Day 02 - Cuddling + love language challenge: physical touch
with Charlie x Mason
used for bg: photo by Rob Wingate on Unsplash
closeups/tiny ramble under the cut <3
this is meant to be deeper in the romance
I liked to imagine that at first mason might be interested in plain cuddling as the cuddlee rather than the cuddler, esp with the hypersense dampening effect the detective has.
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featuring: douglas friedman; supporting cast: alma green, verda, tina
word count: 1.4k
note: a @wayhavensummer entry for the 6/13 prompt first pride! doug's gay, i said so.
(p.s. if you're closeted, i love you so much and it's okay not to come out. your reasons are your business and you're still part of this beautiful community)
It's a mindless thing, the way his attention searches for purchase on something, anything, in front of him. Something immediate. All the while those inescapable thoughts hover around the edge of his attempts at stimulation.
Douglas glances down at his phone. Back to the work computer. Clicks through a few links. Tries to read a stupid listacle. Back down when the phone vibrates—a text from Dad. He’ll think about that later. He swipes it off the screen as Alma and Verda come up from the lab.
They’re chattering away in a bubble of quiet laughter and relaxed touches as they hang their white coats on hooks by the station’s kitchen. There's something familial between them, an understanding that Doug’s never had with anyone.
He’s not sure if it’s something he can have. But he can hope.
It was months ago that Alma invited him in when he had nowhere else to go, even after he’d acted like an idiot. Longer still since she’d put herself between him and an attacker. Doug can’t describe how grateful he is that she cared. No one ever seems to care.
He thought he was in love, just for a moment. Thought he could finally ignore this clawing in his chest.
The part of himself he can’t face.
He buries the thought for now. They’re wandering over anyway.
“How’s it going, Doug?” Alma leans against his desk, words caught mid-giggle, and the bubble of warmth extends to him for a moment. The natural pull of her gravity is something he can’t resist—fully aware that this is not attraction—because he knows she’d care. She’d listen and tell him it’s okay.
He doesn’t say anything important. Only shrugs and offers a weak smile. “I’m okay. Ready to clock out.”
If they were alone, he could say more. Maybe even tell her the truth.
“I hear that.” She groans.
Eric pokes his head through the glass door, both daughters in tow, and Verda meets him with a quick kiss. Douglas tries not to stare. Takes a deep breath to hide the heat in his face.
There’s something else he can’t imagine having. Best not to even hope for that.
Goodbyes are said. Doug keeps his head down. It’s not long before one of the volunteers comes to relieve him at the front desk, and then he’s free for the night.
He wanders around town for a while. A coffee from Haley’s to savor at the docks; flipping through something new at the bookstore; finally, a single beer at the bar. Anything to avoid going home.
His phone buzzes for the first time since work. Dad again. Better check both texts now.
4:52 PM: Councilman Meyers and his family are coming to dinner tonight. Don’t embarrass me by being late.
Doug is way past late. That was the one that came through while he was at the front desk.
8:03 PM: You are, as always, a disappointment.
That sinking feeling in his gut both leads the way and slows his steps as he shuffles back to the north side of town. Back to the place he feels emptiest.
Doug enters as quietly as he can. There’s the clink of ice in a tumbler from the sitting room. Dad must be drowning his fury with whiskey.
“Goodnight,” Douglas mumbles from the foyer. No response.
His father doesn’t even bother to berate him to his face anymore. Doug doesn’t know what’s worse, being yelled at or being ignored.
In the safety of his room, the weight falls away. He can practice being himself.
He curls into bed with his laptop, fingers hovering over the keys with uncertainty. Every letter, every word typed into the search bar solidifies the truth of it a little more. The forums are always full of support, camaraderie, and understanding. More empathy than he's been shown in his life.
Would he receive the same love?
Doug showers before bed, wipes the fog off his mirror, and practices saying it.
"I'm gay," he whispers to himself. Then just a little louder. "I'm gay. I'm gay."
It’s not comfortable, but it’s his. Like new jeans, still too stiff when he sits, but they fit perfectly. Boots that might cause a blister for the first week, but will last for years.
He likes how it looks on him. Likes it enough to smile.
Maybe tomorrow will be different. Maybe he'll tell someone besides his reflection.
- - -
Tomorrow isn't different, nor is the next day. Or the one after that. But eventually, after stockpiling his courage, Doug decides it's time.
He stops at Haley’s to pick up a couple coffees. He doesn’t know Alma’s order, but everyone likes a flavored latte well enough, right? He wants to extend a friendly gesture. She’s the closest thing he’s had to a friend in a long time.
He catches her sliding out of her car in the station’s parking lot. His pounding heart protests as he moves around to the front of the car to make himself known.
It’s now or never.
“Alma,” he starts.
“Morning, Doug. Everything alright?” She heaves a messenger bag onto her shoulder and bumps the door shut with her hip. He looks for any signs of annoyance--a sharpened look, a pinched brow, a disappointed frown. Things he's used to seeing when he tries to talk to his father.
But she just looks a little confused, a little curious.
“I… I grabbed a coffee for you.” He awkwardly extends the drink, and she takes it after half a second’s hesitation.
“Thank you?”
Well, this is going spectacularly.
“Do you have a second? To talk?”
Her brows raise, curiosity shifting to something like worry, he thinks. It’s more concern than he’s gotten from either of his parents in a few years. She nods and gestures for him to follow her to the bench a few feet from the entrance.
“What’s up?”
Doug hasn’t given much thought to how to say this, only that he wants to say it. Wants someone to know him.
“There’s something I, um, want to tell you.” He sips his drink to steady his nerves. “Because you’re someone I can trust.”
He starts gathering the threads. How this started, when he knew, why he hasn’t told his parents.
Why he hasn’t told anyone.
Where he plans to go from here.
He knows the answers, but struggles to weave them into anything solid in his mind. He still has questions of his own, after all.
His sexuality isn’t something he can put into bullet points, no matter how much easier that’d make this conversation. So he sits, swaying on the edge of his truth, still afraid of becoming.
“Douglas? Are you okay?” Alma’s hand is on his arm, the lightest, warmest touch he can remember.
“I’m gay.”
The words fall out in a rush, and when he looks up, he’s met with soft eyes, a quiet smile. The hand squeezes his arm and pulls him in for a hug. His body, wiry and thin, sags against her small frame. A relieved laugh shakes through him.
“Thank you for sharing that with me,” she mumbles into his shoulder. “I’m so happy for you, Doug.”
The smile might as well be plastered to his face for the rest of the day. He feels lighter. Just like all the nights he's gone over it alone, this isn’t exactly what he’d call comfortable, but having someone accept him instead of dismissing him... well, it means the world.
- - -
Weeks pass. Work becomes a sanctuary, and Douglas springs to life in ways he never believed possible. He joins in their conversations, shares more of himself.
He comes out.
He invites others in.
Alma and Tina invite him to come along to the Pride festival in the big city, and even if the car ride is filled with a fuzzy, nervous haze for him, Doug sings—no, screams along with them to their favorite songs until it’s time to pile out of the car and join the crowds taking to the streets.
He’s allowed to lose himself in the electric pulse of energy, the colors, the overwhelming love of it all.
There are still questions to ask.
There is still progress to make.
Douglas shines with all the vibrant trepidation of the sun at dawn, making himself known, slowly, slowly as he ascends into what was once darkness. But he is certain this is where he belongs. For the first time, he feels like he’s part of something like a family.
pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett)
word count: 2.9K words | rating: T (language + smoochin')
summary: The detective is feeling under the weather.
For Week 3, Day 1 of @wayhavensummer
“Warm in Wayhaven”: Cooking + #wsfchallenge “love languages” (acts of service).
Of all the indignities Grace Bennett had recently suffered, cooking for herself while sick had to be up there as one of the worst.
She blinked hard, rubbing her eyes roughly as they watered in a way that had nothing to do with the onions that were currently sauteing in front of her. A cough built in her chest again, cinching her lungs and tickling her throat until she had no choice but to release it, hacking helplessly over the pan as she moved the listless onions, carrots, and celery around.
Sniffling loudly, she looked over again at the recipe on her phone.
“Onions, carrots, celery,” she murmured, “until soft.” Looking down at her pan, she swiped at her eyes again and peered more carefully, poking at the vegetables with her wooden spoon. “These look soft...ish. Okay, now add garlic.” She glanced at the garlic cloves on her cutting board.
She had found them under the sink in the bowl she kept specifically for garlic, except, well, it had been awhile since she’d had use for the garlic. Luckily, a quick Google search had assured her that the green stems growing from them did not mean the garlic was unusable, and into the pan they would go.
Because she needed soup. So, dammit, she was going to make herself some soup.
How difficult could it possibly be, anyway?
Normally, Grace’s cooking repertoire was confined to things that could be microwaved, boiled, or pan-fried (grilled cheese was her specialty), and for everything else there was take-out.
But chicken soup wasn’t on the menu at any of the take-out places near her apartment nor was there a spare can in any of her cupboards, and the thought of yet another cheeseburger or slice of pizza just didn’t hit the same way when one was taken down by the viral equivalent of the Antioch earthquake.
Which was why she was currently sautéing vegetables before she added her broth and then something something chicken soup.
Ta-da.
Sighing heavily, she wiped her nose with her sleeve again as she tried to figure out if “mince” was the same as “smash it with a fork”, when the door to her balcony slid open.
She didn’t even have to look up to know who it was, so she continued mashing her garlic before adding it to the pan of onions and carrots that were looking a bit shriveled. Had she put enough olive oil? Who knew.
The scent of sandalwood and tobacco enveloped her as a familiar presence stepped closer. She could feel the brush of his chest against her back as he leaned over her, peering down at what she was stirring.
“The fuck is that?” he asked, his voice deep and gravelly and never failing to send a pleasant shiver down her spine.
“Soup,” she replied with a sniffle, resisting the urge to wipe her runny nose yet again. Her nostrils stung, already raw and chafing from repeated contact with her rough sweater sleeve.
“Sweetheart.” Mason shifted, turning so he could lean against the counter next to her stove, arms crossed. “That ain’t soup.”
He wore a short-sleeve t-shirt in a burgundy so deep it was almost purple, half-tucked into his standard black jeans. She could see the muscles flexing in his forearms under the dark hair and smattering of freckles that were ever-present. His hair was artfully tousled in a familiar style, as though he’d spent hours perfecting the precise way the waves were supposed to fall, when she knew in reality the bastard just woke up like that. Settled on his broad chest was his crystal, the inner glow catching her eye as it always did, drawing her in momentarily.
He was peering at her, not exactly concerned, but perhaps a little bemused, eyes taking in her appearance in a way where she knew he wasn’t missing a damn thing. She self-consciously ran her hand through her own light brown mop, curling at the ends from the steam and probably frizzy now, too, as she let out a light, ineffective cough.
“It will be soup,” she replied belatedly to his comment, pushing the vegetables around once more, as though she were actually doing something. “I just have to finish doing these vegetables and then add the broth and...” She hesitated, before gesturing vaguely. “And so forth.” Suddenly her breath hitched and she held it, suspended in time, before covering her mouth and nose with the crook of her elbow and letting out a thunderous sneeze. Sniffling again, loudly, she groaned.
“You look like shit,” he commented, still leaning against her counter, his silver-toned eyes flicking over her in something that now appeared to be edging closer to consternation.
What a typically Mason thing to say, she thought, unable to even muster up the indignation.
And anyway, he was right. She did look like shit. He wasn’t saying it to be insulting. Merely stating a fact; showing he was worried about her, perhaps, in his characteristically insensitive way.
She sighed, though she wasn’t sure if it was more disappointed in her illness or her justifications. “I know. I’m sick.”
“Yeah, no shit,” he replied, pushing himself off the counter. Leaning over her, he flicked off the element where her insipid vegetables were doing a poor job of sauteing, prying the handle of the pan out of her fingers and onto a cool spot on the stove.
“Hey—!” she protested, feeling herself wilt under the burden of yet another obstacle. “I need that soup. Mason, please—”
Her pleading tone must have thrown him off, because he turned and paused for a beat, his eyes running over her once more, up and down, as though doing an inventory of whatever injustice was being done to her body by intruding pathogens.
After assessing her and perhaps finding her wanting, pathogen-wise at least, he surprised her by gently drawing her into his arms. Stunned, she barely registered placing her head on his shoulder, but her arms encircled his waist nonetheless and it only took a few seconds for her to lean heavily into his comforting embrace.
“You’re burning up,” he said, lips pressed to her forehead. “The hell you doing, Gracie? Why didn’t you call me?”
“Didn’t want to bother you,” she mumbled into the hard planes of his chest, the soft, reassuring scent of his t-shirt enveloping her, luring her in with a languorous familiarity.
“Haven’t we talked about that?” he replied in a low growl, squeezing her tighter. “Cut that shit out. If you need something, you call. Period.”
“Mmm.” He felt so good, so warm, even as her body began to be wracked by slight tremors; an effect, she knew, of the fever running its course. “Just wanted soup.”
“Come on.” She felt him shift and, in seconds, she was effortlessly lifted into his arms and deposited a few feet away onto the couch. He covered her with the soft, well-worn blanket she always kept draped over the back before stepping away.
“Mason—” she protested, trying to sit up as she heard him take the few steps back into the kitchen. “I haven’t eaten and I really just wanted to finish—”
“I’m making you your soup,” he interrupted. “Where’s the recipe? On this thing?”
Peering over the couch, she saw him handling her phone gingerly, looking closely at the small words on the screen.
She spluttered in shock, words failing her completely for a beat.
“Uhh—” She lifted herself up higher, jaw slackening as she watched him poke her phone. “You can’t—I mean, yes it’s on there, but—do you even know how to—?” Her nose began to tingle and that was the only warning she got before she let out another disastrously loud sneeze.
He gave her a long-suffering look. “Lie down. I got this.” Looking back down at the screen, he began to mutter to himself: “Carrots...celery...sweet Vidalia—what the fuck?”
“Onion,” she supplied helpfully.
“Okay, onion I can do… uhh… garlic, sure... chicken broth… and—ah.” As he continued to read off the ingredients, he opened the fridge and pulled out the rotisserie chicken she’d had left over from the night before that she had been planning on dumping into the pot whenever she’d gotten to the pot-part of her soup making. He looked back at her and gave a decisive nod. “We’re good. Lie down. I got this.”
Warily, she lay back down, pulling the covers over herself slowly, before sitting upright again suddenly.
“You know how to turn on the stove, right?”
Another withering glare. “I’m almost seventy years older than you. I’ve learned a thing or two. Now relax. I told you I got this.”
She nodded slowly, swallowing painfully as her irritated throat protested. Sniffling, she lay back completely and pulled the covers over her aching body once more.
She’d just close her eyes for a minute and then she’d check on him again.
*
When Grace opened her eyes, the first thing she noticed was the way the sun had changed in her apartment. Long shadows stretched across the floor, the late afternoon sun sitting low behind the slatted blinds, casting the furniture in a dim glow.
She slowly took inventory of her body. Still feeling like she’d gotten hit by a truck, nose congested, and now, to top it off, groggy from sleep? Check, check, check. But the clamminess of a broken fever, sweaty yet cool, trumped any other feeling of illness at the moment.
With a light groan, she sat up and peeked over the couch. The apartment was silent and empty. A large pot sat on her stove, but otherwise the kitchen was clean – bereft of any of the cooking paraphernalia or ingredients she had laid out earlier.
Carefully she got up and stretched, looking around almost surreptitiously to see if there was any sign of Mason. All remained quiet and still.
Ignoring the weight of disappointment on her chest – irrational and undeserved, she tried to tell herself – she padded lightly to the kitchen to take a peek under the lid of the pot.
Steam wafted up immediately, hitting her in the face in a sinus-clearing blast of heat, and as she blinked away the cloud of evaporation she saw—
A pretty good-looking soup, actually.
It had all the ingredients, at least. Carrots and celery and parsley floating in a comforting-smelling broth. Chicken. Some sort of noodle.
She hadn’t realized how hungry she was, how in need of sustenance in a warm, familiar, home-made package, until the moment she stood over the pot of soup that her vampire boyfriend had made, just for her.
Pulling a spoon from her cutlery drawer, she cautiously dipped it into the pot, blowing it carefully before bringing it to her lips.
“Is it good?”
“Ahh!” Grace let out a short scream, the spoon clanging onto the edge of the pot and then clattered onto the stove, her uneaten spoonful of soup splattering over the glass stovetop.
She whirled around, hand over her pounding heart, as she watched Mason hesitantly enter from her balcony, shutting the sliding glass behind him.
“Jesus, you good?” he asked, holding his hands up sardonically as he carefully approached. “It’s me. Mason,” he added, unhelpfully.
She let out a half-laugh, heart still beating quickly in her chest, though now the reasoning behind her palpitations had shifted from fear to something else.
He was still there. He’d come, he’d made her soup, and he’d stayed.
Clearing her throat, slightly embarrassed, she allowed her hand to drop and rest somewhat unsteadily on her counter.
“I’m good. I know it’s you. Hi.” She gestured to the pot. “Thank you, so much… for this.”
He shrugged. “It was nothing.” Tucking his hands in his pockets, he rocked slightly on his heels. At the motion, she took a good look at him standing there, illuminated in the half-light of the afternoon sun, and she noticed something new around his neck.
“What’s, uh—” She gestured to the same area on her own neck as she peered at it closely, trying to make it out through the shadow of his body. It looked almost like—a scarf? She knew with certainty he hadn’t been wearing it when he came in – in fact, he typically hated things around his neck, so she was surprised to see anything there at all.
“Huh?” He looked down. “Oh.” Reaching up, he removed it in one swift motion and tossed it back to her.
She went to catch it and was actually surprised to watch it land in her uncoordinated hand, though she suspected it had more to do with his proximity to her – he’d moved closer, only a few steps away now – than her personal hand-eye skills.
She recognized it immediately once it was in her possession – a silk scarf in shades of blue that she’d gotten from her paternal grandmother. It had once held the faintest scent of her perfume, and now just the memory of it, and she instinctively went to bring it up to her nose like she had done so many times in her youth. Instead, she held it tighter in her fist.
“Why—?” she wondered, holding it up to him quizzically and he shrugged.
“I needed—” His mouth worked slightly and he looked away, as though he were about to reveal something meaningful that he’d have preferred to keep closer to his chest. With a sigh, she watched as his expository side won out. “The smells were intense. The onions, the oils, the chicken. I needed a barrier.” He gestured to the scarf. “That’s the only thing you had that—worked. It, uh—” He rolled his lips again, exhaling deeply from his nose, one of the tiny human-isms of his that she loved. “—It smelled the most like you. Helped block the rest.”
Her breath caught as she understood, exactly, what he was saying.
This time, she didn’t hesitate to bring the fabric to her face, inhaling deeply. Even through her congestion, she picked up the faintest traces of its scent – she found herself there, just as Mason had said. Maybe her grandmother, too, if she tried hard enough. And now, an additional fragrance: sandalwood, tobacco, that unique scent that was his and his alone.
Warmth and intimacy and Mason.
And, of course, the smell of homemade chicken soup.
Don’t you fucking cry, she thought to herself fiercely, blinking back the prickle behind her eyes. She removed the scarf from her face and sniffled under the guise of illness, quickly swiping her eyes with her sleeve.
Taking the two or three steps that separated them, she wrapped her arms around his waist. He met her almost immediately, one arm going around her back, the other over her shoulders.
“Thank you,” she murmured into his chest. “It’s the best soup I’ve ever had in my life.”
“You didn’t even taste it yet,” he replied into her hair.
“Doesn’t matter.” Rubbing her cheek against his heart, she closed her eyes and revelled in the feel of him around her. “I just know it.”
“C’mere.”
She felt his thumb and forefinger hook her chin and looked up just in time to feel his lips against her, soft and pliant and lush, as soothing and invigorating as a bowl of warm chicken soup. She moaned lightly into his mouth, opening to him further and he deepened the kiss for just a moment before pulling back.
“We shouldn’t,” he said, then blinked twice, as though surprised at his own words.
She pulled back as well, a thought occurring to her. “I can’t get you sick, can I?” Clapping a hand over her mouth, she closed her eyes with a groan. “Oh, god, I’m so sorry. What was I thinking?”
“No, god no. What am I, human?” he scoffed. “Of course I can’t get sick. No, it’s not that.” He gestured to her, standing before him in all her pneumatic glory. “You need to eat. And then you need sleep.” He leaned in to kiss her jaw, her neck; to nip at her earlobe. “And I need you in top form for what I want to do to you, Detective.”
“Mmm.” She smiled in sleepy acquiescence. “Fine. I think my second wind is fading anyway.” As though to prove her point, her body dissolved into a short coughing fit that she capped off with a hearty moan.
“I need my soup,” she admitted once she recovered, rubbing her forehead. “Stat.”
He shot her a look that could only be construed as a big, fat “I told you so” before going to the kitchen to serve up the meal he’d made for her.
She watched him putter around her kitchen, checking a few cupboards before finding the bowls, a few drawers before finding a spoon, and she realized that this new heaviness in her chest had nothing to do with her illness.
That, in fact, it was a heaviness borne from lightness – a depth of feeling, an intensity, that she’d never felt before. Deep affection, pure contentment. Her heart swelled with it, heated her cheeks with it, made her arms and legs tingly with it.
He sat her down at the table and passed her the bowl, watching carefully as she brought the spoon to her mouth, a vulnerability in his eyes that she was certain he didn’t even know was there.
She tasted his soup and praised him heartily, delighting in the smile that crinkled those silver-grey eyes, even as they looked heaven-ward sardonically and he told her to shut up. She ate spoonful after spoonful of the warm liquid, revelling in the sparkle in the eyes as he watched her, the half-bitten smirk on his lips as she happily consumed her meal.
It was undersalted and overlemoned. He’d chosen spaghetti noodles for some reason instead of the egg noodles she’d had out. There was an unidentified green herb in it that wasn’t parsley like the recipe had called for.
And it was the best damn thing she’d ever tasted in her life.
👀 tags: @utterlyinevitable , @ethansramsey , @otherworldlypresents , @worldoffandoms , @raleighcarrera , @ejunkiet , @starrystarrytrouble , @terrm9 , @openheartthot , @octobereighth , @campsearchlight , @coldshrugs , @kelseaaa , @homeformyheart , @intothestrawberryjar , @magebastard , @kodysteach , @newfangledsoul , @silma-words , @lalizah , @solarisrenbeth , @lem-20 , @ifshebreathes-shesathot , @takemyopenheart , @v2itbwstct (if you want to be added/no longer want to be tagged, pls let me know!)
We’re excited to announce our first challenge for the Wayhaven Summer Festival!
For this challenge, we’d like for you to incorporate “belonging” into one of the prompts for Pride in Wayhaven.
Each event week will have an optional challenge. See beneath the cut for more information on how the challenges will work!
How do I participate in the challenge?
Participating in the challenge is very easy; simply incorporate the theme of belonging into one of the prompts. For example, in your work for the last prompt “fireworks,” you can incorporate the theme “belonging” however you see fit.
Please tag your post with #wsf challenge so we’ll know you are participating!
One entry per person.
Note: We have the last say in determining if the challenge was fulfilled
What happens if I participate?
If you take part in the challenge, you’ll be entered in a randomized drawing to win an icon/discord emoji set featuring the winner’s detective and their Unit Bravo, created by @veeples!
Summary: Teenage Zuri is minutes away from attending her first pride festival and she's shaking in her boots.
Prompts: First Pride (including optional challenge: 'belonging') for @wayhavensummer
-
There was a strange stirring in her stomach. Something warm, something prickly, tossing and turning in her gut, dancing along to the staccato beat of her heart. A cool breeze tickled the stretched curls of her blown out hair, but that and the buildings zipping past her eyes did nothing to calm her down. Her body and her mind has been in a frenzy from the moment she woke up, excitement and anxiety surging through her veins at the sight of the date circled in red.
This was supposed to be fun. Freeing. From what she’s heard, it could bring her to tears and make her feel the most alive she’s ever been. The most accepted and valued she would feel in what felt like centuries. But the nerves were killing her. They were nothing like the ones that tingled down her spine seconds before stepping on a stage or a wide field. They were persistent and parasitic and they were killing her. She’d be a dead girl walking by the time she got out of the car.
Zuri barely registered the car wobbling as it drove over a bump, her thoughts consuming all of her attention until cool fingers slid on top of her own, the touch making her heart pound for completely different reasons.
She turned to look at the person beside her, their brows knitted together in concern.
Their fingers laced between hers at her attention, something that would be soothing and grounding if it came from somebody else. "You okay?"
"I," her voice hitched, her eyes darting down to their hands despite herself before locking onto the brown pair watching her. Her lips curled into a smile that she hoped didn't appear as strained as it felt. They practically creaked as the corners tilted up. "I'm always okay."
As okay as someone can be attending their first pride festival with their not-a-crush. Their gorgeous not-a-crush with tight, burgundy coils and golden-brown skin and ridiculously soft hands. Between the ball of nerves and the butterflies competing for space in her stomach, she was as okay as an impatient patient waiting for their diagnosis.
"Just okay?" They asked, returning her smile with one of their own. One she hoped was more genuine, for both their sakes. "We've been looking forward to this all week. How are you just okay?"
"I'm an enigma, Al."
"The biggest enigma there is," they chuckled. "But you're also quiet. Weirdly quiet. Is something wrong?"
"No. I'm just-" she paused, rolled the words around in her mind before starting again. There was nothing wrong. She didn't need to worry them. In fact, she should be thanking them. She wouldn't be half as okay as she was now if she was in the backseat of an agent's car. That never failed to ruin special occasions.
"This is my first pride, it's a little nerve-wracking," she exhaled through her nose, glancing down at their hands before continuing. "Thank you for letting me do this with you."
"Don't sweat it," they grinned, lifting their hand to swat at the air. She could just barely ignore how her hand and her chest grew cold at the loss of their touch.
"I can't wait for you to see what it's like. As much as Wayhaven has grown on me, I have a soft spot for pride in the city."
"Of course you do," Zuri giggled, their excitement putting her at ease and blanketing her racing thoughts. "That's your crowd. Your people. You're birds of the same feather."
"Your," they repeated, their grin fading slightly. "Pride isn't about location, even if you feel more comfortable in some places than others. But if you feel that you're part of the community, then those are your people too."
Zuri sighed and peeled herself off of the leather seat to sit up straighter. "I know. But what if..."
What if she was wrong? What if she convinced herself that this was a part of her? What if this is her desperately searching for community, for family, for a sense of belonging, in a space she didn't deserve to be in. She didn't face any real struggles. She didn't lose anything or face harsh treatment. She has only been out for a few months. Rebecca didn't even know yet. Doesn't that mean she isn't sure? What if these feeling weren't even real-
"Hey," cool fingers laced with hers once more, sending electricity up her arm once more. She couldn't tell if that was helpful or not (it should be, because if none of it was real, what was this?).
"You don't have to be one hundred percent set on a label to be in the community," they said before gnawing on their bottom lip. "These pronouns, well, they're still new to me. Trying things can be the best part of the journey to getting there. And I think that should be celebrated too."
There was a hum in the front seat and a quiet tapping of fingers against the steering wheel. Al sighed, though their smile widened, before addressing their chauffeur. "Go ahead, Dad."
Zuri met his eyes in the rear view mirror, the corners crinkled as he smiled at her. "You can't be kicked out of the store for trying on a pair of shoes and deciding if you wanna buy them or not.
"He's real proud of that one."
"I thought it was a fine analogy," he chuckled, a low, rumbling sound. "But feel free to ignore the old man if it doesn't ease your conscience."
"You have no idea how much it did, thank you," Zuri laughed before turning to Al and squeezing their hand, her smile softening. "Both of you."
They grinned before sliding their hand away and staring ahead of them. "Save the sappiness for later and look outside!"
Zuri bit back a disappointed pout and purposefully avoided the knowing look Al's father gave her before glancing out the window. Against the clear blue sky and buildings in the background was a flurry of bright colours. Pinks and blues and purples. Rainbows. All dancing in the breeze as the wind and people flicked the flags back and forth, and the excitement in her gut rushed to the forefront and doused any doubts or fears lingering after the conversation.
She leaned forward and gripped the back of the front seat, a light squeal escaping her as the cheers of people reached her ears, goosebumps raising on her skin. The anticipation alone made her feel as though she was on the edge of freedom.
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pairing: mason x detective (grace bennett)
word count: 2.4K words | rating: T (language)
summary: On the rooftop of the Warehouse, Grace and Mason have an honest conversation about sexuality, small towns, and love (sort of), with the revelry and light of Unit Bravo’s first Wayhaven Pride in the background.
For Week 1, Day 1 of @wayhavensummer:
First Pride + #wsfchallenge “belonging”.
*
She finds him on the roof of the warehouse, of course, kicking his feet idly as they dangle over the edge, a thin wisp of smoke coming up steadily from his cigarette.
When he sees her, he puts it out and links his fingers together, eyes following her as she comes to sit beside him.
They're high up – too high; if she looks down she feels a bit dizzy – and he grunts, his eyes narrowing as she dangles her legs, too. She looks at her colourful socks - one purple, one pink - as she tries not to think about how steep the drop would be if she lost her balance or even just shuffled forward a bit.
She wonders if maybe he'll put his hand out to hold her steady, or force her to sit back.
(He does neither.)
"You don't have to do that, you know." She gestures belatedly to the ash of his crumpled cigarette still smoking lightly on the concrete. "I know I gave you a hard time before, but really, I don't want you to stop on account of me."
He shrugs. "It's fine. I don't even know why I still do it when I don’t even really need it anymore. Habit, I guess."
She opens her mouth to insist, say how she doesn't want him, doesn't need him to change for her – but her mouth clicks shut instead. It's easier to let it slide. To not delve too deeply into why he doesn't need it anymore.
They sit in silence for a bit, the evening breeze settling on them.
The sounds of revelry in the town square continue. Grace can hear the celebrations, the music, can feel the general aura of happiness radiating from below.
When she’d left to seek out Mason, Tina had been painting a rainbow on Adam’s sharp cheekbone as he sat very still, giving the situation a gravitas that it perhaps didn’t deserve, but was still heartwarming to see nonetheless.
Eric and Verda had been watching indulgently as their girls got spoiled with treats provided by Nate, who had been doing his very best to succeed at the task of “enjoying his first Pride”.
(When he’d asked if he was “doing it right”, Grace couldn’t help but give him an impromptu hug.
“You’re doing perfectly,” she’d said warmly and he had smiled down at her, eyes sparkling.)
Felix, for his part, had been bouncing around, examining the stalls set up to highlight the queer-owned business in Wayhaven, coming back to hand Nate a new trinket or snack or pin he’d purchased, and then bounding off again, the excitement practically vibrating off of him.
She smiles wistfully at the memory of how the town embraced Unit Bravo as their own, as she regards it all from a distance now, a bloom of warmth in her chest – a collection of the happiness and pride that she feels towards her little town for coming together in this way year after year. To celebrate its people; the people who make Wayhaven what it is.
To celebrate love.
She turns to Mason, spontaneously dropping a hand to his knee. He looks down swiftly and then back up at her, silver-grey eyes meeting her own.
"Was it all too much for you?" She nods in the direction of light, laughter, colour, and music. "Down there?"
He shrugs. "I respect the idea behind the celebration and I'm glad the others are happy and having fun. But yeah. It's not really my thing."
She nods slowly, going quiet again. He idly begins to play with her fingers, splayed out on his thigh. Tracing them with his own, up and down.
"You know it's not—"
"You know that we—"
They both go to speak at the same time, their voices stuttering to a stop as they realize.
"You go," Mason says eventually, the side of his lips quirked up in a small smirk. "You do most of the talking for us anyway."
"Hey!" Grace squeaks out indignantly. "I do not. Most people say I don't talk enough."
Mason snorts. "People who don't know you, maybe."
Her cheeks grow warm with pleasure at the unspoken confirmation. It feels like what he really said was: "People who don't know you the way I do."
And he's right.
"I was just going to say, Wayhaven has been doing this for years now. Decades even. We used to come when I was a kid.” She laughs in reminiscence. “There’s this picture of me – maybe eighteen months old or something – on Rook’s shoulders, watching the parade as my mom smiles up at us both.”
She feels her own smile go soft, like the edges of that faded cherished photograph. She shakes her head to clear the cobwebs of nostalgia before turning to him again. He’s regarding her in a way that can only be construed as fondness and her heart twists, ever so slightly.
“I’m glad you guys got to be here for your first Pride,” she continues, steering the conversation back to the present. To safer territory. “You hear all these things about the intolerance of small towns, and lord knows it’s true in some cases, but I dunno." She shrugs, a small smile gracing her lips once more. "It feels nice to be part of one of the good ones."
He's quiet and she turns to look at him after a moment of prolonged silence. He's still staring at her, this time a more inscrutable expression on his face. She can't tell what's going through his mind, whether it's concern or agreement or even anger. His fingers have stilled overtop hers and his large palm rests on her hand, warm and steady.
It takes another beat before he clears his throat and breaks eye contact, moving his hand off of hers. The cool air rushes to the spot where his hand used to be and she finds herself missing its warmth and comfort.
"It's true," he says finally. "It is one of the good ones." He looks at her carefully. "And you’re right. They aren't all like that."
There’s a wealth of meaning in his simple statement and it’s her turn to stare at him now, processing his words and trying to formulate an appropriate response.
"Have you…" She hesitates, trying to parse her words carefully. "Have you experienced… bad ones?"
He lets out a sigh. The very human sound, probably borne from a habit he could never quite kick, sends a tender pang straight to her heart.
"Listen, sweetheart." He leans back and looks up at the quickly dimming sky, the summer heat dwindling to a more tolerable mildness, the breeze picking up slightly and bringing with it the sweet scent of the magnolias below them. "It's no secret that I am not what people would call…"
He smirks and shoots her a side-long glance, his mischievous look belied by the glint of a single fang. "Discerning."
She stays quiet, waiting for him to continue.
“I’ve never seen value in—” He pauses, appearing to search for the right word. “—In curbing my desires to fit into a certain mold. I like what I like, I like who I like, and no real external factors – like gender or appearance or the shape of your tits or your bits – have ever really come into play.” He shrugs and pulls a cigarette out of his shirt pocket, fiddling with it without lighting it. “Some people have a problem with that and some places like to make it known more than others.”
Something about his final sentence causes her pulse to quicken, her thoughts jangling in her head. She tries to gather them up before she speaks.
“Do you think…” She hesitates. “Do you somehow think that I… have a problem with that? That I don’t understand?”
“Do you understand?” He looks straight at her then, his eyes sharp and intense. Not intimidating or cruel, but as though he’s looking for something – perhaps the honest answer to a question he’s not sure he’s even asked properly.
“I mean—” She feels indignant slightly, even though she tries to tamp it down. “If you think I somehow have an opinion on who people love and the circumstances around that, then I feel like maybe you don’t know me that well.”
“Whoa, whoa.” He holds his hands up, unlit cigarette still between two fingers, lip curling slightly. “Who said anything about love? I’m talking about who I decide to fuck.”
That one stings. She purses her lips and looks away, trying not to let him see just how much, inhaling deeply as she tries to get her feelings under control.
“Yes, yes,” she says finally, looking away with a wave of her hand. “Fuck, love, whatever.” She turns to him again, eyes narrowed. “I might not understand in the way that you do, through lived experience, but I care enough to try. And I certainly don’t judge.”
“I never said you judged, Gracie.” His voice is soft and the way he says her nickname – so rare from his lips – makes her breath catch in her throat. He flicks the cigarette between his fingers now, back and forth. “I just want everything to be out there between you and me. So that there’s never any—” He hesitates. “—Surprises.”
“Oh, you mean like finding out you’re a centuries-old vampire?” she quips, raising an eyebrow at him, arms crossed.
He barks out a laugh. “Watch who you’re calling centuries old, sweetheart.”
She chuckles along with him, before getting serious once more.
“The least surprising thing about you, Mason, is the fact that you have no qualms about who you choose to be with. I’ve never met a more accepting and open person.” He looks like he’s about to argue with her, so she holds up a hand to stop him. “And just because we aren’t—exactly the same, in that regard—” She looks down, feeling her cheeks warm slightly. “—Doesn’t mean I don’t get it. Or respect it.” She shrugs, laughing self-deprecatingly. “I find it hard to believe you’re interested in my boring ass, to be honest.”
“Your ass is the least boring thing about you, Detective.” For that comment, he’s rewarded with a light whack on the leg. He laughs and wraps his arm around her. “C’mere.”
Putting the cigarette behind his ear, he tugs her closer. He holds her tightly against him, thighs touching and feet brushing against each other.
“I’m going to say something cheesy as fuck and you’re going to listen. And then you’re never going to repeat it again. Got it?”
She nods quickly, eyes widening in anticipation.
“I see people—not for what they look like or any of that shit, but for what’s in here.” He taps gently, right above her left breast. “Yeah, I don’t get mixed up in all that love stuff, and attraction does play a big role in who I seek out and why, but it’s not an attraction to physical things. I just get this—sense of who a person is, I guess. And if I like what I sense, I follow through. If I don’t, I move on.” He gives her a squeeze. “You understand?”
She bites her lip, breath growing shallow as the impact of his words infiltrates her blood stream and causes her heart to flutter painfully.
He smiles slowly, a cheshire grin, and she curses his ability to hear the increase in her pulse.
“And guess what, sweetheart?” His voice has dropped an octave now, mouth close to her ear.
“What?” It comes out as a hoarse whisper.
“I like what you’ve got in here.” Another tap, same spot. “And I’m not ready to move on.”
As far as grand romantic statements go, Grace knows this one won’t make anyone’s top ten list. But for Mason, it’s a lot. And for her, for right now—it’s everything.
She leans forward and kisses him softly, sweetly, on the lips. His hand comes up to cup her cheek, but neither makes a move to deepen the kiss in any way, keeping it gentle and close-mouthed; an affirmation rather than the initiation of anything more. Pulling away, she looks at him, feeling the softness she sees in his face reflected in her own.
Giving him one more brief kiss, she scooches back and stands up carefully, dusting off the bottom of her blue shorts.
She catches him watching the action intently and he catches her catching him. They share a smirk that turns into a laugh and it feels comfortable and fun. It feels like an inside joke.
Like belonging.
“Let’s go, hot shot.” She holds out her hand to him and he takes it, swinging his legs around and standing up, his full height enough that she needs to tilt her head to look up at him.
“Think you can manage to rejoin the party?” she asks, her hand still in his as she tugs him to the door that will lead them back through the warehouse. “We’ll stick to the quieter corners. I’ll hold your hand the whole time,” she adds, smiling up at him, her tone cajoling, teasing.
There’s something about summer in Wayhaven, something about Pride in Wayhaven – the air feels lighter, sweeter. Grace feels lighter. Bolstered by love and friendship, warmth and comfort. All the good things about her little town seem to be highlighted during this time.
All the good things about her little life, she thinks, glancing at their joined hands.
Mason snorts and looks down at her, amused, before giving her hand a squeeze.
She squeezes back, feeling happier than she can remember ever feeling before.
“I’ll even buy you a snow cone without the syrup,” she offers as they leave, bumping his shoulder with hers.
He grunts and then stops short. “Isn’t that just ice?”
She bites back a smile, feeling laughter in her throat, and nods.
There’s a pause. He blinks once. Twice. Then—he bursts into loud laughter. The sound is so free, so surprising yet pleasant, that she can’t help the grin that spreads across her face. And when he pulls her even closer and presses a kiss to the top of her head—well. She’s not sure that smile will ever go away now.
“Lead the way, sweetheart,” he murmurs, keeping her close to him.
We’re excited to announce our third challenge for the Wayhaven Summer Festival!
For this challenge, we’d like for you to incorporate “love languages” into one of the prompts for Warm in Wayhaven.
Each event week will have an optional challenge. See beneath the cut for more information on how the challenges will work!
How do I participate in the challenge?
Participating in the challenge is very easy; simply incorporate the theme of belonging into one of the prompts. For example, in your work for the first prompt “Vacation,” you can incorporate the theme “celestial” however you see fit.
Please tag your post with #wsf challenge so we’ll know you are participating!
One entry per person.
Note: We have the last say in determining if the challenge was fulfilled
What happens if I participate?
If you take part in the challenge, you’ll be entered in a randomized drawing to win an icon/discord emoji set featuring the winner’s detective and their Unit Bravo, created by @veeples!
We’re excited to announce our second challenge for the Wayhaven Summer Festival!
For this challenge, we’d like for you to incorporate “celestial” into one of the prompts for Summer in Wayhaven.
Each event week will have an optional challenge. See beneath the cut for more information on how the challenges will work!
How do I participate in the challenge?
Participating in the challenge is very easy; simply incorporate the theme of belonging into one of the prompts. For example, in your work for the first prompt “Vacation,” you can incorporate the theme “celestial” however you see fit.
Please tag your post with #wsf challenge so we’ll know you are participating!
One entry per person.
Note: We have the last say in determining if the challenge was fulfilled
What happens if I participate?
If you take part in the challenge, you’ll be entered in a randomized drawing to win an icon/discord emoji set featuring the winner’s detective and their Unit Bravo, created by @veeples!
