how is face was, because he's not concentrating. He's not even sure if he thinks about anything anymore. Well, with one exception of course. Her. He laughs out loud, unexpectedly and subconsciously. What a joke. He mentally punches himself because he knows it's his fault that he's so miserable without her. He was, after all, the one who stupidly decided to rape her mother to conceive a child for a ghost who didn't even want the child once she had it. That's what pisses him off the most.

Tate gets up from the chair to pace. His usual routine. Stare blankly at the wall, think about Violet, get pissed off at hisself, stand up and pace, repeat. This time, though, as he's pacing, he hears a shuffling near the stairs. Someone coming down the stairs? Who the hell would willingly come down here? He walks toward the stairs but hides behind a wall. He doesn't need to strike up a conversation right now and frankly; he doesn't give a shit about what anybody has to tell him. He looks toward the base of the stairs, and his dead heart stops. Honey hues are visible in the light and he knows, instinctively, who it is. What the hell is she doing down here? He represses the urge to come out of his hiding spot and come face to face with the frail, young girl.

"Hello?"

The sound of her voice makes his breath hitch. He hadn't heard it in so long. Should he respond? He deliberates his actions as he hears her voice again.

"Is anyone down here?" She walks around near the base of the stairs, not really knowing what to expect.

"Don't ask questions you already know the answers to."

Her breath hitches in her throat and Tate comes out from the darkness so that he is semi-visible.

"You're smarter than that."

Violet turns around to where the sound is coming from and sees his shadowy figure. Her eyes roll in their sockets.

"Tate. What a surprise."

She walks toward the shadows till she's standing right in front of him. She looks up and she looks into his nearly black orbs.

"What's up man? How's life going for you as of late?"

He stares back into her hazel eyes with a building fire in the pit of his eyes and his soul. He knew he couldn't have expected her to come down to the basement, re-confess her love for him, and tell him that she forgives him and wanted him back. But he didn't expect this. However, being cruel and heartless was second nature for him, and the tone in her voice hinted that she thought she was the one with power. Who the hell does she think she is?

"Life is fan-fucking-tastic, thanks for asking. How's life with you? Must be fun seeing your parents give all of their attention to your little brother. How do you like being alone? Fun, right?"

She looks at him in disbelief. She thought he was a broken little teenager ever since she sent him away, but he was just proving to be the sociopathic asshole that raped her mother and killed countless innocent people. She sighs and looks down and away from his eyes. She didn't mean for it to get this bad.

"Look, I didn't mean to come off as a bitch. I just…wanted to see you."

Tate looks down at the little ghost. His turn for disbelief. Was she trying to fuck with him?

"Are you fucking with me?"

Violet laughs with an audible edge and looks into his eyes again.

"No, Tate. Lucky for you, I'm not exactly a sadist."

He looks down at the floor. He doesn't get what she's trying to do. But he doesn't want to fuck up what might be the only time he'll have to talk to her until she decides she wants to come back down to the basement.

"Well, here I am. Why did you want to come see me?"

She sighs and rolls her eyes. She didn't exactly know herself.

She takes his chin in her hand and brings his eyes up to hers.

"I don't know. I guess I just wanted to see your face again."

She runs her hand down the side of his jaw and she brings her fingertips to lightly dance on his lips.

"It's just…it's been a long time."

She ashamedly brings her hand back to her side. She's upset with herself now. Why did you do that? She knows she'll probably kill herself later.

As all of this runs through her mind, Tate takes her face in his hands and brings her gaze up to match his.

They look into each other's eyes as he runs his thumbs over her soft skin.

"Hey hey, don't feel bad. It's okay. I understand."

She feels herself leaning into his hands and immediately pulls herself out of his grasp. She hates the effect he has on her. Even after all that's happened, how does she still have a soft spot for this, this, murderer?

She feels self-disgust boil her blood and steps away from him.

"I'm going to go now. It was nice to see you again."

He's frantic and panicky now, as he feels her vulnerability floating away and her walls being rebuilt. He steps towards her, extending his arm.

"No, no Vi, you don't have to leave."

She looks down and fights back tears. She hates that she has just as much of an effect on him as he does on her.

"I'm sorry, I have to go."

She turns around and bolts back up the stairs and back into the house, leaving an even more emotionally distraught Tate to himself in the basement. She shuts the basement door and leans against it while she takes deep breaths. Stupid. So stupid and naïve sometimes.

As Violet runs up the house stairs to take refuge in her room and in her razor blades, Tate is stuck in the same position he was in when she left him there. He is numb. He feels nothing. No tears are falling, nor does he feel the need to cry. What he does feel, however, is the seemingly gravitational pull of the Smith & Wesson in the top drawer of his dresser, and the need to bring it to his temple.