Monthly Bonus Content #2: ‘Trick or Treat’ (The Waiter Version) (Patreon)

[Alternate Text: A header image of a cute, medium-sized pumpkin that has a sign hanging off its stem. The sign is faintly curved and wooden with the words 'Trick or Treat' written on it in what appears to be chalk that has an outline of red around each letter.]

[Edit: The line Mal says about their costume comes from the Addams Family Values movie! It's what Wednesday says.] 

Mostly opaque, white mist billows out from the punch bowl, shrouding even the nearby chips and mini-quiches in an eerie fog. Someone must have overdone the dry ice. Your fingers slowly wade through the themed spread Mrs. Dorran laid out by spider-walking across the counter top until they hit a wall of chilled glass.

You skim your fingers along the cold rim in search of the ladle, flinching briefly when you feel another set of frozen hands latched onto it. It's like this is the aftermath of a grotesque flash freezing accident. They aren't fleshy, just numbing. It's the bowl's creepy design—how it is somehow scarier now than when Mrs. Dorran first giddily brought it out is beyond you. It's only a few seconds longer before you find the large ladle and begin refilling your—

"Well, don't you clean up nicely? Here I thought miracles would be reserved for Christmas."

A soft splash accentuates the kindly worded insult, blood red punch sloping back into the bowl rather than neatly filling your cup.

You turn to see Charlene leaning against a bar stool a few steps away, though she doesn't bother meeting your eyes while observing—no, she's definitely judging—your costume. "I was worried you wouldn't make it," you reply with a falsely sweet smile that only grows further phony when she finally glances up. "What's a Halloween party without a monster?"

"Ooh, did Reese help you with that one?" she wonders. "You'll need all the pointers you can get before the All Hallows Eve gala"—Charlene pushes off the stool, taking a step closer into your personal space—"because I'm an angel compared to them… They'll burn you alive."

You snap your gaze away from the intricate golden halo resting atop her head that is no doubt genuine gold to stare at her. There is nothing 'angelic' to what she said; however, the lack of outright malice suggests it was a poor, if not a stupid, word choice. Charlene's brow furrows the longer this awkward silence drags on, which only makes the golden shimmer to her makeup stand out more. She starts to say more when you speak over her. "It will be fine."

Your dismissal would be more effective if she didn't drag the ladle closer to her side, metal against glass producing a faint screech. The noise sets your teeth on end. Imagining her beautiful ivory mini-dress being re-colored with punch is the only thing keeping your hands at your sides. It likely has real swan feathers along the sweetheart bust that would be irreversibly stained in seconds, while the lux crystals wouldn't be affected unless you plucked the ladle from the bowl to whack her.

"Charlene, back off," you request. "Reese already said no to you—to your 'deal'—so stop."

"It was an alliance," she indignantly corrects you. "A deal sounds too thuggish."

"And cornering me at a punch bowl isn't?" Your retort is equal parts frustrated and irritated, but Charlene does consider your question, or at least you hope that's the case. She releases her grip on the ladle so it sinks back into the misty depths before peering back over at you with far less appraisal. An angel couldn't give a grin that shit-eating, too roguish and arrogant, but still, it's much better than her fake smiles.

"This is me warning you, newbie," Charlene shares. "Ask Reesie to work on teaching you how to recognize a proper threat next. I'll be happy to volunteer for that fun, little lesson."

Whatever this moment is between the two of you is disrupted by Charlene's little jump to the left. Her curse is muffled, but you hear it even if your own heartbeat quickened when you felt a light touch on your shoulder before seeing the distinctive red and white plastic bag settle on the counter. "…Mal," you exhale his nickname. He's just behind you, seemingly appearing out of nowhere or coalescing from the mist. You're not as startled as Charlene who's still blinking, possibly because you are familiar with this act.

Mal's 'appearing acts' are pleasant surprises.

"You need a bell around your neck," she complains. "Also, one for us to ring for service."

"Does it look like I'm serving you tonight?"

"It definitely doesn't look like you're here to party dressed like that," Charlene notes in a critical tone. "Even Corvin made some effort."

The mention of James earns a warning glance from you, while Mal continues to effortlessly ignore Charlene's presence by unpacking his bag. The scent of spiced apples and cinnamon wafts from the styrofoam containers that hold apple pancakes. They look so delicious! There are also jack o' lantern shaped waffles. You stop admiring them after you spy Becca's name scrawled across a smaller container with an orange heart next to it. Now, you know why Mal is here tonight. "Did Alina invite you over?"

"Mmm-hmm," he softly hums. "Technically, I didn't need an invite since this event is open to the community. Mrs. Dorran lets anyone in." His focus trails over to Charlene, who is too proud to leave the kitchen area despite not being wanted. "You really don't get my costume?"

Mal's typical indulgent smile lacks its customer service polish, instead reminding you of a glinting blade, eye-catching yet dangerous.

"There's nothing to 'get'," she replies, laughing at the idea. "You're always in that same jacket, unless you're going for a basic 'bad boy' vibe?"

"I'm a homicidal maniac. They look just like everyone else."

Mal's unwaveringly pleasant delivery is in stark contrast to the soul-searching stare he levels at Charlene, only now choosing to give her his undivided attention that she's slowly crumbling under. Unlike you, she has no resistance built-up to Mal's once overs, which is something you're secretly delighting in, though he'd never be this unsettling with you, right…? He angled away from you before smiling like that.

Charlene's laughter gutters out into a reflexive chuckle as she blindly reaches for a nearby snack with a toothpick. "That's both a highly original and disturbing idea," she breezily concludes. "It's better than a royal."

You wish she pricked her hand on the mummy Swiss roll following that unnecessary dig about what you're wearing; however, she is thankfully leaving. With a toothpick poised between her fingers, Charlene glances once at you then Mal before departing the kitchen, crystal encrusted heels clacking against the tiles. The breath you take is half-hearted because Mal remains close by, offering you a far more genuine smile now.

It's disarming in an entirely different way…

All it takes is you reclaiming your place as the focal point of his concentration for Mal to drop that coiled bearing when he leans against the counter's edge. You're still within reach, but he makes it feel shared instead of an area where you'll need to arm yourself with toothpicks and tiny forks. While he stared down Charlene, he gives you an electrifying once over, content to take in every single detail of your costume.

Becca had said it was 'stunning', and yet the way his smile lengthens into an enticing smirk suggests a very different word. 'Delicious',  'delectable', and 'tempting' all come to mind, although you'd like to blame the stack of apple pancakes for your train of thought rather than how Mal's getting a reaction out of you that he shouldn't be. Maybe it was a bad idea to wear the costume Reese had custom made for you using exacting measurements and luxurious material.

You shift under Mal's intent attention, acutely aware of how Reese hasn't seen you in this yet.

It's his special surprise…

"Trick or treat?"

Before you can select one, Mal speaks again with a knowing slant to his murmured words.

"That doesn't seem like a fair question for you," he observes. "I'll give you both without an 'or'."

"What does that mean?" you wonder.

"It means you deserve everything I can give you, [W_Nickname], not a single, limiting pick."

Mal smoothly answers before your tone grows skeptical, sapping the slight tension from your expression with his reassurance. You could still be on guard from dealing with Charlene. He presents his right hand to you, fist tightly clenched until you tap the back of it to follow along with this game to show you're okay. "I'm guessing this is the trick…?" you ask. Mal doesn't reply, waiting for you to hover your upturned palm beneath his hand, so you do with a quick sigh. "If it's a fake spider or something squishy, I'll avoid the diner for—oh."

It's a coin…?

Your birth year has been stamped into the composite of metal that only has a marginal amount of value. It's a quarter, one fourth of a dollar that couldn't even buy a sweet treat. Mal must have shined it for you, wiping away all of the grime and any dirt that would cling to the image. Your eyes narrow when you realize this isn't a regular quarter. The side profile image of a long dead founding father is spliced with the one on the back, creating an amalgamation of the two. It looks like a majestic bird is roosting in the man's skull cavity. It's a defective coin.

"Very rarely they'll have mistakes in the striking process, a missed letter or a ghost image," Mal shares. "This one's rarer. It shouldn't happen."

"Then it's probably worth a lot. Are you sure I should have it?"

"Yeah, it's yours," he assures you. "It would've just ended up as someone's change, but"—Mal offers his left hand to you—"that was part one."

"So, this is the trick?" you confirm, unsurprised when he simply smiles back, waiting. "Fine."

"It depends on who you ask."

His vague answer coincides with his fingers gently encircling your wrist, each one seeking out the sliver of skin between your gilded arm bracer and wrist to widen it. He has created his own grip, shifting to guide you deeper into the lively party. Navigating it in a single file line will be easier. Music infiltrates through the walls, no longer dampened by the halls that lead into the kitchen area, while the lights become moodier and more haphazard. The brightness recedes away, replaced with paint splashed specters that come alive again under blacklights. Mrs. Dorran was more than ready for a Halloween rave. Her decorations have been entirely reimagined from artificial spiderwebs soaked in special glowing pigment to paintings that can depict gruesome, added messages. She left Silas in charge after having her big reveal.

The B&B is too vast to be entirely black lit, and Mrs. Dorran is too creative to have one theme.

Mal weaves through another hall with an intent that seems mirrored by the rising music, each step matched by a pulsing beat. It's seeping through the walls, low bass faintly quaking through you. The spacious living room has become a crypt, furniture removed to make way for caskets, vases of dead flowers, a few animatronic rats, rays of artificial moonlight, and party goers. Mrs. Dorran covered all the windows in black out curtains to add to the gathering shadows in the final resting place.

The dancing is clustered in the middle with a DJ off to the side, but Mal's focus is elsewhere for a second while you take in the scene and adjust to it.

Your 'adjustment' is upended in seconds by more costume-clad townsfolk joining the fray, inadvertently pushing you closer to Mal. His hand remains securely around your wrist, a tether, while his other hand settles on your side right before a brawny clown comes trundling past. The 'Monster Mash' is acting as a sort of signal to them, urging people to dance while the iconic song plays. Even you sway to the beat, still scanning the crowd for one person in particular who will always be a stand out.

"Is this real satin?" Mal asks. "It's antique."

His tug on your sash is more distracting than it should be; it creates a faint pull across your chest. Mal's eyes instantly dart up from a gem when you look back at him again. "Reese found it," you quickly reply. "It looks pretty real."

"Fernweh has a history, so it could be… Not many people could wear it with true dignity."

Mal's cryptic compliments aren't anything new to you, but his hand sliding lower to your waist is. He mirrors your swaying, finding the beat of the song and encouraging you to commit to it instead of glancing around. He's able to reset your focus. Mal switches his grip on your wrist into a handhold so you can swing apart for a second as the tempo picks up, a faster song.

When you come back together, he pulls you closer and your hand naturally rests against his chest just above his steadily beating heart.

Your fingers flex, indecisiveness creeping into them because pushing him away feels wrong along with tugging him flush against you. It's better to do nothing. Mal doesn't seem to mind, only keeping his eyes locked on you while together until he leans closer, testing a limit.

He must have had a stick of sugary cinnamon gum before making the delivery. You notice the scent along with how he delicately straightens one of the golden chains you're borrowing for your costume before his hand goes back to its place around you. This closeness is new too; you can feel his breath faintly tickle your neck.

"You'll have to decide if my dancing is a trick or a treat, [W_Nickname]," Mal whispers. "Hmm?"

He pulls away from you, lips brushing your cheek while your head is still full of that soft, dulcet hum instead of the electronic beat.