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sentientcave · 27 days ago

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Mace of Bakes

Read on AO3

Contains: Non-canon character death (cancer mention), Reminiscing about the army and merc work, Mace deciding on a new path for himself, Community building through food, Self-discovery time for Mace. x Single mom reader (eventually, she's not really in this part) Basically fluff with some sad stuff at the start.

~3.6k - SFW

"Are you happy, Mason?"

His mama looked all wrong, laying in a hospital bed. Mace had never known her to get sick. He'd never thought that she'd get old. In his mind, she was still young the same age as when he left home. It startled him to realize that he was the same age she'd been when he left home. Thirty-eight.

She wasn't even sixty now. Too young to be laying there, all the warmth drained out of her skin, too young for her tightly coiled hair to be grey, too young to be dying.

He itched to get up and do something. Anything. But he'd already done everything he could think of. He'd brought her sunflowers, chocolate from that fancy little place down the block from the house he'd bought her the moment he'd been able to, brought her pretty stationary and a pen so she could write letters to her friends in shaky but still clear script. He'd even prayed. Gone to church and sat down in a pew and bargained with god. The world would be better with her in it, and him gone. If there was one thing he'd learned from his years as a soldier, it was that violence only begat more violence. Put down one enemy, and another popped up in his place. But people like his mother made things better.

She was no saint, of course— Hard to be, in her position, raising a headstrong boy furious about losing his father in some far off conflict he couldn't understand— but she was good. Patient. Dedicated her time to helping her community. Helped kids like him make better decisions than he had. She always picked up the phone when he called, no matter what time of day it was for her. Better that she live, and he die.

But god made no bargains with sinners, it seemed.

"Mason," she repeated, reaching for his hand. Her grip was weak. "Are you happy? Are you living the life you want?"

Was he? Did he even remember what it was to be happy?

The trouble with wearing a mask is that you become more of an idea than a person.

It had been years since Mace really thought about himself. He'd just been a kid, angry and afraid, desperate to get out of his home, out of his city. He was smart, but his grades weren't good enough to get any kind of scholarship. He was athletic, but he wasn't much of a team player, so there was no college team that wanted him either, no matter how big and strong he was already at eighteen. The army was just about the only thing he could use to drag himself up, so he gripped that uniform and held on tight, until his knuckles creaked with the effort. He should have known better, after what happened to his father, but maybe he just wanted to see something of his dad when he looked in the mirror.

(One of his drill sergeants had called him a fighting dog. Mace had grit his teeth and taken it, because as much as he wanted to bite back, it would just be proving the man right. And Mace would take a lot worse than that if it meant showing the whole damn world how wrong they were to dismiss him outright, to decide his fate before he'd taken his first step. But that was the way things were. The way they still are.)

But the thing about the army is that people notice when you're good at what you do. He'd moved from regular army to the rangers by the recommendation of that same sergeant. He earned respect. He'd joined an international task force and met someone who reminded him far too much of himself. Funny how someone from thousands of miles away could look him in the eye and see the things he thought he'd buried. Simon Riley, Ghost, more an idea than a person. And Mace put on that mask, same as Riley's, and they were like brothers.

Until they weren't.

Mace kept the mask though. And the lesson.

He left the army. Joined the Shadows. Joined the Jackals. Worked his ass off anywhere he went. He was efficient, brutal when he needed to be, bold and creative, one of the best.

And now…

Graves had offered him a spot with the Shadows again. But in truth, the soldier's life was wearing on him. He'd bled for his country, bled for money, bled for his homeland.

None of it had made him happy.

The words caught in his throat. "No. But I'll try to be."

"That's all I ever wanted for you."

Things got worse, and she didn’t get better, but he held her hand while she slipped away. Held it together to plan a funeral, shaking hands with everyone who came to pay their respects. It twisted something inside him painfully. All these people that knew his mother better than he did. That loved her, laughed with her.

Who would come to his funeral, if he died right there? A few old war dogs, if word got to them in time. He had few friends. No one would care about his passing the way they did his mother’s.

He stood in the graveyard for a long while after they buried her, staring at the gravestone. Kendra Ward, 1966-2024. She was the best of us.

It wasn’t enough. But what could be?

Her estate was easily settled. Mace still owned the house, on paper, and she didn't have that much else. No matter how much money he sent her, she didn’t like to spend more money than she needed to. He gave the house to his cousin Jessie, since she had four kids and a too-small apartment, gave the car to his aunt, let them split what little jewelry she had between them. He kept her wedding rings, and his father's, since she'd told him that she wanted him to have them, and he took some of the photo albums. He couldn't bear to look at them now, but maybe someday he'd want to.

He thought about staying. It was nice, for a few weeks, to spend time with Jessie's kids, get to know his family again. He'd thought it would be hard to talk to children, but it really wasn't, in the end. It was easy, because all he really had to do was listen, and let them win any games they played.

Still, there was another brother out there he needed to make peace with. One that wouldn't so readily accept that he had changed.

So he went to England.

He didn't expect to see Riley for a long while. He wasn't sure that the man lived in Manchester, if he ever even left base anymore. They'd both become the mask over the years. It wasn't easy to start being a whole person again.

He tried a few jobs on, but they fit like an off the rack suit. He couldn't stand the noise of most trades, didn't have any patience for customers or desk work. Maybe he could move out to the country and be a farmer. The thought appealed to him somewhat, although he knew deep down it was just the fantasy of the life that he wanted. He didn't particularly care for getting muddy, and he didn't know the first thing about animals.

He was walking home when he noticed the Help Wanted sign in the window of the bakery near his apartment (flat, as the locals called it). He liked the place, in part because Sharon, the older woman with graying curls that worked the counter reminded him a bit of his mother, and partially because the smell of bread baking wafted in through his window early mornings, and it was hard to resist the siren’s call.

The little bell above the door jingled pleasantly as he walked in, head nearly brushing the damn thing.

"Hi, honey," Sharon said with a smile, popping her head out of the kitchen. "We don't usually see you so late."

"I saw the sign in the window, ma'am. Thought I might as well ask you about it."

“Our baker quit in the middle of his shift. I’ve been running back and forth all day.” She pursed her lips, taking in the broad and tall expanse of him. “You’re interested?”

“Yes ma’am. Was a soldier for a long time, and I’ve been having trouble finding civilian work that suits. At the very least, I know I’d respect my boss.” He rubbed the back of his neck, feeling a bit sheepish. It wasn’t as if she had time to train a raw rookie, but… “Don’t know dick all about baking, but I’m good at following orders.”

Sharon thought about it for a moment. “Can you promise not to quit in the middle of a shift?”

“Figure nothing you throw my way could be worse than desert warfare.”

Sharon grinned. “No, we only do dessert warfare here.”

Mace barked out a laugh despite himself. He’d always loved a bad joke. “Got a bakery rival?”

“Of course. Where d’you think my baker went off to?” She shook her fist at the far wall, laughing. “You’re hired. Can you start now? If I’ve got to mop the floors after the day I’ve had… Well, I don’t want to. Better the young do the heavy lifting, yeah?”

“Can do, ma’am. Just show me to the mop closet.”

He wiped down the little cafe tables and stacked up the chairs so he could sweep, mopped the cafe floor, emptied the display case and bought the wire trays to the kitchen to run through the dishwasher. Sharon was portioning out dough and quickly shaping it and putting it into baskets. He watched for a moment, and then went back out to finish cleaning up the front of house.

When he returned again, Sharon beckoned him over. “Wash your hands well,” she ordered. “I’ll show you how to shape these loaves. This dough’s a little sticky, so you’ve got to be decisive.”

He did his best to mirror her movements. The dough was really sticky, but there was a slight resistance to it, and once he got the hang of the consistency, he was able to produce a ball that Sharon didn’t have to reshape a little before it was tucked into it’s little basket to rise overnight. Each one was better than the last.

It felt nice to use his hands for something productive. This wasn’t much like anything he’d done as a soldier, and it was a relief that he was still able to learn new tricks. That he wasn’t so busted up by everything he’d been through to do something good.

Each basket went on a tray with three others, and then onto a wheeled rack, and soon they’d filled two. Sharon covered them with a plastic sheet (to keep humidity in) and they slid them into the big walk in fridge.

There were a few more things to do, cleaning up the kitchen, but soon enough Mace was hauling the trash into the dumpster behind the bakery while Sharon locked up. She handed him a box of leftovers from the display case, which he accepted gladly.

He ate a chocolate chip cookie on his way back to his apartment, humming. That felt like the right kind of work. Busy enough, quiet enough, and he wouldn’t have to be the one dealing with customers. It was going to be a hell of a learning curve, but he liked the idea of being a baker. The sort of career that his mama would be proud to see him in

He ate a cold sandwich and several more pastries for dinner, then showered and went to bed early, setting his alarm for four am. He stared at the ceiling for a little while, arms tucked behind his head.

Yeah. This would suit him just fine.

The next morning had Mace out in the pre-dawn chill, waiting beside the bakery. He'd ended up watching a few videos on bread shaping while he ate breakfast, feeling a strange apprehension, like a student desperate to cram as much information as possible into his head before a big exam. He really wasn't qualified. He didn't know shit about cooking or baking-- He'd eaten mess hall meals and MRE's for the majority of his adult life. He knew what good food tasted like, but making it was a whole other beast.

He was pretty sure he'd gone into war zones less nervous than this.

Sharon waved at him when she turned the corner a little ways up the street. "Showed up after all, did you? The early mornin' didn't scare you off?"

"No ma'am. Said I'd be here." He followed her down the alley, hands in his pockets.

"An honest American," she said, faking a look of shock as she unlocked the door. "Never thought I'd see the day."

"You just dealing with tourists? Or do you have a vendetta I should know about?"

Sharon laughed. "Vendetta. An American woman stole my son away to Florida. I hardly see him now."

"I've got friends down that way. You say the word and I'll have them ship him back to you."

"Tell them to bring my grandkids too!"

Mace soon found out that Sharon was a great teacher. Funny, when she wasn't bone tired after a long day, and especially now that he wasn't a customer anymore. That polite customer service smile that he had gotten used to was replaced by a wicked grin, and she swore a blue-streak as she gave him instructions and gossiped. He learned more about his neighbourhood in a few hours than he'd found out in his months of living there.

Sharon's husband, Veer came in to open the storefront so Sharon could stay in the kitchen to train Mace.

"Had to take a week of vacation," he said when he brought two mugs of coffee back for them. "So you'd better be worth it! She makes me wear a beard net when I work the front counter." He winked at Sharon.

Sharon just rolled her eyes, her own hair totally secured by a bonnet. "You never wear the beard net, you just wear a mask."

"Perhaps. 30 minutes till open, anyway."

Mason started loading loaves of bread into the baskets that sat on the shelves behind the counter, and Sharon got started on assembling pastries. By the time he was putting out the last basket, the first customers were entering the store.

The display case filled, and then the sourdough for the next day mixed (Sharon said she'd portion and shape it closer to close), and the day was over before Mace knew it. He wasn't certain he knew what to do with himself for the rest of the afternoon (it seemed very strange to get off work by 1pm), but it seemed that he could stand to work on his baking skills at home too.

He went to the shops to buy everything he could think of to stock his cupboards, since they were rather bare, and made cupcakes when he got home, lamenting his lack of a piping bag when it came time to frosting them. They didn't look quite as impressive as he'd hoped they would, but they tasted pretty good-- One of the tips in the recipe's comments recommending "blooming" the cocoa powder with a bit of hot water seemed to be a neat trick. He wanted to try combining it with another tip about coffee bringing out the flavour of chocolate too.

Next time.

He cleaned up and made dinner, and offered cupcakes to his neighbours, feeling strangely shy. He was a grown man, he'd been shot more than once, but somehow knocking on the door of the college girls next door and the old man across the hall and the young mother by the stairs made him break out in a cold sweat, stumbling over his explanation. Why was it so much easier to kill people than offer kindness? There had to be something pathologically wrong with him.

(The part of him that knew he had to be kinder to himself too whispered a reminder that it was just unfamiliar ground. Hadn't his hands shaken the first time he held a rifle too? Hadn't he slunk off to puke his guts up and cry after the first time he'd killed another person? It was just so long ago that he'd forgotten.)

He outran the nerves that evening, as the sky turned dark, and put himself to bed early, ready to do it all again the next day.

The routine was good for him. Weeks passed, and he settled into an easy rhythm, waking early for work, joking with Sharon while he worked, setting himself up with a new project every other day.

(He would have made it every day, but while he was growing very fond of cooking and baking, he didn’t love doing the dishes.)

It gave him time to start going to the gym again, at least. He’d started putting on a little weight around the middle, which he didn’t hate. He kind of liked it, especially when he heard the college girls giggling and whispering about his dad bod. Still, he didn’t want to have to buy new clothes, and he wanted to stay in good shape, and he found he still really liked lifting weights, especially now that he did it for fun and not out of necessity. Even better, lifting weights meant that he got to eat more. So it worked out nicely.

His neighbours started talking to him more, everyone more than a little interested in getting on the list for receiving little treats. Everyone had sort of avoided him on principle before, unsure about the giant American loner that settled into their building, but now everyone knew him by name. They asked him for help when they needed heavy things moved. The girls down the hall asked him to make them a birthday cake (Which he was more than happy to do. He was getting better at decorating all the time).

The old fellow across the hall, Percy, turned out to be a veteran too, and he invited Mace out to drinks a few times with some of his old air force buddies, and he got to listen to the old men swap stories and complain about young people these days and the price of groceries (and drinking with old men was ideal, since he could still be in bed early enough to get plenty of sleep before work). The college girls were Morg and Corrie, and often Kailee, who didn’t actually live in the building but was there so often that she practically did. They were possibly the silliest girls he’d ever met, but he at least partially had to attribute that to the fact that he understood only about fifty percent of what they were saying at any time, between the giggling and the slang he didn’t understand.

They tried to thank him for the baked goods by inviting him over for dinner once. A valiant, but ultimately bland effort. He’d eaten worse, but not in a long while, and they spent half the meal flirting shamelessly. He made a promise to himself in that moment that he would never date a woman under thirty.

The single mother, Tammy, was a lot more sensible, but not as single as he’d assumed. Her friend that came over often turned out to be her girlfriend. The kids were funny, especially the younger two, who took every opportunity to talk his ear off about school and dinosaurs and some youtube video game streamer with a silly name. The oldest kid was in that awkward teenage phase of thinking his own interests were cringe and looking for a new identity that was cool. He seemed baffled by Mace, like he couldn’t quite connect the dots on why someone who looked and sounded like a soldier would be spending his free time doing favours for others and baking.

Mace wasn’t sure if it were his place to say anything, but he hoped the kid would come to understand that what Mace was doing now was a hundred times better than being a soldier. A thousand times more meaningful.

He felt like a new person. Born again, like the last twenty years could be chalked up to a bad dream.

(It wasn’t as if he were ashamed of it. Maybe he should have been. But he’d always been principled about his work. Not everyone agreed with his actions, he’d found himself down-barrel of a once friendly gun more than a few times. But that didn’t mean he would stop doing what he thought was the right thing.)

He was sure that this contentedness was what his mother had wanted for him. He wished he’d listened to her a long time ago.

Of course, as it so often happens, pleasant routines get shaken up. For Mace, it was on an otherwise ordinary day in late November, when Sharon was buzzing excitedly about her daughter moving home.

(Divorced, and with a three year old she would have to take care of all by herself. She’d probably come work the front counter, so Sharon could be in the kitchen more for the busiest season. Didn’t it work out so nicely?)

And the timing did seem good. Mason was glad for anything that would give Sharon more time off. He worried about her overworking herself, and she always complained about not seeing any of her grandchildren enough.

Still, he found himself stopping short, nearly dropping the tray of cookies he’d been carrying when he came out of the kitchen.

“Oh, wonderful,” Sharon said, grinning. “Mason, come meet my daughter!”

And you smiled at him, sticking your hand out. “It’s nice to meet you.”

Nice didn’t even begin to cover it.