Work Text:
There's something in the air tonight.
Mold, probably.
That's just the issue with these old irrelevant areas. These places smell of rot, neglected by the city councils and prissy chairmen in charge of ensuring the infrastructure worked. Old wooden homes falling apart up against hole-filled streets. This place was once a cute little neighborhood before everyone slowly started moving out. There were once community gardens, garage sales, barbecues, morning joggers, friendly dogs, and even the odd scout troup roaming door to door selling various treats. But now everything is gone. Years of economic hardship and crime had driven away most of the population.
Of course that doesn't mean everyone left, just most of them. If you pay very close attention to the area there are a few shambling members of the community who cling to their properties. Little glimmers of warmth and light in the cracks of this forgotten place. But the truth is harsh: the only people out here are killers and people yet to be killed.
A hunched over figure slips between the dilapidated buildings, his head down and covered by a dirty jacket hood. It's late, too dark for anybody to see him clearly in the inky black of the night. His movements are almost supernaturally smooth, like each footfall lands in a perfectly shaped spot for his shoes. Each alleyway and grassy space between chain-link and wooden fences is a little desire path of his own. Shaped for him.
He hasn't just been here once or twice, his entire demeanor radiates a familiarity that can only be replicated by years of wandering. And after walking between houses for a few more minutes the man stops just beside a patch of light shining on the ground. A single square of light pouring out from a second-story window to the figure's right. He's come to a rest by a fairly large, old house.
Maybe at one point the building might have been beautiful, gorgeous, detailed, and full of artistic effort. But there was a great deal of disrepair to the ancient house: broken shutters, warped siding, and crooked porch stairs, etc. But the house itself was currently the least of the stranger's concerns.
He turns, cold gaze sliding up the side of the building to the source of the warm yellow light. There, in the window, he can see the vague form of a person about his age. Their figure moving about the room robotically.
"Getting ready for bed, babe?" He thinks, lips briefly moving into a weak smile as he shifts his feet a bit. Slowly, the man moves to stand directly across from the window. The window's light falls in front of him, he wouldn't dare step into it for fear of being seen.
The person continues their bedtime routine, sitting at a desk near the window and sorting out what appears to be mail or possibly a journal? Jeff could never tell.
"You look beautiful tonight," He mouths, voice not daring to actually be heard as he slowly sinks to the ground. Legs folding under him as he rests in the sparse grass and weeds of the offset. A thin, fragile sliver of skin flutters over his eyes, not quite closing them but keeping them wet enough. Shame flutters in his chest for a second as the stranger watches his oblivious lover. How could he keep doing this? He should know better after so many years had passed. But doing this had become such a lifeline: coming here, watching them, even letting himself feel human for a single moment in time. He knew their name, their age, their likes and dislikes, their whole purpose for being here.
And they know nothing about him.
And how he wished (y/n) knew him.
Eventually, after several minutes of paper-sorting, the figure in the house stands and walks away. The light goes out, and the man stands up.
Breaking in was easy since the tiny basement window never locked. It was a tight fit but Jeff was fairly skinny from all the years of wandering and scrounging. And soon enough he'd gotten into the house. It was a small basement, boxes sit in the corner to his left and a small workshop-like setup sits to the right.
"You cleaned," The scarred man murmurs, looking around at the freshly swept floors and properly organized tools. Across the room a washing machine clicks off, a small bell indicating the end of the cycle. Jeff approaches the old machine, body shaking a bit with the overwhelming anxiety of being in the house. But, just like he did every time he visited, Jeff opens the machine and carefully loads the damp clothes into the dryer before starting it and walking up the basement stairs.
The house's interior was far nicer than the exterior. (y/n) had moved in after the neighborhood had fallen into disrepair. After all, who could pass up a good deal on a victorian home just outside the city? It was their dream to restore this home. To make it theirs. And they'd done it beautifully. Jeff smiles as he walks through the living room, one hand running across the back of an old leather couch. The air smells softly of fabuloso but that doesn't seem to overshadow the natural smell (y/n) left on everything they touched. Their signature aroma was intoxicating, addicting, and delicious. He continues into the kitchen, walking over to the dishwasher and checking the inside. It's full but obviously not running.
"Baby..." He croons softly, "You forgot again." Jeff chuckles, shutting the door and hitting the cycle button. For the first time since approaching the house, the killer pulls his hood off. Wispy black hair falls in front of his face, thin and scraggly but he simply just brushes the hair away and turns to the fridge. Polaroids, prints, and doodles litter the space. (y/n)'s little smiling face staring back at him in the dim kitchen nightlight makes him weak. Guilt consumes him for a moment as he reaches out, tracing one finger along the shape of their beautiful face on the photograph.
He shouldn't be here. You don't get a straightforward killer name by being gentle and nuanced. Jeff is an intruder in this private place and while that usually doesn't bother him this is different. This is (y/n)'s place. Not his. And oh how desperately he wants it to be his. How he wants to come into this space not as an intruder or guest but as a beloved member of the home. He wants (y/n) to see him, to smile at him, to take his face into their hands and gaze at him with adoration.
Jeff sniffles, but cannot cry.
Turning, the killer leaves the kitchen and heads towards the stairs towards (y/n)'s bedroom. He stops at the first step and stares up into the darkness. Never in the last five years has he dared to go up those stairs. Going into (y/n)'s bedroom would break him. The smell of their body spray, the sight of them tucked in bed, the knowledge that he could just lay down next to them and finally know happiness.
But tonight is a night for weakness, he decides, and begins his ascension into the dark.
The locks are old and useless, so opening the bedroom door is easy. And the air of the room hits him like a train, just the presence alone of his beloved is enough to make his heart twist in his chest.
"There you are..." Jeff smiles softly as he enters the room. Posters and pictures line the walls, a soft rug compliments the room's hardwood floors. And with the window being open the sweet night air mixes into the smell of (y/n)'s perfume so nicely. It's heaven, there's no doubting that. Jeff approaches the bed, eyes wide and hands trembling as he stares down at (y/n)'s sleeping form. So beautiful, so peaceful. If this were his home how different would this be? Would he be free to throw himself into the bed? Feel the soft sheets under his hideous skin? Would this wake his beautiful partner?
And what's more, would they mind?
"Please..." He barely squeaks, mind racing as he reaches out to the snuggled up figure in front of him. Jeff cannot find the words, forced to keep his thoughts quiet even in his own mind for fear of being discovered.
But if he could, he'd sink to the floor and beg like a disciple at his diety's altar. He'd beg to be known, to be understood, to be held. How he'd plead for the chance to kiss (y/n), to hold them, to feel them, to satisfy every need of theirs no matter the cost to him. His chest begins to ache with sorrow, eyes stinging and lips trembling as he slowly backs away. For well over a decade he'd been a ruthless killer. A monster in the streets. A man to be feared. And yet here he is, wishing to melt in the palm of someone who has never even seen him.
"g...goodbye...I love you," Jeff whispers, slowly backing away.
As soon as the door presses to his back he flees from the room. Being quiet is the priority but leaving is too. Jeff slips down the stairs, back to the basement, and with a soft grunt and the click of a window latch he escapes.
The outside air is cool, the breeze brushing against the scarred cheeks of the killer as he pulls his hood over his head and storms off into the neighborhood. He'd done this about four times a week for months- years now that he thinks of it- but this was too far tonight. He'd gotten greedy and selfish and that's unacceptable. He should stop but he wont. Jeff will continue to do this, no matter how much the pain of leaving hurts. Even if (y/n) gets married, even if they have kids, even if they die in that house surrounded by family thats not his. Jeff would be there, unseen and unnoticed. In a way it was good. The schedule took away from his killing, it gave him routine, and it gave him purpose. (y/n) was doing something good for him. They were an angel for that. And he believes they are the best thing to happen to the world.
But of course that also means they're the best thing that never happened to him.