She can hear him in the walls.
He doesn't bother being quiet anymore. It's loud, violent thumping that echoes throughout the entire house and leaves her forever on the edge. He's most active during the night, destructive as he tears through the kitchen to smuggle whatever food he can. She doesn't question it, even when she has to wipe up the mess that he leaves behind. She even makes food fresh for him to eat. It's a bit of a nuisance, but it stops the creaking that resonates through the wall and out her closet when he's decided to make a three am visit to ask for food.
Greta shudders at the memory. He had stood in the darkest corner, only a portion of his mask visible as he stared at her, announcing his presence in his tiny, childlike voice.
"Greta," He had said in his soft, yet high pitched voice. Her fingers had curled around the blanket tightly, knuckles white by the time he began to step towards the bed. He had stood there for minutes, watching her.
"Is Greta okay?" He had whispered when she stayed still, and with a quiet curse she had rolled herself over. She supposed she had underestimated how close he was, because immediately she was met with him towering over her, hands rung together at his waist childishly.
Greta couldn't help the sigh she let out as she remembered her ear piercing scream. It had started Brahms so much that he had stumbled back into the closet, tripping over himself before retreating back into his crawl space gracelessly.
She didn't sleep at all for the remaint of the night. She stayed sat up, blanket pulled to her chest along with her knees as her attention never left the closet. He never reemerged, but she knew he was there. He always was.
.He's here with her now, and she knows it. She can feel his eyes on her while she slowly spreads peanut butter on a slice of bread. She has four slices out, a sandwich for the both of them. She knows the drill by now; make the food, leave his portion behind, and then leave the room and eat elsewhere. It was a bit of a pain, migrating back and forth with food and drink in hand, but it was bearable as long as it kept him happy. Of course, it didn't always and he'd throw his little temper tantrums, throwing things on the floor, but he'd get over it, and for the most part Greta would be left to eat and drink her wine in peace.
With precision, she slices down the middle and separates the sandwich. She's finished his sandwich, and she places it to the side on a separate plate, accompanied by a glass of water. She collects her own things and readies herself to move, stopping when there's a creak in the floorboards.
She knows it's him, and usually she wouldn't mind it but it's too soon. It's too close. She hasn't taken a single step from where she had been cooking. He usually waits till she's completely out, following her along in the walls to be sure. She stands stiff as a board, eyes flitting around the room until they fall on a mirror and she sees him coming from behind.
He's not coming for her, not directly. He's shuffling slowly, head down with his hair hanging wildly. Greta cringes slightly at how dirty it is. She'll have to have him shower, maybe after he eats. She just has to figure out what he's doing first.
She keeps her eyes down on her plate of food when he passes into her normal sight. She no longer has to watch him from the mirror, now just through her curtain of hair. She doesn't want to move and startle him. He rounds the table with slow, undeliberate steps until he reaches his food. The atmosphere is pregnant, tension heavy between them. He seems to realize something and stills, hand hovering above the plate.
Greta raises her head ever so slightly to look at him. There's irritation in his eyes, and she can imagine the way the corner of his mouth turns downwards.
She's about to free him from the tense silence when the scrape of a chair against flooring sounds. For a moment, she foolishly thinks she'll get to see his face, but the hope is squashed when he turns around, sandwich in hand.
It's a strange sight to see a grown man slumped over, a mask pulled up to his forehead while he eats.
"I'll leave you to eat." Greta says quietly. She doesn't want him to have to hide while he eats, or make him uncomfortable. She's not in the mood to go around and pick up the clothes that he would no doubt throw on the floor.
Brahms head snaps up violently at her words. He turns his head somewhat, still blocking his appearance while being able to see her. It's a moment of silence before she hears a quiet, "Stay."
So, Greta does, slowly setting her plate back down.
They eat in silence together. Periodically, he'll turn his head to try and look at her, but majority of the time it's to no avail and he ends it with a defeated noise. His fingers are twitching, his free hand digging into his thigh. Greta thinks it's from nerves, but she's not sure. It's too frequent, too purposeful. If he wanted out, Greta would leave the room immediately. He has freedom, after all this was still his house. She couldn't leave until she found a way to get out with Malcom still alive, but he could go wherever he wanted.
Mindlessly, Greta reaches out for her drink. She's so focused on Brahms that she's not paying attention to herself, and she sends the wine glass toppling. She barely has time to gasp before the glass shatters and wine goes everywhere.
Brahms' head tilts up slightly when Greta curses, grabbing at napkins and desperately trying to wipe up the mess. It's a struggle, because not only does red wine stain like a bitch, she's dealing with glass. She attempts a few more times to salvage the table cloth, giving up with a tired sigh and dropping her head in her hands. Usually, it would've be that big of a deal, but Brahms is here. He came out of his comfort zone, and in response Greta ruins one of his possessions.
She expects to hear him run from the table back into his hiding spaces, but it never comes. It's quiet, completely motionless, until there's a light touch on her hand. Unwisely, she jerks, lifting her head to look.
Brahms' has his hand out, though it's retreated somewhat, no doubt from her reaction. In his hold in an untouched part of his sandwich. Greta blinks slowly then looks down at the mess when it registers. Her food was ruined by the glass and wine, so Brahms was giving him hers.
Tentatively, she takes it from his hand with a gentle simper.
"Thank you, Brahms." She tells him softly. He doesn't react at first, just keeps staring until he tilts his head. It's barely noticeable, but Greta picks up on it. She notices almost everything nowadays.
He stays until she finishes eating it, wiping at her mouth gently with a napkin. The mess is still in front of her, but he doesn't seem to care. He sits there, mask pulled back down, waiting for Greta to make the first move. She considers talking to him, but she's not sure what to say. She doesn't want to ruin the moment.
Not knowing what else to give, she expresses a small smile. She can't see Brahms' expression, but she knows by the way his eyes shift that he's enjoying her company.
Eventually, Greta moves. She has to clean up the mess in front of her before it seeps through the cloth and ruins their actual table. Their moment is broken, the emotion gone. Brahms slowly retreats from the table, shuffling across the room and only stopping at the end of the kitchen to look behind him. They stare at each other for a moment until he begins to move again, going into the hallway to disappear until it's time for them to meet again.
It saddens Greta a little, but it doesn't keep her down for long. She's soon gifted with another loud thump, and she's comforted with the knowledge that he's always with her.
With a quiet laugh, she begins to clear the table.