Chapter Text
Living with your parents was nice; freshly 19, in debt from college already- it was nice that they let you stay with them until you could afford to live independently.
The neighbourhood was nice, too. Suburban, upper-middle-class homes lined the street you lived on, with large windows and fresh paint.
Your neighbour was nice, as far as you could tell. He was foreign, from Germany and was nice enough to wave when he saw your mom pull the car into the driveway after a grocery trip. Coming out of the house to help bring in groceries was the majority of when you saw him, besides little talks he had with your mother over the fence that you happened to be in the backyard for. He seemed nice enough, friendly enough; Your dad seemed to approve of how handy he was, as Strade (somewhat of an unusual name, you thought, but he was foreign; who were you to judge?) always seemed to have any tool anyone could ever need.
Strade seemed like the average, but sometimes overly friendly, neighbour anyone would like. You didn't know what to think of him- he was charming, but… the way he grinned sometimes unnerved you. Everyone in the neighbourhood seemed to disagree, but something seemed off about his demeanour, and the way he smiled didn't seem genuine. His eyes never seemed to hold the same joy the rest of his face did, only really lighting up when your dad brought up the tools Strade appeared to have an endless supply of.
Speaking of tools… your dad needed a nail gun for the newest project he decided to take on; the thing about that is that your dad didn't have a nail gun. He was damn sure that Strade did, though. Your dad, wanting to continue working on what he could, sent you over to your kind neighbour's door; to borrow a nail gun that Strade may or may not own.
Not that you wanted to ask the man to borrow it, but you didn't have a choice. Your dad had a way of convincing you to do things, with one of the kindest and most light-hearted ways of speaking that you'd feel bad saying no. So, off you went to the stranger's door.
Throwing on a zip-up hoodie, you grabbed your shoes and stepped outside from the side door of your house. A gate with a soft, step-trodden path led to the driveway, which connected to the sidewalk. Opening, closing and latching the entrance was one of the more tedious things about leaving the house and getting back in. In the winter, since the gate was made of wood, it expanded and didn't fully open again until the summertime. The latch inside the gate had a hard time unlatching and re-latching, always sticking and never being able to fully push down without popping back up. Unlatching it from the outside was more difficult; the gate was just tall enough to where you couldn't properly see where the latch was, making it hard to reach and unlatch the gate when in a hurry.
Luckily, as it was mid-spring, the gate didn't give you as much of a hassle as it usually did. It seemed agreeable, swinging open with a creaking noise and slapping the side of your dad's garage (sometimes he called it his "man-cave,." It made you cringe every time he said it.)
Walking down the path, around your mom's car, and towards the front door of Strade's house was more nerve-racking than you thought; you'd only talked to the man a handful of times, and you didn't know how he'd feel about a teenager showing up at his doorstep; you didn't know much about him at all, really; you didn't even know his last name.
You knocked three short times on his door. Taking a deep breath, you prepared yourself to ask him, "My dad was wondering if you happened to own a nail gun he could borrow?" while waiting for Strade to open the door. You heard his voice (with his thick accent, it was easy to tell it was him) shout something close to "be right there!". Shuffling, you stepped back from the door, interlocking your hands in front of you. You didn't have to wait long (you wish he had taken longer) before you heard his (heavy) footsteps coming up to the door. It sounded like he was wearing boots, the kind that was heavy and durable, that lasted for years a pair.
A lock shifted, clinking softly; the door handle twisted before the door was pulled open. Strade was smiling, as always, but seemed surprised to see you at his door.
"Ah! Hello, Kleiner hase! What brings you to my house?" As usual, he was keenly cheerful, friendly, and charming. You didn't know what "kleiner hase" meant, but you were sure it meant mother good for you. You'd prefer if he called you the endearing title of "buddy" he called everyone, not whatever German endearment he gave you just now.
"Hi! Uh- My dad was wondering if you had a nail gun he could borrow? He needs one for a project, and he figured you'd have one." An uncomfortable smile was forced onto your expression, but Strade didn't seem to mind; his grin only got wider, more… genuine.
"A nail gun! I have one- just the thing! Step inside for a moment, yes? I'll go grab it from my little workshop!" He opened the door wider for you to enter, and against every fibre of your brain and yelled at you to say no, to run out, you stepped inside Strade's home.
You don't know what you expected, but it sure wasn't something so… clean. Strade was always slightly greasy; from his hair to his hands to his shirt; Your father had told you once that it was probably due to him working as a mechanic, but you don't know if you believe that. Strade never seemed far from his house, always there no matter the time of day. Maybe he worked from home, but… You didn't know what he'd do besides maybe something to do with architecture with the tools he had. Maybe he took commissions online or something?
Strade leads you to the living room and gestures to one of the chairs towards the wall. The chairs and sofa were a stark white, with what looked like dog fur (or pet fur, in general) scattered across the room, contrasting against the rest of the immaculate room. You wondered if he had a dog or a cat, but you'd never heard any barking or seen a dog in his backyard, so a cat was more likely. The fur was orange, so it made sense.
But he didn't seem like the type to own a cat, either. Strade seemed like the type to prefer a dog, in a way. Something loyal, obedient.
You sat in the chair he gestured to, with your hands resting in your lap. You wanted to look up what he called you while he went to get the nail gun, but you could only remember the word "hase," It didn't seem…demeaning, from how he said it, more… vaguely affectionate. Like a pet name.
"Gross," You think. "He's like, 40."
You waited for him to turn and walk away from you before you took your phone from your pocket; you went to google translate; you could assume it was German (it felt obvious), and you put in what he said. Hase.
It means rabbit or bunny.
You didn't like it. You could say you hated it, and it'd be the truth. It made your skin crawl; scrolling down, the top related article about the term was "Cute german pet-names to call your girlfriend," which didn't help. It made you feel worse.
Maybe you misheard him. Maybe it could mean something like pet names, which you interpreted incorrectly.
You didn't really care; it was creepy, regardless of his intention.
You slipped your phone back into your pocket, not wanting to be distracted while still in Strade's home. Looking over the living room walls seemed like a waste, as they were stark white with no pictures, and there really wasn't anything worth staring at.
The far end of the living room had a TV, with different DVDs scattered on the coffee table
in front of it; the entertainment center was full of other coloured cases; the cases were too far away to see any names, although half of them didn't appear to have titles on the side of the cases you could see.
You really couldn't wait to get out of this house. You think you could be content never coming near the front door again after this. You could convince your dad to be the one to bring the nail gun back over here, and he'd be much happier to speak to Strade.
God, were you having a panic attack? You could feel your chest tighten more every second you were sitting on the couch. You were breathing too quickly already, being nervous from being somewhere unfamiliar, and now you were freaking yourself out thinking about how weird your neighbour is-
You could hear a heavy door open. It snapped you out of your current thoughts, and your gaze snapped from the entertainment center to where the noise came from.
Strade walked into the living room, humming quietly. He had a yellow tool in his arms, the cord wrapped around his wrist and into one of his hands. He glanced towards you- and was slightly surprised to see you… staring quite intently at him. A small bolt of excitement ran through him, tingling his spine.
He walks up to you, and you stand up. He hands you the nail gun, a grin on his face. It was almost sinister, that smile of his. It… didn't quite reach his eyes, and he seemed… tense, almost.
You decided you hated it.
Taking the nail gun from him, you gave Strade a small, forced smile before saying a quick thank you. His grin seemed to loosen and was almost genuine- before returning to his tense expression.
"I should get going now, thank you again. My dad really appreciates you letting him borrow the nail gun," You say, clutching the nail gun to your chest. Strade nodded and started walking to the kitchen- presumably to walk you out. Wonderful.
"Have a nice rest of your day, hase!" He calls as you walk out.
Considering this would probably ruin the rest of the week, it would be hard.
Once his front door closed, you ran back to the gate in front of your house. Slamming it behind you, you latched the small lock and calmed yourself. You didn't want your parents to see you so panicked after such a short interaction with someone they have some vague trust with-
You walked to the garage and knocked on the door. Your father poked his head out and smiled when he saw you.
"Hey squirrelly! What's the news?" He asks, leaning on the doorway. He can see the nail gun in your arms, but it's almost a tradition of his to let you give or tell him things, even if he already knows about it.
"I got that nail gun from Mr. Strade for you, dad." You say, holding it out for him to take. He takes it gladly, and you are happy to get it out of your arms.
"Ah, thanks, squirrelly! I appreciate it. Did he say when he'd need it back?"
"Nope. Kinda forgot to ask, sorry."
"That's okay. I'll give it back to him when I'm done. Thanks again, sweetheart."
"Yup, no problem, dad."
You turned and promptly walked into the house, slipped off your shoes, and ran towards your room.
You're glad your mom didn't cut you off. Opening your door and closing it behind you, you flop into your bed.
Good God, today was so stressful, and it's not even 3pm yet. Knowing your luck, it would just get worse from here. You hoped you were wrong.