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Mason winced as he sat up, the sharp throb in his leg waking him from restless sleep. The doctors hadn’t been exaggerating about the lingering pain. It bit deep, raw and unforgiving, especially on nights like this when the chill seemed to settle in his bones. He swung his legs over the edge of the bed, his bare feet meeting the cold floor, and instinctively glanced to his side. The sheets beside him were rumpled, still faintly warm, but Woods was nowhere in sight.
He let out a low sigh, dragging a hand through his hair. It wasn’t unusual for Woods to vanish like this. Years of restless habits and broken nights had conditioned them both, but tonight was different. Woods wasn’t just crashing on shore leave or stressed during the mission. He’d moved in for good, and for the first time, this house wasn’t Mason’s alone.
Mason tested his weight on the bad leg, gritting his teeth as the sharp pang shot upward, and limped to the kitchen. The familiar creak of the floorboards beneath him echoed in the quiet, and he grabbed the bottle of painkillers from the counter. He swallowed a couple dry, the bitterness clinging to his tongue, then filled a glass of water and downed it in a few gulps. His eyes flicked to the clock. Just past three in the morning.
Where the hell was Woods?
On his way back to the bedroom, Mason’s gaze caught the faintest sliver of light coming from the backyard. The back door was open, the cool night air seeping into the house. Mason frowned, his chest tightening with the beginnings of guilt. He’d meant to take care of the backyard porch, as he did with frontyard, make it accessible for Woods’ wheelchair. There just hadn’t been time.
Grabbing the worn throw blanket draped over the back of the couch, Mason headed for the door. As he stepped out, the familiar Alaskan cold hit him, cutting through the thin fabric of his shirt. Woods was there, seated in his wheelchair at the edge of the porch. His silhouette was stark against the moonlit expanse of the yard, his broad shoulders hunched slightly as if bracing against the cold. He didn’t turn as Mason approached, though Mason could tell he knew he was there.
Mason’s chest ached, despite painkillers. Woods had spent decades moving freely through the world, a force of nature, untouchable in his confidence and grit. Now, seeing him confined to the porch, unable to navigate even Mason’s backyard, was a bitter reminder of how much Panama had taken from them both.
Mason draped the blanket carefully over Woods’ shoulders, letting it fall across his lap. The fabric caught slightly on the armrests, and Mason smoothed it down without a word. “Didn’t you tell me once you weren’t the damn snowman who could stand out here in just a T-shirt at night?” Mason muttered, his tone light, trying to pull Woods from whatever far-off place he was lost in. “That’s my thing, remember?”
Woods didn’t reply. His hands rested on the wheelchair’s armrests, fingers slightly curled, unmoving. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, somewhere past the dark treetops, as though there were answers hidden there he could reach if he stared long enough.
Mason leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. The chill of the night wrapped around them, sharp and quiet, but it wasn’t the cold that made Mason’s chest ache. He spoke again, quieter now, no humor in his voice. “Frank… talk to me. What’s going on?”
Woods finally turned his head, his eyes meeting Mason’s in the dim light. Mason felt the weight of it instantly. The guilt etched into every line of Woods’ face, the hollowness behind his usually sharp gaze. He didn’t need words to understand; he knew this look, had seen it before on nights when the past clawed its way to the surface.
Woods’ voice broke the silence, a hoarse whisper laced with anguish. “I almost killed you.”
Mason stayed quiet, his chest tightening as Woods continued, the words tumbling out like they’d been held back for too long.
“Because of me, you were almost gone. David almost lost his dad. It’s my fault, Mason. All of it. I—” His voice cracked, and he looked away, his hand gripping the edge of the wheelchair like it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “I pulled the damn trigger. And somehow, you’re not angry. You still want me here. I don’t get it. I don’t deserve it. Any of it.”
Mason swallowed hard, his throat tight. Woods’ words weren’t new. He’d heard variations of them before, whispered on dark nights or during rare moments when Woods let his walls down. But tonight, there was something rawer in his tone, something that twisted the knife in Mason’s heart.
“You should hate me,” Woods whispered, almost to himself now. “But you don’t. You never do. You just—” He gestured faintly, the blanket shifting slightly as his hand dropped back to the armrest. “You keep doing this. Making me feel like I matter. Like I’m worth a damn. And I—”
Woods’ voice faltered, and he looked down at his lap, shoulders sagging under the weight of everything he couldn’t say. “Even now. You’re standing here, talking to me, giving me a damn blanket. When all I’ve done is ruin—”
“Frank,” Mason cut him off, his voice steady but laced with emotion. “Stop.”
Woods’ voice wavered as he continued, barely above a whisper, his words tumbling out with a mix of disbelief and pain. “You’ve done everything… adjusted the whole damn house. For me. For this.” He glanced down at the wheelchair, his hands resting heavily on the armrests. “And I don’t… I don’t understand why. Why would you do all of this, Mason? For me?”
His voice cracked on the last word, the raw vulnerability in it cutting deep. He shook his head, as if trying to fight the thoughts circling in his mind. “I don’t deserve this. I don’t deserve any of it…”
Mason stayed silent for a moment, the weight of Woods’ words pressing into him. Then, slowly, he stood from the bench. The cold air bit at his skin as he stepped forward, but he didn’t care. He sank down on one knee in front of Woods, his bad leg protesting the movement, but he ignored it. His hands reached out, taking one of Woods’ larger, calloused hands between both of his.
Woods froze at the touch, his breath hitching, but he didn’t pull away. Mason held his hand firmly, his thumbs brushing against the rough skin, grounding both of them in the moment. He looked up, meeting Woods’ gaze with an intensity that silenced the rest of the world.
“Frank,” Mason said quietly, his voice steady but filled with emotion, “you keep asking why. Why I don’t hate you. Why I want you here. Why I’ve done all this.” He tightened his grip slightly, not letting Woods look away. “And the answer’s simple. It’s because you matter to me. You always have. And no damn thing, no mistake, no bullet, no chair is ever gonna change that.”
Woods opened his mouth to respond, the beginnings of another protest forming on his lips, but Mason didn’t give him the chance. He tightened his hold on Woods’ hand, his voice firm but not unkind as he cut him off.
“No, Frank. You don’t get to say it was your fault. Not now, not ever. That wasn’t you. It was Menendez. Him and no one else.” Mason’s eyes burned with conviction as he leaned in slightly, making sure Woods could see the truth in every word. “You think I’d blame you for something that bastard orchestrated? He’s the one who did this, who put us in that hellhole. Not you.”
Woods’ jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening, but he stayed silent, listening as Mason continued.
“You keep asking why I care,” Mason said, his voice softening, the words laced with a quiet intensity. “You asked me the first damn week we met in the army. Remember that? I told you I had your back, and you looked at me like I’d grown a second head.”
Woods’ lips twitched faintly, a flicker of something like a memory passing over his face, but he still didn’t speak.
“Then after Da Nang. You asked me again. And after Angola.” Mason shook his head, the corner of his mouth tugging into a faint, bittersweet smile. “Every damn time, you’ve asked me the same thing. Why I’d care about you. And I’ve never been able to give you the answer you’d accept.”
Mason’s grip on Woods’ hand softened slightly, his thumbs tracing slow, grounding circles over the rough skin. “But you know what, Frank? The truth is, it’s not some big mystery. It’s just what people who care about you do. They care. They don’t stop because things get hard or because you think you don’t deserve it.”
He paused, his voice lowering further, the weight of his words sinking into the quiet night. “I care because you’re you, Frank. And that’s enough.”
Mason’s voice softened as he leaned in closer, his hands still holding Woods’. “You think you don’t deserve this? Frank, let me remind you of something. You might not think it’s a big deal, but you’ve done more for me than I can even begin to put into words.”
Woods’ brow furrowed, his lip trembling slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Mason pressed on.
“You were always there for me. When the numbers got bad, when they wouldn’t stop screaming in my head. You were the one who pulled me out of it. Every damn time. You didn’t even flinch. You just stayed with me, talked me down, made sure I knew I wasn’t alone.”
Mason’s voice wavered slightly, but he pushed through, the memories sharp and vivid in his mind. “You’ve always been there, Frank. Even when I didn’t ask for it, hell, even when I didn’t deserve it, you were there. Cheering me up, keeping me sane, making me feel like I had someone in my corner.”
Woods’ breath hitched, his hands trembling in Mason’s grip. His eyes glistened in the faint light, and Mason could see the cracks forming in his defenses, the walls he always kept up beginning to crumble.
“And it’s not just for me,” Mason continued, his voice growing steadier. “You try so damn hard, Frank. For yourself. For me. Even for David. You’ve been there for him in ways most people wouldn’t even think of. You’ve been a rock for both of us, even when you didn’t have to be.”
Woods let out a choked sob, his shoulders trembling as he looked down at their hands. Mason didn’t let go, his grip firm and reassuring, his voice unwavering.
“You’re an amazing person, Frank,” Mason said, his tone filled with quiet conviction. “You don’t see it, but I do. Every day. And I’m not going to stop reminding you of it, no matter how much you try to convince me otherwise.”
Tears slid down Woods’ face, silent but relentless, and he shook his head weakly, unable to find the words. But Mason didn’t need him to. He could feel the unspoken gratitude in the way Woods clung to his hands, the barriers finally breaking down between them.
Mason leaned forward, wrapping his arms around Woods carefully, mindful of the wheelchair’s frame. It was still a strange adjustment, hugging like this, but it didn’t matter. Woods was solid and real in his arms, and that was all that counted. He felt Woods tense at first, like he always did when vulnerable moments crept up on him, but slowly, he relaxed, letting Mason hold him.
For a few seconds, the only sound was the faint rustling of the blanket and the whisper of the night air. Then, Woods’ voice broke the silence, a shaky, barely audible whisper. “I’m sorry.”
Mason pulled back slightly, his hands resting on Woods’ shoulders, ready to reassure him. “Frank, it’s okay—”
“It’s not,” Woods cut him off, his voice trembling as he tripped over his words. “It’s not okay, Mason. I’m not okay. I was there again. Back in Panama. You were bleeding in my hands, and I couldn’t… I couldn’t stop it.” His voice cracked, the memory dragging him under. “I was bleeding too, but I couldn’t do a damn thing. Not for you. Not for me.”
Mason’s grip tightened, grounding him. “Frank, listen to me—”
“I woke up after, and all I could think about was… was how useless I was,” Woods pressed on, his voice rising with each word, his hands shaking on the armrests. “I wanted to get out, just… just go for a damn smoke to clear my head. But I couldn’t even light the cigarette. My hands wouldn’t work. I couldn’t even do that.”
His voice dropped, thick with anger and pain. “I threw the lighter somewhere in the backyard. I don’t even know where. I just... I couldn’t handle it. All of it, everything, was too much.”
Mason’s heart twisted at the rawness in Woods’ voice, the way his words spilled out in a desperate, jagged rhythm. He shifted slightly, kneeling closer so their foreheads almost touched. “Frank, you don’t have to handle it alone. You don’t. I’m here, alright? I’m not going anywhere.”
Woods’ breath hitched, his eyes glistening with unshed tears, as he struggled to meet Mason’s gaze.
Mason stayed close for a moment longer, his hands steady on Woods’ shoulders, before he asked, his voice calm and clear, “Do you trust me?”
Woods blinked, staring at Mason like he’d just grown a second head. “What kind of question is that, Mason? Of course I—”
“Then trust me when I say this,” Mason interrupted gently but firmly, his gaze unwavering. “We’ll figure it out. Together. You don’t have to do this alone, Frank.”
Woods froze, the words sinking in, but he couldn’t form a response. His mouth opened slightly, but nothing came out. There was something so matter-of-fact in the way Mason said it, like it wasn’t even up for debate, like it was the most natural thing in the world for him to shoulder Woods’ burdens as if they were his own.
And then, before Woods could process it, Mason pulled back, standing with a quiet grunt as his leg protested. He adjusted the blanket around Woods’ shoulders with a quick tug and, without another word, turned and started toward the backyard.
Woods just sat there, utterly dumbfounded. His hand hovered above the blanket as if to stop Mason, but he let it fall back into his lap. The night air felt colder now, and he pulled the blanket tighter around himself, sinking back into the wheelchair. His eyes followed Mason’s retreating figure as he disappeared into the shadows of the yard.
What the hell just happened?
Woods tilted his head back, staring at the stars with a conflicted scowl. Mason’s words echoed in his head, looping endlessly.
We’ll figure it out. Together.
Together. It sounded so simple when Mason said it, but to Woods, it was anything but. For decades, he’d been the one people relied on, the one who picked up the pieces and didn’t ask for help in return. And now, here was Mason, stubborn, unshakable Mason, insisting on carrying some of that weight, like it was just part of who he was.
It didn’t make sense. Mason should’ve been angry, resentful even. Panama should’ve driven a wedge between them, not brought them closer. Yet here Mason was, searching the damn backyard for a lighter Woods had flung in a fit of rage, as if that would somehow make everything better.
Woods sighed, his hand tightening around the blanket. He didn’t understand Mason sometimes. Hell, most of the time. Mason had this way of cutting through all the noise, the guilt, the mess in Woods’ head, and making it seem small, manageable. It was infuriating and comforting all at once.
Why did Mason care so damn much? Woods had asked himself that question a thousand times over the years, and he still didn’t have an answer. But tonight, wrapped in a blanket that smelled faintly of Mason’s house, with the man himself digging through the backyard for something Woods didn’t even deserve, Woods allowed himself to wonder if maybe, just maybe, Mason was right.
Maybe they really could figure it out. Together.
A few minutes passed before Mason’s voice cut through the quiet night. “Found it!” he called from the backyard, holding the lighter up triumphantly like a kid showing off a trophy. His grin was wide, his face lit by the pale moonlight, and for a second, Woods couldn’t help but think how Mason looked exactly like David did when he’d found that “coolest stick ever” on their last walk.
Maybe it was the truth, Woods thought, watching Mason’s ridiculous display. Maybe he didn’t understand Mason and maybe that’s why he’d fallen for him in the first place. There was something about Mason’s relentless determination, his stubborn refusal to give up on anything or anyone, that had drawn Woods in from the start. And maybe, just maybe, that was the truth he needed to accept.
By the time Mason made it back to the porch, he was still grinning, the lighter clutched in his hand like a prize. He held it out to Woods, as if expecting some kind of fanfare. “Ready to head back?” he asked, his tone light but not without care.
Woods nodded, his grip on the blanket loosening slightly. He wasn’t sad, wasn’t angry. He couldn’t quite place the feeling, but peaceful might’ve been the right word. It was a strange, unfamiliar calm, one he wasn’t used to but wasn’t about to fight.
Mason wheeled Woods back into the house, the familiar warmth wrapping around them as they left the night behind. Once they reached the bedroom, Mason helped Woods settle, his movements careful but practiced. It wasn’t perfect, nothing about this was, but it felt like home.
As Mason climbed into bed, he shifted closer to Woods, their shoulders brushing. Then, slowly, he leaned in, resting his forehead against Woods’. The closeness was intimate, grounding, and Woods let his eyes close, his breath steadying.
“If some nightmare tries to mess with you tonight,” Mason whispered, his voice low and soothing, “just remember I’m always close, alright?”
Woods didn’t answer, but he didn’t need to. The slight nod of his head and the way he let Mason’s words settle in the quiet was enough. The room fell silent, save for the soft rhythm of their breathing, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Woods drifted off to sleep without the weight of guilt pulling him under.