Archive of Our Own

He's engulfed, aflame with agony — it's buried deep in his skull, crawling outwards, splitting nerve endings, claws through the marrow of bone and stabs into muscle. It's familiar, a sensation he has no other option but to recognise.

It's been so long since he's been like this.

Years maybe. He's not sure anymore.

He can't move, the slightest movement worse than the last. With his senses completely shot out, everything works full blast against him. Ringing, scratching, burning —

Until his ears are able to register a softness, curling around the syllables of a name. His name.

“Mason,” it calls, barely a whisper, so close. It continues, “baby, it’s me,” forcing the vice on his eyes open.

His body returns to him — or maybe he returns to it, he can never fucking tell — gasping as he bolts upright, hand immediately grabbing where his heart lies in his chest, beating brutally.

A hand rests over his, soft in gesture but tentative in touch. A calming warmth. 

“Aimee.”

Her name leaves him with an exhale, reality beginning to sink in and the pain bleeding away so quickly he questions it’s existence in the first place. He's struck with some ease, knocking out his breath sideways. It’s more than a feeling, every dark crevice and sore ache inside of him suddenly eclipsed, finding his centre again.

He had left the bed a few hours ago.

Mindlessly staring into the dark wasn’t exactly exhilarating but it was all he could do, waiting for Aimee's breathing to even out. For him there isn’t any comfort in sleep, not that he sleeps much anyways, but there is a certain calm when he’s alone, padding around the apartment or warehouse in the low light. 

The grating spring showers outside had left him rendered at the balcony’s doorway, drags of his cigarette more desperate than usual. He can't remember why he had to retreat to the sofa. A breather maybe? All he knew is that he had to get out of the damp chill.

He’d much prefer to be by her side, like how she is now, kneeling on the floor with an unsure hand now stroking over his arm. Yet, something seems to be pushing him away, pushing him out of the comfort.

Deep creases run down the side of her face where they're not hidden in shadow. A red tinge sits on her lips, still warm. The silk of the scarf wrapped around her hair is skewed, like she was restless in sleep too. 

"It's me." Aimee says, reminding. "it's okay."

This is why he can't afford to sleep. Mason doesn't dream, his body can't allow him to do that anymore. But, there are brief breakthroughs, rarities, where parts fall through the cracks and take him along with it.

The nightmares aren't even the worst of it.

It's the disconnect, fragments floating in him that can't seem to find their place. He remembers none of it, can't recall the time or place or reasoning but still he's presented with pieces of time he has no memory of.

So vivid, real, they can't just be creations from his subconscious alone. 

They were always the same. Drenched in the darkness of a room with only cool tile under his feet indicating where he is. Or, was. A time where he learnt that even the silence is loud, impossible to keep thoughts away when it’s the only vice you’re left with. 

Days it felt like, kept in the dark until he's of use. Strung up until the fluorescents above would buzz.

Weighted in the deep end, drowning in fear that’s held him down so many times.

The thought makes him grit his teeth, makes his stomach roll. 

Or, maybe it’s a memory. Who’s to say what’s real any more.

Rushes of air spilled through the small, forgiving vents laid into the walls. It’d weave through the space, heavy as a hand, grazing over exposed skin, the nape of his neck, through the dried sweat of his hair. It danced, teased, whispered at the shell of his ear — hey, remember this? what once was? the outside?

He didn't even hear the start of the mechanical whir.

Tears gripped at his lashes, he swears on it, just from how fucking... good it felt. Like he was free again, human again, reeling in a spring breeze.

He loved it. 

He's never loved anything.

He’d always wake before the screams, so sharp that they should never come from any human. Any living being. Yet still, he can hear them, sense the anguish within, rattling his bones and making his throat sore without even moving a muscle.

To this day, where there should be scars, it feels like blood runs over him and he has no idea how to stop it.

It makes him sick. And he hates himself for it.

But, that's over now. Just a dream trying to break an already fragile reality.

Aimee's hand reaches out, tracing the shadow of his collarbone and over the line of his chest. He realises she's staring when his gaze finally flits over to hers, caught in how stupidly big her eyes are. Softened by sleep, warm brown shimmering with some kind of affection. There is no way he should be on the receiving end of that look — 

It scares the shit out of him.

“Go back to bed.” he grunts, hating how rough his voice sounds. He doesn’t want her to worry. Refuses to let her worry about him.

A frown sets deep in her face, more annoyed than anything. She sweeps the damp hair away from his eyes and says, "move over."  Not a question or a plea.

Aimee doesn’t wait for him though. The springs in the sofa groan as she makes way, all knees and elbows as she joins and ends up half on top of him, partially wedged between his body and cushions. She's good at this, obnoxiously so, making space for herself in his life wherever. 

She doesn't say anything, doesn't need to, just allows herself to mold to him and tucking her face into the crook of his neck. He always finds the dip of her back, hand drawn to the warmth, the curve where it fits perfectly, fingers resting easy over one of the dimples that sits there.

And then he breathes, a long exhale swooping out of him until he's empty. It hurts so good, in a way that doesn’t hurt at all, like he’s never used his lungs before.

But, he can feel the hesitation. Unsaid words stuck on aimee's lips, making the twinge still in his chest constrict, the deepest ache hanging onto him.

So, they lie in confused, twitchy silence. Bodies promised together but thoughts a million miles away. There should be conversation, something to smother whatever the fuck is happening but, he can't seem to even open up his throat enough to do it.

This should be easy.

Everything recently has been. Too much in fact.

Sidled by each other's sides, shoulders pressed together during team meetings. Touches lingering significantly, spread fingers on the back or a hand on the knee. He'd always beat her to plucking the curls away from her face, absently tucking them away before the ends got stuck on her lips. Even the way she groans his name in the dark is new, sounds sweeter, tastes different on his tongue, sparking this fiery need to savour the moment.

Mason tries to shake it off, swallowing around his dry throat. Even with his obvious distaste for talking, he waits for the right words. Prays for the right words.

Finally, Aimee gets there first.

"You were talking."

He's never once thought of their encounters being awkward but, shit, no words are coming to him.

"You weren't even in the bed and I heard you." She murmurs, voice hollow against his neck, thinking out loud it seems. After a second painfully stretches on she admits, “you sounded... disturbed.”

The churning in his stomach hasn't ceased, worse now that he can't even string together an answer. Best to be honest.

"It happens." he offers with a shrug.

It's in the dark he's only able to talk about these things. He has to keep it that way, can't let her see him like this. 

"Often?" she asks.

Mason shakes his head.

"Do you worry?"

About the walls, she means. He knows that.

Mason forces a smirk. "I think you're asking the wrong person, darling."

Aimee smiles too, not that she knows she's returning one, but her words aren't as light. "It's not a bad thing to have a history."

"It's not always a good thing either."

“When have you ever been concerned about being good?”

He's not stupid. There's reasons why memory walls are there, reasons why precautions are in place to keep them that way, reasons why Agent Chana’s work isn't some temporary solution. 

But now, entangled in the way she holds him, hands stroking over his skin with no other intention but to soothe, there's all the more reason as to why it should stay that way.

Blindly using her finger she follows the curve and slope of his shoulder, invisible stitches buried deep coming undone, letting her in until she’s overtaking every inch, soaking herself down to his spirit. It beckons only the best. The kind of ease that puts him on his knees, wants to beg, ready to ache all over again if he gets to be cradled like this.

A calm not felt in decades, serenity only experienced in pieces. 

Besides gravity, it seems she's the only thing holding him down.

How she's so able he's still trying to figure out. It makes him just ache. Makes him wish to be normal, lying in bed, saturated in blue. Touching her, listening to her, loving her. It forces his guard up, knowing that he’ll never reach that point, never be able to enjoy simple comforts. He can’t help it, not like him to subject himself.

“I'm not the safe choice." He tries.

Aimee sighs, letting the lull that follows linger. The steady rhythm of her heart neither slows or races, but her gentle hand hesitates.

“You're more than a choice, Mason."

"And, if something were to happen?" He questions.

The bad is implied.

"Then, I stick by you." He can practically hear her eye roll. "You're gonna have to try a lot harder if you think nightmares are going to shake me off."

He doesn’t answer, letting the minutes pass, just the tight press of their bodies and soothed breathing to occupy the time.

“Listen…” she starts quietly, a slight waver to her tone and playfulness gone. “You don’t have to confide in me. And, I’m not asking you to tell me about those parts of yourself,"

"There's nothing to tell. Nothing that will explain me."

"I don't want to explain you." She frowns. "Just recognise that I’m here.” 

Again Mason doesn’t answer, smoothing his hands over wherever he can reach, hoping it's as reassuring as any answer. She understands him in that way. Like anything, they just need some time to help soften the hard edges.

The sound outside is augmented, cars passing by in the rain. He doesn’t know what time it is but there are streaks of light fluttering behind the curtains across the room. He can almost feel the dreams waiting for them as he turns his attention back to her.

“I snore sometimes,” she murmurs so quietly that the silence around them swallows it almost instantly.

Mason lets out an amused sound, edges of his lips threatening a smile. That part of her he is already familiar with.

“I can't cook for shit,” she continues.

Mason blinks at her in the hazy dark, waiting. Aimee pushes herself up, enough that they’re basically face to face. She's so close he'd taste her if he were to open his mouth.

Mason mumbles, “I know.”

“And, I hate doing the dishes.” She smiles against his lips, the curve of it growing when she feels his too.

“You don’t hate it. You just don’t do them.” He scoffs. 

She hums. “Because I’m too busy pulling your fucking hair out the shower drain.”

Mason laughs, a subdued softness, but he actually laughs, surprising even him as the low sound rings out. 

He's so used to the smile that splits her face, the type you could never resist, threatening him out of the shadows and into the gold she radiates, warming his skin and clearing his head of fog.

He can feel it and that’s enough.

“You’re terrible.” he muses, shaking his head slightly.

“Awful.” she agrees.

“The worst.”

They share a laugh and then, just as sweetly, she inches closer, fully dragging him out into the light.

Always gravitational, sends his head into flurry. He knows how this goes, known for decades, but it’s never really added up until Aimee lays her soft kiss.

Deeply, affectionately, different.

Her palms encase his face, sliding over his cheeks to his neck, over his shoulders and up again, fingers getting caught in the fluffier ends of his hair, trimmed for the coming season. Less to grab, he remembers her saying with a frown.

There’s a shift but she doesn’t pull away completely, tilting his head into the soft cushion. He can hear the scrape of hard stubble against skin, the sticky echo of their lips as they come to a part, feels her thumbs digging under his jaw, lingering over his pulse, resting where he's truly alive.

So easily she's gone again, burying her face back against the spanse of his neck and pressing a firm kiss. Reassuring of her presence, reminding that she’s still here.

He was certain before, but —

I've never loved anything.

— he's not sure anymore.

“We should go to bed.” She says through a yawn.

“Yeah.” Mason agrees.

They don’t move. For once, cramped in the dark, he's held safely, with Aimee's breath against his neck.

He can sleep now.

**