Chapter Text
When springtime comes around, Michael gets a case of spring fever. Wintertime is a lull period for him, even if he enjoys watching the snowfall and seeing you walk through the door with extra boxes of hot cocoa mix (and a large bag of marshmallows to truly satiate his sweet tooth), because it's all a reminder that Halloween is truly over. But after a few weeks he starts to feel better, and he can rest up 'till the end of the season. And now that it's spring, he has a lot of energy to let out.
Usually, his excitement channels itself into running small errands at your request, or leaving the house through any entry point besides the front door, or taking the station wagon for a spin... or two. Or, at one point, five. If he wants to go out, he makes a show of it, too, sauntering into the doorway of whatever room you're in in a(n honestly stellar) denim jacket, popping the collar so it very handsomely frames his jaw and just a bit of his neck (or those of his mask).
The drives are aimless, the only goal being to enjoy each other's company. Sometimes, you take a trip to the diner for something in a paper to-go box and then go wherever the road takes you. Maybe that small lookout that gives you a view of the town lights at night, or the strip of disconnected parking spots that sit right at the railroad crossing. Other times, he cruises slowly near the small-town shopping district, his free hand running over the knuckles of your own as you lay it halfway across the console. The crackling radio and the faint but warm smell of that old pumpkin freshener are the cherries on top.
But, like on the road, you've hit a bump. Whether or not he knew it would happen, he got an actual case of spring fever, because he is severely allergic to pollen.
The one time you decided to walk instead of take the car, the oak trees along the sidewalk decided to dump torrents of golden-green pollen that gathered into clumps on the ground, which the wind decided to kick up into the air. Michael continued on, expecting nothing to come of it. But after a short while of walking under the line of trees, a cough got stuck in Michael's throat. Then another, and another, his shoulders shaking from the force. When you hurriedly made it home Michael was a sputtering, sneezing mess, sniffling and achoo-ing in ways that, in other circumstances, would have been absolutely adorable, and honestly would have taken you aback with how loud it made him. But what took precedence was getting him through the front door and out of his denim jacket and away from the stubborn gold-green pollen dust that clung to it.
For the next few days you holed him up in the house, both because the weather reports predicted what was practically an onslaught of pollen for the rest of the week, and because despite his usual hardiness, his symptoms lasted much longer than you thought, even more than it would for the average Joe, you think. He spent most of his time on antihistamines (that he only took after a lot of convincing and only if he got to have it with soda) and lazing on the couch with a box of tissues and a trash can, and sometimes (hopefully) you for company. The box could stay in the in-between of the frame and the cushions, the garbage bin could stay on the floor, and Michael could stay snuggled against your chest. But despite him getting the excuse to be clingy during the day–at one point, he even whined when you left to make the both of you lunch, and wouldn't stop until you wrapped him up in a throw blanket and brought in a chair from the dining table so he could stay with you in the kitchen–he's getting restless.
Now the fourth day of his allergies, you and Michael decide to switch things up–he drapes himself across your lap in a heap as you sit upright, using his back like a TV tray. The TV itself chatters away as the both of you blankly sit through the ads for local restaurants, a used car dealership, and action figures. You consider the idea of getting the both of you some more crackers to snack on, and are tempted to maneuver Michael off of your thighs and get up... until a final ad plays. It's for a mall that, despite being far away, is the closest of its kind. You feel Michael's head lift off your legs when the section for the newly-attached arcade gets his (and also your) attention, especially with the beeps and whirrs coming from the machines. But eventually the ad ends and the spell breaks, and so you get up, replacing your thighs with a pillow so Michael can settle in for another episode of Scooby-Doo.
Shaggy laughs nervously on the screen as you make it to the pantry, and the crackers shuffle in their box as you fish it out, when you feel a tap on your shoulder. You jolt just a bit, flipping around to see Michael's closed the distance between you. He's silent, but he looks at you expectantly. The wastebasket sits at his side.
"I'll be back soon, you just go and rest," you say reassuringly, and in response Michael presses his hand to your chest, right at the sternum, to stop you. Your head tilts.
...After taking a moment to think it through, Michael brings his hands up to flank his neck, curling them into upward fists and then tilting them forward, rotating them at the wrist. When you don't respond he does it again, this time a bit snappier. It takes a moment to register, but your brain very helpfully reminds you of him always popping the collar of that one denim jacket before taking you out.
And, very unhelpfully, your brain reminds you of how much it makes you focus on his jawline when he does it. But anyway.
"You want to go out?" You ask.
He nods. He hasn't been able to go out in days.
"I mean, maybe we can tomorrow, and I'd like to, but... aren't you sick?"
You hear Michael sigh through his nose, and he shakes his head. To make a point, he shows you the inside of the trash can for you to assess, and... Huh, it's barely been filled at all. Then he sets it back down and brings your hands up to his face, and when you check, there's nothing notable except for the fact that he looks normal. Like, a healthy normal.
Soon you both hear the channel cut to commercial, and Michael nearly drags you (but absolutely drags the bin) back to the TV. The ad for the mall doesn't take much time to appear, and when it does, Michael turns to you, making the same gesture of turning up his collar. With how riled up he's feeling, he's in dire need of an entire daytrip, and a far away (but not too far) mall sounds perfect. The segment for the arcade comes on, and he nods quickly as he turns to you. But surprising the both of you, the commercial doesn't stop where it did before.
The camera zooms out further and pans across a seemingly never-ending row of machines, while a well-paid announcer points out the new games alongside the big-name ones. There's a cut to the prize counter and the ticket eaters, which fade to a small collection of claw machines, and then another dedicated row of games, this time for skeeball. A typical family of four are set loose on the arcade, and the ad ends on a freeze frame of a woman cheering while holding a fistful of tickets. The announcer lets you know that, for the arcade's grand opening, tokens are on "AN OUTRAGEOUS!" discount.
Once the ad fades to black, Michael looks ready to go now, even in his pajamas. He gazes at you with widened eyes, and when he nods, you find yourself nodding back. But as if on cue, he freezes up, sneezes, and nearly snatches at the wipes, huffing annoyedly at his body.
"...You sure you'll be fine?"
Michael takes a moment to collect himself before he gives you a glance. To make another point, he walks to the table near the door, picking up and jingling the keys with one hand and holding up two facemasks in the other, gesturing as if putting on both at once. He's fine in the car, and besides, the mall is indoors, anyway.
But even if Michael is abnormally tough, that pollen did a number on him, didn't it? And the drive'll be long... Long stretches of field. Fields had to have pollen, right? If that's the case, it''d be a miserable drive back home and another several days of recovery. Sounds too risk–
–You take a break from your thoughts and Michael looks like he's on the verge of pleading with the pout he has going on. ...Ah, shit.
"Alright, alright." You catch that little smile on his face, even from here. "But I'm bringing the meds, 'kay?"
Okay.
He's inches away from your face before you realize he even took a step. The kiss is warm and his lips are soft against your cheek... then he promptly takes the box of crackers from your hand and digs out a few pieces: some for him, but noticeably more for you, you're sweet for worrying about him so much. He flops back onto the couch (or as much as Michael Myers can flop, which is technically yes, but stiffly), and crawls onto you when you join him, settling his head onto your stomach. The crackers stay in his hands, and you give up asking for them when he starts feeding you. After another set of commercials, he also gives you an inexplicable scrap of paper with the mall's address written on it, though you never noticed him writing anything down.
Rolling with it, you pluck it from his fingers with a smile and a playful shot at banter. "It's a date."
Oh?
Michael shifts just enough to shoot a disarming smirk back at you. A date?...
Your face heats up, Michael refuses to break eye contact, and just to torment you further, Scooby pipes up from the TV's speakers.
"Reah! Reheeheeheeheehee!"