Tim Roth, Harvey Keitel and Michael Madsen
on the set of Reservoir Dogs(1992)
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Imagine Michael Myers hating it when you swear.
Michael wasn’t a man of many words. Or any. In the last six months that you had spent together, living inside of the burnt-out casing of his old home, you couldn’t actually recall him muttering so much as an ‘ouch’ when he stubbed his toe.
That didn’t mean that you joined him in the mutism. You weren’t the most talkative person ever, but there were times when you couldn’t stand the silence.
You’d sing to yourself when you prepared sandwiches, always making sure to wash the knife before using it to spread the condiments. Truly, Michael wasn’t the most clean person in the world, and he’d sometimes just stick it right back into the knife block.
You were cutting up some meat from the leftovers the night before when the knife slipped and went right through the flesh of your thumb - a clean slice, but painful nonetheless.
“Fuck,” You said, bringing it to your mouth, licking the blood off. “That really hurt.”
Oh god - then you could feel it more than you could feel the pain.
The way that he stared at you through the eyeholes of the mask. So strongly, so intensely. “I’m sorry,” You said, putting the knife down on the counter and turned around to face him. “I know you hate-”
A grunt. He hated when you swore. People throughout his life had always swore. His mother’s boyfriends. His sister’s boyfriends. The other inmates at the asylum.
“I’m sorry,” You said, looking down at the ground.
Another grunt, and then he turned around to get back to his work - the closest thing to forgiveness you would get.
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