Long Series About Timothee Chalamet

Hayloft (P5)

Warnings - plans to murder, mentions of drugs, abusive father, panic attack, feeling disgusted with oneself, mentions of murder, mentions of sex, dead parent

A/N - I've got no idea how parole hearings go and if people can stand in them but I needed it for the story

Waiting was hard. I'd done what I could to help my father's parole hearing. I'd visited him a few more times, but nothing seemed to be helping Timothée soul return any more than it already had. We'd tried him actually attempting to fuck me, but no matter how fast either of us moved, it barely felt like anything. It seemed only direct steps towards killing my father were the only things that worked.

"I have an idea, how about I tell you my whole plan, that's a step forward," I suggested.

"Oh, good idea Mon Amor," he smiled. We were currently staying in a motel until we found out if my father made parole.

"If he gets out, I'm going to take him back to that house," I explained, I couldn't call it 'my house' or 'our house', it was a house of horrors.

"I'm going to make a huge deal to everyone around town that I'm so happy, and have forgiven my father. I'll probably get a lot of hate, but I don't care. I will make sure his first parole officer meeting goes well. Concerning him, I'll play up the doting daughter routine and wait on him hand and foot."

"Sounds like you're going to go through hell," he said, kissing my cheek.

"Probably," I sighed. "You're worth it though."

"He'll be cocky enough at this point to fuck up. I'm going to suggest he go see Venom. I'll tell him how great the high will be since he's been sober. I'll make sure to take care of him while he rides his high, further enforcing that even when he's out of it, I'm not going to be cruel to him. We'll need the drugs in his system for whatever toxicology they do, to prove he was using again. So we'll drug him up, shoot him, and put his prints on the gun I bought from Venom. Then I'll need to wipe down, and dismantle Pa's old gun."

"Why do you need to hide and dismantle the old one?" Timothée asked.

"When the scene is investigated, they'll find the casing, and know why type of gun killed him. If It looks like it's his own gun, they'll be confused. When they wipe it for prints, they'll find Venom's, I'm sure he's in the system already. It may look a bit off at first because what kind of gang member used a shotgun. What I'm hoping they'll conclude is that Venom tracked down my father, maybe they'll assume he stiffed him for money. Who knows, but they'll have the evidence of the drugs, my father's known association with Venom, and the finger prints as evidence. I want them to think Venom came to kill my dad, saw the shotgun, and thought he'd cover his tracks by making it look like a suicide or accident."

"Mon Amor, you're a genius," Timothée said in awe.

"And the next day I'll make it known I'm going to be doing community service. I'll make sure everyone sees me, but I'll call a neighbor to check in on him. She'll find his body, and call the police. I'll play weeping daughter, burn down the fucking hayloft, and pretend the town is too full of bad memories to stay. Then it's you and me forever."

"Yeah," he said gently and tried to kiss me. To my surprise I actually felt it!

"Timmy, it worked. I mean you're not solid, you feel like jelly, but it's more than it was before!"

"I can feel you more too," he said eagerly. Before we could go any further, I got a call on my phone.

"Ms. Y/N, your father's parole hearing has been moved up, it's today. You said you wanted to testify, is that correct?"

"Yes, I do!" I said eagerly.

"Well, be here in an hour and we'll work you in," she said.

"Thank you, I will be. God bless," I had gotten used to ending every call that way. I immediately began to get ready, piling on mascara so it would look more meaningful when I cried. I slipped on the dress I'd bought for this. It was baby pink, I wanted to look innocent and pure.

"Wish me luck," I said nervously, I didn't want to do this without Timmy, but people could see him now.

"Good luck my angel," he said, and kissed me. I thrilled at the idea that he might be even more solid when I got back. I raced to the jailhouse, practicing my speech on the way there. Finally, I was in the waiting room.

"Ms. Y/n," someone called. I walked in slowly, making sure to give my father a hug. Bile rose in my throat when my arms went around his putrid form. I stood in front of the board, and pretended my shaking hands and quavering voice were because of the love I had for my father.

"Gene y/l/n was a wonderful father. When my mother died when I was five, he could have abandoned me. He didn't, he was a loyal and loving father."

"What of your allegations of abuse at his trial?" Asked one of the board members.

"Through therapy, self reflection, and religion, I've realized what I thought was abuse was just discipline," I tried to explain. "I didn't understand the difference."

I couldn't believe they nodded. They were willing to believe I'd fabricated all those many, many beatings.

"He was a good father, but protective. I didn't have my mom around to tell me how to deal with boys. I got swept up in a manipulative relationship," I said, and I was truly crying now, they just didn't know it was from having to talk about Timothée this way.

"I truly believe my father went temporarily insane when he saw me and that boy. His true intentions were admirable, wanting to protect his daughter, but that ended in murdering someone."

"Yes, that's exactly why he's here in prison."

"I know, but look at the circumstances. I think what you're most worried about is reoffending. Well this was his first offense, he's been clean from drugs for years, he's become a model prisoner, and even I, the one he hurt the most, am vouching for his character. I want my dad back. I'm not mad anymore, I forgive him. I want him to be able to come live out the rest of his days with me. We're a family, we should be together."

They looked pretty convinced. My father was tearing up. I felt like I was rotting from the inside out. I felt dirty, as though I needed to be washed over and over again. My insides were screaming, and all I could see was red. I didn't hear what the board members said as I walked out. I drove home in a daze and immediately hopped in the shower. In seconds, Timothée was there with me, his half-there form holding me against him. For the first time, I didn't slide through him. He held me as I sobbed and scrubbed at my skin, whispering reassurances in my ear.

When I finally got out, I saw I had a missed call. I listened to the voicemail.

"Ms. Y/n, concerning your fathers parole hearing, they have decided to give him 30 years of parole."

"Timothée," I said to the dripping, grey, slightly translucent form. "He's getting out."

All at once Timothée was colored in. He was no longer a dull grey. His curls were chocolate brown, his eyes hazel, his lips pink. He was still a bit see through, but he'd been transformed. I ran to him excitedly.