You woke up to silence for the first time in days. A comfortable sense of calm covers the house like a thick fog. The sky outside is dark with thick clouds and light wind, thick raindrops falling in sheets and thrumming against the windows rhythmically. You sit up in bed, stretching your arms above your head and shifting to stare out the window and taking a deep breath. You hop from bed, pulling a throw blanket along with you and tucking it over your shoulders as you walk towards the window. You unlock it and push it open, the scent of rain and life washing over you. After the events of the last days, you needed a bit of peace and quiet. You settle onto the ground beside the window, leaning your head against the wall and breathing in the soothing scents, basking in the chilly air, soaking in the sound of the rain. A soft knock on the door startles you out of your calm, your head shifting slowly to the source of the sound.

"Come in!" you whisper-shout, afraid to break the silence as if it were delicate as a spiders web. The door is slowly pushed open by a nervous Brahms, him peeking in through the crack he'd created.

"Good morning, (Y/N)." he says in that cute, scary child's voice, making you smile. He pushes the door open the rest of the way.

"Good morning, Brahms. How is everyone?" you ask, climbing to your feet. Brahms glances out into the hallway, and then turns back to you, nodding his head.

"They're well." he says simply as he steps further into the room. He tilts his head, a concerned glint in his emerald green eyes. You smile, knowing he's silently asking if you're alright.

"I'm doing okay. I know it was for the best, and I know I'd rather have you all alive then have not killed them." It feels shallow to say especially since they're your parents- er, well, were your parents, but they'd never treated you well, and then they'd come along and endangered those who'd made up for their past abuse, helped you heal. Brahms reaches out to pat your head gently, and you let out a light chuckle and wrap him in a hug. "Thanks for all of your help, Brahms." you say into the green fabric of his cardigan. He takes a moment to respond, returning your hug and petting your hair.

"Anything for you, (Y/N)." when the two of you pulled away, the concern in his gaze had been replaced with relief and a deep glow of affection. "I made breakfast for everyone." he tilts his head again as he speaks, then turns and begins to lead the way downstairs.

"Wow, thanks!" you smile wider, glad to have someone capable of taking care of everyone. You remember how scared you'd been of him, the dream Freddy had plagued you with, but now you cared about him just as much as you cared about all of your killer friends. Your killer family, actually, since they had taken better care of you than anyone else ever had in your entire life. As you walk through the hallways towards the stairs, a door a little ways ahead of you creaks open, the door to Michael's room. You tilt your head, expecting him to come striding out to intercept you and cut ahead of you on his way downstairs to kill or something of the sort, but he doesn't, because he's most likely passed out in his bed. You should check up on all of them before heading downstairs... "I'll be down in a moment, Brahms." you call, and he nods and continues towards the stairs, leaving you to creep towards Michael's room.

You hadn't ever been inside before, he'd always kept you out, but now, his door slightly ajar and the inside silent, it was too tempting to pass up. You wanted to check on him, you wanted to see his room, and so you stepped inside, pushing the door open slowly. You were greeted by a tidy room; tidy, save for the desk with the paper-mache supplies scattered on top, and the masks hanging on the walls here and there. You scan them quickly, failing to notice the man in Michael's bed who does not look like Michael. You finally turn towards him, stopping in your tracks. He had brown hair and pale blue eyes, a long scar stretching down the left one. He was watching you with the utmost intensity, just like Michael always did. The latex mask Michael usually wore was on his bedside table, and you realize you really were seeing Michael, maskless and weak in his bed. He wore a black t-shirt, blankets pulled up to his midsection and bandages peeking up from his shirt collar. You can't stop the smile from worming onto your face as you slowly approach Michael's bedside.

"H-Hey." you stutter out dumbly, sitting on the edge of the bed and facing him. He blinks slowly, then opens his mouth to speak. You wait in anticipation as he fights to form words, finally breathing out a rough,

"H-Hello." you smile somehow wider at the sound of his voice.

"How are you feeling?" you tilt your head and he does the same at the exact same time, making you laugh lightly.

"Fine." Michael's voice is deep, almost scratchy with misuse. He blinks slowly once more, and lifts a hand to curl it into a fist and uncurl it as if he hadn't moved it in days. "My arms are kind of numb. I don't like it." The flatness of his voice makes it sound as emotionless as his latex mask.

"That's most likely the cause of the anesthetic or something. It'll go away."

Michael nods his head, his gaze moving from his hand back to you as it drops by his side.

"Are you hungry?" Michael nods in response to your question, but as you move to stand he grabs your arm and pulls you back to sit down again.

"How are you feeling?" he asks, not letting go of your arm. You can see the concern in his icy blue eyes, genuine concern, the first emotion you were sure he was feeling other than annoyance or anger. You let out a sigh, your smile shrinking into a more subtle half-sad one.

"Good, actually. It's kind of scary to know I don't feel bad for..." you trail off. Michael is smart, and he will know what your sentence would have ended with. His hand moves from your arm to your shoulder in his comforting way, his eyes softening, and much to your surprise his lips shift into a smile like yours, subtle and half-sad.

"It's scary the first time you kill," is all he says before his face goes monotone once more and his hand falls away. You were desperate for comfort, reassurance that it was normal not to regret taking someone's life.

"Did you regret it the first time you killed? When you attacked Judith and her boyfriend? And you stepdad?" Michael's gaze hardens as he reinforces his mental walls, reluctant to answer, maybe even scared. He didn't have to answer, and you were sure he wouldn't. And then he did, just like that.

"No." he moves his gaze off of you for a moment, before it returns, "They were bad to me, just like your parents were. It was for the greater good." Now, Michael's eyes were coming alive again, an odd glimmer of acceptance pooling within them as he made sure you knew he still thought you were a good person. It wasn't much, learning approval from a serial killer, but meant the world to you. You smile.

"I'll bring you up some breakfast soon, okay?" you say quietly, earning a nod in response. "Thanks, Michael." you say, standing, "I like you without your mask, too." you stare at him for one last moment and he smiles gently once more before you turn and exit the room.

You make your way to Jason's door. It's shut tight, but you knock gently and it's opened seconds later. Jason greets you, almost seeming excited by your arrival.

"Good morning, Jason." you smile, and he nods his head in a silent 'good morning' back at you. "How are you feeling?" you lean against the doorframe as you ask, and Jason opens the door the rest of the way, entering his room to find something to write on. He glances over his shoulder as he looks, motioning for you to come inside. You do, and you're amazed by the state of the room. It's tidy, with flowers and plants settled here and there. It looked like a jungle, save for the one corner of the room with a large crate filled with nasty bear traps, rope, and other things for trapping. "It's really pretty in here." you say as you sit down on the edge of his bed. Jason turns to you, nodding his head in agreement and holding out the notepad he'd written on.

'I'm good, no more pain.' you nod your head after reading, and he pulls the notepad away, scribbling something else down. 'Thank you for saving us.' you chuckle, and shift your gaze to stare at him through his hockey mask.

"I didn't save you guys, you all saved me! You took bullets for me, Jason." he sits down on the bed beside you and shakes his head, writing quickly.

'You them for us, (Y/N). Your own parents, just to save us!' Jason tilted his head as you reread the sentence. He set the notebook down, prompting you to look up at him. You moved forwards, wrapping your arms around him, Jason quickly returning the gesture.

"You guys are all so much more important to me than they were." you whisper, still held in Jason's strong arms, your head pressed against his chest. You hear the thump, thump, thump, of his heartbeat, the soothing sound of life. He pulls away, and you do too. "Brahms is making breakfast. I can bring it up to you if you'd like." your offer is declined, Jason writing on his notepad,

'I can get it, don't worry <3'. Your heart warms, and you smile, thanking him. He stands up first, offering his hand to help you to your feet and letting you take the lead as you exit his room.

"I'll be down soon, then. I'm going to check on Danny." you approach Danny's door after Jason nods his head. Raising a fist, you tap it gently, but after a moment with no response you take the handle and gently push the door open. "Danny?" you whisper. The lights are all out, the room shrouded in darkness. Provided with the light from the hallway you can see photographs and news articles all over the walls from corner to corner, just like in his old house. Blackout curtains hung from the windows, darkening everything further. You peeked your head inside the room, spotting Danny, fast asleep in his bed with the blankets pulled up to his chin. You can't help but chuckle, stepping into the room and approaching his bedside. You lift a hand to pull the blankets a little closer to him, covering up any exposed skin. In response to your actions Danny lets out a sigh and mumbles something indecipherable, shifting deeper into the bed. "I'm glad you're getting better, Danny." you whisper, turning on your heel to exit the room. The darkness makes it harder to navigate, and you find your foot catching on something on the ground, a box or something alike, pulling your feet from under you. You curse as you try to soften the impact for your own sake and the fact that you didn't want to wake Danny, but the perceptive killer sat bolt upright at the loud crash. He glanced around frantically before his gaze settled on you and he relaxed. You notice the blanket had been kicked away in his panic, no longer covering his bare chest and his toned abs. You avert your gaze.

"Hey, Sweetheart." Danny yawns, stretching his arms above his head. As he does, he closes his eyes, and your own eyes flicker back down to his abs. "Like what you see?" he chuckles, eyes still closed. Your face flushes.

'H-How are you feeling?" you ask as you pick yourself up and off the floor. "Is your leg getting better?" Danny lets his arms fall to his sides, rolling his shoulders as he nods.

"Yeah, Hannibal's so much better at stitching than Momma Hen." Danny laughs, and you do to at his name for Michael. Danny pulls his blankets off of him completely, his leg already exposed due to the fact that he was only wearing shorts. The bandages wrapped tightly to his leg were clean, no blood seeping through like when Michael would patch him up. "S'still a little numb from the needle but at least it doesn't hurt."

"Good, good." you swallow, flicking your eyes up to his. He was staring at you intently, a smirk on his face. "What?" you ask, feeling a little self-conscious.

"Nothing, nothing, I'm just glad you're okay." he said simply, waving his hand and clearly having something else on his mind. Your face splits with a smile.

"What??" you press, sitting down beside him and furrowing your brows, "Come on, tell me!" you coaxed, and he let out a sigh.

"I was scared yesterday." he mumbled, his words so quiet you almost missed them. Your smile grew, and you were preparing to tease him when he continued more seriously, "Genuinely afraid I was going to die. I've never felt like that before." he lifted his head to look at you, "I finally had something to live for, I guess. I just want to say thanks." Danny looked bashful, almost embarrassed to be admitting to his fears. "Me and all the other guys are grateful for what you've done. We all really care about you."

"And I care about all of you, too. You guys have really changed my life, in the best way." you pat Danny's hand which was set beside you, earning a smile.

"Sorry about your mom and dad." he says quietly, standing as he does so and traversing his room to kneel down in front of what you'd tripped over. Now that your eyes had adjusted to the lighting more you could see it was a safe.

"No, it's okay. Serves them right for trying to hurt you guys." you kick your legs against the bed as he punches in a passcode, the safe letting out a hiss and a click as it unlocked, popping open. He began to rifle around inside,

"I feel bad that you had to grow up with people like them. You didn't deserve that," he let out an 'aha!' as he found what he was looking for, pulling it out of the safe; it looked like a photograph, an old polaroid. He stared at it for a moment before standing up and turning back to you. "Do you remember that day we went to my place and grabbed my things? When we found Jason?" you nod your head and he takes a seat beside you on the bed once more, "This is what I grabbed from that one drawer with the hidden compartment." Danny held out the photo to you, and you took it carefully. It was a photograph of two older people and a teenage boy who looked about 15. The mother had dark black hair, curly, rolling down her shoulders and framing a pretty face with brown eyes. The father's hair was brown, graying at the roots. His skin was fair, his green eyes pronounced because of his pale complexion. The teenage boy had black hair like his mother, the pale skin of his father, a crooked, shit-eating smile and eyes that looked almost yellow. It was unmistakably little, troublesome, teenage Danny.

You smile widely, tracing the photograph with your thumb.

"They were good people. Tim and Darlene Johnson." Danny's voice was whimsical, filled with nostalgia as he stared at the photo with reminiscing eyes.

"Where are they now?" you ask gently, already knowing the answer.

"Dead," Danny says bluntly and with a shrug, "Killed one night by some unfound killer. That's when I was thrown into foster care for years and years. No one ever found out I had killed them..."

"Until now." you breathe out, holding the photo out to him once more. "I'll take it to my grave." Danny smiles, tilting his head as he takes the photo back.

"I'm sure you will." the smell of bacon and eggs drifts into the room, and Danny sits upright. "Breakfast time." he says softly, standing and putting the photo back into the safe. He turns to leave the room, but you don't move, not yet. Before he can step outside, you say,

"Danny?" he turns and glances over his shoulder, the light from the hallway reflecting off his yellow eyes, "Why'd you kill them?" Danny thinks a moment, and then shrugs,

"Killers don't always have motives."