Maybe this is a good idea, after all. To just let go and abandon all thoughts like there’s always a reason or two for another day. Often, while undergoing treatment, he’d wish for an immediate end to the suffering so as to avoid facing his personal demons. The process felt excruciating. How it clawed inside of those deepest, most private corners of his soul, relentlessly scratching away at the surface until it’s cut deep enough to break through. Those little kept secret places that Mason knew intimately. Sometimes, all it takes is someone to care enough past the rubble and debris to make a difference in the way that someone like Mason has done. Despite the toll it’s taken on her physically, mentally, and emotionally, she’s seemed to put aside her own feelings to focus on his recovery. So, of course this is a good idea. Anything to distract the both of them from their present situation. To get their minds off the worst that’s happened, those permanent ties that bind them together now that they’ve endured a similar pain.
Talking about it won’t make a difference, sure - but this time that they’re spending together is seemingly closing those blistered wounds. That’s all it takes, doesn’t it? Or Bucky can only hope that there’s no other kind of therapy that the Wakandans have up their sleeves. He’s not sure how much more he can take. He’s not sure if he’s strong enough to persist. And sometimes, during their sessions, he’s almost certain that Mason’s abilities will take him over until there’s nothing left for either of them to hold onto. Already, he feels the darkness overshadow his heart as he desperately tries to feel again. But therein lies the problem: he feels everything. Part of him just wants to give up and push past the trauma, both that of which he’s caused and that of what he’s gone through. If only he could escape from his turbulent past, but that would require a forgetting each and every one of his victim’s faces. And he can’t do that. He can’t pretend like it didn’t happen despite the weight of his sins heavily sitting on his burdened shoulders.
But why dwell on the torment when they’re trying to get away from it now, especially when he promised within himself that he wouldn’t dwell on it? He and Mason spend their days going through several sessions to reach a desired end, so there’s no reason to hold onto the after effects of his fragmented mind when Mason’s doing everything in her power to piece him back together. So, he tries in vain to brush it aside while sitting across from her, ready to enjoy some snacks and to get his mind – their minds – off of the sessions, the brainwashing, the entire process of suffering. And if he’s being honest, it’s nice to be here with someone who fully understands what he’s going through. Here, he can comfortably relax without fear of going back to that wretched darkness despite the way it’s burrowed itself deep into the core of his soul. In some way, Bucky feels like it’s his responsibility to put on the act that nothing’s amiss, even though Mason knows better than that, doesn’t she? Perhaps it’s in vain, but that doesn’t stop him from trying to take on more than he should.
“Gardening, huh?” he grins, amused by the idea of it, even though it strangely appeals to him in some calming way. If he must admit, little tasks like this and reading and spending time outdoors and tending to animals helps to heal his mind in ways that their sessions do not. Though that’s not to say the process of eliminating the effects of brainwashing are not working, no. Rather, he finds peace outside where freedom abounds from the sky to the ground and everything in between. Bucky doesn’t need to think further on the idea that she’s pitched because he’s all for it. Sure, he’s never done it before, but that’s the beauty of it. He’ll finally get to do something other than wallow in misery. “Funny thing is I was wondering when you’d bring that up. But what should we put out there? Because, you see, I’m not so good at gardening and have no idea what’ll work in that soil or in this climate. So, what do you think? Tomatoes? Or broccoli?”
The uncertainty of her presence here weighed heavily on Mason’s mind. Of what would happened to her when Bucky’s deprogramming was finished and her task was complete. Everyone else here was a hero with a job to do, except for her. Would she simply be sent back to the States, to continue living her life out of her car, on an endless search for a race of beings who did not wish to be found? The idea was a lonely and sad prospect when the half-blood felt as though she had finally discovered a place where she almost belonged. In Wakanda, instead of having to hide away her differences, they were celebrated. Yet, perhaps she would truly no longer be needed once her usefulness in assisting Shuri with Bucky ran out. It was a concern that felt selfish to bring up when she not only had much to be thankful for, but it felt insignificant compared to the work her and Bucky were doing.
Buzzing nicotine helped to calm these anxieties and focus her actions on the task at hand - building a respectable campfire. Feeding the orange flames larger and larger branches until the warmth that was hitting her face was enough to make her lean back on the log she was sitting on to put some distance between herself and the blaze she had created. There was little she could do to affect the outcome of the future of her residence here in Wakanda. What Mason could do though, was help her friend. It may be limited and in the only ways that she had recently read about and grown up doing, yet it had to be better for him than sitting in his cabin all day between sessions in the lab.
Putting his hands into the earth, tending to a living, green thing and watching it grow and flourish beneath his care would surely be healing in its own way. Developing a routine together around this, giving Bucky something to look forward to every day would certainly help. Structure was important now. And the extra time they spent around one another would help to bridge the awkward gap that had formed between them, build out of the deep knowledge of his darkest moments without any other experiences to fill the spaces in between. Maybe they could take over tending to some of the animals here, too.
Taking one last drag from her cigarette before flicking it into the fire, Mason nodded at Bucky’s suggestions. “Yeah, I was thinking about tomatoes. Maybe some cucumbers too,” she murmured, reaching into her pack once more and withdrawing the small bottle of whiskey and the two tin cups she had managed to track down. Unscrewing the cap, she poured each of them a hefty ounce of the amber liquid with a mischievous glint in her golden eyes. “On the other side of your door, by the window, I was thinking about starting a patch of sunflowers as well,” the faery suggested, leaning forward and offering Bucky the cup. It was late enough in the spring that they’d be in full bloom by late summer.
Although the bar remained dark, the soft haze of smoke filtering out with each patron that entered into the worn down establishment, shone the dull light of the neon signs, and street lights from the outside. The liquor swirled in him, filtering into his blood and enveloping him in the unaccustomed sense of ease. An ease that is only amplified by Mason’s presence. Beater felt an odd sense of calm wash over him, the music dampened in the background as his senses honed in on the bounty hunter beside him. Brown eyes met hers, only two? A challenge. At the mention of his past escapades involving the voluntary poison, he couldn’t help the flush blossoming across his chest, up his neck, and into his already red cheeks. Alcohol was not his companion. Lightweight. Perhaps it was genetic, his heritage, some form of abstinence within his family that had caused his weakened blood to be so succumbed to the effects of liquor. Delirious nights he had spent, stumbling, only to wake with his brass knuckles clenched between his fingers, hands taut as he undid what he assumed was his own intoxicated mind’s attempt at protection. In the blood domes it had been easy to avoid, for it was rarely offered. Gladiators, fighters, combatants, their senses dulled would be an unfortunate circumstance for those who placed bets on their bloodshed.
Bellamy’s attention was drawn back towards Mason, as she quickly finished her first glass. The soft curvature of her jaw, head tipped back, swiftly finishing the shot in one fluid movement. Thoughts creeped into his mind, swarming as images of the bounty hunter beneath him, lying in the desert sand weighed heavily in his head. Bellamy ran a hand down his face, feeling the heat beneath his skin as his body adjusted to the sensation of his unsanctioned thoughts running loose. Willing his pondering to end, he reached for the glass in front of him, the amber liquid threatened to spill over the rim, and he briefly lifted it in Mason’s direction, eyes meeting hers. “Cheers.” With that, he downed the shot with efficiency, eyes squinting slightly as the familiar burn ran down his throat and into his stomach. It worked rapidly, finding himself trailing backwards to the blonde’s comment on their first night together. “I could have walked.” He mumbled in protest, eyes dancing mischievously over the girl next to him. “Fuck Wolfood..” he muttured under his breath, recalling the reason he had been in such a state in the first place.
The floodgates seemed to have been left slightly ajar, the lock hanging loosely from its frame, as Beater tilted his head back to rest against the booth. “Do you like bars?” He pried, mind wandering, as he glanced over at Mason. Partners. The word was a weight in itself, burying itself in his sternum as he fought to reject it. Partners nearly equated itself directly to danger, their positions in life almost always guaranteed it. Yet this was different, they were putting themselves, eachother, in a precarious situation. However, he couldn’t seem to care at that moment. Beater leaned in a bit further, tilting his head down so his lips hovered by her ear. The bustling of the bar was enough to conceal this moment, suspended in space, eerily still despite the constant movement around them. Fingers lightly grazed her shoulder, arm still looped behind her, heart thumping wildly in his chest. “I kinda like them..” He whispered, breath dusting across her ear, eyes focused upon the flutter of the room around them. Although nearing the point of intoxication, Beater remained aware that he was recognizable. A bandana normally concealed half of his features, settling neatly above the bridge of his nose, yet there were moments where he had been forgetful. Facial features known across the board by most bounty hunters, Beater. On a handful of occasions, nestled in the darkest, most vile parts of their world, working a job, he has heard his old name called. Ruby. Beater had seen blood, mercilessly murdering the unfortunate individual who had dared to recognize him by who he was- who he had been in the blood dome. Chest heaving at the end, nausea climbing up his throat, as he had fought back a whirlwind of emotions. Fear had gripped his throat for days after, consistently observant, vigilant, panic burning in his chest at the thought of being forced back into the hell hole of his past.
The bar was far too preoccupied to be concerned with their little booth, his fingers trailing across her shoulder lightly, paying close to attention to the feeling of her skin beneath his. Bellamy rested his head back against the booth, a small swirl filtering into his vision as the wooden, creaky floor began to fill with men and women alike, lights filtered down, darkening the bar even further. The music pumped heavily into the bar, the rhythm of it evident within his chest. Patrons twirled, bodies touching and mixing heavily together, leaning upon one another. “How bout’ another?”
The second shot went down smooth, the warm, bitter taste of the liquid singing her tongue and throat. A gentle buzz had settled in. Not enough to leave her head rolling or words slurring, but the edge had certainly been taken off, as they used to say. Her tolerance betrayed her size. Mason’s limbs no longer ached from being utilized for so long, and she now had to put in a bit of extra effort to focus on each bar patron. This is why she didn’t often drink to an extent. Being a bounty hunter meant she was constantly alert, looking over her shoulder. Watchful. Yet, here, no one would take her for living such a dangerous life. The alternative wasn’t exactly preferable, most people in here probably thought her as Beater’s purchase for the evening, but at least it shielded them from unfriendly eyes. Helped the bounty hunters to blend in more easily. She was amused at the familiar sound of Bellamy’s inebriated voice. Thankful that, in this moment, it wasn’t too painful to think back on the night that they had incidentally brought Wolfwood the key pieces he had needed to put on his ghastly performance. "You would have slept in the gutter if it hadn’t been for me,” she pressed, finding it difficult to resist ribbing him when he was so clearly more affected by their drinks than she was. Her gaze lingered perhaps a little too long on his flushed features.
Her laid-back, casual attitude vanished the moment Bellamy leaned in closer, the space between them threatening to disappear altogether. The tension returned to her frame as humid breath tickled her ear. It cut through the soft haze that had settled over her body with the swiftness of a blade, shoulders stiffening and fingers clenching around the tiny shot glass she had just been fidgeting with absentmindedly. A shiver nearly rolled down her spine before Mason steeled herself. Bars? It took her brain several moments to register Bellamy’s words, far too distracted by how close he was, the smell of his alcohol perfumed breath, and just how warm he was- “I think I would have, ya know, before,” she mumbled in reply. Her earlier demeanor, which had been growing more casual thanks to the alcohol, was now nowhere to be found. Biker was back to square one, just as nervous as she had been when they had first sat down. “I, uh- always thought they’d be like the movies, ya know. Not like this,” her eyes were downcast, not daring to turn and meet his gaze. They would be far too close, just like they had been back in the desert when their lips had met and - fuck, she could feel her ears burning again. Images flashed before her eyes before she could stop them. Memories of Beater’s gentle fingers caressing her face, the weight of his body on top of her own - stop. Mason’s jaw clenched.
“Now, they’re all just shit holes,” the empty glasses clinked together between her stiffened fingers. The only time Biker visited them was to chase down a wanted bounty. Rarely did she ever sit in one and drink. How could she after all, with her helmet on? If she craved a night of oblivion, she would just buy a bottle and rent a hotel room. Bars were only good for gathering information or letting off some steam in a brawl. They were all the same, filled to the brim with sex workers and thugs, maybe the occasional bounty hunter to swap information with. Nothing like the movies she had grown up watching. Or the excitement she had hoped for as a teenager, eagerly awaiting to turn twenty-one. The gentle brush of calloused fingertips across her bare shoulder didn’t help her attempt to focus on anything other than Bellamy. How they would dip into a scar here, brush over a mole there. Mason wished this was easier. That she didn’t have to fight against fifteen years worth of instincts that said intimacy and vulnerability were wrong, and she could instead remember how easy it was to just be with somebody, instead of feeling the urge to run in the opposite direction. That wasn’t possible now, though. The thought of the pain that would bloom in her chest upon seeing him again afterwards was too much to bear. She had already carried too much of it after sending him away from her tent. As Beater’s head rolled back onto the booth, her posture uncoiled somewhat, body leaning against the arm curled behind her, honey colored gaze peeking at his face for a few moments before turning to the bar patrons as the lights dimmed even further. There were still too many confusing emotions to unpack here, too many things left unsaid.
However, emotional maturity in intimacy hadn’t exactly been Mason’s priority when it came to her survival these last fifteen years. She felt positively blind about how to proceed. When Bellamy suggested they get another drink, she snorted. “Maybe. I’ll go with you to the bar, at least,” she offered. Getting to her feet after her partner fellow bounty hunter, she stretched her arms over her head with a low groan from how rigidly she’d been sitting. “Don’t know how many more I’ve got in me, though. To tell you the truth, I haven’t slept in over a day,” she admitted.
I do love Kyle, Myrtle, but I’m not leaving. I watched you and Kyle together at Nan’s funeral. Such a pair. So much in love. As the great Keats would say: More happy love! More happy, happy love! Forever warm and still to be enjoyed. Forever panting, and forever young.
The morning was a dew-eyed babe, yet Ren stared through it with the disdain and misery a father might have for an unwanted child. His days of appreciating the faces of moonflowers and church bells at dawn had long since passed. The soft pink sky was a terrible reminder, so the house girls at Corfax Fen drew the curtains at first light each day. Each and every drape and scarf, and panel.
What made this morning more bearable than every Hellish dawn before was the half-blood’s imminent arrival. She rose with the morning star, so he waited. And waited, pacing the length of the parlor, containing a garish assembly of trefoiled furnishings and marble-topped lamp stands Ren always thought would make ideal kindling. And he was like a gargoyle within it, his shoulders hunched, his face saturnine, inlaid with a frown. He could sit upon a plinth and match the bust of his grandfather in stoniness (although their faces bore little resemblance to each other).
Amid the funereal noiselessness of Ren’s parlor, the chirr of a heavy oak door.
“You’re late.”
“Sir.”
At last, Stuart brought her. She stepped into the menagerie of ochre, iron, and rosewood. Ren didn’t waste any time. He approached as soon as Stuart hurried out, before the lock clicked, before the young half-blood blinked, and her heart pumped its blood. ‘Approach’ was a poor word to describe his movement.
“You know what I want,” he said. “And you know the lengths I’ll go to get it.”
By now, Ren had known enough women to understand she would never offer herself up freely.
“What if we made an agreement?” he asked. “Perhaps I can give you something you want in return.”
Her disgust was perfectly evident. Ren studied the shape of her fear, whatever he could glean from her movements, posture, and microexpressions. That, too, was obvious.
“To be safe? Yes, I can see that you wish to be free of something. You know I’m not the only one of my kind. You unturned a stone and uncovered a viper’s nest somewhere along your journey.”
He caught the haft of the blade in her boot.
“What’s that? Are you going to carve out my heart? Dismember me? Mercy, I almost wish you would. Alas, I’m all but dead.”
It was true; he never seemed to open his mouth to breathe.
“Now I am only ever hungry.”
Ren waited, his * snake’s eyes * unblinking.
“Take your time deciding how to use that dagger, but choose with discretion. This isn’t easy for me. You haven’t the faintest idea.”
One could only imagine what Lord Ren meant by ‘this’ when a drop of blood rolled down his philtrum and onto his lip.
While following behind Lord Ren’s servant, suddenly Mason’s decision to face this danger headfirst felt foolish and wrong. Adrenaline froze her nerves solid. She wished she was back under the covers of her bed, waiting for the vampire to instead visit her in the darkness of night, just as she had dreamed. Moving forward, putting one foot in front of the other was an insurmountable task.
The impulse, no, the instinct to turn and run was shivering up her hands, crawling past her throat and shrieking into her ear. There was thousands of years of heritage there, demanding that she turn and sprint from this manor. That what she was doing was insanity. Suicide. Yet, Mason had already spent the entire night making up her mind. There was nowhere else to go. No safe haven to vanish into, despite searching for it for nearly twenty years. Her shadowed eyes remained fixed on Ren’s servant as he lead her deeper into the belly of the beast. Icy sweat once again coated her forehead and slid down her spine.
Lightheadedness came swiftly when the large door opened and revealed Lord Ren, before the two were left alone. Her heart was beating far too fast.
In an instant, she was eclipsed by his form. Too close. Bile churned in her empty stomach.
Were she merely human, and perhaps a feebler one at that, Mason would have lost consciousness then and there.
Yet, she had not traveled across the States in search of her father and toiled with her hands in all manners of work to suddenly succumb to darkness here.
Blood. It would always be about her blood, whether it was vampires or witches. Her upper lip curled into a sneer. A slow breath left her nostrils. Then another, steadier this time. Anger was easier, more stable. It had never failed to keep her on her feet.
He wasn’t wrong about the viper’s nest. If it hadn’t been for that axe outside of that cabin- she tried not to think about it.
“You’re damn right I want safety. From whatever rolls through this town in the future. And don’t even think that I’m gonna be a prisoner here, either,” she snapped.
Mason had all but forgotten the straight razors in her boots, too consumed by the anxiety of the ancient animosity between their species. And, now, the sickly sweet stench of Ren’s blood as it dripped from his nose. Like rotting flowers.
“Can’t blame me for coming armed, eh?”
Slowly, she raised both of her palms, while golden light gathered at the center of them. Hopefully, it would be a worthwhile distraction from her trembling knees.
