Title: What He Wants

Rating: T to be safe.

Summary: When Michael Myers came for his niece in 1988 everyone assumed he wanted to kill her, but you know what they say about people who "assume."

Disclaimer: I don't own any of the characters in this story. I write it for my own entertainment and make no money off it whatsoever.

Chapter Seven

Ripley:I'm not gonna leave you, Newt. I mean that. That's a promise.

Newt: You promise?

Ripley: I cross my heart.

Newt: And hope to die?

Ripley: And hope to die.


Chapter Seven


The tall form of Michael Myers stood among the darkened trees a safe distance away from the Carruthers house. Branches creaked and settled around him, gently rocked by cold night breezes. The wind had no effect on him, for at that moment he was unmovable and silent as a boulder. Despite his calm appearance, Michael felt as though his whole body was thrumming like a steel cable drawn too tight and ready to snap, as his intense stare focused on a single point of light within an upstairs window of the house. Waiting, with ever-thinning patience, for the tiny occupant of that room to appear, to catch a glimpse of the little girl he'd adopted Halloween night. The girl who was currently living with a family that did not include him.

Another day gone by and Jamie still hadn't returned to Lampkin Lane. He was growing impatient, confused and, though he would never admit it to anyone capable of breathing, a little frightened.

What if she doesn't want to come back to me?

Michael knew she wasn't sick anymore. All day long, he'd kept a vigil on the house, watching discreetly through windows. Catching quick, shutterclick flashes of Jamie and Rachel. Jamie talking on the couch with Rachel. Jamie watching television with Rachel. Jamie laughing and smiling with damned Rachel! The same witch whose undisguised hatred for him rendered it necessary to leave his niece and escape from the house altogether, otherwise the need to shut Rachel up would've resulted in his knife seeking out and becoming intimately acquainted with her heart. A delicious death that would've made his whole day but would also have gotten him in trouble with the HPD and, more importantly, with Jamie. Bitterness, hot and black, soaked into his heart and made his chest feel tight as he remembered the last thing Rachel said to him in the kitchen. I don't know what she sees in you.

Movement from inside the room jolted Michael's attention out of his inner turmoil and back to the upstairs window. Through the curtains, he could see Jamie sitting on the edge of her bed dangling her legs over the side. Her white, frilly pajamas seemed to reflect whatever light fell upon them so that she glowed brighter than anything else in the room. She seemed to be entirely focused on her closed bedroom door and Michael considered how easy it would be to climb up to the window, smash the glass, reach through, and drag Jamie out. He'd half made up his mind to do just that when the bedroom door opened and a woman he'd never seen before walked in. She wore a white terrycloth bathrobe and slippers, with her wet hair pulled up in a bun, obviously having just come from the shower. For a split second her face was visible to him, and Michael picked out enough familiar details to be certain this was Rachel's mother, which meant she was Jamie's foster mother. Michael felt himself go cold, a sensation that had nothing to do with the biting wind.

The woman who presumed to be caretaker to his niece sat down on the bed next to her adopted daughter. She took his niece's hand in hers and Michael clenched his jaw as intense jealousy and resentment tore through him. They spoke too softly for him to hear but it was obvious the two of them were having an intimate conversation, the sort of just-you-and-me talk that closely bonded parents have with their kids. His mother and Judith had several of them, heartfelt conversations that so often ended with Judith shouting or crying. But the soft look in the older woman's eyes told him that this stranger cared deeply for Jamie. And Jamie must care deeply for her in return, else why hold her hand like that? Michael felt helpless, like a fly whose vital essences were being sucked dry by a hungry spider, as his niece's love was stolen from him. And when he saw his precious niece throw her arms around her foster mother in a fierce hug, the seething cauldron of dark emotions in him came to a head. He wanted to barge in there and slit that woman's throat! He wanted to kill anything that moved in that house, then drag Jamie back to Lampkin Lane and never ever let her leave his side again! He wanted...! He wanted...!

Michael felt his whole body go limp as all the jealousy and rage drained out of him, to be replaced by soul-crushing weariness. His head sagged, drooping lower and lower as bleak realization hit him.

He needed Jamie more than she needed him.

It was foreign to him, the feeling of needing someone in his life, but there it was. His shy, kind little niece had won him over completely. Her presence cleared his head, calmed his rage, and kept him out of the hellish void he'd been locked in for so long. She gave him everything and he gave her...what? He understood, logically, that he had nothing substantial to offer her and so she was much better off with people who had the means to give her what she wanted. There were no benefits to living with a man as freakish and abnormal as he was. Plus, there were those times he'd frightened her, not intentionally but still it was enough to make her cower, or cry, or become tongue-tied when she tried to speak to him. If Jamie chose to stay with her foster family, then it was because he'd failed to make her see him as anything other than a monster.

Being seen as a monster had never bothered him.

Until now.

Somehow, he mustered the energy to make the long trudge back to his dark, empty home. He stayed in the shadows out of habit, but didn't really care if he was seen or not, so wrapped up was he in trying to understand this unpleasant new emotion he was experiencing. It took a while, but as he neared the front porch of his house he finally managed to put a name on it. For the first time in his life, he was feeling ashamed of himself.


Michael tried not to think as he stepped inside his house. He tried not to think as he shut the door behind him and leaned against it. if he thought about anything at all right now, something ugly might happen.

Everywhere he looked, he was reminded of Jamie. The walls were plastered with crayon drawings held in place by bits of tape; most she'd done herself, others with his help. Jamie's contributions were bright and cheery, full of primary colors. At first the garish things had annoyed him to no end. He'd confronted her about it by ripping an eyewatering display of rainbows and kittens off the living room wall and thrusting it in her face. She'd explained timidly that she was trying to decorate the house. He'd given in, because it gave her something to do and doing things seemed to make her happy. The day she'd brought home a set of paints from school had been the day his will broke completely and he'd found himself coated up to the elbows in various colored substances. To his surprise, he'd actually enjoyed this form of self-expression, though his creations were a bit more...interesting than Jamie's.

He shut his eyes, trying not to think, not to feel. Moving like a zombie, he found himself ascending the staircase to the second floor. Candles still burned up here, but he didn't need light to find the room he wanted. The room down on the end. The room with the rocking chair.

It had been Laurie's nursery. He could still see his mother sitting in the rocker next to the crib, humming to herself as she held his infant sister in her lap. If he breathed in deep enough, he thought he could still detect a faint scent of baby powder. Laurie's crib had long since disappeared, most likely sold or destroyed, but the rocking chair still claimed its old spot in the room, dusty and forlorn now that his mother was gone. He'd brought Jamie here the first night they'd been together because he'd thought she might feel safe there. And he'd been right. She'd calmed down considerably once she'd figured out he wasn't planning to kill her, even snuggled up to him a bit. He remembered how content and peaceful holding her had made him feel. Until Loomis had shown up.

With a sad sigh, Michael collapsed into the rocker, wrapped his arms around his middle, and set the chair in motion, rocking back and forth in a pitiful attempt to soothe himself.

"You should've known it would never work."

A sharp jolt like icewater crawling down his spine filled him at the sound of the voice. That oh so familiar voice. He refused to look up and acknowledge it.

"I'm surprised you actually made the attempt, but we both knew it had to end this way. You will always be alone."

Appearing unfazed, Michael waited several seconds before giving the bastard any sign he was listening. Then, very slowly, like a man being roused from deep sleep, Michael raised his head. His dark, brooding stare locked with the pale blue eyes of Sam Loomis standing just a few feet away from him. His stout form blocked the doorway, making escape impossible. Michael narrowed his eyes as the old psychiatrist reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a silver cigarette lighter. He flicked it on, making a bright yellow flame dance merrily on its tip.

The doctor continued taunting his former patient in an idle, almost conversational tone. "There is nothing more for you, Michael. No one will ever accept you the way you are. Not even an innocent child." He began flicking the cigarette lighter on and off, on and off. Michael felt his contempt for his long-time doctor reach an all new high. Had the fool come here just to gloat over his current state? He found his eyes drawn to the miniature flame in Loomis's hand, feeling his gorge rise as he remembered the searing agony of nearly being burnt alive.

Relentless, Loomis smiled kindly as he twisted the knife even further. "She doesn't want you, Michael. Even if you'd do anything for her, be anything for her. Just so she'd stay with you. It's quite sad, really."

Michael was up and out of the rocking chair before the last syllable left Loomis's mouth. There was nothing in his field of vision but red. He wasn't sure how it got there, but his butcher knife was suddenly in his hand and he was raising it to slash, maim, hurt the old man very badly. To silence him once and for all.

He brought it down...

...and felt it pass through empty air.

But Loomis was still there, now with a malicious smirk on his face.

Alarmed, Michael backed away from Loomis, who had taken on the faintly transparent quality of a ghost. Hallucination, his mind screamed at him. I'm hallucinating. This used to happen to him off and on throughout his fifteen year confinement at Smiths Grove, but usually it was apparitions of Judith who came to torment him. He clenched his fists hard, digging his nails in so that blood-beads dotted his palms, but Hallucination-Loomis wasn't going anywhere.

"You're evil, Michael. Your own parents were afraid of you."

Michael tilted his head, thinking this might be a lie, but he wasn't sure. Maybe they had been. Memories from those days were few and far between but one thing he was certain of was that he hadn't been a completely normal child.

"You were never cut out to be an uncle or a brother. Any role other than a killer doesn't suit you at all." Loomis flicked the lighter inches from Michael's face. Even though it was a conjuration of his own mind, Michael swore he could feel blistering heat cracking his skin. Loomis raised his eyebrows, as calm and reasonable as ever. "Kill again, Michael!"

Michael blinked, stunned to hear his doctor actually encouraging him to murder someone, even if it wasn't real. He gripped the sides of his head, feeling his skull caving in on itself. He wanted to give in, to hunt down a pretty teenage girl, plant his knife in her heart, and watch the life leave her eyes as she died. Maybe he'd start with Rachel Carruthers. Yes. He'd punish Jamie for leaving him. No, he wouldn't, he couldn't, no, no, no...!


Sucking in a deep, rasping breath, Michael forced his gritty eyes open, Standing in the doorway, visible beyond the Loomis-hallucination, and watching him with very wide brown eyes was his niece. With one small fist she held together the ends of a fluffy white blanket draped over her shoulders. She looked startled, a little scared, and took a small step backwards. "Are you okay?"

The Loomis-hallucination grew thinner, within a few seconds vanished entirely, scowling in disappointment. Only Jamie stood before him now, and he snatched her up roughly, needing to convince himself she was real. Her heartbeat skittered in her chest, a little too fast but strong and solid. Supporting her in one arm, he used the thumb of his free hand to brush a tendril of chestnut hair out of her eyes. Laying her head on his shoulder, the little girl wrapped her arms around his neck and met his dark stare, sensing the traces of madness now slowly leaving him. "What's wrong?"

For an answer, he marched over to the rocking chair and sat down with her in his lap. Her gaze never left his as she snuggled against him. In one of her typical efforts to fill up the silence between them, Jamie started to babble. "I'm sorry it took so long. I had to wait for Rachel to drop me off and my stepmom wanted to see me before I left and..." Her flustered explanations trailed off as comprehension dawned in her eyes. "You didn't think I'd come back?"

Michael shook his head. He stroked his niece's hair, aware that his fingers trembled just a tiny bit but unable to stop them.

Jamie actually looked hurt. Her bottom lip jutted out in an adorable pout. "But I said I would, didn't I? You didn't believe me?"

Michael answered her by way of a long, deep sigh that blended all his weariness, relief, and happiness in one stream of air. He continued to rock her, gently, reliving the first night he'd done this for her, strengthening their bond. He'd never felt close to anyone before now and it was new and unfamiliar territory for him. Evidently, he needed to work on his trust issues.


Authors Notes: First off, let me just say I'M SORRY! Keeping you guys waiting this long for an update was not nice and I really can't think of a good excuse so I'm not gonna try. Anyway, I had to go back and reread the last chapter to remember what I wrote before so if you spot any goofs in continuity, lemme know. I'm still in the process of figuring out what the actual plot of this thing is supposed to be. lol Michael is such a woobie in this chapter. I figured that if Jamie left him the depression would come first, then the murdering rampage. Fortunately, she came back before it got to that point.

Does anyone think I should stop putting quotes at the beginning of the chapters? I got the idea from Vaero's TF Juxtaposition Saga (and if you haven't read it then stop reading my stuff and go read hers, it's amazing.). I like the quotes but if the majority of you find them annoying let me know. I aim to please.

And I just want to make this 100% percent clear so there is no doubt in anyone's mind. Michael and Jamie are NOT in any kind of sexual relationship. Michael wants her love because she keeps him grounded in reality and provides an incentive for him to at least try to be normal. She is his morality pet, not his sub. That is all.