birdianna

[birdianna]

by allegoric bards

for the lovely @lalizah as part of the @wayhavenficexchange ! Thank you so much for letting me borrow Liz and Mason, I had so much fun getting to know them and write them!

The Wayhaven Chronicles / Mason x f!detective (Liz Khan-Langford) 3.6k words / characters do not belong to me

~~

It’s quiet in the warehouse. The kind of quiet Mason usually enjoys, used to enjoy in the large space only he occupies. A rare afternoon alone, Felix on patrol, Nat helping god knows who with god knows what, Ava training the newly promoted Agent Khan-Langford. 

Liz Khan-Langford, his Liz. Mason had offered to train her instead, a wicked curl of his lips pulling heat from her pretty, deeply-flushed cheeks; launching Ava into yet another reminder of how he would only serve as a distraction while she outlined Agency hierarchical rules and codes of conduct. A necessary distraction from the boring shit, he’d about said before Ava groaned, grunting instructions to leave before he could suggest anything more. 

As she’d turned, spinning on her heel to catch up with their commanding agent - already halfway down the corridor - Mason caught Liz in his silver eyed gaze. For a singular, shared moment, her eyes returned a flash of warmth and beneath, her mouth moved, shaping words not immediately recognizable to him, soundless so he could not hear. 

He’s leaning against the exposed brick wall of his bedroom, close to the door left ajar. The sunlight is heavy enough to hug and brighten the edges of the heavier, darker curtains of the windows facing him; might be worth the trouble, being able to listen out for Liz, sense any sign of her return. An unlit cigarette passes through his fingers, but the urge to smoke is lessened, though the urge to have his mind occupied is heightened. 

The quiet, the utter silence, isn’t quiet at all.

Mason closes his eyes, tries those deep breaths that are always suggested by those who don’t know him so well, and he thinks of Liz. In the darkness, he outlines her in his mind, he hears her voice, and soon the nothing that surrounds him starts to crackle. The sound stretches and grows louder, staticky like Liz’s car radio searching for a station while roaming the outskirts of town or the dead air whenever Nat attempts to use a walkie-talkie. 

Mason growls, securing the cigarette between two fingers and feeling along his pocket for a lighter with his free hand, and it reverberates, rolling from the base of his throat and onto his tongue. 

The tip of it is heavy against the back of his teeth, and he tries, once more, just to focus on her. How she’d fit between him and the door frame, back against the rough interior left from the old warehouse, how her lips would taste. His mouth moves on its own, mimicking the shapes she’d made before she left - the same she’s made another time before - attempting to remember what she’d said. 

Eyes opening again, Mason schools his expression flat. He can push thoughts away, turn them off, and the touch of the crystal dangling from his neck grounds him; can fade that background noise away. He doesn’t want to, though, not these thoughts. Just like everything else about Liz, this confuses him. 

Why is this so important? 

Riding back to the warehouse, Mason curled into himself as the spotty speakers in the even spottier beat up tin can of Liz’s car did its best to carry music that he wasn’t familiar with but clearly made her happy. Hands on the steering wheel, she sang out loud, swaying her shoulders and her head from side to side, fingers dancing in rhythm along the curve of the steering wheel. She’d turned her head, glancing at him as she sung a particular line, pointing her finger and poking his shoulder. Mason rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath and returned with a lick of his tongue across his lips. Liz stopped, suddenly speechless and flabbergasted, and he took the opportunity to turn the volume dial. 

As she pulled into the unassuming driveway, slowed the car to a stop in front of the dilapidated building, another song came on and she squealed excitement and Mason, to temper the acute sound, placed his hand on her thigh as she shifted the gear to park and turned her car keys, leaned over to kiss her; she met him, singing the words against his mouth. 

“Come on,” he sighed, and she laughed, kissing him fully and unbuckling her seatbelt, then pulled away, stepping out of the car. He did the same, ducking to slink out of her car and stretch against its side. He reached for Liz as she went to stand in front of him, taking a curl of her hair between her fingers, and fuck, even that lightest touch felt good. She giggled, and she squeezed her hip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. When Mason kissed her, she did the thing she always did, leg lifting behind her, bent at her knee, the sign of what she deemed to be a very good, perfect kiss. He never hated it, it gave them the excuse to be closer, and for him to secure his arm around her back. 

Song still on her mind, she pressed kisses onto him, kisses all over his face, catching every freckle possible and with each, she repeated something, some short phrase. Over and over. So damn endearing. Kissing until she found the freckle on the corner of his mouth, and he captured her lips once more. Then lead her inside. 

Because what she’d mouthed right before leaving with Ava, was the same thing she’d spoken into her kisses. And it’s what’s making Mason’s fingertips tingle; lifting his features into a hint of a smile that feels like it should be there. Natural.

He turns, pressing his shoulder to the wall, and shoves the cigarette back into his pocket, loose, not caring to tuck it back into the carton. A whisper in his mind muting the dead noise, some stem of a thought, tells him that anything that can make her that happy has to be that special. That it should be something to familiarize himself with. Singing and laughing, talking without taking a breath, from anyone else would be a racket pounding in and between his ears, but damn it if it didn’t make his chest squeeze and open in a funny way he can’t recall ever feeling. A way he liked. Relieving some unknown within him. 

Mason’s walking now, steady footfall the only audible sound in the hallways of their increasingly familiar home. Fidgeting, his fingers wrap around the leather cord of his necklace, curling it like a strand of Liz’s hair, helping him concentrate. Nat had mentioned once, deep in the forest following a path towards a dryad family home, something about neuronal connections, something about synapses and plastic or plasticity, how they all create memory. Activating and reactivating to recall something. She always did find a way to fill the silence, pass the time during those sorts of low-stake assignments; her mind is always too full, thinking too much, yet, thankfully, with just enough to say. Mason, in the meantime, had maintained majority focus on their surroundings, to not miss any snap of a twig under their feet or rustling of leaves. 

Shaking his head, knowing he didn’t need to fill the precious space of his brain with, what Nat declared, informative conversation, he finds himself at a threshold. Nat’s library. Last fucking place he’d never think to voluntarily wander into. 

Immediately, he’s met with the scent of metallic fresh and faded ink, paper aging back centuries, preserved, notices the absence of dust. The sun rays are longer and brighter here, and the change from incandescent to natural light makes his skin itch. Once more, he fishes the cigarette out of his pocket, pinching the middle of the tube, and pats outside of his pants pocket for the lighter. But then he remembers another thing, Nat’s more or less staunch stance; the string of mild curse words, warning him that smoke shall be nowhere near her precious collection. 

Placing the cigarette back into the carton in his pocket, no chance of fire or a lecture, he steps into the room. His fingers tap against his thigh. Mason isn’t sure what exactly it is he’s looking for, but figures this isn’t the worst place to distract him, might even help. 

Neuronal connections is how Nat organizes this place, and he thinks, guesses, it’s a way to keep everyone out. Including Ava. He chuckles, he’s already had too much to think about today. And if he never had to think about neuronal connections again in his infinite life, it would be too soon. 

Eventually, he finds himself eye level with a second row of books, a particular group of them with swooped lines and diamond shaped dots and identifying them, writing that Liz and Nat would recognize. After everything the silence has put him through this afternoon, something, some force around him, is finally giving Mason a fucking break. He steps closer, following the calligraphy, how they meet and separate and curve. Maybe if he stared at the things, whatever the sides of books are called, he can extrapolate the information. His fingers feel what he sees now, gliding over the embossed, gold colors. And then he stares, mouth closed and slacked, fingers tapping. One, two. One, two. One, two. 

“Shit,” he swears, grumbling to himself, closing his eyes and exhaling when he hears familiar steps; catches a familiar scent, too expensive, Ava had called it with Felix nodding, impressed, and that hum under her breath. Of course, of course he’s caught. Even from the hallway, he knows Nat knows he’s here. It’s in the way that hum has taken on a far more playful, far more annoying, far too inquisitive tone. 

It’s in no time at all that Nat is standing near him, an arm’s length away, eyes sparkling with the energy of a million questions. The usual, characteristic worry, the few times she's spotted Mason in this room, dulls them, however, and Nat clicks her tongue in perturbation. But her attention has shifted, and what has caught it is a book. Muttering to herself, she laments that the foundational book of the history of selkie transformation does not reside next to the compendium of the evolution of stylish fur in fashion. 

Once she mentions Ava, who apparently knows well enough that any used book should be placed on Nat’s desk, Mason takes the opportunity to leave. He’ll have to thank Ava later for the opportunity to dodge Nat, or at least initiate the next sparring session. 

“Mason,” Nat calls, quicker in her greeting than he can be in jetting out of their shared space. She pulls the book from where it’d been neatly, inconspicuously placed. He stops, caught again, and slowly, begrudgingly walks back towards her. In a quick motion of her limbs and hands, the offending book is tucked back into its home, the shelf above where it’d been stashed. (Mason neither sees nor cares that it’s in between a book on Midsummer’s Eve and a collection of Bardic tradition). 

Straightening to a full stand, her books in proper order once more, Nat sighs in relief, sliding her hands into her pockets. Her face brightens with the hint of a smile, and she’s rolling her lips inwards to keep from bursting into amusement. “I would ask you if there was anything you needed,” she starts, then lifts her brows, tilting her head just slightly, her line of vision lining up with the books behind them, “but I see that you may have found what you were looking for?” 

“Don’t need anything,” he snaps, not yet moving, feet firmly planted where they’d just been. “Just on my way out.”

But he knows she’s heard him, heard the rhythm of his drumming fingers against the hard book exterior; they’re all aware of the pattern of Liz’s heartbeat. Mason wants to walk away, needs to walk away before she starts poking around at feelings. But something, that same force, is keeping him from walking away.  

Maybe, and Mason doesn’t want to let himself believe this to be true, Nat can help him find those words. Afterall, she and Liz speak her language together. 

“In this book, you’ll find some of the greatest contributions to poetry. Ghalib, in particular, resonates with me.” Nat reaches, plucking his book of happenstance interest off of the shelf and holds it flat in her palm. She sets her other hand on the front cover. Assessing him, her eyes softening, Nat considers her next words with a widening, eager smile. "You'll find, in here, some that may mean a great deal to Liz.” 

He crosses his arms over his chest, slumping against the opposite shelf. If Liz had ever ever mentioned poetry, he was probably distracted with something else, the poetry they could make together. Mason clears his throat, under the watchful eye of Nat he thinks it might be better to go along with her sincerity, and counters, “She prefers songs.” 

“Of course. Though not mutually exclusive. Poetry may serve as an inspiration, may serve as lyrics to the music surrounding the words.” Nat rotates the book between her hands, clutching each side, and then after a moment, narrowed eyes hiding the debate within her mind, she opens the book and turns the pages to one in particular. 

“There is a poem, an Urdu poem. By the Poet of the East, Allama Iqbal.” She sweeps the back of her hand over the words, over letters from the multiple alphabets of its translations. “It reminds me of you, the both of you. If you wouldn’t mind, I think you might find this interesting.” 

Nat has recalled and recited book passages and the like to Ava and Felix, but this is definitely a first for Mason and he wouldn’t mind it being a last. But she is so damn compelling. And he knows that this is not just for his sake, he knows this because she thinks this might also help him with Liz. 

Mason scrubs his hand down his face, yet keeps still; silent, exasperated permission. It would be a better option to get comfortable against the bookshelf while suffering the infectiousness of Nat’s earnestness. Arms folded close to him, rapping his fingers without pattern against his elbows, he decides it’s as good of a time as any to inspect his boots. 

Smiling, easy and completely in her element, she begins. “Sitaron se aagey jahaan aur bhi hain; Abhi ishq keimtiha’n aur bhi hain.” Her gaze lifts and she looks, pointedly at Mason, translating without prompting, “Other worlds exist beyond the stars; More tests of love are still to come.” 

His head snaps up, eyes wide and darkening, the familiarity of her recitation entangling his thoughts. Has she said this to him before? No. No, she hasn’t but she’s said something similar. To Liz. The night of that party, at her apartment. Afterwards, leaning out of the window, half inside her bedroom and half out over the fire escape he’d noticed -

How the beauty mark under her eye had aligned with that star, the one in the sky that never moves, stays in the same place night after night. Constant. Anchoring. Watched the movement of her face, excited as she spoke, stopping only when she ran out of air, her mouth widening and teeth showing, grinning as her words became more melodic until she was singing.

As he hears Nat, muffled behind his memories of Liz, seamlessly speaking the original Urdu and translated English, he picks up a sound. A frequency. Jumbling, increasingly solid images of Liz form in his mind. Earlier in the day, her parting words; that night, serenading into that night. Her eyes, her mouth. It’s soft at first, what she says, but as he can see her, he can hear her. Hears her and understands her, clearly. As though she’s whispering into his ear, the weight of her against his side and against the books. 

“Gone are the days when I was alone in company; Many here are my confidants now,” Nat completes the final phrase then closes the book. Extending it with outstretched arms, in hopes that Mason would take the initiative, she looks in front of her and sees that he’s already gone. 

She finds him, not too far, in the research annex of the library. Mason is hunched over a side table, pen in hand, scrawling on a piece of stationery, threatening to topple and flatten the very neat square of blank sheets beneath it. Hair falling and framing his face, hiding his expression and any indication of what it could be that he’s writing. 

Nat watches, resting against the corner of a bookshelf and her hands back in the safety of her pockets. “As I live and breathe,” she says, awestruck, hoping not to interrupt. This is interesting, it’s unexpected, and she wonders what it is which has drawn this reaction. Wonders if what he’s writing could be the theme of their story. 

But of course she does interrupt, and Mason comes to a stand, shoving two pieces of paper into his pocket. With a final acknowledgement of Nat, he nods in her direction. 

“Thanks, Nat,” he bites out, awkwardness blunting his gratitude. Then, at last, his feet are allowed to propel him forward, and he leaves, before Nat can trap him into talking of anything else too sentimental. And he has had enough poetry for one lifetime. 

~

It’s quiet in the warehouse again. Familiar. The crackle of fire in the living room, the turn of a page. Mason paces in the foyer, a turn in the opposite direction at every tenth tick of the grandfather clock. Occasionally, he reads what he’s written on the papers then crumples the papers; smoothes the sheets out and reads again. 

Mason wants to be on the rooftop, wants that tranquility that the trees afford, empty his mind of all the thoughts of this particular day and simply exist under the blanket of stars in the night sky. Not alone, though, never alone anymore, not without Liz. 

She’d texted him some time ago, reporting that Ava has finally released them after satisfactorily answering assessment questions over the day’s lessons. Mason snickered as he sent a response. Liz is going to tell him everything, down to every answer and how, regardless of Ava’s response, Liz was right. 

The card reader beeps and the front door yawns as it opens, and he hears them, their voices echoing and permeating the space. Mason pushes the papers, balled and crinkled in his grip, into his back pocket. Since he’s standing at the sofa, he perches on the arm. Nonchalant, unbothered. 

“Took you long enough,” he smirks as Ava and Liz walk in, making sure the door clicks closed behind them before walking any further. “There aren’t that many rules and regs to get carried away with.” 

Liz, surprise illuminating her beautiful face when noticing him, turns to Ava and thanks for the training, then quickly makes her way across the pristinely waxed wood floors to Mason.  

“You would understand if you ever completed the required, once per decade, readings, Mason,” Ava quips, voice cool and steady as she removes her aviators and coat, securing them over her arm as she walks to the stairs. “Agent, you performed well today. We shall resume our training in the morning. Check your calendar for details.” 

“Did you hear that?” Liz waits for Ava to be out of near-ear shot, the steps of her boots heavy on the floors above them, sidling close to Mason now, flush against him as he wraps an arm around her waist. “I have the Commanding Agent’s seal of approval.” 

Mason chuckles, touching her jaw with the tip of his finger to draw her to face him. “Would you like a reward?” She nods. With a beat of hesitation, he inhales. Her skin is warm as he exhales, murmuring the words into her soft skin, “Meri jaan.” He smiles against her cheek, feeling a shiver run through her. His favorite feeling. 

Liz sighs, overcome with affection, then gasps. She turns, eyes locking with his, and Mason seems proud. She’s had a long day, has had to process too much information, follow too many algorithms and graphs. Is her mind playing a trick on her, willing her to hear the words of endearments she cherishes? The words given to him that night they’d come from the Agency party they’d snuck away from? What she’d mouthed that morning, her own secret hoping to be theirs? 

“What? Did you say?” 

She holds him, arms around his neck, stepping in between his knees. Eyes wide and shining, Mason can read her happiness. The clenching and relaxing of his chest returns, and he fills with a pleasurable sensation as she touches her lips to his, kissing her once, and repeating, clearly, “Meri jaan.” 

“My life.”

Mason stands, letting his hands settle on her hips, squeezing them. His gaze never strays, and he feels her warmth, enticing, hears her thundering heartbeat, even more enticing. He repeats the words, moving his hands up, along her sides then to the nape of his neck. Fingers finding hers, they lace together and they come down. He steps back, tempting her to follow. 

In the time he’d been waiting, thinking, he memorized what else he’d written. A phrase or lyric. The song, sung from her car speakers; sung, from her mouth, out and into the starlight and perplexing him in the best and most discombobulating ways, with that smile that makes him fall to his knees. 

“Haji lok makkey nun jandey; Mera ranjha mahi makkah.” 

Mason doesn’t know what he said. But he does know, by the way she sways so he has to catch her, by the way he kisses her in that perfect way that makes her do that thing with her leg, that it means a whole damn lot to Liz. 

Mason will ask her, later, what it means. When they’re sitting together on the rooftop, enjoying the soft melodies of the night and each other, their minds finally clear. 

~~

Poem is "Sitaron Se Agay Jahan Aur Bhi Hain", Bal-e Jibril 60, by Allama Iqbal (Muhammed Iqbal)

Lyric is from the song "Kamli" by Hadiqa Kiani and translates to: Pilgrims go to Mecca; My beloved Ranjha (sweetheart) is my Mecca

Both are in Urdu!

Title is from the poem "Memory" by William Wordsworth

[birdianna]

by allegoric bards

for the lovely @lalizah as part of the @wayhavenficexchange ! Thank you so much for letting me borrow Liz and Mason, I had so much fun getting to know them and write them!

The Wayhaven Chronicles / Mason x f!detective (Liz Khan-Langford) 3.6k words / characters do not belong to me

~~

It’s quiet in the warehouse. The kind of quiet Mason usually enjoys, used to enjoy in the large space only he occupies. A rare afternoon alone, Felix on patrol, Nat helping god knows who with god knows what, Ava training the newly promoted Agent Khan-Langford. 

Liz Khan-Langford, his Liz. Mason had offered to train her instead, a wicked curl of his lips pulling heat from her pretty, deeply-flushed cheeks; launching Ava into yet another reminder of how he would only serve as a distraction while she outlined Agency hierarchical rules and codes of conduct. A necessary distraction from the boring shit, he’d about said before Ava groaned, grunting instructions to leave before he could suggest anything more. 

As she’d turned, spinning on her heel to catch up with their commanding agent - already halfway down the corridor - Mason caught Liz in his silver eyed gaze. For a singular, shared moment, her eyes returned a flash of warmth and beneath, her mouth moved, shaping words not immediately recognizable to him, soundless so he could not hear. 

He’s leaning against the exposed brick wall of his bedroom, close to the door left ajar. The sunlight is heavy enough to hug and brighten the edges of the heavier, darker curtains of the windows facing him; might be worth the trouble, being able to listen out for Liz, sense any sign of her return. An unlit cigarette passes through his fingers, but the urge to smoke is lessened, though the urge to have his mind occupied is heightened. 

The quiet, the utter silence, isn’t quiet at all.

Mason closes his eyes, tries those deep breaths that are always suggested by those who don’t know him so well, and he thinks of Liz. In the darkness, he outlines her in his mind, he hears her voice, and soon the nothing that surrounds him starts to crackle. The sound stretches and grows louder, staticky like Liz’s car radio searching for a station while roaming the outskirts of town or the dead air whenever Nat attempts to use a walkie-talkie. 

Mason growls, securing the cigarette between two fingers and feeling along his pocket for a lighter with his free hand, and it reverberates, rolling from the base of his throat and onto his tongue. 

The tip of it is heavy against the back of his teeth, and he tries, once more, just to focus on her. How she’d fit between him and the door frame, back against the rough interior left from the old warehouse, how her lips would taste. His mouth moves on its own, mimicking the shapes she’d made before she left - the same she’s made another time before - attempting to remember what she’d said. 

Eyes opening again, Mason schools his expression flat. He can push thoughts away, turn them off, and the touch of the crystal dangling from his neck grounds him; can fade that background noise away. He doesn’t want to, though, not these thoughts. Just like everything else about Liz, this confuses him. 

Why is this so important? 

Riding back to the warehouse, Mason curled into himself as the spotty speakers in the even spottier beat up tin can of Liz’s car did its best to carry music that he wasn’t familiar with but clearly made her happy. Hands on the steering wheel, she sang out loud, swaying her shoulders and her head from side to side, fingers dancing in rhythm along the curve of the steering wheel. She’d turned her head, glancing at him as she sung a particular line, pointing her finger and poking his shoulder. Mason rolled his eyes, chuckling under his breath and returned with a lick of his tongue across his lips. Liz stopped, suddenly speechless and flabbergasted, and he took the opportunity to turn the volume dial. 

As she pulled into the unassuming driveway, slowed the car to a stop in front of the dilapidated building, another song came on and she squealed excitement and Mason, to temper the acute sound, placed his hand on her thigh as she shifted the gear to park and turned her car keys, leaned over to kiss her; she met him, singing the words against his mouth. 

“Come on,” he sighed, and she laughed, kissing him fully and unbuckling her seatbelt, then pulled away, stepping out of the car. He did the same, ducking to slink out of her car and stretch against its side. He reached for Liz as she went to stand in front of him, taking a curl of her hair between her fingers, and fuck, even that lightest touch felt good. She giggled, and she squeezed her hip, and she wrapped her arms around his neck. When Mason kissed her, she did the thing she always did, leg lifting behind her, bent at her knee, the sign of what she deemed to be a very good, perfect kiss. He never hated it, it gave them the excuse to be closer, and for him to secure his arm around her back. 

Song still on her mind, she pressed kisses onto him, kisses all over his face, catching every freckle possible and with each, she repeated something, some short phrase. Over and over. So damn endearing. Kissing until she found the freckle on the corner of his mouth, and he captured her lips once more. Then lead her inside. 

Because what she’d mouthed right before leaving with Ava, was the same thing she’d spoken into her kisses. And it’s what’s making Mason’s fingertips tingle; lifting his features into a hint of a smile that feels like it should be there. Natural.

He turns, pressing his shoulder to the wall, and shoves the cigarette back into his pocket, loose, not caring to tuck it back into the carton. A whisper in his mind muting the dead noise, some stem of a thought, tells him that anything that can make her that happy has to be that special. That it should be something to familiarize himself with. Singing and laughing, talking without taking a breath, from anyone else would be a racket pounding in and between his ears, but damn it if it didn’t make his chest squeeze and open in a funny way he can’t recall ever feeling. A way he liked. Relieving some unknown within him. 

Mason’s walking now, steady footfall the only audible sound in the hallways of their increasingly familiar home. Fidgeting, his fingers wrap around the leather cord of his necklace, curling it like a strand of Liz’s hair, helping him concentrate. Nat had mentioned once, deep in the forest following a path towards a dryad family home, something about neuronal connections, something about synapses and plastic or plasticity, how they all create memory. Activating and reactivating to recall something. She always did find a way to fill the silence, pass the time during those sorts of low-stake assignments; her mind is always too full, thinking too much, yet, thankfully, with just enough to say. Mason, in the meantime, had maintained majority focus on their surroundings, to not miss any snap of a twig under their feet or rustling of leaves. 

Shaking his head, knowing he didn’t need to fill the precious space of his brain with, what Nat declared, informative conversation, he finds himself at a threshold. Nat’s library. Last fucking place he’d never think to voluntarily wander into. 

Immediately, he’s met with the scent of metallic fresh and faded ink, paper aging back centuries, preserved, notices the absence of dust. The sun rays are longer and brighter here, and the change from incandescent to natural light makes his skin itch. Once more, he fishes the cigarette out of his pocket, pinching the middle of the tube, and pats outside of his pants pocket for the lighter. But then he remembers another thing, Nat’s more or less staunch stance; the string of mild curse words, warning him that smoke shall be nowhere near her precious collection. 

Placing the cigarette back into the carton in his pocket, no chance of fire or a lecture, he steps into the room. His fingers tap against his thigh. Mason isn’t sure what exactly it is he’s looking for, but figures this isn’t the worst place to distract him, might even help. 

Neuronal connections is how Nat organizes this place, and he thinks, guesses, it’s a way to keep everyone out. Including Ava. He chuckles, he’s already had too much to think about today. And if he never had to think about neuronal connections again in his infinite life, it would be too soon. 

Eventually, he finds himself eye level with a second row of books, a particular group of them with swooped lines and diamond shaped dots and identifying them, writing that Liz and Nat would recognize. After everything the silence has put him through this afternoon, something, some force around him, is finally giving Mason a fucking break. He steps closer, following the calligraphy, how they meet and separate and curve. Maybe if he stared at the things, whatever the sides of books are called, he can extrapolate the information. His fingers feel what he sees now, gliding over the embossed, gold colors. And then he stares, mouth closed and slacked, fingers tapping. One, two. One, two. One, two. 

“Shit,” he swears, grumbling to himself, closing his eyes and exhaling when he hears familiar steps; catches a familiar scent, too expensive, Ava had called it with Felix nodding, impressed, and that hum under her breath. Of course, of course he’s caught. Even from the hallway, he knows Nat knows he’s here. It’s in the way that hum has taken on a far more playful, far more annoying, far too inquisitive tone. 

It’s in no time at all that Nat is standing near him, an arm’s length away, eyes sparkling with the energy of a million questions. The usual, characteristic worry, the few times she's spotted Mason in this room, dulls them, however, and Nat clicks her tongue in perturbation. But her attention has shifted, and what has caught it is a book. Muttering to herself, she laments that the foundational book of the history of selkie transformation does not reside next to the compendium of the evolution of stylish fur in fashion. 

Once she mentions Ava, who apparently knows well enough that any used book should be placed on Nat’s desk, Mason takes the opportunity to leave. He’ll have to thank Ava later for the opportunity to dodge Nat, or at least initiate the next sparring session. 

“Mason,” Nat calls, quicker in her greeting than he can be in jetting out of their shared space. She pulls the book from where it’d been neatly, inconspicuously placed. He stops, caught again, and slowly, begrudgingly walks back towards her. In a quick motion of her limbs and hands, the offending book is tucked back into its home, the shelf above where it’d been stashed. (Mason neither sees nor cares that it’s in between a book on Midsummer’s Eve and a collection of Bardic tradition). 

Straightening to a full stand, her books in proper order once more, Nat sighs in relief, sliding her hands into her pockets. Her face brightens with the hint of a smile, and she’s rolling her lips inwards to keep from bursting into amusement. “I would ask you if there was anything you needed,” she starts, then lifts her brows, tilting her head just slightly, her line of vision lining up with the books behind them, “but I see that you may have found what you were looking for?” 

“Don’t need anything,” he snaps, not yet moving, feet firmly planted where they’d just been. “Just on my way out.”

But he knows she’s heard him, heard the rhythm of his drumming fingers against the hard book exterior; they’re all aware of the pattern of Liz’s heartbeat. Mason wants to walk away, needs to walk away before she starts poking around at feelings. But something, that same force, is keeping him from walking away.  

Maybe, and Mason doesn’t want to let himself believe this to be true, Nat can help him find those words. Afterall, she and Liz speak her language together. 

“In this book, you’ll find some of the greatest contributions to poetry. Ghalib, in particular, resonates with me.” Nat reaches, plucking his book of happenstance interest off of the shelf and holds it flat in her palm. She sets her other hand on the front cover. Assessing him, her eyes softening, Nat considers her next words with a widening, eager smile. "You'll find, in here, some that may mean a great deal to Liz.” 

He crosses his arms over his chest, slumping against the opposite shelf. If Liz had ever ever mentioned poetry, he was probably distracted with something else, the poetry they could make together. Mason clears his throat, under the watchful eye of Nat he thinks it might be better to go along with her sincerity, and counters, “She prefers songs.” 

“Of course. Though not mutually exclusive. Poetry may serve as an inspiration, may serve as lyrics to the music surrounding the words.” Nat rotates the book between her hands, clutching each side, and then after a moment, narrowed eyes hiding the debate within her mind, she opens the book and turns the pages to one in particular. 

“There is a poem, an Urdu poem. By the Poet of the East, Allama Iqbal.” She sweeps the back of her hand over the words, over letters from the multiple alphabets of its translations. “It reminds me of you, the both of you. If you wouldn’t mind, I think you might find this interesting.” 

Nat has recalled and recited book passages and the like to Ava and Felix, but this is definitely a first for Mason and he wouldn’t mind it being a last. But she is so damn compelling. And he knows that this is not just for his sake, he knows this because she thinks this might also help him with Liz. 

Mason scrubs his hand down his face, yet keeps still; silent, exasperated permission. It would be a better option to get comfortable against the bookshelf while suffering the infectiousness of Nat’s earnestness. Arms folded close to him, rapping his fingers without pattern against his elbows, he decides it’s as good of a time as any to inspect his boots. 

Smiling, easy and completely in her element, she begins. “Sitaron se aagey jahaan aur bhi hain; Abhi ishq keimtiha’n aur bhi hain.” Her gaze lifts and she looks, pointedly at Mason, translating without prompting, “Other worlds exist beyond the stars; More tests of love are still to come.” 

His head snaps up, eyes wide and darkening, the familiarity of her recitation entangling his thoughts. Has she said this to him before? No. No, she hasn’t but she’s said something similar. To Liz. The night of that party, at her apartment. Afterwards, leaning out of the window, half inside her bedroom and half out over the fire escape he’d noticed -

How the beauty mark under her eye had aligned with that star, the one in the sky that never moves, stays in the same place night after night. Constant. Anchoring. Watched the movement of her face, excited as she spoke, stopping only when she ran out of air, her mouth widening and teeth showing, grinning as her words became more melodic until she was singing.

As he hears Nat, muffled behind his memories of Liz, seamlessly speaking the original Urdu and translated English, he picks up a sound. A frequency. Jumbling, increasingly solid images of Liz form in his mind. Earlier in the day, her parting words; that night, serenading into that night. Her eyes, her mouth. It’s soft at first, what she says, but as he can see her, he can hear her. Hears her and understands her, clearly. As though she’s whispering into his ear, the weight of her against his side and against the books. 

“Gone are the days when I was alone in company; Many here are my confidants now,” Nat completes the final phrase then closes the book. Extending it with outstretched arms, in hopes that Mason would take the initiative, she looks in front of her and sees that he’s already gone. 

She finds him, not too far, in the research annex of the library. Mason is hunched over a side table, pen in hand, scrawling on a piece of stationery, threatening to topple and flatten the very neat square of blank sheets beneath it. Hair falling and framing his face, hiding his expression and any indication of what it could be that he’s writing. 

Nat watches, resting against the corner of a bookshelf and her hands back in the safety of her pockets. “As I live and breathe,” she says, awestruck, hoping not to interrupt. This is interesting, it’s unexpected, and she wonders what it is which has drawn this reaction. Wonders if what he’s writing could be the theme of their story. 

But of course she does interrupt, and Mason comes to a stand, shoving two pieces of paper into his pocket. With a final acknowledgement of Nat, he nods in her direction. 

“Thanks, Nat,” he bites out, awkwardness blunting his gratitude. Then, at last, his feet are allowed to propel him forward, and he leaves, before Nat can trap him into talking of anything else too sentimental. And he has had enough poetry for one lifetime. 

~

It’s quiet in the warehouse again. Familiar. The crackle of fire in the living room, the turn of a page. Mason paces in the foyer, a turn in the opposite direction at every tenth tick of the grandfather clock. Occasionally, he reads what he’s written on the papers then crumples the papers; smoothes the sheets out and reads again. 

Mason wants to be on the rooftop, wants that tranquility that the trees afford, empty his mind of all the thoughts of this particular day and simply exist under the blanket of stars in the night sky. Not alone, though, never alone anymore, not without Liz. 

She’d texted him some time ago, reporting that Ava has finally released them after satisfactorily answering assessment questions over the day’s lessons. Mason snickered as he sent a response. Liz is going to tell him everything, down to every answer and how, regardless of Ava’s response, Liz was right. 

The card reader beeps and the front door yawns as it opens, and he hears them, their voices echoing and permeating the space. Mason pushes the papers, balled and crinkled in his grip, into his back pocket. Since he’s standing at the sofa, he perches on the arm. Nonchalant, unbothered. 

“Took you long enough,” he smirks as Ava and Liz walk in, making sure the door clicks closed behind them before walking any further. “There aren’t that many rules and regs to get carried away with.” 

Liz, surprise illuminating her beautiful face when noticing him, turns to Ava and thanks for the training, then quickly makes her way across the pristinely waxed wood floors to Mason.  

“You would understand if you ever completed the required, once per decade, readings, Mason,” Ava quips, voice cool and steady as she removes her aviators and coat, securing them over her arm as she walks to the stairs. “Agent, you performed well today. We shall resume our training in the morning. Check your calendar for details.” 

“Did you hear that?” Liz waits for Ava to be out of near-ear shot, the steps of her boots heavy on the floors above them, sidling close to Mason now, flush against him as he wraps an arm around her waist. “I have the Commanding Agent’s seal of approval.” 

Mason chuckles, touching her jaw with the tip of his finger to draw her to face him. “Would you like a reward?” She nods. With a beat of hesitation, he inhales. Her skin is warm as he exhales, murmuring the words into her soft skin, “Meri jaan.” He smiles against her cheek, feeling a shiver run through her. His favorite feeling. 

Liz sighs, overcome with affection, then gasps. She turns, eyes locking with his, and Mason seems proud. She’s had a long day, has had to process too much information, follow too many algorithms and graphs. Is her mind playing a trick on her, willing her to hear the words of endearments she cherishes? The words given to him that night they’d come from the Agency party they’d snuck away from? What she’d mouthed that morning, her own secret hoping to be theirs? 

“What? Did you say?” 

She holds him, arms around his neck, stepping in between his knees. Eyes wide and shining, Mason can read her happiness. The clenching and relaxing of his chest returns, and he fills with a pleasurable sensation as she touches her lips to his, kissing her once, and repeating, clearly, “Meri jaan.” 

“My life.”

Mason stands, letting his hands settle on her hips, squeezing them. His gaze never strays, and he feels her warmth, enticing, hears her thundering heartbeat, even more enticing. He repeats the words, moving his hands up, along her sides then to the nape of his neck. Fingers finding hers, they lace together and they come down. He steps back, tempting her to follow. 

In the time he’d been waiting, thinking, he memorized what else he’d written. A phrase or lyric. The song, sung from her car speakers; sung, from her mouth, out and into the starlight and perplexing him in the best and most discombobulating ways, with that smile that makes him fall to his knees. 

“Haji lok makkey nun jandey; Mera ranjha mahi makkah.” 

Mason doesn’t know what he said. But he does know, by the way she sways so he has to catch her, by the way he kisses her in that perfect way that makes her do that thing with her leg, that it means a whole damn lot to Liz. 

Mason will ask her, later, what it means. When they’re sitting together on the rooftop, enjoying the soft melodies of the night and each other, their minds finally clear. 

~~

Poem is "Sitaron Se Agay Jahan Aur Bhi Hain", Bal-e Jibril 60, by Allama Iqbal (Muhammed Iqbal)

Lyric is from the song "Kamli" by Hadiqa Kiani and translates to: Pilgrims go to Mecca; My beloved Ranjha (sweetheart) is my Mecca

Both are in Urdu!

Title is from the poem "Memory" by William Wordsworth

[birdianna]

[birdianna]

PLEASE the idea of the du Mortain castle becoming a haunted castle and being in like those tiktoks with the scary stock music talking about how the ghost of the youngest daughter still wanders the ground. and some YouTuber with an undercut and yeezys is joking with his dude bro friends about whether Cecilia du Mortain was hot

haha!! yes - you get me!! 😭🤭

ah the du mortain castle - what once was a home to an esteemed family is now the grounds for people trying to ghost hunt and making tik tok dances in the ruins .

omg the youtuber guys - yeah, theyd probs end up playing smash or pass with Cecilia and A.

speaking of A, i imagine they end up becoming a sort of cryptid mystery since they were known to be the only one who survived the attack. Wouldn't be surprised if when the detective was researching into A - ends up finding a 4 - 8 hour youtube video about the mysteries of the castle and du mortains.

There is probably like one person on reddit that was completely correct on their guesses, that was them joking thinking what if the eldest du mortain was a vampire or something lmaoooo

[birdianna]

"Do not leave my side," Adam whispers, though there's no harsh order or strict command to the words. More of a plea. It's made even more obvious as he turns to look over his shoulder at me, his fingers brushing against mine. He mumbles, "Please."

thank you so much @gncrezan for this beautiful commission of one of my favorite book 3 moments!! loved the way these two were giving battle couple this book

[birdianna]

Tidbit Tuesday

Thank you for the tags @dwead-piwate-meggers @evilbunnyking @ejunkiet . So excited to read your twc fanfic again.

A few stories on the back burner. Now that I’ve read through book 3, I’ve been thinking about them again. No book 3 spoilers.

~

Surina looks towards him, shoulder resting at his arm, head tilted and too large grin on her face. It’s a bit silly, the situation, sitting in the center of her couch, pressed together. A used keyboard between them, one found at the Wayhaven rummage sale which was held one saturday in conjunction with the farmer’s market.

Tonight, she tells Nate of a memory, as her fingers move, working together to create some sort of melody. Something resembling the song played inside the Wayhaven Community Chapel.

“On Saturdays, I’d take walks down by the church and even though I’ve not ever been religious, I’d stop and linger, thirty or forty five minutes after everyone walked inside. I don’t know what it was, or why I’d stayed there, but this song always filled me with hope, and put me in this whole state of calm.”

The first time, she doesn’t note how he winces. Because she winces, as well, that C sharp note, just so sharp.

The second time, she notes how the night sky lights up, brighter than mid-day and she counts. One slow note, the second note lagging behind, and the third just a bit too quickly. And with the crack of lightning, she hits the wrong key again, loud and now flat. He winces again.

But now his hands are relaxed, one on her knee, the other no longer gripping the couch pillow. And there’s a curl at the right side of his mouth, Nate is smiling.

~

Please share anything you’re working on @serial-chillr @serenpedac @vryptidart @wayhavenots @lykegenia @hydrngea

[birdianna]

wip wednesday

was tagged by @hydrngea thank you <3 tagging @tuomniia, @fairmonkey, @serenpedac, @grapecaseschoices, @agentnatesewell

this is from a very self indulgent au with olivia and @tuomniia's oc meredith

---

Rash, foolish hope bubbles up in her and she desperately tries to quell it back down. Her heart thrashes against her rib cage and she knows that even without supernatural senses Mer would’ve been able to hear it. That wasn’t an answer, she chastises herself, not really.

It doesn’t mean that-

It doesn’t mean anything other than that she won’t leave right now. And that should be enough. It is more than Liv deserves after what she had put her through.

But she cannot help it. As always she has to ruin it and ask for more.

Tentatively, she reaches across the small gap between them—runs her fingers over her cheekbone, the bump in her nose, the scar over her lip while Mer’s breath brushes warm against her palm—tries desperately to commit every detail of this moment to memory even as she knows that it will taunt her for years to come. If you could have just been content with this…

Reluctantly, she pulls her hand back and clutches the sheets in order to keep it at her side of the bed.

If she could just be content with this. If she could just learn to live with this uncertainty. But that last, tiny sliver of hope dangles in front of her like a carrot on a stick. And after years of starving herself she can feel the longing hunger begin to crawl up from her stomach with the question she knows she has to ask.

She just has to ask it, even as she knows she’ll be denied, even as she knows that if she’ll be denied now this will be it, once and for all.

“...can I kiss you?”

The question comes out as barely more than a whisper—she scolds herself for the wobble in her voice, the tears that well up instantly—and even while she asks it she already regrets doing so. Everything in her screams to take it back while she still can but she wills herself to wait for the answer.

She blinks and the tears fall, momentarily clearing up her view again. And Mer’s answer is written all over her face, she can see the word work its way up her throat.

No.

Her vision blurs anew and thick tears roll down her cheeks, staining Mer’s sheets in tiny, salty freckles.

She can hear her take a shaky breath, bristling with—frustration? Anger?

Angry that after everything Liv had done—everything Liv had done and she had forgiven her anyways—she still dared to ask for more.

Frustrated that she can’t just shut up and take what she can get. Liv’s utter inability to keep quiet about that wanting, that gnawing need that always spills from her right in front of Mer’s feet, leaving her to deal with it, leaving her to mop it up.

Again she tries to steel herself against the word that is bound to fall from her lips any moment now.

No.

No, you cannot not. Of course not.

You should leave-

“Please.”

[birdianna]

gonna go ahead and say those of you who make it a hobby to just completely disparage Wayhaven, certain routes, and the fans for enjoying this media are corny and wack af. there’s plenty of IFs that might fit your fancy. the bullying just isn’t necessary. critiquing constructively is welcomed, but the way I see some ppl hating on Wayhaven like it’s they motherfuckin day job? embarrassing! seek help!

[birdianna]

sometimes i wish i believed

[birdianna]

so basically....the chamber

[birdianna]

The birdbrained ass detective modeling for their horny lil blood sucker like they ain’t being auctioned off:

[birdianna]

Okay but F Hauvilles mama being a witch and them having a NOLA accent is sending me into ascension. If you know, you know

[birdianna]

A du Mortain:

[birdianna]

being me is so alienating lmaooo

[birdianna]

The F route is the only one that makes me cry - in the middle of the carnival date when Sanja says they want to be chosen and they want to be chosen by the detective. The mirror scene where their mother said they must run

F is so open, full of life, positive, fun, but then there are these moments that really make you stop, when you see what it is they’re trying to get past or maybe not even think about

[birdianna]

chronic illness/pain is something I would not wish on anybody. the amount of skress it causes?? astronomical

[birdianna]

Thinking about, inferring based on what we know so far, how a major theme for TWC Book 3 might be family. Their families in their past/recent past:

A’s family taken from them

N unable to return to their family

M unable to remember their family

F having to leave their family

The detective who never got to know their father and their mother who was not involved

An how there is an emphasis on this found family through unit assignment - hundreds of years in the making - and now, with the detective. How they’ll navigate it all and how much they all really need it and appreciate it