Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Jane isn’t a fan of the cold, but she comes alive in December. Right now she’s bundled up in two of Mason’s sweaters underneath her coat, gloved hands stuffed in her pockets, but her scarf is pulled down from her mouth and nose and she’s grinning, mouth open, bright enough to put all the Christmas displays in the world to shame.

She leans so far over the railing it’s like she intends to fall over, like she wants her very soul to become intertwined with the lights and the sheeting of snow and the dazzling, dazzling Christmas tree right in the middle of Times Square, and then she glances at him.

“Isn’t it beautiful?” she says, and Mason knows she means the tree, and the tree is beautiful, but right in this moment, it’s hard to tear his eyes away from her. He slips his hand into his coat pocket to dig out his phone.

“Let me take a picture of you.”

Chapter Text

Years later, this will be a story they tell to their kids.

“Our first fight living together,” Jane will begin, and Mason will finish the sentence for her,

“Was about a jacket.”

_

She sees it.

It.

It’s draped haphazardly on the edge of the couch, again, the way it always is when Mason decides that everything in the apartment is a damn coat rack.

In this moment, Jane decides she’s never hated anything like she hates that jacket.

Except maybe its owner.

_

“It was one of those things.” Jane will say.

“You’re young and still think the other person knows the thing that’s bothering you, that they’re doing it on purpose,”

“You think that bringing it up is kicking up a fuss for no reason, so you keep quiet,”

“It was one of those things.” Mason will say.

Jane will smile wryly and repeat, “It was about a jacket.”

_

It’s just a jacket. She’s never made a fuss about it- it’s just a jacket, after all, but this is the millionth time she’s had to put the jacket away and she’s not a maid and she can feel her blood boiling up to about a thousand degrees.

She’s had enough.

Just then, the door swings open and Mason comes in, obliviously humming a song under his breath.

_

“Like we said before,” Mason will say, “This was an issue we never talked about before we had the fight. So I walk in, and with absolutely no preamble that I’m aware of…” He’ll leave the sentence hanging so that Jane can pick up the other half,

“I just scream at him.”

_

“IF YOU LEAVE THAT DAMN JACKET LYING AROUND ONE MORE TIME, I AM GOING TO SHOVE IT DOWN THE GARBAGE DISPOSAL!!!”

_

“He just stands there, staring at me for a solid minute.” Jane will say. “I think I just scared him completely out of his wits."

“There are a couple of appropriate ways to respond to something like that,” Mason will say, “You know, ways that wouldn’t send your mother into a blind rage. Do you know what isn’t one of them?”

_

“But the garbage disposal is for food?”

_

Mason will smile, that way that crinkles up his nose and makes his eyes sparkle. “And do you want to guess what your idiot father said?”

“Dad, you did not!” Maya will squeal, her face screwed up in the kind of delight that comes from realising her parents were once just as messy as she herself is.

Macy will scoff from her perch on top of the sofa arm. “Did Mom kill you?”

“I didn’t,” Jane will say, “but it was a near thing.”

_

Jane’s mouth falls open in a long, wordless scream of frustration. She snatches the jacket off the couch and throws it to the floor, followed by one of the couch cushions, and then one of her own pre-law textbooks that was open on the coffee table.

_

“I’m not sure if you know this,” Mason will say, “but your mother’s anger was legendary when we were younger. You think you’ve seen her get mad? You haven’t.”

_

Mason approaches her- slowly, palms open to her- there’s nothing else to do for it, really. “Hey, hey hey.” he says, in the most calming voice he can manage, “What’s wrong?”

She’s trembling from head to toe, surrounded by scattered objects- sharp pieces of ceramic from the mug she knocked over, and she’s not wearing shoes just now- and the second Mason touches her she pulls away, almost knocking over the coffee table in her haste.

“What’s wrong is I hate you!” Jane screams. “You’re inconsiderate and you’re lazy and you can’t cook and you keep moving my toothbrush- I like my toothbrush where it is, that’s why I put it there!”

_

“Sometimes you can fight about a jacket and it really is just about a jacket.” Jane will say.

Mason will add, “This wasn’t one of those times.”

_

When Jane stops shouting and takes a breath, it sounds a little ragged. Mason isn’t exactly sure when she started crying, but he tries to hold her again and this time, she lets him.

“I hate this.” she says. “I hate all of this so much. I want to go home.”

Mason breathes in the smell of her hair and thinks about kissing her, but decides it’s not the right time. Instead, he rests his head on top of hers and thinks about them. They’re both so lost, in their own ways.

“I can learn to cook.” he says.

_

“Our second fight was about Christmas presents,” Mason will say, and draw Maya closer so he can press his lips to her forehead, “but that, my dear, is a story for another time.”

Chapter Text

“Bad day?” Jane asks, having barely glanced at Mason, because he looks like a strong breeze could take him down. She’s not sure if he answers in words, but he drops his bag next to the door and then Jane registers an unexpected warmth on her skin as he brushes a kiss to the back of her neck. She reaches behind her to touch his face but then he’s already out of her reach, filling himself a glass of water from the sink.

“You really do look exhausted.” she says. “You can go lie down until dinner’s ready, if you want; I’ve got it under control here.”

Mason drains the glass, tries for a smile (doesn’t quite manage) and shambles off to the bedroom like a zombie. Jane considers, not for the first time, the potential merits of a strongly worded letter sent to Cassie July’s office.

She cooks by herself for a while- she sort of likes it this way, just her and the sizzling of the pans and the smells of the food intermingling and the music coming from the radio- but when Mason’s phone rings, and it’s the Taylor Swift song that he’s had as Madison’s ringtone since middle school, Jane fishes it out of his bag and answers it.

“Hey.” Madison says, on the other end of the line. “Where’s Mason?”

Jane shifts the phone to hold it between her shoulder and ear and keeps cooking. “He’s inside. Taking a nap.”

Madison sounds worried, but then, Madison almost always sounds worried so Jane takes it in stride. “Is he okay?”

“He’s fine, Mads, he’s just tired.” Jane says. “You know how his classes run on Tuesdays.”

And then Madison starts again with her audible worry- Jane can almost see her arranging and rearranging everything she can get her hands on.

“You know he gets sick every time the seasons change.” she says. “Especially when it’s heading into winter- he never dresses warm enough until he’s already caught a cold.”

This is something Jane didn’t know- it gives her pause. “Do you want me to check on him for you?” she offers, deliberately keeping her voice as casual as possible. There’s no need to worry Madison any more than she already is, and acting like she’s not attuned to Mason’s health would definitely worry Madison.

“Please and thank you.” Madison’s voice comes through the cell. “Call me back when you do.”

When Jane gets to checking on him, Mason is already out cold. He doesn’t wake at the squeaking door hinge (that they really need to attend to, but both keep putting off), he doesn’t wake at Jane’s weight resting on the mattress next to him; he doesn’t even wake when Jane presses a hand to his face.

He’s burning up, and she should have expected it, because Madison is always, always right when it comes to Mason and his wellbeing. She brushes Mason’s slightly sweat-damp hair off his face and she fills up a glass of water from the sink for him before she heads back out to the kitchen.

She was making enchiladas for dinner and she can still make the enchiladas, by God she will still make the enchiladas- the oven’s already preheated and she’s not about to waste the gas- but at the same time she digs through the fridge to find the right ingredients for soup.

When Jane returns to their bedroom, a bowl of chicken noodle soup in each hand, Mason is awake, although he’s not at all happy about it. He’s taken the Tylenol she left on the nightstand and now he just looks unoccupied and deeply miserable.

“How are you feeling?” she asks, manoeuvring herself carefully to sit down on the bed without spilling the soup, and then handing Mason his bowl. He stares down into it as if it reflects his future back at him.

“Terrible.” he says, pouts really, and Jane tries not to smile at his misfortune. Mason is sick and it must be awful, but he really just looks so cute doing it.

“I know.” She leans her head against his chest- there’s a little rattle in his breathing that she listens to for a few seconds- and then kisses him just at the corner of his mouth.

“You’ll get sick.” Mason says, a little blearily, pulling away from her. She shifts, bridges the space between them again, and links her free arm through his own.

“I don’t care.” she says, and rests her head on his shoulder. “Eat.”

Chapter Text

Jane hasn’t slept properly in a week and hasn’t eaten in nearly as long, so Mason is possibly more relieved than anyone else when she gets the call from Annie.

She jumps to her feet right away, and Mason watches her pace, tense and talking a mile a minute about ‘it’s okay’ and ‘you didn’t wake me’ and ‘no I haven’t been waiting up it’s just something I’m working on for school’. Annie is really Mr Anderson’s agent, looking into a certain job for Jane as a favour until she can find (or afford) representation of her own. Mason tries to listen in but Jane’s responses aren’t indicative of much, and she won’t stay still long enough to catch Mason’s eye, and then she walks over into the next room and he can’t hear anything.

She comes back in a few seconds later, the phone clutched in her hand and Mason can’t make out much from her expression except that she looks like she’s free floating in space and he’s not sure he’s seen her breathe yet. He gets up to meet her and is just about to pull her into his chest when she turns to him, and for the first time her shell-shocked expression shows hints of a smile.

“I got the part.”

“You got the part!” Mason says, and then he’s hugging her for a completely different reason, lifting her off the floor and spinning her around and they’re both laughing giddy childish laughter.

“I mean, it’s just the ensemble,” Jane says, a little self consciously, when the first wave of excitement has died down. “It’s not like I’m, you know, Fanny Brice.”

“Just the ensemble?” Mason repeats back at her, and picks her up again. He plants a kiss to her cheek before he lets her back down. “Jane, you’re on Broadway.”

“Yeah.” she says, and her eyes have gone all wide and dazed again, but this time there’s a grin spreading slow and bright over her face. She doesn’t stop it. Mason doesn’t think she can. “I guess I am.”

Chapter Text

The theatre is dark and empty when Jane arrives. She doesn’t need to be here for another hour at least, but how could she not be early? She walks slowly up the aisle, touching the seats and trying really hard to comprehend that tonight, there will be hundreds of people in this room, and she’ll be on the stage.

A real, Broadway stage.

“Amazing, isn’t it?” An unexpected, familiar voice speaks from behind Jane and she whirls around- she thought she was alone. The source of the voice isn’t unwelcome, though; Jane breaks into a smile.

“Miss Berry!”

She laughs softly and squeezes back when Jane runs over to hug her. “Jane, please, I’ve told you a million times that you can call me Rachel.” she says.

“Miss B- sorry, Rachel- what are you doing here?!”

“Oh, you know, I was in the city.” she says, with a mischievous sort of twinkle in her eye. “And I couldn’t possibly not be here to see you on your big day.”

“You’re coming to the show?” Jane asks. “But what about Jane Austen Sings?”

Rachel shrugs. “My understudy can have one day.”

All of a sudden, Jane feels both thrilled and insignificant. “Miss Berry, you know I’m only in the ensemble.” she says. “I only have one spoken line, it’s not like it was with you and Funny Girl.”

“Rachel,” Miss Berry corrects, “and I’m here to see you anyway. It’s your opening night on Broadway, Jane, no matter how many lines you have. From small things big things one day come, remember?”

“Yeah.” Jane breathes. She turns back to the stage, and Rachel puts an arm around her shoulders, and they both just stand there and stare.

Chapter Text

Jane is still sprawled facedown on the bed when Mason comes back in from his morning class, trying unsuccessfully to sleep off a hangover.

The first hangover of her life, in fact- it’s the morning after her 21^st birthday.

Jane is such a goody two shoes sometimes; Mason can almost hear the biting comment from Kitty in the back of his mind.

She shifts at the sound of Mason coming in, mumbles something unintelligible into her pillow. Mason clicks his tongue.

“Aww, baby’s first hangover?”

This time, when she tells him to fuck off, it comes through loud and clear.

He doesn’t laugh out loud, for her sake, and when she whimpers anyway, Mason sits at the edge of the bed and runs his fingertips over her back in circles.

“What can I do?” he murmurs, just loud enough for her to hear, and she rolls over for a second, squinting her eyes almost shut against the light to catch a glimpse of his face.

“Make everything stay still?”

She looks so trusting that Mason can’t help but kiss her wherever his lips land- in this case, on the shell of her ear. He strokes her back a couple more times before pulling away- again, Jane whines a little.

“How about some water?”

When Mason comes back with the glass of water, Jane is still awake, but she’s also still facedown on the bed and doesn’t seem very open to reconsidering her position. Mason coaxes her till she’s semi-upright, murmuring encouraging words the whole time, and tips the glass of water against her mouth for her despite how mad it’s going to make her later.

 “You never get like this when you drink.” she says, after the last of the water has been drained from the glass. There’s something behind her voice, buried under a couple layers of pathos, that’s equal parts baleful and sulky. Mason takes the empty glass and sets it down on the table.

“That’s because I know my body, J.” he tells her. “I used to get like this when I was 16; you’ll learn too, in time.”

Jane resorts to the solace of the pillow over her face again; Mason chuckles and runs his hand over her tummy this time, just because he can.

“What are you doing knowing how to drink at 16, anyway?” she mumbles, and Mason snorts.

“Please, I was a Cheerio. There’s like, a quota for drunken teenage parties.”

She peers out from under the pillow again; as it turns out, she doesn’t need words to convey her scepticism.

“You know,” he says, “Me and Madison weren’t always resigned to being the only two uncool cheerleaders in the world. There was a time when we tried to do what everyone else was doing.”

“I’m glad you didn’t.” she says. Mason rarely knows what to say in response to things like that, so it just hangs in the air for a second or two before he smiles.

“Me too.” he says, though he’s not quite sure if he’s saying it to himself or to her. “Do you think you can keep down some dry toast now?”