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gothicknightz · 1 year

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family ties | ethan landry

notes: oh boy you guys are gonna like this one. VERY MAJOR SCREAM SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT!!!!!!!!!! I cannot get any more specific than that.

part 2 out now!

When she moved to New York with her best friend, they both had planned on getting an average college education, having fun, and graduating.

That was it.

Why couldn’t it have been that simple?

The four of them were stranded in the abandoned lobby of the theatre when Sam had gotten a call from the Detective, claiming that he had done some digging into Kirby and that she was let go from the FBI a couple of months ago for being mentally unstable, and he believes she is the killer.

She quickly turned her attention towards Sam, “What?” She snapped, her arm still wrapped up from her paired attack alongside Mindy on the subway.

Putting a foot down, she crossed her arms, “There’s no way we can stay here.” Attempted to try the entrance in which they came in, to find out it was locked, “Shit.” She turned around quickly to face the, “It’s locked.”

The group frantically looked for a way out of the theatre, as they weren’t going to be trapped with the possible killers. Tara had noticed some sort of fire escape, but that wasn’t until Ghostface appeared and attacked the group, which they fought back.

Chad decided it was a good time to be a hero, as he fought against Ghostface so that the girls could run. This proved to be a bad decision for him, as a second Ghostface came up and started stabbing alongside the other before ushering the trio back into the theatre.

As the five of them make their way back into the theatre, Kirby suddenly reappears out of nowhere and claims that she was knocked out by two Ghostfaces, but the trio can’t trust her after the Detective’s claims, who arrives subsequently after Kirby.

After what seemed to be a battle for trust, the Detective shoots Kirby, revealing himself as the third killer.

(y/n) screams as she was the closest, her heart racing in anticipation, afraid of what was going to happen next when the other two Ghostfaces de-mask themselves. Subsequently, after the Detective reveals himself to be the third killer, the Ghostface wearing Nancy Loomis’ mask revealed himself.

It was Ethan, (y/n)’s best friend. The friend she had planned on getting a college education and graduating with. The friend she had known for years, the friend who was responsible for their firsts.

Somebody she had trusted.

It was then revealed that Quinn was the final Ghostface, much to everyone’s shock, as they had seen and heard of the brutal murder Quinn had endowed.

The trio was cornered at each end by the three killers, with Sam slowly connecting the pieces that all three of the killers were related to none other than Richie Kirsch, one of the killers of the Woodboro Massacre in 2022.

As the trio was attacked and coerced back to the center of the theatre by the killers, the Detective sighed, “It wasn’t until I saw that photograph of what you had actually done to him, that I knew.”

“That I knew you had to fucking die- that you had to be punished, along with anyone else who stands in our way.”

Pushed and insulted by Quinn, Sam, and Tara were forced to stand in front of the Detective, with Ethan taking hold of (y/n), and holding a knife to her throat.

As the Detective went on about how he indulged in his son’s love for the Stab movies, and how they were a bit dark for him, he explained that there was no deeper bond than of a father and his firstborn.

“Despite the loss of Richie, I couldn’t have been happier after learning of a new addition to our family.”

The look on both the sisters’ faces was beyond puzzled as they watched the detective make grandiose gestures as he waved the gun in (y/n)’s direction.

“I knew it was a bit young for those two to get hitched, but,” the Detective paused, taking a breath for a brief smile, “She made it a lot easier to get us in here, and I’ve never been more proud of a future daughter in law, right (y/n)?”

The Carpenter sisters had another round of fear and shock as they turned their heads to one of the closest friends the gang had had, with even Mindy trusting them.

(y/n) was breaking away from a kiss with Ethan as Tara and Sam watched them in awe, the girl breaking into a fit of giggles and a content sigh.

“You know, Sam,” She said, turning towards the illegitimate daughter of the original Ghostface with her boyfriend slash fiance’s knife in hand, “You should really save the date.” She took a swing at the eldest Carpenter sister and laughed.

“Because it does fucking run in the family.”

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crownleys · 9 months

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"You really think you'll be sticking around me for that long?"

"Of course I will."

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc fanart #twc mason #specialist agent m #twc mason x detective #twc detective #mason x detective #this was one of my favorite parts of the M romance I couldn't NOT draw it #my art #my wayhaven fanart #alcohol mention #drinking mention

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slushrottweiler · 11 months

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“Are they alright” Felix called down.

“I don’t know! They won’t even look at me!”

Ok but like, the scene when Mason scrambles down the collapsed building to get to the detective, but they’re just in total shock and have gone catatonic. Where he is just clutching their face and panicking because this person they love is looking straight through him and he couldn’t keep them safe. And that’s exactly why the detective has shut down - because they could protect someone they promised to keep safe.

God Book 3 is full of so many gut-wrenching scenes!

This detective is named Loxley “Lox” Wood, and uses they/them pronouns. Twc belongs to @seraphinitegames

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc mason #twc bk3 #mason x detective #twc agent M #m x detective #mason x Loxley #maslox #specialist agent m #interactive fiction #twc spoilers

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thewayhavenchronicle · 1 year

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Got my comm of Mason and Saoirse back from @artofzofia and I love them so much!!! Thank you so much!!!

#twc #twc mason #twc m #twc detective #saoirse cathair #saoirse x mason #specialist agent m #the wayhaven chronicles

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masonscig · 1 year

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one of my favorite book 3 demo moments courtesy of @gncrezan <3 thank you so much for drawing my favs <333 ONE DAY TO GO PEOPLE !!!!!

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc mason #specialist agent mason #twc m #specialist agent m #twc fanart #twc detective #mason x sofía #oc: sofía olmos #THIS EMBRACE !!!!!!!!! ONE DAY TILL MAFÍA IS BACK <333333

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buttercup--bee · 1 year

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Selfless!Detective: I’m going stop our villain of the week AND save everyone! Even if it costs me my life!

Morgan/Mason:

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kdelarenta · 6 days

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mason

🤝

amelia

weirdly ominous prophecies about each other

#they're doomed (affectionate) 🥰#just a couple of BESTIES against the world !!#they'll love each other to death is basically the warning #so excited for m book 4 route #twc #the wayhaven chronicles #twc m #twc mason #twc morgan #agent m #twc: amelia #i don't even know how to tag them because they don't have a ship name but yeah THEM #mason x detective #clown.txt

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writer-ish · 1 year

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So wifed and he doesn't even know it

#twc #the wayhaven chronicles #twc mason #mason x detective #specialist agent m

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tumortain · 1 year

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guys be like "i know a place" and then take you to see some rats about cleaning their magic crystal and refuse to call it a date 🙄😒

#mason #the wayhaven chronicles #twc book 3 #mason x the detective #Not romantic MY ASS

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my-chemical-mermaid · 9 months

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My Detective:

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc book 1 #wayhaven detective #my detective #hannah solomon #mason x detective #wayhaven mason #wayhaven memes #wayhaven meme #mason x hannah

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gothicknightz · 1 year

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3am pt. 2 | ethan landry

notes: omg you guys 😭😭 i love appreciate every one of you ty for keeping the hype alive, SCREAM 6 SPOILERS UNDER THE CUT

She awoke up in a horrible cold sweat, having the worst nightmare about getting attacked by Ghostface on her way back from a party Chad had invited her to.

Sitting up in a disarray and out of breath, the quick pain shooting from the side of her stomach hitting instantly.

So it wasn't a dream.

Now sitting up, her heart was racing as she looked around and spotted Ethan, her boyfriend, passed out on a nearby chair, his phone still in hand.

She could barely remember what had happened before she passed out, but she assumed that Ethan had found her.

Then his phone started to ring.

This startled Ethan awake, nearly dropping his phone in the process. As he noticed his girlfriend in front of him, he rushed over to her side immediately.

“(y/n), you're awake.”

He was careful when it came to hugging her, as her stab wound was recently patched up, and it was a miracle that the knife didn't hit any vital organs.

"Yeah," She mumbled, groaning as she attempted to sit up, "Someone's callin' you, Ethan." Her eyes flashed to caller I.D, which flashed a picture of Chad in a Hawaiian shirt and cowboy hat.

Ethan was too tired to react properly, and in turn, picked up the phone without a proper introduction or 'yeah.' Instead, the news was dropped onto him that Anika and Quinn were murdered by Ghostface.

"What?" His face was painted in a look of shock as he glanced worriedly at (y/n), holding her closer yet gently.

"How's (y/n), is she doing alright?"

"She's a fighter. I'll be there."

As he hung up, Ethan turned to his girlfriend and planted a kiss on her head, "Look," He said, placing an arm around her shoulders, "Anika and Quinn were murdered, and I- I'm gonna go check up with everyone, okay?"

(y/n) shook her head dismissively before pushing herself upwards, Ethan quickly going to her side for her aid, "I'm coming whether you like it or not. I wanna catch this guy as much as I want him dead."

╰── ⋅ ⋅ ── ✩ ── ⋅ ⋅ ──╯

As Ethan and (y/n) arrive at the crime scene, Mindy was fairly accusatory after the death of her girlfriend, Anika, to which Ethan brought up the fact that he was with (y/n) at the hospital after her attack.

"Mindy, what the hell?" (y/n) ran a hand through her hair as she sat on one of the open ambulances, sighing, "I've literally been in the hospital. How could Ethan be the killer?"

"Maybe that's the cover-up. Maybe he had someone paid to dress up as Ghostface and stab you. Maybe you two are both in on it. Just think about what happened with Richie and Amber."

This annoyed (y/n), who got up and pointed to her right lateral side, "I literally got fucking stabbed! Lay off the accusations, expert, your girlfriend just dropped dead."

Mindy narrowed her eyes at the pair before being held back by her brother, who was subsequently followed by Gale brining up something that the gang would want to see.

In a matter of minutes, the group of teenagers accompanied by Kirby, Gale, and Detective Bailey, were all at some supposed 'Stab' shrine in which all of the costumes and clothes of victims were compiled into an abandoned movie theatre.

Unsettled by the fact that the past was unearthed in front of her, (y/n) was by Ethan's side the entire time, not understanding any of the backstory that came with the tragedy.

Taking a dark trip down memory lane, (y/n) sighed before the words of Kirby got her attention, dragging a way to catch, or at least, trace the killer.

Hopefully, this was the end of it.

(ughhhhhhhh im not satisfied with this ending, you know there's automatically going to be more.)

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crownleys · 10 months

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For @delucadarling of her Detective Barbie and Mason! I love these two so much 💖

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc #twc fanart #twc mason #mason wayhaven #mason x detective #twc detective #my wayhaven fanart #my art #illustration #artists on tumblr #my darlings <3 #also this is a furious reupload because I realized I FORGOT HIS FRECKLES the first time I am a fake wayhaven fan

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lykegenia · 4 months

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He Makes Her Cry (He Doesn't Like It)

Fandom: The Wayhaven Chronicles Pairing: Mason x Rhiannon Lloyd Rating: T Warnings: None Summary: After the disastrous attempt to stop a kidnapping leaves Rhiannon injured, Mason has time to reflect on his mistakes.

Read on AO3

Mason’s clothes scrape across his skin. It burns where air currents brush against it. He hears the biomechanical creak of the joints in his fingers clenching and unclenching, the working of his organs. The glare of lamplight on the bright, biohazard yellow walls makes his eyes water. Brick dust clogs his throat. In the next room, the hiss of the shower faucet masks Rhi’s heartbeat as well as her movements, and that sets him just as much on edge as everything else as he argues between needing to know she’s alright and knowing he won’t be welcome if he invades her privacy.

Fuck, he wants a cigarette. But she doesn’t like the smell and he’s not about to step outside and leave her when she’s still so vulnerable.

He’s already had to do it once. Transferring her over to the medic, to be swept behind a plastic curtain and assessed for who knew how much damage, was one of the hardest things he can ever remember doing, her limp, fragile human body too far gone in shock to even register being handed over like a sack of cloth. The worst part was when he finally let go, and the scent of her blood finally wound beneath his panic. With his mouth watering, he shed his outer layers right there and fled, threw himself under the stream of his own shower to be rid of it. He scrubbed under the stinging water until his skin was chafed raw and his nose and eyes burned with repeated latherings of soap. The memory of it lingers, caught in the back of his throat with the dust, but at least in her room he can focus on the other facets of her scent. Hand lotion. Sawdust. Beeswax. The unscented shampoo she switched to about a month back.

There’s no further sound as she continues washing off the worst of the grime from the collapsed warehouse, at least not that he can sense over the noise of the water. He suspects she’s making a conscious effort not to do anything that will have him banging on the door again – or barging through it – but if the silence goes on much longer he’s going to start tearing out his hair.

The emptiness gives him too much time to think. The hollow, glassy look of Rhi’s eyes when he found her. The bruises already blooming across her cheeks. The coldness he can’t fathom and can’t stand that she’s forced between them ever since that morning at the bakery when he so royally fucked up. It bothers him most that he cares at all – that if the wall that fell on her were just a little heavier, or the steel bars more exposed, or the annunaki less injured, then that conversation might have been the last one they ever shared. The words burn through his mind, the shame of them unfamiliar and unwelcome, but incessant.

Why did humans have to be so damned breakable?

What she wants is to see me naked, that’s all that’s going on here.

The instant the words spring from his mouth he wishes he could cram them back in. Rhi’s pulse spikes, blood rushes to her cheeks, the peppery burn of anger laces the air. A moment passes in iron silence before she turns away to gather her coat from the back of her chair.

Sorry, Haley, it looks like I’m running late. Put it on my tab, yeah?

He has an instant to register the stab of fury at being so thoroughly ignored before her gaze flashes to him with such vitriol he almost forgets she’s human.

You’re a dick.

He only catches the tremor in her voice because he’s paying attention. By the time he’s processed it, she’s halfway down the street. The joking line he tries to get her to slow down makes her round on him with a snarl worthy of a werewolf.

Will you just stop? How many times do I have to sit through one of your shitty come-ons before you get it through your thick skull that I’m not interested?

Her heartbeat betrays her. But it’s the sharp break from her usual stoic denial that drives him close, tired of rejection. There’s nothing wrong with my come-ons, Sweetheart.

My name is Rhiannon.

Why are you making such a big deal out of this?

Because I’m sick of it!

The words are hissed, like she’d rather shout but doesn’t want to draw attention to herself. Too late for that. She’s trembling.

If you’re that desperate for a fuck, go to a bar and pick up someone who’s actually impressed, because I’m done. I’ve had enough. I’m sick of being your punching bag. If you ever say anything like that about me again, I will be putting in a harassment complaint with your handler, understand?

He wants to scoff, to diffuse the tension and brush off whatever this is because since when have human emotions ever bothered him? Their brief passions never hold his attention for long. And yet, beneath the blaze in her eyes and the song her pulse is singing him, he recognises pain. He’s hurt her.

Do you understand?

I speak English, don’t I?

He snaps because he’s thrown. It’s not a state that improves when she turns on her heel and marches off.

Where are you going?

Work.

In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a bounty out on you.

What the fuck do you actually care?

It stopped him short. The tang of salt drifted back to him on the wind.

He smoked through a whole pack within an hour trying to take the edge off the strange, sharp ache in his chest, then snapped at Felix for daring to ask how his morning went.

The rush of the shower cuts off. A few last drips, and then the tentative pat-pat of feet as Rhi steps out. There’s a faint hiss of pain, followed by the rustle of plastic as she removes the protective covering for the cast on her arm. Mason bends his head towards the door. He catches the burst of mint from her toothpaste, time stretching too slowly as the brush scrapes over her teeth.

When the handle finally clicks open, he pushes off the wall so fast that she startles. For a moment she stands in the doorway in loose pyjamas, her hair a dark, damp mass down her back and her skin now clean enough for the bruises to stand out like wine stains against her cheek.

“You’re still here,” she blurts, with a note of surprise that twists in his gut.

He doesn’t know if this is a prelude to being kicked out, so he shrugs. “Didn’t know if you’d need anything.”

“Oh.”

Rhi’s gaze flicks over him with a wariness that’s becoming habitual now, as if this is an interrogation and she’s waiting for him to switch from Good Cop to Bad Cop. But she’s tired, too. He reads defeat in the slump of her shoulders as she shuffles past him towards her bed.

“At least I hopefully don’t smell like blood now.”

His smirk is hollow. “I can always smell your blood, Swee–”

No. She doesn’t like being called that.

What did you even see in that asshole anyway? he asks as her ex saunters away trying to hide how close Mason brought him to pissing himself. When he tilts a look sideways, however, she doesn’t seem to share his amusement.

You mean between the constant innuendo and the saccharine nickname I didn’t ask for? Not a clue. Her stare bores into him to make sure the point is driven home before she turns her back in clear dismissal. Stay out of it next time. I don’t need your help to deal with Bobby.

She catches his stumble now and her heartbeat jolts again, her limbs stilling for the tiniest instant before continuing the struggle of climbing under her duvet with only one working arm.

“Let me know if the forensics team finds anything, will you?” she asks, settling back exhausted against the pillows.

He makes a decision.

“I’ll know when you know.”

The creeping stiffness in her muscles means she has to turn her whole body to frown at him. Slow. Vulnerable. Defenceless.

“I’m not leaving you alone,” he explains as he drags a chair to her bedside.

“You mean you’re going to just sit there all night?”

“The medic said you have a concussion.”

It’s only half an explanation, but he doesn’t know how to articulate that if she’s not in front of him – safe – then he won’t be able to see anything but the memory of her being crushed under a pile of rubble. At least if he’s watching over her, he’s doing something.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he promises.

Her jaw works. Her chest expands with an inhale that gets cut short by a wince of broken ribs, and whatever she was about to say dies in her throat. With the smallest shake of her head, she rolls her back to him and hunkers down under the covers. It’s a measure of how exhausted she is that she doesn’t argue, though it doesn’t lessen the tension coiled around the length of her spine. Her pain is a palpable thing, and Mason finds his hands balling into fists at how little he can help – not that actions have ever been his strong suit, and he’s even worse with words.

And then he smells salt. She’s crying again.

“What’s wrong?”

Her shoulders twitch as she sniffs. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m fine,” she insists. “Just tired.”

It’s him. Something he’s done. He’s fucked up again without knowing it and now she’s crying. Again. He can’t even pretend he’s annoyed because it’s a waste of energy.

“I can go,” he says. He even gets up from the chair. “If you’d rather –”

“No –” Rhi half sits up. Winces. “No, it’s alright. It’s just… been a long day.”

Slowly, in case she changes her mind, he settles himself again, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. “You should sleep. I’ll watch over you.”

Another deep breath, cut off by pain. It’s an effort not to splinter the arms of the chair. Gradually, however, the stiffness recedes and her breath evens as sleep takes hold, her pulse slowing to a steady thump-thump that leads his own to follow it. She’s safe. It doesn’t matter if part of him yearns to see her face as she sleeps, to make sure her dreams remain untroubled; moving would mean disturbing her, and if she wanted to face him she would have done it herself.

Still, he’ll take what he can get. After the shaky ground they’ve been on since the bakery it’s a relief just to be able to stay. He’ll sit here all damned night if that’s what it’ll take to start him on the road to earning back her trust. He’ll stay. As long as she needs it.

#the wayhaven chronicles #twc mason #specialist agent m #mason x detective

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agentnatesewell · 9 months

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by allegoric bards

for the lovely @lalizah as part of the @wayhavenficexchange ! Thank you so much for letting me borrow Liz and Mason, I had so much fun getting to know them and write them!

The Wayhaven Chronicles / Mason x f!detective (Liz Khan-Langford) 3.6k words / characters do not belong to me

It’s quiet in the warehouse. The kind of quiet Mason usually enjoys, used to enjoy in the large space only he occupies. A rare afternoon alone, Felix on patrol, Nat helping god knows who with god knows what, Ava training the newly promoted Agent Khan-Langford.

Liz Khan-Langford, his Liz. Mason had offered to train her instead, a wicked curl of his lips pulling heat from her pretty, deeply-flushed cheeks; launching Ava into yet another reminder of how he would only serve as a distraction while she outlined Agency hierarchical rules and codes of conduct. A necessary distraction from the boring shit, he’d about said before Ava groaned, grunting instructions to leave before he could suggest anything more.

As she’d turned, spinning on her heel to catch up with their commanding agent - already halfway down the corridor - Mason caught Liz in his silver eyed gaze. For a singular, shared moment, her eyes returned a flash of warmth and beneath, her mouth moved, shaping words not immediately recognizable to him, soundless so he could not hear.

He’s leaning against the exposed brick wall of his bedroom, close to the door left ajar. The sunlight is heavy enough to hug and brighten the edges of the heavier, darker curtains of the windows facing him; might be worth the trouble, being able to listen out for Liz, sense any sign of her return. An unlit cigarette passes through his fingers, but the urge to smoke is lessened, though the urge to have his mind occupied is heightened.

The quiet, the utter silence, isn’t quiet at all.

Mason closes his eyes, tries those deep breaths that are always suggested by those who don’t know him so well, and he thinks of Liz. In the darkness, he outlines her in his mind, he hears her voice, and soon the nothing that surrounds him starts to crackle. The sound stretches and grows louder, staticky like Liz’s car radio searching for a station while roaming the outskirts of town or the dead air whenever Nat attempts to use a walkie-talkie.

Mason growls, securing the cigarette between two fingers and feeling along his pocket for a lighter with his free hand, and it reverberates, rolling from the base of his throat and onto his tongue.

The tip of it is heavy against the back of his teeth, and he tries, once more, just to focus on her. How she’d fit between him and the door frame, back against the rough interior left from the old warehouse, how her lips would taste. His mouth moves on its own, mimicking the shapes she’d made before she left - the same she’s made another time before - attempting to remember what she’d said.

Eyes opening again, Mason schools his expression flat. He can push thoughts away, turn them off, and the touch of the crystal dangling from his neck grounds him; can fade that background noise away. He doesn’t want to, though, not these thoughts. Just like everything else about Liz, this confuses him.

Why is this so important?

Riding back to the warehouse, Mason curled into himself as the spotty speakers in the even spottier beat up tin can of Liz’s car did its best to carry music that he wasn’t familiar with but clearly made her happy. Hands on the steering wheel, she sang out loud, swaying her shoulders and her head from side to side, fingers dancing in rhythm along the curve of the steering wheel. She’d turned her head, glancing at him as she sung a particular line, pointing her finger and poking his shoulder. Mason rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath and returned with a lick of his tongue across his lips. Liz stopped, suddenly speechless and flabbergasted, and he took the opportunity to turn the volume dial.

As she pulled into the unassuming driveway, slowed the car to a stop in front of the dilapidated building, another song came on and she squealed excitement and Mason, to temper the acute sound, placed his hand on her thigh as she shifted the gear to park and turned her car keys, leaned over to kiss her; she met him, singing the words against his mouth.

“Come on,” he sighed, and she laughed, kissing him fully and unbuckling her seatbelt, then pulled away, stepping out of the car. He did the same, ducking to slink out of her car and stretch against its side. He reached for Liz as she went to stand in front of him, taking a curl of her hair between her fingers, and fuck, even that lightest touch felt good. She giggled, and she squeezed her hip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. When Mason kissed her, she did the thing she always did, leg lifting behind her, bent at her knee, the sign of what she deemed to be a very good, perfect kiss. He never hated it, it gave them the excuse to be closer, and for him to secure his arm around her back.

Song still on her mind, she pressed kisses onto him, kisses all over his face, catching every freckle possible and with each, she repeated something, some short phrase. Over and over. So damn endearing. Kissing until she found the freckle on the corner of his mouth, and he captured her lips once more. Then lead her inside.

Because what she’d mouthed right before leaving with Ava, was the same thing she’d spoken into her kisses. And it’s what’s making Mason’s fingertips tingle; lifting his features into a hint of a smile that feels like it should be there. Natural.

He turns, pressing his shoulder to the wall, and shoves the cigarette back into his pocket, loose, not caring to tuck it back into the carton. A whisper in his mind muting the dead noise, some stem of a thought, tells him that anything that can make her that happy has to be that special. That it should be something to familiarize himself with. Singing and laughing, talking without taking a breath, from anyone else would be a racket pounding in and between his ears, but damn it if it didn’t make his chest squeeze and open in a funny way he can’t recall ever feeling. A way he liked. Relieving some unknown within him.

Mason’s walking now, steady footfall the only audible sound in the hallways of their increasingly familiar home. Fidgeting, his fingers wrap around the leather cord of his necklace, curling it like a strand of Liz’s hair, helping him concentrate. Nat had mentioned once, deep in the forest following a path towards a dryad family home, something about neuronal connections, something about synapses and plastic or plasticity, how they all create memory. Activating and reactivating to recall something. She always did find a way to fill the silence, pass the time during those sorts of low-stake assignments; her mind is always too full, thinking too much, yet, thankfully, with just enough to say. Mason, in the meantime, had maintained majority focus on their surroundings, to not miss any snap of a twig under their feet or rustling of leaves.

Shaking his head, knowing he didn’t need to fill the precious space of his brain with, what Nat declared, informative conversation, he finds himself at a threshold. Nat’s library. Last fucking place he’d never think to voluntarily wander into.

Immediately, he’s met with the scent of metallic fresh and faded ink, paper aging back centuries, preserved, notices the absence of dust. The sun rays are longer and brighter here, and the change from incandescent to natural light makes his skin itch. Once more, he fishes the cigarette out of his pocket, pinching the middle of the tube, and pats outside of his pants pocket for the lighter. But then he remembers another thing, Nat’s more or less staunch stance; the string of mild curse words, warning him that smoke shall be nowhere near her precious collection.

Placing the cigarette back into the carton in his pocket, no chance of fire or a lecture, he steps into the room. His fingers tap against his thigh. Mason isn’t sure what exactly it is he’s looking for, but figures this isn’t the worst place to distract him, might even help.

Neuronal connections is how Nat organizes this place, and he thinks, guesses, it’s a way to keep everyone out. Including Ava. He chuckles, he’s already had too much to think about today. And if he never had to think about neuronal connections again in his infinite life, it would be too soon.

Eventually, he finds himself eye level with a second row of books, a particular group of them with swooped lines and diamond shaped dots and identifying them, writing that Liz and Nat would recognize. After everything the silence has put him through this afternoon, something, some force around him, is finally giving Mason a fucking break. He steps closer, following the calligraphy, how they meet and separate and curve. Maybe if he stared at the things, whatever the sides of books are called, he can extrapolate the information. His fingers feel what he sees now, gliding over the embossed, gold colors. And then he stares, mouth closed and slacked, fingers tapping. One, two. One, two. One, two.

“Shit,” he swears, grumbling to himself, closing his eyes and exhaling when he hears familiar steps; catches a familiar scent, too expensive, Ava had called it with Felix nodding, impressed, and that hum under her breath. Of course, of course he’s caught. Even from the hallway, he knows Nat knows he’s here. It’s in the way that hum has taken on a far more playful, far more annoying, far too inquisitive tone.

It’s in no time at all that Nat is standing near him, an arm’s length away, eyes sparkling with the energy of a million questions. The usual, characteristic worry, the few times she's spotted Mason in this room, dulls them, however, and Nat clicks her tongue in perturbation. But her attention has shifted, and what has caught it is a book. Muttering to herself, she laments that the foundational book of the history of selkie transformation does not reside next to the compendium of the evolution of stylish fur in fashion.

Once she mentions Ava, who apparently knows well enough that any used book should be placed on Nat’s desk, Mason takes the opportunity to leave. He’ll have to thank Ava later for the opportunity to dodge Nat, or at least initiate the next sparring session.

“Mason,” Nat calls, quicker in her greeting than he can be in jetting out of their shared space. She pulls the book from where it’d been neatly, inconspicuously placed. He stops, caught again, and slowly, begrudgingly walks back towards her. In a quick motion of her limbs and hands, the offending book is tucked back into its home, the shelf above where it’d been stashed. (Mason neither sees nor cares that it’s in between a book on Midsummer’s Eve and a collection of Bardic tradition).

Straightening to a full stand, her books in proper order once more, Nat sighs in relief, sliding her hands into her pockets. Her face brightens with the hint of a smile, and she’s rolling her lips inwards to keep from bursting into amusement. “I would ask you if there was anything you needed,” she starts, then lifts her brows, tilting her head just slightly, her line of vision lining up with the books behind them, “but I see that you may have found what you were looking for?”

“Don’t need anything,” he snaps, not yet moving, feet firmly planted where they’d just been. “Just on my way out.”

But he knows she’s heard him, heard the rhythm of his drumming fingers against the hard book exterior; they’re all aware of the pattern of Liz’s heartbeat. Mason wants to walk away, needs to walk away before she starts poking around at feelings. But something, that same force, is keeping him from walking away.

Maybe, and Mason doesn’t want to let himself believe this to be true, Nat can help him find those words. Afterall, she and Liz speak her language together.

“In this book, you’ll find some of the greatest contributions to poetry. Ghalib, in particular, resonates with me.” Nat reaches, plucking his book of happenstance interest off of the shelf and holds it flat in her palm. She sets her other hand on the front cover. Assessing him, her eyes softening, Nat considers her next words with a widening, eager smile. "You'll find, in here, some that may mean a great deal to Liz.”

He crosses his arms over his chest, slumping against the opposite shelf. If Liz had ever ever mentioned poetry, he was probably distracted with something else, the poetry they could make together. Mason clears his throat, under the watchful eye of Nat he thinks it might be better to go along with her sincerity, and counters, “She prefers songs.”

“Of course. Though not mutually exclusive. Poetry may serve as an inspiration, may serve as lyrics to the music surrounding the words.” Nat rotates the book between her hands, clutching each side, and then after a moment, narrowed eyes hiding the debate within her mind, she opens the book and turns the pages to one in particular.

“There is a poem, an Urdu poem. By the Poet of the East, Allama Iqbal.” She sweeps the back of her hand over the words, over letters from the multiple alphabets of its translations. “It reminds me of you, the both of you. If you wouldn’t mind, I think you might find this interesting.”

Nat has recalled and recited book passages and the like to Ava and Felix, but this is definitely a first for Mason and he wouldn’t mind it being a last. But she is so damn compelling. And he knows that this is not just for his sake, he knows this because she thinks this might also help him with Liz.

Mason scrubs his hand down his face, yet keeps still; silent, exasperated permission. It would be a better option to get comfortable against the bookshelf while suffering the infectiousness of Nat’s earnestness. Arms folded close to him, rapping his fingers without pattern against his elbows, he decides it’s as good of a time as any to inspect his boots.

Smiling, easy and completely in her element, she begins. “Sitaron se aagey jahaan aur bhi hain; Abhi ishq keimtiha’n aur bhi hain.” Her gaze lifts and she looks, pointedly at Mason, translating without prompting, “Other worlds exist beyond the stars; More tests of love are still to come.”

His head snaps up, eyes wide and darkening, the familiarity of her recitation entangling his thoughts. Has she said this to him before? No. No, she hasn’t but she’s said something similar. To Liz. The night of that party, at her apartment. Afterwards, leaning out of the window, half inside her bedroom and half out over the fire escape he’d noticed -

How the beauty mark under her eye had aligned with that star, the one in the sky that never moves, stays in the same place night after night. Constant. Anchoring. Watched the movement of her face, excited as she spoke, stopping only when she ran out of air, her mouth widening and teeth showing, grinning as her words became more melodic until she was singing.

As he hears Nat, muffled behind his memories of Liz, seamlessly speaking the original Urdu and translated English, he picks up a sound. A frequency. Jumbling, increasingly solid images of Liz form in his mind. Earlier in the day, her parting words; that night, serenading into that night. Her eyes, her mouth. It’s soft at first, what she says, but as he can see her, he can hear her. Hears her and understands her, clearly. As though she’s whispering into his ear, the weight of her against his side and against the books.

“Gone are the days when I was alone in company; Many here are my confidants now,” Nat completes the final phrase then closes the book. Extending it with outstretched arms, in hopes that Mason would take the initiative, she looks in front of her and sees that he’s already gone.

She finds him, not too far, in the research annex of the library. Mason is hunched over a side table, pen in hand, scrawling on a piece of stationery, threatening to topple and flatten the very neat square of blank sheets beneath it. Hair falling and framing his face, hiding his expression and any indication of what it could be that he’s writing.

Nat watches, resting against the corner of a bookshelf and her hands back in the safety of her pockets. “As I live and breathe,” she says, awestruck, hoping not to interrupt. This is interesting, it’s unexpected, and she wonders what it is which has drawn this reaction. Wonders if what he’s writing could be the theme of their story.

But of course she does interrupt, and Mason comes to a stand, shoving two pieces of paper into his pocket. With a final acknowledgement of Nat, he nods in her direction.

“Thanks, Nat,” he bites out, awkwardness blunting his gratitude. Then, at last, his feet are allowed to propel him forward, and he leaves, before Nat can trap him into talking of anything else too sentimental. And he has had enough poetry for one lifetime.

It’s quiet in the warehouse again. Familiar. The crackle of fire in the living room, the turn of a page. Mason paces in the foyer, a turn in the opposite direction at every tenth tick of the grandfather clock. Occasionally, he reads what he’s written on the papers then crumples the papers; smoothes the sheets out and reads again.

Mason wants to be on the rooftop, wants that tranquility that the trees afford, empty his mind of all the thoughts of this particular day and simply exist under the blanket of stars in the night sky. Not alone, though, never alone anymore, not without Liz.

She’d texted him some time ago, reporting that Ava has finally released them after satisfactorily answering assessment questions over the day’s lessons. Mason snickered as he sent a response. Liz is going to tell him everything, down to every answer and how, regardless of Ava’s response, Liz was right.

The card reader beeps and the front door yawns as it opens, and he hears them, their voices echoing and permeating the space. Mason pushes the papers, balled and crinkled in his grip, into his back pocket. Since he’s standing at the sofa, he perches on the arm. Nonchalant, unbothered.

“Took you long enough,” he smirks as Ava and Liz walk in, making sure the door clicks closed behind them before walking any further. “There aren’t that many rules and regs to get carried away with.”

Liz, surprise illuminating her beautiful face when noticing him, turns to Ava and thanks for the training, then quickly makes her way across the pristinely waxed wood floors to Mason.

“You would understand if you ever completed the required, once per decade, readings, Mason,” Ava quips, voice cool and steady as she removes her aviators and coat, securing them over her arm as she walks to the stairs. “Agent, you performed well today. We shall resume our training in the morning. Check your calendar for details.”

“Did you hear that?” Liz waits for Ava to be out of near-ear shot, the steps of her boots heavy on the floors above them, sidling close to Mason now, flush against him as he wraps an arm around her waist. “I have the Commanding Agent’s seal of approval.”

Mason chuckles, touching her jaw with the tip of his finger to draw her to face him. “Would you like a reward?” She nods. With a beat of hesitation, he inhales. Her skin is warm as he exhales, murmuring the words into her soft skin, “Meri jaan.” He smiles against her cheek, feeling a shiver run through her. His favorite feeling.

Liz sighs, overcome with affection, then gasps. She turns, eyes locking with his, and Mason seems proud. She’s had a long day, has had to process too much information, follow too many algorithms and graphs. Is her mind playing a trick on her, willing her to hear the words of endearments she cherishes? The words given to him that night they’d come from the Agency party they’d snuck away from? What she’d mouthed that morning, her own secret hoping to be theirs?

“What? Did you say?”

She holds him, arms around his neck, stepping in between his knees. Eyes wide and shining, Mason can read her happiness. The clenching and relaxing of his chest returns, and he fills with a pleasurable sensation as she touches her lips to his, kissing her once, and repeating, clearly, “Meri jaan.”

“My life.”

Mason stands, letting his hands settle on her hips, squeezing them. His gaze never strays, and he feels her warmth, enticing, hears her thundering heartbeat, even more enticing. He repeats the words, moving his hands up, along her sides then to the nape of his neck. Fingers finding hers, they lace together and they come down. He steps back, tempting her to follow.

In the time he’d been waiting, thinking, he memorized what else he’d written. A phrase or lyric. The song, sung from her car speakers; sung, from her mouth, out and into the starlight and perplexing him in the best and most discombobulating ways, with that smile that makes him fall to his knees.

“Haji lok makkey nun jandey; Mera ranjha mahi makkah.”

Mason doesn’t know what he said. But he does know, by the way she sways so he has to catch her, by the way he kisses her in that perfect way that makes her do that thing with her leg, that it means a whole damn lot to Liz.

Mason will ask her, later, what it means. When they’re sitting together on the rooftop, enjoying the soft melodies of the night and each other, their minds finally clear.

Poem is "Sitaron Se Agay Jahan Aur Bhi Hain", Bal-e Jibril 60, by Allama Iqbal (Muhammed Iqbal)

Lyric is from the song "Kamli" by Hadiqa Kiani and translates to: Pilgrims go to Mecca; My beloved Ranjha (sweetheart) is my Mecca

Both are in Urdu!

Title is from the poem "Memory" by William Wordsworth

#the wayhaven chronicles #wayhavenficexchange #twc mason #agent m #mason x detective #twc fanfic #twc #mar writes twc

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