#the music certainly doesn't hit nearly as hard listening at home but watching it on-screen? fantastic

[gonkaccino]

LESBIAN JANIS MEAN GIRLS REAL!!!!!!!!!!

[feralrosie]

the silence of a (heart)beat

The Wayhaven Chronicles

Mason/Corinna (F!Detective)

Words: 3,3k

Rating: G

Tags: There is nothing but fluff in here

Read on AO3

Mason can't sleep, doesn't need to sleep, and could be doing anything else back at the Warehouse. Yet there he is once again: lying on Corinna’s bed, holding her close to his chest, and watching the moon slowly stroll across the night sky. Pale blue light leaks into the room, reaching the equally faint white skin of the woman in his arms. She looks in peace wearing his black long-sleeved shirt as oversized pyjamas—a habit that he was not sure when started, but that wasn’t as bad as it seemed, especially because her smell would linger a little bit longer in his clothes.

It’s not like he is uncomfortable, quite the opposite actually, he can’t remember a day when he felt so at ease, but there is a tingling sensation deep down his chest that he can’t pinpoint what is and that is preventing him from sleeping. Maybe it’s because he slept the night before—with her, in her apartment—or maybe it’s because he fed this morning and his senses are still boosted.

No matter. Feels good.

He brushes a lock of raven hair from her face, letting the tip of his fingers sense the warmth of her skin, and watches when she pouts and frowns in her sleep. Even in dreams, she is still fierce and Mason can’t help but smile at the sight.

He has been dreaming a lot more lately, too. It’s not always pleasant dreams, and some of them are fucking nonsensical, but Nate says it’s because he’s sleeping heavier and for longer periods of time, so his mind can wander through the unconscious realms easily or something like that. There were times when he would go an entire week having slept just two hours, but only this weekend he spent ten—ten—hours in bed with Corinna, sleeping.

And it feels good.

Mason tries to not think about that insistent prickle in his chest. Perhaps it’s a heart attack.

He looks at the ceiling, following the contour of shadows cast by moonlight. Vampires can’t have heart attacks.

Rolls to his side, placing his forearm behind his head and over the pillow. Could be something he ate.

He pulls the sheets over to cover the small figure of the woman in his arms. He doesn’t eat.

When Corinna snuggles closer, wrapping a leg over his waist and resting her tiny hands over his chest, the tingling is back.

He needs air.

Mason is careful to untangle her limbs from his body and takes excessive time to get out of the bed, making sure Corinna is still sleeping and well covered by her duvet. It’s a warm night, enough for him to feel comfortable wearing only his underwear, but he recalls her saying that she can’t sleep well without a blanket or sheets. Just because he can’t sleep, doesn’t mean he must condemn her to the same fate.

He walks to the living room, approaching the windows to look into the night. If it was not for the wind softly blowing the canopies, Wayhaven would look like a painting, silent and still. Mason likes it there, despite refusing to acknowledge it out loud, and even though the town’s square can get crowded on weekdays. He lets the navy blue image of the outside sink into his mind, shaping a memory that combines the cold touch of the glass panel against his knuckles as he holds the heavy curtains with the smell of Corinna’s apartment, a mix of coffee (from her hands) and coconut (from her hair).

There’s a soft drum in the air, too, like the comforting background noise from a forest, and an atmospheric heat that embraces his body. Feels good, and Mason allows himself to smile as he turns away from the window. His attention falls to the mess that is that home, although he admits it could be worse—and that he may have contributed to it during their earlier fun that ended in her room. The detective’s clothes are on the floor, a plain black t-shirt that contrasts with the lacy violet bra by its side, and he picks up the pieces. Idly plays with the fabric between his fingers as he takes it to the washing machine when he stumbles on her pants next to the bedroom door on his way. He chuckles when the memory of her voice echoes in his mind: all teasing and laughter while asking him to slow down, her fingers desperately trying to lift his shirt.

A hard thump hits the machine when Mason throws the clothes inside, and he arches an eyebrow while searching the pockets of her jeans. He finds her phone, taps the screen to check the battery and goes back to her room to plug it in the charger—she gets grumpy when she forgets to charge it, especially because she’s also always forgetting her charger at home. Maybe he could order one from the Agency and give it to her, so she would always have one in the Station, or maybe he could just buy one himself before his next patrol tomorrow and give it to her. It’s not like he needs to do it, but it’s convenient.

Detective sleeping, windows closed, living room tidied up, phone charging… Now what? He thinks, perching against the door frame between the bed and living rooms to scout the apartment. Mason crosses his arms in front of his chest and doesn’t notice when his eyes are drawn to the woman once again. She’s hugging his pillow—not his, but the one he uses—and seems to be comfortable, in peace. Almost as if there is not a bounty on her head—the only reason why Unit Bravo needs to babysit her all over again, every night (he volunteers most nights).

To be completely honest, he could admit that he prefers to do nothing in Corinna’s company than to be alone in the Warehouse all night, but then the fucking tingling would be back. Mason lets out a heavy sigh, turning his face away from the bedroom. Maybe he just prefers to make sure she’s safe.

As his mind wanders back and forth from the presence of the detective, his eyes spot a shadow by the sofa, nearly as tall as Corinna herself, something that wasn’t there two days ago when he last visited her. Intrigued, Mason glances one last time at the woman in bed—just making sure—and walks back to the next room. Takes just a moment for him to realise the silhouette is of a half-opened instrument case and, by the size of it, of a bass. It doesn’t come as a surprise that Corinna can play the bass, even though she has never mentioned it, but one would assume that someone who listens to (too loud) music would also try playing it.

What surprises him, however, is that the bass itself is not plain black like he expected. The body is of a rich shade of red with no shield, though Mason notices a few screw holes indicating that there was one at some point, and a dark wooden neck. There are some scratches next to the frets, but otherwise, the entire thing seems very well-kept. He takes it off the case entirely, admiring the instrument for a few seconds before sitting on the couch and bringing it to his lap. His fingers trace the sharp design of the body up to the headstock. Can’t help but imagine Corinna doing it instead, such a heavy instrument on top of her tiny figure would make her look even smaller but no less breathtaking.

His fingers close around the neck, left palm running up and down along it, and he feels each string metallic-cold, certainly rough enough to hurt. Corinna’s hands, however, are way too soft for her to play regularly—Mason recalls bringing them to his lips, letting her touch him as she pleases while stealing a kiss from her fingertips, his own caressing her knuckles and wrapping around her wrist; her heartbeat pounding into his mouth.

His right arm rests around the bass and his hand falls over the bridge, risking touching the strings there, too. Before he realises it, his index and middle fingers are perching on the top string, and he’s not sure how but he knows it’s called the fourth string, an E note, followed downwards by the third, second and first; A, D, G.

Mason pulls the fourth string up just slightly and releases it back to its place, making it rumble like thunder, so deep that it echoes through the apartment and creeps to his neck underneath his hair. It’s loud and powerful, but feels muffled when the bass is not connected to an amp. Even so, the vampire’s eyes switch to the bedroom door, worried he might wake up the detective.

The note fades away in the air as the string calms down, and all Mason can hear is the comfortable background drumming again.

Corinna is still sleeping. Her human ears probably won’t be bothered if he tried again.

He pulls the third cord, a slightly higher note takes over the living room.

His stormy grey eyes keep focused on the opened door.

No change.

It’s safe to continue, just for a little longer, and so he taps the second string as his left index holds it down on the fretboard. The sound he hears is now an F, if he recalls correctly, and he lets his finger slide down the cord. The shifting sound envelops him as he goes from the third fret to the fifth, and when he’s back on the second of the first string, the vibrations start sounding like something.

Another finger joins, then another, and suddenly he has four exploring the length of the bass. Tries to avoid the gritting texture by not pressing too hard on the strings, but the bass is as harsh as it is delightful. The soft humming of the thick strings reverberates around him, almost like wrapping himself back in Corinna’s duvet and resting his head on her pillow, feeling the warmth of her in every note.

He is not sure if he is playing it right or what he is playing at all. Surely it is something he heard in the past hundred years, but somehow his fingers trace the bass so naturally that he doubts it’s just muscle memory. As far as he remembers, music was never his thing. It’s loud, overwhelming, painful—and, sure enough, his fingers hurt as he presses and pulls one string after the other, but the stinging of the metal vanishes as he releases the sound from it.

His powers come with as many issues as there are advantages, and the constant healing of his fingertips is not proving itself to be useful. Mason senses the ghost of calluses where the bass cuts him, but the waves of the music wash his thoughts and he lets himself sigh, shoulders relaxing. Long fingers travel around the neck over the third and second strings, choreographed in an invisible tab that he feels more than he remembers.

G

D 3 ‿ 3 — 2 — 0 ‿ 0                — 2

A              — 3 — 1 ‿ 1 — 3 ‿ 3

E

No lyrics follow his movements, and he keeps his pacing with the soft background drumming of the air that serves to him like a metronome. Doesn’t notice when his eyes close and his foot begins to tap over the thin rug,

five, six, seven, eight;

one, two, three, four…

Long locks of dark hair frame his cheekbones and jawline, shielding him from the outside world and letting him dive deep into the melody he plays. Even the movement of his chest, rising up and coming back down as he breathes, seems to follow each note, each vibration that caresses his arms and enters his chest.

G       — 2 — 3 — 3 — 2

D 3 — 3 — 5         — 5 — 3 — 3

A

E                     — 3 — 1 — 3 — 5

The chorus that follows is much simpler, just a couple of notes over the same frets that almost sound like improvise—much like a great portion of his life lately. Playing the bodyguard is much easier than he expected, even if Corinna gets him off balance and he doesn't think much before he acts with her. It’s peaceful to be around her—like muscle memory, but not quite it.

Feels good.

The two of them just work together surprisingly well, considering that neither have a history of making a lot of friends. It’s like they have always known how to navigate each other in the absence of words—and took them long enough to realise they do not need a lot of those either. For whatever loud music she likes to listen to, Corinna herself is the opposite, so much so that she makes the world around her quieter, too.

Having her close to him, even if she’s in the other room as he plays idle notes on her bass, is something he could get used to. It doesn’t matter where or when he learned to play it—it’s like he has also always known that—or what was that prickling in his chest earlier. He is just spending some time. Just harmless fun.

Not even Adam needs to worry about it. Mason is not distracted, he is still very aware of his surroundings, especially of that soft drumming that he notices is getting closer and a little bit faster. Weird.

He heard it all around Wayhaven before, though is not all the time and he never gives much thought to it. Recalling it now, the first time he heard it was on the roof of the Warehouse with Corinna, but he also could feel (more than hear) it in that path through the woods that leads from the station to her apartment and that she seems to love, given the number of times she asks him to accompany her there instead of using her car.

Thus why he assumed it was just the forest, but then it wouldn’t be so close now. Curiosity takes the best of him, and he turns his face to the right to look at the windows. The night scenery outside is unchanged. Mason frowns, his fingers never hesitating on the strings as he tries to zero his attention on the drumming. Silver eyes roam the canopies, the sky, enters back into the apartment and follow each note he plays on a path in the air.

Oh.

He finds the source quite easily.

Corinna is standing under her door frame, arms hugging her own torso as she watches him silently, almost mimicking him moments before while she was asleep. She has her head resting against the wood and a lazy smile on her lips.

Her heart is beating to the pacing of his music.

(or, more likely, is the other way around).

The way she looks at him makes him wonder if she’s admiring or just amused by the ridiculousness of his attempt as a musician. He is not self-conscious enough to be ashamed of it, and so he keeps playing the bass, the same sequences over and over again, as his gaze explores the sight of her and everything he likes noticing about her image: the way his shirt is clearly too large for her tiny form, her short hair almost falling from behind her ear back to her face, the way her eyes, as dark as the night itself, shifts from his foot to his hands and finally to meet his own.

The silence of her heartbeat wraps him in music. It steals a smile from his lips and lets his stiff features relax on his face, just for a while as his eyes close again and he combines the sound he hears with the ones he makes. Barely even notices how his hands move or how he taps on the cords, and much less how his fingertips are starting to burn a little. Just lets himself be seen for a while longer.

“I didn’t know you had a bass,” Mason says, still letting his fingers travel through the notes while his gaze falls back to her.

“I didn’t know you could play. I like this song.”

“I don’t know which song it is.”

“It’s Earth Angel.” A smile plays on the corner of her lips as she approaches him, sitting by his side on the couch. “I think the original artists are called The Penguins, but it plays in that Back to the Future movie.”

“Never heard of it.”

“We watched it together, in the Warehouse with Felix.” Her fingers rest featherlight over his as he plays, even if his hand is much larger than hers. “And I’m always listening to it, so you probably picked it up through my earphones.”

She is kind enough to not inquire him further and her fingers follow his movements, careful to not disturb their song. Being so close to her makes his own heart flutter, and suddenly he can’t feel the rough touch of the strings hurting his fingers anymore, only the delicate caress of her hand against his. It only gets worse to focus when her voice, low and a little husky, joins the humming of the strings.

Earth angel — earth angel — please be mine

His gaze is drawn to her face, but she is not looking back at him. The dark brown of her irises keeps focused on the bass, each word following a note, dancing on the air between the two of them. He leads their waltz with the bass, her voice sways gorgeously with the rhythm and now his fingers move by themselves as he is too hypnotised to think about notes and frets.

My darling ‿ dear, — love you — all the time

Colour rises to her cheeks as she continues, probably aware of his eyes on her, but neither one of them move. That is, at least until her piercing gaze is on his again, shifting to his mouth for a mere moment in the middle of the lyrics, and only so he notices his lips contouring the words as if stealing the sounds that pour from her mouth, trying to drink the music of her. He plays, and she follows. She sings, he follows.

I'm just ‿ a fool, — a fool in love — with you

There is no way of holding back that infuriating tingling that comes back to life in his chest anymore. He can’t even lie and say it’s not there because it prickles him more than the strings under his fingers ever could—and yet, he doesn’t hate it. Mason focus all of his attention on the woman by his side and how familiar her presence is. Surprising to figure out that he has been doing exactly that for months now. She is as soothing as she is fierce and, somehow, he finds his way to her as if he always knew how.

The song comes to a harsh end when his pinky holds the wrong note and makes the bass shriek between them. It stings his hearing and Mason flinches.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, letting go of his grip on the neck of the bass.

Her fingers intertwine on his and she brings them to her lap as her other hand brushes a lock of hair from his cheek to cup his jawline. Mason lets himself be pulled into a kiss, so delicate that he doubts it’s even there, only to mourn its absence when she leans backs.

“I will go back to bed,” she whispers against him before standing up and walking lazy steps back to her room. She halts by the door and turns back to him, smiling tenderly, “Play a little bit more. It’s comfortable, like listening to your heartbeat.”

He simply nods, watching her smile widening.

“Goodnight, Mason.”

“Night, Cora.”

Feels good.