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David exhaled slowly, his thoughts flickering to Mike waiting downstairs as he climbed the leader to the attic. They’d planned to visit Mason and Woods again this Christmas, a tradition that had grown comforting over the years. Mike loved those visits, jokingly calling it his “lesson in controlled chaos” after every holiday meal. And though David always brushed off the sentiment, he secretly cherished the time spent with them too.
The attic was warmer than David expected in this time of year. The scent of dust and old wood was thick in the air as he pulled himself up through the creaky opening, his taller frame making the climb a little more awkward than it had been years ago.
It had been a long time since he’d been up here. Too long to remember the details of what was stored away, tucked into the far corners of the attic like memories no one wanted to confront. Mason had asked him to find the old plaid blankets, claiming they’d be perfect for extra seating during tomorrow’s Christmas eve. David, as always, had agreed, but now that he was up here, the task felt more like digging through the past than preparing for a festive holiday.
“Where are those damn plaids?” David muttered to himself, brushing cobwebs from a stack of boxes. Most were labeled, but some were blank, their contents a mystery. After a few minutes of shifting and sorting, his eye caught something in the far corner. An old, dusty box that didn’t look like it had been touched in years.
It wasn’t labeled, and something about the way it was hidden, almost deliberately out of sight, made David pause. He glanced back toward the attic entrance, like he was about to be caught doing something bad, then turned his attention back to the box. The lid lifted with a soft creak, and a puff of dust rose into the air, making him cough.
Inside, the first thing he noticed was a stack of letters tied carefully with an old, frayed knot. Envelopes was yellowed with age, but the neat care in how they’d been stored suggested they were important. Beneath them lay a leather journal, its surface cracked and worn, as if it had been handled many times.
Next were a few old files, their edges slightly curled and corners bent. He moved them aside carefully, uncovering a cassette tape lying beneath them. It was unmarked, but clearly used for many times.
And then, beneath it all, a photograph peeked out from under everything. David hesitated for a moment, his fingers brushing the corner of the picture. What even was all of this?
He sat back on his heels, staring at the collection of items in the box. A part of him knew he should ask his father about this, or maybe Frank, if he caught him in a rare good mood. But the likely response would be some vague excuse, a way to brush off his questions like they always did when it came to anything personal.
David hesitated, his hand hovering over the pile of letters. If either his father or Frank had really wanted to hide this, they wouldn’t have chosen the attic of all places. They would’ve buried it deeper, somewhere far out of reach. The attic was too accessible, too close to the day-to-day rummaging Mason and Woods occasionally did themselves.
That thought made him pause again. Was this really hidden, or just forgotten? The dust on the box suggested years of neglect, not deliberate concealment. And yet, something about the careful organization of these items, the letters tied with a precise knot, the files neatly stacked, felt deliberate, like someone wanted them preserved.
David gently lifted the pile of letters, the weight of them lighter than he’d expected. The knot holding them together was frayed and loose, almost crumbling under his careful tugging. As the letters came free, their envelopes were aged and brittle, the glue sealing them long since dried out. Most had been opened already, their contents neatly returned to their original homes.
He shifted through them slowly, his fingers brushing over the yellowed paper. The envelopes were sorted by date. Someone had taken the time to arrange them chronologically. That alone felt strange. He would’ve expected a haphazard collection, not this meticulous order.
The handwriting on the envelopes varied. Some were scrawled in Mason’s sharp, bold script, while others were penned in Woods’ rougher but surprisingly precise hand. The majority were from Mason to Woods, but enough of them were the other way around to balance the exchange.
David turned one envelope over in his hand, his eyes tracing the faded ink. A part of him itched to open one, to unfold the paper inside and read the words Mason and Woods had written to each other. But another part of him hesitated, as if crossing that line would reveal something he wasn’t sure he was ready to see.
Why keep these letters for so long, tucked away in the attic? And why now, after all these years, did it feel like they were waiting for him to find them?
Frank,
I’m not good at this kind of thing, never was, never will be, but it feels wrong not to say anything after what happened. So, here I am, writing a goddamn letter instead of saying it to your face.
You saved my life out there. Again. I know you’ll brush it off like you always do, but I’m not brushing it off. You didn’t have to pull me out of that mess, but you did. I keep running it over in my head—one wrong move, and I wouldn’t be writing this.
You’re reckless, you know that? But maybe that’s what makes you so damn good at what you do. It’s also what makes me worry about you more than I probably should.
Anyway, thanks. I owe you. So i thought and got you a new watch, I won't take it back, don't even try.
—Mason
Frank,
I didn’t mean to snap at you the yesterday. You didn’t deserve it, and I’ve been kicking myself for it ever since. I don’t know why I let it get to me. Guess that’s just the kind of guy I am. You’ve been patient with me, more than I probably deserve.
I don’t say it often, but you’re one of the few people I trust completely. Out there, it’s chaos, half the time I don’t know what’s real and what’s in my head. But you? You’re solid. You’re real.
I hope you know how much that means to me.
—Mason
Mason,
You think I don’t notice when you’re holding back, but I do. You’re not as subtle as you think you are. You don’t have to carry all this shit alone, you know. Hell, if anyone knows what it’s like to keep your head above water in all this madness, it’s me.
I’m not going to pretend I know what you’re dealing with. Nobody can. But you don’t have to pretend with me. If you want to talk, I’m here. And if you don’t want to talk, I’m still here.
Don’t let this job eat you alive, Mason. You’re better than that.
—Woods
Frank,
It’s funny. I never thought I’d look forward to coming back from missions as much as I do now. You’d probably say it’s because I’m getting soft, and maybe you’re right. But it’s not about the missions. It’s about knowing you’ll be there when I get back.
I don’t think I’ve ever felt that before. Not like this. It’s like having a home, even if it’s just a few minutes in a crappy safehouse or sitting on a cargo plane swapping war stories. You make the chaos feel... less chaotic.
Thanks for sticking around.
—Mason
Mason,
I read that last letter you sent me about five times, and each time it pissed me off. Not because of what you said. Hell, I’ve probably thought the same thing about you more times than I can count. What pissed me off is that you don’t see yourself the way I see you.
You’re not just some guy who gets through by the skin of his teeth. You’re the guy who keeps the rest of us alive. You’re the guy who doesn’t give up, even when the odds are stacked against you. And yeah, you’re stubborn as hell, but I wouldn’t want it any other way.
You’ve got a hell of a lot more to give than you realize. Don’t sell yourself short.
—Woods
David’s fingers hovered over the pile of letters, his thoughts churning. He couldn’t help but think how much these exchanges reflected the way Mason and Woods still acted around each other now. There was a familiarity in their voices, even in writing. A mix of banter, loyalty, and something deeper that didn’t need to be spelled out.
The way they supported each other, the way they worried and cared, it was a connection that went beyond words. It was unshakable, forged in fire.
Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, David pulled out three more letters, each one showing its age in the faint creases and smudges on the paper. He unfolded the first carefully.
Frank,
You’re going to love this. I found a place that actually sells decent whiskey, and I picked up a bottle for when this hell is over. Consider it my way of saying thanks for saving my ass again. Twice, if we’re counting the time you dragged me out of that bar before I started a fight I couldn’t finish.
Seriously, though, next time we get leave, I’m bringing you there. No excuses. We’ll sit down, have a drink, and pretend the world isn’t falling apart for five goddamn minutes. Deal?
Stay safe, idiot 😊.
—Mason
David smiled faintly at that one. It was a simple, almost casual message, but there was a warmth in it that said more than the words themselves. He set it aside and moved to the next letter. This one was messier, written in Woods’ unmistakable scrawl but with uneven lines and crossed-out words.
Mason,
I don’t even know where to start. I know you’re out there, somewhere, and I don’t know if I’ll ever see you again. The team keeps telling me to move on, but how the hell am I supposed to do that?
I’m trying to hold it together, for everyone else's sakes. But it’s hard. I shouldn't let you jump out of that damn plane. It should have been me.
(Several lines are crossed out heavily, the words illegible. A new paragraph starts below.)
I don’t even know if you’ll ever read this. Hell, I don’t even know if you’re alive. But if you are, know that I’ll keep looking. I’ll never stop.
(Woods’ name is scrawled at the bottom, but it’s incomplete, as if he stopped mid-writing.)
David frowned, his chest tightening as he carefully placed the draft to the side. His hands moved slower now, almost hesitant, as he unfolded the third letter. This one was even rougher—scraps of thoughts jotted down, unpolished and raw.
Mason,
Talked to Bowman today. He said I should write this, even if I don’t send it. Said it might help me sort things out, but it’s not.
You’re gone. You’re just... gone. And I keep thinking about all the things I should’ve said when I had the chance.
You were right about so much, about how I need to stop running, about letting people in. I wasn't even able to stand at your funural properly.
You were the only one who ever got through to me, and now...
(There’s a long pause in the writing, followed by a single, heavily scrawled line.)
I don’t know how to do this without you.
(There’s no signature, just a smear of ink where Woods’ pen must have pressed down too hard.)
David sat back, the letter trembling slightly in his hands. The rawness in Woods’ words was almost overwhelming. Mason and Woods had never talked much about what they had been through. Not really. Sure, there were stories, usually told with a layer of humor to mask the pain, but David had always sensed there was more. From what he understood... there was too many moments when one of them thought the other was gone for good.
He reached for the leather journal next, its cover worn smooth with time and use. His fingers brushed over the cracks in the surface, and for a moment, he hesitated. This felt... intimate. A piece of Mason he wasn’t sure he was supposed to see.
Still, his curiosity and the pull of understanding outweighed his reluctance. He opened the journal slowly, revealing the first few pages. The handwriting was Mason’s. Sharp, angular, but uneven in places, as though he had stopped and started many times, but still clearly Mason's.
The first few lines were barely legible, scratched out and written over, some sentences beginning only to trail off into nothing.
I don’t even know where to…
Frank keeps telling me…
Vorkuta was…
David frowned, his thumb brushing over the edge of the page. It was clear Mason had struggled to write this. The sentences were fragmented, unfinished, and the gaps between them spoke louder than any words could.
He turned the page, finding more of the same.
I should be dead…
I thought about Frank every day in that hellhole, and…
Sometimes I think I’ll never…
The writing felt raw, almost like Mason had been fighting with himself, trying to find a way to put the pieces of his mind back together. It wasn’t polished or linear. It was chaotic, scattered, like the thoughts of someone still wrestling with demons they couldn’t name.
David’s grip on the journal tightened slightly. He’d known Vorkuta had been brutal. He’d known it had changed his father. But seeing the struggle laid bare on these pages made it all the more real.
David carefully turned a few more pages, the scattered sentences gradually giving way to something more cohesive. The handwriting was still uneven, as if Mason had written these entries in bursts, but at least now there were paragraphs forming. He began to read, his eyes scanning the page.
I don’t know how to put it all into words. Every time I try, it feels like I’m ripping something open that I’ve worked too damn hard to keep shut. I still feel like I will wake up there... Vorkuta wasn’t just a place. It was... something else. It was every nightmare I’ve ever had, every doubt, every crack in my head split wide open. I keep hearing Reznov’s voice like he’s still standing over my shoulder.
Some nights, I wake up and I’m back there. Not in my head. Actually there. I can hear the machines, the shouting. Feel the cold concrete under my feet. It’s real enough that I reach for a gun that isn’t there. And when I snap out of it, I’m not sure if I’m more relieved or more terrified.
I know I should talk about it. I know I should. The therapist says it’ll help. ‘Process the trauma,’ she says. But how the hell do you process something like that? How do you process clawing your way out of hell only to find the world still wants to chew you up and spit you out?
I’m not ready. Maybe I’ll never be ready.
But then there’s Frank. He doesn’t push. He doesn’t ask for details. He just... knows. It’s like he can see right through me without saying a damn word. And for some reason, that doesn’t scare me. It should, but it doesn’t.
He’s always there, even when I’m at my worst. Especially then. I don’t know how the hell he does it, but I’m glad he does. I’m glad he’s... him.
David exhaled slowly, his grip on the journal tightening. The words were raw, unfiltered, a glimpse into a side of his father he had rarely seen. Mason’s pain was evident, but so was his gratitude. Gratitude for the one constant in his life, the person who had been there for him through it all.
David stared at the closed journal in his hands, his chest tight with an emotion he couldn’t quite name. He had no strength to keep going, but something about the weight of the pages still left unread called to him. There was only one more entry, and a small voice in the back of his mind urged him to see it through.
March 20, 1966.
The handwriting was Mason’s, but it was jagged and frantic, the words barely legible in places. David squinted, his eyes catching fragments of sentences:
He's right
He's right
He's right
I don’t know why I thought it would feel different… he’s right… maybe I should have…
I should have died in Vorkuta…
The entry trailed off, the rest of the words crossed out with thick, angry strokes of ink. Over Mason’s rough scrawl was an even heavier script, one David recognized immediately as Woods’. The words were sharp and forceful, as if Woods had written them in a fit of frustration.
You’re wrong, Mason. Dead wrong. I don’t give a damn what he said. You survived, and you did it for a reason. You’ve got people who care about you, who need you. So, stop this shit. You’re better than this.
At the bottom of the page, in a smaller, calmer script, Woods had added one last note.
When you’re ready, listen to the recording. Don’t try to do this alone.
David’s hand trembled slightly as he ran his fingers over the words. He couldn’t imagine what had been running through Mason’s head when he wrote that entry, but Woods’ response was so immediate, so visceral, it was clear just how deeply he cared.
Woods had always been there, pulling Mason back from the edge, grounding him in a way no one else could. And now, decades later, that bond was still as strong as ever.
David’s gaze drifted to the cassette he’d seen earlier in the box. It was buried under the letters and files, unmarked and nondescript, but now it felt like the most significant thing in the room.
The faint click of the cassette player felt loud in the otherwise silent attic. David sat on the floor, legs crossed, staring at the spinning tape as Woods’ voice crackled to life. It started out tense, hurried, as if Woods had recorded this in a rush.
“Mason? I don’t know if you’ll ever hear this, but I’m making it anyway. I’ve been trying to get ahold of you all damn day, and you’re not answering. You never ignore me this long, not unless something’s wrong.”
(There was a pause, the sound of Woods’ footsteps faintly audible in the background. He must have been pacing.)
“I swear to God, if you don’t answer your door, I’m coming in. Don’t think I won’t. I don’t care if it gets me arrested.”
(A moment later, there was a muffled thud, as if Woods had set the recorder down. The faint sound of a lock clicking was followed by the creak of a door opening.)
“Alright, Mason, I’m in. Don’t freak out. You gave me no choice.”
(His voice dropped lower, softer, but still sharp with concern.)
“Jesus, Alex... what the hell happened in here?”
(Another pause. Then Woods began speaking again, his voice quieter now, almost hesitant.)
“Seeing three letters. It's yours, Mason? They’re all over the place. Let’s see... first one says...”
(Woods’ tone changed, his usually steady voice faltering as he started reading the letters aloud.)
‘Son,
Your mother has taken ill. Doctors got nothing good to say. Your sisters are here. You need to come home, too.
Signed,
Dad.’
(There was a sharp intake of breath, followed by the rustling of paper.)
‘Son,
This is the tenth letter I’ve sent without response. Your mother has finally passed and you weren’t here for her. I know what it is to be loyal and serve and bleed for your country. But this was your mother. And you failed her. Failed your family.
Services are in 5 days. If you’re not here, don’t ever come back. And as far as me and your sisters are concerned, you died in that prison camp.
5 days.
Signed,
Dad.’
(Woods’ voice cracked slightly on the last few words, but he pushed on. He stopped, breathing audibly heavier before continuing, now almost whispering.)
‘Alex,
I gave you 5 days. You failed. You should have died in Vorkuta.
Signed,
Your father.’
(There was a moment of silence, broken only by Woods’ shaky breathing.)
“What the hell is wrong with you, old man...” (Woods muttered, almost too softly for the recorder to pick up.)
(There was a sound of footsteps, hurried and frantic, as Woods seemed to move through the apartment. His voice grew louder.)
“Mason! Where the hell are you?”
(Another door creaked open, and there was a long, heavy pause. When Woods spoke again, his voice was trembling.)
“Oh, Christ, Alex...”
(The next part of the recording was faint, the microphone struggling to pick up the quiet sound of Woods’ movements.)
“It’s okay. I’m here,” (Woods whispered, his voice breaking.) “You’re not doing this, alright? Whatever’s going through your head right now, just stop. Just... stop.”
(The room was silent except for the faint rustling of clothes, as though Woods had pulled Mason into a hug. His voice came back, low and insistent.)
“Your dad’s a bastard. He’s wrong. Dead wrong. You didn’t fail anyone, and you sure as hell don’t deserve to be here thinking this way.”
(There was a long pause, filled only with the sound of Woods breathing and the faintest rustle of movement.)
“I’ve got you, Alex. I’ve always got you.”
(Another pause, then Woods’ voice softened further, barely more than a whisper.)
“You’re gonna be okay. I promise. Just... stay with me, alright?”
(The faint sound of a body shifting, as though Mason had fallen asleep, broke the quiet. Woods sighed, his voice soft but firm as he spoke into the recorder again.)
“If you’re listening to this later, Mason, remember this: you’re not alone. No matter how dark it gets, I’m not going anywhere. You don’t get to go anywhere either. Not while I’m around.”
(There was a faint scrape, as though Woods had set something down. Maybe the recorder. His voice came through one last time, quieter now.)
“I’m leaving this here for you. Listen to it whenever you need to, alright? And don’t forget. You’re worth a hell of a lot more than you think you are.”
The tape clicked softly as it ended, the silence that followed feeling heavier than the attic air around David.
David sat there in the attic, staring at the cassette player as the silence stretched on. His chest felt tight, a mix of sadness and a strange, unfamiliar ache he couldn’t quite place. He’d heard bits and pieces about his family on Mason’s side over the years, but only now did he fully realize. He’d never met his grandparents, only his aunts and cousins, who filled in the gaps without ever mentioning the void when Mason and Woods were on a missions.
The faint creak of footsteps on the ladder startled him out of his thoughts. A moment later, Mike’s head popped up through the attic opening, his brow furrowed with concern.
“Hey,” Mike said, his voice soft as he climbed the rest of the way up. “You’ve been up here a while. Thought maybe you got stuck or something.”
David shook his head quickly, trying to look like he hadn’t just been on the verge of tears. “I’m fine. Just... going through some of my dad’s old stuff.”
Mike raised an eyebrow, catching the hesitation in David’s voice. “Yeah? Find anything interesting?”
“Uh...” David gestured vaguely at the pile of items beside him, fumbling for words. “Just, you know, old... letters. A journal. Stuff from when he was younger. Nothing big.”
Mike tilted his head, his expression a mix of curiosity and concern as he crouched down beside David. He glanced over the letters and the journal without touching them, his gaze lingering on the cassette player.
“Did you listen to something?” Mike asked, his voice quiet.
David nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Just... Frank left something for him. It’s nothing.”
Mike gave him a long look, one that told David he didn’t believe the “nothing” part for a second. But instead of pressing, Mike reached out, wrapping one arm around David’s shoulders in a half-hug. It wasn’t much, just enough to say, I’m here.
Mike’s voice was soft when he finally spoke. “Must be a lot, huh? Seeing all this.”
David nodded again, leaning slightly into the hug without even realizing it. “Yeah,” he said, his voice rough. “A lot.”
Mike didn’t say anything else, just squeezed David’s shoulder gently before shifting his gaze back to the pile. His expression was careful, but there was a sadness in his eyes as he glanced at the items David had already gone through.
Mike reached into the box, his hand settling on the files that were still neatly stacked on top. He pulled them out, glancing at David as if for permission. When David gave a faint nod, Mike unfolded the first file, his brows furrowing as he scanned the text.
“This one’s from your dad,” Mike said, his tone curious but gentle. “Looks like he was asking for leave… months ahead of time. Says here it’s for...” He tilted the paper toward David. “That’s your birthday, isn’t it?”
David blinked, leaning forward to glance at the file. “Yeah,” he murmured, his voice distant. “I guess he planned ahead.”
Mike gave him a small smile, setting the paper aside and picking up the next file. As he skimmed it, his smile faded, replaced by a look of quiet surprise.
“This one’s from Frank,” Mike said. “It’s... for immediate leave. Two weeks.” He looked at David, his expression searching. “Do you know what that was about?”
David frowned, shaking his head. “No. They didn’t talk about stuff like this. Not to me, anyway.”
Mike hummed thoughtfully, setting the second file down before unfolding the third. His lips pressed into a thin line as he read, his tone softening further.
“This one’s... rough,” he said, hesitating before continuing. “Your dad was asking for a few extra days off. The reason listed is... to give a funeral for his wife.”
David froze, his breath catching in his chest. “My mom,” he whispered, the weight of the words settling over him.
Mike nodded silently, his hand brushing over the page before moving to the next file. He unfolded it carefully, his brow furrowing again.
“This one’s the same date as the last,” he said, glancing at David. “It’s Frank. He’s asking for a few extra days too. No reason listed, just says it’s ‘personal.’ ”
David stared at the files, his mind racing. He’d known about his mother’s passing, of course, but this... this was different. Seeing the formal requests, the timeline laid out on paper, made it feel more real. And Woods being there, right alongside his father… it was a detail that tugged at something deep in David’s chest.
Mike set the files down gently, his gaze flicking to David’s face. “Looks like they were going through a lot together,” he said softly.
David nodded, his voice barely above a whisper. “Yeah... they were.”
Mike reached toward the photo still peeking out from beneath the files, but before he could grab it, the sound of footsteps echoed from below.
“David?” Mason’s voice carried up the attic ladder, tinged with a mix of impatience and curiosity. “You planning on camping up there, or what?”
David and Mike exchanged a glance, both caught off guard.
“Just—uh—just going through stuff, Dad!” David called back, his voice cracking slightly as he scrambled to shift some of the papers to look less conspicuous.
The creaking of the ladder announced Mason’s arrival. His head popped up through the opening, his sharp eyes sweeping the attic. “You’ve been gone long enough to raise suspicion,” Mason quipped, his gaze landing on David and the pile of items surrounding him. The teasing smirk faded quickly as his eyes narrowed.
Mason’s gaze lingered on the letters, the journal, the files. Then finally the open box. He froze, his expression tightening, though he didn’t say anything right away. His silence was louder than any words.
“Frank said he wants to show you guys something,” Mason said abruptly, his tone a little too casual. He waved a hand as though dismissing the moment entirely. “Better get moving before he changes his mind.”
David blinked, clearly unconvinced by the excuse, but Mike caught on quickly, giving Mason a nod.
“Right,” Mike said, standing and brushing off his knees. “David, we should go see what Frank wants. It’s probably something ridiculous, knowing him.”
David hesitated, his gaze darting between Mike and Mason. “But—”
“Go on,” Mason interrupted, stepping further into the attic. “I’ll finish up here. You can sort through this stuff later.”
Before David could protest, Mike placed a hand on his shoulder, gently steering him toward the ladder. “Come on,” Mike said lightly. “Let’s see what Frank’s up to.”
Reluctantly, David followed, casting a glance over his shoulder at Mason.
Once the two were out of sight, Mason exhaled heavily, running a hand through his hair. His gaze settled on the scattered items, his expression a mix of frustration and something deeper. Regret, perhaps, or guilt.
Without a word, Mason began carefully placing everything back into the box, his movements quick and deliberate. He tied the letters back together, slid the files into place, and tucked the journal and cassette securely beneath them.
With the box sealed, he picked it up and carried it out of the attic. His steps were quiet but purposeful as he made his way to his and Woods’ bedroom. Once inside, he placed the box in the back of the closet, shoving it behind a few old bags to keep it out of sight.
He lingered for a moment, staring at the hidden box, his jaw tightening.
“Damn it,” Mason muttered under his breath, his hand briefly resting on the closet door before he shut it firmly.
Later that night as Mason sat on the edge of the bed, preparing for the sleep, Woods leaned back against the headboard, watching him with a sharp yet curious gaze. It wasn’t unusual for Mason to deflect or pull tricks like he had earlier, but hadn't done it for a long time.
“Alright, Alex,” Woods said, his tone light but edged with curiosity. “What’s the deal with the whole ‘Woods wants to show you something’ bit? You hadn't pulled that off in years.”
Mason hesitated, his hands stilling on the second boot. He didn’t meet Woods’ eyes right away, his jaw tightening briefly before he exhaled. “It wasn’t... nothing,” he admitted, his voice low.
Woods raised an eyebrow, pushing himself upright. “You wanna clarify that, or are we playing the guessing game tonight?”
With a reluctant sigh, Mason got up and crossed to the closet. He opened it carefully, pulling the old box from its hiding spot. Turning back toward Woods, he carried it over and placed it on the bed between them.
“I’ve been keeping some things,” Mason said, his voice measured, like he was testing the waters. “Stuff from... back then. About us. Before us.”
Woods frowned slightly, his confusion evident as he opened the box and started sifting through the items. His brows furrowed as he pulled out the letters, the journal, and the files. But the moment his hand brushed against the recorder, he froze.
The air in the room shifted. Woods’ hand lingered over the device, his eyes narrowing slightly. The tension in his posture was palpable, and Mason felt it like a ripple between them.
Mason quickly reached out, his hand resting lightly on Woods’ wrist. “It’s fine, Frank,” he said firmly. “You don’t have to worry about it.”
Woods didn’t move for a moment, his gaze fixed on the recorder as if it were something dangerous. When he finally looked up at Mason, his expression was unreadable, a mix of suspicion and something deeper.
“You sure?” Woods asked, his voice quieter than usual.
Mason nodded, his hand steady. “I’m sure. I listened to it a long time ago for dozens of times. It helped, believe it or not.”
Woods exhaled, leaning back slightly but still glancing at the recorder as though it might spring to life at any moment. Mason could see the unease flickering behind his eyes.
Mason's father was a subject they didn’t touch, not really. His father was a shadow Mason rarely acknowledged, let alone the thing they would spoke about, even less than Vorkuta or Da Nang.
Before the silence could stretch too far, Mason reached into the box and pulled out an old, slightly crinkled photo. He held it up, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his lips.
“Here,” Mason said, offering it to Woods. “Figured you’d like this better.”
Woods stared at the photo in his hands, his thumb brushing lightly over the faded edges. The image captured a moment that felt like a lifetime ago. A younger Woods cradling a small, swaddled baby David in his arms. His expression was a mix of exhaustion and determination, his gaze focused entirely on the child.
The date clicked in his mind almost immediately. “Still hate you for making this,” Woods said quietly, his voice tinged with something between nostalgia and pain.
Mason nodded, his eyes fixed on the photo as if reliving the memory. “I know,” he said softly. “But for me this was... Everything”
Woods gotten the call from Mason in the dead of night, the words clipped and hollow as they came through the line.
“She’s gone, Frank. She didn’t make it.”
It had taken Woods a moment to process, his grip tightening on the receiver. “Alex... Jesus. Where are you? What about the baby?”
“Home,” Mason had replied, his voice dull and lifeless. “He’s here, too. Frank... I don't how to... what...”
Woods didn’t ask more. He knew Mason well enough to recognize the cracks in his voice, the ones he’d never admit to.
The next morning, Woods was banging on doors and pulling every favor he had to get leave approved. When that failed, he made some calls that bent the rules more than a little. By the time he arrived at Mason’s house, he’d barely slept, but it didn’t matter.
The house was dark, quiet except for the faint sound of a baby crying. Woods stepped inside, his heart sinking at the scene before him. Mason sat slumped in a chair, his elbows resting on his knees, his head in his hands. He didn’t look up when Woods entered. His eyes were bloodshot, his face pale, and there was a hollowness in his expression that Woods had only seen once before—after Vorkuta.
“Jesus, Alex,” Woods muttered under his breath, glancing toward the source of the crying. A bassinet was set up nearby, holding a tiny, wriggling bundle.
Mason didn’t move. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days, his body slack and unresponsive.
Woods knelt by the bassinet, his heart twisting as he looked at the baby. David. He was red-faced, squirming, and hungry. Woods didn’t know the first damn thing about babies, but he knew enough to recognize the signs.
He glanced back at Mason, who still hadn’t moved. “You’ve gotta get some rest, Mason,” Woods said firmly. “Let me handle this.”
No response.
Woods sighed, running a hand through his hair before moving to the kitchen. After a frantic search, he found a can of formula and a bottle. He muttered curses under his breath as he figured out how to mix the damn thing, then returned to David, holding the bottle awkwardly.
“Alright, kid,” Woods said softly, positioning the bottle with careful hands. “Let’s see if I can get this right.”
David latched on immediately, the crying subsiding as he began to drink. Woods let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, his shoulders relaxing slightly.
With David quieted, Woods turned his attention back to Mason. He walked over and gently gripped his shoulder.
“Alex,” Woods said, his voice softer now. “Come on. You need to lie down.”
It took a moment, but Mason finally looked up. His eyes were dull, almost unrecognizable. Woods helped him to his feet, guiding him toward the bedroom without another word.
“You’re no good to him like this,” Woods said firmly, motioning toward David. “Sleep. I’ll take care of the rest.”
Mason didn’t argue. He sank onto the bed, barely pulling the blanket over himself before his eyes slipped shut.
As Woods made sure David was asleep, swaddled snugly and his diaper freshly changed, he let out a breath of relief. The baby had finally settled, his tiny chest rising and falling rhythmically. Woods placed the bassinet in a spot where he could easily keep an eye on it, then quietly made his way back to the bedroom.
Mason was lying on the bed, but he wasn’t asleep. His eyes were half-open, staring blankly at the ceiling. The exhaustion was carved into his features, but something else lingered there too—a heaviness that Woods couldn’t ignore.
Woods leaned against the doorway for a moment, crossing his arms as he studied his friend. “You’re supposed to be sleeping, but I can make one more boy fall asleep if needed,” he said, his voice low but firm.
Mason didn’t respond. His gaze flickered briefly toward Woods, then returned to the ceiling.
With a soft sigh, Woods pushed off the doorframe and walked over to the bed. He sat down on the edge, close but not intrusive, and rested his elbows on his knees.
“Come on, Alex,” Woods said quietly. “Talk to me.”
Mason’s lips parted, but at first, no sound came out. He swallowed hard, his jaw tightening.
“It’s my fault she died,” Mason mumbled finally, his voice hoarse and barely audible. “If I hadn’t married her… if I’d just told you I—”
He froze, his words cutting off abruptly.
Woods went rigid beside him, his body tensing as the unfinished sentence hung in the air. His heart seemed to stop, his breath catching in his throat.
After a moment, Woods tilted his head slightly, his voice softer now. “Told me what?” he asked carefully.
Mason turned his head away, his eyes closing as if trying to block out the question. For a long moment, there was only silence between them, thick and oppressive.
Then, barely above a whisper, Mason muttered, “...love you.”
The words were so quiet, Woods almost thought he’d imagined them. He stayed frozen in place, his mind racing. For years, he’d convinced himself that no one could love someone like him—not even Alex, the one person he’d ever dared to feel that way about.
Woods clenched his hands into fists, his knuckles white as he tried to process what he’d just heard. Mason, meanwhile, remained still, his face unreadable as he kept his eyes shut.
Mason’s mumbled words grew harsher, spiraling into a stream of self-directed insults. “Idiot... fuckin idiot... only destorying everything I—”
“Shut up,” Woods cut him off, his voice firm but not angry. He reached out, gripping Mason’s arm. “Enough of that.”
Mason flinched slightly, but the words didn’t stop. His body was trembling now, exhaustion and grief overwhelming him. Woods watched him for a moment, his chest tightening as he saw just how far Mason had fallen.
Without another word, Woods stood and leaned over, carefully pulling Mason’s unresponsive body off the bed. Mason was heavier than expected, his body slack from fatigue and neglect. For a moment, Woods hesitated, his heart pounding. Then, driven by something he couldn’t quite name, he leaned in and kissed Mason softly.
Mason froze against him, his body stiff and unyielding. Woods was about to pull away, fear creeping in, when he felt it. A faint, shaky movement as Mason returned the kiss. Tears Mason hadn’t realized he still had began to spill, falling freely as he clung to Woods like a lifeline.
When they broke apart, Mason didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He buried his face against Woods’ shoulder, his body shaking with silent sobs.
David’s cry pierced the quiet, startling them both. Woods sighed, his hand brushing over Mason’s back briefly before he guided him back to the bed.
“Lie down,” Woods said, his voice leaving no room for argument. “You need sleep. I’ll take care of him.”
Mason hesitated, his gaze flicking toward the doorway. But Woods gave him a firm look, and with a heavy sigh, Mason relented, sinking back onto the mattress.
“Sleep,” Woods ordered softly, pulling the blanket over him. “I’ve got this.”
The next morning, Mason shuffled out of the bedroom, his body feeling heavier than it should. He blinked at the sunlight streaming through the window, rubbing at his eyes as he adjusted to the brightness.
His gaze fell on the couch, and his steps faltered.
Woods was sitting there, slumped slightly with his head leaning against the backrest. His eyes were closed, his face relaxed in sleep. In his arms, David was wide awake, playing idly with Woods’ beard, his tiny hands tugging at it with surprising determination.
Mason’s breath caught in his throat, the sight freezing him in place. For the first time in days, something other than guilt or grief filled his chest—a faint, fragile warmth.
Quietly, Mason grabbed the camera from the nearby shelf. He brought it to his eye, the familiar click of the shutter capturing the moment forever.
He lowered the camera, staring at the photo for a moment before his gaze drifted back to Woods.
“Thank you,” Mason whispered softly, his voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the morning.
Woods stirred slightly at the sound, his head tilting to the side, but he didn’t wake. David cooed softly, his hands still tangled in Woods’ beard as Mason stood there, watching the two of them with something that felt almost like hope.